Links:


Write me:
skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com

Archives:
Monday, 02 February
It Wasn't Really Super, Supergirl

My convalescence has been proceeding . . . slowly. I've been feeling somewhat better, and managed to check out a movie over the weekend (Lost in Translation, which I quite enjoyed); however, at work today they more or less hustled me out of there early, as my wracking coughing fits were discomfiting the rest of the skittish staff. Geeks are fragile little rodents, and get twitchy when they see someone nearby getting hammered sideways with coughing attacks and spuming out microdroplets of some hideous, unidentifiable plague into the air. Go figure.

Probably a big impediment towards achieving good health--pointedly ignoring the cigarettes--was actually watching the Super Bowl. My friend D. came over to watch it with me and the wife (who, it probably doesn't need to be said, really could have gave a fuck anyway). Things did not start auspiciously (do they ever?): some idiotic flack unwisely exhumed Aerosmith and turned them loose onto the stage for the pre-show. Aerosmith. These antediluvian fucks. Whose idea was this? Anyway, there they were, prancing ridiculously; they looked like the Living Avatars of Fruit Leather. Joe Perry arthritically strangled his guitar like a recalcitrant stepchild, and Steven Tyler . . . good god. He clutched frantically at the microphone, like a drowning man, as his glassine bones moaned under the weight of his terrible array of scarves. And of course his voice is just ruined any more: he searched myopically for notes the way a frustrated man looks for a missing sock in the back of the dryer, and unable to locate any, resorted to some terrible, grainy shrieking. At this point, mysteriously, tiny men began parachuting into the stadium, for unclear purposes. Tyler eyed them nervously, and I thought, ecstatically, They're coming to kill Steven Tyler! Finally! But no, the weird 'chuters touched down and just kind of scampered off, pointlessly, and Tyler flashed a relieved smile at the apparent reprieve from Death from Above.

That was just the pre-show I caught. Christ only knows what the network sackheads inflicted on an unwary public before I bothered to tune in.

Well, there was a bit more: Beyonce was dragged in to spang out a typically flashy rendition of the National Anthem, and there was a whole bunch of thumbs-uppery and backslapping for the good NASA folk in the wake of the shuttle debacle, but it really just kind of felt . . . out of place. Especially the "what the fuck?" moment (little did we know how many of these we would have over the evening) when the stage birthed up a freaking astronaut, with a big, stiff flag, miming the famous old moon photo. They stuck that poor bastard there for the entirety of the National Anthem too; one fervently hopes that at least his helmet rendered him immune to the singing.

Anyway, the game. It sure looked like it was going to be a sack of wet shit for a quarter and a half--D. howled hopelessly at one point, "This is fucking boring!"--but then both teams caught fire, and a real game was to be had.

Meanwhile, the weirdness continued to pile up (I know everyone's heard this shit before, but hey). There were, of course, the ads, which were, by and large, tremendously terrible. Come back, dot-coms! All is forgiven! Come back and make us more freakishly expensive, mind-shatteringly terrible advertisements!

Oh, they're not coming back. Which means we're stuck with the brain ticks over at Budweiser, whose "farting horse" ad achieved instant legend in the house. (For those of you who haven't had the pleasure, the nitty is this: a horse farts explosively at a woman who happens to be holding a candle, and she is burned terribly, while her boyfriend asks, "Hey, you smell barbecue?") This one pretty much blasted our synapses all to hell, and we sat, stunned. "Did that just happen?" I said. D. blinked erratically. It was like the TV had farted explosively in our face, and in a way it had: I certainly smelled something, but I'm not sure it was barbecue. As the evening progressed, I wanted desperately to see that . . . thing again, just to make sure I wasn't dreaming, and I periodically screamed, "FAR-TING HORSE! FAR-TING HORSE!" But my exhortations were ignored, and I knew, desolately, that the awful thing would never see the light of day on TV again. (Later, of course, I found it on the internet, where nothing is ever allowed to die.)

Budweiser ads were front and center on the evening, but also omnipresent were the various get-a-boner! drug ads. Most egregious, of course, was former Bears coach and current mustache-gnawer Mike Ditka, who barked at us like erectile dysfunction was something vaguely all our fault. Never mind that I don't need visions of Mike Ditka in my head when I'm thinking about sex, please; but I did note that Levitra's little logo consists of a tiny flame. "Levitra!" I shrieked, "It'll set your dick on fire!"

Considering the prominence of advertising featuring alcoholic beverages and boner drugs, I idly wondered, Maybe if American men weren't drinking all that booze, they could get it up once in a while. I was soon disabused of this notion by another beer ad: This one showed a ref being screamed at by a coach on the sidelines, and wondered how he could take such scorching abuse so stoically. The answer: The wife at home is a hysterically shrieking shrew who berates him at all times! Now I understood: men don't get boners any more because of (a) a tremendous beer deficiency, and (b) their wives are all nightmarish harpies. If I suffered from these incredibly dystopian views, like apparently Budweiser's ad men all do, I'd need something pharmaceutical to help me get in the mood too.

I won't even get into the halftime eye-poison, as it will be gummed to death over the next few days, except to note that there was spirited discussion amongst us as to what the exact notional sound was made when Ms. Jackson's boob flopped out depressingly on national TV. "Muuuh." was suggested, as was "Blop," but in the end the winner was something close to "Lllllurp." Just so you know.

And these were the sounds of my evening: Aerosmith. Equine flatulence. Screaming wives. Mike Ditka obliquely talking about his penis. Lllllurp.

