Superbowled

So Superbowl XLIX (which I cannot help by pronounce as ex-licks) is over, much to my relief, partly because I dislike football in general*, but mostly because I don’t think I can make any utterly immature jokes about Tom Brady’s or Bill Belickick’s deflated balls that haven’t already been made.

Like this one, for example.

I wasn’t even particularly impressed with this year’s commercials either, Katie Couric and Bryant Gumbel’s self-depricating BMW spot and Danny Trejo as a homicidal Jan Brady notwithstanding.  (We don’t have Carl’s Jr in South Dakota, so we didn’t get the to see Charlotte McKinney doing Austin-Powersy food porn.)  I did, however, enjoy the halftime show, which was apparently based on some form of Hunger Games/Yo Gabba Gabba fan fiction.

Katy Perry is either The Girl on Fire or Will Farrell from “Blades of Glory”.

“I kissed a blue-furred cat-dragon and I liked it…”

I could make an “inflated fun bag” joke here, but I’m a better person than that.

* As George Will noted, “Football combines the two worst things in American life: it is violence punctuated by committee meetings.”


Completely unrelated to the Superbowl by any metric other than “chronological proximity,” Texas Governor Gregg Abbot declared that this year, Groundhog Day would be declared Chris Kyle (a.k.a. the American Sniper) Day.  I’m not exactly sure how it works, but I think if Bradly Cooper sees his own shadow, then in means 6 more years of war in a desert.

“Okay snipers, rise and shine, and don’t forget your botties ‘cuz it’s coooold out there!”

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