My Toe Hurts

People always told me that wearing rubber slippers in the winter would one day come back to haunt me. Of course, I always thought that they meant I would get frostbite and my toe would fall off or something. But on Wednesday I found out that wasn’t what they meant.

I was minding my own business, walking out of the bathroom when somebody decided that they would blast open the bathroom door. The bottom of the door then proceeded to rip off my big toenail. Now, it is still attached at the base, but just at the very base. I looked down at my toe and said several eloquent words that out of politeness I will not repeat here, but to summarize, it was something along the lines of, “Owwie.”

For the first few seconds I didn’t realize exactly what had happened. I thought I had just scraped my toe. Then I touched my toenail and it began to gush blood like some sort of B-movie horror flick. Unfortunately, I couldn’t really do too much about it, because I was in between classes. I wrapped a napkin around it, put some tape on it, and limped into my writing class, where I probably proceeded to gross out every one in my group.

So for the next two days, I walked around with my toe wrapped. Or at least I thought it was wrapped. Baddie and Midget informed me that they had seen untrained monkeys do a better job of wrapping up toes. They of course had come over as soon as they heard about my unfortunate incident, since they take great enjoyment out of seeing me in various types of physical and mental anguish.

Anyway, I finally went to the doctor on Friday, since I was slightly worried that my toe had still not stopped leaking blood. I figured that the doctor would give me a better idea of what I did to my toe, maybe give me some pain medication and maybe teach me how to properly wrap my toe (or get the monkey to at least).

This just shows how stupid and naïve I am. Every time I go the doctor I never get what I want. You think that after my last visit I would have learned my lesson. You might as well just sit at home and save yourself the trip, because the doctor is never going to tell you anything that you don’t already know. He informed me that I had two choices: I could leave the nail on and hope it didn’t get infected and it fell off on its own, or get it surgically removed. Being the little weenie that I am, I heard the word surgery and said “Hell no,” and tried to run out of the room before I realized that it hurt to run.

Since I was not getting my nail removed, he prescribed me some antibiotics. But he was not done yet. You see, doctors follow something called the Hippocratic Oath, which states that they are not allowed to let a patient leave until they have stabbed them with a needle of some sort. Just as I was about to leave, my doctor realized that he had not done this yet, and was at risk of getting his medical degree stolen by the needle fairy.

Doctor: I think I need to give you a tetanus shot.

Me: I’m not sure what this has to do with my toe, but I already had my tetanus shot anyway.

Doctor: But this tetanus shot is different. It treats whooping cough.

Me: So it’s not a tetanus shot. It’s a shot for whooping cough?

Doctor: Shhh…

Now, I don’t want to sound like I don’t believe him. I mean, I only have an undergraduate degree in journalism, while he probably spent ten years and lots of his parents’ money in medical school. But I don’t see how a shot for whooping cough is supposed to help my toe stop bleeding. But before I could object, some random lady comes in, stabs me in the arm with a needle and walks off.

Now, they told me that the shot might make my arm a bit sore. At first I didn’t notice anything. Then I woke up Saturday morning and it hurt to even move my arm. So to recap: I went to the doctor with a sore toe, and left with a sore toe and a sore arm. I somehow left the doctor’s office with more things wrong with me than I went in with.

Thankfully my toe for the most part has stopped bleeding and the pain and the swelling are going down. But the plus is that he told me that I should wear slippers to let my toe breathe, so now I have a medical excuse not to wear shoes. Sure, my toe is now a strange shade of purple and now my back hurts because I’m walking off balance. As it turns out, your big toe is an important part of walking. Oh well. At least I won’t get the whooping cough.

WARNING: Reading This May Cause Retardation

I have finally figured out a way to get rich quickly by taking advantage of my one God-given talent: clumsiness. As a lazy person I am constantly on the lookout for ways to make loads of money without doing any work, so you can imagine just how excited I got when I read this story.

$15 million? That is just a little ridiculous. I mean, how was she awarded $4.5 million for economic losses? I mean, I know she couldn’t return to work for three years, but she was driving a truck, not mining unobtainium. That’s right, Avatar reference, BOO-YA! (although I’m not certain if that is how you spell boo-yah).

Now what will most likely happen is that Wal-Mart will appeal the decision and the judge will probably reduce her award slightly. After all, Wal-Mart hasn’t been underpaying their employees and neglecting their grease covered walkways to lose money. And speaking of that, what the hell is a “grease interceptor?” Is it some guy running around in the sewer lines with a bucket? By the way, Gary and the Grease Interceptors would be a great name for a band (assuming you know somebody named Gary).

Anyway, what makes me most upset is not that this woman is being awarded all of this money. What pisses me off is that most of that money will be going to (cue ominous music): lawyers, the second lowest life form on planet earth after the Kardashians. I mean, this lady is the one who actually suffered. I imagine spinal injuries can’t be fun, so she deserves some money. Is it her fault that the jury was stupid and gave her way too much money? But the lawyer did nothing except sit there in his fancy office with his fancy law degree hanging on his wall with its fancy Latin writing. Besides, it was the lawyers who probably wrote up the lawsuit and decided how much money they would try to weasel out of the deal. In fact, I can almost guarantee that this lady barely had time to get up from her fall before seventy lawyers were standing over her drooling.

Lawyers have the extraordinary ability to find the stupidest people alive, get them to do something stupid to hurt themselves, and then get these stupid people a stupid amount of money. They say America is the “land of opportunity,” and lawyers have taken that statement to mean “land of potential lawsuits.” Because of this, companies have to put labels on everything detailing even the most basic things. For instance, I was looking at a jar of peanuts the other day when something struck me as odd. For one thing, I don’t eat peanuts, so why do I have a jar of peanuts? Ask my mother, who sent them to me in a care package for some weird reason, as if she thought that jars of peanuts were only available in Hawaii.

Anyway, the weirder thing I noticed was the label, which said INGRIDIENTS: PEANUTS. Right under that, it said the following: WARNING: CONTAINS PEANUTS. Now, most of us with an IQ above that of a tumble weed would already know that there were peanuts in our jar of peanuts. But you just know that somewhere, some idiot allergic to peanuts would pick up a jar of them without that warning and eat them and go into anaphylactic shock. When they ask him in the hospital what he was thinking, he of course will say that he thought his jar of peanuts contained something else, like plums.

And so now our coffee must be labeled hot, our plastic bags labeled choking hazards and Paris Hilton’s vagina labeled a toxic wasteland. And yet, lawyers and idiots find a way around these labels to find ever creative means of making easy money. If a toaster has the instructions “DON’T STICK A FORK IN THIS TOASTER YOU BUMBLING RETARD,” the idiot will of course stick a spoon in there, at which point the lawyer will insist that the company should have included all forms of silverware in their warning.

