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Let the Rants Begin
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I'm sitting here in front of the Magnavox, waiting for Monday Night Football to come on, a cold beer in my left hand, an aerodynamic brick in my right. O.K., I know it's early, but can't you hardly wait? I mean, let's fire just about everyone on the show, hire a loner college-football analyst, a grouchy ex-running back with no sideline experience, a 26-year-old neophyte and a blue-tongued comedian who's never worked sports. God, I hope it works. I hope it works because it's so different. I hope it works because maybe -- just maybe -- we won't have to listen to the usual booth full of jocks discussing the merits of the roll-up zone. Dan Fouts, the new analyst, has always been different. While the rest of his San Diego Chargers teammates would listen to halftime speeches, Fouts would sooner go have a smoke and a beer. He was the kind of quote you'd send a limo for: He just didn't give a damn. His dad was an announcer too. Plus, he replaces Boomer Esiason, who always seemed to be broadcasting from an Arena Football League game on a smaller TV set somewhere. During his playing days, new sideline reporter Eric Dickerson was always about as congenial as a dyspeptic rattler. He never talked to anybody unless he thought he could make a buck out of it. Then again, I can't think of an NFL running back who seemed to want to get to the sideline more. The other new sideline reporter, Melissa Stark, is walk-into-a-pole gorgeous and knowledgeable. Of course, Lesley Visser, at 46, is walk-into-a-pole gorgeous and knowledgeable. Go figure. Which brings us to the new third man in the booth, turbo-mouthed Dennis Miller, who is such a crazy, inspired long shot that producer Don Ohlmeyer must have titanium marbles. It's a little like hiring Lenny Bruce to emcee your parents' 75th-wedding-anniversary party. Could be fun. Could be the worst television disaster since She's the Sheriff. The only tiny, little problem I can see with giving Dennis Miller an open mike on prime-time network TV is giving Dennis Miller an open mike on prime-time network TV. First of all, how will Miller stop himself from using four-letter words for three hours when he can't go 12 seconds on his HBO show without them? Ohlmeyer: O.K., Dennis, if you think you're ready to try it again, we'll remove the duct tape. How will Miller's sophisticated, scatological rants play at places like Darlene's Trucker Eats in Keokuk, Iowa? Trucker: What'd that boy just say about the Bolsheviks? Darlene: Believe that's the new expansion team in San Antone. How will Miller sandwich his hilarious, breathless, triple-espresso opinions into the time between the tackle and the next snap when he can't clear his throat in less than four minutes? Miller: ... So, in conclusion, that's just an emotional orifice I don't think any of us want to spelunk! (Huge inhale.) Al Michaels: Dennis, we went to break two minutes ago. How will the simpleton world of pro football satisfy the intellectual curiosity of a man who routinely mines every subject from Martha Stewart to Albert Einstein? Miller: You know, that last jarring tackle by Stinkowitz reminds me of something, Al. Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but why, in this country, are men so willing to plant their face masks squarely in another man's crotch to make a tackle, and yet if the same two men were to approach each other in the frozen-foods aisle at Kroger's after not seeing each other for 30 years and one of them even attempted a homophobic half-shoulder bump-hug, the other would throw a roundhouse right that Tonya Harding would admire? (Huge inhale.) Michaels: Dennis, we went to break two minutes ago. How will testosterone-leaking NFL players like being criticized by a skinny wiseacre whose only sniff of athletic competition was losing to Sinbad in Ed McMahon's Star Search and who was beaten half to death by 93-pound Rebecca De Mornay in the movie Never Talk to Strangers? Neckless 400-pound tackle: I hear you said sumpin' 'bout my mama. Miller: No, no! I was merely commenting that they must've been able to hear her labor screams in the Christmas Islands when an infant of your copious dimensions arrived, in the sense that she must've been left with a birthing canal the size of the Holland Tunnel, in the sense that it had to be like giving birth to a New York City brownstone. Of course that's just my opinion, I could be wrong. (Huge inhale.) Michaels: Dennis, he left two minutes ago.
Issue date: July 3, 2000
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