Bruno Mars’ Super Bowl Halftime Show Actually Sucked

Pepsi Super Bowl XLVIII Halftime Show

Super Bowl XLVIII: a Super Bowl that will forever go down in history as one of the worst and most underwhelming Super Bowls of all time. If not for a touchdown and a two-point conversion by the Denver Broncos, it would’ve been a Super Bowl entirely unworthy of watching. The entire day, in general, blew. The only glimmer of hope was an imminent halftime performance. A terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad halftime performance brought to you by Pepsi.

In case you missed it, you lucky son-of-a-bitch, this is what happened:

You missed a group of children holding hands in some Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown! bullshit like they rolled in off a bus from Neverland Ranch. The American flag was displayed behind them because nothing says “freedom” like our future singing a song about all the shit they’d blow a billion bucks on. They really want you to prepare for it. Like, no, really. Prepare. PREPARE.

Are you ready for Bruno Mars yet? Are you sure? Because you can have him. But first you have to listen to him play the drums for 51 SECONDS. Nearly an entire minute of his Super Bowl halftime show performance was dedicated solely to watching him beat on a set of drums, not even all that impressively. The only way his drum solo could’ve been redeemed is if Animal from The Muppets came out to perform a drum battle with him, in which case Bruno Mars would have lost.

For those out in the world praying to hear “Locked Out of Heaven,” you got your wish pretty early on. This should’ve been the first red flag for Bruno’s bust of a performance. Somehow, I feel like this isn’t the first time in his life that he’s peaked too soon… When that was over, someone in his gang of metallic-tuxedo-jacket-wearing monkeys had to pump up the crowd, probably because they were a lot like me.

After a couple of songs, a rendition of “Footloose,” and some splits that reinforced things I already assumed, the Red Hot Chili Peppers showed up in all of their shirtless glory. Mind you, the RHCP are now over the hill with a rogue 34-year-old guitarist keeping them (loose term) relevant enough to play at the Super Bowl. The ladies were lining up. My ovaries nearly exploded. Anthony Kiedis got me pregnant just because I looked at the sexual prowess that is him without a shirt on.

None of that actually happened. But I’m almost positive Bruno Mars not only gave the RHCP his halftime show, but all the drugs that it would’ve taken to get Bruno Mars on some crazy shitstorm level to blow everyone’s mind.

About 10 minutes in, Bruno Mars, his gold band of brothers, and the RHCP all began to jump up and down on the stage and a part of me (a lot of me) began to wish that the stage would collapse so we could end all this and play football–if that’s what you want to call it.

The only redeeming quality of the entire performance was the last song, “Just the Way You Are,” as a tribute to our troops. We began with America, and by God we’re going to end with it, too. However, it was incredibly short-lived when whoever the fuck running the production started to trip acid and bring us the Bruno Mars infomercial, lacking only a narrator and a running list of tracks from Bruno Mars’ Greatest Hits album.

The only thing that kept me in front of the TV and not in the bathroom breaking the seal was the pyrotechnics and the hope I clung onto that he would accidentally take out the entire first row of spectators with the mic stand. I held out hope that the performance would get sexual and he’d begin singing “Gorilla” and I didn’t even get that.

What I did get was a talented yet too-sober-to-entertain-me performer who sang for maybe half of his once-in-a-lifetime Super Bowl halftime performance. You followed Beyonce. She brought back Destiny’s Child and single-handedly gave hope to every girl who grew up in the ’90s for shit’s sake. I know it’s a challenge, but you Peyton Manning’d all over the halftime show, Bruno Mars. You didn’t even try to bring it. You gave it to the other team. Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow so there’s six more weeks of winter, Phillip Seymour Hoffman died with a needle shoved up his veins, another Jonas was brought into the world, the Broncos got lost somewhere outside of Denver and never showed up to MetLife Stadium, and we all had to suffer through that halftime performance. It was a sad day for America.

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My state gave you J. Law, Clooney, two-fifths of the Backstreet Boys, and multiple fifths of bourbon. I gave you a cover letter using Brian McKnight lyrics. Psuedo-adult by day; PGP, TFM, and TSM contributor by night. Please don't ask me to do math.

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