Editor’s Note: Mr. McGrath has long and storied history in the management of professional sports franchises, most notably as the general manager of the Charlestown Chiefs of the now-defunct Federal League. Oh, and this is probably a good time to mention that Mr. McGrath’s views are his own, and do not necessarily reflect those of Dubsism, our staff, or anybody else whose house you might want to burn to the ground.

I’m an old guy, I don’t much pay attention to the new music, so I never heard of this Aguilera chick who screwed up the National Anthem. Is she related to that guy who used to pitch for the Minnesota Twins? You know who I’m talking about, bullpen guy with the beard…not the batshit crazy one that ended up in the clinker, the other one; I think his name was Rick Aguilera. Anyway, you’re spending a shitload of money pulling off this Super Bowl, nobody thought to drop a couple of  bucks for a teleprompter so that poor girl didn’t make you all look like a bunch of moose peckers? Shit, a few years ago I bought my grandkid one of those sing-along gizmos, what do they call it, karaoke or whatever? That thing only cost a hundred bucks, and it had all the damn words right there on the screen.

Speaking of so-called music, don’t even get me started on that halftime show…Who the hell are these “Green Peas,” and who the hell calls that shit “music.”  I swear to God, when that sweaty whore in the leather “Wonder Woman” outfit started her shrieking, my hearing aid popped out, took out its own battery and set itself on fire. She sounded like a cat caught in a washing machine for Christ’s sake.

Oh, and back to that National Anthem thing. Back in the Federal League, all we needed was an organist, some sheet music, and two flags, because we had to do that goofy Canadian thing. But we didn’t have a so-called celebrity to come in and fuck up everything, and not because of the money. They tried that shit once in Peterborough when they let some hare-lipped car dealer who gave them a bunch of money do it, and not only did he have that goofy lisp, he showed up shit-faced and puked on himself before he got to “the rocket’s red glare.” That was the end of that.

And another thing…you would think that after all the stuff that got fucked up around this game, somebody might have asked the question whether or not the Mexican chick doing the Anthem knows the goddamn words.

Do you think the people from the Indianapolis Super Bowl committee are laughing at the Dallas people today? Because you know the Dallas people said “Don’t go to Indy, the weather’s terrible there. Its 70 degrees in Dallas in February.”

Know who should get an award for pure balls? The guy who came up with the idea to charge people $200 to stand in a parking lot to watch the game on a big-screen TV. The sad part is that he knew there were morons out there who would pay it.

How the hell do you not have enough seats? Do you mean to tell me that a guy like Jerry Jones who can make a bazillion dollars can’t handle a fire marshal? For Christ’s sake, I used to have to deal with the fire marshal back in Charlestown all the time. You should have seen that rat trap the Chiefs played in – one time, we had a circuit breaker literally explode out of the wall because somebody plugged in a coffee maker. We didn’t have the money to do the wiring legally, but a case of scotch got the fire marshal to sign off on it. You don’t think a couple of seats in the owner’s box and a high-priced  hooker wouldn’t have fixed your temporary seating problem?

And one last thing…athletes today are pampered far too much. At the end of every Super Bowl, I have to hear about how Quarterback J. Sissyfag is going to Disney World. Know what we got when we one the Federal League? Each man on the team got 50 bucks, and the team got six cases of beer that didn’t even survive the bus ride back to Charlestown. They don’t make guys like the Hansons or Ogie Oglethorpe anymore.  Players today are just terrible masturbators.