I served with Wile E. Coyote. I knew Wile E. Coyote. I sold anvils to Wile E. Coyote. I co-signed on Wile E. Coyote’s line of credit at Acme Corporation. I was Wile E. Coyote’s personal trainer. I lent Wile E. Coyote my supply of dehydrated boulders. Wile E. Coyote was a friend of mine. Base Jumper, you’re no Wile E. Coyote.
(Thanks to Gerard at American Digest for firing that one at us)
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)
We don’t leave well enough alone. We tinker. We wonder if that bonfire could use a little accelerant. And by “a little” of course we mean, “a lot.”
So when we see Jurassic Park, we’re prone to just wave our hands and say, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, blah, blah blah; velociraptors. Whoopty.” And then we’d put something really vicious in there instead.
The true Borderline Boy doesn’t keep a vicious dog, because the true Borderline Boy bites people he doesn’t like himself, and doesn’t want to lose the fun of it by subcontracting it out to a rescued pit bull mix. We keep cats, because they’ll bite their friends, too, including you, five seconds after you fed them, if you unwisely get between them and the bowl. It’s the only true sign of a worthy adversary.
Of course this is Russia, not the Gem State, so people named Napoleon doesn’t do so well in the winter.
The video is titled “Russians preparing for the Olympics.” I began to wonder what the Olympics would look like if Russia got to choose all the events. Lessee, there’s the Chernobyl spent fuel rod long jump, the Siberian outhouse visit relay, and the Crimean hammer and sickle throw. They’d have synchronized St. Vitus dancing. Freestyle polonium speed dating. Greco-Roman subversion. Cross country frayed strap dragging. Molotov badminton. Nordic combined breakdown lane luge.
Hey, wait a minute. That sounds way better than the regular Olympics, and dashcams on all the participants is way, way better than pinkeyed Costas any day.
(Thanks to tovarisch Zherar Van der Leun at American Digest for sending that one along]