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.

Vanity plate sells for $6,750,000

TMMS. Too Much Money Syndrome. Gamblers from Vegas are often victims to this disease characterized by ridiculous purchases with funny money. Seems like people in the Middle East are afflicted as well.

I thought Virginia residents were bad. In the Middle East, however, there is a competition going on lately about who can have the lowest number on their license plate…a sign of who can piss the furthest. Oil diggers in funny robes throw millions down to get low numbers, and most recently the number 5 went for nearly $7 million bucks.

The same guy can’t wait for “1″ to go up for auction, but says he won’t pay more than $20 million for it. I wouldn’t pay more than $20 for it. The auction isn’t all narcissistic and ego competitive though, as a large part of the money goes towards victims of car crashes.

This is a trend that might very well start up in America soon, so I think when I move, I’m going to see what the lowest number the DMV has available and try to snatch it up. Then when, the some rich oil rigger with a fairway rough mustache comes along, I’ll simply sell him the rights for millions and go make insane purchases myself.

Here’s the CNN video:

Couple More Plates

The secretary sent out a mass email to the school to let the owner of a car with the license plate LUVRAIN know that they have their lights on. I couldn’t help but think about the irony that would ensue if instead of having their lights on, they had their windows down in a storm.

“Would the owner of the vehicle with license plate LUVRAIN please return to their car. Your windows are down and the rain is ruining your leather seats…guess you need to change your license plate…”

Plate number 2: This is an awesome plate. Even have a picture for you. Best part…it’s a handicap plate…

P.S. I knowingly wore different colored socks all day today and no one noticed.
Me: 1 Society: 0.

Long Car Ride = More Vanity Plates

Just got back from Kentucky for pigskin and ponies. There are two things I look for when I drive for several hours straight throughout the state of Virginia: cops and vanity plates. I really think I may have seen more cops than vanity plates…which is impressive, but thankfully, I didn’t run into blogable moments with the police. I did, however, run across a few plates worth mentioning.

BQN JOVI
That’s not a typo. They actually liked Bon Jovi so much, they used a “Q” for an “O” to mimic the pop star’s name. I guess the combinations the number zero in place of both “O”s were already taken. That’s dedication there.

U R GOD
If you haven’t noticed, I have a huge fascination with people who incorporate religious philosophy into their license plate. I’m wanting to say Scientology adorns the belief that each person is their own God, so Tom Cruise or might have been tucked behind the wheel. Then again, it was a Ford Taurus and not a helicopter, so I doubt it. But whoever was driving, I bet they get a lot of strange looks and middle fingers from religious fanatic passer bys.

BEACH UV
My friend slept for 6 hours and 55 minutes of the 7 hour drive back. He did pop up just in time to catch this license plate though. It was on an SUV…that probably goes to the beach a lot instead of sporting events. So it’s not a sports utility vehicle, but a BEACH utility vehicle. Creative.

Two last things: there’s another trip blog coming up soon, and if you see my sister, tell her I said happy birthday.

Junior’s Gettin a New Number

I must give a disclaimer before beginning this post: I do not watch NASCAR. That being said, I marvel at those who do. Obviously there are exceptions, but take a minute to paint an image of the stereotypical NASCAR fanatic. Not just fan who watches the occasional race on Sunday…but the true fanatic who devotes their life to loud billboards racing around a track. K…hold that image.

Near the pinnacle of NASCAR’s all stars lies Dale Earnhardt Jr. Granted, he sort of fell into grace genetically, but nonetheless, he’s there. Evidently he is changing driving teams, and therefore changing numbers. He’s going from the number 8 to 88, and he will also no longer be sponsored by Budweiser. I find this hilarious, and here’s why:

Still have that image? If it’s anywhere close to the image I have, you have depicted a pretty rough, blue collar guy decked out in his favorite driver’s attire. That’s the thing with the stereotypical fanatic…they must spend 40% of their income on NASCAR merchandise. Now…all those people who have dumped thousands and thousands of dollars into number 8 decals, shirts with an airbrushed Dale on the front wearing a Bud hat, and car/truck paint to duplicate the likeness of the #8 car have just gotten the biggest facial of their lifetime. Now they have to go buy a whole new set of 8s and hope they match the one they already have. Either that or just buy all new 88 decals, shirts, and paint jobs. And there’s not much they can do with the old stuff besides send it to the trash.

