The Umpire Has No Clothes

by Walter Witty

  You can do it! Here’s how.

  First, and prior to finding my trailer park and attacking the tank where Wally lives with rocket propelled grenades, give up your plan to find and burn all known copies of this blasphemous book. (Note: before moving on to step two—and instead of trying to find those RPGs somewhere—simply purchase another 100 copies of this tome from some struggling internet bookstore, and enjoy a final private ebook burning in your fireplace. Just do it. Don’t make me open another can of whoop-ass.)

  Next, set up the camera you normally use to make cat videos, turn on ESPN’s new Ghost Hunters: Fields of Dreams & Nightmares show, paint a pentagram on your kitchen floor, step inside it, close your eyes, and begin filming. Repeat these words 110 times: “Toidi na mi.” (Why 110 times? Because that’s soon to be the temperature outside in January if you don’t. It’s also the number of extreme weather records broken in the past 110 days, going back 110 years. It’s also the number of channels on DirecTV whose producers and performers have an I.Q. of 110, and the number of Senators in Washington, albeit only ten have actual powers and are known as lobbyists (secretly from the Sith world Korriban, and on the Dark Council of Economic Advisers.)

  Finally, play back the video (preferably in the dark) and look for strange flashes of light (or insight.) Then repeat the words “Toidi na mi” backwards 110 times while looking in a mirror (preferably full length.) Warning: objects in the mirror may be closer than they appear. Side effects may include bloating, belching, gas, high blood pressure, rage, and/or thoughts of suicide bombing.

  If your soul is not returned to you at this point, you’re in deep, deep trouble. (BTW, I won’t be loading my tank cannon or canon with rock salt, as some hope.) In any event, adieu.

  BONUS MATERIALS (since you were cheated out of 655 Chapters earlier, covering every imaginable sport. . . and in much the same way that those sports may have cheated you out of a more productive life. . .)

  APPENDIX 1: The Advantage of Titanium Ball Joints

  These will come in handy when you need knee replacements due to forced labor camp operations following the collapse of the dollar (due in part to war games perpetrated by those still playing Cold War Extreme Edition, a board game played by bored Steelers fans.) Also, since dollars will no longer be accepted to cover your prior sports wagers (now due in full), you’ll need titanium knees to replace those crushed by roofing hammer. Better get a good hunting knife in case you feel the need to excise an appendix or five, too. Note: This advice is direct from the Republican Party concerning the Democratic Party, and vice versa. Also, the Tea Party concerning the other two. That game being political, only Ron Paul ever claimed not to play it, (although he does secretly find himself up late at night with a joystick in one hand and an elephant-shaped mug of Ovaltine in the other.)

  Appendix 2: The First Olympic Games

  Before the gladiators started sticking it to each other, before men in tight shorts started running and jumping around for the benefit of lusting female fans, there were the Greek gods themselves. These were the original players, inspiration for the first game developers to keep the gods amused so they’d leave us the hell alone. Let the Games begin!

  ZEUS: The supreme ruler of heaven and earth from Mt. Olympus. Overthrew his father Cronus for the spot. Often cheated on his wife Hera, and was once forced to turn a lover into a cow to disguise her. (He might have turned a cow into a Jessica Simpson lookalike, as in “moooove over, Extreme Makeover,” but we’ll never know since Homer doesn’t tell us.)

  POSEIDON: Lord of the seas. Brother to Zeus, he cruised for chicks in an amphibious chariot pulled by mermaid-like horses with gold manes. This macho display of horsepower led to his scoring with the stunning Medusa in Athena’s temple. Too bad for Medusa, though, because when Athena found out, she turned her luscious tresses into snakes. From then on, anyone who looked at Medusa got turned to stone. (Was Athena jealous, or what??)

  ATHENA: Goddess of wisdom, peace and war. Scholars may debate whether she had the hots for Poseidon, but they generally agree she was one powerful and crafty bitch. She even went up against Poseidon once, and got the Parthenon built in her honor by the Athenians. Then, when she was challenged to a weaving competition by Arachne, she not only beat Arachne, but turned her into a spider to keep her weaving forever. (Now you know why Poseidon didn’t buy her any drinks.)

