Shenanigans : A Blog From the Depths of Debauchery

Twas the Night Before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring not even a Yak and some aged Meatloaf?

2011-12-28T23:24:00.000-08:00

Christmas has come and gone and, like a Kim Kardashianmarriage, 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.

You be the judge.

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.

Papa?

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 baddecisions together? Please tell me this explains the deranged genetic makeup.

And now to the write up…

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 afteryear.

My Dad figured out that it’s much easier to just leave thoseinfuriating bulbs up year round, instead of going through the torture.

The day after Thanksgiving, the lights would magically turnon, and all the neighbors would gawk in astonishing jealousy…

“Look at that Billy - Those McDevitts are real go-getters…!”

Are there any other electrical devices that rely on eachother as much as those darn lights? One small light would go out on the strandand instantaneously the others commit Hari-Kari and turn to mince meat.

If humans worked on this same concept, we’d all be dead atfirst sign of a co-worker sneezing.

“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 thepaper shredder by the dozens.

The Four Horseman of the Apocalypse have this thing allwrong. Just model our demise after these lights.

Done and done.

Not the Four Horseman of the Apocolypse

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 “Meet the Kardashians,” season finale. (I’ve seen it a hundred times)

“Paul, put that back on!” This is the wedding episo-?”

“Paul?Hello?”

Meatloaf rotting in the fridge. No, I won't do that actually.

In pastyears I would look forward to basketballs, video games and Matchbox cars, butat some point that all changed. Now my Christmas list is made up of practical and boringgift ideas; like spatulas, cuisinarts and, most importantly, boxer shorts. I don’t think I’ve bought apair of boxers or socks for, well, ever. Every year my Mom willensure my socks and underwear collection gets replenished and this year was nodifferent. 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 alsodisturbing that she told my brother-in-law this year that she didn’t recognizehim with pants on… (No he wasn’t the santa lurking outside with no pants yousicko).

Still not the Four Horseman of Apocolypse

Oh C'mon now

I’venoticed over the years that when you are in a relationship, women will buy youmostly presents that will also benefit them. It may be a nice sweater that theywant to see you in, new face wash to get rid of your massive blackheads, ornose-hair trimmers to trim the hairs most typically affixed to one’s genitals,but instead are crawling innocuously towards your eyeballs. Just out of rangefor any standard human pupil to spot, but clear as day for her to notice. Atthe end of the day, I suppose all these items are ok, but if you open up a boxfor a Swedish penis enlarger, she just might be telling you something. Justsayin…

Forsome self-conscious, promiscuous women, going to the mall at Christmas can’t beeasy. Specifically when walking by Santa’s North Pole with your two harlot friends.

“Ho,Ho,Ho…

“Jeanine,was that guy in the red sweatsuit referring to us?”

“YeahI think so. Oh my god, how does he know?”

“MerryChristmas! “Ho, Ho, Ho.”

“Bygod I think you’re right, he was saying it right as we walked by, he waslooking at us and saying it one by one.”

“DamnitNatalie, I knew we never should’ve gotten on that darn holiday party bus with those Jelloshots. Now the whole mall knows.”

“MerryChristmas…”

That’sall she wrote tonight… Happy New Year!

Youcan read all the blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

All The Hip Kids Are Doing It

2011-11-09T23:08:00.000-08:00

Welcome to another gut-wrenching, rash-causing, goosebump-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.

Captions that didn't make the cut...
Finally, I've found my Cuisinart
Getting to second base has never felt so good
Gosh Dangit Maude, I told you to wait to take the photo until my arm was all the way in
So whatta say, we get out of here after this; take a ride up the coast to that little trough you like?

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So the 49ersare amazingly 7-1 for the first time since the nineties, thanks to new coachJim Harbaugh, whose offensive minded approach has turned Alex Smith into aserviceable quarterback. It is incredible it took ownership seven years tofinally see that having defensive minded head coaches like Singletary and Nolanteach Smith how to play the position is like a Father trying to teach his daughter, about to hit puberty, how her period works.

"Ok lets see, I guess youstick this well, golly gee, I'm actually I'm not sure what you do withthis..."

"Er... coach, that isactually my turkey sandwich...the football is over there..."

"Right I knew that. Well, next, I'm going to tell you where babies come from..."

Man I wish I could throw a Penn State joke in here... darn moral compass

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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 imperative 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.

"Whats that sound?"

"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-"

"What is that banging I hear?"

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So even in death this animal is playing...a dead animal. Egregiously redundant, no?

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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.

I'm just picturing the TSA agents drinking a cold one and laughing at an infared picture of my nuts as I order... "Yes as a matter of fact, I will make it a meal deal...$18? Sure, no problem."

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How are all these phenomenal individuals teaching English overseas?

"What happened to Cynthia?"
"She is teaching in Andorra! Isn't that amazing?"
"No it's not actually, since when does she speak Catalan?"
"She doesn't, but she is teaching them English, isn't that wonderful?"
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?
"Alright class, please turn to page 55... Class? Class? Why aren't you listening to me? Hello?"
Class (In Catalan) "What the heck is this dumb white girl saying?"

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I’m convinced that no matterhow diabolically inappropriate an email is, if you add "kind regards," to the end salutation, the recipient will take it as a kind correspondence.

Dear Columbia House,

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 offhis legs, and then feed them to him while simultaneously shoving a pineapple up his a$$

Kind Regards,

Sebastian

CEO: Hmm… you know what heactually seems like a pretty decent guy. Evelyn, get in here! Do we have anymore 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?

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Other than that Miss Lincoln, how was the play? Great character development, no?

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You can read all my blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/
or contact me at steve.mcdevitt@gmail.com

Don't Punch A Gift Horse In The Mouth (Indian Burns ok)

2011-07-11T19:10:00.001-07:00

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.

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)

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I don’t pretend to know anything about being a meteorologist, but one thing I think I could do is 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.

Weather report for my Mill Valley hike last Saturday: 76 degrees, partly cloudy

Actual temperature: 48 degrees, fog thicker than whale blubber

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.

Sorry Ipiktok, all that was for nothing, sun is out, gosh darn weather man

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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?

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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.

“Oh hey there, I was just uh washing my hands. I uh…”

(guy straining on pot, vein on forehead visibly protruding)

“So, going anywhere nice on your holiday? You know what I’m just going to use a tree…”

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When my Microsoft Word goes “not responding” and a pop up comes up and says “do you want to send the error report?” Where does that go? Bill Gates himself, or does the computer just take me for an idiot as I sit there and wait for no return?

Ok, Bill I’ll leave the line open for you, give me a ring to discuss.

RAM: Oh shit Johnson, we didn’t know he’d actually click “Send Report.”

ROM: I know me neither. What the kilobyte do we do now?

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

ROM: Good call RAM. You always know what to do

Ok Bill, I’ll give you another few minutes to call, but that's it.

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8 THINGS THAT WOULD FREAK YOU OUT IF YOU HEARD THEM FROM YOUR MALE GYNECOLOGIST

1 Let me just finish up this shot of Absinthe, and then we’ll get started

2 Oh wow, there’s my stethoscope; I was looking for that

3 Nice Vulva!

4 I’ve never seen one of these close up before

5 Don’t mind the intern in the closet, he likes to watch

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

7 Ok looks like we are all finished up here yeah? Cigarette?

8 A Zipper

Sorry I had to do that but I can’t think of a more awkward situation than a woman going to a male gynecologist

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This sign posted on the door of my local market seems a bit gratuitius. “We are open,” “Back Door," and “Ur Anus” 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?

You can read all my blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

"Volume XX"

2011-04-25T10:42:00.000-07:00

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, meteorologists, and cell demise. Wait, there's some chicks...

Happy Reading...

People are always saying, “oh that Robert, he sure has a taste for fine dining,” like it is some sort of miraculous trait. 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.

I don’t have great disdain for weathermen, but I wish they wouldn’t try and confuse us with their devious weather reporting. 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? This is like when my friend Tony tells me he is buying a house for $200k but it is worth $400k. If your thermometer says 67, then just save us the discombobulating condescension and tell us it will also feel like 67.

I’d imagine the best 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 homosexual; he just puts two and two together.

People are always saying, “stop drinking, you’re going to kill brain cells.” 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.

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.

You can read all my blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

"Not Your Father's Koozie"

2011-03-20T22:01:00.000-07:00

This week's blog brings us to really not much of a blog at all. Pissed off? Want to stop reading? (Go ahead you're probably one of two people actually reading anyway). Do you feel like you've just spent $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?

This week's blog is a far-from-wonderful marketing write-up that 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...

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. My first experience was out on a marsh in Marin County on a frosty winter night. 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. 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. 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.

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.

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?

Luckily, on a frigid night in Berkeley, this brilliant invention was created, joining together the koozie and 40oz in a harmonious matrimony of intoxication.

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.

How does it all work, one might ask? Like for example, how am I ever going to 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?

The answer, my friends is http://www.40cozy.com 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).

They 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)

You can read all my blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

"Volume XIX"

2011-03-04T10:00:00.000-08:00

Welcome to another edition of the blog. 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.

Joey, now an avid reader, before reading depths of debauchery blog

Scroll down to see this mind-blowing transformation...

Joey after reading Depths of Debauchery Blog

I think the before and after pictures speak for themselves. And now to the write up...

WHY is it that every time a celebrity dies, regardless of the cause of death, they always have cocaine in their system?

“We lost a great actor today, and yes she did have cocaine, muscle relaxers, and Opium in her system –

Chancey McGuilicutty is in the field with this breaking news…”

“Thanks Rick- Adina Swenson most notably known for her work in the movie Fluffy Elephants passed away Tuesday afternoon. 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. 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.”

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. Space bar? Check. Six-hundred and fifty-two hours later...ok, the L key seems to be working. Stay focused… ok next possibility…

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...

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. It will say:

‘You’re almost done! Just enter the phrase below within the next 12 seconds to complete your order’

The box will be a phrase using letters never previously combined anywhere in the English language like pedi kat gurustermeir Johnson xasderanyx. Then as if that’s not enough it’s in 3-D or blurred out by psychedelic colors, rendering it completely unreadable. Luckily they do give you an option to change the letters to something else, usually which is less readable that the first one. 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?

You can read that as well as all my blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/ (all the hip kids are doing it)

"Super Bowl Blues" Part III

2011-02-12T20:10:00.000-08:00

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: stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com

And now to the write up...

Feb 13^th- 27^th

Carnival of the Deer Man

Castelnuovo del Volturno, Isernia County, Italy

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.

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.

July 11th

Wife Carrying Championships

Sonkajärvi, Finland

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.

“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 years of age (drats, there goes that idea). The minimum weight of the wife to be carried is 49 kilos.”

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…

“If a contestant drops his wife that couple will be fined 15 seconds per drop.” (After a swift kick in the groin from your angry wife, a 15 second penalty won’t seem so bad.)

If you follow this simple program I’ve created, the names 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…

Se e you on the other side…

Check out all my blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

"Super Bowl Blues" Part II

2011-02-11T20:35:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Part II... if you'd like to read part I you can find it at: http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

And now to the write up...

Feb 19^th

Hog Calling Contest

Weatherford, Oklahoma

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.”

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

Feb 23^rd

Five Angry Gods and a Contest of Strength

County of Kyoto, Japan

This annual strongman competition combines steroids, bulging biceps and rice cakes. The cakes, weighing up to 150 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. Don’t forget to pre-program the TIVO.

Sometime in February

Camel Wrestling Festival

Seljuk, Turkey

This inhumane testosterone-releasing event pairing man versus camel gives the men as well as the camels a healthy outlet to alleviate stress and release tension in front of 17,000 screaming fans.

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.”

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.

Check back tomorrow for the final piece of this discombobulating puzzle of sportacular bliss.

You can read Part I of this saga and all blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

"Super Bowl Blues" Part I

2011-02-10T21:01:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

“Did you see the one with the ape and the cornbread?” You ask.

“Yeah Steve. We saw that, we’ve already talked about it…””

“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.

There is no fighting the inevitable. The harsh reality has begun to set in.

Football is over.

Your addiction that has consumed you for the past five months each and every Sunday has vanished like a phantom in the night. You must quit cold turkey, and there is no football patch in sight.

To many wives and girlfriends, the end of the football season 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?”

Your Sundays are now filled with painful trips to Bed Bath & Beyond, Kohl’s and Express.

You find yourself wandering the streets with your lazy boy on rollers and bowl of pretzels in hand, looking for any football you can find, stopping in front of teenagers playing pick-up games in the street.

Your capricious moods are affecting everyone around you.

You have a problem.

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.

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.

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).

Feb 14^th& 15^th

Westmininster Dog Show

New York City, New York

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.

Feb 15^th

Inazawa's Naked Festival

Inazawa City, Japan

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.

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).

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…

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: http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

"Volume XVIII"

2011-01-24T12:11:00.000-08:00

Welcome to another edition of the blog. I hope you enjoy the illogical, randomness, and if you don't, may you be awoken from your sleep by an un-showered, and naked Rosie O'Donnell doing bikram yoga in your bedroom.

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.

How do these camera men get these crazy shots in pornography movies? Sure there are some great angles, but where the heck is the guy setting up, under the dude’s genitalia? Could there be a worse camera gig? How do you get started in this? Perhaps you get your start filming training videos for Proctology seminars?

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.

“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…”

It might as well read, “If you’re reading this, you are a carnivorous a-hole.” I usually opt for chicken at that point. Foster Farms doesn’t make me feel as bad about myself…

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 necessary to advertise the obvious? Is there a world out there where cows are living as hobos in alleys, like maybe in Harlem, 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.

You can read that as well as all my blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/ (all the hip kids are doing it)

"Volume XVII"

2011-01-09T10:40:00.000-08:00

Today’s Blog takes us to the world of random, useless thoughts, which is probably just what you are looking for, but likely not.

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 the house like this? These guys might as well grow themselves a Mom Butt while they’re at it because I feel that might be their next step.

How did it come to be that horses are the primary animal used for glue? Was some mad scientist at Elmers experimenting with different 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 wildebeest¸ let me see just add the citric acid, carry the one, add the two…nope not it. Hmm… you know what, I have a hunch for the glue though; quick -hand me that vile with Seabiscuit’s spleen…

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.

It usually goes something like this:

Me: Hi, I’ll take a Stella please.

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.

Me: Since you’re behind the bar, which means you work here, how about a Stella? It is right there in front of you.

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.

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.

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.

Me: Alright well, how about I just stand here and look like an idiot, man that counter looks amazing.

You can read that as well as all my blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/ (all the hip kids are doing it)

Who-Ville Medical Team Generates New Heart Tissue Using Stem Cells – Grows Grinch’s Heart Three Full Sizes

2010-12-23T18:18:00.000-08:00

An Emotional Grinch claims he now loves Christmas

__________________________________________

Calvin Humpernickle, Town Drunk, Blacksmith and Science Correspondent

Published December 24, 2010

Who-Ville - Every Who down in Who-Ville likes Christmas a whole lot, and now after years of experimental treatments using donor stem cells we can also say that the lone resident of North Who-Ville likes Christmas a whole lot too.

