I like football. I like watching football. But I hate the Super Bowl. There, the secret is out.
What was meant to be a sporting game has developed into a miserable spectacle. The game’s rules molested to fit in with a format concocted in a marketer’s wet dream. The cadence of football raped and unnaturally interrupted to maximize commercial time. The event itself staged in a dome or some unseasonably warm environment removing the excitement of watching the teams battle not only each other, but also the elements.
The Super Bowl has become an orgy of flat screen TVs blaring over-produced ads set to appeal to the lowest common denominator. Lindsey Lohan skiing in a bikini with a talking ferret on her shoulder—and all in an attempt to get me to switch to a different brand of chewing gum—is not entertainment; it’s intellectual torture. And I do not care that Ryan Seacrest scored an interview with Rachael Ray before the game. I want to watch football, not ads and a pageant of douche-bags and the sham industry that swirls around them.
All of this is then pared with a glut of junk food splayed out for the gormandizing masses. It’s Thanksgiving without any semblance of taste or reverence, a dissolute tradition based on glorified consumerism and excess. It is pure American, and purely disgusting. If you want to find me during the game, I’ll be doing the dignified thing: drinking in the kitchen and hording the guac and chips.