The Super Bowl is not only the most-watched American TV spectacle every year—last year, NFL football games took 93 of the 100 top broadcasts. This leaves the rest of us who hate football and think it’s a stupid game out shivering in the cold when this annual cultural ritual rolls around in early February.
Maybe you don’t care who wins. Better yet, maybe you don’t even know who’s playing. Maybe you don’t think all those ads are as cute or clever as other people think they are. Maybe you’d prefer to do just about anything besides hang around drunk people gobbling deep-dish pizza and yelling at the screen. (Actually, the pizza sounds nice if you removed the drunk people, the yelling, and the screen.)
Some of the more individualistic, creative, and introverted star signs would rather do just about anything than participate in this overhyped mid-winter American cultural event. This article is for them. I feel your pain.
You would rather sit silently and watch mold grow on cheese than tune into this year’s Super Bowl. As a hyperemotional water sign, you find it impossible to invest even a wisp of emotion in this dunderheaded explosion of brute force, this violent ballet where brawn overrules brain and where sensitivity gets stamped out under mud-encrusted cleats. As the most spiritual sign on the zodiac wheel, you recoil at the empty displays of soulless physicality that are interspersed with hollow appeals to gluttony, drunkenness, and greed. But since it’s Sunday and everyone will either be at home glued to their TV sets or at a bar poisoning themselves with cheap beer and pretzels, maybe it’s time to sneak away to church, the zoo, an aquarium, or the mall.
You would find it far more delightful to spend all of Sunday evening watching a fly slowly crawl up the drapes than waste a minute of your precious time passively absorbing the sickening orgy of traumatic brain injury that is the Super Bowl. We all have a limited amount of time on this Earth, and despite the fact that TV coverage of the game usually takes about four solid hours that you’ll never be able to get back, there’s only about 18 minutes of actual live action during a game. The rest involves endless ads, time-outs, and the clock running while men in tight pants all stand around adjusting their jock straps and patting one another’s asses. If you actually wanted to watch gay porn, there are websites for that.
You would experience far more spiritual fulfillment beholding the glorious descent of a single dust particle as it dislodges from your ceiling and softly plummets to the floor than you would torturing yourself with the giant orgy of shameless consumerism that is the Super Bowl. How much is a 30-second ad selling for this year, anyway? $5 million? $10 million? Do people actually think it’s cute to see talking frogs argue over which brand of potato chip tastes better? It’s all one blurry rainbow of bling, one grotesque peacocking pageant where shady advertising moguls crawl over one another like puppies in a box trying to grab the hapless viewer’s attention. Speaking of puppies, maybe it’s time to grab some popcorn and watch the Puppy Bowl instead.
You would rather close your eyes and count to a million than expose your retinas, and thus your soul, to the gladiatorial indignities of this annual celebration of American vapidity that calls itself the Super Bowl. It’s a disgusting spectacle that make you sick to your stomach—they should call it the Super Bowel. You’d rather take a walk in the forest and behold the mysteries of Superb Owl. You’d rather smoke a super-sized bowl of weed and then sip on a bowl of soup than pay any attention to this so-called “Super Bowl.” You’d rather go bowling and then take a trip to the supermarket—it’s probably pretty empty right now.