The Stupidity Channel

The Stupidity Channel

I thought of something earth-shatteringly brilliant the other day: my own television sports channel, dedicated to, and specifically for, idiots. And before you start yelling about how many of those are up and broadcasting already, take off your shorts, pal, soak them in brandy, wad them up, stuff them in your mouth, and light up that White Owl you’ve been saving, ’cause this one’s for you!

I watch a lot of TV with my five children, and lately I’ve noticed an increase in moronic behavior for them to emulate. They don’t need this because they have me. There’s the snake guy for a start. I’m just waiting for the first lawsuit from the distraught parents of a toddler who thought it would be a good idea to tie a granny knot in a Western rattler.

Worse than that, this show has spawned a shoal of knockoffs, most of which seem to be hosted by escapees from Australian mental institutions who are intent on being bitten, mangled, mauled, or otherwise digested by a wide variety of creatures we used to teach our children to avoid. I told my kids that a snake bit me once, and it was very sore.

Call me an old stick-in-the-mud, but I think they should avoid sharks, too. But apparently, stupidity sells.

The idea hit me right after I watched that first XFL game, which was so magnetically unwatchable, it was impossible to stop watching. You know, in case something worse came on the screen. And then it did. The governor of the great state of Minnesota, followed by enormous, steamingly pneumatic, dentally magnificent, blonde cheerleaders, was introducing the players from the locker room. God, I love this country!

There was a guy on the field wearing a helmet, shooting huddle stuff with a mini-cam. If this were on CBS, I was thinking, the camera would be wearing the helmet. But also, I knew that somewhere, a lot of people were watching this, thinking it was cool.

This is my target audience! I work with a couple of people who are intelligent, have teeth, and cars that are all one color, and who like wrestling, for crying out loud. So, I figure just because I don’t get it, doesn’t mean it can’t be gotten.

You see? I’m talking trailer trash already. This might begin to break ground for an experiment that could locate the extra chromosome that turns a mild-mannered bank clerk into a nutball who kicks a hole in his TV over a bad call in a greased midget-tossing bout. (They should have televised review of those things, anyway.) I want to give poor white trash, rich black trash, and all the other trashes in between, something to link hands over, and I want to hear them sing “Kumbayah,” around the big screen.

The Stupidity Channel could create the human bridge that would link fans of the Westminster Dog Show and the Daytona 500. There’s no reason why these people shouldn’t mingle and perhaps even breed. I can see the scene at Hooters, as they pass around the wings and cucumber sandwiches: “C’mon, buddy, put the groundhog down an’ givvus a big ol’ hug…say, is that there feller in the sport coat an’ beret sniffin’ my wife’s butt?”

The whole dog show thing is about the humans anyway. Not that there is anything wrong with living vicariously through your mutt, but it would be nice to see the judges rate the handlers and the dogs. Then, to find the best in show, they would add the scores together. On the Stupidity Channel, you’d see the elderly lady judge pulling back the lips of the handler of the Italian Greyhounds to get a good look at his gnashers, and then plunging her hand into his pants. “Turn your head sideways and bark like a dog for me, sir.”

Oh, yes, I could sell commercials on this network, I just know it. I’d buy “The Man Show” as well. The whole scantily clad girls on trampolines thing is a potential ratings monster, although I’ve found that to get a really good view, you need your own trampoline in the living room, and you have to time your bounce just right. It’s a good idea to wear underwear, too, the gripper kind, or you might get a nasty whiplash.

There has to be a golf application, and McCord and I, who are the poster children for stupidity in broadcasting, intend to be in a position to capitalize from it. We could run promos for it during the XFL.

Who needs the Rock, when you have a genuine American legend in Gary McCord, who has also lost control of his eyebrows? Bring on the XGA. “EXTREME GOLF: NO RULES, NO DRESS CODE, AND TO HELL WITH PUTTING!”

I can hear him yelling it now, all dressed up in hiking boots, Bermuda shorts, a string vest, and a Prussian helmet, getting set to tee off. I rather fancy the old 1970s wrestling leotard look for myself, maybe with green wellie boots, and a Kamikaze headband. No coin-toss for the honor, either — just tee it up, 10 paces apart, and nail it at one another. First to flinch loses the tee.

We’d need nicknames on our shirts. He could be “Crazy But Senile, Too,” and I could be “The Gasman Cometh.” Each group would have its own walking announcer, who would rush in after every mistake and ask the player why it had happened. There would be no limit on the number of clubs, and no club would be illegal. There would be no free drops, but you could throw the ball as often as you wanted.

Balls in water hazards or deep brush and desert would have to be retrieved, and either thrown or played. This is where the snake and shark guys could be incorporated into the show.

Finally, after every round, the players would get to vote one competitor out of the tournament, including on Sunday, which would mean in order to win, you would have to finish second. Hey, the game was never meant to be fair. I read that somewhere.

We all have our opinions on what constitutes a sport, and the right to tune in to whatever we want. To me, watching a bunch of cretins ride mountain bikes down a near vertical ski slope is not entertainment, and neither is the XFL. Don’t get me started on yachting, either.

The only way to make that activity interesting is with the yet-to-be-invented “Pirate-cam,” which would show yachters being lashed to the mast with their trousers around their ankles, and their Rolexes being stolen. But witnesses to the same accident will tell different stories, depending on which side of the street they were standing at the time. We are all idiots, in one way or another, and we’re all losers, too, except when we win, which is seldom. The only mistake we make is thinking we are in some way superior because of the sports that interest us.

My channel would be for the guy who has just returned home from a blind date that turned out to be his ex-wife. He could slump into his inflatable Bud Light armchair, flick on the box, and let his fevered mind cool.

Then, he could watch Winston Cup drivers doing their best to avoid the naked dog-wrestlers at Turn One, while in the infield, a team of paramedics are trying to pull the snake guy out of a 40-foot anaconda, all to the jubilant cheers of a crowd of third-graders and their parents.

The world would be an OK place again because he would feel coddled in the warm fuzzy blanket, gently thrown over him by his fellow morons. Try getting that kind of therapy from Dr. Laura, who would be on late morning, in the comedy section.

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