“Hey! thatsa pretty fonny. You canta fool me boss. Thosa Transformahs ainta racists, theyah battlebots they donta race!” Chico Marx
Let me get this straight. There are some people upset about racism in the new movie Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen. The pervasive destructive disregard for life, property and national treasures, that’s okay? Not to mention the dogged possibility of damage to Megan Fox. And the veritable lake size puddles of oil they leave behind. I’d be an idiot of the same stripe as they are, to read as if I’d ever condone racism. But the superficial, knee jerk reactions of such people do nothing but actually pour some of that bot fluid on the flames.
They learned a big word once—stereotype. But they learned it in the context of an explanation with negative connotations. Am I even allowed to use negative? Stereotypes, as with the verbal equivalent, the cliché, exist for one reason—they are experiential human shorthand. If it waddles like a duck, we then see a duck, not some poor kid in a mascot suit. Unless of course, it is some kid in a mascot suit. Personally, I have seen just about every stereotype in real life, these jerkoffs complain about. It would be fine with them to have a white trash moron, an Italian mob goombah, a Jewish anything, but not a person of color who isn’t in Mensa? Could’ve been worse, they could’ve had Tyler Perry in drag Transformer. . ..
Bullshit. They are the people with the problem. It is so intense of a problem, they see racist in the use of the word people. In the Sixties, I was a second generation Italian, a teenager with long hair, a beard, wore sunglasses & drove a Corvette. If you knew anything about life before you were born or say, Heaven forfend, read a book, you’d know that was a set of characteristics sure to get you special notice by authorities. Luckily, I never did get any harassment. Because I was lucky and behaved myself, and never got caught the few times I power shifted, burnt rubber and wore a hundred miles off my tires. The only time was when a guy on my softball team, a police sergeant, advised me to be careful of the company I kept. He was right too. And I did. However, if you don’t think I got a taste of prejudice back then, you are culturally bereft. Sure, I had the ability and the option to “clean up my act,” a popular phrase of that era. Oddly, even when I did, I was still the same iconoclastic individual. My attitudes and foibles were internal. Have some groups had unfortunate extra attention? the sad answer is yes. As always, I ain’t here to do an exegesis of race relations. Just to point stuff out. Did I look like a small time drug dealer though? you betcha. Was I? Nope and that rhymes with—okay, but just that one time. And I was drunk. . ..
But including a dumbass black character in a movie is anathema? What! there no stupid blacks? how do you explain Martin Lawrence? You obviously don’t listen to WFAN. While possibly not the only choice for a movie character, if it’s an urban scene, what fits more for the point it makes? an African American with GQ cover looks and two doctorates? or some street thug. All y’all are just hater players. BTW why are you even at that movie? oh—Megan Fox! Sexist ahole huh. Or just hetero and enjoying yourself. I’d say lighten up, but I’m no racialist, you get the picture. Maybe. . ..
“Ha hah ha. Shoo, everybody knows they gotta lottsa juice in Florida. They come frommah Noo Yawk for the sunny shine!” Chico Marx
Manny Ramirez, eagerly ( LOL ) awaiting his return to Mannywood and the Dodger lineup, has caught some new attention himself. This because he is a stereotype—of a ballplayer caught using performance enhancing drugs. Apparently someone he’s been associated with has a father who is a doctor. A doctor can write prescriptions for said PED. Voila! This conduit from outside the US, up into Florida and servicing predominantly Latino jocks, is now under scrutiny. Again may I state: Boston, you are hypocrites & phonies. Have a nice day.
Wowie zowie! God didn’t waste anytime with the dead celebrity trifecta. Banging them out like ARod in batting practice. Only God can do it in the actual games too. Yeah sure Alex has had some good at bats the last few days—90 games to go hombre. Sorry, got off track there. So, Farrah Fawcett, Ed MacMahon, and Michael Jackson are at the Pearly Gates. Saint Peter sees Farrah, looks at his big book and says—-” Angel! go right in.” Ed steps up. Peter says-” Heyo!—you have all ready won. Go on in.” Then he looks at Michael Jackson, looks at the book. Looks at Michael again, then back at the book,* he asks — ” Moonwalk, eh! you were an astronaut?” Michael squeaks, ” Uh yes. Yes I was. An astronaut.” St. Peter smiles, ” Welcome to Heaven.” St. Paul throws Peter a look. Peter looks at paul and says – “Hey have you ever heard him sing She’s Out of My Life? The way his voice breaks at the end. That’s Heaven.”
*Take 2: St. Peter looks down at his book, looks at Michael Jackson. ” Oh dear, it’s Jackson. Whew–I thought they said Michael JORDAN. . ..”
