The site of pre-meal generally results in reflexive trepidation, as I analyze the conglomeration of shit they dump into a 3’x1’ stainless steel bin. It usually takes a skinny, white-boy such as myself a solid three weeks at a new job before my gastrointestinal tract no longer screams mercy fifteen minutes after ingesting the culinary delicacies of the Mexican mafia.
Today I was greeted to a simple surprise. Cheeseburgers and cut potato fries. “Can’t fuck that up,” I thought to myself.
Pre-meal at my current job has become my last bastion of solitude. I take those precious thirty minutes of daily freedom by sitting at the bar, silently enjoying my current book and praying I can drown out my co-workers’ verbal diarrhea with my Ipod.
Generally it would take me a couple months to become completely disinterested in my team, but this group has the collective flair of air caught in a mason jar.
I never knew it was humanly possible to put together such a colorless ensemble of individuals so deeply engrossed in a “career” going nowhere. I have never had a problem “initially” relating to people. I have enough collected interests to be able to converse with just about anyone when we first meet. Ooooh , but not this group. Recently overheard pre-meal topics consisted of: “the best way to hold each type of stemware when polishing,” and “strategies to selling the tasting menu to our guests.”
My stare of contempt could burn holes through their retinas, but they would never know because the staff here doesn’t make eye contact with anyone except their tables. I have been searching for the EZT machine in the storage room, but have yet to uncover it. Three weeks of employment and I have formally shaken hands with about 20% of the staff.
So imagine my surprise on burger day to see a full bar of individuals inhaling their chow while talking about LeBron, Kobe, and the NBA playoffs. The ringleader of the conversation is well…I don’t know who he is…I think he’s a host, but he’s usually too busy looking in the mirror or posturing to seat a table or introduce himself. It’s as if one mixed one part Derek Zoolander with one part Alexis Meads’ assistant Nick, on Ugly Betty- So I’ll call him Dick). I was considering interjecting my thoughts on their disparaging analysis of Kobe’s level of excellence when Dick quickly shifted the topic off of Kobe to what could be classified as my interpretation of “The Chaos Theory.”
“Ok guys…Robert Horry…first ballet Hall of Famer?”
When I was a teenager I quite often listened to sports radio. Every so often individuals would call up proposing a trade somewhere along the lines of Team X’s best player for their favorite pair of underwear and a bag of Cheetos. These callers were 100% convinced that their offer was not only fair but almost “too good” for the other team to pass up. I believe these statements where the foundation for my whole-hearted endorsement of euthanasia, abortions and population control. Their general disconnect from reality and lack of tangible knowledge made me fear for the future of man.
Robert Horry, 6’10” power forward from the University of Alabama- Recognized as “Big Shot Bob” for his many clutch baskets as part of six NBA championships teams during his career. Big Shot Bob who averaged 3.9 points per game this year! A man who has not averaged double-digit points a game in any season since the current presidents father was running the country! Big Shot Bob…Hall of Fame...are you FUCKIN SERIOUS!!!
Simply expecting the crowd to silence Dick with similar sentiments, my burger dropped out of my mouth like a Kobayashi glass in the Usual Suspects.
“Oh totally,” shouted Sheep #1.
“Best clutch shooter of all-time,” exclaimed Tweedle-dee.
“Maybe not first ballot,” Beavis proclaimed. “However, definitely second or third ballot for sure!”
As I directed my mind to venture to my happy place to protect my sanity and my self-loathing job, I was interrupted by yet another quality Dick statement trying to rationalize Beavis’s lack of belief in 1st-ballot Horry credentials.
“I mean, I know the guys ONLY BEEN AN ALL-STAR FOUR- TIMES, Dick recites nonchalantly, but he IS the greatest shooter of all-time!”
And so goes what has been my life’s dilemma.
ROBERT HORRY HAS NEVER BEEN AN ALL-STAR!
NOT ONCE!
NOT EVEN CLOSE!
NEVER!
Robert Horry is a GREAT ROLE PLAYER!
A GREAT TEAMMATE!
CLUTCH!
A WINNER!
BUT ROBERT HORRY IS NOT A HALL OF FAMER!
So I have a choice. Do I sit quietly and listen to his mini-cyclone of nonsense and misinformation? Or do I interject my comments, whereby blowing up Dick’s circle jerk?
You may be thinking, why do you care so much? The answer is far too simple yet way too complex. I was in the bookstore the other day when I opened up Time magazine. They have a section in the opening pages next to the political cartoons where we are given some statistics and numbers for thought. One such peccadillo was, “69% of the country can name the current Vice President.”
There are moments when I think, “why does anybody try to save mankind when mankind doesn’t even care enough to know why it needs to be saved.”
One out of three can’t name the MAN BEHIND THE MAN!
So if 1 out of 3 can’t name the vice-president, I contend that 4 out of 5 dipshits believe Robert Horry is a legitimate, first-ballot, Hall of Famer!
"Let the disinformation continue on all fronts," I contend to my polar self.
Shooting up from my seat, I say nothing and head to the bathroom.
I think this food is making me sick.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
What. Would. Rosie. Do.
Sunday night I told myself it was finally time to end our relationship. We had started out strong, but over the past couple of years our difficulties were coming to a forefront. She...consuming much of my free time, money, and energy- distracting me from my goals, responsibilities, and friendships. I...in silent disgust; listened intently to her every word, contributing nothing to the relationship.
Yesterday morning I called her up to do what so obviously needed to be done. As she began to speak, a small tear welled up in my eye.
"Thank you for calling Time Warner Cable, this is Shanique, how may I help you?"
My voice cracked as the words came rushing out.
"Yes...I'd like to cancel my cable television service."
I thought that would be it, I tried to keep up a strong front, but Shanique was not going to let me go so easily. My monthly cable bill could be best described as insanity. With two televisions, HBO, DVR, and the HD package, I was shelling out $145 a month to watch the intricate facial deformities of my favorite athletes, solution-less talking heads, with their PhD's in polarization, simple-minded, talentless, "reality" hacks, who complain about how hard it is to get recognition and praise for their tiresome vapidness, and a bevy of shows "Lost" on drawn out storylines with an "Entourage" of homoerotic characters.
By the time I got off the phone with Shanique, not only were we still tied together, I suddenly had an appointment for next Thursday to install an internet phone line, along with a free trial for Showtime. Somehow, when I heard that just having internet was going to cost $59.99 a month and for only $40 more I would have the phone, cable, Showtime, etc., the priority of optimizing my life suddenly jumped out the window in favor of a couple free weeks of The Weeds. In the moment, it all seemed to make sense.
That was until several hours later, when I saw the headline on the Drudgereport.com, "shooting at Virginia Tech University, at least 29 dead."
You would think that after reading such a headline, one would begin to feel a sense of grief, sadness, and concern for the well-being of the friends and families of the victims (and students), while simultaneously feeling fortunate that one's life was not directly affected by the tragic events.
But no, not in my head. What did I do? I looked for coverage on the television, and went to Rosie.com (Rosie O'Donnell's blog) to see if she had posted any comments about the recent events. Why was Rosie a priority? Honestly, I have no fuckin idea. All I know is for the past couple years, I often listen to four chickens cluck away for twenty-five minutes about their "View" on EVERYTHING! Through all of this, I somehow ingrained the knowledge that "Rosie's spiral of depression" began after the Columbine shootings in 1999. Well I thought to myself, if murdering 12 people in cold blood could put her in a state...what will 29 do!
Truth be told...I actually like the lady. I had the opportunity to be her waiter several times many years ago. Financially, I have never met anyone more generous ($150 dinner gets you $150 tip). Though servers with vaginas tended to do even better with her, she has never done wrong by me, and when I watch her on television, I see a woman who "believes" she has the best interest in her heart for peace and acceptance of all people. Do I think she reaches sometimes on issues of homophobia? Yes. However, if I had a podium like hers, I'd be yelling about all the woman I have dated who complain about how hard it is to get recognition and praise for their tiresome vapidness. So much so, that I sometimes wish I was gay!
So since Rosie had not yet responded, I tuned into CNN to get some particulars regarding this madness. Sure enough, their attempt at coverage was about as chaotic as the information being relayed to the students on campus during the shootings. The end point for me was when the anchor (through a phone interview) asked a student on campus, "How are you feeling?"
I crossed my fingers and prayed that the student would respond...
Hmmm, that's a tough question. I am doing wonderful; I'm currently jumping rope down the hall and getting ready for a keg party at my frat house. This has been one of the best days of my life. Thanks for asking.
How are you feeling??? Is that news? How do you think he's feeling? He's scared, sad, frustrated, angry, hurt, etc., etc. Why do we need to hear this? Does this boy's opinion encapsulate the feelings for everyone on campus? I don't know about you, but I just didn't care (because it doesn't need to be said).
And for that matter, I really don't care about thoughts or opinions of any LCD screen icons anymore. I was listening to a talented speaker the other day and was drawn to his simple statement:
"Nobody on television ever put a penny in my pocket or food on my table."
I think my point is...What would Rosie do? Why the fuck should I care!
I called Shanique this morning and told her to put a squash on Time Warner’s plans for my household domination.
"Put me down for $59.99 a month, " I said.
If Rosie wants to tell me how she feels, she can invite me out for dinner.
Yesterday morning I called her up to do what so obviously needed to be done. As she began to speak, a small tear welled up in my eye.
"Thank you for calling Time Warner Cable, this is Shanique, how may I help you?"
My voice cracked as the words came rushing out.
"Yes...I'd like to cancel my cable television service."