As you can tell I think that civil suits are the most detestable thing in the world. With that said, I plan on using this trend to get filthy rich. I plan on making these companies hire me to think of warnings. That’s right; you need a truly clumsy idiot to figure out the ways in which clumsy idiots can hurt themselves. For instance, you look at a soda can and think “well, that is a soda can.” I, however, think, “hey, some idiot could possibly take that soda can to the beach, and have his friend throw it to him while he is jumping off of a twenty-foot cliff and cut himself on the forehead.” How did I think this up? Because I was that idiot. So now, thanks to me, nobody can sue Coke because there will be a WARNING DO NOT TOSS THIS CAN TO YOUR IDIOT FRIEND WHILE HE IS JUMPING OFF A CLIFF on the side of the can. Companies will be clamoring over my services.

Or if that doesn’t work I plan on jumping in front of cars and then suing the drivers. So if you are driving today, be on the lookout. Especially if you own a Lexus.

Crying Over Spilt Oil

So, I’m not sure if you heard, but there is some sort of oil leak going on. Now, I admit I am a bit late on writing about this, but in my defense, I thought by now they would have solved this problem already. I mean, it’s been more than a month since this thing started leaking oil, and they still haven’t been able to stop it.

It’s not because they haven’t tried though. They have tried a whole bunch of strategies that, when you think about it, are a lot more comical than effective. It’s like they put the Wile E. Coyote in charge. Their first attempt was to just put a big dome over it, but that didn’t work. I have no idea why; I tried to find out but then I saw the words “methane hydrate crystals” and I decided for my safety that I should just stop reading.

Then they tried something called “top kill” which is even more hilarious: they basically just dump a whole bunch of mud into the hole and hope it stops. Now, NASA scientists helped to come up with this theory, so of course it failed miserably. But to me the bigger question is where the hell they are getting all of this mud from? So I advise all of you to be on the lookout for government officials standing in your backyard with buckets and shovels.

BP officials are slowly starting to run out of ideas. At one point, they actually convened a committee of experts, which for some reason included director James Cameron. Now, just because Cameron has hot air coming out his a**hole doesn’t mean he is an expert in energy crises. His only idea was to sink a large ship into the leak and hope that Leonardo DiCaprio’s hair would absorb all of the oil. If they want to get a solution from Hollywood, they should get those oil guys from Armageddon to fix it (by the way, how soon do you think that somebody will make a movie about this?)

At this point I don’t care if they have to shove Kirstie Alley into the hole to stop it from leaking; they just need to stop it. I mean it’s so big that they apparently can see it from space, joining the Great Wall of China, Las Vegas, and the giant hole in the middle of Kansas that BP dug up to make mud for their “top kill” plan. The oil is starting to reach the shores of Louisiana, which can already be heard shouting “No! No, we don’t need FEMA! No, just STAY AWAY! You’ll just screw things up worse!”

Of course, now that the shores are coated with enough grease to slick the Jonas Brother’s hair for the next ten years, the animals are beginning to suffer. As with all oil spills, bleeding heart vegans are rushing out the door with what’s left of your dish soap to go and wash the precious birds that were too stupid to fly away from the oil and instead dove right into it. Also, there is a fishing ban off the Louisiana coast, but I’ve had a personal policy on eating fish from the Gulf Coast for a long time anyway.

Of course, if you thought the animals were suffering, you should try being a BP executive right now. They might as well gather all of their money, put it in a pile, and light it on fire and dance around it. They basically are pumping money into the ocean, and their stock and reputation are taking an even bigger dive. There was even a Facebook group that urged people to piss on BP gas stations, which I would have participated in if I knew where my local BP gas station was. That, and the cops warned me about being naked in public again.

This is all just proof that we should never do things in the deep ocean. I’ve seen all of those Animal Planet shows, not to mention 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. The deep ocean is full of giant killer squids and fish with bigger teeth than Gary Busey with weird little flashlights attached to their foreheads (although that would be convenient for all those times I get lost at night stumbling around in the dark). If we need to drill for oil, let’s do it somewhere where nothing that we care about gets hurt, like the Alaskan wilderness. Ducks are a lot cuter than moose, and unlike moose, ducks don’t eat people.

Anyway, I think that we need to learn some sort of lesson from this whole fiasco, besides figuring out that dumping mud on things stops being a viable solution after preschool. So the next time you drive somewhere to do something stupid and frivolous, like shopping or school, think of all those poor birds covered in oil. But if you do find yourself at the gas station and see me peeing, please don’t call the cops.

I Love Hockey, EH! I Love Drinking, EH! I Love Canada, EH?

Now I will admit that I pick on Canada a lot, and that may be unfair. Because as much as I make fun of them for being drunken, rioting hockey-heads, they are actually a classy bunch of people. Oh, wait, never mind.

Basically, the Montreal Canadiens win a game and their fans then proceed to light their city on fire. By the way, who names their team after their country? It’s a little arrogant don’t you think? Not to mention not very creative (but at least this way, every drunken fan can call themselves the team mascot). Now just to make it clear, the game that the Montreal Canadiens won was not the championship game. It was not even the conference finals. It was the conference semi-finals. I make fun of hockey a lot, but I really do like hockey, and the playoffs in particular are very exciting. But rioting after two series? Of course it’s always possible that this was just an average Thursday in Canada. I would bet money that at least one drunken rioter, when asked about the game, responded: “There was a hockey game tonight?”

I remember sitting on the couch watching fans at the game jumping up and spilling beer on themselves while screaming their lungs out. The sad part is that if I just saw that scene, I would still have no idea who was winning the game. I once went to a Denver Nuggets game against the Toronto Raptors. There was a small section of Toronto fans waving Canadian flags and consuming at least half of the beer in the building. Even though there were thirty of these Canadians in a crowd of 20,000 Americans, the loudest part of the game was the singing of the Canadian national anthem, which I’m pretty sure even the Canadians don’t know the words to. I just heard “Oh Canada!” really loud followed by what sounded like thirty drunk people all mumbling different things. Anyway, the Nuggets were routing the Raptors, yet the happiest people in the building were the Raptors fans, who either are unaware of the rules of basketball, unable to count, or too drunk to give a damn either way.

But you can bet that Canadians care much more about their hockey. When you are only good at a few things (and one of those things are producing irritating singers like Justin Bieber), you have to take pride in those things. I’m sure you all remember the epic gold medal game between the US and Canada a few months ago. Now, we Americans were bummed for a little while that we lost, but we were frankly just happy we got that far. But Canada? If they had lost that game there would have been more suicides than a Jonestown reenactment. To defend their honor, Canada probably would have mobilized their army and invaded our country. Of course, by “mobilized their army” I mean loading seven drunk guys in the back of a truck and by “invade our country” I mean start a few fires in Maine.

