Superboob Sunday

February 1st was Black Sunday. By Groundhog Day on Monday, CBS executives had come out of their hole to see the religious right’s shadow, and we knew we were in for six more weeks of hypocritical outrage and pedantic panel discussions. The primary talk on primary Tuesday was boobs, and not the ones running the country. Anything can happen in an erection year. This year, it all started when the FCC threw a flag for illegal use of hands after Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson performed the shortest striptease act in the history of American theater. Reports have Janet Jackson showing more remorse than OJ, Robert Blake, and Robert Durst combined. Take it easy, Janet. Okay, it’s embarrassing, but it’s not like the whole world was watching.

Personally, I was shocked. I always thought Janet Jackson was a D-cup. Sure, the act was over the top. But feigning surprise MTV pulled this off is like having a coronary because Dennis Kucinich lost New Hampshire. Remember, this is the cable network that once featured J.Lo’s rear end for an entire sweeps week. Just be thankful it wasn’t Michael Jackson stripping out there. Give Timberlake credit for not whipping out a cell phone after he scored. And don’t cry for CBS (Caution, Boob Showing). They wanted no lesbian kiss, and they got no lesbian kiss. Next time, folks, work with a net. You’re making a billion dollars on this thing. Ever heard of a seven-second delay?

The sad part is, the burlesque bit was the highlight of the halftime show. Every year, to satisfy various contract sub-clauses, the NFL and their television network d’jour jam as many acts as possible into a six-minute display of empty glitter. Where is Triumph the Insult Comic Dog when you really need him? This year, Nelly got eight seconds. Kid Rock got just enough time to spew head lice. You may not have consciously noticed Snoop Dogg, because they gave him a subliminal. Which may explain why half the television viewing audience suddenly felt like firing a .45 and sucking on a crack pipe.

There were more musicians on the field than fans in the seats, but it’s still not certain whether any of them played a note. This was the biggest karaoke night in the history of Western civilization. But music failed to soothe the savage breast. When you come right down to it, the only reason we even need a halftime show is because we need a halftime. And we need a halftime for the players to rejuice on Androstenedione and consume a live steer.

In most red-blooded American homes, there was excessive celebration. But there’s something I have to get off my chest. I didn’t really catch it. At halftime, I was trying to do the same thing to my wife, albeit with less success than Justin Timberlake. Yes, I know, this makes me almost a communist. So for me, the moment came and went like Britney Spears’ marriage. That’ll teach me not to get TiVo. Folks with TiVo and without a life will be replaying the moment more times than Howard Dean’s Iowa caucus scream. But for some of us, it’s no big deal. I’ve seen many a large bare breast at mid-season Yankee games. Unfortunately, they were owned by 53-year-old out-of-work male day traders tanning in the bleachers.

This may be the last time Janet Jackson is shown above the waist on network television. The Grammys banned her from the hair down. Beyond that, the program for next year’s Superbowl halftime show is up in the air. The far right wants the Bob Jones University marching band and the Mississippi State Militia. The far left wants Rosie O’Donnell removing Boy George’s top. Either option could be deadly. A handful of network suits are calling for a celebrity death match between Michael Moore and Ann Coulter. The real problem may be that the Superbowl is always held in warm climates or indoors. Hold it on the frozen tundra of Lambeau Field and see how many pop stars disrobe.

Bill O’Reilly calls this a defining moment in the history of American media. Truth is, it’s not even a defining moment in the history of American pasties. This is as much about Janet Jackson regaining control of her career as it is about anything else. The last time Janet Jackson had a genuine hit album, we were sending weapons to Saddam Hussein and Morton Downey Jr. was the biggest thing on television. New rule—you need to be within ten years of your peak to go topless at a premiere sporting event.

Cable talk shows having long ago exhausted every possible angle on Kobe Bryant, Laci Peterson, and brother Michael are now scampering to put together roundtables of otherwise unemployable pundits to debate the effect of this seminal event on American culture. As if there is one. This is a country that freaks over public breastfeeding but has no problem watching a dental hygienist eat a plateful of worms on Fear Factor.

If you want to get upset about something, get upset about how the NFL is breeding linemen to look like Rerun from What’s Happening. By today’s standards, Refrigerator Perry looked like a wide out. Or get upset about how about Marcus Dixon, an 18-year-old African-American male student-athlete from Georgia is doing ten years hard time for sleeping with his 16-year-old white girlfriend. Or think about how many Superbowls it would take to erase the deficit from this year’s federal budget.

In the end, Justin Timberlake had much the same problem that the Carolina Panthers had. He made the extra point, but couldn’t get two. At least it wasn’t a total loss. Look for the whole affair to be retread into a super-thin plot line to revive ESPN’s recently cancelled Players. Meanwhile, it’s time to move on for the prudent network that rejected an anti-Bush ad from Moveon.org. As for the rest of us mindless, lethargic, loyal consumers of generic corporate swill, we should swell with national pride. If nothing else, we really pissed off surviving members of the Taliban.

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©2003 by Rich Herschlag. All rights reserved.