We get it. You like your team…a lot. In fact, we can tell that your blood runs maize and blue/red and white/dumb and dumber by the fevered look in your eyes. There’s no need to put any frosting on your crazy cake.
Surrounded by hundreds of people in matching jumpsuits who were picked, not for their dancing prowess, but because they won a local radio contest, the performers lamely move around on death trap of a stage, trying to move through a medley of their most treacly hits as they screech toward the cheap seats and mug for the cameras.
First of all, when has a medley ever been good? Second, when have the singers ever sounded good? When one of the best halftime shows includes N’Sync and Britney, well… Super Bowl halftime shows are a study in lowest-common denominator performances. Performers and their body parts are picked based on their ability to offend the fewest number of people (Janet Jackson's right ta-ta was clearly an oversight). Consequently, you get a whole lot of Black-Eyed Cheese that doesn’t actually entertain anyone.
My prediction for Super Bowl XLVI: Katy Perry in Daisy Dukes and a whole lot of fireworks. A word of advice, though: skip the whipped-cream boob gun.
(photo: honeymag.com)
I’ve been noticing something around my neighborhood. I can’t really help it, seeing as I have to weave and dodge, even when I’m on the supposed safety of the sidewalk.
Out of nowhere, a biker yells, “Left!” as he whizzes past me, narrowly avoiding a tree bed. He, however, cannot avoid my tire ire.
The thing that really chafes more than Lance Armstrong's saddle sores and sets me off on an epic tour de rants? There’s a bike lane on my street! What’s next, you greedy Spandexed asshelment? Pumping up your tires in my flowerbed?
Cyclists want it both ways. They want to right to ride on the street—which they have, by the way. In fact, cyclists are legally supposed to ride in the road. But they also reserve the right to jump the sidewalk and draft behind a stroller when the mood hits. Sorry, but it’s called a sideWALK, not a sidePEDAL. Keep your wheels on the road. If you continue to want your cake and eat it too, you are destined to either find yourself on a 4-wheeler in the ER or be named as the defendant in a hit-and-pedal. Regardless, you will shoot to the top of my cycle list.
The 2012 London Olympic Games just revealed their official mascots and they are as misguided as The Office's David Brent.
From the country that gave us, in the words of Hugh Grant’s prime minister in Love Actually, “Shakespeare, Churchill, the Beatles, Sean Connery, Harry Potter. David Beckham's right foot. David Beckham's left foot, come to that,” I expected more. I expected something other than the mutant babies of some Teletubby inbreeding.
One critic called them computerized Smurfs for the iPhone generation. That’s an insult to Papa Smurf and the rest of Smurf village, but I will admit that the mascots’ giant eyes do look like a trackpad or webcam. Gargamel wouldn’t stalk these pansy-assed iShmoos if you paid him.
Named Wenlock and Mandeville, because apparently these mascots need another reason for a serious beating, the two mascots join an already silly group that includes a humanized snowball, ice cube, and snowflake from the ’06 Turin Winter Olympics; a cubist Catalan Sheepdog from the ’92 Barcelona Summer Olympics; and Sondre, a troll amputee from the ’94 Lillehammer Winter Paraolympics. Here’s an idea: instead of designing by focus group and political correctness, kick the mascots to the curb and celebrate the city and the athletes who will be gathering to compete instead. Or just use David Beckham’s right foot.
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.
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