Super Bowl Ads and Downton Abbey

As sure as night follows day, articles discussing the Super Bowl ads appear almost as soon as the game ends. People love to compare the merits of the new ads, but never mention the huge number of old, dumb ones they have to sit through.   Moving the chains, a discussion by the referees, an injured player—any pause, no matter how trivial—is an excuse to show five commercials in sequence.  If there is no pause within a few minutes, they will make one.

I can’t comment on this year’s pack because the shear quantity of ads drove me early on to switch to Downton Abbey, even though Downton Abbey has problems of its own. It has become so soap-operish I cannot follow the many story lines. Who is most traumatized by the rapid social changes? His Lordship Robert Crawley or Mr. Carson? Maybe the whiny Lady Edith? Beats me. Does anyone care?  Take away the lush costumes and sets, would anyone watch?  Where is Angus Hudson when we need him?

They do not interrupt Downton Abbey with commercials during the show, but so many appear at the beginning, thinly disguised as merely naming the corporate sponsors, it takes ten minutes to get started. I am paying a huge and growing cable bill just to subject myself to all of this, and still they ask for donations. It is like asking a prisoner scheduled for execution to help pay the electric bill.

Sunday’s Downton Abbey ended just in time for me to see the finish of this year’s super-duper Super Bowl, so thrilling they dared not interrupt it with a conglomerate of five more ads.

Part of the fun of watching the Super Bowl is to witness history.  Fifty years from now, football will be history, and people will look back on our football spectacles as being as barbaric as the Roman gladiators.

We take the lowest section of society and shower a tiny few with unimaginable wealth and glory in a Faustian exchange for a shortened life maimed in mind and body. Everyone unquestionably accepts the offer with tearful gratitude.  For the few that are chosen, thousands continue to live in poverty on just the hope of someday becoming one of the elite.  The chosen ones have to continuously work hard at their trade, shoot up with unpronounceable chemicals (no human grows that big and fast naturally), always aware that their wealth can be taken away at any time and given to someone else who is perceived as having slightly better qualities, someone who will work even harder, take even more risks.

RWalck@Verizon.net

 

 

 

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About Roger Walck

My reasons for writing this blog are spelled out in the posting of 10/1/2012, Montaigne's Essays. They are probably not what you think.
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