tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74625329650878982982024-03-14T08:12:25.782-07:00Shenanigans : A Blog From the Depths of DebaucheryUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-33437312524308577212012-05-03T22:03:00.000-07:002012-05-05T11:32:41.294-07:00Book Sequels That Never Made It: Part TwoContinued from yesterday... Book Sequels that never made it...<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzMsxJe9yTx_r4Es7Jrj-LUqCVbDIOaEhywvPP1Rxbig82Gvf_gXzzR86xg33rwb4TqNDR5tI4yCVoE5IBuocmCbKI0bk5_BX0MWSb26tfaYPeko_pDdff7C1xc7QH8WAt9TMrOxDX4VA2/s1600/squirrel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzMsxJe9yTx_r4Es7Jrj-LUqCVbDIOaEhywvPP1Rxbig82Gvf_gXzzR86xg33rwb4TqNDR5tI4yCVoE5IBuocmCbKI0bk5_BX0MWSb26tfaYPeko_pDdff7C1xc7QH8WAt9TMrOxDX4VA2/s200/squirrel.jpg" width="160" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">nope, just not doing it for me</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<i><b>The Girl with the Squirrel
Tattoo</b></i> – Few have even heard of this novel, but before <i>The Girl Who Played with Fire</i>, and <i>The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet’s Nest</i> followed up <i>The Girl With The Dragon Tatoo</i>, there
was this botched sequel. It didn’t take long for publishers to realize that
squirrels, despite their propensity to spread bubonic plague, weren’t as
menacing as they thought. They also make weak tattoos. </div>
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<i><b>The Stationary</b></i> – <i>The Notebook</i> was a tearjerker that broke
the hearts of many, but the follow up to this love story was nowhere close to
the original. No one at CVS could be reached for comment after the flop hit
bookstores, but rumor has it corporate knew all along that notebooks are far
and away the preferred choice in their paper aisle. In addition, where the
prequel focused more on the main character’s journey of love together, this
follow up focused on nothing more than a spiral bounded stationary.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1qNSYYnGt2tBcYk4-1-KM33C4vpFAVB6ilUeS7xA67GXB83zlbgi6szfMQqJLPMl-o1WEmeADlBawu3eqHGnPrDJEcXoRim5-zaaba4hv7HaZyLfnoj8fBG4DV08hsHO3uO2apUl7ua64/s1600/breeze.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1qNSYYnGt2tBcYk4-1-KM33C4vpFAVB6ilUeS7xA67GXB83zlbgi6szfMQqJLPMl-o1WEmeADlBawu3eqHGnPrDJEcXoRim5-zaaba4hv7HaZyLfnoj8fBG4DV08hsHO3uO2apUl7ua64/s1600/breeze.jpg" /></a><i><b>Gone with the Breeze</b></i>
– We should’ve seen this coming. It was hard enough as it was to believe that
any human would disappear simply with a gust of wind, so a breeze seems even more
unlikely. Writers underestimated incredulous readers and their cockiness got
the best of them here. Before putting this to print, they tossed around the
idea of <i>Gone with the Tornado</i> or <i>We think they’re gone, but they might just
be missing with the Cyclone</i>, but opted for the gentler version of moving
air. Bad call. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpSTF29K6XeW1wBjGMzV48pE78N-SEg1eddgNBGBbY6Co9dTYIfTrYI9tKu-rA9ooO3QGcfESjWp5JOj2Mbptjq4WpbjgN-awbmDBoBHlxaVORbWqj-hTJeVIwhVZ_r9Xsy3JoL079RWlO/s1600/sleez.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpSTF29K6XeW1wBjGMzV48pE78N-SEg1eddgNBGBbY6Co9dTYIfTrYI9tKu-rA9ooO3QGcfESjWp5JOj2Mbptjq4WpbjgN-awbmDBoBHlxaVORbWqj-hTJeVIwhVZ_r9Xsy3JoL079RWlO/s1600/sleez.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even though he could make a mean<br />
omelet, his breakfast never caught on</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<i><b>Breakfast at
Mauricio’s</b></i> – Let face it, no one wants to eat breakfast at a sleazy,
hairy-chested, sweaty brutes house in the morning. Tiffany graced us all at our
breakfast tables, stealing our hearts in the process, but Mauricio became the
poster slob for anyone trying to lose weight by starving themselves. Once you
read this book you’ll be ninety times more likely to skip a morning meal. </div>
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<i><b>Minimal Expectations</b></i>
– I think the initial approach here was to hit the market of people who look at
the world half empty but they failed miserably when they realize most of those
people don’t read. <i>Good Expectations </i>did
a little bit better but that is only because it was written as a European,
risqué, trashy sex novel where the women expected very little from their male
counterparts. Both failed to duplicate the historical classic, <i>Great Expectations.</i> </div>
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<i>You can read all the blogs at: </i><a href="http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/">http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/</a> </div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-51152303871760962042012-05-02T21:49:00.000-07:002012-05-05T11:32:53.262-07:00Book Sequels That Never Made It: Part One<br />
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The long awaited <i>Hunger
Games</i> was released in theaters last month and has done well so far. The
novel, turned into big screen hit has shared success with the rest of the books
in its series, however not all series have been as lucky. Until now these novel
outcasts have been stashed away in hiding, found only deep within the confines
of libraries and bookstores. Today the
staff here exposes these flops for the failure that they are.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFfYbvQHadF5m6nUI0n9ZYnQhj7jVTeaZQc1Xmvl34EwQm45IZqMF2aFN9sETTLQGAxN7mPW9eAeZ3N2eYdn-c7drE_N1NSwaV-H5xceMHdURHWblxrZxQ5HMq3MRydHXX8FeDBCQC0eCr/s1600/pitchforks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFfYbvQHadF5m6nUI0n9ZYnQhj7jVTeaZQc1Xmvl34EwQm45IZqMF2aFN9sETTLQGAxN7mPW9eAeZ3N2eYdn-c7drE_N1NSwaV-H5xceMHdURHWblxrZxQ5HMq3MRydHXX8FeDBCQC0eCr/s1600/pitchforks.jpg" /></a><i><b>Running with
Pitchforks</b></i> – The long awaited sequel to <i>Running
with Scissors</i> entered a realm of moving violence too treacherous for even the
most excessive of risk takers, falling far short of reader’s expectations. Shortly
after the book’s release, publishers realized the error they made and quickly
brought a third book to market, <i>Running
With Staplers</i> in an attempt to capture a genre of readers that were interested
in office supplies books. They were dead wrong. It turns out it was the running as well
as the scissors that attracted fans. Nothing more, nothing less. </div>
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<i><b>The Kite Walker</b></i> –
Despite the highly anticipated follow up to <i>The
Kite Runner</i>, ultimately no one wanted to see anyone walk their kite. After
the failed attempt at recreating the highly acclaimed first novel, <i>The Kite Trotter </i>and <i>Kite Tip-Toer</i> also fell short on
critics’ lists.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaOpxunMsIpddmnEmRHKjTcFj_wQ3xj03wza5X4uI8qDzMC6_wxJAvwFLXqXoJTtC95TQti7kBmGU0tDLwMnpBq8oE9wnpNHoFFKfv0Je68Tv27T1E03HXi6aHxSzlnfUtfAXYmnC1Gpib/s1600/LordOfTheThings_Title.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaOpxunMsIpddmnEmRHKjTcFj_wQ3xj03wza5X4uI8qDzMC6_wxJAvwFLXqXoJTtC95TQti7kBmGU0tDLwMnpBq8oE9wnpNHoFFKfv0Je68Tv27T1E03HXi6aHxSzlnfUtfAXYmnC1Gpib/s320/LordOfTheThings_Title.jpg" width="320" /></a><i><b>The Lord of the Things</b></i> – The fourth novel in <i>The Lord of the Rings</i> series failed to
meet reader expectations, appearing to be even more vague that the first three
books, despite an attempt at broadening the plot. The first three books were
about a single ring, so basically nothing, yet somehow mesmerized readers enough to waste hundreds of hours reading
about a single object. If they read that
many pages about a stupid ring, think how long of a book we could write about
things in general, the publisher of the book thought to himself. Readers were
enthralled at the idea in pre-production, however once the 9,133 page book
finally came out, Freudo was like a six-year old with ADHD at a video game
store, hoarding as many things as he could get his hands on. At the end of the
book he found himself protecting his loot at a trailer home somewhere in
Alabama until the TV show <i>Hoarders</i>
finally tracked him down and made him realize the errors of his ways. The book
ends with one of the show’s cameramen removing a life-size George Michael
cardboard cutout, and from behind it emerges that guy from <i>Rudy</i> and his hobbit fried Mary. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDXubNWzPAs5KPDdtJ5CxkMnhJh4_xcKUUkr-TgfVrFSyZOKG5v93bSX5HT0E7iByNeb9xw8uzfbKDlPPB8jFGFg7y3-nTcP1gi3lzib4H0ekcwkesB4jAJVV8aPPfPOQi_sSC-qXr2_kP/s1600/fictionalhouses_14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDXubNWzPAs5KPDdtJ5CxkMnhJh4_xcKUUkr-TgfVrFSyZOKG5v93bSX5HT0E7iByNeb9xw8uzfbKDlPPB8jFGFg7y3-nTcP1gi3lzib4H0ekcwkesB4jAJVV8aPPfPOQi_sSC-qXr2_kP/s320/fictionalhouses_14.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><b>The Ordinary Gatsby</b></i>
– Writers argued for months about whether to make another book about Gatsby or one
simply about another great protagonist, but when push came to shove they
thought that Gatsby was the proof in their pudding. Alas, they were deemed
wrong when they learned it wasn’t Gatsby that stole reader’s hearts at all. It
was his greatness. <i>The Average Gatsby</i>, <i>The Decent Gatsby</i>, and The <i>Normal Gatsby</i> also failed miserably at
the book stores. </div>
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Check back tomorrow for more books that you didn't know existed. When you are made aware, you'll be sure to run to your local Borders to locate, failing to realize the company folded; most likely because of these epic failures. </div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-31542250443678798772012-04-17T20:44:00.000-07:002012-04-18T13:25:51.582-07:00The Full Games :This time we're playing with a full stomach...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqzVHVGKl8J-eFqlYx_qOS-t5folvFfAMMZHy6cZpy4nI6M2g7l3vYRU5vHxUHSU1_hAFi_dtTRjoSEHwZAno8MRqleVP9MSrPSTrHhpXYHhw-CSm6IVREmMJgnlLoGs_pKSWX5uDA2gKh/s1600/senanigans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqzVHVGKl8J-eFqlYx_qOS-t5folvFfAMMZHy6cZpy4nI6M2g7l3vYRU5vHxUHSU1_hAFi_dtTRjoSEHwZAno8MRqleVP9MSrPSTrHhpXYHhw-CSm6IVREmMJgnlLoGs_pKSWX5uDA2gKh/s400/senanigans.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeG2MdOMeZy443BUENkmJWmD98ugR2TTdf3ba0jOBQxai3eWcLWS1iUulcFK_Kt_J0FpU2xFBwvbFUXblL_cTFqQLS9jJLG_T8CfOLGpq6_aFABwncsvubAuvi2lTeirG2NE_8vDu9Lf6T/s1600/sombrero.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeG2MdOMeZy443BUENkmJWmD98ugR2TTdf3ba0jOBQxai3eWcLWS1iUulcFK_Kt_J0FpU2xFBwvbFUXblL_cTFqQLS9jJLG_T8CfOLGpq6_aFABwncsvubAuvi2lTeirG2NE_8vDu9Lf6T/s200/sombrero.jpg" width="131" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Papa?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Just when you thought it was safe to open up your email
and these blogs were done; like that they return. And like the child who showed
up on your doorstep wearing a sombrero and a t-shirt that says Cancun Spring
Break 2006, they won’t be going away. </div>
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The Hunger games was finally released in theaters, but I’ll
be honest, I’m not even that hungry for them. My Mom always told me not to play
games on an empty stomach so I went ahead and ate. It’s not my fault these
other participants weren’t fortunate to have a Mom concerned about their nutritional
intake. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVxRVxQ8Ou2NoOsHjENGJKm9ggvsEbEezRN_LWQ-Ggq66YPemwjxc92vRx7ALTMDkOH7NH63X-rlCrRCcDJ5Flndv5D6qD1t8fOkelH1EAD1MsJXcX9vAJUAUePhVFcMi6plvgWgX3hKET/s1600/dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVxRVxQ8Ou2NoOsHjENGJKm9ggvsEbEezRN_LWQ-Ggq66YPemwjxc92vRx7ALTMDkOH7NH63X-rlCrRCcDJ5Flndv5D6qD1t8fOkelH1EAD1MsJXcX9vAJUAUePhVFcMi6plvgWgX3hKET/s320/dog.jpg" width="320" /></a>Despite immediately sniffing each other’s rears at every
chance they get, I still feel it's important for most dogs to maintain a
reputation socially. When they see another dog heading in their direction with
one of those huge collars on their neck that prevents them from chewing off
their own fur, it probably goes something like this:</div>
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Dog #1’s mind without plastic collar: Oh god here is another
one, ok don’t look at him, don’t look at him, stop looking at him, what are you
doing, oh son of a dog bone, I can’t stop looking he looks ridicule-</div>
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Dog #2: Look away, look away, I’m hideous, oh god, please
look awa- </div>
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Dog #1: “Oh hi Rex, how are the bitch and pups?”<br />
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Dog #2: (sheepishly) "Great, good, well, see ya"<br />
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Dog #1: That was awkward<br />
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So Apple came out with its new iPad this month. Despite
everyone already having an iPhone, iPod, iPad, and whatever else, can we
justifiably say that Apple can literally come out with any product at this
point and slap an i in front of it and make millions? They could literally sell
an Apple.</div>
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“So what is this product here?”<br />
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“That is my apple I brought in for my lunch”</div>
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“Wow that sounds great, I will take it. How much?”</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6aECx847hC0DIlArwA9P04X5ItLm0SLfI1i7tC-gVxMwRDYBR7PSKfa6SjkTizehcg3dTQALDiktodwzZojyOIphXzL2eT-HSrd4l6mR3GaL-nF-jNU_UUuwnZot572P7JBclXezkFDTj/s1600/apple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6aECx847hC0DIlArwA9P04X5ItLm0SLfI1i7tC-gVxMwRDYBR7PSKfa6SjkTizehcg3dTQALDiktodwzZojyOIphXzL2eT-HSrd4l6mR3GaL-nF-jNU_UUuwnZot572P7JBclXezkFDTj/s1600/apple.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Apple releases its long awaited new<br />
product; an apple. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
“Sir that is literally an apple.”</div>
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“Sounds great. $200 it is. I’ll take your iTUNA, and iBANANA too, unless
you think there will be a software update on them anytime soon.” </div>
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“There will be?”</div>
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“Doesn’t matter, I’ll take them.” </div>
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And why is it that the iTunes disclosures are longer than
the one you have to sign when you go sky diving? Since you have to download
a new version every fifteen days anyway, is it necessary to have 32 pages of disclosures?
Is a flesh eating virus going to pop out of my laptop once I download and they
feel the need to legally protect themselves from such an apocalyptic abomination?
Jesus, I’ll just go bungee jumping over crocodile infested waters instead of downloading new software; probably
a whole lot safer.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSd-jZvkMVScu6MDpAn8riFkVeZsFOP1p3IDLVaqoaBJ1sZuCrdA0PTrQNLoyz1aSZYcSHW9LocSC1fGBGl5-0djvywR5P_bLXS8jWcEC-VbKgQ6DVMK3zpYMa4PfB5rHeFG28m0a8ikGZ/s1600/mahi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSd-jZvkMVScu6MDpAn8riFkVeZsFOP1p3IDLVaqoaBJ1sZuCrdA0PTrQNLoyz1aSZYcSHW9LocSC1fGBGl5-0djvywR5P_bLXS8jWcEC-VbKgQ6DVMK3zpYMa4PfB5rHeFG28m0a8ikGZ/s1600/mahi.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We get it, you're a big deal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Why is it that a Mahi Mahi feels so self righteous that it
thinks it deserves two names? What other sea creature is so vain that in needs
to be said twice? You don’t see a Swordfish Swordfish, Salmon Salmon, or
Scallop Scallop on sale at the market so what makes Mahi Mahi so special? I’ll be honest, I’m sick of its attitude. </div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #191919;">You can read all the blogs at </span></span><a href="http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/">http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/</a>
</div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-88846321784781944392011-12-28T23:24:00.000-08:002011-12-29T14:15:51.988-08:00Twas the Night Before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring not even a Yak and some aged Meatloaf?<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NISI-_n9SGU/TvwMcnJuBVI/AAAAAAAAAmY/OYSD1bC-4I0/s1600/jennerb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NISI-_n9SGU/TvwMcnJuBVI/AAAAAAAAAmY/OYSD1bC-4I0/s1600/jennerb.jpg" /></a>Christmas has come and gone and, like a Kim Kardashian
marriage, it started with a lot of hype, ham shaking, and unemployed basketball players... then ended in disappointment. You are then left with only a father who looks like a lesbian or a large credit card bill. </div>
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You be the judge.<br />
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Today’s blog comes a few days late and a few shakes of a reindeer’s tail before New Years, but will still focus on the trivial things that Rudolph, St. Nick, and the guy lurking outside your girlfriend’s bedroom dressed in a Santa outfit sans pants failed to discover.
