(the Stupor Bowl and beyond)
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Look! Already, it’s February 2021, aka The Year After The Weird Year. And so far this year, there have been days when I think 2021 is just sitting back, rubbing its hands together, muttering “You thought that was weird?”
Last week, in-between impeachments, there was just one football game, the very last game of the season, which is bad news for guys like me, because for the next several weeks there’s nothing to watch except professional league bowling. Mind you, I’ve got nothing against bowling – it’s just that there’s practically no violence at all, even though it involves people wearing other people’s shoes.
Last week’s football game was called Super Bowl LV, which, based on the halftime show, must have stood for “Little Value.” The headliner was a guy who, with a straight face, calls himself The Weekend. (“Nice to meet you! May I call you The?”) Accompanied by several tiers of choir-costumed struggling actors (i.e., Tampa Bay-area waiters), Mr. Weekend kept the Super Bowl audience on its toes for several minutes, as the crowd waited to see if he knew three notes.
The headliner was clad in a deep red jacket (maybe he borrowed it from one of the waiters in the choir), and sported a haircut so lopsided I thought he might tip over. He looked like Lyle Lovett, except less gaunt. Eventually, the choir managed to conjure up a bunch of violin-like instruments, an act which apparently scared The Weekend so much that he continued his performance under the stage. In the eerie maze, our man The was buffeted by a bunch of mute, pale, equally red-jacketed guys wearing designer Pampers on their heads, while shuddering with neurological spasms.
When Weekend finally lurched back onto the stage, the Super Bowl crowd erupted in cheers, possibly thankful that this was not a performance by a rap group, in which case all of the Pamper-headed mutes would’ve had a microphone.
I have no idea what the “song” was about, but then I haven’t been able to decipher song lyrics since the 1970’s … and even then it was iffy (I’m looking at you, Mick Jagger). In fact, I actually have no idea who won the game, because after that extended halftime trauma, I’d completely forgotten who was playing.
The pre-game show, which as usual started sometime last June, was nearly as forgettable. To give you some idea of the range of talent, the brightest star was Miley Cyrus. (Somebody should try and explain to Miley Cyrus the difference between sexy and slutty. The difference between Mae West and, well, Miley Cyrus.)
The game itself was interesting football … for a while. The returning Super Bowl champs, the Kansas City Mascot-Name-Banned-By-Cancel-Culture-Schmucks, did well … for a while. Soon, however, they settled in to a routine of endless infractions, ultimately committing more penalties than Jeffrey Epstein at a Girl Scout jamboree. Finally, Tom Brady tore the designer Pampers from his face and held a little impromptu “How To Get To Ten Super Bowls” seminar. That guy has thrown more passes than … oh, wait … I already did an Epstein joke.
But since you insist on bringing up deviant behavior, let’s not forget that Super Bowl LV featured another performer, the type of which we’ve not seen in some time – a streaker. Some clown, after carefully checking that Brady wasn’t lobbing another pass downfield, dashed from the sidelines and snaked out his political statement, or marriage proposal, or whatever was on his mind, before being tackled in the end zone by security personnel who were wearing personal protective equipment, but not nearly enough.
Meanwhile, outside the stadium, life as we now know it goes on. The CDC has released yet another list of COVID guidelines. ( I don’t remember exactly how many times they’ve updated the list, because schools have been closed for so long that I forgot how to count.) This new batch includes something they call “respiratory etiquette,” which I suppose means that grade school kids should hold their breath until high school.
The Governors of California and New York may both lose their jobs, one for killing businesses, and the other for just killing. If you’ve watched the confusion that is California, it would not surprise me at all if the voters recalled their Governor, then had another election … and voted him right back in.
The new Chinese New Year has finally begun, which includes a 7-day holiday for Chinese workers, so there’ll be no new Apple iPhones for at least a week. This Chinese New Year’s animal sign is the Ox, because the Bat was busy.
And Presidents Day is just around the corner, if we’re still allowed to call any of them by name.
(I won’t waste your time discussing the latest Trump Repeachment, because that hate geyser is likely to bubble up every few weeks for years. Ever seen a corpse get impeached? Wait for it.)
Happy New Year!