Big Mouth Blues

Sometimes I’ll hit upon a topic that begs to be discussed but just can’t be. Usually, the problem is that the concept is too thin for a full essay (and too complicated for a tweet). Occasionally I’m afraid that the content will be deemed offensive (although my goal, as always, is to offend no one and everyone at exactly the same time.) And sometimes I just forget to write them.

But you’re in luck! Today I’ll be sharing some of the topics that could have or shouldn’t have been:

1) Gay or British?

Concept: Certain things in life seem to be the exclusive province of gay or British men. For example, straight men generally don’t use umbrellas, opting for a hat or just getting wet and looking tough. So when you spot a man with an umbrella, it begs the question: gay or British? Same thing goes for drinking (hot) tea.

Reason for failure: potentially offensive; couldn’t think of third example (I always use three examples in an essay).

2) Anything called ‘shower’ is a bad deal

Concept: Both baby showers and wedding showers are tortuous, especially if you’re a man and are obliged to attend. It’s just hours upon hours of politeness, dainty food and boring gift-opening. Rain and snow showers are also bad.

Reason for failure: shower showers are quite nice, so not everything named shower is a bad deal. I guess this essay should have been called “Please don’t make me go to your bridal/baby shower.”

3) In Defense of the MBTA

Concept: It’s fun to bitch about the public transportation in Boston, but in general it’s fairly reliable, occasionally clean and often humorous. Therefore, we should defend them to counterbalance all of the (insightful and hilarious) criticism.

Reason for failure: On Tuesday night my train was late (again), smelled bad and made red hulk angry.

4) French Cuffs are Lame

Concept: French cuffs, and their little partners-in-crime, the cufflink, are lame. Potentially only worn by gay or British men.

Reason for failure: What else is there to say? If it’s not your wedding day, your French cuffs are lame.

5) Posts That Could Have or Shouldn’t Have Been

Concept: A post that is allegedly about posts that were never written, but was really an original, high-concept piece.

Reason for failure: post not funny.

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Thanks as always for reading. You can find all of my NaBloPoMo essays here. Other humor essays are here. Music essays are here. You can subscribe to this blog’s feed here and you can follow me on twitter here. And please tell your gay and/or British friends to stop by.

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If you spend enough time in New York, particularly on the island that is long, you’ll soon find out that people love diners. Actually, love isn’t even a strong enough term to describe the phenomenon. Whatever emotion is stronger than love (creepy stalkerish obsession?) is how New Yorkers feel about their diners.

In fact, I will go so far as to say:

1) I have never met a New Yorker that doesn’t love diners; and

2) I have never been to a diner that I have liked.

Now, before I get into my highly logical and surprisingly compelling argument against diners, let me outline the signs that you should look for to determine if you’re in a real NY diner.

A real NY diner:

• Is usually named after the town that it preys on (or has some variation of “coach” or “coachman” in the name);

• Has more neon trim on the exterior than an Iroc-Z;

• Has at least three of the following items in the waiting area: biorhythm machine; stuffed animal crane game; Mike and Ike vending machine; local pennysavers/want ads; that weird donate-a-quarter to Jerry’s kids cardboard thing; a confused old person; vinyl bench seats (with a confused old person); signs about clothing requirements; more chintzy stuff like this;

• Has a menu that is too big (both figuratively and literally), has too many items on it and is sticky from syrup (I sure hope that’s syrup); and

• Has mini-juke boxes at the booths;

So, why do I hate NY diners?

1) Why bother serve 300 menu items when you can’t get any of them right? Focus, people. Don’t serve breakfast all day if you’re not even good at making it in the morning;

2) They will never substitute anything on the menu. Don’t like hash browns? Too bad. Want a side of mayo? That’ll cost you;

3) The service, atmosphere and food are all always bad. It’s the trifecta, every single time.

4) They’re surprisingly expensive to eat at and they pull that “4 oz. of OJ for $4” nonsense;

5)You always have to pay at the register up front and they act like a Boston cabbie if you pull out a credit card; and

They’re secretly Greek restaurants. And Greek restaurants are terrible.

That’s right, Zorba, I figured out your little scam. NY diners are really just Greek restaurants in disguise.

