Monday, December 26, 2011

Tebow Time!

I really wish I did not have to address this, but I feel like things have gone to far and I must intervene. It's a craze that has swept the nation and hogged media headlines as more and more people are caught up in an irrational belief that threatens to undermine this great nation. No, not the Occupy protest. I'm talking about Tebowmania.

In case you possibly were born yesterday, Tim Tebow is the quarterback of the Denver Broncos who has defied all odds by winning actual NFL games despite having all the quarterback ability of a deranged orangutan. The balls he throws look like newborn chickens learning to fly. He scrambles around like a crack addict running from the police. He reads defenses about as well as Stevie Wonder reads eye charts.

In case you did not already know this, I do not like Tim Tebow. For some reason, people find this confusing, as if the physics of the universe do not allow this. It's just like how people always say, “But how can you hate dogs?”

Well regardless of what you think I do not like Tim Tebow and I have not liked him since he was playing at Florida. So you can imagine my disappointment when of all places, he had to end up playing football in Colorado, which meant all of a sudden I was living in the eye of this hurricane of mediocrity. I assumed that he would make a few starts, people would see that Ann Coulter had a better chance of becoming and NFL quarterback, and he could move on to become a televangelist.

And for awhile it seemed that would play out. He either airmailed passes ten yards past his receiver or spiked it into the ground as if he were trying to kill gophers with the football. Then the weirdest thing started happening: With his remarkable tenacity and spirit, he willed his team to amazing comebacks powered by his faith in Jesus Christ. Hah I'm joking. What really happened is Tebow played a bunch of horrible teams and sucked, but his defense kept the score close, he got tons of lucky bounces, teams inexplicably started playing soft coverages once they had a lead, and his kicker all of a sudden became David Beckham and started nailing field goals from different counties.

The next thing you know, Tebowmania exploded. It doesn't matter if you're watching ESPN, CNN or Lifetime, if you're watching TV, you will hear about Timmy Terrific. Not even Brett Favre could dream of this kind of coverage. They've made a beer called Tebrew, “Tebowing” has became an actual word, Playboy models want to be with him and Rick Perry wants to be him.

Why is Tim Tebow so popular? Let's try and examine that. For one, he plays in Denver. I will say this about Denver sports fans, they are delusional, err, loyal. When they like a player, they worship him.

Tebow also gets a lot of backing because of his religious beliefs, which he flaunts so often they might as well be written across his forehead (oh wait, they pretty much are). He thanks God for everything, people believe Jesus helps the Broncos win football games, he circumcises Filipino children, he films anti-abortion commercials. I mean he's a virgin for Christ sakes. Elton John has probably slept with more women than him.

But the main reason Tim Tebow is popular? The NFL wants him to be popular. He sells tickets, he sells jerseys, people watch him play on TV. His squeaky clean image is a marketers dreams, and don't even get us started on his looks. Notice that almost every ESPN commentator who likes him is a woman? Well, almost all of them.

But it appears that Tim Tebow's ascension to the greatest human being ever to grace this Earth may have been temporarily delayed. Why? He ran into this handsome man and a football team that has been to four Superbowls in the last decade. Very understandable. But then they lost to this dude and a football team that has not been to the playoffs since 1999 and plays one game a year in Toronto. That's right, they lost to a Canadian football team.

This is inevitable considering Tebow’s playbook has no plays in it, unless you count this one:

This is what his coaches actually wrote on his wristband:

  • Timmy no throw ball, Timmy run around
  • Timmy yell lots, flex biceps
  • Timmy say prayer, thank Jesus

Needless to say Tim’s had a rough couple of weeks. Supposedly this would stop the Tebow love, since people can no longer say “he just wins football games,” since he no longer wins football games. But somehow I doubt it. Tebow-love is an unconditional one.

But I'm still holding out hope that people will realize how stupid this fad is and just move on, not unlike chia pets. But in the off chance he does become the greatest quarterback ever, I'll make all of you Tebow lovers a bet. If he becomes an All-Pro quarterback, I will kiss the bottom of your shoe. Then I'll hop on my flying pig and go home.

Friday, December 23, 2011

A Hawaiian Christmas Tale

Do you know what time of the year it is? It's the most wonderful time of the year! Or so they say. I'm not so sure who came up with that saying, but it was probably a Wal-Mart executive. Or at least somebody who did not have to deal with snow.

Sorry if I seem bitter, but I'm headed for my first white Christmas after 21 years spending it in Hawaii. I'm not that happy about it. You know that saying “It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas?” Growing up in Hawaii, I never really understood what the heck that meant, because the weather in December was just as nice as in July.

This is also because people in Hawaii are so lazy they often don't take down holiday decorations, my family included. We once had a string of lights on our roof for two years and didn't take them down until my mother slammed the truck door on a strand and drove off with them.

There were a lot of things about Christmas in Hawaii that were much different from everywhere else in the world. Actually, now that I think about it, it really is a surprise anybody believes in Santa Claus in Hawaii. I mean, nobody in Hawaii has chimneys, so most of our parents were reduced to saying he came in through cat doors. And with no fireplaces, we hung our stockings in strange places, like on the TV.

It eventually became pretty clear to me that my dad was actually Santa. I'm not sure if it was because he asked us to leave Coke instead of milk for Santa. I'm not sure if it was the time he got locked out of the house and had to leave the presents on the front doorstep. It may have been the time he dressed up as Santa for a Christmas party but forgot to take off his Scott slippers.

Not that I'm judging him. Me and my sister are not exactly Sherlock Holmes and Nancy Drew so it worked for awhile. I can only assume I will not be nearly as good at being a Santa when I have kids. For one thing, I do not want to wait until my kids fall asleep, since that is when I plan on being asleep. Also, I think asking my kids to leave beer and a steak for Santa might not be the best idea.

But Christmas is more than Santa. It's about traditions, like decorating the Christmas tree. We used to buy a real tree every year from an abandoned lot in what I now realize was a very sketchy operation, before dumping it in our yard where it remained on display until it finally rotted in July.

We eventually got tired of pulling burrs out of our feet and just got a fake tree. We then got to put ornaments on our tree, except almost all of our ornaments were made by our aunt, who loved her pet dog and thus made all of her ornaments using the dog as a model. This of course meant our tree looked like it belonged to an old crazy dog person.

But enough with the tree, because we all know what is really important is what goes under the tree: hobos. Wait! Wrong trees. Presents of course go under the tree, and what holiday would be complete without large companies trying to profit off of it?

Christmas is probably the worst holiday in that aspect. I watch as everybody around me in the store devolve into cavemen, bashing each other over the head with large candy canes trying to get the last Tickle-Me Elmo or Furby of the season, which the child will inevitably never play with after Christmas morning.

I personally do not stress much over gifts. And by that I mean I don't buy any. The only gifts I bought this year were for my immediate family, and I'm sure they will be to happy to hear I bought all of their gifts in the same errand run while I was getting beer and pizza. Yeah, let your imagination wander as to what gifts I could have possibly gotten in a place that sells pizza and beer (hint: napkin dispensers).

So enjoy the holidays everyone and Merry Christmas! And if you got a napkin dispenser, I think you know who your secret Santa was.

Monday, December 19, 2011

Happily Ever After?

So the biggest celebrity news of the last few months is that Kim Kardashian's marriage has officially come to an end. (Ok, so maybe you think that Justin Bieber's allged baby is bigger news, but frankly pregnant women making crazy remarks is nothing new as far as I'm concerned). I mean, the big news is not that it ended. I'm pretty sure we all knew that was going to happen. The only celebrity marriages that don't end in divorce are the ones that end with one person dying in a ski accident.