A Who-Ville team led by the world’s leading yodeler, who works part time as a heart surgeon, were able to regenerate and grow heart tissue for the very first time. Known mostly for his sensational hits: Ain’t Nothing But a Yodel Thang, ”Yodel Style, ” and “Ain’t No Fun (If My Yodelers Can’t Have None), ” Hans Slaperdoodle has worked over twenty minutes per day for the past seven days attempting to tackle what medical journals, 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.

"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 Grinch is not human, nor is he animal. After asking him many 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.”

Growing replacement tissue from stem cells is one of the principal goals of biology. So far, scientists 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.

"First we tried using stem cells from a rooster, an ocelot and even 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 how this miraculous discovery happened.

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.

"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 ‘89 swimsuit edition I keep hidden behind the cupboard," an obviously agitated Slaperdoodle exclaimed.

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’s “Jersey Shore, all in one sitting, as his punishment. 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 his magical elixir was discovered; Stem cells donated from a turkey sandwich.

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. “We already have the science to give every Reindeer a red nose but selfishly Rudolph has fought us tooth and hoof,”” said Prancer. "In my opinion, if it wasn’t for that foggy Christmas Eve, that egocentric future wall mount still wouldn’t be playing any Reindeer games."

So what’s next for The Grinch and his new heart?

"I’m going to do a little traveling. Maybe West Who-Ville, Who-Ville Depot, Who-Ville & Beyond if there’s enough time, who knows?"” responded The Grinch, “"I’m starting to see life in a whole different way… seeing things I’ve never noticed be… Holy shit! I’m not wearing any freakin’’ pants!"

Email Calvin at nomoremrniceguy@whovillemedical.net

"Volume XVI"

2010-11-07T20:46:00.000-08:00

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.

On that note, on to the write up …

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?

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.

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:

Oven: 45 -50 minutes
Microwave: 4 minutes

Even Rachel Ray, or the top cooking go-getters out there can’t be buying what this oven method is selling are they?

This is basically what should be written on my Pizza Rolls, because this is generally how it goes…

Oven Instructions:

1) Pre-heat oven to 425 (15 minutes)

2) Come back 15 minutes later to realize you only turned on the temperature knob and not set on “Bake” (15 more minutes)

3) Look for baking sheet (10 minutes)

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)

5) Take baking sheet back to your apartment (2 minutes)

6) Place call to your therapist to attempt to recover from what you’ve just seen (20 minutes)

7) Place on cooking sheet (1 min)

8) Cook for 16 minutes or until golden brown
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?

9) Take out of oven using oven mitt – look for oven mitt (5 minutes)

10) Realize you don’t own any oven mitts – 2 minutes

11) Go back to your neighbors and ask for oven mitt – 3 minutes

12) He doesn’t have any either, but he offers his sock – 3 minutes

13) Vomit profusely in his petunias – 13 minutes

14) He says he’s kidding and hands you an oven mitt

15) Go back and remove your pizza rolls

16) Let cool for 15 minutes (just so you can sit there and smell the pizza rolls as you keel over in hunger)

17) You are so hungry and delusional staring at the rolls, you start eating the oven mitt – 3 minutes

18) You realize where the oven mitt came from and come to the sobering conclusion that you have no idea what your neighbor has been doing with his oven mitts

19) Vomit in your own petunias – 6 minutes

20) Eat one of the pizza rolls unwilling to wait the entire 15 minute cooling process to end

21) Burn off a portion of your uvula

22) Scream like a little girl at a Jonas Brothers concert – 30 seconds

23) Use large spatula and loosen one by one – 10 minutes

24) Enjoy! (Go F yourself Betty Crocker)

Total cooking/preparation time: 2 hours 41 minutes

Microwave Instructions:

1) Place in Microwave (5 seconds)
2) Turn on Microwave (2 minutes)

3)Remove from Microwave (1 second)

Enjoy! (How do you like them apples Betty Crocker?)

Total cooking/preparation time: 3 minutes

Like what you’re reading? (you’re 1 of 3 worldwide)
Read all of my blogs or even subscribe at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/
(all the hip kids are doing it…)

Thanks for nothing Betty

Two Worlds, One Cup - Volume III

2010-07-11T11:00:00.000-07:00

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 http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/ (all the hip kids are doing it)

-- (Continued from July 9th)--

Yellow Card # 6 – Strategy ?
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?

Yellow Card # 7 - Penalty Kicks
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.

Yellow Card #8 – Injuries
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 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…

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…

Go Orange! Enjoy the finals, and thanks for reading…

Cheers.

Two Worlds, One Cup - Volume II

2010-07-09T05:00:00.000-07:00

Thanks again for reading. In case you missed Volume I, you can read that as well as all my blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/ (all the hip kids are doing it)

-- (Continued from July 8th)--

Yellow Card # 3 – Offside
I figure offsides is just another attempt by the sport to prevent the one thing that would make 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.

Yellow Card # 4 – The Zebra
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 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…

Yellow Card #4A – Extra Time?
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?

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…”

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…”

Yellow Card # 5 Power kicks over goal
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…

Son of a…

Check back tomorrow for the finale of this series... you can read all blogs and subscribe to the subscription list at : http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

Two Worlds, One Cup - Volume I

2010-07-08T06:00:00.000-07:00

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 http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/ , 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 write up...

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 wounded 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.

now, now, it's not you it's me...

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 you’ve just soiled your pants.

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…

Yellow Card # 1 - Vuvuzela Horns

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 computer 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!

Darn-it Sheila, I knew we should have just gone to Applebys

Yellow Card #2 - Scoreless Ties

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…”

Yellow Card #2A Blowouts

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.

* 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...

Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part V

2010-04-07T09:01:00.000-07:00

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 http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

“Dr. Johnson’s Office.” “Uh, yes, er, is Dr. Johnson there?”

“I’m the receptionist what seems to be the problem sir? I’ll pass the info along to the Doctor.”

“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-"

“Sir what did you say to me? You better watch your mouth.”

“You know what, nevermind, I’ll uh, call back…”

After Doctor’s diagnosis :

“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?”

----------------

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)

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."

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.

Loss of semen and erections that never go away. Sounds like a great future to look forward to.

“Dr. Johnson’s Office.”

“Uh, yes, er, is Dr. Johnson there?”

“I’m the receptionist what seems to be the problem sir? I’ll pass the info along to the Doctor.”

“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.

“You again - And when did you first notice this sir?”

“Well I was out camping while skeet shooting with my middle aged buddies, and well…”

The End.

Cheers!

Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part IV - 2009 in Review, Turning 30, and all types of Tantalizing Tomfoolery Too Hot For My Space

2010-02-18T11:58:00.000-08:00

Welcome to another edition of the blog. This entry is a continuation of yup, you guessed it- 1,2 & 3 which you can read at

http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/.

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.

However, nothing stresses me out more than a commitment for a future event.

Case and point?

Save the Date cards. Pure misery in my book.

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.

“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…”

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…

Til next time and the final edition…

Cheers…

Part 5 coming soon…

Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part III - 2009 in Review, Turning 30, and all types of Tantalizing Tomfoolery Too Hot For My Space

2010-02-16T11:04:00.000-08:00

Welcome to another edition of the blog. This entry is a continuation of part 2 which you can read at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/.

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.

With that said, I give you Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part III, chalked full of fabricated tarradiddles…

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. Recently it got worse when my buddy invited me over for a barbeque…

“What’s the occasion? New Year’s isn’t for another week, so what are we talking here…?” I asked sheepishly.

“No occasion,” he responded. “Just a couple of burgers, chicken breasts, beers, you know, watch the game.”

“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?”

“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)

“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…

Another sign I was getting older was I no longer had to covertly hide my alcohol when attending house parties. 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. 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…

“Hi Steve, welcome to the party, I’ll take those beers for you, the friendly host would greet me.

“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-.”

“Whatever…that’s fine, why don’t you just put them over there with the seventy other beers,” she’d scornfully respond.

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.

Oh, they’re like for everyone? The bewildered thought passed through my head. 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? My head was racing…

Cheers…

Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part II - 2009 in Review, Turning 30, and all types of Tantalizing Tomfoolery Too Hot For My Space

2010-01-22T07:20:00.000-08:00

Continued from last entry… (If you missed it and want to catch up on all past entries, you can Read all past blogs @ http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/ )

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.

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.

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 he is the decrepit, resulting offspring of all Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse having sex with one another.

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.

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…

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.

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?
Distracted, you simply just yell back, “Sure,“.

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.

Somewhere in the distance a dog barks…

“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.

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.

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…

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“Well when did you notice this, and how did it happen,“ your Doctor will quiz you.

Your response will be : “I don’t know, I uh, just don’t know.”

“Well when did it happen,” your Doctor will ask, mind boggled.

“I don’t know. I just don’t…

"…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).

“Now I rememb…Uh you know what Doc, actually nope, I, uh, I have no idea how it happened…“

**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.

To be continued next week…

Cheers...

check back or subscribe for email updates at
http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part I - 2009 in Review, Turning 30, and all types of Tantalizing Tomfoolery Too Hot For My Space

2010-01-12T15:25:00.000-08:00

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?

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:

Re : Blog.

It was from a real fan.

“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?”

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)…

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…

“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…

Ok...And now to the write up…

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/)

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…

To be continued... ...

"Volume XV"

2009-12-05T22:01:00.000-08:00

Welcome to another issue of the blog. This one has a very creative, well thought out title. I hope you enjoy...

Our first important life observation brings us to the world of the Men’s Restroom and the conundrums that they create. First off, it would be nice if every bar just simply put Men or Women on the door because I’m sick and tired of trying to decipher which animal picture on the outside most closely resembles a man during a time of intoxication. It is never something easy like a picture of a lumberjack and a belly dancer. Instead I have to determine whether the dancing cheetah is wearing a mini skirt or if it is a zebra in gym shorts and cowboy hat before I stumble in after having a few too many. I’ve wandered into several female restrooms in my day by accident, and I have to be honest; my fines on www.peepingtom.com are starting to get expensive. “But the turtle had on a top hat, I swear!” does not work as you take a slap to the face by a startled co-ed…

I’m also still awaiting word on what the deal is with the midget urinal. I get the idea of needing at least one for any kid, vertically challenged alien, or any short urinator who simply refuses to defy the laws of urination gravity and pee upwards, but why not just make them all that height? No tall guy is complaining because his urine has farther to travel before it hits its demise are they? “Wait a second…is this urinal regulation or what,” is something I’ve never heard as some behemoth is doing his business.

I've learned girls are like buses, there is another one every fifteen minutes…unless of course you live in San Francisco which means you have no clue when the next one is coming, and then the same one will come back to back to back after you've already gotten serviced ... (I think I'm still talking about buses)

My Mom is always talking about people “being on drugs.” “Did you see that bank robbery the other day,” she’ll explain, “that guy was probably on drugs.” What does this mean exactly? “Some guy exposed himself in the park the other day, he was probably on drugs.” On drugs, or a sick, twisted pervert? What constitutes being on drugs anyway? Is there some sort of equation like two hits of acid, four bong rips and nine pills of Ecstasy in a month span puts you “on drugs?” “That guy murdered nine people, chopped up their bodies and then hung them from his Christmas tree,” he was probably on drugs,” I could hear her saying, like its some reason for some person being a full blown lunatic murderer. And more importantly, how are these people “on drugs,” so motivated that they are able to put together an entire bank robbery scheme? The people I know “on drugs,” just sit around eating Cheetos and play Halo 3 all day…

My roommate constantly plays with himself even when its just him and I sitting having a conversation. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t be freaked that he is touching himself while going over stock portfolio tips with me? I feel I should be more upset about this than I am or maybe I’ve reluctantly accepted the fact that seventy-five percent of the furniture, Playstation controllers and Tupperware have been touched by the same hand that was also down his pants.

The same friend also recently started seeing a girl named Joey. This is all fine and dandy, but our good guy friend is also named Joey and I still haven’t gotten used to “So I was sodomizing Joey the other night…” Woa…what?! Oh…

I'm still trying to figure out the purpose for a “sitting room” in a house. It seems like everyone has gotten on this kick that you need a room, usually the entry room, deemed specifically for the purpose of sitting. Do we really need a specific room for a stationary activity that all of us accomplish with no effort anyway? You won’t find anything of reasonable entertainment value in this room (Tv, fridge with cold beers, Chutes & Ladders, stripper pole, etc.), just couches and a table. "Thank God for that sitting room, if it wasn't for that we would have been forced to sit in the living room all day and watch Tv. Instead we just, well, we sat."

Thanks for reading... Cheers,

Steve (the guy who writes these miserable write ups)

*YOU CAN READ ALL OF STEVE'S BLOGS AND ADD YOURSELF TO THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST (all the hip kids are doing it...) @ http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

"Volume XV2"

2009-12-01T22:10:00.000-08:00

I wrote this blog and then completely hated it so instead of making this an official Volume, consider this the blog appetizer for the real Volume XV, which in reality is really no better than this brief snippet.

And now to this week's write up...

For the last two years I’ve been operating on only one car alarm clicker after my other one found its way out of my suitcase on a flight. I also needed some other items so I headed into the Toyota Dealership for a purchase. The convo went something like this :

Me : Yeah I need a clicker
Auto Parts Guy : ok let me bring that up, (typing, slow hunt & peck method) looks like … ooh (grimace), $150, well, ooh (more typing, grimace) ooh, let me try this, (more typing), ooh yeah, $150. (grimace)

Me : So… $150?
Auto Parts : Yeah $150, but then you need to have it programmed.
Me : Ok…
Auto Parts Guy :
Me : Ok…?
--- Awkward Silence, both of us just kind of stare ----
Me : Programming? (looking around for some sort of help, kind of like a Virgin at an Orgy)
Auto Parts : Oh we don’t do that here
Me : Really, not here huh? Should I just…uh…take a six week course on Transportation Engineering, I uh…(are you kidding?)
Auto Parts Guy : Oh, no I mean (more typing, more grimaces), we do it here, just not in parts, the guys in service can do it.
Me : And the charge will be ?
Auto Parts Guy : (more typing, grimace) Looks like about $150 for labor
Me : Jesus, well ok then. I also need a replacement taillight, some drunk guy smashed it in
Auto Parts Guy : (more typing) Let me see… Ouch, (grimace) Looks like $150
Me : $150? Is there anything in your system not $150? How much for a new engine?
Auto Parts Guy : (more typing) Lets see, carry the one, add six for pistons, well it looks like you’re looking at about…(typing) hmm, add that, subtract, ok got it…looks like…well about $150...

After making my way over to the service guy who witnessed this whole exchange he proceeded to look shockingly flustered when I informed him that I’d need my new clicker programmed. Finally he told me he could, but just not right that moment and that it would take him an hour because the service guy had gone home, but yet his shirt said Paul “Service Tech.”

I liked it a lot better in the heart of the recession when people actually wanted to work to make some money.

Til next time...