  HADES. God of the underworld, this brother of Zeus tormented hordes of sinners and fallen demigods. For instance, for trying to trick the gods, Tantalus was placed before some fruit trees beside a lake, which disappeared or stretched away whenever he tried to eat or drink. (Hence, the word “tantalize.”) Sisyphus once snitched on the randy Zeus, and was doomed to push a boulder uphill, well, forever. Then, with Zeus’ permission, Hades kidnapped the beautiful Persephone for himself. . . that is, until her mother Demeter found out and brought winter on the world. That’s when Hades relented and let Persephone visit her a few months of the year. That’s also when crops were allowed to grow, and why we have what we now call “the seasons.” (Try telling that to Sports Illustrated, though!)

  DEMETER: Goddess of the harvest, Demeter has been angry of late for being ignored, and is currently in process of raising the price of a loaf of bread to ten bucks in order to rearrange world priorities (and to get face time.)

  APHRODITE: Goddess of love. One hot mama, Aphrodite nonetheless married an ugly, lame man because it made her seem all the more beautiful. Still, she was no saint. (None of the gods were, by a long shot.) In a beauty pageant judged by a prince of Troy, Aphrodite won by bribing the judge with a beautiful woman of his own. She went on to have an affair with Ares, the god of war, that produced two offspring—Phobos and Deimos. (Meaning “Fear” and “Terror.”)

  APOLLO: God of music and poetry, Apollo was the original rock star of Ancient Greece. Young and handsome, he had groupies, a pre-Fender lyre given to him by Hermes, and numerous affairs with both women and men alike. (Naturally enough, one of his conquests was Dionysus, the god of wine.) His ill fated tryst with Cassandra, though, resulted in the fall of Troy when Apollo shot an arrow into the foot of a famous warrior named Achilles (to spite Cassandra after their nasty breakup.)

  HERMES: The messenger god Hermes is the one to whom everyone drank, with hopes of receiving good luck in return. But one of his children was truly spooky. Pan was half man and half goat (wonder how that happened?), and would follow people into the woods and play an insane but soft tune on a flute from somewhere behind them. This usually resulted in what became known as “panic.” After being repeatedly panned, Pan was frequently banned.

  PROMETHEUS: Legend has it that this god stole fire from Zeus and gave it to the humans he’d been empowered to create. This angered Zeus (the control freak), so Zeus chained Prometheus to a rock and let an eternally ravenous eagle feast on his liver forever. (Do you see a pattern here?) Zeus was not done there, either. Oh, no. He also gave a human named Pandora a box that looked like a present, and told her never to open it. When she did, evil and misery flew out, but not hope, which had no wings. (Zeus, you’re one sick, vindictive son-of-a-)

  EROS: At last, the god of love. Son of Aphrodite, Eros went around shooting arrows at people to get them hot and bothered. One time he shot Apollo, who fell in love with a river goddess named Daphne. But he shot Daphne with an arrow made of lead, which turned her off to him. So Daphne turned herself into a laurel tree, and that’s why Apollo began the custom of crowning the Olympic Games winners with laurel leaves. (Sorry, Daphne, you’ll grow more.)

  ECHO: This was a minor deity who was cursed by Hera, the wife of Zeus, after Echo delayed her with endless talking while she was trying to catch Zeus in the hay with some other forest nymphs. After that, Echo couldn’t talk except in echoes, and so was rejected by Narcissus, the man she fell in love with. After Echo ran off, other nymphs then cursed Narcissus so that he would only love himself, and so when he tried to kiss his own reflection in a pool, he fell in and drowned. (Nonetheless,
he’s Bill Clinton’s and Donald Trump’s favorite, after Aphrodite.)

  APPENDIX 3: The Bob Costas Interview

  BOB: So you never liked sports?

  WALTER: Not really.

