Category Archives: Sports

The Wave

America cannot consider itself a civilized nation until the scourge of the wave has been eliminated from sporting events. I do not care if you think it is a magical moment of community amongst fans. Any activity that leads to that much beer spilling can never be considered benevolent. No activity that involves unwarranted exercise can be considered joyous. The only possible benefit the wave has is the shaking of female bosoms caused by the rapid standing, but even on this account, the wave is organized all wrong. Everyone is facing the backside of everyone else. Instead of quivering tits, you get ass crack and back sweat. I came to watch sports, not to do rudimentary calisthenics while having my draft spilled to ghastly sights.

And let’s face it, after the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics no amount of mass coordinated movement will look cool again. Thanks China. So can we all agree that the wave is now unequivocally lame and desist from making asses of ourselves? If the Chinese want to prove how far they come by having thousands of people memorize basic actions and then perform them with slave-driver oversight type precision, that’s fine with me. They can have that honor. But this is American, the supposed land of cowboys and entrepreneurs – a country of self starting, independent thinkers – and the wave flies in the face of all of this. We are not a country of joiners; we are a nation of doers (and borrowers).

Anyhow, can we all hold off on doing the wave, at least until the Chinese call in our debts and we all have to learn Cantonese and synchronized box-crouching? That is all that I am asking.





I should but don’t like swimming. I do not care that it is good exercise and easier on the joints. I do not find it fun, nor do I not find it relaxing. It is unnerving and tiring. Swimming is not a sport. It’s avoiding death.

When you fail at running, you fall, scrape your knees, and bleed a little. When you fail at swimming, you sink, have your lungs fill with water, and die. With my tendency to do most activities slightly snockered, I think it’s best that I avoid the pool. Any form of recreation where the downside is accidental death is not for me.

And what is up with all the hoopla that surrounds swimming events at the Olympics? It’s a bunch of men with not enough swimwear on, and a bunch of women with too much swimwear on. On top of the questionable aesthetics, they don’t even go fast. Next time you watch a swim meet, focus on the judges that *walk* alongside the edge of pool. With a measured gait, and in chinos and blue blazers, they match pace with the *fastest* swimmers in the world. What a lame event. D-bags in cruise-ship apparel keep up without breaking stride.

The most absurd of all swimming related activities are the polar bear clubs, where men prove how manly (and by extension hairy) they are by donning Speedos and jumping in freezing water and having their balls shrivel. I’d love to go back in time and explain these events to the passengers on the deck of the Titanic as it slowly sank. I bet they would take real solace in knowing that their soon to be deaths would become a yuppie pastime within the century.

Or maybe I don’t look good in a swimsuit.


The Super Bowl


I like football. I like watching football. But I hate the Super Bowl. There, the secret is out.

What was meant to be a sporting game has developed into a miserable spectacle. The game’s rules molested to fit in with a format concocted in a marketer’s wet dream. The cadence of football raped and unnaturally interrupted to maximize commercial time. The event itself staged in a dome or some unseasonably warm environment removing the excitement of watching the teams battle not only each other, but also the elements.

The Super Bowl has become an orgy of flat screen TVs blaring over-produced ads set to appeal to the lowest common denominator. Lindsey Lohan skiing in a bikini with a talking ferret on her shoulder—and all in an attempt to get me to switch to a different brand of chewing gum—is not entertainment; it’s intellectual torture. And I do not care that Ryan Seacrest scored an interview with Rachael Ray before the game. I want to watch football, not ads and a pageant of douche-bags and the sham industry that swirls around them.

All of this is then pared with a glut of junk food splayed out for the gormandizing masses. It’s Thanksgiving without any semblance of taste or reverence, a dissolute tradition based on glorified consumerism and excess. It is pure American, and purely disgusting. If you want to find me during the game, I’ll be doing the dignified thing: drinking in the kitchen and hording the guac and chips.