*YOU CAN READ ALL OF STEVE'S BLOGS AND ADD YOURSELF TO THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST (all the hip kids are doing it...) @ http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

"Volume XIV"

2009-11-05T21:54:00.000-08:00

*YOU CAN READ ALL MY BLOGS AND ADD YOURSELF TO THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST (all the hip kids are doing it...) @ http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

After being bombarded by requests outside a local market to contribute to different causes I stopped to think, where is all this money going, and how in God’s name do we not have more cures for these things? Millions of dollars have been donated but yet, we’re still left with unsolved treatments for hundreds of diseases. Are these researchers sitting back and collecting paychecks, content to be always just on the cutting edge of discovery, instead of actually finding a final treatment? Wouldn’t it be a better idea to put this in the hands of, I don’t know someone who is a bit more motivated? Like for example take a couple of sixteen-year old virgin boys, hot on the trail of a young virgin girl, not satisfied with being on the edge of adolescent celibacy. Instead of just getting lucky with a girl dumb enough to succumb to these boys’ meager attempts at sex, why not make it a little harder? How about we make it a requirement to cure a rare genetic disorder, or Parkinson’s or something before you get to de-cherry one of these young maidens? You put twenty horny teenagers in a room with the internet, a few test tubes, and a couple different fruits from the rainforest with a picture of a sexy co-ed virgin on the overhead projection as the reward and you’d have a hand shoot up in five minutes - “I’ve got it, cure for cancer right here, I’ve got it.”

Can it just be assumed that every animal with antlers or horns cannot be put into a plural? Deer, Moose, Antelope, etc.? Cows have none of the aforementioned and thus we can refer to them as cows, however a group of antelope is singular. Why can’t we say that is one great group of cow? I guess “Home on the range where the cow and the wildebeest play,” does sound a bit off. These are the things that keep me up at night, but note it, antlers, not plural, no antlers, plural, I think I got it down…

Who got the idea in their head that it was ok to post a portion of their body and post it as a picture of themselves on MySpace or Facebook? Some even use them for their profile pictures! “…Mom, Dad, I want to show you a picture of the girl I met and in love with… “…Son, call me ole fashioned but that actually looks like an elbow, taken with a really crappy camera phone and a mirror...” “…I know isn’t she lovely?” Look ladies, I’m all for a picture of a breast but I do like a breast on an actual person. I mean sure it will keep you warm at night, but it doesn’t work as your profile picture…

If anyone reading has a young child, I hope to God you don’t think it is cute to use them on your outgoing voicemail. I’ve concluded that the best way for callers to think your kid is a mental retard is to have them attempt to record that you are unavailable and that you’ll call them back, while all the while you are prompting them in the background and laughing. Can’t we just have these poor kids stick to blocks and fuzzy farm animal books and leave the outgoing voicemail recordings to people that, I don’t know, have already learned the English language?

"Volume XIII"

2009-10-22T01:21:00.000-07:00

*YOU CAN READ ALL MY BLOGS AND ADD YOURSELF TO THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST (all the hip kids are doing it...) @ http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

As usual some random thoughts of incoherent babble...

Is it possible to get an oil change without the mechanic suggesting everything needs repair on your vehicle? “Looks like you need a deliberator rod…” How about you just change the oil? This would like going to the Doctor to treat your poison oak and he breaks out the rubber glove and proclaims you need a new pancreas. And it’s always something to reek fear into you, like your battery could go dead any day, or your tires are about to fly off and kill a family of six. It is never something like, hey the volume button on your radio could use some repair should take a few minutes and I’ll do it for free, no problem guy.

Is it any wonder that a guy can go out to a bar and tell any Kate, Mary, or Deliah that they are a famous athlete since girls have no clue who these guys are? Girls never remember the guy’s name after, just that they supposedly were famous. “So what was his name,” I always ask and the answer is always, “I can’t remember but he plays for the Indians, and he wants me to come to his beach house.” Really? It didn’t cross your mind that this is baseball season and Cleveland is in Boston right now and we are in San Francisco?

If I’m ever to find myself naked in the locker room, it is usually for a split second and only because most gyms don’t allow full workout gear while in the shower, otherwise I‘d be in the shower stall fully clothed. And even for the exhibitionist in you, I guess I could condone walking to the shower naked as long as a towel is nearby, but what I don’t support is guys who go out of their way to be naked, like they‘ll walk over to blow their nose naked when a full rack of towels are available for use. And shaving naked? Is this really necessary? Are these guys working out for so long that they’re developing a five o’clock shadow? Here’s an idea - shave at home before work every morning. There shouldn’t be any reason you need to shave after a workout, but if you do, how about you wrap a towel around your junk at the very least.

Why do Californians always think that people from outside California automatically know each other ? I recently introduced my cousin who was visiting, to a random guy at a bar who eagerly asked, “you’re from Connecticut, huh? My buddy lives in Canton, (Ohio) - Rico, you know him?” Uh…yeah… actually all non-Californians live in the same tribe, some of us gatherers, some hunters, but basically over 4,000 miles everyone pretty much knows one another. Its like a small town except not at all…A girl I know from Michigan recently got an “Ann Arbor, huh? My cousin lives in Rhode Island.” Right… We’ve got some intelligent people in my state.

"Volume XII"

2009-10-07T01:12:00.000-07:00

*YOU CAN READ ALL MY BLOGS AND ADD YOURSELF TO THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST (all the hip kids are doing it...) @ http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

Lets jump right into it...

Is there any more of a dream profession in the gay community than a proctologist? Isn’t this like the straight guys’ version of a gynecologist, looking at females all day? This would be the only way for a straight guy to simulate the uncomfortable feeling a woman receives at her gynecologist checkups. “…Hi Randy, how long as it been since your last check up? Now if you can just spread your cheeks for me, we’ll be able to get to the route of the problem - will only take a sec…” “…Uh…Doc, was that a zipper I just heard?”
If there are straight proctologists, it can’t be very conducive to Happy Hours at the sports bar with your buddies outside of the medical world. “Yeah I’ll take a Stella, and the breadsticks, hey Bill you should have seen how red this guy’s rectum was today - hey look at that! Interception for Touchdown…now I was saying…”

...After watching some snippets from a recent Oakland Raiders tailgate this past Monday night, I’ve come to the conclusion they are the only team in the NFL whose tailgaters outside the park could actually kick the ass of the actual team inside the park...

...Ok Daughtry, we get it, you can sing. Enough already...

...School is back in session bringing us to yet another year of homework, books and Number 2 pencils. “Make sure it’s Number 2,” I used to hear my teacher bark before a big test, causing me to frantically check every pencil at the campus bookstore just to make sure I didn‘t use the wrong kind. For years we‘ve stressed over finding the right pencil, when in reality is there anything out there not a Number 2 pencil? I have to be honest, I’ve never seen one that wasn’t, but yet I’ve sweated through shirts and yanked hair out in frantic fear before a test. I think there are two kinds of pencils - Number 2, and then everything else that is feared not be a Number 2, but really is just an unmarked Number 2, likely covered over by a Black Sabbath or Broncos logo. If I only put as much thought and effort into my schoolwork and not the types of pencils I wouldn’t be writing this worthless blog for free…

Can it just be assumed that any girls that go to the University of South Carolina are pretty easy? You’ve got to figure that if a girl goes to a school with a cock as its mascot has got to have one thing on her mind… (any non sports fan or church goer reading this, it is the South Carolina Gamecocks)

"Volume XI"

2009-09-21T01:47:00.000-07:00

*YOU CAN READ ALL MY BLOGS AND ADD YOURSELF TO THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST (all the hip kids are doing it...) @ http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

Thanks for taking the time to read, and for the four of you who read this (no I didn't have anything to do with blocking every other website on your computer forcing you to read), I apologize for the lack of writing. I've written quite a lot of material so the blogs will come more consistently.

And now to the blog...

I like to title this first snippet "The Whale Pervert"

For anyone looking to take the family on a nice day trip whale watching has always been a anticipatory event with a lot of promise but not much delivery, (kind of like when my friend Tony takes a girl out on date). As embarrassing as the dinner conversation may be with him, nothing is quite as embarrassing as answering a question from an inquisitive youngster curious about the ocean world. Grey Whale, I get it, Whale Shark, ok makes sense, even Killer, while harsh still checks out, but Sperm whale? Really? What perverted, bestialist, homosexual, marine biologist, came up with this one? What’s next? “Folks, if you look quick over the starboard you’ll see an Ejaculating Seahorse…” I can see the Sperm Whale marine biologist naming seminar now... "Johnson...watch yourself...remember the mess you got us in with Humpback? I still can't walk to my gym locker without thinking in fear about those sodomizing threat letters we got...

There is a KFC/Taco Bell near my house and it officially gets my approval as the best late night food spot ever created. However, while I find great ingenuity in fried chicken and Nachos Bel Grande as a satisfying late night meal, could there be a worse food combination for late night, drunken, gang violence in African-American / Mexican areas? This would be like serving Matzah Balls and Palestinian food at the same location and hoping for the best…

Coffee is a sure fire way to put an end to a fun evening out. At a wedding, dinner party, Barmitzfa, or wherever, the night could be going great; alcohol is flowing, people are having fun and then the kiss of death arrives; the busser with a coffee pot, like the Grim Reaper with his sickle. He or she may offer an amiable, pleasant inquisition, like “would you like cream with that?” But really they are saying, “you’ve had enough you drunken bastard, now drink this, sober up, and take a hike so I can have my way with the coat rack girl…”

Every Playboy centerfold profile always lists their guy turn ons as sweet, confident and a Sense of Humor is a MUST. Is anyone buying this? If this really was the case I would’ve dated forty Centerfolds by now, because that basically describes me, so why am I dating the homeless lady who hangs outside of 7-11?

If anyone out there is named Timmy, you have the lucky benefit of easily exceeding everyone’s’ life expectations for you. Throughout history it was always little Timmy who drowned in the bathtub, was attacked by a praying mantis, or was picked last on his T-Ball team. Basically, if you turn out anything better than a case of Polio or Jaundice you’re pretty much deemed a life success.

Til next time...

"Wait a Second - Are you Working?"

2009-08-18T21:20:00.001-07:00

After another brief hiatus, the blog is back, yet just as boring as ever. Today's recipe calls for two cups of ridiculousness and three dashes of lunacy bringing you another real tale, instead of blabbering randomness as usual. This story is a real adventure with names not being changed to reveal and embarrass the guilty. I hope you enjoy.

And now to the blog entry...

It really was a day and night no different than most - it started with a round of golf and a couple of vodka-tonics and ended with a couple of African-American hookers - you know the usual. (Well ok maybe not so normal, I usually drink Vodka-Cranberry).

After a long day of drinks, golf, bars, and pizza, my friend George and I were left on the streets of San Francisco , without a ride and running short on cash for a cab home. Neither of us were entirely sure how it happened, but one minute we were on Broadway Street finishing up our late night food and the next minute, we were in the back of a Chrysler with two black women on the way back to George’s house. "We'll Pick You Up," had worked so well for Enterprise Rental Car in the past, but before this night, it had yet to be tested by any working girls hoping to join the catchy marketing slogan and sex solicitation in prostitution ingenuity matrimony. Unaware of any sign for alarm, like an antelope looking for a drink of water in an alligator infested swamp, we unsuspectingly leaned down for a drink of water, (malt liquor in this case).

Some may claim the first sign of trouble was the two of us looking for a ride on a street littered with strip clubs and brothels, but I personally pinpoint that moment when the driver of the car broke open an Old English forty and started passing it to us in the backseat, while at the same time describing her line of work; a stripper at Centerfolds. (Or “dancer” as she called it)…

Once we arrived back at George’s pad everyone got settled in and I promptly started to fall asleep against a wall. It was a long day and all I wanted to do was go to bed. Both of the girls were frankly scaring me and in my drunken state were barely a “6,” which means they were probably a “3,“ sober. The only one that was mildly not unattractive, but yet not attractive in any civilization’s scoring system, was dressed in scantily clad lingerie stockings. Again, this should have been a sign, but neither of us had yet to put two and two together.

I tried to pretend I was asleep as the lesser attractive of the two started her barrage of Barbara Walters-esk questions.

“So what do you do,” she asked, trying to rouse me from my slumber.

“What do you mean, like for work?” I asked, not even close to wanting to go into my profession which involves selling babies‘umbilical cords. Generally explaining sober to a Harvard Bimolecular engineer is difficult enough, so I wasn’t about to try and explain it to a stripper intoxicated.

“What do you do for fun,” she replied.

For fun I thought? Who is this chick a representative from Match.com? Are we going to plan a trip to Yosemite together? Please make her stop and let me sleep for love of god I thought…

“Uh, not sure, basket weaving, backgammon, collecting old stamps, cow tipping, I don’t know, what do you do,” I responded sarcastically.

She didn’t like that answer.

It was about this point that George got up to use the bathroom and left me alone with the two girls, and it quickly became more uncomfortable than bending over to pick up a dropped cell phone at a George Michael concert.

I could no longer pretend I was sleeping and was forced to converse with the girls. Instead of answering a long list of questions as expected they somehow managed to turn on some music and request that I dance for them with my shirt off. I’m not sure if it was the larger girl’s hair weave or the full mustache of the other that scared me into agreeing to this nonsensical request, but for some reason, nearing unconsciousness, I agreed.

Just as I was in the process of stripping off my shirt, George came out of the bathroom with a look of disgust on his face.

“Steve! What the hell are you doing?”

Yeah…what in God's name am I doing, I thought to myself, as a waive of embarrassment and discombobulation came over me.

I sat back down humiliated and attempted to again affix myself to the wall as pass out.

“So what are we going to do tonight,” the grotesque one quizzed, after the recent events calmed down, while nervously looking at the other as if to gain her support.

It is three in the morning and I’ve been drinking since 11am, I thought to myself. What does this chick want to do, find a local petting zoo or circus to attend? I’m going to sleep, that’s what I’m doing tonight, I thought.

“Uh, not really sure, I think this is pretty much it, it has been a pretty long day,” I responded as I tried to find a comfortable spot on my wall to fall asleep, hoping she would get the hint and leave me alone.

She didn’t seem very happy with the response and started to get restless.

Should I have suggested a game of Jenga? Parcheesi? These girls weren’t getting the clue.

It was at that point that George seemed to catch on to what I had obviously blatantly misread.

“Wait a second…are you girls working?”

Working I thought? Like working where? Conducting research studies on alcoholics trying to pass out at 3am to see how they would respond to a stripper wearing lace pants asking them annoying questions? Working how?

“Like working, working…?” George asked again.

The girls nervously looked at each other….

“Well yeah,” we thought you knew.

All of a sudden it hit me - Mother of God...we were sitting with two prostitutes.

I immediately began to panic.

I had previously watched some show on Mojo about some story where guys didn’t pay the hookers and one of them lost a kidney or was found days later beheaded in an aquarium somewhere or something. I know my liver is probably fairly destroyed, or maybe even considered a handicapped liver by some medical scoring charts, however I wasn’t about to lose it over a couple of unpaid prostitutes. (In an alley in Tijuana is how I always had pictured it).

My panic became frantic as I anticipated a loud knock at the door and some three-hundred pound gorilla hooker pimp crashing through George’s front door to beat George and me to a bloody pulp.

