Monday, October 29, 2012

No One Likes a Sore Winner.

It was a beatdown, an ass whoopin', a curb stompin'. Sweet mother, those guys were dragged behind the woodshed and force fed a couple heapin' shitloads of chucknorris.

Oh, yeah, and really boring.

Aside from a few randy fetishists who occupy the outlying regions of society's bell-shaped curve, does anyone really enjoy experiencing total domination?

Well, that's just what happened last night, when the San Francisco Baseball Giants finished off the toothless Tigers of Detroit, sweeping the American League champs four-zip in a World Series with about as much spice as a Mitt Romney knock-knock joke.

It normally lives up to its billing as the Fall Classic, usually expected to extend into the blustery month of November.

Yeah, not this one, which returns me to my point—how dull is it to witness this kind of stuff?

And beyond the viewpoint of a passive observer, I maintain that an unchallenging sweep doles out an equal amount of harm to the broom clutcher as the dust bunny skidding along the linoleum.

In the 1972 presidential election, Richard Nixon defeated George McGovern in the largest landslide in American history, clubbing the hapless Democrat 520-17 in the electoral vote tally. Holy shit, that's almost as bad as those lop-sided ping pong victories my big brother still brags about even though I was still in utero.

Nixon seemed to think such a resounding political mandate provided the keys to a brand new thugmobile, thereby allowing him to back over the Constitution and shred it in his spinning Goodyears.

All I can say is, thank God for Deep Throat.

That didn't come out right.

Or how about when Titanic swept the Oscars, winning eleven golden eunuchs including Best Picture, Director, Actress and Supporting Actress? I'll tell you, when James Cameron barked out, "I'm king of the world!" I couldn't have cared less about the frozen North Atlantic, because I would've drowned his smug little weasel face in two inches of tepid bathwater.

Then, of course, there was Team USA's stirring medal sweep in the 1984 Los Angeles Summer Olympics. The stars and stripes needed a couple of railcars to contain its haul of one hundred and seventy four medals. The next closest competitor was Romania, who tallied a paltry fifty-three.

Of course, the Soviets and East Germans boycotted those games, but how cool was it to rub Romania's face in it? Sure, we're talking about a country the size of a large shopping mall, but whatever. It was morning in America. Ronald Reagan had upped our VISA card max and Mary Lou Retton made it okay to be attracted to adults who had stopped menstruating due to abnormally low body mass indices. USA! USA!

Years later, in response to the taunts of a defiant dictator who eluded capture through a sophisticated network of rat holes, American forces swept into Iraq, occupying Baghdad within days. The city was looted by throngs of grateful citizens who then greeted their liberators with bouquets of improvised explosive devices.

Mission accomplished, indeed.

Sarcasm aside, people don't take kindly to a drubbing. Whether it's that kid who's just moved here from Illinois to pitch for the other team, and he's, like, five-feet eleven, with more facial hair than your great aunt, or that woman who wins some sort of award at every quarterly work meeting, it gets old pretty fast.

And trust me, this has absolutely nothing to do with my daughter's soccer team, who hasn't won a game in two years.

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