Now if he can only keep his hands off the cherubs. Good night everybody! drive safely and don’t forget to tip your waitrons.
Chastity Bono is entering manhood. The daughter of the late great Salvatore Sonny Bono and the wax figure Cher, is 40 and an out lesbian. Upon reading this news, all I can think about is, it would’ve really hurt Sonny’s chances to become President.
It’s a bit odd, but the last few U.S. Presidents have only had female offspring. The one guy who had sons, George Walker Bush, had a son who became President ( in case you’d forgotten—yeah sure ). So, maybe it’s a good thing. But why all the X chromosomes* dudes? don’t ask. Don’t tell. Gotcha.
Hey! good for Chas Bono. Whatever happens, she’s got to have more balls than the team from the Bronx who went to Boston and got theirs handed to them on home plate. Again. Baseball — people are fond of saying — is a marathon. It’s a long season & there are a hundred games left to play. Luckily for the Yankees, only eleven are v. the Rat Sox.
Seriously kids—whatever drugs you’re not using—start. I haven’t felt this embarrassed since I tried returning a jacket to a store and the saleswoman pointed out pit stains. At the time I told her, ” I’m a Yankee fan ” it was October 2004. She said poor man, patted me on the shoulder, gave me a refund and the number of a homeopathic healer. Wonder if MLB.com will take back all these @#%&*! Yankee caps!
Could all those Beanotown ‘tards be right? do the Yankees really—suck? Frankly, I don’t give a damn. That’s no excuse. Vacuum cleaners suck, but still get the job done. Same goes for hookers. And high schoolers with self esteem issues. The real problem is every other team gets so amped up when they play the Yankees, the opposition often performs way above their skill set. Yankees routinely make rookie pitchers look like Cy Young candidates, if not Cy himself. Why isn’t a fathead such as Josh Beckett 30 and 0? why—because he doesn’t get 30 starts versus the Yankees. That’s why. I hate that arrogant load.
Sigh. It is a long season. But if you have to say it—you are all ready in trouble. The season ain’t long enough for those Mass-holes to forget how they beat everything in midnight blue pinstripes — home and away to the tune of eight straight unanswered ass whuppings. Will the newly masculated Chas, sorry—make that — Chaz Bono be able to hit a big league curve ball? she or he can’t do worse than those choke ponies. Now where is my Phillies cap. . ..
* that’s XX which = a female as opposed to XXX which would be Vin Diesel or Peter North, whoever comes first. . ..
PS Happy bd Gomer & so long to the cast of REAPER— I’ll miss you kids
I’m well aware most of you @#%&*! jock sniffing morons, who somehow were hired to be professional media announcers only made it to sixth grade. So, one more time:
If a proper name ends in the letter s i.e. Phil Hughes and you need to make it a possessive, as in— Phil Hughes’ next start—that is how it is enunciated. Don’t add another s. Not only is it unnecessary, it creates sibilance, which is bad for audio, most importantly as spoken, it’s AWKWARD sounding. BTW no doubt you were asleep, dreaming of showering with the football team that day in class, because they teach that rule by sixth grade. Pete Rose’s name only sounds as if it ends with s. You’re on your own with Rodriguez, Gomez, Martinez & Aziz et al. That ain’t English.
Note to major know it all Colin Cowherd–the word is pictorial. Not pictoral.* As for some audience members who call in radio programs—how do you exist at least twenty plus years in a country where English is the primary language, and mispronounce the word ask? Laughable and depressing at the same time. Audio-verbal dyslexia—the new epidemic.
OK— recess you dumbasses. Go enjoy some repressed homosexuality. Don’t aks…
* next time I heard that particular promo, the pronunciation had been corrected—incroyablé!
It seems Manny being Manny was aided and abetted by performance enhancing substances†[please see below]. All those clutch, drop the Yankees hits while with the Boston team, were bullshit. Now, while that city and its players enjoy the rewards their envy and hypocrisy continue to provide them, they need to admit they are phonies. If they can hate on and gloss the NYY as the evil empire, riddled with cheaters, then they themselves are surely the Weasel World of sports. Yankees suck? you m*****r f****rs suck and blow.
I have been watching, and for a short youthful period, playing baseball since 1956. I steeped myself in the game via what media was available then— TV, radio, books, magazines and baseball cards. It never seemed enough—sure baseball was talked year round—with friends. Nothing like the current media, carpet bombing 24 hours a day, seven days a week; pervasive and invasive coverage. Really, it’s too much. It encourages excesses and it gets them. From everyone involved.