I thought that would be it, I tried to keep up a strong front, but Shanique was not going to let me go so easily. My monthly cable bill could be best described as insanity. With two televisions, HBO, DVR, and the HD package, I was shelling out $145 a month to watch the intricate facial deformities of my favorite athletes, solution-less talking heads, with their PhD's in polarization, simple-minded, talentless, "reality" hacks, who complain about how hard it is to get recognition and praise for their tiresome vapidness, and a bevy of shows "Lost" on drawn out storylines with an "Entourage" of homoerotic characters.
By the time I got off the phone with Shanique, not only were we still tied together, I suddenly had an appointment for next Thursday to install an internet phone line, along with a free trial for Showtime. Somehow, when I heard that just having internet was going to cost $59.99 a month and for only $40 more I would have the phone, cable, Showtime, etc., the priority of optimizing my life suddenly jumped out the window in favor of a couple free weeks of The Weeds. In the moment, it all seemed to make sense.
That was until several hours later, when I saw the headline on the Drudgereport.com, "shooting at Virginia Tech University, at least 29 dead."
You would think that after reading such a headline, one would begin to feel a sense of grief, sadness, and concern for the well-being of the friends and families of the victims (and students), while simultaneously feeling fortunate that one's life was not directly affected by the tragic events.
But no, not in my head. What did I do? I looked for coverage on the television, and went to Rosie.com (Rosie O'Donnell's blog) to see if she had posted any comments about the recent events. Why was Rosie a priority? Honestly, I have no fuckin idea. All I know is for the past couple years, I often listen to four chickens cluck away for twenty-five minutes about their "View" on EVERYTHING! Through all of this, I somehow ingrained the knowledge that "Rosie's spiral of depression" began after the Columbine shootings in 1999. Well I thought to myself, if murdering 12 people in cold blood could put her in a state...what will 29 do!
Truth be told...I actually like the lady. I had the opportunity to be her waiter several times many years ago. Financially, I have never met anyone more generous ($150 dinner gets you $150 tip). Though servers with vaginas tended to do even better with her, she has never done wrong by me, and when I watch her on television, I see a woman who "believes" she has the best interest in her heart for peace and acceptance of all people. Do I think she reaches sometimes on issues of homophobia? Yes. However, if I had a podium like hers, I'd be yelling about all the woman I have dated who complain about how hard it is to get recognition and praise for their tiresome vapidness. So much so, that I sometimes wish I was gay!
So since Rosie had not yet responded, I tuned into CNN to get some particulars regarding this madness. Sure enough, their attempt at coverage was about as chaotic as the information being relayed to the students on campus during the shootings. The end point for me was when the anchor (through a phone interview) asked a student on campus, "How are you feeling?"
I crossed my fingers and prayed that the student would respond...
Hmmm, that's a tough question. I am doing wonderful; I'm currently jumping rope down the hall and getting ready for a keg party at my frat house. This has been one of the best days of my life. Thanks for asking.
How are you feeling??? Is that news? How do you think he's feeling? He's scared, sad, frustrated, angry, hurt, etc., etc. Why do we need to hear this? Does this boy's opinion encapsulate the feelings for everyone on campus? I don't know about you, but I just didn't care (because it doesn't need to be said).
And for that matter, I really don't care about thoughts or opinions of any LCD screen icons anymore. I was listening to a talented speaker the other day and was drawn to his simple statement:
"Nobody on television ever put a penny in my pocket or food on my table."
I think my point is...What would Rosie do? Why the fuck should I care!
I called Shanique this morning and told her to put a squash on Time Warner’s plans for my household domination.
"Put me down for $59.99 a month, " I said.
If Rosie wants to tell me how she feels, she can invite me out for dinner.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
She Will Always Be "My Favorite"
I'm a minimalist by nature. I'll take a few great friends over a group any day. I don't collect anything, hate "trinkets," keep a tidy house, and have a "spring cleaning" four times a year.
I greatly dislike hallmark cards (I think its a cop-out for true emotions), think people ruin pictures, and have a 99% success rate of not paying attention to your name when I am first introduced to you (I am busy registering a million other things about you to concentrate on your name).
Every so often I will scroll through my cell phone and read over the current list of names registered. Inevitably there will be three or four names that I have no idea who, what, when, where, and why I know them. My feeling is that if I can't match the name to a face within 15 seconds, you obviously can't be important enough to stay in my phone. This Saturday just so happened to be that type of day for a name erasing mission.
As I casually scrolled through the names, calculating the merits of our social dynamic, a name smacked me in the face and put a lump in my throat...
"Esta"
It's been two months to the day since my grandma passed away. Esther was her birth name, Mom was the name two her two children and spouses, Grandma was the name to three of her Grandchildren. But for me, and only me, her eyes lit up to Esta!
Twenty-three years ago I learned my first lesson about love and loss. I was at a Florida cemetery for my grandfather’s unveiling- a kid without a care in the world. I had no idea what was going on...I was only 5 at the time and had not placed any context to my grandfather being "gone." As I played on the mausoleum steps paces away from the burial plate, my father called me to come to him. As I paced over to him, I heard a sound emanating in the foreground that would stay with me for life. As I peered through the crowd, I joined the sound to my grandmother as my mother and uncle consoled her throughout the ceremony. To see such pain in my grandmother immediately caused me to cry tears all over my father's grey suit. I was not crying for the loss of my grandfather...I was crying for the pain of my grandma.
I couldn't love anyone more than I loved my grandfather. For many years I could not mention his name (Harry) or be in the same room with people who talked about him. The worst was when people would tell me how much I looked like him- that would just kill me. Partly because I missed him so much, partly because of the memory of my grandma's pain.
I often sensed she saw flashes of him when she looked at me. She lived with a broken heart for 23 years. Sure she had friends to play with and a nice "companion" at one point, but no one could ever replace Harry. For many years I have felt a responsibility to distract and protect her as much as possible from the loneliness, with phone calls, visits, hugs, and kisses.
Esther was 86 years old. She lived a full life. She got to see weddings, graduations, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. While I selfishly wished to have her in my "physical" life forever, her passing somehow comforted me. To see her buried next to her love, somehow healed a wound inside of me created at the very same spot so many years earlier.
So while I uncomfortably deleted "Esta" from my list of names in my cell phone this weekend, I have comforted myself with the knowledge that while names can easily be erased from your phone, some names can never be erased from your heart...
I greatly dislike hallmark cards (I think its a cop-out for true emotions), think people ruin pictures, and have a 99% success rate of not paying attention to your name when I am first introduced to you (I am busy registering a million other things about you to concentrate on your name).
Every so often I will scroll through my cell phone and read over the current list of names registered. Inevitably there will be three or four names that I have no idea who, what, when, where, and why I know them. My feeling is that if I can't match the name to a face within 15 seconds, you obviously can't be important enough to stay in my phone. This Saturday just so happened to be that type of day for a name erasing mission.
As I casually scrolled through the names, calculating the merits of our social dynamic, a name smacked me in the face and put a lump in my throat...
"Esta"
It's been two months to the day since my grandma passed away. Esther was her birth name, Mom was the name two her two children and spouses, Grandma was the name to three of her Grandchildren. But for me, and only me, her eyes lit up to Esta!
Twenty-three years ago I learned my first lesson about love and loss. I was at a Florida cemetery for my grandfather’s unveiling- a kid without a care in the world. I had no idea what was going on...I was only 5 at the time and had not placed any context to my grandfather being "gone." As I played on the mausoleum steps paces away from the burial plate, my father called me to come to him. As I paced over to him, I heard a sound emanating in the foreground that would stay with me for life. As I peered through the crowd, I joined the sound to my grandmother as my mother and uncle consoled her throughout the ceremony. To see such pain in my grandmother immediately caused me to cry tears all over my father's grey suit. I was not crying for the loss of my grandfather...I was crying for the pain of my grandma.
I couldn't love anyone more than I loved my grandfather. For many years I could not mention his name (Harry) or be in the same room with people who talked about him. The worst was when people would tell me how much I looked like him- that would just kill me. Partly because I missed him so much, partly because of the memory of my grandma's pain.
I often sensed she saw flashes of him when she looked at me. She lived with a broken heart for 23 years. Sure she had friends to play with and a nice "companion" at one point, but no one could ever replace Harry. For many years I have felt a responsibility to distract and protect her as much as possible from the loneliness, with phone calls, visits, hugs, and kisses.
Esther was 86 years old. She lived a full life. She got to see weddings, graduations, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. While I selfishly wished to have her in my "physical" life forever, her passing somehow comforted me. To see her buried next to her love, somehow healed a wound inside of me created at the very same spot so many years earlier.
So while I uncomfortably deleted "Esta" from my list of names in my cell phone this weekend, I have comforted myself with the knowledge that while names can easily be erased from your phone, some names can never be erased from your heart...
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Ugly Is As Ugly Does
Nothing sidetracks America better than a good old, media contrived racial debate featuring our usual cast of frustrated, “civic leading,” attention whores who preach the hypocritical oath of love, respect and forgiveness under their terms- terms generally consisting of airtime, appearance fees, and “charitable coalition donations.”
“That’s some nappy-headed hoes.”
Two seconds of a 58 second topic. Played and referenced countless times for two seconds in radio and print, one begins to lose the context of Don Imus’s true message. So what got lost in translation? Simply this (and I’m paraphrasing so don’t quote me- for that you can watch the clip here)…
“I watched the woman’s championship game last night and man those ladies on Rutgers were rough looking dudes. Ugly I tell ya!!! WHEW!!! And the girls on Tennessee were cute you know so…Kinda like”
Did you all get that??? Here is a team photo of the Tennessee woman they were playing:
Eleven woman…seven of them distinctively black. These woman clearly exhibit the same “nappy hair” as the women that play for Rutgers. They wear their hair in corn-rows, braids, weaves etc…. So what is the difference???
