Burn it Down for Burns!!!

J. Murray Spencer, Sports

The Westminster Kennel Club’s annual dog show is the Super Bowl of the sport. I’m sorry, I have a hard time saying that.  The event had all the passion, glitz, and glam of any event that no one cares about- organized and supported by ultra-rich millionaires who sleep on stacks of hundreds and crushed little guys.  However sedentary my life has become, I felt that I was at least qualified to question what met the merits of classifying something as a sport or not.  Lessons in life present themselves in various forms and I am proud to admit: lesson learned.  The steel-eyed canine competitors jumped, leaped, and shook their little doggie booties, leaving it all in the arena.

Any championship event possesses a magnified potential for controversy and when a purple ribbon with a ruffled flourish is on the line, well, let’s just say controversy is sure to manifest itself.  First, to all you dogs, I wish there was a way I could put you all in a room, wrap endless stretching arms around everyone, and give you a big J. Murray Spencer super hug.  You’re all winners, except for you, King, you dumbass Wire Fox Terrier.

Burns, the Longhaired Dachshund, took to the floor with perfectly combed hair glistening in the arena lights.  Frankly, he was so good I was contemplating plans for us to run away together.  His cute little Dachshund face was stoic yet gave me a sense that he was just the nicest puppy, like one you wake up to licking your face after you overmedicate.  Burns had it in the bag or so we all thought.

As I write this, gazing at the ashtray imbedded in my apartment drywall, it is hard to say that the wounds aren’t still fresh.  However, as a serious coverer of sports (I’m hesitant to call myself anything other than that) I must put opinions aside; but screw that.  King, the dumbass Wire Fox Terrier, took to the floor and while passing the judges table his handler must have blew some little guy dust into their eyes because frankly King, you look like a cartoon dog.  Maybe we should change your name to Scooby Doo. How a dog with a beard that would look more at home on the high seas with Jack Sparrow and a little doggie pecker that wags in unison with his tail wins the showcase event of the dog show circuit leads one to believe the whole damn system is in peril.  What, did Putin rig this one too?  King, you sir are number two!  Honestly, if this had been a more mainstream sporting event sponsored by Bud Light there would have been Molotov cocktails in the air.  While I’ll never watch another dog show again (I just get too invested), this makes me want to become an activist for a fairer, less rich-folk influenced, judging.  It is high time we got the money out of the dog show circuit.       

Where’d You Get Them Tight Pants?

J. Murray Spencer, Sports.

Super BowlWhen asked about handling the sports writing for The Breakfast my immediate thought was that I hate sports. However, political commentary is as numerous as grass on the prairie these days, and having no other job prospects, I thought, “what the hell.”

Less the origins of the game and more its recent role in the ongoing social justice debate, I got your back Kap, I possessed little to no knowledge, nor cared to, involving football. But with the seminal event of the National Football League season upon us I could think of no better time to embrace my new role and get to work.

Initially, I had intended for some friends and I to hit the local brew spot and watch the Super Bowl. That quickly faded when I realized I was a soon to be unemployed writer with college debt, so I opted for my apartment, a bottle of merlot, and some Afghani Kush; I have a prescription.

Overall, I found the commentary indecipherable but really enjoyed the big sparklers and fighter jet fly-over. From what was conveyed, this was one of the more lackluster games in Super Bowl history, if you follow such things. A stratosphere-like high, brief glimpses of Gisselle and a rapper entering the stadium in the form of a comet really kept my head in the game. However, after reviewing what I could read of my notes one nagging thought persisted: why does the NFL not care more for it’s players?

With all of the national anthem protest hype facing the NFL and poor manner in which they handled ensuing backlash, you would think they would have learned a lesson or two. Even more shocking was the way they blindly stumbled around the elephant in the room. One can only wonder how many players will wake up in excruciating pain years down the road from the NFL’s poor choice of ultra-tight pants. It must be terrible at the end of each practice or game to peel those spandex leg socks off and feel the blood rush back into your lower half. Why on earth in a game that requires lightning quick reflexes and agility to prevent getting decapitated would the NFL approve such a motion limiting uniform choice. 

Oh wait, just like the gladiators of ancient Rome, players are being sacrificed, blood sells tickets and the NFL wants nothing more than players to be ruthlessly crushed in front of screaming fans. Entertainment equals dollars, and tight pants give them that unwitting factor to keep the game violent. So to the players in the NFL, I say this, “Tear off your pants!”