What’s ironic is that the hero of that gold medal game was Sidney Crosby, who scored the winning goal. In the days after that win, you probably couldn’t find one woman in the country that didn’t want to have Sidney Crosby’s child. You probably would have had a hard time finding men who didn’t want to have Crosby’s baby. But how quickly things change when most of your country’s population has alcohol-induced short-term memory loss. Canadien’s fans were actually burning pictures of Crosby (who was on the Pittsburgh Penguins, the team that the Canadiens beat), which is pretty much the equivalent of burning pictures of Jesus in Canada.

But we now have to look at the bigger picture. Montreal will now face the winner of tomorrow’s game between Boston and Philadelphia, two cities not exactly known for their restraint either. So no matter what happens, the streets will be filled with drunken hockey hooligans. I mean, if Canadiens fans rioted this much after a second round series, can you imagine what would happen if they won the Stanley Cup? The entire eastern half of Canada will just become engulfed in flames. People in space are going to look down and think “Oh s**t they won.”

So unless you want French-Canada to end up as a pile of ashes (and think hard about your answer to that), we need to take immediate action. We need to start cheering for the San Jose Sharks, who are in the Western Conference finals against the Chicago Blackhawks, to minimize rioting. I’m pretty sure that very few people in San Jose are aware of the fact that they even have a hockey team, much less that they are in the conference finals. If they win, their fans will react the same way they do to everything in Southern California: they will get high and sit on the beach. Of course we could also root for Chicago, whose fans will try to take to the streets to riot but will probably freeze to death before they can do anything.

A Love Letter To Mother Earth

Dear Mother Earth,

So yesterday was Earth Day, when we get together to celebrate the fact that we somehow haven’t blown you up yet. This day really reminded me that I have been taking you for granted. Sure, you and I have had a sort of up and down relationship. I mean, as I’m writing this it is snowing and storming outside. In April. It takes two to make this relationship work Mother Earth, and right now you are pissing me off. And I haven’t even brought up all the earthquakes and volcanoes yet.

But as much as I sometimes get mad at you, some reader’s poignant comments on my space story really brought me back down to Earth (haha pun, and yes I will continue to point out all of my puns). Anyway, the comment said something about how I am crushing the human spirit and make too many jokes (who makes humor jokes on a humor blog?), but this person also pointed out that at any moment we could get hit by a massive asteroid and have to live on Mars (and by the way, Armageddon was on TV twice last night). This comment truly hit me hard; I don’t want to live on Mars. It’s just full of dirt with no scenery whatsoever. It would be like living on Planet Oklahoma.

So I really want to become more environmentally friendly and turn over a new leaf (haha more puns). Luckily for me, this past Tuesday marked a gathering of 10,000 people who really love the environment. That’s right; it was 4/20, when thousands of people gathered in Boulder to commune with Mother Nature by smoking a whole lot of weed and being completely useless to society. If anybody knows anything about going green, it’s these people (okay I promise if you laugh at them, the puns hurt less). You can tell that these people really care about the world simply by looking at the massive pile of trash that they left on the ground after their gathering.

As I was walking through the crowd to try and get to my class (yes, some people choose to go to class on this day) I got spit on by some stoner who called me a “mindless conformist” that didn’t give a damn about the world. Now at first, I thought this was a stupid statement. Does doing something legal make me a conformist? I guess rapists should yell out to non-rapists that they are also conformists. Also, I felt that as one of the fifty people who wasn't smoking pot, the guy in the group of 15,000 that was smoking pot made me the rebel. But now that I thought about it, he was right. I was enabling “the man.” By not smoking pot, I was able to be productive and go to school and work, which is just what those government bastards wanted. I fell into their trap! How could I be so stupid? Also, I don’t know if it was the second-hand high or what, but I either saw the biggest dog I have ever seen or the smallest bear walking around the library.

Anyway, after that enlightening experience, I am as committed as ever to being environmentally friendly. I feel like I should learn from the cops, who saved tons of paper by not having the balls to ticket these people. I mean, they could probably end this stupid tradition that CU supposedly says they don’t approve of by one year just handing out a bunch of tickets and scaring people, but is writing all those tickets really worth it? I mean I personally love having my school’s reputation being that of “the one were all the people smoke pot.” It looks great on resumes, and prospective students love it too. So just like the cops, I’m going to save paper too by never doing my homework. I mean, do you know how many trees I kill every time I do a seven page paper?

Plus did you see all of the stoners in the fast food restaurants that afternoon? Even more environmental genius. Why? Because fast food places serve burgers. What are burgers made out of? Cows. What do cows do? Fart methane gas. What does methane gas do? It corrodes our atmosphere. So I’m going to eat a burger every day until I die (in a month or so) to help the Earth.

I feel bad though, because there apparently was a huge Earth Day party that I missed last night. I wish I could have gotten wasted in the name of a god cause, as opposed to what I normally do, which is get wasted for no reason at all. And I’m sure that they recycled all of their bottles as opposed to just smashing them over each other’s heads and leaving them on the ground. And I’m also sure that they used compostable cups instead of going through hundreds of those plastic red cups that are sitting in landfills all over the place.

So Mother Earth, I admit I’m not your best child. I don’t do all of the great things for the environment that these stoners do, and I don’t hand out thousands of paper slips telling people how to save trees. But I’ve never said I was anything but a normal guy who tries to turn off the lights when he leaves and tries not to chop down trees. But I promise that I’ll try harder from now on. But this is a two-way relationship, and you need to do something for me. The next time 4/20 rolls around, and the sky is gray, could you just rain and drench all of them? Is that too much to ask?

Love, Mitchell.

Shoes On a Plane

On Wednesday night, my roommate and I were sitting peacefully watching TV when all of a sudden the station broke away to an alert. Apparently some guy tried to light a shoe bomb on a plane that was headed for Denver. Of course as with all news, most of it was completely false (except for the “guy” and “plane” parts). This is what actually happened.

So I’m not saying that this guy is off the hook. This idiot did several things wrong. First off, how stupid do you have to be to try and smoke in an airplane bathroom? That’s like the first thing the lady on the speakers tells you when you get on the plane, right after the part about paying in exact change for alcohol. A 5-year-old child who’s been on a round trip flight could tell you that you aren’t supposed to smoke on planes. Plus, any insensitive a**hole that jokes about a bomb on a plane these days should just be tossed off of the plane in midair.

