Words by Seth's Beard

Ever since Nipplegate, the Super Bowl Halftime show mid-game extravaganza (once the primary manner of getting one's partner to enjoy anything about the big game) has become, shall we say, too safe.

Granted, there have been some awfully sexy performances such as the flawless Beyonce reuniting Destiny's Child or U2's Bono seductively shedding his E*trade-sponsored American Flag-draped jean jacket in the first Super Bowl after 9/11, but with the FCC doing their darnedest to keep the 30-minute break between the first and second half as family-friendly as possible, don't expect any pants-tenting spectaculars anytime soon.

But what would happen if porn sponsored the Halftime show?

Hear me out on this: The NFL decides it needs to attract a whole new generation of potential football fanatics. A younger generation that doesn’t give a crap about Coldplay or watching a retrospective on the Rolling Stones brought to you by Prilosec or Touch Of Gray. They decide that Steven Tyler, looking less and less distinguishable from Caityln Jenner, isn't “hip” or appealing. But the question is, what is? What do the youngsters (of legal age) spend their time on?

The answer is simple. They watch porn.

Regardless of its popularity, nudity is, oddly, one of television's biggest, if not THE biggest, taboo. Senseless violence has become a pretty normal occurrence and even the occasional curse word doesn't move the controversial-meter the way it used to. But nudity and sex, those have always been strictly off limits and that was never more evident than on February 1st, 2004 when Justin Timberlake yanked off a portion of Janet Jackson's top, unveiling a bejeweled nip. That is, it's been strictly off limits--until now!

Imagine with me, won’t you? The half-hour extravaganza begins with a tribute to the “Pioneers of Porn”. No, not the OG cocksmiths from back in the day (John Holmes and a less fat, but still unattractive, Ron Jeremy). No, I’m talking about the plumbers, the teachers, the pizza delivery guys and the mechanics--the ones who we were first taught to envision with a boner whenever a porn scenario was required. Each “employee” gets their own 30 second introduction in which they explain the situation (the resident has no money to pay, clogged pipes, etc) followed by a less professional “recommendation” on how to rectify the problem (they’ll need to bang). A choreographed musical number follows, complete with the soothing keyboards and bass lines from the unsung musical heroes of the world of smut. Slutty girls in short shorts and tight white t-shirts undulate in synchronicity all while gyrating with pizza boxes, plungers, and various other tools or props, moaning in tune with the music.

The song abruptly ends and the bad lighting shuts off to a rousing round of applause from a stadium of 80,000 screaming fans!

A spotlight beams down on the middle of the stage where Traci Lords stands. The crowd gasps, shocked to see her looking so MILFy. The second stanza pays tribute to the porn stars who have tried to use the industry as a stepping stone to bigger things. Performers like Lords, Sasha Gray and Jenna Jameson stand in the middle and run off the list of non-porn projects they were attached to. With each obscure and unrecognizable title, barely a whisper can be heard from the tens of thousands in the stadium. Oblivious, they walk off to applause spawned from football fans’ notorious politeness.

Lights go out again.

A scratchy recording booms out from the speakers...

“Ray J, your dick is so big.”

It's time to acknowledge the celebrity sex tape portion of the industry. The appearances are spearheaded by practically all of the caught-on-tape participants from over the years, mainly because none of them had busy schedules and their appearance fees bordered on “I'll take whatever I can get”. One by one, reenactments from Tila Tequila to Bret Michaels to Verne Troyer entertain the masses. All the while Motley Crew’s Tommy Lee belts out an epic drum solo, suspended upside-down, buck-naked, dick slapping around erratically like a headbanging python. The lights dim once again and suddenly the first notes of Rick Derringer's “Real American” blasts through the speakers as Hulk Hogan runs down the ramp, rips off his shirt, pumps the crowd up, and proceeds to go on an awkwardly racist and incoherent rant to no one in particular before challenging Kid Rock to take his vitamins inside a steel cage for whatever reason before security unceremoniously drags him away. The deep-throated echo of the word “brother” heard from deep within the bowels of the stadium's holding cell. The remaining “celebs” walk off, Dustin Diamond making sure to remind everyone that he's still alive.

After a brief pause it's time for the finale to get underway.

Lights come up on a bedroom scene. Two young-looking, 20-something, “high school” girls can be witnessed giggling as they begin to make out. This goes on for a couple of minutes--until all of a sudden-- a guy shows up. He undresses, sporting a giant erection and proceeds to start banging one of the two girls. No interaction, no set-up, just straight fucking. Another guy shows up and the same routine happens but with the other girl. Suddenly guys start appearing from out of nowhere, all over the field, stripped down, hard, and ready to get to work. A peanut vendor, Commissioner Roger Goddell, one of the offensive linemen in the game, Bill Belichick (who has refused to remove his trademark hoodie), Joe Montana, John Madden, the kicker who missed the 47-yard field goal wide right for Buffalo in Super Bowl XXV-- all of them make their way down to the stage, anxiously awaiting their turn in what has become the Super Bowl of gangbangs. Body parts slamming against one another with grunts and moans akin to that of two football teams scrambling to recover a fumble. The crowd enthusiastically urges the participants on, and applauds every position change. With the clock running down, a cacophony of weird growls and gasps signal the end is near. Suddenly a fireworks display of semen and sweat and pure blissful insanity and fireworks begins shooting off in all directions. There is jizz on the 20 yard line, on the goal posts, on Troy Aikman's scarf, after it rains down like a cannon filled with confetti... gooey, gooey confetti. The crowd roars its approval at the satisfying conclusion and, while most remain seated for obvious reasons, the noise level is deafening.

Bill Belichick
Coach Belichick of the Patriots is 4-2 in Super Bowls as a Head Coach

Finally, the chairman of the FCC comes out of the tunnel and walks to the center field. He picks up a microphone, turns it on, and announces that the producers and broadcasters of this Super Bowl Halftime Show will have to pay the largest fine in television history. Applause from the still masturbating hypocritical half of the audience. Everybody gets what they want. The chairman drops the mic and heads back into the tunnel, like a sex metaphor. End of the show. Back to the football.

The Neilson ratings for at-home television viewers look amazing. The numbers have tripled. Football has a new secret weapon. The Super Bowl Porntravaganza Halftime Special sponsored by Mountain Dew Red and Warm-Her-Up Astroglide is born.