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You’d think being Satan’s right-hand man would come with a few perks. Untold riches. Supermodels underfoot. Maybe a job in the Yankees’ front office so he’d feel at home.
Watching today’s Super Bowl XLIII is going to be bittersweet. Sweet because, really, who isn’t up for XIII or XIV hours of football? Bitter, though, because it represents the last wheezy, raspy, Tom Waits-with-bronchitis gasp of a dying network.
