Sure, this year's crop of ads featured hot babes, cute kids, funny animals and Doritos, but they were also heavily tinged with one overwhelming message: Hey, you. Yeah you, the one who once thought your band was going to be the next Love & Rockets. Can we sell you a car? Herewith, Salon's picks for the Super Bowl's best, the worst, and the most likely to make John Hughes roll over in his grave.

The Good

H&M: David Beckham

Tattoos. Abs. And the Animals. That's right, world, there's more to Super Bowl sex objects than Victoria's Secret models. More yes please.

Samsung: Thing Called Love

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It was a taut game, this 21-17 affair, airless and strange and beautiful to watch for purists, a game that lacked surface melodrama but in which the outcome hung on every snap. A baseball-type football game. A novelistic game, inexorable and fatalistic, the football equivalent of Edith Wharton’s "The House of Mirth," in which any change in the late narrative would have meant a different ending – Lily Bart not dying in despair, Tom Brady riding off into the sunset with four rings. But the fates – it felt like that, anyway, but it was just players making plays – decreed otherwise. Manningham’s gorgeous snag of Manning’s perfectly thrown 38-yard pass on the left sideline, with only a nanosecond to get his feet down and secure possession of the ball as he was slammed out of bounds, will go down as one of the most memorable catches in Super Bowl history, up there with Steeler Lynn Swann’s balletic leap in 1979 and John Taylor’s winning grab in the 49ers’ last-second victory over the Bengals. For Giants’ fans, it will forever be Catch 2.

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By and large, the halftime show has become the live-performance equivalent of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, an honor bestowed long after an artist’s peak. So Madonna, once the baddest good girl or best bad girl in pop, is now safe prime-time fare? No shocker there. But even if Madonna hasn’t had a mega-hit since Justin Bieber was in diapers, that’s far from the point. Madge will be bringing two other fabulous Ms. M’s — Minaj and M.I.A. — onstage with her, which is exciting, but that’s not the point either.

No, the point is that this Sunday will be an opportunity to celebrate the changes Madonna brought to American culture at the height of her career. Her visionary assault on American prudery, her revelatory spreading of sexual liberation to Middle America, changed this country for the better. And that’s not old news; we’re still living it.

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So how did you like this year’s Super Bowl ads? You know, the ones that haven’t aired yet? The ones that have been teased, previewed, screened, deconstructed and parodied days and -- in some instances, weeks -- before their broadcast  “premiere” during Sunday’s big game?

Which dancing and/or talking, cute, furry piece of CGI wizardry did you like best? Which retro-celebrity comeback performance? Which piece of brilliantly choreographed boomer nostalgia or crowd-sourced slapstick? What offended you more, the GoDaddy boobs or the boobs that represented the prototypical salt, trans-fat, hops-barley-and-corn-obsessed American male, circa 2012?

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On the eve of the Super Bowl, Goodell was touting the familiar idea that the sport's biggest game is a boon to economic development. But with the cost of a ticket now averaging  $3,982 and 30-second television spots selling for $3.5 million, the Super Bowl can appear to be more an occasion for ostentatious excess than an engine of development.

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Not this Sunday, buster. It’s an election season. You need to watch this game to fully understand how jobs, religion, leadership and healthcare dominate every American contest.

1. Joe Hill will be playing: Where else will be you be able to watch more than 100 young men, most of them African-American, working for high wages in a totally unionized shop? True, their jobs are dangerous (more on that later) and relatively short-term (typically three or four years), but they are also high profile. They can lead to TV gigs, even political office. Buffalo Bills quarterback Jack Kemp became a Republican congressman and vice-presidential candidate. The former New England Patriots running back and ESPN analyst Craig James is currently running for the Republican nomination for Senator from Texas, although to less than universal acclaim.

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Thanks to him, the Japanese carmaker can boast that it's got this year’s most buzzed-about Super Bowl ad: a commercial for the Honda CR-V featuring Broderick in an homage to his most well-loved character, Ferris Bueller.

This time around, Broderick isn’t portraying a charming teenage truant who feigns sickness and skips school to drive around Chicago in a Ferrari 250 GT with his best friend and girlfriend, and dance on a parade float while lip syncing Wayne Newton and the Beatles. Rather, Broderick plays a fictionalized version of his actual, off-screen self: a middle-aged guy feigning sickness to take a day off from shooting a movie so that he can tool around Los Angeles in an SUV. The ad, which was directed by Todd Phillips — of “The Hangover” and “Old School” fame -- has been viewed over 3 million times on YouTube, is a top trending topic on Twitter -- but has divided fans who aren't sure whether to thrill to the nostalgia or be horrified that the free-spirited Bueller is shilling for an SUV.

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For starters, there's Mr. Posh Spice, aka David Beckham, promoting his new line of bodywear for H&M. He flexes his numerous tattooed muscles to the tune of "Please Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood," glowers in an "I mean business here" way that's remarkably persuasive, and uh, I forget what I was talking about. To quote Emma Stone in "Crazy Stupid Love," SERIOUSLY? Just watch.

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That’s a wonderful sentence by one of my favorite writers, but if Hornby is only a moron for only large chunks of the average day, he is doing a lot better than I am. I can honestly report that for the last few months I have been an absolute idiot for all but very small portions of the day.

Some football (American football) fans mistakenly assume that the season goes in a straight line, starting in August with pre-season games (wherein five of your team’s 10 best players will suffer season-ending injuries) and ending in February with the Super Bowl. But the true fan, the addicted and obsessive, the kind friends and spouses ought to be worried sick about, knows that the season doesn’t end. There is no start, there is no finish. It just is, and, like life, it ends when you do. This is why, when the New York Giants beat the Green Bay Packers in the divisional playoff a few weeks ago in the Frozen Tundra of Lambeau Field (it was colder in my Manhattan apartment that day than it was in Green Bay, Wis.) and qualified for the NFC Championship game (which they won … no, let me put that a better way: WHICH THEY WON!!!) my wife looked at me and said, “Hey, you can relax now. They won the game.”

