As Oliver Hardy often said to Stan Laurel, "Here's another fine mess…"
The Dirty Birds won. The Ravens played for the stuff that dreams are made of…and as Humphrey Bogart told us in the Maltese Falcon, you end up with egg on your face-or dead.
Poe's pendulum has swung back and thrown the Patriots into the Pit.
And, that may be the best way to describe the debacle that became the Patriots.
Instead of rising to the occasion of Tom Brady's talents, the last game of the season proved to be an outlier in showcasing Brady's decline. For nearly as long as he won big games, he now has lost them.
Father Time went out only a few weeks ago-and a youthful New Year baby took over. So it seems the precedent has followed suit in the NFL.
The pearls have gone before swine. An ill wind has blown across New England even as a winter cold front settled upon Gillette. If you spit into the cold North wind, you were hit by an icicle.
Wait till next year seems a little hollow, but we noted that the great excuse of injuries became a case of what ailed the Patriots. The cure of replacements killed the team.
If we are indeed on the downswing of a great streak, we feel nostalgia, lifting a glass in toast of the good old days of the early 21st century when Super Bowl victories seemed infinite.
Our old acquaintance with duck boat parades shall not be forgot and never thought upon. The sweet Patriots have grown cold. We'll take a cup of kindness yet, even from strangers and Patriots yet to come.
As for now, we could use a pint.