All Quiet On the Witness Front

(A deconstruction of the dangers of deification)


Contrary to what Phil Collins will have you believe, dear reader, there is, in fact, nothing in the air tonight. Or at least none of the usual sports-talk-static normally zinging across the airwaves or fogging your flatscreen. Normally the end of the NBA Finals brings talk of the fierce terrain the recently crowned champions have cut through on their quest for finger jewelry, or the demons said team have displaced upon lifting the Larry O'Brien Trophy. No, this year all anyone within mouth-breathing distance of a microphone wants to discuss is The Loser. And while he's certainly big, he's also certainly not the biggest.

Now, it is not usually your narrator's style to blame the media for anything(that's Fox News' job), for we here at Bigmouth are dedicated to digging into the deeper truths of such matters. But in this case, the target of their dizzying derision is a monster of their own creation; a fabulous Frankenstein gone awry for whom they sharpen their picthforks and light their torches. Yes, the same people that gave a 17 year-old Ohio native a coronation before he even stepped foot on a professional basketball court are now calling for his head like an entire army of Prince Joffreys. A mere year after being named the MVP of the league, nobody, it would seem, is down with the King.

They'll tell you of course, that it's because of The Decision. Or The Party. Or big egos, lack of teamwork or other intangibles that get tossed around like J.J. Barea in a dryer (that dude could totally fit in one, and you know it). But the real reason is that he's become The Loser when they all claimed he was a winner. LeBron has committed the capital sin of making the media look foolish, and the pundits are making him pay.

That's why Scottie Pippen is a heathen for comparing The King to His Airness, even though every over-sized talking head on the evil four letter network has been doing the same thing for 8 years. That's why Clevelanders burning the jersey of a guy they've never met are noble savages instead of just, well, average ones. And that's why you'll be hearing more about Lebron than the upcoming lockout this off-season (which, come to think of it, may have been David Stern's deliciously evil plan all along).

So let's turn this into a teachable moment, shall we? If you'll direct your attention to the front of the class, I believe Professors D. and Flav have written today's valuable lesson on the board.

Our Cup Overfloweth

(A moritorium, ad mejorem, for the last month of fantastic footy)


It started, as most legends do, with a single email. It's title: Oh Zidane. It's contents: A simple YouTube link that summed up the glory that is soccer on the world stage, in all of it's ridiculous hyperbole and grand showboats-manship. What evolved, as you will see below, is one of the better email threads your narrator has been privileged to be a part of on a lazy Friday afternoon. And so it is today that we post this thread as a eulogy, now that the World Cup is done and buried until Brazil 2014. Thank you, South Africa. And may your vuvuzelas rest in peace.

From: Joe
RE: Oh Zidane

Zidane on the dribble, past one defender, then another! Oh, he's finding coins behind everybody's ears tonight! Service to Henri, bending true...and he taps it home! Oh Zidane! Pure magic! Doves are flooding from those velvet sleeves! Oh Zidane! He's got that rabbit by the ears, doesn't he! And he's holding it up for ze world to see! 


From: Brian
RE: RE: Oh Zidane


Zidane downfield, wildly optimistic challenge by ze defender, Zidane now with ze wand firmly in hand, and Oh! It's a bouquet for ze lady! So much magic in zose sleeves! 

From: Joe
RE:RE:RE: Oh Zidane


Defender has Zidane by the lapel there, doesn't he? But no! It's merely the magician's handkerchief! And look at that handkerchief, it keeps going and going, doesn't it folks?! Every color of the rainbow, and a few dazzling hues this world has never seen! 


From: Marty
RE:RE:RE:RE: Oh Zidane


You guys are hilarious... please keep this going...


From: Joe
RE:RE:RE:RE:RE: Oh Zidane


Fetch your opera glasses, ladies and gentlemen, Zidane is on the attack! The ageless sorcerer! Oh and he's done it again! He cut that beautiful lady clean in half, didn't he folks?! Oh look at her, smiling wide and wiggling those beautiful gams. She's gay and giddy at the foot of the master! 


