I only watch it for the commercials. Who won again? Wait a minute, who was playing again?
“It may come as Piss Christ blasphemy to many, but there are those of us who Truly Do Not Give A Flaming Fuck who finished last in the league in rushing the ball or who led the league in defending tight ends or who had a hot flash during red-zone play-action passes (although that does sound provocative, now that you mention it).”
http://trueslant.com/markdery/2010/02/09/jocko-homo-how-gay-is-the-superbowl/

Homo Jockus - lolz found it on the web
“But for those with a functioning irony gland, he seemed, at the same time, to be hinting that real men, men who were truly comfortable with their own masculinity, didn’t need to strap on the prosthetic masculinity of the jock (whose very epithet reduces him to a big, swinging dick), the steroid-pumped weightlifter in his thong, the highway cop in mirrorshades and jackboots. The fact that all of the above are stock characters in homoerotic fantasy is no accident: their hyperbolized masculinity—what the postmodern theorist Arthur Kroker calls a “hysterical” masculinity, since it fairly screams its anxieties about its own manhood—ironically undermines itself, emphasizing not the impregnable masculinity of the subject but the social constructedness of gender—that is, the extent to which we’re all in drag.
Tim Burton’s Batman offers a readymade metaphor for the idea that masculinity is not something inherent in us, an act of nature, but something we put on, a figment of culture: the wimpy Michael Keaton becomes Batman only after being sealed in the huge, hulking batsuit. Transformed into an armored phallus with a sculpted six-pack, he speaks through gritted teeth, in the raspy monotone that, in American culture, is a benchmark of Real Manhood, from Duke Wayne to Dirty Harry. (Listen to interviews with icons of masculine power such as law-enforcement officials, Pentagon top brass or, better yet, football players and coaches, and you’ll hear the same terse, tough-talking, g-droppin’ tone, almost robotic in its flattened affect; emotional expression is for girls. And girlyboys.) The Batmobile, likewise, is all about masculinity as prosthesis, gender as put-on. It’s Darth Vader’s idea of a jet-propelled dildo on wheels, an Oscar Meyer Weinermobile retrofitted for the hysterical male. It uses its, er, glans as a battering ram and guards its orifices with heavy-metal shields that sphincter shut when threatened with penetration. (Yeah, sure, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, but cum on!)”