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!

Too bad that Bruno Mars‘s boob didn’t pop out during the halftime show. Now that would have been interesting. Otherwise, this was a Super Bore.