Well simply put and brutally honest, if men were asked to make an imaginary list from 1-21, with 1 being the girl you would most want to sleep with, and 21 being the girl you would least want to sleep with on the rosters of Tennessee and Rutgers…lets just say a lot of guys would be picking:
Alex
Over
Katie:
Hurtful? Childish? Mean Spirited? Unnecessary? Guilty on all counts…Forget the fact that none of these girls would give my sorry ass the time of day. Katie might be the nicest, kindest, most wonderful human being in the world. Alex may be rotten to the core. Doesn't matter. This is a prominent aspect of how "the majority" of us think and talk when we are with our friends. This is how we think when we are alone. Guys don't sit around and say..."damn she's so hot I would drink her bathwater for just one night...you know so we could talk about our feelings. " Every girl that walks down the street gets a thumbs up or thumbs down in my head as to “would I hypothetically have sex with this girl if she acknowledged my existence.” We all do it…both sexes...equally guilty (Girls are just more subtle). We are visual creatures attracted to symmetrical beings. Whether the attraction is reciprocated, is another topic.
A statement on beauty has become a polarizing issue on race. Imus in the Morning is a radio show that until a couple hours ago was broadcast on MSNBC. In my opinion, I rather get a prostate exam then listen or watch that man on television. However, the man has an audience. The Imus in the morning show has been on in NYC since 1977. Last year, Imus averaged 358,000 viewers on MSNBC in the first quarter of 2006 (This is in addition to the thousands of radio listeners he has). He and his crew have always said stupid shit. That is after all the mission statement of nearly every drive time and rush hour show on the radio- inane “zoo crews,” with their stupid songs, horns, contests, gags, impersonations, and derogatory statements. But hey…people must be listening cause the big sponsors were definitely paying MSNBC.
That was until Mr. Hymetown and Mr. Tawany Browley come in on their high horse and point the finger. Watch as they ride into town with their black cone hat, stir up the crowd with the race card just enough so they hang him without any thought of the repercussions. And the sponsors…Oh the sponsors…If anything was synonymous with integrity and doing right by people in America these days, it has to be large corporations. I’m pretty sure Staples is closed on Sundays due to it’s religious and moral standards. Lets not forget how Kate Moss’s endorsement deals evaporated last year quicker than the coke going up her nose when her “compromising” photos of her trangressions were released. Today, Kate Moss makes more than ever in endorsements.
The facts remain…Put Imus back on the air tomorrow, and he will have higher ratings than ever. The exposure from all this nonsense will only bring a bigger collection of dolts who pander to his style of “humor.”
Fire him from the radio tomorrow, and he will have a contract offer from Mel Karmazin on satellite radio before he cleans out his office.
Did these woman deserve to be insulted and called out on the radio? No. Is it a cruel world filled with people who make a living making judgements and saying mean-spirited things about people they have never met? Yes.
But I digress…Let us take some time to acknowledge the sad irony of today’s events. While Mr. Jackson spends his time in New York trying to assist in another public lynching, the North Carolina Attorney General dismissed all charges brought upon the three members of the Duke men’s lacrosse accused of raping a black stripper. I look forward to Mr. Jackson’s photo op as he goes to the house of all three boys who had their lives turned upside down -with his endorsement- and offers his sincerest apologies.
For some reason, I'm not too confident for that social justice...
“That’s some nappy-headed hoes.”
Two seconds of a 58 second topic. Played and referenced countless times for two seconds in radio and print, one begins to lose the context of Don Imus’s true message. So what got lost in translation? Simply this (and I’m paraphrasing so don’t quote me- for that you can watch the clip here)…
“I watched the woman’s championship game last night and man those ladies on Rutgers were rough looking dudes. Ugly I tell ya!!! WHEW!!! And the girls on Tennessee were cute you know so…Kinda like”
Did you all get that??? Here is a team photo of the Tennessee woman they were playing:
Eleven woman…seven of them distinctively black. These woman clearly exhibit the same “nappy hair” as the women that play for Rutgers. They wear their hair in corn-rows, braids, weaves etc…. So what is the difference???
Well simply put and brutally honest, if men were asked to make an imaginary list from 1-21, with 1 being the girl you would most want to sleep with, and 21 being the girl you would least want to sleep with on the rosters of Tennessee and Rutgers…lets just say a lot of guys would be picking:
Alex
Over
Katie:
Hurtful? Childish? Mean Spirited? Unnecessary? Guilty on all counts…Forget the fact that none of these girls would give my sorry ass the time of day. Katie might be the nicest, kindest, most wonderful human being in the world. Alex may be rotten to the core. Doesn't matter. This is a prominent aspect of how "the majority" of us think and talk when we are with our friends. This is how we think when we are alone. Guys don't sit around and say..."damn she's so hot I would drink her bathwater for just one night...you know so we could talk about our feelings. " Every girl that walks down the street gets a thumbs up or thumbs down in my head as to “would I hypothetically have sex with this girl if she acknowledged my existence.” We all do it…both sexes...equally guilty (Girls are just more subtle). We are visual creatures attracted to symmetrical beings. Whether the attraction is reciprocated, is another topic.
A statement on beauty has become a polarizing issue on race. Imus in the Morning is a radio show that until a couple hours ago was broadcast on MSNBC. In my opinion, I rather get a prostate exam then listen or watch that man on television. However, the man has an audience. The Imus in the morning show has been on in NYC since 1977. Last year, Imus averaged 358,000 viewers on MSNBC in the first quarter of 2006 (This is in addition to the thousands of radio listeners he has). He and his crew have always said stupid shit. That is after all the mission statement of nearly every drive time and rush hour show on the radio- inane “zoo crews,” with their stupid songs, horns, contests, gags, impersonations, and derogatory statements. But hey…people must be listening cause the big sponsors were definitely paying MSNBC.
That was until Mr. Hymetown and Mr. Tawany Browley come in on their high horse and point the finger. Watch as they ride into town with their black cone hat, stir up the crowd with the race card just enough so they hang him without any thought of the repercussions. And the sponsors…Oh the sponsors…If anything was synonymous with integrity and doing right by people in America these days, it has to be large corporations. I’m pretty sure Staples is closed on Sundays due to it’s religious and moral standards. Lets not forget how Kate Moss’s endorsement deals evaporated last year quicker than the coke going up her nose when her “compromising” photos of her trangressions were released. Today, Kate Moss makes more than ever in endorsements.
The facts remain…Put Imus back on the air tomorrow, and he will have higher ratings than ever. The exposure from all this nonsense will only bring a bigger collection of dolts who pander to his style of “humor.”
Fire him from the radio tomorrow, and he will have a contract offer from Mel Karmazin on satellite radio before he cleans out his office.
Did these woman deserve to be insulted and called out on the radio? No. Is it a cruel world filled with people who make a living making judgements and saying mean-spirited things about people they have never met? Yes.
But I digress…Let us take some time to acknowledge the sad irony of today’s events. While Mr. Jackson spends his time in New York trying to assist in another public lynching, the North Carolina Attorney General dismissed all charges brought upon the three members of the Duke men’s lacrosse accused of raping a black stripper. I look forward to Mr. Jackson’s photo op as he goes to the house of all three boys who had their lives turned upside down -with his endorsement- and offers his sincerest apologies.
For some reason, I'm not too confident for that social justice...
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Smile Like You Mean It
In his 1933 novel, A refugee crosses his tracks, Norwegian/Danish author Aksel Sandemose created the concept known as The Jante Law, based on the portrayal of the small Danish town Jante; where similar to the American comedy classic Cheers- is a place “where everybody knows your name…and there always glad you came. “
The funny thing about the show Cheers was that by knowing your name when you walked into the bar, patrons and employees were free to personalize their statements on how big of a dumbass you were.
Jante Law is based 10 separate but somewhat repetitive rules which could be best summed up as, “The top 10 things you hear in a club right before someone smashes a glass bottle over your head.”
1. Don't think that you are special.
2. Don't think that you are of the same standing as us.
3. Don't think that you are smarter than us.
4. Don't fancy yourself as being better than us.
5. Don't think that you know more than us.
6. Don't think that you are more important than us.
7. Don't think that you are good at anything.
8. Don't laugh at us.
9. Don't think that anyone cares about you.
10. Don't think that you can teach us anything
Nordic countries such as Sweden and Denmark have adopted this symbiotic, unwritten cultural code of conduct to condemn the idea of “self elevation” over social equality and fairness to all.
Oh the irony of it all…
Question…Does social equality just spontaneously happen?
If so, why do we nominate leaders and draw up laws?
Who needs them?
And how could we possibly choose between candidates?
They are after all, no better than each other.
The American Boys Club tinkered with a similar notion 230 years ago:
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.”
Of course by men, they were referring to scared, White, English, Protestant men who fled England like cocky teenagers with the notion that no-one could tell them what to do. And by self-evident, they meant, there was plenty of land for every scared, White, English, Protestant man to live like a king without having to covet thy neighbors shit…Women, Blacks, Animals, or anything that doesn’t look or sound like us need not apply.
The Jante Law could also be described as “The Reason you never move into your girlfriends house.” Your girlfriend has her house decorated the way she wants, and everything is “in just the right place,” so don’t even think of offering your decorative suggestions or bringing over your favorite chair- you couldn’t possibly have anything “better” to offer. Enjoy your home…get familiar...and take your feet off the sofa!!!
It is merely my opinion that Nordic countries often show a far more progressive stance in terms of social acceptance on many issues, however, “equal” is the fable we tell our children to cushion the punches of “bullies” as we navigate through the real world of competition.
