If the Eagles win the Superbowl, Philly will be raped and pillaged. Block by block. Trinity by trinity. Sidewalk crack by sidewalk crack until all that remains is molten lava spewing from the center of the earth onto the charred remains of Market and Broad. There will be looting, rioting, fires, floods, locusts and moaning one-legged whores. People in flames will be running around wildly, beseeching the mercy of William Penn and Edmund Bacon. Cars will be overturned, the "ee-ee-ee waah-waah-waah-oh-ohhhh-oh-ohhh" of their alarms crying like babies searching desperately for their mothers' swollen, milky teats. Extraordinarily poetic, in a Revelations sort of way.
The idea of a Superbowl win truly scares me. The car is currently packed with a few odds and ends to make it to the edges of the urban sprawl. I plan on making quick haste to the Bucks County house to hide in the shadows of the tennis court until the city calms itself down, when power is restored and the cell towers are re-uprighted. I will keep some nice vacuumed sealed soft cheese in the trunk until when and if such time comes. One must always be prepared for such times.