After reading about how Jason Whitlock embarked on a journey to be like Mike – Mike Royko, I embarked on my own journey to be like Jason Whitlock.
Moments later, I found out it will never happen. My new career goal of writing one sentence opening paragraphs, relying on logical fallacies to “prove” my point, plagiarizing jokes, exhibiting a complete reluctance to evolve as a sports writer and, of course, whining about not winning the Pulitzer Prize is now an impossibility. I’m ineligible because I have a conscience that won’t allow it.
Dear Mr. Parkes:
Writers with a measure of integrity and a realistic grasp on things are not eligible to be Jason Whitlock, who remains either too foolish to fully comprehend the idiocy that his commentary consistently provides or too cynical to avoid the expression of incendiary and extraneous thoughts with the primary intent of provoking outraged responses.
That was the message I received shortly after deciding to be like Whitlock. I suspected it was coming since my conscience often protects me from embarrassing myself. But each second that passed gave me a tiny bit of delusional hope that my conscience would ignore its principles and allow me to soar the ranks of popularity by catering to the lowest common denominator of sports fans and inciting any and all others.
My conscience’s message hurt. I was aware of how it dictated the rules by which I’ve lived my life to date. However, I’m stubborn. I wanted to be like Whitlock anyway and so I wrote a defiant list of platitudes and overused jargon that I might use in my pursuit. I imagined some inflammatory opinions I might disingenuously hold to be true. It was my Hail Mary.
For me, the rejection from my conscience was the equivalent of Whitlock being informed he wasn’t eligible for the Pulitzer Prize.
I know. It’s egotistical to admit in writing that I wanted to be like Jason Whitlock. It’s delusional for a sports writer to make such an admission. But it’s the truth. I believe in transparency. I swing for the fences. Before I even had breakfast this morning, I vowed to become the sportswriting equal of Jason Whitlock. I wanted to be the worst.
To me, being the worst equated to being like Whitlock.
I’m crushed. I’m not objecting to my conscience’s rules. I’m devastated and sad my short-lived dream has been stolen. I spent 20 minutes chasing something that I can no longer obtain. So, please, no matter the trials and tribulations that might be present in your own life, feel sympathy for me right now. Be filled with sorrow over the fact that my petty desire will go unfulfilled.