It seems there was yet another "mishap" during this
year's NFL's Super Sunday Super Bowl halftime show.
With not enough wardrobe on the "entertainers" to
malfunction this time around, the NFL had to apologize
for the fact that one of the performers (singer M.I.A.)
took it upon herself to "flip off" 110 million viewers
around the world, while cavorting about the stage with
the insufferable Madonna. The obscene gesture was
evidently the best this unimaginative little stain could
artistically come with in order to make her
point—whatever that might be. And, just in case any of
the millions of kids watching the Super Bowl missed that
particular "artistic expression", the "artist" also sang
the words "I don't give a (expletive)".
Oh, the artistry! The creativity! Foulmouthed cretins
doing pantomime striptease and telling the world to
'f.... off' during a primetime, family-friendly football
game. Now that's entertainment!
True to form, a solemn-looking Brian McCarthy, spokesman
for the NFL, dutifully took to the podium on Super
Monday (sic) to issue the customary NFL apology: "The
obscene gesture in the performance was completely
inappropriate, very disappointing and we apologize to
Disappointing? Just how stupid do the head honchos at
the NFL think we are? M.I.A. and Madonna didn't make
obscene gestures—they are obscene gestures!
In fact, Madonna has been the veritable embodiment of
the obscene gesture ever since she hatched back in the
early 1980s—mocking the Mother of God with the name she
chose, publicly rejecting her Catholic Faith, and
morphing into the gender-bending "boy toy" who would set
pop music’s perversity standards for decades to come.
Exactly what did the NFL imagine would happen when they
decided to hire degenerates like that to take to the
stage in front of 110 million viewers, strip down and
start gyrating about like harlots? Just how many times
does the NFL get to orchestrate these massive assaults
on the family values of most of their fans and then
feign outrage after the fact? Who are they kidding?
Remember Janet Jackson's "wardrobe malfunction" eight
years ago? Didn't the NFL apologize for that little
"mishap" too? How many passes do they get? And how
seriously should any of us take their idiotic apologies
when they themselves are the ones bringing in musicians
who've made careers out of sending up one gigantic
obscene gesture after another—and, in Madonna's case,
for three decades and counting?
And now the NFL is shocked—just shocked!—by the
obscenity of it all! Puh-leeze!
But, really, at the end of the day, it’s not Madonna, or
this M.I.A. creature, or even the NFL itself that is the
main problem. It’s us--the predictable, knuckle-dragging
Christian lemmings, mouths open fishlike but silent,
refusing to raise even a whimper of protest as the NFL
assaults everything we supposedly hold sacred. No
wonder we're losing our identity as Christians, as well
as our schools, churches, orphanages and hospitals! No
wonder Muslims are kicking our lower spinal extremity in
every way that matters! We don't give a damn about much
of anything anymore...except maybe football!
get me wrong: I like football as much as the next guy. I
even played wide receiver in college. I
used to be a big fan of the Minnesota Vikings, and well
remember watching Fran Tarkington, Chuck Foreman and
Allan Page play for the great Bud Grant back in the
day. I loved the "black and blue division"! I can
still see the dramatic bursts of frozen breath billowing
from behind helmet and facemask as the giants of the
gridiron took to the field in subzero temps, whether
here at Met Stadium or at Soldier Field or on the frozen
tundra of Lambeau Field in Green Bay. Most of those guys
were probably working for about $100 a game, and, while
they were certainly no saints, at least the game they
played was still just that—a game.
That was then.
NFL football has since morphed into something of a
brutish, semi-sexual social ritual that is becoming more
important to Americans than just about anything else in
their lives, including religion, perhaps especially
religion! And as if to prove the point, the NFL thinks
nothing of flanking its end zones with gaggles of
veritable strippers on any given Sunday, while Guns 'n
Roses welcomes Christian America to the jungle to see
their warrior heroes battle one another on the way to
the Valhalla of football immortality. At halftime,
blasphemers and harlots are trotted out to entertain the
children while we stuff ourselves with beer and hotdogs,
reveling in bread and circuses that give those of pagan
Rome a run for their denarius. We've got the lions and
the bears and the gladiators too-- the only thing
missing, in fact, are the Christians.
It took some of us a while to break free of the NFL
hypnosis. Eventually, however, one simply grows up and
asks: What does it really matter who wins or loses
this stupid football game? Why should I care which set
of millionaire semi-literates makes it to the Super
does anyone care about this enough to put their
Christian sensibilities on hold and endure every manner
of cultural assault in the name of football? Children,
of course, have to be taught to care about it. Left on
their own, they’d be playing football Sunday
after Sunday rather than watching some ex-felon do it.
And now the NFL is ‘flipping us all off" on their own
high holy day--Super Bowl Sunday--and pretending to
apologize for the effrontery they produced, planned and
financed. Really, when is enough enough?
I was with my son on a racquetball court last Sunday
night during the big tilt between the Pats and the New
York "football" Giants. Normally bustling on Sunday
nights, the gym was silent as a tomb. Nobody was there.
In fact on the drive over, my son had commented on the
rivers banks of glowing blue lights that flanked us as
we drove along—TV’s flickering inside nearly every home
we passed. The GAME was on and the whole world was
watching. It was eerie.
We played racquetball. We played hard and for nearly two
hours. It was one of the best times my son and I have
had on the court all year. Funny, but we didn't miss a
"Looks like Tom Brady's going to do it again," the man
at the front desk quipped as we were leaving that night.
Outside in the car, my son—13 and homeschooled all his
life—said: "Who's Tom Brady, Dad?"
"Exactly, Walter. Exactly!"