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-icnLWD7D_bE/TvwN2-r7azI/AAAAAAAAAmw/FM9zn-OiZx4/s1600/Tibet_White_Yak_Toy-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="236" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-icnLWD7D_bE/TvwN2-r7azI/AAAAAAAAAmw/FM9zn-OiZx4/s320/Tibet_White_Yak_Toy-1.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Papa?</td></tr>
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I know what you’re thinking – was Steve actually consummated on a foggy Christmas Eve on the island of misfit toys, when an alcoholic toy yak, and a Jacqueline in the box drank too much spiked eggnog and made some bad
decisions together? Please tell me this explains the deranged genetic makeup.</div>
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And now to the write up…</div>
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EVERY kid loves Christmas lights on the house, and Dads don’t want to disappoint their young tyke, but they also don’t want to be nailing, stapling, and affixing the blasted things, then taking them down year after
year.</div>
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My Dad figured out that it’s much easier to just leave those
infuriating bulbs up year round, instead of going through the torture.</div>
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The day after Thanksgiving, the lights would magically turn
on, and all the neighbors would gawk in astonishing jealousy… </div>
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“Look at that Billy - Those McDevitts are real go-getters…!”</div>
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Are there any other electrical devices that rely on each
other as much as those darn lights? One small light would go out on the strand
and instantaneously the others commit Hari-Kari and turn to mince meat. </div>
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If humans worked on this same concept, we’d all be dead at
first sign of a co-worker sneezing.</div>
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“Holy Mother - It’s the Black Plague of 2011, Johnson! Everyone in the office that’s it. We’re all goners!” People would be throwing themselves into the
paper shredder by the dozens. </div>
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The Four Horseman of the Apocalypse have this thing all
wrong. Just model our demise after these lights. </div>
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Done and done. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8Y9y36I_jJc/TvwPnvIb0WI/AAAAAAAAAm8/CO8Lso_V5nE/s1600/4horse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8Y9y36I_jJc/TvwPnvIb0WI/AAAAAAAAAm8/CO8Lso_V5nE/s320/4horse.jpg" width="241" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not the Four Horseman of the Apocolypse</td></tr>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iNtREbp23-k/TvwSt1uOb6I/AAAAAAAAAn4/TFump7G_dLs/s1600/meat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iNtREbp23-k/TvwSt1uOb6I/AAAAAAAAAn4/TFump7G_dLs/s200/meat.jpg" width="166" /></a><span class="apple-style-span"></span><span style="color: #191919;">My Mom always puts leftovers from holidays in different containers she’s accumulated over the years and gives them to me to take home which I proceed to throw in the fridge and forget about for six months. The fruit medley I’ve been staying away from all the while, turns out to be a wretched meatloaf, now fermented and emanating a rotting carcass-like aroma. You only discover this once it completes the bacterial life cycle, first eroding its way through the peach medley container, growing a pair of legs, and ultimately, changing the channel during the “</span><i style="color: #191919;">Meet the Kardashians,”</i><span style="color: #191919;"> season finale. (I’ve seen it a hundred times)</span></div>
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<span style="color: #191919;">“Paul, put that back on!” This is the wedding episo-?”</span></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #191919;">“Paul?
Hello?”</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sli8NOA_iSc/TvwSh9Qi9NI/AAAAAAAAAns/R7B4YU8D2mo/s1600/meatloaf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sli8NOA_iSc/TvwSh9Qi9NI/AAAAAAAAAns/R7B4YU8D2mo/s1600/meatloaf.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meatloaf rotting in the fridge. No, I won't do that actually. </td></tr>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #191919;">In past
years I would look forward to basketballs, video games and Matchbox cars, but
at some point that all changed.</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #191919;"> </span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #191919;">Now my Christmas list is made up of practical and boring
gift ideas; like spatulas, cuisinarts and, most importantly, boxer shorts.</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #191919;"> </span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #191919;">I don’t think I’ve bought a
pair of boxers or socks for, well, ever.</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #191919;"> </span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #191919;">Every year my Mom will
ensure my socks and underwear collection gets replenished and this year was no
different. I’m not sure if I’m alone on this, since now that I think about it,
my Mom buying my underwear is actually pretty disturbing. It was also
disturbing that she told my brother-in-law this year that she didn’t recognize
him with pants on… (No he wasn’t the santa lurking outside with no pants you
sicko).</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EZPF2iZNkX0/TvwQJoft5WI/AAAAAAAAAnI/5SiqiVQJxb8/s1600/pir-showers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EZPF2iZNkX0/TvwQJoft5WI/AAAAAAAAAnI/5SiqiVQJxb8/s320/pir-showers.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Still not the Four Horseman of Apocolypse</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IMTFJEdckM0/TvwQ_BLE2WI/AAAAAAAAAnU/ZigzScjZgO0/s1600/horseman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IMTFJEdckM0/TvwQ_BLE2WI/AAAAAAAAAnU/ZigzScjZgO0/s1600/horseman.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh C'mon now</td></tr>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GcOUrOqnVxE/TvwRagTN_4I/AAAAAAAAAng/U6wcwsgOHo0/s1600/austin_powers_Swedish_Penis_Pump.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GcOUrOqnVxE/TvwRagTN_4I/AAAAAAAAAng/U6wcwsgOHo0/s200/austin_powers_Swedish_Penis_Pump.jpg" width="135" /></a><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #191919;">I’ve
noticed over the years that when you are in a relationship, women will buy you
mostly presents that will also benefit them. It may be a nice sweater that they
want to see you in, new face wash to get rid of your massive blackheads, or
nose-hair trimmers to trim the hairs most typically affixed to one’s genitals,
but instead are crawling innocuously towards your eyeballs. Just out of range
for any standard human pupil to spot, but clear as day for her to notice. At
the end of the day, I suppose all these items are ok, but if you open up a box
for a Swedish penis enlarger, she just might be telling you something. Just
sayin…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #191919;">For
some self-conscious, promiscuous women, going to the mall at Christmas can’t be
easy. Specifically when walking by Santa’s North Pole with your two harlot friends.</span></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #191919;">“Ho,
Ho,Ho…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #191919;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #191919;">“Jeanine,
was that guy in the red sweatsuit referring to us?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #191919;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #191919;">“Yeah
I think so. Oh my god, how does he know?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #191919;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #191919;">“Merry
Christmas! “Ho, Ho, Ho.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #191919;">“By
god I think you’re right, he was saying it right as we walked by, he was
looking at us and saying it one by one.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #191919;">“Damnit
Natalie, I knew we never should’ve gotten on that darn holiday party bus with those Jello
shots. Now the whole mall knows.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #191919;">“Merry
Christmas…”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L2O7tOIagKs/TvwTqHhgOOI/AAAAAAAAAoE/HID6A7REVps/s1600/xmas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L2O7tOIagKs/TvwTqHhgOOI/AAAAAAAAAoE/HID6A7REVps/s400/xmas.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #191919;">That’s
all she wrote tonight… Happy New Year!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rne52sC67pk/TvwT1lvGzWI/AAAAAAAAAoU/OoyI3TTtqqE/s1600/horseman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="299" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rne52sC67pk/TvwT1lvGzWI/AAAAAAAAAoU/OoyI3TTtqqE/s400/horseman.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #191919;">You
can read all the blogs at </span></span><a href="http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/">http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/</a></div>
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<br />
<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-12261884884963476932011-11-09T23:08:00.000-08:002011-11-09T23:31:16.834-08:00All The Hip Kids Are Doing It<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;">Welcome to another gut-</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 13px;">wrenching</span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;">, rash-causing, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 13px;">goosebump</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;">-reducing edition of the blog. If you find any of it offensive, or unfunny, don't panic; it just probably means you are perfectly fit for society. </span></span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Captions that didn't make the cut...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>Finally, I've found my Cuisinart</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>Getting to second base has never felt so good</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>Gosh Dangit Maude, I told you to wait to take the photo until my arm was all the way in</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>So whatta say, we get out of here after this; take a ride up the coast to that little trough you like?</i></span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="apple-style-span">So the 49ers
are amazingly 7-1 for the first time since the nineties, thanks to new coach
Jim Harbaugh, whose offensive minded approach has turned Alex Smith into a
serviceable quarterback. It is incredible it took ownership seven years to
finally see that having defensive minded head coaches like Singletary and Nolan
teach Smith how to play the position is like a Father trying to teach his daughter, about to hit puberty, how her period works. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"Ok lets see, I guess you
stick this well, golly gee, I'm actually I'm not sure what you do with
this..."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"Er... coach, that is
actually my turkey sandwich...the football is over there..."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"Right I knew that. Well, next, I'm going to tell you where babies come from..."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Man I wish I could throw a Penn State joke in here... darn moral compass </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 115%;">When I talk to my Mom on the phone she is always asking me what every noise is in the background, like it is absolutely </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;">imperative</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 115%;"> to the conversation that she know. She can't hear anything I'm actually telling her yet she can hear a hummingbird 200 yards away from me. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 13px;">"Whats that sound?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 13px;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 13px;">"Mom I just told you I have three days to live, yet you are focused on that mime across the street who just dropped a pin on velvet. Can we get back to the conversation now? Did I also tell you I just successfully gave birth to twins? Yep first male ever to deliver a baby, they came right out of my ear, it was a medical miracl-"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 13px;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 13px;">"What is that banging I hear?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEfGqvq78XhYL-jiMi5odf7NVOcffO4OD9bErBk-PQlaKnFwmExo70T1shwEYEkDc4yar-2d3CXBrIc0Jb4J8y96Xr5X0g73CBZRXUItvliph1SiywcNOenDZrcJVmGwvAoTgDER1PzROi/s1600/cheetah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEfGqvq78XhYL-jiMi5odf7NVOcffO4OD9bErBk-PQlaKnFwmExo70T1shwEYEkDc4yar-2d3CXBrIc0Jb4J8y96Xr5X0g73CBZRXUItvliph1SiywcNOenDZrcJVmGwvAoTgDER1PzROi/s400/cheetah.jpg" width="295" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So even in death this animal is playing...a dead animal. Egregiously redundant, no?</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Have any high ranking members of McDonald's corporate ever eaten at their airport restaurant, or perhaps eaten at an airport in general? I guess they figure you're more likely to pay $9 for a big mac than to go back up the wrong way of the security line and have your balls photographed for a second time to see what prices are actually like in the real world. </span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;">I'm just picturing the TSA agents drinking a cold one and laughing at an infared picture of my nuts as I order... </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 12px;">"Yes as a matter of fact, I will make it a meal deal...$18? Sure, no problem." </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5zkm2ShOYMrAlbTeNssKmUJBn4Ue1Ca8nnlAr5R8A-Fcwe0H5erZyEbxeiCqjPKP5w0_pZ83yNUJ_ZaBb_WfLgopPbHU0Z_c79oHBEUZSAxWlzmzJ3NilUSWkMKj1L6vwLAP1WlV0Cgxb/s1600/Ronald-McDonald.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5zkm2ShOYMrAlbTeNssKmUJBn4Ue1Ca8nnlAr5R8A-Fcwe0H5erZyEbxeiCqjPKP5w0_pZ83yNUJ_ZaBb_WfLgopPbHU0Z_c79oHBEUZSAxWlzmzJ3NilUSWkMKj1L6vwLAP1WlV0Cgxb/s640/Ronald-McDonald.jpg" width="503" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 115%;">How are all these </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;">phenomenal individuals teaching English overseas?</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">"What happened to Cynthia?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px;">"She is teaching in Andorra! Isn't that amazing?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 115%;">"No it's not actually, since when does she speak </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;">Catalan?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">"She doesn't, but she is teaching them English, isn't that wonderful?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">I thought the main component of teaching a language to others is having the ability to communicate with them. Perhaps you just speak English to them for 50 minutes while they all sit there with blank stares? </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">"Alright class, please turn to page 55... Class? Class? Why aren't you listening to me? Hello?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Class (In Catalan) "What the heck is this dumb white girl saying?"</span><br />
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I’m convinced that no matter
how diabolically inappropriate an email is, if you add "kind regards," to the end salutation, the recipient will take it as a kind correspondence.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dear Columbia House,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">If you send one more f%cking cd to my house that myself of my girlfriend didn’t order, I will hunt down your CEO, chop off
his legs, and then feed them to him while simultaneously shoving a pineapple up his a$$<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Kind Regards,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sebastian<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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CEO: Hmm… you know what he
actually seems like a pretty decent guy. Evelyn, get in here! Do we have any
more of those Columbia House tote bags? Can you send one out to this kind chap? Or maybe those pink shirts that say Gorgeous on them for his girlfriend?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8jm4pvjhQkn5MYW07UQUY_J4odoj-K9bypknUjAGoMIiJyRcjWPu5TCuu93WENjhE8upupKREdyUwschGDktggWaTR1gxCcMj3x4MJTdPbLFt_4WDmq157EDvtp4jm8darCy3SDz3Aj0M/s1600/The_Assassination_of_President_Lincoln_-_Currier_and_Ives.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8jm4pvjhQkn5MYW07UQUY_J4odoj-K9bypknUjAGoMIiJyRcjWPu5TCuu93WENjhE8upupKREdyUwschGDktggWaTR1gxCcMj3x4MJTdPbLFt_4WDmq157EDvtp4jm8darCy3SDz3Aj0M/s320/The_Assassination_of_President_Lincoln_-_Currier_and_Ives.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;">Other than that Miss Lincoln, how was the play? Great character development, no?</span></div>
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</span><b style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 16px; text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></i></b><br />
<b style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 16px; text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">You can read all my blogs at </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/</span></i></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;">or contact me at steve.mcdevitt@gmail.com
</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-89907443405451166492011-07-11T19:10:00.001-07:002011-07-11T22:14:21.096-07:00Don't Punch A Gift Horse In The Mouth (Indian Burns ok)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAU32CX7KOf4q3nlxpzxbnMuBy7gE0z0mRtCkQ6tcsnEyuhdvTAw5K12f08OustHV5baS13RDY9SzhhqrOZbnj6Av2c-YyjhExnvr4oQ9LLQS4wWmSOVDG_sdVnrGX5UKaI4c__bcXDZ5u/s1600/images.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 194px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAU32CX7KOf4q3nlxpzxbnMuBy7gE0z0mRtCkQ6tcsnEyuhdvTAw5K12f08OustHV5baS13RDY9SzhhqrOZbnj6Av2c-YyjhExnvr4oQ9LLQS4wWmSOVDG_sdVnrGX5UKaI4c__bcXDZ5u/s320/images.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628321525458529970" /></a><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px; ">This entry is far from the dilapidated humor usually displayed in this blog. Instead the snippet takes you into a world of hilarity a prisoner on death row left with nothing but a pail of grass growing would avoid reading. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px; "> </span></div><div> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"">If anyone reading is offended by any of the content in this post, I hope you understand that most of it is the result of me opening a door that wasn’t locked when I was nine. (pictured left) <o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div>--------------------------------------------------------</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px; ">I don’t pretend to know anything about being a meteorologist, but one thing I think I could do is <span></span>pinpoint the temperature within - say at least twenty degrees, so my viewers can at least determine whether or not they need 110 SPF or should befriend an Eskimo to teach them how to construct a snow cave.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaRl1ykaVItalRPIwNSG1YqG56tD0Jo0AQV6E-HRMEwLxQ3MMu29mzkvAx2JkEWyBNTVlc85TVs1oldNPZziLU7KXoAd64ZN1EiVu6zDLvVCY2HeLeFW9MRhpkMSX5lxKc45nB0M10LEsu/s1600/igloo.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span class="Apple-style-span"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 274px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaRl1ykaVItalRPIwNSG1YqG56tD0Jo0AQV6E-HRMEwLxQ3MMu29mzkvAx2JkEWyBNTVlc85TVs1oldNPZziLU7KXoAd64ZN1EiVu6zDLvVCY2HeLeFW9MRhpkMSX5lxKc45nB0M10LEsu/s320/igloo.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628320070724818018" /></span></a><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px; ">Weather report for my Mill Valley hike last Saturday: 76 degrees, partly cloudy</span></div><div> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"">Actual temperature: 48 degrees, fog thicker than whale blubber <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"">On a side note, if they have to make SPF that high, probably a good sign the ozone layer is now the same thickness as dental floss. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px; "><i>Sorry <span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;mso-bidi-font-weight:bold">Ipiktok, all that was for nothing, sun is out, gosh darn weather man</span></span></i></span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; ">-------------------------------------------------------</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px; "><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px; ">There are a plethora of companies now coming out stating they are making their products with real sugar. That’s awesome! Real sugar! Wait a second-what the f was I eating before?</span></p></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGAfxr4yIK1ZuHVivSawAbtWurzQFZIopXTBNByUokWa16oePp2B8109OLLFObgqPeRbRZ-UMtx6g577xFuFrGSyYOWM-ztmEaUGASGYz18Rfdg6qHobvvlSXYTm9LumHNTHH2VuSth9oH/s1600/Dr-Pepper-Made-With-Real-Sugar-Package.