The only problem with this situation is that this guy is a diplomat from a foreign country, so he has diplomatic immunity, which is bull. I mean, supposedly this guy is from a country from Qatar, which clearly does not exist. Or at least I’ve never heard of it. Besides, why would we even need a diplomat from a country called Qatar? I’m tired of the spoiled arrogant sons of Middle Eastern oil sheiks riding their camels around like they own this country. We need to get rid of diplomatic immunity. I don’t care if you have naked pictures of the president, you stay in our country you play by our rules; it’s called “home-field advantage.” The last thing we need are foreign people who can do whatever they want; the next thing you know the French will be running around punching babies in the face, and we can’t have that. One of the babies might punch back and make the Frenchies cry and then they will declare war on babies around the world (and probably lose).

Of course, this guy was lucky he was just held in custody by the air marshals. After what happened at 9/11, this guy is lucky the passengers didn’t beat the brown off of him. If I were the air marshal, I would have cuffed him and then let each passenger on the plane hit him as hard as they want wherever they wanted (I would also highly encourage children and the elderly to aim for the crotch). At least it would be more entertaining than the in-flight movie. Then when we landed I would simply say that he struggled and we had to “forcefully apprehend him.”

But I’m sure this would-be bomber will get what is coming to him. We need to focus on how this happened. I thought that they made you take off your shoes at the gates so we wouldn’t have this problem? (This is also why I always wear slippers to airports. Have you ever heard of a slipper bomber? I didn’t think so). I know that technically he had nothing that would have set off security, but this is why I am encouraging security workers to engage in ruthless racial profiling. I mean, security officials have no problems being jerks. They sure had no problem trying to kick this girl off of a plane for wearing a revealing outfit. They also have no problem kicking off fat people.

Now, I can understand the fat people one, because planes are crowded enough without some guy overflowing onto your armrests. But the chick? For one thing, anyone who thinks that outfit is any more revealing than what people wear everyday needs to move back to the 18^th century. I’ve seen girls wear more revealing outfits to funerals. Besides, I’m sure they could have found some brave guy who would have tolerated her outfit (by that I mean stared at it the entire flight). And I’ve never been on a Southwest flight, but since when are they a “family friendly airline?” What the hell is a family friendly airline anyway? Do they serve applesauce and show cartoons on the monitors? I would argue that planes are not friendly to anyone, and judging by the amount of screaming babies that are always on my flight, they are definitely not “family friendly.”

But I have a business proposition that, as with all of my business propositions, ignores ethics and safety in the hopes of making me very rich. I will start my own airline company that sells round trip tickets for $1. The great part is that I won’t have security, so anyone can get on the plane and bring whatever they want! That way I’ll get all the rejects and not have to pay security guards to sit around and grope people. Also, I can’t guarantee all of the pilots will necessary know how to fly actual planes, per se. They just have to watch Top Gun a few times. I will call it “Sweet Chariot Airlines,” and our motto will be “Taking You Home” (and just to be clear, I mean “home” in a spiritual sense here). We will even let you smoke and light shoe bombs on the plane! But I can’t guarantee the other passengers will.

Sibling Rivalry

One of the hardest parts of going to college out of state is that I don’t get to see my family often. Ha ha I’m just joking, it’s actually one of the perks. And don’t get all mad at me for saying that; they would tell you the same thing about me. Because family members do crazy s**t like this to each other.

Now I don’t know too many sisters who are around the same age, and for some weird reason all the ones I do know are twins (don’t ask me why that is). So I obviously have no experience with this type of situation. This of course, will not stop me from jumping to unreasonable conclusions. Sisters do not get along as well as brothers mainly because they are women. Men have the advantage of being able to settle arguments by trying to beat the snot out of each other and then be completely fine in the next five minutes. Girls can’t do that though, so they have to resort to childish games and pouts that often last long after either can remember what they are mad at each other for.

This story is a perfect example of this. From all accounts, these two ladies used to be pretty close until they got in a fight over a few hundred dollars, which women blow on shoes they never wear. Then of course there is the matter of the $500,000 in lottery winnings. I find it pretty funny that the sister who is trying to get the money is like “I love my sister,” while the other one is probably thinking “F**k my sister, I’m rich beeyatch.”

Now what really confuses me is why these geriatric geezers are fighting over this money. They’re both over 80 years old. They’re going to die in a few years; how much more money could they need? And what would they spend it on? Metamucil? Tickets to see The Price is Right? Snuggies? If by some miracle I ever reach the age of 80, the only thing I’m going to be buying are diapers and flyswatters (and please don’t make me explain why I need those two items together). I mean, yeah maybe you could say that they want the money for their children or to cover their funeral expenses or whatever. I always thought this was stupid; I’m dead. I don’t need a goddamn gold-plated coffin. I will put it in my will that my family should just dump my body into the ocean or a dumpster or something cheap. Not that I will need to tell them this; in fact, they will probably do this before I’m even dead.

This story is also just another reason why gambling is stupid. I come from Hawaii, where gambling is illegal and we do not have a lottery. This could explain why people in Hawaii always want to gamble. A few years ago, a bunch of us went to visit a friend in Cheney, Washington for spring break. Now before you ask why in the world we would go to a place like Cheney for spring break, you’re missing the point (also, I still don’t know myself). On the trip, my friend Chris was so intrigued by the little scratch games that he spent about $50 in about four days on a bunch of scratch cards. Of course, this could also be because there is absolutely nothing to do in Cheney. In the end, he ended up winning like two bucks.

Anyway, my point is that you never win in gambling. You never hear good stories about lottery and jackpot winners. The only stories you hear are the ones where five years later the winner is divorced, addicted to drugs, homeless and has cancer. You ever notice that every fifth episode of CSI involves people who are dead because they won like $1000 on the slots? Of course, with all that said, there are the ones who win and then get to marry ridiculously hot gold-diggers, like this guy.

So it’s sad that instead of living the rest of their days out in peace watching reruns of Golden Girls together (I like that show by the way), these ladies will most likely spend the rest of their days in court, wasting their winnings on lawyers and splitting their family in half. And I hate it when stories end with lawyers making money.

Now I have a younger sister who for all accounts is a normal, sensible person. Sure she has a tendency to burp in public and is about as coordinated as a cross-eyed fish, but when you were raised around a brother like me that’s probably bound to happen. The important thing is that if she were to ever win a ridiculous amount of money, I’m sure she would split it with me. Or at least she better. I mean I drove her around all the time in high school. She owes me gas money.

