Did you see it? You probably missed it. You were probably in the bathroom.
At the end of Janet Jackson's rather sorry spectacle of a circus of a fireworks extravaganza of incredibly self-indulgent excessive spatter-fest of over-wrought writhing orgiastic dancers and musicians-- her boob popped out. In fact, it appeared as though Justin Timberlake pulled off one of her leatherette little shields and there it was. CBS remarkably cut the camera within a second or two. Maybe there was a slight delay available to them-- you know, whatever they call it, when they reserve to themselves a slight cushion of time just in case someone like Janet Jackson, on nationwide tv, does something inappropriate.
So you are mom. You're watching the half-time show because, Lord knows, you can't stand to watch football. Your kids are watching too. They are Janet Jackson fans. The dancers wear costumes inspired by S & M fantasies. They gyrate and move in motions meant to suggest intercourse. You smile and continue your knitting. They are singing something about being naked for you or whatever. Doesn't matter. You nod and shake your head-- modern music. Then it happens. You leap up and cover your children's eyes. If you were fast enough, you may have spared them a life-time of deviance and sexual perversion. They might not have realized that they had seen Janet Jackson's breast.
The opening act for this bizarre annual ritual-- the Superbowl-- was Aerosmith. Hoo hah. There are tail-gate parties, which they also have at state prisons on the nights they are going to execute people.
Steve Tyler himself. Most young football fans yearned for his daughter, Liv. Liv, ridiculously, played a psychiatrist in one of Jim Carrey's most earnest and preposterous movies.
Then Beyonce sang the national anthem, with all the heartfelt authority and sincerity Hollywood can muster. Then 40 grown men pumped to preposterous proportions by steroids (professional football does not test anybody for anything except marijuana) chase each other over a 100 yard field trying to retrieve an oblong object made of pigskin. This crowd cheers wildly.
There are 100 commercials. They watch the commercials (that's why they cost an average of $2.5 million-- they do watch.) They think, I will happy if I have some Pepsi. I will download legally. I will have an erection. Most of these people would say they are Christians. In God's name, I have no clue what they think they are talking about.
There is approximately 10 seconds of action for 20 minutes of commercials, inane chatter, Janet Jackson's breast, Steve Tyler's tongue, and American flags.
The audience, apparently, has what they want-- the ratings for Superbowl games are great. These people are American voters. Not only are they choosing the type of costume they want Janet Jackson to wear, but they are also choosing the next government of Iraq and the future of the Israel-Palestinian peace plan. Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake apologized about the breast.
Both of their careers, however, have been enhanced. There is no such thing as bad publicity.