By Irene Starkehaus -
Picture this. Halftime. Super Bowl Sunday 2016. The kids were abandoning the family room for greener pastures because the game was mind-numbingly dull, and they were ticked that Coldplay was allowed to sing for "like sixty seconds before Bruno Mars pushed them off the stage." As for me, I was searching the internet for photoelectric tube televisions that might reduce the impact of women's grinding backsides in high def. My husband was leaning over whispering to me:
"Why are Beyoncé's backup singers dressed like Che Guevara?"