It's a Very SJ.com Xmas, Part VII: Charlie Brown Christmas (starring Moddy!)

I did something a little different this year..."interpreting" A Charlie Brown Christmas as if it took place in the SportsJournalists.com world, with our bald buddy Moddy playing the bald little bastard Charlie Brown and Double Down as Linus, explaining to Moddy the meaning of sports journalism and message boards.

That sound you hear is Charles Schulz turning over in his grave (and/or his lawyers getting ready to sue my ass). Anyway, hope you enjoy, even if I didn't get as many SJers into the story as usual. My humble apologies, this was a bigger undertaking than I imagined, hence why it's so late. Merry Christmas everyone!


OPEN: A bunch of sportswriters are pictured behind their keyboards, pounding away in fury and anger. Moddy and Double Down walk out of an office building. Moddy looks unhappy. Double Down carries with him a Beverly Hills 90210 beach towel. The two stop at a brick wall and begin conversing.

MODDY: I think there must be something wrong with me, Double Down. Christmas is coming but I’m not happy. I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to feel. I just don’t understand sports journalism, I guess. I might be starting my own website and getting freelance assignments and enjoying the freedom of being my own boss and all that, but I’m still not happy. I always end up feeling depressed. I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to feel.

DOUBLE DOWN: Moddy, you’re the only person I know who can take a wonderful business like sports journalism and turn it into a problem. Maybe IJAG is right. Of all the Moddys in the world, you’re the Moddyest.

(Moddy and Double Down resume their walk and come across the sportswriters typing furiously on their computers, including one jackass who has more message boards posts than anyone else and directs a Heathersjack of a Steelers-jacked NFL thread. The jackass ensnares Moddy and Double Down in the thread by accident and Moddy ends up banging his head against his computer, temporarily knocking him woozy)

SCENE: Moddy’s office. Moddy looks out his window and decides to take his laptop outside to check his messages.

MODDY (clicking on his email inbox): HELLO IN THERE!

COMPUTER: You have no new messages.

MODDY: Rats.

MODDY: Nobody sent me a private message today. I almost wish there wasn’t sports journalism. I know nobody likes me. Why do we have to work in a business that emphasizes it?

(Moddy sees 21 checking her messages and smiling. He frowns and walks up to her)

MODDY: Thanks for the PM you sent me, 21.

21: I didn’t send you a PM, Moddy.

MODDY: Don’t you know irony when you hear it? Bitch.

(Moddy continues walking and sees Flying Headbutt eating a six-course breakfast)

MODDY: Flying Headbutt, you’re the only person I know who can raise a cloud of dust while trying to make weight.

(Moddy continues walking and sees BYH eating from a bucket of Swedish Fish and reading a paper. He eventually comes upon a group of posters trying to examine an article. Everyone misses with their critique until Double Down fires up his Beverly Hills 90210 beach towel and types a spot-on analysis)

IJAG: You think you’re so smart with that beach towel. What are you gonna do when you grow up?

DOUBLE DOWN: Maybe I’ll continue to wear it ironically.

(IJAG stares angrily)

YGBFKM (to IJAG): I think you have a customer.

(IJAG races over to her computer and turns it on. As she does, the green light under her screen name goes on)

IJAG: May I help you?

MODDY: I am in sad shape.

IJAG: Wait a minute. Before you begin I must ask that you pay the co-pay in advance. Thirty dollars please.

(Moddy plays pocket pool before coming up with a credit card, which IJAG swipes)

IJAG: Boy I love the sound of a modem connecting! That beautiful sound of cold hard profit! That beautiful, beautiful sound! Credit card sale, credit card sale, credit card sale. That beautiful sound of a customer’s plunging credit! Now what seems to be your trouble?

MODDY: I feel depressed. I know I should be happy, but I’m not.

IJAG: Well, as they say on the self-help message boards, the mere fact that you realize you need help indicates that you are not too far gone. I think we better pinpoint your fears. If we can find out what you’re afraid of, we can label it. Are you afraid of writing? If you are, then you have graphophobia.

