Conspiracy bleary

 I've had it, people. There's your public service announcement for today.

I am fed up with being fed up, disgusted with being disgusted, sick to death of being sick to death. And if I roll my eyes one more time, it will fulfill my mother's prophecy that if I'm not careful my face will freeze that way.

As Madeleine Kahn put it in "Blazing Saddles": Let's face it, I'm tired.

What I'm mainly tired of is how everything has to be a big deal these days, even (or especially) the little deals. Everything is a GREAT BIG FAT CONSPIRACY to take down America, make war on Christianity and inflict upon us electric cars, kale and the heartbreak of psoriasis. 

I jest, of course. But conspiracy theories have made me conspiracy weary.

Mostly this is just the times in which we live; just look at what's coming out of the conspiracy-kookiest administration in American history, if American history itself isn't a conspiracy against America with all its talk of slavery and such. The sheer idiocy will make you want to go lie down somewhere.

(For instance, have you seen what our very own Sen. Jim "If Trump Says The Moon Is Made Of Ice Cream, Then By God It Must Be" Banks and the rest of the hysteria crew are going on about? It's New York's mayor, Zohran Mandami, asking -- not ordering; asking --residents to dial up their AC a couple of degrees and not waste electricity to avoid blowing the power grid during the current heat wave. Common sense, right? Nah. Senator Jimbo 'n' them called it insane and COMMUNISM! and who knows what all.) 

Where was I again?

Oh, yeah. On to my main point ("About time!" you're saying), which is something that has pushed me over the edge the last few days.

It's this notion that the WNBA is anti-white and anti-heterosexual because the mean girls in the league supposedly are all black and gay. This supposedly is why the entire league is out to get poor Caitlin Clark, who is neither.

You think I'm kidding? I'm not kidding. That 's actually a thing now. It's so crazy it'll drive you crazy, as it almost has me.

It's being framed, of course, by the usual suspects employing the slickest of their magic tricks, which is that white folk (and especially white Christian folk!) are the new persecuted class. As if the levers of power in this country aren't firmly in the hands of that exact demographic.

Our Caitlin, though, is being picked on because she's white and hetero, and the league is secretly all for it. This despite the fact she herself thinks it's ridiculous, and that she was just named as an All-Star starter -- for the third straight year -- in a vote by players, media and fans.

"But ... but what about Alyssa Thomas, one of those black lesbian thugs, getting only a one-game suspension for punching Caitlin in the throat and kneeing her in the groin?" you're asking now.

What about it? Yes, Thomas should have gotten more than a game. But if you watch the incident in real time, it's a scrum for a loose ball, with arms and legs flailing everywhere. At the end of which Thomas plants her fist on Clark's neck to push herself up. In slow-motion it looks intentional; in real time, quite a bit less so.

(That whole slo-mo-vs.-real-time thing, by the way, played into USMNT World Cup star Folarin Balogun getting red-carded the other night. The VAR system shows infractions in still photos and slow motion, which indeed makes it look as if Balogun deliberately cleated Bosnia's Tarik Muharemovic in the back of the leg. In real time, however, it just looks like two players getting their legs tangled up trying to play the ball. Surely not a red card infraction in a game that was on the physical side.)

Anyway ...

Anyway, Thomas was suspended, and also was subjected to a bunch of racist garbage from the aforementioned usual suspects. And when WNBA commissioner Cathy Engelbert and Indiana Fever coach Stephanie White (who is gay) properly said that was unacceptable, the usual suspects said, see, there they go again. The lesbian league is sticking up for the lesbians and not poor Caitlin.

In so doing, of course, they gave away the magic trick: By calling out what they see as racism and bigotry, they reveal their own while trying to conceal it. As in: We don't like lesbians, and especially black lesbians. But look who THEY don't like. 

And Caitlin Clark?

She gets knocked around a lot for sure. But as the Blob has pointed out before, it's mostly because A) WNBA officiating is appallingly bad, and B) teams have figured out playing Clark physically can throw her off her game, both mentally and otherwise.

