Because I'm Bob Costas, and ... well, you know the rest by now
Hello everyone. Pay attention. The education is about to begin. Because I'm Bob Costas, and you're not.
It must suck to be you and not me, the moral bullhorn of the sports world. In fact, I can say this with ample certitude -- and using terms like ample certitude is what I do best -- I'm the Einstein of sports, the Martin Luther King of broadcasters, the Mozart of Mayhem, the tiny tenderoni who can recite the batting average of Stubby Magner while deep in R.E.M. sleep.
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| I won't just state my opinions, I'll tell you what to think as well. (Getty Images) |
Because I'm Bob Costas, and you're not.
People call me smug. That's not fair. I'm more of a multivitamin for your mind. I'm Costa-licious. Or smarmy. That's it. Smarmy. I love that word. I once used it to describe that big, pimple-headed meanie Barry Bonds. I can do that because I'm Bob Costas, and you're not.
Have you seen me lately? Of course you have. I've been on every media outlet on this world and across the Alpha Quadrant on this Bonds thing. I'm so busy with Bonds that I told Fatso and Fruit Loops on that ESPN morning show I needed to take my phone off the hook it was ringing so much. Then I decided not to because, well, Bush might call and ask me to solve the Middle East crisis.
Because I'm Bob Costas, and the president isn't.
I was also on NBC recently and had to school pretty boy Matt Lauer and a columnist from the New York Times about how meanie Barry is not some home run hero but a pumped-up, estrogen-sucking fraud with tiny balls. And there I went again, educating the ignorant masses. Even the New York Times can't hold my jock.
This Bonds thing sickens me. How is the moral bullhorn of the sports world supposed to eat his whole-grain toast and jam in the mornings with meanie Barry now being the home run king? How is the Gandhi of sports -- me -- supposed to exist with so much evil in the sports world now? Riddle me that, people.
No, it has never occurred to me, as I sit high atop my Smug Cloud Kingdom, miles above the great unwashed and simple minded, with my fellow throne holders Bill O'Reilly, Craig Kilborn, Brangelina and Rush Limbaugh, that some people might actually now defend Bonds because people like me keep constantly rip him. How could that be possible? Don't those people know that I'm Bob Costas, and they're not?
Recently the big meanie Bonds lashed out and practically called me a Gary Coleman stunt double. Big mistake, syringe junkie. I responded in a brilliant, stinging interview: "As anyone can plainly see, I'm 5-6 1/2 and a strapping 150, and unlike some people, I came by all of it naturally." Ha! That was clever. I wrote that, you know.
"I've actually always had a pretty cordial relationship with Barry," I added. "I have no ill feelings toward him personally. I regard him as one of the greatest players of all time who got an inauthentic boost and then became a superhuman player. I wish him no ill whatsoever."
And by saying I wish him no ill will, I mean I hope he sticks a needle in his eye.
To further demonstrate there is no hatred toward the man who has more chemical reactions in his body than Courtney Love's, I wrote a poem about Barroid. Here it goes:
Barry, you killer of baseball dreams,
You marauder of the hopes of little boys and girls,
You spawn of Satan, you Mr. Asterisk,
You suck,
Putz.
Beautiful, huh? Notice the iambic pentameter and gorgeous use of the word "you." I'm a regular Conrad Aiken. I got talent. But you knew that already.
So I conclude this letter to all of my fans around the country, and even the communist nation known as San Francisco, by saying: you don't know squat about baseball.
Because I'm Bob Costas, and you're not.
