The Super Blow

No, that's not a typo. Just about everything about today's much anticipated "big game" totally blew.

It didn't look like it was going to be that kind of game. The Bears ran the opening kick-off back for a touchdown, and I splooged in my pants. But it was all down hill from there.

Let's start with all the fumbles. Yup, that's a problem you're going to have when it's lightly raining through pretty much the whole game. That problem is exacerbated (HA! I used a five dollar word that rhymes with masturbated!) by the fact that a new football is rotated in every few plays in the Super Bowl.

Yeah, how insane is that? They bring out a slicky, slippery, brand new ball, and then wonder why it keeps squirting out like a catholic wife's eleventh child. This ain't tennis, folks, where a new ball is a good thing. New footballs are hard to hold onto, and unnaturally stiff. Not the good kind of stiff, either.

But hey, anything to make sure there's enough "official" Super Bowl game balls to give to everybody who was promised one, right?

I don't really know that the Colts played a good game, so much as the Bears played a bad one. Either way, it wasn't very exciting. Fuck, it could barely be called "interesting." And since the Bears had some really great moments on their road to the Super Bowl, it pained me to see them enter the Suckatrocious Zone.

Furthermore, I wanted them to win. God damn it, is that too much to ask? Thanks, Chicago Bears, for killing my boner deader than if Hillary Clinton licked it. I will never forgive you.

GRRRRRRRRRRRRR...

Also, I think way too much was made of the whole hyper-melanin-endowed head coach thing. Yeah, Tony Dungy and Lovie Smith are black. (What the hell kind of a name is Lovie, anyway? I kept chanelling Mr. Howell talking to his wife while Gilligan played with his coconuts in the background.) Well, Lovie is black, anyway. Tony looks like there might be a bit o' the Irish in him.

So this is a big deal, right? I mean, not one, but TWO black head coaches in the Super Bowl, for the first time ever. And Tony Dungy is the first black head coach to win it all. It's about time, right?

Think for a second about how many head coaches of ANY color have won a Super Bowl. There's what? Two dozen? Yes, I am aware there have been forty-one (XLI, for you romans) Super Bowls. But guys like Chuck Noll winning multiple times means the actual number of victorious head coaches is pretty fucking small.

It's like saying there's never been a black Pope. I mean, it's true, but there haven't been a whole lot of Popes anyway. It's a small, exclusive club, just like Super Bowl winning head coaches. I seriously think people need to stop making a huge fucking deal of these "milestones," before they become millstones.

Oh, and I really don't like Tony Dungy, but it has nothing to do with the color of his skin. I just don't trust a man that doesn't cuss.

But there has to have been something worthwhile about Super Bowl XLI, right? I mean, what about all the cool, edgy commercials that are sometimes the best part of the big game? At, like, three million bucks a pop for thirty seconds of air time, they should be putting some truly awesome stuff out there, right? RIGHT?!?!

In a nutshell - they didn't. There weren't any mind-blowingly memorable commercials. If someone asked me to decide which offering should receive the Most Tapioca award, I wouldn't be able to. All of the ads were sort of... careful. And tame. And kinda boring.

Better luck next year, avant-garde advertising agencies.

But surely the halftime show, the highlight of the day, had to have tripped a few triggers?

Nope, sorry. It was pretty lame.

It was to be a gala extravaganza, starring The Artist Formerly Known As Prince And Now Known As Prince Again, or TAFKAPANKAPA for short. That's pronounced taff-cap-ann-kappa. Yes, I realize TAFKAPANKAPA isn't very short, but Prince is such an affected little twerp that I figured he could use a name that's more of a mouthful than my moose-meat.

Seriously, I remember reading a few years back that TAFKAPANKAPA was sitting all by himself at a swanky Hollywood event, no one coming anywhere near him, and he kept telling the security folks to keep everyone away. Let me say that again. No one was paying the least bit of attention to him, and he YELLED AT some poor rent-a-cop that he was Prince, GOD DAMN IT, and he DEMANDED to be left alone.

Life kinda sucks when your star has faded and Apollonia won't bounce on your joystick anymore, doesn't it, little guy?

Anyway, TAFKAPANKAPA's halftime efforts had all the pizzazz of wet toilet paper after you've just taken a sticky poop. I know he was great in his day, but he kinda looked like he was just phoning it in tonight.

What I wouldn't have given to see just a little oopsie-boobie. Janet Jackson's tit was ugly, but even the most hideous tit is more interesting than the snore-fest formerly known as Prince.

Maybe next year they'll dig up Liberace.

In closing, I just want to say, Peyton Manning is a smug asshole. You could practically see him rubbing baby oil on his cock, annointing himself The Greatest Ever. Newsflash, TGE Wanna-be: Greatest Evers don't repeatedly choke in the playoffs year after year after year.

You got lucky. Enjoy it, because the sun may never shine on your pasty skim milk ass again.

Now, let's all do a shot of tequila, and toast to next year's Super Bowl not sucking hairy sweaty donkey balls.

.