From: Brian
RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE: Oh Zidane


A cross pass to Zidane, wizard sleeves and hat gesticulating wildly as he composes a symphony of dancing brooms! Oh he is apprentice to no one on this fateful drive downfield! Fantasia indeed! He has tamed the fire breathing dragon!


From: Joe
RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE: Oh Zidane


Zidane dribbles right into the defender's goatee, as only he can. He fans the deck, eyebrows dancing...is this your card OH YES it is! Another defender left stupefied in this old wizard's wake! 


From: Brian
RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE: Oh Zidane


Zidane, resplendent astride his white steed, charges headlong into Helms Deep. White robes billowing, he raises his staff, and vanquishes an entire line of Orc defenders! Not even the eye of Sauron himself can stop the magic flowing through the limbs of this white wizard! Listen to those hobbitts, joyously celebrating as they blow their vuvezelas!


From: Brad
RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE: Oh Zidane


Funniest chain of emails ever.  I have laughed out loud for the past 10 minutes reading these, starting to get strange looks.  I should probably just leave the office.

The Quote Jumble: New Orleans Edition

(The Fresh Appearance of Our Only Feature Recurrence)


Hazy memories and partially reconstructed events are the usual toll when one embarks on a celebration of a compadre's last remaining days of bachelorhood. Throw in the rowdiest city in the greater U.S., a few Hurricanes and Hand Grenades, and the kind of humidity that would melt a vodka cellar in the frozen tundra, and things get stickier than an oil-covered pelican. Which is why, dear internet friends, this situation calls for the least reliable form of raconteurism around: anonymous source quotes removed from any kind of context whatsoever. It's time for our spiciest Jumble-iya yet, served up Nawlins style.

"Ya'll seen any vampires yet?" "No, you're already there, remember?" "Guys, they're strippers... not people." "It's a casino. Just put it down and walk away." "Was this town built for me? Or was I built for this town?" "You want another water for your mangina?" "That's the whitest guy I've ever seen." "I used to date a girl that went out with Landon Donovan." "Here's the good news: We're not girls, so we don't have to stay together." "Give 'em some beads! It's a self esteem booster!" "Baby girl wants ice, she gets ice." "Make a hole and make it wide!" "He has a bow tie. I trust him." "Someone snuck in the room last night and crapped in my pants." "And that's the first time he tried to kill me." "Your friend is going to fall off this balcony if you don't watch him." "Tomorrow we're goin' on a swamp tour." "Oh crap, I gotta take my prozac." "I went to LSU, he went to Mississippi State. My parents called it an interracial marriage." "Please just keep calling us ya'll." "I've got a belt!" "Put some cabbage on that salad." "It was nice of Tyler Hansborough to stop by." "All! Night! Long!" "I will dance in your blood." "Somebody better hit him so it looks like an accident." "That wasn't a real ring. That was a decoy." "You're cute... want a valium?" "She's singing into her shoe." "And that's why we have guard rails folks." "It's 3 for 1, so you want 9?" "So are you really a real doctor?" " I assumed you had your own plane." "It's about the size of a marks-a-lot."

Can't you just taste the catfish? Oh Jumble, you're such a tease.

Don't Call It a Comeback

(A Non-Explanation in Celebration of a Prodigal Return)

The best benefit (okay, only benefit… allow us some hyperbole, would you please?) to writing a blog that nobody reads is that it’s possible to sneak away undetected for long periods of time. Like say, oh, a year and a half. What has your oh-so-unreliable narrator been filling his days with on such a hiatus? None of your damn business.

Certainly it didn't involve scouring the mountainous regions of the Pakistani-Afghani border, sword in hand and night-vision goggles-a-glowing in a misguided but noble quest for the most wanted terrorist mastermind of our time. Nor was it the kind of hike along the Appalachian Trail that leads to the loving embrace of a South American mistress, as well as the abandonment of and subsequent re-trenchment in one’s political office.