Lending A Helping High

Now I know that I complain a lot about the city where I currently live, Boulder, Colorado. But I still hold out hope that this town is actually filled with good-natured, law-abiding citizens who are simply ecologically friendly and have an undeserved bad reputation. Then a story comes along and reminds me that most of the people in this town are dirty hippies who worked hard to earn that reputation. This is one of those stories.

But believe it or not, this story has several signs of hope for the city of Boulder. For one thing, if the average Boulderite found a two-pound bag of weed, the last thing they would do is call the cops. This is a scientific fact, as the numbers from a very comprehensive survey I did of the three people around me when I read this article prove. When I asked them if they would have reported the find, the consensus was “F**k no!” Most likely, the lucky Boulderite would seclude themselves in their room with nothing but a Pink Floyd CD, the Wizard of Oz, and fifteen pepperoni pizzas and emerge a week later claiming he knows how to solve health care and who killed JFK. Also, it is very possible that this person simply thought that they were making a charitable donation. I mean, the street value of that pot was $8000, which is a lot more money than most charities get from people. In this person’s defense, they probably assumed (possibly correctly) that pot keeps people warmer than coats.

The part of this story that I can’t believe is that the police are actually trying to find the owner so they can return it to them if they have a legal right to have it. Now, I’m not a doctor, but for a person to have two pounds of medical marijuana, they better have a tumor the size of a large beagle on their forehead. I bet this is awkward for police, who are used to taking people’s drugs away, not giving them back. I wonder if they will do one of those things that they do in supermarkets for stupid kids that get lost.

PA: “Will the owner of the two-pound bag of Maui Wowie please report to the lost and found.”

Pot use in Boulder is sort of like polygamy in Utah and inbreeding in the south; sure it’s illegal, but law enforcement just let it slide. I mean, I picked up an issue of a local paper (I won’t say which but I will say that it is in Boulder and it comes out Weekly). I then realized that the entire back page was ads for either medical marijuana or marijuana paraphernalia. Now, I’m willing to bet the odds of a person with a painful terminal illness that would qualify for medical marijuana being enrolled in a four-year university are about as good as me winning America’s Next Top Model. (Not that I don’t have the looks, but I can’t walk in high heels. Don’t ask why I know that).

I’m sure that you have already assumed that the entire population of Boulder is a bunch of stoners. This is unfairly pigeon-holing us. We are much more than a bunch of pot-heads. For instance, we also drink way too much. And we’re perverts. And we beat people up late at night. The sad thing is that when I read that the assailant was described as a “Pacific Islander,” who was fat and ugly, the first thought that came to my mind was “What was I doing last night?” At that moment, my roommate Chris simply appeared in the doorway with a disapproving frown and simply said “Why did you do it?” Now before you bust down my door and make a citizen’s arrest, I took a look at the sketch and of course it wasn’t me. My sketch looks a little more like this (okay fine, more like this). Then again, you could be this guy. That is what we call hiding in plain sight.

As for the girl on the roof, the real mystery is how someone wasted enough to fall off a roof got on a roof in the first place. I also like how the “detectives” concluded that the girl had probably drank “large quantities of alcohol.” Now if that isn’t fine detective work I don’t know what is, because I would have never guessed this girl was drinking; I figured all women were just clumsy retards (that was sarcasm by the way ladies, but don’t worry the sexist comments are coming). This is just further proof that we should never let a woman do a man’s work. And yes, doing stupid stunts drunk is a man thing. When men do it, they don’t go to the hospital. They dust themselves off, shrug off the pain, continue drinking to the applause of his fellow drunken male admirers, and then die the next morning of massive internal bleeding and alcohol poisoning. The good thing is that in the off chance that he survives the fall, he will probably be prescribed medical marijuana.

Let's Sue Talking Babies

There are some stories that just simply inspire you and remind you why we live in the greatest country in the world populated by a hard-working, diverse, tolerant people living out the American dream. This is not one of those stories. This instead is a story of everything that is wrong with America. This is a story involving Lindsay Lohan.

So basically, the story is that Lindsay Lohan is suing e*Trade over one of their baby ads. The milk-aholic baby in the ad, as you heard, is named Lindsay. According to Lohan’s lawyer, Lohan has one-name iconic status, like Cher or Madonna and that the commercial purposely chose the name to portray her lifestyle. Now the first thing that I did when I heard this was laugh hysterically. Then when I realized that this was a factual story, I began to cry. And this was before I saw that Lohan is seeking $100 million in damages.

Anyone who thinks she will win is clearly using almost as many drugs as Lindsay. The fact that some lawyer is actually doing this case is proof lawyers are cold, heartless beings robots powered by money. I mean, don’t tell me these people can go to school for ten years and still take this case unless they traded their souls for new suits. Just look at their argument. It is one thing to claim that a name like Madonna or Cher or Angelina is unique enough that it is instantly recognizable. But Lindsay? It’s one of those forgettable names that you hear at least three times in a roll call in a lecture hall. I mean my sister is named Lindsey, which might explain why I always forget what her name is and normally just refer to her as “girl”. And yes, if Lohan somehow wins this case, I am going to also sue e*Trade on behalf of my sister with the sincere intention of making a lot of money off of her.

If I were e*Trade my other argument would be that considering Lohan is a ten pound bag of bones and cocaine, I wouldn’t want her to be associated with my product unless I was selling herpes medication. I would rather have a dead whale covered in large mutant ticks be my spokesman than Lindsay Lohan, so I definitely wouldn’t have slipped her name into a commercial hoping people would say “Hey I associate Lindsay Lohan with sound financial decision making! I’ll go to e*Trade now!” (then again, I don’t associate babies with sound financial decisions either).

That brings us to the only mistake that e*Trade really is guilty of: replacing the baby in the ads. I used to like the old e*Trade baby, but this new one is just not cute and his voice is weird. There are some babies you want to hug, and then there are babies you want to punt off a bridge. Oh relax, I was just exaggerating. I don’t punt babies, just small dogs. Unless of course I was given advance notice that the baby might grow up to be Justin Bieber. The folks at e*Trade should take this as an omen to go back to the original baby. It’s rare that ad people come up with a clever ad campaign, so when you do you need to hang on to it as long as you can because advertising people as a general rule are retarded. I mean, Subway is still playing that stupid “$5 footlong” song even though it was irritating when it came out and it is still irritating. (By the way, look how long these guys think a foot is when they put their hands up. I just hope they aren’t real construction workers, or a building somewhere is going to fall down real soon).

But back to Lindsay Lohan. Now, I make fun of Lohan a lot because she is a alcoholic, drug-using, partying, sexually confused slut whose body and career are falling apart faster than Kirstie Alley’s new diet plan. But I am old enough to remember when she used to be all cute and innocent and was supposed to be the next big thing. I mean, who didn’t love the Parent Trap? By the way, that movie is cursed. First Lohan’s life goes down the gutter, then Natasha Richardson dies of a freak skiing accident, and now numerous reports indicate that Dennis Quaid suffers from the incurable condition of being Dennis Quaid.

