The Tragedy of the Female Football Announcer

I heard a debate recently on whether or not females make good in-game sports announcers, primarily in football. The guy against them didn’t have a strong argument outside of, “I don’t like it,” and the guy for it played the equal rights card and suggested the best woman is far better than the worst male. While undoubtedly true, it’s completely irrelevant. He went on to jokingly call his opponent a sexist, chauvinistic simpleton.

Then I realized how strongly I disliked female football announcers too. Am I sexist? Am I chauvinistic simpleton? I say unequivocally no.

Don’t get me wrong. I love coming home to a freshly made delicious dinner my girlfriend has prepared. But I don’t want her in the kitchen barefoot with an apron. I’m perfectly happy that she cooks in her business casual attire after working all day long herself. I support her and the money she contributes towards the bills. I don’t have anything against women working, just as long as they aren’t the ones calling my football games.

It’s not that I think women aren’t capable. I’m sure their dads and brothers taught them the basic rules of the game, how to keep score, and where they keep the water on the sidelines. It’s not their knowledge, or lack thereof, that irks me when they’re behind the mic. It’s simply their voice. It just doesn’t fit.

We’ve all met someone whose voice didn’t match their body. Whether it’s the ‘roided-up gorilla meathead with a squeaky voice or the petite cutie that sounds like a sixty-year-old lifelong smoker, we have all run into that vocal paradox that makes our head spin. Everything that person says gets lost behind the trance their voice puts you in. They might as well have a baseball sized mole on their forehead.

This is the way I feel when a female announces a football game. Football is a man’s game. Outside of the few women who have made their way onto high school squads as kickers, it is the only sport that women don’t play. Football feeds the inner gladiator in us all. It brings out our primal thirst for violence while implementing war-like strategy. George Carlin described it best.

Football is played on a gridiron in a stadium with names like War Memorial Stadium. (…) The object of the game is for the quarterback, also known as the field general, to be on target with his aerial assault riddling the defense by hitting his receivers with deadly accuracy despite of a blitz and even if he has to use the shotgun. With short bullet passes and long bombs, he marches his troops into enemy territory balancing his aerial assault with a sustained ground attack that punches holes in the forward wall of the defensive line.

To serenade such manly event with a feminine voice-over disrupts its proper atmosphere. It turns a poker game with beer, cigar, and farts into a game of rummy with pretzels and punch.

For those who insist it makes no difference, and that some women are extremely talented in the art of play-by-play, where do we draw the line? Would you be okay with a 10 year old boy announcer? He might be the most football knowledgeable 10 year old in the world, but everyone would agree his voice belongs in the Vienna Boys Choir, not among the Dallas Cowboys.

What about a 100 year old lady? Would that be okay? She has 80 years of experience watching football and remembers players you’ve only seen on ESPN Classic. Would she be a suitable announcer?

There are some sports I think women can call and nothing is lost. Take basketball for example. As bad as women are at it, they do play it a lot, and it’s not exactly the full-contact barbarian battlefield football is. Women even have their own (subsidized) professional league with games on TV and everything. Because of this female prevalence in basketball, it doesn’t make me cringe when they call a men’s game. They can have their free reign of volleyball, lacrosse, and field hockey as well. But when pads begin to crack and the cool autumn air hits, lets keep the estrogen in skimpy clothing on the sideline and let the fellas handle the play-by-play. We should be afforded that much chauvinism.

Driving Rules

There are all these rules when you are behind the wheel that I don’t really understand. Lawmakers feel they can prevent wrecks by incorporating all these policies for motorists, but in realilty, most are equivalent of 4th grade teachers banning whatever became popular in school. Let’s begin:

  • Several states have gotten on their high horse and outlawed the use of cell phones while driving. Seriously? It’s not that dangerous. I can even text and drive, but I could see an argument against that. Sure there are people who can’t handle it, but there are also people who can’t walk and chew gum at the same time, but the last time I checked it’s still legal to munch on gum and perform any activity you please.

