And it came to pass that the prayers of a great city were answered. The New Orleans fleur-de-lis outplayed the Indy Geldings who must have left their horseshoe helmets upside down and let all the luck run out.

Good for Narlins. After all they’ve been through, it’s such a relief to know that everything down there is going to be just fine now. (insert SarcMark here)

As for the commercials, they were mostly uninspired, though there were a couple of categories that seemed to warrant further review.

Which, if the key to a good ad is originality, is probably a bad sign.

The Dubious Celebrity Endorsement

First there was Lance Armstrong in a remarkably forgettable spot for Michelob Light. Personally, I was saddened to see Lance relegated to the dustbin of ex-jock beer hucksters. Live strong, drink light. Is that really the inspiring life message you’re sending, Lance? That you can overcome anything in this world as long as you don’t fill up on calories by drinking a beer that has actual flavor?

Oh, and I’m supposed to believe that LeBron James and Dwight Howard eat McDonalds and don’t know who Larry Bird is. Not only a Dubious Endorsement but this one also falls fully into the I’m Not Buying It category. I happen to know it’s impossible to do a triple spin, slam-dunk from a flat-footed start when you have explosive diarrhea.

Then, of course, Danica Patrick for Go Daddy. See? There. I just did it. I’m talking about Go Daddy’s commercials. Maybe this will be the year I finally give in, accept that big ideas aren’t really necessary, and declare their Tits for Clicks strategy brilliant.

Pam & Tim Tebow sure love each other. Which is great. But what I think (know, actually) they’re trying to tell me in a creepy kind of cryptic way is about an intensely personal and spiritual choice. And, well, Pam Tebow is not my mother. Nor do I seek family counsel from 501(c) Political Action Committees. (Particularly those who work to deny basic human rights to my gay friends.) So, while you seem like wonderful people, please mind your own business. I’ll focus on my family if you focus on yours.

The Emasculated American Male Archetype

Okay, imagine you’re from Mars. You land in the U.S. on Sunday, February 7, 2010. The planet appears uninhabited until you peer into a window to find the natives all huddled around some kind of video box. From the game of skill that has them so transfixed you assume they are a powerful and competitive creature. However, from the interruptions (what they call commercials) you learn that the male of the species, without his colorful protective gear, lives a cowardly and enslaved existence, consumed by fantasies of one day winning his freedom from the tyrannical females that hold him in endless bondage.

So goes the narrative for what seemed like every other spot that tried to elicit a chuckle. So I ask, when did “my wife doesn’t let me have fun” become so funny, and/or so liberating, and/or so meaningful to us men that half the brands on the Super Bowl used it as their big strategic insight?

Examples:

Dodge Charger spent sixty seconds and a few million dollars to paint a picture of married life that seemed closer to hell than Dante’s Inferno, the video game. But, fear not, for the Dodge Charger is Man’s Last Stand. Okay, maybe it’s me. But I don’t mind carrying my wife’s lip balm and, even if I did, my last great act of defiance won’t be a gas guzzling muscle car. Unless Danica Patrick is driving, of course.

Bridgestone. On a dark road, confronted by an evil force, the choices are stark and clear - your tires or your life. And yet, our hero manages to find an escape route, equal parts James Bond and Henny Youngman– Take My Wife. Please.

Dockers chose to illustrate, in spit up in your mouth detail, that we men are merely ridiculous and repulsive looking imbeciles trotting through fields in our skivvies singing to ourselves. Well fellas, it’s time to “Wear The Pants”. Gladly.

Dove joined this category, too, if a bit unwittingly. Once our fleeting life of constant struggle has flashed before our eyes we're free to exfoliate away all that testosterone. Because, when you’re “comfortable in your own skin” (read: dead to women) your may as well use your wife’s soap.

And finally, lest you forget, Jim Nance, the over-the-hill sportscaster so familiar to us AFC Northerners, introduces us to poor spineless Jason who, without FloTV is forced to shop with his wife and pretend he’s enjoying it.

Yes, Men of America, freedom from domestic purgatory can be yours. All it takes is a fast car, with slick tires, TV in your pocket and soft skin.

Or perhaps you'll opt for the ultimate Man’s Last Stand.

A casket full of Doritos and a never ending supply of Bud Light.

Heaven.