In the last week, we witnessed the most well orchestrated publicity campaign since Pontius Pilate went on Oprah to wash his hands.
We -- the purple-prosed, B-list parrots of the Yankiverse -- served as the doddering, drooling bobbleheaded footsoldiers who beat the drum for a millionaire to sell books.
For days, every blog, newspaper, talk show and sex forum in Yankeeland has gone goosefleshy over Joe Torre's book, the next chapter of the ongoing retirement fund for every other "author," from Don Zimmer to David Wells. We're seeing the future template for ARod's book, for Jeter's, for Melky's -- wait! that squirrel who climbed the foul pole! Can we sign him? All he need do is rip a few ex-squirrelmates and wait for the hungering herd of the blogosphere to come a-twittering.
Christawmighty, are we morons, or what?
By "we," yeah, you and me, the bloggers and visitors with nothing better to contemplate -- we couldn't even gin up another slush pile erection over Melvin Crousett -- during the Dick Clark zone between the Super Bowl and Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition.
Folks, we been played.
At times, I feel like we're all in a kareoke bar, fighting for the microphone, just to sing the same, horrible, tired, empty, dead song.
God, we must sound pathetic.
I feel, so, so ... dirty.
ReplyDeleteBut did you catch the part where he made fun of the Stadium groundskeeper?!
He said the guy didn't know the difference between Timothy hay and Kentucky bluegrass!
What a snake in the grass!
Im waiting for the movie.
ReplyDeleteSo I can download it.
That Joe, the rascal. Why couldn't he have written a book about his time with the Mets? Surely, there were Met players having the trainer rub liniment on their privates too.
ReplyDelete