MODDY: I don’t think that’s quite it

IJAG: How about sex? If you’re afraid of sex, you have genophobia.

MODDY: Well, sort of, but I’m not sure.

IJAG: Are you afraid of wet dreams? If you are then you have oneirogmophobia. Maybe you have urophobia. This is fear of urinating, or menophobia, which is the fear of menstruation. Or maybe you have pantophobia. Do you think you have pantophobia?

MODDY: What’s pantophobia?

IJAG: The fear of everything.

MODDY (after a brief pause): THAT’S IT!!!

(IJAG ends up on her ass)

MODDY: Actually, IJAG , my trouble is sports journalism. I just don’t understand it. Instead of feeling happy, I feel sort of let down.

IJAG: You need involvement. You need to get involved in some real sports journalism project. How would you like to be the moderator of our message board for sports journalists?

MODDY (looking unnaturally and frightfully happy): ME?! You want me to be the moderator of a message board?

IJAG: Sure, Moddy. We need a moderator. You need involvement. We’ve got a webmaster, several other sub-board moderators, proficient posters, trolls and jackasses—everyone you need. We’ve even got a board queen.

MODDY: I don’t know anything about moderating a message board.

IJAG: Don’t worry. I’ll be there to help you.

IJAG: Incidentally, I know how you feel about all this sports journalism business, getting depressed and all that. It happens to me every year. I never get what I really want. I always get a lot of stupid promotions or raises or extra responsibilities.

MODDY: What is it you want?

IJAG: A blog.

(MORE)

 

(BYH walks by with his laptop. Moddy follows as BYH starts typing furiously)

MODDY: What’s going on here?

(BYH gives him a sign and goes right back to typing)

MODDY: What’s this? (Begins reading sign) “FIND THE TRUE MEANING OF SPORTS JOURNALISM. WIN ABSOLUTELY NO MONEY. SPECTACULAR SUPERCOLOSSAL NEIGHBORHOOD ALL-SportsJournalists.com CONTEST.

(Moddy pauses)

MODDY: ALL SportsJournalists.com CONTEST? Oh no. Our own top poster gone commercial. I can’t stand it. Oh.

(Lugnuts gets Moddy’s attention)

LUGNUTS: I’ve been looking for you, big brother. Will you please write a job letter for me?

MODDY: Well I don’t have much time. I’m supposed to begin moderating a sports journalism message board.

LUGNUTS: You write it and I’ll tell you what to say.

MODDY: OK, shoot.

LUGNUTS: Dear Editor: How have you been this year? Did you have a nice summer? How is your husband, wife or same-sex partner?

MODDY: Quit burying the fucking lede. Get to the fucking point.

LUGNUTZ: I have an extra good resume, so I have a long list of positions that I want.

MODDY: Oh brother.

LUGNUTS: Please note my salary demands and the hours that I can work and find me a job as convenient as possible. If it seems too complicated, make it easy on yourself. Just send money. How about fifties and hundreds?

MODDY: Fifties and hundreds? Oh! Even my baby sister…

LUGNUTS: All I want is what I have coming to me. All I want is my fair share.

(People at SportsJournalists.com are posting and arguing and quoting song lyrics)

IJAG: All right quiet everybody! Our moderator will be here any minute and we’ll start posting.

SPORTSCHICK: Moderator? What moderator?

IJAG: Moddy

21: Oh no were doomed!

SPORTSCHICK: This will be the worst message board ever!

IJAG: Here he comes! Attention everyone! Here’s our moderator!

(BYH howls his sarcastic approval until Moddy glares at him)

MODDY: Most prolific poster, my fuckin’ ass.

MODDY: Well, it’s real good seeing y’all here. As you know, we are going to put together a sports message board. Due to the shortage of time, we’ll get right down to work. One of the first things to ensure a lively board is strict attention to the moderator. I’ll keep my directions simple. If I point to the right, it means the politics board is over there. If I make a slashing motion across my throat, it means cut the fuckin’ shit. If I make a revolving motion with my hand, it means you’re all fucking crazy and you’re taking this place way too seriously. If I spread my hands apart, it means I quit and I’m locking this thread.

