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Most Vapid People I was gratified when Alex Rodriguez of the New York Yankees was awarded the American League Most Valuable Player award. Not simply because he’s a good guy and deserved it. Something bigger was at stake this time. It was a fitting comeuppance for every moron who, after watching a season of superhuman exploits, wanted to tear A-Rod a new one for a few mediocre at bats against the Angels in the playoffs. The steroid home runs hit by so many others will last forever. But A-Rod’s squeaky clean 48 dingers this year had all but disappeared in an onslaught of fair-weather fandom. Nowhere were the cretins out in fuller force than on the local all-sports radio stations. Yes, there is more than one. Let’s go to Ralph on the car phone. Ralph is on marriage three, girlfriend four, and probation five. His blood pressure is twice his IQ. He was recently attacked by a dog. His own. His credit is no longer good at Scores. He has not gotten to step one of his 12-step program. And this morning, Ralph wants to talk about how the Yankees’ middle relief sucks. Let’s hear from Phil from the Bronx. Phil, could you turn your radio down, please? I said, could you turn your radio down? What’s that, you can’t hear, so you’re going to turn your radio down? Great. Phil doesn’t realize he’s on a seven-second delay. It’s not long enough anyway. There is something else heard in the background. It is not a radio, however. It is Phil’s mother hollering at him. She’s right, though. At 48, you ought to make your own bed. Phil thinks these Yankees need to grow up. Now we go to Eddie on cell. Actually, Eddie is in one. Twenty-five to life for a badly botched breaking and entering. But Eddie’s big concern is the Yankees’ lack of a reliable fifth starter. Trade Mussina. Dump Small. Option Chacon. Woops, gotta go. Time for a cavity search. Let’s go to Norm, calling from Bayside. There is screaming, yelling, and crying heard in the background. It’s coming from Norm’s buddies watching the Packers-Vikings game on the 48-inch flat screen. Violence has broken out over an instant replay. Not on the field—in Norm’s living room. But Norm has a homeowner’s policy that covers death and dismemberment. The revelation that Rodriguez suffered the loss, just before the playoffs, of his closest uncle didn’t carry much weight with Buffalo wing-fed fans. After all, these athletes are paid to play through pain. At 25 million a year, he should have hit at least .300 in the playoffs. Which begs the question—at 10 million a year, what should someone hit? Of course, it’s not exactly fair to say these callers have nothing in their lives other than complaining about the four major sports and the players who play them. They also have a collection of Girls Gone Wild DVDs and a couple of female ex-supervisors to stalk. Question: If you feel rage for visiting teams from the AL East, what precisely is left over for Abu Musab al-Zarqawi? Come on, guys, get a life. Or trade for an existence and a life to be named later. It’s time to clean house. Yes, Dave from Sheepshead Bay on suicide watch after bowing out in the first round of playoffs in your rotisserie league—this means you. If you listen to the 20/20 update repeatedly in the hopes that last night’s score will eventually change, you need medical attention. If you think you can guide a long fly ball on TV fair or foul from your futon but can’t hit the bowl from three feet, please seek professional help at once. If you are depressed more than 24 hours following a Mets blown save, you are a prime candidate for electroshock therapy. But no treatment is viable or complete without punishing the enablers. If you want a real wake-up call, go to an all-sports channel the next time there is a national disaster. It can’t be just a mass-murder in an office building or a four-alarm blaze. Those tragic events don’t register even a mention during a three-hour free-for-all on whether the LA Lakers should drop the triangle offense. No, the real epiphany comes during a defining moment like Hurricane Katrina, where you get an hour-and-a-half about how the Saints will draw in Baton Rouge, punctuated only by 30-second spots for Levitra, Propecia, and Cingular. When the smoke clears, these marketing directors know their bread is buttered by limp, balding men burning up their free minutes getting bent out of shape about Terrell Owens. If the lost souls calling in at four A.M. are the hopeless addicts, then certainly the radio show hosts are the pushers. These guys are a breed apart. Ironically, if you add it up, all the time it takes to watch every college and pro football game over the weekend and every amateur and pro basketball game, hockey game, and poker tournament during the week leaves no time for breeding. And that’s a good thing. Click here to rant back. |