Too much and yet the magpies who pass for talk show hosts on all sports radio outlets, discrete team owned tv, and networks like ESPN & Fox, turned a sycophantic blind eye to some tried and true practices. Amphetamines before games and shopping trips after—lining up groupies for stars. AND the last 20 plus seasons of slowly unfolding revelations of anabolic steroids and human growth hormones (HGH)usage by the big names of the big leagues.
It has resulted in the breeding of hack writers such as Selena Roberts (Sports Illustrated) who indicted the Duke Lacrosse team for party fouls at the rapist level before they were found NOT guilty*, to her present exposé book of Alex Rodriguez. These jock sniffing carrion eaters turn on you faster than a whirling dervish and they care not a whit if they are subsequently off the mark. The bullshit “court of public opinion” is the demographic they court. The lowest common denominator, once the exclusive stained and chawn turf of the National Enquirer, a newspaper no self respecting journalist would’ve been employed by when I was in J school, is catered to via sensationalism passing for reporting and writing.
It has also grown the barely literate radio talk host, most of whom have never read a book. If they have, it was about sports and no doubt, at the level of a fifth grader. Video games began cutting into the sports dollar heavily during the eighties and in some cases supplanted it for youth recreational time and bucks. The spawn of gamers are the announcers of today’s media. Dumb as rocks without the charm and personality. The majority of athletes, even less so. Easy to see how in this environment a clownish thug such as Manny Ramirez can thrive and pull the double-knit polyfiber over the eyes (and the limited intellect within their heads) of the feral media. One moment they are sucking up, the next, sucking the life out of their prey—the superstar, over paid and undereducated.
Major league baseball itself is led by a septuagenarian former team owner and used car salesman. He needs to step down; he never should have been there to need to do so. Baseball needs restructuring, it is at once archaic and contemporary, the new parts grafted on top of its decay, an aging Hollywood actor made of plastic. A Joan Rivers face, attempting to deceive the world into thinking she’s Megan Fox. A world moving so fast, it almost works—one because even if they had attention spans, most humans own the observational skills of two year olds.
No Boston fan will ever own up**—Manny ain’t theah prawblem anymore. I’m sure they’ll say he never got caught copping ‘roids down by the Charles River. He is however, the true face of the MLB, smug and bloated, and they only suspend him for 50 games? ha ha ha. Manny loves a vacation, he comes back well rested (pumped full of some new undetectable designer dope) for the stretch run and leads a slumping LA to the playoffs again. This is almost a strategic gift! Blow up baseball and bring the Dodgers back to Brooklyn—if you rebuild it they will come. But you won’t, you’re too fucking stupid. And so are your ugly, dumbass friends.
Did I mention beam me up, Simon? Simon! Theodore? ALVIN!!!**
† Ramirez tested positive for a female(!) fertility drug HCG, or human chorionic gonadotropin. HCG is popular with some steroid users because it can mitigate the side effects of ending a cycle of the drugs. Going off steroids can stop testosterone production, decreasing sperm count & shrinking testicles. Manny apparently wants to maintain those big balls as well as cheat…
* Niether Roberts nor SI printed a retraction—creeps.
** Denis Leary, Doris Kearns Goodwin & Jonathan Schwartz might, but they are exceptions because they are exceptional.
** Simon Pegg appears as Scotty in the new Star Trek movie—Alvin & the Chipmunks reference 110% gratuitous, though a nuts connotation is implicit
My life has always been lived in parallel lines. The geometrical manifestation of that which runs side by side, destined to never meet. Here’s an example or two.
When I was 20, I was a teacher aide in an inner city school, troubled by a lack of student discipline, due to drug use. Mostly marijuana, some of it heroin. This was before crack was cool & ecstasy was only a dream of getting Susie Q to third base in the back seat of the Ford.
Having just failed ( then )as an entrepreneur in the burgeoning head shop business, due to a personal ethos that dictated never selling drug paraphernalia, I got the aide gig. That was my first cosmic/ironic clue I’d have troubles making ends meet ( see parallel lines above ). But even by age 20, I’d had experience in spotting a doper. After all, most of my so called friends were—they required it, they told me, so they could be better musicians.
Eventually, after having my heart broken by girls and the music business, I succumbed one party night to trying some mushrooms, or organic mescaline, as approved by Castaneda’s Don Juan. Administered by the drummer. What fun! I almost got busted first time out of the gate. Not content with a good beer high or even a doobie buzz, I went straight—OK wrong word—directly to tripping.
It was yet another portent— I saw God—(who looked remarkably like a much older version of me!), seemed like a good guy. At the time. . .. Then, with my antennae, abnormally sensitive on a regular day, way up high, I heard the inner voice say—look out the window dude. I saw a blinking red light in the dark street, coming from next door, in the suburb we were partying.
