When it comes to athletes, crazy ain't what it used to be.
Twenty years ago, if an All-Star had recorded a musical tribute to an entertainment icon and included the chorus, "Michael, Michael, Michael, you my n---- ," alongside lines like "I know you in heaven, I hope to see you next year," it would have been disturbing. We would have talked about it for weeks.
Now? Well, that's just another Tuesday with
Time was when Artest's eccentricity would have stood out. These days, however, his tribute to Jacko must compete with the rest of the nutball performances pro athletes feel compelled to share with us. For example, this summer alone has already provided us with:
It doesn't end there. There's the
The end result is athlete overload. The more they share the less I want to know. Mainly because the ones doing all the sharing are not the ones I want to learn about. I don't care what Stephon Marbury has to say. Same goes for John Daly. You know what kind of reality show I'd watch? Put hidden cameras on
For that matter, give me a show following
Give me a program called
Or, better yet, give me crazy good. Give me
But of course we won't get any of those. Instead we'll be forced to choose between Ochocinco's ranting, T.O.'s smirking and the inevitable