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Category: BMX

Pardon Me Sir, Do You Have Any Grey Poupon? Oh, And BTW, My Legs Are Jammed In Your Drivetrain

Pardon Me Sir, Do You Have Any Grey Poupon? Oh, And BTW, My Legs Are Jammed In Your Drivetrain

Jeez, when did all sports announcers turn into fourteen year old girls screaming like Bieber just walked in? The guy with his legs and his johnson stuck in the rear wheel of his competitor’s bike was a lot calmer than those two.

Let’s drift back in time, kids. Have a get off my lawn moment. Sports announcers used to be calm. 

Of course, they drank whiskey out of a tumbler while broadcasting football games back then. They never pointed the camera at the announcers, because they only had one camera, and it was busy, so they did what they pleased. Oh, those college football games were announced like bowling tournaments. Both the play-by-play man and the color guy had eyes pinker than Bob Costas could ever dream of, but nobody cared. No one would know if they were wearing pants, either. You’d just hear these sonorous tones announcing that he’s just a soffamoor, with an occasional whoah nellie thrown in there when things got really wild. The dulcet tones of Cutty Sark and Lucky Strike, and not much blather.

You’d watch Monday Night Football and the 49ers or the Cowboys would be trampling some punching bag team into the turf on the way to their fifth touchdown, Emmit Smith’s jersey still clean, Jerry Rice’s uniform still as immaculate as the team photo, and the announcer would just say: touchdown. Just like that. He didn’t get excited, because he was betting on the favorite, and there was no way whatever New Jersey Generals the NFL had trotted out to get slaughtered were going to win, so it was the sound of a guy simply counting his money aloud like an accountant. There would have been a frenzy if the underdog got within two scores, maybe.

Bring back the low-key, stodgy, listless, phlegmatic, whiskey-soaked stentors!

(Thanks to Charles Schneider for sending that one along)

Noble Savage

Noble Savage


It’s very simple. If these sorts of shenanigans annoy you, there’s a cure. Saying, “Kids these days,” is not going to cut any ice. Calling the cops doesn’t work; these are human jackrabbits. Putting up chainlink fences to keep them out just expands the menu of near-crash stunts they can conjure up.

We could, you know, stop making every urban and suburban area into a dystopian concrete and pavement nightmare. If it wasn’t for graffiti and roadrash smears from skateboarding and BMX-riding stunts gone bad, there’d be no evidence of human life anywhere.

[Thanks to Gerard at American Digest for sending that one along. I hear he’s got a BB gun for just such occasions]

The BMX Rider Wasn’t Askeered, But His Shadow Looked Frightened Here And There

The BMX Rider Wasn’t Askeered, But His Shadow Looked Frightened Here And There


Remember circuses? They were fun. You’d sit on a rickety bleacher, assembled hastily by a laborer too unsavory to get a job working at a carnival, under a tent made from fabric that looked nastier than the curtains in a porno, and you’d watch geriatric animals doing tricks in a ring in the middle of the crowd. Bored tigers would lazily swat at chairs if the lion tamer poked them enough, and the elephants would parade around with girls from the Tammy Fae Baker school of wardrobe and makeup on their back. Then some clowns with slightly less makeup would pedal little bicycles around in a circle and hit each other with pies or sticks or buckets of glitter, and you’d go home with a big smile on your face and some sort of stomach virus from eating cotton candy made in a machine that wasn’t even cleaned in the factory after assembly, never mind in the thrity-three years it’s been in service since then. Good times.

Now the world’s upside-down, and the audience is expected to wear spangled spandex jumpsuits and ride elaborate bicycles out in the desert, while gila monsters, snakes, and buzzards watch us.

[Thanks to Joan of Argghh for sending that one along]