What is the point of writing anything the week of the Super Bowl? By Sunday night the whole world will have changed irreversibly and whatever brilliant words you put together in whatever beautiful order will be completely obsolete and a waste of beautiful brilliance. And I just don't have time for that. Unless you include this last paragraph. But that only took like five minutes. And was only mildly beautiful. And decently brilliant.
Our culture is about to transform irrevocably and anything penned before this seismic shift in the zeitgeistic plates is sure to be crumpled up and tossed into the recycling bin of history. Or moved way down on the blogroll. To never be clicked upon again. What is funny now will certainly not be funny then, when we learn according to advertisers what trends are now funny and what old trends were so then. How do we know if Bruno Mars is a punchline or a pop overlord? Are bulldogs so in this year? What new model of domestic beer do we now have to mock? How can we make any modern jokes at all at this point in time?
Oh sure, we can take a stab at some predictions. If we need to write something. We can always make some picks. But picks are like dicks, we all have one. Except for women because they don't know what they're talking about when it comes to sports. Oh come on. It's a joke. That'll be funny after the Super Bowl. When this country finally enters its post-sexist period. Because of that Chobani yogurt commercial. You have absolutely no idea what lies ahead.
But seriously, what is it you want? A big fat stinky bed-sore-ridden detailed statistical preview of the big game? So you can know exactly what's going to happen? What for? If someone wrote the perfect preview, and everything they predicted came true, than what would be the point of even playing the game? And would it be worth it? Because people could get injured out there. And for what purpose? You could've just read that perfect game preview instead. So it's all your fault all those dudes got concussed. You sadistic son of a bitch.
You want a human interest story? To give you a reason to watch? Something sad, and sobering, and resilient. Something that really makes you think. Something to warm your heart. Something remarkable. Shut up. This isn't the Sochi Olympics. It's the Super Bowl. If you're still looking for a reason to watch then you probably shouldn't. In fact, you'd be a lot more interesting of a human if you didn't. But you're going to.
We're all going to. We're all going to share this collective experience as Americans and our collective unconscious will never be the same. Our synapses will all fire at completely new signifiers. Our memories will all meld at this new demarcation. We'll all wake up with the same regretful hangover. And our lives will be forever altered. There will be who we were before the Super Bowl, and who we are after. Who we once identified as, and who we now strive to be. How we once felt before we ate those chicken wings, and how we feel this instant, on the toilet, in agony. But it will be an agony mixed with joy. For we will have entered this new realm of existence together with our fellow brethren. And we will have all of the post-game analysis, performance reviews, lists of favorite commercials, and compilations of the 10 wildest moments to consume together as one new people. Bonded by yet another Super Bowl.
So keep that in mind as you read the countless think-pieces produced this week. Whether about Marshawn Lynch, the legacy of Peyton Manning, the State of the Union, the actual effectiveness of the Affordable Care Act, or John Kerry's plan for a two-state solution -- none of it matters. For it is Super Bowl week. And until we know who won the game, whether Bruno crushed it, and why Arnold is dressed up like Luke Wilson playing Ping-Pong, everything else is just white words. And a complete waste of time.