Insert Foot ain’t feeling the Super Bowl this year. Rendering: Adam Pardee/STAFF.

Chris Martin just called me an idiot.

I’ve been called worse by much better singers.

The Coldplay frontman recently gushed a steaming pile of smelly fanboy nonsense to Apple Music 1, eventually blithering “You have to be an idiot not to recognize that [Rihanna’s] the best singer of all time.”

Is he trying to score a halftime cameo or are even the British getting carried away by the Super Bowl? Martin continued: “I’m very biased because I’m such a big Rihanna fan. I mean, I think she could just walk out in sweatpants and sing, and that would be just great.”

I’m trying not to throw up on my sweatpants. It’s not that Rihanna’s a bad singer. I don’t know that’s it’s really singing, from what I remember seeing her live. It sounded like someone raised by a flock of birds trying to hum or whisper human words.

But I also love singers that terrify children, dogs and old people, so what do I know?

Fun fact: Even when Coldplay headlined the Super Bowl halftime show in the Bay Area, everyone was more excited about special guest Beyonce.

I won’t watch the Super Bowl because I work Sunday nights. It’s still winter and my 21-year-old daughter doesn’t understand the conduit running straight from the thermostat’s “on” switch to my bank account. It’s why dad is so grumpy every winter day he comes home to find his apartment slightly warmer than Death Valley in July.

I could’ve probably switched shifts or pretended to be on fire or something to get out of working Super Bowl Sunday, but … why? I no longer drink excessively, rip off my shirt, smear bean dip on my torso and scream “I’m a burrito – get it?” at Super Bowl parties.

So what fun is a Super Bowl? My squad flipped me the bird and moved to the desert while making mismanagement an art, and the local team my relatives all pretend to like was eliminated when a Philadelphia Eagle ripped their quarterback’s arm off a couple weeks ago.

Plus … the longer I live, the more football seems gross to me. Not the violence … I still love the violence. I mean, better them than me. No, I don’t like the greed, the stupidity, the racism, the misogyny and the absolute willingness to let all these young men injure their brains for profit (right – love the violence but hate the effects … you figure it out and call me a therapist).

Researchers at Boston University last week announced they found signs of chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE) in almost 92 percent of former NFL players they studied.

Just for fun, 11 NFL teams had lower extra point conversion rates last year. So an NFL player’s chance of avoiding CTE is about the same as that well-paid professional kicker missing a routine PAT. The noteworthy exception is when the football player doesn’t get brain damage.

The researchers looked at the brains of 376 football players after their deaths and found CTE in 345 of them.

It’s essentially brain trauma that shows up by the time the victim is in their 40s, if not sooner. Anxiety, depression, memory loss, loss of various functions, erratic behavior and occasional violence and eventually death follows.

Some victims, like hall-of-famer Junior Seau, experienced enough agony to kill themselves (he shot himself in the chest, so researchers could examine his brain, because CTE is currently only officially diagnosable via autopsy). There’s no cure. It also shows up in fighters and combat soldiers exposed to bombs exploding near their heads.

Go team!

I mean, I don’t mean to spit in the spinach dip on Super Bowl Sunday. I love football. But I’m starting to become conflicted. I know sportswriters, guys who have lived for this stuff, who can no longer watch football knowing what they know.

That’s before we get into the racism, greed, sexual assaults and players having to be brought back to life on the field, which actually increased viewership.

It’s all kind of gross. And the gross is starting to outweigh the fun, the strategy and the athletic artistry on the field, which can be pure joy to watch.

So I suggest trying something else today. Because you don’t have to watch the Super Bowl.

You aren’t obligated to stuff your veins full of chunky meat fat and give yourself a “who-pounded-my-head-onto-the-anvil-with-a-hammer” headache Monday morning.

For one … you can floss. There’s probably a Dorito in there.

You can catch up on “The Last of Us,” where fungus zombies with scary mushroom and cabbage croissant faces try to eat people. That is kind of like football with more imagination. If you want something allegedly related to sports, get on the Super ’70s Sports Twitter feed, which is currently my go-to online rabbit hole.

You can forestall the coming panic about not remembering Tuesday is Valentine’s Day and surprise your valentine by going somewhere special there’s no Super Bowl blaring in the background. There won’t be traffic and crowds will be light.

Be quiet; pay attention. Have a nice day.

Follow music critic Tony Hicks at Twitter.com/TonyBaloney1967.