Me. Hello! My name is Colin Cowherd and I am, technically, a human being -- although I don't quite meet Descartes' standard of self-awareness.
I currently host a radio show on Fox Sports, despite the fact that I have never participated in sports at any level.
(I take that back -- I did participate in tee-ball baseball when I was young. I batted once, and struck out, and then was unjustly kicked out of the league because of some lame technicality. Freakin' politics, man. It had something to do with "age requirements." Apparently, age 16 was just too old for that elitist tee-ball league. Still a little pissed off about that.)
My radio show is very successful -- I have dozens of listeners, most of them are from Iowa, they listen to me via two-minute sound bites posted on Facebook by non-Iowans who enjoy infuriating their Iowa acquaintances. There is absolutely no hard evidence to prove that any human being has ever actually listened to my entire show.
That's OK with me, because I don't really understand sports, and in over 25 years of sports broadcasting, I am proud to say that I have never actually presented a fact -- or even a fact-based opinion. Nothing I have ever said or done has ever been important to anyone, anywhere, at any time.
I am into what is known as "low-information media." That drunk tubby old guy you always see at the bar? His sphincter is more knowledgeable than I am, and harder working (especially on Taco Tuesday.) I simply insult people, constantly. It's my bread and butter.
And I especially like to insult people when they are at their most vulnerable. For example, if a mother loses a child, that's the perfect time to call the mother a whore. It's also a perfect time to opine that the kid had it coming. That's the first rule of sports broadcasting -- insult vulnerable people live, on the air, then call yourself a straight-shooter. We're talking big cash there, bro.
You know those YouTube videos that show things like a child with autism making a bunch of 3-pointers? Or the kid with disabilities winning some kind of Special Olympics race? I always like to call those kids "tar-doughs" and make fun of them. That's my joy in life. That's what brings me the big bucks. That, and I hate black people and most Mexicans. And most white people. And farmers.
Some amateur athlete sacrifices victory to help an injured fellow athlete out in an amazing display of positive sportsmanship? Call that athlete a loser or a dickhead. Mucho attention, mucho publicity. Mucho, mucho man -- that's me!
I grew up in Bay Center, Washington, and after flunking out of high school (again, all politics) I got my first job at the Third Avenue Wendy's at the age of 20. (Thems was some hot and juicy burgers, I tell you what.)
Daddy, who was the manager there, offered me the position of Assistant Night Prep Table Chief, and I was on schedule to move up to Associate Night Prep Table Chief in three years, but I quit because Daddy was a douchebag to work for. Kept insisting I wash my hands, he even put a sign by the toilet to remind me. Still a little pissed off about that.
I then got my big break in radio when the general manager of minor league baseball's Las Vegas Stars offered me the position of play-by-play broadcaster if I would perform sexual acts with his pet ferret. You talk about a good deal there! I would have done that ferret for free! The fact that he wanted to watch was just an added bonus! (Take note of my phraseology there -- one does not perform sex acts "to" a ferret, one performs sex acts "with" a ferret. It's an important distinction.)
I was fired there, because once during a twi-night doubleheader at Walla Walla -- well, I don't want to go into what exactly happened, I'll just say "sorry about the couch cushions, Grandma Nellie."
Long story short, since that time I've been fired seven times, usually for being a dumb ass, in places near and far. Las Vegas, Tampa, Portland, ESPN, IHOP -- almost everywhere. I even had a book published, entitled, "Some Nice Lady Wrote This Book, And I Put My Name On It And Claimed I Wrote It, by Colin Cowherd."
Someone bought it, was that you? If it was, thanks! Can I borrow it from you? I lost my free copy.
Anyway, I'll get to the point of this article, how to succeed in sports broadcasting without talent, brains or hard work.
Thanks for your time! And go Hawks!
Love,
Colin
I currently host a radio show on Fox Sports, despite the fact that I have never participated in sports at any level.
(I take that back -- I did participate in tee-ball baseball when I was young. I batted once, and struck out, and then was unjustly kicked out of the league because of some lame technicality. Freakin' politics, man. It had something to do with "age requirements." Apparently, age 16 was just too old for that elitist tee-ball league. Still a little pissed off about that.)
