For those who like aggravation (that doesn’t sound right), there is now an aggravated site of debate blogs: http://first.gaforensics.org/. You can, of course, RSS this RSS and aggravate yourself privately in the comfort of your own feeder, if such is your fancy. I still maintain that NFL ought to be doing this, but at least somebody is doing this, so until Ripon catches up with the rest of us…
Wait a minute. Aggregate. That’s the word I’m thinking of. Aggregate.
So I finished up a version of Geopolitics for the “If It Gets Me Out of the House, I’m There” Institute, and it’s a bit different from what I did here (same info, better and more thorough presentation, incorporating sovereignty), so I pulled the greatest hit version temporarily. I mean, why give away the ending? I’ll repost a revised version to greatest hits after the fact. (Speaking of greatest hits, everybody tells me they think Stump the Chump was funny. You think I’m funny? I make you laugh? I’m the most serious person I know. I’ll have you know that Stump the Chump was pulled directly from the WTF archives! Anyhow, I understand that O’C and his minions are presently reconstructing the great debates of the 1870s, and he’s found one round at Little Big Horn High where George Custer, Sitting Bull and B. B. Cody were all on the same double-octos panel; Custer, apparently, was the squirrel.) We’re now dickering over: 1) lecture two, which will probably be an overview of postmodernism derived from Caveman, and 2) whether I’ll judge a round. I need to look at the schedule of the event. I wasn’t planning on moving in, to tell you the truth. I was looking forward to getting out of the house as much as anyone, but only for the morning. O’C seems to think that I need to judge rounds. Of course, I’m fine with judging rounds, and I do it off and on when the need arises or the spirit moves me, but he’s pretty messianic about it, as if, were I to pick up a pen and flow pad, Jupiter would align with Mars, Bush would resign and we’d once again be allowed to eat fois gras in Chicago. Sigh.
Meanwhile, there’s this damned mainstream debate movie coming out, which will be the ruination of coaches everywhere. It used to be, we only had to aspire to be as good as, oh, Richard B. Sodikow. Now we’re going to have to aspire to be as good as Denzel Washington. Oh, the pressure. (And no offense, RBS, but you’re no Denzel.) If that’s not bad enough, the whole thing has Oprah Winfrey’s imprimatur on it, nay, her literal DNA all over it. What if I don’t like this movie? What if it’s another Howard the Duck? What if the debaters are animated by the same people who did Jar-Jar Binks? What if Robin Williams shows up in the middle of it as the warm and fuzzy albeit unorthodox professor who does everything he can to help the terminally ill children in the poverty ward of the orphanage? What if I figure out halfway through it that Denzel is his mother in the fruit cellar, Kaiser Soze and one of Haley Joel’s dead people, ruining all the suspense and making me wish for my ten bucks back? Will I be willing to admit it? Am I going to have to be the one to tell Oprah to stick to movies about Declamation and Speecho-Americans and to keep her mitts off debate?
Na’ah. We’ll let O’C do that. It will be a welcome change from the archeological expedition he’s planning. (He’s heading out to Machu Picchu, where apparently there’s been a discovery of pre-Columbian quarterfinals schematics they’ve asked him to verify.)
No comments:
Post a Comment