Many different societies throughout the world wish to be defined by their self-proclaimed ‘greatest moments.’ For the sake of American integrity, I hope that is not the case with us. With each passing year, I observe the grand spectacle of the Super Bowl with a grimace, knowing that the game itself is being overlooked. The Super Bowl is hardly about the game anymore. The Super Bowl is about marketing. If the Super Bowl is a metaphor for American society, I feel sorry for us.

The Super Bowl is about fireworks and gloss, advertising and sponsorship, and Americans are just the airbrushed version of the rest of the world. The Super Bowl is just one game’s ego getting the best of itself, while Americans gorge themselves on saturated fats or trendy diets and beers with no carbohydrates. Isn’t it ironic how the city to host the spectacle this year is also the nations fattest, per capita? There is a pattern here.

America is the land of green grass painted greener for viewer enjoyment.

The Super Bowl was filled with ferocious rock and roll, thousands of dancing women, fantastic pyrotechnics, and that was all before the kickoff. After the several hours of pre-game discussion, television anchors had to resort to personal storylines within the game itself to keep attention. As if we care which swampy bayou Jake DelHomme grew up in. We don’t care about Mike Vrabel’s shoe size.

The Super Bowl is fresh paint and an extra payroll of cheerleaders. America sells its soul, for a whopping 2.3 million bucks at thirty-second intervals. The Super Bowl is the game of games, while America is its egotistical host. And this year the game was actually worth watching. Well, maybe the second half.

America is the land of opportunity, where if you are a famous singer with a nice physique you have the opportunity to showcase that physique to everyone watching. You get to flash the audience your silver-nippled booby and then pretend that it was an accident. You get to answer hundreds of questions about your exposed booby and apologize for it, although you are really just marketing your upcoming album. Suddenly, opportunity knocks.

The Super Bowl is a conglomeration of a conglomerate. America is a conglomeration of conglomerations. Raise your hand if you see a pattern.

Americans want their National Anthem performed by pop stars and their halftime show performed by pop stars. We want our lullabies sung by celebrities while we watch Access Hollywood or Celebrity Justice or anything on E!. We want our Martha Stewart cake, and we want to eat it, too. Then we want her affluent ass put in jail so we’ll have something to talk about on Monday morning.

The Super Bowl is viewed by millions of people all over the world who leave the telecast with a bitter taste in their mouth. This may be the one lasting image they have of Americans all year, with the exception of nightly footage of our attempts at world domination. Our President, our Big Game – it’s all the same. The people in Japan can probably see through our glamorous publicity shoots and multi-colored campaigns to the core of our existence – our ego. But then maybe I’m giving the Japanese too much credit.

America is the fast food of the world, and the Super Bowl is the commercial for it. Everything on our plates is perfectly situated and brilliantly marketed for the eyes of the viewer to obsessively covet. When we are served our dish, however, it looks nothing like the advertisements proclaimed. Eat up, America. The world is watching.