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span class="Apple-style-span"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 207px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGAfxr4yIK1ZuHVivSawAbtWurzQFZIopXTBNByUokWa16oePp2B8109OLLFObgqPeRbRZ-UMtx6g577xFuFrGSyYOWM-ztmEaUGASGYz18Rfdg6qHobvvlSXYTm9LumHNTHH2VuSth9oH/s320/Dr-Pepper-Made-With-Real-Sugar-Package.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628318547435076770" /></span></a><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; ">---------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px; ">Is it too much of a strain on public parks’ budgets to put a door on their bathroom stalls? I know we are in a down economy but sheesh! I still can’t figure out what is more embarrassing; having someone walk in on you doing your business, or walking in on some unsuspecting random chap. Listening to someone in the next stall is one thing, but being having an open view of the fortuitous debacle is another.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"">“Oh hey there, I was just uh washing my hands. I uh…”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"">(guy straining on pot, vein on forehead visibly protruding)<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"">“So, going anywhere nice on your holiday? You know what I’m just going to use a tree…”</span></p></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFoTaPf8yXWAGUmwR8Z12pYAZucxIv4-5D66dzAxRSwn9-GLkZNq3uBzfhSvDz1z48zxeiDYPZrXwY7LdUMPU9zwl2afLMLDaIZQH1wl4Dp4jQkVXTWc1CB00yh3DmarJOod-9PMqFvH3s/s200/bathroom.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628317621857681650" /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;punctuation-wrap:simple; text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; ">---------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;punctuation-wrap:simple; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-font-kerning:14.0pt">When my Microsoft Word goes “not responding” and a pop up comes up and says <i>“do you want to send the error report?”</i> Where does that go?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Bill Gates himself, or does the computer just take me for an idiot as I sit there and wait for no return? <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;punctuation-wrap:simple; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-font-kerning:14.0pt"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;punctuation-wrap:simple; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-font-kerning:14.0pt">Ok, Bill I’ll leave the line open for you, give me a ring to discuss. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;punctuation-wrap:simple; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-font-kerning:14.0pt"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;punctuation-wrap:simple; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-font-kerning:14.0pt">RAM: Oh shit Johnson, we didn’t know he’d actually click “Send Report.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;punctuation-wrap:simple; text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; ">ROM: I know me neither. What the kilobyte do we do now?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;punctuation-wrap:simple; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-font-kerning:14.0pt">RAM: Just completely stop responding, and keep that hourglass in full cycle until he gives up. Eventually he’ll just assume it is because of all the porn he’s been downloading<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;punctuation-wrap:simple; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-font-kerning:14.0pt">ROM: Good call RAM. You always know what to do<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8AXcpf8s7haViFoTz0_63kTGWRGZMuczwjRRi6z06B2somb1ZqhVj0gDQlxxn0WPo3r3enLwRurOW7IVrULO3hteaHDZPb6OeNQp1hvzY1f5bEVNXjwrYHMuGwp2wWescPivhyERRlkeg/s1600/06-15gates_lg.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span class="Apple-style-span"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8AXcpf8s7haViFoTz0_63kTGWRGZMuczwjRRi6z06B2somb1ZqhVj0gDQlxxn0WPo3r3enLwRurOW7IVrULO3hteaHDZPb6OeNQp1hvzY1f5bEVNXjwrYHMuGwp2wWescPivhyERRlkeg/s320/06-15gates_lg.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628310365930895394" /></span></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px; ">Ok Bill, I’ll give you another few minutes to call, but that's it.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; ">---------------------------------------------------------------------------</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span><b style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; ">8 THINGS THAT WOULD FREAK YOU OUT IF YOU HEARD THEM FROM YOUR MALE GYNECOLOGIST </b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-align: center;font-family: Arial, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px; "></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"">1 Let me just finish up this shot of Absinthe, and then we’ll get started<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"">2 Oh wow, there’s my stethoscope; I was looking for that<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"">3 Nice Vulva!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"">4 I’ve never seen one of these close up before<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Arial","sans-serif""><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvOCNCLXMDwjayKetXdhUvn3i7n_BW64K19ttxOWFDbcetitZchy54IitjsU3JxquyaFR-xyVy0mKkl1VgtJorlBHHcj2982IsOFToUrsChY1oL1SHHJXLtkLuKHnq1D2oFLGn7o8XChJx/s200/Sleazy+doctor.jpg" style="text-align: right;float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 196px; " border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628309346994615746" /></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px; ">5 Don’t mind the intern in the closet, he likes to watch</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px; "><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Arial","sans-serif""><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"">6 What are you doing after this? I have a few more vaginas to take a close look at but I’m pretty much free after that<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"">7 Ok looks like we are all finished up here yeah? Cigarette? <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"">8 A Zipper <o:p></o:p></span></p></span><p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: right;font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; text-indent: -0.25in; "><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:Arial"><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""></span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="text-align: center; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px; "><br /></span></span></p><p></p></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; text-indent: -1in; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"">Sorry I had to do that but I can’t think of a more awkward situation than a woman going to a male gynecologist <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p></p></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; ">---------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJF_4CeWUwHzxtV5jxQ_uY9M3I5cDdrd9QqmaqPvj-1-NVcWX98h7Bw-key-4ES3598sTUb-SkjfIyoZ_1aPTMaVh6RTckrTpIvsxcqHNhSWXTxhhkZRyUt6-l6FoRnTEP_APiKE2vvw2q/s1600/photo+%25286%2529+%25281%2529.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span class="Apple-style-span"><img style="text-align: right;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 238px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJF_4CeWUwHzxtV5jxQ_uY9M3I5cDdrd9QqmaqPvj-1-NVcWX98h7Bw-key-4ES3598sTUb-SkjfIyoZ_1aPTMaVh6RTckrTpIvsxcqHNhSWXTxhhkZRyUt6-l6FoRnTEP_APiKE2vvw2q/s320/photo+%25286%2529+%25281%2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628300407808387026" /></span></a><div style="text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"">This sign posted on the door of my local market seems a bit gratuitius. “<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">We are open,” “Back Door," and “Ur Anus” </b>should never been used in the same sentence unless you are at Gay Pride, passed out next to "Moby Dick" bar. And even then it comes across as a bit desperate. Maybe it is just me, but wouldn’t back door and Uranus essentially mean the same thing, or would you have to be more specific? Wait, I've got it - its got to be your back door perhaps. Use the back door on my anus? Wait a second, that's the same friggin' thing... C'mon you're messing with me right guy?</span></p></div><div><br /></div> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9cYmsj9m5djPYoQqfFsulLRAT0oTJ2m6AXND3VbZgJog585yJ9DipGdFgW3Eb0m_VhnaD2yZgJXdWywqnGTELuF5w6-H3kKlKgtrkgccntNNb9sXI_vnRIoKl-5L0WgqWN5EHZOCfEWe0/s1600/hacked.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span class="Apple-style-span"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 271px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9cYmsj9m5djPYoQqfFsulLRAT0oTJ2m6AXND3VbZgJog585yJ9DipGdFgW3Eb0m_VhnaD2yZgJXdWywqnGTELuF5w6-H3kKlKgtrkgccntNNb9sXI_vnRIoKl-5L0WgqWN5EHZOCfEWe0/s320/hacked.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628282625007469154" /></span></a><div><div style="text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; "><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; ">You can read all my blogs at </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; ">http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/</span></i></b></p></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-44485517396488612292011-04-25T10:42:00.000-07:002011-04-26T10:18:45.319-07:00"Volume XX"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKNXsumNbHWgFq79Xq3BZ1c5vcgWXA9eI5y4t3vVI-Q1FzdrRAeIQ19lL7YK48Y8sKUS9JbkcHizrE_BlIG_zX7RhIW1UEUgKm0JsVQi0ppMhEZ7HCI_k_0mEOWR2_Kw6yEDreFajxdhPg/s1600/chickens.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 275px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKNXsumNbHWgFq79Xq3BZ1c5vcgWXA9eI5y4t3vVI-Q1FzdrRAeIQ19lL7YK48Y8sKUS9JbkcHizrE_BlIG_zX7RhIW1UEUgKm0JsVQi0ppMhEZ7HCI_k_0mEOWR2_Kw6yEDreFajxdhPg/s320/chickens.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599387087841591042" border="0" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 115%; ">Being that this blog is creatively named Volume 20, one would expect some sort of magnificent masterpiece, most likely involving streamers, fireworks, and chicks in bikinis dancing seductively across the screen. This blog has none of that. What it does have is asinine ruminations about gay ice skaters, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px; ">meteorologists, and cell demise. Wait, there's some chicks...<br /><br /></span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 115%;">Happy Reading...</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 115%;">People are always saying, “oh that Robert, he sure has a taste for fine dining,” like it is some sort of miraculous trait.</span></span><span style=" line-height: 115%; "> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px;font-size:100%;" >Everyone has a taste for fine dining; we just choose not to spend sixty bucks on a taco we can buy for three bucks at Taco Bell.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px; font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" line-height: 115%; color:black;" >I don’t have great disdain for weathermen, but I wish they wouldn’t try and confuse us with their devious weather reporting.</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style=" line-height: 115%; color:black;" > </span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" line-height: 115%; color:black;" >For example they’ll say “Today will be 62 degrees but it feels like 67." Granted, I’m no meteorologist, but if it feels like 67, wouldn’t that make the temperature, gee I don’t know – 67?</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style=" line-height: 115%; color:black;" > </span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" line-height: 115%; color:black;" >This is like when my friend Tony tells me he is buying a house for $200k but it is worth $400k.</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style=" line-height: 115%; color:black;" > </span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="line-height: 115%;color:black;" >If your thermometer says 67, then just save us the discombobulating condescension and tell us it will also feel like 67.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" line-height: 115%; color:black;" ><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px; font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD7L9IVrIY5ipi2wCt-_yAZf8EhIG8kK0alrF5P2bitZ-u1W4AkxoDSNfkV7g8BzAXU7fqwkIUUhAMOrWP6HeYisAbqoOy0E-S_AT0mfi8wirtuiJgryYvhwXtzI51TNiJAcXUMG1Ea66p/s320/ice.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 253px;" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599301695013131234" border="0" /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span style=" line-height: 115%; color:black;" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px; ">I’d imagine the best </span>part about becoming a figure skater if you’re a guy would be avoiding the awkwardly painful conversation with your Dad explaining to him you are a </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px;font-size:100%;" >homosexual; he just puts two and two together.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px; font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-size:100%;" >People are always saying, “stop drinking, you’re going to kill brain cells.” <span> </span>If I was a brain cell and I’m going to die anyway I think I’d want to go by means of some sort of intoxication, perhaps at the hands of a hot new microbrew? Or, getting vaporized due to a peyote trip - now that’s how I’d want to go.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;"><br /><span style=" ;font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;"><span style=" ;font-size:100%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;color:black;" >It’s a pretty good indication your spelling skills are going downhill, when the Microsoft Word spell checker, which has access to over twenty million English words, doesn’t even bring up the word you are trying for as an option.</span></span></p> <span style=" ;font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;"><span style=" ;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;"><span style=" ;font-size:100%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(25, 25, 25); line-height: 20px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; ">You can read all my blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/ </span><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;punctuation-wrap:simple; text-autospace:none"><span style="Times New Roman","serif"; mso-font-kerning:14.0ptfont-family:";font-size:12.0pt;" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(25, 25, 25); line-height: 20px; font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:13px;" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; font-family:'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:15.6px;" ><br /></span></span></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-37459914099312726992011-03-20T22:01:00.000-07:002011-03-20T22:01:00.985-07:00"Not Your Father's Koozie"<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUUHxc4FVP447c3J_EKdplHKBHIPy7R72DJshChO4cZgW4j51WPUdxymX7fvhW0z8qVh6KFNP5APHiyrh-y_aVm48zfeQwuszAvUC77yfp19_r_qtQhW2SJpsosNEYU78v4QiF5XUc_b2/s1600/black+swan.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 158px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUUHxc4FVP447c3J_EKdplHKBHIPy7R72DJshChO4cZgW4j51WPUdxymX7fvhW0z8qVh6KFNP5APHiyrh-y_aVm48zfeQwuszAvUC77yfp19_r_qtQhW2SJpsosNEYU78v4QiF5XUc_b2/s320/black+swan.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568968392493356354" /></a></span><div><div><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; ">This week's blog brings us to really not much of a blog at all. Pissed off? Want to stop reading? (Go a</span><span style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; ">head you're probably one of two people actually reading anyway). Do you feel like you've just spent </span></span><span style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; "><span class="Apple-style-span">$14 on a movie ticket only to sit down in the theater on a small village of melted sour patch kids, and then realized you've accidentally chosen the edited version of Black Swan, the one without the lesbian scene?</span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px"></span></span>This week's blog is a far-from-wonderful marketing write-up that </span><span style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px">never actually was published anywhere. With that said, that didn't stop the staff here at Depths of Debauchery from posting it. When you're finished, a two-hour movie about ballet won't seem so bad after all.</span><span style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px">..</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6G3lbLSsI6BdDMdgD4q-SeeSAi18cybMjxniBjK282ki51rTWyzJOl-O1fUelV15VOJPoEgtW0LcWH5l0q32WoUlCcPLsbOvMcHovkQJimpYo-bVRBy7sbLeP_wdZPc8SJHJ4VfzsmIkq/s200/40oz.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 177px; height: 200px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568968482837956434" /><span class="Apple-style-span"><p class="MsoNormal"><span>Whether it was in the back alley of a neighborhood 7-11, in your Uncle’s moldy basement, or on the streets of Compton playing Craps, everyone remembers their first forty ounces of malt beverage bliss.<span> </span>My first experience was out on a marsh in Marin County on a frosty winter night.<span> </span>Granted, at that location there were no surly homeless lads harassing me for loose change, no basement dwelling rodents, nor the looming threat of a semi-automatic weapon being discharged in my direction, but there were tiny marsh frogs, and let me tell you - they can be pretty menacing.<span> </span>The real concern, however were the arctic temperatures, and with each sip of my Ranier Ice beverage, my fingers became less like the moving devices I was used to and more like elongated ice cubes.<span> </span>Had the “40ozcozy,” the brilliant invention described in this blog been created before that night, the looming threat of frostbite would have been replaced by pure 40oz drinking enjoyment.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><p class="MsoNormal"><span>For those of you who have not used a standard beer koozie, you’ve probably been in a coma, spent too much time at the library or possibly are just a normal god-faring respectable individual, so good for you. (Buy yourself a round of Shirley Temples). If you do however fall into one of the aforementioned categories, the concept is simple; your can or bottle fits snuggly inside a neoprene jacket, keeping the frosty coldness inside, and your hands warm on the outside. The first step is to find a koozie that you like – maybe it’s a tattooed college logo on your koozie that tickles your fancy, or perhaps a creative design fitting your personality is more your desire, or more likely - whatever koozie happens to be in the vicinity at the time of drunken need. When done, you simply deposit your empty solider in the trash and plop a new one into your koozie, making it the only drinking accessory to witness to your lifetime BAC level, which for most of us is around 8,771.9. <span class="Apple-style-span"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">While many stay at home drinkers, such as Dads and Grandfathers have found much enjoyment sitting in their rocking chairs drinking beer in their koozies, it left the 40ozounce drinkers all alone to ponder; what about me? I too, want to keep the frosty coldness inside and my hands un-frostbitten on the outside. Where did I go wrong?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Luckily, on a frigid night in Berkeley, this brilliant invention was created, joining together the koozie and 40oz in a harmonious matrimony of intoxication.<br /><br />Nothing tastes so good when it hit your lips, (other than about two hundred other beverages, but let’s be honest we don’t drink them for the taste), than a 40oz, but there are several flaws to the engineering. I think any gang member who still has his teeth, and still speaks a dialect somewhat resembling English will attest; unless you have the throat of a pelican, it is extremely difficult to consume a 40ozoz at rapid speed, therefore keeping it cold the whole time is virtually impossible. And on a frosty night in the hood, (or nearby marshland) frozen fingers are essentially a guarantee. The “40ozcozy,” puts an end to this inebriating conundrum.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />How does it all work, one might ask? Like for example, how am I ever going to </span><span class="Apple-style-span">fit my Olde English 40oz into my rag-tag Oklahoma Sooners koozie? Isn’t it going to be like the time my 14-yr old, 300lb cousin Pablo squeezed into my t-ball jersey when I was seven?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZzc1fgduI0fPdm2phUwkJcwRyqEXIbiBBFRQ_5AoN0yic_Q3Ye9Gnx7Cv4UCrgFML8-bkz42sr2aJplEHx5miWzFhZlIF37AmoOSRBmP6J_HEHFSySlM4_M99O2tsY7Fg89FSVHUiCuZp/s320/40ozkoozie.jpg" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568969479337142850" />The answer, my friends is <span class="Apple-style-span">http://www.40cozy.com</span> They have a plethora of koozies to choose from, all that fit perfectly around your malt beverage of choice. (All the hip kids are buying one).