Tebow/Canadian Football: Do It Man . . .

   As always, my books:  King's Books

   Warren Moon is Captain Black Sparrow of symmetrical cool; moreover, Doug Flutie dodging with mercurial Spider-Man offers a dangerous game that outchills the Frozen Tundra of Green Bay; specifically, anybody can wrangle football in the States, but running through the vacant fields of Saskatchewan during times of BarleyCorning Civil War, Flutie transcends the rest; next, mid-thirties and again gelled with the NFL, architecting "Comeback Player Of The Year" with a dexterity determined to eclipse the spies of a mutated defense.  Yes, Peyton Manning is a cerebral assasin--an adrogynous android rocketing with the eternal arm, much like Pete Sampras (spell'n?) of tennis fame; nonetheless, Manning never gets his shirt dirty--no Mean Joe Green toss and a fizzy bottle of fabulous Coke, though better ingested like the free-lancing intellectual known as Freud to soothe the slain spirit of romantic decadence.

   And it is that:  The Saskatchewan void of it all, HOLE, vacuous yet voluptious with the mirth of a humble God adoring the Combative Anthropology of Man minus the sanguine spill of crimson guts and ruptured intestinal tracts. 

   Allow Tebow the GRACE of achievement, for he did more than both Cam Newton and RG 3 merged for immaculate respect; still, he gets nothing for his Moose Johnson ability to make horizontal the adversarial athlete lined up across from his Christian Gleam.  So chill, hit Canada like Chief was in One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, daring the amber bush of carnal insanity, though besmirched better by an actor damned and destined to be the Joker before Heath Ledger's accidental insertation of legal medicines into his gorgeous corporeal aspects.  Regardlees, we must adhere to the futurity of continuance, allowing all Quarterbacks the chance at Kenny "the Snake" Stabler Fame even if a fifth of Vodka a day is drank for dangerous purposes.  God Bless the excess of William Blake, if understood for a sublime purpose.

   Tebow can hone his katana in Canada; then, inject his venom into the remission of the unathletic, passing QB, dumb and dumber to a Safety Blitz forged from the quicksilver of a 4.3 forty short man, weighing in at 170 pounds, but smacking the ass of gangly stars into the quicksand of recovery.  God Bless the running Quarterback!

   Sincerely, Mark David King