I’m serious now: this freakin’ firehose-flow of ridiculous stories has got to stop. Or at least slow down, so a humble Roving Correspondent can catch his breath.
I swear I’ve wanted to crack wise on half a dozen stories from the last couple of weeks, but I can barely get my legs under me before another load of mock-worthy stories is dumped on our nation, sending me reeling again.
For example, John Kerry and Al Gore (Dirigible, TN) flew their private, carbon-spewing jets to Davos and made absolute fools of themselves, but that seems like months ago now. As does the racist Michigan school board member of color who said that white people are more dangerous than animals.
Not to mention the fascist Antifa goons who went to Atlanta to protest that the cops unfairly shot one of their fellow morons to death for no reason. I mean, except for the fact that the goon shot a cop first.
Fortunately, the cop was wearing a bullet-proof vest, while the Antif-idiot was wearing a Che Guevara t-shirt (I’m guessing). And it turns out that a Che t-shirt is no more bullet proof than Che himself was.
That reminds me: shout out to the Bolivian soldiers who shot Che down like the murdering commie dog that he was. Hurra de cadera! (My English-to-Spanish translator tells me that that is Spanish for “hip hip, hooray!”)
Anyway, you see what I mean? I’ve barely had time to make fun of sadistic communists who assumed room temperature in 1967. I’m literally 55 years behind in my mockery!
So let’s get to some new stories that I’ve come across in the last 7 minutes:
First, I just finishing praising the Finns last week, for the way they used their training in the biathlon to pick off a lot of invading Russians in the Winter War of 1939. But sadly, I’ve now got to retract my praise, because I saw a two-minute clip of the European Figure Skating Championships in Espoo from last week.
Before I go on: “Espoo”?
C’mon, Finns. That might be the stupidest name for a city in the history of cities, and I’m including Walla Walla and Bangkok. (Both of which still make me laugh, because even at my advanced age, I’m still pretty childish.)
I’m not surprised that Finland has produced no decent country songs, with city names like that. Can anyone imagine themselves trying to spin a girl in cowboy boots around the dance floor to “Streets of Espoo,” or “Espoo by Morning?”
And before you can ask why a fella who is interested in girls in cowboy boots is watching figure skating in the first place, your point is well taken. But I was only watching because I caught a report on the opening ceremonies, which featured – hold onto your Stetson (which you’ll never see any Espoo-ians wearing, I reckon) – a transgender skater.
Now if this were hockey, that might be almost worth watching, just for the chance to see some bruiser in a tutu body-check a petite Finnish woke-ette over the penalty box and up into the cheap seats.
But no. It’s figure skating.
And in this case, the “figure” part of “figure skating” is: blocky.
You should drop everything right now and watch that video, if you haven’t already seen it. But if you’ve got a weak stomach, or are pregnant, or otherwise object to exposing yourself to the visually disturbing, let me try to paint a word picture for you.
Imagine that Dick Butkus and Will Ferrell had a baby son somehow, and that son grew up to wear a pair of Swifty Lazar glasses and an Imelda Marcos hairdo. And then imagine that that guy ate a training diet of nothing but glazed donuts, and the closest he ever got to figure skating was watching reruns of Blades of Glory each time it was on cable.
And then imagine that that guy turned 59, put on a dress, and jumped an Espoo-bound train, with dreams of figure skating glory in his likely enlarged and partially-blocked-artery-filled heart.
And then you’ll have the spectacle that is Minna-Maaria Antikainen. Formerly Markku-Pekka Antikainen. Yes: of the Espoo Antikainens.
Not to be confused with the new anti-covid drug Antikainen™, from Pfizer.
(Coincidentally, both Antikainens come with warnings that their side-effects may include hysterical blindness, partial paralysis, and spontaneous irritable bowel.)
Anyway, Minna’s performance consisted of skating very stiffly and slowly in a straight line, then making a wobbly half turn, then falling down after literally 23 seconds on the ice. (Yes, I timed it.) He unsuccessfully tried for 13 seconds to get up, before an actual female skater helped him to his feet.
