"Hey, Punch, what's up? Here I go sendin' you off to the Super Bowl—the first reporter from the Panhandle ever to git within spittin' distance of the big time—and here it is Tuesday, two whole days later, and we ain't heard one word outta you."
"Herb, I was jes' now gonna phone in mah early prediction story to Emil."
"I ain't jes' talkin' 'bout your ole story, Punch. I mean, you could have called us—collect, o' course—jes' to let us know how-all it's a-goin'. Goddam, it must be some excitin', right, ole buddy?"
"Well, Herb, I, uh...."
"You bet. The greatest, most thrillin' single e-vent in the whole wide world of sports. Bar none! It must rilly be sumpin'. Right, Punch?"
"Fact is, Herb, uh, it's uh...."
"What-all is this, Punch? You ain't tellin' me one word 'bout how tee-riffic it all is."
"Well, now, Herb, I don' know real well how to let on to this, but the truth is, Super Bowl Week's 'bout the most borin'est, the most blowed-up, the most stupid...."
"Punch, Punch! Hush up! Doreen, are you still on this here line?"
"I'm jes' now hangin' up, Herb."