Superbowl Stream of Consciousness

I wasn't bitter, I swear I wasn't.

Ok, maybe I was a little. But the Steelers can't be in the Superbowl every year. Or make the playoffs. Or even be a good team. So I was willing to let it go.

And maybe I consider the Ravens a slightly lower life-form than the flu virus I am desperately trying to avoid this year, but I thought that my brother-in-law, who hails from Baltimore and bleeds purple and black as deeply as we bleed black and gold, kind of deserved to feel some of the football glory that we Pittsburghers have felt in recent years. I guess it's not easy being the sole Raven in a sea of Steelers fans. It's an AFC North clash of the titans in this family of ours, so I was willing to give him this one, if that's how it turned out.

And anyway, beyond my undying love for football and my ever-present fascination with the sparkly gold tights worn by the 49ers (I may hate the Ravens and everything they are, but black tights are far more flattering than gold. Just saying.), I was intrigued by this year's Superbowl, nicknamed, in delightful fashion, the "Bro-Bowl," the "Super-Baugh," and the "Har-Bowl," by the intrepid periodicals that are sold for twenty-five cents each every morning outside Grand Central Station. If you know anything about me, you know that I'm a sucker for a good pop-culture event. So, awesome commercials, coaching brothers' teams playing each other, a retiring defensive player who may or may not be (but probably is) an actual murderer playing his last game, and a blackout in the biggest football game of the year? Count me in.

And since I was watching the game by myself last night, and didn't have anyone with whom to share my musings, I was left to my own devices (well, along with my Twitter feed and my Google Reader) to process the fascinating happenings of last night. My stream of consciousness went something like this:

I wish I could read roman numerals. I keep forgetting what number XLVII is. I think the last Superbowl roman numeral I could legitimately read was XXXIX.

I'm so intrigued by the Harbaughs' sideline dispositions. I wonder if they really hate each other when the cameras are turned off. I wonder how the Harbaugh parents are handling the game. Why don't they just hug it out at the end of the game? Maybe a handshake is more manly. For the life of me I can't remember which one is John and which one is Jim.

The Budweiser Clydesdales are awesome. Amy Poehler should just be in every commercial ever until the end of time. Oh, ew, my eyes. They're burning from this nasty Go Daddy commercial.

Oh, look, the lights went out. Kind of like that time last year that the lights went out when the Steelers were playing the 49ers at Candlestick Park. The 49ers are old hands at this. I wonder how many times the announcers can say something like "the lights are out at the Superdome" before mentioning Katrina. Why is Bill Cowher wearing that gross tie? Maybe Beyonce killed the lights with her utter fabulousness. Who gets fired over this? Thank god for Twitter, it's making this blackout endlessly entertaining.

If Ray Lewis is so hell bent on convincing everyone that he isn't actually a murderer, why does he paint those scary patterns on his face for every game? Does he think mentioning god every time he's in front of a camera will make people think he's innocent even though he might-have-but-probably-did kill some people awhile back? If he's MVP of this game, will Disney World let him come down this time?

The Ravens' owner should consider dialing it down on the spray-tan and tooth whitening. The orange hue of his skin makes his teeth look like they glow in the dark. Seriously, it's winter, and you live in Baltimore. You look insane.

Purple is a stupid color for a football team.

I really want to punch Joe Flacco in the mouth.

It's so boring when football is over.

49 days until the draft.

213 days until the 2013 season opener.

Here we go.