So the Super Bowl was a thing last night. If you are like every other God-fearing American you chugged unsafe amounts of Budweiser and probably almost choked on some sort of dip or meat-like appetizer in the process of watching. Can you say too much freedom and too little time?
If you’re like me, you look forward to other things besides the actual football game. For example, the announcers. Ah! The announcers. Always talking about nothing while also making it sound important. I feel like they’re always only seconds away from a complete meltdown. We never know what to expect and it’s beautiful. We were fortunate enough to have an announcer last night with an accent of gold. Phil Simms killed it. He was there to remind us ‘Hey, remember the way I pronounce thayngs?’ and ‘NEWT-in”. By the way, this is the same guy who allegedly farted on air a few weeks back.
Another thing I also look forward to are the celebratory touchdown dances. I know some people will completely disagree with me by saying it is unprofessional and blah, blah, blah. To those people I say: learn some key dance moves and take a seat. Most of the players have some impressive moves! Usually we see them doing the dab or nae nae (aka: something current that makes sense while also requiring at least some rhythm). Jonathan Stewart of the Carolina Panthers said “Nah. I’m in my own lane” and hit us with the hand jive. Yes, the hand jive. Someone clearly caught Grease Live last week. Either he did not get the memo or he wanted to find a way to make racist grandparents everywhere uncomfortable.
Two words: the commercials. We had a puppy/monkey/baby force feed Mountain Dew to people, Seal singing with groups of people across the country about making babies, Christopher Walken talking with socks on his hands, and Amy Schumer and Seth Rogen with Bud Light. My personal favorite however was a local commercial. I’m sorry to announce that if you were not in the state of Virginia you did not have the pleasure of experiencing Mike Tyson singing for a local contracting company. Don’t worry, though. I’m not heartless:
Now, what can I say about the half time show? There was a little bit of Coldplay (kind of like the amount of air left in Chris Martin’s lungs after jumping around the stage like a psychopath), a lot of bright colors and poor girls wrapped in what looked like foil carrying around large flowers like assholes for about ten minutes. Shortly thereafter, Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars took the stage and they brought it (more than likely because they had to distract from the girls who were just entering heat stroke from their foil clothing). Bruno can dance, girl I’ll tell you. Wait. What’s that over there? Nothing. Just explosions, a squad of talented dancers, and Beyoncé. Slay. Who’s Coldplay again?
One last thing: Can anyone explain to me why the Panther’s head coach looks like a dad from the 1990s?
The real winner of the Super Bowl should have been his transition lenses. I see you, Ron.