The Superdome scoreboard still reads 27 Bird Brains, 24 Saints, but based on a quick count of yesterday's pre-game and in-house festivities, the Who Dats won going away. This ain't no moral victory. This is a reminder of "what it means." And while I completely understand the need to jump in a car and drive the depressing eight hours back to hell the ATL, the flood of Dirty Birds exiting the Upper Terrace of the Poydras endzone before Broken Hart lined up his shank was telling. Telling of life in a great American simulated city.
Sour grapes, Chef? Perhaps.
But, then again, this visual evidence suggests how real we kept it in and out of the seats of the Dome on Sunday. Enjoy the photographic stylings of Ms. Shootz to Kill: