Sadly, the Tiger Woods saga continues. Enough mistresses have come forward to almost field a lingerie football team. A lot has been said about Tiger's tarnished image. But wait! I have the same feeling about mistresses. It used to be if you compensated and treated them well they remained loyal and kept quiet. But alas, hoocies have lost their integrity.
I suppose you can't blame them in today's world of the hungry media monster that constantly needs to be fed. With instant fame knocking at the door they're all to willing to say:
"Oh yes. Here I am. I was with Tiger. I did him. How could he resist? Look at this. Look at me."
I suppose you can't blame them. There's famous for nothing money to be made in the form of selling your story to tabloids, photo spreads in men's magazines, and maybe an appearance on a dumb-assed reality show.
Down the line, if they go on to have a family, they can show their kids the DVD of news and magazine show reports about their proudest moment.
Well, maybe not.
Hoocies be squawking
Hoocies be talking
Hoocies used to have class
But that's in the past
I'm a bad poet
And I know it
Showing posts with label satire. Show all posts
Showing posts with label satire. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Super Bowl Half Time Show; More Old White Men
Am I the only one to notice that since the infamous Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction incident, the half time Super Bowl acts have been all about, well, old white men more likely to have a bowel malfunction that one of the wardrobe variety?
Let’s see, there was Tom Petty, Paul McCarthy, and Bruce Springsteen. I’m getting old myself, I may have missed somebody. I suppose they all met the criteria for half time acts. Long term success, and millions of loyal fans. But then again, so does Janet Jackson, and several other female singers under the age of sixty.
I suppose the NFL can tolerate large sweaty angry men knocking the crap out of each other for three hours white attempting to move an oblong leather ball up and down a hundred yard field. But they draw the line at condoning anything overtly sexual sullying their good family entertainment game. Well, other than hot young women in skimpy outfits cheering their hearts out for their favorite home team. Not to mention their big boobs and shapely butts.
It’s the sexism of the choices that bothers me most. If the acts have to be over sixty, why can’t they be female? Cher is someone that comes to mind. Although in her younger days she had a penchant for wearing outrageous outfits to award shows. I suppose she could be talked into wearing a non-malfunctioning outfit like a zip up leather jacket, leather pants, and boots.
Tina Turner is another act that would fit the bill. She still had great legs, so we shouldn’t ask her to cover them, but she could wear a strait jacket type top to guard against malfunctions.
Tina has such a raspy hard-edged speaking voice I think she could do a good job narrating for NFL Films. Couldn’t you just hear her saying:
“It was a warm 72 degrees inside the noisy domed stadium when the Green Bay Packers met the New England Patriots with the NFL championship hanging in the balance.”
Let’s see, there was Tom Petty, Paul McCarthy, and Bruce Springsteen. I’m getting old myself, I may have missed somebody. I suppose they all met the criteria for half time acts. Long term success, and millions of loyal fans. But then again, so does Janet Jackson, and several other female singers under the age of sixty.
I suppose the NFL can tolerate large sweaty angry men knocking the crap out of each other for three hours white attempting to move an oblong leather ball up and down a hundred yard field. But they draw the line at condoning anything overtly sexual sullying their good family entertainment game. Well, other than hot young women in skimpy outfits cheering their hearts out for their favorite home team. Not to mention their big boobs and shapely butts.
It’s the sexism of the choices that bothers me most. If the acts have to be over sixty, why can’t they be female? Cher is someone that comes to mind. Although in her younger days she had a penchant for wearing outrageous outfits to award shows. I suppose she could be talked into wearing a non-malfunctioning outfit like a zip up leather jacket, leather pants, and boots.
Tina Turner is another act that would fit the bill. She still had great legs, so we shouldn’t ask her to cover them, but she could wear a strait jacket type top to guard against malfunctions.
Tina has such a raspy hard-edged speaking voice I think she could do a good job narrating for NFL Films. Couldn’t you just hear her saying:
“It was a warm 72 degrees inside the noisy domed stadium when the Green Bay Packers met the New England Patriots with the NFL championship hanging in the balance.”
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
About President Obama & The Nobel Prize
Early in the morning I had a revelation concerning the furor over President Obama winning the Nobel Peace Prize. Loud voices from all over proclaimed him not worthy of the honor. I say even if he doesn't deserve it and won anyway, so damn what about it. Being a black man, not wanting to bring up race, but doing it anyway, I say white people get stuff they don't deserve all the time, and nobody makes a big deal out of it. But let a black person, or any minority do it, then there's a big hue and cry against it. People yell and scream, point fingers, call for rule changes, want to form a committee to study whether to form a investigating commission. I say stop it. Stop it! Stop it!
One of the beauties of American is that by hard work, luck, or circumstance you can acquire stuff you don't really deserve. In the 21st century, if we are truly striving towards equality, then all races, creeds, and colors should be entitled to stuff they don't deserve.
And for you people that constantly bitch and moan about what somebody else is getting, direct they energy toward something you want, and you too might get stuff you don't deserve.
Enough said. I'm out.
One of the beauties of American is that by hard work, luck, or circumstance you can acquire stuff you don't really deserve. In the 21st century, if we are truly striving towards equality, then all races, creeds, and colors should be entitled to stuff they don't deserve.
And for you people that constantly bitch and moan about what somebody else is getting, direct they energy toward something you want, and you too might get stuff you don't deserve.
Enough said. I'm out.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Baseball Been Very Very Roid to Me
Well, it’s spring time and sports fans are turning their attention to the beginning of the baseball season. Back in the day fans worried about their favorite team’s chances to win the division, make the world series, or at least improve on the previous season. Now fans wonder what high profile superstar will become embroiled in a steroid scandal. Last year it was Roger Clemens, who like Barry Bonds, had remarkable seasons for a player late in his career.
This year it’s A-rod, who is not exactly at the end of his career, more like in his prime years. But considering all the recent tabloid stories about Madonna, strippers, madams, and hookers, he may have needed the steroids just to keep his energy level up.
There are probably only two ways to possibly handle the steroid situation in baseball and remove the stain of scandal. One way would be to come up with an all purpose test that could detect all performance enhancing drugs.
The second solution would be to make steroids and the rest perfectly legal, despite the potential long term health-related consequences.
Of course, if steroids were legal it would be okay for announcers to incorporate roid banter into the broadcast.
Picture this radio broadcast exchange.
"There’s one out, and here comes Billy Breakfast to the plate. He steps in batting at .215. Here’s the first pitch. High for a ball."
"You know, Billy is a prime example of a guy the roids have kept in the majors," the color man said. "He has twenty home runs, and 50 RBIs, but he’s only hitting .215."
"The next pitch is swung on and missed. The catcher must’ve been crossed up on that pitch. He’s going out to talk to his pitcher. Getting back to Billy and the steroids, in half a season he’s struck out 115 times. But boy, when he connects with the ball it really flies."
"Not to mention, he has a huge head. He looks like an alien from a Star Trek movie."
"We’re ready to go again. Here’s the pitch. Billy swings and hits a sky high pop up. That baby is way up there. The third baseman has a bead on it. Oh, the wind’s got it. The catcher and first baseman go after it. The ball drops between them. Breakfast is on second with a wind blown double."
"Now that was really a wind blown steroid hit."
This year it’s A-rod, who is not exactly at the end of his career, more like in his prime years. But considering all the recent tabloid stories about Madonna, strippers, madams, and hookers, he may have needed the steroids just to keep his energy level up.
There are probably only two ways to possibly handle the steroid situation in baseball and remove the stain of scandal. One way would be to come up with an all purpose test that could detect all performance enhancing drugs.
The second solution would be to make steroids and the rest perfectly legal, despite the potential long term health-related consequences.
Of course, if steroids were legal it would be okay for announcers to incorporate roid banter into the broadcast.
Picture this radio broadcast exchange.
"There’s one out, and here comes Billy Breakfast to the plate. He steps in batting at .215. Here’s the first pitch. High for a ball."
"You know, Billy is a prime example of a guy the roids have kept in the majors," the color man said. "He has twenty home runs, and 50 RBIs, but he’s only hitting .215."
"The next pitch is swung on and missed. The catcher must’ve been crossed up on that pitch. He’s going out to talk to his pitcher. Getting back to Billy and the steroids, in half a season he’s struck out 115 times. But boy, when he connects with the ball it really flies."
"Not to mention, he has a huge head. He looks like an alien from a Star Trek movie."
"We’re ready to go again. Here’s the pitch. Billy swings and hits a sky high pop up. That baby is way up there. The third baseman has a bead on it. Oh, the wind’s got it. The catcher and first baseman go after it. The ball drops between them. Breakfast is on second with a wind blown double."
"Now that was really a wind blown steroid hit."
