Saturday, December 5, 2009
Our first important life observation brings us to the world of the Men’s Restroom and the conundrums that they create. First off, it would be nice if every bar just simply put Men or Women on the door because I’m sick and tired of trying to decipher which animal picture on the outside most closely resembles a man during a time of intoxication. It is never something easy like a picture of a lumberjack and a belly dancer. Instead I have to determine whether the dancing cheetah is wearing a mini skirt or if it is a zebra in gym shorts and cowboy hat before I stumble in after having a few too many. I’ve wandered into several female restrooms in my day by accident, and I have to be honest; my fines on www.peepingtom.com are starting to get expensive. “But the turtle had on a top hat, I swear!” does not work as you take a slap to the face by a startled co-ed…
I’m also still awaiting word on what the deal is with the midget urinal. I get the idea of needing at least one for any kid, vertically challenged alien, or any short urinator who simply refuses to defy the laws of urination gravity and pee upwards, but why not just make them all that height? No tall guy is complaining because his urine has farther to travel before it hits its demise are they? “Wait a second…is this urinal regulation or what,” is something I’ve never heard as some behemoth is doing his business.
I've learned girls are like buses, there is another one every fifteen minutes…unless of course you live in San Francisco which means you have no clue when the next one is coming, and then the same one will come back to back to back after you've already gotten serviced ... (I think I'm still talking about buses)
My Mom is always talking about people “being on drugs.” “Did you see that bank robbery the other day,” she’ll explain, “that guy was probably on drugs.” What does this mean exactly? “Some guy exposed himself in the park the other day, he was probably on drugs.” On drugs, or a sick, twisted pervert? What constitutes being on drugs anyway? Is there some sort of equation like two hits of acid, four bong rips and nine pills of Ecstasy in a month span puts you “on drugs?” “That guy murdered nine people, chopped up their bodies and then hung them from his Christmas tree,” he was probably on drugs,” I could hear her saying, like its some reason for some person being a full blown lunatic murderer. And more importantly, how are these people “on drugs,” so motivated that they are able to put together an entire bank robbery scheme? The people I know “on drugs,” just sit around eating Cheetos and play Halo 3 all day…
My roommate constantly plays with himself even when its just him and I sitting having a conversation. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t be freaked that he is touching himself while going over stock portfolio tips with me? I feel I should be more upset about this than I am or maybe I’ve reluctantly accepted the fact that seventy-five percent of the furniture, Playstation controllers and Tupperware have been touched by the same hand that was also down his pants.
The same friend also recently started seeing a girl named Joey. This is all fine and dandy, but our good guy friend is also named Joey and I still haven’t gotten used to “So I was sodomizing Joey the other night…” Woa…what?! Oh…
I'm still trying to figure out the purpose for a “sitting room” in a house. It seems like everyone has gotten on this kick that you need a room, usually the entry room, deemed specifically for the purpose of sitting. Do we really need a specific room for a stationary activity that all of us accomplish with no effort anyway? You won’t find anything of reasonable entertainment value in this room (Tv, fridge with cold beers, Chutes & Ladders, stripper pole, etc.), just couches and a table. "Thank God for that sitting room, if it wasn't for that we would have been forced to sit in the living room all day and watch Tv. Instead we just, well, we sat."
Thanks for reading... Cheers,
Steve (the guy who writes these miserable write ups)
*YOU CAN READ ALL OF STEVE'S BLOGS AND ADD YOURSELF TO THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST (all the hip kids are doing it...) @ http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
And now to this week's write up...
For the last two years I’ve been operating on only one car alarm clicker after my other one found its way out of my suitcase on a flight. I also needed some other items so I headed into the Toyota Dealership for a purchase. The convo went something like this :
Me : Yeah I need a clicker
Auto Parts Guy : ok let me bring that up, (typing, slow hunt & peck method) looks like … ooh (grimace), $150, well, ooh (more typing, grimace) ooh, let me try this, (more typing), ooh yeah, $150. (grimace)
Me : So… $150?
Auto Parts : Yeah $150, but then you need to have it programmed.
Me : Ok…
Auto Parts Guy :
Me : Ok…?
--- Awkward Silence, both of us just kind of stare ----
Me : Programming? (looking around for some sort of help, kind of like a Virgin at an Orgy)
Auto Parts : Oh we don’t do that here
Me : Really, not here huh? Should I just…uh…take a six week course on Transportation Engineering, I uh…(are you kidding?)
Auto Parts Guy : Oh, no I mean (more typing, more grimaces), we do it here, just not in parts, the guys in service can do it.
Me : And the charge will be ?
Auto Parts Guy : (more typing, grimace) Looks like about $150 for labor
Me : Jesus, well ok then. I also need a replacement taillight, some drunk guy smashed it in
Auto Parts Guy : (more typing) Let me see… Ouch, (grimace) Looks like $150
Me : $150? Is there anything in your system not $150? How much for a new engine?
Auto Parts Guy : (more typing) Lets see, carry the one, add six for pistons, well it looks like you’re looking at about…(typing) hmm, add that, subtract, ok got it…looks like…well about $150...
After making my way over to the service guy who witnessed this whole exchange he proceeded to look shockingly flustered when I informed him that I’d need my new clicker programmed. Finally he told me he could, but just not right that moment and that it would take him an hour because the service guy had gone home, but yet his shirt said Paul “Service Tech.”
I liked it a lot better in the heart of the recession when people actually wanted to work to make some money.
Til next time...
*YOU CAN READ ALL OF STEVE'S BLOGS AND ADD YOURSELF TO THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST (all the hip kids are doing it...) @ http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/
Thursday, November 5, 2009
After being bombarded by requests outside a local market to contribute to different causes I stopped to think, where is all this money going, and how in God’s name do we not have more cures for these things? Millions of dollars have been donated but yet, we’re still left with unsolved treatments for hundreds of diseases. Are these researchers sitting back and collecting paychecks, content to be always just on the cutting edge of discovery, instead of actually finding a final treatment? Wouldn’t it be a better idea to put this in the hands of, I don’t know someone who is a bit more motivated? Like for example take a couple of sixteen-year old virgin boys, hot on the trail of a young virgin girl, not satisfied with being on the edge of adolescent celibacy. Instead of just getting lucky with a girl dumb enough to succumb to these boys’ meager attempts at sex, why not make it a little harder? How about we make it a requirement to cure a rare genetic disorder, or Parkinson’s or something before you get to de-cherry one of these young maidens? You put twenty horny teenagers in a room with the internet, a few test tubes, and a couple different fruits from the rainforest with a picture of a sexy co-ed virgin on the overhead projection as the reward and you’d have a hand shoot up in five minutes - “I’ve got it, cure for cancer right here, I’ve got it.”
