Final Word
By Jeff Girod
Oh say, can’t you sing? The Goodyear Blimp was the only thing leaking more hot gas than Christina Aguilera as she fumbled her way through “The Star-Spangled Banner” at last Sunday’s Super Bowl. Never has a woman wished harder that she were Janet Jackson’s boob during a wardrobe malfunction. Let’s go to the instant replay!
Christina screwed up the line, “O’er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming,” repeating an earlier line of the song that she also botched. Then about one minute into the song, Christina belted out, “What so proudly we watched at the twilight’s last reaming,” to the bewilderment of fans everywhere who wondered, ‘Twilight . . . Reaming? I don’t remember any ass play between Bella and Edward in the last Twilight movie. And just how did Francis Scott Key have the foresight to write about a vampire/werewolf love triangle 200 years ago?”
It didn’t help that the Super Bowl was held in Dallas this year where the national anthem is pretty much printed on everything—even the beef. Seriously, Christina, you could’ve leaned over and read the song lyrics off of a brisket.
Christina was quick to apologize, releasing a printed statement (Smart, Christina. Stick to writing things down): “I got so caught up in the moment of the song that I lost my place,” she wrote. “I can only hope that everyone could feel my love for this country and that the true spirit of its anthem still came through.”
It’s OK, Christina. Sometimes I lose my place, too. (After too much drinking on Super Bowl Sunday, I lost my pants on a roof.) But don’t compound the situation by saying you “got caught up in the moment of the song.” You sang, “Twilight’s last reaming.” Essentially you told America to go corn hole itself.
And Christina, let me get this straight: Your excuse for screwing up a two-century-old song—pretty much our nation’s fight song that has been sung literally more than a jillion times and that you, yourself, have sung flawlessly dozens of times, including Game 7 of the NBA Finals just this past June—is that . . . you love America too much?
Holy rockets’ red glare! Why didn’t you just say that you’re allergic to AstroTurf? Or that Steelers quarterback Ben Roethlisberger tried to goose you during pregame warm-ups?
What’s that, invisible voice in my head that I just made up? You say I’m being too hard on Christina Aguilera?
C’mon! Christina Aguilera is a superstar, which means she has risen to a level you and I will never attain. She doesn’t have to drive a car or cook her own food or clean her house. She literally has enough money that she could pay a person whose sole job every morning is to push Christina’s limp body into a diamond-studded Snuggie. When you reach that level of superstardom there are very few tasks in life you still have to perform. But when you do have to work, you’re expected to execute your job flawlessly.
Christina Aguilera was flown by private jet to Dallas for the Super Bowl, put up in a five-star hotel, slept in the softest bed, fed the finest gourmet meals and chauffeured right up to a microphone on the pregame stage at the 50-yard-line. She was compensated with untold gobs of money and she had one job—ONE JOB—that consisted of two minutes and eight seconds of singing the national anthem like Whitney Houston.
There are 80 words in the national anthem. I don’t think it’s too much to ask Christina to get all 80 correct. She was probably paid as much as a brain surgeon. And you’d expect a brain surgeon to sew 100 percent of your cerebellum back inside your head, wouldn’t you?
Granted, it’s a practically incomprehensible song and most of us don’t even know what a “rampart” is. We have no idea what Auld Lang Syne means either and we sing it every New Year’s Eve after Dick Clark butchers the countdown. And we’ll be damned if we’re going to let some bleached blonde hoochie mamma ruin another American tradition. This is America, damn it! We want our ramparts gallant and streaming! Not a part of some sick and perverted ream job.
GO PACKERS!
Contact Jeff Girod at finalword@ieweekly.com.
