[Note: This week’s column was written by guest opinion writer, Ima Bigette, a proud, patriotic, God-fearing, gun-toting MAGA supporter, who has strong opinions about this year’s Super Bowl halftime performance by Bad Bunny. Below is her commentary. Please note that Ms. Bigette’s opinions do not necessarily reflect the views of Humor Outcast contributor Tim Jones. In fact, Tim Jones is on vacation this week and doesn’t even know we are running this piece. Please don’t tell him, okay?]
I have tried to remain calm about this. I have tried to breathe deeply. I’m a citizen of the world. I once ate at a Taco Bell in a Des Moines, Iowa strip mall without asking for a translation of the word “chalupa.”
There I was, settled into my recliner with a bucket of Buffalo Wild Wings and a sense of patriotic pride, ready to watch Bad Bunny perform the 2026 Super Bowl halftime show. Now, I’ve heard the rumors that Bad Bunny – if that’s even his real name (personally, I doubt it) – hails from the country of Puerto Rico. I checked a map, and Puerto Rico is close enough to the United States that he should have known better. But in his loud, angry performance Mr. Bunny refused – REFUSED – to sing a single song in English. Not one.
So, what did we get instead? For 13 agonizing minutes, this man shouted words that sounded like a blender full of marbles and vowels. Not a single “God Bless America.” Not even a “Hey baby, how’s it going?” It was all despacito this and corazón that. I sat there, my buffalo sauce cooling in a pool of righteous indignation, realizing that America was being targeted. This wasn’t just a musical performance; it was a calculated, linguistic embargo against the ears of every freedom-loving American.
This is how it all starts, folks. First, it’s a halftime show in Spanish. Next thing you know, we’re being asked to order Tagliatelle alla Bolognese using the correct Italian pronunciation.
I have seen this before. Take Luciano Pavarotti. For years, this man was hailed as a “legend.” People paid hundreds of dollars to watch him stand on a stage, sweating profusely, and scream in Italian for three hours. Did he ever once consider singing Rigoletto in a language we could understand? No. It was always Italian. As if opera originated there or something.
He stubbornly clung to his Italian, clearly signaling his deep-seated resentment for the people who invented the Philly Cheesesteak. Every time he sang Puccini’s aria Nessun Dorma, I knew what he meant: “None of you Yankees will understand this.” Such contempt.
Then there’s Pope Leo. I see him on the news, standing on that balcony in the Vatican, waving to the crowds. He’s an AMERICAN, for God’s sake! And yet, what does he do? He has the nerve to conduct his masses in Latin. Latin! A dead language! Do you know who else speaks Latin? Nobody! Except, apparently, people who want to keep Americans in the dark about reuniting with Jesus in Heaven.
It’s a classic power move. He’s up there, cloaked in white, probably whispering recipes for secret pasta sauces or disparaging Americans’ obsession with pickup trucks, knowing full well that the average Joe in Omaha hasn’t brushed up on his declensions since the ninth grade. It’s a “Thesaurus of Hostility” wrapped in a cassock.
Then there’s the Olympics. I was recently watching the Milan Winter Games, and after a thrilling ski event, a member of the French team grabs the microphone and just starts speaking French. On international television. As if we wouldn’t notice. I don’t know what he was saying, but I can only assume it was something like, “Those Americans – Ha! Their cheese comes in aerosol cans.” And the rest of the team nodded. In French.
Even soccer – sorry, “football” – the global sport that refuses to call itself by its proper American name. When Lionel Messi – who plays for Miami in a USA soccer league – gives interviews, does he say, “First off, I’d like to thank the great city of Miami?” No. It’s all Spanish all the time. Rapid-fire Spanish. Probably discussing how confusing our football is because we use our hands. While watching the World Cup, I once heard the German national anthem performed entirely in German. I assume that was deliberate.
The hostility doesn’t stop there. Let’s talk about Emmanuel Macron, France’s president. I have yet to hear him give a State of the Union address in English. You’d think at some point he’d look into the camera and say, “Howdy, partners.” After all, we’re allies! (At least we used to be, anyway.) But no. It’s always French. Long, indecipherable sentences filled with words like liberté or château or café – with all these accent marks on top of them like they’re wearing tiny French berets.
And what about the pop band BTS? For years they released massive global hits in Korean. Teenage girls all across America were forced to memorize lyrics phonetically, singing along even though they had no idea what the words meant. For all I know, they were all pledging allegiance to Korea, or worse, to Hyundai.
This is the pattern. People everywhere living in their own countries, speaking their own languages, creating art in their own cultures – without once checking whether I personally can understand it while I scarf down my nachos and Piña Colada.
And now Bad Bunny has brought it to the Super Bowl stage. Look, I’m not unreasonable. I’m simply asking for a modest compromise: before any international figure speaks, sings, governs, performs, competes, films, chants, or blesses – just take a moment and ask, “Will this confuse a white guy in Missouri?” Is that so much to ask?
From now on, I’m taking a stand. If a movie has subtitles, I’m not watching it. If a menu is written in Greek or doesn’t have a cheeseburger on it, I’m outta there. And the next time I’m in France and I come across a local, I’m going to look them right in the eye and speak very slowly and very loudly IN ENGLISH – until they admit that they know English perfectly well. They’re just too lazy to use the only language that really matters.
And a final message to Mr. Bunny: If English was good enough for the guys who wrote the Bible, it’s good enough for the Super Bowl. Adios, Amigo.
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