Electric car enthusiasts won the Super Bowl this year.
There’ll be no talking to them after this, unless smug gloating constantly flying your way is your kink. By the sixth or seventh electric car commercial, I was all “I thought we still just had the Big Three or am I way behind the times?” Turns out I am. In fact, foreign car brands are making cars here in America with fairly compensated and satisfied hourly workers who take care of business every day without the pilot-fish-like help of the UAW. That’s got to stick in the craw of a lot of committee men who would distract themselves with working on the assembly lines but committee men don’t work so they’re bound to be even more mad, having time to dwell on the matter.
I was wondering if an upstart electric car company was going to set up shop in my living room and start churning out these moneymakers. Seems like the Starbucks way of popping up everywhere is the logical thing to do until the woke-ites recognize and acknowledge that lithium mining and dead battery disposal also have a tremendous environmental impact. But we’ll call that bridge racist and knock down some statues when we cross it. Doubt it’ll come up in discussion; emasculating electric cars being their sacred cow and all. Maybe we can someday harness Trump Derangement Syndrome and finally find a powerful and truly inexhaustible source of clean-burning energy.
Speaking of kinks, you’ve got to think by the third or fourth quarter, there was a lot of hot and bothered-ness in the homes—beg pardon—one bedroom apartments of folks who take feeling superior to others to a professional level. Have to think more than a few non-birthing persons saw GM’s new electric truck commercial, fanned themselves, squirmed a little, closed the shades, cast a saucy look in the direction of their partner, let down their hair buns, cut the fabric to escape from their blood flow-restricting skinny jeans, asked the radical feminist birthing person whose genitals they’re utilizing for sexual gratification at the moment if they’d terribly mind adding a second session to this month’s cuddle time, sterilized the prophylactic for COVID, rummaged around until they found and presented notarized proof of that day’s vaccination booster from their satchel (so much more convenient than a wallet and backpack), provided three video evidence examples to fulfill this week’s quota of:
getting in a racist white person’s face
apologizing to a black person for their whiteness
wearing a mask in the local grocery store (bonus points awarded for color-coordinating it with that day’s outfit)
wildly flying off the handle over any trifling matter that is triggering (dealer’s choice)
bravely screeching in the face of a diminutive, middle-aged woman who wasn’t wearing a mask
Then took things to the bedroom, making sure to keep it quiet so the Flankersteins next door weren’t subjected to an auditory sample of three minutes in heaven through the paper-thin walls. That is, after sentences like “I don’t understand the rules of football and the sport perpetuates the toxic and violent patriarchy anyway” or “All cameras before the Google Pixel 6 were white supremacy and thank the universe black people can finally take pictures!” were whispered in the ear as foreplay.
Thank goodness the General Motors brass knows how to throw together a funny commercial; having assembled he Austin Powers crew and letting them prove that yes, they are still funny (and not in a nostalgic way, an actually funny sort of way) and it’s a travesty we never got a fourth film and Mike Myers might be difficult to work with but can we throw a little money his way and give him a shot to bang one out while we’re doing reboots and reunions of lesser properties?
I say thank goodness, because whoever cast Ahhhnold as Zeus obviously doesn’t understand the man’s limitations as a performer. You mine comedy gold by playing better actors off his stoic straight-man strengths like the “You have to do what I say? My very own Terminator!” scene in T2 or the Italian dock union boss asking “Who’s da tree trunk?” regarding his quiet assassin character in the underrated silly-but-fun vehicle Eraser. Even though she’s busy being my ongoing teenage-and-now-middle-age crush, Salma Hayek wasn’t cut out to be that actor in this disaster of a commercial.
And then a skyscraper-hopping robotic dog goes on its own miniature Odyssey to have its battery life saved by an electric car owner, or some such nonsense? The makers do understand that real dogs are much cuter, adorable, and endearing to audiences, right? They do know that, don’t they? It’s important to me they know that and (forgive the parlance of the times) do better. With real dogs next time. I can’t say it any clearer. God put dogs here to show us how short we fall when it comes to loyalty and unconditional love. And to be that friend who’s there when all other friends, family, and that woman of seriously questionable moral scruples you totally shouldn’t have married—much less had kids with—(hypothetically speaking, of course) abandon you. Do much better.
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Image taken from:
https://www.npr.org/2022/02/14/1080516128/super-bowl-commercials
