I have made my disdain for Ricky Reilly known here, and this is a hatred that will no simmer down now. And he's at it again, with an article about as topical as Rosie the Riveter posters.
Texts to report unruly fans!
Seriously, when was this phenomenon first broached? Like, last year? Two years ago? Surely it was not, you know, today. Unless, of course, you are Rick Reilly and you write for some little rinkydink operation known as THE WORLDWIDE LEADER IN MOTHERFUCKING SPORTS, or simply ESPN. Again, Reilly writes something that would not be printed on a blog dedicated to the ramblings of 7-year old girl's soccer players. And on we go.
Is there a drunk slob in the row behind you? Flapping his Raiders flag into your cranium over and over? Smelling like he bathes in Jack Daniel's and cursing more than Amy Winehouse?
I could be wrong here, but I thought Amy Winehouse was known more for her heroin habit than for her swearing. I'll defer to Rick. STOP HITTING ME WITH THAT FLAG, DICKTIP!
Then you're in luck!
Thanks to tattletexting, you can have this moron removed by security in minutes. Even better, he won't be waiting for you in the parking lot afterward to turn you into a collection of lumps.
Some people call it the rat line. Some call it text-narcing. I call it progress. It's being offered at many of this week's NCAA Tournament games, at 29 of 32 NFL stadiums (Cincinnati's is 513-381-JERK) and at dozens of MLB, NBA and NHL venues. Any fan can anonymously snitch out the overserved idiot who won't stop offering to fight Roy Williams at 120 decibels and pouring his Coke down your neck. You don't have to sit and take it anymore!
THIS IS HUGE NEWS FOR VAGINAS EVERYWHERE, OR AT LEAST WAS LIKE 17 MONTHS AGO.
Okay, so maybe you're thinking: This is just more Big Brother in our lives, the further creation of the surveillance state. But fans aren't getting thrown out without proof. At many stadiums, when a text comes in to security, a closed-circuit camera is put on the very seat in question to see what the problem is. If the guy in the Abominable Snowman costume really is clubbing people with his Styrofoam head, somebody will be there pronto.
Not that I have a problem with this concept but...the sentence is funny. This isn't Big Brother at all, because after we get a text, WE PUT A FUCKING CAMERA ON THEM.
Rick, that's the definition of Big Brother. You cock inhaler.
ISS even did a Madonna concert recently.
Middle-aged woman acting very lewd and walking around only in her bra. Oh, wait, it's Madonna.
(Okay, so I made that one up.)
No you didn't! HA! Rick Reilly, you are about as funny as that time when my grandparents got hit by a car and died.
NFL commissioner Roger Goodell loves tattletexting. Last season, 3,807 texts were sent, including these from the Super Bowl:
After being worned [sic], he continues to swear. Thanks for your help.
Huge guy, refuses to sit down, drinking too much, everyone yelling at him.
[Man is] very rude, vulgar, using profane language, smoking cigar.
And in minutes, Al Davis was outta there.
Oh my God, he's on a roll! Because that is SO Al Davis! He's so huge!
You could probably fit 8 Al Davises in one pair of Hammer Pants. This makes absolutely no sense at all. But fuck it, it's just the most popular sporting outfit in the universe that he writes for.
My only problem with this textual revolution is that it doesn't go far enough. I'd like to see players and coaches use it.
Wide receiver keeps calling me names. And I'm the coach.
Two big guys in bthrm stall, making everybody wait, while they inject each other.
Omg … Big guy, no teeth, says he's going to pull my pancreas out through my nostrils. Number 77. Red Wings jersey.
Drunk guy asleep in the dugout. Can't wake him. And he's up next!
This is one of the bland finale to one of the saddest attempts at humor I have seen in some time. This is like the Muhammad Ali shaking with the Olympic Torch of attempts at humor. Or the Carl Lewis National Anthem of writing. This is horrible.
ESPN is paying this guy like $2 mil a year. And they get this. ESPN would have a hard time finding someone that could do worse.
But hey, FUCK BLOGGERS, amirite?