n a Super Bowl showdown Sunday that few will soon forget, the New England Patriots forcibly sodomized the sickly Philadelphia Eagles, unless the underdog Philly squad pulled off a stunning upset against the clearly overrated Patriots. Results were not readily available as of press time.

“Patriots rule!� screamed a naked-yet-painted youth after the game, likely a Patriots fan.

“Definitely!� agreed a compatriot, more clothed but no less enthusiastic. “Unstoppable! Unless they cocked it up. In that case, they’re a gang of spineless suck monsters.�

“The Eagles are a bunch of dickless homos who aren’t fit to sniff my balls,� explained cocky New England quarterback Tom Brady after the game. “Unless they won. In that case, they were a heck of a tough squad and we played our best, but just didn’t come out on top today. We’ll get ‘em next year. Unless we don’t.�

The stunning Super Bowl victory was New England’s third in four years, a thrilling period of dominance for Patriots fans, unless it was a crushing disappointment and inspiring Cinderella story for the unlikely Eagles, who won their first Super Bowl since 1960 and brought a parade of dreams home to Philadelphia. Philly fans, known for their bitterly cynical dedication to disappointment, booed their team either way. Commentators remarked on not having seen this level of vitriol from sports fans since the last time the Special Olympics came to Philadelphia.

“The Eagles were clearly overmatched in this David and Goliath tale,� explained sports blowhard and former Oakland Raiders towel rack Marcus Parkum. “Unless, you know. Another way of looking at it is that Philly was clearly underrated, a ragtag bunch of plucky gamers that snatched the spoils of victory from the clutches of a Patriots squad grown fat and apathetic with the glory of their past successes. Either way, it was a Super Bowl. Unless it got cancelled.�

“Fuck! Fuck!� elaborated commune neighborhood bookie Fat Anthony. “Or, alternately: Allllll riiiiight! Ant’ny made some moolah tonight! Shit yeah!�

Sports fans nationwide were stunned by the Super Bowl’s outcome, unless the game went exactly as expected. Few could have anticipated, however, the stunning halftime show, which featured an unprecedented level of wit and subtlety, unless it was just a bunch of idiots dancing around in hot pants. Whatever happened, the career of Gloria Estefan will never be the same, unless it continues on exactly as it has for years.

Fans of either team have to agree that the game turned on a crucial play in the fourth quarter when Eagles receiver Terrell Owens either caught a miraculous 94-yard “Hail Mary� pass to score the game-winning touchdown, or else forgot to turn around at the last minute and got hit square in the ass with the ball, at which point he reportedly farted. Owens will likely never live down the fame or infamy stemming from this career-defining play.

In related news, TV jockeys were thrilled to witness a fresh slate of instant-classic Super Bowl commercials, making the game experience worthwhile for wives and gay men trapped in sports bars everywhere. Unless, of course, it was just more of the same retarded bullshit from Budweiser and Coca-Cola that we’ve been seeing for years.

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My dearest Deidrebane, it pains me acutely to have to write you this column and expose our personal goings-on to the somewhat wider audience of the world at large, but I can't find any of our personal stationary and I'm not about to go tearing up the entire house when the computer is right here.

Simply put and plainly typed, your new children have become a nuisance.

I can only assume these children were adopted by you on one of your recent humanitarian skylarkings, some time while my attention was turned elsewhere, say to the televised gladiatorial matches or to Bolivian chicken racing, whose season is now thrillingly underway. I know you claim these children to be the fruits of your loom, or loins, whatever it is you have down there nowadays, but needless to say, I find this to be horrifyingly implausible. To the best of my knowledge your plumbing has not been snaked in a generation. And word on the street is that things are drier down there than a jerky stand in the Sahara. For the sake of decorum, I shall fail to go into the gruesome details, though believe me when I say the word is out.

I can only imagine how our first wave of real children feel about this latest batch of imposters, suckling at their mother's dry, unproductive teat. Wherever they are, Deidrebane, out in the world making their fortune or spending ours, it is surely a sad day for them. If I could remember their names, I would send my condolences by post card or fruit basket, whichever we have in stock at the moment.

And no, I will not refer to these new hangers-on as "our" children. I fell for that trick once, many years ago, and shant repeat my folly. I'm quite convinced I never had anything to do with the first batch, and so I'm not about to piss my markings onto these latest home-invaders. These are your children, Deidrebane, and I've had enough of them playing "bakery" with my angel dust collection.

Firstly, there's the matter of your oldest new son, Montpellier, who I recently heard through the grapevine was kicked out of the Hentwistle Correctional Facility for Incorrect Boys. It had been my understanding that Hentwistle was nothing more than a nicely-named prison house, and if they're offering expulsion for misbehavior these days I fear for the message this sends to baddies and goodies alike. Montpellier must truly be a special child.

But the one sycophant I truly cannot abide is your new young son, Cartegney. This one is really the tops. Just last week he got into my gun collection, and you don't need a fertile imagination to discern what happened next. That's right; the child organized my guns by model number, then put them all away neatly in the gun safe! Now what am I supposed to do if I need to shoot something in a hurry?

I shall fail, I fear, not unlike your newest daughter Steenburgen when she tried to bake us an anniversary cake last week. You can say what you want, but if a child doesn't understand the concept of needing to bake the cake before hiding yourself inside, I say she has a valuable lesson to learn from the skin grafts. I know I've kept nothing but fond memories from the summer I spent as the Human Torch at a county fair in my youth, and not just because the unpleasant parts are either blacked out from my memory or masked by a thick curtain of Vicodin.

