My Last Super Bowl
Imagine sinking your comfortable ass in her plush leather seat, then slowly curling your fingers around her steering wheel. Imagine striding across a high school dance floor, seeking her, then taking possession, her pliant body submitting to your will—if only for a few seconds, and despite the consequence of a black eye for violating another male’s property.
Just a formulaic Super Bowl ad, right? Buy an Audi, Dad, and your son will suddenly buck the social hierarchy that probably bullied you into the redirected mission of getting rich enough to equalize the social imbalance that cock-blocked you back in the day.
The fantasy Audi uses to sell its cars is an extension of the conquest narrative, a very old tale, which goes like this: to the victors go the spoils.
This year, the Baltimore Ravens are the victors, so if anyone on the winning team feels like including some celebratory fucking in their post-game revelry, there is plenty of sex trafficking that goes on during the Super Bowl:
In the past year, authorities in Louisiana have been working to raise awareness about the rampant sex trafficking that has historically accompanied the Super Bowl. While there is a widespread perception that human trafficking is a problem only in foreign countries, data from the U.S. Department of Justice show the average American prostitute begins working between the ages of 12 and 14.
Established in 2006, the Louisiana Human Trafficking Task Force, comprised of federal, state and local law enforcement agencies, plus faith-based and nongovernmental organizations, has been meeting regularly to try to increase trafficking arrests and rescue the victims.
As a tourist destination, New Orleans attracts sex workers year-round, said Bryan Cox, spokesman for the U.S. Department of Homeland Security in New Orleans. But many of those young women are not here by choice. So, in the weeks leading up to the Super Bowl, both outreach and undercover efforts have ramped up.
Underneath the military-worship and the damage-control over concussions, underneath the culturally vapid advertising and the ritual indulgences of eating and drinking too much, what is left of American Football to celebrate?
When half the lights went dark at the start of the 3rd quarter tonight, the ghost of Katrina emerged through snarky tweets mocking how America was getting upset about being denied its gladiator entertainment in the same space where people languished in misery for days after hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans.
Thirty minutes later, the violence on the field was able to resume, and the Ravens survived. For those who wanted a close game, you got it.
For me, I’m done watching American football.