Well, at least I'm not alone thinking that this year's SuperBowl commercials, on the average, were below average. Thank you, Barbara. And don't get me started on what I thought about the adpeople who came up with them. They had enough problems in middle school.

Barring the Staples commercial and of course the MasterCard Visa/Simpsons commercial, I think I have purged most of my disappointment and anger for now, as I scout another continent to call home with a selected thousand books to keep me busy until I die of the consumption. No, maybe that's too extreme, but I am positive that I want to live off-the-grid now. For sure.

But then, unless you are lazy like Michael and can't register to watch something worthwhile, at least I can live in the past with my fonder memories. If it weren't for the SuperBowl Ad-Offs past, we may have never known the likes of Terry Tate and Felcher & Sons. And always remember, the pain train's a-comin', woman. Whoo whoo. $ = :)

The polls are in: No one wants to see Janet Jackson's boobie. So here it is. All over the internet. Since no one wants to see it. Take that, you Mad Cow Brain Burger Eaters, wherever you are.

I'm sure it was just a mistake. An innocent mistake. Jacksons don't do anything weird for attention. Right?

I missed the whole thing myself. I was doing the crosswords, trying to figure a four-letter word for advertising. Really the deepest thing I took away from the whole experience is that Justin Timberlake and Kid Rock really do look like they should be changing motor oil. Everyday. Sometimes on Sundays. Not that they could, I'm sure. Therein lies the pug-faced irony.



(Man. Remember when I used to be nice? Sorry, pugs. You are pretty. All of you.)