Look, I totally respect the fact that the Greeks figured out that people don’t like their food so they created diners in New York (and House of Pizzas in New England). It was a savvy move, as Greek food is terrible. To whit:

• Greek food uses the worst part of the grape (leaf)

• Greek food features the most disgusting olive (kalamata)

• Greek food always highlights the worst cheese (feta)

• Greek food has plenty of the worst dough (phyllo)

All of the “famous” Greek dishes – spanikopita, tzatziki, moussaka, etc. are awful. Have you ever heard someone say: “I’d kill for some moussaka right now!” No, you haven’t. Do you know why? Because no one in the history of the world has ever said those words. People would rather eat Vietnamese pho and even the pho chef doesn’t know what’s in that big bowl of scary.

So, now you know. NY diners suck because they’re really Greek restaurants and Greek food sucks.

The secret is out.

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Thanks as always for reading. You can find all of my NaBloPoMo essays here. Other humor essays are here. Music essays are here. You can subscribe to this blog’s feed here and you can follow me on twitter here. And please tell your relatives (just the cool ones) to stop by.

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People that know me well know that I hate two things more than anything else: wearing big boy clothes and NASA.

Now, I’m not going to get into the big boy clothes thing today, but suffice to say that any item of clothing that features buttons or zippers is no friend of mine. (Remind me at a later date to explain my awesome ‘dream pants’ invention.)

Back to NASA: for as long as I can remember I have railed against the waste of money that is the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. I really can’t think of another more wasteful government project, and that’s including the Department of Interior Design.

Since the beginning of the “space race” NASA has delivered exactly two notable inventions: TANG and Velcro. And let’s be honest – TANG sucks worse than Sunny D and Velcro is really just for fat kids who are too lazy to tie their own sneakers.

Twenty kazillion dollars down the drain and nothing to show for it except for a couple of alleged moon rocks.

Actually, I’m joking when I say “alleged moon rocks” because I’m definitely not a conspiracy theorist when it comes to the moon landing. This is surprising because I believe in literally every other conspiracy theory in the world. Anytime I can blame the Illuminati or the Masons for something, I’m in. But I definitely believe in the moon landing. Do you know why? Because it’s way too embarrassing to lie about landing on the moon since THERE’S NOTHING THERE.

We spent all that money and got into a huge pissing match with Russia over a useless hunk of rock floating in space. And the same thing goes for the rest of space. It’s empty. That’s why it’s called “space.”

Meanwhile, two-thirds of the Earth is just sloshing around, begging to be explored. All this time we could be searching for the hidden kingdom of Atlantis – which we all know exists – but, nope, we’ve got to waste our time trying to fix up that junky trailer park that they call the International Space Station.

We could be figuring out how to breathe underwater. We could be discovering delicious new varietals of deep-ocean fish to eat. We could be hanging out with mer-people. We could be building underwater cities modeled after Bikini Bottom. But, nope, we’ve got to blow our cash on stupid, empty, useless space.

And what’s the deal with the Space Shuttle? Assuming there are aliens somewhere out in the universe, wouldn’t we want to send up some bad-ass looking muscle car of a spaceship? Instead we’ve got this wimpy-looking shuttle that practically screams: “Invade our planet! We’re a bunch of pussies!” If I was in charge of NASA, I’d be painting flames and shark teeth on the side of my tricked-out space destroyer.

So, there you have it. To recap:

1) NASA is a waste of money;
2) We should put our scientific efforts behind exploring the oceans; and
3) Flames and shark teeth are wicked cool.

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Thanks as always for reading. You can find all of my NaBloPoMo essays here. Other humor essays are here. Music essays are here. You can subscribe to this blog’s feed here and you can follow me on twitter here. And please tell your relatives (just the cool ones) to stop by.

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For many years I’ve harbored a deep suspicion that the one thing that stands between me and super success in life is my lack of title. It seems like everywhere I go the high rollers are always flaunting their titles – Doctor this, General that, etc. And what have I got? Nothing. I’ve got “Mister” which totally blows.

