Dude is big enough to produce his own gravity, but it doesn’t seem to affect the trajectory all that much. If this was filmed in America, he’d be covered in advertising spangles, and jumping up and down like an insane woman on The Price Is Right after he hit it.
I can picture his first day with his archery coach: “OK, stand still. Whoah, you’re good at that, aren’t you?”
We can’t leave this to the usual suspects to name. They name all male activities pretty badly. “Football?” Come on, that’s tantamount to insinuating that placekickers are important or vaguely masculine. They shoulda named it headbonking, or concussion derby, or “I’m not holding, honest.”
We could call it sluicing. Nah. How about guttering? No, that one’s taken for the morning after Saint Patrick’s Day. Weir jumping. I like that a bit. Grinding my kayak down to a nub has too many words. Canal crashing? Channel slamming?
I know. Ditch-it-deroo.
(Thanks to Gerard at American Digest for sending that one down the pipe)
Ah, robots.
We never tire of robots. At first they’re genial sorts, warning Will Robinson to watch out for some interstellar muppet that coming his way. But humans, being the inquisitive sort, can never leave well enough alone. We’re not going to be happy until squads of four-legged death automatons are hunting us to extinction, farting leaf-blower noise the whole time.
I just reread that last paragraph, and I’m sorry, but I totally want to be hunted by a squad of four-legged death automatons. I can’t help myself.
I mean, first you chug that cough elixir that doesn’t cure coughs, and then you ride a bike off a cliff. If you fall down, is that bad? If you slide down a moraine on your face instead of on your wheels, I figure there’s more entertainment value in it.
I’m all for the democratization of athletics, of course. We all cant have a big, flat lawn with stripes on it every five yards, and find twenty-one friends to knock heads on it every Sunday. Half your friends might, oh, I don’t know, ride their bikes off cliffs while looped on Red Bull on Saturday, and be unavailable to run the hook and ladder with you on Sunday. So the ability to turn a paper route that doesn’t deliver papers into a sport is good for the soul, I think. Especially when you do that Roadrunner/Coyote thing, hanging in midair for a few seconds before the scintillating gravel pizza finish. Love it.
(Thanks to Gerard at American Digest for sending that one along. He’s old fashioned. He doesn’t drink Red Bull. He drinks coffee, and, well, Old-Fashioneds)