What an article…we have contrasting emotions, outrageous hyperbole, filler sentences, a Kurt Warner/Jesus joke and championship bath robes. That’s right. Championship bath robes. Take it away, Dan Bickley:
In the dark minutes after Super Bowl XLIII, the contrast in emotions was striking.
Because, already prepared by sportswriter groupthink with the “it was a good loss” column, Bickley was surprised to see that the Cardinals were actually upset that they had lost.
He had figured that they would probably be pretty happy with themselves and that their emotions, despite the close loss, would be similar to the Steelers’. It was a woeful miscalculation.
Didn’t they know that this good loss was just like winning? Didn’t they know that they should be happy with their effort? Didn’t they know that they were ruining the premise of a thousand articles currently being written by sportswriters all across America?
Oh no, they didn’t.
The Steelers strolled toward the team bus wearing white championship bath robes and smoking cigars.
Championship bath robes. Just think about that for a second.
…
…
…
Championship.
Bath robes.
…
…
…
I love professional sports.
They were in a state of collective ecstasy. Their lives had all changed forever, for the better, and they knew it.
I like hyperbole. Hyperbole, hyperbole, hyperbole. Get in my article.
The Cardinals were appropriately numb. The difference between winning and losing a Super Bowl is immense, emotionally, historically and financially.
Some other sentences that didn’t have to be written:
John McCain was appropriately numb. The difference between winning and losing a Presidential election is immense, emotionally, historically and financially.
The patient was appropriately numb. The difference between anesthesia and no anesthesia is immense, emotionally, physically and lawsuit-causingly.
Colonel Jessup will look back and think that he probably shouldn’t have ordered the Code Red.
Beer is awesome.
… What if someone had just pushed the Steelers' James Harrison out of bounds on that interception to end the first half? What if the Cardinals had gone to that explosive, no-huddle offense earlier in the game? What if the defense would've just stood up at the end? What if Santonio Holmes doesn't make one of the best catches in Super Bowl history, rivaling grabs from the Giants' David Tyree and the Steelers' Lynn Swann?
Then the Cardinals still probably have lost the game because Jesus was upset that Kurt Warner didn’t set aside a Championship Bath Robe for him.
Showing posts with label kurt warner. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kurt warner. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
War Crimes & Homoeroticism in the Sports Section
I think that Bill Plashke may be losing it…and I don’t mean that in an insulting way. I mean it in a positive we-can-help-you-Bill way.
Because I want to help.
The fairy tale is that, if he wins Sunday, the Arizona Cardinals quarterback has promised to buy his family a puppy.
It’s a fairy tale? As in, it's not real? Warner’s kids are going to be PISSED.
The reality show is that the Pittsburgh Steelers are going to whip the dog out of him.
I’m pretty sure that is not a real phrase.
The fairy tale is that, while dining with his family every Friday night before home games, the Arizona Cardinals quarterback picks up a stranger's bill.
How is this a fairy tale? This really happens. It happens every Friday night before home games. I know this because you just told me it was true…even though you also told me it was a fairy tale.
Your bad writing hurts me.
The reality show is that the Pittsburgh Steelers are going to cash him out.
Plashke is currently waterboarding this fairy tale/reality show device despite waterboarding being specifically disallowed in the Army Field Manual...which means that this column is four sentences in and already officially guilty of a War Crime.
Good start.
The fairy tale is that, for the second time in a bungee-jump of a career, Kurt Warner will finish work Sunday as the sweetest of Super Bowl heroes.
Just when I started to think “hey, that actually is kind of a fairy tale” and “maybe that means that Plashke just needed to get warmed up and is now going to make sense,” I do something stupid like read his next sentence…
The reality show is that the Pittsburgh Steelers will make him melt in their mouthpieces.
Without a single shred of a doubt, this is the single most disturbing sentence ever written in a sports column.
There are, by my rough count, 325,648 jokes that it is possible to make from this sentence alone, but each of them only reinforces what I just read…and I need to be cleansed of that sentence. To pretend that it never happened. To scour my mind clear of the thought that any part (or emission) of Kurt Warner might be melting in the mouthpieces of a single Steelers player. To try manfully to knock away the image of the Steelers actively wanting Kurt Warner in their mouths. So I do not joke about it.
I just flail helplessly beating my head against the wall and weeping in sorrow for the state of sportswriting.
I would go on, but Plashke rides the fairy tale/reality show metaphor so indecently, unfeasibly long that it really belongs in a John Holmes movie. And I just can't do that to myself.
Or to you.
Because I want to help.
The fairy tale is that, if he wins Sunday, the Arizona Cardinals quarterback has promised to buy his family a puppy.
It’s a fairy tale? As in, it's not real? Warner’s kids are going to be PISSED.
The reality show is that the Pittsburgh Steelers are going to whip the dog out of him.
I’m pretty sure that is not a real phrase.
The fairy tale is that, while dining with his family every Friday night before home games, the Arizona Cardinals quarterback picks up a stranger's bill.
How is this a fairy tale? This really happens. It happens every Friday night before home games. I know this because you just told me it was true…even though you also told me it was a fairy tale.
Your bad writing hurts me.
The reality show is that the Pittsburgh Steelers are going to cash him out.
Plashke is currently waterboarding this fairy tale/reality show device despite waterboarding being specifically disallowed in the Army Field Manual...which means that this column is four sentences in and already officially guilty of a War Crime.
Good start.
The fairy tale is that, for the second time in a bungee-jump of a career, Kurt Warner will finish work Sunday as the sweetest of Super Bowl heroes.
Just when I started to think “hey, that actually is kind of a fairy tale” and “maybe that means that Plashke just needed to get warmed up and is now going to make sense,” I do something stupid like read his next sentence…
The reality show is that the Pittsburgh Steelers will make him melt in their mouthpieces.
Without a single shred of a doubt, this is the single most disturbing sentence ever written in a sports column.
There are, by my rough count, 325,648 jokes that it is possible to make from this sentence alone, but each of them only reinforces what I just read…and I need to be cleansed of that sentence. To pretend that it never happened. To scour my mind clear of the thought that any part (or emission) of Kurt Warner might be melting in the mouthpieces of a single Steelers player. To try manfully to knock away the image of the Steelers actively wanting Kurt Warner in their mouths. So I do not joke about it.
I just flail helplessly beating my head against the wall and weeping in sorrow for the state of sportswriting.
I would go on, but Plashke rides the fairy tale/reality show metaphor so indecently, unfeasibly long that it really belongs in a John Holmes movie. And I just can't do that to myself.
Or to you.
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