Still, I don't think anybody imagined that it would be this short. They were married for something like 72 days. I've worn the same pair of shorts for longer stretches than that. In the divorce, Kim says they had “irreconcilable differences.” I'm really not sure 72 days indicates you tried to reconcile anything. Heck I know people who are still hungover from the open bar 72 days after the wedding.

I think we can all agree this marriage was a huge stunt in order to get a huge diamond ring, lots of gifts, a fancy wedding and a whole five hour wedding special on her show. What did Kris Humphries get in return? Well, people now know who the heck Kris Humphries is.

So now they're trying to get the marriage annulled. By the way, I looked it up and did you know that you can get a marriage annulled if you were intoxicated when you agreed to marry the person? That's the best news I've ever heard. I never make important relationship decisions sober anyway so I have a built-in exit strategy.

Unfortunately for Kris Humphries it does not look like he is as smooth at slinking out of relationships as I am. He is of course inevitably going to be portrayed as a whiny, selfish pig. Why is that? Because the Kardashians have their own TV show and he does not.

But let us step back for a moment to examine what this says about the institute of marriage in general. Now I've never been married, but I have watched “Millionaire Matchmaker” several times so I think I'm overly qualified to give out expert love advice. Divorce rates are at an all-time high, according to stats from some sort of reputable source that I'm sure exist somewhere but I was too lazy to look up.

I think this is because marriage was invented back when health care was so bad you only lived until like 34. Getting married was not a big deal because you only had to put up with your spouse for like ten years before you died. Plus you were too busy trying not to starve to death that whole time to get into fights. Now? People live for much longer, unless your spouse decides to kill you. Also I blame lawyers (I blame lawyers for a lot of things).

I've actually been thinking more about this topic recently. I used to think marriage was something far off in the distance I didn't need to worry about yet, like asteroids. But a few of my close friends have gotten engaged recently, so I guess it isn't as far off as I thought.

The only problem is that I know once I get married, I am basically signing my own death notice. And I don't mean that figuratively. As I've always said, any woman crazy enough to marry me is crazy enough to then try and kill me in my sleep.

But my fears of commitment and murder aside, I really think some people were just never meant to be married. By some people, I mean stupid, talentless, annoying people like Kim Kardashian. I think celebrities shouldn't get married as much as they should sign contracts like athletes. They could work out how many years they want on the contract, determine how they should split the money the make, the stupid name of any children they produce, the length of the sex tape, etc.

Wouldn't that be great? You could read you paper and see that Ryan Reynolds signed a one-year contract with Blake Lively, or that recent free agent Demi Moore is fielding contract offers from Billy Bob Thornton and George Clooney. Could you imagine how much more fun Miley Cyrus' 18th birthday would have been if we had this system and she was like the LeBron James prospect about to get drafted?

I know very little about celebrity gossip (the fact I'm talking about Kim's divorce two months after it happened should tell you that), and I normally have to rely on my two neighbors to update me. But as a sports fan, I would totally get this system. We could analyze relationships in terms of good or bad signings in a SportsCenter-style segment on E!

So what if my idea insults the institution of marriage more than Elizabeth Taylor. I'm a solutions guy. And by the way ladies, I'm a cheap free agent.

Saturday, December 10, 2011

The Smart Call

I finally gave in. After years and years of resistance, standing steadfast as all those around me caved in, I have finally joined the masses, swept up in the tide of inevitability. No, I’m not rooting for Tim Tebow. I am now the owner of a shiny new smart phone. Or at least it used to be shiny. It has a lot of finger smudges on it now.

It’s not a secret how I previously felt about smart phones. To me they overlook the main point of phones, which is to receive calls from your family that you immediately regret taking. So actually, in that case a smart phone would be great.

Mom: “Why haven’t you answered your phone the last three days?”

Me: “It won’t let me. I don’t have the telephone app on my phone. What did you want?”

Mom: “I wanted to tell you to answer your phone.”

But the real reason I had to get a smart phone ultimately was the same reason most people make huge moral compromises in their life: my job. I really needed a phone that gave me internet access everywhere I went, so I could give breaking news updates such as: “Line at area Dairy Queen WAAY too long.” Plus, the only place you can find non-smart phones is in an antique shop.

And so it was that I found myself standing in the phone store, nervously glancing around like a Dalmatian in Cruella de Vil’s mansion. I’ve never owned anything remotely close to a smart phone, so I of course had no idea what I was doing. For one thing, all of these phones had the same “chic” look, which is to say they looked and weighed about the same as a car battery. To make things worse, the salesman there started saying things that quickly made me realize these smart phones were probably smarter than me.

Salesman: “So this SII right here has 4G LTE capability on our 2 gigabyte data plan with 1.5 gigahertz of memory and a 3.0 dual core processor with 8 times optical zoom.”

Me: “… Should I be happy or concerned by that?”

Salesman: “Well, what do you want the phone to do?”

Me: “Occupy me in the DMV line. And take pictures of funny mailboxes.”

Salesman: “OK… What is the most important feature you want your phone to have?”

Me: “Do they still put that game snake on these things?”

Eventually the salesman just gave me a phone, charged me five months of my salary and shoved me out the door. Sure I was confused at first, but then I started fiddling with the phone. And after mere minutes of looking at the fancy apps and slick graphics the most amazing thing happened: my battery died. Smart phone batteries last about as long as a Kim Kardashian marriage.

But once I plugged in my phone I was finally able to start using my apps. I have one that identifies songs just by listening to it. I actually tried singing songs to it to see if the program could identify them, but apparently I sang it so much better than the originals my phone had no idea what I was singing, so it always gave me the same answer.

Another cool feature of the phone is its voice recognition program, which, merely by speaking into the phone, allows me to send horribly garbled messages to people I didn’t mean to text. Since my fingers are too fat to mangle messages on the keypad, it’s nice to have my phone do it for me.

Me: “Let’s go park at the book store.”

Phone: “Nachos party with a hooker.”

Ok, so true I would never be caught dead in a book store and a nacho party sounds fun, but you can understand how that could get me in trouble with, say, my grandmother. While I have voice recognition, I do not have an iPhone, so I don’t have Siri, an app that does everything a normal secretary would do for you except fetch your coffee and engage in extramarital activities with you.

But now that I have this wonderful phone, I have a small problem. I am about as good with phones as Charlie Sheen is with children. In the past 14 months I have gone through four phones. One ended up under a car tire and the other with me in a creek (ok, a storm gutter).

But seeing as this phone cost me more than my first car and has more technology than the entire Lebanese nuclear research department, I really don’t want to break it. So to make sure I don’t lose it, I have named the phone “Michelle” in an effort to grow attached to it so I won’t break it. Cause nacho parties can get pretty crazy.

Friday, December 2, 2011

Infomercial Insanity

I was watching TV the other day when I saw this advertisement for something called the grill glove. Now I'm not sure when it happened, or how it happened, but I know it has happened: Americans are officially the stupidest, clumsiest, laziest organisms in existence.

Or at least, that is what television ad people must think. I mean really, a grill glove? Because if there is always one thing I've wanted at a barbecue, it is to have another man constantly touching and fondling my meat.

I mean, this is just blasphemy. Grilling is a sacred tradition that requires one man to hold tongs in one hand and a beer in the other hand while men stand around him with a beer in one hand and the other hand gesturing vehemently to emphasize vague observations about the meat, football, construction, Megan Fox, etc. There is no place for bright pink gloves. Besides, if you are too stupid to work tongs and flip meat, you probably already blew yourself up lighting your propane grill, so it really is pointless.

But that is the funny thing about these infomercials: they always try to make the most mundane of tasks look like brain surgery. I want to know how they find these people who have the hardest time doing the simplest of tasks, like draining spaghetti. I bet I know how they cast these infomercials:

Casting director: “OK Bob, I want you to light this candle for me.”

