Newsflash for all you ‘Stooler’ fans: No one gives a shit about your win outside of that cesspool you call a town. Except for socialist-elect B. Hussein Obama, who apparently rooted for them as well. That should make you feel as proud.
The rest of the country wanted a Cardinal victory.
Aside from that, the officiating crew needs to be investigated for very questionable calls. Among them: looking the other way when Santonio Holmes deserved a penalty for excessive celebration after using the ball as a prop in the endzone, personal fouls that never got called, and calling an incomplete Warner pass a ‘fumble’.
In anycase, you still suck.
This has got to be one of my favorite commentaries of all time. It was written by one of your own:
Pittsburgh Is Dead to Me!
TONY DEL PRETE, GIBSONIA
Paying homage to Romero’s latest money fest, it’s time to admit it, all you yinzer zombies:
Pittsburgh is dead. I know it’s a stake in the heart, but we are not America’s most livable city, nor the city of champions. That occurred a generation ago, when Dawn of the Dead debuted. No, today we’re more like an ongoing high school reunion, with nothing but faded memories of the glory days and the prospect of life in the land of the dead.
But what can we expect from a town where Donnie Iris is considered a rocker and the hokey-pokey an anthem; where prominent mouthpieces (sorry, Myr’n) promote Pittsburghese; where potholes outnumber the people; and where the populace responds to the boom of fireworks like Pavlov’s dogs?
With the second-oldest county in the U.S. at our core, it’s unfair to blame the many optimists trying to revive Picksburgh. The reality is that until all of the provincial, stubborn bigots of the Steel City’s legacy die off, this city will continue its slide toward becoming a ghost town. And if we continue to live in the past, then we can’t expect or envision much of a future. Personally, I don’t hold out much hope. So I’ll offer some resuscitation strategies of my own while planning where I’ll retire once my kids grow up (and hopefully move away).
First, let’s replace the dinosaurs around town with, well, dinosaurs. We can erect likenesses of the ’70s Stillers on every corner. (Hell, for a couple of bucks or a Primanti’s sandwich, we might be able get some of the real guys to stand there.) That way, when people mumble about the Immaculate Reception to kids who could care less, at least they’ll have some idea of what’s going on inside the rotting brains of Steeler Nation. The Pirates and Penguins will be represented with holographs of their players — which, to most Pittsburghers, never existed anyway.
During the day, various unemployed workers could collect turn-signal bulbs, ashtrays and other unused items from drivers, which can be sold to pay for fire and police protection. In school, children would be reminded that “ain’t” ain’t a word, but yinz need to study for a test ’n ’at. Both newspapers would reformat to become all opinion, all the time. Television stations will drop their “World in a Minute” segment to devote even more time to weather reports. Target, Wal-Mart and TJ Maxx would be the cornerstone of Plan F.
Then, each evening after work, giant speakers would blast the hokey-pokey — “You put the right wing in, you kick the left wing out …” This could be followed by the Chicken Dance, which would mesmerize jaywalkers and gridlockers alike, prompting a Thriller dance-a-thon into the night. (Best big hair and most realistic hair plugs win Sophie Masloff screeching bobbleheads.)
Finally, when the skyline advertising is at its brightest, we can celebrate “mill night” with orange spotlights, sparkling confetti and smog machines reminiscent of our fossil-fuel heydays. All of this would obviously culminate with a nightly fireworks display. Afterward, as everyone returns home to the suburbs, “We are Family” would play incessantly on every radio station in town (except WYEP, which would take the opportunity to beg for even more money).
I don’t mean to rain on everyone’s parade, but that’s a typical forecast for Deadtown so it shouldn’t matter. If you’re going to stick around until this horror movie ends, then try to look on the bright side. When the latest multimillion-dollar boondoggle — the underwater passage from Dahntahn to the stadiums — is complete, you can call it The Funnel. Here, overpriced, unhealthy foods a la the arts festival can be sold complete with enough giveaways that pedestrians will wander aimlessly until their finals days, which, for me, can’t come soon enough. Rest In Pittsburgh. (R.I.P.).
“I don’t mean to rain on everyone’s parade, but that’s a typical forecast here, so it shouldn’t matter.