“Mister” is the worst title because every adult male gets it for doing nothing more than hitting puberty. At least boys get “Master” which sounds a lot more impressive than “Mister.” You know what? “Mister” is a downgrade from “Master.” I’m actually worse off now then I was 30 years ago.

I’ve been wrestling with this dilemma for many years now and to be honest I’ve kind of lost hope of scoring a cool title. I guess I’ve also kind of lost hope of ever being super successful.

Education seems like the easiest way to get a title. All you need to do is pay a few hundred grand, go to school until you’re 30, crank out some boring-ass dissertation and you’re an instant “Doctor.” If I was a non-medical doctor I would never get tired of wearing scrubs around town, calling myself “Doctor” and letting people think that I was a medical doctor. But I don’t really think that I can go back to school right now. I’m too old to be a sexy coed and too young to be an inspirational octogenarian.

The Military is another great option for getting a sweet title. My problem with the military is that I could never quite pick a branch to commit to. I look terrible with a high and tight haircut so the Marines are out. Kerchiefs chafe my neck so the Navy is out. I’m a terrible driver so the Air Force is definitely out. And those Army uniforms are just too drab and dreary for words. Nope, I’m definitely not cut out for the military life, my inability to do push-ups notwithstanding.

Another option, admittedly more difficult, is to get some foreign noble to award me a title for outstanding service to the crown. I’m just not sure which noble I should befriend or what service I could perform. I could go for England. They speak almost the same language as us and Harry seems like an easy mark. Then again, if I tell those goth Spanish princesses that I can reunite Johnny Marr and Morrissey I’d bet they’d make me King of Portugal muy pronto!

Nope, I’m afraid that it’s just not going to happen. I’ve started to accept the fact that I will have to be content to live and die merely as boring Mister Blum – not dreamy Doctor Blum, stern General Blum or brave Sir Blum.

Just when I had given up hope the most surprising and wonderful thing happened! I read a letter in the local paper that was signed by a “Commodore.” And I was all like “Commodore? Commodore of what?” And it turns out that this jackass Commodore is the Commodore of the “yacht club” in the seaside shanty where I live.

That’s the ticket! Commodore is a rock star title. I put that on my business card and I’m set for life. Commodore Blum has a nice ring to it, too.

So, problem solved. My new goal in life is to infiltrate the yacht club and stage a bloodless coup. And then I will have a title – Commodore, no less – at long last.

Now all I need is a boat.

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Thanks as always for reading. You can find all of my NaBloPoMo essays here. Other humor essays are here. Music essays are here. You can subscribe to this blog’s feed here and you can follow me on twitter here. And please tell your friends and/or enemies to stop by.

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You know what? Being a predictor of doom is probably one of the worst jobs in the world.

Think about it. You really can’t win if you go around predicting when the world is going to end. If you’re right, nobody will know. And if you’re wrong, everybody will just make fun of you.

It’s a sucker’s game, alright. I’m definitely not going to let my kids pursue an Oracle Arts major.

The first time I heard that the world was going to end was back around 1980. I was in middle school and word spread around the lunchroom that Nostradamus has predicted the end of the world for the next day. Now, I’m not sure how some old, dead French dude knew the exact day and date in 20th century New Jersey when the world would end, but since he was right about the Kennedys and Hitler we gave him the benefit of the doubt. In fact, I was so sure that he was right that I didn’t bother finishing a book report that was due on doomsday. Tragically, the world didn’t end as planned and I got busted for not doing my homework. Even more tragically, it wasn’t the first time that I hadn’t completed my homework and my Nostradamus excuse didn’t fly.

The second time I heard that the world was supposed to end was back around 1984. This time the end was supposed to come courtesy of the business end of a Soviet nuclear weapon. This was a more general threat, as we were never promised a specific date for the end of the world. In a weird way this was even more frightening than Nostradamus’s prediction, as we spent months talking about bomb shelters and planning for nuclear winter. But the death paranoia came to an abrupt end on November 1, 1985 thanks to the heroics of one brave Englishman. As soon as Gordon “Sting” Sumner explained to us that the Russians loved their children, too, we all just stopped worrying about nuclear war. As far as I’m concerned Sting can hold back as many orgasms and play as much lute as he wants for the rest of eternity – he’s earned it. That man literally saved us all from worrying about the end of the world.