Believing that no one is better than someone else reeks of insecurities and breeds an idea of contentment. Being content is on par with being retired, and being retired is the place you generally reach right before death.
The world as we know it has been built on the shoulders of individuals who have dared to ask, “how can I/We do this better.” Maybe the Jante Law should be modified to read, “excellence is to be embraced, jack-asses need not apply.”
The funny thing about the show Cheers was that by knowing your name when you walked into the bar, patrons and employees were free to personalize their statements on how big of a dumbass you were.
Jante Law is based 10 separate but somewhat repetitive rules which could be best summed up as, “The top 10 things you hear in a club right before someone smashes a glass bottle over your head.”
1. Don't think that you are special.
2. Don't think that you are of the same standing as us.
3. Don't think that you are smarter than us.
4. Don't fancy yourself as being better than us.
5. Don't think that you know more than us.
6. Don't think that you are more important than us.
7. Don't think that you are good at anything.
8. Don't laugh at us.
9. Don't think that anyone cares about you.
10. Don't think that you can teach us anything
Nordic countries such as Sweden and Denmark have adopted this symbiotic, unwritten cultural code of conduct to condemn the idea of “self elevation” over social equality and fairness to all.
Oh the irony of it all…
Question…Does social equality just spontaneously happen?
If so, why do we nominate leaders and draw up laws?
Who needs them?
And how could we possibly choose between candidates?
They are after all, no better than each other.
The American Boys Club tinkered with a similar notion 230 years ago:
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.”
Of course by men, they were referring to scared, White, English, Protestant men who fled England like cocky teenagers with the notion that no-one could tell them what to do. And by self-evident, they meant, there was plenty of land for every scared, White, English, Protestant man to live like a king without having to covet thy neighbors shit…Women, Blacks, Animals, or anything that doesn’t look or sound like us need not apply.
The Jante Law could also be described as “The Reason you never move into your girlfriends house.” Your girlfriend has her house decorated the way she wants, and everything is “in just the right place,” so don’t even think of offering your decorative suggestions or bringing over your favorite chair- you couldn’t possibly have anything “better” to offer. Enjoy your home…get familiar...and take your feet off the sofa!!!
It is merely my opinion that Nordic countries often show a far more progressive stance in terms of social acceptance on many issues, however, “equal” is the fable we tell our children to cushion the punches of “bullies” as we navigate through the real world of competition.
Believing that no one is better than someone else reeks of insecurities and breeds an idea of contentment. Being content is on par with being retired, and being retired is the place you generally reach right before death.
The world as we know it has been built on the shoulders of individuals who have dared to ask, “how can I/We do this better.” Maybe the Jante Law should be modified to read, “excellence is to be embraced, jack-asses need not apply.”
Saturday, March 10, 2007
myTopic...Part 2...Survival
Every action we perform is done so under the premise of three internal conclusions. Our actions are based on our desire for Survival, our need for Validation, and our mental air-conditioner called Relaxation.
I preface survival with “desire” because without the desire to continue you could simply end your time line any time you wanted. Anyone could put an end to their own life if they so desired at any moment. But at this exact moment we are all choosing to move forward. This also could be referred to as one’s resiliency. Resiliency is the ability to recover readily from illness, depression, and adversity.
Resiliency is not something that can be taught as much as it acts as the vocal chords of your mind. It is the voice that tells you, “It’s all going to be all right, to keep going, don’t stop, and never give up,” for others, the voice says, “you don’t deserve happiness, just walk away, you’re not good enough, and why do I even bother.” Resiliency is created by your DNA but is often nurtured by your environment.
Your resiliency is based on your ability to take an interpreted hardship and effectively minimize its negative effect on you physically or mentally. Since we have an infinite database of processed thoughts, actions, and reactions that constantly guide us through our days, current hardships are analyzed and compounded to and against past issues as your brain and mind discuss a proper solution. Once processed, your brain comes up with answers while your mind signs off on, or vetoes your desired course of action. The people who have veto happy minds, tend to be the ones who often feel defeated, while the people who trust their brains course of action and follow through with the game plan often persevere.
So to reiterate, survival is the number one need because without it, the timeline ceases. As humans our basic individual survival needs consist of:
1. Homeostasis- the ability to regulate your internal environment.
2. Oxygen to breathe
3. Protector from the elements (shelter/ clothing/ food provider)
4. Water to drink
5. Nourishment
6. Rest / Sleep
7. Excretion
I have eliminated sex from Maslow’s first level (physiological), under the hierarchy of needs, because sex is only necessary for the survival of a species and not an individual (Something which I have sadly proved for many months now). I have also added protector from the elements, because when a baby is born, it is dependant upon another established individual to provide food, water, and shelter. Without that individual, the baby would quickly die from the inability to survive on its own.
I preface survival with “desire” because without the desire to continue you could simply end your time line any time you wanted. Anyone could put an end to their own life if they so desired at any moment. But at this exact moment we are all choosing to move forward. This also could be referred to as one’s resiliency. Resiliency is the ability to recover readily from illness, depression, and adversity.
Resiliency is not something that can be taught as much as it acts as the vocal chords of your mind. It is the voice that tells you, “It’s all going to be all right, to keep going, don’t stop, and never give up,” for others, the voice says, “you don’t deserve happiness, just walk away, you’re not good enough, and why do I even bother.” Resiliency is created by your DNA but is often nurtured by your environment.
Your resiliency is based on your ability to take an interpreted hardship and effectively minimize its negative effect on you physically or mentally. Since we have an infinite database of processed thoughts, actions, and reactions that constantly guide us through our days, current hardships are analyzed and compounded to and against past issues as your brain and mind discuss a proper solution. Once processed, your brain comes up with answers while your mind signs off on, or vetoes your desired course of action. The people who have veto happy minds, tend to be the ones who often feel defeated, while the people who trust their brains course of action and follow through with the game plan often persevere.
So to reiterate, survival is the number one need because without it, the timeline ceases. As humans our basic individual survival needs consist of:
1. Homeostasis- the ability to regulate your internal environment.
2. Oxygen to breathe
3. Protector from the elements (shelter/ clothing/ food provider)
4. Water to drink
5. Nourishment
6. Rest / Sleep
7. Excretion
I have eliminated sex from Maslow’s first level (physiological), under the hierarchy of needs, because sex is only necessary for the survival of a species and not an individual (Something which I have sadly proved for many months now). I have also added protector from the elements, because when a baby is born, it is dependant upon another established individual to provide food, water, and shelter. Without that individual, the baby would quickly die from the inability to survive on its own.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
myTopic...Part I
Death - noun
-the act of dying; the end of life; the total and permanent cessation of all the vital functions of an organism.
There is only one fact of life. One day you are going to die and there is absolutely not a thing you can do about it. Death is the only thing in this world that we are certain to experience following our first gasps of air (taxes are optional). However, we are never told when that last gasp will be, and thus the cycle of uncertainty, instability, and fear begins. Collectively and personally, our physical beings are measured by increments of time. When a child is born, age is defined by days, then weeks, months, followed by years. As children, we often can’t wait to grow “old” and experience the freedoms and responsibilities of adult. As adults, we lament the naiveté of childhood. Currently, a child born in the United States today has a life expectancy of 79 years as a female, and 74 years as a male (I will save the jokes on gender differential for later).
There are many factors by which an individual may be judged in our current society. The most prevalent factors include:
Age
Artistic Ability
Athletic Ability
Family Achievement
Financial Achievements
Humanity
Intelligence
Physical Beauty
Physical Health
Professional Achievements
Sexual Prowess
To judge an individual’s talent or ability, we must define them.
For example:
To say "Bob" is 80 years old means nothing. It is only when we compare Bob’s age to the average life expectancy of other humans in terms of gender and generation, do we begin to evaluate his achievement. Other factors can contribute to our analysis…Negative factors such as drug and alcohol abuse, bad eating habits, or poor physical fitness cause us to marvel at the age achievement, while clean living, proper conditioning, and genetics tend to make us rationalize the results as more justifiable.
However, judgments ultimately boil down to one final comparison...
"Me versus You"
1. Bob is 80 years old. (Can I imagine myself at 80?)
At this point your mind creates a sliding scale (From exceptionally above average to horribly below average) for other factors you believe contribute to the life expectancy of an individual.
2. How does Bob’s genetics compare to my own?
3. How did Bob’s lifestyle at my age compare to my own (drugs, food, family, job, fitness, etc.)?
4. Any other factors you believe effects life expectancy?
5. Weigh the pros and cons of all the variables.
6. Come to a personal conclusion regarding Bob’s age and your potential age.
7. Rationalize it.
It is worth noting that rationalizing your personal conclusion is always the final step because you have no way to prove your conclusion. Probabilities may be in your favor, but as many of us have seen at the poker table, the river can suck the life out of you. And since the only 100% probability in life is that you are going to die, all other analyses have a river card.
-the act of dying; the end of life; the total and permanent cessation of all the vital functions of an organism.
There is only one fact of life. One day you are going to die and there is absolutely not a thing you can do about it. Death is the only thing in this world that we are certain to experience following our first gasps of air (taxes are optional). However, we are never told when that last gasp will be, and thus the cycle of uncertainty, instability, and fear begins. Collectively and personally, our physical beings are measured by increments of time. When a child is born, age is defined by days, then weeks, months, followed by years. As children, we often can’t wait to grow “old” and experience the freedoms and responsibilities of adult. As adults, we lament the naiveté of childhood. Currently, a child born in the United States today has a life expectancy of 79 years as a female, and 74 years as a male (I will save the jokes on gender differential for later).