A devotee of Sherlock Holmes, I instantly deduced — police. Ran up stairs, announcing it room to room. Much flushing took place & on cue, the door bell rang. One officer, very polite, told the kid whose parents were out of town for the Memorial Day weekend (natch), there had been a complaint about drums. Yes, he had been playing them loud + long, earlier, but he promised the cop, he was done for the night.
As he was a clean cut young man, and the back windows had been open, the cloud of cannabis was wafting points due west, away from the officer’s nose. Case closed. Me, still trippin’, I dodged bullet one. Much praise from the rest. Sadly, with one exception, they were male, the lone girl, was taken. No grateful girl to, well, you know, for saving her ass. Oh well. I did get to meet God. By the way, God told me I was going to be all right. Still waiting. . ..
Back to school. So, I knew a drugged out kid when I saw one. But after having been threatened ” I’ll cut you up Mod Squad! ” by a sister ( possibly Tyler Perry’s ) with a nail file, whose smacked out boyfriend told her–“he’s cool” I started rethinking the gig. About the same time I learned one of the students (girl) was having sex with a teacher (male). Now, I was not a teacher, I was a 20 year old aide. The reason I found out about those two though, was because I had formed a Platonic palship with the bff of the girl in question. If you knew me, you’d know when I say Platonic (paltonic?*), I mean it.
I was more flex then. Not to mention, active. I was into being monogamous and sincerely wanted just one good chick. In retrospect or in a time machine, I’d likely moderate that position. A lot. Using the Kama Sutra as a primer. Any way, when a work/study girl propositioned me in the hall one day, I closed my eyes and thought of England. It was a What Would John (Lennon) Do moment. Yeah, yeah, yeah. And I still remember all their names too.
What I really wanted to say though is, any given school day I ‘d be sashaying down the hall. One conversation I’m criticized for using “college” words. The next, I’d go off in a blue cloud about junkies with sharp implements and get the worn out “using profanity is the sign of a small vocabulary,” lecture. Well, I was pissed off at the fucker who. . .oh, never mind.
It’s always been that way. I’d walk down the street in a small town and one person would comment—“you look so much better now you’ve shaved off your beard.” The very next would say ” grow your beard back.” What was most disconcerting is the former observer was male, the latter a female. Have I mentioned I’m a devout heterosexual? Well, unless the only way to get a threesome with Bridget Regan & Abbie Cornish is to go through Hugh Jackman. Tina Fey & Katrina Bowden? Sigh.
This special edition is brought to you by Norfolk-Southern Railroad. Here in Bubbadoon, I live a mile from the railroad track (more parallel lines). When I first moved here, the people in the community immediately adjacent to the tracks, voted to ban train whistles from midnight to 6 AM. The train suits ( standard issue fat white guys ) had much more clout and were able to have the legal voice of the people vote overturned. That’s why I am awake and filing this, two train whistles, 10 minutes apart at 2:30AM.
I bet there are more deaf drivers at 3:10 AM then say, BLIND ones. There are with certitude a greater amount of people sleeping than drivers crossing those fucking tracks. Why can’t these assholes just employ a few more flashing red lights. Shit, those warn even humans who might be tripping for the first time. AND that’s why I hate the South.
*©2009 Jukeofurl Prod LTD.
The abstract saw of infinite monkeys, given infinity to do so, who would randomly & eventually type out Shakespeare’s works, cannot be proved. Not by me any how. I also wonder, would that appear in contemporary English? the original 16th Century? or in basic monkey? Either way, I’d still only like the comedies. . ..
I know for sure what would happen if you gave say, 3 monkeys a broadcasting school. They’d turn out the clowns who end up as sports talk hosts. I just know there is a secret text these guys all have read to them. They all mispronounce the same words & have the identical world view. Sports is their entire life & their livelihood. Yet every chance they get, they state in very serious tones, sports is the toy box. Ha ha it’s not a real job. Do they get paid in Monopoly money? Seems to me when a 400lbs. lineman hits a quarterback, it feels seriously like real life. Plus if you decide not to show up for your not real job, you will not get paid. Really.
