Cru Jones Society

Well, it’s Monday. God knows you’re not working. You’re probably still tired and/or hungover from the weekend. I just got back from Vegas, so you can look for a recap of that trip coming up on Saturday. But, in the spirit of trying to get back into the week, here’s a nice long rant on some annoying celebrities after the jump. Enjoy!

I stood outside the bank across the street from my office enjoying a post-lunch cigarette when I saw a man walk by who looked remarkably like Major League Baseball Commissioner Bud Selig. I was overcome with the desire to walk up to this man and punch him in the face.

Bud Selig annoys me. He’s like the rock in my shoe that never shakes free. Every time I see him on television or see his face on espn.com, I get all hot inside. I think to myself, “This jagoff runs my favorite sport?” If not for Gary Bettman, whose appalling mismanagement of the NHL over the past 15 years has rendered hockey irrelevant in the United States, Bud Selig would be easily, hands down, the worst commissioner in professional sports.

Bud Selig’s facial expressions convey a sense of confused panic at all times. Every time he faces the media, he looks like an insecure underling being confronted by his boss about a failed project. Given that Selig is 74 years old, that manner of countenance insecurity doesn’t instill a lot of confidence in how your leader is steering the ship. I still recall with vivid accuracy him throwing his hands up and shrugging his shoulders when faced with dwindling pitchers and a tie score at the All-Star Game in his hometown of Milwaukee. Hey, nice leadership, Bud. You oversaw the only All-Star Game in history to end in a tie. Thanks!

More recently, I picture Bud standing at a podium after the release of the Mitchell Report saying, “This is a call to action. And I will act.” Oh, really? This was your call to action? Nevermind the Congressional hearings in 2005. Nevermind Jose Canseco’s book that alleged HALF of Major League Baseball players were on the juice.¹ And perhaps most importantly, were you not paying attention when Ken Caminiti professed to using steroids and a cadre of other narcotics for years and then promptly dropped dead at the age of 41? God I hate this guy. He’s so arrogant in his ignorance.

However, seeing this Bud Selig look-alike prompted another important question inside me. Which other famous people would you like to punch in the face?

Before we go any further, let’s just clarify something. I’ve never punched anyone in the face and do not advocate doing so to anyone for any reason. I would never assault a man I don’t know simply for having the unfortunate trait of appearing similar to another man I don’t know. That would be insane. And punishable by law.

I would never even punch the actual Bud Selig in the face. But if I were introduced to him at a party, I would not be excited. I wouldn’t say, “Nice to meet you.” I wouldn’t even want to hang around and ask him questions – not even questions like, “Hey remember when you tried to contract the Minnesota Twins out of the league even though their attendance numbers were similar to the Brewers? Why weren’t the Brewers ever considered for contraction? Oh right, you owned them.”

Nope. Wouldn’t even bother. The man is beneath my time.

With that clarified, who are the famous people beneath your time? Who annoys you? I mean, who REALLY annoys you? Who makes you change the channel? Who influences your vote in the opposite direction? Who causes that uncomfortable “pulling at your ribs” sensation whenever they’re around for reasons you can’t always rationally explain?

Some of these are givens obviously, and thus, will not be discussed. John Madden annoys virtually everyone all the time. That’s easy. So does George W. Bush. Britney Spears, Jim Cramer, Al Roker, Billy Mays (the guy who shills Oxi-Clean and about a zillion other products by loudly and forcefully talking at the camera approximately 900 times a day), Simon Cowell, Donald Trump, Rosie O’Donnell, and anyone known as a “celebutante” have all become ubiquitous near-daily irritations for us all. They’re like the wind; something we all deal with and move on. I want specific people that are unique to you.

Here are mine:

Tea Leoni

This is a woman who sleepwalks through every movie I’ve ever seen her in. Her parts in Bad Boys are completely unwatchable. I was cheering for the tidal wave that swallowed her and her father at the end of Deep Impact for forcing me to endure her half-heartedly trying to portray an investigative journalist for two unbearable hours.

Her acting reminds me of every 14 year-old girl you’ve ever seen. It’s like she’s put off at having to put forth effort in a scene and sounds vaguely irked by every line of dialogue she’s forced to read. Linda Fiorentino does this too and would have ruined Dogma if the cheeseball special effects weren’t there to do it instead. She appears to be unreasonably high-maintenance for redefining mediocrity in aesthetic beauty.