But it truly is sad to see someone waste all of this opportunity and potential that could have been used on someone else, like me. Unfortunately, beauty and brains rarely go hand in hand as they do with me (by that I mean I lack both in equal proportions). Then again, we were saying the same thing about Britney Spears a few years ago, and while she’s not back to the star she used to be, at least she’s not the laughingstock of America anymore. So I honestly hope that Lindsay pulls her life together. Because Miley Cyrus is almost 18, and frankly we need a new train wreck to take pictures of.

Tiger In the Rough

In case you haven’t heard, the big news today is that Tiger Woods is making his first public appearance since his life fell apart faster than Lindsey Lohan’s movie career. It’s been several months since anybody has even seen him; for all we know he was going to walk out to the press conference white and announce he was opening a ranch for children. I didn’t actually watch the press conference, because it happened before I woke up. But that’s okay! Because ESPN went into Beast Mode, when they talk about nothing but Tiger Woods all the time (if this sounds familiar, they do it every offseason with Brett Favre).

Anyway, even if he didn’t crash and burn quite as bad as Michael Jackson (after all, the guy died, and there isn’t really a lower low than that), Tiger sure did give it the old college try (by that I mean he tried to sleep with everyone he met). It all started when Woods crashed his SUV into a fire hydrant about five feet from his house, which was the first warning sign. Men don’t crash into things five feet from their own house. Women do. The other suspicious sign was that this occurred at about two in the morning. Now, with the exception of Lassie reruns on Animal Planet, almost nothing good happens after two in the morning, especially for married fathers.

Slowly the details finally came out that Tiger’s wife had apparently gotten mad at him for something and turned his head into a driving range, giving him a concussion and causing him to crash. This just proves that every single car accident in the world is caused in some way or form by women. Anyway, it then came out that the reason was that his wife Elin had found out that Tiger Woods was having an affair. Of course, we would later find out that by “affair,” he meant “I slept with enough women to repopulate an entire country.” This especially puzzling when you consider that Tiger’s wife looks like this. But maybe Tiger was simply trying to break Wilt Chamberlain’s record of 20,000 women.

Now, all of this news was devastating to his career. I mean, finding out you’ve slept with dozens of women behind your family’s back would ruin most people’s reputations (unless it’s Jude Law, in which case everybody would just pass it off as a juvenile attempt to convince the world he wasn’t gay). But it was especially damaging to Tiger, whose entire image was that of a person who never got into trouble and was as clean as a whistle. (By the way, I never got that saying. I mean, whistle’s go into everybody’s mouths, so I don’t know how clean they are).

There was a while where Tiger Woods pretty much sponsored everything, including (but not limited to): razors, cars, power drills, dating websites, condoms, tampons, birth control, etc. But apparently a healthy sex drive is not something that companies like to have associated with their product which is confusing if you watch commercials today, which appear to want to convey one message, which is: SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX.

So to solve this problem, Tiger has gone to sex rehab to treat his apparent sex addiction. Now I personally do not think there is such a thing as “sex addiction.” There are people who are having lots of sex, and those who wish they were having lots of sex. Technically, by Darwinian standards, Tiger is what we call a success. People like T.S. Eliot on the other hand who never have kids and just write a whole bunch of jibberish poems are what we refer to as “failures.”

Lost in all of this is what will happen to golf. That’s because nobody cares what happens to golf. But those who do care have to admit that most people couldn’t name a golfer other than Tiger Woods anyway. So golf might have to find a new temporary star. I propose Phil Mickelson who, while Tiger was sleeping with hookers, was helping his wife and mother deal with breast cancer. The only way he could be more wholesome and family friendly is if he crapped fruit loops.

Personally, if I were Tiger I would retire from golf and try to mend my family. Not because I care about family, but if his wife leaves him, she’ll take half his money and his kids. That is a lot of money, and since Tiger was dropped by a bunch of his sponsors, he doesn’t just get free stuff anymore. So keep Tiger in your prayers. He’s got a reputation that is falling apart and he’s married to an angry woman with access to plenty of golf clubs. I don’t care how much money he has, that is a scary thought.

Drinking On A Jet Plane

The great thing about having neighbors that you know really well is you can steal things from them all the time. For instance, I routinely steal the “New York Times” off the Mosher’s and Ariana’s doormat. In my defense, they are technically stealing it too. They didn’t subscribe to it; yet it randomly appears on the doorstep every day. Besides, they are women so they can’t read anyway; they just put it in their angry parrot’s cage (I’m assuming here that somehow the parrot does know how to read). I of course, do read the “Times” in order to enlighten myself to the goings on of the world around me. Or not. Actually, I just steal the papers for the crosswords.

Anyway, I was searching through one of the papers looking for the crosswords when I came upon an interesting and disturbing story. Apparently, a United Airlines pilot was recently arrested for trying to fly a plane drunk. Luckily, his copilot caught him before he was able to take off with 124 people on board. Of course, the signs were probably pretty obvious. For one thing, he kept singing Elton John’s “Take Me to the Pilot” to the control tower and kept asking why the man outside with the traffic cones was doing the Macarena.

Now, I’m not going to defend this guy. After all, I regularly fly on United, and they don’t let me get drunk on planes and if there is anything I don’t stand for, it is double standards. But let’s consider some of the facts. He was taking off from London (where there is nothing to do but drink because the weather outside sucks) and was going to land in Chicago’s O’Hare Airport (which was designed by people clearly also under the influence of alcohol). Besides, what is he going to hit up there? It’s not like driving a car drunk, when evil trees and road signs can leap out at you and hit your car. Speaking of being in the air, do you think that the pilot was drinking Skyy Vodka? (If you were even slightly amused by that pun, you need to find the highest point near you and jump off of it now head first.)

According to the article, many people are now starting to really become concerned with what pilots are really doing during flights. I am not one of these people. I have way more important things to be worried about than what two men locked for hours alone in a small room called a “cock pit” are doing. For instance, my roommate and I are fairly confident that there is a pumpkin rotting somewhere in our house, but neither of us can remember for the life of us where we put it. Anyway, apparently last month, two pilots overshot Minneapolis by an hour because they were doing things on their laptop. I bet they were Twittering too.