Can it just be assumed that every animal with antlers or horns cannot be put into a plural? Deer, Moose, Antelope, etc.? Cows have none of the aforementioned and thus we can refer to them as cows, however a group of antelope is singular. Why can’t we say that is one great group of cow? I guess “Home on the range where the cow and the wildebeest play,” does sound a bit off. These are the things that keep me up at night, but note it, antlers, not plural, no antlers, plural, I think I got it down…
Who got the idea in their head that it was ok to post a portion of their body and post it as a picture of themselves on MySpace or Facebook? Some even use them for their profile pictures! “…Mom, Dad, I want to show you a picture of the girl I met and in love with… “…Son, call me ole fashioned but that actually looks like an elbow, taken with a really crappy camera phone and a mirror...” “…I know isn’t she lovely?” Look ladies, I’m all for a picture of a breast but I do like a breast on an actual person. I mean sure it will keep you warm at night, but it doesn’t work as your profile picture…
If anyone reading has a young child, I hope to God you don’t think it is cute to use them on your outgoing voicemail. I’ve concluded that the best way for callers to think your kid is a mental retard is to have them attempt to record that you are unavailable and that you’ll call them back, while all the while you are prompting them in the background and laughing. Can’t we just have these poor kids stick to blocks and fuzzy farm animal books and leave the outgoing voicemail recordings to people that, I don’t know, have already learned the English language?
Thursday, October 22, 2009
As usual some random thoughts of incoherent babble...
Is it possible to get an oil change without the mechanic suggesting everything needs repair on your vehicle? “Looks like you need a deliberator rod…” How about you just change the oil? This would like going to the Doctor to treat your poison oak and he breaks out the rubber glove and proclaims you need a new pancreas. And it’s always something to reek fear into you, like your battery could go dead any day, or your tires are about to fly off and kill a family of six. It is never something like, hey the volume button on your radio could use some repair should take a few minutes and I’ll do it for free, no problem guy.
Is it any wonder that a guy can go out to a bar and tell any Kate, Mary, or Deliah that they are a famous athlete since girls have no clue who these guys are? Girls never remember the guy’s name after, just that they supposedly were famous. “So what was his name,” I always ask and the answer is always, “I can’t remember but he plays for the Indians, and he wants me to come to his beach house.” Really? It didn’t cross your mind that this is baseball season and Cleveland is in Boston right now and we are in San Francisco?
If I’m ever to find myself naked in the locker room, it is usually for a split second and only because most gyms don’t allow full workout gear while in the shower, otherwise I‘d be in the shower stall fully clothed. And even for the exhibitionist in you, I guess I could condone walking to the shower naked as long as a towel is nearby, but what I don’t support is guys who go out of their way to be naked, like they‘ll walk over to blow their nose naked when a full rack of towels are available for use. And shaving naked? Is this really necessary? Are these guys working out for so long that they’re developing a five o’clock shadow? Here’s an idea - shave at home before work every morning. There shouldn’t be any reason you need to shave after a workout, but if you do, how about you wrap a towel around your junk at the very least.
Why do Californians always think that people from outside California automatically know each other ? I recently introduced my cousin who was visiting, to a random guy at a bar who eagerly asked, “you’re from Connecticut, huh? My buddy lives in Canton, (Ohio) - Rico, you know him?” Uh…yeah… actually all non-Californians live in the same tribe, some of us gatherers, some hunters, but basically over 4,000 miles everyone pretty much knows one another. Its like a small town except not at all…A girl I know from Michigan recently got an “Ann Arbor, huh? My cousin lives in Rhode Island.” Right… We’ve got some intelligent people in my state.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Lets jump right into it...
Is there any more of a dream profession in the gay community than a proctologist? Isn’t this like the straight guys’ version of a gynecologist, looking at females all day? This would be the only way for a straight guy to simulate the uncomfortable feeling a woman receives at her gynecologist checkups. “…Hi Randy, how long as it been since your last check up? Now if you can just spread your cheeks for me, we’ll be able to get to the route of the problem - will only take a sec…” “…Uh…Doc, was that a zipper I just heard?”
If there are straight proctologists, it can’t be very conducive to Happy Hours at the sports bar with your buddies outside of the medical world. “Yeah I’ll take a Stella, and the breadsticks, hey Bill you should have seen how red this guy’s rectum was today - hey look at that! Interception for Touchdown…now I was saying…”
...After watching some snippets from a recent Oakland Raiders tailgate this past Monday night, I’ve come to the conclusion they are the only team in the NFL whose tailgaters outside the park could actually kick the ass of the actual team inside the park...
...Ok Daughtry, we get it, you can sing. Enough already...
...School is back in session bringing us to yet another year of homework, books and Number 2 pencils. “Make sure it’s Number 2,” I used to hear my teacher bark before a big test, causing me to frantically check every pencil at the campus bookstore just to make sure I didn‘t use the wrong kind. For years we‘ve stressed over finding the right pencil, when in reality is there anything out there not a Number 2 pencil? I have to be honest, I’ve never seen one that wasn’t, but yet I’ve sweated through shirts and yanked hair out in frantic fear before a test. I think there are two kinds of pencils - Number 2, and then everything else that is feared not be a Number 2, but really is just an unmarked Number 2, likely covered over by a Black Sabbath or Broncos logo. If I only put as much thought and effort into my schoolwork and not the types of pencils I wouldn’t be writing this worthless blog for free…
Can it just be assumed that any girls that go to the University of South Carolina are pretty easy? You’ve got to figure that if a girl goes to a school with a cock as its mascot has got to have one thing on her mind… (any non sports fan or church goer reading this, it is the South Carolina Gamecocks)
Monday, September 21, 2009
Thanks for taking the time to read, and for the four of you who read this (no I didn't have anything to do with blocking every other website on your computer forcing you to read), I apologize for the lack of writing. I've written quite a lot of material so the blogs will come more consistently.
And now to the blog...
I like to title this first snippet "The Whale Pervert"
For anyone looking to take the family on a nice day trip whale watching has always been a anticipatory event with a lot of promise but not much delivery, (kind of like when my friend Tony takes a girl out on date). As embarrassing as the dinner conversation may be with him, nothing is quite as embarrassing as answering a question from an inquisitive youngster curious about the ocean world. Grey Whale, I get it, Whale Shark, ok makes sense, even Killer, while harsh still checks out, but Sperm whale? Really? What perverted, bestialist, homosexual, marine biologist, came up with this one? What’s next? “Folks, if you look quick over the starboard you’ll see an Ejaculating Seahorse…” I can see the Sperm Whale marine biologist naming seminar now... "Johnson...watch yourself...remember the mess you got us in with Humpback? I still can't walk to my gym locker without thinking in fear about those sodomizing threat letters we got...
There is a KFC/Taco Bell near my house and it officially gets my approval as the best late night food spot ever created. However, while I find great ingenuity in fried chicken and Nachos Bel Grande as a satisfying late night meal, could there be a worse food combination for late night, drunken, gang violence in African-American / Mexican areas? This would be like serving Matzah Balls and Palestinian food at the same location and hoping for the best…
Coffee is a sure fire way to put an end to a fun evening out. At a wedding, dinner party, Barmitzfa, or wherever, the night could be going great; alcohol is flowing, people are having fun and then the kiss of death arrives; the busser with a coffee pot, like the Grim Reaper with his sickle. He or she may offer an amiable, pleasant inquisition, like “would you like cream with that?” But really they are saying, “you’ve had enough you drunken bastard, now drink this, sober up, and take a hike so I can have my way with the coat rack girl…”
Every Playboy centerfold profile always lists their guy turn ons as sweet, confident and a Sense of Humor is a MUST. Is anyone buying this? If this really was the case I would’ve dated forty Centerfolds by now, because that basically describes me, so why am I dating the homeless lady who hangs outside of 7-11?