</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">T<span class="Apple-style-span">hey even come equipped with with a handle, so in your drunken stupor you can easily hold onto your malt beverage, or strap onto yourself in case you decide to fall asleep standing up, like the drunkard pictured… (pole and denim outfit sold separately)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.6px; border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; ">You can read all my blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/ </span><br /><br /><br /></span><br /></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-23829902489416496262011-03-04T10:00:00.000-08:002011-03-03T10:42:09.328-08:00"Volume XIX"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwNaxkDsUJzfWDvbnxyKft1oV5z4HqesWshFuxKyFPGWOmTJFsUavnBluyj-ia2sOlbTHlHiZmv4BddpcOFHkIpxJAPtsqJFHyEsj43N6zS4OTVE6e4SazSwUVj6joQNoWYhFR21SStQzp/s1600/monkey-scratching-head-600x360.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwNaxkDsUJzfWDvbnxyKft1oV5z4HqesWshFuxKyFPGWOmTJFsUavnBluyj-ia2sOlbTHlHiZmv4BddpcOFHkIpxJAPtsqJFHyEsj43N6zS4OTVE6e4SazSwUVj6joQNoWYhFR21SStQzp/s320/monkey-scratching-head-600x360.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570692695579235970" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;font-family:'Times New Roman',serif;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">Welcome to another edition of the blog.</span><span style=";font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">This week’s edition may leave you scratching your head in disbelief, leaving you only to ponder; if only I hadn’t opened up my e-mail and wasted yet again, another nine minutes of my life maybe I could’ve made something of my day. Well, don’t fret folks; the pictures below sort of speak for themselves and are symbolic of what many dedicated readers are experiencing from reading. I think you’ll be amazed by the splendorous transition shown here.</span><span style=""> </span></span></p><p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""><br /></span><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:85%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgeEGbQFP0uW0J28ZP7g1hMdnWmH-6x_OypYB0REl3Pp9Du9eEf__lOH4v6RJbspsz9LeCWWKri_NsgkT4V6DOL2PcxkXEx_RZEfGwcl9qck5aXP_jP-EPk8BGdW9lLWSyZo3MYnZaeGoV/s1600/DSC00285.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgeEGbQFP0uW0J28ZP7g1hMdnWmH-6x_OypYB0REl3Pp9Du9eEf__lOH4v6RJbspsz9LeCWWKri_NsgkT4V6DOL2PcxkXEx_RZEfGwcl9qck5aXP_jP-EPk8BGdW9lLWSyZo3MYnZaeGoV/s320/DSC00285.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570691237111924018" border="0" /></a></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" > </span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span">Joey, now an avid reader, before reading depths of debauchery blog</span></span><div style="font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Scroll down to see this mind-blowing transformation...</span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><div style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpRtlHPEXJo_ifj6yVhHpeyO4qzOhnhL4sNfu0wL-X61glZmAE-3TxD6Z_4TCVuRTZ3vTDliMaaPaWlF94Cm0IfXVcLNNP6f5_72jZhEGrU8sdtNbkzq1lN2x-Pb_X64FoneT4Y5HmTKBE/s1600/hoff.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 258px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpRtlHPEXJo_ifj6yVhHpeyO4qzOhnhL4sNfu0wL-X61glZmAE-3TxD6Z_4TCVuRTZ3vTDliMaaPaWlF94Cm0IfXVcLNNP6f5_72jZhEGrU8sdtNbkzq1lN2x-Pb_X64FoneT4Y5HmTKBE/s320/hoff.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570690665519628386" border="0" /></a></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" > </span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" class="Apple-style-span" >Joey after reading Depths of Debauchery Blog</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span style="">I think the before and after pictures speak for themselves. And now to the write up...</span></span></p><p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span>WHY is it that every time a celebrity dies, regardless of the cause of death, they always have cocaine in their system? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:85%;" class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="" class="Apple-style-span"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;">“We lost a great actor today, and yes she did have cocaine, muscle relaxers, and Opium in her system –<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;">Chancey McGuilicutty is in the field with this breaking news…”<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span> </span>“Thanks Rick- Adina Swenson most notably known for her work in the movie Fluffy Elephants passed away Tuesday afternoon.<span> </span>She was ejected from a speeding dune buggy, landed in a pool of rabid alligators, got out, and then after stepping on a land mine was thrown into an uninhabited cave where she spent the last four months alone, without access to the outside world.<span> </span>An autopsy did confirm, however, she coincidentally did have Cocaine in her system, despite all medical theories which have proven cocaine clears the system in just several days.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><br /><o:p></o:p></p><p face="arial" class="MsoNormal">WHENEVER I try to update software on my Iphone, ITunes spits back, “An Unknown Error Has Occurred.” Listen Steve Jobs; if you don’t know what the error is how do you figure I can trouble shoot this blanket error statement? You created an IPod the size of a peanut with a touch screen, but yet, you can’t throw me some sort of IT bone here, so I at least know where to start? Alright let’s see here, let me start with the power button – yep that works.<span> </span>Space bar?<span> </span>Check.<span> </span>Six-hundred and fifty-two hours later...ok, <span> </span>the L key seems to be working.<span> </span>Stay focused… ok next possibility…</p><p face="arial" class="MsoNormal"><br /><span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p face="arial" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">THIS weekend I'll be heading up to Lake Tahoe and like usual I checked the weather report since there were reports of snow. Chance of snow on the report? 100%. 100%? Seriously? The Donner Party was only facing a 90% chance of snow and they ending up eating one another - you're telling me there isn't a speck of doubt that it isn't going to snow? Man these meteorologists are getting cocky</span><span class="Apple-style-span">...</span></span></p><p face="arial" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></p> <p face="arial" class="MsoNormal">WHAT kind of drugs do you have to be on to read these encrypted letters at the end of like a ticket purchase to prevent mass scalping.<span> </span>It will say:<br /></p><p face="arial" class="MsoNormal"><br /><o:p></o:p></p> <p face="arial" class="MsoNormal">‘You’re almost done! Just enter the phrase below within the next 12 seconds to complete your order’</p><p face="arial" class="MsoNormal"><br /><o:p></o:p></p> <p face="arial" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">The box will be a phrase using letters never previously combined anywhere in the English language like pedi kat gurustermeir Johnson xasderanyx.<span> </span>Then as if that’s not enough it’s in 3-D or blurred out by psychedelic colors, rendering it completely unreadable.<span> </span>Luckily they do give you an option to change the letters to something else, usually which is less readable that the first one.<span> </span>What algorithm-solving ticket thieves ruined it for the rest of the population that we have to endure this torture when buying Backstreet Boys tickets?</span></p><p face="arial" class="MsoNormal"><br /> <span class="Apple-style-span"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 18px;">You can read that as well as all my blogs at <a href="http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/" style="color: rgb(51, 102, 204); text-decoration: none; font-weight: bold;">http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/</a> (all the hip kids are doing it)</span></p></span><p></p></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-90915940448816453652011-02-12T20:10:00.000-08:002011-02-12T20:10:00.149-08:00"Super Bowl Blues" Part III<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXi-EKn3uMuZpPZzFttsThZfHvdgBz6jzp3BzBsx8JHMiRgjyRRM_svX6l3Aza0wJB_mIAew5c5YrL5eE14Acq2zebawYaBgmusZuDdc9p2_o14eO8Ip8wkEgrDTN9rn-sKTzp9Oq77a3U/s1600/The+Deer+Man+Ritual.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXi-EKn3uMuZpPZzFttsThZfHvdgBz6jzp3BzBsx8JHMiRgjyRRM_svX6l3Aza0wJB_mIAew5c5YrL5eE14Acq2zebawYaBgmusZuDdc9p2_o14eO8Ip8wkEgrDTN9rn-sKTzp9Oq77a3U/s320/The+Deer+Man+Ritual.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571170081777034002" /></a><div><p class="MsoNormal">Here is part III and the final snippet of this mini-series of blogs. You can read, yup you guessed it, part II and part I at: <span class="Apple-style-span">stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">And now to the write up...</p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Feb 13<sup>th</sup>- 27<sup>th</sup></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>Carnival of the Deer Man<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>Castelnuovo del Volturno, Isernia County, Italy </b><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">This epic saga between a grown man dressed up in a 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 wreak 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, at least until your neighbor Pablo blows softly in your ear while wearing only a sock over his privates.</p><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoBodyText"></p><p class="MsoBodyText">By this point of the lackluster sports month, most of you will be having visions of bracketology dancing in your heads, but before you completely slip back into the normal sports routine, there is one more event that you should start thinking about. It requires preparation.</p><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>July 11th <o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>Wife Carrying Championships </b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b></b><strong>Sonkajärvi, Finland</strong></p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">With 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, instead of present day when they just sneak into strip joints and hand over their debit cards, and pretend their cell phone lost reception, this humorous yet competitive event, which grossed 500 million viewers last year, is entering its 16th 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 one and buy that sixteen 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.</p><p></p><p></p></div><ol style="margin-top:0in" start="1" type="1"> <li class="MsoNormal">“The wife to be carried may be your own, the neighbour’s or you may have found her farther afield; (no idea what this means, I’m guessing this just trumps the aforementioned rules, exchange student ahoy!) She must, however, be over 17<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDXHbPUVgtSI-b5BD5tvFkRqS740AcPeUrZiYUvNvsX5MQ6-6-vYhBU3th0fLjVIXMZAtNo3i-6SRunGX5Ui5-U4RSCMlKD0tRwMNdHIC6D2ZzpGruXkJKvQwI2ZXchr3UlIuqbq_f6fn/s320/wifecarry+pic.JPG" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 183px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571166383402834162" /> years of age (drats, there goes that idea). The minimum weight of the wife to be carried is 49 kilos.” </li> </ol> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I will not pretend to know how skinny one’s wife would have to be to break the 49 kilo threshold, however according to Johnny Depp in the movie, “Blow,” 49 kilos would make for one hellavua good time, so I’m assuming it’s a lot…</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <ol style="margin-top:0in" start="2" type="1"> <li class="MsoNormal">“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.)</li> </ol> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.25in">If you follow this simple program I’ve created, the names Jordy Nelson, Hines Ward, and Aaron Rodgers will soon only be a figment of your imagination. On the other hand, you may wake up in a cold sweat after antlered deer men, fighting camels and bare-bottomed Japanese dudes visit you in your dreams… </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.25in"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.25in">Se e you on the other side…</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.25in"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.25in">Check out all my blogs at <a href="http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/">http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/</a> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-47945832274031547482011-02-11T20:35:00.000-08:002011-02-11T20:35:00.423-08:00"Super Bowl Blues" Part II<div>Welcome to Part II... if you'd like to read part I you can find it at: <a href="http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/">http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/</a></div><div><br /></div><div>And now to the write up...</div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Feb 19<sup>th</sup></b></div> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>Hog Calling Contest<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><b>Weatherford, Oklahoma</b> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">Hog calling, a true American pastime, combines excellent hog communication skills with a pureadoration for 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 Weatherford Daily News. “I will go to the store to buy pork chops. But I don't eat my friends.”</p><p></p><br /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX2Q6bhVdov1wPVdEXh-WVonDZKxKZNlALiRkIgg6gpOJDnzz8pDswfcBesFBUF_-mHcYOSMOHfhrkYxTWNWhof8otKi_yqVnpQNc-7GDQLsnzUMaxUcTrc0mxM7lGbHU6VRUDL__7Gc4c/s320/may_fair_hog_calling-11.jpg" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 201px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571176548369394914" />Hey Roxanne, it’s not that the Hogs can’t hear you; they just are sick of listening to your nagging, which is why they aren’t responding to your hog calls… Check your local listings<p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Feb 23<sup>rd</sup></b></p><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight:bold"> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>Five Angry Gods and a Contest of Strength<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>County of Kyoto, Japan</b> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">This annual strongman competition combines steroids, bulging biceps and rice cakes.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The cakes, weighing up to 150 kilo-grams for men and 90 kilo-grams for women are hardly the Quaker rice cakes packed with bursting flavors, most of us are accustomed to.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Don’t forget to pre-program the TIVO.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Sometime in February<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>Camel Wrestling Festival<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>Seljuk, Turkey</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">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 in front of 17,000 screaming fans.</p><p class="MsoNormal">According to the website, “The referee and ropers watch carefully that the camel abides by the strictestof wrestling codes, and fans cheer the brave camel that is victorious.”</p><p></p><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpmpotsTh7zewb0brroPz8vOXnagPRdnpmyS9sHR1rXLMXmWvkvu2MgEEL25g_xwKwOu0mvQ5Tg0Uf_f1UshqL3qZuk9zlE8ULb16aOM008_eM-fgInV-MWNB9_HFubUiNdPuiSLfTBYuh/s320/Camel_Wrestling_09.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571173323416583042" /><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">If the camel doesn’t abide by the codes, the camel still wins since, well, it is a wild camel that can probably maim any bystander or opponent it wishes. The last man or camel that remains standing or doesn’t get flagged for eye gauging is deemed the winner. Contact your satellite provider for dates and times.</p><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Check back tomorrow for the final piece of this discombobulating puzzle of sportacular bliss. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">You can read Part I of this saga and all blogs at <a href="http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/">http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/</a> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-6761677811811886882011-02-10T21:01:00.000-08:002011-02-10T21:01:05.431-08:00"Super Bowl Blues" Part I<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6tnnZXymIr6FdChbbfxandCa3G1_x5sxmvktTpduMMqzHZi3PCMP7cBfAwbbqFgBAFdpkzYRminMjEqGPGCnmPorWObD1I5sCyvYXiJoIjTd4_UWy5eFcUjQVm0H6kxghC3CmcFXV4pXM/s1600/toilet-humor-passed-out-in-urinal.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6tnnZXymIr6FdChbbfxandCa3G1_x5sxmvktTpduMMqzHZi3PCMP7cBfAwbbqFgBAFdpkzYRminMjEqGPGCnmPorWObD1I5sCyvYXiJoIjTd4_UWy5eFcUjQVm0H6kxghC3CmcFXV4pXM/s320/toilet-humor-passed-out-in-urinal.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571186191377203170" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">The last remnants of hardened cheese and bean dip have been extracted from couch cushions and floorboards deposited there by drunken Super Bowl XLV guests.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>The very last drop of beer has long been siphoned from the keg, and even the guy passed out in your urinal has gone home.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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. </p><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Did you see the one with the ape and the cornbread?” You ask.</p><p class="MsoNormal">“Yeah Steve. We saw that, we’ve already talked about it…””</p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">“Back and to the front. Back and to the front,” you feverishly exclaim to Ingrid time and time again, in a flurry of Kevin Costner, JFK-like arguments regarding the hit on Ben Roethlisberger that caused the pick six at the hands of Green Bay’s Nick Collins.</p><p class="MsoNormal">There is no fighting the inevitable. The harsh reality has begun to set in.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Football is over.</p><p class="MsoNormal">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.</p><p class="MsoNormal">To many wives and girlfriends, the end of the football season means the return of their loved ones on Sundays. Calls like “Wes Welker over the middle,” will now be drowned out and replaced by “Do these jeans make me look fat?”</p><p class="MsoNormal">Your Sundays are now filled with painful trips to Bed Bath & Beyond, Kohl’s and Express.</p><p class="MsoNormal">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, stopping in front of teenagers playing pick-up games in the street.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Your capricious moods are affecting everyone around you.</p><p class="MsoNormal">You have a problem.</p><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">There is no Major League Baseball, NBA Playoffs, or March Madness to catch you when you come spiraling down from your NFL high, jittery and feeling like a useless piece of jelly. If you think that you can simply coast until March 17th, the start of the NCAA tournament, you might as well apply for afrequent buyer card at Bed Bath & Beyond right now, because you are not going to make it.</p><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">Before you break out in ghastly hives due to withdrawals, I have conjured up just the right prescription for your ailment. This hodgepodge of sporting events is just the elixir you need to lead you up to Dick Vitale and friends.</p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">These events are not embellished, for they need no embellishing. If you’re committed to the healingprocess, they should not be missed. (Unless of course Pottery Barn is running a sale on oven mitts).</p><p></p><div><br /></div><div><div><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Feb 14<sup>th </sup>& 15<sup>th</sup> <o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>Westmininster Dog Show</b></p><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqf8dosjW4AoKijeXf9UD1OJzdDnpfrf0J-_ormU3eu76jhO-FOexylFoeYC_fzUtud9xKXYQ7accBZivtUolTyYNE51ioRrE_PRi2chAuaaJ434OlXZIjdx52KRXzlKZIn1LY0Qng-EYe/s320/APTOPIX+Germany+Dog+Show.jpg" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 290px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571184137003692482" /> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>New York City, New York</b></p><p class="MsoNormal">New York City, New York: Taking place at Madison Square Garden, the Westminster Dog Show is the Super Bowl of dog shows. (We’ve yet to find the NFC Championships of Dog Shows, because simply,I don’t think there are any). 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 dinner to catch these astounding pups then you’re truly missing pure sporting elegance and doggy debauchery.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><div><b>Feb 15<sup>th</sup></b></div></div><div><div><div> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><b>Inazawa's Naked Festival<o:p></o:p></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><b>Inazawa City, Japan</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">Bare-bottomed men ages 23-43 crowd the streets of Inazawa City (pictured below), in hopes of touching another naked man to ensure good luck for the upcoming year.</p><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimW43YpuoWKvYCgyGxU7o_9riR1OGJX5-lusXynYgiicoWIGao8JHwQ2ym4CKQU6IGFOVNlns-tsvAf7GKhVncu1hwIYARdhyphenhyphenjhqqGMoKvPm7LhFpRW14ezXpZMRw-zkxXklAmS3ISuqPU/s320/wham.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 265px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571180391066161394" /><p class="MsoNormal">A naked man is chosen before the event, and then besieged by 9000 men in loincloths all desperate to ensure their luck for the year. (Stop me if this sounds like your last keg party).</p><p class="MsoNormal">If touching a naked man brings good luck, then I think it is safe to say more men in San Francisco’s Castro District should be playing more lottery tickets… Search your On Demand for channel and time, but check to see if your roommate has any new lucky acquisition such as a genie or a pot of gold before placing clean hands on the remote control…</p><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">Check back tomorrow for part II of this blistering tale. Or you can always read and subscribe to all blogs (all the hip kids are doing it) at: <a href="http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/">http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpjZhR7jZ_9Beni27yreEgmGhM8IcVEMeoSLl2B9V6viSKt_79ZD-E4HHY5QkeT-Y_NihEhMY6Br_ky2QtMpq-ZwLVMn-wUHAw9jUmVDvVQmz9Yd4zuOTpBwBXSnfAT9gWamdTAsj46nYc/s400/naked+men.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571181877343792114" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-37466723300173245862011-01-24T12:11:00.000-08:002011-01-24T12:11:00.152-08:00"Volume XVIII"
<br /><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >
<br /></span><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Verdana; panose-1:2 11 6 4 3 5 4 4 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:536871559 0 0 0 415 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Verdana; panose-1:2 11 6 4 3 5 4 4 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:536871559 0 0 0 415 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >Welcome to another edition of the</span><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" > blog. I hope you enjoy the illogical, randomness, and if you don't, may you be awoken </span><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >from your sleep by an un-showered, and naked Rosie O'Donnell doing bikram yoga in y</span><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >our bedroom.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLPjyiNQU15KOOB1Hn41w5TabHFa8Z8Rf5vooy5u69Yi6yrdWF9exQx0VYehsHG2iaz5CwQL5nbsfM2XN0hTOk4dk7q_JIR8zfltipGUpinGooJeJHDwnNCZfhMY5TZ167j2QhX2ie6kT0/s1600/rosie-odonnel.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 245px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLPjyiNQU15KOOB1Hn41w5TabHFa8Z8Rf5vooy5u69Yi6yrdWF9exQx0VYehsHG2iaz5CwQL5nbsfM2XN0hTOk4dk7q_JIR8zfltipGUpinGooJeJHDwnNCZfhMY5TZ167j2QhX2ie6kT0/s320/rosie-odonnel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562886324692683058" border="0" /></a></span><p style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:85%;" >
<br />Has anyone else been able to resist the larger beer at restaurant chains? I fall for the trick of choosing between the 16 ounce beer for $7 and the 24 ounce for $7.50 every time. This is alcoholic entrapment. Darn that Applebee’s.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:85%;" ><o:p>
<br /></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:85%;" >How do these camera men get these crazy shots in pornography movies? Sure there</span><span style=";font-size:85%;" > are some great angles, but where the heck is the guy setting up, under the dude’s genitalia? Could there b</span><span style=";font-size:85%;" >e</span><span style=";font-size:85%;" > a worse camera gig? How do you get started in this? Perhaps you get your start filming training videos for Proctology seminars</span><span style=";font-size:85%;" >?<o:p></o:p></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >
<br /></span><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CSMCDEV%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" ><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype></span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Verdana; panose-1:2 11 6 4 3 5 4 4 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:536871559 0 0 0 415 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 2.0in 1.0in 1.2in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:85%;" >Aren’t we going a little bit too far with our hamburger meat and treatment of these cows? Sure, I want every cow in the world to live a life of luxury just like the next farm animal-aficionado, but things are getting a bit out of hoof. The back of these meat packages now look more like Cow-Facebook profiles instead of showing nutritional facts. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:85%;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:85%;" >
<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:85%;" >“Bessie was fed the finest grass, and grazed only during the hours of 3 to 4pm after the sun had dipped magnificently beyond the hills. She spent her mornings relaxing in a hammock, listening to Yanni, and only rose to reapply her moisturizer, or take a dip in the cool, calm cow pool. She enjoyed playing backgammon, taking long walks on the farm, and was always a great listener…” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:85%;" ><o:p>
<br /></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:85%;" >It might as well read, “If you’re reading this, you are a carnivorous a-hole.” I usually opt for chicken at that point. <span style=""> </span>Foster Farms doesn’t make me feel as bad about myself…
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<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CSMCDEV%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype></span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Verdana; panose-1:2 11 6 4 3 5 4 4 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:536871559 0 0 0 415 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 2.0in 1.0in 1.2in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> </p><p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >And grass fed burgers? Haven’t these cows always been grass fed? I’ve seen about 10,000 cows in my lifetime and not a single one was eating Sour Patch Kids, or in line for the Seafood buffet. Cows eat grass, period. Is it necessa</span><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgebNut77deZa7V30x-5so3YxMZZKfLTrxKYKE_iZGD7wbes959QvffU3KQdX_PLAn3TDivB1F627UIZAsopmF_6Wvb_UUKL7xzQOpkGhVvDsjCxCLGma65qnBhOnmP6Tm1OioGerE-35hO/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 328px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgebNut77deZa7V30x-5so3YxMZZKfLTrxKYKE_iZGD7wbes959QvffU3KQdX_PLAn3TDivB1F627UIZAsopmF_6Wvb_UUKL7xzQOpkGhVvDsjCxCLGma65qnBhOnmP6Tm1OioGerE-35hO/s320/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562884133921666498" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">ry to advertise the obvious? Is there a world out there where cows are living as hobos in alleys, like maybe in </span><st1:place style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" st="on">Harlem</st1:place><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">, helping themselves to extra helpings of Chicken Parmesan? I do find some satisfaction knowing that the cow wasn’t ingesting motor oil or something, so a simple disclaimer, like “hey this cow did not eat radioactive plankton,” or something would suffice for me.</span><span style=""> </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:85%;" > </span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style=";font-size:85%;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:85%;" class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 18px;">You can read that as well as all my blogs at <a href="http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/" style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 204);">http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/</a> (all the hip kids are doing it)</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:85%;" >
<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;" ><o:p></o:p></span><p style="font-family: verdana;"></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:85%;" > </span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style=";font-size:85%;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Verdana;font-size:10pt;" ><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style=""> </span></span><span style=";font-family:Verdana;font-size:10pt;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Verdana;font-size:10pt;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-45210662255272260522011-01-09T10:40:00.000-08:002011-02-07T21:59:43.990-08:00"Volume XVII"<span class="Apple-style-span"><br /><span class="Apple-style-span">Today’s Blog takes us to the world of random, useless thoughts, which is probably just what you are looking for, but likely not.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">I hope I never get to the point where I start tucking my collared shirt into my jeans, while sporting a phone belt clip topped off white running shoes. Have these guys just completely given up on life or do they just have no one at home to stop them? If they do have a lady at home, what delusional woman is letting them leave<span class="Apple-style-span"> the house like this? These gu<span class="Apple-style-span">ys mig</span></span>ht as well grow <span class="Apple-style-span">themselves a Mom Butt while they’re at it because I feel that might be their next step.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></p><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGoQ1PvjEyHkwe8UuipHpU7k1NOpLQijlPuOuXHsgXzsf8GoHK-HUqp22C4niUuRNCC-_MRrTlQbFZVmk-4gPafA9hzpiab1f-npXVGuRNGaz3cp7buvAzZpHaQnLcyjLCTHhpwe0MXx3P/s320/horse.jpg" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 261px; height: 193px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560259604086753042" /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;punctuation-wrap:simple; text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span">How did it come to <span class="Apple-style-span">be th</span><span class="Apple-style-span">at<span class="Apple-style-span"> horses are the primary animal u</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">sed for glue? Was some mad </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">s</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">c</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">ie</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span">ntist at Elmers experime<span class="Apple-style-span">nting with diffe</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">rent animals or did he nail horse on the first shot? I’m just imagining them sitting around their beakers and Petri dishes … Hey Jim - pretty sure we could make white out from a w</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">ildebeest¸ let me see just add the citric acid, carry the one, add the two…nope not it. Hmm… you </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">know what, I have a hunch for the glue though; quick -hand me that vile with Seabiscuit’s spleen…</span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Men have walked on the moon, I have an Google Earth app on my phone that allows me to view every inch of our planet with a few clicks, and I can instantaneously have a text message conversation with a person in Madagascar, but yet for some preposterous reason, a Bar back working behind the bar, can’t figure out how to pour a pint of beer. I’m completely sold on the fact that this position at local watering holes was created solely to make us patrons feel like we are taking it in the rear. Sure I like clean glasses as much as the next guy, but I also like clean glasses full of beer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">It usually goes something like this:</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Me: Hi, I’ll take a Stella please.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Bar back grunts, yawns, grabs his junk, and then motions in the direction of an overworked bartender on the other end of the bar. He then scrupulously wipes down the counter, like he is Michelangelo in the Sistine Chapel. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Me: Since you’re behind the bar, which means you work here, how about a Stella? It is right there in front of you.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Bar Back grunts again, then looks at me like he’s killed several before just for hinting at the idea. Then he proceeds to methodically wipe down the counter as slow as humanly possible. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Me: I can hold the glass, you can just pull that lever right there. It really will just take a second, I mean you have the beer and at least one good arm, and I have a glass awaiting a beverage.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">The Bar Back becomes extremely agitated, offended that I’ve insulted what he’s perceived as an imperative role at the bar, while he feverishly wipes down the counter yet again.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Me: Alright well, how about I just stand here and look like an idiot, man that counter looks amazing. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.6px; border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; "><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.6px; border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; ">You can read that as well as all my blogs at <a href="http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/" style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 204); ">http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/</a> (all the hip kids are doing it)</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-35518528338904610452010-12-23T18:18:00.000-08:002010-12-24T10:13:45.857-08:00Who-Ville Medical Team Generates New Heart Tissue Using Stem Cells – Grows Grinch’s Heart Three Full Sizes<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;font-family:Arial,sans-serif;" >An Emotional Grinch claims he now loves Christmas</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;">__________________________________________<br /></span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:Arial,sans-serif;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">Calvin Humpernickle, Town Drunk, Blacksmith and Science Correspondent<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:Arial,sans-serif;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">Published December 24, 2010<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Who-Ville - </span><span class="Apple-style-span">Every Who down in Who-Ville likes Christmas a whole lot, and now after years of experimental treatments using donor <span class="Apple-style-span">stem cells we can als</span><span class="Apple-style-span">o say that the lone resident of North Who-Ville likes Christmas a whole lot too.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkYrgiwrNPg6WICvb-RyNmdFTL6sMLccIYU4WnSoTMSg7-nGS2kF8J9Pphyphenhyphen54xy_b63OO2E3GdlUIXZw_SdROK8WApB54MAHZ6V_laMonfb77T6zvs9EjXoTqEzJTajec4U3stAgu7QPY9/s200/yodel_story1.jpg" style="text-align: justify; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553966055009008610" border="0" /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">A Who-Ville t<span class="Apple-style-span">eam </span><span class="Apple-style-span">led <span class="Apple-style-span">by the world’s leading yodeler, who works part tim</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">e as a heart surgeon, were able to regenerate and grow heart tissue for the very first time. Known mostly for his sensational hits: </span><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>Ain’t </i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>Nothing But a Yodel Thang</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span">, ”</span><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>Yodel Sty</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>le</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span">, ” and “</span><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>Ain’t No Fun (If My Yodelers Can’t Have N</i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>one)</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span">, ” Hans Slaperdoodle has worked over twenty minutes per day for the past seven d</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span">ays attempting to tackle what medical journals</span>, had they actually returned the stalker-esque number of phone calls, or opened the door to see some kook standing outside with a notepad and a pocket tape recorder, would have called a modern science miracle.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL02FFqn7BkNH_rsfd9DggLdFqcUrvmWEk496C6WMno1wm8ObdEBGjMWRGaP-lWPtp4__cYgeZ_j_Es5u-NmdzjaTOOQbTD5k9PNZjRv_VFPY6kcOn2Cy0PWiSax0txA_0TNzP5xHtHSLF/s320/grinch.jpg" style="text-align: justify; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 270px; height: 268px;" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553968715169764482" border="0" /></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">"Since we really didn’t know what species The Grinch is, it made it tough to know who or what to get the stem cells from," Slaperdoodle responded when asked where he found the donated cells. “"The <span class="Apple-style-span">Grinch is not human, nor is he animal. After asking him many </span>times for his medical history and getting only incoherent gibberish about his head not screwed on right, or his shoes being too tight, we eventually agreed this is what we were to expect from someone who didn’t even realize he wasn’t wearing any pants.”</span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Growing replacement tissue from stem cells is one of the principal goals of biology. So far, scientists <span class="Apple-style-span">have grown tendons, cartilage and an ear coming off the head of a mouse which served no medical purpose whatsoever , but forced that mouse into a life of despair, ridicule, and solitude… until he was eventually seen suspiciously wandering near some local mouse traps, high on cat nip.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHAKH2QwPk7Ag4tFFkSDqH2apDv7XPquHQyAO8VhtqvmxYiEUDtcyCRIq0LEb9-3LdB1sAR2bNZu0ylym0RDvof3zVHt1BbbffOGSKS9jXtkGfP3b_o7F66YXFdVrZ8cSIvbuSBd6o8501/s200/stoned.gif" style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 176px; height: 176px;" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553972519899797138" border="0" />"First we tried using stem cells from a rooster, an ocelot and even <span class="Apple-style-span">a rubber chicken, but then Larry Shantzamuffin (fellow researcher and shower curtain ring salesman) accidentally dropped part of his turkey sandwich into the Petri dish, and then all this fizzing and such started happening," Slaperdoodle added, when describing ho</span>w this miraculous discovery happened.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">This is not the first time Grinch has been in the news. Born with a heart two sizes too small, and with a hatred for Christmas his entire life, The Grinch had finally had enough. In 1991, after gluing antlers onto his dog Max, ignoring threats from PETA advising against it, The Grinch made his way down the treacherous mountainside and ransacked the town of Who-Ville, stealing everything from pop guns, bicycles, checkerboards, and The Hills, Season 4”DVD’s.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">"All I know is that morning I woke up, went downstairs; you know the usual routine, and that son of a bitch took all our gifts including my <span>‘89 swimsuit edition I keep hidden behind the cupboard," an obviously agita</span>ted Slaperdoodle exclaimed.</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span"> <p class="MsoNormal"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3e1cA7yHW95UGLE0l51NTD5hbOQc-0iBmoy21XWYeK5oAzbcNW2DyEwJbbqkrI81gx3z34qReWmgiN3t42D8iA7-h0iQ0HPX63L7YfazyNQegGnfBKe98LKQKpKRb7slnLCb9k5qTAsUX/s200/jersey-shore-ratings.jpg" style="text-align: justify; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553970964805247138" border="0" /></p><div style="text-align: justify;">The Grinch was eventually cleared on all charges when he returned all the gifts he stole, carvedthe roast beast at Christmas dinner and agreed to watch three seasons of MTV<span>’s “Jersey Shore, all in one sitting, as his punishment.<span> </span>Since then, despite beliefs that he would finally lead a jovial and compassionate life, he regressed and has spent the last several years brewing with hatred until </span>his magical elixir was discovered; Stem cells donated from a turkey sandwich.</div><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Word spread like wildfire all the way to the North Pole, and once the news hit, it was the gregarious Prancer that spilled the Christmas cookies regarding developments there.<span> </span><span>“</span>We already have the science to give every Reindeer a red nose but selfishly Rudolph has fought us tooth and hoof,”<span>” said Prancer. "In my opinion, if it wasn</span><span>’t for that foggy Christmas Eve, <span> </span>that egocentric future wall mount still wouldn’t b</span>e playing any Reindeer games."</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So what<span>’s next for The Grinch and his new heart?