Wait a second I thought…the girls didn’t even do anything for us, so we should be ok right? Then I remembered I had attempted to dance for them. Crap! What’s the going rate for that I thought to myself...I remembered I had about ten bucks left in my wallet, hoping that should about cover it and put an end to this nightmare.

I was too engaged in my thoughts of horror to notice George motioning in my direction explaining that he was out of cash and I was the one with the money. Both girls glared at me waiting for some sort of explanation for the situation.

I froze.

“I uh…” was all I could stammer. All I could do was picture myself hung upside down by the seat of my pants by a 400-lb beast of a hooker pimp.

Was it outside the realm of possibility that George and I could pull a couple of ugly girls back to his place I thought? I mean, we don’t look like that big of losers, do we? (For those reading, don’t answer that question, at least not on Twitter, MySpace or use as your Facebook status update).

Luckily the girls all of a sudden developed a soft spot for us, or maybe more likely realized that they still had time to salvage a Craig’s List hooker request to make up for lost time with a couple of penniless invalids like George and me.

“This happens to us all the time,” the larger girl whined, looking to us for some direction as if they wanted a customer service survey filled out on how they could improve their business model.

Uh…yeah? Randomly throwing a couple of guys in your car, then asking them what they do for fun while they’re falling asleep hasn’t been working for you? I’m shocked…

How about…

“Hi I’m Trixie Diamond and this Busty Cox, and we are hookers, two-hundred per hour…”

That would generally get the point across ladies.

Then again, George and I were on a street littered with strip clubs and one was dressed in lace pants and did say she was a stripper. I guess that should have spelled it out for us, I'm sorry we don't get out much…

The girls took off and ultimately we got a free ride home and an interesting story. Unfortunately since they then knew his address he had to sleep with one eye open for the next few months, fearful of the nasty hooker pimp…

As the car pulled out of the driveway, I felt a sense of relief come over me. For a second there was a moment of silence as their car sped off as we individually tried to comprehend the events that had unfolded.

Just as the car's lights faded around the corner, George turned to me and frantically exclaimed, “Wait- we didn’t even ask them how much…!”

"Shenanigans Volume X"

2009-05-27T18:53:00.000-07:00

*YOU CAN READ ALL MY BLOGS AND ADD YOURSELF TO THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST (all the hip kids are doing it...) @ http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

Welcome to the blog…lets jump right into it shall we?

“The Drug Dealer Survey”

The other day at work I overheard my co-worker placing a call to his drug dealer for a refill of his green addiction. It wasn’t the fact that he was placing an order while at work that shocked me; it was his customer survey-like complaint that his last order had been “a little too dry.” I don’t partake in the world of marijuana, but I don’t need to be an avid smoker to know there has got to be a code of some sort that says you don’t complain to your drug dealer, right? And too dry? Isn’t it a dried bush in the first place? Wouldn’t that be like calling a tub of bath water too wet? You’ve got to figure the last thing the guy cares about is how some guy who spends $20 a month on your product feels about the customer service he’s been receiving. If I’m wrong and someone reading this has received a blocked call from your dealer about the time you’re sitting down to dinner, a few weeks after your last purchase of PCP, then slap me silly and tell me I’m screwed six ways til Tuesday, but until then…A little dry? “You’ll get nothing and like it or how about a break your legs, you whining, complaining son of a…” would have been my response. Maybe he was hoping for a “Wow, thank you so much for your input. My head weed pimp Tommy “The Killer” Soprano really values you taking the time to fill out our customer service survey and for your troubles you’ll receive a fresh bunt cake. We feel so sorry about your last order that we will refund your money and give you the next three pounds free…”

“Screwed At The Pump”

CAN there be any explanation of why a gas station pump will ask you if you want your receipt before you start pumping your gas other than the fact that gas tycoons are completely and utterly trying to screw you in advance once they realize you will have absolutely no record of your fill up? Is it not enough for them to charge a gazillion* dollars for gas in the first place at the price offered? I can just see the them at their mansions now – “Lets see, hot off the wire …what’s this…a non-receipter out in Tallahassee - Dennis, that means 17 cents more for each of us. Call up the strippers and this time order the special…” The worst part is that they strategically place that question right after the car wash question… “Would you like a $24.99 car wash…?" You’re, of course, emphatically pressing the ‘No’ button and then the “Do you want your receipt,” question pops up but you’ve already pressed the button simultaneously. You’re left receipt-less and even more painful - the feeling like you’re taking one in the…
*For those reading studying for an upcoming spelling bee, this is not a word…

“Reaching the Un-reachable”

I’ve come to realize that it is completely impossible these days to be unreachable. In the past a messenger pigeon could have gotten caught in a crosswind and blown unsuspectingly into a skeet shooting range, the pony express could have run astray into a ditch or the post man could have had a few too many at his local pub and lost your mail. Unfortunately in today’s world of email, text, blackberry messaging, Facebook, Myspace, Twitter, Evite and god knows what else, it is impossible to use any excuse such as – “Sorry I never got the invitation, otherwise I would have totally made it.” That sort of un-rsvp is now rebutted with - “Really? I sent you an Evite, cross-referenced with your Facebook profile, re-coordinated it with your bb messenger and emailed you.” You’re then left with a look of agonizing perplexion; “Right…ok you got me – I drank a few too many and passed out by the pool – I’m sorry I missed your Grandmother’s funeral dude, my bad.” For the last few weeks I’ve had nine e-mails, three Evites, six Facebook invites and a 13-year old pimply faced singing telegramist (not a word) proposition me on my doorstep, all with the goal to entice me to attend an upcoming Fraternity Alumni weekend. Even if I had responded to a single one (which of course, I didn’t), I still would have needed to respond “no” to six other places as well. Would it be too much to ask to maybe use just one of these means of communication to invite someone somewhere? If they don’t respond, all statistical analysis show that likely it probably just means they’re not interested. Or perhaps, a telephone call might suffice? “Hey Steve, party next weekend, want to come?” “Sorry I can’t.” Ok done – you move on. That saves everyone about thirty minutes simply due to log-on time into your various online accounts to rsvp that you’re not coming. And can someone tell me again why I need to rsvp to something that I’m not going to? Isn’t the idea of an rsvp to announce you ARE showing up? Those who don’t rsvp, usually are giving the ever so important clue that they’re not making it. Then, as if its not enough that the other 47 guests see that you are a deadbeat and missing the event, you have to give a reason why you’re not making it as well, so everyone on the thing can see you’re lying through your teeth. “That is funny-Steve’s rsvp noted that he would be chasing antelope in Sudan on Sunday and couldn’t make it but I saw him passed out in his sundae at McDonalds in San Francisco, just last night…hmm…Something sounds fishy to me…” From now on, my reason will be that I’m not going because I don’t want to have to give a reason why I’m not going! How about that? Oh wait…that would mean I just fell victim to their tricks and gave a reason…Damn…

"Shenanigans Volume IX"

2009-05-07T20:56:00.000-07:00

Since it is Friday and no one will be getting any work done at the office, you might as well take five, ten, forty-five minutes to stretch out and read my blog over and over…With that, I present to you the latest comical creation fresh out of the uninspired, un-innovative, and un-edited oven piping hot with wit and nonsensical ingenuity complimented by a gazillion grammatical errors… (Gazillion is a word? Seriously? Or did my spell check drink too many Jaeger Bombs last night? Why is it not catching it? Screw it lets run with it…)

YOU CAN READ ALL MY BLOGS AND ADD YOURSELF TO THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST (all the hip kids are doing it...) @ http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

BEFORE the blog gets started, I think now would be a good time to admit that I’m feeling a slight addiction to Christian rock surfacing. Granted, I’m not shouting the lyrics to my favorite God-saving jingle ebulliently from a mountain top, but humming modestly from the driver’s seat of my truck, in my opinion, is sign enough for alarm. What can I say? The songs are positive and catchy; don’t act like you haven’t caught yourself touched by the enchanted musical hands of God singing blissfully like a canary… I think that is actually how they initially get you – first they suck you in with the beguiling, goose bump-initiating music, causing you to obliviously ignore any reason to panic, and then the next thing you know you’re dawning a cloak in some field in Texas drinking Kool-aid and chanting that the sun sucks… I’ve seen it a hundred times… “What was that? Yes oh great one, yes I will slaughter a live Koala as sacrifice and then grow a mullet to prove my commitment, whatever you say, I’m humbled to be your servant…”

A Shenanigans look at gyms…

“…as tough as a straight man can respond with some guy’s package flopping less than an arm’s length away, I timorously muster, “uh yeah, uh right there, thanks man…”

I’ve never actually read my 24-hour Fitness gym contract, but I’m pretty if I did the small print would read that whenever I return to my locker after my workout, there will always be a three-hundred pound, hairy behemoth bending over naked in front of my locker, thus creating a blockade of despicable grotesqueness barricading my belongings. I swear it could be 3am with not a soul in the place when I choose my locker, but sure enough when I’m done, the one other dude in the whole gym is right next to my locker, stretching in tight white underwear. (Is it necessary to stretch while in tighty whities, one might ask themselves? I too used to have this thought until I saw an eighty-nine year old man stretch naked. After that I didn’t question the underwear stretch). This usually leads to the awkward… “You need to get in here,” the guy will non-credulously ask, as he removes his underwear in mid conversation, which is about the time I usually start to black out. As tough as a straight man can respond with some guy’s package flopping less than an arm’s length away, I timorously muster, “uh yeah, uh right there, thanks man.” I always try to remain stolid and cool and I figure if I say, “man,” that proves I’m completely unaffected by the awkwardness, when in reality I want to scream out - “for the love of god! No I don’t want to get in there, I don’t even want to be in here, when I picked out my locker no one was around, and now I’ve got your package an arm’s length away…Mama!” I mean seriously, what else would bring me all the way to the back row of lockers to the only locker with a lock on it - past hoards of naked, showering men, the smelly bathroom, and some weirdo drying his privates with the hand blower? “No buddy I don’t need to get in there, I’m actually in a traveling circus and I’m scouting out the next location for the bearded lady to jungle raccoons, or nope I just like to hang out in the back of men’s locker rooms, the smell is invigorating, or oh snap, I thought this was elliptical machine, drats, guess I was wrong, well…see ya later…” I mean really? Yes I need to get in there!! Son of a…

Then of course once you actually retrieve your belongings you’re forced to change right next to the guy, otherwise you look suspicious. For some homoerotic reason, hundreds of years ago some caveman made it acceptable for naked men to change together and ever since then we’ve been following suit, forced to simply accept the awkwardness without any cries for help or to question. If you don’t participate, men think you are some homosexual, emotionally uncomfortable around naked men. Makes perfect sense…

Once you’ve collected your belongings and awkwardly began to change, there always seems to be some completely naked guy, who emerges stealthily out of what you previously thought was a completely empty shower. Before he puts on any clothes feels the need to tell a joke or a story; usually about some girl he banged back in college. Personally I don’t think it is too much to ask for some guy to throw on a towel before starting in on his tale of uncomfortable debauchery; I mean really, how am I supposed to follow a story when, once again, some guy’s package is an arm’s length away. All I can think about it how I want to be somewhere else – like anywhere else, for example at the dentist getting a major root canal done while a midget is pulling off my toenails one by one. And furthermore, if you’re nailing chicks, why in God’s name are you practically to second base with me in the locker room - standing there, again, with your package an arm’s length away…

Shenanigans look at Mexican Food…

“…but at the end of the day, they are all just wolves dressed in tostada clothing – another burrito! …”

In the spirit of Cinco de Mayo, I’ve come to the conclusion that going out to eat at a Mexican restaurant is really no different than ordering a sixty-cent taco from Taco Bell. Seafood, Italian food, Chinese food, heck even Viking food can always be improved, but no matter how many ways you fold it a burrito is a burrito. You can only maximize chicken, beans, cheese and sour cream so far before you reach a food innovation plateau. Sure, there are different types of burritos, whether it be a crispy taco, enchilada, or whatever, but at the end of the day, they are all just wolves dressed in tostada clothing – another burrito! I’m not fooled – I’m not, I’ll be honest. I think its time someone said something. Many generations have tried, but ultimately after hundreds of years with each generation really putting their heads together and getting nowhere, we’ve ultimately witnessed absolutely no evolution in the world of Mexican food. Whose to blame one might ask? The answer, my friends is the burrito-eating people of this world. We continue to spend $15.95, plus tax and tip on the same burrito we could have purchased at El Pollo Loco for $3. In fact I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised that I’m being served that $3 burrito and paying $15.95, and wouldn’t know the difference. I’d sit there and happily eat it either way to be perfectly honest, while this burrito evolution implosion manifests in Mexican restaurants everywhere. In order to feel like I’m even getting a bargain at a restaurant I’ll usually eat about three baskets of chips and then stare trancelike at the tortilla-making machine for several hours hoping to somehow get my money’s worth. Throw a few $6 imported Pacificos, which coincidentally are brewed in Chicago, and I might as well have ordered the surf and turf at Benihana’s for the same price. Again, these are the things that keep me up at night…

May your weekend be pure drinking bliss...

Cheers,

Steve

"The Latex Castaway"

2009-04-23T08:37:00.000-07:00

Again, my apologies for not submitting many blogs lately. Without further hesitation I grant you the honor of reading my blog once again…as usual instead of enjoying the blog you will probably be thinking about all the productive things you could be doing instead of reading this…

**And for those reading on Facebook, you can read all my past blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

And now to the reading…

Last week while jogging on a nearby trail, I came to rest at a quaint playground just as my lungs were about to throw in the white flag and I was ready to collapse due to exhaustion. A few youngsters acknowledged me as they enjoyed some of the park’s amenities, however others were too busy tossing sand in each other’s faces to notice my presence. I’m not one to judge a day of mischief and tomfoolery but sand in one’s eyes strikes me as a bit flippant, but what do I know? Since the judge instituted that mandatory restraining order against me back in ’88 for my Soccer Mom stalking problem keeping me at least 400 yards away from any park, field or Aerostar van, I truly didn’t know what the hip kids were up to these days.

Dying of thirst, I pressed emphatically on a water fountain, anxious for the refreshing water to be the elixir for my dry, non-salivating mouth. Just as the crisp, cool water was about to hit my lips and prevent my body from shutting down completely, turning me into a useless piece of jelly, I saw it; there right in the fountain, was the brightest pink used condom I’d ever seen. Clinging to the drain like a drowning victim clinging to a life raft the condom remained impermeable to the gushing water’s attempts at dislodging it. I don’t claim to have a vast knowledge of pink condoms, so one would not consider me an expert, but this one may have been the first condom created using a color previously undiscovered in the universe. If a representative from Crayon, hot on pursuit of a fresh new flamboyant, pinkish hue was in the area, he would have done cartwheels around me and announced his search had ceased. Me on the other hand, felt a feeling of thirst quickly being replaced by the feeling of wanting to vomit. The water hit my pursed lips and careened onto my shirt. This pink imposter seemingly strategically positioned to turn my stomach into knots wasn’t the first used condom in public I’ve come across and I’m sure it won’t be my last, but one thing was for sure – I would soon learn this was the first that would haunt me in my nightmares…

Where exactly are people having sex that they feel the need to dispose these latex castaways like dry cleaning leaflets advertising $2 pressed shirts? At the park, on the street, on the curb, underneath the honeydew I’ve selected at the market? Don’t get the wrong idea, there is nothing wrong with sex in public and for the innocence of this blog I’ll plead ignorance on my experiences…ok I’m guilty, however there is something wrong with drinking out of a water fountain with a pink condom staring you square in the face – call me old fashioned…

I’m just throwing a theory out there, but wouldn’t, I don’t know…a trashcan be a great place? I’d even settle for a juniper bush or two, although I know the traditionalists will argue the rope swing down at their local park always seemed like a good spot…

I guess to fully understand how this is happening one would have to fully understand how these abandoned rubbers are finding their final home. We’ll say there are a few instances when they’re left behind by immoral, public sex addicts, impervious to the decency of others, but you’ve got to figure that only accounts for some of the cases. Are people physically leaving the place of fornication to strategically deposit these things in places just to ruin my day?

