Bradley Warshauer
fiction. essays. journalism. copywriting. about.
January 28, 2013
A list of sentences from Super Bowl Week articles employing terrible New Orleans cliches

This might be the land of voodoo and spirits, but Kaepernick said he has no superstitions to follow

I say: Just because you’re not superstitious doesn’t mean the land of voodoo and spirits won’t like voodoo you or something.

It’s the overindulgence epicenter, where happy hour flows right past midnight and into breakfast, when you can walk into a voodoo shop and buy a bottle of Love Potion No. 9

I say: They actually bookended this piece with mentions of “Love Potion No. 9.” Hey, New York Times, did you know Times Square trinket shops are also the most accurate expressions of New York culture? Also, this is the second voodoo mention in as many articles.

One by one, Super Bowls in the Crescent City were often as spicy as the Cajun food.

I say: [insert your mama’s rant about Cajun vs creole food here]

New Orleans is a survivor, a jazzy, diverse and resilient community that knows how to get up off the mat and keep the good times rolling.

I say: I almost didn’t include this one, just out of respect for writer Richard Rothschild, who efficiently and impressively packs six cliches into two little lines.

Call it “Super Gras.”

I say: Honorable mention for “Super Gras.”

The Big Easy — which can morph into The Big Sleazy at a moment’s notice — is hosting a Super Bowl for the first time since Katrina.

I say: This one is from the New York Post, which is really clever for coming up with “The Big Sleazy” because nobody ever thought of that one before. Cool how “The Big Sleazy” can double as a nickname for the New York Post. Bonus points for the Katrina mention.

And the best for last? It comes from Tampa writer Gary Shelton. I can’t choose just one sentence, so here’s the entire first quarter or so of the article. Well done, Mr Shelton. I’ll buy you a hurricane, a “Bourbon-faced on shit-street” t-shirt, and some Mardi Gras beads if we ever meet.

Someone will howl at the moon.

Someone will attempt to drink their way through Bourbon Street.

Someone will slip into the wrong bar at the wrong time with the wrong purpose in mind.

The city that leads the league in tomfoolery is finally hosting another Super Bowl.

Prediction: weird.

Here in the Big Easy, the home of voodoo shops and party beads, of street dancers and fortune tellers, why would you expect anything else?

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