After 1985 we hit a long, dry spell without any real threats to the world’s survival. Sure, we had acid rain and Milli Vanilli to deal with but things were pretty calm until the Y2K frenzy started.

I was never too worried about Y2K because it seemed like a stupid theory from the get-go. First off, computer technology in the mid-90s was limited to writing term papers and very s-l-o-w-l-y surfing for porn. Secondly, everybody knows that computers don’t kill people – people with computers kill people. And finally, so what if all of the computers thought that it was 1900? What were they going to do – send the Ottoman Empire after us or make us work 18 hour days in unsafe factories?

Nowadays we worry about 2012 and the Mayan prediction about the end of the world. The Mayans were definitely a cool civilization and all but I’m not scared about 2012 at all. Here’s why: the Mayans worshipped the Corn God. What’s the secret ingredient of everything that we eat? CORN. Why would K. Taube (the tonsured corn god) destroy a civilization that worships high fructose corn syrup? The answer is that he wouldn’t. In fact, I think that he’ll be quite happy with us.

I’m going to go out on a limb and predict that the world WILL NOT end in 2012. I’m so confident that I’m right that I’m willing to put some money where my big mouth is. Any takers out there?

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Thank you for reading yet another fascinating NaBloPoMo installment. You can find all of my NaBloPoMo essays here. Other mildly amusing essays are here. You can subscribe to this blog’s feed here and you can follow me on twitter here. And please tell your friends and/or enemies to stop by.

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If you’re like me, you grew up in the 1970s idolizing Pete Rose and rooting for the Reds, then moved to Boston when you were 15 and adopted the Red Sox as your team. In the subsequent 20-something years your love for the Sox has only deepened but your problem is the obnoxious Yankee fan relatives that you left back in the tri-state area.

Assuming that you’re in exactly the same boat that I am, I figured that I’d develop a list of snappy comebacks to the inevitable ribbing that will most likely commence this weekend. I call it:

The Red Sox Fan’s Guide to Delivering Snappy Responses to Yankees Fans if (when) the Yankees win the World Series

“Sure, you’re happy now, but just wait till Kate Hudson starts filming “Fever Pitch 2” at Yankee Stadium.”

“I guess Billy Beane was wrong after all – an extra $85mm in payroll really CAN buy a championship.”

“Call me the next time the Yankees win a championship without former Red Sox Johnny Damon leading the way.”

“Hey, I heard that Joe Girardi is already updating his binder for next season. Good luck repeating!”

“Eh, baseball was a lot more fun when everybody was on steroids anyway.”

“I’m glad you won this year. A rivalry isn’t really a rivalry when the other team hasn’t won in almost 10 years.”

“Does this mean that the grounds crew will finally stop performing Y.M.C.A. now? Look, if you want to unseat Massachusetts as the gayest state in America you’re going to need to approve gay marriage, not just insult the Village People’s legacy.”

“Has Suzyn Waldman stopped crying yet?”

“Oh well. I guess Phil Rizzuto’s Curse of the Money Store wasn’t true after all.”

“The joke’s on you. We actually buried Ortiz’ positive drug test results under the new stadium. Good luck finding them!”

“Whatever. Your team is still owned by the Steinbrenners.”

(Please feel free to add your own snappy comebacks in the comment section.)

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Come on, Pedey…we need you to pull out one more for the Sawx.

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Thank you for reading yet another hilarious NaBloPoMo installment.  You can find all of my NaBloPoMo essays here.  Other side-splitting humor essays are here. You can subscribe to this blog’s feed here and you can follow me on twitter here.  And please tell your friends to stop by.

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Recently, I was talking about the Unites States with a youngster and I made a “joke” to the effect that Hawaii and Alaska don’t really count as states. After a responsible adult – in an attempt to stave off an elementary school test failure – informed the child that yes, Hawaii and Alaska are indeed real states I decided to take my idea to a more open-minded audience, namely, you, the internet.

