I just watched the Super Bowl, and boy, am I bored. What’s worse, I am left with an empty, restless, lonely sense of ennui and purposelessness in the pit of my soul, which hovers mere inches above the pit of my stomach. Watching the Weather Channel would have packed more thrills and suspense. If this grotesquely overhyped midwinter sporting spectacle truly represents our national communal High Holy Day, I’d say it’s high time we start working on a more exciting culture, people.
As I’ve stated several times with an overbearing sense of gravitas and a nauseating flourish of false piety, I do not personally own a television. But after reading about the Gay Grammies and the “multicultural crap” that allegedly pockmarked the opening ceremonies for the 2012 London Olympics, I figured I’d watch the 2014 Super Bowl and scrutinize what would undoubtedly be relentless Cultural Marxist agitprop shoved down the gullible nation’s throats like so many rotting dollops of guacamole on stale nacho chips. Alas, I was denied even that perverse pleasure. From start to finish, the entire limp event was so unremarkable that I couldn’t even find much that pissed me off—which really pissed me off.
This year’s game was being touted as the “Pot Bowl,” seeing as both teams represented the largest cities in the only two states to have entirely legalized cannabis. Both Washington and Colorado have tremendous natural beauty and tremendously annoying people. Although I’ve smoked bales of weed over my lifetime, I don’t personally care much for the city of Seattle. Denver I like even less. Still, I was pulling for the Broncos mainly because they have a player with the fantastic name of Zane Beadles.
I can’t even remember the last time I watched a Super Bowl—probably the last time the Eagles played, whenever that was. This time around, the cruel and sadistic football gods denied me and the rest of the 110 million or so viewers even the slightest shred of excitement, mystery, or intrigue. We had been promised a close and thrilling game, with Denver favored by a slim 2.5-point margin; instead they lost by 35. The only blips of drama came through watching sideline shots of Peyton Manning, a genius of a quarterback, as his face slowly melted realizing that this game will forever mark him as a heel and a choker and a goat and a chump. I genuinely felt bad for him even though, quite frankly, his forehead is too big and he comes off as sort of a dick.
The game was played in the magnificently ugly and instantly carcinogenic New Jersey town of East Rutherford, about ten miles as the terrorist crow flies from where the World Trade Center was blown to dust on 9/11/2001. Security precautions involved such insane measures as Black Hawk helicopters and “hidden snipers.” There was even a series of “suspicious powder” scares near the stadium days before the game. But although it would have made the festivities far more exciting, there were no terrorist attacks. There were merely snipers and choppers and pat-downs and vehicle scans and bomb-sniffing dogs and 4,000 security agents and an elaborate constellation of intelligence-sharing and surveillance. Living in an authoritarian prison is the price we pay for freedom.
Even the famous Super Bowl ads—those reputed mini-masterpieces that cost millions and supposedly employ the country’s cleverest creative minds—came up flat this year. There was a Cheerios ad rumored to cause minor grousing among the anti-miscegenation bunch because it features an interracial couple and their supposedly adorable mulatto daughter. There was Scarlett Johansson pimping a carbonated beverage produced in an illegal Israeli settlement. There was a dark, disturbing, and possibly ill-advised commercial featuring an animated Peanut M&M.
There was a mildly confusing toy ad whose message seemed to be that girls should throw away their pink toys and become rocket scientists. There was a supremely confusing ad that seemed to suggest Axe Body Spray could end war and human strife forevermore. Ellen Degeneres appeared in a spot for Beats Music, and I suppose it’s not even controversial anymore that she’s a pearl-diver. A cadaverous Bob Dylan emerged from the crypt to star in an oddly jingoistic two-minute Chrysler ad that conceded the cell-phone market to Asia but insisted that America should still build your cars. There were vague murmurs of one-worldism in an ad that claimed Microsoft is “empowering us all” and a creepy NFL spot with the slogan “together we make football.” And, naturally, Coca-Cola brought all the world’s races together to sing “America the Beautiful.” Coke’s been doing that one-world shtick for ages, but at least they used to do it entirely in English.
Beyond a brief flash of singing Chicanas in the Coke ad, the only hint that Mexican Americans even exist was the fact that the Subway sandwich chain is peddling some repulsive enchilada thing with Fritos sprinkled atop it. I’ve often wondered why blacks appear in almost every modern American TV commercial, while Hispanics—who now outnumber blacks in los Estados Unidos—are fairly invisible in pop culture. Alas, I suppose that’s the Mexicans’ problem and not mine.
After the fireworks were over and the last flashbulb had popped and the final piece of confetti had fluttered to the ground, dozens of burly young men walked off the field with a fat check and a future case of dementia. Tens of thousands of fans slowly oozed out of the stadium, into their little plastic cars, and back to their miserable lives.
Now the Super Bowl is over and I grimly face that flat black bleak stretch of winter that seems to last twenty years until the buttercups and dandelions finally start sprouting on the front lawn and I’ve grown so stir-crazy that I run outside to roll around in the grass and punch horses in the face. Thanks, America—for nothing!
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