    Lets say there was a massive catastrophe. Lets say some schuck operating a piano lift was chewing gum and out of uncoordination, dropped the piano on a crowd of people killing 2 and injuring 5 on the streets of New York. Would this justify banning chewing gum and doing manual labor?

    It’s not illegal for one armed man to talk to his passenger while driving. What’s the difference?

  • It’s illegal to wear headphones while driving. Why? What sounds are so important that you have to hear in order to drive safely? Amublances? You know what I think about that. Police cars? I think you’ll know if you are being pulled over. Most policemen don’t even blast their siren for routine speeding tickets anymore anyway.

    I vividly remember several cases of playing outside as a kid and hearing some punk teenager’s radio blasting as he drove by on the highway 1000 feet away. There’s no way he could hear himself think, much less a horn honk from the car behind him…yet…that’s legal.

    It’s legal for deaf people to drive. What’s the difference?

  • Did you know you have to wear shoes when driving? Barefoot driving will get you a ticket. This one may be the best of them all. Who gives a shit if you’re barefoot? If anything, you would think it would enhance your driving skill by giving you a better feel of the gas and brake pedal. It’s like making quarterback wear a glove on his throwing hand in football. It just makes no sense.

    The only time I’ve ever felt a bit unsure of my driving skill when it comes to pedal sensitivity was when I wore cleats. The extra few inches between my foot and the pedal kinda threw off, but surprisingly, I figured out.

    It’s legal for a man stricken with frostbite on his foot to drive. What’s the difference?

The most annoying person to work with….ever

It was Wednesday evening. I had just completed a glorious week off where I had spent my time between lying on the couch and stuffing my face with popcorn. It was now time to start yet another work week. As I trudged down the long, barren, hallway toward the pharmacy I wondered to myself who I would be working with during the evening shift. As I opened the door, I was devastated by who would be with me for the next couple hours: Delilah.

Yes, the Delilah on the radio. She has evidently accumulated the popularity of Elvis and Cher and been christened into the “I am known only by my first name” club. However, just because she has 7 million listeners, doesn’t mean she has any place in a pharmacy. It’s simply not safe.

As a case in point, let’s look at this particular Wednesday night. I sat down to begin work with Delilah talking my ear off in the background. During an attempt to enter a host of admit orders, a caller got on the air and droned on about how the love of her life left her after three months.

Yes, three months. I’ve eaten nothing but Taco Bell for longer stretches of time and I hardly consider the chicken quesadilla with soft taco combo meal the love of my life. This woman was an emotional wreck, though, and who does she turn to for relationship advice? Delilah Rene Luke. (That’s her full name, by the way) The single mother of 8 kids (5 adopted) who has been married and divorced twice. I’m not saying there is anything wrong with that, but I wouldn’t take beach volleyball lessons from an Eskimo.

How could I function as a professional and competent pharmacist with the radio blaring this kind of stuff just 15 feet away? Matters got worse when Delilah’s only remedy was to pick out a sappy, depressing, dismal song to play just for her. I’m sure the caller felt much better after 3 minutes of musical sorrow, but I, on the other hand, could not get any work done because I was too busy beating my head against the counter. I can only hope that the work I did manage to squeak out during this time period was accurate.

The bottom line is that Delilah could cost people their lives. I’m not just talking about the lack of relevant advice she gives to her gloomy callers. I’m talking about secondary influences such as patients in hospitals, the kids at the dentist’s office, the construction workers on tall buildings, or anywhere else there is Delilah in the workplace. Save a life. Turn the dial.

I eat chicken wings, therefore I am (a man)

Today, I had an epiphany. A good one at that. I was walking by an employee on lunch who had brought in chicken wings. At first sight of them, I gave a noticable cringe. I’m not really the biggest fan of wings…in fact I would say I’m not a huge fan at all.

The reasons are simple. First off, in general, they are hot. I don’t really do spicy food. Second, they are covered in sauce and require you to eat with your hands. WTF? Who came up with this idea? The usual idea with finger foods is that your hands don’t get all nasty when you eat them. If there exists a food that get your hands nasty, then you use silverware. Hell, it’s probably why the fork was invented in the first place. The creator of the chicken wing through that idea out the window, though, and said, “Screw it. I’m going to make the messiest edible substance I can imagine.”