A fantastic story does not always a hiatus make. Just ask Michael Jordan's baseball career. And unlike the Cool James the Ladies Love so much, no maternal advice was given upon our return regarding any unconsciousness rendering directed in your general vicinity. So rejoice, if you will, oh non-existent readers, for the digital bullhorn has been plied with fresh batteries, and a slew of post-tastic punditry awaits. Unless we get a sweet spot in line for “Twilight”. Then it might be another two years before you hear from us again.

Out With the Old, In With the New

(An open letter of gratification/ love note for our newest villain-crush)

With all the Hope and Change floating around in the air these days it's easy to forget that we have recently lost some major players in the Darth Vader sweepstakes for the most dastardly dudes in the galaxy. It's hard to nominate any one member of the former Bush administration, so we'll give the whole lot of them the evil-doing title of, well, The Bush Administration (say it out loud... gives you the willies, doesn't it?) and lump them all in as a single entity on par with the Legion of Doom, Hell's Angels or Satan's Minions (formerly known as the Backstreet Boys, and currently incarnated as the cast of High School Musical). Sayonara, sadists. Enjoy your time guest-hosting for Rush Limbaugh.

It is, however, no secret here in the unread digital dominion that is Bigmouth that your narrator has had a secret bunker of affection in his heart for the one and only Mr. Dick Cheney 

(quite possibly Vader himself, without the "Return of the Jedi" redemption wuss-out), who recently sealed his evil-incarnate role in American history by showing up to Obama's Inauguration in a wheelchair like some James Bond villain about to reveal the contents of his underwater lair (take note, Mr. Biden). So while we bid adieu to Dick and his Penguin-esque profile, we have been privileged to say hello to our newest Gotham gargoyle (hey, there's a reason they shot "The Dark Knight" in Chicago). Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Rod Blagojevich!

Let's review: Rod got himself square in the middle of an FBI investigation when he was caught on tape trying to sell Obama's Senate seat to the highest bidder. Bold? Certainly! But Rod was just getting warmed up. Not content to merely be one of the more crooked politicians in Chicago ( where they invented the word and served it up with a side of bratwurst and Old Style over 100 years ago), which would be a feat unto itself, Rod decided to crank it up about 1,000 more notches. Some notable excerpts: When the Feds showed up at his door, he thought some one was "Punking" him... he explained that all the cussing on the tapes was fine because he "wasn't talking to a woman"... the thought occurred to him that if he couldn't find someone to pay him for the seat he might just appoint himself, or OPRAH(?!?)... and he did all of this while rocking some kind of Burt Reynolds -meets -Donald Trump -in -a-static- storm hairstyle that would make Don King start wearing a beanie. Somewhere in Wasilla, Sarah Palin is neglecting her grandmotherly duties, taking notes, and repeating the phrase, "Palin/ Blagojevich" to see if it's got a 2012 ring to it.

And just when we started spelling his name right in Google search (is it coincidental that it bears a visual resemblance to Iago, one of Shakespeare's best villains? No? Too literary for ya? Anyone?) he found another notch on the scale, put on some Soulja Boy and yelled "Crank Dat!" once more. Launching a media blitz bizarre enough to make Mike Tyson scratch is tattooed head, while his IMPEACHMENT TRIAL was underway, Rowdy Rod booked himself on every show imaginable, including... wait for it... THE VIEW!!! And once he got his Lego hair onto the couch of that chicken coop he delivered a slew of batshit-crazy sound bites sure to make the collective heads of the "Daily Show" staff simply implode. No jokes neccesary people, just sit back and enjoy the narcisism! References included The Bible, Nelson Mandela, Ghandi and my personal favorite, a mantra containing the phrase "The fix is in." Pure, delicious, evil genius.

And so, Rod was thrown out of the governor's office while in the midst of an interview with Geraldo in some parking lot, and his saga was laid to rest. But what a bright burning star you are, Mr. Blagojevich! Nelson Mandela may be outraged, and Ghandi may be rolling over in his grave, but somewhere Dick and Kim Jong-Il are drinking mai tais, bitching about "Frost/Nixon", and saluting you sir.