In my view, Alaska and Hawaii aren’t real states because they don’t touch the rest of the country. Sure, I might be a stickler for contiguousness, but I always thought that the “united” in United States meant that the states were geographically united, in addition to being united under the boot-heels of a bunch of fat old white men (and one skinny black man) in D.C.

I once read the back-story of Hawaii (but not the James A. Michener book ‘Hawaii’) which informed me that Hawaii was once a peaceful kingdom ruled by a benevolent queen until evil American corporations convinced our corrupt government to invade the place so we could steal their sugar cane, coffee and gourmet pizza. And then we promptly crapped up the place, per our usual MO.

I haven’t heard the back-story of Alaska (nor have I read the James A. Michener book ‘Alaska’) but I’m guessing that it’s the same deal as Hawaii, but substitute “whale blubber”, “oil” and “crystal meth” for “sugar cane”, “coffee” and “gourmet pizza.” I’m not sure that there was much in Alaska for us to crap up, but then again, polar bears can’t (or won’t) talk. Plus, this would be a really easy way to get rid of Sarah Palin for once and for all (but Levi can definitely stay – he’s super awesome.)

It seems like the least we can do, in the new spirit of “America isn’t so bad after all,” to give these two territories back to their rightful owners. Plus, I hear that Hawaii is really expensive and I’m thinking that our broke-ass country can’t really afford any expensive vacation timeshares these days.

Now, the other thing that our broke-ass country probably can’t afford is to reprint our letterhead and flags and stuff with just 48 stars. But I have a simple solution: when we ditch Hawaii and Alaska we automatically give DC statehood and split California into North and South California. That way, we’ll stay flat at 50 states and keep everybody happy.

So that’s the plan and I’m confident that all of you – with the possible exception of my son’s teacher – will embrace it warmly.

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Thank you for reading yet another hilarious NaBloPoMo installment.  You can find all of my NaBloPoMo essays here.  Other side-splitting humor essays are here. You can subscribe to this blog’s feed here and you can follow me on twitter here.  And please tell your friends to stop by.

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Recently, we were watching an episode of Magnum, P.I. and several thoughts occurred to me:

1) Magnum’s shorts were really, really short. I’m talking ass cheeky-Daisy Duke short;
2) Higgins’ shorts were pulled up incredibly high, as in all-the-way-to-the-sternum high. Even so, that man certainly knew how to rock a pair of khakis;
3) Magnum’s jeans appeared to be made of a denim-like substance that probably wasn’t denim. They looked like the faux-jeans that you can buy in the back of Parade magazine;
4) They easily contrived a way for Mangum to strip off his shirt, giving the ladies a little extra something for their viewing effort.

But what occurred to me most of all was that the ‘80s truly were the golden age of television dramas. Now, I know that it’s popular to say that today is the golden age of television – with your Mad Mens and your Deadwoods and your Sopranos - but, sorry, I don’t buy it.

Think about Magnum, P.I. Here’s a show that had it all: action, adventure, comedy, bromance, Hawaiian scenery and a fussy Brit and was still able to deliver some deft post-Vietnam social commentary while dazzling us with exciting mysteries. And a helicopter!

Just imagine being a writer on Magnum, P.I. and having to figure out a way to work a giant brown and orange colored helicopter into each and every plot. How often do helicopters come into play in our daily lives (outside of useless traffic reports)? And yet they pulled it off brilliantly every time. Now that’s a TV show.

The problem with today’s TV dramas is that they’re too realistic. They’re too gritty. Who wants grit? Not me. I like shows that ask me to suspend my critical thinking faculties. For example:

I like shows where guys live on a houseboat and solve mysteries (Riptide). I like shows where a fat D.A. friend can help you solve mysteries (Jake & the Fatman). I like shows where people can run from the government in a van, act crazy, make tanks out of the very same van and solve mysteries (The A-Team). I like shows where even old people can solve mysteries (Murder: She Wrote, Matlock). I like show where Glenn Frey can play a villain who solves mysteries (Miami Vice).

And I’ll always love Kojak best of all.