Really though, it’s not the actual messiness factor that really gets me. It’s what comes with it. So there you are. You have eaten one wing and your fingers are all ready covered in viscous sauce that is apparently made with skin adhesive. Do you go for the napkin at this point or do you go in for another wing? The two biggest dilemmas are when and what utensil you go about wiping the sauce off your fingers.

There are so many options of when. Do you wipe after every wing? Every 2 wings? Every time you go for a drink? Wait until you finish all the wings? The major problem with the latter is that you look like a Downs Syndrome child if you grab your drink using just the palms of your hands.

What about the method of wiping? There’s the conventional napkin. There’s always lick/pop your fingers. But when, if ever, is there appropriate? You’ve also got the the moisty naps, but I can never tell if those are strictly for post meal use or they can be used throughout. It’s all very confusing for me. Even after all that, it still takes three days worth of showers before you completely get all of the sauce out from between your fingernails.

Then I realized how much I’ve eaten wings in my life, and wondered why. I think it’s a man thing. There are several things classified in the “well it’s just a man thing” category that men do/have done regardless of their personal preferences. For example, bench press is one of these. Even those who don’t work out or have never worked out on a consistent basis, have probably bench pressed at least once in their life. I would say most guys can quote you the most weight they have ever done. 250, by the way.

Another man thing would be driving a standard, or manual transmission. (I didn’t want to just say, ‘driving a stick’) Most people would agree, outside of the “coolness” factor, driving a standard is a pain in the ass over time, but most guys are able to at least do it. Even if they have never tried driving one, they will claim they are able to in fear of losing any man points.

One final man item off the top of my head would be wearing boots. Not cowboy boots, necessarily, just boots in general. Maybe for some, boots are not comfortable or give you bunions, but I betcha anything, they’ve got a pair in their closet. They won’t throw them out either. Every man’s gotta have a pair of boots, whether they wear them or not.

Back to wings, I will make a guilty confession now that I am out of Winchester and will probably never live in a town where the primary attraction is Buffalo Wild Wings. I really only went there for the beer and Stacker machine. There. I said it.

I feel better all ready.

Salsa that does not look like salsa

…pisses me off. As a sheltered white boy from rural America, I am used to my salsa looking a certain way. I will do my best to describe what I feel is a perfectly visually simulating bowl of salsa.

First off, it’s red. A dark red…but no too dark. It has the viscosity of a freshly blended Icee that has been half way finished while sitting in the sun over a period of 7 minutes. There is evidence of chunks, but the chunks do not overwhelm the appearance. There are very infrequent spots of discoloration caused by light seasoning. And held under the correct lighting it glistens like a honeymoon horizon in Hawaii.

Please see an example of this visual I have constructed. It was the best I could find, albiet illustrated. Good looking salsa.

Just past my one year Arizona anniversary, I have eaten a plethora of salsa varieties. I have compiled a list of visual salsa heresies that make their consumption difficult regardless of how good it actually tastes.

  • An overwhelming amount of corn salsa – Don’t get me wrong. I like corn. Cobbed, canned, frozen, doesn’t matter. But it should never be the main ingredient in salsa.
  • Green salsa – This should really go without saying. Guacamole is green. Making salsa green just confuses matters when determining which dip to partake. Plus it looks gross.
  • Watery, watered down salsa – Refer back to my viscosity lesson in the perfect salsa paragraph. When the salsa is thinner than my Corona, I have to pass.
  • Brown salsa – First off, all brown salsa looks like it has enough spiciness to kill 75% of the taste buds on any given tounge. If you get past this fear factor, you then have to overcome the mental obstacle of eating something like that looks like diarrhea.
  • Salsa that isn’t really even salsa, but just a bunch of finely cut up vegetables – I mean, really. What’s the point?

And don’t get me started with tortillas.

