27 April 2008

Reason I Could Never Work For ESPN #243

By Espen Jockovitch

I've done my very best to hold this shit torrent back, but the levee's breaking right here and right damned now. Brace yourselves, Homeskillets - E-Jock's gonna blow some serious truth all up in your stuff:

NASCAR totally sucks. NASCAR shamelessly, irreddeemably, and enthusiatically blows donkeys. There is absolutely nothing in NASCAR which merits celebration, highlightery, or hip-quasi-urban-tagline spouting. I can't even pretend that NASCAR is a friggin' sport, much less a spectator sport.

I hear you, Jim-Bob: "NASCAR rakes in billions of dollars a year!" So does public accounting, Cousin-Brother, and if I'm not willing to dedicate time to watching a bunch of pencilnecks depreciate long-term capital leaseholdings, I sure as hell can't justify devoting three hours a Sunday to witness jumpsuited jerkoffs take left turns around a giant damned circle. At least accountants do my taxes - Rusty Dalehart Junior, Jr. never gave me Thing Freakin' One.

Yeah, Jethro Bodine will go on about the strategies and the teamwork and all that hollabolla, but those admirable qualities are on instant visual display in baseball, football, basketball and hockey - you know... SPORTS - each and every day. Plus, sports offer such added bonii as athleticism, grace, agility and cheerleader/dance teams. NASCAR is a bunch of guys driving close together really fast. That's not a sport, that's my daily commute - and I don't expect a camera crew and redneck receiving line to spray me with six-dollar champagne when I snag my favorite parking spot on a Tuesday.

Yet a relentless few insist NASCAR is worth attention, and follow up with the dramatic storyline angle. Oh, this team is angry at that team, and this driver is such a little punch-happy hothead and that one is threatening to leave his team to join a rival... Look, Clem - that sounds a hell of a lot like 'Desperate Housewives', which I don't really care to watch anyway. If 'Desperate Housewives' offers me drama AND Teri Hatcher's glorious ta-tas, what chance does some sweaty hick wearing a fireproof Tide outfit have?

In summary: NASCAR's Taggadildo Fahv Hunnert or whatever has the visual appeal of three hours of 7-11 surveillance tape. I couldn't fake excitement over it if you attached electrodes to my junk to make my testes tingle every time an announcer mispronounces the word "oil". Between baseball, basketball, hockey and football, I get 342 regular season games and enough playoffs to fill up the rest of the year and then some - so pick up your Matchboxes and Hot Wheels and put all your plastic track away so Uncle Bob has somewhere to sit when he comes over to watch the Celtics.

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