Looking So Hot in Them Silver-Blue Britches

There are two types of pro football fans; the ones who love the Cowboys, and the rest of us, who hate everything about them.  As if to rub salt in our wounds for any success they’ve ever had, some knucklehead once christened them “America’s Team” – a misnomer if ever there was one.  Fans of other NFC East teams will attest that it is in fact, un-American to be a Dallas fan, even if you live in Texas.

So, it was with a great deal of humor and a healthy dose of schadenfreude that I read about the latest controversy in the land of Romo.  Apparently fans of the team were greeted with an unexpected surprise when they clicked “cowboys.com” on their browsers.  It turns out that cowboys.com is not a exactly a pipeline to America’s Team.  It’s actually a gay dating site, dedicated to the Brokeback Mountain set, who are looking for a special guy in a Stetson hat.

The chaps aren’t metallic silver-blue, but you gotta love the hat. Git along, little dogie! (Image from gratuitousscience.com)

Likes: Camp fires, sleeping under the stars, show tunes.

Dislikes: Pushy people, replacement refs, the guy in the Village People who dresses like a Redskin – I mean really,  feathers?!  Girl -that’s so 1980’s!

Quite simply, this is the kind of thing that Dallas Cowboy haters everywhere will savor and laugh about for decades to come.  Sure you guys have Super Bowl rings.  Sure you have a shiny new stadium that’s bigger than the entire town of Pine Bluff, Arkansas.  Before you brag any further, let me say these three words to you: cowboys dot com!  The team I root for may be under-achieving again and headed for another disappointing season, but at least no one confuses them with a gay dating site. Not to imply that there’s anything wrong with gay dating sites, they just don’t go especially well with the National Football League – kind of like pairing a crisp Pinot Grigio with a Denny’s Meat Lovers Breakfast Combo.

My favorite team’s owner, who’s as filthy rich and detested as every other team owner in the NFL, had the good sense to buy the rights to anything and everything, including websites, which he could possibly parlay into profit and/or publicity for his business…I mean team.  I don’t know how the Cowboys let this happen.  I’m guessing that Jerry Jones, the team’s owner and self-appointed El Presidente for Life, has already fired several people in the social media and IT departments over this little golden turd.

I can just picture him, furiously waving stacks of money in the tiny offices of the website.  A vein is pulsing on his forehead as if the Giants just blocked what would have been the game-winning field goal.  Perhaps he’ll send one of his underlings to do his bidding.  Savvy deal-maker that he is, I’m thinking that he’ll choose that guy Dale from accounting.  Tell him to dress up as if he’s going to a hoedown and walk in kinda bowlegged, like he has an Appaloosa tied to the hitching post out-front.

Can’t you just picture it?

Dale saunters in through the swinging doors, orders a bottle of red-eye and tips his hat to the cute guy playing the pie-annie over by the poker tables.  The room hushes at the appearance of the tall, handsome stranger in the metallic silver-blue chaps with the shiny star.  He tosses a dollar coin to the piano player and asks him to play “sump’n purdy”.  Shocked by his generosity, the musician bites the coin to test for authenticity and then asks the cowboy in the glittery drawers what he’d like to hear.

“Play me some Ethel Merman if you know any, if not, Liza Minelli will do,” he drawls.

As the piano player launches into a medly of songs from “Gypsy”, the cowboys in the room resume their hollering, drinking and line dancing.  The handsome stranger picks up his bottle of red-eye and walks back to the table to sit and discuss business with the domain owner, a chubby feller in a black hat with a little too much wax in his mustache to be from these parts.  There’s a big burly guy standing behind Ol’ City-Whiskers – must be the hired muscle.

“I didn’t know we wuz bringing pets to this here meeting” Dale says, his steely glance showing no fear of the bear of a man.  “If’n so, I’da brought a coupla O-linemen from the practice squad”

He stands and stares at the hired muscle.  “Why doncha run along, son?  Pa and Little Joe are waiting fer ya back at the Ponderosa.  They’re likely worried sick bout ya by now”

City-Whiskers turns and nods to the mountain of a man and he reluctantly leaves, but not before giving Dale a look.  Ooo, such a look!