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Michael Phelps is Pimp Daddy P
If you haven’t been on the planet Venus the last few days you probably know about the latest celeb scandal. The picture of Olympic swimming sensation, and designated all American boy, Michael Phelps, bonging away on some weed.
Besides the usual support or condemnation connected with such stories, the most interesting thing that has come out of it is some companies Phelps is a spokesman for have stood by him. In the world of media, no outlets are more wimpy and afraid of controversy than the major TV networks and corporate advertisers. Remember Magic Johnson losing endorsement when he announced he had the HIV virus, and Kobe Bryant losing out when he was accused of rape.
I suppose it helps Phelps that, although illegal, marijuana use has become quasi mainstream. Jay Leno routinely jokes about his band leader Kevin’s love of weed. A part of rapper Snoop Dogg’s persona is him being a notorious smoker of pot.
Here’s my flight of fancy. Suppose it comes out that Michael Phelps has a much darker side. I present you with Michael Phelps, Pimp Daddy P, an inner city pimp.
Picture if you will a long lanky white guy decked out in retro 1970s gear. A white wide-brimmed fur hat that matches his double- breasted white maxi length fur coat. A grey silk shirt, black bell bottomed pants, and a solid gold medallion complete the ensemble.
On the cold mean inner city streets a silver Caddie with a Rolls Royce grill and hood ornament glides down the street, and then parks near a corner.
Trixie, a shapely young woman in a bright red mini dress, white vinyl boots, and a pink trench coat, moves in the direction of the Caddie.
Michael Phelps, aka, Pimp Daddy P, pokes his head out of the window.
“Hey baby. Have you got something for me?”
“Yeah Daddy.”
Trixie reaches into her cleavage and removes a wad of bills. She hands them to Phelps. He makes a quick count.
“Girl, is this all you have for me?”
“Yeah baby. It was rough out there tonight.”
Phelps becomes instantly agitated. “Rough out there. Rough out there So I guess if it’s rough out there I can’t make my car payments. If it’s rough out there I can’t keep you in fine vines. If it’s rough out there I can’t pay my rent. Bitch, get back on the corner and bring me some money, or I’m putting my foot all the way up your you know what ”
Trixie turns and scurries away.
Phelps slams his hand across the steering wheel. “Damn It’s hard out here for a pimp. Even if you’re a Olympic gold medalist.”
The Caddie zips away into the night air like a silver ghost.
Besides the usual support or condemnation connected with such stories, the most interesting thing that has come out of it is some companies Phelps is a spokesman for have stood by him. In the world of media, no outlets are more wimpy and afraid of controversy than the major TV networks and corporate advertisers. Remember Magic Johnson losing endorsement when he announced he had the HIV virus, and Kobe Bryant losing out when he was accused of rape.
I suppose it helps Phelps that, although illegal, marijuana use has become quasi mainstream. Jay Leno routinely jokes about his band leader Kevin’s love of weed. A part of rapper Snoop Dogg’s persona is him being a notorious smoker of pot.
Here’s my flight of fancy. Suppose it comes out that Michael Phelps has a much darker side. I present you with Michael Phelps, Pimp Daddy P, an inner city pimp.
Picture if you will a long lanky white guy decked out in retro 1970s gear. A white wide-brimmed fur hat that matches his double- breasted white maxi length fur coat. A grey silk shirt, black bell bottomed pants, and a solid gold medallion complete the ensemble.
On the cold mean inner city streets a silver Caddie with a Rolls Royce grill and hood ornament glides down the street, and then parks near a corner.
Trixie, a shapely young woman in a bright red mini dress, white vinyl boots, and a pink trench coat, moves in the direction of the Caddie.
Michael Phelps, aka, Pimp Daddy P, pokes his head out of the window.
“Hey baby. Have you got something for me?”
“Yeah Daddy.”
Trixie reaches into her cleavage and removes a wad of bills. She hands them to Phelps. He makes a quick count.
“Girl, is this all you have for me?”
“Yeah baby. It was rough out there tonight.”
Phelps becomes instantly agitated. “Rough out there. Rough out there So I guess if it’s rough out there I can’t make my car payments. If it’s rough out there I can’t keep you in fine vines. If it’s rough out there I can’t pay my rent. Bitch, get back on the corner and bring me some money, or I’m putting my foot all the way up your you know what ”
Trixie turns and scurries away.
Phelps slams his hand across the steering wheel. “Damn It’s hard out here for a pimp. Even if you’re a Olympic gold medalist.”
The Caddie zips away into the night air like a silver ghost.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