Dude…the movie is over

Get up. It’s over. You’re in my way. It’s really just credits from here…no more action…just words…pointless words. They’re going by way too fast for you to read them anyway. Are you really going to make me step over you? Really? Really? Dammit, you’re such bitches. “Um, excuse me, please…thanks.” Twats.

I saw the ever hyped Dark Knight in IMAX last weekend. Ooooooo…IMAX. (I imagine the creaters of the term IMAX would rather shove icicles under their toenails than spell it iMax.) You think that would be just wonderful, right? Well, it’s not like “A Day on the Space Station” (my only other IMAX production) which was actually filmed for IMAX. The Dark Knight was filmed for a normal theater…so how do you make it for IMAX? Just make it a little bigger. I picture it going down like this in the theater management room:

“SIR! I have an idea! Lets make a couple screens in our a couple rooms a little bigger, scoot back the projector a bit, readjust the focus, might even turn up the volume…and presto! IMAX! We could even charge a few extra bucks.”

“BOOM! You’re an idea man…that’s what I like about you. Now go fetch me another cigar.”

Because that’s basically what it was…a slightly bigger and louder version of a regular movie. But this was The Dark Knight. Did you hear Heath Ledger died? He was the guy who played The Joker. He did SUCH an incredible job…but did you know he died? So his performance was so great…but he’s not here anymore, so it like 100000 times more better and gooder.

Ok, you get it. It was a little over hyped, but regardless it was good. I’m not here to turn Roger Ebert on you, but what I did find interesting about it, was the captivity it took on everyone. I swear, you’d think people had been staring at a pocket watch swinging like a pendulum for the past 2 1/2 hours. If a movie has a funny twist for an ending, you get a maximum of 10 seconds to stay in your chair to focus and try and figure out what you just saw. That’s it. There’s none of this I’m so entranced by seeing who the makeup director was that I must stay seated on the end of the aisle, with other people in my row waiting on my to leave.

And entire family of like six did this to me. No joke. This isn’t the first movie this has happened with by the way. I’ve seen it before. It’s one thing if the movie has extra footage post-credits, but as much hype as Batman got, I knew for sure there was nothing more. So instead of these people just getting up and walking out, they made my party tiptoe through the narrow minefield of Sour Patch Kids boxes, empty popcorn buckets, half empty cups of Dr. Pepper, and a barrage of knees that were of varying length and sharpness. Yes, I said half empty.

On the other hand, it is kind of funny, when you know there is footage after the credits, unbeknown to ole cranky dude who wants to step over you and beat the traffic. It’s great to watch him awkwardly turn around halfway down the aisle as he walking out trying to see what he is missing. He must be thinking, “Oh wait…there’s more…but I’ve already committed myself to leaving…what if the person behind me wants to keep walking…but this looks like it might be really funny…person behind me looks kind of old…should I just sit back down…is that awkward…maybe I can watch from the aisle…hahaha, that was a good one…ok it’s over now…whew…shit, there’s more…maybe I’ll just walk slowly and catch the audio…just a quick glance over the shoulder…it’s outtakes…I love outtakes…no, must keep going…the gap in front of me is growing…must decide…but you already decided by standing up…stick with your guns…don’t want to look weak in front of the date…but what if she wants to see them too…don’t want to be the asshole who left early…but the grandma behind me looks pissed…wait, that audio needed visual…I missed it…grrr…screw it…I’m leaving.”

I know…I’ve been that guy.

Why So Serious?

I have no idea who Alice is…

I really have no idea who she is. I mean really…no clue. I’m clueless. Kind of like you…or at least I think you were in that movie.

So here’s the scenario. You know that person that you know fairly well, but not great? You know…the one who has a personal experience story to relate to everything. She starts telling you the story and throws in names of people that nowhere in the story she identifies. It’ll go something like this: You will say a simple line such as, “It’s my birthday on Friday.”

She will respond, “Ok, so this one time, Joe and I were driving back home from vacation, when all of a sudden Britney called. Can you believe it? I haven’t talked to her in forever. Well on the way we visited Alice and she got me a birthday cake!”