There are many factors by which an individual may be judged in our current society. The most prevalent factors include:
Age
Artistic Ability
Athletic Ability
Family Achievement
Financial Achievements
Humanity
Intelligence
Physical Beauty
Physical Health
Professional Achievements
Sexual Prowess
To judge an individual’s talent or ability, we must define them.
For example:
To say "Bob" is 80 years old means nothing. It is only when we compare Bob’s age to the average life expectancy of other humans in terms of gender and generation, do we begin to evaluate his achievement. Other factors can contribute to our analysis…Negative factors such as drug and alcohol abuse, bad eating habits, or poor physical fitness cause us to marvel at the age achievement, while clean living, proper conditioning, and genetics tend to make us rationalize the results as more justifiable.
However, judgments ultimately boil down to one final comparison...
"Me versus You"
1. Bob is 80 years old. (Can I imagine myself at 80?)
At this point your mind creates a sliding scale (From exceptionally above average to horribly below average) for other factors you believe contribute to the life expectancy of an individual.
2. How does Bob’s genetics compare to my own?
3. How did Bob’s lifestyle at my age compare to my own (drugs, food, family, job, fitness, etc.)?
4. Any other factors you believe effects life expectancy?
5. Weigh the pros and cons of all the variables.
6. Come to a personal conclusion regarding Bob’s age and your potential age.
7. Rationalize it.
It is worth noting that rationalizing your personal conclusion is always the final step because you have no way to prove your conclusion. Probabilities may be in your favor, but as many of us have seen at the poker table, the river can suck the life out of you. And since the only 100% probability in life is that you are going to die, all other analyses have a river card.
Monday, February 5, 2007
Monday Morning Collection Plate
Well folks, it seems God decided to take the time out of his busy schedule to yet again show us his greatness in an ever so mysterious way. You see, with all of our current global issues firmly stabilized, God figured the best way he could collectively reach us would be through the results of a sporting event.
If you did not get an opportunity to watch the post game festivities last night, you might not be aware that God gave the Indianapolis Colts Superbowl XLI. Sorry Chicago, Indianapolis just has an organization that works to promote the lord more than you do. With this overwhelming exhibition of spirituality on television, I began to connect with the Holy Spirit. At this point I was like, "Yo Jesus, why did you give the Superbowl to the Colts over the Bears?" And he was like..."let me break it down for you son."
(And I'm paraphrasing)
There are 3 reasons why the Colts won the Superbowl...
So, there you have it, with these facts laid out, I'm amazed how God allowed the Bears to play, let alone score a couple points. Furthermore, I was advised that athletic ability, execution of the game plan, experience, hard work, intelligence, research, desire, determination, practice, weather, and a million other variables were slanderous words created by so-called intellectuals to make people doubt God's all-explaining power.
So may you all sleep well tonight knowing that God has a vested interest in crowning each year’s athletic champions. As we all know, God has never shown an inferiority complex in any scripture and would love nothing more than for you to idolize these individuals for their overwhelming contributions to society.
P.S. I would like to thank the Lord for the strength and wisdom to write this blog. Oh...and for taking the time to chat with me last night…In the immortal words of Kurt Warner…THANK YOU JESUS!!!
If you did not get an opportunity to watch the post game festivities last night, you might not be aware that God gave the Indianapolis Colts Superbowl XLI. Sorry Chicago, Indianapolis just has an organization that works to promote the lord more than you do. With this overwhelming exhibition of spirituality on television, I began to connect with the Holy Spirit. At this point I was like, "Yo Jesus, why did you give the Superbowl to the Colts over the Bears?" And he was like..."let me break it down for you son."
(And I'm paraphrasing)
There are 3 reasons why the Colts won the Superbowl...
- I had full player support. As you know, there are 53 players per side; Chicago had only 52 Christians compared to the Colts who had the full 53. (When I asked Jesus to tell me the one guy who wasn't, he looked over at his Jewish lawyer (God) and declined to comment. However, I think it's pretty clear Tank Johnson isn't playing for the lord. After all, no one who has ever been arrested could possibly be playing for Jesus. Forget Grossman's two huge interceptions in the 4th quarter, his two muffed snaps, and the Bears inability to stop the run...It’s all Tank’s fault and he needs to be reborn.)
- The Colts owner, Jim Irsay has had my back for years. Did you hear his shout out to me when he got the Vince Lombardi Trophy? The Colts are organization that works for the lord. You can't beat that kind of pub. Sure Jim is a fan of rock and roll music- purchasing an original guitar owned by Elvis (who was my archenemy during the 20th century)- but the Bears are partially owned by the Aon Corp. I mean they're insurance brokers, and we all know that there is no need for insurance because my will is my will.
- Tony Dungy doesn't curse. This was a tough one because Lovie Smith was also one of my biggest boosters. However, Lovie has been known to say a cuss word or two. I just couldn't overlook that. There are some things that even Jesus can't forgive.
So, there you have it, with these facts laid out, I'm amazed how God allowed the Bears to play, let alone score a couple points. Furthermore, I was advised that athletic ability, execution of the game plan, experience, hard work, intelligence, research, desire, determination, practice, weather, and a million other variables were slanderous words created by so-called intellectuals to make people doubt God's all-explaining power.
So may you all sleep well tonight knowing that God has a vested interest in crowning each year’s athletic champions. As we all know, God has never shown an inferiority complex in any scripture and would love nothing more than for you to idolize these individuals for their overwhelming contributions to society.
P.S. I would like to thank the Lord for the strength and wisdom to write this blog. Oh...and for taking the time to chat with me last night…In the immortal words of Kurt Warner…THANK YOU JESUS!!!
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
No Shortage of Elmer's
From 1999-2000, Sportscenter provided a countdown of their 100 greatest athletes of the 20th century. While the people of Bristol compiled their list in the conference room, it is rumored that right before everyone decided on the 35th greatest athlete (and the last selection of the day), Stuart Scott leapt up, screamed BOOO Yah!!!, dropped an ounce of chronic on the table, and requested a TV timeout; Scott Van Pelt then rushed out the door yelling, "I'll get the Cheetos" and Mike Greenberg called his mom to pick him up.
Following this brainstorming session, the cast at ESPN had their unanimous pick for number 35, submitted their selection, and went home to sleep it off. Now, there are very few events in your life that you remember exactly where you were; the O.J. verdict, 9-11, my first viewing of a porno showing penetration, but the day I saw this pick, i remember the walls closing in, my palms going sweaty, and my outer body experience as I suddenly captured myself externally, doing one of those quick 360 degree shots from my shoulder up. "Sportcentury's pick for the 35th greatest athlete of the century...Secretariat."
At this point I went over to my bookcase and began to flip through my High School year book pictures. After careful analyzation, I found several horse-faces, Asses, and ponytails. However, I failed to find any horses. Why is this significant? Well last time I checked the dictionary, an athlete was defined as, "a person trained or gifted in exercises or contests involving physical agility, stamina, or strength; a participant in a sport, exercise, or game requiring physical skill." Therefore, Mr. Ed is no fuckin athlete!
Which brings me to yesterday's tragic news of the euthanizing of Barbaro, our reigning Kentucky Derby winner. Every year, a bunch of rich people wear atrocious hats, get ripped on bourbon, and cheer on various four-legged animals as they race around a dirt track. At what point of this forced relationship does a person's brain rationalize that this powerful beast is some how human? After all, no horse has ever said, "When I grow up, I want to be the best thoroughbred ever!" You know how I know this; I know this because horses can't talk. So the only people who should be crying over the loss of Barbaro are: the jockey who rode him (loss of winning purses), the trainer (loss of training fees), and most of all, Mr. and Mrs. Roy Jackson, the owners of Barbaro. If someone told me that people were going to pay me 6-7 figures to have my pet bust a nut in their female counterparts all day with no strings attached, and the only thing stopping this "Houston 500" was a critical condition broken leg, I too, would attempt every option short of orally searching for the antidote (At least I think I wouldn’t...it is a lot of money?).
Anyway, my point is, Barbaro was a talented horse, but he was JUST a horse. Yes they are beautiful creatures best used for Mariah Carey's semi-bestiality music videos, but their contribution comes up short on the social importance scale required to make front-page news for our national papers. I will maintain this stance until they start trying out for the school debate team or make homecoming queen... Unfortunately, with all you jackasses, I'm sure it's only a matter of time.
Following this brainstorming session, the cast at ESPN had their unanimous pick for number 35, submitted their selection, and went home to sleep it off. Now, there are very few events in your life that you remember exactly where you were; the O.J. verdict, 9-11, my first viewing of a porno showing penetration, but the day I saw this pick, i remember the walls closing in, my palms going sweaty, and my outer body experience as I suddenly captured myself externally, doing one of those quick 360 degree shots from my shoulder up. "Sportcentury's pick for the 35th greatest athlete of the century...Secretariat."
At this point I went over to my bookcase and began to flip through my High School year book pictures. After careful analyzation, I found several horse-faces, Asses, and ponytails. However, I failed to find any horses. Why is this significant? Well last time I checked the dictionary, an athlete was defined as, "a person trained or gifted in exercises or contests involving physical agility, stamina, or strength; a participant in a sport, exercise, or game requiring physical skill." Therefore, Mr. Ed is no fuckin athlete!
Which brings me to yesterday's tragic news of the euthanizing of Barbaro, our reigning Kentucky Derby winner. Every year, a bunch of rich people wear atrocious hats, get ripped on bourbon, and cheer on various four-legged animals as they race around a dirt track. At what point of this forced relationship does a person's brain rationalize that this powerful beast is some how human? After all, no horse has ever said, "When I grow up, I want to be the best thoroughbred ever!" You know how I know this; I know this because horses can't talk. So the only people who should be crying over the loss of Barbaro are: the jockey who rode him (loss of winning purses), the trainer (loss of training fees), and most of all, Mr. and Mrs. Roy Jackson, the owners of Barbaro. If someone told me that people were going to pay me 6-7 figures to have my pet bust a nut in their female counterparts all day with no strings attached, and the only thing stopping this "Houston 500" was a critical condition broken leg, I too, would attempt every option short of orally searching for the antidote (At least I think I wouldn’t...it is a lot of money?).
