ON MANOR'S MIND      OMM 01-07

Winter 2007 news item:  The National Football League is attempting to trademark the term "the big game."

For those who aren't up on their sports megaliths, the NFL is far and away the most anal-retentive jock bloc in the U.S, if not the entire Milky Way.  

They can "overlook" minor details like, say, the pre-age-45 death rate among retired offensive lineman being so far out of proportion to the rest of the age group, it should have its own X-file just to make certain aliens haven't been adding slow-working poisons to America's steroid supply.  Never mind that.  But innocently mention their sacred Super Bowl, and LOOK OUT--it's "send lawyers, goons and money" time for you, your cat Toby and the guy who throws the plastic bag of weekly supermarket fliers on your lawn.

To call the NFL "control freaks" is the nicest possible way to put it.  Think more along the lines of billionaire bullies with some vey serious delusions about what eminent domain entails--and able to regularly get away with radical Crimes Against Coolness because...well, because the average citizen would rather his peers get screwed over than have anything burst the bubble surrounding the gridiron game.

You and your sister own a little neighborhood cafe?  Before you hoist that late January banner suggesting "Try our 'Super Bowl' of chili," you better have written permission from the ghost of Johnny Unitas and proof your surname is encrypted into the DaVinci Code; otherwise, the league's shysters will be on you with enough cease-and-desist orders to wallpaper the Smithsonian.

In fact, they reportedly have their minions regularly scan the Internet, looking for those who dare reference the name of their championship tilt without first seeking league approval.  Yes, they are that petty.

"Uh-oh, Goober down at the Mayberry Fillin' Station is advertising 'Super Bowl special--free fuzzy dice with oil change.'  Better dispatch Attorney SWAT Team 407 at once, before Sam the barber gets any wild ideas."

Better not describe this bowl as "super"!!!-->

As a result of the absurd zeal and the aggressive nature of the NFL's nitpicking, businesspeople seeking to avoid litigation began referring to the football finale as "the big game."  Can't get more generic than that, agreed?  Now go back and reread the opening sentence above.  That right, the NFL is attempting to gain ownership of a euphemism THEY FORCED PEOPLE TO ADOPT IN THE FIRST PLACE!!!!        

Sure it's as ridiculous as terrorists suing the FAA for making it tougher to jack a plane out of O'Hare.  But, you know what?  I hope the League does eventually win control of the term "the big game."  Then we'll simply adopt another euphemism for the overhyped "spectacular."  And considering what the NFL apparently thinks of those who support them, I have just the phrase the League fully deserves.

The Toilet Bowl.

Shady characters   I could swear I ranted about this in a prior O-M-M.  But since my site Search engine drew no hits and I'm f-a-r too lazy to reread every column, I will again (?) spew venom on yet another monkey-see-monkey-do practice, the placement of sunglasses on top of one's head.

Oh, and extra "I'm officially a horse's ass" points to those who do so at night and/or over a shaved skull, visor, bandana or do-rag.

Practitioners, are you trying to tell me you're doing this strictly for practical purposes, as though there's no better place on your person to shift your shades?  Are you so irresponsible, you can't simply remove the specs; place them on the table, in a handbag or whatever; and then remember to have them in hand when venturing back into the sun?  Just how friggin' dense are you?!?

No, your propping sunglasses atop your dome because it's "in," i.e. all the other lamebrains are doing it....just like when you strung them on those neon cords in the Eighties...and just like you how tucked one side piece down the front of your shirt in the Nineties.  You know, when you insisted each of those options was the "only" practical nesting place.

Perhaps the glasses-headed gals are recreating the Mickey Mouse ears they were once promised by Daddy before he blew the entire Disneyworld vacation fund betting on the Super Bowl?  (Er, I mean, the big game.)

Could it be alleged men who do this dumbness are finally living out their lifelong fantasy to don those plastic-arch hair-holders their sisters wore to nursery school?

No doubt these latent transvestites, true to conformist form, also load up their hair with gobs of styling gel.  Thus, by positioning glasses in the midst of their manes, greasy goo gets transferred all over the lenses and frames.

Brilliant, absolutely brilliant.

Just wondering....who decided "signing off" now means "agreeing to" or "approving" rather than how, for the first, oh, two millennia or so A.D., one expressed support by signing ON?  Last I checked, "off" was the opposite of "on."  It says so right there on the light switch....If you went as fast as you could on a walkway, would that make it a runway?

