Sportscasters' comments

Play-by-play commentary must be incredibly hard. That’s why sportscasters presumably get paid a lot more than the likes of me. I’ve long been irked by the hyperbole that runs rampant in the sports world. The best catch, the worst fumble, the longest line drive in the history of the world, the highest, the fastest, the most incredible, you get the idea. One hour of Sportscenter results in the WORST headache in the world.

Enter the Olympics.

Forget the hyperbole. I’m too busy rolling my eyes at the remarks of dumbassian proportions. Remarks such as “He’s in first place. That’s a good place to be” And “She’s not without talent.” Instead of hyperbole, they seem to be going for the gold in fucking obvious. Don’t believe me. Just watch and listen; you’ll have the worst migraine since the dawn of time.

“This has been tremendously tremendous!” —as the USA hockey team beat Team Canada
“He’s a contender in this event for sure.” —downhill skier already with two medals from this Olympics
“It will not be a cool running for Jamaica.”
“The biggest battle will be the one he fights from within.”

Then there’s the local NBC reporter who asked speedskating gold medalist Sven Kramer who he was, where he was from, and what he had just won. Kramer’s awesome response? “Are you stupid?”

Clearly a rhetorical question.

What are the most redonculous comments you've heard during the Vancouver Olympic Games?

(photo of Russian ice dancing team Oksana Domnina and Maxim Shabalin, who "rocked" an Australian aboriginal look: washingtonpost.com)

Bob Costas’s head

In recent years, I’ve made a sport out of studying celebutards and trying to detect if they’ve had work done. I grimace at Bruce Jenner’s frozen face, even if he can’t. I want to take a pin to Nicole Kidman’s and Meg Ryan’s oft-inflated lips. I can’t look Heidi Montag in the eye. I know my mythology; I might turn to stone.

Enter the Olympics. I’m watching men and women who have transformed their bodies and worked them towards a goal. Such as Bob Costas. Specifically, his face. In looking at the NBC commentator, I’m a little confused about his particular end goal. Is he going for the gold in the Look of Perpetual Surprise Freestyle? Was he replaced with a Madame Tussaud’s wax figure after he was stopped at the border with an expired passport? Did he get a makeover from a Real Housewife? What the hell is going on?

I don’t know, but I do know that he’s a real eyesore. High definition has not been kind to Bob.

If his dark hair wasn’t distracting enough (is it just me, or has his pelt gotten darker every Olympic Games?), he looks as if he’s had an eye lift, some Botox to a forehead that’s now as tight as Johnny Weir’s short program costume, and some sort of peel. I’m afraid that his waxy skin will melt off if he gets too close to the Olympic Torch. Remember Frankenbob: Fire bad.

Not only is this sports commentator out of medal contention, he’s out of his mind. You’re a 57-year-old sportscaster, dude—it’s okay to age gracefully. We’re not looking at you anyway; we’re watching the speedskating gods in their formfitting unitards. In this case, high definition, good.

(photo: stampedeblue.com)

Dingleberries

I don't like ’em and I don't want to see them, on people or on animated bears. Frankly, dingleberries irk my shit. If this baby bear is smart enough to be potty trained, he's smart enough to lose the scat and the TP wads hanging from his bear hair. If the little Mensa member can't take care of business, I think the only choice is to wax the bear's bum until it's completely bare.

Lotion nubs

They’re a little thing, really. It shouldn’t bug me when I pick a lotion scab off a bottle top.

But it does.

It shouldn’t chafe when I rub a dollop of cream onto my skin, only to pick out the hardened little piece and flick it away.

But it does.

In fact, it chaps my cocoa-buttered, lanolin-ed, Vitamin-E hide. I want to emulsify those crusty little upstart nubbins with my emollient knuckles until they go back where they belong: into the bottle with the well-behaved lotion.

Crystal Gayle hair

I love long hair, I really do, but a gal shouldn’t have to worry about her drain-clogging coif clearing the toilet seat when she drops trou. When locks are skimming the floor, it’s not a hairstyle as much as a chairstyle. Tie the ends to a tree and relax in your portable hammock.

Calf- or knee-length hair ain’t pretty—there's a good two feet of split ends going on down there—and neither are your deep-seeded neuroses. You’re wearing your insecurity, not on your sleeve, but on your head. Put your follicular folly in a ponytail, snip it off, and ship it off to Locks of Love. If you don’t, my fist will make your brown eyes black and blue.

(photo: babble.com)

Ed Hardy clothing

Doode, I already know you’re sporting tats on your arms…and abs…and shoulders (not to mention a spray tan) under that tattooed tee. You don’t need to add another layer of ink blots.

Jon Gosselin used to be the company’s poster douche but his position is being seriously threatened by The Situation and Jersey Shore’s other resident goombahs. When they pull on a studded Christian Audigier abomination to go out creeping, it flat-out creeps me out. It’s as if a dye pack of lameness exploded all over them as they left the surf shop.

Attention, oily bohunks! Wearing Ed Hardy doesn’t wipe out a paste-eating past. Pulling on a tattooed trucker cap is a low-forehead’s sad attempt to be cool. It’s more “tattoo ewwww!” than Tattoo You.

On the bright side, there’s an upshot to all this crap; the garments act as makeshift cotton billboards announcing a tool has just entered the workshop. And they provide lots of targets for my fists.

(photo: herestheproblem.wordpress.com)

Happy birthday, TIWTPITF!

It was a year ago today that lemonade was made out of the lemons of my life. January 2009 sucked it hard and I was on my last nerve. TIWTPITF was a therapy of sorts and it got me giggling again. It made me happy, and it still does.

And all of you, the cyber malcontents who've embraced the blog and vicariously whack shit along with me, have definitely made me look on the bright side of things.

So today, I'm going to punch myself in the face because I hate dumbass anniversaries. Hey, at least I didn't celebrate my one-month anniversary with the blog, so there's that.

(photo: psychologytoday.com)

Duck tours

Hopefully, you live in a landlocked area, mercifully free of bodies of water and the crap they attract. I’m not talking about guano. I’m talking about those daffy Duck tours.

Originating in Boston, these city tours tote hapless visitors around in amphibious vehicles, showing them the city by land and sea.

I can deal with the concept: repurposing military DUKWs for sightseeing excursions is kind of brill. It’s the execution I want to execute. The graphics are cheeseball, the out-of-work comedians who double for tour conDUCKtors definitely do not quack me up, and the music they play makes me want to tenderize Disco Duck with a giant glitter ball.

If that wasn’t enough to make my eyes and ears bleed, the Ducks incessantly quack as they drive around town, which makes it pretty miserable to live or work on their route. I know; I’ve been there.

If these motherduckers migrate to your town, be sure to flip them the bird.

(photo: bu.edu/comet/explore-boston)