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When sports writing goes horribly astray cliche

Boston

Because not every sportswriter gives it 110 percent, takes it one article at a time, or is even their publication's go-to guy in the clutch, there's Sports Is Like: the cleverly penned Tumblr of a bearded NY-based writer who both kisses and tells, aiming to document then systematically destroy the country's most sybaritic scribes by boldly calling out their senseless similies, ill-advised analogies, and overall lack of Charles P. Pierce... ness. Crap, writing is hard!

Highlights include:

"In the first half, though, a runaway train named West Virginia performed for those here and nationally via ESPN.":

At first, for Mountaineers fans, it was like the best soy latte that they’d ever had, both here and nationally via Starbucks. Unfortunately, that feeling was quickly overtaken by the actual song “Runaway Train”, which is apparently actually about runaways, and very sad, as many of the children whose stories it tells left their parents only to discover how hard it is in a cold, cold world where teams at least make an earnest attempt to play defense. Things picked up, though, when a connection was made to the movie Runaway Train, because when Eric Roberts gets nominated for a Golden Globe, everybody wins. Except Clemson.

"Is there a word beyond “exposed’’? Perhaps the eminent wordsmith William F. Buckley had one at his disposal, but we verbal inferiors lack the means to convey the scope of the humiliation the New England Patriots inflicted on the utterly hapless Broncos, who came in to the playoffs as the - are you ready to laugh? - “champions’’ of the pitiful AFC West.":

Depends what you mean by “beyond”. “Sucked a fat d*#k” would probably work, but the real question is, “Is there a word beyond ‘verbal inferiors’? Or an eminent wordsmith beyond William F. Buckley? Or a thesaurus beyond thesaurus.com?”

"Rice is a 5-foot-8, 212-pound missile in the fog. Once he locates daylight, Rice is like tackling a bowl of soup, without the bowl.":

He seems to seep into the ground, where his rich broth nourishes such an abundance of plants that their leaves obscure the offensive backfield, much like a fog, from which his chunky bits (mostly steak, sausage, chicken, and chickarina meatballs) emerge like missiles, except it’s just one missile, because Ray Rice can only be in one place at a time, unless he’s soup, in which case there’s no bowl that can possibly hope to contain him.

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