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August 20, 2012

An open letter to Bob Costas and why we hate him.

Dear Bob Costas,

We hate you.

We hate you for the same reason we love Charles Barkley.  You are painfully, all the time, yourself.

Where Chuck is an outlandish verbal blast-show infused with refreshing vulgarity and blunt, sometimes obscenely idiotic observations, you are a bland, undersized chicken breast.  You are exceptional for being epically mediocre.

Watching you emcee the Olympics, with a nexus of events simultaneous swirling around you, one would think your impressive attentiveness and Wikipedia recall would translate to something like wisdom.  But you never sound wise.  Instead you come off as douchey and smug, Like Alex Trebek laughing at a grasping contestant.

And then there’s your haircut.  Along with the boyishly bow tied George Will, you must chair the venerated organization: “Hi I’m a 60+ year old man and before I get a haircut I show the barber a picture of a lego-man.”

You also don’t age properly.  For someone like The Wolverine, this distinct trait manifests itself in a hilariously reckless attitude towards bodily harm, a keen ability to destroy giant, articulate robots, and of course, the physical dexterity to survive an adamantium-skeleton graft.  For you, this arrested development just makes you look like a giant, Michael Cera-style dweeb.

You are the guy in a bar who gets bumped and then apologies. 

At the end of boner-pill commercials, the narrator always says to “ask your doctor if you’re healthy enough for sex.”  He says this assuming that adult men, who are also alive and have some form of heartbeat, would ever seek a doctor’s permission to “do it.”  No man in the history of mankind has ever abstained from sex because his doctor told him his cholesterol was too high.  Well, except one.   

You are a beta.

If you ever starred in your own porno, it would consist entirely of intro-scene—the pizza delivery, the student in detention, the coach and his eager cheerleader—it would never even progress into foreplay. It would literally be you, Bob Costas, delivering a large pizza or writing a repeating sentence on a blackboard while an impossibly proportioned woman demands that you fondle her.  You would refuse.  This would go on for 45 minutes.         

You are the physical projection of a 40-year-old-virgin’s OKCupid profile.

And that voice.  News people are famous for their theatrical inflection, the hyper-formality of their diction, the endless supply of qualifying phrases. You have internalized these tropes so well you have ceased to create human sounding sentences.  After a kick-ass race in the pool, a typical barf-worthy broadcast from Bob:  “To the extent that you just witnessed that race, that competitive bout of swimming swiftly through an enclosed tank of water, you may have just seen something great, but to no one’s surprise, GREATNESS is the theme here in London, and with the Olympic games in general.”  

You have a special way of using far too many words without saying anything at all.

With so many eccentric personalities, athletes oozing with competitive obsession, possessing the kind of relentless drive that makes the rest of our endeavors seem dismal, it sucks that the host of the Olympics was a man-shaped droid.

We hate you because alongside all those elite specimens, we had to stare at another kind of person, someone so unremarkable, so normal, so boring. 

Hugs and Kisses,

All Of Us