In case you've been living under the proverbial blogging rock, Mainstream Media is back at it again. This time, Friday Night Lights author, Buzz Bissinger, made an ass out of himself on CostasNow Tuesday night. In what was supposed to be an open, civilized discussion with Deadspin creator, Will Leitch, about the impact of blogs, Bissinger instead just spewed cowardly stereotypes and displayed a massive ignorance on the topic. To see the video, check out Awful Announcing. To read Will's response to the verbal attack, check this out. Needless to say, it's still crystal clear that older journalists have no idea what the future of the media is and are terrified that they are being phased out.
So today, The Money Shot is honoring the man with a tribute to Buzz (if that IS your real name). If you want immature and slanderous, you came to the right place. You asked for it, Buzz.
"You see this guy right here? He's 45 minutes away from having his salad tossed. I know it. He knows it. But I'm still going to slide my thumb down the crack of his sweet ass anyway. You know, because I'm a firm believer in foreplay."
"Tony, I know that you've had twelve bottles of scotch already. But if I were you, I'm driving home tonight. And if I fall asleep behind the wheel then so be it. I've sucked my way out of a DUI before and I'll do it again."
"Someone get this dumb broad out of here, please. I was in the middle of explaining to this guy how blogs are the root of all evil. It is ruining newspapers! Fans shouldn't be allowed to express their opinions, dammit! That's the job of crotchety old sports writers who don't own any shirts without nacho cheese stains on them. How do you like my Chuck Klosterman-esque glasses by the way?"
"I swear to God, Billy Bob Thornton's cock was that thick. Seriously, he damn near broke my jaw. THAT THICK! You just don't see that kind of girth everyday...well, at least I don't. And I've been hunting for another cock like that for years now."
"I'm sick and tired of finishing second place in 'Old Woody Harrelson' lookalike contests. I'm going to win it this year. I don't care if I have to wear hemp pants and shit on millions of sports fans that enjoy publishing their opinions, I'm winning this year."
"Who is that? Is that Big Daddy Drew? Big Daddy Drew can suck my Big Daddy Balls. In fact, I think you're full of shit, BDD. I bet that you don't even own a podium. You couldn't carry my jock when it comes to writing. And I know that you couldn't carry Rick Reilly's jock...because I've been sniffing it for years. I will bare-knuckle slap fight you to keep it. Now watch me deep throat this microphone."
"Since this is the Arkansas Literary Festival, I'm going to read you all one of my favorite stories. It's a tale of good vs. evil and is much more objective and much less malicious than those smarmy blogs out there. Today, I'm going to read Tales Of A Fourth Grade Nothing by Judy Blume. I only wish that I had Judy Blume-level talent."
"Look, dick, I signed your fucking book already. Now you have to live up to your end of the deal. So get your skinny ass under the table, put on this ball gag, and get ready for the toothiest blow job that you've ever received. And I know what you're thinking, 'aren't you a pro by now, why all the teeth?'. Well, that is simple, I'm addicted to blood and semen. Well, that and baby elephant feces."
Why these credited and world-reknowned journalists continue to fight the war that they can't win is beyond me. Hell, all you have to do is say one nice thing about bloggers and we will love you forever. When you don't, you are public enemy #1. For sitting on your ethical high horse and claiming that your writing is superior, you really do come off like an idiot when you try and pick fights with the fans. My opinions matter just as much as yours. My educational background has nothing to do with my desire to Jason Giambi castrated. This is America, you don't have to read my opinions and after Tuesday night's performance, I sure as hell am not going to read yours. Oh yeah, go fuck yourself, Buzz Bissinger.