Any second now, the entire known universe will grind to a halt; planetary orbits and the diffusion of gamma rays will be affected, as will the space-time continuum.
Stand clear. It’s Super Bowl Sunday.
There really is a football game in there somewhere. Really. According to some experts, a football may be involved.
Guttural human noises and primitive behaviors should be expected. Tribal instincts will come into play, along with ritual food and distinctive language patterns. Unusual messages will be shared, oaths repeated. There will be hollering. In the aftermath, large men will sit in a semicircle to divine the meaning of it all by grunting and pointing at hieroglyphics.
A billion TV viewers in 225 countries are expected to witness this momentous event on Earth alone. Of that billion, 999,999,999 of them will be praying Mick Jagger doesn’t have a wardrobe malfunction at halftime.
There is no word yet about the intergalactic audience, though Nielsen is working on it.
And now, behold, Super Bowl XL — as in 40. Four-oh. Oh. Oh. This is a daunting cultural moment, indeed.
Pre-game programming — this involving large men in expensive suits grunting and pointing at hieroglyphics — began, well, wasn’t it sometimes around 1914? ABC Sports and ESPN will offer more than 100 hours of Super Bowl fare for a game that will last, technically, an hour.
Is there room for any more stats, rosters, match-ups, scouting reports, information, disinformation, factoids, trivia, little-known facts, dismal theories, dream teams, game-day hints or textbook examples of quarterback paranoia and fan obsession?
What? John Madden is not going to share his theory of relativity with us? Well, heck.
And what about that new report that Seattle Seahawks quarterback Matt Hasselbeck has rearranged his sock drawer? What about that? We demand a play-by-play, with split screen, moving arrows, color highlights, timer and instant replay to determine which socks Mr. Hasselbeck rearranged, and in what order.
Surely the Super Bowl audiences in deep space and on passing comets would appreciate this insight into Earth culture.
About that culture. Super Bowl Sunday has become the catchall for everything that has ever fallen — or been jettisoned — from all the other holidays, including Halloween and Arbor Day. It has become all things to all people.
It’s Christmas II, say electronics retailers, who will have sold 14 million big-screen TVs in the days immediately preceding today’s game, according to the National Retail Federation. The organization also noted last week that fans have spent $100 million on official Super Bowl XL merchandise — 3,400 products licensed by the Pittsburgh Steelers, 1,400 by the Seattle Seahawks.
Commercials during the game may cost $80,000 a second, but fans will wager a half-billion dollars today, according to Sportsbook, an online wagering group that tracks the industry. This year, fans also can bet on the commercials, speculating on which spot will win the annual Ad Meter poll, which has measured public popularity of the messages for the past 18 years.
Then there’s that halftime show, featuring the Rolling Stones, a cast of thousands, 932 tons of pyrotechnics, 300 dancing ponies, a Delta rocket and maybe a few dozen B-29s in close formation overhead. We now offer one minute of respectful silence for the very first Super Bowl halftime, on Jan. 15, 1967, which featured the Universities of Arizona and Michigan marching bands. Alone.
Then there’s the super … bowl. Which is overflowing.
With visions of buffalo wings dancing in our heads, the nation descends into culinary bedlam today. Only Thanksgiving outranks the Super Bowl in food consumption, according to the U.S. Department of Agriculture, which has issued a food safety warning for party hosts not to sicken their guests by undercooking or improperly handling the gridiron goodies.
The waggish bureaucracy has deemed this a “personal foul” and “illegal use of hands.”
But now, as game time looms, it is time to neutralize all this churlish vitriol and come to terms with the Super Bowl. It is a fact of life, a given that at this time each year, we must surrender to Super Bowl, revel in Super Bowl, roll in Super Bowl.
Loyal womenfolk will sit by their men and do needlework, yell when he yells, stand when he stands. Dogs will cower under the table and wonder if they are somehow in trouble, cats will sleep until all is quiet once again and they can pad with impunity across the very table that once held a fan-shaped display of burnished chicken wings.
So on with the show. Have some Cheetos. Admire the mocha cake shaped like a football and those special NFL guest towels in the powder room. Dream of the ’Skins. But please. Somebody tell Mick Jagger we expect him to put on as good a show as the University of Michigan marching band.
Jennifer Harper covers media, politics and baton twirling for The Washington Times’ national desk. Contact her at 202/636-3085 or jharper@washington times.com.
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