Starr struck

Man, this Matt Starr thing refuses to die. Starr -- or someone purporting to be him -- called in to Mancow's Morning Madhouse (which I will sheepishly admit to listening to on the hellish drives to work whenever the NPR monotone threatens my road safety) this morning for the FM radio equivalent of a hair shirt. And the callers were, to put it bluntly, merciless, watering down the notions of "good" and "evil" in a way that would make Joe Morgan green with envy. Except one guy playing devil's advocate (for shits-n-grins) who brought up the valid point of how commonplace this is in major league sports. So if we're going to go there, I think it's not too far-fetched to suggest that professional sports promotes this culture of collectibility by building up the mystique of the superstar athlete. People act like assholes because professional baseball players, by and large, act like assholes. People scramble for memorabilia because Mark Prior leaves a line of autograph-seekers high-and-dry at a scheduled signing appearance. One of the coolest things I've ever seen as a fan was the entire Pittsburgh Pirates major league squad come out for a free signing in Point State Park in 1997, the year the payroll barely scratched $9 million (less than what Albert Belle made that year alone). Still display that ball proudly on my mantle.

More of that and lower ticket prices and a more fan-friendly atmosphere would amount to a swift reduction of what Gobo has described as "royal buttmunchitude" as Matt Starr gets punk'd in a hilarious post. Still, I feel even worse for that poor bastard now that his nuts have been caught in a vice grip. Do we, as a nation, have nothing better to do than play armchair Torquemada and continue to make the guy so anxious that he can't even leave his house to collect his mail? I read about this total affront to decency and all I can say is that when the ball rockets towards me in the stands, my elbows will be flying faster than Bill Lambeer at a Specials concert. And, having proven that I have nothing better to do by admitting to listening to the lowest common denominator of drive time radio, I'm gonna steal that little kid's Cracker Jacks, too.