I was hoping to have the script below recorded this week, but alas, time got away from me. And so did access to a decent studio. It may happen later today, in which case pretend you haven’t read this post (not that you are going to, anyway—nothing is 100% guaranteed in life, I know, gadzooks, I am lucky just to have…oh, never mind) and in fact, don’t even read this post, simply click out of it, and look in the newer posts for the magic. It will say SUPER BOWL and RADIO somewhere in the headline. Even if those words are not the headline, keep on reading.
(Update: I got it done. Click below to listen...)
Anyway, I was thinking that too much emphasis is placed on Super Bowl television commercials. Every brand always tries to show off their John Huston/Spike Lee/David Fincher/David Schwimmer/Akira Kurosawa/Glenn Frey/Glenn Close/John Glenn/ Benjamin Franklin showstopper pants-shitter, reinvent the whole brand (Crystal Pepsi), ultra hilarious (Cat Herding Cowboys), cheeky, zippy, happy, slappy, tear-jerking, best spot ever on this night and to that I say: DO YOU THINK THE MEDIUM OF RADIO IS NOT DRIVEN BY THE SAME MOTIVATIONS? On Super Bowl Sunday, all across America, there have to be at least 143 people listening to the game on the radio.
Q: Why ignore that demographic?
A: The best advertisers will not. And they will make a splash.
Broadcasting the game will be Marv “Milhouse” Albert, and Boomer Esiason, who confirmed earlier this week that he does, in fact, have one brain in his head and a larger brain in his ass. The location of the “football” brain has not been determined, but early diagnostics show that his ass brain is most likely the center for sort of predatory, fly-catching activity, and it also allows him to somewhat quickly locate ice cube machines in hotel corridors and also remember to take people who blog about his brains (which totally work in a synchronized fashion, and are not dueling, nope, not at all) with a grain of salt and not sit in the Tampa football stadium parking lot, in the back of an Escalade, following the SB, in near darkness, with only stray confetti and litter swirling underneath the sodium glow of nearby street lamps—as his driver sighs loudly and monitors how kempt his nose hair is via the rearview mirror—and weep without sound while squeezing tightly the small plastic cap of a Poland Spring water bottle.
Moving forward, there was but one prediction in my last missive. The closest guesser would receive a Supertramp cassette. If you are NEOIST, and wrote “Stillers Crush it 20-10,” you may get that cassette after all. You really have no way to prove you are who you say you are, so, ah, well, we’ll figure this thing out somehow. Write another comment, I guess?
I predicted a Steelers loss in the AFC Championship even though I should have known they’d win. They’ll probably win this game, too. I want the Cardinals to win though, and I am not very passionate about that. This is mainly an excuse to just go eat food with people and drink and not even really pay any attention to the game. I’m back to being ambivalent.
But were I going to do a radio commercial, this is the one I’d make. Brand or no brand. Tell me this does not make you want to tuck a nice cloth napkin in your lap and let your taste buds drag you all around the dining room?
I’ve never timed out how long this is, but I do know that if it were ever lengthened or cut, it would be a travesty.
We hear glasses clinking and a light murmur of voices in the background. We’re at a sophisticated restaurant/party.
Man: (buttery smooth male 30s-40s radio voice) Sayyy, that looks good, Vicki, what is it?
Woman: (whispering): It’s a secret.
Man: (confused, yet playful) C’mon! Lemme have a sip. (drinks) Mmmm. That is good Chardonnay! Who makes it?
Woman: (whispering) Shithead Creek.
Man: I’m sorry?
Woman: (whispering) Shithead Creek.
Man: Why are you whispering?
Woman: (normal voice) Because I have an acute case of schizophrenia. (then, boldly whispers) And I’d like to keep this Shithead Creek Chardonnay all to myself!
Man: Shithead (confused) Creek? Who’d name such a great tasting wine after such a small tributary of water?
Woman: (matter-of-factly) The Shitheads. The Shithead family has been growing the greatest tasting grapes in all of rural Missouri, on the banks of their family creek for over 11 months!
Man: And it shows! (coyly) So, do you think you could spare a glass?
Woman: (playfully annoyed) I suppppppppppose!
Man: (drinks again) Mmmm. (whispers) Shithead Creek.
Woman: (whispers) Shithead Creek.
V/O: (whispers) Shithead Creek. The worst-kept secret, and best-tasting Missouri-based wine today.
There is an unabridged version where they whisper "Shithead Creek" back and forth to each other for 45 minutes. I figured you didn’t need to see all the text for that one.
here's the rest of Jeff's picks: