Two years ago today, we marked the passing of a man who, by all accounts, ABSOLUTELY did not commit the murders of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman.
April 10, 2024. The date we observed the “departure” of Orenthal James Simpson.
While “The Juice” is no longer freely roaming the streets of L.A. (and not merely because he feared encountering the TRUE assailant), it’s a fitting moment to reflect on what many might consider his most remarkable contribution.
READ: O.J. Simpson’s Shocking Interview Story: Porn Allegations, Murder Inquiry
I’m not referring to his legendary 2,000-yard rushing season or his Heisman Trophy win. Instead, I’m highlighting the curious instance where O.J. Simpson unintentionally catalyzed the genesis of one of radio’s most iconic programs.
For those unfamiliar with “The Opie and Anthony Show,” my genuine sympathies.
I personally stumbled upon it long after its broadcast run concluded, but credit to my good friend and fellow OutKick writer, Matt Reigle, for introducing me to O&A during my college years.
If you’re seeking a quick summary of the show in its heyday, look no further.
While I don’t expect you to delve through that entire compilation (which is surprisingly one of the shorter ones), the show, in essence, stood at the vanguard of the “shock jock” radio phenomenon throughout the late 1990s and 2000s.
It was, fundamentally, Howard Stern, Opie & Anthony, and then everyone else.
They faced numerous suspensions and firings for their outrageous and provocative stunts (including famously capturing a couple engaging in sexual activity within St. Patrick’s Cathedral), consistently pushing the boundaries of what was permissible on public airwaves.
Gregg “Opie” Hughes and Anthony Cumia commanded the airwaves for nearly two decades, yet an undercurrent of tension between them meant the show’s eventual explosive end was practically inevitable.
After Cumia posted a “racially charged” Twitter rant in July 2014, following an altercation with a black woman in Central Park, he was dismissed. The show then struggled on as “Opie with Jim Norton” (O&A’s long-time third mic) for a few years, before they too dissolved amidst interpersonal friction (detecting a pattern yet?).
So, how exactly does O.J. factor into this narrative?
Funnily enough, following Simpson’s UNDOUBTEDLY innocent involvement in the deaths of his ex-wife and a waiter in June 1994, the legendary former Buffalo Bills player was slated to face trial for his purported misdeeds.
It was sensationally dubbed “The Trial of the Century,” captivating public attention with countless opinions and viewpoints.
Among those captivated was a 30-something tin knocker named Anthony Cumia, residing on Long Island, who yearned for anything but spending his summers atop scorching roofs.
Meanwhile, Opie held a nightly disc jockey position at WBAB, a local Long Island radio station.
His program was running a parody song competition, offering studio time to whoever submitted the best song lampooning O.J.’s impending trial.
Cumia, along with his brother, played in a band performing gigs on the Long Island bar circuit, recognizing this as his potential big break.
The song’s ingenious title? “Gonna Electric Shock OJ,” ingeniously set to the melody of Otis Redding’s “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay.”
Simply brilliant.
Hughes concurred, continually inviting Cumia back onto his show.
An almost instantaneous chemistry developed between them—a fascinating irony considering how their relationship would deteriorate over time—leading swiftly to offers of radio show contracts for the duo.
And the rest, as they say, is now firmly etched in history.
Opie and Anthony rose to become household names in terrestrial radio throughout the 90s, even challenging the dominance of figures like Stern, a phenomenon partly fueled by their notorious controversies.
There was the infamous April Fools’ prank where they falsely reported that Boston mayor Thomas Menino had died in a Florida limo crash.
They were subsequently fired.
Or the episode where they handed a microphone to a homeless man, who, predictably, engaged in erratic behavior, including threatening to sexually assault political figures like Condoleeza Rice.
They received a suspension.
Such was the show’s immense popularity that their frequent brushes with scandal merely seemed to propel them back, each time stronger than before.
O&A also played a pivotal role in boosting the careers of some of the era’s biggest comedians.
It was commonplace to find talents such as Louis CK, Patrice O’Neal, Bill Burr, or Dave Attell casually conversing in the studio with the hosts.
They resonated deeply with everyday individuals—a rare quality in contemporary entertainment—by consistently being their authentic selves.
However, as previously noted, the volatile concoction that was O&A meant a catastrophic conclusion was practically foreordained.
In the wake of his termination, Cumia successfully launched Compound Media, his own thriving media company, and continues to broadcast radio on WABC in New York to this day.
Opie maintains a YouTube channel, though it regrettably hasn’t recaptured the distinctive magic of the O&A era.
The two haven’t spoken in years, and both have confirmed that their friendship effectively ended around the turn of the millennium.
Nevertheless, their place in the pantheon of radio’s greatest shows is undeniably secure.
“The Opie and Anthony Show” was a cultural juggernaut, a phenomenon that people (myself included) are still discovering long after its magnificent run concluded.
And, for all of it, we owe a debt of gratitude to one man:
Orenthal James Simpson.