One of the great benefits of our modern times with its digital technology, fast food, electric cars, and gold-plated toilets for Middle East dictators is the crystal clear surround sound that most sports broadcasts transmit. Coupled with even the most rudimentary sound system, you can now sit in the privacy of your own home (pants are not optional at most sports arenas these days, after all) while being immersed in the actuals sounds of the game. So realistic is the surround sound experience, that I am occasionally tricked by the verisimilitude of the sound replication capabilities of my home theater system and subsequently turn around to mock the phantom home fans who are "sitting" behind me yelling support for their team.
But, the best part, by far, of getting courtside audio while watching at home is catching stray profane words blasting out of the speakers. (Another reason to pull the plug on the center channel.) Several times a game when one player misses an especially critical free throw, or dribbles off his foot, or just 'cause it's Thursday night he will let rip with one or two of George Carlin's "Seven Dirty Words You Can't Say On TV." Well, maybe not "tits", but the other six for sure. (Tip of the ol' hat to Ben for reminding me of that bit of comedic genius on Friday.)
Now, I have not yet fulfilled my genetic destiny and reproduced - that I know of! (yep, writers are still on strike, sorry for the sub par jokes toady) That means the worst that could happen at my house when the blue language flies is my cat might overhear, and she hasn't developed a knack for the spoken word. Though, I'd swear that the desperate hungry meowing that accompanies me as I take off my jacket and put on my Fred Rogers sweater each evening has had a rougher edge lately.
So, why do I mention it? Well, I am right now at a friend's house for a Beer League Hockey Championship Celebration/NCAA B-Ball Watching Marathon/Drink-Self-Into-A-Coma-Day, and there are a handful young ones running about. One strikingly adorable toe-headed lad of no more than four years of age has just been heard repeating a particularly choice example of this phenomenon. The horrified look on his mother's face is a strong reminder why I have put off parenthood. That and another incident here today when a little girl knocked a full bottle of Diet Coke onto a light tan suede armchair makes me wonder if I can get a quick vasectomy at this hour.
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