• by George Simpson , Featured Contributor, February 9, 2007

By now, media "insiders" (and their blog-world wannabe alter egos) have exhausted millions, if not billions, of narcissistic words on what was good, bad and ugly about the Super Bowl commercials. With some pronouncements so breathless and imperative, they assigned a weight of importance to the overpriced :30 spots that should be reserved for more important issues, such as whether we can--or will--stop the genocide in Africa, and how did Randy Falco rise to the heights of corporate Internet power without learning that you don't win friends by promoting only your own self-interests. (Although such public incantations appear to be baked into the DNA of the AOL culture.)

It took no great effort on my part to skip entirely every single "preview" story written or broadcast about what to expect when the Bears and Colts were standing idly in the rain waiting for the "resume play" signal from CBS. During the game, I was uncharacteristically in a room with 400 or so Interneters and unable to give each and every commercial the undivided attention popular culture now demands. And so, when the post-game reviewers provided rankings that ignited celebrations in some agencies and spasms of resume updating at others, I had not a clue or an opinion about any of the world's most over-analyzed executions.

I had not experienced such trepidation since, as a high school soph, I tried to line up a kiss from the best-looking senior girl in--well, at that moment, the entire universe. What would I say if anyone asked me which spot I liked best? How could I argue for or against the petulant idiocy of most Super Bowl ads, having not experienced even one?

I felt a scarlet letter emerging from my brow. Just as in the bygone days of the '70s, when I was certain passersby in the park could easily deduce that I had ingested a tab of Orange Sunshine from the pinwheels rotating about each iris, I was paranoid that those now around me could tell that I had not a single opinion about you-know-what. Any attempt to fake it would be uncovered, and I would be exposed. Staying in bed all day was not an option.

I went through the morning like some post-modern Jean Valjean, glancing furtively at a conference full of peers, wondering which one was the Cylon and knew my secret. I wondered if I might find relief by tapping a spoon to my glass and confessing to all that I didn't know who kissed whom or why in the candy commercial, and had no idea what the talking animals had said. I didn't even know who the guy was who found himself flipping burgers in an insurance commercial. But instead I swallowed what little pride I had left and simply started saying, " I don't know, I wasn't paying attention."

As you might expect, the commercialistas with whom I was summating regarded me as if I had been French-kissing Ben-Hur's leprous mother, but as folks warmed to each other's opinions and views regarding the spots, I was simply forgotten and left to suffer in my ignorance and isolation. Time passed. Rankings appeared and disappeared. The people spoke through polls and page views. The seas began to recede from the land. Birds reappeared in the sky. Nubile buds appeared on the blackened landscape.

And somehow, some way, I have managed to get through five entire days without a memory of a single Super Bowl spot. With your prayers and good vibes, I might just pull through.

The story you have just read is an attempt to blend fact and fiction in a manner that provokes thought, and on a good day, merriment. It would be ill-advised to take any of it literally. Take it, rather, with the same humor with which it is intended. Cut and paste or link to it at your own peril.