Tuesday, February 24

On Balls

If you're like me, you get pissed when you watch sports. I'm not suggesting I get mad enough to throw the nearest heavy object at my television or anything (egads no!) But if I have to endure one more second of the mindless strategies, pathetic speeds and dikey coaches with starched pantsuits, some shit's gonna go down.

Sadly, the latest judge's injunction forbids me to carry firearms over .22 caliber into public places. Lousy Brady bill.

There exists a myriad of other activities that I would rather be watching. More importantly, I want to address the problem personally.
What happened to you, ESPN? You used to have Dan Patrick. You used to have a decent fucking halftime show. Now, as if to piss on me after you've kicked me in the balls, you shove women's fucking basketball down my throat. That's like the scene from A Clockwork Orange where poor, innocent Alex is forced to watch his beloved ultraviolence while blasting Beethoven. JUST WRONG.

It's assumed that we all agree that Women's Beach Volleyball belong in the sports hall of fame. I'm pretty sure that sport is the sole driven force behind me getting through puberty without the need for rooms full of pornographic material. That shit takes the idea of watching sports in your underwear to a WHOLE NUVA LEVEL.

I'm not even going to touch the women dunking thing. Enough drivel: here's a list of sports that are better than the WNBA. What about women's college basketball, you ask? Fuck that, too.

Upon reading this, you might think to yourself, "He's fucking with us. No one likes to watch fishing on TV." True. That's why I follow professional fishing from one, AND ONLY ONE magazine publication: GAFF. Yes, magazines! The glossy, wordy paper thingies that people over 40 keep in a rack beside their crappers. I need only mention that it features more pictures of scantily-clad women than fish, for Crissakes. Most of them are even holding fish. Very skillfully, I might add.

Field Hockey

I was first introduced to this shit when I was looking for boxing during the Beijing Olympics. It features women pushing around a ball with midget hockey sticks.

On a big ass field.
Of grass.

"This fucking sucks," you might say to yourself. I know I did. Upon closer inspection, the uniforms featured sleeveless shirts and a skirt/bloomer combo that would make any cheerleader feel comfortable. Upon EVEN CLOSER INSPECTION, the women were hot! Hotter than soccer players of the fairer sex, if I remember correctly. That takes them up to an average of about 7.

Let that be a lesson to all you ladies out there, floundering in a painfully obscure sport: get a tan and a $100 hairdo. Lip gloss wouldn't hurt either, honey.


I'm ashamed to admit it, but when I was 16, I got into NASCAR. Maybe if I'd had a roomful of smut, then my teen years would've been different; but I digress. This was about the same time that FOX started their coverage, and they pulled out all the stops. After all the Married...With Children reruns were worn out, FOX was anxious to snatch viewers. The bumpkin color men in the booth, flashy graphics and country/rock fusion music all made my first NASCAR experience so full of wonder. FOX were already well-known for theatrics: after all, they had introduced the world to the magic puck thingy that revolutionized hockey on TV(for you younger readers out there, this was before HD). Bear with me: I'm fighting the urge to use all caps to indicate sarcasm, here.

It was really all about the cameras. They really captured the speed and power of the machines, and with the release of Days of Thunder filling in the gaps between fantasy and reality, the experience was complete for me.

Then I realized that it was 42 dudes driving in fucking circles. The End.

Oh well. Still better than women's basketball.

Bocci Ball

Earlier this year, I was sequestered in my stateroom while on a cruise. Predictably, I got fucking sick from some grubby Indonesian preparing my slop at the ship's communal trough. I had a fever that would make Satan himself wipe his horny brow.

After screening Matthew McCaughnehey in Fool's Gold four times, I stopped by ESPN International, lulled into watching by the hypnotic, familiar tones of sportscasters announcing a contest between steely-eyed competitors.

Then I discovered that I was watching octogenarian bowling. After the fits of uncontrollable rage and drooling unconciousness subsided, I discovered the passion of bocci ball. Hold on tight, people! If you think saying the term bocci ball is fun, wait till you watch it!

Teams of two men dressed in matching track suits roll softball-sized spheres down a 50-foot sidewalk. There rest these unassuming concentric circles, the players scoring points while their opponents use their turns for either offense or defense. It's kinda like horseshoes for slightly more athletic competitors. Yeah, I know: pretty shitty, right? Now imagine a 640 year-old analyst calling the game and you've got a marathon suckfest of TV sports torture. I think I lost my soul that day.

Still, marginally better than the aforementioned.

The Blue Man Group

While driving to Applebee's yesterday, I scoured my meth-addled brain to come up with some obscure, crap sports that are better than women's basketball. Then my head hurt so bad, that I had to run down a few senior citizens to feel better. After cleaning off my grill, I heard a radio spot for these fuckhead freaks of nature. I had found my sport!

I hear you out there: "Blue Man Group is not a sport!" No shit, Einstein. Before you go editing my blog, remember that I didn't earn 20 hours of community college credits just so I could have my overeducated friends and family talk down to me. I know it's not a sport, but I like a nice, round number and an excuse to pick on the rejects who didn't make the cut in the movie Drumline. What are you here for, anyway? To look at pictures of chicks holding phallic symbols?

Since these chinzy azure twits don't say dick, allow me to translate some of their website content:

Blue Man Group is a creative organization dedicated to creating exciting and
innovative work in a wide variety of media.

~We charge you $90 to imprison you while we bang on different kinds of pipes.

The blissful party atmosphere created at their live events has become the
trademark of a Blue Man Group experience.

~Nobody else will look as fucked up as us on stage. Also, we like to use the term 'creative' a lot. It gives us permission to act like classy street performers.

Blue Man Group has also ventured into toy development with their Keyboard
Experience and Percussion Tubes, produced by ToyQuest...
~If you're too broke to come to our shitty shows, buy our equally overpriced crap for your crumbsnatching brats!

Thanks to Tobias Funke for the pic. I got your headshots and the glitter was a nice touch!

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