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">"I<span>’m going to do a little traveling.<span> </span>Maybe West Who-Ville, Who-Ville Depot, Who-Ville & Beyond if there’s enough time, who knows?"” responded The Grinch,<span> </span>“"I’m starting to se</span>e life in a whole different way… seeing things I<span>’ve never noticed be… <span> </span><span> </span>Holy shit! I’m not wearing any freakin’’ pants!"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:Arial,sans-serif;" >Email Calvin at </span><a href="mailto:nomoremrniceguy@whovillemedical.net"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:Arial,sans-serif;" >nomoremrniceguy@whovillemedical.net</span></a><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:14pt;" > <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p></p></span><p></p></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:Arial,sans-serif;" ><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></span></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-49190203826364826192010-11-07T20:46:00.000-08:002010-12-23T12:18:19.984-08:00"Volume XVI"<div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Welcome to another long awaited, but not very anticipated version of the blog. For those who have forgotten what this blog is about, don’t fret. I have no clue either. If anyone out there reading can figure it out please email me and let me know. I have heard it is a better read right after something else incredibly boring like the back of the vomit bag on an airplane for example. In addition, if you just recently learned the English language and don’t realize that this is incongruous, drool-inducing, nonsense, then that is a good time as well. </span><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >On that note, on to the write up …</span></p><div><p></p></div><div></div><div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Are toilet technology experts (not a real profession, sorry aspiring youngsters) getting any closer to mastering these auto-flush toilets? They’re either auto flushing too much, or not at all. If Apple can come out with a music player the size of a stick of gum, can’t toilet makers come out with a toilet that doesn’t give me three surprise enemas every time I move a centimeter to the right or left on the seat?</span></div><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >It’s probably a bad sign that my bottle opener key chain has completely worn down to the point where it no longer functions properly. This thing is made from the strongest metal money can buy, impervious to a military tank driving over it, yet I’ve managed to open so many beers it has met its inauspicious demise.</span></p><div></div><p></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Ever notice when you go to cook something, it always gives you two options for instructions: Oven and microwave? For a second you always think, wow, I should really cook this in the oven, I know that is how it is meant to be cooked, but then you read the different time estimations and it is something like this:</span></div><div></div><p></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Oven: 45 -50 minutes<br />Microwave: 4 minutes</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Even Rachel Ray, or the top cooking go-getters out there can’t be buying what this oven method is selling are they? </span></div><div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >This is basically what should be written on my Pizza Rolls, because this is generally how it goes…</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><strong><span>Oven Instructions:<br /></span></strong><span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >1) Pre-heat oven to 425 (15 minutes) </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>2) Come back 15 minutes later to realize you only turned on the temperature knob and not set on “Bake” (15 more minutes) </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>3) Look for baking sheet (10 minutes) </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>4) Realize you don’t own a baking sheet, so you have to knock on your neighbor’s door who comes out wearing only a sock over his penis and smoking a cigar. (7 awkward minutes) </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>5) Take baking sheet back to your apartment (2 minutes) </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>6) Place call to your therapist to attempt to recover from what you’ve just seen (20 minutes) </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>7) Place on cooking sheet (1 min) </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>8) Cook for 16 minutes or until golden brown<br />Look, Sara Lee, this is your recipe, if you don’t have one-hundred percent confidence in your 16 minute estimate, then how should I? I live next to a guy wearing a penis sock. I’m looking to you for help here. Tell you what, how about you go back to your little lab and perfect this estimate until you are fully confident. I don’t want to be sticking my hand into a piping hot oven to see if these freakin’ Pizza rolls are brown. And golden brown? How do I tell if they’re golden brown as opposed to brown, considering they were brown when they went in, in the first place? </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>9) Take out of oven using oven mitt – look for oven mitt (5 minutes) </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>10) Realize you don’t own any oven mitts – 2 minutes </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>11) Go back to your neighbors and ask for oven mitt – 3 minutes </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>12) He doesn’t have any either, but he offers his sock – 3 minutes </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>13) Vomit profusely in his petunias – 13 minutes </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>14) He says he’s kidding and hands you an oven mitt </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>15) Go back and remove your pizza rolls </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>16) Let cool for 15 minutes (just so you can sit there and smell the pizza rolls as you keel over in hunger) </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>17) You are so hungry and delusional staring at the rolls, you start eating the oven mitt – 3 minutes </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>18) You realize where the oven mitt came from and come to the sobering conclusion that you have no idea </span><span>what your neighbor has been doing with his oven mitts </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>19) Vomit in your own petunias – 6 minutes </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>20) Eat one of the pizza rolls unwilling to wait the entire 15 minute cooling process to end </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>21) Burn off a portion of your uvula </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>22) Scream like a little girl at a Jonas Brothers concert – 30 seconds </span><span><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537040058520172402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 178px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS61x8LX4SOnsWLxX_nfBJPbt7PhQCahaBvTpGvvA51nH6l3D8RmjKEZsIHvISVgKxA4gDYLs811YiHB-nqg7ST1q3vjJKij6VInpZFhBIQkqeyrnPzjuyc6hzYtjhXUvwuXxd2xhpE6n6/s200/jonas-brothers-3d-concert-movie.jpg" border="0" /><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>23) Use large spatula and loosen one by one – 10 minutes </span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >24) Enjoy! (Go F yourself Betty Crocker) </span></div><span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br />Total cooking/preparation time: 2 hours 41 minutes<br /><br /><strong><span>Microwave Instructions: </span></strong></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><strong></strong></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span>1) Place in Microwave (5 seconds)</span><br /><span>2) Turn on Microwave (2 minutes)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >3)Remove from Microwave (1 second)</span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Enjoy! (How do you like them apples Betty Crocker?)</span></div><div style="font-size: 78%; "><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Total cooking/preparation time: 3 minutes </span><br /></div><div style="font-size: 78%; "><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOzc2yuO-ZyWNB213ZSWJgjzlMkx6ztfXPJ4y3ePMO5JKybySE7IpZ26jvpUShfCfn5h59yoURz8TDcDsValokS98K62ZI2-oWZKVBhI0cWOvRiaJO8w5EUuiJepW1iSii3T2xeEw0Hmi5/s1600/crocker.jpg"><span style="font-size:78%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537037955358003698" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 199px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOzc2yuO-ZyWNB213ZSWJgjzlMkx6ztfXPJ4y3ePMO5JKybySE7IpZ26jvpUShfCfn5h59yoURz8TDcDsValokS98K62ZI2-oWZKVBhI0cWOvRiaJO8w5EUuiJepW1iSii3T2xeEw0Hmi5/s200/crocker.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="font-size: 78%; "><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Like what you’re reading? (you’re 1 of 3 worldwide)<br />Read all of my blogs or even subscribe at </span><a href="http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:78%;">http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/</span></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><br />(all the hip kids are doing it…)</span></div><br /><br /><div style="font-size: 78%; "><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 78%; "><br /></div><p align="left" style="font-size: 78%; "><span style="font-size:78%;">Thanks for nothing Betty</span></p></span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIjMuiDGOf4pjTQYm5sPD-EgRWHKRukCG7Bw7Q0b0N6ojUKNqemSBzUw0OyY2E6Xxeeb9eGtBk607J5Cu_0QWbWMigN3ECU4mnoWpc_dRWpTmYo7Su8wSjFB0Y4bMdyF6IkQhoDex5SMxn/s1600/crocker.jpg"></a></span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-38956096315654481612010-07-11T11:00:00.000-07:002010-07-21T07:07:09.818-07:00Two Worlds, One Cup - Volume III<div><br /><br /><div>Thanks again for reading. Welcome to the final Volume of the World Cup writings. In case you missed Volume I & II, you can read that as well as all my blogs at <a href="http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/">http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/</a> (all the hip kids are doing it)</div><div><br />-- (Continued from July 9th)--</div><br /><br /><div></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8DRg6cgzQdyITdCtbzx22uxzAhRxa7RXVypOMWbyxRmWEeyHbMtMHLxZaQ-JWxPiWDbQigAT8weUEpMF-IKDv0zsBNy9ZM2C6XzGYK5pRLYWwwtUiuDrWtejiSHXiNCVl-yXIIFK4mmu6/s1600/soccer_overview_-_pro-web2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492707706140531426" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px; height: 134px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8DRg6cgzQdyITdCtbzx22uxzAhRxa7RXVypOMWbyxRmWEeyHbMtMHLxZaQ-JWxPiWDbQigAT8weUEpMF-IKDv0zsBNy9ZM2C6XzGYK5pRLYWwwtUiuDrWtejiSHXiNCVl-yXIIFK4mmu6/s200/soccer_overview_-_pro-web2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><strong>Yellow Card # 6 – Strategy ?</strong><br />I’ve heard several soccer experts talk about the strategy that played into a 1-1 tie. What strategy are we referring to here? Do your best to not kick the ball into the net? It’s like herding cats out there… you’re going to sit there and tell me there is one iota of strategy out on that field? I could put an Emu and an Ocelot out on the field and let them run wild and it would look more organized. Can’t we all get in agreement that strategy in soccer is a lot like a youngster at an Easter Egg hunt – a lot of running around and hoping for the best?</div><br /><div><br /><strong>Yellow Card # 7 - Penalty Kicks</strong><br />So I’ve already gone over the amazing difficulties when it comes to scoring goals, but then a penalty kick is rewarded to a Nancy Boy who gets lightly tapped and knocked down close to the goal, thus completely cheapening the goal. For those who haven’t witnessed this ridiculous freebie, the ball is placed mere yards away from the goalie who has a blink of an eyelash to determine which way the kicker is shooting. This is like starting Viking’s Running Back Adrian Petersen on the five yard line and asking him to get across the goal-line with Pete, the captain of his 3rd grade chess club in his way. I could make 99 out of a 100 penalty kicks and the last time I played soccer was 1986. You basically have a better chance of catching a bullet with your butt cheeks than to stop one of these penalty shots, yet somehow professional players still find a way to kick the ball over the goal and miss completely. </div><br /><div><br /><strong>Yellow Card #8 – Injuries<br /></strong><span style="font-size:85%;">If you wanted to see a comparison to the amount of whining that takes place during a soccer match, you could probably head down to your local daycare where about twenty youngsters are playing, tauntingly parade the largest lollipop you can find in front of their faces and, when they least expect it, turn and sprint out the door. This is what it’s like to watch a soccer match. Does the coach of the team go out and find as many sissies in the neighborhood as possible then teach them the sport? Be a grown man for Christ’s sake. I’m sorry did that bad man kick you? You’re wearing shin guards! Get over it. If, in the very rare circumstance, there is in fact a real injury (for these guys like a hangnail for example), what is the signal to the trainer that says, “hey bozo, I did actually split my ulna in two. Can someone get out here?” These guys cry wolf so </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh956J_AgDFK2iw-60xxrOa3KWnK0hUleRLB5qA-SF6cPKcbg9Mb3TO_bq1YXPxBuJkYQsdAM3kZuAFLIqjCWNx3joUhy6EcaQV57xaMj0rsXeTTlqmclaMV5iVznLN1M_TjIzyi4UIZBLG/s1600/horse-racing.jpg"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492707996634549362" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px; height: 166px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh956J_AgDFK2iw-60xxrOa3KWnK0hUleRLB5qA-SF6cPKcbg9Mb3TO_bq1YXPxBuJkYQsdAM3kZuAFLIqjCWNx3joUhy6EcaQV57xaMj0rsXeTTlqmclaMV5iVznLN1M_TjIzyi4UIZBLG/s200/horse-racing.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">frequently, how do they know when someone is actually hurt? Is it a hand signal or something to sidelines, or do they just look for a waterfall of blood, a dangling ligament or a decapitation so they know for sure? If we took the same approach as they do in horse racing we wouldn’t have that problem the next time a player goes down holding his ankle. “You think you’re leg is broke Pele? Off to the glue factory for you.” Trust me, he'd get up right away when the trainer rushes out with a semi-automatic weapon and a bottle of Elmers…</span> </div><br /><br /><div><br />With all this said, believe it or not, I do really enjoy watching these World Cup games. There are some positives to the sport, like for example headers. It is unfathomable how these guys had head the ball accurately. Have you ever taken a soccer ball to the head? It is not comfortable to say the least. I think the last time I did, I saw stars for about five minutes and I'm pretty sure it rendered me unconscious. And the endurance of these players is really amazing too. Watching TV on the couch for 90 minutes can sometimes be exhausting, yet these guys are in full sprint for that time. Ok, so the game isn’t as bad as it seems. With that said…<br /><br />Go Orange! Enjoy the finals, and thanks for reading…<br /><br />Cheers.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-77429717679533249052010-07-09T05:00:00.000-07:002010-07-09T20:00:56.832-07:00Two Worlds, One Cup - Volume II<span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Thanks again for reading. In case you missed Volume I, you can read that as well as all my blogs at </span><a href="http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:85%;">http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> (all the hip kids are doing it)</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><br /><div><div><div><div><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;">-- (Continued from July 8th)--</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><strong>Yellow Card # 3 – Offside</strong><br />I figure offsides is just another attempt by the sport to prevent the one thing that would mak<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfVMztjZdHoX9G05J76GJ5KvJ2svKsJkz1pTlNbQM0M76ecBDYlUPjxxBZBSjlPaKYhKau13bFunZ2I1gkOLN5iJeTLV8BnFi2Cl3XO5lqfJ7Eb1YUjhniCsB8NE3Zz-BOtkiwIZAN_nae/s1600/godzilla.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492106099770099346" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 191px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfVMztjZdHoX9G05J76GJ5KvJ2svKsJkz1pTlNbQM0M76ecBDYlUPjxxBZBSjlPaKYhKau13bFunZ2I1gkOLN5iJeTLV8BnFi2Cl3XO5lqfJ7Eb1YUjhniCsB8NE3Zz-BOtkiwIZAN_nae/s200/godzilla.jpg" border="0" /></a>e the game watchable… Goals. This asinine rule requires a defender to be in between the ball dribbler and the opposing net, even though some eccentric rebel-outcast, wearing an ostentatious neon-yellow shirt, who responds to the handle “Goal-Keeper,” is standing in the center of the goal - right between the ball dribbler and the net. If this rule was instituted in football, Larry Fitzgerald would have to stop running as soon as he accelerated past the strong safety en route to the End zone, giving a defender absolutely no reason to stop a player who gets by him. I mean, why stop at just offsides? How about if a player is able to dribble the soccer ball for at least five yards, Godzilla comes out of the crowd and swallows the player whole? I’m all about 110% or not at all. Let’s just make it absolutely impossible for anyone to score. Why don’t we adjust the size of the goal to the size of an acorn while we’re at it. </span></span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:georgia;"><strong>Yellow Card # 4 – The Zebra<br /></strong>There are leaders of small countries with less power and control than a referee in a soccer game. Referees are mere mortals, not Egyptian Gods with absolute rule of the land, so <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO_yzKzWhMpxpt_-mMN-p6L07uMRbh0LAsDkJMSNdNSXSTx85JO_U-JiMbQoRxzt1oApZ2qhyvAT2xnlyA8d9Fi73C3QDSPeXrsKBWBYPPFccKA_Svuwl0GU9pgaf8hB3Fid7kJdUMRwfE/s1600/ref1-740327.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492106109446896786" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 162px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO_yzKzWhMpxpt_-mMN-p6L07uMRbh0LAsDkJMSNdNSXSTx85JO_U-JiMbQoRxzt1oApZ2qhyvAT2xnlyA8d9Fi73C3QDSPeXrsKBWBYPPFccKA_Svuwl0GU9pgaf8hB3Fid7kJdUMRwfE/s200/ref1-740327.jpg" border="0" /></a>why are they given the authority to significantly affect the outcome of the game? The head referee covers a field that is roughly 120 yards by 80 yards. This provides enough space for the entire population of Uruguay to fit inside comfortably, so I do revel in the fact that these guys are in tremendous shape, however a Cheetah could cover just as much ground with the same officiating results. This aspect makes soccer the only sport that could be officiated more effectively from my parent’s basement while in my underwear than from the field itself. With no instant replay, official game clock, or accountability for anything, a novice in his or her undergarments 9,000 miles away can do a better job calling a game. This could work for other sports too, but I certainly wouldn’t want John McEnroe yelling at me even through a Skype connection…</span></div></div></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><strong>Yellow Card #4A – Extra Time?<br /></strong>Just when we think the referee controls all that they can in the game, we’ve given them power to add extra time or “injury time,” as they call it, onto the end of the game. Lest we not forget no player actually gets injured in soccer (see tomorrow’s blog, card #8, 2nd verse, line 11), they only whine about it, so why do we need to add time onto the end? Or, even more importantly, we have something called electricity now, which can effectively start and stop the game clock if there are actual injuries. (Thanks Thomas Edison!) I know it puts the official scorekeeper in quite the tizzy to have to press a button to stop the clock, and then perform yet another daunting task when play resumes having to press that button again. Can we maybe try it just once, instead of the incongruous estimates kept mostly by the head ref on his Casio? </span></div><span style="font-family:georgia;"><div><br />Instead a country’s fate relies on about the same ballpark guess as to how long one should cook their chicken quesadilla. “Johnson how much injury time?” “Er, let’s see, carry the one, add the beans…give it another few minutes, make sure its brown on the bottom…” “Johnson, I meant the game…” “Oh…yeah a few minutes sounds about right for that too, why not?… Ok, to be honest I have no clue…” </div><div><br />This reminds me of when I used to play tackle football against myself when I was six (yes, I didn’t get out much). Sure the Browns may have kicked a game winning field goal with time running out to defeat New York, but I was the one who controlled both sides and was tackling myself. (Again, didn’t get out much). Isn’t that what a ref is doing…? “Hmm… Hold on… Let’s see if Nigeria can slip one in here, er, give it a few more minutes…”</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:georgia;"><strong>Yellow Card # 5 Power kicks over goal</strong> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIaO1DQKzUNCgKxHRVuxgvXKPWY5-eSrw-u92hk-WNX7HPqAhewFVb8JbNxZ1XqmZPoL4y3kDX75gW19SzSsodRQ_jkIxUhPcc7J8br6Gc0yw2-fTZ8liwtZdwULq1WpZAdeeaIdB2hDhF/s1600/bradvei-carmen-electra-dtfeb4-02.