Well, I’m No Prude, But…

Everyone's sick of the Super Bowl brouhaha by now, including myself. But I just have one thing to say about it before I let it go. No, make that two.

First of all, I missed Janet's boob, and I'm sorry about that, because I'll never see it again. Oh sure, I'll see the clip over and over again till I want to puke – in fact, I already have – but it will be forever pixelated and I shall die knowing Janet Jackson's glorious tit has remained but a mystery to me.

But mainly, I want to say: the boob is what has everyone up in arms?

I, luckily, saw only about 4 seconds of the Super Bowl. In fact, that's exactly what I saw. When I got back home Sunday, it was after 8, and I had a blinding headache. So I sat in the chair and turned on the Super Bowl. I fell asleep shortly after, waking up with 4 seconds left in the game.

However, when I first sat down to watch, it was halftime. So I got to see some of this Spectacular Super Bowl Extravaganza To End All.

Now, let's all agree on one thing right off the bat, OK? Super Bowl halftime shows reek. They always have. They have nothing to do with the game, nothing to do with anything. It's just "please, these Super Bowls usually suck a weenie, and we need something to keep people interested enough to stick around for the second half." And so they trot out the stars and the pyrotechnics and put on a show that's just so crass it's everything every other country in the world hates about America. So when I talk about Sunday night's festivities, please don't think I'm of the opinion that this year's halftime ceremonies ruined a long line of great entertainment moments. Believe me, they didn't.

So. Here's the thing. From the time I sat down until I fell asleep, here's what I saw. I saw PSeanPuffyDiddyDaddyCombs, covered with gold and a big coat, and singing, hell, I don't know what he was singing because the man doesn't sing, he's a rapper, for God's sake. (Oh, that's another thing we should address but won't: Super Bowl of football = Super Bowl of lip synching.)

Anyway, here was PuffySeanDiddyDaddyPCombs surrounded by girls in cheerleading outfits, dancing around and singing his praises to the tune of Toni Basil's "Mickey." And OK, so this isn't 1981, but within 18 seconds of the singing and praising, out came the ass-shakes and pelvic thrusts into the camera from the girls. And I wasn't surprised. It was bad taste, but typical bad taste.

Then I got the privilege of seeing Kid Rock, aka The Scuzziest Man Who Ever Drew Breath, aka The Man Who Makes Lynyrd Skynyrd Look Like The Tea And Watercress Sandwich Set. You know, Marilyn Manson's success was pretty bad, but at least I understood it. He was a freak, and kids like freaks. Kid Rock's just trash. But there's nothing I can do about that.

So Mr Rock proceeded to not sing (as he's a rapper as well) a not song that mentioned, let's see if I can remember correctly: hookers, topless chicks, Southern Comfort, his heroes who are on methadone, porno flicks, guns, prisoners, crack, and God knows what else. (But he's trying to forget, let me tell you.) You know, as a total aside here, I've often wondered what Kid Rock smells like, though I don't necessarily want to go through the experience of finding out.

Oh, but they weren't through. Who should come trotting out next, gold tooth a-shinin' up to row RRR, but Nelly, who was wearing Kid Rock's tank top, but not his cowboy hat.

Nelly, who not sang his smash hit to us all, "It's So Hot In Here, So Take Off All Your Clothes," became surrounded by a bevy of dancers who judging by their outfits were apparently in the process of doing just that. It's actually kind of sad, whatever affliction Nelly has that causes him to have to repeatedly hold onto his crotch. I hope there's a telethon to cure it soon, because really, I've seen about enough of it. I promise you Nelly, it's still down there, you don't have to keep checking for it.

Then I got to see the beginning of The One And Only (as could be said of anyone in that family) Janet Jackson. And then I fell asleep. And the rest of the story I've seen on tape only. But we all know that right after the gyrating and the dry humping, and right before the garment tearing and the boob bearing, Justin Timberlake sings another of those romantic nuggets that made him the favorite of tweenies and their moms everywhere: "I'll get you naked before the end of this song." So really, what was there left to do? There's really nothing more we can experience at this point than an exposed body part.

So, OK. I'm old, and it's a changed world. But that doesn't mean I have to grow to like all this. Whether or not Ms Jackson's Breast's grand appearance was accidental or not, does it matter? Wasn't all that complete and utter shit that came before it as indecent?

Give me a half time show with a good marching band any day. If that's ratings poison, they can play while marching in the formation of Janet Jackson's exposed breast.

Oh, well. By the way, the supposed theme of the above described Super Bowl Half Time Extravaganza? "Say No To Illiteracy." Yeah, I would have guessed that.