Two things that alert American Spectator readers will never be caught predicting:
Football fans were treated to an entertaining Big Game Sunday evening, though I’ll admit to being disappointed that gridiron midnight came before the Cinderella team could come up with just a little more magic. Cinderella’s coach got pumpkin-jacked by the firm of Stafford, Kupp, Donald, & Associates.
Alas, as anyone who keeps up with these matters could have predicted, the otherwise fine football game was punctuated by a loud, crotch-grabbing, dry-humping halftime celebration of vulgarity, dragging the lowest common denominator to new depths. It featured such headliners as Snoopy Poopy Puppy, a white rapper named Enema (white rapper being almost as counter-intuitive a category as moderate Democrat), and an untold number of “dancers,” who in about a half-hour of bumping and grinding made not one graceful movement. The stupefying performance had only one redeeming feature, that being that I couldn’t understand the words being flung out into the unoffending night and at a defenseless audience.
Mature adults watching the game on television could use the halftime to get another beer, recharge the potato-chip bowl, or to take a necessary break. And parents could use the time to shoo the children away from in front of the TV. But those who paid a gaudy amount of money to attend the game were stuck, possibly speculating on how they could have better spent the money it took to get them in the presence of this overloud celebration of cultural devolution.
The usual entertainment humbugs were over the moon in praises of the show. To quote just a couple: LeBron James, who certainly knows from tasteless, tweeted OMG!!!!! WOW!!!!! THE GREATEST HALFTIME SHOW IVE EVER SEEN!!! Lady Gaga went gaga, calling it a “bomb of radical love.” Love of what she didn’t make clear. She added, “That’s what it’s all about.” If that’s what it’s all about — whatever “it” is — then we’re even further down the toilet than I feared.
The tasteless souls who choreograph, produce, and direct these halftimes fiascos are faced with an annual challenge, which is how to make this year’s bacchanal more tasteless than the one before. But they always live up to the challenge. Makes one yearn for the prelapsarian days when all we had to talk about weeks after was the odd costume malfunction. Come back Janet Jackson — all is forgiven.
Those who like to play the limbo stick game (are there any of those left?) are fond of asking, “How low can you go?” Apparently, the NFL’s answer to this profound question is, “There is no bottom.”