Autonomous Ward: Kill Your Sports Darlings… At Least for One Week

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BRONX, NY – It’s Wednesday July 29, in Year Zero. Yep, this is the year we were forced to unplug the world, in hopes that it would just reboot and correct itself when we plugged it back in. So far, I’m not convinced. It feels to me like we’re starting from scratch, blindly trying to cobble together some sort of new frontier existence while desperately clinging to things of the past. Burn it all down, I say. That goes for this site too. Why keep forcing sports when even sports doesn’t know what the hell it’s doing? Cancel tennis? Play baseball? Live in a bubble? Opt out? I bought a f*cking badminton set, fer crissakes. There are no rules anymore!

I just dropped an F-bomb two sentences ago. Usually that’s a big no-no on this “family friendly” ship, but I really don’t give a ship… I mean, sh*t. It’s healthy to let the expletives fly every once in a while. It also helps you pad your motherf*cking word count. Now, I’m not gonna make a habit of it, because I’m not some garbage human. But why censor yourself? That’s not my job. In all honesty I’m not even certain what my job here is anymore. I’m not sure I ever knew. Didn’t this whole thing start as a dare?

I want to clarify; I haven’t lost hope. This isn’t some twisted cry for help. Me writing another column about (insert any sports topic here I’ve covered hundreds of times, but leave Hot Dog: The Movie out of it, bastards!) would be a twisted cry for help. Nah, I’d rather ramble today than settle on the same old formula.

Wait, I could actually use a small bit of help. I really want to get back in the habit of reading regularly again, and have two books which I was in various stages of making my way through, until we unplugged the world. The first is Lenny Bruce’s How to Talk Dirty and Influence People, which I started pre-pandemic, and the second is Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis, which I ordered when I was in COVID exile in Florida. The former was a long-ago gift from a friend that I never got around to, and the latter is a title which got my interest from being on multiple “funniest books of all time” lists. Anyway, I need a push in one direction or another, if anyone has any feelings on either. If not, I’ll let the fates decide by leaving both out on the floor and seeing which one my dog pees on first. As good a system as any. I really trust him.

I want to end this mess with a couple of promising pieces of news, and some words from the great E. B. White. Both our own Cheesy Bruin and my brother (rare MTM commenter, CNC63) seem to be moving in the right direction and on the mend from their respective health issues. They both have their own hurdles to still navigate, but I’ll take all the positives I can get right now. To all of you, as well as my surely fit-to-be-tied boss here, those E. B. White words I promised…

Hang on to your hat. Hang on to your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day. 

Speaking of tomorrow, I think Buddy Diaz is up.

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Wednesday: Angry Ward, who has admirers at the NY Times, is the quintessential angry sports fan but one exception... he's flat-out funny. And the angrier he gets, the more amusing his work becomes. Psychiatrists say, "Angry Ward's 'anger' is a direct result of "Bronx/Mets syndrome: growing up in the Bronx as a Mets fan." As if that weren't enough, his Minnesota North Stars abandoned him for Dallas, forcing him to embrace The Wild the way conservatives embrace Mitt Romney. While the Vikings tease him incessantly with flirtations of success, the Golden State Warriors, "Don't have a enough short, white angry guys but I don't dislike them... that much." A-Dubya is MTM's longest-tenured indentured servant, its Larry David and quite simply, The Franchise.

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