They're not doing it because she's white and hetero, no matter what the fake outrage crowd says; if that were the case, Sabrina Ionescu, who's also white and hetero, would be getting knocked around a lot, too. But she's not -- at least anymore than anyone else in a league that has allowed itself to become overly physical.

Of course, the Great Big Fat Conspiracy society probably has an explanation for that, too. They always do.

Today in nuptuality

 The word is Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce are getting hitched tomorrow night in Madison Square Garden, and, man, I am jacked. Celebrity weddings always make me cry.

And by "make me cry", I mean, "Make me cry 'Holy crap, how much did THAT cost??'"

And by "THAT", I mean the fanfare trumpeters dressed as 17th century lords, the solid gold coach pulled by four horses bred from Secretariat's DNA, and of course the miniature Lake Como, complete with swans.

Now, I don't know if Tay and Trav will have any of those in MSG. But since it's MSG, I do wonder if Trav will complete the nuptualities with a ceremonial dunk.

I also wonder some other things ...

* Will Tay sing at her own wedding?

(I'm guessing no. But if so, I suggest "We're Never Ever Ever Getting Back Together" as a final shot at all her previous boyfriends.)

* What will the cake look like?

(I'm guessing a painstakingly faithful recreation of Arrowhead Stadium as big as a Tournament of Roses parade float.)

* Will there be tiny figures of Tay in Spandex and Trav in his Chiefs jersey on top? 

(Please. Like you even have to ask that?)

* Will Tay's dress have a train so long it ties up traffic out on 33rd Street?

(Nah. Manhattan traffic's bad enough as it is, and consequently it would just piss off a lot of New Yorkers. And you never want to piss off New Yorkers.)

* Will the groomsmen hang a "Just Married" sign on the back of the gold coach, and tie empty PBR cans to it? 

(Oh, come on. PBR? Guinness talboys, maybe. Or special edition Cristal-In-A-Can.)

* Since it's MSG, will Spike Lee get to sit in his usual courtside seat, and will Caitlin Clark show up?

(No on both counts. But if Caitlin's there, I figure Alyssa Thomas or Chennedy Carter will run out and knock her down, just out of habit.)

And last but not least ...

* Will Patrick Mahomes be the ring boy? Will Jake from State Farm be a good neighbor? Will Jason Kelce wear pants?

(Answers: No ... of course ... maybe.)

(At least initially.)

Youth will out, but ...

 OK, then. So Maya Joint was not thinking "OMG! It's Serena Williams!" after all.

Won the first set yesterday on Centre Court at Wimbledon, 6-3.

Lost the second set in a tiebreaker, 7-6 (OMG! It's Serena Williams!).

Sucked it up and won the third and deciding set, 6-3.

Thus it was the kid taking down the GOAT in the match everyone was looking forward to, and, listen, it lived up to the billing. The 20-year-old was, well, 20 years old. The 44-year-old, icon or no, was 44. Youth will out, more times than not, no matter how unequal the resume.

At least it wasn't a 6-3, 6-3 snoozer, as one might have reasonably expected when a woman more than half her opponent's age -- and who's been a professional for three years -- faces a woman who's been retired four years but decided, for whatever reason, to give Wimbledon another go.

Even Serena was wondering if Serena was nuts. Or something very like it.

But a champion remains a champion, no matter what the driver's license says. And so after losing the first set, Serena Williams did not just say "Ah, I knew this was crazy", take a 6-0 bagel in the second set and wave to the crowd on her way (presumably) back into retirement.

Not a chance. In the second set the champion, and the champion's will, emerged. She matched the kid shot for shot and game for game, and when it came time to settle it in the tiebreaker, the resume won out over the young heart and legs.

Call it a curtain call, of sorts -- one glimpse of Serena before leaving Centre Court for (presumably) the final time.

Doesn't matter what happens for the next two weeks. That second set was your Wimby moment for 2026.

Net gulp

 Serena Williams is 44 years old and plays her first singles match at Wimbledon in four years today, so of course she's all over media, social and otherwise. She is THE story of this Wimbledon, because she's not only come out of what was presumed to be retirement to do this, she's also playing doubles with her sister Venus.

