I watched the Super Bowl. You would see the ridiculousness in that first sentence if you knew that I’d spent my entire Saturday watching season two of Gossip Girls, and crying all seven times Dan and Serena broke up. (Not joking.) I decided last month that I would make an effort to join the throngs of Americans in insisting that the last football game of the season is a thing. In order to make the situation more enticing, I agreed to participate in some friendly wagers in the form of “football squares”. Since I had a reason to watch the game (or be near others who were watching it), I had to figure out where I’d end up. My plan for finding a suitable location had two objectives: I had to be able to wear sweatpants and eat unabashedly. I turned down more than one party invitation to join my parents at their house for “comfy clothes” and judgment free snacking.
My parents’ house consisted of exactly one person who was interested in watching the game: my mom. She’s a die-hard Packers fan and only slightly angry that they were nowhere to be seen in this game. My mom didn’t have a favorite to win, but she does hate the Patriots with a nonsensical passion. Every time Tom Brady’s face was shown, she would make noises like a baby crying, insisting that he was the biggest whiner in the league. I don’t know if that’s true. I do know that he’s the most attractive white guy I’ve ever seen playing the game. Most of the white football players look like one of the Mannings, and that’s just silly. If I’ve learned anything in life thus far, it’s that you fare better with a model’s face than a farmer’s.
My usual Super Bowl tradition is to do anything but pay attention to the game and then shush everyone so that I can watch the commercials. Commercials I understand. Random flags and seemingly lip-dubbed referees, I do not. In between commercials, as I was doing my best to stare intently at the screen and at least appear to be following the game, the subject of protective cups came up. I can’t remember how, but I do know that the conversation that followed was the highlight of my night. My mom chimed in, saying that nobody in the NFL wore cups anymore and “you could tell“. She then went on to explain that when the camera moves in tight on someone, and another player happens to wander into the frame, you can see “it“, in all its spandexed glory. According to my mom, they want you to see their junk and have cultivated an unspoken brotherhood of the penis, as it were. Nobody hits anyone else there. Those are the rules of showing the world the outline of your penis. When she explained that some are more “out there” than others, I asked her if she was referring to the black players. She was not and was in fact a bit flustered by that suggestion. Oops. 🙂 The remainder of the game somehow held my attention as I scanned football pants for the best outline. The jury is still out.
Halftime is generally something I look forward to during the Super Bowl telecast. It is a shining beacon of celebrity in the vast, boring desert of sweaty dudes. When I learned that Madonna would be providing the halftime entertainment I had mixed feelings. I am and always will be a fan of 80s/90s Madonna, but “old lady” current Madonna freaks me out. I was perplexed by the amount of flair coming from the background of her performance, and the complete lack of effort on her part. It seemed to be an endless stream of awkward prancing/jiggling punctuated with several hard-to-watch yoga poses. Remember when Madonna used to dance? She did writhe uncomfortably on the platform near Cee Lo while singing “Like a Prayer” (a song I was grateful for, as it attempted to save my opinion of her and remind me of the good times), but other than many, many misguided cheerleading moves I found the whole thing devoid of actual dance and full of strange juxtapositions. I get that the powers that be want to appeal to a broad demographic, so they get someone who has been around for a while and who retains some relevance (if only in the tabloids) and sprinkle in a few young chart toppers for good measure. That results in a combination of confusing cameos and an aging “yoga-nista”. What about us “in-betweeners” who just don’t get Nicki Minaj and are, frankly, a little afraid of MIA? Those two, the terrible vision of Madonna’s vagina on the back of LMFAO guy’s neck and her overall ickyness really turned me off. Cee Lo, my snugglebum, saved the night by wearing that adorable sparkly robe and standing near Madonna. Thank god for little nuggets.
Overall, the night was a success. I learned something valuable about the crotches of professional football players, I learned that I still can’t tell the difference between Eli and Peyton Manning and I won some money on that final score. In closing, I’d like to leave you with a few bold statements that were uttered last night, and I feel ought to be shared. While watching the halftime show, my mom blurted out that she would much rather watch Nickelback perform than Madonna now. I nearly smacked her. And, upon the onset of “The Voice” after the game, I decided and declared that Adam Levine is hotter than Justin Timberlake (in response to Christina Aguilera’s pseudo-snide remark). It was a risky statement but my sister agreed, after a moment, and I’d like you all to agree as well.