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492106093348472818" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 146px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIaO1DQKzUNCgKxHRVuxgvXKPWY5-eSrw-u92hk-WNX7HPqAhewFVb8JbNxZ1XqmZPoL4y3kDX75gW19SzSsodRQ_jkIxUhPcc7J8br6Gc0yw2-fTZ8liwtZdwULq1WpZAdeeaIdB2hDhF/s200/bradvei-carmen-electra-dtfeb4-02.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />This has got to be one of the most frustrating parts of the game. A skilled professional, someone the very best in their sport, can still blow a wide open shot on goal… and they often do. The problem is, the opportunities are so few and far between, they are likely in complete shock they have a chance to score and end up blasting the ball not only just over the goal, but way over and into the stands, when all they had to do is finesse it past the goalkeeper. It is like waiting your whole life to sleep with Carmen Elektra, and then right at the opportune moment your zipper is stuck… </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:georgia;">Son of a…</span></div><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><div>Check back tomorrow for the finale of this series... you can read all blogs and subscribe to the subscription list at : <a href="http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/">http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/</a> </div></span></div></div><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-5106215498344868492010-07-08T06:00:00.000-07:002010-07-09T11:30:56.713-07:00Two Worlds, One Cup - Volume I<span style="font-size:85%;">Welcome to another edition of the blog. If you're still reading at this part, you've gotten further than most, and if you continue reading you will be treated to the first part of this three part musing leading up to the 2010 World Cup Finale. If you're reading on Facebook, you can read all my blogs at </span><a href="http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:85%;">http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> , but ultimately all this means is that you're wasting valuble time that you could be using to Facestalk, tweet your BFF, or possibly get in some quality sexting on your Iphone...And now to the <span style="font-family:georgia;">write up...</span></span> <div><div><br /><p><span style="font-size:85%;">FOR most Soccer enthusiasts, the start of the World Cup after waiting four excruciating years, is a jovial beginning of sportacular bliss, but for others it feels like that intoxicated hook-up one calls every six months that nine out of ten relationship therapists suggest you probably shouldn’t; sure you have a great time with her after a few too many, but the next day you sneak her out the back and spend the afternoon trying to convince your roommates you went to bed early, yet all they heard all night was what sounded like a dying, or at the very least, a wou<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk5p80SAg_FK916oXgtL-oiYy95XgZbm1wdaunIc4xu9BG2Pu-KWnL6ijpKoSJv5K8hkMlVc5iJHL5AClRPm-LL-jMX4sqPaNTV8eyYEI2_fvhe0phZ_7-f1izOrPVilJfawMbBlotKQ6O/s1600/Manatee-swimmer-420x0.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491060093256980322" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px; height: 148px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk5p80SAg_FK916oXgtL-oiYy95XgZbm1wdaunIc4xu9BG2Pu-KWnL6ijpKoSJv5K8hkMlVc5iJHL5AClRPm-LL-jMX4sqPaNTV8eyYEI2_fvhe0phZ_7-f1izOrPVilJfawMbBlotKQ6O/s200/Manatee-swimmer-420x0.jpg" border="0" /></a>nded manatee screaming in agony coming from your room. (Or just choose an entirely different analogy that is less despicable and flippant that works for you…). This is how I feel about soccer ; every four years, I can’t get enough of it, but if I had to watch it on a regular basis, I may have to erase “Blue Shirt Girl, Tavern Bar,” out of my phone completely. </span></p><br /><br /><p><em><span style="font-size:78%;">now, now, it's not you it's me...</span></em></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Watching a World Cup game is like having a bad case of explosive diarrhea and you are exasperatingly pacing outside a bathroom awaiting your turn, but the bathroom’s inhabitant keeps jiggling the door as if he is coming out, but never does. (Or, again another more appropriate analogy…) You’re constantly on the edge of your seat, tension is building, and just when you think something is going to happen, nothing does, the game ends in a tie and </span><span style="font-size:85%;">you’ve just soiled your pants.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Since I only watch only every four years, I have been willing to sit and take it like a penalty kick to the rear, but if I’m going to suffer through a 90-minute contest that ends in a freakin’ tie, then I think I deserve to throw up a few yellow cards… </span></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><strong>Yellow</strong> <strong>Card # 1</strong></span><strong> - Vuvuzela Horns</strong></span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">This year’s World Cup at least has hit one milestone – it is the first World Cup that a beekeeper and soccer fan can finally combine their two loves into one blissful-matrimony. If anyone reading has heard these horns, you would know that If a blind man sat down to listen to a game, he would probably run for his life in fear of attack since these horns sound exactly like a swarm of ferocious yellow jackets. In America we have an occasional cheer, yell or drunken idiot screaming “Jeter Sucks,” but at least they give it a rest after a couple taunts. Who has the lung capacity to keep these horns going for an entire ninety minutes – a Grey Whale? I recently blew up a small beach ball and nearly passed out afterwards due to oxygen loss. Shouldn’t these horn blowing-buffoons be using their breath-holding talents for something more productive, like saving drowning children in one-hundred feet of water… Like…on Jupiter? If you go online, there are German computer programmers who have figured out a way to filter the buzz from your TV broadcasts, so you can actually hear the announcers call the game, using a high scope band stop filter which removes the frequencies which will work on a compu<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqPeaNE7Q_VVtYfMKlmaY05xTb6-mGviZEO49Kq6CR_KPoLRFNJ1qr7LWKNnMx8N-MZO_v9oAC-9OFmI1IBuRyE8ZymTx-N7Uh2z0r0-QGTjZ14Z-CFNLqhWCmOW0dXQHatkhPJhF4K-RF/s1600/horn.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491061760252366786" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqPeaNE7Q_VVtYfMKlmaY05xTb6-mGviZEO49Kq6CR_KPoLRFNJ1qr7LWKNnMx8N-MZO_v9oAC-9OFmI1IBuRyE8ZymTx-N7Uh2z0r0-QGTjZ14Z-CFNLqhWCmOW0dXQHatkhPJhF4K-RF/s200/horn.jpg" border="0" /></a>ter with a sound card with low latency... Seriously? This is what they’re wasting their time on? What these crafty Hasselhoff-loving engineers didn’t realize, was that most soccer fans under the fear of an impending killer wasp attack, are not exactly the savviest at reading directions, and probably went insane before even managing to turn on their PC’s. Here is just a minor suggestion – stop blowing the blasted horns! </span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>Darn-it Sheila, I knew we should have just gone to Applebys</em></span> </span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><strong></strong></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><strong>Yellow</strong> <strong>Card #2</strong></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong> - Scoreless Ties</strong></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">The ties I get. 1-1. 2-2. 3-3, fine - but a scoreless tie? A fan pays $100, sits and watches ninety minutes of soccer, witnesses absolutely zero goals, and then the games ends, without either team accomplishing the one and only point of the game – scoring a goal. Basically, if the players never set foot on the field, the same conclusion could have been drawn. What exactly do you talk about after the game with your buddies? “Wow those were some great sideline throw-ins – who am I kidding, gosh darn it Rico, we got screwed…” </span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Yellow Card #2A Blowouts</strong></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">I have no idea what constitutes a blowout in soccer but I do know that Portugal beat North Korea 7-0 in Group stage. This is probably the equivalent of winning a baseball game 114-0. </span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">* Check back for Part II of this riveting saga tomorrow, and for the record no manatees were harmed during the writing of this blog. Blue shirt girl, is merely a figment of one's imagination, like a sasquatch, yeti, or the credulous belief, that one can walk into Taco Bell and place an order without an interpreter...</span></p><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-35710150423664190522010-04-07T09:01:00.000-07:002010-04-07T09:10:12.906-07:00Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part V<div><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;">Welcome to another edition of the blog. This entry is a continuation of yup, you guessed it- 1,2,3 & 4which you can read at </span><a href="http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:85%;">http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;">Now that I’m thirty, I notice a plethora of commercials that never caught my eye in the past. If I did notice, they always induced a smirk, chuckle or witty comment spraying levity in all directions of the older demographic. At thirty, I’m starting to pay more attention. </span><br /></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;">Everyone has seen the commercials for Viagra, Cialis and whatever other erection-inducing stimulant drug company has shown up tardy to the dance to put more spark back in ones’ love life; but it isn’t those that have me concerned. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;">I’m talking about the ones that show a group of older men doing completely normal activities for sixty-somethings like kayaking while also ice fishing, cycling through the Grand Canyon while juggling anvils, or Windsurfing while playing chess at the same time, all because the drug Flomax allowed them to. Are these the normal activities guys in their sixties are participating in these days? Until a few months ago, I had no idea what Flomax actually did, and I also was credulous to the idea that men over sixty watched the stock market and played croquet. </span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457426716096215634" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 172px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8NEJcR_0xBeTBMiw35xXOqHFFM5igc7JWsW4WKldwxVCKZrC0maAKFsc-z2BiQkNWi_xryTPNct5sKMqAZT5rcAumesfX6DKJOZFUD5oIZbSyYO8kgzqVT-NQ0HDvDoOV6-ZzglVono_T/s320/flomax.jpg" border="0" /></span></div></div><br /><br /><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Apparently Flomax helps with urination ; either more urination, or less urination, and I really don‘t feel like researching further. One thing I have figured out however, is that my future is going to consist of frequent hell-raising activities with my older buddies, and a steady diet of constant urination issues. (Or at least that is what Flomax wants me to think, so I rush to my local pharmacy hot on the trail of urination relief). I’m not sure what’s more depressing to think about; the urination, or the Brokeback-esque camping trips that appear to be in my future.</span><br /><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">If you’ve never seen these commercials, then you are probably the target audience and Flomax is likely for you. This would mean you have likely been too busy urinating in the bathroom during NFL Football games or Man vs. Wild on Discovery which apparently the only two programs men with urination issues watch these days. </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Ok, so you’re thinking, I too would like to reduce my urination, but what’s the catch? While Viagra and Cialis recommend consulting your Doctor when an erection lasts for a certain length of time, Flomax has somehow managed to create a drug with side effects that require consultation of a professional only at the notice of one thing : a loss of semen. Loss of semen? Really? How would one determine if one is experiencing a loss of semen, and is that necessarily a negative outcome? And does the Doctor really want to know this information? And once this symptom is diagnosed, what would be the proper solution to the problem? A guy who is saving lives every day, needs to have this image in his mind about ones’ semen loss when he goes home at night? How would that call to your Doctor go exactly? </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">“Dr. Johnson’s Office.” “Uh, yes, er, is Dr. Johnson there?” </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">“I’m the receptionist what seems to be the problem sir? I’ll pass the info along to the Doctor.” </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">“You know what, if you could just tell him I’m experiencing a loss of semen that would really be super, I’m supposed to uh-"</span><br /><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">“Sir what did you say to me? You better watch your mouth.” </span></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:85%;">“You know what, nevermind, I’ll uh, call back…” </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-size:85%;">After Doctor’s diagnosis : </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-size:85%;">“Well Jerry, you’re right. You are experiencing a loss of semen, although we really can’t be too sure of it and to be honest this is all a little awkward, to say the least. Ok well … now that we’ve diagnosed it, I‘m going to need you to take two aspirins a day and, well, lets see…elevate your penis, and - you know what? Screw it… we really have no idea what to do here, how‘s a lollipop sound?” </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">---------------- </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">If you’re a male actor, Viagra commercials have to be the most demoralizing acting gig you will ever land. It is always some decent looking chick, her summer dress waving in the wind elatedly dancing because she will finally be satisfied as her dejected husband is in the background dolefully skipping rocks. How is any washed up actor supposed to score chicks after singing a two minute guitar riff about how he can’t get it up? Maybe if the guy spent more time figuring out how to satisfy his lady and less time singing Elvis songs about getting boners with four other middle-aged dudes, he wouldn’t be skipping rocks in the first place. (Makes you appreciate country songs about dying dogs and pick-up trucks a lot more)</span><br /><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:85%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457427253627555506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 172px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZjYHBJiQPYtvkLHsbJgO0viGG4qSBUemAL2Y2RgyFjYhVKNy93O3UvvLFURimYmZWV1UprIEYVD0rbt3Q4kTnLvTapaqOGB_rfsol1Ko7Ow1PtM1Fmavpz18ZmNfT9iABbvN12ho-SfN0/s320/viva_viagra.jpg" border="0" /></span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-size:85%;">While Flomax has you contacting your Doctor due to semen loss, Viagra has you contacting your Doc for an erection lasting more than four hours. But isn’t that the idea?? I don’t go see my opium dealer when the stuff lasts thirty minutes longer than its supposed to, I simply consider that one helluva great deal. The Mayans didn’t sacrifice lambs to the Rain God and pray that he brings them rain for their crops, then after a few drops… “Whoa, hold on now, we didn’t sign on for this - the cabbages have had enough."</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">And what is my sixty-two year old male Doctor from Sweden supposed to do for me? He may have done a quality job cupping my package and having me cough, but with four hours I can probably catch a flight to Reno to the Bunny Ranch, which would make much more sense. </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Loss of semen and erections that never go away. Sounds like a great future to look forward to. </span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">“Dr. Johnson’s Office.” </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">“Uh, yes, er, is Dr. Johnson there?” </span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">“I’m the receptionist what seems to be the problem sir? I’ll pass the info along to the Doctor.” </span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">“Well Er, we talked earlier, and well you see I have don’t know how to put this but I seem to be experiencing a loss of semen, and now to top it off, I also have a an erection that has lasted for four hours.</span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><p><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">“You again - And when did you first notice this sir?” </span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">“Well I was out camping while skeet shooting with my middle aged buddies, and well…” </span><br /></p><p><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The End. </span></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Cheers! </span></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-72339006305881558932010-02-18T11:58:00.000-08:002010-02-18T11:58:00.317-08:00Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part IV - 2009 in Review, Turning 30, and all types of Tantalizing Tomfoolery Too Hot For My SpaceWelcome to another edition of the blog. This entry is a continuation of yup, you guessed it- 1,2 & 3 which you can read at <br /><br />http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/. <br /><br />In addition to hangover severity tripling, lasting three days instead of three hours, when you hit thirty, wedding invitations, bachelor party invites, kid’s birthday parties and bar mitzvah solicitations start showing up at your door like a Jehovah Witness, trying to meet his end of the month quota. All of a sudden the next twenty years of weekends has just unveiled itself right in front of my very eyes and none of them include keg stands or Flabongos. <br /><br />However, nothing stresses me out more than a commitment for a future event. <br /><br />Case and point? <br /><br />Save the Date cards. Pure misery in my book.<br /><br />A wedding invite is one thing, but these magnets, balloons, and singing wedding telegrams performed by half-naked clowns at my door has got to stop. Everyone has seen these - they are the ones of the happy looking couple magnetically secured to fridges across America with a seemingly innocent request to clear your schedule, yet basically demanding you to make a firm commitment a full year before the day even occurs. In the past you’d receive something by regular mail that a loved one is getting married, but now for 400 days you have to look at this ecstatic couple and hate them more and more that they’ve locked down a day in your future, every time you grab a glass of milk. I mean, sure, I’ll probably be free October 16th, 2018, and since I barely make plans three hours in advance let alone three years in advance, what excuse can I give? Like clockwork, the date comes around and sure enough the Giants are playing game seven of the World Series, “The Hills, the scenes too hot for TV,” marathon is on, or Megan Fox shows up at your door wanting you to handcuff her and massage her body with coconut oil. <br /><br />“Sure Megan, I’d be happy to; oh fuck me - This day was already planned for me back in 1972 by this prick wearing an Izod shirt his fiancé made him wear. “See Megan? I tattooed it to my ass thanks to the iron on, save the date tattoo they made me use so I wouldn’t forget…”<br /><br />And I’m not against bachelor parties, by any means, but maybe more so, what they are supposed to symbolize; the last great night of freedom. Haven’t we all been partying like it is our last night of freedom for the past twelve years? Is it really necessary to give it one last go, just in case the sixty-eight Jell-O shots, ninety games of beer pong and twenty-two trips to strip clubs in the past year weren’t enough to get it out of your system? Furthermore, do these strippers understand we are in a recession? Gas prices are going down, GDP is down, more importantly, my fantasy football entrance fee decreased, but yet these ladies still feel that they are impervious to market conditions? How is a lap dance recession proof? Ok, we get it, you can dance and spray whip cream down my friend’s pants who is halfway to the altar, but for his sake and for the sake of my bank statement, do we really need one last night of drunken debauchery? Lets just call the game now due to darkness, or perhaps a ten run rule like back in Little League, while I still have some funds in my bank account…<br /><br />Til next time and the final edition…<br /><br />Cheers… <br /><br />Part 5 coming soon…Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-36362128743294421362010-02-16T11:04:00.000-08:002010-02-16T11:04:00.220-08:00Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part III - 2009 in Review, Turning 30, and all types of Tantalizing Tomfoolery Too Hot For My Space<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CSMCDEV%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 2.0in 1.0in 2.0in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Welcome to another edition of the blog. This entry is a continuation of part 2 which you can read at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/.