Bob: *Looks around panicked. Proceeds to pick his ear with match, eats candle.*

Casting director: “He's perfect! Let's get him onto the Magic Bullet set right now.”

According to infomercials, one of the most dangerous places is the kitchen. All sorts of this happen to people who have IQs lower than the artichokes they are trying to peel. You just see black and white images of people slicing off their fingers while cutting onions or spilling scalding hot water on their children while boiling eggs and burning down their houses while baking casseroles.

But then, out of nowhere, like an angel descended from heaven, a very loud and irritating person appears on the screen to tell you how your life will be changed by the Amazing Never-Dull Self-Cleansing Multi-Purpose Foldaway Eco-Friendly Auto-Rotating Potatorama! Because how many times have you stabbed a loved one while trying to peel potatoes? But wait, it also peels carrots! Dices onions! Gets out stains! Cures AIDS!

And now of course you're hooked. Forget for a moment you don't even like potatoes, much less cooking with them. This thing will make your life so much easier. Plus if you call right now, you'll get a second Potatorama! What are you supposed to do with a second identical machine that does exactly what the first one does? Who cares! It's free! Give it as a Christmas present, let your baby cousin play with it, throw it at raccoons.

But then they make the offer even sweeter. Because if you order within the next ten minutes, they'll give you a bonus item, the Onionizer! Because if you're like the people in this infomercial, you cry like a single woman watching “Love Actually” whenever you even look at onions the wrong way.

And you can have all this for just twenty easy payments of $15.68! I still have yet to figure out what a hard payment is, but oh well.

Of course, two weeks later your Potatorama and your Onionizer will be sitting next to your Spaghettifier and your Egganator on your shelf collecting dust, because you just sit on your butt all day watching infomercials and ordering Dominos.

But then another infomercial comes on: “Do you have useless infomercial appliances lying around? Well then you need...”

Saturday, November 26, 2011

Black-eye Friday

It's that time of year again! When everybody - regardless of race, religion or background – comes together and in a show of true holiday spirit, proceed to trample over elderly women and children. That's right, it's Black Friday! The time of year where people spread holiday cheer in the form of pepper spray.

As you can tell, I'm being sarcastic. I think Black Friday encompasses everything that is wrong with America: corporate greed, irresponsible spending, shopping malls and Martha Stewart. Have we forgotten Marth Stewart is a convicted felon? She spent months in a prison learning how to make shanks out of toothbrushes, she should not be selling kitchen knife sets on television.

Now I'm not sure why they call it Black Friday, but I'm assuming it has something to do with all of the funerals for the poor souls who were killed in the noble quest for cheap coffee makers. I personally avoid Black Friday. Do you know why? Because people do crazy s**t like this on Black Friday. (And why does the witness keep saying “like?” Is she 13?).

I personally do not like crowds, do not like shopping and do not like bodily injury, so it should be fairly obvious I do not like Black Friday. I remember my family used to go to a large mall on Oahu after spending Thanksgiving with our family, and I hated it. There was a line for everything, including the bathroom, which was really the only place in the entire mall I wanted to go. It was like Disney Land, but at least at Disney Land you could buy cotton candy.

What's worse is Black Friday is now somehow overtaking Thanksgiving itself. Stores are now opening at midnight, which means people are lining up as early as the Wednesday before Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving is about spending quality time with your football... err I mean your food... err family. Yeah that's the one. It's about family, not waiting in the cold outside of a Best Buy. Unless your whole family is waiting with you, in which case you may just have a strange family. Or you may be homeless.

I still don't see what the big deal about Black Friday is. They just convince you to buy a whole bunch of stuff you don't need just because it's cheap. I once had a friend who bought like five caps on Black Friday. Sure, I've almost never seen this particular friend wear caps, but heck, they were cheap! Do you see me buying women's underwear just because it is on sale? No (I think), because I don't need it (mostly).

So as usual, I have a proposal. I say we let women continue to beat the crap out of each other over Ugg boots and create a holiday for men: Blackout Friday. On Blackout Friday, bars across the nation would have great sales and open their doors early for men desperate to escape their weird family members and shopping crazy women. Now that's something I would line up for.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Born a Gamblin' Man

Being the geniuses that we are, my buddy Chris and I decided that the best way to end my birthday week was to gather up a bunch of people, trek up into the mountains and throw large amounts of our money off a cliff. In other words, we decided to go gambling at Blackhawk.

For those of you who aren't quite familiar with it, Blackhawk is a city up in the mountains of Colorado made up almost entirely of casinos. So me and my buddies figured we would head up there on a Saturday night, drink some booze, lay down some money and then sleep in our hotel room. At least that was the plan.

First off, we got a later start to the night because I had to work (you have to first earn money to lose it). So it was just after 10 p.m. when I began driving up to Blackhawk. Now, the road to Blackhawk is a windy, narrow excuse for a donkey-route that weaves it's way through perilous mountains and cliffs. OK so I might be exaggerating a bit. But just remember, I lived for 20 years on an island. Plus, when you drive up that late, you are fighting the headlights of about a gazillion cars making their way down from the casinos, which makes it very hard to tell if you are about to drive off the highway and get raped by bears.

I finally made it up to the casino while only getting molested by a large deer, so I considered it a victory. It was the only winning I would be doing that night. Because within about five minutes, almost everyone in our group had lost $100 to a particularly lucky dealer on the blackjack tables.

You see, there is a reason they call it “gambling,” and not “winning.” You would think you would realize that you are bound to lose just by walking into a casino. Buildings with elaborate fountains and fancy chandeliers and fish tanks do not get that way because they are losing money.

And yet, the second you walk into a casino, and you hear the lights and see the ringing and smell the disorientation and you are powerless to resist it. Plus, they have all-you-can-eat buffets, which have always been my weakness.

And so there you find yourself, sitting in front of a machine, mindlessly pulling a mechanical arm. Notice I say “yourself.” “Myself” is not going to be caught dead playing the slots. It's just too boring. Also, as Chris pointed out, you never see any healthy people playing the slot machines. They are all either morbidly obese or old or both. I prefer to be mentally engaged while I lose lots and lots of money (about the only time I like being “mentally engaged”).

So that's why we went first to blackjack. It's a simple enough game that only requires me to count to 21 which is just within my capabilities. I normally do pretty well at blackjack, but that night we just could not win. If we got 19s, he got 20s. If we got 20s, he got blackjack. If we got blackjacks, the fire alarm went off and we had to evacuate the casino before they could pay us. It was just one of those nights.

I decided to go over to the craps tables, which is a problem when you are in a group of people, because the odds that nobody else in your group knows how to play craps are much better than the odds of actually winning at craps. Craps can look really scary with all its green felt and its random numbers and random people shouting random things and throwing random chips everywhere. Sort of like what football must look like to women.

I did a little better at craps, but I still was losing money. So we moved onto some games we had never heard of, which I strongly recommend against. At one point we were playing something called blackjack switch, in which you are dealt two hands and allowed to switch the cards. It seemed like a no-lose proposition, but then all of a sudden the dealer broke out this rule that if the dealer gets 22, they push. We pointed out that the dealer was now just clearly making up rules as she was going.

Now normally none of this would bother me because of (drum roll please) … FREE BOOZE!!! Now, the casino's call it free, but while you are drinking the free booze you are losing ten dollars a hand, but still it's FREE BOOZE!!! The two greatest words in the English language once put together (just ahead of “chicken bucket”). Sure, you may be losing money, but you're getting drinks and having a good time while you are doing it.

The problem in Colorado is that they stop serving booze after 2 a.m. because apparently snowing half the year and having no ocean doesn't make Colorado lame enough. And “gambling” becomes “throwing away beer money,” once they stop serving free cocktails.

So we just decided to go to sleep and call it a night. Overall it was a fun night and I learned a valuable lesson about gambling: go earlier so you can drink more.

