The Grouchy Editor

Hey fans, it’s that time again — World Cup soccer!

I live in Minnesota.  Other than Canada, there is no place in North America more rabid about hockey than my state.  People have been trying to turn me into a hockey fan my entire life.  It hasn’t worked.  Americans won’t take to soccer, either.

Soccer and hockey both suck on TV, and they aren’t a whole lot more fun to watch in person.  I’m sure they are fun to play, but as big-time spectator sports?  Nah.

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What’s wrong with this picture?

Yes, I understand that breast cancer is a serious matter, and no, I do not want breast-cancer research abolished.  But there is a story in Parade today about the amount of taxpayer money that goes into breast-cancer research, compared to funding for other cancers, cancers which happen to kill many more people.

Here are some numbers to ponder, from 2009:  Number One Killer — lung and bronchus cancer ($247 million for research); Number Two Killer — colon and rectum cancer ($264 million); Number Three Killer — breast cancer ($600 million); Number Four Killer — pancreas cancer ($90 million).  (All figures are for National Cancer Institute funding.)

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I really don’t care if 16-year-old Abby Sunderland becomes the youngest person to sail the world solo, or whatever it is she’s trying to do.  Bully for her.  And if the corpse of Ted Williams attempts to be the first dead body to climb Mount Everest, good for the Splendid Splinter. 

But when boneheaded sailors and climbers get into trouble and require thousands of taxpayer dollars to be saved, well, let them pay for their own damn rescue costs.  Australians are on the hook for little Miss Abby, who now informs the world that she can’t wait to try the whole adventure, all over again.  Why shouldn’t she, if she can get someone else to foot the bill for her next rescue?  From her blog:  “The loss of Wild Eyes [her yacht] will be deeply felt by Abby, who poured so much blood, sweat and tears into her.”

Boo hoo hoo.  Next time, let’s see her pour some money into her own rescue fees.

© 2010-2025 grouchyeditor.com (text only)

I just got back from the store.  While I was gone, I left on the television set.  And my computer.  And a number of lights.  I do this kind of thing a lot.  I am an American, dammit.

Of course BP is to blame for the oil spill.  And yes, government regulators failed to regulate.  But trashing the British seems a bit hypocritical unless we, the American consumers, get our act together and stop demanding so much oil on the cheap.

Worst of all are bonehead celebrities like Ashton Kutcher (below).  Though well-meaning, stars like Kutcher jet set around the world and live in oil-guzzling mansions.  And he’s upset about all of the oil drilling?

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I sense a Hollywood trend.  Last year, Sandra Bullock won a Razzie Award for Worst Actress in All About Steve.  She also won an Oscar for The Blind Side.  This year, Kim Cattrall is getting hammered for starring in what some critics call the worst film of the year, Sex and the City 2.  But she also stars in what I think might be the best film of the year:  The Ghost Writer.   Will Cattrall follow in Bullock’s footsteps?

Regardless of Cattrall’s fate this year, who among us will ever forget her memorable performance in Porky’s (below)?

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Joy Behar is growing on me.  I haven’t watched her on The View, because that entails getting out of bed in the morning, but on HLN’s The Joy Behar Show she’s funny and insightful.  Most refreshing:  She manages to keep her ego in check.  And is it possible she’s nearly 70 years old?

Bret Michaels is a great guy.  In fact, he might be a saint, because he once beat a brain hemorrhage and now he has diabetes.  He also once starred in a sex tape with Pamela Anderson and his tour bus was shot at.  The New York Times describes him as a “well-meaning has-been.”  He is a saint.

A.J. Hammer and Brooke Anderson of HLN’s Showbiz Tonight often chastise “the media.”  Silly me.  And here I thought that this sanctimonious, hypocritical duo was part of “the media.”

Unlikely Hero of the Week:  Bud Selig for getting something right by not overturning a blown call by the umpire during Armando Galarraga’s near-perfect game.  Baseball games are already too long; don’t make it worse by encouraging replays and overrules on every close play.

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“Well, this is just a massive cheat which I didn’t buy either of the two times I watched it.”

