Why You Shouldn't Read My Sports Opinion, Or Why Not To Click This Link

I don’t know anything about sports.  Seriously.  Read all my Bleacherreport articles and they’ll serve as unfortunate testimony.  I’m a total fraud.

Well-wishers might reply that I played college baseball for a couple years, so I at least have more authority than your average boob.  Listen: I was the clown on the pitching staff who was far more concerned with flashing his genitals to the opposing team’s right fielder and pooping on the bullpen mound than being a team player.   

  As a general proposition, if you’ve used the resin bag to wipe your butt more times than you’ve used it to gain better grip on the ball, you are no authority on sports.

That reminds me of an entirely unrelated point.  

Another general proposition:

If you’re missing three or more teeth, you will be unaffected by the outcome of a U.S. presidential election.  

The only “change” you seek is dirt-caked coins tossed by liberal students whose compassion is as thick as their parents’ wallets.  Celebrate all you like, but until the Hobo ticket is victorious, you’ll be riding trains and drunkenly ranting about government conspiracies while wearing a pink tutu.    

Look, I’m sympathetic.  I enthusiastically voted for Balack Darama a couple Tuesdays ago.  Around the time that Sarah Palin famously tattooed the Declaration of Independence on that Iraqi child’s forehead on live television, thus officially conceding the race for the Republicans, I was walking around Times Square, heading south, trying to ingest the national ecstasy of the moment.  

A gaggle of homeless men passed by, singing, evidently excited by the historic occasion, and the liquor.  One of them was wearing a green t-shirt that said in bold: THUNDERBIRD FORTIFIED WINE: IT’LL MAKE YOU FLY! 

Anybody has a right to be thrilled with the results of a presidential election, but come on!  Let’s stop pretending here:

Whether a Black man, a Red man, a White woman, or Billy Bob Thornton’s character from Sling Blade is in office, you’ll be shirtless on a street corner, singing unintelligible lyrics to non-existent songs at the top of your voice and frightening the daylights out of anyone who comes within a twenty foot radius of your body odor.            

Anyway, I was reminded of my blinding ignorance when at a bar to watch the Saints yesterday.  “PUT IN ROCKET ISMAEL!” I was hollering.  “LET BOBBY HEBERT KICK IT, YOU DUMB BASTARDS!  GIVE IT TO THAT FATTY, THE FRIDGE!  DAN MARINO, DAN MARINO!” 

The sink attendant looked at me, cocked an eyebrow.  He looked around the otherwise empty bathroom, making sure I wasn’t shouting at someone else.  He said, “Sir, I have no idea what you’re talking about, but if you don’t calm down I’m going to have the bouncer throw you out of here.”

One last rule: If a bar bathroom attendant threatens to have you expelled from a dive, you need a psychoanalyst on speed dial.                

I careened out of the place, steeling myself against the biting wind, popping in a store to buy a bottle for the road, finally landing at the feet of my neighborhood’s resident lunatic, Marvin “Marvin” Marvin. 

After belting out a rousing chorus of the renowned non-song, “Call the Cops, There’s a Bearded Hobo in my Kitchen,” I laid back against the building wall and ripped off my shirt, throwing it on a passing Japanese school child.  “You know something about this rye, Marvin?” I said, pulling on the bottle of Soaring Eagle Whiskey. 

“What’s that?”  Marvin replied, gumming Healthy Choice dog food out of a can.

“It’ll make you fly!”