Evil isn’t much of a basketball fan, and I’ve never been to Britain. But I am a fan of cultural collisions (so long as they fall into the “comedic” and not “genocidal” category). Thus, I was pleased to stumble on this article in BusinessWeek describing the NBA’s sly horning-in on the British sports fan’s loyalty, presumably while mean ol’ football hooligan isn’t looking. Maybe he’s puking in the alley behind the pub?

Anywho, what’s interesting about this article isn’t the subject matter. It’s the perspective. Because this piece wasn’t written by an American, but by a British journalist for a British audience that knows squat about basketball. So naturally he drops familiar words and phrases into his descriptions—the same way an American journalist would describe the pitch as the “field” and the side as the “team.” And the hooligans as “soccer moms.” And that’s how you get bloody delightful descriptions such as:

Luol Deng, the Sudan-born Briton, has made a break and gained the best part of five metres on the Jazz defence [...]

“The best part of five metres.” Love it.

Even better is this gem:

Overseas pre-season friendlies such as the Bulls-Jazz game, which Deng’s team won by a single point right at the death, is a key part of this.

Why don’t we call preseason games “friendlies?” And more importantly (and more topical for a blog called the National Evil) . . . why in the bloody hell don’t we call the end of a game THE DEATH?!

I think we can all agree that “at the death” is infinitely cooler than “at the buzzer,” “at the bell,” or, for Evil’s sake, “at the end of regulation.”

Enjoy the weekend. If possible, stage a pre-season friendly with someone you care about. Just be discreet.

This edition of

Song Titles That LIE

is devoted to the lyingest LIARS of all, the Beatles. You can fuddle our minds with your Rock Band, rob us even blinder with your remasters (stereo and mono) . . . but Evil is watching you, Beatles. Both here and in the hereafter. There is no escape. Herewith.

“I’m Happy Just to Dance With You” (A Hard Day’s Night): Come on. Come on. We’ve heard all the blather about “a more innocent time”, but even in 1964, no guy was happy “just” to dance with a woman. Unless “dance” was a euphemism for acts of incredible naughtiness in ’64? Baby Boomers, let us know!

“Everybody’s Trying To Be My Baby” (Beatles For Sale): This might be less of an outright LIE than a cruel joke on a bandmate. I mean, you could see this being at least somewhat plausible had John sang it, maybe Paul . . . but to hand over lead-singing duties for this song to Ringo? Informal polling indicates that less than 7% of “everybody” has ever shown any interest in being Ringo’s baby. So, what? Were the other guys still hazing poor Ringo by album four?

“All You Need Is Love” (Magical Mystery Tour): As an iconic figure to so many young people in the ’60s, John Lennon should be pilloried for such a recklessly irresponsible song. How many stoned Beatles-worshippers starved, thirsted, or suffocated to death after taking in and believing this song? You need more than love, people. The average human can only survive two weeks without food, two days without water, and about four minutes without air. But love? Pfff. The Evil has gone entire months without being overwhelmed by his crippling need to be loved by everyone on the planet.

“You Never Give Me Your Money” (Abbey Road): If you’re anything like the Evil, you drove to the record store, picked up this album, purchased it, returned to your car with a happy spring in your step . . . and then flipped it over, read the track listing, came upon this title, this LIE, and retched. Then stormed back into the store, demanded your money back, were rebuffed, began shrieking at the top of your lungs, and were finally tasered. Just . . . just for them to so blatantly mock you with their LIE . . . it’s inconceivable.

“We Can Work It Out” (Double A-Side with “Day Tripper”): Also known as “the customer’s revenge for the mockery of ‘You Never Give Me Your Money.’” We can work it out, can we? Ahem. Allow the Evil to direct you to 1971 and Mr. McCartney’s lawsuit aiming at the dissolution of the Beatles. You can LIE to everyone, Beatles. Even to yourself. But it won’t save you.

Ambrose Bierce, he of The Devil’s Dictionary and “An Occurrence At Owl Creek Bridge”—which has lured adolescent writers into the dream sequence/surprise ending dead-end for over a century now—was also a book critic. A critic who produced the single greatest review ever. One sentence, nine words:

“The covers of this book are too far apart.”

I never thought I’d read another critique of such brisk majesty. One that communicated everything you could possibly need to know about the work of art or product in question. One forged from a hardy dram of contempt, then quenched by the critic’s unwillingness to waste more than a breath spewing his disdain.