Anyway, my point is, Barbaro was a talented horse, but he was JUST a horse. Yes they are beautiful creatures best used for Mariah Carey's semi-bestiality music videos, but their contribution comes up short on the social importance scale required to make front-page news for our national papers. I will maintain this stance until they start trying out for the school debate team or make homecoming queen... Unfortunately, with all you jackasses, I'm sure it's only a matter of time.
Monday, January 22, 2007
So I guess all men aren't created equal???
This is the first editorial I ever responded to. You can click the link to the article below and decide how you feel. My letter can be read below.
Rick Reilly's Article
Dear Rick,
I have been a great fan of your work for many years. Though I don’t currently subscribe to Sports Illustrated for a variety of reasons, I often get weekly joy, popping into the local Barnes & Noble, flipping to the back of the weekly SI issue, and reading your column (a crime I believe on par with listening to free music off Limewire). To me, your articles often follow a revolving theme of the human spirit-overcoming obstacles and pursuing your dreams; admirable qualities that often give the reader (me) goose bumps. And while having never met you or knowing anybody who has related a story to me regarding you, I envision you to be a fairly honest, descent, and possibly humble guy. So until it is reported that you have been arrested for DWI, child abuse, or domestic assault, I write you this letter with my first impressions in mind.
Responding to a column is not in my nature, but I was compelled after reading your article about the young cancer survivor named Romney in your article, “You make the call.” I can’t remember reading an article and becoming so incensed by the rationalization, hypocrisy, and detriment that you, along with many people in Bountiful, Utah used to justify your moral outrage. Now before you jump to conclusions and dismiss me as a heartless bastard, let me first state the obvious. In no way do I ever wish anyone in this world would have to go through the hardships that Romney or his family have faced. I am 27 years old, and have no children. However, I still realize if I ever have children, the only thing one can hope for is a baby with ten fingers, ten toes, cries when it is slapped, and is generally a “normal,” “healthy” baby (That, and that it doesn’t grow up to be like Paris Hilton). But the realities of this world show that sometimes families are faced with circumstances not close to the norm and certainly not ideal. I have seen the first hand effect on a family when they are dealt a tough hand by biology and nature. It is hard, tiring and a great burden to the family dynamic-a pressure that rarely alleviates.
For the rest of that child’s life, these parents will often work to make the world see their child as “normal.” They will fight for the world to recognize the need to include this child in all the world has to offer. “My child should be able to participate in anything they wish to do,” they will proclaim, ignoring their child’s limitations. They aren’t saying their kid can do anything, just that they should be aloud to try if they so desire. So communities; sometimes out of guilt, sometime out of humanity, refine the rules and standards set forth and create an opportunity for these individuals to participate in social norms. Structure is compromised for compassion. Romney’s parents may have argued, “He is just like any other 10 year old…He just wants to play baseball like any other boy his age. How can we deny him this opportunity just because he had cancer?”(I would have to imagine that due to our countries propensity to sue for a hangnail that young Romney would have to get medical clearance to participate on his local Pony league team). So with clearance, Romney and his family should have gotten everything they could have wished for; Romney was to be treated like a “normal” ten-year-old boy.
Fast-forward a season, and we are suddenly in the last inning of the leagues championship game. Let me repeat that, CHAMPIONSHIP game. “This is a league where everybody gets to bat, there's a four-runs-per-inning max, and no stealing until the ball crosses the plate,” you nonchalantly explain, as if there is nothing that resembles the true nature of baseball. Whether that’s the case or not, there is still a league, rules, and a ranking system (hence the championship game). To argue if it is real baseball or not is beside the point. It’s a game and a competition.
So the best player is up to bat in the final inning of the championship game, on deck is young Romney (cancer survivor), the opposing coach decides to walk the best player to pitch to Romney, and the world goes full-tilt. Parents start booing, umps make assumptions, coaches go bananas, his sister starts crying, and worst of all his parents scream foul! I had to read the article a couple more times to make sure that I didn’t miss anything. Did Romney not get what every kid dreams of? Did his parents not get to see what they could have never imagined when he was diagnosed with a tumor? Did the fanatics (parents) not get the chance to see a scenario that makes sports truly magnanimous? In case you’re wondering what that is, “that” is called OPPORTUNITY! “That” is all we can ever hope for in this world. Dreams come true when one takes advantage of the opportunities presented to them. Nobody was denied anything. Romney was not prevented from participating, his parents weren’t told that their child wasn’t normal, and the parents were treated to a scenario that could have brought chills and tears to an entire community. Romney gets a hit, and the place goes wild.
Several months ago, a senior at Greece Athena High School in upstate NY, took his one opportunity and captured a nation. Jason McElwain stepped on the basketball court to play in the final four minutes of his schools final regular season varsity basketball game, and the rest as we say, is history. Jason lit it up like no other teammate had ever done, he made shot after shot on his way to 20 points in four minutes. I recall watching the story on the news in pure amazement. Not that he was autistic, and that he scored 20 points in four minutes, but that he was not given anything. The opposing players were not giving Jason free access to the basket ala Nakeesha Sales’ Connecticut scoring record. Jason was being guarded…sort of. His shot was unstoppable with a laser quick release. Jason was not carried off the court because he was autistic; he was carried off the court because he did something exceptional in the face of doubt. He was treated like every other player on the court and outshined everyone (but the compelling part was, he is not “normal,” and that warranted being carried from the court and the national attention).
However, Romney’s story did not conclude with that movie theater ending. Romney struck out and his team lost the game. Romney went home and cried himself to sleep. To which I reply, good for him. When I was 12, I stepped up to bat in my little league teams championship game with the winning run on base and one out. Base hit and we win the game. So what did I do, I struck out and the next guy up won the game. We were champions, but I had failed. In fact, I was arguably the worst player on the championship team; I didn’t start, batted at the end of the lineup, but held my own in the field-playing left field (not the dreaded right field). To this day, I still remember the strike out and how bad I felt for letting my team down in the midst of a wonderful chance (I’m the only one on my team who will ever remember the strikeout.). That failure pushed me toward the next year when I became one of the best hitters on a new team and a team leader. Additionally, the first time I ever played organized baseball; I struck out three times and never made contact with a ball. I cried AT the game. Tom Hanks was wrong, most of us cry because of baseball. If you never try, you’re not living. If you never fail, success cannot be sweet.
There are lots of valuable lessons that were taught that day in Utah. Unfortunately, his family taught us none of them. If his parents feared his emotional fragility, they never should have let Romney play baseball. If they feared that he would get hurt, they never should have let him play baseball. If they wanted to protect him from failure, they never should have let him play baseball. How come no one asked Romney’s coach why he decided to bat Romney behind the best player on the team? Not exactly the best strategy if Romney is as bad as we were meant to believe. Why should the winning coaches be condemned for teaching their players critical thinking and strategy? They embarrassed nobody, and treated Romney as a normal kid. It would have been tragic and pathetic if they pitched to Romney underhand or let him win the game. The world is full of billions of people who have strengths and weaknesses to various degrees.
When I was a young boy, I would play my father in a variety of board games. My dad would consistently beat me at these games leaving me disappointed with the results. Often times I would request that he “let me win” or allow me to “alter” the rules of the game in my favor. Both requests were immediately denied. “If I let you win, then you did not earn it,” he would say. Henceforth, when I finally beat my dad for the first time at something, I was filled with a sense of pride and achievement. These are feelings that can’t be bought, bartered, or rationalized. Today my confidence in myself couldn’t be higher. I am not a high level CEO, superstar athlete, or multi-millionaire; I’m just some guy with a good head on my shoulders and a lot of ambition. I don’t fear failure because I have faced plenty of failure in my life already, and worked my way through it.
As stated earlier, I enjoy your writing. You have talent, and the gift of conveying emotion in relation to sports. However, if everyone wrote as well as you did, you really wouldn’t be very special to Sports Illustrated would you? The biggest fable in this world is that we are told that we are all created equal. It’s a farce and a detriment to true ambition, resiliency, and desire. Below average people can achieve greatness, while greatness can be wasted or thrown away. The sad thing is that out of everyone involved in that game, Romney is the only one who has the right outlook on his failure. He’s ready for his next opportunity, his chance not be normal, but to be a winner. Romney survival is a testament to his strength. Romney will be just fine; it’s all you finger pointers that might want to re-evaluate life’s lessons.
Rick Reilly's Article
Dear Rick,
I have been a great fan of your work for many years. Though I don’t currently subscribe to Sports Illustrated for a variety of reasons, I often get weekly joy, popping into the local Barnes & Noble, flipping to the back of the weekly SI issue, and reading your column (a crime I believe on par with listening to free music off Limewire). To me, your articles often follow a revolving theme of the human spirit-overcoming obstacles and pursuing your dreams; admirable qualities that often give the reader (me) goose bumps. And while having never met you or knowing anybody who has related a story to me regarding you, I envision you to be a fairly honest, descent, and possibly humble guy. So until it is reported that you have been arrested for DWI, child abuse, or domestic assault, I write you this letter with my first impressions in mind.
