Editors Note: Today, on this Monday following the 2011 NFL season climaxing game, Super Bowl XLVI, I want to say just for the record, I’m thoroughly disappointed, yea, disgusted with Roger Goodell and the NFL for the vulgar smut he/they “approved” for the Super Bowl “experience” — meaning, commercials, half-time show (which I didn’t watch, and cannot believe any genuinely Born Again, Spirit-infused believer would watch), and everything associated with it. My 8-year-old grandson, unfortunately, was basically barred from watching NBC for 10 hours Sunday, and not just the game, though come to think of it there’s not much that would appeal to him on any Sunday on NBC anyway. Nevertheless, I don’t know how in the world Goodell/NFL could possibly tag those 10 hours of programming preceeding the Super Bowl as family-friendly. And, what is even more incomprehensible is that we know next year it will be worse! I’m truly grieved and disgusted.
Most of us north of forty can well recall a comparatively more innocent era when the NFL championship game, a.k.a., The Super Bowl now, was basically lumped right in there with Mom, baseball, and apple pie on the American wholesome scale. Back in the time of my earliest memories of Sunday football telecasts of the Cleveland Browns games, when the super-hero names were the likes of Brown, Mitchell, Graham, Renfro, Wren, Shofner, Lahr, Gillom, Michaels, Knoll, Costello, McCormack, Modzelewski, Groza, the (original) Carpenters (brothers, Lew and Preston), and the always dapperly-dressed iconic coach Paul Brown, the only thing that was ever caught on camera that could be remotely considered even the slightest bit sensual was the procession of drum-majorettes leading the marching band at halftime, which was such an extreme long-shot from a lone first-generation TV-camera perched somewhere atop a rickety stadium tin-roof through the low-lying clouds, fog, and snow-blizzard that you could barely make out the instruments the band members were playing much less anything of the baton-twirling female strutters whose bare legs were by now so frozen and frost-bitten they could hardly move at all, and the only violence and family-unfriendly activity is what took place on the field when the rules were so minimal that just about anything short of the use of firearms, sling-shots, swords, and bows and arrows was allowed.
“We’ve come a long way, baby,” since those “good ole days” with the mega entertainment extravaganza the Super Bowl now is. Apparently, when you set the price-tag for commercials at $3.5 Million, the trade off is, censorship rights are next to nil and the bar for what the NFL and commish consider within the “family-friendly” universe is set…oh let’s say…about three stadium rows short of Pluto. What was plastered on America’s TV big-screens yesterday was unabashed, filthy, lude and lascivious, mind-numbing, thoroughly disgusting SMUT of the highest order! It made me sick, and I muted every commercial as fast as I could make my fingers push the buttons on the remote, and literally closed my eyes or got up to do something else…anything else…than to allow that disgusting refuse to enter into my brain via my seeing and hearing sensory organs. Continue reading “Theater, Cards, Dance, and Super Bowl XLVI” »