It’s the spirit of the posters that counts—the interest that they show in their moderator! Am I right? I said, am I right?

(more threadjacking takes place)

MODDY: Stop the music! All right! Stop fucking around! We’re going to do this message board and we’re going to do it right! Lucy! Get those jobs and pass them out. The script girl will be passing out your part.

IJAG [to The Big Ragu]: You’re the Anything Goes moderator.

THE BIG RAGU: The Anything Goes moderator is interested in oil and gold prices?

IJAG: Flying Headbutt, you’re the Sports and News moderator.

HEADBUTT: In spite of my screen name, I shall try to run a mature board.

IJAG: Spnited, you’re a grumpy fucking bastard.

SPNITED: Every message board it’s the same. I always end up playing a grumpy fucking bastard.

IJAG: BYH, you’ll have to be all the idiots in our play. Can you be a Rush Limbaugh sheep?

(BYH begins criticizing Obama)

IJAG: How about an Obama follower?

(BYH begins praising the health care reform bill)

IJAG: How about a troll?

(BYH begins posting YouTube videos of himself)

IJAG: He’s even a good troll!

(BYH begins jumping around IJAG and annoying her)

IJAG: No, no, no! You’ve got to take directions!

(BYH begins imitating everything IJAG does)

IJAG: You’ve got to have discipline! You’ve got to have respect for your moderator!

(IJAG notices BYH mocking her)

IJAG: I oughta out you!

(BYH kisses IJAG)

IJAG: UGH!! I’ve been kissed by the eight-second man! I’ve got eight-second germs! I’ll never have good sex again! Get hot water! Get me a tetanus shot! Get some prednisone!

(BYH sticks his tongue out and makes a sad noise)

MODDY: All right, all right. Script girl, continue with the job assignments.

(IJAG goes up to Double Down and is immediately angry)

IJAG: You’ve got to get rid of that stupid beach towel! Here. Memorize these facts about our posters.

DOUBLE DOWN: I can’t memorize these facts. This is ridiculous.

IJAG: Memorize it and be ready to recite when the birthdays arrive.

DOUBLE DOWN: I can’t memorize someone’s likes and dislikes so quickly. Why should I be put through the agony of posting happy birthday threads? Give me one good reason why I should memorize this!

IJAG: I’ll give you five good reasons. Jason Whitlock, Jason Whitlock, Jason Whitlock, Jason Whitlock, Jason Whitlock.

DOUBLE DOWN: Those are good reasons. Sports journalism is not only getting too commercial, it’s getting too dangerous!

IJAG: OK Moddy, the cast is set. Take over.

MODDY: All right! Let’s have it quiet. Places, everybody! YGBFKM, set the mood for the first scene.

(YGBFKM plugs in his guitar and begins playing a particularly angry Pantera song. Everyone starts fighting and threadjacking. Outofplace turns the NFL thread into something about the Steelers. Zagoshe argues about political correctness. Boom_70 starts cracking jokes about Chris Henry’s death. Someone starts a thread announcing they are nuking their account. Bubbler hates Wal-Mart and Armchair_QB hates Dusty Baker. JR and Old_Tony argue. Chris_L asks someone to show him her tits. YGBFKM posts about how none of this is a fruitful endeavor)

IJAG: Lunch break! Lunch break!

MODDY (sounding incredulous): Lunch break?

(BYH is holding a tray and flipping it over in his hands)

MODDY: All right now. Good fucking grief. There’s no time for this fucking foolishness. We’ve got to get on with our message board. Let’s take it from the top again. Places…action!

(YGBFKM again plugs in his guitar and again begins playing a particularly angry Pantera song. More fighting and thread-jacking commences. Simon Cowbell and BYH argue over baseball and salary caps. Spnited says he hates football and your fantasy team. Poindexter posts about a slutty teacher having sex with a student. The Tiger Woods thread continues to spiral out of control. Zeke says he hates Don Henley and professes his love for Joe Mauer. IJAG professes her love for Alyssa Milano. Dooley Womack makes a brief post. YGBFKM writes how he’d like to kill Lovie Smith.)