Responding to a column is not in my nature, but I was compelled after reading your article about the young cancer survivor named Romney in your article, “You make the call.” I can’t remember reading an article and becoming so incensed by the rationalization, hypocrisy, and detriment that you, along with many people in Bountiful, Utah used to justify your moral outrage. Now before you jump to conclusions and dismiss me as a heartless bastard, let me first state the obvious. In no way do I ever wish anyone in this world would have to go through the hardships that Romney or his family have faced. I am 27 years old, and have no children. However, I still realize if I ever have children, the only thing one can hope for is a baby with ten fingers, ten toes, cries when it is slapped, and is generally a “normal,” “healthy” baby (That, and that it doesn’t grow up to be like Paris Hilton). But the realities of this world show that sometimes families are faced with circumstances not close to the norm and certainly not ideal. I have seen the first hand effect on a family when they are dealt a tough hand by biology and nature. It is hard, tiring and a great burden to the family dynamic-a pressure that rarely alleviates.
For the rest of that child’s life, these parents will often work to make the world see their child as “normal.” They will fight for the world to recognize the need to include this child in all the world has to offer. “My child should be able to participate in anything they wish to do,” they will proclaim, ignoring their child’s limitations. They aren’t saying their kid can do anything, just that they should be aloud to try if they so desire. So communities; sometimes out of guilt, sometime out of humanity, refine the rules and standards set forth and create an opportunity for these individuals to participate in social norms. Structure is compromised for compassion. Romney’s parents may have argued, “He is just like any other 10 year old…He just wants to play baseball like any other boy his age. How can we deny him this opportunity just because he had cancer?”(I would have to imagine that due to our countries propensity to sue for a hangnail that young Romney would have to get medical clearance to participate on his local Pony league team). So with clearance, Romney and his family should have gotten everything they could have wished for; Romney was to be treated like a “normal” ten-year-old boy.
Fast-forward a season, and we are suddenly in the last inning of the leagues championship game. Let me repeat that, CHAMPIONSHIP game. “This is a league where everybody gets to bat, there's a four-runs-per-inning max, and no stealing until the ball crosses the plate,” you nonchalantly explain, as if there is nothing that resembles the true nature of baseball. Whether that’s the case or not, there is still a league, rules, and a ranking system (hence the championship game). To argue if it is real baseball or not is beside the point. It’s a game and a competition.
So the best player is up to bat in the final inning of the championship game, on deck is young Romney (cancer survivor), the opposing coach decides to walk the best player to pitch to Romney, and the world goes full-tilt. Parents start booing, umps make assumptions, coaches go bananas, his sister starts crying, and worst of all his parents scream foul! I had to read the article a couple more times to make sure that I didn’t miss anything. Did Romney not get what every kid dreams of? Did his parents not get to see what they could have never imagined when he was diagnosed with a tumor? Did the fanatics (parents) not get the chance to see a scenario that makes sports truly magnanimous? In case you’re wondering what that is, “that” is called OPPORTUNITY! “That” is all we can ever hope for in this world. Dreams come true when one takes advantage of the opportunities presented to them. Nobody was denied anything. Romney was not prevented from participating, his parents weren’t told that their child wasn’t normal, and the parents were treated to a scenario that could have brought chills and tears to an entire community. Romney gets a hit, and the place goes wild.
Several months ago, a senior at Greece Athena High School in upstate NY, took his one opportunity and captured a nation. Jason McElwain stepped on the basketball court to play in the final four minutes of his schools final regular season varsity basketball game, and the rest as we say, is history. Jason lit it up like no other teammate had ever done, he made shot after shot on his way to 20 points in four minutes. I recall watching the story on the news in pure amazement. Not that he was autistic, and that he scored 20 points in four minutes, but that he was not given anything. The opposing players were not giving Jason free access to the basket ala Nakeesha Sales’ Connecticut scoring record. Jason was being guarded…sort of. His shot was unstoppable with a laser quick release. Jason was not carried off the court because he was autistic; he was carried off the court because he did something exceptional in the face of doubt. He was treated like every other player on the court and outshined everyone (but the compelling part was, he is not “normal,” and that warranted being carried from the court and the national attention).
However, Romney’s story did not conclude with that movie theater ending. Romney struck out and his team lost the game. Romney went home and cried himself to sleep. To which I reply, good for him. When I was 12, I stepped up to bat in my little league teams championship game with the winning run on base and one out. Base hit and we win the game. So what did I do, I struck out and the next guy up won the game. We were champions, but I had failed. In fact, I was arguably the worst player on the championship team; I didn’t start, batted at the end of the lineup, but held my own in the field-playing left field (not the dreaded right field). To this day, I still remember the strike out and how bad I felt for letting my team down in the midst of a wonderful chance (I’m the only one on my team who will ever remember the strikeout.). That failure pushed me toward the next year when I became one of the best hitters on a new team and a team leader. Additionally, the first time I ever played organized baseball; I struck out three times and never made contact with a ball. I cried AT the game. Tom Hanks was wrong, most of us cry because of baseball. If you never try, you’re not living. If you never fail, success cannot be sweet.
There are lots of valuable lessons that were taught that day in Utah. Unfortunately, his family taught us none of them. If his parents feared his emotional fragility, they never should have let Romney play baseball. If they feared that he would get hurt, they never should have let him play baseball. If they wanted to protect him from failure, they never should have let him play baseball. How come no one asked Romney’s coach why he decided to bat Romney behind the best player on the team? Not exactly the best strategy if Romney is as bad as we were meant to believe. Why should the winning coaches be condemned for teaching their players critical thinking and strategy? They embarrassed nobody, and treated Romney as a normal kid. It would have been tragic and pathetic if they pitched to Romney underhand or let him win the game. The world is full of billions of people who have strengths and weaknesses to various degrees.
When I was a young boy, I would play my father in a variety of board games. My dad would consistently beat me at these games leaving me disappointed with the results. Often times I would request that he “let me win” or allow me to “alter” the rules of the game in my favor. Both requests were immediately denied. “If I let you win, then you did not earn it,” he would say. Henceforth, when I finally beat my dad for the first time at something, I was filled with a sense of pride and achievement. These are feelings that can’t be bought, bartered, or rationalized. Today my confidence in myself couldn’t be higher. I am not a high level CEO, superstar athlete, or multi-millionaire; I’m just some guy with a good head on my shoulders and a lot of ambition. I don’t fear failure because I have faced plenty of failure in my life already, and worked my way through it.
As stated earlier, I enjoy your writing. You have talent, and the gift of conveying emotion in relation to sports. However, if everyone wrote as well as you did, you really wouldn’t be very special to Sports Illustrated would you? The biggest fable in this world is that we are told that we are all created equal. It’s a farce and a detriment to true ambition, resiliency, and desire. Below average people can achieve greatness, while greatness can be wasted or thrown away. The sad thing is that out of everyone involved in that game, Romney is the only one who has the right outlook on his failure. He’s ready for his next opportunity, his chance not be normal, but to be a winner. Romney survival is a testament to his strength. Romney will be just fine; it’s all you finger pointers that might want to re-evaluate life’s lessons.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Those Who Can't Do...Vote
If there was ever was an argument in favor of communism, the People’s Choice Awards and the Baseball Writers’ Association of America (BBWAA) would be it. If nothing else it proves that when a group of people are given the opportunity to express their cumulative opinion, they will almost inevitably fuck things up worse than Donald Trump trying to trade jibes with middle-America’s queen bee. Within a twelve-hour window, we were privy to a non-stop parade of voting incompetence.
Now I could write a long diatribe examining the factors that could go into nominating the film Click for best movie in the comedy category, however, when I find out the movie Click WINS best movie in the comedy category, I start to go all dizzy like Agent Mills did when he found out his wife’s head was in a box. Believe me, I do not live and die by the voting results of the Peoples Choice Awards or any other awards show for that matter. I just simply feel exhausted. I scratch my head…my eyes go glazy… my body wants to fold up and roll under a bed like a Total Gym.
In regards to the BBWAA, it’s bad enough that the highest honor in baseball is decided by a group of people with less at-bats then Dr. Archibald “Moonlight” Graham had in Field of Dreams, but they also feel the need to grace us with their moral stance on the issue of hitting a baseball through their print and media jobs. The only thing that separates these individuals from the avid sports fan is a field pass and the knowledge of the player’s underwear preference. I grew up with a sports writer for a prominent NY newspaper and the thing I remember most about him was how he reneged on the only two sports bets we ever made (Bet 1: Dave Kingman had over 400 homeruns; Bet 2: Chris Corchiani was the NCAA career assists leader at the time). Why do I remember this? Because he was no expert on anything, he just walked around like he was. But everyday, thousands of people will read his opinion and process his words as fact.
I could explain to you how Little Miss Sunshine on mute was funnier than Click, and how Mark McGwire revitalized baseball twice in his career (his rookie year and following the strike), but I’m just too tired. I realize I am outnumbered, and stuck in a perpetual world of wannabe Laguna Beach stars…
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to buy my opening weekend tickets to Stomp the Yard...
Now I could write a long diatribe examining the factors that could go into nominating the film Click for best movie in the comedy category, however, when I find out the movie Click WINS best movie in the comedy category, I start to go all dizzy like Agent Mills did when he found out his wife’s head was in a box. Believe me, I do not live and die by the voting results of the Peoples Choice Awards or any other awards show for that matter. I just simply feel exhausted. I scratch my head…my eyes go glazy… my body wants to fold up and roll under a bed like a Total Gym.