Monday, October 10, 2011

A Case of the Mondays

So I'm a little upset today because my night has been ruined. It's a Monday, which of course means Monday Night Football. But ESPN recently announced that Hank Williams Jr. will no longer be singing “All My Rowdy Friends,” which for years has been the signature opening of Monday Night Football.

Now, I'm not saying Hank Williams Jr. didn't deserve it. I mean, he compared Barack Obama to Hitler, and he never really apologized. There are some events and people that should never be used in analogies. Hitler is probably ten of them.

But I am a little sad that the song is going. Sure, it's a horrible song sung by a horrible singer. But for as long as I can remember, the line “Are you ready for some FOOTBAAAAAAAALL!” meant the start of Monday Night Football. The second I heard those words, a Pavolovian response occurred that required me to instantly sit down on the nearest couch and start ingesting large amounts of greasy food and beer.

I look back very fondly on watching Monday Night Football as a young boy growing up. Living in Hawaii, most Sunday games came on at ridiculously early times of the morning, and by the time I got home from church almost all the games were over. But when Monday Night Football was on ABC, they tape delayed the game. Now, this was before anyone knew how to work the Internet, so back in those days, if it hadn't happened on TV yet, as far as I knew it hadn't happened.

My parents never let me watch TV on the weekdays, because my mother was under the belief that TV and video games were the sole root of violence, sex, disease, economic recession, drug use, global warming, prairie dog overpopulation and mental retardation. But they always let me watch Monday Night Football as long as I promised to lie and tell them I was all done with my homework.

To this day football is my favorite sport because growing up, it was all I could watch. For years, watching MNF made me dream of being an NFL star. Then I discovered I am fat and uncoordinated, so I settled for being a famous sportswriter covering NFL stars. Then I discovered I suck at that, so I settled for being a newspaper reporter (settling is a common theme in my life). So MNF really made me who I am today, as sad as that may sound.

Then of course, Monday Night Football began to lose its way. First, for reasons that will always be unclear to me, they hired Dennis Miller to be a commentator even though, as a comedian he was A) not a football expert who was just trying to be funny and B) not very funny. I'm not sure what ABC expected with that killer combination, but it never really worked out.

They finally got rid of him and brought in John Madden, who at least is entertaining even if you have no idea what he's talking about half the time.

John: “And then the quarterback throws the ball, cause that's what quarterbacks do, they throw the ball, cause if they didn't throw the ball, they wouldn't be quarterbacks cause quarterbacks throw the ball and BOOM I like turduckens.”

But then they made the worst move of all: they went on cable. This was crushing for me, because our family didn't have ESPN. They also didn't time delay it, so even if I did have ESPN, the games would be going on while I was in school.

I've sort of been estranged from MNF ever since. For one thing, I'm not a big fan of the announcers. Ron “Jaws” Jaworski has a very appropriate nickname, since that is the only part of his head that works. He once commented on how a cornerback was in “great position.” When Jaws said this, the aforementioned cornerback was lying on the ground. Plus, MNF has shown a propensity to pick horrible games. How horrible? My Jaguars are on the schedule this year, and right now they could not beat a lingerie football team.

And now ESPN is doing away with my last connection to all those nostalgic memories I had growing up. So, for old times’ sake, let's hear it one more time Hank:

Hank: “Are you ready for some FOOTBAAAAAAAALL!

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Revenge of the Fallen Fruit

In what may be the deadliest fruit-related epidemic since Richard Simmons was taken off the air, deadly cantaloupes have killed 18 people so far in a listeria outbreak. Over 100 cases have been traced back to the Colorado-grown fruits, the only thing out of Colorado making more people sick than the Tim Tebow controversy.

How did the virus start? Should the government step in to punish the growers? Would “Listeria and the Lyrics” be a great band name? All very important questions that we must ask ourselves going forward. But before we can ask ourselves these questions, we must first stop this frightful epidemic.

Now, I personally am not at risk, despite the fact I live in Colorado. Why? I don't eat cantaloupes. I have to be honest, I'm not really sure what a cantaloupe is. I always assumed they were pessimistic antelopes. From what I can tell it is some sort of large round fruit they serve at continental breakfasts at Motel 6.

Now, the twisted side of me is wondering why we keep referring to them as cantaloupes. They are technically in the melon family, so I say we start referring to them as melons. The headlines would be way better, for instance “Attack of the Killer Melons,” or “Melons of Mass Destruction,” or my personal favorite, “Massive Melon Listeria Hysteria.” We could sell women's T-shirts that say “Make sure to check your melons.”

But all kidding aside, this outbreak has really scared people about the safety of their foods. This does not include me. I long ago adopted a policy of never eating fruits and vegetables and stuff that is good for me because I have learned they will kill you. Oh sure, every once in awhile you hear about a mad cow outbreak or something in the middle of Canada. But not nearly as often as spinach or Brussels sprouts or some other fiendish fruit or villainous vegetable is unleashing some sort of brazen bacteria upon our innocent intestines. (All in favor of me stopping with the alliteration raise your hands. Yeah I thought so.)

So I try not to eat fruits or vegetables, unless you count candy corn. Sure, in ten years I may die of scurvy, but at least I won't be pooping out my intestines with E. coli. And sure I may live only ten more years, but they will be ten joyous years filled with large fatty steaks and oily fried chicken and bypass surgeries.

But since I'm a selfless problem solver, I still feel obligated to try and find a solution to this problem. I'm still not sure what it would entail, but I do know that it would somehow involve Dick Cheney torturing Justin Bieber. Is the Biebster even remotely related to this epidemic? I don't know yet, that's what the torture is for.

Anyway, I think that we need to have a Bureau for the Analyzing and Research of Food (BARF). Every single product made or fruit grown would have to pass the BARF test, in which small samples of food are fed to people. Then we wait to see if they die. If it passes the BARF test, we will release it to the public. Unless it was fresh produce, which probably went rotten in the waiting process, so we'll just throw that away. Nobody needs fresh produce anymore, we have cans and preservatives now.

Who will be the guinea pigs in my program? Well, I hear we have to feed child rapists in prison. And we can't be too naïve and eliminate the possibility of Justin Bieber being an official BARF tester. It's genius. If there is a deadly virus, only a few people will die and we can then track down the farm that grew the killer plants and publicly flog them.

In fact, I think that it's such an ingenious idea they should make me the head of BARF. And trust me, I would do my fair share of tasting. Because somebody has to make sure those steaks don't have mad cow.

Monday, September 19, 2011

King of the Jungle

So I was watching TV with my neighbors when a commercial came on announcing that The Lion King was making its way back to theaters, this time in 3-D.

Frankly, I haven't been this excited by something I saw on TV since the day I first saw a Snuggie infomercial. In my opinion, The Lion King is one of, if not the greatest children's film of all time. You are very welcome to argue that point, at which time I will stick my fingers in my ear and sing “NAAAAH Sabenya chacha be someho choo choo hoo ben yen mama blah blah yah,” or whatever the heck the words are to the first part of that song. To this day I don't think anybody knows for sure. I just remember that I had a classmate in high school who could sing that first note eerily well. By all other accounts she was a normal person, but this ability scared me, especially since she would do it at very unexpected times, which can be startling.

Teacher: So if you turn to page three, you will see -

Classmate: "NAAAAAH..."

Anyway, the music is just one of the great things about that movie. The next time you are in a group of people, just start singing “A wimoweh a wimoweh a wimoweh.” I guarantee everybody in the group will instantly follow along and before you know it the whole room will be singing that song. I once started it in a group of guys while we were too drunk to stand, much less harmonize. But without communicating at all, we instantly synched up and each of us took a different part of the song.