And so everyone's wondering what a 44-year-old icon's game will look like, after so long away.

Will there still be echoes of who she was, which is the most decorated player in women's tennis history? Will there be a laser forehand from, oh, say 2009, or a blistering volley from 2010? Will there be even a whisper of her 23 major singles titles, or will she just look like a rust-laden 44-year-old trying to keep up with the kiddos?

Inquiring minds want to know.

Me, I want to know what Maya Joint's thinking right now.

"Who the heck is Maya Joint?" you're asking now.

Well, she's a 20-year-old from Melbourne who grew up in Grosse Pointe, Mich., the daughter of an Australian dad and a German mom. She turned pro in 2024, and in her only previous Wimby last year she was knocked out in the first round. She's ranked 87th in the world, and her biggest career achievement so far was reaching the second round of the U.S. Open in 2024 and 2025.

Now, in a couple of hours, she's going be on Centre Court at Wimbledon, looking across the net at Serena Williams.

Serena Williams, who's been on Centre Court so many times they should charge her rent.

Serena Williams, who's won Wimbledon seven times -- the last time a decade ago, when Maya Joint was in grade school, and the first time in 2002, when Maya was still four years away from being the proverbial gleam in her parents' eyes.

Fun fact to know and tell: Serena won her first major title at the U.S. Open in 1999, when she was 17 years old. That's 27 freaking years ago to you and me, kids.

Now Maya Joint's going to be on the other side of the net from her. I don't know if that constitutes a net gain for the young'un, or a net gulp.

Holy crap, it's really her. SERENA WILLIAMS. Greatest women's player in history. Twenty-three major titles. There's probably a statue of her somewhere. Several statues, even. Would it be weird if I asked for her autograph?

I'm guessing Maya Joint will be trying super hard not to think that.

I'm guessing she'll be trying super hard to think this instead: Look, Serena's a 44-year-old woman who wasn't even sure if she wanted to do this until the very last minute. I'm younger. I've been playing professionally for three years; she's been having babies. She's ambivalent; I'm not. So I figure she'll be gassed  by the middle of the second set, and th-

OMG! I'm playing SERENA WILLIAMS!

Gulp. 

Powers that were

 So remember the other day, when tiny Ecuador stunned Germany 2-1 in the group stage of the World Cup?

Well ... as Johnny Olsen used to say, "But wait, there's more!"

"More" in this case being, "Germany is out of the World Cup."

Got nicked 4-3 in PKs by Paraguay -- just a suggestion, but maybe Deutschland should avoid South America from here on out -- and was bounced in its first game in the knockout round. The game ended in a 1-1 draw after a German goal was disallowed that apparently shouldn't have been disallowed.

But wait, there's more!

Not only are the once-mighty Germans gone with the expanded knockout round barely begun, so is the Netherlands. The Dutch went down to Morocco in their round-of-32 match, also on PKs. It was their earliest World Cup exit ever.

So two powers-that-be are gone, calling into question whether they're now just powers-that-were. One can only imagine what great departed souls from each country must be saying, having gloried in the spangled days of the Franz Beckenbauer Germans and Johan Cruyff and the Clockwork Orange.

"For cripe's sake, Paraguay? We got knocked out by PARAGUAY?? Can anyone even find Paraguay on a map?", Bismarck and  Goethe must be spluttering.

And from the Dutch?

"Dutch Masters, my a**!" Van Gogh is surely fuming. "This team looks like it was conceived by that lunatic Bosch!"

"Hey!" Hieronymus Bosch weighs in. "Bite me, you one-eared freak!"

Whereupon they commence throwing paint at one another.

In all seriousness, though, maybe Germany and Netherlands bowing out is just a nod to the world's game actually becoming more worldly.

South America has always been strong, of course, so no surprise that Argentina, Brazil, Paraguay, Ecuador and Colombia all reached the knockout phase. A bit more revealing, however, is the fact Canada just notched its first knockout win ever, and eight African nations made the round of 32 -- including tiny Cape Verde, playing in its first World Cup, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo, which got in by beating Uzbekistan 3-1 the other day.

It was DR Congo's first World Cup win ever. Les Leopards get England next in their first knockout game.

England: Another traditional power, and one which has already been played to a nil-nil draw by Ghana. 

Bet the Three Lions if you must. But beware the prevailing theme.

Priorities

 NBC blew off "Major League Baseball" last night to air the finish of the weather-delayed Travelers golf tournament, farming out the latest Yankees-Red Sox tilt to MSNBC and Peacock. It even stuck with golf during the rain delay, switching over to the Women's PGA Championship.

This immediately got the pearl-clutchers saying this proved America's Pastime truly is Past its Time, because back in the day it would never have taken a backseat to golf in the Sportsball World pecking order. The priorities have changed, in other words, and heaven knows if they'll ever un-change.

I don't think it was quite so seismic. I suspect it just meant NBC chose struggling Nelly Korda missing another putt over the 937th rendition this season of Yankees-Red Sox.

Which, OK, was a big deal for suffering Rolled Sox fans, because Sonny Gray almost hung a no-no on the snooty pinstriped one-percenters from New York, and the Sox went to a finish a weekend sweep of the Yankees' caviar-munching tushes with a 5-4 win in ten innings.

This either signified the long-awaited stirring of the Bostons, or a brief sunlit moment in what has been a relentlessly gray season. After all, even after racking four straight Ws, and seven in their last 10 games, they're still last in the AL East by a game-and-a-half.

That's not why NBC chose golf over baseball, though. I suspect it goes back to the 937th rendition thing.

Which is to say, yes, Yankees-Red Sox is baseball's marquee rivalry, but it's not as if we've never seen it before. Like, every other week, it seems. Or every week. Seriously, do these two ever play anyone else?

Doesn't feel like it, at least to the casual observer. No, yesterday was not the 937th rendition this season, but if it's exaggeration for effect, the point pertains: Every time they play one another, it's on the tube. No wonder a good part of America thinks Yankees-Red Sox is the "Law & Order" of baseball: On all the time somewhere.

"Hey, look, Martha, it's the Red Sox and Yankees!"

"AGAIN??"

That sort of thing. 

Anyway, it's Golf 1, Baseball 0 this time around. So hooray for Haeran Ryu (who won the Women's PGA while Korda tied for eighth), and Scottie Scheffler and Viktor Hovland, who resume their playoff today.

I'm going with Scheffler. Better changeup, I hear.

O Canada

 Happy Monday, Blobophiles, and here's your name to remember for today: Stephen Eustaquio.

He became, I don't know, the Wayne Gretzky of Canadian soccer or something yesterday, when he knocked an attempted clear smartly into the goal in extra time to give Canada a 1-0 victory over South Africa in the knockout round of the World Cup.

It was Canada's first knockout round victory, like, ever. Thousands of young Canadians will now forsake hockey and start kicking soccer balls around, on account of they're bigger than hockey pucks and you don't have to learn to skate.

OK. So I jest.

But imagine -- just imagine -- what would happen if Canada were to jack around and win a second knockout game, in which case Les Rouges (the Reds) would advance to the quarterfinals of the whole shootin' match. Now imagine if you're a kid growing up in Toronto with a throwback Dave Keon Maple Leafs jersey. Or a kid in Montreal, Edmonton, Calgary or Vancouver who's never seen a Canadian team in the Stanley Cup Final in his or her lifetime.

Canadian Dad: Come on, son, strap on the blades, grab the lumber and let's head out to the rink!

Canadian Kid: Aw, geez, Pop. I was gonna go kick a soccer ball around with the guys.

Dad: WHAT?! You mean you don't want to be the next Gretzky or Lemieux or, goodness gracious, Gordie Howe?

Kid: Nah, hockey's for losers. I want to be the next Stephen Eustaquio.

(Dad clutches his heart and immediately expires. They bury him in his throwback Yvan Cournoyer jersey.)

(Les Rouges send flowers and offer his son a spot on their developmental team. Word is he's such a dazzling striker he's started going by one name, like Pele. Everyone just calls him Jacques.)