His name is Bobert Paulson. His name is Bobert Paulson. His name is Bobert Paulson.
The Minnesota Vikings raided Philadelphia to pillage victory from the quaking hands of the obviously inferior Eagles, who like a good little medieval peasant donning a bowl cut and itchy robe, had lost the battle before it began. Fear gripped each Eagle feather. Pressure mounted. Sweat beaded. Knees wobbled. The very notion of the “North” coming down with vengeance left dainty souls gnashing teeth and praying to the One True God for rescue from those frozen heathens.
As it was written, and as it shall now forever be sung as we make our way to the gates of Valhalla, the Vikings slew the dragon of….
Oh wait. They lost. By a score of 38-7. The vaunted Nick Foles appeared an apparition imbued with the skills of Brady, Manning, Rodgers, Staubach, Montana, Starr, and even Tarkenton, rolled into one. This is, of course, what the Vikings do. Skål!