I could go on and on and on. Do you know why? Because Donald P. Bellasario went on and on. None of this “I’m an auteur who can only make 10 episodes every two years” crap. Donald P. Bellasario or Stephen J. Cannell could shit out more episodes of a TV show before lunch than Matthew Weiner could make all year. And their shows had staying power – often running for 5 or 6 seasons before William Conrad died or Joe Penny violated his parole.

I’m pretty sure that Hill Street Blues was the turning point. Sure, it was a great show, but it was too realistic. Well, except for the kooky cop that called everyone “dogbreath.” But aside from that, I think the success of Hill Street marked the end of the golden age of 80s dramas.

Ah, Theodore “T.C.” Calvin, we hardly knew ye.

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Thank you for reading day 2 of NaBloMoPo. You can read all of the NaBloPoMo entries here. Other humor essays are here. During the month of November, you can subscribe to the feed for free by clicking here.

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If there’s one thing that I’ve learned by watching cooking competition shows on television, it’s that only losers don’t have at least one James Beard award to their name.

I had never heard of the James Beard award before I started watching Top Chef and initially I was pretty impressed when the award came up in someone’s bio. But like most things, I got a little less impressed each time I heard somebody else brag about their James Beard award. I’m starting to suspect that James Beard might be in league with the “American Tasting Institute” for doling out meaningless, yet fancy-sounding, food-related awards.

For an award to appear prestigious it requires three things: 1) it has to be well-known by the general public; 2) it has to be difficult to win; and 3) it needs to possess a hint of mystery. James Beard fails on 2 of the 3 counts: most people haven’t heard of it, and once they do, it seems like literally anyone can win one.

Perhaps that’s why the Michelin award is so respected in the food world. It seems very exclusive, Frenchy and enigmatic. I really like the idea of chefs being awarded Michelin stars, but there’s still a few problems:

1) Maybe in France Michelin stands for something cool and tasty, but in America Michelin stands for a creepy fat tire monster. Whenever Tom Colicchio talks about Michelin stars I always picture the Michelin man in a chef hat presenting the award – which makes it seem slighty less important but somewhat cooler at the exact same time.

2) Michelin stars are earned individually, as if the chefs were playing Super Mario Galaxy and collecting stars. Earning even one star is an impressive, career-making feat. Yet where I come from, one star is a really bad grade. And Michelin only goes up to 3 stars. Are French movies rated on a 3 point scale or something?

3) There aren’t enough Michelin stars awarded in the U.S. Now, I’m not saying that every Cheesecake Factory should get a star, but if people don’t have the opportunity to experience what a Michelin star tastes like, then they’re not going to really care about Michelin stars, making it a somewhat irrelevant award.

I was a cook for 7 years in high school and college and now I’m wondering if maybe I should have stuck with cooking as a career. I probably wouldn’t be a very good chef because I have the palette of a 4th grader and I hate fancy food, but I imagine that I’d have racked up at least 5 James Beards and a few Michelin stars by now. Oh well.

Then again, if I play my cards right, I might still be able to get an award from the American Tasting Institute.

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This year, for the first time in my long, illustrious blogging career, I’ll participating in NaBloPoMo. Today’s post is the first of 30 that I’ll attempt to make this month. As a result, the posts may be shorter, stupider and less grammatical than usual. If you’d like to read my normal humor essays, please click here.

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As a sports expert of sorts (and by “of sorts” I mean “not at all”) I often find myself thinking long and hard about the future of two professional sports leagues that I care little about: the National Hockey League (NHL) and National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing (NASCAR).

(For the record, my order of pro sports preference is: football, baseball, basketball, Russian women’s tennis, hockey, golf, auto racing, jai alai and last, and most definitely least, soccer.)

Just a few short years ago it seemed like both leagues were poised to conquer the world: NASCAR announced plans to build race tracks in exotic locales like Long Island and Mexico and the NHL expanded from 17 to 30-something teams. But as quickly as it started, the momentum abruptly stopped: the NHL went through a long lock-out, settled on a non-lucrative TV deal with the little-watched Versus network and ended up with a bunch of nearly-bankrupt teams. Meanwhile, NASCAR stopped talking about how their TV ratings were going to exceed NFL levels and quietly shelved plans to expand into non-traditional markets.

