Warning: this column is literally teeming with an unsafe amount of irony. The premise here is that I'm sick and tired of people who say they are sick and tired of hearing about Janet Jackson's love balloons, but instead of shutting their faces and not talking about it they rail on endlessly about said love balloons and how nobody should be talking about them. Therefore, as this is satire, if you complain by saying "if you're sick of Janet Jackson's chest than why are you writing about it?" then you would be no better than someone who sees a guy wearing a T-shirt that says "T-shirts are for morons," and walks up to him to say "well guess what? According to your T-shirt, you just called yourself a moron" as if that thought had never entered that guy's head, and I don't think anybody wants to be that person.


Why are people still talking about the scandalous Super Bowl halftime show? I swear, every time I turn on the television there’s some idiotic talking head forcing this non-story down my throat. This whole scenario is just an excuse by a lazy and stupid media to manufacture a story that nobody cares about and keep reminding us about the asinine details, like how the FCC wants to fine people millions of dollars.

Of course I am talking about “Nipplegate,” the disgusting and horrendous event where all three billion citizens of America were forced to look at a completely bare and naked boob with absolutely nothing covering it except for a nipple pasty.

Now don’t get me wrong; I am completely against the practice of exposing body parts that may be described as “sensitive” or “naughty.” Which is why I think the two low-lifes who committed this crime (14-year-old boy Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson, most famous for necking with Todd Bridges during an episode of “Diff’rent Strokes”) should be brutally and unfairly punished for the crimes they have committed. But the story should end there!

After they receive their punishments, nobody should be allowed to talk about this story. By discussing these events, these events that have happened, we are only allowing impressionable youths to be exposed to such atrocities. Would Keith Olberman spend so much time on his show that nobody ever watches talking about Nipplegate if he knew that his coverage of it would lead to thousands of millions of supple, youthful breasts and buttocks being broadcast to the entire American television-viewing public?

That would be a very strange kind of justice, indeed. A very ironic kind of justice, ironic because it would actually be very bad. Very strange, indeed.

Once we let our nation’s 24-hour news networks spend 21 hours each day dissecting the various camera angles of all the pictures of Jackson’s chest organs, then we have started our dissent down a very slippery slope. What’s next? A world where every other commercial shown after 10 PM advertises videos of real, inebriated college girls at America’s and Mexico’s hottest party towns exposing themselves; girls who, in effect, have gone wild? That doesn’t sound much like America to me.

Nobody would be talking about the half-time show if it wasn't for the three-eighths of a second of boobery. Like most good half-time shows, it had been planned to be delightfully terrible. Prior to the breast revealing that turned this highly suggestive lip-synching performance into a cavalcade of hardcore pornography, Nipplegate participant Timberlake was harmlessly dry-humping Nipplegate co-conspirator Jackson as graphically as one can dry-hump in front of 90 million people.

This dry-humping, before it was ruined by the inclusion of a boob that was not blurred out or covered-up by the CBS logo, provided a valuable service for America’s parents. When hardworking, Midwestern families with traditional values sit down to watch Kid Rock grind his crotch into the face of a cheerleader clad only in latex or Justin Timberlake give a colonoscopy to someone who crawled out of the same gene pool as Michael Jackson, those hardworking, traditional parents can turn to their wide-eyed and naive children and say:

“You know how you were asking where babies come from? Well, it’s something like that.”

People seem to forget that the halftime show also featured America’s homeboys P. Diddy and Nelly being serenaded by a gaggle of cheerleaders singing the refrain from Toni Basil’s crossover magnum opus masterpiece, “Hey Mickey,” with of course the name Mickey replaced with the name Diddy, and eventually the name Nelly. Now that’s entertainment!