New England Patriot cornerback Ty Law, who has two seasons left on a seven-year, $51 million contract, wants to renegotiate the amount of cash he gets from sick to obscene. The Patriots, anxious to keep their all-pro DB happy, offered him a four-year deal at $26 million. The sensitive Law called the team’s offer “an insult” and “a slap in the face.” Law, whose physical talents are considerable, apparently has less going for him upstairs. He says he’s the best cornerback in the NFL, and should sit on “the throne” of the highest paid. What planet does he live on? I guess that would be the superstar jock moon, where the media, agents, fantasy football addicts, gamblers, bimbos blessed with their own sizable corporeal attributes, shoe companies and sugar water consortiums fawn over a superstar’s every whim and grunt. Guys like Law are too stupid to even realize when to keep their mouths shut. One hates to wish evil on any poor slob trying to make ends meet, but maybe a couple of tours in Baghdad with the Oklahoma National Guard would help Law get centered. Heck, Ty, if you know someone who wants to (metaphorically) slap my face for the paltry sum of $26 million, give or take a Cadillac SUV, send him my way. In the face of all this boorishness, it’s a testament to the simple-mindedness of millions of Americans just like me that we watch pro football at all.
From an acquaintance who requests anonymity: “I had to relocate to San Diego for work. And my first weekend in town, I had a wedding to go to in Atlanta, which was a slight hassle since I needed someone to take care of my three-year-old Siberian husky. Since I was in a new city with no friends, I went through the local papers for dogsitter ads. I found a guy named Brad, who agreed to stay at my house and walk and feed Herb, my canine companion. I left on a Friday night and came back Sunday afternoon. Herb seemed fine, and Brad said there were no problems. I paid him a hundred bucks, and Brad left. But when I went to take a shower, I noticed something in the bathroom sink: it was a do-it-yourself home enema kit — and it was showing the effects of recent usage. I gagged, almost vomited, and wondered what kind of sick world are we living in. Then I went to the corner store to buy rubber gloves, sponges, mops, lye, germ-killing solvents, garbage bags, Lysol, soap, air freshener, etc. After maneuvering the enema kit into a garbage bag, I threw it in the dumpster farthest from in my apartment in the complex. I was sickened, weakened, disgusted. And then it occurred to me: maybe that freak violated my Siberian husky in some kind of new age canine cleansing ritual! But upon closer examination, Herb seemed fine. I made sure all the doors and windows were locked, and then went to sleep. The next day at work I get a phone call in the afternoon. The voice on the other end says, ‘Hi, this is Brad, your dog-sitter.’ My heart fell. What could this psycho want? ‘I left something at your house, and I was hoping to swing by and pick it up.’ OH MY GOD!, I thought, he wants his soiled enema kit back! ‘Uh, what is it?’ ‘I left a pepperoni stick in your freezer.’ ‘What?’ I was confused. ‘A pepperoni stick. It should be in your freezer beneath the ice cube trays.’ What kind of person puts pepperoni sticks in the freezer? What was he using them for? I told Brad I’d go home and check, and if it was there, I… Enough, when I got home, I found a pepperoni stick in the freezer. It was an out-of-body experience. Surreal. I felt violated, but in a way I prefer not to dwell on. I donned my gloves again, stuck the slim jim-style sausage into a plastic baggie, and left it on the front steps on the apartment. Brad, who claimed he lived on the other side of San Diego, said he’d drive over later to pick it up. Why anyone would drive 30 minutes for a 99¢ pepperoni stick is beyond me. But later that night, after I made a point of being out for several hours, the pepperoni stick was gone. I don’t want to think about what Brad was doing in my apartment while I was away. And that’s a true story.”
If anyone has any doubts that the entire system of higher education needs to be revamped, check out any of the 3,000 college basketball games on TV 24 hours a day for, oh, the next month. In the stands you’ll see a writhing horde of face-painted “students” jumping and shouting “we’re number one!” Nothing against Central Florida or Valparaiso or Alabama, but you’re not Number One. You never will be. You’re a crappy little school, or a crappy big school, or a crappy medium sized school in a crap country that’s in the middle of going down the crapper. In this year’s made-for-television bookmaker’s special, I’m pulling for Stanford and Gonzaga, but won’t watch until the tournament really starts and only eight schools are left.
I always root for the underdog, unless they’re playing the 49ers or Giants or Warriors. Then again, the Warriors have been underdogs for the last 25 years, so that’s the silver lining in that mushroom cloud.
Meanwhile, in the fine print, CBS is paying the NCAA $6 billion over 11 years to televise men's hoops games. Plus the Wall Street Journal claims that $3.5 billion will be wagered illegally on this year's tournament alone. That’s a lot of textbooks and scholarships.
A studio mole has leaked the news that a major network is planning a reality TV show called Historical Survivor. The first season’s cast is a wonderful cross-section of pop culture legends and regular people: Jesus Christ, Adolph Hitler, Joan of Arc, Elvis Presley, Joan (a web designer/waitress from Tampa, FL), Gandhi, Beethoven, Pablo Picasso, Chief Black Elk, Mao Tse Tung, John Coltrane, Teddy Roosevelt, Buddha, Presley, Judy Garland, Hammurabi, Cleopatra, Eddie the Eagle (English downhill Olympic skier), Brittany (an exotic dancer from Hermosa Beach), Debbie (a clairvoyant/massage therapist from Montreal), and Janet Jackson’s right breast. Don’t miss the incredible first episode, where Gandhi forms an alliance with Hitler in a power struggle with Jesus. Here’s a bit of dialogue.
Gandhi: I can’t stand Jesus. Look at him, he thinks he’s so high and mighty. Well, I got news for him. This isn’t heaven, pal. This is the real world, and I’m here to win a million bucks.
Hitler: I know. He’s got those idiots Hammurabi and Joan of Arc wrapped around his finger. Is he Jewish? I don’t trust him. We Aryans must stick together. Besides, we’re both vegetarians.
Gandhi: After Mr. Guilt Trip goes, let’s vote Buddha out. He never says anything meaningful, just a bunch of Eastern philosophy B.S. like “the path to salvation is harder to tread than the tongue of a migrating goose.” The lame brains and girls are falling for it.
Hitler: What do you think of Brittany? Are those things real?
Gandhi: Elvis says they are.
Hitler: What? How does he know?
Gandhi: He sang her a little song last night, then they went swimming together.
Hitler: That kills me. I hate that music. Now Wagner, he was a musician!
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