There’s a fancy term that we use in the business world to describe the point when things stop growing: plateau. (You also may be familiar with ‘plateau’ if you’ve ever been on a diet or climbed a mountain.) Yes, it appears like both the NHL and NASCAR have hit a plateau. But I’ve got a genius idea that’s going to take both leagues all the way to the top – together!

It’s Time for the NHL and NASCAR to Merge into One Super-League.

Cool idea, huh?  Here’s how the merger would work:

The National Auto Racing and Hockey League (NARHL) will become a dual league that is operated on a regional basis. Cities south of the ‘Grits Line’ (the geographical line where grits are served in restaurants) get auto racing. Northern cities and Canada get hockey.

This regional approach makes a lot of sense because hockey is a very difficult sport to comprehend if you’ve never before seen ice, blades or Canadians. Plus, the whole concept of the “Zamboni” will take generations to explain. Similarly, auto racing is puzzling for people who primarily ride the subway or sit in traffic jams. Also, kids up north aren’t really allowed to ride tractors or go-karts or ATVs, which seem to be the three primary training vehicles for professional drivers.

To make this merger happen, we’re going to have to dump a bunch of hockey teams, but losing these clubs (or moving them north) is no big deal: Florida Panthers, Tampa Bay Lightning, Atlanta Thrashers, Carolina Hurricanes, Nashville Predators, Phoenix Coyotes, Anaheim Ducks, and San Jose Sharks. (Personally, I’d love to boot LA, Dallas, and St. Louis, too, but at least those cities have some hockey tradition.)

The following NASCAR tracks will have to be eliminated, but it shouldn’t too be a big problem because NASCAR fans love road trippin’ in their RVs: Pocono, Michigan, New Hampshire, Chicagoland, Indianapolis, and Watkins Glen.

Now, I know that this idea is so radical and innovative that at first blush it might seem a little insane. Hockey and Auto Racing clearly have NOTHING in common.

Or do they? Let’s look at the many ways in which the NHL and NASCAR are nearly identical:

1) The Champion Wins a Cup

In hockey the champion wins Lord Stanley’s Cup. In auto racing the champion wins The (insert sponsor’s name here) Cup. Moving forward we’ll probably want to maintain the historical significance of Lord Stanley, but make it a little bit more accessible to the average NASCAR fan (“Lord” does sound a little twee,) therefore, I suggest that we rename it “Stan’s Cup”.

2) There’s a Lot of Missing Teeth on Both Sides

Sure, in hockey the players are missing teeth due to the flying pucks, while in auto racing, the fans are missing teeth due to a lack of basic dental hygiene, but the bottom line is that we’ve got two leagues that don’t expect perfect smiles – and I for one, find that refreshing. (And say ‘allo to future UK expansion plans!)

3) The Mullet is Always in Style

Hockey players choose the mullet because it works well underneath their helmets. Fans like the mullet because most of them (male or female) look like Ray Bourque anyway. NASCAR fans like the mullet because it provides a little neck shade and is easily converted into a rat-tail for formal occasions. In the end, it doesn’t matter why you wear a mullet, as long as you’re wearing one.

4) Major Rule Changes, Anytime

Both leagues have a habit of making major rule changes to the game whenever they damn well feel like it. No one, drivers included, have any idea how the cockamamie “Chase to the Cup” even works – something about top 10 or 12 finishers and bonus points and penalty points. In hockey, I think fans now vote on how a team gets points: overtime losses? Shootouts? Mini one-on-one battles? Sure!  You decide. And the rules for off-sides and two-line passes change daily. Let’s be honest: these are two leagues that are always up for some change.

5) A Shocking Lack of Diversity

On a side note, I’ve got a spin-off idea for a great new reality show, called ‘Needle in a Haystack’. Two teams compete: One has to find a Jew at Talledega. The other has to find a black guy in Ottawa. Good luck!

But seriously, neither hockey nor auto racing are the most diverse sports out there. A little cross-pollination between the NASCAR fan base and the NHL fan base might be good for the country. I mean, since when have northerners and southerners not gotten along in this country?

As you can see, this idea has some real merit. And that’s what I’m here for – providing real solutions to non-existent problems.

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