Dale smiles thinly and sits back down.  He pushes his hat back on his head with two fingers to the brim and pulls the cork out of the bottle with his teeth.  He pours a shot for Ol’ City-Whiskers, then takes a swig right out of the bottle himself.  It’s time to get down to business.

The deliberations are short and not so sweet.  City Whiskers makes it plain that he’s not changing his site name.  For the record, he’s not selling his land for pennies on the dollar just to make room for no dang railroad, neither.  Dale angrily rises from the table and tells him that he aint seen the last of him, not by a fer piece he aint.  He stalks out of the saloon, hops in the saddle and gallops back out to the Jones’ ranch to tell the boss man the news.

So yeah, my team might not be so hot, but Dallas fans know in their hearts that every away game for the next several years will include something witty about Cowboys.com written on a bed sheet hanging from the upper decks.  The cameras won’t likely show it, but the fans will see it and have a good chuckle.  Sarcastic T-Shirts will be worn, bumper stickers will be printed.  Not all victories show up in the win/loss stats.

As for the website, I wish them well.  Hopefully the massive surge of hits the story has generated will propel them to huge success.  Everyone deserves the right to find a date, including lonesome gay cowboys.  Giddyup!

I’ll stay out of the Oval Office, you put down that microphone…

"..got my mojo workin'..but it just don't work on you"

Let me save you the trouble of calling me a miserable old crank of a spoil-sport.  I am  a miserable old crank of a spoil sport!  You might want to consider getting used to it, because it appears I may have found my niche.

Now that the formalities are out of the way, allow me to do my thang.

I know that politics is more complicated than my limited, apathetic understanding of it.  Even so, I know what I like and don’t like.  One thing I don’t like is seeing the President of the United States playing karaoke with blues legends.  I honestly don’t care if he has talent or not.  Not only do I not want to see him singing, I don’t want people from all over the world watching him sing either.

Don’t misunderstand, this is NOT about Obama’s proficiency or lack thereof in doing the difficult job of being President; this is about how I get kind of queasy watching people doing things which they should stay the hell away from.  Please go back and read that again – I don’t want a bunch of Obama-lovers or -bashers leaving comments all over my nice neat blog.  I just finished getting the Vincent Price-related stains out of it and I’d like to keep it tidy.

It’s not just Obama singing the blues; I also have a problem with junior high school principals trying their hand at rap during assemblies and with corporate executives giving stand-up comedy a whirl at the shareholders meeting.  People need to know their skill sets.  They need to know that they’re only getting applause because the audience is afraid they’ll be given detention or get their asses fired.

I realize that in the never-ending desire to get themselves elected or re-elected, political candidates have to kiss babies they wouldn’t otherwise want to smooch.  To garner the votes of a largely Polish region, they might need to scarf down a few pierogies.  To woo the folks in Dallas, they might wear a Cowboys jersey (Yes, politicians can be THAT shallow).  Let’s not make any incorrect presumptions about Obama’s singing being an effort to woo voters.  To the best of my knowledge, he doesn’t need to work any harder to get the blues legend vote.  There are only a handful of true blues legends out there, and most of them are busy living and touring in Europe where their talent is appreciated.

When you think about it, being the President of the United States is not a position which is overly glamorous in appearance.  There are endless hours in meetings and sitting behind desks and signing things.  There are still more meetings where members of the congress and senate must be convinced to work together in a bipartisan effort (insert laugh track here).  Half the good photo ops are ruined by those pesky Secret Service guys getting between you and the lens.  Let me see, what else?  There are ribbons to cut, more things to sign, Christmas trees to light and turkeys to pardon.  All in all, a visually bland existence.

I’m going to go ahead and say it;  I’m okay with that!  I don’t need to see the President walking his dog, singing – alone or with Blind Lemon Jefferson – or vacationing (Lord knows, that seems to be a job with some serious vacation time).  If I have to see him at all, he should be at his desk in a suit looking serious.  He can have his sleeves rolled up and tie off if he’s hammering out some sort of proclamation or declaring war on low-nutrition school lunches.

If he has a hankering to belt out an Al Green song, he can damn well do it in the shower or at a red light, like the rest of us.