If anyone out there is named Timmy, you have the lucky benefit of easily exceeding everyone’s’ life expectations for you. Throughout history it was always little Timmy who drowned in the bathtub, was attacked by a praying mantis, or was picked last on his T-Ball team. Basically, if you turn out anything better than a case of Polio or Jaundice you’re pretty much deemed a life success.
Til next time...
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
And now to the blog entry...
It really was a day and night no different than most - it started with a round of golf and a couple of vodka-tonics and ended with a couple of African-American hookers - you know the usual. (Well ok maybe not so normal, I usually drink Vodka-Cranberry).
After a long day of drinks, golf, bars, and pizza, my friend George and I were left on the streets of San Francisco , without a ride and running short on cash for a cab home. Neither of us were entirely sure how it happened, but one minute we were on finishing up our late night food and the next minute, we were in the back of a Chrysler with two black women on the way back to George’s house. "We'll Pick You Up," had worked so well for Enterprise Rental Car in the past, but before this night, it had yet to be tested by any working girls hoping to join the catchy marketing slogan and sex solicitation in prostitution ingenuity matrimony. Unaware of any sign for alarm, like an antelope looking for a drink of water in an alligator infested swamp, we unsuspectingly leaned down for a drink of water, (malt liquor in this case).
Some may claim the first sign of trouble was the two of us looking for a ride on a street littered with strip clubs and brothels, but I personally pinpoint that moment when the driver of the car broke open an Old English forty and started passing it to us in the backseat, while at the same time describing her line of work; a stripper at Centerfolds. (Or “dancer” as she called it)…
Once we arrived back at George’s pad everyone got settled in and I promptly started to fall asleep against a wall. It was a long day and all I wanted to do was go to bed. Both of the girls were frankly scaring me and in my drunken state were barely a “6,” which means they were probably a “3,“ sober. The only one that was mildly not unattractive, but yet not attractive in any civilization’s scoring system, was dressed in scantily clad lingerie stockings. Again, this should have been a sign, but neither of us had yet to put two and two together.
I tried to pretend I was asleep as the lesser attractive of the two started her barrage of Barbara Walters-esk questions.
“So what do you do,” she asked, trying to rouse me from my slumber.
“What do you mean, like for work?” I asked, not even close to wanting to go into my profession which involves selling babies‘umbilical cords. Generally explaining sober to a Harvard Bimolecular engineer is difficult enough, so I wasn’t about to try and explain it to a stripper intoxicated.
“What do you do for fun,” she replied.
For fun I thought? Who is this chick a representative from Match.com? Are we going to plan a trip to Yosemite together? Please make her stop and let me sleep for love of god I thought…
“Uh, not sure, basket weaving, backgammon, collecting old stamps, cow tipping, I don’t know, what do you do,” I responded sarcastically.
She didn’t like that answer.
It was about this point that George got up to use the bathroom and left me alone with the two girls, and it quickly became more uncomfortable than bending over to pick up a dropped cell phone at a George Michael concert.
I could no longer pretend I was sleeping and was forced to converse with the girls. Instead of answering a long list of questions as expected they somehow managed to turn on some music and request that I dance for them with my shirt off. I’m not sure if it was the larger girl’s hair weave or the full mustache of the other that scared me into agreeing to this nonsensical request, but for some reason, nearing unconsciousness, I agreed.
Just as I was in the process of stripping off my shirt, George came out of the bathroom with a look of disgust on his face.
“Steve! What the hell are you doing?”
Yeah…what in God's name am I doing, I thought to myself, as a waive of embarrassment and discombobulation came over me.
I sat back down humiliated and attempted to again affix myself to the wall as pass out.
“So what are we going to do tonight,” the grotesque one quizzed, after the recent events calmed down, while nervously looking at the other as if to gain her support.
It is three in the morning and I’ve been drinking since 11am, I thought to myself. What does this chick want to do, find a local petting zoo or circus to attend? I’m going to sleep, that’s what I’m doing tonight, I thought.
“Uh, not really sure, I think this is pretty much it, it has been a pretty long day,” I responded as I tried to find a comfortable spot on my wall to fall asleep, hoping she would get the hint and leave me alone.
She didn’t seem very happy with the response and started to get restless.
Should I have suggested a game of ? Parcheesi? These girls weren’t getting the clue.
It was at that point that George seemed to catch on to what I had obviously blatantly misread.
“Wait a second…are you girls working?”
Working I thought? Like working where? Conducting research studies on alcoholics trying to pass out at 3am to see how they would respond to a stripper wearing lace pants asking them annoying questions? Working how?
“Like working, working…?” George asked again.
The girls nervously looked at each other….
“Well yeah,” we thought you knew.
All of a sudden it hit me - Mother of God...we were sitting with two prostitutes.
I immediately began to panic.
I had previously watched some show on Mojo about some story where guys didn’t pay the hookers and one of them lost a kidney or was found days later beheaded in an aquarium somewhere or something. I know my liver is probably fairly destroyed, or maybe even considered a handicapped liver by some medical scoring charts, however I wasn’t about to lose it over a couple of unpaid prostitutes. (In an alley in Tijuana is how I always had pictured it).
My panic became frantic as I anticipated a loud knock at the door and some three-hundred pound gorilla hooker pimp crashing through George’s front door to beat George and me to a bloody pulp.
Wait a second I thought…the girls didn’t even do anything for us, so we should be ok right? Then I remembered I had attempted to dance for them. Crap! What’s the going rate for that I thought to myself...I remembered I had about ten bucks left in my wallet, hoping that should about cover it and put an end to this nightmare.
I was too engaged in my thoughts of horror to notice George motioning in my direction explaining that he was out of cash and I was the one with the money. Both girls glared at me waiting for some sort of explanation for the situation.
“I uh…” was all I could stammer. All I could do was picture myself hung upside down by the seat of my pants by a 400-lb beast of a hooker pimp.
Was it outside the realm of possibility that George and I could pull a couple of ugly girls back to his place I thought? I mean, we don’t look like that big of losers, do we? (For those reading, don’t answer that question, at least not on Twitter, MySpace or use as your Facebook status update).
Luckily the girls all of a sudden developed a soft spot for us, or maybe more likely realized that they still had time to salvage a Craig’s List hooker request to make up for lost time with a couple of penniless invalids like George and me.
“This happens to us all the time,” the larger girl whined, looking to us for some direction as if they wanted a customer service survey filled out on how they could improve their business model.
Uh…yeah? Randomly throwing a couple of guys in your car, then asking them what they do for fun while they’re falling asleep hasn’t been working for you? I’m shocked…
“Hi I’m Trixie Diamond and this Busty Cox, and we are hookers, two-hundred per hour…”
That would generally get the point across ladies.
Then again, George and I were on a street littered with strip clubs and one was dressed in lace pants and did say she was a stripper. I guess that should have spelled it out for us, I'm sorry we don't get out much…
The girls took off and ultimately we got a free ride home and an interesting story. Unfortunately since they then knew his address he had to sleep with one eye open for the next few months, fearful of the nasty hooker pimp…
As the car pulled out of the driveway, I felt a sense of relief come over me. For a second there was a moment of silence as their car sped off as we individually tried to comprehend the events that had unfolded.
Just as the car's lights faded around the corner, George turned to me and frantically exclaimed, “Wait- we didn’t even ask them how much…!”