  BOB: How is that possible? Born without the sports gene? Like maybe a sociopath without empathy for your fellow man?

  Walter: Or like Galileo. Or Einstein. Or Gandhi. Or John Lennon. Or Bono. The Earth isn’t flat, Costas. Hercules isn’t holding it up.

  BOB: Excuse me?

  WALTER: How can I, if you won’t excuse me?

  BOB: I’m sorry. I don’t understand. What are you saying?

  WALTER: Could you understand, being born without the logic gene? I’m saying you won’t leave people alone, free from your tyranny. By you, of course, I mean other commentators too, like your buddy Dan. . .and sporting news and billboards and being forced to listen to endless monotonous scores on buses and airports and in break rooms nationwide. Change the channel and I could get a soda can bounced off my head. You people sew the American flag into jerseys and jock straps.

  BOB (laughing): You’re amusing. . . and quaint!

  WALTER: Oh really? Show me your underwear.

  BOB: Where’s the logic in dismissing what’s given so many people so much pleasure?

  WALTER: Cocaine is pleasurable too. While it eliminates everything else that could give you pleasure in the same way. With so few off hours in the day, that is.

  BOB: Ever heard the phrase “moderation in all things?”

  WALTER: Ever heard the phrase “all sports all the time?” Sports Center jocks on ESPN don’t have time for Masterpiece Theatre. Or for smelling the roses. They’re too busy calculating the rushing yardage of rookie quarterbacks, or watching Ultimate Cage Fighters do their Attila the Hun imitations, kicking wifee’s poodle after their bobsled team loses in the playoffs.

  BOB: That’s unfair. Sports is about the human spirit. Excellence. Achieving more in life!

  WALTER: More diamond chokers for your pit bull, maybe. More diabetes for most others, while racking up more billions in deficits watching games on company time. Try looking at the masses on the boob tube side of your lens. Or doesn’t the number of unemployed asses and assettes register on your scoreboard like your overpaid players do?

  BOB: Who says players are overpaid? Top athletes are the best in their field, and a lot more healthy and fit than you, I might add!

  WALTER: It’s amusing and quaint that you believe you can add, but you’re tabulating the wrong ledger. Your logic doesn’t compute, either. Because even I’m more productive than they are.

  BOB (after a long interval of hysterical laughter): How do you figure that?

  WALTER: Well, I don’t inspire people to believe we can win unwinnable wars by throwing thousands of patriots and trillions of dollars at them. There’s one item. Plus I’m not inspiring kids to become athletes, condemning the vast majority of them to jobs on the level of beer truck driver whenever they’re not watching sports on TV.

  BOB: What’s wrong with driving a beer truck or drinking soda?

  WALTER: I told you that you wouldn’t understand. Meanwhile, as a non-participant, I’m not adding to these losses.

  BOB: What losses?

  WALTER: While we compete on Astroturf the Chinese are making it. Along with thousands of other products. While we invest in stadiums and weapons systems to defend Korea, they build factories, and compete in school to produce more engineers at our expense.

  BOB: Well, that’s. . .insane.

  WALTER: I agree. As insane as painting one’s face to participate in a human wave at a ball game.

  BOB: No, I mean your reasoning! Sports inspires people to be their best!

  WALTER: In sports, you mean. Instead of science or math or–

  BOB: No! You don’t–

  WALTER: Oh yes! And in the end, what chance do those kids have if they don’t win the sports gene lottery, and then never get up off the couch except to buy Powerball tickets, pork rinds, and copies of Sports Illustrated? Maybe you and Dan think they should try to win America’s Got Talent instead? Juggle some flaming bowling pins?

  BOB: The American people disagree with you, big time.

  WALTER: Don’t I know it. Sad, though, don’t you think?

  BOB: You’re sad, in my humble opinion.

  WALTER: There’s nothing humble about your opinion. It’s all a ruse, too. To fool the public. To keep the slavish dream going while you and your banking buddies manipulate the strings behind the curtains.

  BOB: You’re insane, as well.

