February 10, 2011

Christina Aguilera

Christina Aguilera

Don”€™t get me wrong”€”I”€™ve served in the Army, and I”€™m as patriotic as the next guy, but there is a time and a place.

The garish surfeit of American patriotism serves to underscore how parochial the Super Bowl really is. If there were anything international about it like the Olympics, the Tennis Opens, or Formula 1 motor racing, they”€™d play the winner’s national anthem when the competition is over.

The Super Bowl is a uniquely American, male, pagan festival. To add a feminist touch, the network has the cringingly unfortunate Miss Pam Oliver putting dopey, touchy-feely questions to coaches and players about their state of emotions before, during, and after the game. “€œHow do you feel out there?”€ Odds are one in a million that this moronic question is likely to produce an interesting or original answer. A woman opining on football reminds me of Dr. Johnson’s observation about a female in the pulpit: “€œSir, a woman’s preaching is like a dog’s walking on his hind legs. It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all.”€

No, the Super Bowl is a testosterone-charged, cholesterol-fueled, gladiatorial fiesta for the red-blooded, salad-dodging American man. The Financial Times had a laughable sidebar predicting that this year’s Super Bowl fans would be “€œmunching baby carrots and baked lentil crisps…as demand grows for “€˜healthy”€™ snacks.”€ What a joke. No real man would eat any of that. The AP reported that President Obama at his White House Super Bowl party offered the following heart-stopping menu: “€œbratwurst, kielbasa, cheeseburgers, deep-dish pizza and Buffalo wings with sides of German potato salad, twice-baked potatoes, and assorted chips and dips”€”€”all washed down with a variety of beers and ales.

You can say what you like about his politics, but Obama knows how to throw a Super Bowl party.



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