No my dear, these new children just aren't working out, and I think it's time they were sent back. Dig up your receipt and return them to the adoption cart at the mall or Kids "R" Us or wherever it was that you picked up these wayward moppets in the first place. I would rid our house of them myself, but my plot was already foiled by Cartegney, who informed me that the car I had loaded them all into did not have an adequate safety rating and regardless, he was too young to drive. So do what you must, Deidrebane. I won't have these precocious ragamuffins pointing out the folly of my planning. Now if you need me, I'll be in the den, watching the Crusades on pay-per-view.

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Johan Emmanuel Wiesel was an eccentric Hungarian immigrant who ran a pharmacy in New York in the 1830's. An amiable fellow with an impenetrable accent, Wiesel was fond of saying "Piss on Earth, and God wilt tard men!" which got him a lot of strange looks and the occasional thump on the head. When he wasn't busy "pepping up" the prescriptions he filled with copious amounts of cocaine, Wiesel occupied his spare time by inventing beverages. However, most of his inventions were completely impractical as beverages for actual humans, since they were all heinous in flavor and some ate through the bottle in less than a day's time.

But through some whim of serendipity, in 1845 one of his concoctions actually turned out to be fairly tasty, and only mildly corrosive. Wiesel was pissed, since he took this to mean that his arsenic had gone bad. But when he tested the drink on a young boy who he paid a quarter a year to do all the menial work in his pharmacy, he was surprised to find that the boy loved it. He burped until he threw up and suffered second-degree burns to his sinuses, but he loved it.

Wiesel decided to try selling his new beverage to customers in his pharmacy the very next day. He dusted off an old machine he had invented to dispense mustard into several pairs of shoes simultaneously, and in that moment the soda fountain was porn. Born.

The drink was a huge success, and before long his customers were demanding, sometimes at gunpoint, that Wiesel make his soda available to the wider market. Wiesel responded by buying a gigantic sack of empty beer bottles from a local orphanage, then filling them all with cole slaw. He was almost there. Realizing that this in no way addressed his soda-selling needs, Wiesel dumped out all of the cole slaw and filled the bottles with his sizzling new beverage instead. Despite the objections of absolutely everyone else involved, he insisted on naming his beverage Wiesel Piss, and it accordingly sold like sacks of dead leper babies.

Wiesel eventually went broke trying to sell Wiesel Piss, and died alone in the gutter after being stabbed in the ankle by a drunken orphan. His lone living relation sold the rights to the soda to a flim-flam man named Flannery McIntosh for one dollar. McIntosh renamed the drink Scrud and sold it as both a digestive aid and a carburetor cleaner. His memorable slogan, "Keeps your tummy firing on all cylinders," is still remembered to this day by people who are incredibly old and anal.

McIntosh built a modest empire around Scrud until 1892, when he was sued for being Irish and lost it all. The winners of that lawsuit, Daniel Freebanks and Benneton DuBois, renamed the drink Dope and sold it strictly as a new something called a "soft drink," a term of dubious legality that implied curative properties against erectile dysfunction. Their business grew hand over foot until 1910, when the US government cracked down on Dope since it contained cocaine, strychnine, absinthe, turpentine, a solution of fool's gold and high levels of cootineut, an imaginary ingredient that at the time was thought to quell dark humors in the pancreas.

Freebanks and DuBois went out of business faster than a pregnant hooker, and they were bought out by Farthington McIntosh, the grandson of Flannery. He promptly reformulated the drink in his bathtub, taking out the offending ingredients and replacing them with shitloads of sugar. But he was careful to also slyly rename the soda Coke, so that hipsters and conspiracy theorists would always think it still secretly contained cocaine, promoting sales.

McIntosh built Coke into an empire, branching out across the globe and fending off upstart sodas like Rammit, Jeez, and Wimpo. Though all of the sodas being produced were virtually the same in flavor, McIntosh retained his edge thanks to his uncanny knack for advertising. On top of plastering every vertical surface he could find with the Coke logo, McIntosh's true genius surfaced in his use of radio jingles touting the virtues of Coke. From early gems like…

Buy a Coke,
drink it up,
Buy another coke,
shut up, shut up.

to the legendary…

Buy a coke,
regret you won't,
you had a nickel,
and now you don't!

and finally the immortal…

Buy a Coke, it's nature's drink
Fizzy fizz that helps you think
You probably won't get cancer, too
Coca-Cola is the one for you!

…McIntosh's jingles were on the lips of every boob in the nation. Among other things, McIntosh is remembered for pioneering the practice of marketing frivolous items as if they were essential to the quality of life.

Unfortunately for McIntosh, all of the marketing genius in the world doesn't make you dagger-proof. He was later stabbed in the back by his own son, who sold the company for forty dollars and a magic talking mule.

The new owner of The Coca-Cola Company was Montgomery County shouting champion Eustace Turner, who ruled Coca-Cola with an iron fist for eight months before selling 40% of the company to L.P. Farnsworth, 40% to Jules Mather, 51% to Modest Cinderbrooke, and 117% to a very stupid man named Sty Covington. Turner then skipped town and laughed himself sick, which is more fun than it sounds.

And the rest, as they say, is history. Well, it's all history, if you want to get technical about it, but the rest of it is the kind of history you don't want to know about since it's is too long and boring to go into. Fear not, you got all the juicy bits. Nothing much else happens until the Cola Wars, and I'm saving that in case my book deal comes through.

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