If a Blog Posts in the Forrest...

(A rumination, in celebration of the illumination of a cyber-spacial birthday candle)

So, Bigmouth Strikes Again is officially a year old, and no one cares because nobody reads this thing. But before you (and by that, we mean our afore-mentioned fictional audience)  assign us a Kanye-complex, give us a nanosecond to explain our position on the matter:

WE LOVE IT.

We (or I, or your Narrator... what are you a private eye or something?) absolutely adore the fact that no one reads this blog. There is something quite satisfying in the idea of being a digital bullhorn barking at nothing more than a crowd of 0's and 1's. Because if a tree that falls unheard in the forrest makes no sound, then a blog that has no readership is perhaps not really even a blog. Which is fantastic.

It is in fact, a blog birthday wish come true, and we have no one to thank but the millions (okay, realistically probably hundreds... allow us a little hyperbole, it's our birthday!) of intrepid inter-webbers who simply don't show up here. 

Blogs are ubiquitous now, and everyone from neo-narcissists like Kanye West and Ryan Adams to super-serious-ists like Anderson Cooper feels the need to chime in or post about everything. In fact, most blogs now are just re-treads of posts from OTHER blogs, which are themselves re-writes from ACTUAL news outlets, most of whom have cribbed their stories from OTHER news outlets. It's re-diculous. Posting a picture of the new Nike Air Whatzit from Hypebeast and then adding the word, "Wow!!!!" or some txt variant with no vowels does not a great post make, people. Nor does adding all the same photos you have on your Facebook, Myspace (that still exists, right? Myspace?) or Flickr pages make you some kind of breakthrough presence on the web. Odds are you're not even a breakthrough presence in your own photos.

Which brings us back to Bigmouth (note the, ahem, no photo policy at work here). We are none of these things, and will continue our anti-existence here in our little rant-filled cyber-vacuum as long as we can hack it ( and we stress the hack part of that). So until next time, dear non-existent readers, stay frosty out there in cyberspace, and keep on keeping on ignoring us.

Celebcenter Part 3: (Long Overdue) Morning Edition

(A Revelation Regarding the Sporting World's Relation to the World in Actuality)

Dear Bigmouth Readers ( supposing you A) actually exist, and B) still exist, given our recent unintentional hiatus),

Turns out a lot can happen in 2 months, eh? We could review the litany of catastrophic events cascading down the newswire into the digital puddle that is your idiot box, but it gets awfully depressing incredibly fast. So let's try the shorthand edition: The sky was falling, and fast, until last Tuesday, when we woke up out of our 8-year coma and elected a smart guy with big ears and a funny name. Now most of the world likes us again (European Vacation, anyone?) and the planet may actually continue existing long enough for us to amend the Constitution and elect Schwarzenegger president in 2016 (laugh now, girlie men, but you know it's gonna happen).

So pardon your nascent narrator for abandoning his previous post-a-thon concerning the over-publicized and underwhelming Mr. Favre, but sports have looked about as small as Ralph Nader's chances last Tuesday in the grand scheme of things.

Which, if you think about it, is about right. Reflecting on how my habitual consumption and tracking of daily scores and highlights was quickly replaced by poll numbers and political punditry, I realized something quite profound. It's something that is quite frankly, fairly sacrilegious for a life-long sports fan to admit, but is true nevertheless: Sports and athletes are for men what tabloids and celebrities are for women. It's a nice distraction, a vicarious involvement, a guilty pleasure amidst the gruel and the grind of your daily dullness. And that's all.

So with that admission in the can, I think I speak for all of fan-dom, couch-dom and any other-dom that applies when I ask for a simple favor. Please don't treat our sports news and favorite players like they're bisexual b-list actresses out on an SUV-wrecking coke binge. Yes, it serves the same purpose at the end of the day, but lie to us, would you please? If we wanted to see athletes vamping around with celebrities, we would watch "Dancing with the Stars" willingly instead of pretending that our wives or girlfriends make us do it.

Thank you, and God Bless America.