Thoughts on the Superbowl

Which do you think he'd rather drop, his Superbowl trophy or his own newborn baby? Let's put it this way: The baby still doesn't know how to do anything.

I didn't really have anything fun planned for the Superbowl. Figured I'd spend Sunday doing the usual: having brunch, coming home, watching some TLC, taking a nap where I dreamed of dusting and swiffing, waking up in the usual mess of my room, and yeah, I guess I could tune into the biggest game of the year for a few minutes. In fact, I didn't even know who was playing. The only football team I had ever felt any sort of relationship with was the Miami Dolphins, who really peaked in 1972 with their undefeated season, T minus 9 years until my re-re egg was even fertilized.

So this Sunday, I had my brunch, watched my share of gay dudes ruining people's living rooms in the Midwest, etc., when I heard a perky knock on the door. Why, it's my roomate Sarah! Coming to see what I'm doing for the game! While measuring in at only 5 feet tall, Sarah is a football fanatic, playing on a team here in the city, watching the games, working out to prep for the games. It's weird: She's tiny, perky, and girly, but has this whole other intense, hard-core, rip-your-face-mask-off personality that you'll only see on the field. What I'm trying to say is, she could almost definitely kick my ass.

Sarah and some pals were headed over to Nevada Smith's, a fun if not cheesy bar in the East Village, to watch the game. I hemmed. I hawed. And then I thought... the blog, Michelle. (Cue Rudy themesong.) Do it for the blog. So like the fucking dorkwad I am, I grabbed a stenopad, put on a terrycloth robe, knit a belt made of Twizzlers, and ventured outside of my apartment for the big game.

What follows are my notes from Sunday night. Some will be more lucid than others. Keep in mind I was drinking throughout, so if things get a little, well, slurrrrred towards the end, you understand.

6 pm: OK, the game is starting. Stevie Wonder is tinkling the ivories, while a number of black performers enter the stage singing their hearts out as a tribute to Motown. It's a little busy for my taste - lots happening, gospel singers, orange dress, audience jumping up and down. I play "One of These Things Is Not Like The Other", and point out that while Joss Stone may sound like she put the "spirit" in "slave spirituals", she is not, in fact, black. I ask my friends if they think Stevie Wonder knows this or not. (Note to aliens: he's blind.) We remain undecided.

6:10ish: Uh oh. Here comes Aaron Neville to sing the National Anthem. His mole makes me crave Hershey's Kisses. This whole opening thing is very confusing to me. I mean, tributing Motown is a great idea, but AARON NEVILLE??? Was Kanye West unavailable? Beyonce? Lionel Richie? Shit, I'd take Adam Levine from Maroon 5 over this shit!

And heeeere commmes Arreeeettthhhaaaa! My vodka gimlet shook like in Jurassic Park. OK, Retha, here's the thing my love: You're a big lady. Nothin' wrong with that. But I DO have a bit of a problem with your choice of wardrobe. A chinchilla coat? CHINCHILLA??! Chinchillas are sooooo tiny, and you are soooo the opposite, how many poor chinchies had to die for your coat?! I'm not against wearing fur necessare, but I think there should be a cap on how much you can weigh before you buy it. I mean, fuck. That's just unfair to the animals. (Cut to me typing on a keyboard made from crocodile teeth and a monitor sitting in the open mouth of a dead bear.)

6:15: Some Dr. Suess weirdness with some old queen with an earring narrating. Oh, I mean Harrison Ford. Really, I mean let's just get Heath and Jake in on this and call it a gay. Also, Harrison Ford strikes me as being uncomfortably similar to his character in "Regarding Henry", read mongoloidy.

6:17: Who should I root for? I want to root for the underdog, but have coincidentally worn a yellow and black bumblebee costume and a knight's helmet. Guess it'll have to be the Steeler's this year.


"Go Seahawks!"

6:20: The Steeler's quarterback is Jewish? Very interesting. I spend the next 5 minutes overcoming my phobia of giantly jockish assholes and picture myself spending eternity with this man, albeit in synagogue, a place I rarely to never make it to. I mean really, I've heard of a Jew asking for a quarter back, but a Jewish Quarterback! Color me confused!