And you have no idea who the hell Joe, Britney, or Alice are! Is Joe a boyfriend? Friend? Brother? Stepdad? Britney I could maybe make out to be a friend from a few years ago, but for all I know it could be her mom. And as for Alice…she might as well be the clown you had for the party you had when you were 7.

When you know the person you are talking to doesn’t know who Alice is…just give a quick little, “my friend,” before her name. It’s simple, and won’t cost you much breath. I promise. I find that a lot of “stuff girls” often fall responsible for this type of thing.

Slightly off track, the above response reminds me of another pet peeve of mine. It’s when I bring something up in conversation and immediately it turns into a story about the other person that may have only a slight bearing on your original statement. I’m talking about MY birthday…not yours…and especially not your birthday from a couple years ago that seems relatively uneventful anyway.

It’s kind of like if I said, “I just found out my mother passed away today.” Their response would be, “My mom told me she bought a new purse.” I had an ex do that constantly…large part of why she is an ex.

I digress…

Perhaps equally, if not more annoying as the lack of an appropriate pronoun, is when someone you know really well uses a pronoun to describe a mutual acquaintance. You know that best friend you’ve had your whole life who happens to have 2 brothers? Doesn’t it just piss you off when he refers to a character in his story as, “my brother.” Dude…I know you’re brothers. I have met them several times. I beat the older one’s ass in Mario Kart last week! You can say his name. I’ll know who it is.

Even worse is when he just says, “my friend.” Come on man…I’ve lived next door to you since I’ve been in diapers, there’s a good chance I know who this mysterious friend is.

So know your friends. Know who your friends know. Know who they don’t know. And explain everything. As for now, I’ve got go call my sibling. Later.

No, I don’t want to restart my fucking computer!

Quit! I just want to mindlessly browse Facebook and check fantasy baseball stats without being hassled every 30 seconds by Mr. Stupid-Ass Automatic Updater! No one likes you! Get the fuck out of my computer and quit bothering me!

“Look at me…I’m Microsoft…I want to keep my users updated with the most recent anti-spam/anti-virus/anti-hacker/firewall/cookies/encryption/other bullshit no one really understands and I will sacrifice their sanity every week in order to accomplish this by constantly reminding them they have they have to restart their computer for the updates to complete.”

I’ve got news, for ya, Bill…I need your updates like I need a keyboard in my ass. And furthermore…DAMMIT THERE IT GOES AGAIN…I’ll restart my computer whenever the fuck I please. Just because there’s an annoying pop up window driving me insane, I swear to you, I will not cave in. I will stand my ground out of pure spite. I refuse to restart my computer just so Microsoft can fill my machine with more bullshit. I’ll press “restart later” all damn day.

I don’t cave into nagging bitches and I won’t give into you. IT POPPED UP AGAIN! Just keep coming…I’ll sit by my computer all night and keep hitting “restart later.” I won’t sleep…I’ll just stare at my desktop and count down the seconds until it pops up again…just to fuck you!

The creator of the automatic updater needs to be tied down to a railroad with used dental floss and have nails of varying size driven into him with a sledgehammer. I can’t get through a relativity short rant without it popping up…now THREE FUCKING TIMES!

Fuck you Mr. Gates…and your cookies.

This post was written in the style of the recently deceased George Carlin. The man was an absolute genius among peons, and I wanted to give my own little tribute to the man. If you don’t know who George Carlin is, spend a few hours listening to his stand ups on YouTube and be enlightened…he reinvented comedy.

Adam is this is a blog about bad Facebook statuses!!!

It’s time for another Facebook breakdown. Some of you long term readers may remember this post from Nov. 06 about the “do”s and “don’t”s in the quotes section of your profile. It was similar to this post about away message categories from way back in Sep. 05. Now I will tackle another aspect of Facebook that many users manage to mutilate…the Facebook status!