That’s a quote from a Huffington Post columnist and Lost fan who was, shall we say, underwhelmed by the series plot “resolutions” this week.  Now, here is a quote from Yours Truly, written back in January when the final season of this ABC show kicked off:

“I’m more reminded of another show I didn’t watch, but which, they say, went out in less than a blaze of glory:  The X Files.  I think it’s just too easy to come up with bizarre plot threads that tease viewers, and way too hard to actually resolve the nonsense.”

I could say, “I told you so,” and I believe I will.

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Venus Williams is not content playing world-class tennis.  No, she likes to make fashion statements, as well. Which explains, I guess, the lingerie-themed outfit she wore this week at the French Open.  I’m sorry, Venus, but after examining this picture, there is just one term that comes to mind — Man Butt.

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 Things I Care About … But Dear God, Why?

Lindsay Lohan — She doesn’t know me.  I don’t know her.  So why do I look up whenever I hear some fool mention her name on the television?  Ditto for Paris, Kim, et al.

Pro athletes — Pro sports franchises make billions by selling fans on the notion of team “loyalty.”  But that loyalty is always a one-way street.  If you’re a pro baseball player, for example, your loyalty is to the Yankees, because the Yankees pay the most money.

National politics — Most things that truly affect me happen on the local level:  speed limits, property taxes, etc.  Yet when it comes to political news, I spend most of my time watching blowhards on Fox or CNN debating our North Korea policy or some heated Senate battle in Nebraska.  I don’t know any North Koreans.  I don’t know any Nebraskans.

Things I Don’t Care About … But Probably Should:

My neighbors — I don’t even know their names.

Your snot-nosed kids — They’re your kids, not mine.  They should be your problem, not mine.  But not too long from now, your kids will either 1) pay for my Social Security, or 2) join street gangs and terrorize my neighborhood.

Things I Don’t Care About … But the Media Insists I Should:

Natural disasters in California —  I get it already.  You have mudslides, drought, and minor earthquakes.  I don’t care.

Airplane crashes — I guess the people who die in (rare) airplane crashes are more important than the people who die in (frequent) car crashes.

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Hold on to your Halstons, Sex and the City fever is upon us.  Again.

This got me to thinking about other male-female cultural disconnects.  Like Oprah Winfrey.

This disconnect serves our country well.  After all, if men were in charge of all voting, Pamela Anderson might be president.  But men also know, instinctively, that a woman like Winfrey is not to be trusted.  She loves her power too much, and we can picture her behind the curtain, being fed grapes and whipping her interns.

No, it’s good that men prevent Winfrey from becoming president.  And it’s good that not just women vote, or we might have a President Richard Simmons.  Although Simmons might be able to solve our obesity epidemic.

Speaking of gays in the spotlight … Newsweek columnist Ramin Setoodeh, who is homosexual, is feeling the heat of a ferocious backlash for daring to write about how gay actors have a tough time playing straight roles.  Entertainment Weekly columnist Mark Harris sniffed, “We may not be past this kind of thinking yet.”

OK, P.C. Harris, let me ask you this:  Would you pay good money to watch Richard Simmons, as Romeo, attempting to seduce Pamela Anderson, as Juliet?  You doth protest too much.

© 2010-2025 grouchyeditor.com (text only)

My Emily Litella Moment

During the bomb scare this week in Times Square, I had to admit that the anti-Obama crowd was right:  Our president was showing an alarming lack of leadership.  I came to this conclusion after listening to news reports that “the president is busy on the golf course.”

This was an awful development.  He was playing golf during a possible terrorist attack?

“Obama is taking a tour of the golf course,” a TV anchor informed me.  And then I realized my Emily Litella mistake.  Obama wasn’t touring the “golf course. ” He was touring the “gulf coast,” in the wake of the oil spill.

As Emily would say, never mind.

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Sports writers are not to be trusted.  Now that Lawrence Taylor (above) is in trouble again, I am hearing  professional jock sniffers talk about what a horrible person he is.

Decades after revered Yankee Mickey Mantle retired, we found out what a drunken jerk he was.  Here in Minnesota, Kirby Puckett was baseball’s “ambassador” of good will — until we found out, years later, that he was busy chasing his wife around the house with a chain saw.

