Hey, you wanna? No, I'm good.

Nothing says football like an over-the-hill, fading sex symbol in gold S&M gear being hauled around by a team of androgynous dancing slaves.
After last year's Super Bowl halftime show, during which the Black-Eyed Peas shuffled around in robotic suits and a pitchy Fergie destroyed Guns 'N Roses' "Sweet Child of Mine," I didn't see how things could get any worse. I've been wrong about a lot of things.
Ever since the infamous "wardrobe malfunction" between Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson, there has been an unnatural obsession over who will perform at half time of America's biggest game in its biggest sport in its biggest league. The NFL has promised to keep it clean, while the "artists" involved have tried to push the envelope, with the exception of The Who, which pulled off the trick of none of its members dying on stage during the show (I apologize, I like The Who, but they should have stopped after John Entwhistle went down)
When it was announced that Madonna (whom I've heard is on a one-woman tour going door to door trying to shock people) would be this year's entertainment, tongues began to wag in Hobbiton.
"What will she do?"
"Can she play by the NFL's strict rules, or will she rebel against them?"
"Will her clothes fall off? I hope not, 'cause she's around 50."
"Will they make a sequel to 'Desperately Seeking Susan?'"
Really, I could feel nothing but squeamishness as Madonna uneasily made her way around the stage, looking like she was about to fall (I think she might have, at one point) in thigh-high boots, and occasionally being hefted into a figure skating pose by one of her androgynous man-servants.
One might view all of this as offensive, at least on an artistic level. But the actual offensive moment, the one that is going to have the NFL tearing its hair out, didn't come from the material girl.
Instead it came from one of two female hip-hop artists flanking her, who turned to a closeup camera and said "I don't give a shit," and flipped the bird to the millions of people watching the Super Bowl at home.
This was either during, or after a marching band came on stage and the brilliantly rhyming chorus of "You wanna? Hey, hey Madonna" was repeated ad nauseam.
During this bit, Madonna grabbed some pom-poms and looked like a majorette who was back on campus for alumni day.
Then Cee Lo Green showed up, sang some of Madonna's songs better than her, and it all ended in a whoosh of smoke with Madonna being dropped into what I hope was a carbonated freezing chamber, with the message "World Peace" waving in flowing gold light on the field/stage.
"What the hell?" was all I could manage.
I don't care if there's media backlash, criticism or praise for the show. I really don't. Besides, I'm nobody. Madonna could buy and sell me 100 times over.
What I really want to know is why the Super Bowl feels like it needs an over-the-top half time show.
It's the friggin' Super Bowl.
Granted, last night's 21-17 snorer between two teams I can't stand could have used a boost. You know you've entered a weird area when a running back is trying not to score while the defense is letting him into the end zone to save some clock.
Still, if people can't go a half without something strobing in their faces, move them to Tokyo. It's seizure-lights mixed with sex 24/7 there. Where did I put those boarding passes?
Anyway, I intentionally busied myself with other stuff during half time so I wouldn't have to watch the show and get all negative. But my wife had paused the TV. Blasted DVRs.
The one positive, for me, anyway, was the ad with the dog getting in shape so he could chase the Volkswagen. Dogs always make me smile, except when they're being held by Sarah McLachlan.