Mean Old Grandpa Carl's Super Bowl Lock of the Wek

Here at FTT, we believe in America. And the Greatest Generation.

So our Pigskin Prognosticator is a man who has seen more football than any of us could ever hope to see. A man who not only remembers Slingin' Sammy Baugh, but got him drunk and then attacked him with a baseball bat when his back was turned. He was 2-0 in the championship games, and he's back to give you his Super Bowl Pick... Our very own (and very old) Mean Old Grandpa Carl!

FTT: Carl, great to see you again.

Carl: What the hell's that supposed to mean?

FTT: Just that we really en...

Carl: Didn't think I was going to be here, did you?

FTT: No, no, not at...

Carl: I'll tell you what I live for, punk. It's for outliving pukes like you. You go and make your little jokes, like you're not going to be old one day. You're right. I'll kill you myself before you get that far. With my bare hands.

FTT: Oh Carl, you're such a kidder...

Carl: You think I couldn't? You want to go? You don't think I sleep with a loaded Colt under my pillow, and the dried skins of those dirty little kids who messed with my lawn?

FTT (to nurse): Is he on some new meds?

Carl (pulling out gun): You want to see it close up?

FTTL: Holy cra...

Carl (reverently): You're thirsty, aren't you, Betty? Been a long time since you drank all that Commie blood. '43, oh, good times...

FTT: But if you were doing that in...

Carl: Oh, stop peeing yourself. Oh crap, that's me. Anyway, shut up and start writing. I'm going to give you the winner of the big game this weekend.

FTT (shakily): OK. Last time, you didn’t much favor the AFC, so you’re going with the Bears?

Carl: Those rum-running Italian scum? The same lot that made little kids cry when they sold the Series to the stinking REDS in 1919? The bastards that cost Richard Nixon the presidency in 1960, giving us three years of Clinton-esque White House bestiality until a Marine, goddamit, put things right?

FTT: Um, wow. Not going to answer any of that. So, the Colts?

Carl: Can't an old man talk without the Democrats in Congress putting wires in his head?

FTT: Uh...

Carl: Like you don't know. Like you aren't in on it, with your little speakers in your ears and your thumb-diddling phone and that electric box in your nether regions. It's disgusting.

FTT: You mean the computer?

Carl: I've seen what you got on that thing. You’re going to enjoy hell. Lots of loose women there, loose all over, if you catch my meaning…

FTT: When were you looking at my computer?

Carl: It's going to be ugly. Both Unitas and Luckman are going to play more scared than the Commies when they saw me pull out the piano wire and the rats. I can hardly blame them, it’s got to be tough to play football when you’re looking over your shoulder for Castro the whole time. I bet he tries something during the halftime show, that filthy cigar-smoking bastard.

FTT: You really think there will be a Cuban military action at the Super Bowl, just because the game is in Miami.

Carl: He’ll have his little friends from Hollyweird cook up something to turn America into queers, and then take over the stadium as everyone there goes all Sodom and Gomorra with the gay sex. You just watch. I won’t. But the President will scramble the military in time to get the second half started – I just hope he’s not too much of a pussy to shoot Castro himself, like he did to Saddam -- and everyone knows a Cuban is no good in a fair fight. Expect less than 200 dead and minimal disruptions.

FTT: 200 dead after group sex is a minimal disruption?

Carl: It’s in Miami, isn’t it? You telling me it isn’t? Those people down there, they let that little alien kid get abducted. Don’t put anything past them, I don’t. When that kid got grabbed, I shook my fist at my television for weeks!

FTT: I really doubt that Cuba will prove to be any…

Carl: Who asked you? You ever win money betting on football, junior?

FTT: No, sir.

Carl: Of course you haven’t. That’s because winning money in football only happens if you’ve got God on your side. And I’ve killed too many people for God to be anywhere but with me. How else do you explain all these skins?

