The Left has declared Bad Bunny’s halftime show a decisive victory in its culture war. The USA is no longer ‘America,’ but merely a conquered province within the greater América. Has our once-proud nation and its traditional values truly been vanquished? Or was this in-your-face taunt mere hubris prior to an impending backlash?
Thanks to Bad Bunny, the New England Patriots offensive line only had the second-worst performance on Super Bowl Sunday. The victory, however, was claimed not by the Seattle Seahawks as time expired, but rather by the woke Left at halftime.
Salsa sin Ritmo
A spectacle for the Ages. The lascivious lagomorph not so much dances as shuffles, duck-footed, through an elaborate stage while lip-syncing to a medley of his best-sellers — seven or nine of them, depending on the source. Who knows? The songs are indistinguishable from one another, just atonal loops accentuated by animal grunts. The words rapped, not sung, entirely in Rabid Rabbit’s own fractured, toddler’s Spanish and without subtitles, a wise decision by the NFL considering the crude pornographic lyrics. This crotch-grabbing coney somehow manages to produce Latin music that lacks a rhythm.
Ricky Martin, shyly hiding in a clump of plastic sugar cane, provides a few seconds of actual music.
An ozempic-y Lady Gaga, in a tableau evoking Evita Perón, lip-syncs a rushed, unrecognizable medley. Don’t cry for me America — the truth is, I never loved you.
Previously, during the opening ceremony, Green Day frontman and 50-year-old teenage rebel, Billie Joe Armstrong, sang his theme song, American Idiot.
Everyone Loves Rabbit
The ‘stage’ is more a Puerto Rican Truman Show, whose angelic denizens either cut sugar cane or are cheery street vendors. After work the men play dominoes — or make out with each other in a vintage pickup truck, while the scantily-clad women twerk in the streets.
Attired in all eggshell down to clunky sneakers, the hero with the beady-eyed rodent’s face first dons a custom football jersey, complete with shoulder pads that make his Pop Warner frame look dwarfish. Then to a jacket reminiscent of David Byrne’s Big Suit, only lacking the intentional nod to Dada. It’s Effie Trinket outré for the sake of outré.
The lurid leporid scurries up a power pole to join a lineman and a linewoman (of course) frantically trying to fix transformers, an homage to the island paradise’s decrepit infrastructure. Flanked by Gestas and Dismita, the stipes and patibulum of his electric σταυρός evoke Calvary. Sparks fly as coprophagous christ grunts and thrusts his pelvis. Into your hands, I commend my junk.
In the midst of this imaginary San Juan, for-real nuptials are sealed at the 50-yard line — an odd juxtaposition to the promiscuous lyrics heard moments before: “Today I have one, tomorrow I’ll have another, hey, but there’s no wedding.” Now, whenever the happy couple hear “dick in pussy (tra), dick in ass (tra)” on the radio, they can exclaim, ‘Corazon — they’re playing our song!’
Ignorant of the filthy lyrics, and ignoring the dirty dancing, the Washington Post declares this spectacle full of “the kind of wholesome, traditional family values that would have fit right in with some of the more sentimental commercials that appeared during the game.“
As Rabid Rabbit hops through his cartoon world, his subjects adore him. Rodent King of PR, he now crowns himself emperor of América.
Conquistador
If the entire performance up to this point has been a slutty Reggaeton Haka, the finale is a triumphal parade of a conquering army through its vanquished enemy’s capital. Our hare-brained sovereign, vanguard of a marching column of foreign flags, barks out the names of the countries of the New World. Into the camera he thrusts the plundered sacramental futból, on which he has scrawled: “Together, we are América.” He spikes it.
Yanquis, bow down to your culturally superior new masters. Observe meekly as we cavort and desecrate your most iconic & hallowed ritual. The USA is no longer ‘America’ sans diacritical mark, but rather a protectorate of that vast Latino collective spanning the entire land mass named after Amerigo Vespucci. Our conquistadors, after dissolving your borders and sacking your cities, are free to settle where they like. Now learn to speak your overlords’ tongue as you are assimilated into our melting pot. Look at me: I’m the colonizer now.
Los Quislings
The response from the Left was, as anticipated, profusely ecstatic, though not entirely pro forma. For they are cosmopolitans in the most literal sense — citizens of the world. From Howard Zinn to Ana Navarro, they’ve been taught to hate everything good about their country and culture. They even despise the color of their own skin. (Shortly before she was raped & murdered by a stunted peasant here illegally, the beautiful college student Mollie Tibbetts tweeted, “I hate white people.”) A frequent complaint about Orange Man Bad is how he’s damaged our reputation abroad. I even saw one fool claim that travel abroad is now unsafe due to Trump’s reinforcement of the ‘ugly American’ stereotype. The embarrassment is intolerable for a self-described USian; disavowal and apologetic prostration are required.
If you believe your culture to be the worst ever, then conquest by any other culture is a godsend. If you believe your country is irredeemably evil, then its dissolution is the only atonement. Betraying your own nation, throwing open the gates, becomes virtuous. America was never great. Send in the food trucks.
NB: Before you accuse me of jingoism & racism: I genuinely like Latinos. I had Puerto Rican friends growing up, and was madly in love with a Puerto Rican girl (my Juliet/Maria, whose father would not let us date.) I listen to Latin music, traditional mostly, but I like a little Nicky Jam now and again. I think immigrants embracing American values while retaining aspects of their culture, is a good thing. As someone who used to blend English with German in sentences, I’m fine with Spanglish. Now fuck off.
Counting Chickens
The Left is celebrating its Super Bowl victory louder than Seahawks fans. AWFULs on tiktok shake their bundas to TîTî mE PréGUñDå, while treating the pablum, “The only thing more powerful than hate is love” as a koan of the most profound insight. In truth, it’s woke neologism code: ‘love’ is the Left’s radical socio-political agenda, ‘hate’ is any resistance to it. One headline declares, “Despite all the hate from MAGA, Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl performance was a brilliant example of how performance can be turned into resistance.” Another, “Bad Bunny Just Won The Culture War.”
At least they’re finally admitting the nature of the conflict they started seventeen years ago. Have they already won, though? Or did they push too far and too recklessly, as did Napoleon in Moscow and Hitler in the Caucasus? On the gender ideology front, the Left is in full rout. DEI is fighting a desperate rear-guard action. While the recent missteps of DHS Barbie™ soured the public on deportations, nine months from now, the memory of dead fightin’ nurses and ‘abducted’ (sic) little boys in blue hats may have faded, overwritten by contentment with a healthy, growing economy.
The NFL may well have correctly calculated that it can safely tap into a new market with ever more blatantly woke shyte, because its existing fan base could never give up football. Or maybe it just did a Bud Light.
Bad Bunny’s spike in the end zone may have been symbolic of a game-over score for the Left. Or maybe, revealing your decadent revolutionary plans to tens of millions of voters was not so bright.
Time will tell. It ain’t over until the fat lady, not the perverted vato, sings.
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