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Welcome to the blog…lets jump right into it shall we?
“The Drug Dealer Survey”
The other day at work I overheard my co-worker placing a call to his drug dealer for a refill of his green addiction. It wasn’t the fact that he was placing an order while at work that shocked me; it was his customer survey-like complaint that his last order had been “a little too dry.” I don’t partake in the world of marijuana, but I don’t need to be an avid smoker to know there has got to be a code of some sort that says you don’t complain to your drug dealer, right? And too dry? Isn’t it a dried bush in the first place? Wouldn’t that be like calling a tub of bath water too wet? You’ve got to figure the last thing the guy cares about is how some guy who spends $20 a month on your product feels about the customer service he’s been receiving. If I’m wrong and someone reading this has received a blocked call from your dealer about the time you’re sitting down to dinner, a few weeks after your last purchase of PCP, then slap me silly and tell me I’m screwed six ways til Tuesday, but until then…A little dry? “You’ll get nothing and like it or how about a break your legs, you whining, complaining son of a…” would have been my response. Maybe he was hoping for a “Wow, thank you so much for your input. My head weed pimp Tommy “The Killer” Soprano really values you taking the time to fill out our customer service survey and for your troubles you’ll receive a fresh bunt cake. We feel so sorry about your last order that we will refund your money and give you the next three pounds free…”
“Screwed At The Pump”
CAN there be any explanation of why a gas station pump will ask you if you want your receipt before you start pumping your gas other than the fact that gas tycoons are completely and utterly trying to screw you in advance once they realize you will have absolutely no record of your fill up? Is it not enough for them to charge a gazillion* dollars for gas in the first place at the price offered? I can just see the them at their mansions now – “Lets see, hot off the wire …what’s this…a non-receipter out in Tallahassee - Dennis, that means 17 cents more for each of us. Call up the strippers and this time order the special…” The worst part is that they strategically place that question right after the car wash question… “Would you like a $24.99 car wash…?" You’re, of course, emphatically pressing the ‘No’ button and then the “Do you want your receipt,” question pops up but you’ve already pressed the button simultaneously. You’re left receipt-less and even more painful - the feeling like you’re taking one in the…
*For those reading studying for an upcoming spelling bee, this is not a word…
“Reaching the Un-reachable”
I’ve come to realize that it is completely impossible these days to be unreachable. In the past a messenger pigeon could have gotten caught in a crosswind and blown unsuspectingly into a skeet shooting range, the pony express could have run astray into a ditch or the post man could have had a few too many at his local pub and lost your mail. Unfortunately in today’s world of email, text, blackberry messaging, Facebook, Myspace, Twitter, Evite and god knows what else, it is impossible to use any excuse such as – “Sorry I never got the invitation, otherwise I would have totally made it.” That sort of un-rsvp is now rebutted with - “Really? I sent you an Evite, cross-referenced with your Facebook profile, re-coordinated it with your bb messenger and emailed you.” You’re then left with a look of agonizing perplexion; “Right…ok you got me – I drank a few too many and passed out by the pool – I’m sorry I missed your Grandmother’s funeral dude, my bad.” For the last few weeks I’ve had nine e-mails, three Evites, six Facebook invites and a 13-year old pimply faced singing telegramist (not a word) proposition me on my doorstep, all with the goal to entice me to attend an upcoming Fraternity Alumni weekend. Even if I had responded to a single one (which of course, I didn’t), I still would have needed to respond “no” to six other places as well. Would it be too much to ask to maybe use just one of these means of communication to invite someone somewhere? If they don’t respond, all statistical analysis show that likely it probably just means they’re not interested. Or perhaps, a telephone call might suffice? “Hey Steve, party next weekend, want to come?” “Sorry I can’t.” Ok done – you move on. That saves everyone about thirty minutes simply due to log-on time into your various online accounts to rsvp that you’re not coming. And can someone tell me again why I need to rsvp to something that I’m not going to? Isn’t the idea of an rsvp to announce you ARE showing up? Those who don’t rsvp, usually are giving the ever so important clue that they’re not making it. Then, as if its not enough that the other 47 guests see that you are a deadbeat and missing the event, you have to give a reason why you’re not making it as well, so everyone on the thing can see you’re lying through your teeth. “That is funny-Steve’s rsvp noted that he would be chasing antelope in Sudan on Sunday and couldn’t make it but I saw him passed out in his sundae at McDonalds in San Francisco, just last night…hmm…Something sounds fishy to me…” From now on, my reason will be that I’m not going because I don’t want to have to give a reason why I’m not going! How about that? Oh wait…that would mean I just fell victim to their tricks and gave a reason…Damn…
Thursday, May 7, 2009
YOU CAN READ ALL MY BLOGS AND ADD YOURSELF TO THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST (all the hip kids are doing it...) @ http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/
BEFORE the blog gets started, I think now would be a good time to admit that I’m feeling a slight addiction to Christian rock surfacing. Granted, I’m not shouting the lyrics to my favorite God-saving jingle ebulliently from a mountain top, but humming modestly from the driver’s seat of my truck, in my opinion, is sign enough for alarm. What can I say? The songs are positive and catchy; don’t act like you haven’t caught yourself touched by the enchanted musical hands of God singing blissfully like a canary… I think that is actually how they initially get you – first they suck you in with the beguiling, goose bump-initiating music, causing you to obliviously ignore any reason to panic, and then the next thing you know you’re dawning a cloak in some field in Texas drinking Kool-aid and chanting that the sun sucks… I’ve seen it a hundred times… “What was that? Yes oh great one, yes I will slaughter a live Koala as sacrifice and then grow a mullet to prove my commitment, whatever you say, I’m humbled to be your servant…”
A Shenanigans look at gyms…
“…as tough as a straight man can respond with some guy’s package flopping less than an arm’s length away, I timorously muster, “uh yeah, uh right there, thanks man…”
I’ve never actually read my 24-hour Fitness gym contract, but I’m pretty if I did the small print would read that whenever I return to my locker after my workout, there will always be a three-hundred pound, hairy behemoth bending over naked in front of my locker, thus creating a blockade of despicable grotesqueness barricading my belongings. I swear it could be 3am with not a soul in the place when I choose my locker, but sure enough when I’m done, the one other dude in the whole gym is right next to my locker, stretching in tight white underwear. (Is it necessary to stretch while in tighty whities, one might ask themselves? I too used to have this thought until I saw an eighty-nine year old man stretch naked. After that I didn’t question the underwear stretch). This usually leads to the awkward… “You need to get in here,” the guy will non-credulously ask, as he removes his underwear in mid conversation, which is about the time I usually start to black out. As tough as a straight man can respond with some guy’s package flopping less than an arm’s length away, I timorously muster, “uh yeah, uh right there, thanks man.” I always try to remain stolid and cool and I figure if I say, “man,” that proves I’m completely unaffected by the awkwardness, when in reality I want to scream out - “for the love of god! No I don’t want to get in there, I don’t even want to be in here, when I picked out my locker no one was around, and now I’ve got your package an arm’s length away…Mama!” I mean seriously, what else would bring me all the way to the back row of lockers to the only locker with a lock on it - past hoards of naked, showering men, the smelly bathroom, and some weirdo drying his privates with the hand blower? “No buddy I don’t need to get in there, I’m actually in a traveling circus and I’m scouting out the next location for the bearded lady to jungle raccoons, or nope I just like to hang out in the back of men’s locker rooms, the smell is invigorating, or oh snap, I thought this was elliptical machine, drats, guess I was wrong, well…see ya later…” I mean really? Yes I need to get in there!! Son of a…
