The Hater Nation is pleased to present special Super Bowl corespondent, Max McGee, who is going to weigh in on this week's events.
I see that punk kicker for the Steelers Jeff Reed is making a name for himself be hitting the Tampa nightlife. Wimp. He's the friggin kicker for crissakes. Nobody gives a damn about the kicker. Hell, my rotting corpse could be an NFL kicker right now. It takes no skill. What the hell does he do all day in practice anyway? He just kicks, like my great grandson.
Lou Groza, now he was a damn fine kicker and he could knock you on your ass. Jeff Reed looked like the kind of guy who enjoyed shower time a little too much, if you know what I mean.
But that was when football was played by men, dog damn it. And the morons that cheered for us, didn't spend their nights following us with their cellphones and snapping pictures of us carousing with the ladies. They showed some dog damn respect.
You wimps don't have enough led in your pencils to write down the things I did prior to the Super Bowl. If I caught one of you bung boys looking over my shoulder as I was texting Lauren Bacall, I would have punched your right in the throat.
Now all of your girlie men are so distraught about this Jeff Reed guy ... "Oh no, our kicker is out having a few cocktails on Tuesday night. How is he ever going to play in the game?"
I went out drinking prior to Super Bowl I, and I spent the entire night painting the town red. I was drinking men a decade younger than me under the table, and dancing the night away with Hollywood starlets.
That really hurt my performance, too. I only caught seven passes for 138 yards and two touchdowns. And I wasn't even wearing my proper helmet either. And you want to know why? Because I am a man dog damn it.
None of this current generation impresses me. I want to see more pictures of NFL players hitting the streets. I want to see Ben Roethlisberger holding a bottle of rum, dancing on a bar. I want to see Larry Fitzgerald doing a Jaegerbomb. I want to see Kurt Warner, well, never mind.
But I know Matt Leinart is feeling me right now.
I want members of the Steelers and Cardinals to reach down in their pants and see if they have a pair. If they do, then I want to see them boozing on Saturday night in my memory. At least that way they will have an excuse as to why the level of play will never reach our standards.
Now if you will excuse me, the night is still young and I'm going to go out and live.