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This year's blockbuster was no exception. There was former President George W. Bush sitting next to coach John Madden, who was obsessively texting. There was actress Cameron Diaz feeding popcorn to baseball bad boy Alex Rodriguez. There was Christina Aguilera belting out a "Naked Gun"-worthy version of the national anthem. There was even a melding of hip-hop, hair metal and sci-fi, as the Black Eyed Peas joined Slash for a rendition of "Sweet Child o' Mine" -- all in front of neon “Tron” dancers.

This was a bewildering assault on the senses, to say the least -- and nothing was more singularly mind-blowing than the NFL using a Ronald Reagan eulogy to kick off a sports-themed tribute to socialism.

Reagan, of course, made his political name regularly invoking the "s" word to demonize government. For such bombast, he gained many followers, most of whom nonetheless cherished the doctrinaire socialism that undergirded their communities in the form of public infrastructure and services.

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Annoyance over difficult driving conditions and altered travel plans early in the week turned to anger Sunday for hundreds of fans with tickets who were forced to watch Green Bay beat Pittsburgh on TV at $1.3 billion Cowboys Stadium in suburban Arlington because their temporary seats weren't ready.

Visitors left Dallas-Fort Worth en masse Monday, many wondering whether the region had been prepared to host an event of such magnitude.

"Logistics are a major, major problem here," said John Boyle, a 53-year-old Packers fan who was waiting at Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport for a flight home to Minnesota. "And I think everyone would say the same thing."

North Texas wasn't at fault for the seating problem -- the NFL officially took the blame Monday, and Cowboys owner Jerry Jones chimed in to say his team shared it.

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Since we couldn't exactly discern what all the designs were supposed to be, we hazarded some guesses. Take a look and see if you can guess better.

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But the Internet did not miss the gaffe. After chatter erupted on Twitter, Aguilera released a brief, kind of heartbreaking statement:

I can only hope that everyone could feel my love for this country and that the true spirit of its anthem still came through.

Which sounds especially heartbreaking in light of the statement she gave when announcing her booking at the event in Dallas:

I have been performing the anthem since I was seven years old and I must say the Super Bowl is a dream come true. I am really excited to be part of such an iconic event

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With precise passes and cool under pressure, Rodgers completed 24 of 39 passes for 304 yards, three touchdowns and no interceptions Sunday night to lead the Packers to a 31-25 victory over the Pittsburgh Steelers for Green Bay's first NFL title since Favre's in the 1997 Super Bowl.

Rodgers is 27 years old, just as Favre was then. And after biding his time as a backup until the Packers split with Favre, Rodgers has quickly taken over. This was his third full season as a starting QB, and he was particularly good throughout the playoffs, leading the No. 6 seed Packers to a championship.

Rogers threw two TD passes Sunday to Greg Jennings, another to Jordy Nelson.

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On Egypt:

O'Reilly: "Mubarak, is he gonna' leave soon?"

Obama: "Egypt is not gonna' go back to what it was. The Egyptian people want freedom"

O'Reilly (when announcing his suspicions regarding the Egyptian revolt): "Mubarak knows a lot of bad things about the United States. I’m sure you’re aware of that… Those are tough boys, that Muslim Brotherhood."

On tax cuts:

O'Reilly: "Are you a man that wants to redestribute wealth?"
Obama: "Absolutely not."

 On political persuasions:

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By far, football is America's favorite sport. Yet despite that, when they turn out the lights after Sunday's Super Bowl between the Green Bay Packers and Pittsburgh Steelers, the party could be over.

A labor war that pits rich athletes against richer owners could shut down the game for who knows how long.

The collective bargaining agreement that led to unprecedented success for the NFL expires at the end of the day on March 3, and barring an agreement before then, owners are threatening to lock out players.

They are pondering the unthinkable: The first play stoppage since 1987. The shutdown of the only form of entertainment that, as the sky-high TV ratings this year have shown, consistently brings people together in a tweeting, texting, TiVo-ing country where viewing habits get more fragmented by the day.

"For a sport at the height of its popularity to self-destruct by lacking the will and creativity to solve economic problems would be the height of folly," agent Leigh Steinberg said. "Who wants to be the person to kill this golden goose?"

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Volkswagen: The viral superstar of the pre-Super Bowl hype. A small child tries to use the force on a car that fights back.

GroupOn awkwardly makes light of Tibetan plight, via Timmy Hutton.

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It was an appropriate introduction to a game that screams sex to me -- from the hulking warriors on the field to the buxom, bouncy cheerleaders on the sidelines to the free-flowing testosterone in the crowd, which I swear gave me a serious contact high. How could anyone watch football and experience the intensity of the crowd without feeling a little randy? I thought: Surely the hundreds of red-faced, grunting men around me have sex on the brain, too. With the approach of Super Bowl Sunday I decided to talk to some die-hard sports fans to actually find out.

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After a while (about 15 seconds) my eyes would glaze over, and I'd find myself thinking about Thursday's dinner plans or perhaps Alexander Hamilton. "You're not listening to me, again," Rich would say, sounding wounded. And then my inevitable reply: "You're talking about football!"

My family never cared much for sports. My dad was a nerd, and my mom was a beatnik. They raised me to believe that football and baseball were the province of Neanderthal types who didn't know the difference between Carl Jung and Carlos Castaneda. I don't think I can blame my parents for my complete athletic incompetence, but the game was never on at our house and maybe I missed some crucial early indoctrination that allows the average American to understand the parameters of an inning or the meaning of "second down."

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