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<br />I think I speak for all of us here at Shenanigans, when I say we hope you enjoy your stay on the blog site, and should you not, may you be attacked by a roaming gang of angry of Rosie O’Donnells. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="">
<br />With that said, I give you Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part III, chalked full of fabricated tarradiddles…</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Now that I’m thirty, reluctantly, it may be time for me to overcome a condition I’ve had for years commonly known as PFS (Post Fraternity Syndrome). After a college career of frequent exchanges, parties and gatherings that were always set up with some sort of theme in mind, I am forever scarred for any rendezvous in the real world, and even seven years later, I find myself in utter disarray. Symptoms of this condition include being unable to casually invite people over for a beer without a specific reason such as Eighty’s night, a Wild West theme or a Dress like your favorite Boy Band member event. (I generally choose Lance Bass obviously). Every drinking juncture basically has to have some sort of theme or purpose, otherwise you are unable to enjoy the evening and end up becoming an inhospitable outcast pouting in the corner. If you too are noticing any of the aforementioned symptoms, you may also be suffering from PFS, or perhaps you may also just be a loser, ignoramus who truly believes they are still in college. I’d like to blissfully exclaim that there is a splendiferous elixir for this horrific condition, giving way to a gloriously jovial ending to this blog post, but, alas, even with the greatest of scientists working around the clock, there is unfortunately no cure, other than of course, just coming to the realization that you are that ignoramus loser Ghost of Fraternity Past.<span style=""> </span>Recently it got worse when my buddy invited me over for a barbeque…
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<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“What’s the occasion? New Year’s isn’t for another week, so what are we talking here…?” I asked sheepishly.
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“No occasion,” he responded. “Just a couple of burgers, chicken breasts, beers, you know, watch the game.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Great,” I replied. “I’ll wear my disco outfit, the same one I wore back in ’02 to winter formal. You have an ice luge right?”</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“No, just come over, and why would I have an ice luge?” he responded completely bewildered (clearly not suffering from PFS and has actually grown up)</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“No reason…no problem,” I calmly replied, though inside I was frantically screaming… ok Steve, don’t panic, don’t panic, ok, got it – “I’ll just wear my toga instead then, no worries, see you in twenty…</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Another sign I was getting older was I no longer had to covertly hide my alcohol when attending house parties. <span style=""> </span>In the past, I’d get to a party and individually unwrap my twelve pack of Pabst and hide each one behind a perishable item in the refrigerator, worried that some bootlegging, plundering alcoholic would discover my precious beers from behind the leftover meatloaf. Maybe one would be placed behind the milk carton, another in the vegetable drawer, and another in a box of popsicles in the freezer which likely was forgotten about and exploded during the night.<span style=""> </span>In each case I’d make them just visible enough so I‘d remember, but hidden enough so if you weren‘t looking for them, unless you were fishing through beef stew from the night previous, you‘d never find them. But then things started to change…
<br />
<br />“Hi Steve, welcome to the party, I’ll take those beers for you, the friendly host would greet me.
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<br />“These are Sierra Nevadas, missy,” I would respond. “Nice try, but you’ll have to alligator wrestle me to the ground before you can pry these from my catlike grasps. You can take my freedom but you can never take my Sierr-.”
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<br />“Whatever…that’s fine, why don’t you just put them over there with the seventy other beers,” she’d scornfully respond.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Glancing over to the kitchen I’d notice that some moron had left an entire twelve pack of Stella out in open, ripe for the taking.
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<br />Oh, they’re like for everyone?<span style=""> </span>The bewildered thought passed through my head.<span style=""> </span>Wait a second…who left the guacamole dip out, and who didn’t finish eating their pizza rolls, and why isn’t everyone attacking them?<span style=""> </span>My head was racing…</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Cheers…</p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-4550427553492102282010-01-22T07:20:00.000-08:002010-02-13T14:09:16.843-08:00Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part II - 2009 in Review, Turning 30, and all types of Tantalizing Tomfoolery Too Hot For My Space<div><span style="font-size:85%;">Continued from last entry… (If you missed it and want to catch up on all past entries, you can Read all past blogs @ </span><a href="http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:85%;">http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> )</span><br /><div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">2009 was a year up and down like a toilet seat, and like an ESPN employee illegally video peeping sexy reporter Erin Andrews, I had to constantly stay on my toes. The most significant event, other than finally discovering that Every Kiss, does not begin with Kay, it begins with a couple of Washington Apple shots, a dash of exposed nipple, and a hearty music diet of Barry Manilow, was turning thirty. </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The good news, or bad news depending on how you look at it, was that the party seemed to last an entire week with each group of friends looking to cash in on my aging misery.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;">Realizing you are halfway to retirement is one thing, but waking up face down on the bathroom floor with your eyelid stuck to the remnants of a Jager shot is another. In most cultures taking someone out, forcing him to drink poison, then leaving him for dead on the side of the toilet is done purely as means to torture convicted felons, but in our culture, it just says you like the person and want him to wake up the next morning looking like </span><span style="font-size:85%;">he is the decrepit, resulting offspring of all Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse having sex with one another. </span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429405445788446210" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 273px; height: 189px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk9rgAooIQ02bbRPau7jr2tWJmejO8nYkZHhxc06wM_a_7NTTZEPfaQxj9Y2bJXUSVjrVAisZJAPYmMzaUnsH3hVzlSiRtYlbG7qIgbR1o2vAsByylFUweb6m0dOBLuspvcQp5auQZ6GRs/s320/12968_176772819908_706544908_2641948_5238201_n.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Luckily I chose a very mature way to spend my thirtieth birthday to really prove to myself I had grown up. My previous birthdays were spent ingesting large amounts of alcohol at various watering holes formally known as bars because that is what immature twenty-somethings do - pub crawls. For this birthday, however, I went wine tasting in the beautiful Napa Valley, focused on elegantly and daintily tasting various wine splendors, since I had matured so much in the past year and that is what grown ups do - they wine taste.</span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Unfortunately the idea of tasting the wine lasted about as long as one’s attention span to this blog, and it wasn’t long before it became a wine chugging trip instead. That is unless of course you compare a “taste” to the time at Costco when you politely “tasted,” Mildred’s brownie sample, then proceeded to tackle her, ransack her brownies and dropkick her into the condiment aisle. Who was I kidding - this wine tour was no more than an intoxicated wolf dressed in Winery clothing. It was another debaucherous pub crawl…</span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429408422043261234" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 320px; height: 240px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt8rk7qQBD5s4CNJZTFCp8rehdg7TVBAD9PZf-eIZ72EpDx9ekHSTj7pHRUKwQ1RLeGSTABnRVqbz_03dxnsqDOZ8nOQXMelm06fi_HUKb9nFahZtbIUwRvrnxCQXVokcMgskhQF7hljm3/s320/13668_1242854470368_1199533902_30786557_5489525_n.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;">The good thing about being at a winery, however, is that it’s very difficult to find a revolting shot that your brainless buddies generally buy you on your birthday. </span><br /></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Everyone knows the ones I’m talking about. Your buddy yells down from the other end of the bar - Steve, how about a Flaming Car Bomb, Buttery nipple, Three Wise Men, Appletini shot?<br />Distracted, you simply just yell back, “Sure,“. </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">All of a sudden you hear a car explode outside, the side doors open up and a naked Eskimo in a King’s chair is carried in by Three Wise Men who proceed to blowtorch an apple tree (which they‘ve also carried in), while some obese dude in a Speedo is rubbing margarine on your nipples and an insatiable Ocelot is licking your genitalia. </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Somewhere in the distance a dog barks… </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">“What the hell did I get myself into,” you perplexingly ask yourself, as the flaming shot is thrown your way by a guy in a clown outfit who is now riding the Ocelot. ** If this reminds you of your last drinking experience, please refer to ** below and lock all your doors.</span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">At that point, you have no excuse but to take it down, which you do by pretending it is no big deal until an excruciating burning engulfs your mouth, throat and spleen, like troops storming Normandy on D- Day. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;">You attempt to maintain your stolid composure as liquid you had no idea existed in the human body starts to drain feverishly from your eyes, nose and throat as well as from places that never excreted liquid previously. If you’ve never had liquid come out of the dry pores in your elbow before, just try a Flaming Eskimo-Wise man-Double helix- Rose Thorn- Saber Tooth - Appletini and your body will rid itself of that poison by any means necessary…</span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I’m also against any shot that requires me to prepare myself by pouring things on my person or preparing for in advance. If I have to pour salt on the small of my back, harvest a tree of lemons, and rub ointment on my privates all in an uniquely timed sequential process, then that shot is probably not for me.</span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I absolutely loathe taking shots, but even at thirty, I can still be convinced to take one, but it will be on my own schedule. I also don’t want any of the five food groups nearby to cushion the blow. While I’d like to think I don’t need a bunch of flare to help, it’s actually because I’ve probably tossed the shot over my shoulder and onto some unsuspecting poor chap behind me, thus creating the illusion I’ve actually taken it, while the other person is busy sprinkling fresh parsley on their upper thigh to prepare for their shot.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I figure I’d rather take my chances with the seven foot biker dude behind me with Fernet dripping down his brow than my throat on fire and a horrific headache the next morning. </span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Another thing that increases as you get older are the strange injuries that you wake up with the next day. In the past your younger self shook these off and maybe even repaired them before youwoke up in a drunken stupor the next morning, but now I wake up with all types of mysterious injuries; a bruise here, a twisted ankle there, all with no recollection of their origin or cause. The other morning I woke up and the entire left inside of my mouth was raw. It was either burned, beaten or attacked by a curling iron. No clue. </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">You can’t go to your Doctor for these types of injuries, because he or she is going to ask you a series of questions you simply don‘t know the answers to.</span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">“Well when did you notice this, and how did it happen,“ your Doctor will quiz you.</span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Your response will be : “I don’t know, I uh, just don’t know.” </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">“Well when did it happen,” your Doctor will ask, mind boggled.</span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">“I don’t know. I just don’t…</span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"…Well lets see, actually the last thing I remember was the Flaming Elephant shot, then there was a naked Eskimo who rubbed lotion on my nipples…”(your mind starts to drift off to the shocked look on the Eskimo’s face after you had mistaken his tanned skin for Melinda, the hot bartender, and had done a shot off his man boobs by accident. A chill of melancholy reminiscing awkwardness creeps down your spine. You then remember the Eskimo socking you in the face after you jokingly juggled his man boobs and you slowly reach for your mouth like the Detective in “Usual Suspects,” when he finds out who Kaizer Suze was. Your mouth blurts out before your brain can react).</span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">“Now I rememb…Uh you know what Doc, actually nope, I, uh, I have no idea how it happened…“<br /><br />**you may want to lay low for a while because you probably inhaled PCP by mistake, or illegally abducted a live, small game animal; ocelots are endangered you prick.</span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">To be continued next week… </span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;">Cheers...</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">check back or subscribe for email updates at</span><br /><a href="http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:85%;">http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/</span></a> </div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-26469418805299650762010-01-12T15:25:00.000-08:002010-01-12T17:35:39.577-08:00Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part I - 2009 in Review, Turning 30, and all types of Tantalizing Tomfoolery Too Hot For My Space<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMSMoYJJO8tjo_DOM441aXhD6MvKi8TNkyc5mBIIWb_bGucMN1TSlf29P_SQf3y2WHXrwcCjqlhxYue9NzsQ4Xjf7A92M1V9KTQymxlrujCpKvVcU0dlVHi4OBiAXpt2IJ21LYcByjOCLL/s1600-h/senanigans.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425371104423704994" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 247px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 178px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMSMoYJJO8tjo_DOM441aXhD6MvKi8TNkyc5mBIIWb_bGucMN1TSlf29P_SQf3y2WHXrwcCjqlhxYue9NzsQ4Xjf7A92M1V9KTQymxlrujCpKvVcU0dlVHi4OBiAXpt2IJ21LYcByjOCLL/s320/senanigans.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Just like the media gets giddy for the first birth of the new year, the first murder in Oakland (usually two seconds after midnight), or first crotch shot of Lindsay Lohan, the staff here at Shenanigans have elatedly awaited the first asinine comings and goings of 2010 to hit newsstands. With each dedicated employee seething with incongruent, non-creative musings, it has been decided that the New Year would start out with not just one debaucherous delicacy, but a four part edition of nonsensicalness to get things started out on the wrong foot. Readers, hold onto your Taylor Lautner lunch pails ; this is only the first of four excerpts guaranteed to make you ask more with each edition ; why am I reading this wretched babble?<br /><br />Settling back in after a holiday is never easy, but the staff is always determined at the very least to hit the ground drooling and sputtering. The first order of business after having to sneak through the electrical closet after the office locks had been purposely changed and tiptoe past the receptionist to avoid further complicating a pending restraining order, was to check the voicemail system. Unfortunately, as expected, it was not overflowing with ebullient fans requesting a 2009 yearbook of Shenanigans, so we felt positive that our E-mail inboxes would be littered with jovial notes from loyal fans dying to know what was next for the #8891st ranked blog on the internet. There, strategically delivered between a Cialis Advertisement and an email from a Swedish exchange student/male escort, I saw it:<br /><br />Re : Blog.<br /><br />It was from a real fan.<br /><br />“Gay Proctologists? Number 2 pencils?? So. Carolina Gamecocks material??? Did the mother-load of bad comedians break down in front of your house recently & you've been forced to provide them food & shelter in exchange for their 'quality' material?”<br /><br />Alas, this humbling e-mail, less entertaining than the blog itself, if one can even fathom, was from none other than Pleasanton’s own, Johnny P. Before him, idolized prominent figures shortened their names. First there was JFK who used three. Then LC from “The Hills,” took it to where JFK could not, but this beloved icon needs just one letter to gain the respect of thousands. He is known in the cross-dressing community, Hasselhoffisahottie.com chat rooms, and “I’m a Fan of the blonde Backstreet Boy,” on Facebook, simply as “P.” (Well, actually we just received word that on Hasselhoff’s chat room his handle is actually ticklemyhoff69 - sorry folks, but everywhere else it is P)…<br /><br />On one hand Shenanigan’s popularity has grown substantially (fan base of 1 in 2008, up to 3 1/3 in 2009), but on the other hand, insatiable fans like P, continue to demand more, no longer willing to settle for stories of unmoving tales about locker rooms, sexual innuendos regarding the whale community and fabricated fables about exhumed latex products discovered on jogs. Sure, it is a mere cross to bare, a small price to pay…<br /><br />“A victim of their own success? Seriously? Get that thing out of my face, you loser…Officer! No I don’t know why it is called a Sperm Whale, Officer, this guy is scaring me,” one critic screamed, when asked, or confronted rather about the blog…<br /><br />Ok...And now to the write up…<br /><br />2009 was a year up and down like a toilet seat, and like an ESPN employee illegally video peeping sexy reporter Erin Andrews, I had to constantly stay on my toes. The most significant event, other than finally discovering that, Every Kiss does not begin with Kay, it begins with a couple Washington Apple shots, a dash of exposed nipple, and a hearty music diet of Barry Manilow, was turning thirty. Fortunately for the hit tracker on my blog website, which in turn generates negative $11 every month, you’ll have to check back to read more… you may even want to subscribe so you will be notified, like for example just when you sit down to dinner and prefer to be left alone, just got snuggled in that new Snuggie or have just enough battery on your phone for this email to come through when you were waiting for your new special someone to sext (sex text) you, that a new blog has been released. (All the hip kids are doing so at : http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/)<br /><br />In the meantime take a few moments to reflect on your 2009; maybe even with a nice cup of coffee at Starbucks. While there you can try to figure out who in God’s name is buying the warm Ethos waters for two dollars when they offer cold water in a perfectly good fountain or cup of ice water for free…<br /><br />To be continued... ...</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7462532965087898298.post-90412456191339924182009-12-05T22:01:00.000-08:002009-12-05T22:01:01.254-08:00"Volume XV"Welcome to another issue of the blog. This one has a very creative, well thought out title. I hope you enjoy...<br /><br />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… <br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br />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)<br /><br /><br />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…<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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…<br /><br />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." <br /><br />Thanks for reading... Cheers,<br /><br />Steve (the guy who writes these miserable write ups)<br /><br />*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/Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0