Tag Archives: wallace matthews

Football, Pundidiots, The Funny

The New York Douchebag Sportswriters Guild Decrees Eric Mangini’s Fate

lupica.jpgAs chairman of the New York Douchebag Sportswriters’ Guild, I, Mike Lupica, call this meeting to order. First item of business, all praise and worship be due to Gorlaqk the Dread.

MurrayChass.jpgHail Gorlaqk!

lupica.jpgIndeed, Murray Chass. Second item of business, it looks like Eric Mangini might have a job interview with the Cleveland Browns. Do we think this is the next best move for him? The floor recognizes Phil Mushnick.
mushnick.jpgNo. Not only did he lead the Jets to a disastrous end, but he didn’t heed a word of our invaluable advice!
lupica.jpg
Shall we cut him any slack because that advice varied wildly among all of us from minute to minute?

MurrayChass.jpgSurely you jest! There is only one honorable thing for Mangini to do: take his own life.

raissman.jpgMy mustache and I agree. To go on living would do nothing but bring shame upon his ancestors. It would also make it seem as if our pointed barbs did no damage to his fragile psyche–which surely cannot be true!

lupica.jpgI concur, Bob Raissman. So we’re agreed that Eric Mangini can only truly find peace in the icy grip of the grave. The question follows: What would be the best method?

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Baseball, Pundidiots

The Unhappiest Man in the World

I’ll get the juvenalia out of the way:

Wallace Matthews is a penis.

I’m convinced there isn’t a more sour, hopeless writer in America, regardless of medium. Perhaps in the history of the world. He makes Franz Kafka look like Mr. Rogers.

If you’ve never had the displeasure of reading him, let me darken your doorway for a moment. Wallace Matthews is a sportswriter for Newsday, and he hates everything. There isn’t an ounce of joy in the man’s heart for any human endeavor. If he was in Paris during the Liberation, he would have complained there was too much confetti in the air.

This was going to be the part where I rattled off sportswriters who I think are good, but sadly, there are very few sportswriters in traditional media that I actually enjoy (this discounts various bloggers and sabermetric geeks like Baseball Prospectus). Tim Marchman of the little-read NY Sun is one baseball writer that I really like, and I’d be hard pressed to think of too many more.

After Marchman, it’s simply a question of degrees of douche-osity. There are self-promoting douches like Mike Lupica and Tony Kornheiser. There are self-righteous douches like Phil Mushnick. There are cranky Luddite douches like Murray Chass and Bill Plaschke. There’s the plethora of middle-of-the-road douches whose names barely register because their writing is all the same shade of pale vanilla.

Matthews is a whole different class of douche. In fact, douche doesn’t even come close to capturing his loathsomeness. It was once said that Willie Mays only played in the majors because there was no higher league. Someone needs to invent a new word to describe the
depths of Matthews’ ugh-itude.

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