I don't know if I'll ever get better.


Note: Comments are closed on old entries.

Comments

You outdid yourself with that one. The men-coming-to-kill-Steven-Tyler bit cracked me up a good one.

Comment number: 004258   Posted by: i on February 3, 2004 04:50 AM from IP: 141.156.187.222

I dunno, even the exhuming was choice verbiage. Face it, we'd all fellate Skot. By "we" of course, I mean "you".

Comment number: 004259   Posted by: ColdForged on February 3, 2004 06:59 AM from IP: 66.152.60.98

Whew. Great one.

Comment number: 004260   Posted by: ChrisL on February 3, 2004 07:20 AM from IP: 209.116.70.133

For once, the game was much more interesting than the tripe surrounding it. I caught a bit more of the pregame show than you did and it was that country singer who does the Ford commercials "Look ageeein...!" and that was just barely tolerable. At the time I thought LAME but when compared with what came afterwards, it was Masterpeice Theater.

My husband quipped, after chatting about Ms. Jackson's faux pas, "Maybe next year they'll just have a marching band."

Comment number: 004261   Posted by: One on February 3, 2004 07:37 AM from IP: 63.165.136.132

Superbowl. It never ceases to amaze me that so much time and money is spent to create these grating half-time shows and these soon-to-be-forgotten, next year's one hit wonders have the audacity to look pleased with themselves.

I believe that Ms. Jackson may have gone to get her boobies "tuned up" before the show because of her little ladies debut. God forbid her brother gets all of the press.

TimberFake just did it because he must have noticed that Teen Beat wasn't carrying his picture quiterft so frequently.

I've never rooted for a Federal Agency before. Got get 'em, The Man!

Comment number: 004262   Posted by: Nora on February 3, 2004 09:51 AM from IP: 24.189.179.23

Superbowl. It never ceases to amaze me that so much time and money is spent to create these grating half-time shows and these soon-to-be-forgotten, next year's one hit wonders have the audacity to look pleased with themselves.

I believe that Ms. Jackson may have gone to get her boobies "tuned up" before the show because of her little ladies debut. God forbid her brother gets all of the press.

TimberFake just did it because he must have noticed that Teen Beat wasn't carrying his picture quite so frequently.

I've never rooted for a Federal Agency before. Got get 'em, The Man!

Comment number: 004263   Posted by: Nora on February 3, 2004 09:52 AM from IP: 24.189.179.23

I really think Beyonce sang the crap out of the national anthem--truly one of the best renditions I've ever heard. And I'm no flag-waving, bush-voting, iraq-fearing conservative either. Nor am I a big Beyonce fan. I just liked the song and I think she nailed it.

Everything else is absolutely spot on and I'm excercising my fellating muscles as we speak...

--not that anyone has the right to tell you what is or isn't good about your post, just that I thought Beyonce was great.

Comment number: 004264   Posted by: Shamrok on February 3, 2004 09:54 AM from IP: 206.16.5.38

I thought that "living avatars of fruit leather" was about the greatest thing I'd ever heard, until that "set your dick on fire" shit. Bravo.

Comment number: 004265   Posted by: Lllllurp on February 3, 2004 10:21 AM from IP: 67.108.58.98

May I just say thank you for the moderately obscure XTC semi-quote?

Comment number: 004266   Posted by: Mixmaster Mikey on February 3, 2004 11:46 AM from IP: 68.52.13.98

On your views of the multiple Super Bowl fiascos: Exactly.

Comment number: 004267   Posted by: Tracy on February 3, 2004 02:50 PM from IP: 152.15.164.138

NOT pointedly ignoring smoking: the cure for smoking and bad Super Bowl experiences is the same: just quit.

Although the costume malfunction gets all the press, I have to wonder about America: we've got a rabid idiot installed in the White House by a cabal of party hacks, selling our country to the highest bidder while relentlessly pissing off every ally we've ever had, and we're all fired up about a little nipple on national TV? Since when did Janet Jackson's boob become a weapon of mass destruction? (Perhaps her implants are radioactive, I dunno.)

Now farting horses -- that's something the FCC should look into.

Comment number: 004268   Posted by: Bill on February 3, 2004 04:56 PM from IP: 162.119.64.114

I didn't watch a millisecond of the game, yet I feel as if I had. Just living in Houston, I got some kind of osmotic transference. Thank God it's over. I did sadly see a pic of Janet's llurp. My thought was that she badly needed a breast-lift. If you're gonna show it, at least make sure it looks good.

Comment number: 004269   Posted by: Stacey on February 3, 2004 05:23 PM from IP: 24.238.152.181

the whole janet thing strikes me as sad. maybe she didn't want her boob out there on national television. her boob certainly didn't look excited and proud to be out there. and that picture they're showcasing of her everywhere, with her hair in her face and her hand over her offending boob, makes her look so ashamed ... maybe it was all fuckinjustin's idea and his fault and she's stuck taking the flak for it.

although cbs deserves everything it gets.

Comment number: 004270   Posted by: ester on February 3, 2004 05:49 PM from IP: 130.58.238.208

Re: Nora and the boob tune up..

Hey - I'm glad that SOMEONE in Hollywood actually has the boobs they were born with, and not some severely unnatural silicone on their chest. I mean, really!

Bill - you are so right on.

Skot - hope you are feeling better soon... your send-up of the Super Bowl was brilliant! Keep up the good work!

Julie

Comment number: 004271   Posted by: Julie on February 3, 2004 08:24 PM from IP: 204.30.231.252

Post a comment