When you're full of the plague, there isn't much to do except lay on your horizontal surface of choice. Some people (ok, some WEIRD people) actually choose to be sick in a bed, and do quiet, restful, recuperative things like sleep. Being a multi-tasking creature, I never understood that philosophy at all. If I'm going to be sick, then something better be entertaining me. I don't read when I'm sick because holding a book and attempting to following a plot and character development is just too much work. So, I head for the couch with blanket, Kleenex, cough drops, telephone and restorative liquid (no, it's not The Recipe) and the holy remote. My head must point south in order to lay on my right hand side and face east while praying to The God Toshiba.
It's my Sick Shui.
I like to think there is a healing balm in my surfacing, be it during the afternoon soaps (CBS only), anything on the Food Channel, or a rerun of last night's The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. There are no curative powers in the local newscasts at noon or PBS shows on quilting, and certain spots along the dial are sure to make everything WORSE (Pat Robertson, Fox News Network, and E! Network specials on the life of Jessica Simpson -- I'm talking to you).
So it was with a fair amount of excitement that I assumed the position on the High Holy Day of curative televised entertainment: Superbowl Sunday.
Superbowl Sunday! It's football! It's wardrobe malfunctions! It's cheezy halftime shows! Best of all, it's commercials, commercials and MORE COMMERCIALS.
The first commercial was a shockingly forgettable Budweiser commercial. I chalked that up to Superbowl jitters and anxiously awaited for commercial number two.
And I get THIS.
This is wrong on so many levels, it almost begs for the return of Cowboy Hootie.
Where to begin? First, all those poor women. Some were in the lettuce corps, others in the onion squad. Years and years of dance training for THIS? There are several lead dancers, including a saucy tomato, a prima burgerina patty, and a top bun the comes complete with elbow length gloves and tiara. Casting Couch? Nay. Casting Kitchen.
Then of course, comes the damn creepy Burger King with the big scary plastic head. THIS THING HAS TO GO. Damn creepy Burger King with the big scary plastic head DOES NOT MAKE SICK PEOPLE FEEL BETTER (I was, however, overwhelmingly grateful for Magic Fridge. It made the icky King go away).
I'd like to humbly suggest next year's BK Superbowl ads be a series of "OH MY GOD, YOU KILLED BURGER KING!" spots where Mr. Creepy Big Scary Plastic Head King gets smooshed, smashed, demolished and generally obliterated over and over and over again.
Have it your way?
I'm going to take them at their word.
Maybe I'll send them a list.