• by Richard Whitman , Columnist, February 2, 2015

This year's crop of Super Bowl commercials veered 180 degrees from past years' sexist jiggle fests, dad trashing and kicks to the crotch. It was as if every creative director's grandmother stormed into their offices and demanded that each and every one of them grow up.

That's all well and good, and in many cases, about time. You see, like having actual sex in the real world, you kinda need a break in between, well, you know, bouts of glory. Time to recover. To regenerate. To recharge. Yes. Because life simply can't be one continuous orgasm.

And it seems the Super Bowl flesh fest has reached orgasm and is now in recovery mode. But, again, just like sex in the real world, the desire for that next bout of glory never really goes away. And so those who are not fans of bouncing boobs, bikini-clad babes stuffing a gigantic burger in their mouths or 14-year-old schoolboy humor are in luck. For at least 3 to 4 years. Until the collective ad industry regroups, realizes it hasn't had Super Bowl sex in a few years and unleashes the boobs again (both the flesh-based kind and the stupid idiot kind).