I guess I picture it something like this…

…Wow Sheila you were a real hit tonight…hmm…what should I do this condom…wait, I know…I think I saw an elementary school playground about six miles back. I’ll just drive out there and leave it on that see saw…that seems like a good place…”

“Yeah honey, that is a great idea…”

Am I way off base and there is another method that results in the transportation of condoms to the bottom of my strawberry soda can?

My advice?

For your sake and for the sake of a poor guy simply stopping for a sip of water and a quick hamstring stretch, you may want to think about finding a nearby trashcan for disposal, or you too may be haunted in your sleep by dilapidated, nauseating pink condoms.

"Happy Hour Magazine - Portopong Write-up"

2009-04-16T00:11:00.000-07:00

To all my blog fans (yes I am talking to the one of you...) my deepest apologies that I haven't submitted any entries lately. The good news or bad news for most woman and children is that I am back and have some in the works. Just because I haven't written, does not mean the most ridiculous stories aren't occurrring in my life. They are just simmering in my blackberry notepad, waiting feverishly for Tom Hanks from "Da Vinci Code," to come and decipher the drunken cryptic jibberish I've inputted while most likely intoxicated. While my new blogs are still cooking in my computer oven, here is the latest piece I wrote for Happy Hour Magazine. You can read all my blogs there directly @ http://www.happyhourmagonline.com/Happyhour-Blogs/ - you can go on there and input comments it appears, but I clicked on the link until my finger was rubbed raw and got nowhere... more Shenangians blogs to follow shortly...

By StevePublished 04/13/2009

Portopong in the pool

For any beer drinker with an infatuation for pounding beers and a burning desire for fierce competition, the game formerly known as Beer Pong is an excellent way to spend an afternoon of innovative drinking inebriation. The game has drawn the attention of thousands of drinkers everywhere, unwilling to stand for drinking mediocrity. The origin of the game dates back to the 1980’s, but in the last several years this pastime, which essentially guarantees intoxication to each player participating, has hit mainstream faster than Britney Spear's crotch shots to the Internet.

The idea of getting smashed while also competing in a sport is something most drinkers and athletes rarely get to do without the looming threat of an errantly thrown baseball to the groin, a spiked volleyball to the head, or a stray shuttlecock to the eye as they are looking in another direction. Beer pong not only eliminates all threats of potential injury but also provides a day of pure drinking bliss and the thrill of potential victory.

This is all fine and dandy for those who like to enjoy their pastime on land, but where does this leave the amphibious drinkers one might ask? Until recently, they were left out, forced to watch their peers have the time of their lives as they dejectedly floated down rivers, unhappily lounged on pool rafts or pouted in hot tubs left to wonder…If only they could just keep the red cups from floating away they too could enjoy…

Just at the point where salvation seemed impossible, the glorious Portopong was created and instantly one’s beer pong addiction and desire for water was joined together in joyous drinking innovation matrimony.

This brilliant invention can be blown up and used anywhere for splendiferous fun without getting out of the water. It works great for pools, lakes, over tables while camping or even for those of you who get the beer pong itch when walking by small ponds on the side of the road. It is easy to blow up to use and easy to deflate and store away for those non rainy days when you get the urge for some swimming and beer pong debauchery.

The best part about the Portopong is that when you’ve had a few too many, you can also pass out on it, making this the only drinking apparatus to also double as a bed!

One can pick up this inflatable ingenuity at www.portopong.com for just around $50 and it comes in a variety of colors. (Obese man with grotesque, hairy beer gut (pictured), sold separately). I guarantee it will improve your beer pong experience.

"Burn Man"

2009-02-23T17:00:00.000-08:00

What you are about to read is an un-edited, un-cut, un-solicited, un-derwear version of “Burn Man.” This is a true tale of a man overcoming his fears, beating the odds, and defeating adversity only to ultimately experience the only real life simulation of the feeling one feels as they show up to school naked in their nightmares…

Corte Madera, Ca- 1994

The day started out like any other. My Mom asked me repeatedly to bring my jacket, and if I had locked my bedroom window as she always did before we departed for the day. I assume she did this just in case a burglar the size of Stuart Little with the flexibility of Gumby was somehow able to squeeze through the extremely small window and then rob us blind. It was scheduled to be a joyous day of touring the metropolitan city known as Sacramento; our state Capital. While this activity didn’t necessarily peak our fif-teen year old site seeing interests, we didn’t have much choice and we were finagled into the car, but not without fantasy baseball magazines, car games, and video games ready to distract us from whatever boring activities lied ahead.

Somewhere in the Sacramento Suburbs

The day started out like no other. A man, who for the rest of time would be known to us by the simple nickname of “Burn Man,” sat patiently awaiting his breakfast. He had been through a lot in the past year, but on this jovial morning, he felt like a million bucks.

“Thank you Dear,” he responded as his freshly cooked eggs and bacon was placed in front of him.

“What shall we do today honey bunches? His wife pleasantly interrogated.

“I thought we’d stay in and watch a movie,” the man suggested.

“Honey, I really think it is time.”

“Sheila, we’ve talked about this many times. Not until I’m completely better will I go out in public.”

“But honey you are completely normal. You’ve come so far; I think you can do it. For me? Its beautiful out, I’m sick of us being cooped up in this house.”

“I just don’t think I have it in me. You heard the Doctor, no sunlight, until the scars have completely healed, so that means...”

“So what? I don’t care.”

“People might laugh or point at me; I just don’t think I can do it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. What sick person would ever do such a thing?”

Somewhere on the 80 Freeway

My Mom was engaged in a deep read of the normally sleep-inducing Sacramento tour book. Most people either accidentally pass out or put the book down after three minutes due to utter boredom, but she was determined to get the full experience of whatever Sacramento had to offer which by the way, was close to nothing. Nonetheless our car surged forward with all of us unaware of what events were to transpire.

Somewhere in the Sacramento Suburbs

Less than halfway into his mummification, with one arm wrapped snuggly in his orange garments, Burn Man had a feeling of liberation despite looking like a pumpkin on Halloween that had been smashed all over the street. He hadn’t been outside since the fateful day of the accident, when a few beers had caused him to pass out at the family Labor Day party only to wake up to Indian burns covering ninety percent of his body.

“You are lucky to be alive.”

The words from the ER Doctor still played like a broken record in his head…

“Not only did you survive the Indian Burns, but the wet willie missed every major ear organ and had that atomic wedgy been performed an inch higher…(pause) we (pause) may not be having this conversation today…”

He looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the man staring back at him. He wasn’t sure if it was because he had lately started using an electric razor instead of a regular razor, or the fact that he was dressed in a ridiculous non-ostentatious orange outfit. Either way, Burn Man was still just a remnant of his former self.

The pain.

The anguish.

The marathons of David Hasselhoff shows he had no choice but to watch before the invention of remote controls.

It had been tough, but it had all been worth it. Today was a new day, and the first day of the rest of his life.

State Capital - Sacaremento, Ca

After being dragged along on tour after tour through our state’s capital where Joey and I were unwillingly treated to a plethora of not so famous spots where past Governors had either signed a famous bill, met with someone we’d never heard of or used the bathroom, we would have been open to a suggestion of ice skating while watching Dirty Dancing had it been suggested to put us out of our misery. So when going to Old Town Sacramento was suggested, we were all for it. Besides how old could Old Town Sacramento really be? No city on the west coast was older than 120 years anyway. It’s not like there would be six foot-seven mummies walking around the town in broad daylight like the sleeping dead from Michael Jackson’s Thriller video right?

The Driveway - Sacramento Suburb

Somewhere in the distance a crow squawked.

The front door blew open and there standing timorously in the doorway stood Burn Man. He took a long breathe of fresh air and let the warm afternoon breeze hit his skin…or eyes rather since the rest of his body was behind the newest fashion style picked up from his local outfitter, Mummies R’ Us. Somewhere behind the orange fortress of bandages was an amiable smile, and a man ready to get back on his bike and give it a ride. He was back. Nothing could get him down on this day. Nothing.

Somewhere in the distance a crow was hit with a slingshot.

“Where we heading honey?”

“Old Town – you’re favorite spot.”

“You’re the best honey. It’s going to be a great day, I can just feel it. What could possibly stand in our way?”

“Oh sweetie, I love your outlook. Just in case I’ve already taken the initiative to alert the police department, fire department, The Marine Corps, nine stealth bombers, twelve secret service agents and Tonya Harding just in case. And again, what sick individual would do such a thing?”

“Oh honey you are such a jokester. I trust you honey. What could ever go wrong?”

----- 1 hour later ------

Old Town Sacramento

It wasn’t quite as bad as watching paint dry while also watching grass grow simultaneously, but Old Town Sacramento was a close second. We were finally heading back to the car, trudging along exhaustedly on the Old Town Sacramento cobblestone streets. The cobblestones were probably added to convince tourists that had nothing better to do on the weekends that Old Town Sacramento was actually old, and not built in 1975 which it probably was.

Joey and I had just finished off debating on the best three-point shooter in our Game Boy All-Star Basketball game when we saw it. Heading towards us at about 0mph in the bright light of the day was the most shocking, mind-boggling and uncomfortable site we had ever seen. Seventy county fairs, three semester internships at a mental institution and an all nighter at Dennis Rodman’s house couldn’t have prepared us for the disconbobulation we were witnessing. A terrifying beast stood before us, wrapped from head to toe in bright orange bandages, and at that moment Burn Man was born. Moving at a snail pace this orange creamsicle mummy inched his way towards us, while Joey and I both tried desperately to keep calm and not break out in awkward laughter at the poor chap.

Burn Man was about ten feet in front of us when we heard the fateful words that I can still hear in my head to this day, and probably will haunt Burn Man for the rest of eternity.

“Hey Guys, look at this guy!”

Holy shit, I thought, did that really just happen?

“Guys look!”

There it was again. Yes someone was definitely trying to torture the poor bastard. Who could be doing this I thought? A pugnacious bully? A roaming gang of viscous thugs? A kid picked last in kickball, forever seeking revenge on a weaker foe? Even Brandon Fraser from the movie “The Mummy,” wouldn’t have attempted this nefarious hounding, and he unearthed the Tomb of the Dragon Emperor.

I turned around in utter disbelief to see that my mom was the one pointing at the poor lad and motioning in our direction all the while breaking out in insidious laughter. I’m not sure what Kool-Aid she had just drank but Joey and I weren’t about to try a sip, as we did our best to cover our faces and awkwardly sidestep away from the outlandish behavior.

Oh my god this is really happening, I thought trying to keep my focus at whatever object a hundred yards past Burn Man I could focus on.

It was too late not to notice. Like a kid caught with his hands in the Sour Patch Kids container at the local candy shop, Burn Man had already stopped in his tracks. Although in My Mom’s defense, his tracks basically spread about one millimeter apart due to his sluggish crawl so he may have just been in between steps; the jury is still out on this one.

Since the poor guy had been mummified, and only his eyes were visible, it made it impossible for us to really know what Burn Man was thinking, but I think we can only assume that it was something like this;

“What sick individual would do this to me?”

Joey and I quickly sauntered by Burn Man in hopes of escaping the extreme embarrassment, and the releasing of rabid bats as I’d seen mummies do in some past flicks. I’m sure if Burn Man could have lifted his arms, for example, more than the one centimeter he was able to, he would have angrily squashed us like bugs. As it was however, I felt like the bully in jail who had just forced a weaker inmate into sodomy and then topped it off by swiping his corn bread.

The guy goes through months of therapy, overcomes a million fears, and probably was a prominent figure before his accident only to have it all come crashing down at the hands of a four-foot eleven Italian mother of three who stood there for what probably felt like an eternity pointing and cackling at the poor chap.

Not a word was spoken after that as we passed Burn Man and proceeded down the street, making it the most awkward thirty seconds of my entire life. Neither of us looked back to see the debris or wreckage of the disaster we had left behind.

“Oh I thought he was a character like at Disney Land,” was my Mom’s explanation after the silence was broken when we turned down the next street.

Disney Land? Character? Donald Duck and the Pirates of The Caribbean are characters. A six-foot-seven man wrapped in bright orange bandages on the streets of Old Town? Not a character. I could see how it could have transpired…

Old Town Sacramento Tourist Board Monthly Meeting

“Ok, so who has got some ideas, we are trying to spruce up tourism in Old Town and as we all know those cobblestone bricks that Smithson came up with last meeting are just not cutting it… Yes Johnson? You have something?”

“I got it! Let’s have characters walk around the outskirts of old town, in say…I don’t know… bright orange mummy outfits. And they can walk really, really slow. Kids would love it!”

“Johnson that’s brilliant…lets get that in the books and out on the streets ASAP. This is going to be a bit hit…A bit hit I tell ya…”

We never heard of saw of Burn Man again. We can only guess he high-tailed it back into the confines of his own home at rapid walking speeds of around .003 mph as soon as my Mom’s distasteful pointing occurred, and was never seen on the streets of Old Town Sacramento again. In my Mom’s defense she did feel really bad about the incident, and furthermore, if you’re wrapped in a bright orange mummy outfit in the middle of the day you probably are asking for it, but maybe not necessarily from a middle aged mother of three…

…This is a true story – only the names of the incident have been changed to protect – actually wait a second, nope Burn Man I’m sure was his legal name…Although the editor of validity of this blog is still researching the cause of accident, as Indian Burns may or may not have been made up…

"Super Bowl Blues"

2009-02-08T13:46:00.000-08:00

This week's post is kind of like turning on your favorite TV show, excited for the new episode, only to witness a rerun that ran six weeks prior. This piece is an article I wrote for an online sports site following the Superbowl XL - Steelers vs. Seahawks. It basically applies to every Superbowl and instead of changing the names to keep updated with this year's games, who am I to pull any trickery? Ultimately it is more laziness than anything else however...Here is the original piece in antique form.

"Super Bowl Blues"
2/15/2006

The last remnants of hardened cheese and bean dip have been extracted from couch cushions and floorboards deposited there by drunken Superbowl XL guests.

The very last drop of beer has long been siphoned from the keg.

You’ve analyzed, re-created spliced, diced and argued every aspect of the big game over and over, from blown calls to commercials at the office water cooler with everyone from Frank in accounting to Ingrid the cleaning lady.

