skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Monday, 06 February
Things We Were Not Meant To See
There are probably few things more boring than hearing a sports fan complain about his vanquished heroes, his stolen dreams, his fallen arches, whatever. So I'll try and get this out of the way quickly. Besides, as D. said, "You're not allowed to blog about our tears." No problem. Can I blog about the astonishing rancidness of your farts? Hey, I can!
Speaking of rancid, so there was the Super Bowl. Let me just say this: I am not one of those wild-eyed people who will claim that the refs handed the Steelers the victory (though of course those thoughts are tempting). The Seahawks had plenty of chances, and can really thank any number of sheerly inept moments to pick to blame. (Clock management? Anyone? No?) But in the end, what we were really faced with was this: the Super Bowl XL was a wholly dispiriting, dreary game played by two dreary teams making mostly dreary plays, the exceptions to which only seemed to underscore the fact the whole rotten affair was an embarrassment to everyone involved. Particularly--and you knew this was coming--for the officials.
I'm pretty sure this wasn't what Matthew Arnold had in mind when he wrote about ignorant armies clashing by night. On the other hand, it seemed apt at the time, and anyway, I really enjoy his other NFL-related poetry.
ALL RIGHT. That'll do.
To distract us from our woes, there was always the reliably crappy halftime show, this time featuring the Rolling Stones, looking very mossy indeed these days. Up front, as always, was the eternally embarrassing Mick Jagger, jerking arrythmically like some japing, fibrous pemmican golem; behind him, too desiccated to do anything but rasp for water! water! while they arthritically hunch-fucked their instruments, wringing terrible atonal noises out of the things as if they were strangling starving derelicts. Struck with creeping horror at this ghoul circus, we were forced to eventually change the channel to watch the Puppy Bowl on Animal Planet.
"This is better than the game," I said in doomed tones. The other guys said nothing, and dug mutely into their congealing beef brisket sandwiches, which did nothing for the Venusian methane atmosphere permeating the house. There is nothing more poisonous than the unholy reek of grimly heartsick male sports fans. C. cracked open his fifth beer with all the enthusiasm of a melancholy hermit coroner.
And of course there were the ads! I particularly liked the GoDaddy spots which resolutely did not much feature the chick with giant tits actually displaying . . . her tits. Effective! And the other one I really like was the Bud Light piece where Alan Cumming shat in Carmen Electra's hair while the Incredible String Orchestra covered Whale's indelible hit "Hobo Humpin' Slobo Babe." It was easily the realest of all the ads.
In the end--and I have tried to leave out all the football-intensive shit from this post, so that everyone can read and attempt to enjoy it, if possible--here is the final judgment on that damned night: the ads were more fun, and they were phenomenally horrible. The Puppy Bowl was more fun, and that was dog-on-dog action. Yes, dogs screwing--dogs badly screwing-- was more fun than the Super Bowl. Me making up horrible bullshit about Alan Cumming taking a dump on Carmen Electra's head was more fun than remembering the Super Bowl.
It was a really terrible game. Here's the final verdict: that game was actually worse than the movie the wife and I watched the night before.
House of Wax.
Note: Comments are closed on old entries.
japing, fibrous pemmican golem...you certainly do know how to turn a phrase
Someone is going to complain that you misspelled "gaping."
"japing, fibrous, pemmican golem" makes me chuckle. But then again, I've always been partial to mystical Hebrew guardian creatures composed of dried meat.
Post a comment