**WARNING: Do not attempt this in job interviews, funerals, senate floor hearings and lecture halls. Wait, scratch that, an entire lecture hall singing that song would be awesome. But definitely not funerals.**

And it's not just the soundtrack, the movie teaches us so many life lessons. The circle of life for instance. This movie taught me that I have a role in the circle of life, and that role is to eat lots of large animals. Me eating enormous quantities of cows and pigs is frankly the only thing that is keeping our delicate ecosystem working, according to Elton John. I'm assuming that vegans never watched The Lion King growing up. Maybe if the vegans had done their job, there wouldn’t have been any cows to trample Mufasa to death.

But as you would probably expect, my favorite characters in the movie are Timon and Pumba. Their motto of Hakuna matata, no worries, is still the credo that I live my life by. So technically I never do any work and ignore all of my responsibilities because of my religion. So for you to mock me for these things is really insensitive and bigoted when you think about it. I hope you are ashamed of yourself.

The only problem is -


Dammit now I lost my train of thought. Anyway, they just don’t make kids movies like they used to. I’m just sad that my kids will grow up without ever seeing some of these great movies. I mean, they’re already going to be forced to live in a world with global warming, overpopulation, scarce jobs and whatever season of Real World they’ll be on by that time. Without Disney movies to teach them ethics, I fear all of our kids are going to grow up to be sociopathic killers.

Then again, there are people who are convinced The Lion King is also sending negative messages. For instance, Rafiki clearly abuses drugs. And then there is the infamous secret message, which spells out the word “sex.” Or possibly “sty.” Or “Styx.” Or it’s a map of I-25. Seeing as most kids don’t know what sex is I don’t see how it matters (I don’t think I even knew how to read when I watched these movies.)

So make fun of me all you want, but I might seriously go see this movie. And early box office returns show that I’m not the only one. I’m holding out hope that most of those are new parents taking an entire new generation of kids to go see this movie, because that’s how the circle of life works, according to Mufasa. And you do not mess with Mufasa. I’m looking at you, vegans.


Sunday, September 11, 2011

Triker Gang

Now, as a staunch environmentalist I am very much in favor of any event that combines an alternative, fuel-free form of healthy transportation with large quantities of beer. So you can understand why I think I have now found my favorite event of all time. It's a truly magical experience involving three wheels, two riders, one bar and no shame: Trike Night.

Trike Night is an event at my local bar that basically consists of drunk people riding around on a large tricycle. It truly is one of the great athletic showcases of our generation.

So here is basically what happens: You find a partner, pick a team name and a theme song (and yes, just in case you were wondering, everybody picks Queen's “Bicycle”). The rest is pretty easy. You ride around in a circle in the bar, and the best time wins.

Simple right? Well it is, but that is why they add booze. Both riders must take a shot halfway through and then chug a beer at the end of the ride. Alcohol has the magical property of turning even the most simple and mundane of tasks into an adventure full of dangerous obstacles. Walls for instance.

It really is pretty entertaining to watch people so drunk they can hardly stand try to pedal in furious little circles on a tricycle that doesn't really work. The only way it would be more entertaining is if they used a unicycle. Also, watching women chug beer is sort of like what I imagine it will be like watching Chaz Bono do the tango: it's slow, it's not pretty, but you just can't turn away from the wreckage. Plus it's the only time you can legally ride tricycles drunk without getting a BUI.

So despite all of the inherent dangers of drinking on a Tuesday night, me and three friends decided to a few weeks ago. Now, for my two friends Baddie and Midget, this was their first trike night. But for me and my old roommate Chris, this was a chance at redemption, because our last trike night experience had more hitches than a Charles Barkley golf swing.

It all started when Chris' turn came up. Now, you could say Chris was slightly inebriated, but it would probably be more accurate to say he was hammered. Anyway, he made it through the first half fine. Then he went to take his shot from a tray of drinks. And in one smooth motion that the late Michael Jackson would have been proud of, he knocked over the entire table of shots.

Now I'm not saying I did any better. I forgot to spin around on the bar stool (yes, that is a step) and ran over a woman's toe and crashed into a guy's butt. So we had a chip on our shoulders that night.

We almost were robbed of our chance at redemption, because some wasted girl managed to crash and break the tricycle. At least I think she was drunk. She may have just crashed because she is a woman. But they took the tricycle in the back room, and in a process that I am assuming somehow involves duct tape and Elmer's glue, fixed it. Sort of.

So as our turn finally arrived, and we got together for a final huddle before the moment of truth, a moment of clarity before the crucial seconds. Just like Elway before “The Drive,” Jordan before “The Shot,” Bilbo before “The Hobbit,” we stared at each other with steely-eyed determination and made a final declaration: “Let's just try not to spill beer on ourselves.”

Which for the most part we did not. Both our team and the girls made it through unscathed. (By the way, I told Baddie and Midget, who are identical twins, to use the team name “Twins on Schwins.” I thought it was hilarious and clever. They did not, but then again, they also have no idea what a Schwin is.) Of course, the best team name must go to two lesbians who dubbed themselves "Dykes on Trikes."

All in all it was a successful night, and I plan on going back often. It helps that the bar is literally 50 yards away from my apartment. After all, I always said I needed to start exercising.

Monday, August 1, 2011

iHate Apple

Just the other day, I got a call from my mother. Now, I love my mother, but she generally calls me for one of two reason: to complain about something or to ask me my opinion on something before telling me that my opinion is wrong and completely ignoring it.

This was one of those times. She called to ask me whether she should get my sister an iPad before she goes to college in a month. I of course said no, since the iPad is the most useless technological innovation since Prius brakes. It's only function is literally to tell people “Hey look, I have an iPad!”

I mean, it's too big to really carry it with you anywhere, and it's too small to do anything useful. Although it does have this really neat app that lets you play with pixie dust that is really entertaining if you are drunk.

But you should take what I say with a grain of salt, because I am not normally a big fan of technology. I am what I like to call “technologically unintuitive.” Other people refer to this as “stupid.” Me and technology don't really get along. Technology is supposed to make my life easier, but I am convinced that it is out to kill me. For instance, the delightful voice on my GPS keeps telling me to “take a sharp left into oncoming traffic,” before telling me it is currently “recalculating.”

So you can imagine how frightened I was when I recently had to go buy a mac laptop. Now, I normally don't like macs since they forgot somewhere along the manufacturing line to put in a goddam right-click button, but I needed some of the macs programs.

The first thing I did when I showed up at the store was make sure it was an actual apple store, because believe it or not, you can't be sure anymore. The first thing you should do to make sure you are not in a fake Chinese Apple store is make sure you are not in China. Once you are certain of that (the best way to check is to see if the Google on the computers will let you search “Tienanmen Square”) you can commence giving the store your life savings.

Everything in the store will probably cost more than Charlie Sheen's last hooker. They try to make you forget this by letting you look at all the fancy looking gizmos and play Angry Birds. So my approach was to rush up to the nearest person, point at the laptop, and tell them I want it. Of course, that person then informed me they didn't work there and slowly backed away from me.

Eventually I actually found a person who worked there and told them what I wanted, offered a kidney as a down payment, and then proceeded to the checkout line. Except there is no checkout line in Apple stores. That is because they do this weird thing where they try to show off how useful their iPhones are by swiping your credit card on their phones. Which seems a little suspicious to me. For one thing, to this day I have no idea where my receipt is. It's probably lost forever in cyberspace, unlike good old print receipts, which I can easily keep track of (they are lost forever in the back seat of my car).

But just because you've swiped your personal information through a little doo-hicky attached to a phone that could have “Ice, Ice Baby” for a ringtone, doesn't mean the fun is over. Because now comes *cue ominous music*...the tutorial. “Dun Dun DUN.”