Too many critics spend their reviews trying to impress the reader with their own wit and/or comprehensive grasp of the medium in question. Nowhere is this more grating than in the no-man’s-land of the Amazon customer review. I don’t require your five-paragraph summary of Victorian erotica leading into how it relates to the current crop of urban vampire novels. Really—is this the best use you’ve found for your M.A. in English Lit? If so, I would suggest you make a career one-eighty and seek your destiny as, oh, a soldier of fortune.

But sometimes—sometimes!—a reviewer produces a work both pleasingly brief and achingly poignant. And today, the National Evil found a critique every bit the equal of Bierce’s classic. Maybe superior, as this one requires less than half the words Bierce required. Without further ado:

“Pubic hair in packaging.”

Need I (or the reviewer) say more? (To be fair, now, the product in question wasn’t sold by Amazon itself, but by a third-party vendor.) Evil won’t reveal the identity of the item—I leave it to you to find this little miracle for yourself.

In the meantime, however, here’s the logical follow-up. Say you found a pube in your packaging. How much would the product you ordered have to be worth for you NOT to return it in horror and disgust?

At long last, the National Evil slips from the mortal coil and ascends to a societal precipice hitherto unknown to—but by no means undreamt by—him.

That’s a lot of sentence right there. What the hell am I talking about? Only this:

Finally—after years of research, impulse buying, and quiet, gentle sobbing in the wee hours of the morning—a simple product choice has elevated me into a stratosphere of elite consumers. How’d that happen? Pizza Hut is now offering a 20% discount on any pie ordered through their iPhone app!

This is what I’ve been waiting for all my life: a time when the simple act of owning an everyday product set me apart from you pathetic normals. And not because the product itself is more expensive, stylish, or trendy than anything you own. Nay; the product serves as mere portal into a realm where one’s money stretches further, the women are all anorexic Russian supermodels, and the pizzas are dusted with gold leaf. (Metaphorically speaking.)

Plus, this app now gives me power to control the toppings of any pizza I order with a group. Say we’re calling in four large pies—wouldn’t you surrender a few of your favorite toppings for the opportunity to save 20%? Because I’m sure as hell not offering up MY discount if you reject my anchovy/pineapple/stink beetle trifecta.

(It should go without saying that, from this point forward, I will make sure I am the only iPhone-having personage in any pizza-ordering group.)

Really: you spend your entire life telling yourself YOU aren’t subject to the tidal pull of celebrity product endorsements, saturation advertising, and peer pressure, all the while formulating rational explanations for how your purchases of pink velour J-Lo tracksuits are made free of J-Lo’s corrosive influence. And then something like this happens, abruptly, almost orgasmically validating you as a consumer genius. Should we dub thee “consenius?” or “gensumer?”

Enjoy the weekend. If possible, throw me a surprise pizza party.

As a word guy, my instincts unerringly set me on an annual task comparable to the upstream struggle of the Pacific salmon during spawning season: locating the bevy of articles published each year reporting which words the dic-heads at Merriam-Webster or Random House have added to our official lexicon. Understand that I do not do this by choice, but rather am impelled by forces hardwired into my lower brain by millions of years of nerd evolution. Often this leads me to a painful place. Such is the case in aught-nine.

It’s not really anything that was added . . . it’s the startling omission of a word I’d always assumed must have its place in any good dictionary:

Dagnabbit!

Yes, I understand that this is a slang, and possibly regional, term. But here’s where the “New Words For 2009” hoo-hah (a dictionary-approved term, by the way) comes in . . . if words like “tweet” and “LOL” are being stamped with the seal of official approval, how can dagnabbit be left behind?

I’ll tell you how: in a desperate bid to strip themselves of their stodgy reputation, to appear hip and with-it and “sexy,” the dictionarians are adding of-the-moment terms all willy-nilly (also in the dictionary). And higgledy-piggledy (yep, this’un, too), to boot. While their father’s fathers would rather have been stabbed repeatedly in the stomach with a pitchfork than add “dagnabbit” to the dictionary, their heirs are tossing in “OMG!” and the like. And thus failing our society.

After all, it wasn’t so long ago that this same crew officially blessed our use of “IM.” And do you know anyone who walks around saying, “Oh ya, Caitlin and I were IM’ing all last night. Then I IM’ed Brianna.” Does anyone actual use instant messaging anymore?

Probably about the same percentage of the populace who still drop the occasional “dagnabbit.”

You’ll never be cool, dictionarians. Stop trying, and in the process give ol’ dags its proper measure of respect.

College football’s stodgy, Brooks-Brothers-of-sports big brother, the NFL, returns tonight. This is a league that fines its own players if their socks aren’t worn at the correct height, yet it is overwhelmingly the most popular sport in America. (Please refrain from forging agonized metaphors for what this says about our society.)