My radio show is very successful -- I have dozens of listeners, most of them are from Iowa, they listen to me via two-minute sound bites posted on Facebook by non-Iowans who enjoy infuriating their Iowa acquaintances. There is absolutely no hard evidence to prove that any human being has ever actually listened to my entire show.
That's OK with me, because I don't really understand sports, and in over 25 years of sports broadcasting, I am proud to say that I have never actually presented a fact -- or even a fact-based opinion. Nothing I have ever said or done has ever been important to anyone, anywhere, at any time.
I am into what is known as "low-information media." That drunk tubby old guy you always see at the bar? His sphincter is more knowledgeable than I am, and harder working (especially on Taco Tuesday.) I simply insult people, constantly. It's my bread and butter.
And I especially like to insult people when they are at their most vulnerable. For example, if a mother loses a child, that's the perfect time to call the mother a whore. It's also a perfect time to opine that the kid had it coming. That's the first rule of sports broadcasting -- insult vulnerable people live, on the air, then call yourself a straight-shooter. We're talking big cash there, bro.
You know those YouTube videos that show things like a child with autism making a bunch of 3-pointers? Or the kid with disabilities winning some kind of Special Olympics race? I always like to call those kids "tar-doughs" and make fun of them. That's my joy in life. That's what brings me the big bucks. That, and I hate black people and most Mexicans. And most white people. And farmers.
Some amateur athlete sacrifices victory to help an injured fellow athlete out in an amazing display of positive sportsmanship? Call that athlete a loser or a dickhead. Mucho attention, mucho publicity. Mucho, mucho man -- that's me!
I grew up in Bay Center, Washington, and after flunking out of high school (again, all politics) I got my first job at the Third Avenue Wendy's at the age of 20. (Thems was some hot and juicy burgers, I tell you what.)
Daddy, who was the manager there, offered me the position of Assistant Night Prep Table Chief, and I was on schedule to move up to Associate Night Prep Table Chief in three years, but I quit because Daddy was a douchebag to work for. Kept insisting I wash my hands, he even put a sign by the toilet to remind me. Still a little pissed off about that.
I then got my big break in radio when the general manager of minor league baseball's Las Vegas Stars offered me the position of play-by-play broadcaster if I would perform sexual acts with his pet ferret. You talk about a good deal there! I would have done that ferret for free! The fact that he wanted to watch was just an added bonus! (Take note of my phraseology there -- one does not perform sex acts "to" a ferret, one performs sex acts "with" a ferret. It's an important distinction.)
I was fired there, because once during a twi-night doubleheader at Walla Walla -- well, I don't want to go into what exactly happened, I'll just say "sorry about the couch cushions, Grandma Nellie."
Long story short, since that time I've been fired seven times, usually for being a dumb ass, in places near and far. Las Vegas, Tampa, Portland, ESPN, IHOP -- almost everywhere. I even had a book published, entitled, "Some Nice Lady Wrote This Book, And I Put My Name On It And Claimed I Wrote It, by Colin Cowherd."
Someone bought it, was that you? If it was, thanks! Can I borrow it from you? I lost my free copy.
Anyway, I'll get to the point of this article, how to succeed in sports broadcasting without talent, brains or hard work.
- 1. Insult people a lot, especially people who are sensitive or vulnerable. Be a douchebag, just like Daddy.
- 2. Have sex with ferrets.
- 3. Make general predictions that are inevitable (examples: "Iowa will eventually lose a game," or "Colin Cowherd is going to get fired again,") then proclaim to the world how brilliant you are when those predictions come true.
- 4. Have sex with ferrets, and maybe an otter.
- 5. Hurl juvenile insults at those who attacked you for being a douchebag, claim they were attacking you for making a general, inevitable prediction instead. And they just hate that you're a straight-shooter.
- 6. Have some more sex with ferrets.
- 7. Tell the world you're a straight shooter, over and over again, then get the blonde lady named Kristine on your show to agree and maybe giggle a little, as if she really thinks you're cute.
- 8. Have sex with a large ferret, while imagining it's the blonde lady named Kristine on your show.
Thanks for your time! And go Hawks!
Love,
Colin
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