Bottom of the Bowl

Here's Falcons owner Arthur Blank watching his historic Super Bowl defeat with his great granddaughter. Wait? That's his goddam wife? Well, you've got to respect a girl so obviously dedicated to true love.

Here’s Falcons owner Arthur Blank watching his historic Super Bowl defeat with his great granddaughter. Wait? That’s his goddam wife? Well, you’ve got to respect a girl so obviously dedicated to true love.



Thanks to the Patriots endorsemnt of Hitler Jr.—or would that be Stalin Jr.?—what should have been my sweetest vicarious victory as a fan may have left a bitter, oddly asparagus-flavored taste in my mouth, but I can still muster the courage to shit on some last few aspects of the Toilet Bowl anyway:


Drawn a Blank – That wasn’t just Alzheimer’s that had wealthy Atlanta mummy and Falcons owner Arthur “My Mind Went” Blank wandering around his team’s sidelines well before the game was over.  The old codger was celebrating like the Confederates had won the war when there was still an entire quarter left to play.  Then I got to bask in the delicious schadenfreude from watching a rich boob’s dreams wither and die right in front of his eyes like his wrinkly skin.  I think he would have cried but his tear ducts had nothing but dust in them.  Blank’s actually lucky he didn’t keel over and croak right on the sidelines, but even luckier he didn’t stay in his luxury box, because he might have jumped.


Laugh Time – Determined to ruin the biggest sporting event of the year for straight men everywhere, the Super Bowl decided their yearly embarrassment of a halftine show would feature none other than Lady Hoo-Ha.  Just when I think this talentless weirdo’s fifteen minutes of fame are mercifully done, she keeps coming back like musical herpes.  And lord have mercy, did the Queen of Sexual Misfits not disappoint her legions of either lisping or fish-breathed fans.  When she was lowered from the roof to the stage I was hoping for her best Owen Hart impersonation, but no such luck.  Then the most hilariously fagified extravaganza in Super Bowl history took place.  It was practically a gay orgy at the fifty yard-line. How the flying fuckaroo are these kinds of revolting spectacles supposed to appeal to the ninety-nine percent straight male audience who watches football?  Besides Michael Sam, nobody associated with the game could sing a single word of Hoo-Ha’s sperm-soaked lyrics.  And goddamn, enough with the endless gay rights garbage.  Even halftime shows have to be politicized now?  That’s almost as bad as…


Commercial Appeals – This year’s rotten crop of Super Bowl commercials I’m sure sucked more dick than Lady Hoo-Ha’s fanbase, but I wouldn’t know because I don’t bother paying attention to them any more.  They haven’t been worth the year-long wait for like the last fifteen Super Bowls.  By now those Budweiser frogs wound up on some Cajun’s dinner plate a long time ago.  But still, in the days following the Big Game I kept hearing about several ads attempting to ham-handedly force some insipid political message up the public’s ass.  Once again, even muthafuckin Super Bowl commercials need to be politically charged now?  Unsurprisingly, all of the ads were reportedly slanted against the Right, which is always fun, but the Left’s wasting their time with such useless foolery anyway.  Nobody gives a fuck about gay rights or immigration when they’re watching the damn Super Bowl—they’re worried about the spread.  Take a night off from complaining about President Cuntlips for chrissake.  After all, you’ve got to save your strength for when that pompous buffoon does something horrifyingly stupid again tomorrow.

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