Bob: “Kicking back in the cockpit. Almost to St. Louis.” (an hour ago)

Bob: “Wait, the flight is to Minneapolis?” (almost a minute ago)

Bob: “Oh s**t.” (five seconds ago)

Of course, there probably is an alternative explanation. For one, I’m pretty sure they just didn’t want to go to Minnesota. I bet when they announced that they overshot Minnesota over the loud speaker, the entire plane cheered. I mean, I have been on flights that have lasted for eight hours. That’s a lot of time to just sit in a chair and stare at the sky. And they don’t even get to watch the stupid in-flight movie (today’s movie: “Gigli”). I heard that these planes fly themselves anyway; the pilots could probably drink and sober up in time to greet the passengers leaving to take credit for staring at a computer doing all of the actual work.

But that is still no excuse for these pilots to drink. Thousands of people pay good money and get sexually harassed by airport security to put their lives in the hands of these people. When I fly, I don’t expect my final destination to be the scene of the crash. There are plenty of other jobs where drinking on the job is acceptable, like surgeons or prime minister of Russia.

Believe it or not, at one point I wanted to be a pilot. Of course by “I” I mean “my parents.” I frankly don’t like flying much. But my parents figured if I was a pilot that they could fly around the world for free. Or at least to Vegas. It’s not like they don’t go there now anyways; since I’ve been up here they’ve visited me once and gone to Las Vegas five times. But the less money they lose on plane tickets the more money they can lose at the crap tables. In fact, that is also the reason my parents wanted me to go to the University of Nevada-Las Vegas, work as a dealer, or become a Vegas prostitute.

Anyways, back to my main point, which was… well I don’t really have a main point. I rarely do. But as far as planes, knowing my pilots are drunk is not going to stop me from flying. Mainly because I live on an island. If there was a boat I would take the boat. At least on the boat back home I could bask on the deck and stare at women in bikinis. Whereas normally wearing bikinis on a plane is frowned upon. Or at least it is when I do it; they might not be as opposed to it if I were a hot woman. Which is once again evidence of the sexist attitudes that make this country great. Speaking of which, I’m going to go steal wireless internet from the neighbors.

Thongs for the Memories

Even though I personally have not been enrolled in high school for two years now (and the last time I actually did work in a high school classroom was four years ago), I read a story recently that reminded me of just how brutal high school can be: a high school girl may have flashed her private parts in a yearbook photo. (In case you don’t believe me for some reason, here’s the story) Basically, the story is that some junior was sitting down in the front row of a group picture for a club and she claims that you can see up her dress, and needless to say she wasn’t wearing any underwear. On the day that seniors received their books, she was informed by some of them that her vagina appeared more times in the yearbook than half the student body. (Haha student body! Get it?)

Of course, all of you that have been through high school know what happened next. Unable to endure the thought of her classmates teasing her, the girl has not been back to school since the incident and her mother is trying to get the school to take all of the yearbooks back and redistribute them without the picture. As of the last time I bothered to any actual fact checking on this story, nothing has happened.

Many of you may now be asking yourself several questions. For instance, why was this girl not wearing any underwear? Well, according to her, she did not want her panty lines to show in the yearbook picture. Because I don’t know about you, but I would rather let the entire school give me a pap smear than have my panty lines showing through my dress. Speaking of pap smears (I bet that’s the first time that sentence has ever been uttered) one of the hot searches on AOL the day this story came out was anal cancer. And no, it’s not people trying to type in keywords for Dick Cheney, it is actually a legit cancer. Apparently, you can do an anal pap smear to test for it. I am not making any of this up I swear, and feel free to subtly drop these interesting facts into conversations with people you are trying to impress.

Anyway, a lot of people sent me this story because of my reputation for not wearing underwear most of the time (which is underserved in my opinion) in the hopes that I will stop. However, there are several key differences between me and this girl. For one, I rarely wear dresses in public, so it doesn’t really matter if I don’t wear underwear. And if I were wearing a dress with no panties (once again, we’re talking hypothetical here), I would probably remember to cross my legs, as the two girls in the picture next to her are. Secondly, I would have taken a different course of action when someone told me about it. (That must have been an awkward conversation by the way. How do you begin to bring it up? “Speaking of pap smears…”). I would have kept it on the down low and tried to say that it wasn’t me in the picture. Yearbooks always have at least one picture on every page where they either butcher the spelling of a name or mix up names, so I could probably get away with that. Except I’m going to bet that as a girl who goes to school commando in a short sundress, everyone can probably identify her vagina in a lineup, if you get what I mean (and if you don’t get what I mean, I mean she is a slut). I realize that this is unfairly stereo-typing someone I don’t even know. I don’t really care. But anyway, this girl does the exact opposite and freaks out and has her mom go and talk to the media so instead of only the school seeing the picture, the entire world can see it. At least if she didn’t freak out, she could have always moved schools and make new friends and spread Chlamydia without everyone knowing vagina as well as her OBGYN. Now no matter where she goes she will be haunted by this incident. Just think of the nicknames: Leave it to Beaver, Flash Gordon, Britney Spears.

But do you know what the saddest thing about all of this is? Most of the people interviewed at the school said that they didn’t think the picture revealed anything. Even the school board said that they believe it is “just a shadow,” (this is kind of creepy, because it implies that the school board held a meeting and examined the picture with magnifying glasses or something). So this whole thing could have been prevented if this girl had shut her legs or her mouth (a strategy Lindsey Lohan should try once in awhile). But I think that through all of this, we’ve all learned a valuable lesson: remember to talk to your loved ones about the importance of regular anal pap smears.

Skins Game

Last night I was looking through the night’s sports scores when I stumbled upon a golf story that made we wonder why I didn’t just go to sleep like I should have. Apparently, for one reason or another, one of the golfers took a shot – wearing nothing but his underwear. The first thing I thought was that for some reason ESPN started covering strip golf, which isn’t a bad idea when you think about it. I’m pretty sure all those southern hick golf courses would start letting women in if they could play strip golf.

But this was a big tournament (Tiger Woods himself was playing in this tournament) and the golfer in the tighty-whiteys was Henrik Stenson, who is the seventh ranked player in the world. As it turns out, Stenson hit a shot into a muddy area, and apparently he did this before and got really muddy. So instead of getting his nice clothes muddy, he just took them off and hit his shot. I’m not sure whose idea it was, but his caddie is a woman (I swear I am not making this up), so you never know. Regardless of whose idea it was, I think we can all acknowledge that it was a bad idea. It’s one thing if Tiger Woods did it. Tiger Woods is actually an athlete who walks around in tight red muscle shirts that rip when he pumps his fists (I think it’s ironic that he does such a manly looking act after doing an act that requires so little strength they set up putting courses for two-year old girls). But most of the golfers on the tour look like, well, they look like white guys who golf all day. They have tan lines where there visors are. This guy was so white you couldn’t tell where his underwear started and his skin ended. What’s worse is that he got a bogey on the whole anyway (for those of you who don’t know how golf is scored, it doesn’t matter).