I didn’t watch “The Naked Truth” because of her and I refuse to see Spanglish even though my buddy wrote one of his graduate school papers (that I edited!) on the movie and how it reifies hegemonic norms of white dominance and American cultural assimilation.

Point: I won’t even watch Tea Leoni to better contextualize my own advanced education.

John Edwards

If I had written this three years ago, this section would go something like this:

“Does he have to remind us that he’s the son of a mill worker in EVERY speech? We get it, you came from humble beginnings. Now shut up. You may be the son of a mill worker, but now you’re an ex-U.S. Senator who works for a hedge fund and gets $400 haircuts. You’re just another Wall Street prick.”

If I were writing this section today, and I am, this is how it would go:

I was intrigued by John Edwards running for president again until I read his cover story in Esquire magazine, the most pretentious magazine on the planet. Esquire is filled with effete, left-leaning articles as it is, but this one really took the cake. The journalist rode around with Edwards for a few days and got a healthy dose of disgusting self-satisfaction. Edwards’s entourage was like a sycophantic band of ass-kissing frat pledges trying to buddy up to the upper classman because his dad could you hook you up with awesome and hard-to-get concert tickets.

One particularly skin-crawling story saw one of this cronies say, “Hey John, tell him the story of that high school basketball game where you made the winning shot!” Edwards rolled up his sleeves, leaned forward, had a big shit-eating grin on his face and recalled a glory moment from high school with great relish like a true grand champion of his own excellence. I was so nauseated by the unvarnished narcissism, I had to close the magazine right there. I never even finished the article.

But he’s not going to be president, so hopefully I don’t have to hear about him anymore… unless either Hillary or Barack are stupid enough to choose him as their running mate. Hey John, how ‘bout tending to your hot, cancer-stricken wife instead of trumpeting your own greatness and a bloated universal health care plan for a change?

John Edward²

A few years ago, this would have been way too obvious to even discuss. Everyone knows what a farce this clown’s act is. And I can’t add anything that wasn’t covered by the transcendent South Park episode that anointed John Edward the title of “Biggest Douche in the Universe.”

The reason he’s included on this list is because every time I see him, I’m reminded of having to hang out with an ex-girlfriend’s family and watch more episodes of his “Crossing Over” show than should be allowed by law. Her family LOVED this show and were awestruck by his talents. I don’t think I need to further expound upon how embarrassing that is.

Seeing John Edward for me is one of those amazing/awful things that instantaneously transports me back to a very specific time and place of pronounced unhappiness. So, thanks, Biggest Douche in the Universe! Every time I see your lisp-talking ass I get to remember one of the least happiest times of my life.

Actually, this is one guy I might actually punch in the face if I saw him…

Saliva (the band)

My friends will tell you that I mention this band more than any other band. They’re probably right. I don’t realize I’m doing it, but whenever I’m groping for a group I don’t like, this one is my go-to. And to be perfectly honest: I have no idea why.

I don’t even think about Saliva unless I need a shorthand way to compare a band I like with a band I don’t like. Saliva serves as my perennial strawman. Something about this band just fundamentally pisses me off when I think about them abstractly.

Is it that Josey Scott looks like the bastard offspring of Rosie O’Donnell and the lead singer of Nashville Pussy? Is it that I perceive him to be too chubby to be a convincing front man? Is it that Saliva writes some of the ooey-gooeyest power ballads this side of 1989? Is it that their idiotic rap-metal seems to be written for the sole purpose of being played at low-level sporting events until the end of time? Probably all of those things. I don’t know. I can’t talk about them rationally.

But I’ll tell you this: I’m not bringing them up anymore. I don’t want my friends to give me the fish-eye whenever I drop Josey Scott’s name into conversation where it doesn’t belong. I can never think of any good reasons why I would mention Saliva when I do. I don’t want Saliva to be for me what following the activities of celebrities is for my mom.

She always tells me how tired she is of “hearing about all these stars” ³ and how she’s going to stop seeing their movies and reading People Magazine and watching Entertainment Tonight and  blah blah blah. Every time I see her, I get the same “no stars” oath, and yet every time I see her, she asks me my opinion about Britney Spears despite the fact that not only have I never expressed an opinion of Britney Spears, I actually have no opinion of Britney Spears.

