So, this year, I finally got to stop using my "I can't make your Super Bowl party" excuse. What was my excuse, you may ask.... Well, I'll tell you. It involves me greeting the Publisher's Clearing House "Prize Patrol" van in ratty sweat pants and a floral, nicotine-stained housecoat, smoking a bright blue Capri ultra slim and jumping wildly around my foyer yelling "Sweet Jesus!!!" with a glass of cheap Scotch in my hand, spilling everywhere until I slip and fall in it and have a wardrobe malfunction.
Instead, this year I gladly accepted an invitation because the Patriots and the Giants made it to the finals and dozens of advertisers thought it was only appropriate to spend billions of dollars to sponsor the teams to play a game in Madonna's honor - even though they knew it would result in the death of at least one team because, although a generous and charitable woman, Madonna requires the blood of husky youths to stay supple and fit. Would the show have been as good if her arm cracked off at the elbow during Vogue and had to be retrieved by security? I think not. So one team had to perish.
It started slow, as both teams realized the stakes of the game, their nervous energy resulting in tentative punts and sloppy ball handling. But in some, fear is a powerful motivator and the Patriots sucked it into their nostrils and turned it into fuel for their thighs which, being the size of two midgets fused together with double-sided tape, require significant energy to motivate. As the Giants contemplated their fate (would she eat them in pieces with toothpicks or whole?) the Patriots scored and scored again. The Giants, in a fight-or-flight moment of pure, spandex-legging-wetting panic, almost evened the score when the timer stopped and they knew...SHE was coming. Would she smell their terror...or their urine? "Don't make eye contact!!" their coach pleaded from the sidelines. "Her eyes will trap you boys and burn your soul to ashes! Look away!"
She arrived in a golden chariot, pulled by slaves she has possessed since the 12th century. They too required blood the audience realized and clenched its collective butt cheeks. "Clap and clap loud lest she see you," one murmured to the next as the music crescendoed. Slaves of all kinds - Hispanic, African, Northern European, Carnie-types - danced and gyrated around their mistress. Even a pink haired girl with a speech impediment joined into the madness, swirling and whirling chants and seizures into a dance of pure adoration.
Then it happened. The crack in the goddess's pure gold hide was exposed - a wardrobe malfunction of the soul....a middle finger poked its way into her rib cage and made an opening just big enough for self-righteous disgust to enter. One of her minions had callously raised her middle digit to the camera and thousands of the Amish onlookers had seen! Suddenly her hypnotic stare was not enough to entrance them. Guilt rose in them. Guilt built up over dozens of years of self-loathing and denial. As they felt the shame of their worship and servitude to such an unholy, capitalist succubus grow, they knew what they had to do. In unison, they rummaged through their purses and wallets, finding their debit cards and holding them in a cross-shape towards the beautiful demon. Suddenly the stadium was full of hundreds of blue lights as the power of Capital One began to work. Madonna grew weak. She slipped on the bleachers. Her power was waning. Her kryptonite had been found. Football fans. They were everywhere and their disdain combined in such large numbers couldn't be overcome. Reeling in pain, she tossed aside her ritual robes and jumped into her sulfur-fueled transport device and disappeared. The crowd cheered wildly, finally freed of the mirror image of their desires and secret thoughts. "I hear they're having Alan Jackson play next year!" a woman wearing a lime green pants suit yelled and the crowd broke into a savage celebration.
With the threat of a blood fest relieved, the Giants found their stride and emerged victorious. And people went home feeling good about themselves and discussing how that one middle finger had ruined everything. Well, at least that's how I saw it. The Super Bowl is more exciting than I imagined.