So I'm watching the great American game that is the Super Bowl. Indy leads 22 to 17 (even with a loss the whole "Peyton can't get it done" mantra will, thankfully, be retired. I'm no Indy fan but he's the best QB in the game...Period.) in a game that is anything but boring. Record breaking turnovers (likely for the game, definitely for the first quarter) record breaking KO return. A great game.
The commercials (the Super Bowl is the only televised event that has melded advertisement into entertainment as far as I'm concerned) are decidedly tame, even boring. No farting horses (which I found to be hysterical and yes that likely says a great deal about me) no wayward, middle aged boobs wagging about and so the ultra-conservative and the painfully elite will likely be disappointed, their keyboards a barren landscape for the next week or so until they find another topic to piss and moan about. Were they truly prone to protecting the American public from the offensive they'd rightly fire off a few indignant letters regarding Prince's (or the artist formerly known as) All Along the Watchtower massacre. Hendrix nor Dylan you ain't.
It's 29/17 now and I'm feeling a bit sorry for old Rex. His off and on performance during the regular season is painfully apparent now and next year will likely see him go the way of Tampa's Shawn King. So close but so far away. Fickle thing the NFL.
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