The tutorial is when the Apple employee assumes that you, the customer, have fig newtons for brains and do not have any idea how to turn on the computer. They never go through the hard stuff that I don't know how to do, but they make sure to school you on the one step that I do know (“Push the big ON button”).

After they went over that important step, they proceeded to try and sell me more things and collect my e-mail address and all sorts of other highly uncomfortable things before I ran screaming. By the time I got home I needed some stress relief. I'm assuming there is an app for that, but since I don't have an iPad, I'll stick with beer.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

All Hail the Chief!

Just like most Americans, growing up I dreamed of someday being the President of the United States of America. Okay, so it may have been third on my dream jobs list after being a surfer and the sixth member of the Backstreet Boys. But those dreams are out of my reach now (my audition video of me singing “Larger Than Life” keeps getting lost in the mail somehow), whereas my dream of running the country is very much alive.

That's because Facebook has taken a break from making their chat feature impossible to use and come out with an app that could make me the next president. The “Double Rainbow” guy from YouTube is already signed up, so it must be a great idea. It's called Votocracy, and even though I know nothing about it and just read about it ten minutes ago, I am going to use it to announce that I will be running for president in 2013. Or whenever the elections are. I should probably look that up. Not that it matters since I lost my voter registration card, which is for Hawaii anyway, which gets like half an electoral vote.

Now, why do I want to run for president? For the good of the people of course. And by “people” I mean “me and the hot women I will invite to parties in the White House.” Because the bennys are all that really count in any job. Just think, you can fly anywhere you want on Air Force One, play beer pong on the Resolute desk, drunk dial Ann Coulter and pardon Wesley Snipes so they can make Blade 4. You can also have a parade of black Escalades drive you around, at least when they're not being rented out by P Diddy. Or Diddy Dirty Money, or Puff the Magic Daddy or whatever we're calling him today.

And before you bring up how horrible a president I would make, just remember it's not like I have much to live up to. Unlike certain past presidents, I have never had sexual relations with that woman (depending on your definition of the word “woman.”) Plus, look at the other candidates you have to choose from. Michelle Bachman is Sarah Palin but from a different part of Canada (Minnesota, as opposed to Alaska). Newt Gingrich has been legally dead since 2004. Mitt Romney, according to some nasty rumors, collects toe nails clippings.

Okay, so I started those rumors just now. But in addition to making up incriminating evidence on my opponents, I also can solve issues. I would solve health care by ordering new National Geographics for waiting rooms around the country. I would solve the debt by selling the state of California to the highest bidder (“Do I hear $300 billion from China?). I would lock up Casey Anthony, end the NFL lockout, make J.K. Rowling write more Harry Potter books, ban GEICO commercials and bring back Johnny Bravo.

So you should definitely support me as I begin my arduous political campaign from my couch (Motto: “We Itch for Mitch!”). The only problem is I need you to donate about $100 to my Votocracy page to get me on the ballot. But I'm sure you, my loyal followers, will come through. Or I could always hop on the Double Rainbow ticket. By the way, “hopping on the double rainbow” has to be a the greatest euphemism for getting high I've ever heard.

Bummer Update: Did you know you had to be at least 35 years old to run for president? So my campaign has hit a snag before it even got going. That would have been more devastating but my research also showed I would have to start my campaign in Iowa and New Hampshire, which I'm worried might actually involved trips to Iowa or New Hampshire.

Personally, I think the age limit should be 21. Frankly, once you are allowed to start drinking legally your decision making sort of goes downhill from there.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

The Silver Bullet

So my family and some family friends came up to Colorado to visit me for graduation. But graduation only lasts so long, so eventually we had to find something better to do than sit around drinking. So we went to the Coors factory in Golden to stand around drinking instead.

The Coors factory is where they brew several beers, including Coors Light. I like beer, and I like drinking inappropriate amounts of it and then making inappropriate jokes about people’s ethnic background. I like beer because it is simple. You don’t need to mix it, stir it, chase it, shoot it or sniff it. You open it, you drink it, you piss it out, and you repeat.

Coors is no different. They love to market themselves as the "coldest beer in the world," which always confused me. I figured I was the one who determined how cold my beer was. For instance, I rarely wait before the mountains turn blue before I start drinking them. They get to this sort of light, bluish gray color and then I just drink it.

Now, Coors is famous for their commercials, which tout Coors as being brewed in the Rockies with Rocky Mountain water by Rocky Mountain men who have beards and wear jeans and have firm handshakes. All of the commercials show epic scenery with lush evergreens and mountains and bald eagles and stuff. Then you actually get there. There are a few lumps of dirt, but that’s about it.

So we got there and find out that the tour is actually free, and for a reason. It’s not really a “tour” in the sense that there is no tour guide, no tour exhibits, and very few tourists. It was really a five minute walk through parts of their building with an audio device that you could use to hear about key stops on the walk, like the men’s bathroom.

There were several helpful people seated near some of the exhibits. One of them delightfully informed us that every batch of beer that Coors brews is tasted to ensure that it is up to Coors standards (that is, very low). This was very interesting to me, because that sounded to me like an awesome job. I like drinking large quantities of beer. I love getting paid. I have low standards. Could this be my dream job?

Turns out it’s not. Apparently you have to have a very sophisticated palette, and as most people can tell you, sophisticated is one thing that I am not. Besides, you can’t drink off the job or you could ruin your taste buds (I just think it’s weird that a job requires you to drink at work, and then forbids it at home).

Anyway, all in all the tour lasted about ten minutes. This was fine with me, because frankly the only part I cared about was the samples at the end of the tour. Now, I am not one of those beer snobs who can tell you about the hoppiness or the citrus flavor of a beer or whatever. All beer tastes like stale rat’s piss, so there really isn’t much of a difference. But I do have a favorite type of beer: free beer.

So I was excited for my free samples. Each person on the tour was allowed to have three glasses of free beers, and no sharing was allowed. I think you all know that I did not exactly follow this rule. I tried about five different types of beer. I assessed the flavors and the feel of the beer with the following sentiment: “BUURP.” Then I went and drank more of it.

Of course, no tour would be complete without the gift shop. Normally I skip gift shops, but then again normally I’m used to gift shops simply being full of ugly t-shirts and key chains and those license plates with your name on it (and for some reason, they never have my name). But this gift shop had bottle openers and pint glasses and, most importantly, more beer.

So overall, I would say it was the perfect destination. In fact, with all of the breweries in Colorado, I’m thinking of drinking my way around the state. I’m starting with my fridge.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Osama Got Pwned

It truly is a great time to be an American. Because we have once again proved that when you mess with the red, white and blue, people with guns will descend out of the sky and shoot you in the head in the middle of the night. Just to be patriotic, you should play this song the whole time you are reading this entry (and beware, there is some very patriotic swearing involved).

As you must know by now, a team of American SEALS shot and killed Osama bin Laden on Sunday, ending what was basically a ten year game of hide and seek with guns. While the British were busy wearing silly hats, we laid down the law. Sure, he may not be technically running al Qaeda anymore, but I think we can safely say he had this coming.

In fact, I think we were a little too nice to him. Apparently we tried to observe all of the religious guidelines to getting rid of his body. Or at least that’s what I was told. But then I read that they dumped his body in the ocean. Now, I’m not too familiar with Islam, but I had no idea becoming fish food was part of the religious process. But it's okay, because I'm sure he is off to go see his 72 virgins as we speak.

But apparently no country wanted to deal with his remains, and I guess launching him into space was too expensive and tossing him into the fires of Mt. Doom was a little too nerdy. Frankly, I would have loved to have been the country to take him. I would set up his body in one of those dunking booths, except the water tank would be filled with piranhas. Kids would love it. I just feel sorry for the Atlantic Ocean. First BP spills a ton of oil and now they have to do deal with this guy being dumped. Nobody will ever want to swim there again.