Then of course once you actually retrieve your belongings you’re forced to change right next to the guy, otherwise you look suspicious. For some homoerotic reason, hundreds of years ago some caveman made it acceptable for naked men to change together and ever since then we’ve been following suit, forced to simply accept the awkwardness without any cries for help or to question. If you don’t participate, men think you are some homosexual, emotionally uncomfortable around naked men. Makes perfect sense…
Once you’ve collected your belongings and awkwardly began to change, there always seems to be some completely naked guy, who emerges stealthily out of what you previously thought was a completely empty shower. Before he puts on any clothes feels the need to tell a joke or a story; usually about some girl he banged back in college. Personally I don’t think it is too much to ask for some guy to throw on a towel before starting in on his tale of uncomfortable debauchery; I mean really, how am I supposed to follow a story when, once again, some guy’s package is an arm’s length away. All I can think about it how I want to be somewhere else – like anywhere else, for example at the dentist getting a major root canal done while a midget is pulling off my toenails one by one. And furthermore, if you’re nailing chicks, why in God’s name are you practically to second base with me in the locker room - standing there, again, with your package an arm’s length away…
Shenanigans look at Mexican Food…
“…but at the end of the day, they are all just wolves dressed in tostada clothing – another burrito! …”
In the spirit of Cinco de Mayo, I’ve come to the conclusion that going out to eat at a Mexican restaurant is really no different than ordering a sixty-cent taco from Taco Bell. Seafood, Italian food, Chinese food, heck even Viking food can always be improved, but no matter how many ways you fold it a burrito is a burrito. You can only maximize chicken, beans, cheese and sour cream so far before you reach a food innovation plateau. Sure, there are different types of burritos, whether it be a crispy taco, enchilada, or whatever, but at the end of the day, they are all just wolves dressed in tostada clothing – another burrito! I’m not fooled – I’m not, I’ll be honest. I think its time someone said something. Many generations have tried, but ultimately after hundreds of years with each generation really putting their heads together and getting nowhere, we’ve ultimately witnessed absolutely no evolution in the world of Mexican food. Whose to blame one might ask? The answer, my friends is the burrito-eating people of this world. We continue to spend $15.95, plus tax and tip on the same burrito we could have purchased at El Pollo Loco for $3. In fact I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised that I’m being served that $3 burrito and paying $15.95, and wouldn’t know the difference. I’d sit there and happily eat it either way to be perfectly honest, while this burrito evolution implosion manifests in Mexican restaurants everywhere. In order to feel like I’m even getting a bargain at a restaurant I’ll usually eat about three baskets of chips and then stare trancelike at the tortilla-making machine for several hours hoping to somehow get my money’s worth. Throw a few $6 imported Pacificos, which coincidentally are brewed in Chicago, and I might as well have ordered the surf and turf at Benihana’s for the same price. Again, these are the things that keep me up at night…
May your weekend be pure drinking bliss...
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Again, my apologies for not submitting many blogs lately. Without further hesitation I grant you the honor of reading my blog once again…as usual instead of enjoying the blog you will probably be thinking about all the productive things you could be doing instead of reading this…
**And for those reading on Facebook, you can read all my past blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/
And now to the reading…
Last week while jogging on a nearby trail, I came to rest at a quaint playground just as my lungs were about to throw in the white flag and I was ready to collapse due to exhaustion. A few youngsters acknowledged me as they enjoyed some of the park’s amenities, however others were too busy tossing sand in each other’s faces to notice my presence. I’m not one to judge a day of mischief and tomfoolery but sand in one’s eyes strikes me as a bit flippant, but what do I know? Since the judge instituted that mandatory restraining order against me back in ’88 for my Soccer Mom stalking problem keeping me at least 400 yards away from any park, field or Aerostar van, I truly didn’t know what the hip kids were up to these days.
Dying of thirst, I pressed emphatically on a water fountain, anxious for the refreshing water to be the elixir for my dry, non-salivating mouth. Just as the crisp, cool water was about to hit my lips and prevent my body from shutting down completely, turning me into a useless piece of jelly, I saw it; there right in the fountain, was the brightest pink used condom I’d ever seen. Clinging to the drain like a drowning victim clinging to a life raft the condom remained impermeable to the gushing water’s attempts at dislodging it. I don’t claim to have a vast knowledge of pink condoms, so one would not consider me an expert, but this one may have been the first condom created using a color previously undiscovered in the universe. If a representative from Crayon, hot on pursuit of a fresh new flamboyant, pinkish hue was in the area, he would have done cartwheels around me and announced his search had ceased. Me on the other hand, felt a feeling of thirst quickly being replaced by the feeling of wanting to vomit. The water hit my pursed lips and careened onto my shirt. This pink imposter seemingly strategically positioned to turn my stomach into knots wasn’t the first used condom in public I’ve come across and I’m sure it won’t be my last, but one thing was for sure – I would soon learn this was the first that would haunt me in my nightmares…
Where exactly are people having sex that they feel the need to dispose these latex castaways like dry cleaning leaflets advertising $2 pressed shirts? At the park, on the street, on the curb, underneath the honeydew I’ve selected at the market? Don’t get the wrong idea, there is nothing wrong with sex in public and for the innocence of this blog I’ll plead ignorance on my experiences…ok I’m guilty, however there is something wrong with drinking out of a water fountain with a pink condom staring you square in the face – call me old fashioned…
I’m just throwing a theory out there, but wouldn’t, I don’t know…a trashcan be a great place? I’d even settle for a juniper bush or two, although I know the traditionalists will argue the rope swing down at their local park always seemed like a good spot…
I guess to fully understand how this is happening one would have to fully understand how these abandoned rubbers are finding their final home. We’ll say there are a few instances when they’re left behind by immoral, public sex addicts, impervious to the decency of others, but you’ve got to figure that only accounts for some of the cases. Are people physically leaving the place of fornication to strategically deposit these things in places just to ruin my day?
I guess I picture it something like this…
…Wow Sheila you were a real hit tonight…hmm…what should I do this condom…wait, I know…I think I saw an elementary school playground about six miles back. I’ll just drive out there and leave it on that see saw…that seems like a good place…”
“Yeah honey, that is a great idea…”
Am I way off base and there is another method that results in the transportation of condoms to the bottom of my strawberry soda can?
For your sake and for the sake of a poor guy simply stopping for a sip of water and a quick hamstring stretch, you may want to think about finding a nearby trashcan for disposal, or you too may be haunted in your sleep by dilapidated, nauseating pink condoms.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
By StevePublished 04/13/2009
Portopong in the pool
For any beer drinker with an infatuation for pounding beers and a burning desire for fierce competition, the game formerly known as Beer Pong is an excellent way to spend an afternoon of innovative drinking inebriation. The game has drawn the attention of thousands of drinkers everywhere, unwilling to stand for drinking mediocrity. The origin of the game dates back to the 1980’s, but in the last several years this pastime, which essentially guarantees intoxication to each player participating, has hit mainstream faster than Britney Spear's crotch shots to the Internet.
