Consumptionfest '05: 6 of 7 ain't bad
Today we celebrate a most wholesome and American cultural experience: The Superbowl.
We'll congregate before the glowing machine, at the residence of the envied pack member owning the alpha television, which is larger and better than the televisions the rest of us own.
And we'll watch the American football championship game, which culminates in proud ethnocentrism as the winner is crowned "world champion".
And we will enthusiastically critique never before seen commercials from companies that love us enough to vie for our laughter tonight, our dollars tomorrow and our favor at the water cooler on Monday. And we will want the things we do not have.
And each of us will eat thousands of calories of American things like pizza and beer and wings and sandwiches and potato chips and salsa and guacamole and Doritos and Coke and Pepsi. We will eat these things because they are scientifically designed to be yummy.
And we will sit on our asses, and exert only the effort required to waddle to the john or stagger to the fridge. We will travel short distances in big cars.
And there will be a pre-game show. And they will tell us stories of the players and the teams and their struggles and humanity so that we care, deeply, about which group of millionaires wins. We will chose a side, and we will love our side, and we will hate the other side. And we will be elated when our team does well, and angered and sad when the hated enemy defeats us.
But there will be no tits at the Superbowl. Tits, you see, are evil. There will be no performers flaunting tits, nor commercials poking fun at tit flaunting. The Superbowl is wholesome.
So while our wholesome tradition has room for Sloth and Gluttony, Pride, Anger, Avarice and Envy, Lust would just put it over the top.
So eat your Doritos, sit on your ass, covet your friend's surround sound, forget there are other countries, hate the opposition and learn what to buy next. Just be careful not to think about boobs, or our glorious culture might go to hell in a handbasket.
We'll congregate before the glowing machine, at the residence of the envied pack member owning the alpha television, which is larger and better than the televisions the rest of us own.
And we'll watch the American football championship game, which culminates in proud ethnocentrism as the winner is crowned "world champion".
And we will enthusiastically critique never before seen commercials from companies that love us enough to vie for our laughter tonight, our dollars tomorrow and our favor at the water cooler on Monday. And we will want the things we do not have.
And each of us will eat thousands of calories of American things like pizza and beer and wings and sandwiches and potato chips and salsa and guacamole and Doritos and Coke and Pepsi. We will eat these things because they are scientifically designed to be yummy.
And we will sit on our asses, and exert only the effort required to waddle to the john or stagger to the fridge. We will travel short distances in big cars.
And there will be a pre-game show. And they will tell us stories of the players and the teams and their struggles and humanity so that we care, deeply, about which group of millionaires wins. We will chose a side, and we will love our side, and we will hate the other side. And we will be elated when our team does well, and angered and sad when the hated enemy defeats us.
But there will be no tits at the Superbowl. Tits, you see, are evil. There will be no performers flaunting tits, nor commercials poking fun at tit flaunting. The Superbowl is wholesome.
So while our wholesome tradition has room for Sloth and Gluttony, Pride, Anger, Avarice and Envy, Lust would just put it over the top.
So eat your Doritos, sit on your ass, covet your friend's surround sound, forget there are other countries, hate the opposition and learn what to buy next. Just be careful not to think about boobs, or our glorious culture might go to hell in a handbasket.
posted by Kenneth at 10:37 AM
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