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)

Jay Leno’s chin

Maybe it’s just because NBC is trying to push Conan out of the 11:30 slot to make room for Jay's face. Maybe it’s because he reminds me of one banana-jawed ex-boyfriend. But whatever the case, I want to beat the shit out of Jay’s mammoth chin.

There’s all this talk about lollipop-headed anorexic actresses with heads too big for their body. Please. Those noggins are lightweights compared with Jay’s disproportionate head. Specifically, his elephant man chin.

Punching it will assuredly result in nerve damage to my left hand, as I suspect the bone is twice as thick as other talk show hosts. So Jay’s chin, which Google Earth is reputedly zeroing in on, would be better served with a trip to plastic surgeon Steven M. Hoefflin. If he could make Michael Jackson’s face disappear, this medical magician could certainly shave down that late-night eyesore.

(photo: dirtywhiteblog.wordpress.com)

New Yorker cartoons

I have never, ever subscribed to The New Yorker.

There. I said it.

Call me unsophisticated, a troglodyte, a knob, whatev. I’m okay with it. I read The Pew Yorker occasionally when hanging out with friends more refined than me. But after eyeballing an issue, I put it down and walk away. It makes me feel stupid and I’m already full-up in that department.

It’s not the articles. I can deal with a lengthy piece now and again and I’m always able to soldier through “Shouts & Murmurs” and reviews with little damage to my ego.

And it’s not the pompous Mr. Peanut dandy who represents. I get it. Dudes with monocles read The New Yorker. As they should. It’s their thing, along with spats and a penchant for crème brûlée (not to mention words using the accent aigu).

It’s the goddamn cartoons. When I'm in a dentist's office, I'd still rather reach for Highlights than The New Yorker. I can always detect what doesn't belong in a picture but fuck if I know what is clever or funny about a cartoon of a dude who, while raking leaves, holds up a maple leaf and says to his wife, "They're all pretty, but this one is my favorite"? Am I missing something? Like IQ points or my frontal lobe? I'd like to change this caption to read: "You know, Jennifer could dip this in resin or metal and make a five-pointed weapon to kill me with." That I would understand. That I could get behind.

I want to punch these cartoons in their smug, insidery face. What's black and white and red all over? A New Yorker cartoon after I've beaten it to a bloody pulp.

What New Yorker cartoon had you scratching your head?

(photo: This cartoon I get.)

Blow-in cards

Whenever I receive a new magazine in the mail (and I get a lot of them: Allure (where I'm a contributor), Vogue, Lucky, Entertainment Weekly, The Week, Seattle Magazine, Hallmark, and—don't ask—Seventeen), I immediately rip off the polybag and remove the blow-in and tip-in cards. They drive me, in a word, bananas. They fall out all over the floor, both at the newsstand and in my bathroom, they kill trees, and most importantly, they impede my reading pleasure.

Those thicker pieces of paper often are wedged between a gorgeous fashion spread or they are lodged between a compelling story. And when turning the pages, they cause my magazine to flop open to the spread where the blow-in card is, demanding that I pay attention to the subscription card. Grrr.

I don't have a fireplace to repurpose these as tinder. I liked this site's suggestions for blow-ins. I bet there are some craft opportunities for the paper. But the best thing I can do is to toss them into the recycling bin. They are dead to me.