Then come the idea of all those tattoos! Thats right, tattoos! That has to be awkward walking into a parlor having to say, “You reckon you can squeeze another 8 in there between the first one and the checkered flag?” There’s really no way to make that look good…not that an 8 beside a checkered flag looked good on your forearm in the first place.

License plates will have to be changed as well. Just on my way home tonight I saw IRNHRT 8. Evidently, ERNHRT 8 was already taken and he had to improvise. In Virginia, you can only have 7 characters on your plate, so this guy is out of luck if he thinks he can get another 8 on there. If he hurries, he might be able to get “ERNHT 88″ before that other guy gets it.

As you can see, I could go on and on with this. There’s just some sort of cynical euphoria I get knowing that people on welfare are going to have to spend an exuberant amount of money to redecorate their trailers because Junior and his step mom couldn’t get along. Maybe now they’ll have less money to buy their $1.00 prescriptions and won’t come bother me all time. Then again, they’ll probably just be that much more pissed off when they do. Oh well, git r done, Dale!

Chicago Mang

Impulse and excess. That was the theme of my weekend. In a “screw it, lets go” moment, my friend, his girlfriend, and myself took a sporadic trip to the Windy City. They weren’t kiddin’ either about that wind. It cuts through you like Mayor William Hambley. (Pikeville reference) Beyond the cold wind though, Chicago is incredible. There’s art everywhere. It’s clean too. The locals aren’t raging ass holes like in New York which is also a plus. But there were a few moments of Chicago that were so blogable, they almost got iBlogged. Instead, I present them to you a few days later.

Blogable Event #1: Homeless Sign
I love reading homeless signs. You know, those miserable looking cardboard scraps homeless people hold up written in black marker by what looks to be a eight year old left handed. Everyone has seen the signs that say “God bless America, I’m just hungry” or some slight variation. Occasionally I’ll see “Why lie, I want beer.” Although I admire the honesty and actually thought was funny at first, I don’t so much now. The sign I saw in Chicago was pure poetry. It read, “I’m hungry. I’m not a bad person. I just made some bad decisions.” I was gonna throw the guy a quarter, but I was laughing too hard thinking of the caliber of bad decisions that would turn you into a bum on the street. I’m pretty sure that saying only works for moderate one time bad decisions after which you continued being a good person. For example, you were a physician who got caught looking at porn on the internet by a patient. That is excusable with such a saying. The guy who has been doing cocaine since the age of 14, dropped out of school in the 8th grade, robbed 7 banks, raped 10 women, and killed a man so is now on the street begging for money can’t really pull this saying off. “I have been a lifetime criminal and drug abuser, but I’m really a Nobel Peace Prize winner underneath the 1000 bad decisions I made.” Sorry…doesn’t quite work that way. Regardless though, good try.

TAG GOD 1
I thought Virginia had the best vanity plates, but I was shocked when I saw this plate parked in downtown Chicago. What does that mean? I battled with it the entire plane trip back. Here’s my break down word for word. TAG: the first two slang definitions of the word I think of are spray painting a building and hitting someone in the balls with the back of your hand. I guess it could mean the playground game of “Tag, you’re it,” but someone who incorporates God in their license plate is probably above allegories to childhood games. The next word, God…well that’s obvious…but then they throw in the number 1. At first I thought, “TAG GOD” was already taken. Maybe Illinois requires at least one numeric value per license plate…then I started going a little more outside the box. “1″ is a slang way of saying, “goodbye.” Then it all came together. You could easily interpret this plate as “I symbolically slap God in the nuts or graffiti his image with my outlandish religious beliefs and therefore must say goodbye because I’m going to hell.” A bit a stretch perhaps, but I could definitely see this being the guy’s reasoning. Virginians must not think as deeply as those in Illinois. The most common vanity plate we see here is, “LOVE MOM” or something to that effect. Nice to see a little variety.

