I'm not the one with the problem.
On Friday, Dateline ran a special report about a phenomenon that has gripped the nation in recent months: "Celebrity Obsessions." The segment focused on Britney Spears, whose penchant for shedding panties and hair locks made headlines around the country. It also talked about the death of Anna Nicole Smith, who has become the most highly-discussed corpse in recent memory.
In the end, there was only one conclusion to be drawn from the report: Americans are nuts.
And that goes double for Yankees fans.
Or it should, anyway—especially after this winter's Yankee-Infield-gate, when Alex Rodriguez and Derek Jeter went public with their falling out. The folks who read every article detailing the demise of A-Rod's once thriving friendship with Jeter were no doubt nodding along in agreement as the Dateline
pundits explained our collective obsession with famous people.
But not me.
As I listened to the talking heads prattle on about celebrity worship and the decline of quality journalism, it suddenly struck me: It's not me who cares about locker-room infighting and press-conference feuds. It's not me who would give anything to be a fly on the clubhouse wall, and hear what Derek tells A-Rod after the latter takes his annual October vacation.
That's right. I don't care at all about Derek Jeter the person. As soon as Mariah Carey helps him out of his uniform (are they still together, by the way?), he is temporarily done being a baseball player. At that point, I really couldn't give a rat's ass about what goes on in his penthouse atop Trump International Tower on 48th and 1st.
But apparently YOU do.
Honestly, you make me sick. When I think about you and your pathetic little life, it makes me want to turn on the gas in my fireplace, wedge myself inside the chimney, and strike a match. You genuinely care about these men, most of whom are younger than you, and their inability to cope with a lifestyle you wish you led.
Both A-Rod and Jeter could quit their jobs tomorrow, never talk to each other again, and live off their hundreds of millions of dollars while sleeping with new supermodels every night. And that drives you nuts. So you discreetly read about it on the Internet while your boss is out getting lunch with someone more important than you.
YOU are a loser. A big-time loser.
Does your kid play tee-ball or Pop Warner? If he does, I bet you probably go to about half his games, maybe three-quarters—because you're lazy. But you probably sat glued to your television during the Terrell Owens overdose saga. Why? Because nothing in the entire history of your life could possibly be as cool as the stuff that T.O. does on a quiet night out.
The bottom line: He's just better and more important than you.
Which is why YOU are full of regrets, and why every celebrity scandal slightly validates the fruits of YOUR inadequacies.
Suffice it to say here that I think you are the least worthwhile human being on the planet, and the fact that you care about things like A-Rod's struggle to determine his ethnic identity while secretly gauging the likely popularity of the World Baseball Classic—
Well, that just makes me sick.
YOU obviously need a life.
And if you find one, please let me know where you got it.