I’ve got to stop mentioning Saliva. How embarrassing. Although if I ever met Josey Scott, since he writes songs that appear at a lot of sporting events, I’d like to ask him, “So do you plan on following Gary Glitter’s career path exactly, and if so, when can we expect to see your first indictment for child pornography?”

Tony La Russa

I’m a Cub fan. Let’s get that out of the way first.

Yes, I dislike him because his Cardinals won a World Series despite only winning 83 games in the regular season and managed to go less than 100 years between titles. Yes, I dislike him because Mark McGwire ended up with more home runs than Sammy Sosa. Yes, I dislike him because he outmanaged the impossibly overrated Dusty Baker every time the Cubs played the Cardinals (and managed to do so without damn near ruining the arms of two of the most promising pitchers of all time – pending upon how well Chris Carpenter rebounds after arm surgery). And yes, I dislike him for showing all the remorse of a miller moth after his drunk driving conviction in Florida.

I will give him credit for treating recalcitrant jerkoff Scott Rolen like the pariah he is, though. Scott Rolen sucks.

The above points all paint a vivid picture of jealous me wishing better fortune upon my favorite baseball team. Tony La Russa helped the Cardinals achieve much of their success. I still wouldn’t want him as my team’s manager.

Why? The dude annoys me.

The man hasn’t smiled once in my 20 years of watching baseball. I’m not saying he has to turn into Ryan Seacrest in the dugout, but crack a smile once in a while, man. Geez, you coach what is essentially a kids’ game. Stop looking like a recovering a child molester staring regretfully at a playground.

I remember an interview I read where he proclaimed, “I’m essentially a humorless man.” Boy, I’ll bet that makes his wife happy. Maybe his lack of humor is why Albert Pujols always has a facial expression like he’s trying to ease out a fart without shitting his pants. Maybe an off-hand ball-busting joke would have helped David Eckstein stop throwing like a girl. Maybe it’s why J.D. Drew phoned it in night after night. On second thought, watching his yawning performances in Los Angeles, Atlanta and Boston insulate Tony from all the blame.

The point is: Tell a joke once in a while, Tony! I don’t even care if it’s the same one Tom Hanks told in “Catch Me If You Can.” Anything works here. Lighten up!

Another thing: He’s had that same stupid haircut and those same stupid glasses for as long as I can remember. Remember when Homer is looking for his kids who have been adopted by the Flanders in that episode of the Simpsons? Every time I look at Tony La Russa, all I think is:

“Okay, don’t panic. To find La Russa, I just have to think like La Russa! – I’m a big four-eyed lame-o and I wear the same stupid haircut every year and… The Springfield River!”

The good news is, if I ever need to find La Russa, I know he’s at the Springfield River with his same stupid haircut and same stupid sunglasses.

And finally, Ol’ Tony is good pals with Bill Belichick. Yep, Bill Belichick. The most disagreeable coach in the NFL. The guy who spied on other teams to steal their defensive signals. The coach of the team everyone cheered against in the last Super Bowl. The hoodie. One of the most unlikable people on the planet.

Tony and Bill. BFF <3

That’s so perfect I wish I had made it up. Two of the most unlikable coaches in sports enjoy hanging out together. When I’m bored, I amuse myself by imagining their conversations where they say a combined 9 sentences to each other over 75 minutes.

“Tony, this pasta is good.”

“It’s a recipe I got from Tommy Lasorda before he realized that talking to me is akin to waiting in line at the DMV.”

[12 minutes elapse]

“Is that oregano or tarragon I taste?”

That’s enough for now. Five celebrities is annoying enough for one day. Feel free to comment on which celebrities get under your skin or shoot me an email. Best responses get published in the next go-round. Good luck with the rest of your Monday.

Until next time…

edagger@crujonessociety.com

¹ This point has been discussed ad nauseam, but I’d just like to reiterate how utterly bizarre it is that Juiced ended up being the Silent Spring of the steroids era. I mean, seriously, Jose Canseco’s book? Who woulda thunk it?

² I know, what are the odds? The plural and the singular in the same column! What a fantastic coincidence! Or maybe just a coincidence.

³ She always calls them “the stars,” and it always annoys me. Just refer to them as celebrities, for crap’s sake. Calling them “the stars” sounds ridiculous.