I actually dozed off midway through the third quarter, so hang on, lemme see what happened…

Ah, congratulations to the Baby Horses, for prevailing over a team with the equivalent of a high-school junior varsity starting quarterback. Not the most awesomest display of prowess, from either team, on either side of the ball, but at least we can put the whole Peyton Manning is a Big Fat Choker angle to rest now, and find something else equally pointless and ridiculous to chatter incessantly about.

Maybe it was my fault for dozing off, but it seemed like, yet again, there were a decided lack of those awesome Super Bowl commercials that we hear so much about, that millions of non-football fans tune in to see, because it is the Super Bowl and since ancient times it was deemed that the most awesomest commercials in the history of awesome commercials are aired then.

All I can remember of late, though, is everyone complaining afterwards that the commercials, in fact, suck big ones. Come to think of it, it seems like that’s been the case for many a year, causing me to wonder where exactly this notion of awesome commercials came from, if the reality is the sucking of big ones, year after year after year.

Mass hypnosis? A plot by the monkey robot overlords to lull us into a false sense of security right before they spring their dastardly trap? Hmm…

You may have heard that the Cannes Film Festival is going on right now in France. You may have also heard that Ron Howard’s movie, The Da Vinci Code, was roundly panned by most of the critics in attendance. (Not that this will probably keep people from the theaters this weekend.) But what you may not have heard is that the judges at Cannes rejected a short film from your very own oddsnarkies. Well, we didn’t want to go to some fancy French film festival anyway.

So here, for your viewing pleasure, is the video they wouldn’t show at Cannes — Legalize Dem, our own tribute to Ricky, Onterrio, Ramonce, and all the other ganja loving footballers out there. Rastafari!

Barry Bonds is apparently suing the guys who wrote that book. Oscar Wilde sued a guy who said he was gay. So, Bonds and Wilde have that in common; they both sued guys who said something that was demonstrably clear to anyone with eyes and/or ears. The perhaps startling discovery is that, upon further research, Barry and Oscar have several other things in common as well.

As you will see:

Oscar Wilde wrote a novel called The Picture of Dorian Gray in which a soulless pretty boy keeps a portrait of himself in his attic. The trick is is that the soulless pretty boy does not age; his portrait does. So that, by the end of the book, he looks the same as he did years before, and the painting is now of a decrepit, disfigured old man.

Barry Bonds is a soulless less-than-pretty boy who keeps a copy of his 1987 Fleer rookie card in his attic that has withered so much in the past 20 years as to make Barry resemble Sammy Davis Jr’s less-muscular, less-physically able cousin.

Oscar Wilde was sleeping with someone, not his wife, who screwed him over by talking him into suing that guy who said he was gay. (That guy was the lover’s father.)

Barry Bonds was sleeping with someone, not his wife, who screwed him over by talking to those guys who wrote that book.

Oscar Wilde was a great, great writer. Dorian Gray is pretty great; Salome is moving; and there are few
things in the English language funnier than The Importance of Being Earnest.

Barry Bonds was a great, great baseball player. He had speed. He had power. He could hit for average. He could draw walks. He could play defense. He could throw (Sid Bream notwithstanding.) He won the National League MVP three times before the whole injecting-himself-with-horse-plasma stuff started.

So, there ya go. Oscar Wilde and Barry Bonds are nigh unto indistinguishable. Please stay tuned for the next edition of oddSnark’s Comparisons of Late-Victorian Gay Literary Rock Stars and Contemporary Athletes in which we show you how Robert Louis Stephenson and Tony Siragusa are pretty much the same guys.