You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Men’s Double’s Tennis.
I realize it’s a sport and difficult to do well and takes expertise and…
well, it’s just boring as hell to watch on TV.
At least if the players were women, I could ogle four athletic females. Sorry ladies, but this is just the caveman in me talking.
ESPN is showing the Men’s Doubles finals at Wimbledon.
Bryan/Bryan vs Dodig/Melo. All ready that is too many names to give a damn.
As I watch a serve and a smash at the net and a lot of walking around the court, I find myself wishing that something else was on. I begin to crave roller derby for octogenarians. I suddenly have a hunkering for an episode of the world’s strongest man competition.
I think a guy carrying a refrigerator on his shoulders sweating performance enhancing sweat would be more exciting to watch than men’s doubles.
I am more intrigued by the super hose infomercial that claims to weighs less than a pound and can satisfy your wife, in the garden that is.
The Bryan twins are dressed in white shoes white socks white shorts and white hats. They are white guys who play vanilla white tennis.
I’m white boy bored. I wish they were Native Americans dressed in loin cloths with feathered head dresses. Now that would be interesting. Like the Village people invade Jolly Ole England.
The game is just absurdly boring. The men rush the net and smash the ball. It barely lasts 2 seconds. It’s like watching gerbils mate.
Man Gerbil: “Hello. Can I buy you a beer.”
Female Gerbil: “OK”
Man Gerbil: “Would you like to procreate?”
Female Gerbil: “Yes, I have 5 free seconds”
Man Gerbil: “Thank You. I’m done.”
Female Gerbil: “So I gathered.”
Man Gerbil: “Was it good for you?”
Female Gergil: “best five seconds of my day.”
Man Gerbil: “I’ll call you.”
Female Gerbil: “don’t bother.”
And that to me is Men’s Doubles Tennis. It’s the gerbil fornication of professional sports.
Men’s doubles, it’s boring like English Parliament. It’s like walking into Baskin Robbins with a gift certificate and ordering 1/2 a scoop of vanilla in a cup. It’s like renting a Prius when a Corvette costs the same.
I dozed off for a moment, still typing in a mentally debilitated men’s doubles stupor.
I turn to the NFL channel.
I catch the tail end of the Patriots run to the super bowl against the Carolina Panthers.
Defensive Back, Rodney Harrison describes his forearm breaking on a tackle. He says it makes a cracking sound like gravel in a cereal bowl. He says it feels like three softballs are inside his skin. He is taken to the exray room and he begins screaming for someone to put on a TV so he can watch the game. He says the xray techs turn their backs and he runs back to the sideline to watch the Patriots march down the field and kick a field goal to win another super bowl.
Now that’s a damn sport.
Back to ESPN. 4 men wearing white. Polite clapping. Crumpets and cream and blah.
I would rather chew cactus flavored gum complete with needles.
I would rather comb my hair with a rake in front of Vidal Sassoon.
I would rather listen to Italian Opera in the fast food lane of an inner city Wendy’s.
I would rather peel potatoes with my toe nails.
I would rather play an un-tuned guitar in front of Eddie Van Halen.
I would rather use a dial up modem to connect to the internet.
I would rather cut my grass with a scissor.
I would rather brush my teeth with brillo and steak sauce.
I would rather dance a naked polka on Americas Got Talent and have Howard Stern excoriate me for having shriveled man junk.
Men’s Doubles Tennis: Is it a sport? Of course? Do I care? Not a bit.
It’s about as exciting as NASCAR during a rain delay.
Men’s Doubles Tennis.
I’m not saying don’t do it. I’m just saying, please never televise it again. At least not during day light hours when children and real sports fans might be watching.