“Back and to the front. Back and to the front,” you’ve exclaimed to Ingrid time and time again, in a flurry of Kevin Costner, JFK-like arguments regarding the Darrell Jackson pass-interference call. '

There is no fighting the inevitable. The harsh reality has begun to set in.

Football is over.

Your addiction that has consumed you for the past five months each and every Sunday has vanished like a phantom in the night. You must quit cold turkey, and there is no football patch in sight.

To many wives and girlfriends, the end of the football season equals the return of their loved ones on Sundays. Calls like “Chad Johnson over the middle,” will now be drowned out and replaced by “Do these jeans make me look fat?” as your Sundays will now be filled with painful trips to Bed Bath & Beyond, Mervyns and Express.

You find yourself wandering the streets with your lazy boy on rollers, and bowl of pretzels in hand, looking for any football you can find. You may have even found yourself stopping in front of teen-agers playing pick up games in the street, yelling feverishly at a youngster after he fumbles somewhere between the neighbor’s mailbox and a dead bird in the gutter.

Your capricious moods are affecting every one around you.

You have a problem.

There is no Major League Baseball, NBA Playoffs, or March Madness to catch your fall when you come spiraling down from your NFL high, jittery and feeling like a useless piece of jelly.

While the NBA and NHL all-star games may be a momentary fix over the next month - it is not the answer. If you think that you can simply coast until mid March, the start of the NCAA tournament, you might as well apply for a frequent buyers card at Bed Bath & Beyond right now, because you are not going to make it.

Before you break out in sordid hives due to withdrawals, I have conjured up just the right prescription for your ailment. These sporting events will lead you right up to Dickie V and friends, and from there, you’re golden.

These events are not embellished, for they need no embellishing. If you’re committed to the healing process, they should not be missed. (Unless of course Home Depot is running a sale on shower curtain rings).

Feb 11th & 12th : Westmininster Dog Show, New York City, New York - Taking place at Madison Square Garden, the Westminister Dog Show is the Superbowl of dog shows. These stunning canine athletes will send chills down your spine with their determination and spirit. If you’re not able to sneak away from your Valentine’s Day week to catch these astounding pups then you’re are truly missing pure sporting elegance. Airs on USA.

Feb 16th : Inazawa's Naked Festival, Inazawa City, Japan - Bare-bottomed men ages 23-43 crowd the streets of Inazawa City, in hopes of touching another naked man to ensure good luck for the upcoming year. A naked man is chosen before the event and then besieged by 9000 men in loincloths in attempts to rid themselves of bad luck, thus transferring it to the naked man. I’m all for traditions, but wouldn’t it just be easier just to pick up a lucky rabbit’s foot at your local 7-11? You may have to channel surf a bit before you find this one.

Sometime in February: Hog Calling Contest, Weatherford, Oklahoma– Hog calling, a true American pastime combines excellent hog communication skills along with a pure adoration for these revolting swine. You need to become one with the hog in order to succeed in the sport. "I do eat pork. But not if I know the hog,” said former champion Roxanne Ward in a 1996 interview with the Houston Chronicle. “I will go to the store to buy pork chops. But I don't eat my friends.” …Check your local listings or your local mental institution for date and time.

February 19th: Five Angry Gods and a Contest of Strength, County of Kyoto, Japan – This annual strongman competition combines steroids, bulging biceps and rice cakes. The cakes, weighing up to 150 kilograms for men and 90 kilograms for women are far from the Quaker rice cakes packed with bursting flavors most of us are accustomed to. Not being very knowledgeable with the metric system I couldn’t say for sure how heavy these cakes really are, but according to Johnny Depp in the movie “Blow,” that would mean some pretty serious cash.

Sometime in February: Camel Wrestling Festival, Seljuk, Turkey – This inhumane, testosterone releasing event pairing man versus camel gives the men as well as the camels a healthy outlet to alleviate stress, and release tension. The last man or camel that remains standing or doesn’t get flagged for eye gauging is deemed the winner. Get out your foam fingers ready for cheering and contact your satellite provider for dates and times.

March 5th : Carnival of the Deer Man, Castelnuovo del Volturno, Isernia County, Italy – This epic saga between a grown man dressed up in an deer outfit and a holy man acting as a saint is probably more than enough to make Bambi’s ancestors shutter in their thickets. The regular man morphed into an impervious, antlered brute, comes down from the hills to wreck havoc among herds of cattle until confronted by a saintly figure wearing a fairy-hat. The holy man succeeds where the cattle could not, by summoning a nearby hunter who blows softly into the antlered beast’s ear that in turn destroys the sins and evils of the past year. It makes perfect sense. Check your TV guide for times and channel, but if anyone on the show asks you to drink the kool-aid, please refrain.

By this point of the lackluster sports month, most of you will be having visions of bracket logy dancing in your heads, but before you completely slip back into the normal sports routine, there are two more events that you should start thinking about. It requires preparation.

July 4th: World Pillow Fighting Championships – Sonoma, Ca There is not much history or much skill needed for this daring battle. Opponents must first straddle a slippery pole suspended over a mud pit, then violently bash their opponent with their goose down pillow until their foe plummets to their muddy demise. Don’t get any impure thoughts just yet; you’ll need a subscription most likely to see the sorority chicks give it a go. Contact your cable provider now so you don’t miss the epic event.

July 7th : Wife Carrying Championships, Sonkajärvi, Finland – With early roots dating back to the early 1800’s when men actually did sneak into neighboring towns and carry fellow mates’ wives off into the night, this humorous yet competitive event, which grossed 500 million viewers last year, is entering its 14th year in Finland. Men must carry their wives a tumultuous 253.5 meters, over sand, grass, gravel and water hazards, stopping only to throw back the “wife carrying drink,” at special checkpoints. Before the barbarian in you tries to pull a fast and buy that six-teen year old, sixty-five pound exchange student from down the street a one-way ticket to Finland to claim your victory, you should know these two simple rules. (Provided by the official website of the games, http://www.sonkajarvi.fi/?deptid=15228)

1. “The wife to be carried may be your own, the neighbour’s or you may have found her farther afield; she must, however, be over 17 years of age. The minimum weight of the wife to be carried is 49 kilos.”

2. “If a contestant drops his wife that couple will be fined 15 seconds per drop.” (after a swift kick in the groin from your angry wife, a 15 second penalty won’t seem so bad).

If you follow this simple program I’ve created, the names Peyton, Madden, Holmgren and Roethlisberger, will soon only be a figment of your imagination.

On the other hand, you may wake up in a cold sweat after haunting images of antlered deer men, fighting camels and bare-bottomed men visit you in your dreams…Good luck, and I’ll see you on March 16th…

"Shenanigans Volume VIII"

2009-01-26T16:39:00.000-08:00

As it usually goes...some random things I've been thinking about lately...hope you enjoy...

…IT doesn’t happen often, but once in a while I do run into people who have a kid. I know it’s hard to believe since not many children frequent dive bars and fantasy baseball drafts, but amazingly I do try to reach the surface of the real world for a breath once in a while. It is always the same thing when I ask their age. “Billy is 9 weeks, 44 weeks, 100 weeks, etc.” Would it kill them to just let me know their age, say Billy is 1, 2, or 50? I’m not a mathematician, nor do I carry around my abacus in my back pocket, so I would appreciate just hearing the age, nothing more, and nothing less, instead of tying my head in knots.

“Oh wow, Mikey is a beautiful child, so how old is he?”

“Mikey is 412 ½ weeks, yes he is lovely isn’t he?”

“Great so he’s like, uh lets see, 4 times 9, carry the one, subtract the 6, add 0, hold on I need a break, ok times the square root of pie, divide the 1, alright so he’s… uh 7?”

“Yup that’s right!”

Listen, I don’t go around telling people I’m 1,456 weeks old, so why should you? All I’m asking for is a fair chance here…

…LAST week while driving through San Francisco, lost, which often I find myself doing by the way, I unexpectedly happened upon the Castro – the homosexual area of the city for those who don’t keep up with their sexual orientation geography. This is a place free from most homeless, however the ones you see also seem to share the same orientation as the roof-covered area inhabitants. Immediately, I reacted and reached for my stereo, turning down the new Coldplay album that was blaring out of my speakers, just like a white guy driving through the heart of the ghetto turning down his rap music. In the ghetto this move is done in efforts to deflect attention from pugnacious gang members nearby, poised and ready to put their game of Craps game on hold, and make your trip to the ghetto your last. In this case, however, the terrifying gang member was in the form of a flaming transvestite dressed in butt less leather chaps poised and ready to take a run at my manhood as soon as the sounds of my far-from-manly Coldplay album entered his hearing vicinity. I think I’d rather take my chances with the gang member, and that is why I felt it was best to keep “Viva La Vida,” at it’s lowest decibel possible to remain inconspicuous and safe out of harms way. I’m not really sure what to do if I ever came across a transvestite gang member, but I suppose I’d just turn on some death metal or something, otherwise I’d really be in for it…

…DOES anyone know how seagulls make it up to Lake Tahoe, keeping in mind Lake Tahoe is 6,000 feet above sea level and the key part of their name is “sea”gull? It really is mind-boggling. Are these itinerant birds fighting wind, rain, sleet and snow to accomplish what the Donner party could not, leaving their life at sea behind? I’ve got to be honest I’m not even mad at these birds; I’m actually extremely impressed. Wouldn’t Lake Gulls be more appropriate though? These are the things I think about at night…

… IS there any reason that people are still wearing wristwatches? Have they not realized that they carry an apparatus that displays the time digitally for them, called a cell phone? I asked my buddy who wears a watch why he wears it and he said so he could tell the time. When I asked him what time it was he said he didn’t know because the hands stopped moving two years prior so he checked his cell phone… “So let me get this straight, the main function of the device is essentially rendered useless, but yet you still wear it,” I pestered him. “It’s a nice watch, ok leave me alone,” he responded, as he fiddled with the face of the watch and the cheap plastic covering popped off…

"A Breath of Un-Fresh Air"

2009-01-11T14:22:00.000-08:00

On the way up to Lake Tahoe a couple months ago I passed by a sign that was dedicated to a noble man of the law. Everyone has seen these signs- you know the ones cities feel that naming a freeway after their local hero is the appropriate tribute to someone who has given their life to defending the innocent? For example, Pablo Escobar Memorial Expressway?

Gymnasium for a famous athlete-ok I get it.

A firehouse after a brave fireman-yeah makes sense.

Even a garbage dump after a dedicated garbage man I can justify, but a freeway?

What is next; Paul J. McGuilicutty Memorial outhouse, for a famous plumber?

These disgusting, trash-infested, stress-causing concrete monstrosities spread out across America have been the cause of middle fingers, god-faring individuals turning into road rage maniacs, accidental deaths, decapitations and hair pulling, steering wheel head banging, dashboard smashing traffic, but yet towns feel freeways are the appropriate way to honor these vigilantes?

At least the sign on the 80 freeway on the way to Tahoe finally had things figured out. Instead of naming the freeway after their idol of the law, they named a bridge after him. The sign read “Richard “Fresh Air” Jansen Memorial Bridge,”- next exit. I’m not going to pretend to know what sort of man “Fresh Air” Jansen was, but I’m pretty sure he wasn’t the guy who drove around a twenty year-old Volkswagen van, seven years removed from its last smog check thus frequently sending massive pollution into the atmosphere.

A babbling brook, birds chirping, and a newborn fawn feeble enough to barely stumble to get a drink of cool, clear water is what I was picturing in my mind for the location of “Fresh Air,” Jansen Bridge. It brought an amiable smile to my face and butterflies to my belly. This would be a place where animals, humans, and an inebriated David Hasselhoff could come and enjoy nature in a harmonious blend of peace. It wouldn’t matter if you were a black, white, purple, green or a pantieless Lindsey Lohan high on narcotics and whiskey. “Fresh Air” Bridge would bring everyone together to forget their troubles and to a state of tranquility.

I was coming closer to the exit, and the butterflies raced in my stomach like a four-year old with ADHD in a candy shop. My window was down and the cool autumn breeze softly blew my hair, sending me to a state of peaceful comfort. Off in the West, the hot sun was setting behind a mountain, creating a magical picturesque array of light pink, blue and orange causing the air on my arms to stand at attention and send a chill of happiness down my spine. It was serenity at its finest.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked…

And then I saw it.

There in front of me, in all its glory and beauty was Richard “Fresh Air,” Jansen Memorial Bridge.

There were no newborn fawns to share in the excitement.

There were no pine trees blowing every so softly in the autumn breeze, to parlay my chill of happiness.

There was no crisp breathe of nature to inhale.

Instead, I inhaled the fumes from a Volkswagen van ahead of me as traffic slowed to a stop - not to get a better look at the bridge, but to check out some redneck who had gotten out of his pickup truck to take a leak on the side of road.

There, about ten feet from the freeway, and placed strategically under massive power lines stood Richard “Fresh Air” Jansen memorial bridge, so if one were to stop and actually visit the bridge they could place on bets on what would kill them first – car exhaust, or radiation from the power lines.

If there were ever such thing as a street gang of power lines, this power line would have been the Tony Soprano of the power lines. This thing stood about what appeared to be 1,000 feet in the air with lines heading to it from every direction. If anyone were to stand directly on the bridge they would probably start growing an arm from their earlobe due to the massive radiation emanating from these lines.

The bridge itself was about ten feet by ten feet, erected about one foot above brown, rat infested marsh lands.

My tranquility quickly dissipating and gave way to disappointment.

Somewhere in the distance a dog urinated on a tree…

I’m pretty sure it wasn’t what “Fresh Air” Jansen quite had in mind…

Shenanigans Volume VII

2008-12-30T21:52:00.000-08:00

The Night Before New Year’s Edition…

Well, New Year’s Eve is upon us again, and just like probably no one else, I’ll be off to my first New Year’s Eve wedding of all things. Believe it or not, I am looking forward to the festivities, mostly because of the couple getting married and it should be a great time. At first it definitely seemed a bit odd having a wedding on New Year's Eve, but, since 2008 has been such a nightmare, I would be happy picking up goat droppings at the local petting zoo, at the strike of midnight, if it means the end of this horrendous year. My peers however? Not quite buying the rationale as the last three weeks it has been a constant barrage - “What are you doing for New Year’s? A wedding? What! Are you serious? On New Years? That’s really weird.” Those were my thoughts as well when I initially received the invite, but then I thought back to last year… After a far-from-stellar evening at a Lake Tahoe restaurant, magically transformed into a twenty-dollar cover cheesy nightclub, I spent the remainder of my inebriated evening in the back of my Tacoma truck in seven-degree weather, packed in snuggly with my roommate Tony awaiting a tram that never arrived. So… ultimately what am I holding onto right? Even more exciting was the last three months of battles I had with my Mother who exclaimed I embarrassed our family when I asked if I could bring a date to the event. (She too will be in attendance). Apparently this is heavily frowned upon in the wedding world, but me being an ex-fraternity member, lowly peon and a sorry excuse for a mature and classy existence, had no idea. “They already have the hall reserved, you can’t bring anyone,” was her rationale. I guess she figured I’d be inviting a 390-pound manatee-like, beast of a female who wouldn’t be able to fit through the door, thus requiring the hall to be expanded to meet my date’s square- footage requirements. Needless to say I’ll be at a wedding alone on New Year’s Eve this year but at least my Mom will be available to take Tony’s place should the tram decide not to show this year…Wow, this just went from bad to worse…

And now to the blog…

As usual…some puns, tally-hoo and other nonsensical gibberish that should put you to sleep faster than a box of Nodoz…

I’m pretty sure I have a symptom that is common among many ex-Fraternity members, or even your average college student. It’s 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 outside world and even six years later, I find myself in utter disarray. Symptoms include being unable to casually invite people over for a beer without a specific reason such as an 80’s night, a Wild West theme or a Dress like your favorite Boy Band member event. (I generally chose 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. 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, they have come up with nothing. Last weekend it got worse when my buddy invited me over for a barbeque…

“What’s the occasion? New Years isn’t for another week, so what are we talking here…?” I asked sheepishly.

