When I promised I’d be back here soon, I didn’t mean weeks later, and I certainly didn’t imagine that the next time I showed up I’d be ranting about Madonna, but life is full of fun little surprises, I guess.

I expected to wake up this morning to a general online consensus about last night’s Superbowl half-time show (Side Note:  We will not be speaking here of the actual game, and/or butt-touchdowns, hail mary let-downs, or any downs of any kind)  and I expected that online consensus to be in-line with the following:  

The half-time show, featuring Madonna and a head-scratchingly bizarre array of back-up performers, much like the game, (ok this is all I’ll say about the game, I swear it,) was a TRAVESTY of EPIC PROPORTIONS.    

In case you missed it, because you were too busy watching Downton Abbey and tweeting about how little you care about football and fun, here is a fantastic recap by the fug girls. 

Apparently, not even the Fugsters were as impressed as I was by the aura of sad-clown catastrophe that prevailed last night.  I honestly wouldn’t even know where to begin.  The gladiator hoopla and drum corp?  Fine.  Glitzy?  Over the top?  Yes, but I get it, it’s the Superbowl.  Subtlety is not on anyone’s agenda.  

But what about M’s stomping around precariously in those fairly low-heeled boots?  Or the fluffy-afro man, flinging his parts (private and otherwise) against a tightrope?  Wouldn’t it be more impressive if he, like, walked on it? Or Madge’s awkward petting of those strange white “rappers” I refuse to acknowledge by Googling?  Or her NEAR COLLAPSE at the top of the stairs?  And WHO thought it was a good idea to introduce stairs to the apparently already-difficult walking equation?  

I can’t even get into Nicki Minaj or MIA, mostly because that part of the evening was deadly boring the first time around.  Even the allegedly-subversive camera flip-off, which was nowhere near subversive enough to fool anyone into looking past those horrendous cheerleader outfits, or the asinine chanty hook of that song. 

And I also don’t have much to say about Ceelo’s arrival on the scene.  This is partly because the sheer existence of Ceelo is too confusing for me to address, and partly because I actually really enjoyed the whole Bedazzle-robed “Like A Prayer” finale.  Any love I have ever had for Madonna is all tied up in that song, and even here, even slapped on at the end of a hyper-spastic, accident-prone, circus-freak production, it did not disappoint.  

And that is all, I promise.  

That, and — I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU SAY, NOBODY SCORES A TOUCHDOWN WITH HIS BUTT ON PURPOSE.

Confusion reigned, on the field, off the field, and on my couch.  

The end.  

 

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