The idea of getting smashed while also competing in a sport is something most drinkers and athletes rarely get to do without the looming threat of an errantly thrown baseball to the groin, a spiked volleyball to the head, or a stray shuttlecock to the eye as they are looking in another direction. Beer pong not only eliminates all threats of potential injury but also provides a day of pure drinking bliss and the thrill of potential victory.
This is all fine and dandy for those who like to enjoy their pastime on land, but where does this leave the amphibious drinkers one might ask? Until recently, they were left out, forced to watch their peers have the time of their lives as they dejectedly floated down rivers, unhappily lounged on pool rafts or pouted in hot tubs left to wonder…If only they could just keep the red cups from floating away they too could enjoy…
Just at the point where salvation seemed impossible, the glorious Portopong was created and instantly one’s beer pong addiction and desire for water was joined together in joyous drinking innovation matrimony.
This brilliant invention can be blown up and used anywhere for splendiferous fun without getting out of the water. It works great for pools, lakes, over tables while camping or even for those of you who get the beer pong itch when walking by small ponds on the side of the road. It is easy to blow up to use and easy to deflate and store away for those non rainy days when you get the urge for some swimming and beer pong debauchery.
The best part about the Portopong is that when you’ve had a few too many, you can also pass out on it, making this the only drinking apparatus to also double as a bed!
One can pick up this inflatable ingenuity at www.portopong.com for just around $50 and it comes in a variety of colors. (Obese man with grotesque, hairy beer gut (pictured), sold separately). I guarantee it will improve your beer pong experience.
Monday, February 23, 2009
What you are about to read is an un-edited, un-cut, un-solicited, un-derwear version of “Burn Man.” This is a true tale of a man overcoming his fears, beating the odds, and defeating adversity only to ultimately experience the only real life simulation of the feeling one feels as they show up to school naked in their nightmares…
Corte Madera, Ca- 1994
The day started out like any other. My Mom asked me repeatedly to bring my jacket, and if I had locked my bedroom window as she always did before we departed for the day. I assume she did this just in case a burglar the size of Stuart Little with the flexibility of Gumby was somehow able to squeeze through the extremely small window and then rob us blind. It was scheduled to be a joyous day of touring the metropolitan city known as Sacramento; our state Capital. While this activity didn’t necessarily peak our fif-teen year old site seeing interests, we didn’t have much choice and we were finagled into the car, but not without fantasy baseball magazines, car games, and video games ready to distract us from whatever boring activities lied ahead.
Somewhere in the Sacramento Suburbs
The day started out like no other. A man, who for the rest of time would be known to us by the simple nickname of “Burn Man,” sat patiently awaiting his breakfast. He had been through a lot in the past year, but on this jovial morning, he felt like a million bucks.
“Thank you Dear,” he responded as his freshly cooked eggs and bacon was placed in front of him.
“What shall we do today honey bunches? His wife pleasantly interrogated.
“I thought we’d stay in and watch a movie,” the man suggested.
“Honey, I really think it is time.”
“Sheila, we’ve talked about this many times. Not until I’m completely better will I go out in public.”
“But honey you are completely normal. You’ve come so far; I think you can do it. For me? Its beautiful out, I’m sick of us being cooped up in this house.”
“I just don’t think I have it in me. You heard the Doctor, no sunlight, until the scars have completely healed, so that means...”
“So what? I don’t care.”
“People might laugh or point at me; I just don’t think I can do it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. What sick person would ever do such a thing?”
Somewhere on the 80 Freeway
My Mom was engaged in a deep read of the normally sleep-inducing Sacramento tour book. Most people either accidentally pass out or put the book down after three minutes due to utter boredom, but she was determined to get the full experience of whatever Sacramento had to offer which by the way, was close to nothing. Nonetheless our car surged forward with all of us unaware of what events were to transpire.
Somewhere in the Sacramento Suburbs
Less than halfway into his mummification, with one arm wrapped snuggly in his orange garments, Burn Man had a feeling of liberation despite looking like a pumpkin on Halloween that had been smashed all over the street. He hadn’t been outside since the fateful day of the accident, when a few beers had caused him to pass out at the family Labor Day party only to wake up to Indian burns covering ninety percent of his body.
“You are lucky to be alive.”
The words from the ER Doctor still played like a broken record in his head…
“Not only did you survive the Indian Burns, but the wet willie missed every major ear organ and had that atomic wedgy been performed an inch higher…(pause) we (pause) may not be having this conversation today…”
He looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the man staring back at him. He wasn’t sure if it was because he had lately started using an electric razor instead of a regular razor, or the fact that he was dressed in a ridiculous non-ostentatious orange outfit. Either way, Burn Man was still just a remnant of his former self.
The marathons of David Hasselhoff shows he had no choice but to watch before the invention of remote controls.
It had been tough, but it had all been worth it. Today was a new day, and the first day of the rest of his life.
State Capital - Sacaremento, Ca
After being dragged along on tour after tour through our state’s capital where Joey and I were unwillingly treated to a plethora of not so famous spots where past Governors had either signed a famous bill, met with someone we’d never heard of or used the bathroom, we would have been open to a suggestion of ice skating while watching Dirty Dancing had it been suggested to put us out of our misery. So when going to Old Town Sacramento was suggested, we were all for it. Besides how old could Old Town Sacramento really be? No city on the west coast was older than 120 years anyway. It’s not like there would be six foot-seven mummies walking around the town in broad daylight like the sleeping dead from Michael Jackson’s Thriller video right?
The Driveway - Sacramento Suburb
Somewhere in the distance a crow squawked.
The front door blew open and there standing timorously in the doorway stood Burn Man. He took a long breathe of fresh air and let the warm afternoon breeze hit his skin…or eyes rather since the rest of his body was behind the newest fashion style picked up from his local outfitter, Mummies R’ Us. Somewhere behind the orange fortress of bandages was an amiable smile, and a man ready to get back on his bike and give it a ride. He was back. Nothing could get him down on this day. Nothing.
Somewhere in the distance a crow was hit with a slingshot.
“Where we heading honey?”
“Old Town – you’re favorite spot.”
“You’re the best honey. It’s going to be a great day, I can just feel it. What could possibly stand in our way?”
“Oh sweetie, I love your outlook. Just in case I’ve already taken the initiative to alert the police department, fire department, The Marine Corps, nine stealth bombers, twelve secret service agents and Tonya Harding just in case. And again, what sick individual would do such a thing?”
“Oh honey you are such a jokester. I trust you honey. What could ever go wrong?”
----- 1 hour later ------
Old Town Sacramento
It wasn’t quite as bad as watching paint dry while also watching grass grow simultaneously, but Old Town Sacramento was a close second. We were finally heading back to the car, trudging along exhaustedly on the Old Town Sacramento cobblestone streets. The cobblestones were probably added to convince tourists that had nothing better to do on the weekends that Old Town Sacramento was actually old, and not built in 1975 which it probably was.
