I don’t like Bob Costas, which is one reason I watched absolutely none of the recent 5,000 hours of prime-time coverage of the Torino 2006 XX Olympic Winter Games on NBC or its several dozen other networks. Also, the Games were in Italy, and I lived in Salt Lake for the 2002 Games, so I kinda didn’t care much this time around.
I’ve never liked Costas, anyway, but I always described him as “smarmy” or “snide” or similarly. My hatred hadn’t evoked such an overwhelming passion in my written communication; I could get up a pretty good froth about the man when I was discussing the Salt Lake 2002 coverage over a pint at Squatters, but when I wrote about it, shrug.
It should be noted that not once during the entire two-week span of the Olympics did I spew my hatred for Bob Costas on this website (like I once did here and here and, um, here and over here). This gesture falls under one of my New Year’s Resolutions to try and put out good energy into the world so that good energy will eventually come back in this direction, and since Bob Costas is a human being—albeit a human being who deserves to have his balls folded in half with a hair barrette until they rot and fall off, someone who then deserves to have those rotted balls shoved into a blender and pulverized into a fine powder than can be mixed with arsenic and then served to him on top of a cookie—I’m going to treat him with respect.
This is me being a bigger person.
I need to work on my at-first-glance politely phrased vitriol, but first I have to stop laughing.