This act did however make me happy in a way. You see, the one thing that I don’t like about golf is the dress code. I remember when I was young, my mom took me to a golf course to help with a charity tournament. I tried to get onto the course, but I was yelled at by the angry woman running the place that I couldn’t golf in shorts, slippers, and a t-shirt. Needless to say, I became deeply upset and from then on I hated playing on golf courses. So this guy is my new hero. If I had my own private golf course, I would probably golf in my underwear. Although to be fair, if I had my own private anything I would probably walk around in my underwear in it, including (but not limited to) basketball court, theater, and paintball course. I hate almost anything that won’t let me wear shorts, slippers, and t-shirts (work, weddings, funerals, exercise, the entire state of Colorado, Canada, etc.). Which is too bad, because I like everything else about golf. You get to go out in the sun, take leisurely strolls through scenic areas with nice grass, and drive golf carts. This past winter break, two friends and I got bored one night (as happens every night in a small town like Kona) and decided to stop by the local driving range. It was great, because it was at night, we were the only ones there, and we could wear whatever we wanted. So we rented a pair of drivers and a bucket of balls and teed up. Within seconds, I had sent a ball sideways into the dividers and nearly nailed one of my friends in the face. You see, I forgot to mention I am about as good at golf as amputees are at Twister. Regardless, we had a great time.

I also like to watch golf on TV. It is surprisingly relaxing to watch it; it moves at such a leisurely pace, you get to watch scenic shots with fake bird music in the background and the announcers are very quiet (I still don’t get why they have to be quiet; it’s not like they are anywhere near the golfer). But golf is coming off a down year without Tiger Woods (apparently his knee was injured so they had to take him to whatever factory they built him in and get him new parts). So I have a new idea to get people watching golf that I’ve already mentioned earlier in the story: strip golf. Golf already has a pro-ams (where celebrities compete) and they already have skins games (I don’t know why they call them that; do I have to explain everything for you? Go look it up on Google). So after we combine the two we get: “Golfing with the Stars.” What we do is invite hot celebrity pairs to go golfing, and the loser of each hole has to remove an item of clothing. I’m sure FOX would air it. Jessica Alba can be one of the first contestants. Here’s to hoping she is at bad at golf as I am.

Phelps' Secret Swimming Formula

In case you don’t keep up with all the latest celebrity scandals, a picture of Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps smoking marijuana out of a bong has surfaced (haha pun). Story is that Phelps just showed up to some college party doing what all young males are doing when we show up for parties: looking for chicks, drinks, and drugs. Apparently Phelps found at least one. I’m sure this is not the first time that he has done this; I mean he’s Michael Phelps, he could get into any party he wants.

But this party was ruined by “that person.” They are the people who apparently think it is a great idea to take pictures of everybody at parties and then post them up all over the internet. Okay, so a lot of people probably took pictures with Phelps that night. But those pictures were just to take out for the grandkids to convince them that at one time you were cool. “See, I once got wasted with a 16-time Olympic medalist. What have you done with your life?”

My first reaction to the photo was “Well DUH!” I mean, of course Michael Phelps smokes dope. It would explain so much. I mean, have you ever listened to the guy talk? He sounded stoned in all of his interviews with NBC. Plus, have you ever seen how much the guy eats? You thought that was because of his strenuous workouts? No, it’s because he always has the munchies from smoking the green. Besides, Phelps was pulled over at the age of 19 for a DUI, so this is not his first run in with the law.

Some people are thinking that this will tarnish his image, particularly as a role model. I don’t see this as a negative for society overall. You just know that after the Beijing Olympics, tons of helicopter parents began signing their children up for these ridiculously expensive swim programs in the hopes of making their kid the next Michael Phelps. The parents of the kids who don’t make it in one of the cash sports always need an obscure sport to enroll their child in so they can someday hope to watch them on TV (how else do you explain lacrosse?). Maybe now that parents have become disenchanted with Phelps, they’ll go back to raising their children in rabbit cages in the hopes of creating the next Shawn Johnson.

If anything, this whole scandal just increases my opinion of Michael Phelps. I used to swim competitively in high school, and I have seen swimmers who could swim non-stop for hours struggle to swim in kiddie pools after smoking dope. Swimming is not a sport you can do stoned. If you’re high in soccer, yeah you stumble around and fall down, but they will just think you’re faking an injury, which soccer players do all the time. But in swimming, you just drown. So if Michael Phelps is swimming stoned, he is truly amazing. Even more outstanding is that Phelps owned up to his mistake. Sure, he was dropped by Kellogs as a sponsor (even though I bet a large portion of people that consume cereal are stoned college students) and was suspended by U.S Swimming, but this whole incident just makes him feel more like us: a goofy college kid who just happens to swim fast. Besides, it was the offseason. I’m sure every athlete in the world smokes pot in the offseason.

ALERT: ANTI-TIM TEBOW RANT:

Except of course, Tim Tebow, because Tim Tebow is perfect (that sound you hear is me vomiting). For those of you who don’t know, Tebow is the quarterback for the University of Florida Gators. I have never hated an athlete more than I hate Tim Tebow. Everybody seems to think that Tim Tebow is the pinnacle of human evolution or something, even though I think he looks closer to Neanderthal than Homo sapien. Everybody keeps talking about what a great and humble kid he is, yet he talks more trash than anybody. The reason I first didn’t like him was when he started talking about how he thought Colt Brennan of the University of Hawaii was a system quarterback and that he didn’t deserve the Heisman. Nobody talked about this, but when UH Coach June Jones said exactly the same thing of Tim Tebow, the media pulled its groin leaping to the defense of Tebow.

When Tim Tebow was flagged for taunting in the title game (while backing away from the other player might I add), the announcer had the nerve to say “I bet that’s the first thing he’s done wrong in his life.” He earlier had said “If you spend 15 minutes with Tebow your life will be better for it.” Blehh. The guy is a talentless hack. He does what any 6’5’’ guy would do when given the ball; he runs straight forward and runs over small cornerbacks and celebrates like he just cured cancer. I’m pretty sure he is legally retarded. This is what’s going through his mind on the field:

“Haha, Coach gave Timmy ball. Timmy run with ball. Why people chase Timmy? Timmy no do nothing wrong. Now Timmy mad. Timmy hurt mean man with scary mask. Hey, that man dressed like zebra. Timmy like zebras.”

END OF TIM TEBOW RANT ALERT

So in short, let’s give Michael Phelps a break. At least he’s not Tim Tebow.