But back to the part where we shot him in the face. The details are still coming out, but apparently they followed one of his couriers back to the hideout after what I can only assume were liquor runs. Honestly, I’m a little peeved that he was hiding in a house this whole time. I figured if he was dodging us for ten years, he better at least be somewhere deep in the mountains with only goats for conjugal company. But no, he’s just chilling at some house with fifty wives, throwing pajama parties and watching The Real World. I mean even Sadaam Hussein was found in a hole in the ground.

Thankfully, all that comfort ended when a team of Americans raided his house in what I’m assuming will one day be a movie starring Channing Tatum. How would you like to be the guy who shot Osama? The SEAL team was told to not tell anybody about the raid, but come on, are you telling me you wouldn’t tell people? It would be an awesome go-to story to tell at parties to impress drunk chicks. Whereas the story I tell now involves a gallon of old milk, a parking lot and a small dog and isn’t nearly as exciting.

What’s even worse is that for all the secrecy surrounding this operation, one thing almost blew it: Twitter. As if I needed another reason to hate Twitter, some guy next door started unknowingly tweeting details about the raid. Thankfully nobody read his tweets, but imagine if anybody cared who he was? Because you know that Osama has a Twitter account that he uses to see what meaningless things Ashton Kutcher is up to.

I remember people always ask me where I was when I found out about 9/11, and my answer is never good. Because 9/11 happened at about 5 in the morning in Hawaii, so I was in bed. But I remember very clearly where I was when I found out Osama was dead. I was on my couch. I’m on my couch for a lot of major events in history. I was drinking and watching baseball when the most amazing thing happened. The Philadelphia Philly fans began to chant in unison, “U-S-A!” This was remarkable for several reasons. For one, I didn’t think Philly fans could spell. Also, normally Philadelphia fans are so drunk and angry that the only they can chant in unison is “boo.”

But that shows how a nothing brings a country together like the gruesome death of somebody we don’t like. The world is now a safer place. Except for Kim Jong-Il. He might want to start checking Twitter more often.

Saturday, April 30, 2011

Here Comes the Bride

So apparently somebody got married yesterday. That of course was sarcastic. All I’ve heard or seen on TV for the past week is wedding this, wedding that, and I’m just about sick and tired of it.

Now, I’m still not exactly sure what the big deal is with the royal family. I mean, they don’t even do anything, that I’m aware of. Their job is literally to sit there and be famous and rich for no reason. If we had a royal family here, it would probably be the Kardashians.

Now, I am going to say right off the bat I’m not the biggest fan of weddings, unless there is an open bar. You have to dress up and be very proper, two things I’m not good at, especially in the presence of open bars. Plus weddings are generally full of crazy women who are a little extra crazy because they’re all emotional (and don’t forget the open bar). So no, of course I did not watch the royal wedding.

Okay, so maybe I watched a little of it. All of the TVs at work were tuned to it, so I really had no choice. But let me just say that it wasn’t exactly pleasant. I mean, the royal wedding pretty much encompassed everything in this world I despise: weddings, fancy clothes, pompous British people, large churches and stupid hats. Then of course David and Victoria Beckham showed up embodying all of that and added soccer and the Spice Girls to that list.

And don’t even get me started on the dress. One girl asked me what kind of dress Kate would wear, and she got mad at me when I said “Probably a white one.” For weeks, all anybody could talk about was what the dress would look like, bringing in experts to give their predictions and insiders spreading rumors. Then they talked for hours that day, breaking down the possibilities.

Now, some women might point out that this is no different than the NFL draft that guys have been watching all weekend, to which I say… Okay you might have a point. Especially when you consider that ESPN draft expert Mel Kiper’s hair is stupider than any hat the Brits could have come up with.

The dress was finally revealed and, as always, I was right. It was white. And as usual it had a ridiculously huge train, but not nearly as big as Princess Diana’s. I just want to know how many other smaller, weaker dresses that dress ate to get that big. The only thing I liked about Kate’s train is that her sister, Pippa, was carrying it, and Pippa’s dress was awesome. Mainly because it hugged her body so close she had to get a restraining order on it.

Anyway, I finally lost interest at around the part when 70 million little children started singing and more people in stupid hats came out. It really is too bad, because as far as I can tell, Kate and William actually do like each other. As opposed to Diana and Charles, who had about as much chemistry as the plastic dolls on their wedding cake (and looked even less excited). She wanted to be a queen. He wanted to pretend he wasn’t gay.

I was too young for all that Princess Di stuff, but apparently it devastated England when their marriage fell apart and Diana died. And considering their weather sucks and their food is horrible and their favorite sport is soccer, the English can’t afford any more depressing events. Sure, it may sound pathetic that the mood of an entire nation rests upon the very unstable structure that is modern day marriage, but oh well.

I’m just worried that even if they love each other, the pressure will get to them. I mean, billions of people watched their wedding. Imagine how awkward it will be when they want to have 24/7 E! coverage of their first night as a married couple. Maybe they will bring in a team of experts to break down the tape:

Mel Kiper: “Decent stamina, but he needs to work on his hands and his movement in his hips. Not super talented, but he gets the most out of what he has.” (And yes, that was an actual quote from this year’s NFL draft coverage).

But never the less, I’m sure everything will work out. After all, what girl doesn’t want to be a princess? Judging by all the angry single women I see at weddings, I’m assuming it’s a lot.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Party and Party and Yeah!

In case you didn’t know somehow (like you are a responsible citizen), tomorrow is 4/20, which means thousands of stoners descend upon our campus to protest the injustice of current marijuana laws get ridiculously high. I’m not sure where the hell they come from, and I’m never sure where they go when they’re done. They should make some sort of Animal Planet documentary about it, with one of those British narrators.

British guy: "Sensing the time has come, the stoner manages to get up from sitting on his couch smoking cannabis and begins the long journey to go sit on the lawn and smoke cannabis. The stoner may pack bags of Cheetos as an energy source for the trek. It is a long and arduous journey, and many of the weaker stoners simply give up and smoke in the middle of their dorm lobby, where they are quickly picked off by preying campus security…"

Not that anybody will ever get busted for anything on 4/20. You are more likely to get arrested for shooting someone in Texas than for having pot on 4/20. But the school is starting to get pretty pissed. It’s never a good thing when you are a place of higher learning and you are nationally famous for the same reason Cheech and Chong are. So how did they respond? With a strongly worded letter.

The school is desperate for the event to stop because they’re getting some bad press. Because as if you needed another reason to be insanely jealous of me, Playboy recently announced that the University of Colorado is the biggest party school in the U.S. Haha, did you expect me to link you to Playboy? Pervert. If you want to see bunnies and pussy, click here.

Anyway we somehow managed to top all the new STDs that Arizona State comes up with weekly. It’s like a giant petri dish down there. But Playboy said that the copious amounts of weed and alcohol we ingest more than made us worthy of the top spot.

Now the pot thing is a little shameful, but I don’t see what is wrong with being known for having a lot of great local beers. The problem is when certain people drink several cases of great local beer on Tuesdays before their poetry class, and then try to rhyme “tuna” with “beluga.” Not that I would personally know anything about drinking unsafe amounts of alcohol. Depending on your definition of “unsafe.” Sure, I have the occasional drink. I just have occasions a lot. I also don’t do a great job of spacing out my occasions. But anybody who thinks that my drinking habits interfere with my ability to function in society have clearly never seen me try to function sober. It can’t get a whole lot worse.

Not that I haven’t done anything stupid while I was drunk before, and this is where I agree with Playboy. Boulder gives you a lot of opportunities to do very stupid things. For instance, on the street where most of the bars are, for some reason there are about ten different bronze statues of various animals and figures. I’m almost certain that there are pictures of me on the Internet doing inappropriate things to every single one of those statues.