The first story that I saw about this had the subtitle, “Cow on Ice.” And as much as I was primed to get snarky, I don’t care for that kind of gratuitous, mean-spirited insult.
Because even though I have no experience as a cow-whisperer, I’d bet that if you gave me a month to practice with a heifer to whose hooves someone had managed to strap some skates, I could make a Minna-beater out of her.
I can see it now. I’d put together a filmed montage (accompanied by some 80s synth-heavy music) of me meeting the hopeful Holstein, and seeing in her big cow eyes that she didn’t yet believe in herself. I’d be carrying a clipboard and wearing a whistle, for some reason, and after the first few times she fell down, I’d turn my battered ballcap around into the “rally” position, and give her a rousing, inspirational speech.
(I don’t have all the beats down yet, but I would definitely use the line, “People out there are doubting you. They don’t think you have the four stomachs for this. But I do!”)
Then, cut to the Big Night. I’m in the locker room, giving my bovine girl a pep talk, while outside in the arena, the place would be rocking, with gyrating spotlights flashing and terrible third-rate Finnish heavy metal songs thumping, hyping the crowd for their hometown hero/heroine, the Mighty Minna.
The entire world would be watching, and the ratings would rival the moon landing, the Super Bowl and a royal wedding, all rolled into one.
You’ve heard of the Thrilla in Manila? This would be the Moo in Espoo!
Whoo! I’m actually light-headed now. Because the world has gone crazy, and I am struggling to keep up with it.
The saddest thing about this Finnish farce is not the poor, delusional guy who identifies as a woman and an ice skater, and is incapable of pulling off either. (Though to be fair to him, he makes a more convincing female skater than Liz Warren does a Cherokee princess.) (#wemustneverstopmockingher)
The saddest thing is that Western countries who should know better are participating in this delusional madness.
The press release for the event contained the usual bromides about celebrating “equality and diversity,” and identified the theme for the opening ceremonies as, “Just be You!”
But what if “You!” are a clumsy old dude and a shi**y skater? Do we all have to sit there and applaud for that?
The press release also says — and I couldn’t make this up if I tried – “Often, only the top skaters in the country are seen in figure skating shows. With this diverse group of performers, we want to show that the ice has space for everyone.”
I know. You can’t believe what you just read.
There’s a reason that only top skaters appear in figure skating shows, you idiots! It’s the same reason that only great singers and musicians give sold-out concerts. Because nobody is going to pay $375 for a nosebleed seat to watch a spasming meth-head bang his head against the neck of an acoustic guitar while wailing like Yoko Ono passing a kidney stone.
And yes, ice does “[have] space for everyone.” If you’re talking about the ice on a frozen pond, or a flooded parking lot, or a water-filled ditch along the interstate outside of Fargo in January.
But not the rink in a modern arena, where paying customers come to see excellent figure skating!
Ugh. As soon as I have written that, I realize that our cultural rot is far advanced. Because arenas full of paying customers actually DO buy tickets to see the likes of Lizzo or a thousand other talentless hacks. And while Western culture used to commission and laud sculptures like Michelangelo’s Pieta or David, we’ve now sunk to being coerced into praising the fecal-phallic MLK “tribute” sculpture unveiled in Boston a few weeks ago.
I fear that our culture may be doomed.
And I am doomed too. Because I wanted to write about four or five stories, and I only got to one. And I didn’t even finish that one!
That’s right, I’m out of bourbon and it’s way past my bedtime, so I’m leaving many top-shelf cow jokes on the cutting room floor. Cud-related puns, alternate promo names for the Minna-Cow skating competition (Hooves on Ice; Cattle Battle ’23! Etc.), something about Minna obviously belonging on a dude ranch rather than the opposite.
I can only hope that this is a slow news weekend, or I’ll be falling even further behind by Monday.
But for now, I’ll just admit defeat, and end this way…
Fetterman/ bovine-American skating great Kristi Yama-Guernsey, 2024!
2 thoughts on “Too Many Ridiculous Stories, Too Little Time (posted 2/3/23)”
Hilarious, unfortunately you can’t make this stuff up. Keep writing. Your columns are a highlight of my week.
Thanks Harold, I appreciate that!