FTT: Those aren’t from animals? Oh dear God, I think I’m going to be…

Carl: Puke all you want, you little mama’s boy. The same way that those filthy gun-toting Eye-talian gangster defensive tackles from Chicago will puke when the True White Colts run it down their throats. Luckman’s gonna go three and out and choke, and the Colts will move the chains until the Bears defense collapses like an Irishman on Saturday night. Take Unitas with the points.

FTT: We talked about this, Carl, it’s not Unitas any…

Carl: You want to give Betty a drink?

FTT: No sir.

Carl: Colts 24, Bears 13. Now get me my pills!

Ladies and gentlemen, Mean Old Grandpa Carl!

Mean Old Grandpa Carl's Locks of the Week

Here at FTT, we believe in America. And the Greatest Generation.

So who better to turn the prognostication reins over to for this week's epoch shattering championship playoff games to then...

Our very own (and very old) Mean Old Grandpa Carl!

Carl has been picking games longer than anyone over at the World Wide Lemur. His canny decision to take the Colts over the Ravens last week, based on the "Who the hell are the Ravens?" logic, leads us to trust his counsel in a world where road underdogs go 4-0 against the spread. So we made our way to his palatial nursing home suite to benefit from his wisdom.

FTT: Carl, so good to see you again.

Carl: Eh? How many times do I have to tell you, into the horn!

FTT: I said, IT'S GOOD TO SEE YOU...

Carl: Shut the hell up. I ain't deaf!

FTT: I'm so sorry.

Carl: So was your wife.

FTT: What?

Carl: Heh heh. You have the pills?

FTT: No...

Carl: Four hours, my ass. Lying sacks of...

FTT: Anyway... who do you like in this week's games, Carl?

Carl: Who with the what now?

FTT: Saints at Bears. Patriots at Colts.

Carl: Oh, you're talking about football, now. I thought you were here to steal my horseradish. I make it myself.

FTT: Um, no.

Carl: You eat just a bit of this, you can clear out half a nursing home. And those people know stink.

FTT: Can we talk about football, please?

Carl: Once, I ate a whole jar of it, then sat down and played the accordion to cover the sound. For two hours. Finally had to stop when the sprinklers went off. You can still see where the paint failed.

FTT: That's disgusting.

Carl: So's your wife.

FTT: What?

Carl: There's no way in hell that George Halas and Sid Luckman are losing to a bunch of Johnnie Come Wetlies. I like the Bears and the points.

FTT: Sid Luck...

Carl: Look it up on that thing on your lap, sissy! I killed the Nips in '48 so that you could have that.

FTT: That makes no sense.

Carl: Look, all I'm saying is that the -- Saints, is it? -- will have no answer for Bronko Nagurski up the middle. You know what they said about Bronko Nagurski?

FTT: How do you spell that again? I'm pretty sure he's not on the team...

Carl: Shut the hell up. They once asked the Giants coach "How are you going to stop Nagurski?" And he said, "With a shotgun. In his face, like a great black cock of death, until that fat son of a bitch tells me that he likes it, and then he's gonna lick..."

FTT: OK now, got it, you like the Bears. Now, how about the Colts and the Pats?

Carl: I shouldn't even pick that game. The Pats play in the Fag League, don't they?

FTT: You mean, the AFC?

Carl: AFC, fah. That's the AFL. Fags. You can tell by the sissy pants on the refs.

FTT: Actually, I'm pretty sure that the refs dress the same no matter...

Carl: Shut the hell up. Anyway, I'm picking this game against my better judgment. Unitas leads the Colts over the upstarts, and makes Joe Namath cry like the little girl he is.

FTT: Um, the Colts moved out of Baltimore twenty years ago, and Johnny Unitas would probably rather be confused with Richard Simmons than Peyton Mann...

Carl: Colts. Bears. Now get out of my sight. And tell your wife less teeth next time.

Ladies and gentlemen, Grandpa Carl!