Mark Thompson

Super Bowl 54: A Very Confused Recap

Have you ever wondered what American Football, more specifically the Super Bowl, looks like to the rest of the world? Wonder no more.

 

As a Super Bowl newbie, I didn’t have any knowledge of American Football or the NFL, apart from what I’ve seen in movies, which was restricted to The Waterboy or that flashback sequence in Not Another Teen Movie. Needless to say, I had no idea what was going on. But I wanted to learn, so, with a keen eye, I took note.

Here is my recollection of my first Super Bowl experience.

It began with a bunch of old dudes, walking the field, beaming smiles wide as can be. None of them were familiar to me. The American Anthem was sung by jingoistic types aided and abetted by fifteen minutes donated to the flip of a coin. So far, I learned that America is the only country that uses the peaceful text of the bible to commence violence for money, and it may be the last bastion of Roman numerals outside of darkened film copyright circles.

The game then commenced in the religious sense. So, it was a Chief against a 49er (which I assumed was a sex position, perhaps someone fellating a deck chair). I sat there on my couch pretending to follow, when in reality I felt like I was watching a bunch of ants darting across varying parts of a footpath.

They’d repeat their actions, like in search of an invisible Cornetto ice cream. They’d stop, go back, and do the same thing again; and again; and again.

But, the ants could only do what they’d be told to do.

Meanwhile, the blockers (I think they’re called) and their huge fat posteriors would storm in like rhinos in the savanna and just smack the poor little confused ants away.

Was this a good thing?

The only absolute thing was the amount of times the face of a man named Jimmy Jesus accurately portraying a “for fuck’s sake” vibe after the football flew out of his hands incorrectly for the umpteenth time.

Traumatic but hilarious.

What I was really looking forward to was the halftime show, but, as it concluded, honestly, it only lived up to half of my expectations. We had all the colors of the rainbow trout flashing and dancing across the screen. Dancers holding up huge flowers, marching bands, the stage floor screens imaging beautiful lights.

The Abraham Lincoln of hips, Shakira, arrived with questions of financial misdealings and offered sexual misdirections. J-Lo also rocked up, providing what one publication called a “strangely sexual” effort, and one Presidential hopeful (Jeb, the lesser bush) honored it as the best he’d ever seen. Blergh. I was waiting for a shark to give us what we wanted, ammunition for a future meme to sate me for the rest of the year. But it didn’t happen. There was just simulated, awkward old people fucking.

Anyway, that pretty shiz ended and game time was back, with me still being none the wiser on what was actually happening.

All I know now is the important stuff.

The damn racist team won the game.

How can a fictionalized pastiche of a race beat a sex position?

America, explain.

 

Mark Thompson

Mark Thompson lives in regional NSW working by day in an accounting firm, and by night lives and breathes being a food and wine snob. He hopes to one day be a food critic or at the very least, meet Maggie Beer.

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