Now that Star columnist and local semi-celebrity Jason Whitlock has ended his crusade to revise the Power & Light dress code, he has moved on to other projects. What other projects, you ask? Well, how about writing about tennis — and Wimbledon in particular? Yes, there’s a nice, classy subject for you. Maybe he could discuss how awesome that Rod/Fed final was. Or about the mini-controversy surrounding the new roof over Center Centre Court. Those would all be lovely topics. Oh, but hey: he could also make the bizarre claim that Serena Williams is being held back by her own robust dimensions. Um… yeah. Let the craziness commence.
With a reduction in glut, a little less butt and a smidgen more guts, Serena Williams would easily be as big as Michael Jackson, dwarf Tiger Woods and take a run at Rosa Parks.
Excuse me? Is Al Sharpton guest-writing this week’s column? Is Whitlock actually saying that Serena — widely acknowledged as today’s finest female tennis player — is too plump to fulfill her potential? Surely he couldn’t be saying that. Wait, he sure is:
She’d rather eat, half-ass her way through non-major tournaments and complain she’s not getting the respect her 11-major-championships résumé demands.
She complains about being ranked No. 2 in the world when she’s not bitching on Twitter or her blog about new rules that forbid Wimbledon players from eating in the locker room.
Seriously, how else can Serena fill out her size 16 shorts without grazing at her stall between matches?
Um. Really? Wait, more?
God gave Serena everything, including drop-dead looks.She’s chosen to smother some of it in an unsightly layer of thick, muscled blubber, a byproduct of her unwillingness to commit to a training regimen and diet that would have her at the top of her game year-round.
“Thick, muscled blubber”? I’m sorry, but are you actually saying these words? The best part he saves for last, though. Were you wondering what kind of backside Whitlock prefers? Too bad — he’s telling you anyway.
BBWs — Big Booty Women — do not write me angry e-mails. I’m only knocking Serena’s back pack because it’s preventing her from reaching her full potential as an athletic icon. I am not fundamentally opposed to junk in the trunk, although my preference is a stuffed onion over an oozing pumpkin.
(A stuffed onion is a booty so round and tight that it brings tears to your eyes).
I’m sorry. I digress.
Dude… are you serious with this? This is like a painful satire of a sort-of-opinion-column.
It’s no secret that Whitlock is fond of cultivating an air of controversy around everything he touches. (Otherwise he wouldn’t pose for photos like this.) But let’s all just be honest here for a second: this is not journalism. This isn’t even writing. This is a loosely connected series of pseudo-logical musings, patched with some piecemeal attempts at hip slang, packaged as a semi-professional effort to make a trenchant commentary on a current event. And the end result? Garbage. We’re left with a man (a rather hefty man, no less) doing something — anything! — to be noticed in the cacophonous world of sports media.
And it’s just awful.