It’s Like So Super Duper

It’s Like So Super Duper

Yesterday, I found out that some folks have actually started taking to writing to their Congressmen (and women, I suppose) regarding how bad the TV commercials were during the Super Bowl. Now, I’m not an expert (on all things TV, or on Congressmen, for that matter) but, and I’m guessing here-I think that our Congressmen (and women) have better things to do with their time then to fret about the TV commercials that air during the Super Bowl. (Don’t they have like $900 haircuts to get and checks to bounce? Come on, people!)

So, in honor of this momentous occasion (and because I have nothing better to do) I’m going to give you my esteemed recollection of all things Super Bowl-y.

I got home late, after the kickoff to the game, which was unfortunate because, well, I missed the national anthem which, for me, is a part of the game I actually enjoy (sometimes, it’s the only part but, hey, you have to take enjoyment where you find it, right?) They usually get some singer to sing the national anthem who can actually sing as opposed to the, ahem, “esteemed” half time show where, well, they sort of hire people who look like strippers to take off their clothing, bump, and grind, to some lip synched musical track, which, in an honest attempt at offending me, was recorded slightly off any recognizable musical key signature (I get SO offended when people lip synch off key. It’s just WRONG. Maybe, I should write to Congress about this.)

But, enough about the music, this is about football (actually, TV commercials.) So, I’m home, when I’m supposed to be at a neighbor’s house watching the game, when I conk out on the couch, because I’m too tired, and break open a bag of half eaten and now totally stale Baked Lays. The commercials start playing.

Most of them were lame. I hate to sit through some stupid football like game to watch them. This bored me rather quickly. I was actually bored to the point where I fell asleep. I feel asleep on a half eaten, totally stale, and now squashed bag of Baked Lays and half a pillow (the half, it goes without say, that Charlie DIDN’T eat.)

So, I wake up, part of the game is over, and I see some kind of Honda pickup truck looming on the horizon. It looks nice, except for the fact that it’s coming over a mountain and I’m thinking, “I just don’t have a mountain like that in my driveway. What would I do with a truck like that?” I nod back into dreamland, only to be woken up again by some kids, peddling a bag of Lays potato chips by throwing them over a fence. MC Hammer comes back over the fence and I fall asleep pondering the biggest question of the day, “does he, in fact, have a career again and, if he does, does this mean that those ugly-ass big pants are going to come back in style?” The horror of this induced nightmares, which were only quelled by Gladys Knight singing in the middle of some kind of Visa commercial and a rugby game. I must have slept through the beginning of that commercial, because, well, it didn’t make any sense at all. I start drooling onto the chips and the half pillow which were, by now, attached to my chin.

I vaguely remember some guy in a conference room with a lot of chimps, some guy holding a spaghetti-sauce colored cat in one hand and a knife in the other, and a really cool salute to our troops, brought to us curtesty of Anhauser-Bush, makes of cheap, pissy tasting beer, sold to hostages and insurgents the world over. Actually, I started to wish I had some pissy tasting beer, to wash down the drool-covered, smelly, stale, crushed Baked Lays with, but, no luck.

My TiVo was too busy plotting the perfect murder to record any of it all and I’m almost happy about that. I can’t wait for next years game. Maybe I’ll get a fresh bag of chips in honor of football season’s glorious end.

Until next time…


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