Super Bowls and Cellulite

I'm not much of a Philadelphia Eagles fan. I've never been to Philadelphia. I don't know anybody on the team. I do admire Donovan McNabb and love to see him kick ass, ever since Rush Limbaugh pulled up his pointy sheet long enough to slip his lily-white foot in his mouth to say that McNabb was over-rated due to his dark complexion.

However, that in itself is probably not enough of a pull to make me cheer so hard for them during today's Super Bowl festivities. The truth is that the New England Patriots were the heavy favorites to win, and had recent experience at winning. This is the key to my sudden Eagles fandom. I like to see the underdog win, and probably even more, I like to see the top dog pulled down.

This is not a unique trait. I call as evidence the cover of whatever National Ink-Liar or Weekly World Pooh that caught my eye in the supermarket yesterday. The cover story, splashed in big ink, was (and I'm so not making this up) Cellulite of the Stars - yes - with big, blown-up pictures of dimply thighs and sorry, saggy asses that I could have lived a long, happy life without being exposed to. But I bet it sells like hot cakes.

Once we crown somebody, we can't wait to dethrone them, and the bloodier the coup, the better. This goes for our celebrities (they're really ugly! and mean! and we're so much smarter! and happier! aren't we?), our sports heros (they're big dopers! well, okay, they are), and our politicians (okay, they usually deserve it).

I was reading a book review today about Lincoln - about the high regard in which we hold him, and especially his eloquence, in contrast with the poisonous ranquor spewed at him and about him and even about his finest speeches such as the Gettysburg Address when he was in power. Poor fellow never knew in his lifetime how his words effected the tide of the nation, and every American political orator since.

Okay, way too heavy. Back to celebrity cellulite. I would have liked to see the Eagles win. The last thing we need is an NFL version of the Yankees. But I guess it will just be that much sweeter next year (or God forbid the year after that) when the giant is taken down by the next little guy to try to whack him with a rock in a sling. Hope his name is David. Donovan would work too.