Most of us have seen those YouTube videos of psycho women on a rampage. Like rabid hippos, they attack, fists flailing and fleshy tummies exposed. Blue language spews from high-pitched voices, like painted nails dragged down a chalkboard. These mini documentaries end with the XXXXXL and Rubenesque trailer park gals face down on an asphalt parking lot, about to be shoveled into the backseat of a police cruiser. In the latest slang vernacular, these ladies are referred to as — “Karens …”
A while back, vitriolic comedian Bill Burr did a hilarious and absolutely vicious dissection of women’s sports and the WNBA. The “W” in WNBA stands for, “Women.” You know. Those complicated, fetching and come-hither subspecies of homo sapiens who demand honesty while painting their faces, pretending to be taller than they actually are and offering the same, frigid answer of, “…nothing …” for the 74,084 variations to the sincere question of, “Honey — what’s wrong?”
Burr was brutal. He’s one of few public figures to courageously point out that women failed the WNBA, not men. In front of a packed crowd, Burr asked if there was one female in the auditorium who could recall their local WNBA franchise. Could any of the females in the crowd name any five players in the league? Or, honestly confess the last time they sat, watched and supported their WNBA home team?
Speaking of healthy confession, Santa Clarita’s local team is centered in Los Angeles. I couldn’t name the franchise nor pick a single player out of a police lineup. They’re the L.A. Sparks. Had to Google it.
I’m not the only one throwing cream pies at The Can’t Identify A Woman From Air Bud The Golden Retriever Basketball League. The national satire site, The Babylon Bee, recently published a humor piece, noting that the Kentucky Derby executive committee called an emergency meeting to define what, exactly, a horse is. They had no luck.
There are amazing jocks — er, ahem — sport brassieres — in the WNBA. Still. It’s women’s basketball and the level of play is like watching a junior high gym class pickup game. Shot putting to boxing, mixed martial arts to football, it’s not that women are lesser than men or men are better than women. Across the board, men are more physically adept at athletics.
I looked it up. The average ticket price for the mystery chromosome league with mammary glands is $174. You can sometimes get a special little yellow bus rate ticket for as low as $20, and, for a premier draw, like the Indianapolis Fever with Caitlin Clark AND Sophie Cunningham, tickets can run $500 or higher, courtside.
The WNBA has been attracting more attention than a wet-T-shirt girl fight between blonde bombshell Sydney Sweeney and sultry country singer Ella Langley. Excuse me. To heck with my outrage on feminine wiles and WNBA melodrama. I’m going to daydream about taking Sydney and Ella to the Hart High prom and they’re both dressed like demure Indian princesses.
(Many hours later …)
Where were we? Oh, yes. The sissy slap fight that’s the current WNBA. Like some harpy Shakespearean divorced wife, screeching for more alimony, the XX chromosome (more or less) hoopsters depend on alimony from the guys — the regular, profit-making NBA. The WNBA loses about $10 million each season. That number is projected to increase into the hundreds of millions. Why? Because no one, especially mainstream women, wants to watch a middle-school pickup game.
And here’s the big, “However …”
WNBA marketing has improved drastically with the addition of superstar Caitlin Clark. Miss CC has the fire down below and drains jumpers two time zones away from the rim. By herself, she’s estimated to be 26.5% of the WNBA’s ENTIRE revenue. Media estimates are that number could grow to more than $1 billion. Her teammate, Sophie Cunningham? The Viking tall, blonde drink of water is a tomboy bombshell media darling.
So. What does the WNBA, from players to front-office brass, attempt to do with their two cash cow starlets?
Attempt to murder them.
In its current state, the WNBA is a cross between a cat fight and a court martial in a mental institution. In a recent game, DuJonai Carrington of the Chicago Sky clotheslined the Indiana Fever’s Sophie Cunningham as she was driving in for a lay-up. Didn’t even remotely go for the ball. Went for the beheading. After reluctant deliberation, the refs tossed the bewigged DuJonai. In the locker room, DuJonai huffily posted on social media, “White Privilege.” With a smidge of hyperbole, that’s like Charles Manson testifying at his murder trial, “I’M the victim here …”
The sad state of society now, there are actually many who weep, “Poor, misunderstood and victimized Charles …”
Three cheers and huzzahs for hoopster-ettes. I’m all for anyone lucky enough to be collecting paycheck and per diem for extending childhood’s backyard pitch-&-toss. If I had a 106-year-old Uncle Amos still adept at tossing horseshoes, I’d cheer on the spry chap with the wrinkly triceps. But, I wouldn’t pop a couple hundred bucks to sit hours, plus pay parking, to watch Amos hurl a ringer.
Women’s basketball? Yippee coyote.
But, truly? That’s not the issue. It’s not the issue for men. It’s not the issue for women. Sports can be a beautiful expression of the Divine. Within the lobbing of a tennis ball or the running of a mile is that ongoing test of being that elusive best of who and what we can be. Sports is the building of the inner warrior, the ongoing becoming of that man or woman we were meant to be. But, it doesn’t matter if you hit 100 home runs or swim so fast you don’t get wet.
We need to remember, as individuals and, as Americans, with the task alongside improving our cardio comes the daily discipline — we need to sculpt ourselves into becoming ladies and gentlemen …
Pick up “Naked Came the Novelist,” John Boston’s sequel to the international bestseller, “Naked Came the Sasquatch,” at JohnBoston-Books.com. A lifelong SCV resident with 119 major writing awards and nearly 12,000 columns, Boston is Earth history’s most prolific humorist and satirist.