$104 Shot…Plus Tip
I wasn’t kidding with the whole impulse and excess theme. At the conclusion at the incredible UK vs. Louisville game where Kentucky heroically conquered the Cardinals, it was time to celebrate. We watched the game at a UK alumni bar appropriately named Bourbon. They had over 70 different types of bourbon to choose from, one of which (Pappy Van Winkle aged 23 years) was $26 dollars a shot. I bought 4 of them (1 for me and 3 friends). Stupid I know. I don’t have a lot of comment on this, but spending over $100 on a shot of alcohol deserves to be publicly posted for humiliation purposes.

Art Everywhere
Seemingly around every corner was some sort of art. Whether it was interior design or random statues, art was prevalent. I took advantage of the camera feature of my new toy and snapped a few of the best. There was one park full of walking legs. They weren’t moving of course, they were statues, but they were in the form of moving. There was also a fountain that was a huge brick 3d rectangle with randomized faces that popped up. I got a little wet, but it was worth the photo. Then there was the gigantic kidney shaped mirror. It was extremely reflective and, well, shaped like a kidney. Here’s a picture of me taking a picture of myself in the mirror, MySpace profile picture style. I got into the mood so much, I even took a picture of my shadow in a very feeble attempt to be creative.

Overall it was a great trip. (wow, that was a very stereotypical 5th grade report conclusion paragraph first sentence) It kept me from updating my Blog, but hopefully this extremely long post satisfies your week void of posts. Someone actually got onto me tonight for taking so long between entires. Its about time one of you got onto to me for being too busy and too lazy (there’s a quality combination for you) to keep you entertained during class. I’ll try and not to leave you bored and forced to merely AIM for so long from now on.

So Money

When I first laid eyes upon the big red H3 Hummer with the license plate “SO MONEY” I immediately thought, “blogable.” (That’s how I define funny situations…blogable and nonblogable) When I sat down to write about this hilarious car-vanity plate combination, I found it really hard to put into words all I wanted to say about the epitome of this swingersmobile. The thing is…this guy is being serious.

I can only imagine the conversation he and his buddy had at the car dealership and then at the DMV.

Owner: “Look at that vehicle…it just shouts money.”

Buddy: “If you got that, the ladies would flock like bees to a flower.”

Owner: “Like a rose. Like a big, red rose with a ridiculous amount of horse power.

Buddy: “Thats so money. You’re so money, dude.”

Owner: “That car is money, dude.”

Buddy: “So money.”

Owner: “Just think if I could get a license plate to show how money it is.”

Buddy: “There has to be one available to show how money you are.”

Owner: “So money.”

Normally I’m a Pretty Good Driver

At least I don’t really screw up too badly on the road. The morning, however, I did. I admit. In the process of getting onto the interstate, I completely cut a couple in their 50s off. I mean it was bad. If I was the guy driving, I would have been furious. Anyone would have been, and a few probably would have showed me what their middle finger looked like. A nun would have at least honked. The guy driving, however, did neither. In fact…besides a quick hand gesture of shock to his wife, he didn’t do anything. He didn’t ride my bumper afterwards or anything.

I was confused. How could this guy not care at all that I made such a bonehead driving maneuver? About 10 miles down the road, he passed me, and then I figured it out. He was a “PPL PRSN.” Obviously someone who is such a big people person that he stamps it on his license plate could never partake in road rage activities. He’s gotta live up to the plate.

Speaking of plates, my sister saw one that said “IBAPHD.” The jury is still out on whether the driver was a black PhD who spoke in Ebonics, or the guy was just trying to be ironic that even though he’s a PhD he still can’t speak correctly.

