Thanks to the wonderful 21st century invention known as pausing and fast-forwarding through live TV, the Super Bowl blackout became a moot point. Instead, Chez Porvaznik wrapped up watching the recently purchased Led Zeppelin Celebration Day blu-ray which had been part of the pre-game festivities. As if we didn’t know we weren’t missing a damn thing of note at any point, though, and courtesy Deadspin, some of the many reasons why I’m a game-only guy. Please note some language not suitable for the little ‘uns.
This blackout should serve as the turning point, the moment in history when a network executive finally puts his foot down and says: “Why are we doing this? Why do we spend gobs and gobs of money on ex-players and ex-coaches who can’t fucking talk?” What is the point of Dan Marino? Seriously, WHAT IS THE [BLEEPING] POINT? If he were fired tomorrow, would you miss him at all? You probably wouldn’t even notice him until he knocked up your niece. A decade ago, The New York Times estimated that Marino makes $2 million a year from his broadcasting duties. That’s $2 million—more than 70 times the median annual wage in America—for nothing.
In fact, it’s less than nothing. For $2 million a year, you get Dan Marino clumsily attempting to justify the fact that he makes $2 million a year. There is a phony pomposity to virtually all pregame shows, in which the analysts present their empty opinions as scriptural pronouncements. But deep down, they must know that they’re eminently replaceable. They must know that they can and should be fired any second because they offer nothing of value. You can see that insecurity play out on pregame shows week after week in the form of strained laughter and guys going into three-point stances on tiny sections of studio FieldTurf. These are all men who must know they’re wasting your time, and must therefore inflate themselves on the air in order to hide that fact. Take it from someone who knows: The more that you suspect you’re a fraud, the louder you’ll talk.