Just wondering....Though I personally disagree, the majority of those into the "mixed martial arts" shows are of the consensus the form has greatly improved since its inception.   Doesn't that mean those of us who followed the early Ultimate Fighting Championships are due a refund based on false advertising, since they're now claiming those contests weren't the "ultimate" after all?...Did you ever realize that being a professional baseball pitcher is the only job in which management strongly motivates you to have tremendous courage but not a lot of balls?  You can even get highly paid for participating in more strikes!

Just wondering....does anyone else get a bug up their butt when those in a pop singing group are referred to as "band members"? Since when does a "band" have no instruments?...Best Buy once ran a series of contest ads ballyhooing its top prize with the line "Enter to win a trip to New York to see Sting live."  But can you imagine how much more enthusiastic the response would have been if they offered a 'trip to New York to see Sting die"?!?

Just wondering....Fellow Northeasterners of European descent, did you ever stop and wonder why our ancestors traveled all that distance but settled here instead of going a few hundred more miles to a much warmer clime?  All they had to do was point the boat five feet to the left when they sailed from Cyprus, Athens, Sicily or wherever, and by the time they crossed the Atlantic, that difference would have meant we'd all be living in Georgia instead of freezing our butts off every winter!

Just wondering....Isn't it an INCREDIBLE coincidence that, when pounced upon by a seductress who pops her prey's top open with one deft two-handed motion, these men are always wearing snap-front shirts?  I have seen at least 47 movie/television scenes in which this scenario transpired, so it MUST BE factual.  You know, like everything else onscreen--such as the items outlined in the "Things Hollywood Has Taught Us" columns in the Manor On Movies archives.

 Cox....                     

 Wedding Belle Blues  I can't say I've closely followed her career,  but I'm under the impression Courteney Cox is all right in real life.  For instance, though the snotty set might have considered him "below her," she married pop-movie star David Arquette, who once demonstrated how righteous he is by donating the dough he made as a brief pro wrestling champion (long story) to the family of a deceased grappler.

Following a showbiz tradition dating back to the one-time Farrah Fawcett-Majors, Dave's bride was thereafter billed as "Courtney Cox-Arquette."  But what if she never met the Scream star and instead wed NBC president Jeff Zucker?  Her hyphenated name would then be "Courtney Cox-______"...oh, my, that would never do!                                                        ...Zucker                                                                         

 Hubba Hubba Honeys--I watch television series for the only sensible reason to do so--to ogle the shows' hot babes.  As such, it only took five minutes during a lazy channel-surf to grow a keen interest in CSI Miami, more specifically, costar Emily Procter.

Long blonde hair, pretty, pretty curvy and, at least in character, a weapons enthusiast with a sweet Georgia Peach lilt.  What's not to lust?  Plus there was the added laugh of visualizing how she must be the Supreme Cream Dream of every backwoods boob with a swastika armband and a copy of Mein Kampf in his bedside drawer.

Uh, yeah, like you'd really have a shot at impressing heavenly Emily with your Gestapo trading cards, Adolph, Junior.  Sieg heil-ly unlikely.

See Emily play.

Visions of Ms. Procter (pole-)dancing in my head, I began regularly taping Miami, praying for an episode in which "Kelly" was forced to go undercover on South Beach in just a thong, and "Eric" chomped down on a C-4 sandwich.  Neither of these scenarios ever developed, but continued viewing revealed an even greater delight.

And her name is Khandi Alexander.

A deep voice, very sensuous eyes, an overbite that really sets off her mouth, packing a back that would make any Jack want to Mack--what a delicious "Khandi" she truly is!  Plus, the sympathetic way she speaks to corpses, calling them "baby" and...what?  Hey, she's an actress playing the Medical Examiner, sicko, not some kind of necrophiliac!                                                                       

 I want Khandi.      

I may be a shameless lecher but I do have some standards!!!  (Okay, so I once had impure thoughts about macaroni and cheese.  Look, I hadn't slept in three days, someone spiked my vodka and it was a very cold night.  Besides, that bowl was asking for it!)

(Author's note:  Be sure to check out the latest twist from the mind of Manor, S.N.A.P.S. Of The Month.)