Dallas ? We have had a good four days to ponder the true meaning of the Super Bowl halftime show. Surprisingly, Western civilization still stands.

I don’t want to make light of the truly offensive show. CBS and the NFL have been dutifully slapped around from coast to coast in newsprint and on the air.

Both had it coming. Isn’t it interesting (for those of you of a ripe old age like myself) that the network that censored the Smothers Brothers is now subject to an FCC investigation for an inability to censor its own halftime show?

Isn’t it also instructive that the National Football League — the only sports league in this country that doesn’t have to sell anything but its own product to be a ratings success — is the one that ventured so far beyond the out-of-bounds stripe of good taste?

A league that fines its players for not tucking in their shirt tails thought nothing of turning over its biggest stage to P. Diddy (check his arrest record), Kid Rock (whose lyrics make some Eminem songs sound like Perry Como) and Nelly (“It’s getting hot in here … so take off all your clothes” is among his more printable material).

And yet the two people involved in the biggest controversy are a singer who we thought was the normal one in her family and an overgrown boy-band member hoping that there’s life after puberty.

You don’t have to be Bill Bennett or Bill O’Reilly to be riled up about this one. There is a difference between nudity (even brief and partial) on cable or even on “NYPD Blue” and nudity at halftime of the Super Bowl.

But let’s face it. If this is all it took to turn things back in a more reasonable family-oriented direction, then hoo-ray for Justin and Janet.

If this proves to be a wake-up call not just for the NFL’s Super Bowl production but all pro sports and their game presentations, then all the fuss this week will not have been for nothing.

To be honest, the halftime “revelation” wasn’t really a shocking departure from the rest of the Super Bowl script. Has anyone else seen enough ads about male enhancement? Is a commercial featuring a horse passing gas in a woman’s face really that funny? Can’t these ad writers come up with something at a higher level than “Rugrats” humor?

We don’t need government coming in to police these things; we know how that would go. But just a little self-restraint on the part of advertisers wouldn’t hurt.

In Dallas, how about the in-house productions at American Airlines Center? In a meeting last fall, I asked Stars officials if they had ever surveyed their fans to make certain the type of music they played and the decibel levels were what the customers wanted.

Their basic response was: What do you want, organ music?

The manufactured noise at Mavericks’ games seems to be maintained at a more ear-shattering level than Stars’ games. I don’t know, maybe it’s just the inane screams of Humble Billy Hayes that make it seem that way.

But you hope that not only the Mavs but the NBA takes note of the embarrassment the NFL endured (even while getting what they wanted, which was higher ratings). Maybe halftimes of the NBA Finals will be something more than showcases for singers promoting their new albums.

Maybe professional sports will be redirected into the business they know, which is the selling of professional sports. Leave the sex to cable.

The customers turned off by a more G-rated approach just might be offset by the families that find it safe to return.