“No occasion,” he responded. “Just a couple of burgers, chicken breasts, beers, you know, watch the game.”

“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?”

“No, just come over, and why would I have an ice luge?” he responded completely bewildered.

“No reason…no problem, 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…”

And now to the streets of San Francisco… (Thought I’d throw a transition in these things, since now they feel like you’re trying to follow two teenage girls gossip about last Monday’s “The Hills,” episode, changing the subject faster than Paris Hilton coming out with new sex tapes)

...I drive by a bar every day on my way home from work called "Stud Bar." For some reason there is a giant gay flag on the roof to let people know it is a gay bar just in case the name of the bar (Stud Bar), and freshly painted purple exterior wasn't enough for all of us stupid straight guys out there to it figure out. Maybe a giant statue of a man in leather butt less chaps might be in order just in case the enormous flag and “Stud Bar” aren't enough for people to put two and two together...

...For any tourists visiting San Francisco, the trolley provides riveting excitement, a story to tell your Grandkids and the high percentage potential to lose one of your appendages. These slow moving vessels wind in, out, up, and down San Francisco streets as bewildered tourists hang on for dear life, with arms and legs flailing. For the local San Franciscan however, these insatiable travelers are no more enjoyable than your younger brother sticking his finger a centimeter from your arm while whining; "I'm not touching you, I'm not touching you,” after you told him to stop touching you. These riders, unaware of their surroundings, hop on and off like they are getting on and off “It’s A Small World,” at Disneyland. The only difference is an amiable Donald Duck jubilantly directing you to the exit is replaced by a surly, inebriated mendicant in a mayonnaise and whiskey stained tank top hitting you up for loose change. While some of the same rules as a Disney Land ride may apply (please keep hands and feet inside at all times, or in this case- don’t allow the homeless chap to drop his pants at the same moment your trolley slowly passes by), they are rarely enforced, creating difficulty for drivers trying to pass a trolley which is moving at about 1 mph by the way, without decapitating, maiming or removing a leg of an oblivious rider. Once the passengers actually get off the trolley, (usually about fifty minutes from when they jumped on, but yet just three blocks away due to the Trolley's snail pace), they hurriedly exit onto the street. With no Donald Duck pointing the way, somehow unaware that they are actually on a busy city street and not exiting Peter Pan’s “Never Never Land,” they quickly turn from curious tourists to Grand Theft Auto IV pedestrians, forced to toss their cameras and tour books into the air and dart frantically to the closest sidewalk or jump into the closest beggar’s arms for safety.

And my last observation of the blog…

…I’m really not sure how much longer I can put up with people wearing these Jesus Sandals. I think everyone knows the sandals I’m talking about – we’ve evolved thousands of years with millions of shoe and sandal styles becoming available but yet it there is always some douche bag that feels a pair of leather sandals constructed with seventeen or more straps is the perfect way to compliment his far-from-attractive outfit of khaki shorts and untucked dress shirt? Where are we the Roman Coliseum during a lion vs. man battle or at the last supper with the disciples? Buy some newer looking sandals already! The good news is that these sandals have to have been recycled, reused and resold all for thousands of years, I’m thinking from the same cow, which is great for the cow animal rights activists out there…

Til Next Time… Happy New Years…I’ll be busy dancing with the Mother at the wedding while the rest of you hussies and lads are partying it up at some Vegas nightclub. Pour out a fifteen dollar splash of cranberry and vodka for me…

"Shenanigans Volume VI"

2008-12-13T14:48:00.000-08:00

…Christmas is yet upon us once again. In past years I would look forward to basketballs, video games and Matchbox cars, but at some point that all changed. Now my Christmas list is made up of practical, and boring gift ideas, like spatulas, cuisinarts and most importantly boxer shorts. I don’t think I’ve bought a pair of boxers or socks for, well ever. Every year my Mom will ensure my socks and underwear collection gets replenished and if she doesn’t I’m essentially screwed, thus forced to wear the same pairs for another year. 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…

…Why is it that I can play seven full court basketball games in the blazing hot sun and not be tired or crippled with aches and pains, but yet fifteen minutes shopping with a girlfriend and I’m ready to check myself into the closest convalescent home due to back pain, aching joints and major fatigue? I might break a decent sweat on the court, but at a mall after just several minutes I’m sweating like an antelope being chased by a cheetah and rashes start forming. I can literally go only ten minutes before fatigue sits in. At thirty minutes my body is a useless piece of jelly and I have no choice but to sit down and rest. I think it is built in men’s DNA to not be able to handle the strenuous act of shopping. In caveman times it was probably the same for men as they dreaded trudging through the forest with their woman stopping at every tree as the female browsed for the right bark for the inside of their cave…

…A few weeks ago I went to eat lobster at a local seafood eatery. There, at the restaurant’s entrance was a tank containing about twenty live lobsters, or as I like to call it - a death row tank housing the swimming dead. For these death row inmates however, there are no chances for appeals, no lobsters picketing outside their tank protesting their impending demise, or pardons from government officials. And unlike the walking dead, found on death row who receive either lethal injection, poisonous gas or death by electrocution, these unfortunate crustaceans receive their death sentence in the form of death by boiling thus creating a hysterical scream bellowing from the unsuspecting recipient upon entrance into the scalding water. I’m no animal rights activist or anything, but would it really ruin our lobster eating experience if we simply killed these lobsters, say five seconds before dipping them in scorching hot water causing an animal that previously makes absolutely no sounds to all of a sudden scream out in agonizing pain? Can’t we maybe slam a cuisinart on them, then throw them in the pot or something first to reduce their suffering? I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to notice a difference in taste. I can’t recall a single time I’ve been out in a boat on the ocean and I heard a scream coming from the depths below only to hear my surly fishing buddy explain, “That son, is the sound of the lobster. If you listen closely you can hear their mating call - so beautiful you think you’re listening to Tony Bennett.” These are animals that make absolutely no sounds during their lifetime, then all of a sudden incur such horrific torture, that they grow a pair of vocal chords?

… It is always fun to get a haircut with a buddy because you always try and stick him with the overweight, smelly hairdresser or homosexual guy. Something very strange happened last week for me. I got stuck with a straight guy! I know what you’re thinking – much better than a gay guy right? The answer my friends, is no. I would actually prefer a gay guy than a straight guy. At least with the gay guy you know where he’s shooting from, but with a straight guy it’s like having fifteen minutes of accidentally seeing your straight friend naked in the locker room. Awkward to say the least. It is really awkward having a straight guy shampooing your hair then cutting your hair all the while trying to act cool and talk about how the Colts are going all the way this year. If you don’t believe me have your best straight buddy give you a neck massage for just five minutes then report back to me. Sure he’s not trying to get in your pants, but if he’s not trying to get in your pants why is he shampooing and cutting your hair? Straight guys can now handle getting hit on by gay guys but if there is one thing that is awkward is a gay guy pretending he’s straight and then hitting on you. You know what else is awkward? A straight guy shampooing your hair in case I didn’t mention that yet. If you’re gay pretending to be straight so you can stealthily unsuccessfully flirt with straight guys I’m pretty sure we are onto you. Talking about the last time you had your way with your girlfriend, talking one inch from my face while having one arm around me and one pressed on my left butt cheek does not convince me your straight…At first I was weirded out by gay guys hitting on me, but now I almost get offended when they don’t hit on me. What the hell, I think to myself, what’s wrong with me, why aren’t you hitting on me? I all of a sudden turn into a jealous schoolgirl. Oh yeah because I’m straight…

"You Have Nice Legs!" - A Tale of a Young Boy's Journey on S.F.'s Muni System

2008-12-01T00:17:00.000-08:00

If you haven’t had the pleasure, or displeasure rather of taking a San Francisco Muni bus then you are truly missing out. The experience may parallel a trip from the courthouse after a guilty verdict to the local jailhouse, however a paltry entrance fee of $1.50 provides you enough entertainment to make a trip on Muni the best entertainment bargain in America.

The first thing I noticed as I entered the steel loony bin on wheels on Union street one fateful afternoon was the inscrutable stench of BO that seemed to be seeping through seats, metal and fabric creating a surround sound of odor. I think if I had been standing with a box of rotten eggs in a pile of cow manure I would have been able to breathe with more ease. I was one of only two people on the bus so I found it rather perplexing that a smell that would cause a rabid, outraged skunk to hold up the white flag and scamper to safety was still lingering. How bad does someone have to smell to have their stench emanate on a moving vehicle with open windows long after they’ve departed? Is there any sort of equation for the smelly madness? Say, for instance, if you don’t shower for three days, then your smell lingers for twenty minutes? Four days gets you thirty, and so on and so forth?

After a few stops a few more riders sauntered onto the bus with each character more eccentric than the next. I liked to think I was the most normal on the bus, but that was really only because I was the only one with at least thirty percent of my teeth.

Finally a rider got on with not only all of his teeth but he seemed to have an excessive amount of teeth. This guy had absolutely no upper lip and what appeared to be twice as many teeth as the standard human. His teeth had swallowed his upper lip somehow and it basically went from teeth directly to nose. Despite the man’s somewhat deformities I quickly realized it was a toss up between myself and him for most normal rider on the bus and again that was only because we had at least thirty percent of our teeth.

Just as I was planning my next move as lone supremacy on the bus the doors opened and gave way to what seemed like fifty Asian women, all over the age of ninety. I quickly gave up my seat to accommodate the Omaha beach-like surge of ladies, but not before I was lambasted up against the side of the handicap seat rendering my extremities useless for the impending take off. (My seat had been long overtaken like a swarm of ants overtaking a melting Sir Issac Lime Otter Popsicle on the street with not a single thank you from the cult of ladies). The bus took off and I went face first into the bus window as my hands finally were yanked free just not in time to cushion the blow. That was experience number one.

The second time I took Muni I was not only determined to keep my hands in a safe place, but I was actually excited. To most decent individuals the experience above would cause them to not only never take the bus again, but try to run every Muni bus off the road at every chance they got. Not me. I was excited to give it another go. Some might call it sick, others would call it…sick as well, but I thought it was hilarious.

This time the bus smelled a lot better than the first. Don’t take that the wrong way, it still smelled close to a couple of rotting yams left out in the sun, but anything was better than the BO from the first time. I took a seat near the front and instantly the pandemonium ensued. Down the row and across from me a young lad found a dirty battery on the bus floor. Instead of kicking it aside as any normal person would do he proceeded to pick it up, inspect it and then place it directly on his tongue and lick it. From there, apparently the chap felt it was a good score and passed it to his buddy next to him who proceeded to put it in his fanny pack for safe keeping. I knew from that moment this was going to be a monumental trip.

Just then the lady across from me struck up a conversation. Good…a normalton (normal person) I thought to myself, finally! After the normal pleasantries I let her know I was on my way to the Giants’ game and her response was that she doesn’t watch baseball because of the commercials. Here we go I thought, as my mental note taking record button was pressed for later recall. “That’s a new one,” I told her, trying to remain pleasant and not yell out exacerbated what are you talking about?!”

“I prefer watching the guys go play in the park,” she responded referring to the fifty-plus softball league in the marina who could barely hit the ball out of the infield. Lets see…professional baseball or a bunch of old geezers wearing knee braces who forgot that torn ACL comebacks are only for NFL running backs who are actually getting paid to play, and not for guys trying to relive their heroic little league days with dribblers back to the pitcher.

I tried desperately not to burst into insidious laughter being as this was one of the most ludicrous statements I had ever heard, but the lady was really nice and I’m not the type to rip on people to their face. (I choose to write a blog about it and post it all over the Internet instead and then not put my address anywhere on the site…it all checks out…)

“I prefer to shop,” she chimed in.

“Ah, now I see where this is going,” I responded thinking that the conversation was turning back to the side of normalcy.

“I don’t go downtown to shop though, because of the earthquakes,” she responded. (Keep in mind we were on a bus heading downtown).

“Of course,” I concluded. Downtown, earthquakes, 50-yr old softball player obsessions, it was all finally starting to come together – This lady was a nut job…

This time I offered my seat up to another older Asian women but she denied me. She was carrying three bags, a purse and a cane and she just turned away from me in disgust for some reason. I felt like the kid last picked for the fifth grade kickball team. Trust me, I’ve been rejected by plenty of girls and women in my day but when you get turned down by a ninety-year old Asian woman carrying about thirty pounds of groceries, it just downright hurts. Just as I was having my epiphany she motioned to her husband like a baseball manager calling to the bullpen for a pitching change and her groom did an Usain Bolt -sprint to claim my seat like a lion pouncing to claim his hunt in the wild. There was no thank you was sent in my direction. I felt like a street walker on the streets of Reno. I’m not a piece of seat giving meat, I thought to myself…I suddenly felt used and dirty…

The third time I took the bus ready for new adventures certain that they would again come my way and of course they did. I sat in my usual spot in the front where the action seemed to happen most. A woman, who was a city local, had struck up a conversation with a couple from Wisconsin as I struck up a conversation with three girls seating near me. These girls as well as the Wisconsin couple turned out to be the only normal people I’ve ever encountered on the bus and they were both from another state. (The girls ended up being from New York). The lady was giving the Wisconsin couple some ideas on San Francisco tourist spots when I noticed that the guy, not repulsive by any means was wearing the most hideous shorts that accentuated his absolutely pasty, un-athletic, horrid legs. They were also sparsely covered with hair. Good god, I thought to myself, that guy’s legs are absolutely grotesque. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t make it a habit of looking at the legs of over-the-hill tourists who are also male but these appendages stuck out like my Mom at a 50 Cent concert. These legs, with more crooks and twists than a mystery novel were some of the most disgusting things I’d ever seen and they made this perfectly respectable gentlemen look like a feeble hobbledehoy.

As these thoughts of disgust were emanating in my head, to my utter shock, I heard a “You have nice legs,” shoot out of the locals mouth in the direction of the Wisconsin man. (This was right in front of the man’s wife mind you). I literally almost spit out my coffee onto the floor as myself and the New York girls burst out into laughter. You would have thought the wife would have knocked some sense into that local who was hitting on her man, but quite possibly she was just in shock that those putrid legs were actually attractive to someone. She also probably assumed the woman was high on something they don’t have back in Wisconsin, so she figured it would be best just to let it slide in case the local was psychologically unstable and pugnacious.

