I watch Big Brown Choke from Couch
I considered heading up to Elmont for the Belmont. The Belmont stakes is in Elmont, in Long Island's Nassau County. I could tell you it's a town, but I imagine it is to Queens as Yonkers is to the Bronx, which is to say, nearly indistinguishible from it.
Instead I stayed at Fort Meade, and watched the spectacle on a big screen TV. The boy who sang the National Anthem looked like a refugee from the Neverland Ranch. He (?) was either prepubescent or a professional catastrata. Either way, he sounded like Britney Spears did the day she was discovered on Star Search. Perhaps it was fitting, a professional midget singing tribute to Old Glory before a contest where hormonally enhanced beasts would be flogged at will by men who looked and sounded like they represent the Lollipop Guild.
After two lackluster minutes from the 1-4 favorite, I got to hear two days (so far) of assurances placating the animal rights pinkos that Big Brown was not endangered during his last place finish. You'd think Michael Vick was his jockey or something, but of course, that's impossible.
Unless, of course, Big Brown was a Clydesdale....
And Vick was out of the pokey.
Or in a white collar pokey, with a race track....
And a golf course....
And a polo field....
And Tennis courts....
Am I off in left field? Did I leave out baseball? My bad.
The next day I was in the chow hall and caught the final set of Federer losing to Nadal in the French Open. Federer was gracious in defeat, and, as a Swiss, spoke to the crowd in their own tongue. Nadal gave Paris about three elementary sentences of French before switching to English. He was immediately booed, and he immediately switched over to Spanish. The crowd seemed satisfied to hear words in a language most of them did not understand, rather than English which perhaps 3/4 of them speak better than Nadal. You'd think this would have come up one of the last three times Nadal won the French. Maybe he didn't know English until this year....
I'm pretty Francophilic for an American, but these guys make it tough sometimes.
Instead I stayed at Fort Meade, and watched the spectacle on a big screen TV. The boy who sang the National Anthem looked like a refugee from the Neverland Ranch. He (?) was either prepubescent or a professional catastrata. Either way, he sounded like Britney Spears did the day she was discovered on Star Search. Perhaps it was fitting, a professional midget singing tribute to Old Glory before a contest where hormonally enhanced beasts would be flogged at will by men who looked and sounded like they represent the Lollipop Guild.
After two lackluster minutes from the 1-4 favorite, I got to hear two days (so far) of assurances placating the animal rights pinkos that Big Brown was not endangered during his last place finish. You'd think Michael Vick was his jockey or something, but of course, that's impossible.
Unless, of course, Big Brown was a Clydesdale....
And Vick was out of the pokey.
Or in a white collar pokey, with a race track....
And a golf course....
And a polo field....
And Tennis courts....
Am I off in left field? Did I leave out baseball? My bad.
The next day I was in the chow hall and caught the final set of Federer losing to Nadal in the French Open. Federer was gracious in defeat, and, as a Swiss, spoke to the crowd in their own tongue. Nadal gave Paris about three elementary sentences of French before switching to English. He was immediately booed, and he immediately switched over to Spanish. The crowd seemed satisfied to hear words in a language most of them did not understand, rather than English which perhaps 3/4 of them speak better than Nadal. You'd think this would have come up one of the last three times Nadal won the French. Maybe he didn't know English until this year....
I'm pretty Francophilic for an American, but these guys make it tough sometimes.
posted by roQQ | 7:32 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home