When the status feature first came out, the makers of Facebook made the mistake of automatically adding the word “is” after your name. So you had to start off each status with, “Adam is”. This limited what you say. For example you would be forced to say, “Adam is wondering why that test was so hard.” as opposed to, “Adam wonders why the test was so hard.” But Facebook changed that a while ago, so you’re no longer required to put “is” after your name. Some people, however, missed that memo. So here I present to you my most annoying Facebook status peeves:

  • The “I don’t know that I don’t have to include is” status. – You’ll see things such as “Adam is thinking Rachel is cool” as opposed to just, “Adam thinks Rachel is cool.” Just press a backspace and there you’ll have it…no more is. Besides, everyone knows intransitive sentences are not very powerful. (joking by the way…sort of)
  • The not even a sentence status – We all learned that a sentence must have a noun and a verb in 2nd grade. Some of you private schoolers may have even learned that in kindergarten while the rest of us public schoolers had finger paint up our nose. Regardless, just think how much your elementary English teacher would flip out on you if they saw your status, “Adam is the mall the tomorrow!” You is the mall? Try, “is going to the mall.” I’ve gotten my name of the board with a check mark beside it for lesser crimes.
  • Use of the word “I” status – As many statuses as you may have written, I’m sure you have read 100 times more. You should know that the sentence is about you in the third person…so don’t make it in the first. For example, “Adam is stressed out because I have to study before I go out this weekend.” This makes no sense. I know it is a little weird referring to yourself as “he” or “she” instead of “I” but at least it makes your status read correctly to all of your friends…and after all, that’s why you put it up in the first place, right?
  • The arbitrary words status (AKA Not even a status status) – This may be one of the more prevalent categories out there. “Adam GO WILDCATS!” is not only not a sentence, but not even a status. There’s nothing wrong with giving a shout out of some kind, but at least make it flow. “Adam is pumped Kentucky won! GO WILDCATS!” See? How hard was that?
  • The pointless status – Don’t take up room on my recently updated friends list with crap like, “Adam is home.” I don’t care. No one cares that you just got back from class. This status might work only if you’ve just come back from a 2 week vacation, but even then…I really could care less. Surely we can make spruce it up a little more than that.
  • Combination of all the above status – This status is almost impressive. It’s really hard to do even with me trying to do it, but I’ll give it a go: “Adam is I hate tests are hard.” Wow, I’m cringing just reading back over that. Oooo…I think that speaks for itself.

I’m sure you can think of many more, but these are the ones that jump out to me the most. But for now…Adam is ending this blog entry.

“Um, I have a boyfriend!”

There’s a girl sitting just ahead at a park bench, waiting on a bus. You too, need to catch the bus, and decide that if you are going to wait, you might as well make small talk. You don’t sit too closely because it’s just awkward when a stranger invades your personal invisible bubble. You (by the way, assume you are a guy if you’re not) strike up the following conversation:

You: “The bus is running a little late, today, huh?”

Girl: “Yeah…and I need to meet up with my boyfriend…I don’t want to be late.”

You: “This bus is usually on time, I don’t know what the holdup could be.”

Girl: “Well, my boyfriend is a very important business man and has a lot of connections in the city, he would probably know.”

You: “Oh, that’s nice. Well at least we’ve got a great day outside to wait. It’s probably the nicest day of the season!”

Girl: “Yeah, my boyfriend and I are going to go out and enjoy it as soon as I see him.”


Your last comment, of course, is what you only wish you could say. Catch me in the right mood and maybe one day, I’ll let this remark fly. It just infuriates me when a girl, who you could honestly not even be hitting on at all, feels it necessary to discuss the fact she has a boyfriend repetitively.

I found this video that addresses the situation and it provoked this entry. It’s also British humor, and I must confess, I have a soft spot for British humor. The other day, I read the following line from a book written by someone from across the pond: “Sacrificing goats for religious purposes is a waste of time and goats.” Not really related to this particular entry, but I just thought I’d share clever humor. Every once in a while I take a ride of my steed, Tangent.

Roll clip:

She Has A Boyfriend – Watch more free videos