Most Sunday nights follow the same pattern. Early in the evening, I vow to head to bed early so I can be refreshed for work on Monday morning. Then, around the time that whatever "Surreal Life" offshoot currently on the air starts up, I begin to realize how stupid it would be to be "refreshed for work" and wind up aimlessly running up and down the cable dial, staying up well past the usual time and eventually settling down to watch a completely pointless show hosted by a gasbag.
That show is "Mike'd Up." And the host is Mike Francesa, a man whose chief contribution to society is that, on a radio show cohosted by Chris "Mad Dog" Russo, he is actually the guy I consider to be the more annoying one.
While a TV show hosted by Russo might have mild entertainment value, one hosted by Francesa is righteously awful. And on a consistent basis. The show consists of Francesa spouting off nonsense about whatever sports event he finds worthy (but never hockey, because he knows absolutely nothing about it) usually behind a table with a bowl of snack food on it (this week's edition featured a Super Bowl XLI cake and a platter of wings). Half of his opinions are asinine, and the other half are just lame. In that, he is, of course, your typical sports radio host, but there's something about actually seeing the smug look on Francesa's face, which you don't actually have to contend with on the radio, that makes me insane. But yet I watch. Unfortunately, the show usually makes me so angry that I never make it to the show I actually want to see, the legendary and soon-to-be-extinct "George Michael's Sports Machine." And then I go to bed angry, which is a good way to start the workweek. After watching the show, I start to understand why people call in to sports radio and sound unhinged. Maybe that's what the future holds for me.
This week's post-Super Bowl edition was particularly heinous. The moment at which my anger reached a fever pitch was when Francesa spent a good portion of time complaining that Peyton Manning didn't act happy enough after winning the Super Bowl. And then he showed some footage of John Elway's toothy smile after he won the Super Bowl, insisting that he would have preferred to see Manning celebrate like that. This went on for several minutes. Or maybe several hours. I lost track of time.
So, today, Tinsel and Rot is pleased to induct Mike Francesa into the People Tinsel and Rot Would Like To Kick in the Groin Hall of Fame. Congrats, pal. See you Sunday night.
2 comments:
I listened to those motherfuckers for about three minutes on my drive home last night. I finally turned the channel after listening to both of them voice support for MLB's potential DirectTV deal, which would, in their words, only affect "230,000" or so people. And that's just a drop in the bucket compared to the 70 million that went through the gates last year. They basically told a guy who lived in an apartment complex in Fla. and wouldn't be able to watch the Mets because the co-op doesn't allow satellite shit that he should a) move, or b) deal with it. Noting that the guy never presented it as a life-or-death matter, simply saying "why screw the customer for what amounts to $1 million per team [which might run the water fountains through May]?" With their acute knowledge of numbers and consumer science, these two douchebags basically said "MLB has to take the money. I mean this is $30 million!" Fuck the customer [or 230,000 of them ...], we need pennies on the dollar! Goddamn, I hate them.
Well, at least you're not addicted to the double shots of Intervention and The First 48 on A & E on Sun. nights. That can keep me up past 1 am some Sundays.
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