MODDY: That does it! If we’ve ever to get this message board off the ground, we’ve got to have some cooperation!

IJAG: What’s the matter Moddy? Don’t you think it’s great?

MODDY: It’s all wrong.

IJAG: Look Moddy. Let’s face it. We all know that sports journalism is a big commercial racket. It’s run by a big Connecticut syndicate, you know.

MODDY: Well, this is one message board that’s not going to be commercial.

IJAG: Look, Moddy, what do you want?

MODDY: What our message board needs is the proper technology.

IJAG: Hey, perhaps a server! A great, big, shiny, aluminum server! That’s it! Moddy, you get the server, I’ll handle this crowd.

MODDY: I’ll take Double Down with me. The rest of you, stop acting like fucking jackasses.

IJAG: Get the biggest aluminum server you can find, Moddy! Maybe paint it pink!

SPORTSCHICK: Yeah! Do something right for a change, Moddy.

(MORE)

 

(Moddy and Double Down walk outside)

MODDY: I don’t know, Double Down. I just don’t know. Well, I guess we better concentrate on finding a nice server.

DOUBLE DOWN: I suggest we follow those lights to the Wal-Mart, Charlie Brown.

(Moddy and Double Down walk into Wal-Mart and come across a particularly homely looking server)

DOUBLE DOWN: Gee, I didn’t know Linux still made servers. Linux…Linus…that feels oddly familiar for some reason.

MODDY: What the fuck are you talking about?

DOUBLE DOWN: Nothing.

MODDY: This little one in an already opened box seems to need a home.

DOUBLE DOWN: I don’t know. Remember what IJAG said? This doesn’t seem to fit the modern needs of a message board.

MODDY: I don’t care. We’ll decorate it and it will be just right for our message board. Besides, I think it needs me. (Moddy picks it up and it falls out of the box. He smiles like a doofus anyway and starts walking to the register)

SCENE: Back at the…umm, message board.

YGBFKM: This is the music I’ve selected as the theme for the board. (He starts strumming Pantera’s “This Love”)

IJAG: What kind of sports journalism music is that?

YGBFKM: Pantera music.

IJAG: What has Pantera got to do with sports journalism? Everyone talks about how great Pantera was. Pantera wasn’t so great.

YGBFKM (growing livid): What in the fucking fuck do you mean, Pantera wasn’t so great? Are you Bitch IJAG?

IJAG: Pantera never got his picture on a bubble gum card, did he?

YGBFKM: Pantera’s a fucking band, not a guy!

IJAG: Have you ever seen his picture on a bubble gum card? How can you say someone’s great who has never had his face on a bubble gum card? Unlike, you know, Brook Jacoby.

YGBFKM: Go fuck yourself, Bitch IJAG!

(Moddy and Double Down return)

MODDY: We’re back!

(He places the server, which is falling apart, on a table)

21: Boy are you stupid, Moddy.

SPORTSCHICK: What kind of a server is that?

IJAG: You were supposed to get a good server. Can’t you even tell a good server from a shitty one?

21 I told you he’d goof it up!

SPORTSCHICK: He’s not the kind that you can depend on to do anything right!

21: You’re hopeless Moddy! Completely hopeless!

MODDY: Rats.

IJAG: You’ve been a douchenozzle before. But this time you really did it.

(Everyone laughs and begins pointing at Moddy)

IJAG: What a server!

(The gang walks out of the room, laughing all the while at Moddy)

MODDY: I guess you were right, Double Down. I shouldn’t have picked this shitty server. Everything I do turns into a disaster. I guess I really don’t know what sports journalism is all about.

(Moddy pauses before throwing his head back in disgust)

MODDY: ISN’T THERE ANYONE WHO KNOWS WHAT SPORTS JOURNALISM IS ALL ABOUT?