But what if you live in, say, Idaho? For whom do you root? Or just emigrated here from Cuba atop a milk-carton raft? You want to weave yourself fully into the fabric of Americana—but how?

Not by playing fantasy football, that’s for sure.

Herewith, a painfully simple guide for the football newbie. The National Evil offers up five worthy teams you can adopt wholeheartedly, plus a few mindless talking points you can bellow at anyone who questions the reason for your loyalty. As a bonus, Evil offers you a team to hate as well.

5 Teams You Can Root For (And Why):

Chicago Bears: They play outdoors! In Chicago! Da Bears, Ditka, great SNL sketches. The Super Bowl Shuffle. Walter Fucking Payton. (Say it that way. Don’t flinch.)

Green Bay Packers: They play outdoors! In Wisconsin! Lambeau Field. Lombardi. Only team owned by the fans, not some billionaire.

New Orleans Saints: Fans habitually wear bags over their heads. Post-Katrina sympathy. If NFL teams had marching bands, theirs would blow the rest out of the water. They’ve always been so, so bad, so they could really use your love. (This has the added benefit of making you seem like a decent person. Go ahead, lie. It’s OK.)

Pittsburgh Steelers: Classy organization. Logos on one side of helmet ONLY, thank you very much. Habitually pummeled the Cowboys (see below) in the 70’s.

San Francisco 49ers: Montana! Rice! Lott! Clark! Young! Walsh! Montana! Montana! Beautifully executed offense and a defender who cut off a joint of his own finger to play in a game. If you were a fan of a terrible team (read: the Atlanta Falcons) in the ‘80s, the 49ers were there for you.

. . . Aaaand, One Team You Must Hate:

Dallas Cowboys.

Enjoy the weekend. If possible, horse-collar tackle someone . . . with love.

At long last, college football is once again upon us. The only thing darkening this otherwise perfect day is the shadow of what is to come . . . which is to say, incessant bemoaning of college ball’s lack of a playoff. The horror of the BCS. You’ve been there. Chances are, you’re one of the people bitching about this right now.

Enter the Evil, who is here today to take a stand against the abomination of playoffs.

As one who wallows in chaos, I liked college football just fine before the BCS. Who cares if the “top” two teams play each other at the end of the year? What’s wrong with a split championship? Michiganders and Nebraskaganders still argue to this day over who would’ve won had they played each other in ’97 rather than splitting the title. Same with Nebraskaganders and Penn Stateganders, 1994 editions. Split titles allow us to debate which group is comprised of the more ignorant and unworthy sons of bitches—the journalists who screw up the AP poll or the jocks who botch the coaches poll.

But more than that, what gets me is this notion that playoffs actually determine the best team out there. Do you honestly believe the Superbowl proved the 18-1 Patriots weren’t the best NFL team of 2007? I say this as someone who reveled in watching Tom Brady being crushed to the turf again and again by the Giants’ D-line. But if they’d played ten times, and Vegas set the over/under at 8 wins for the Pats, you’d've bet the over.

Playoffs simply reward teams that “get hot at the right time.” Or, in baseball’s case, two elite pitchers who are capable of carrying wild card teams that otherwise finished 10 games out in their own division. I say this as an embittered Braves fan who watched the most finely constructed regular season team of the 90’s lose four World—Serieses? Seri? Let’s go with Seri—World Seri.

How stupid is it that the distinction between “regular season” teams vs. “championship” teams exists at all? (Rhetorical, people. Rhetorical.) Really—are 162 games not enough to determine which is the best team? We need to have a few rounds of best of fives or sevens to make sure those six months of games really counted?

Baseball leads us back to the core truth of the playoffs: they were never designed to figure out the best team. The AL and NL owners didn’t stage the first World Series because they cared who was best—they did it to make money whilst twirling their Victorian mustaches or stroking their mutton chops. So too with every additional round of playoffs foisted on every sport forevermore.

If a playoff should ever come to college football, I won’t bitch and moan. But nor will I believe the team that wins a given year’s playoff will be more worthy of its championship than any team crowned during the BCS or pre-BCS era. And neither should you.

Let the Evil be your guide.

Yesterday the Dishman came to install a satellite dish atop the Casa de Evil. After five years of no TV, I am once more connected with you, the writhing, amoeboid mass of water-cooler conversations and wink-wink pop-culture references that is America.

