As you certainly know by now, the Seattle Seahawks are going to the Super Bowl for the second time in franchise history. This is great news for football fans, snack fans, and marijuana fans, as well as for Chihuahuas in the Pacific Northwest that have been looking for an excuse to wear 12th Man sweaters. But not all the Super Bowl news that's come through our newsroom has been super.
Throughout the regular season and now the postseason, The Stranger has been the go-to place for in-depth coverage of football, including our groundbreaking stories on how the Seahawks' secondary has clutched and grabbed its way to the top of the NFL. We published brilliant reporting on John Schneider's salary cap management and a multipart exposé on Cliff Avril's strip sacks. We also crunched the numbers to demonstrate how second-year quarterback Russell Wilson has proved far more valuable than his statistics would suggest. And we published Charles Mudede's trenchant and timely critique of Richard Sherman's doctoral thesis.
But this week, in advance of Sunday's big game, our attention turns to an issue not even related to the Seahawks—a horrific blow from which none of us are going to be able to escape: THE STUPID RED HOT MOTHERFUCKING CHILI PEPPERS ARE PLAYING THE GODDAMN HALFTIME SHOW.
What, was Creed busy? Couldn't afford the $500 it'd take to get Sublime with Rome? If Super Bowl organizers were looking to score a band that would appeal to both meatheads and "cool dads," why not get Metallica? James Hetfield has written some pretty terrible lyrics, but he's never sunk so low as to sing "Ning nang nong nong ning nang nong nong ning nang."
Red Hot Chili Peppers are the lowest common denominator in rock music, if not the lowest common denominator in fractions themselves. They're the tribal armband tattoo on the asshole who shoves his way to the front of the crowd at an overpriced music festival. They're the cold sore that you thought had healed up in time for your wedding day but comes raging back three times worse than before hours before the vows. Worst of all, they don't seem to know how bad they are—they're absolutely serious about the music they make. Anthony Kiedis sings, with a straight face, "Give to me sweet sacred bliss/Your mouth was made to suck my kiss" and "Realize I don't want to be a miser/Confide wisely, you'll be the wiser/Young blood is the lovin' upriser/How come everybody wanna keep it like the kaiser?" What does that even mean, guy? Did you have a stroke?
Of course, Bruno Mars has been booked to play the halftime show for months—a nontraditional choice, considering the Super Bowl usually goes for old white guys and their guitars (Paul McCartney in 2005, the Rolling Stones in 2006, Tom Petty in 2008, Bruce Springsteen in 2009, the Who in 2010). Mars is a non-old, non-white, very charming R&B crooner who sings that "Locked Out of Heaven" song that sounds like the Police. So naturally, the Super Bowl powers that be were all: "What the fuck? I said white guys! With guitars!" And then RHCP were added to the bill.
While I'm not very well versed in Bruno Mars, I do know the man can entertain—his confetti-and-giant-disco-ball-filled 2013 tour received all kinds of critical acclaim, and I was looking forward to his performance, especially now that our very own Seahawks would be competing for whatever trophy it is that football players win! But now, all that's ruined. Hopes of a decent halftime show are shattered. I won't even be able to enjoy the Super Bowl snacks I've been looking forward to because the goddamn Red Hot Motherfucking Chili Peppers will take the stage and I'll be puking all over the floor. Reports claim it was Mr. Mars who invited the Peppers to join him, but I don't buy it. Because, really, why would Bruno Mars "choose" the Red Hot Chili Peppers? Aside from the factual statement that they're TERRIBLE, they haven't released a record since 2011's I'm with You, and that was their worst-selling album in more than 20 years (2006's wet fart Stadium Arcadium sold more than eight million copies worldwide, while I'm with You didn't even break the two million mark). Like that cold sore, they had been hibernating, and we were all better off. But now the cold sore is coming back. On Super Bowl Sunday, of all days.
Bruno Mars could've handled this on his own. Or hell, he could've gotten some of his other famous friends to help out. Instead, the Super Bowl fell back into old habits, grabbing a name that might not be relevant anymore but was at one time, and now all we have to look forward to is whether or not Flea will get naked—he recently tweeted (then deleted) "anybody wanna see my cock at the Super Bowl?" NO, FLEA, WE DO NOT. PUT A SOCK ON IT. Better yet, don't show up at all. Our Seahawks have a Super Bowl to win.