” Men, playing boys games “, is a huge favorite. When in fact, for the most part, it is older ( + fatter ) men drooling over younger men, who they live vicariously through, exploit & get paid to do it too. There are always exceptions in life. Sure, some ex-jocks are excellent commentators. Some, jock wannabes, are even better. But the need for the type has expanded exponentially with the success of all sports talk radio. Though it existed in both major & small markets for years, the summer of 1987, a small company named Emmis Broadcasting ( which means – truth in Yiddish ) took a huge risk, WFAN AM in New York went on air, making sports talk an around the clock format. It paid off; and then it took off. To say I didn’t listen avidly then & like it, would be a lie. Now we reap the whirlwind of the worst of its spawn, ESPN Radio & Fox Sports Radio. Yeah yeah, ESPN TV was on cable before FAN launched. Whole other beast. The Worldwide Leader in Being NFL & Boston Butt-boys didn’t get into radio until they saw what Mike & his ex, Mad Dog were billing in NYC. Even then, they waited for Disney dollars. And that’s the emmis.
Now, jock talk pollutes the commercial airwaves. Since the mid-seventies AM radio stations needed sports, any sports to stay in business. Big market operations competed for the pro teams. Regional settled for being on the network & getting area colleges ( and high schools!)—lots of fights there for the share of the ad bucks too. The latter eventually put me out of radio. I think collegiate sports should be for students, their families & staff. Not fat white guys in suits & ties. Or morons who can’t even spell university, spewing stats in the middle of the night, laying bets with gamblers. Leads to all kinds of nasty behavior. Namely, more of the same.
Am I bitter? yes. Do I understand? yes. Would I still hear sports talk hosts for the barely literate & limited intellects they are, even without the personal grudge? Oh yeah, I would. If I mispronounced a local name wrong, I got calls. Did I ignore them & continue to say the name wrong? No. Because I wanted to be right. I was even known to call up people to get it right. Even if it was just a public service announcement for a bake sale. And you need to verify that Connie Linkous is a real name, of a real person. Yes and yes. You could look it up.
Sports talkers don’t take criticism. Or correcting. They just continue to say words the way they like them said. Which is often the wrong way. They also never met a hackneyed phrase they couldn’t use ad nauseum. Then puke it back up & chew it again. You know, I admit I rarely used algebra since high school. But English? pretty much on a daily basis. Though I do like to employ the odd Latin saying. And French, I like French. Jock sniffers apparently think sports transcends precise speech. Not formal mind you, I am all for casual & natural sounding conversation. But pronounce the words correctly; especially if an amicus curiae sent an email with it spelled phonetically, you ahole.
Getting words jumbled up like Homer Simpson riding a donut high while on a 3 day drunk, is nothing compared to what sports talk radio does best. Taking the athlete they worshipped 24 hours ago & exposing him ( occasionally her ) as a loser. What they really mean is, how could he let us down—we are so hurt, and as they are warriors ( LOL ) they will understand why we must attack them, shooting from the hip, lip & bloated body parts from media buffets. Burp—now back to bashing the Yankees/A Rod. . ..
Being from the Bronx, the Yankees were not only my hometown team, they were the first sports entity I ever knew about. That was long ago and far away. The player I most revered & emulated, was controversial beginning to end. The only time I wavered, I was 13 and learned he not only smoked but drank beer ( and more as it turned out ). But just like I did with my father, it didn’t take long to forgive Mickey Mantle for his flaws. After all, all he’d ever done for me was deliver the goods. He was human, just like me. The hero part was my lucky bonus.
Mickey caught plenty of heat, sports talk radio was flexing it’s muscles in the early 90’s. When Mickey stood up & admitted he was dying, and that his self destructive choices were the kind he regretted and sincerely hoped no other would make. Not a chance on the latter Mick, but a lot of people respected you for saying it. I guess Alex Rodriguez was busy playing in the toy box that day. Around the horn, and voila! it was his turn in the barrel.
Men like Mantle & Alex Rodriguez are built larger than life. Then there are people with the ability & means to make them even larger. The overriding reason for that is not altruism. It is profit & to some extent, reflected glory. Humanity, especially the sports media, has the nasty habit of putting athletes on precarious pedestals. Then, like vultures circle, until the time is right to dive & feed.
The New York Yankees and by dint of that, their all star ( Yankees are his third team ), Alex Rodriguez, are the evergreen whipping boys of sports talk. Even after O.J. went from slashing his way down a football field to just slashing humans, the black athlete was sacrosanct. Until one day, Barry Bonds, a guy most of the jock media loved to hate, became indirectly responsible for two reporters getting jail time. They had some privileged info about illegal steroid production & suppliers, involving Mr. Bonds, and refused to reveal their source. Bingo—Barry be bad, open season on him. Then asocial thugs like Terrell Owens, Adam Pacman Jones & Plaxico Burress, ad nauseum. Old news, they have ” A Roid ” in their sights now. Along with that group of tables with all the food laid out on them. That’s more emmis w/cheese. . ..