Over the years, I’ve been amused, bemused, and cemused at the reactions I got when I told someone, “No, I didn’t see Sacha Baron Cohen’s stunt at the MTV Movie Awards. I don’t actually have TV.” Said reactions fell into two broad categories:

1. “Yeah, I should really drop it, too. I mean, you’re right, it’s such a waste of time and money, and there’s so much else I should be doing. You know—reading, taking walks. TV really is bad, you’re right.”

(. . . Despite the fact that I neither said nor implied any of these things. At least, I don’t think I did. Maybe there was some subconscious inflection to the old voice, or the suggestive twitch of an eyelid? I’ll never know.)

2. “Oh, you’re one of those.” (Smile and a wink.) “Hippie!”

(. . . As if they had just watched me destroy a TV with a sledgehammer on their front lawn.)

It’s as if TV is something you’re either FOR!!! or AGAINST!!! Like abortion, Notre Dame football, or toe socks.

But I never had any strong feelings either way. As I told people throughout: if at any point I decided I wanted TV, I’d get it. If not, I wouldn’t. And in no way is there any social or philosophical statement behind all this. And now that I’ve got it again, three people have said to me: “Wait, I thought you were against TV?”

Weird.

(Sure, sure, I gave you TV-having people shit about it. But in the good-natured way you mock someone for wearing holiday-themed socks; they don’t hurt anyone, really, but they are goofy. As opposed to toe socks, which do hurt people. They are an abomination of nature. I will CRUSH you, toe socks.)

How pro-TV am I? Last night, I watched a full quarter of (uggh) preseason football! Top that.

Today, as I left my office and strode outside for a break, something struck me. A thought had entered my head, something I needed to communicate with a coworker—nothing earth shattering, nothing that made me reverse course and return to the building. It was just the kind of thing that you’d like to get out of your mental file cabinet, stat.

And I realized: we need walkie-talkies!

And, further, I realized: mine is the last generation of males who will ever wish they had walkie-talkies. Wish? We might be the last generation that knows what a walkie-talkie is.

At the age of six or seven I received a pair of G.I. Joe walkie-talkies—which didn’t actually function beyond having retractable plastic antennae. Nevertheless, since then I’ve always wanted to have a walkie-talkie clipped to my belt, in easy reach for all the blunt orders the adult me would bark at my platoon, crew, and/or minions.

Really—what is more fundamentally male than the walkie-talkie? It’s an electronic gadget built for a gender that communicates in sharp, direct statements. There is no room for conversation or debate. No one interrupts you. They can’t. And if they try, you can toggle a switch and drown them in static. It encourages brevity and, even better, the creation of a verbal shorthand. It is the fount of acronyms—you think people said “ASAP!” or “FUBAR!” before walkie-talkies existed? Hell, no. The walkie-talkie is an extension of the male psyche. And it is dead to the world.

Now I have this infinitely-more-useful iPhone. And there’s probably an app delivering walkie-talkie functionality. And I could always buy a belt clip. And I could always have called, texted, or emailed my coworker the moment the thought struck me. But it wouldn’t be the same.

“Kids are great, Apu. You can teach them to hate the things you hate! And they practically raise themselves now-a-days what with the internet and all.”

Evil spent yesterday on the lake with the nephew and niece. At the end of the day we adults dragged them on a float behind a powerful motorboat—this as opposed to the pontoon the Evil’s folks own. The kids were beginning to claim the pontoon produced a “boring” float ride.

Obviously, these under-10s needed a lesson in humility . . . which they received in spades as our friendly neighbor and captain slung his boat into a brutal turn. The float—and the kids—flew hard to starboard.

You’ve seen Matrix-style movies during which two combatants leap from one skyscraper roof to another at least 100 feet away. And rather than plummet to their deaths, they maintain forward momentum. And all the while they continue jujitsuing the bejesus out of each other, their moves brought to you in hyper-slo-mo turny-aroundy camera swoons.

That’s what the kids looked like as they shot from the float—their bodies and noggins knocking in midair before they collided with the lake. From there they scudded across the surface a few more yards before dribbling into the water.

It was—and Evil says this knowing that both were and are all right—AWESOME.

The Nephew of Evil complained of a splitting headache . . . which lasted exactly as long as it took for him to convince his uncle to join him on the float.

Today, the National Evil’s arms and shoulders bitch and moan from the effort of hanging on to that float. His elbows are scraped raw. But he—and more importantly, his nephew—held on, dammit, held on. Lesson learned.

Yep, kids are great. They are the stuntpersons and special effects technicians of the everyday world. And Evil bless those still-forming, malleable skull casings!