6:30ish: Commercial time! Burger King's Dancers, fun. (Check out their website if you're interested in having an aneurysm anytime soon.) FedEx, meh cute I guess, got a big reaction at the bar.


I also found the Whopperettes "loading" phrase "Now Building Michelle" a little off-putting. Like my likeness is being made out of ground horse meat in a factory somewhere in Jersey or something.

I tell you what I'm looking forward to: V for Vendetta. What I'm not looking forward to? Firewall. What a retarded name for a movie. Here's another title idea: Toolbar. No no, what about: Outlook Express. (read in announcer voice): Just when everything was going right for Bill Henry, something went very wrong. "Bill, watch out!" All alone, he must venge for the death of his wife and 9 children. "I know you did it, you scum... (choking a man) It was you." But the only thing holding him back from revenge... is Chris Tucker. "Hey, man, don't be giving me lip like dat! I'll bring my momma round, you gonna wish yo lip was in another state!" Outlook Express. Opening March 17.

6:35: Check out the head of hair on that Polamalu fella. Talk about Grandmother's crotch quilt, my goodness.


OMG, I just harfed all over myself.

6:38: The announcer mentions that there are perfect indoor conditions. Doesn't this seem redundant? Like, hello that's why it's INDOORS. SO THE CONDITIONS ARE PERFECT. You don't see Al Roker giving predictions for what the temperature's going to be in the office, do you? Sigh.

6:43: Apparently, Leonard Nimoy is alive. Good to see.


And side note, Joan Rivers has never looked better.

6:47: Everybody loves Number 36, "The Bus." Kinda like "The Fridge" from the Chicago Bears, who I met in England when I was 6 years old. He was staying in our hotel (or something along those lines) and became famous in our family for signing an autograph for me, and then stealing my father's Tiffany pen. (Remember, this was the 80's, when my family lived decadently. Now us Collins' prefer to have our autographs done with a poo-point stick.)

7:15: OMG, a referee just freaked out, and ran into the field performing the tried-and-true "Double Heil Hitler." Classic.

7:30: The Dove Self-Esteem Ad. I really think they should find the stage mothers of these poor, poor, unattractive little girls and publicly murder them. You know this was the score they've been waiting for. "Bessie, come quick, you got the commercial!" "What's it for, Momma?" "BROWN BAG FACE MASKS! Isn't that exciting?? And it pays $50!" "Wow, Momma, $50? I could buy a whole truck of brown paper bag face masks with that!" "And we will, sweetie, we will."


The auditioning process for the new Dove Soap campaign was a real hoot!

Also, who wants to be on the receiving end of a SELF-ESTEEM SCHOLARSHIP? There is not enough money to make that worth the ass-kicking those kids are bound to receive. Trust me, folks, I've been there.

7:33: Best line of the night, from one of the useless female commentators on the field: "Apparently they had to pull his pants down to tape his groin, John." You get the TMI Award, lady.

7:45: This Gilette Fusion commercial (the razor with FIVE BLADES) could not be anymore assanine.


"Gillette: It will literally take your skin off."

Half-Time: The Rolling Stones? Bo-ring. I think I'd prefer Angela Landsbury reading slam poetry over this bullshit. Next!


"Sometimes anger's subtle, stocked in metaphor / Full of finesse and dressed in allure / Yeah, sometimes anger's subtle, less rage than sad / Leaking slow through spigots you didn't know you had / But sometimes it's just / Fuck you, Fuck you / You see, and to me / That's poetry too."

(Here's where my notes get utterly confusing.)

8:20: (direct quote) Stretched groin action -- crotch shot.

8:45: Randel El. Any relation to Superman or Nicolas Cage? Let's talk.

8-9ish: Really glad to see one of the guys from "Flight of the Conchords" in the Outback Commercial! Cute and funny.

post-9: Oh my God, you guysssss, this was the best gaaaame everrrr. No, I really love football. I love it! No, really, I can't believe this is the last game, whaaddammiii going to do until next sheaszhon? OMG, I gotta go, Grey'zh Anatomy is on.


Seriously, where am I?