Joey and I had just finished off debating on the best three-point shooter in our Game Boy All-Star Basketball game when we saw it. Heading towards us at about 0mph in the bright light of the day was the most shocking, mind-boggling and uncomfortable site we had ever seen. Seventy county fairs, three semester internships at a mental institution and an all nighter at Dennis Rodman’s house couldn’t have prepared us for the disconbobulation we were witnessing. A terrifying beast stood before us, wrapped from head to toe in bright orange bandages, and at that moment Burn Man was born. Moving at a snail pace this orange creamsicle mummy inched his way towards us, while Joey and I both tried desperately to keep calm and not break out in awkward laughter at the poor chap.
Burn Man was about ten feet in front of us when we heard the fateful words that I can still hear in my head to this day, and probably will haunt Burn Man for the rest of eternity.
“Hey Guys, look at this guy!”
Holy shit, I thought, did that really just happen?
There it was again. Yes someone was definitely trying to torture the poor bastard. Who could be doing this I thought? A pugnacious bully? A roaming gang of viscous thugs? A kid picked last in kickball, forever seeking revenge on a weaker foe? Even Brandon Fraser from the movie “The Mummy,” wouldn’t have attempted this nefarious hounding, and he unearthed the
I turned around in utter disbelief to see that my mom was the one pointing at the poor lad and motioning in our direction all the while breaking out in insidious laughter. I’m not sure what Kool-Aid she had just drank but Joey and I weren’t about to try a sip, as we did our best to cover our faces and awkwardly sidestep away from the outlandish behavior.
Oh my god this is really happening, I thought trying to keep my focus at whatever object a hundred yards past Burn Man I could focus on.
It was too late not to notice. Like a kid caught with his hands in the Sour Patch Kids container at the local candy shop, Burn Man had already stopped in his tracks. Although in My Mom’s defense, his tracks basically spread about one millimeter apart due to his sluggish crawl so he may have just been in between steps; the jury is still out on this one.
Since the poor guy had been mummified, and only his eyes were visible, it made it impossible for us to really know what Burn Man was thinking, but I think we can only assume that it was something like this;
“What sick individual would do this to me?”
Joey and I quickly sauntered by Burn Man in hopes of escaping the extreme embarrassment, and the releasing of rabid bats as I’d seen mummies do in some past flicks. I’m sure if Burn Man could have lifted his arms, for example, more than the one centimeter he was able to, he would have angrily squashed us like bugs. As it was however, I felt like the bully in jail who had just forced a weaker inmate into sodomy and then topped it off by swiping his corn bread.
The guy goes through months of therapy, overcomes a million fears, and probably was a prominent figure before his accident only to have it all come crashing down at the hands of a four-foot eleven Italian mother of three who stood there for what probably felt like an eternity pointing and cackling at the poor chap.
Not a word was spoken after that as we passed Burn Man and proceeded down the street, making it the most awkward thirty seconds of my entire life. Neither of us looked back to see the debris or wreckage of the disaster we had left behind.
“Oh I thought he was a character like at Disney Land,” was my Mom’s explanation after the silence was broken when we turned down the next street.
Disney Land? Character? Donald Duck and the Pirates of The Caribbean are characters. A six-foot-seven man wrapped in bright orange bandages on the streets of Old Town? Not a character. I could see how it could have transpired…
Old Town Sacramento Tourist Board Monthly Meeting
“Ok, so who has got some ideas, we are trying to spruce up tourism in Old Town and as we all know those cobblestone bricks that Smithson came up with last meeting are just not cutting it… Yes Johnson? You have something?”
“I got it! Let’s have characters walk around the outskirts of old town, in say…I don’t know… bright orange mummy outfits. And they can walk really, really slow. Kids would love it!”
“Johnson that’s brilliant…lets get that in the books and out on the streets ASAP. This is going to be a bit hit…A bit hit I tell ya…”
We never heard of saw of Burn Man again. We can only guess he high-tailed it back into the confines of his own home at rapid walking speeds of around .003 mph as soon as my Mom’s distasteful pointing occurred, and was never seen on the streets of Old Town Sacramento again. In my Mom’s defense she did feel really bad about the incident, and furthermore, if you’re wrapped in a bright orange mummy outfit in the middle of the day you probably are asking for it, but maybe not necessarily from a middle aged mother of three…
…This is a true story – only the names of the incident have been changed to protect – actually wait a second, nope Burn Man I’m sure was his legal name…Although the editor of validity of this blog is still researching the cause of accident, as Indian Burns may or may not have been made up…
Sunday, February 8, 2009
"Super Bowl Blues"
The last remnants of hardened cheese and bean dip have been extracted from couch cushions and floorboards deposited there by drunken Superbowl XL guests.
The very last drop of beer has long been siphoned from the keg.
You’ve analyzed, re-created spliced, diced and argued every aspect of the big game over and over, from blown calls to commercials at the office water cooler with everyone from Frank in accounting to Ingrid the cleaning lady.
“Back and to the front. Back and to the front,” you’ve exclaimed to Ingrid time and time again, in a flurry of Kevin Costner, JFK-like arguments regarding the Darrell Jackson pass-interference call. '
There is no fighting the inevitable. The harsh reality has begun to set in.
Football is over.
Your addiction that has consumed you for the past five months each and every Sunday has vanished like a phantom in the night. You must quit cold turkey, and there is no football patch in sight.
To many wives and girlfriends, the end of the football season equals the return of their loved ones on Sundays. Calls like “Chad Johnson over the middle,” will now be drowned out and replaced by “Do these jeans make me look fat?” as your Sundays will now be filled with painful trips to Bed Bath & Beyond, Mervyns and Express.
You find yourself wandering the streets with your lazy boy on rollers, and bowl of pretzels in hand, looking for any football you can find. You may have even found yourself stopping in front of teen-agers playing pick up games in the street, yelling feverishly at a youngster after he fumbles somewhere between the neighbor’s mailbox and a dead bird in the gutter.
Your capricious moods are affecting every one around you.
You have a problem.
There is no Major League Baseball, NBA Playoffs, or March Madness to catch your fall when you come spiraling down from your NFL high, jittery and feeling like a useless piece of jelly.
While the NBA and NHL all-star games may be a momentary fix over the next month - it is not the answer. If you think that you can simply coast until mid March, the start of the NCAA tournament, you might as well apply for a frequent buyers card at Bed Bath & Beyond right now, because you are not going to make it.
Before you break out in sordid hives due to withdrawals, I have conjured up just the right prescription for your ailment. These sporting events will lead you right up to Dickie V and friends, and from there, you’re golden.
These events are not embellished, for they need no embellishing. If you’re committed to the healing process, they should not be missed. (Unless of course Home Depot is running a sale on shower curtain rings).
Feb 11th & 12th : Westmininster Dog Show, New York City, New York - Taking place at Madison Square Garden, the Westminister Dog Show is the Superbowl of dog shows. These stunning canine athletes will send chills down your spine with their determination and spirit. If you’re not able to sneak away from your Valentine’s Day week to catch these astounding pups then you’re are truly missing pure sporting elegance. Airs on USA.
Feb 16th : Inazawa's Naked Festival, Inazawa City, Japan - Bare-bottomed men ages 23-43 crowd the streets of Inazawa City, in hopes of touching another naked man to ensure good luck for the upcoming year. A naked man is chosen before the event and then besieged by 9000 men in loincloths in attempts to rid themselves of bad luck, thus transferring it to the naked man. I’m all for traditions, but wouldn’t it just be easier just to pick up a lucky rabbit’s foot at your local 7-11? You may have to channel surf a bit before you find this one.