This reminds of me of two jokes from Dr. Newton. (Sorry, non-BJDers for the reference unknown to you, but you’ll enjoy the jokes) Joke 1: “I first got my bachelors, or BS, and we all know what that stands for. Then I got my masters, or my MS, which stands for more of the same. Then I got my PhD which stands for piled high deep.”

K…Newton Joke 2: The farther you go in school, you learn a lot more about more specific topics. That means, if you goto school for long enough, you’ll know everything there is to know about nothing.

I need to turn off my internal monologue.

Peculiar Lunchtime

During my hour(ish) long lunch break today, I was bombarded with a plethora of “curb” situations. Normally I overlook these small occurrences when it comes to posting them for the world (or at least 4 people) to see, but considering the close proximity of these happenings, I thought they would sum up a fairly good blog entry…so here we go.

I needed to buy a yardstick. (What’s your first guess as to why I need a yardstick? Hold that answer for later) Most every time I’ve seen a yardstick used it’s been for sewing purposes…so where do I go to find one? Michaels Craft store. Makes sense. My jaw hit the floor when the Michaels lady flat out tells me, “We don’t sell yardsticks…” What? A craft store doesn’t sell yardsticks? Every mom I know owns at least one yardstick. Evidently they are the most abundant yet hard to find item in the world. I walked out empty handed.

Circuit City is right next door, so I popped by head in there for my patented electronics impulse buy. (although, this time I was just going to look, not buy anything) As I was checking out my CD, a woman set off the alarm system as she walked out the door. She paused, looked around with the “Huh? I didn’t steal anything…I don’t get it…what’s going on?” look. The cashier that was ringing me up just looked up and waved for her to keep going. It was then I realized that all you have to do to steal a piece of electronic equipment is to walk out the door, and instead of running like a bat out of hell when the alarm goes off, just stand there for a minute and look confused. You’ll probably even get an employee to wave goodbye to you as you shoplift your item out the door. You should try that…

I got back in my car and set forth on an adventure to find the elusive yardstick…and ran into a pretty good little vanity plate. Haha…thats right, I’ve not posted one in a while, so it’s about time to revisit my favorite Virginia driver’s pastime. So here it is: CHASHLEY At first I thought it was one of those stupid trendy names that parents sometimes name their kids in an effort to make them unique. Then it hit me. This car belonged to the couple of Chase and Ashley. Either that or some couple named their kid Chashley after themselves and gave her a car.

I found a yardstick at Wal-Mart. Normally, I try and avoid stepping foot in the evil empire, but I made an exception. As I was checking out, the cashier didn’t even say hello…the first she said to me was, (wait…what was the answer you gave two paragraphs ago about why you thought I needed the yardstick? See if it matches the cashier’s) “You’re not going to beat anybody with that, are you?” I thought yardsticks were used for sewing. I’m not using it for sewing, by the way, but I’m also not using it for beating people. Anyway, I played along, “Just my 3 year old…he’s not scared of my belt anymore…” My face was showed now sign of a smile, but she saw through my sarcasm. I guess she assumed since she was joking, my response would be a joke too. Regardless, I got the feeling she really thought my plan was to beat people with it. At least beat things.

Then came the post office…nothing of note inside, but as I was leaving someone held open the automatic door for me. I thanked him anyway.

Oh, and Quizno’s is freaking expensive.

RU CRE8V

Well are you? I know I am because I posed the question in the form of a license plate. Its kind of like Michelangelo asking the same question on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel…or having ‘Do you play baseball?’ on your baseball card…or asking ‘Do you style your hair?’ in the form of squirted out hair gel.

Note this is not actually my license plate but some douchbag’s in the bank parking lot yesterday. I did find it funny that he was in the bank parking lot and not in front of a museum or something. I thought all artists were poor…unless they’re famous. Even then, they probably don’t make enough buy personalized license plates…but this IS Virginia…but this IS Winchester, so I doubt there are many famous artists rolling around. Then again, he could be a creative banker…or a creative teacher who just got paid…or a creative pot hole filler…hah, nah, I’d say there are more famous artists in Winchester than creative pot hole fillers.