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The City of Shrugged Shoulders

I saw about three seconds of last night's Monday Night Football, which means I showed up for it about three seconds longer than the Ravens did. Unfortunately, my brief viewing of the proceedings coincided with a vomit-inducing Tony Kornheiser soliloquy on the indomitable spirit of Pittsburgh and its "blue collar" pride.

This is not a dig against the good people of Steel Town USA. I don't doubt the grit, guts, and determination of the citizens of Pittsburgh (despite having lived in NY my entire life, I know an inordinate amount of people from that area). My objection is that using the phrase "blue collar" to describe any city is like using the phrase "bitter and washed-up" to describe Dennis Miller: redundant.

By definition, every big city is blue collar. Every big city requires blue collar labor to keep it running. Even a city renowned for effete accomplishments--say, Los Angeles--needs thousands upon thousands of laboring men and women to haul garbage, make truck deliveries, put out fires, and so on.

Making a grandiose speech on behalf of the city of Pittsburgh would only mean something--well, it'd mean something if it wasn't being delivered by Tony Kornheiser. But it'd mean a lot more if it Tony ever delivered a speech like this before a game:

The team taking the field tonight is truly a reflection of the city it calls home: soft, fickle, and complacent. They never work harder than they have to, and they never strive to be the best when adequate will suffice. Just like the "fans" who occasionally pack their stadium, this team is filled with overpaid, spoiled jerks with a sense of entitlement.

This is a town that believes in hard work, as long as it isn't too hard and as long as someone else does the bulk of the heavy lifting. This is a town that won't back down from a challenge, at least until they get tired or bored. This is a town that will stand up to a threat, but will also step aside to avoid getting hurt too badly.

When the going gets tough, this town has what it takes to throw in the towel and completely give up. That's how it earned the nickname, The City of Shrugged Shoulders.

This team is exemplified by its quarterback, Sam Littlefield. In college, while playing for an enormous, soulless football factory, he was surrounded by a corps of talented receivers and running backs. He thus found it unnecessary to work to hard to achieve success, and this experience taught him a valuable lesson that would serve him well in the NFL: coast as long as you can, and never do anything too daring.

Littlefield came to this team as a free agent, in a deal that pays him more per year than the GDP of several African nations. Ever since that day, he has done everything in his power to avoid involving himself in the local community. He lives in a gated apartment complex 70 miles away from the downtown area, and flies back to his mansion in Aruba at every conceivable opportunity.

When the team loses, Littlefield takes on all of the burden of defeat. Then, much like his wobbly, frequently intercepted passes, he throws that burden in every conceivable direction. The offensive coordinator, the head coach, the receivers, the weather conditions, the earth's gravitational pull--no excuse is too ludicrous to absolve Littlefield of any and all blame.

This team is also a mirror image of its owner, Spencer Q. Buckington VII, a man who inherited his entire fortune and has never had to work a day in his life. When forced to choose between winning and showing a profit, Buckington has always chosen the bottom line. He's never been afraid to cut a popular player or rebuff salary demands if it meant saving a few precious pennies, all so he can continue living in unearned ostentatious luxury.

"This team will always do what it takes to win," Buckington once told reporters via conference call from his palatial estate on the site of a former sugar plantation, "as long as winning doesn't take too much effort or expense on my part." Every game, you can see him in the stadium's lush owner's box, cheering on his team half-heartedly when not fielding cell phone calls or jamming his fat mouth with caviar-stuffed lobster.

The team is energized by the mutable passions of its far-from-rabid fan base. Men like Ken Farnsworth, a 35-year-old hedge fund manager and season ticket holder, who never misses a game. "Unless they suck that year," he adds. "But I keep reupping my ticket plan, 'cause you can totally flip them on StubHub and get, like, twice face value for 'em." How long has he loved the team? "I dunno. I was kind of a Cowboys fan when I was a kid. Then I was a Packers fan. Then I was a Patriots fan. I kinda just root for whoever looks like they're gonna win the Super Bowl, you know?"

Yes, that's what this team is all about: intermittent devotion in the stands, absent leadership in the field, and needless penny pinching from the front office. And that makes them the perfect team for this gutless, bloodless town full of smug, craven, bandwagon-hopping douchebags.

I think I speak for most of America when I say I'd like to see every single one of these bloated, self-important, poor excuses for human beings beaten within an inch of their lives with a sledgehammer.

Back to you, Mike and Ron!

Posted 11.06.07 07:51pm * Permalink

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