There are also a lot of injury opportunities when you’ve been drinking in Boulder. I’ve gotten ripped toenails, sprained toes, cuts, burns, bites (from humans and birds) and have been forced several times to do something called a “stuntman shot.” (And by “forced” I mean “drunkenly volunteered”.) The one thing that is safer about Boulder is the fact that drivers are already on the lookout for stupid people on the sidewalks who refuse to walk in straight lines. I mean, even sober Boulder pedestrians tend to be very erratic in their routes.

But as much as I benefit from going to the top party school in the nation (I mean, strictly pride-wise), I can see how the faculty don’t see it as a positive. I mean, when tell people I go to CU, I don’t want to always have this conversation:

Them: “So, did you go to CU to party?”

Me: “No, I chose CU because of their excellent academic curriculum.”

Them: “Oh I see. So what is you major?”

Me: “I'm part of CU's first-rate journalism school.”

Them: "Their what?"

Me: "Oh yeah... Never mind, I came here to party."

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Prom Night

My younger sister recently had her senior prom. I know this because all of a sudden my Facebook feed has been clogged with her and her friends’ prom photos for the better part of a week now. This of course drudged up memories of my prom experiences, which I’ve tried very hard to bury deep within my memory, along with that whole boy band phase everybody went through in middle school.

But for most people, prom is the highlight of their high school lives. It gives high school kids the chance to wear fancy clothes, dance with their teen heartthrobs, and then try beer for the first time and throw up on both. It’s basically high school in a nutshell: teens trying to be as cool and grownup as they can considering their parents are chaperoning fifteen feet away.

Okay sorry I know that a lot of people loved their senior prom. I’m not one of them. Although when you think about it, it’s not that surprising. I hate dancing, wearing nice clothes, and staying up past 10. There is literally nothing about prom that would appeal to me except for the buffet and that part of the night where they always play the "Electric Slide" and "YMCA."

In fact, I very nearly did not even go to my own senior prom. After a bit of a faux pas trying to get a date to my junior prom, I was pretty content with saving some money and staying home. But because I was the senior class president, I somehow got lassoed into being on the prom committee. I objected, since there were probably starving children in Africa who cared more about this prom than I did.

But I ended up on the committee anyway. So now in addition to showing up to a prom I didn’t want to go to, I had to help set it up. Now, the year was 2007, so like 95% of the high schools in America that year, we had the whole 007 theme. And of course, the girls wanted a balloon arch.

Now, let’s just get something out of the way very quickly. Anybody who thinks that proms are about couples is naïve. Proms are society’s way of introducing women to the concept that the world revolves around them. Mess with prom and you will have hordes of angry, unstable teenage women very mad at you, as I would find out numerous times that year.

Women care very deeply about prom. They spend months looking for a dress, whereas the only thing I changed about my outfit from my junior to my senior prom was the color of my tie. They spend hours on their hair and makeup, whereas I woke up from a nap about an hour before the dance started.

So anyway, getting back to the balloon arch. The women wanted one, but about ten hours before the prom, they all left to go do their hair. Which means that me and five other guys were in charge of making a balloon arch. I think you can see where this is going. For one thing, none of us knew how the hell to make a balloon arch. Secondly, none of us gave a damn about the balloon arch. Third, the helium tank broke halfway through, which meant that we were using our breath to blow up about half of the balloons.

Needless to say, what resulted about five hours later was the most pathetic looking balloon structure since the Hindenburg crashed. It sort of sagged in the parts where we ran out of helium, so it looked more like the outline of a slug than an arch. The women of course were not happy, but then again, you should always expect failure when you assign a task to five men (unless that task involves drinking large amounts of beer).

After spending the entire day preparing for the prom, I spent most of the actual prom sitting at a table playing cards listening to our retarded DJ play Sean Paul’s “Temperature” every ten minutes. The best part was when the prom ended, and I got to pop every single one of those goddam balloons with a butter knife. After watching all the cool kids leave to go get thrown out at second base and get drunk off Zimas, a few of us suckers stayed behind to clean up everything and then headed back to the room to play Wii Tennis.

So you can see why senior prom was not exactly the highlight of my life. But thankfully it looks like my sister had a much better time than I did. Probably because their class never asked me to help with the balloon arch.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Blood Lust

So yesterday I gave blood again, and I know that many of you out have considered giving blood but have questions that you want answered by a trusted expert. Well, I have a blog and I used to be great at the game Operation, so I’m pretty sure that qualifies me to answer all of your questions.

Anyway, the first thing that will happen is the blood bank will call you at 6 in the morning. I’m assuming they do this because if you are capable of answering the phone at 6 in the morning, you are probably not hung-over. Also, it implies you are alive, which makes it easier to give blood.

Now, I’m not sure if they call everybody, but I made the mistake of being born with blood type O. For those of you who don’t know, there are four blood types, A, B, AB and O. Type A can receive A and O, B can receive B and O, and AB can receive all of them, and O can only get O.

Now, I’m assuming that they give the blood to people who need it, and not vampires or something. So I don’t get too upset about them wanting my blood. After all, I used to bottle it after nights of heavy drinking and sell it to liquor stores, so it’s not like I need all of it.

Anyway, once you actually go to the blood bank, you are asked to fill out a very long questionnaire. Believe it or not, they don’t let just anyone give blood. People who have diseases, use drugs, worked as a prostitute, have tattoos, might be pregnant, or have had sex with anybody who has done any of those things is frowned upon. They could probably save a lot of time by just putting the question “Is your name Charlie Sheen?” at the top of the form (although maybe that’s how they get Tiger’s Blood).

Once they are certain that your blood will not burn holes in the ground, they proceed to actually take your blood. Now at this point you are greeted by a phlebotomist, which is what they call the person who is about to drain you of half your blood. But it is an awesome sounding job name. It sounds like someone who shoves firecrackers up a frog’s butt for a living or something. They need to make a children’s show called “Phil the Phlebotomist.”

But the smile you have on your face from singing the theme song you’ve made up in your head for Phil the Phlebotomist will soon be wiped off of your face. Because at this point, the smiling phlebotomist puts a napkin over your shirt, “just in case some blood squirts out.” In case you couldn’t tell, phlebotomists are not as squeamish about blood as normal people. I’m pretty sure it excites them. Then they proceed to bring out a needle the size of a harpoon and says “you should probably look away.”

Now, I’m not that bad anymore, but I used to be terrified of needles. I used to scream out in pain before the needle even hit me. I was one of those kids who never pretended to be sick, because I was always worried that if I went to the doctor, they might try to stick me with random needles. That is why, to this day, I prefer cocaine to heroin (I mean, assuming I was forced to choose).

Luckily after that bit of discomfort, the rest is relatively painless. At least it is for some people. Apparently losing a ton of your blood can make some people lightheaded, but it’s funny how it affects only some people. Now, I’m used to operating without much blood flowing to my brain, so I have never had a problem. But I once saw a 245 pound man throw up while the 115 pound girl next to him had no problem (other than the fact there was a large man next to her throwing up).

What’s great is that they always insist on showing you the blood afterward, which probably doesn’t help. “Here is how much blood you no longer have flowing to your vital organs!” they cheerfully say. And that is not counting the blood that will continue to seep out of the various holes they’ve poked in your arm. Although they do give you several colorful options for the bandage.

Then of course, comes the great part. They give you lots of free snacks. Then they tell you that you should eat a lot of food and not do anything strenuous for the next day or so. I do that anyway, but it’s nice to do it under doctor’s orders for once. So I normally just put my feet up on the couch, eat a large meal and make people do things for me since I am not supposed to move my arm. I love giving back to the community.

Now, as usual I'm exaggerating, and giving blood is a relatively pain-free process and it saves lives. So give it a try.