Dear ESPN: Take Your Cat and Leave my Sweater
***** Editors Idiots note: 4:24am, channeling Keith Urban here at oh-fucking-dark-thirty…
“woke up this morning around 4am with the moon shining bright as headlights on the interstate…” Arising at some godforsaken hour, when without even a glance at the trusty “soothing sounds of nature” alarm clock, you KNOW its the middle of the friggin’ night… ghosts and goblins time- the witching hour- blah blah… waking to the nauseous glow of a Sportscenter moon shining bright as headlights on the interstate.
The Sportscenter set on TV providing the only light in the room, a ceaselessly flickering montage from a cheapass 27″ tube. The “digital comb filter” carpet bombing my bleary eyes sans UV protection, courtesy of the Mengele inspired transgender incest between DisneyABCespN… whose Sportcenter set I can adequately describe as a cross between a violent dust storm on Mars and a Seagull regurgitating clownfish over and over again to feed its young .
Volcanic ensemble
-WHY IS THERE NO FUCKING SLEEP BUTTON ON THIS TV-
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Dear ESPN:
This is a breakup letter… I am finally leaving you. I could text you this Timberlake style, but I thought this most dignified considering our always passionate, sometimes fiery 30-year relationship.
I’ll be brief as honestly I am actively seeking a new paramour in sporting lust; a slimmer version of what used to be you… before you went Hollywood on me. No doubt you are busy adding widgets, inking the “Coors Light cold hard facts about the Budwesier Hot Seat” sponsorship deal, and playing with even more mutations of Pantone orange #021c.
Initially you were my savior, filling the massive sporting void between 5 minutes of Ted Leitner and Al Gore founding this whole internet thing. Now you have become a bloated caricature of yourself on par with Entertainment Tonight and the Springer Show, fellating yourself every time T.O. spews verbal diarrhea on the mike. Showing me yet again, 4 minutes of ACTUAL SPORTS HIGHLIGHTS, sprinkled amongst contrived drama between John Clayton and (is he wearing pants?) Sean Salisbury, detailing every chunk of corn found in the latest Manny Ramirez bowel movement.
“Who’s now” you ask? Well I haven’t found her yet. Yet unlike my proverbial childhood “girlfriend in Canada,” she IS real and she is coming. She’ll provide me what my souls seeks… raw, unfiltered, drama free, Hollywood exempt, explicitly carnal, sports footage.
She’ll sprinkle in some authentic commentary and analysis, but mostly she’ll just shut the hell up and “let them play.”
Boo-yah.
Sincerely,
Tanner Boyle