Monday, August 23, 2004

The televised sports evening of 8/21/04

Two things I chose to watch instead of the Olympics:

1) Game number one hundred and twenty-three of a one hundred and sixty-two game season in which the Cardinals lead their division by 14 games. Did I mention they were playing the Pirates?

2) A Colts and Jets preseason affair which included significant minutes from a Grey Cup quarterback and a kid named Sorgi. Can they put an incentive in an NFL contract that encourages the use of "orgi" in more names? Note to Colts executives- you are one concussion away from the Sorgi era at quarterback. Good luck with that.

I thought about exploring what it cosmically means that I chose to watch the 50th-72nd best players on the Jets roster instead of America's aquatic pride and joy. But then I realized that I know it cosmically means two things. Thing number 1: I see swimming as a means of escape from sharks, or occasionally hippos. That's about it. Not so much on the sporting aspect of it. Thing number 2: there should be global legislation preventing cute 22-year-old girls from growing freakishly large Lat muscles. Whom do you contact about that? The Hague? NATO? The IMF? We've only got four years to work this out before another human atrocity. Just picture it. Beijing, 2008: young Amanda Beard finishes her 100m breastroke final in first place, securing her third gold medal. With one hand clutching the side of the pool, she raises her right arm to wave to her fans, and billions of viewers no longer have to turn away, comfortable in the knowlege that Amanda's back is not 14 inches wider than her front.

Up-to-the-minute news flash: According to a story on ESPN SportsCenter, Donald Trump officially has the most awkward golf swing ever. Now that's reality television.

Now back to my original story:

I spent a significant amount of the second half of the Colts-Jets switching to drag-motorcycle racing on ESPN2 so that I could catch a Titans score on the bottomline. And the results are in--there officially exists an extreme sport in which I could compete on a national level with no more than 6 months of preparation. The premise is this: driver mounts strange motorcycle with elongated twelve-foot training tail. Green light, so now driver accelerates his motorcycle to approximately 170 mph for about 2.5 seconds. Driver attempts not to die within that designated time frame. That's it. Race over, we have a winner. If this whole professional blogging gig doesn't pan out, I now have a failsafe plan.


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