Five Univocalists Write about the Superbowl

Five Univocalists Write about the Superbowl
(based on an assignment from my Writing class)

Bad snap. Act fast and balk a sack. A ball falls as a man’s arms arc. All Pats fans gasp as a mass. Hands grab and grasp a ball. What a pass! What a catch! What a play! A dad stands and claps. Crap. A sad man prays at Allah and Martha Kraft, always a class act. “A hand, smart gal?”

Alas. A halfback trap and a crackback attack and abracadabra! Add a mark. Ass backwards and all.

The G-Men best the preferred peer’s seventeen. They let the G-Men get there, extended the secs left, help them get there themselves. We’ll see.

Seven secs left. The perfect-chested, revered expert sends the egg-sphere deep. Defenders merge. Wes Welker stretches, wrestles the defense. The defenders persevere. The end.

The teen peeps tweet “G-Men get revenge!” G-Men center, Snee, texts ESPN press “We deserve the respect. E’s the best ever.” Schlereth types “Well, best except Drew Brees.”

Winning is simplistic with Mississippi’s first pick, insists his kin in pigskin, Nicks. “His instincts is bitchin.” Criticizing nitwits dismiss his childish spirit, indicting him in writing. In hindsight, I think it stinks.

XLVI highlights find in it pick in third with him hitting dirt, mini-flip in first bringing six with it, diving miss in its finishing ticks. “If it is, it is. If it isn’t, it isn’t” sighs Bill, missing his win in his fifth bid.

Poor Tom. Boston’s top sports pro lost. No comfort for Tom’s droop. Boston’s townsfolk boo “Oh no! Son of God!” Mobs scold worth of no good Rob Gronk, old school jock who drops odd oblong orb. No crown for Boston. Not now.

Gongs toll for good crosstown. Joy on York, world’s top dog of now. Photos show Soho’s crowds of morons know how to show off. No gloom or doom on snob town.

Cruz’s run stuns rum drunk fun bunch, thus stung unfun gurus. Gurus dumbstruck, blurt “Shut up, butt-turds! Tuck’s guys such bums.” Turf burn hurts. Lung burn sucks. Dumb luck unfurls. Such fun.