Friday, September 03, 2004

Hangin' with P-Diddy and Cris Judd

[Preface: I worked on this post for a couple of days before the Superbowl last year. When I'm writing stuff for my own site, I really don't give much thought to punching-up the commentary, but Affleck's like a three-step process where I have to write the post, then add various Affleckisms (such as J-Lo and Damon references), and then I have to punch the thing up so it's funny or poignant enough for me to serve up to the masses.

But I digress. This one was ready and posted the morning of the Superbowl. It really didn't get very many comments, nor did it get read much at all in the first place, because of the Janet Jackson "wardrobe malfunction," which caused this post to go from the top post of the day all the way to the Archives; which is a shame because of the subject matter of the post; not that I think for a moment that the majority of the readers would have understood what I was really getting at.

I might add that I lost the bet at the end of the post. That's what I get for not actually having an Uncle Artie.]

Thank God Almighty, I Am Free At Last
- 11:41am February 1, 2004
Posted by Ben Affleck [Archives]

Yeah, yeah, so J-Lo dumped me. It wasn’t because of my affairs with strippers, and it wasn’t because I tried to get Smith to cut her out of Jersey Girl entirely, and it wasn’t even because of her apparently very satisfying orgies with the former members of the Miami Sound Machine. No, it was because of my plans for Superbowl Sunday.

The Superbowl is a long-heralded tradition of testosterone here in America, when it’s perfectly okay to settle down with a bowl of corn chips the size of your television and enough salsa to fill Kathy Bates’ bathtub. Oh yes, Superbowl Sunday is that time when men most resemble the Neanderthals of a million years ago, if only those cavemen had television. It’s the one day of the year when it’s socially acceptable for men to paint their faces and scream like extras from Braveheart. Women wear makeup every day of the year, this is our day.

Anyway, J-Lo wanted to go to the Superbowl with me, which would be fine any other year, but I said, “No, baby, I got plans.” This isn’t like the NBA Finals or watching the Red Sox get knocked out of the ALCS. This is not a day for men to be bringing their wives and/or girlfriends to the show, let alone for the show that I’m going to.

That’s right, boys, I’m going to be at the Lingerie Bowl. After all, Superbowls happen every year. Things like the Lingerie Bowl and the XFL are once-in-a-lifetime occurrences, and I’m going to be there for this one. What man in his right mind wouldn’t go if he had the money and a nagging girlfriend who’s threatening to go back to Puff Daddy? The only downside is that the Lingerie Bowl is only during the Superbowl’s halftime, whereas I think just this one year the Superbowl should be a half-hour and the Lingerie Bowl should be three hours.

After all, let’s weigh the two against each other:
The Superbowl is the fulfillment of an entire season of NFL football, bringing the champions of the AFC and NFC together to duke it out and see which conference takes the trophy this year. The Lingerie Bowl, on the other hand, is the fulfillment of every heterosexual man’s fantasies, like a catfight with rules and corporate sponsors.<>

The Superbowl features eleven overgrown men per team on the field at a time; the Lingerie Bowl features seven women per team, wearing lacy-looking sports bras and volleyball shorts. While it’s not real lingerie, I think the girls win that argument.
In the end, the question comes to, which one do you root for? Which one, out of Team Dream or Team Euphoria, would you put money on? Without going into any huge amount of detail, I’m leaning towards Team Euphoria, whose quarterback is Angie Everhart, to win by seven. Damon, on the other hand is going for Team Dream, quarterbacked by Nikki Ziering. I can’t explain Damon’s bet, but my uncle Artie once told me never to bet against a redheaded supermodel in an event that passes for athletic competition while shamelessly bordering on sexploitation.

And, maybe uncle Artie was right, but who’s getting exploited here? Is it the models and the other gorgeous women playing for the two teams (who often make good money for wearing less clothing than in this event), or the men who are paying $24.99 for a halftime show?

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