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My Random Thoughts, as Influenced By the Simpsons

Man, even the Simpsons is weird tonight. I just watched two episodes, and they both involved a nearly-naked Groundskeeper Willie slathered in grease. Coincidence?

Jesus Leafy Christ on a green riding lawnmower, I hope so.

Hmmm. Maybe I’ll try watching another one while I write, and see what happens.

Ooh, cool, this one’s about when Homer becomes a boxer. Sweet!

Now there’s a profession I’ve never considered taking up — boxing. Toad wrangler, sure. Braille cartoonist, yep. Professional Gummi Bear licker — well, yeah. Who hasn’t thought about such glamorous and fulfilling careers?

But boxing? Well, it’s just not my style, really. All that punching and bobbing and weaving and such, not to mention all the ‘husky’ guys wearing nothing but shiny boxers and lace-up boots. That’s not a fricking sport, people — that’s a gay bar during Mardi Gras.

(Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course. The Mardi Gras thing, that is. There’s something seriously wrong with boxing. I think it has something to do with the spitbuckets.

Seriously, you can have guys running around in their underwear flailing at each other, or you can have open containers of saliva lying around. But fer chrissakes, you can’t have both. It’s just not natural!)

Anyway, back to boxing, and my non-participation therein. I’ve just never really seen the point of professional pugilism, I suppose. Not that sports that I do enjoy need to have a purpose, mind you. I’m perfectly happy watching a gaggle of grown men throwing and thwacking a little white ball around, and running in circles around the bases for no good reason. Hell, it’s our national pasttime — what’s not to like?

(And see? See? There’s a whole lot of spitting, but everybody keeps their damned clothes on. It’s one or the other, people. This is not fricking rocket science.)

So it doesn’t really bother me that there’s no real point to boxing, other than staying on your feet for two minutes at a time. I just think that promoters could do so much more with that same format — throw gin in those buckets instead of spit, for instance, and make the combatants drink a tubful between rounds. Then we’ll see who can stay on their feet, and we won’t need them to smack each other in the face to make it interesting, either. While they’re at it, maybe they can put on a damned shirt, and some sensible shoes.

(Who are they kidding with those boots, anyway? You’re not allowed to kick people in the ring. Could those really be more comfortable than a nice, worn-in pair of Reeboks? I don’t think so. And when you’ve got some welterweight walrus pummeling the shit out of you off and on for the better part of an hour, shouldn’t you at least make sure your feet are comfy? Really, that’s about all you’ll have left.)

I have to admit, though, that a few boxers have been worth watching over the years. Everyone loves Ali, of course; I also had a soft spot for Evander Holyfield. Maybe it was his style, or his presence. Maybe it was the ‘soft spots’ in his head; I don’t know. I just know that I really don’t often watch boxing matches, and can’t remember ever paying for the privilege.

That’s another thing I don’t get — why do the big, potentially interesting boxing bouts have to cost us sixty fricking bucks? And why does it keep going up, and who the hell keeps paying these fees? Stop encouraging these pay-per-view bastards, people! Lookit — yes, I just typed ‘lookit’; let it go, dammit — we get the World Series for free, right? NBA finals, Stanley Cup, Super Bowl — free, free, and free. So why is boxing so fricking special, and more importantly, how do I get my hands on some of that swag? Hell, I know plenty of people who’d be willing to strip down to their skivvies and slap and smack at each other — how come nobody’s paying to see that?

(Except that one guy, who wanted a refund when he found out the people in the ring weren’t gonna be small-nosed sorority girls. Pick, pick, pick.)

Well, that’s about all I’ve got tonight, folks. I’m not sure we really got anywhere, but I did get to say a few words about the ‘sweet science’. And now my third Simpsons is over. And hey, no nearly-naked greased-up Willies!

Or, um, none on the television, anyway. But I, uh, I’d better go. There’s this, um, thing I forgot to do. Yeah. A thing. Right. G’night, then!