Oblong Inflated Spheroid

Disclaimer: the rest of the text in this post has nothing at all to do with the outfit. I tried and tried to write something interesting about it, but finally had to call uncle. It was just a casual Friday outfit, after all. Here are the details in case you're pressed for time or are otherwise disinclined to read my random rant of the day:


Tunic: thrifted
Harness: Audra Jean
Bangles: Amrita Singh (via Gilt)
Jeans: Diesel (via Gilt)
Boots: All Black










Over the weekend I realized why I cannot watch American football. I always figured it had mainly to do with the fact that the players spend most of their time just standing around on the sidelines. That, and the way the players' butts look catastrophically bad in those gross shiny pants with the weird seams on either side of the crack. The uniforms look like a skintight, disco version of a union suit.

 Dude, you've got way worse problems than the concussion you're about to get;

pimps in 1975 looked hotter in their spandex pants than you.

But in fact I don't think it's either of those things at all; my general loathing of football comes down to two annoying little occurrences that just plain bug the crap out of me.

One is how the calls are communicated. Now in hockey, when a call is made the referee gives you three important pieces of information: who is being penalized, for how many minutes, and what the penalty is for (usually in one to three words). That's it; no more, no less. "Number 64, 2 minutes for high sticking." Fine, now let's get on with the game. But in football the explanation might take several minutes, and frankly I don't have the patience to hear the entire rationale behind a convoluted call pulled from some obscure rule, whose source can only be found by poring over a tome that's undoubtedly equivalent in mass to the entire Encyclopedia Britannica series.

 Easier to interpret than the rules of football.

What's worse is that the majority of the referee's monologue typically isn't even the call at all, but a recap of what just happened. Look buddy, I just sat here for 10 minutes of deliberation, watching the players wander around spitting and readjusting their crotches; cut to the chase, would you?

The other thing that really gets under my skin is the commentators, who insist on using the word, "football" in their descriptions of the action, as in, "He ran the football into the end zone." Now I may not even begin to understand the intricacies of the game, but even a blockhead like me knows what kind of a ball they're playing with. Obviously if I'm WATCHING FOOTBALL, then the object they're throwing around (when they can be bothered to get out on the field)  is simply the ball. Is that extra syllable really going to fill up a significant amount of airtime when you've got nothing clever to say? I didn't think so.

 

Clearly they were never told that silence is golden.

I understand the desire to spice up the language and make the commentary more interesting, but this is not the way. In hockey they might call the puck a biscuit, or simply the puck, but you'll never hear them say, "Marleau shot the hockey puck from the blue line." Why? Because it sounds stupid, that's why. Get some new words, football announcers; even calling it an 'oblong inflated spheroid' would be better than football.

It's sort of like that annoying sound, faint though it may be, that once perceived is impossible to ignore. A distant barking dog or crying baby, perhaps. And now that I've taken note of the lengthy soliloquies of the refs and the irritating overuse of the word "football," my utter disdain for the entire sport has crystallized. I do, however, occasionally enjoy hearing about how a player's head was "on a swivel." Perhaps there's hope for me yet.