In regards to the BBWAA, it’s bad enough that the highest honor in baseball is decided by a group of people with less at-bats then Dr. Archibald “Moonlight” Graham had in Field of Dreams, but they also feel the need to grace us with their moral stance on the issue of hitting a baseball through their print and media jobs. The only thing that separates these individuals from the avid sports fan is a field pass and the knowledge of the player’s underwear preference. I grew up with a sports writer for a prominent NY newspaper and the thing I remember most about him was how he reneged on the only two sports bets we ever made (Bet 1: Dave Kingman had over 400 homeruns; Bet 2: Chris Corchiani was the NCAA career assists leader at the time). Why do I remember this? Because he was no expert on anything, he just walked around like he was. But everyday, thousands of people will read his opinion and process his words as fact.
I could explain to you how Little Miss Sunshine on mute was funnier than Click, and how Mark McGwire revitalized baseball twice in his career (his rookie year and following the strike), but I’m just too tired. I realize I am outnumbered, and stuck in a perpetual world of wannabe Laguna Beach stars…
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to buy my opening weekend tickets to Stomp the Yard...
Monday, January 8, 2007
Friends Don't Let Friends Share Songs
There are certain moments in time that are yours and yours alone. One of those moments for me is at three minutes and twenty-eight seconds of “Shine,” by David Gray…If it’s playing and I can hear it, it’s mine and it is not meant for sharing.
I used to play music for people I felt a connection with. I would look at them contently, while I anticipated their core reaction. Unfortunately, as with a tourist commenting on the Louvre’s Pyramid, there was never a satisfactory answer.
Our first instinct is to share a song with a group, friend or significant other; waiting for them to validate our taste in music (we play it for them for no other reason than for them to judge it). Our enthusiasm or disappointment is proportional to the value we place on their opinion regarding our self worth.
Ever overhear someone you dislike tell a friend, “Like, Oh My God!!! You like totally have to listen to this band called…Sugar Rose (Sigur Ros) or something. They are like amazing.” What happens to you internally? Well if you feel connected to a band like Sigur Ros, your brain holds an emergency board meeting to discuss the ramifications of being associated with a song or group liked by THAT person!!! You try to calm yourself down by rationalizing that it’s just a phase (not a reflection on you) and that person is just a tourist visiting. "Just close your eyes and it will be all over," you tell yourself, "they will be back with Taylor Hicks soon enough."
However, if we feel a strong emotional connection to someone, playing a song for them is like Vince Vaughn sharing his intestines with us in “The Cell.” We are not sharing a song. There is no song. Just guts.
But why do we do it? One way to distinguish yourself while simultaneously connecting yourself with others is through your musical tastes. This person is not judging music; they are judging us. Our brain says we want you to love the music, thus validating me, but our mind says that you will never possibly understand what this (song/group) means to me. You couldn’t possibly - no matter how badly we want that mutual connection. That song has a personal history with raw emotion, context, and imagery. Your friend may truly love the song you play, but your internal music video will be completely different than theirs.
The irony is…when you find someone who seems to fully embrace YOUR song; you will often subconsciously resent them for their attempt to understand your soul. So in the future, recognize that while certain music provides the soundtrack for my life, I will never ask you to directly comment on my soundtrack because...
"Your sooooooooooulllllllll’s the one thing you can’t compromise!!!”
I used to play music for people I felt a connection with. I would look at them contently, while I anticipated their core reaction. Unfortunately, as with a tourist commenting on the Louvre’s Pyramid, there was never a satisfactory answer.
Our first instinct is to share a song with a group, friend or significant other; waiting for them to validate our taste in music (we play it for them for no other reason than for them to judge it). Our enthusiasm or disappointment is proportional to the value we place on their opinion regarding our self worth.
Ever overhear someone you dislike tell a friend, “Like, Oh My God!!! You like totally have to listen to this band called…Sugar Rose (Sigur Ros) or something. They are like amazing.” What happens to you internally? Well if you feel connected to a band like Sigur Ros, your brain holds an emergency board meeting to discuss the ramifications of being associated with a song or group liked by THAT person!!! You try to calm yourself down by rationalizing that it’s just a phase (not a reflection on you) and that person is just a tourist visiting. "Just close your eyes and it will be all over," you tell yourself, "they will be back with Taylor Hicks soon enough."
However, if we feel a strong emotional connection to someone, playing a song for them is like Vince Vaughn sharing his intestines with us in “The Cell.” We are not sharing a song. There is no song. Just guts.
But why do we do it? One way to distinguish yourself while simultaneously connecting yourself with others is through your musical tastes. This person is not judging music; they are judging us. Our brain says we want you to love the music, thus validating me, but our mind says that you will never possibly understand what this (song/group) means to me. You couldn’t possibly - no matter how badly we want that mutual connection. That song has a personal history with raw emotion, context, and imagery. Your friend may truly love the song you play, but your internal music video will be completely different than theirs.
The irony is…when you find someone who seems to fully embrace YOUR song; you will often subconsciously resent them for their attempt to understand your soul. So in the future, recognize that while certain music provides the soundtrack for my life, I will never ask you to directly comment on my soundtrack because...
"Your sooooooooooulllllllll’s the one thing you can’t compromise!!!”
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
Nick Saban Dumps His Girlfriend For The Town Slut.
So you’ve been in a solid relationship (Miami) for a couple years now, but recently things seem rather mediocre (15-17 record). You met her with rose-colored glasses; dumping the prom queen (LSU) after you de-flowered her at the dance (1st national championship). Initially, your current girlfriend seemed to be everything the prom queen wasn’t. She was smart, professional, and full of potential. She would be the challenge you needed.
So you pack your bags and dive into this new relationship, co-signing a lease that has both your names on it (5 year, $22.5 million). She’s takes this lease as a sign of long term commitment, and starts talking about things like “I want these flowers at our wedding” (Playoffs) and “I want at least 5 kids” (Superbowl).
After hearing this a couple times, you start to think about the good old days when you were the big man on campus, dating the girl everyone wanted. It felt good. Just so happens, your girlfriend’s father (Don Shula) has a son (Mike Shula) who was dating the hottest girl in town (Alabama). However, she recently dumped him because he couldn’t satisfy her (6-6) and is going around telling everyone that her ex’s-sister’s-boyfriend is hung like a horse (48-16 at LSU).
Unfortunately, your girlfriend’s family (Miami fans) are also hearing these rumors spread around town and they (the press) ask you about your future intentions. While being put on the spot, you assure everybody that you are committed to your current relationship and you’re not thinking about anything else. But it doesn’t stop there; everyday someone is asking you if you’re interested in the other girl while telling you stories about what a freak she is ($$$$).
You try to ignore everyone and focus on your relationship, but your girlfriend suddenly seems cold and distant (no QB, no playoffs, aging team). Next thing you know, the phone ringing, and sure enough, it’s the other girl. She going out tonight and wanted to know if you wanted to meet up “to talk” (interview). You tell yourself that you are just going to talk, telling your girlfriend you’re going out for a bit (Wayne Huizenga). However, just before you leave, you put some Viagra in your pocket (the out-clause on your lease).
As you travel to meet this stranger, you brain works overtime weighing the pro’s and con’s of your relationship, that is, up until you walk in the door of the club and see the other girl dancing. You approach her on the dance floor where she immediately grabs your hand and sticks it between her legs (8 year!!!). At this point you realize she isn’t wearing any underwear ($32 million!!!) and you proceed to screw her right there from behind (guaranteed money!!!).
The next day, you go home and tell your girlfriend you are leaving her for another woman (Meeting w/ management). When she asks you why she wasn’t enough for you, you give her no answer (Press Conference).
The new girl will be fun and exciting for a while, however, you are soon to find out you knocked up the town slut (revolving door of coaches), who gave you a massive case of herpes (You’re tainted goods).
Hope she was worth it...
So you pack your bags and dive into this new relationship, co-signing a lease that has both your names on it (5 year, $22.5 million). She’s takes this lease as a sign of long term commitment, and starts talking about things like “I want these flowers at our wedding” (Playoffs) and “I want at least 5 kids” (Superbowl).
After hearing this a couple times, you start to think about the good old days when you were the big man on campus, dating the girl everyone wanted. It felt good. Just so happens, your girlfriend’s father (Don Shula) has a son (Mike Shula) who was dating the hottest girl in town (Alabama). However, she recently dumped him because he couldn’t satisfy her (6-6) and is going around telling everyone that her ex’s-sister’s-boyfriend is hung like a horse (48-16 at LSU).
Unfortunately, your girlfriend’s family (Miami fans) are also hearing these rumors spread around town and they (the press) ask you about your future intentions. While being put on the spot, you assure everybody that you are committed to your current relationship and you’re not thinking about anything else. But it doesn’t stop there; everyday someone is asking you if you’re interested in the other girl while telling you stories about what a freak she is ($$$$).
You try to ignore everyone and focus on your relationship, but your girlfriend suddenly seems cold and distant (no QB, no playoffs, aging team). Next thing you know, the phone ringing, and sure enough, it’s the other girl. She going out tonight and wanted to know if you wanted to meet up “to talk” (interview). You tell yourself that you are just going to talk, telling your girlfriend you’re going out for a bit (Wayne Huizenga). However, just before you leave, you put some Viagra in your pocket (the out-clause on your lease).
As you travel to meet this stranger, you brain works overtime weighing the pro’s and con’s of your relationship, that is, up until you walk in the door of the club and see the other girl dancing. You approach her on the dance floor where she immediately grabs your hand and sticks it between her legs (8 year!!!). At this point you realize she isn’t wearing any underwear ($32 million!!!) and you proceed to screw her right there from behind (guaranteed money!!!).
The next day, you go home and tell your girlfriend you are leaving her for another woman (Meeting w/ management). When she asks you why she wasn’t enough for you, you give her no answer (Press Conference).
The new girl will be fun and exciting for a while, however, you are soon to find out you knocked up the town slut (revolving door of coaches), who gave you a massive case of herpes (You’re tainted goods).
Hope she was worth it...
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