Showing posts with label America's Got Talent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label America's Got Talent. Show all posts

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Kaepernick, Omaha! & why NFL needs teams to perform national anthem talent shows


My most exasperating gift is an uncanny ability to earn vast sums of money for those who don’t need it while simultaneously earning squat for myself.

Sadly, the most frequent recipient of this mental largess is, alas, the greedmeister billionaires who run the NFL. I’m always coming up with ways to improve our most popular, yet flawed game.

One example they adopted last year: Throw-forward jerseys.

And, oh, yeah, we’re getting to Colin Kaepernick. 

I came up with throw-forward jerseys after being sickened by the sight of my Pittsburgh Steelers twice each year having to wear hideous throw-back jerseys. I said several years ago that they ought to begin selling equally hideous futuristic jersey.

And what happened last year?

Ta! Da! The gave us special “Color Rush” jerseys. They were flashy. They were daring.

They were unwatchable. 

One game between the New York Jets and the Buffalo Bills saw its ratings progressively tank because team jerseys were indistinguishable to colorblind viewers.

Of course, that didn’t matter. What mattered was they sold a lot of jerseys.

This year’s Brainstorm #1 stems from the retirement of Peyton Manning, who is now on TV more than when he actually played.

He’s a shoo-in for the NFL Hall of Fame in 2021. What’s equally obvious is he’ll include “Omaha!” in his induction speech.

“Omaha!” was the word he used to alert teammates he’d be changing the play. It’s now part of football lexicon. Anywhere people gather to play or jaw about football someone is bound to shout, “Omaha!”

My idea is for the NFL to sell sponsorship rights to the next key word for the 2016 season. And it is brand specific.

The word is “Pizza!”

See where this is going?

A quarterback would approach the line of scrimmage, survey the defense and begin shouting his gibberish, something like: “Red-24! Red-24! Blue-19!”

Then comes the Omaha-replacing sponsorship:

“Pizza! Pizza! Hut! Hut!”

Americans by the millions would dutifully pause the action and like robots dial Pizza Hut to order an 8-foot belly-buster with pepperoni and sausage.

Pure genius, I tell you.

One man no one will hear yelling “Pizza Hut!” this year is Colin Kaepernick. He’s done what neither Trump nor Clinton ever could: He’s united the country.

By disrespectfully sitting through the National Anthem, he’s angered everyone.

And I love it.

Not his protest, which seems feckless. I just love anyone who makes the NFL squirm.

Remember, just last year it was revealed the greedy bastards were charging the Department of Defense $5.4 million for staging those heart-tugging halftime reunions between returning soldiers and their families.

It was pure gall.

They’ve behaved in the same craven manner over domestic violence, breast cancer and — ha! — responsible drinking.

So I hope Kaepernick keeps them twisting until they drum him out of the league.

Then I hope someone with more subtle thinking than Kaepernick picks up the torch for a cause that deserves attention, yes, even during a football game.

That brings me to Brainstorm #2:
Make both teams compete to see who can perform a better national anthem with the winner getting the ball first. The talent show would replace the coin toss. Fans all over could vote.

Kaepernick’s folly obscures the fact that the national anthem at football games is a joke. Hockey fans (not players) really sing it and it’s beautiful.

No one sings it at NFL games, especially the players, who stand there mute or scratching themselves. They set a terrible example.

Having teams perform the national anthem would help the league appeal to the demographic that enjoys “America’s Got Talent!” 

Rehearsal could be a part of every practice. Why isn’t it already?

Each team would be given two minutes to sing the anthem and could include a patriotic skit.

Most wins could be included in the complicated tie breaker system to determine playoff eligibility.

That’s enough genius for now. Time to eat.

Care to guess what’s for lunch?

That’s right.

Pizza! Hut! Hut Hut!



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Monday, May 16, 2011

America's got talent ... Not!


I may not be the best writer, but I’m probably the only writer who can do 10 Army regulation pull ups and juggle.
Not at the same time.
Not yet.
That’s not all. I can take a wet towel and twirl it like a goombah in the window of a pizza shop, I can finger flick a bottle cap at a target 30 feet away and dent the bullseye, and I can play an armpit concerto of the Beach Boys song, “Barbara Ann” whenever the humidity cracks 80 percent.
What I can’t do is fix a leaky faucet, apply jumper cables to a dead car battery without electrocuting myself, earn a decent living, or be a role model to anyone whose blood alcohol rate ever even accidentally descends below .08 percent.
Of course, no one ever gushed, “Cool, man!” when I did any of the latter and the crowds still go crazy when I do the pizza towel so don’t blame me for logically following the positive reinforcement.
That makes me right at home here in America, the land of the unquenchable thirst for moronic diversion.
I see “America’s Got Talent” is returning May 31. I’m unlikely to watch, but I can guarantee the show would rate better than any show called, “America’s Got Kids Who Score Better in Math/Science Than Other Countries!”
Of course a show with that premise could never be confused with a reality show.
We’re too infatuated with celebrating trifling talents at the expense of encouraging cerebral or muscular pursuits American lives and families could really use.
It was unfortunate this nagged at me in the least likely place for me to do anything about it.
Yes, it was the Sunday church talent show. About a dozen kids brought their trombones, fiddles, harmonicas and other “talents” to the church basement to prove the America of the future won’t lack for off-key entertainment.
A group of impressionable youths who really needed to hear a strong dose of Simon Cowell-style criticism got only love sonnets from Paula (I stopped watching Idol when Cowell vamoosed so forgive the dated references). 
First up were two 10-year-olds -- only one of them actually attends our church -- playing a sort of dueling trombones routine.
It was awful.
Truly, I wanted to stand up and say, “What . . . the . . . bloody . . . hell . . . was that? (I did so love Simon). First of all it was pitchy. Second, that a 10-year-old Lutheran trombonist would feel the need to import a Catholic one to double up on the bum notes is sonic sacrilege. You are a disgrace. I’d advise you to stop watching the Disney Channel, forget your dreams of musical stardom and get used to wearing sensible shoes. The world’s always going to need waitresses, honey.”
Instead, I rose from my seat and clapped like the pair had connected on a long Steeler touchdown pass.
The little Lutheran was my daughter, Josie.
There were dancers, toy train collectors, a karate kid, and a trumpet player so intent on impressing he started the same song four times before he played it to his satisfaction.
It was perfectly fine the first time and I hope that kid doesn’t grow up to become my heart surgeon.
The very worst was a little 4 year old who with trembling hands raised a harmonica to her lips and immediately began what seemed an impersonation of a cigar store Indian.

She had the same look on her face I imagine I’ll have when probe-wielding aliens land on my unkempt front lawn or when my wife tells me it’s time to get a real job.
She was petrified.
It was pathetic. Clearly, she is the daughter of overbearing parents who’ll feel like failures if their daughter doesn’t exhibit at least one show off talent.
Disgusted, I was ready to launch into my speech about how the country could do with a lot less preening show biz aspirants and a lot more worker drones.
Instead, I rushed to the stage and lifted the little girl in my arms as she buried her tear-streaked face in my shoulder.
“It’s all right, darling,” I whispered. “You don’t have to play. Daddy’s going to take you home and teach you how to do the pizza towel twirly thing.
“And then everything will work out just fine!”