We purveyors of commentary tend to find multitudes in the teeniest speck and mirrors of the zeitgeist wherever we turn. I grant you that. But grant me this: America really is about to get the pathetic Super Bowl that it deserves.
I don’t think that I can even food-bribe myself into watching. There aren’t enough Buffalo wings in the world. On account of a wearyingly familiar come-from-behind victory over the Jacksonville Jaguars on Sunday, the New England Patriots will be playing, and that’s about as surprising as sesame seeds on a bun.
The Patriots perfectly embody our income-inequality era and the tax reform that President Donald Trump recently signed. Their good fortune begets more good fortune. They shamelessly hoard glory. And there’s frequently a whiff of cheating in their success.
Shockingly, they’re Trump’s team. This makes no geographic sense: The ZIP codes of his primary castles recommend allegiance to the New York Giants, the New York Jets or maybe the Miami Dolphins.
But those National Football League franchises have reliable losing streaks, and Trump won’t suffer that. Also, when he looks at the Patriots’ glamour-puss quarterback, Tom Brady, he sees a younger, less quizzically coifed version of himself, complete with a foreign-born model for a wife. Trust me on this. He just squints extra hard, sucks in his gut and begs Melania to answer to “Gisele” for a while.