DOUBLE DOWN: Sure Moddy. I can tell you what sports journalism is all about.

(Double Down walks to the center of the room)

DOUBLE DOWN: Lights please.

(a brief pause)

DOUBLE DOWN: And there were in the same press box chroniclers surfing message boards, keeping watch over their game by night. And lo, the angel of Death came upon them, and the glory of Sam Zell shone round about them. And they were so afraid. And the angel of Death said unto them ‘Fear not, for you are fucked. I bring you job cuts and mergers and newspaper closings. For unto you is born the philosophy do more with less, which is a bunch of Satanic bullshit. And this shall be a sign unto you: Get the fuck out. Ye shall find your newspapers and magazines shrinking, and have a hard time figuring out where the ads end and the stories begin in ESPN The Magazine, and citizen journalists shall suddenly think they can do your job. And suddenly there was with the disgruntled desker a multitude of followers, praising Wright Thompson and saying Bill Simmons sucks in the highest, and on Earth, nobody wants to hang out with the five people you’ll meet in heaven, and the Yankees are October.

DOUBLE DOWN: That’s what sports journalism is all about, Moddy. (Double Down inexplicably begins sucking thumb)

(Moddy smiles and picks up his server. He walks by the posters, including two odd-looking, steroid-fueled twins. The posters follow him out. Moddy pauses as Double Down’s words echo in his head)

MODDY: Double Down is right. I won’t let all this commercialism ruin my business. I’ll take this little server home and build it up and I’ll show them it will really run our message board.

(Moddy skips lightly home. He walks by BYH’s house, which has an ALL-SportsJournalists.com banner hanging from it.)

MODDY: Oh well, This commercial jackass is not going to ruin my message board.

(Moddy sees an extension cord outside the house. He plugs his server into it…and sees the following message)

Connection Problems
Sorry, SMF was unable to connect to the database. This may be caused by the server being busy. Please try again later.

MODDY: I’ve killed it. Oh! Everything I touch gets ruined.

(Moddy trudges off, presumably to drink and watch the Nationals. In another inexplicable event, the posters show up outside BYH’s house)

DOUBLE DOWN: I never thought it was such a bad little server.

IJAG: You’re full of fucking shit.

DOUBLE DOWN: It’s not bad at all, really. Maybe it just needs a little technical assistance.

(The gang, with the help of Fallout Shelter guru 2MuchCoffeeMan, starts working on it. In yet another inexplicable event, their flurry of activity results in a fully functional message board)

IJAG: Moddy is a dickhead, but he did get a nice server.

(Moddy returns, presumably drunk)

MODDY: What the fuck is going on here?

(He sees Sportsjournalists.com up and running. He jumps with shock)

GANG: Merry Christmas Moderator1!

(Moddy smiles, for the first time since the Nationals moved to D.C. The gang starts singing and he soon joins in)

GANG: HARK THE HERALD ANGELS SING, GLORY TO THE NEWBORN MOD! PEACE ON SJ AND TROLLS ARE MILD, BANNERS AND BANNEES RECONCILED. JOYFUL ALL FANS OF SPORTS TEAMS RISE, JOIN THE TRIUMPH OF THE ANTI-STEELERS. WITH ANGELIC HOST PROCLAIM TEBOW CLOTHES ALL THE LEPERS. HARK THE HERALD ANGLES SING GLORY TO THE NEWBORN MOD!

(credits roll)

 

Brillant. Simply brillant. What? No spnited?

 

Now Christmas can begin.

 

I'M IDAHO!

Oh wait, wrong cartoon.

 

You brilliant son of a bitch.

 

LOL

 

My favorite part:

And the angel of Death said unto them ‘Fear not, for you are fucked.

 

My favorite part:

LUGNUTS: Dear Editor: How have you been this year? Did you have a nice summer? How is your husband, wife or same-sex partner?

MODDY: Quit burying the fucking lede. Get to the fucking point.


Great job, BYH!

 

I just about shit when I read this:

Fucking brilliant, Beej! Well done as always!

 

BYH,








THAT'S IT!!!