Sportswriters won’t tell you about any of this misbehavior until after a) the jock is traded to another city; b) the jock dies or has been retired for many years; or c)  said misbehavior can no longer be ignored.

But times might be changing, thanks to the Internet and cell-phone cameras.  Just ask Josh Hamilton (bottom), who can no longer enjoy a night out on the town without some bozo posting pictures.

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The television show du jour is Glee.  Fox’s weekly series has completely smitten the media, and said media will not rest until the rest of us embrace this show.  The hell with Glee.  I am against it on principle, partly because I am being told to love it and partly because I am an obstinate cuss.

In the 1990s, I was the only person in America who never saw Seinfeld, never saw Friends, never saw Cheers.  NBC made the mistake of labeling its Thursday-night lineup “must see TV,” and this rankled me.  I decided that Thursday night on NBC was must-not-see TV.

Turns out those long-ago sitcoms were actually pretty good, so I suppose I was only punishing myself by boycotting them.  But Glee?  A show about a high-school glee club, punctuated with Madonna songs?  No, thanks.

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Stephen Hawking has everyone in a tizzy because he believes that if there are little green men out there, they are probably hostile to humans.  If they visit us, Hawking says, we should not be surprised if the outcome is similar to what befell Native Americans when Columbus came to visit.

This leaves me with a dilemma.  When it comes to aliens, to whom do I turn for advice, Hawking or Dan Aykroyd?

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Obama’s in hot water for his YouTube appeal to young people, African-Americans, Latinos, and women — but not white men — to help Democrats in November’s election.

What a lot of people seem to forget, or ignore, is that for every Bill Gates, there are millions of white males without millions of dollars.  Some of us even eat lunch out of dumpsters.

© 2010-2025 grouchyeditor.com (text only)

South Park creators Trey Parker and Matt Stone got in trouble for daring to thumb their noses at Muslims by lampooning the prophet Muhammad — and Comedy Central decided to pull the plug.  Let me rephrase that:  Cowardly Central decided to pull the plug.

This is America.  If South Park or any other show chooses to picture Adolf Hitler on a ride at the new Harry Potter theme park, so be it.  And so, I am doing my small part by running this disrespectful picture of the prophet Muhammad:

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I vaguely recall all of the huffing and puffing back in 1992 when Irish singer Sinead O’Connor got everyone’s panties in a bunch by tearing up a photo of Pope John Paul II on Saturday Night Live.  O’Connor said she was protesting sex abuse within the Catholic Church.  Back then, a lot of us thought O’Connor was some bald nutcase.  Saturday Night Live apologized for O’Connor the following week, but now it looks like a lot of us should be apologizing to her.

Last night I was watching the news and O’Connor once again surprised me.  She thanked the American media for getting on the Vatican’s case about child abuse.  Let me repeat that:  “She thanked the American media.”  Wow.  I don’t believe I’ve seen that happen before.

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The NFL just wrapped up its annual draft.  Is there anything on God’s green earth more absurd than the hoopla over this non-event?

Oh, and that’s Randy Moss pictured above.  Moss was not a draft pick this year, but I’ve been looking for an excuse to run this picture.  You’re welcome.

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Seems clear that Larry King is out to convince the rest of us that the male midlife crisis does not strike until one reaches age 76.  Last night, Larry was on CNN talking to Willie Nelson about the joys of smoking pot.  A few weeks ago, the King of swing was out joyriding in L.A. with Snoop Dogg (above).  And now he is all over the gossip rags for allegedly having an affair with his wife’s younger sister.

Who says life begins at 40?

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Entertainment Weekly informs us this week that Oprah Winfrey is “America’s best girlfriend.”  Hmmm.

Apparently Entertainment Weekly doesn’t consider the male of the species to be American, because I have a hard time believing that many (straight) men consider Oprah Winfrey to be their “best girlfriend.”

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Some years ago there was a news story about a woman who suffered seizures whenever she heard Mary Hart’s voice on Entertainment Tonight.  Seemed unlikely at the time … but now I believe it, because I find myself uncontrollably frothing at the mouth every time Kim Serafin shows up on CNN’s Showbiz Tonight.  Why can’t this woman hold her head still?  Her bobble-head is driving me to distraction.

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