The Meh Bowl

There was nothing super about that Super Bowl. And to think, I watched it 'til the very end, waiting to see the puppy/Clydesdale commercial, which did not appear until the 2-minute warning. Had it been shown earlier, I might have abandoned all hope of being entertained, like my mom, who switched it off once the score was 22-0.

Mom does not suffer losers gladly. She's like her own mom, who couldn't wait to watch the Cardinals on TV, then turn them off if they got behind. Not a good loser, my grandma. Many a time she trounced us grandkids at croquet. Not merely beating us by playing a steady mature game to our scatterbrained, immature efforts. No. A bloodthirsty, give-no-quarter game of placing her orthopedic shoe on top of her black ball, next to our colorful striped orb, and whacking us across the blacktop road into the dense hardwood forest. To her credit, she DID walk to the edge of the yard and watch both ways for cars while my boy cousin ran across to fetch them back.

Even though the game was a bust, Val the eternal optimist stuck around for those fantastic commercials. I said stuck around for those fantastic commercials. Except there were no fantastic commercials. There were confusing commercials. And boring commercials. And commercials which did not seem to be advertising a product. But no fantastic commercial. A couple were passable. The Doritos time machine. The Doberhuahua. The Carfax slow-clapping Rudy commercial. And the '80s wanting their Radio Shack back.

Halftime was not of any entertainment value to me. Don't like 'em, don't listen to 'em, don't need to see 'em in a major production. In fact, I may have, commented to Hick, please pardon my crass analogy, "This halftime show appears to be a real sausagefest this year. I don't think a lot of guys want to see Bruno Mars and The Red Hot Chili Peppers. And aren't most of the viewers of the Super Bowl guys? I mean, sure the women might be watching with one eye while bringing out more snacks, but I imagine the demographic is predominantly male." Okay. So I didn't use those exact words. I was talking to Hick, remember? I just mentioned that guys wouldn't like it, and women would be busy during halftime.

Hick got my drift. We're simpatico like that. "Who IS that guy? I've never seen him before. And who's that fool with his shirt off? What they need is the Rockettes. They don't even need music. Just the Rockettes, kickin' their legs up. I'd rather hear that opera gal sing the Star-Spangled Banner again than this guy. The last time I remember a halftime show at the Super Bowl was Janet Jackson. They need Janet Jackson again."

There you have it. A review of the Super Bowl broadcast by Thevictorians.