Ad Aged has knocked off a couple days early this week to report on the scene at Super Bowl XLII. As an homage to the use of Roman numerals, this post was to be translated into Latin, but the priest I had hired to do so decided to make-out with a twelve-year-old boy in a hot tub instead.
The steroid-hopped players as large and heavy as longhorn steers arrived earlier this week. No one in the media has asked how they got so large and what kind of pharmaceutical cocktail they've been ingesting since their tween years in Texas--the state that leads the world in executions but lags even the Democratic Republic of Congo in reading scores. Instead the press presciently pressed the players, "how does it feel?" they asked. The players responded by snorting, with braggadocio and a slurred affirmation that some supreme being is on the side of the Pats or the Giants.
Meanwhile advertising and marketing trons arrived like Roman plutofats at the trough, where they will revel in the largesse of too many too manys while their companies lose marketshare and money, but, hey, they've got a spot on Super Bowl XLII. This year, by the way, it's been discovered that all the spots running on the Big Shame are not consumer-generated like last year's but instead are computer-generated. A program selects and "mashes up" a single raised eye-brow which represents the viewer's cue to snicker, a pendulously cleavage-laden babe, two un-shaven representatives of a phantom target, a product shot, an animal and a body sound, preferably some reference to a fart.
This is all happening while America's sub-prime IQ rate drops with the government and the media vessels and vassals reporting on Heath Ledger-gate leaving fetal polar bears going under for the last time, the ice they had lived on for millions of years having finally disappeared.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–
I took the one more frequently traveled by,
Paid with easy pass and did what I was told and financed a $trillion offense budget.
And that has made all the difference.