Sometime in February: Hog Calling Contest, Weatherford, Oklahoma– Hog calling, a true American pastime combines excellent hog communication skills along with a pure adoration for these revolting swine. You need to become one with the hog in order to succeed in the sport. "I do eat pork. But not if I know the hog,” said former champion Roxanne Ward in a 1996 interview with the Houston Chronicle. “I will go to the store to buy pork chops. But I don't eat my friends.” …Check your local listings or your local mental institution for date and time.
February 19th: Five Angry Gods and a Contest of Strength, County of Kyoto, Japan – This annual strongman competition combines steroids, bulging biceps and rice cakes. The cakes, weighing up to 150 kilograms for men and 90 kilograms for women are far from the Quaker rice cakes packed with bursting flavors most of us are accustomed to. Not being very knowledgeable with the metric system I couldn’t say for sure how heavy these cakes really are, but according to Johnny Depp in the movie “Blow,” that would mean some pretty serious cash.
Sometime in February: Camel Wrestling Festival, Seljuk, Turkey – This inhumane, testosterone releasing event pairing man versus camel gives the men as well as the camels a healthy outlet to alleviate stress, and release tension. The last man or camel that remains standing or doesn’t get flagged for eye gauging is deemed the winner. Get out your foam fingers ready for cheering and contact your satellite provider for dates and times.
March 5th : Carnival of the Deer Man, Castelnuovo del Volturno, Isernia County, Italy – This epic saga between a grown man dressed up in an deer outfit and a holy man acting as a saint is probably more than enough to make Bambi’s ancestors shutter in their thickets. The regular man morphed into an impervious, antlered brute, comes down from the hills to wreck havoc among herds of cattle until confronted by a saintly figure wearing a fairy-hat. The holy man succeeds where the cattle could not, by summoning a nearby hunter who blows softly into the antlered beast’s ear that in turn destroys the sins and evils of the past year. It makes perfect sense. Check your TV guide for times and channel, but if anyone on the show asks you to drink the kool-aid, please refrain.
By this point of the lackluster sports month, most of you will be having visions of bracket logy dancing in your heads, but before you completely slip back into the normal sports routine, there are two more events that you should start thinking about. It requires preparation.
July 4th: World Pillow Fighting Championships – Sonoma, Ca There is not much history or much skill needed for this daring battle. Opponents must first straddle a slippery pole suspended over a mud pit, then violently bash their opponent with their goose down pillow until their foe plummets to their muddy demise. Don’t get any impure thoughts just yet; you’ll need a subscription most likely to see the sorority chicks give it a go. Contact your cable provider now so you don’t miss the epic event.
July 7th : Wife Carrying Championships, Sonkajärvi, Finland – With early roots dating back to the early 1800’s when men actually did sneak into neighboring towns and carry fellow mates’ wives off into the night, this humorous yet competitive event, which grossed 500 million viewers last year, is entering its 14th year in Finland. Men must carry their wives a tumultuous 253.5 meters, over sand, grass, gravel and water hazards, stopping only to throw back the “wife carrying drink,” at special checkpoints. Before the barbarian in you tries to pull a fast and buy that six-teen year old, sixty-five pound exchange student from down the street a one-way ticket to Finland to claim your victory, you should know these two simple rules. (Provided by the official website of the games, http://www.sonkajarvi.fi/?deptid=15228)
1. “The wife to be carried may be your own, the neighbour’s or you may have found her farther afield; she must, however, be over 17 years of age. The minimum weight of the wife to be carried is 49 kilos.”
2. “If a contestant drops his wife that couple will be fined 15 seconds per drop.” (after a swift kick in the groin from your angry wife, a 15 second penalty won’t seem so bad).
If you follow this simple program I’ve created, the names Peyton, Madden, Holmgren and Roethlisberger, will soon only be a figment of your imagination.
On the other hand, you may wake up in a cold sweat after haunting images of antlered deer men, fighting camels and bare-bottomed men visit you in your dreams…Good luck, and I’ll see you on March 16th…
Monday, January 26, 2009
…IT doesn’t happen often, but once in a while I do run into people who have a kid. I know it’s hard to believe since not many children frequent dive bars and fantasy baseball drafts, but amazingly I do try to reach the surface of the real world for a breath once in a while. It is always the same thing when I ask their age. “Billy is 9 weeks, 44 weeks, 100 weeks, etc.” Would it kill them to just let me know their age, say Billy is 1, 2, or 50? I’m not a mathematician, nor do I carry around my abacus in my back pocket, so I would appreciate just hearing the age, nothing more, and nothing less, instead of tying my head in knots.
“Oh wow, Mikey is a beautiful child, so how old is he?”
“Mikey is 412 ½ weeks, yes he is lovely isn’t he?”
“Great so he’s like, uh lets see, 4 times 9, carry the one, subtract the 6, add 0, hold on I need a break, ok times the square root of pie, divide the 1, alright so he’s… uh 7?”
“Yup that’s right!”
Listen, I don’t go around telling people I’m 1,456 weeks old, so why should you? All I’m asking for is a fair chance here…
…LAST week while driving through San Francisco, lost, which often I find myself doing by the way, I unexpectedly happened upon the Castro – the homosexual area of the city for those who don’t keep up with their sexual orientation geography. This is a place free from most homeless, however the ones you see also seem to share the same orientation as the roof-covered area inhabitants. Immediately, I reacted and reached for my stereo, turning down the new Coldplay album that was blaring out of my speakers, just like a white guy driving through the heart of the ghetto turning down his rap music. In the ghetto this move is done in efforts to deflect attention from pugnacious gang members nearby, poised and ready to put their game of Craps game on hold, and make your trip to the ghetto your last. In this case, however, the terrifying gang member was in the form of a flaming transvestite dressed in butt less leather chaps poised and ready to take a run at my manhood as soon as the sounds of my far-from-manly Coldplay album entered his hearing vicinity. I think I’d rather take my chances with the gang member, and that is why I felt it was best to keep “Viva La Vida,” at it’s lowest decibel possible to remain inconspicuous and safe out of harms way. I’m not really sure what to do if I ever came across a transvestite gang member, but I suppose I’d just turn on some death metal or something, otherwise I’d really be in for it…
…DOES anyone know how seagulls make it up to Lake Tahoe, keeping in mind Lake Tahoe is 6,000 feet above sea level and the key part of their name is “sea”gull? It really is mind-boggling. Are these itinerant birds fighting wind, rain, sleet and snow to accomplish what the Donner party could not, leaving their life at sea behind? I’ve got to be honest I’m not even mad at these birds; I’m actually extremely impressed. Wouldn’t Lake Gulls be more appropriate though? These are the things I think about at night…
… IS there any reason that people are still wearing wristwatches? Have they not realized that they carry an apparatus that displays the time digitally for them, called a cell phone? I asked my buddy who wears a watch why he wears it and he said so he could tell the time. When I asked him what time it was he said he didn’t know because the hands stopped moving two years prior so he checked his cell phone… “So let me get this straight, the main function of the device is essentially rendered useless, but yet you still wear it,” I pestered him. “It’s a nice watch, ok leave me alone,” he responded, as he fiddled with the face of the watch and the cheap plastic covering popped off…