A bevy of Wednesday links while trying to figure out why we’re supposed to give a crap that Steve McNair isn’t on the cover of Sports Illustrated this week. Seriously, we’ve read this story in eleventy billion places, and we still can’t figure out why this is supposed to be relevant in 2009. Sure, SI remains a great read most weeks, but the idea that the magazine still remains the bellwether of sports culture is absurd, particularly if you’re under the age of 30.
It’s like being outraged at TV Guide for getting the subject matter wrong in its listing for Tuesday’s Dr. Phil episode. Elsewhere …
- It’s official, we’re done with the McNair story. It will always be a horrific tragedy, and now all we’re left with is ridiculous tales of McNair standing up his future assailant on a scheduled trip to Vegas a couple weeks ago. Like it helps explains anything. (Jacksonville.com)
- And for the four people who haven’t yet figured out why Jason Whitlock is the best opinion writer in America, we offer his take on the McNair tragedy as Exhibit No. 1,374. (MSN/Fox Sports)
- Colin Cowherd finding new and inventive ways to repulse sports fans across America. (The Big Lead)
- Two … count ‘em … TWO hockey stories in July: Joe Sakic, The Last of the Nordicans, set to retire Thursday (TSN); and Obama smooches up to Russians by smooching up to Alex Ovechkin (D.C. Sports Bog).
- From hockey, we gently segue to the world of former world-class figure skaters-turned-crystal meth dealers (allegedly). (Back Porch/Fanhouse)
- Evidence mounting that we may indeed by minutes away from the end of our civilization: Ochostinko threatening to tweet during games. (SportsRadioInterviews.com)
- Our Florida Dipshit o’ the Day? Just your average, run-of-the-mill U.S. president/police chief/FBI agent impersonator. (NWFDailyNews.com)
- We couldn’t make up this story if we tried. According to a British film critic, director Michael Bay auditioned Megan Fox for her role in “Transformers” by having her lather up and scrub down his Ferrari (ContactMusic.com). We’ll give you a few more moments to explore the mental imagery of this story, and then we’ll leave you with Ron Artest, and the worst (best?) Michael Jackson tribute we could ever hope for.