  WALTER: Keep saying that. Repeat it. Maybe I’ll believe it myself, right? Then you’ll let me go.

  BOB: Sadly, we can never let you go. Not like this.

  WALTER: Won’t you at least loosen these ropes? I’m not going to recant. If you go through with that face tattoo, I’ll just have it removed.

  BOB: If you do, we’ll find you again. You can’t hide. You’re a marked man now, out of the closet.

  WALTER: What’s in your closet. . . a gold statue of Joe Paterno? You’re costing us all, Costas. More than we know.

  BOB (laughing): We? You think there’s more like you out there? No. They’ve all been neutered. (Motioning:) Carlos?

  WALTER: Wait! Okay. I confess. Anything but a Nike swish on my forehead. Even if it is upside down. Listen. Here’s what I’ll do. Penance by writing a novel about a guy who plays the Powerball and wins. Lots of action too. No wimpy crap. Kinda like Survivor, but where if you don’t beat the opposing team you’re shark food. I’ll even throw in some sports jargon, and celebs like Clooney and Lady Gaga. Make the main guy an ego case real estate mogul, just like those sports gods who hire agents to buy homes on Millionaire Listings. So it’ll be about defending your island man-cave and secret stash from the tax man with automatic weapons, schmoozing with the right people, and coming out of it with squeaky clean hands and a big greasy smile. How about that?

  BOB: Sounds good. Just do it. Here’s a pen. When you finish we might even feed you some hot dogs and beer. Then we’ll bring in Sarah Palin and let her read it. . .before deciding what to do with you. I hear she just bought a new Salman knife.

  WALTER: Speaking of which, mind if I call Sockeye Rushdie for advice first? I’m not in a rush to die, here. . .

  BONUS STORY 1: Knock, Knock

  “Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” said Russell Anderson, 60 Minutes co-producer and sports bureau chief for CBS News. “You’re saying that Thomas Sidon, a rancher from Naco, Arizona, captured the head of the Cali cartel on his property the day before yesterday, and has offered him to the Border Patrol in exchange for what, again?”

  There was a momentary silence at the other end of the line, which was ghosted by background noise. Then the White House press secretary replied evenly, “Anything he wants. And I mean anything. Including what he did choose, which I will agree is highly unusual. The President wants a victory in the drug war to sidestep other problems, and we believe Raoul Gasparta is the key.”

  “Go over that part again, will you? The part I’m not understanding. I understand about Gasparta. . . his full disclosure on Sidon’s interrogation transcript, the record of kickbacks and the reparations promised to avoid the death penalty. That’s obvious, and—may I speak frankly?—boring. Tell me exactly what the President promised him again.”

  The press secretary sighed. ”I thought I made that clear. Didn’t you hear me, Mr. Anderson? Maybe you should wait for the press conference in one hour, and ask that question again.”

  Anderson coughed. ”I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to imply that Gasparta is not important. But you know what it is people will be asking about, surely. So I have to ask you several things, just to be clear. One more moment, please, just to verify?”

  The press secretary sighed again. ”Very well. As I said, a deal was struck with Sidon, whose ranch in Arizona is some five thousand acres.”

  “Straddling the border?”

  “That’s right. O
n both sides.”

  “And the President has agreed to the terms of this agreement by signing an executive order into law?”

  “That is correct.”

  “When?”

  “Two hours ago, in the Oval Office. In exchange for Mr. Sidon’s cooperation in acting as agent for the U.S. government, he has been granted carte blanche for one year, effective immediately.”

  “And that means. . ?”

  “It means that as of today, Mr. Thomas Sidon has the legal right to enter any private home in America at any time he chooses, and for fifteen minutes. He cannot remove anything, nor can he take photographs. He may only enter and observe at his leisure. No U.S. citizen may refuse him entry, under penalty of law. He is free to come and go as he wishes for the duration of one year.”

  “And this is specifically what he requested?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not a million dollars, a new red Porsche, or an ambassadorship to Mexico?”

  “Yes, Mr. Anderson. He didn’t want my job either, thank God. Although it was offered to him.”