On this trip I actually tried to give up my seat three times before anyone actually took it. First an old man crouched over like an NFL lineman getting ready for the snap wouldn’t even sit next to me in an open seat. Then I tried to give up my seat to an older woman who turned away – rejected again! This was really hitting my ego! Finally a third lady ignored me, but then motioned to her kids to take the seat. They did and then they proceeded to sit backwards on the seat and kick me in the knees repeatedly for the rest of the trip.

Once they got off I moved to the back of the bus to make a quick getaway when we hit my stop. To my chagrin at the next stop the bus driver started yelling “Back Door,” Back door!” I later learned it was because people sneak on for free through the back door, but as a straight guy living in San Francisco, hearing back door in any context is always a sign for alarm. There may have been no reason to panic at the moment, but like swimming in shark infested waters and a bloody squid is suddenly dropped in your area, you know trouble is on its way…

This fine looking specimen is not an escapee from a local zoo, former bearded lady in a traveling circus for the legally insane, or Britney Spears' new boyfriend as one might hypothesize, but rather is your average run of the mill Muni rider. This picture was taken shortly after the inebriated chap told my friend Elise she had a "luscious booty." Before any thank yous or pleasantries that you would normally exchange after a plastered and grotesque homeless guy who just made sexual comments about your rear could take place, the bus doors abruptly opened and the drunkard went stumbling out the open doors and onto the sidewalk outside, all the while speaking in a tongue formally known as drunken gibberish.

Unfortunately he could not be reached for comment following the incident, but can be sighted wherever luscious bootys are found.

Comment from Elise Jenkins...

I have to say, Steve, I'm delighted that you posted this blog. It's comforting to know that I'm not the only person being entertained, disgusted, and insulted by the odd and eccentric population of this great city. I have begun to refer to these experiences as my "San Francisco Bum/Muni Follies."

For the women out there reading this comment, I have to add a detail or two to the event corresponding to the picture. I was one of those people trying to get on the bus in the "Back Door! Back Door!" because the bus driver had stopped letting people on in the front - the bus was THAT crowded. Not only did I barely squeeze in past the fellow in the picture, my rear end - in all of its post-workout supa-tight stretch pants glory - was right in his line of sight.

This is when he began to make the scene. "My GOD that is a luscious booty!! Can I touch it? Oh pleeeease baby let me touch it. You know you want me to just grab it, jiggle it. I'd love you baby girl I'd LOOOOVE you!" At this point I'm the center of attention of a bus FULL of the 6:30pm Monday crowd. You know the one I'm referring to. It consists of the good looking suit-and-tie financial district metro-men and the Coach bag carrying, pantsuit wearing marketing girls, all of whom are laughing hysterically at the spectacle. Mind you, I'm the center of attention in a sweat soaked wife beater, my tightest, most unforgiving pair of running pants, no makeup, and dirty hair matted to my forehead. Of course this shit never happens when I'm wearing a sexy pencil skirt, having a great hair day, and my lips are freshly glossed. My only saving grace was when he fell, literally fell, out of the bus at the next stop. Elise 1, Bum 1. It's a draw.

Oddly enough, there were no posts the next day on Craigslist's "Missed Connections" for "dirty girl with luscious booty on the 38." hmm What can you do.

This, of course, all occurs the day after another bum incident. I was at the Safeway on Webster on Sunday night minding my own business, purchasing a delectable 1/2 lb of freshly sliced honey turkey at the deli counter when this homeless person approaches me and asks me for change. My initial reaction was one of bewilderment - how did a bum get into this fine establishment?! My second reaction was the same as my response to his request- "um, no." I went back to waiting on my deli turkey and typing away on my blackberry, thinking nothing more of the interaction.

Instead of saying "thank you" or grunting the typical bum-chatter "hoogly moogly" as they scuttle away to find more generous people to harass, he looks me dead in the eye and says "Why not? You got that nice teley-phone, and you got that meat. Why ain't you gots some change fo' me. Sure you got fiddy cents o sumptin."

Really? Ok. I guess he's allowed to express his opinion. It's a free country and all. So I decided I'd be best off to just ignore him. I had learned my lesson about provoking ghetto people the hard way after Saturday night's events, but that's another story. So I'm thinking "You can do it, Elise! Be the better person!"

It turns out the bum didn't take kindly to being ignored. So he proceeded to yell, yes - yell, the following: "HEY LADY! I'MA TALKIN AT CHOO!! GIMME SOME GODDAMN MONEY!!" Really?! Is this really happening to me? I'm looking around wondering why no one else was being harassed by this guy, and no one would look me in the eye. I was alone. Alone in a sea of delicious delicatessen meats and cheeses - but a storm was a-brewin and there was no turning back now. So I looked him right in the eye and told him to fuck off.

Oops. So that was definitely not the right thing to do. I looked around me - searching desperately for a lifeline. Anything! Anyone! Alas, nothing. Needless to say, this did not sit well with Sir Bum either. He looks back at me and says, and I quote, "No! No, nuh uh. F YOU white lady! F you! And you got a flat ass! Yeah dats right. You heard me b*tch. Flat. Ass."

My response? "I most certainly do NOT have a flat ass. And if I do, it's just because of these jeans. So f you, f your mom, and get the hell out of my way before I call security."

Ding ding! And we have a winner. Elise 2 - Bum 1. I yelled security, he called uncle. B*tch.

Now my only question is about my ass - is it flat or is it luscious? I guess I'll always have to wonder...

"Bounce This!"

2008-11-22T23:54:00.000-08:00

There is only one profession with more alleged power than the President of the United states and that is a bouncer at a club. These Neanderthals, without any concept of life outside the front door of the club have somehow gotten the impression that they are the most powerful people in the universe. In their world the order of power goes...

1) Bouncer
2) Owner of club
3) DJ playing at the club
4) Bartender at club
5) Barback at club
6) Bathroom attendant at club
7) Janitor at club
8) Alley cat outside of club
9) Mouse in alley cats mouth outside of club
10) God

Standing in a line at a club waiting for a bouncer to get into some lame club is probably my least favorite place in the world. Yet I continue to do it and have no choice but to bend over and take it. (Figure of speech, I'm not actually bending over and taking anything for those literal readers out there...)

There is always one guy in your group that feels it necessary to let the bouncer know they are missing out on his business, like it will make any sort of difference in the bouncer's life. He could care less about the $12 in your pocket you intend to spend on drinks and then stiff the bartender for a tip. There aren't any customer service satisfaction surveys going out to the patrons of the bar asking them to rate their experience or anything so customer service and retaining business or R.O.I. (rate on investment) is not exactly a top priority of the bouncer. He'd just assume kick your ass then to let you into the club.

I have been in lines waiting to get into some bar that I never wanted to go to in the first place, but yet I stand and wait like a buffoon. Then just when I think I might get in, six of the bouncer's lame guy friends pop up to the front of the bar, embrace the bouncer like they are childhood blood brothers, sometimes exchanging butt slaps and the most nonsensical handshakes, and in they go. Once they are through the bouncer regains his tough guy attitude and proceeds to tell us with a straight face that the bar is at capacity. Then of course there is some impatient girl or stupid guy (probably the same one in your group who threatens to not give his business) that will ask why those guys got in when the bar is at capacity thus further pissing off the bouncer and reducing the chances of anyone getting in. Usually the response will be either no response - a complete ignorance of the question or "Oh they were in before." (That's why when they came up they embraced like they hadn't seen each other since the fourth grade). But yet you continue to wait like a moron again bending over and taking it for another twenty minutes or whenever this prehistoric, primitive gate bar keeper lets you enter his realm...

A few weeks ago I made a special trip home to change into formal clothes to get into a bar only to have a bouncer that looked like Fabio to tell me I was too casual. Too casual? I was in dress shoes and a dress shirt. What was the guy expecting a three piece suit?

Once inside, you are still not home free as bouncers also have complete Nazi-like reign over you inside as well. Any wrong move at their ignorant discretion and they'll throw you out of the joint. And the best part about it? Laws created by our forefathers, and enforced by the highest power in America somehow don't apply inside bars and clubs. For some reason bouncers have complete authority to beat the living daylights out of any poor chap at no other discretion other than their own!

I always found it funny how bouncers would throw people out of a bar for being too drunk, when it is their bartenders that keep serving the sloshes! They should know the equation by now-serving too much alcohol to one person will most likely result in some sort of irrational behavior. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out. The whole premise of the bar business is to serve alcohol. So they serve people alcohol then are surprised when they act like drunken lunatics and then have to throw them out? What did they expect Mary Poppins to all of a sudden show up? It is kind of like leading a six-year old into a candy store, offering them an unlimited supply of sour patch kids and then getting upset at them when they are bouncing like maniacs off the walls.

At a club in a certain San Francisco suburb I finally got my revenge on the ignoramus bouncer community. After ignoring demands from a bouncer on the dance floor because I was dancing in the wrong section apparently, I was manhandled out of the bar like Paris Hilton on a Friday night in a random Hollywood bedroom. I don't even think my feet were touching the ground as this pugnacious brute lifted me and literally threw me out of the club. I felt like Jazz on "Fresh Prince of Bel-Air," being tossed out of the Banks household as I went flying out the front door right in front of the bouncers in the front. If I was a football, the bouncer would have been Peyton Manning and the sidewalk Marvin Harrison as I went at least for a chains moving first down. I knew better to fight back since there would be an army of IQ-less bouncers ready to pounce and beat me to a bloody massacre pulp had I done so. Usually they find it necessary to have seven bouncers over three-hundred pounds wail on a one guy fewer than two-hundred pounds so I knew I would be outmatched. I waited outside for about five minutes, and then casually asked the front door bouncer what time the club closed. He nonchalantly said 2am and then asked for my ID. I sheepishly handed it to him, he checked it out and back into the club I went. I was astonished that this guy's short-term memory lasted about five minutes. He had just seen me heatedly been tossed out of the club, like a crab fisherman tossing an undersized catch back into the ocean, and now this idiot was letting me right back in with no questions asked. Once inside I had to keep a low profile to avoid the first bouncer who would truly squash me if noticed.

Steve 1
Bouncers 74

I did have one experience of kindness from a bouncer and it literally changed my whole outlook on life. (Yes I know most of my revelations on life come from times spent at bars...) While entering a bar in Hilton head, South Carolina a bouncer actually apologized to me for checking my ID. "Sir I'm sorry I've got to check your ID," he said, as I still remember clear as day. I literally felt like crying due to his kindness...

"Shenanigans Volume V"

2008-11-11T23:50:00.000-08:00

...Halloween has come and gone yet again, and with each year female costumes become more scandalous. At one point, many years ago, like 1996, Halloween featured costumes like ghosts, witches and goblins, but today, those have given way to basically just one costume; a slut. The great thing about Halloween is it gives every single girl one night to give it their best shot at slutting (not a word) it up free of dress codes, pre-judgment and dirty looks from other girls (might have to double check on this one but I think you catch the drift). I also think I figured out how girls come up with their costume ideas. First they think of an animal, object, phrase, movie, etc. and then just add slut to the beginning. (Some may try to add Sexy, but they're not fooling us). For example, a police officer becomes slutty police officer; an astronaut becomes slutty astronaut and, Lindsey Lohan...well actually that is already a complete costume. You can even turn a garbage lady into a sexy garbage lady. Peel off a sleeve, pop up some cleavage and there you have it. There is one caveat for guys out there however - this also means that if you meet a girl on Halloween, she is probably putting forth her best possible attractiveness, so you are in for a shock when the cat woman you met is dressed in khaki pants and a long sleeve shirt on your first actual date. Wait a second, where is the outfit, this is bullsh*t...

...While shopping for my metal band costume, I came across a startling realization - there were people actually shopping for the same items as myself; except they were for every day use. These stores sell these items year round, and while their inventory of fishnet shirts were run through faster than normal due to myself, people are actually buying and wearing this stuff the other 364 days of the year. Amazing...

And now to the normal gibberish and far from useful forthcomings in no particular organizational order or relevance...

...Guitar hero is finally taking over our lives. The recent phenomenon which allows every uncoordinated and musically inept person to jam to a variety of rock tunes without causing glass to shatter is taking over the universe. In the past hopeful guys used to be able to entice beautiful woman over to their place with alcohol, views of the ocean, and the new Barry Manilow record, but when I attempted those three items last week I received a "Do you have guitar hero," in return. "No but I do have College Football 2006," I responded helplessly. The girl took her own cab home. Another girl was explaining to me the chords of a Whitesnake song and I was interested because a girl who knows how to play the guitar is always a plus for me. "It goes green, yellow twice and then red," she explained. "Actually I think it's a g-chord," I responded. "What's that?" was her answer, thinking that guitar hero was how real songs are made...

...I thought the best benefit about being homosexual was that you didn't have to do all the lame girlfriend things like watch Sex & The City repeatedly, frequent Bed Bath & Beyond every other Tuesday and most of all hold hands at all hours of the day. But what I've witnessed in San Francisco is nothing short of the complete opposite! There are gay guys holding hands everywhere, and making out! Most straight guys would be repulsed at the sight, but that is not why I'm outraged. I'm upset that after all they've been through, taking the audacious step of being open with their sexuality and then they don't even get to reap the benefits! I thought you didn't have to do all that relationship stuff anymore- make out in public, hold hands, etc...I thought it was just a wham, bam, thank you Man...

...The other night while walking back from getting food a boisterous, drunken gentleman was stumbling down the street yelling loudly into his cell phone. The conversation seemed to be getting very heated as this slosh was yelling expletives repeatedly and calling the recipient on the other end a "F'n Homo." "You're a homo," he un-jovially sputtered into the mouthpiece of the phone. "It must be a bad breakup," I quietly suggested to my friend. She agreed and just as we made an attempt to dodge the inebriated stumbler we heard the root cause of his contempt. "You're a homo, you picked up Brady Quinn you homo" - right...it all made sense now. Even in my fantasy football addicted state I thought this might have been a bit flippant. Calling out your friend, his wife, his mother and his nine sisters, suggesting what twisted sexual acts you'd like them to partake in on the Yahoo Sports message board is one thing, but accusing your friend of being an expletive homo on the streets of San Francisco loud enough for half the city to hear because he was the first to grab Brady Quinn off the waiver wire? That is crossing the line my friend...Or is it? I just checked Quinn's line from last Monday and it was pretty good, I'm not going to lie...

"The Mother's Rolodex"

2008-10-28T23:49:00.000-07:00

I think its hard for older people to understand the concept of networking websites such as MySpace, Facebook and LinkedIn. Still trapped in the 1960's my Mom has a Rolodex of phone numbers (most of them outdated) the size of the bible. In fact, if Jesus was around today, dealing with the betrayal and religious persecution would be a walk in the park after a plethora of harassing phone calls from my Mom requesting updated addresses, phone numbers, and urine samples from him and each one of the disciples.

Twice a week I get calls from her asking for someone's updated number, address, or messenger pigeon route. I don't think she's caught on that most people no longer have home numbers nor do they use their home address for anything in particular. Handing out your address these days can only result in an annoying relative coming to visit, a rotting array of acorn squash in your mailbox placed there by a fantasy football rival, or a Spanish speaking nine-year old showing up on your doorstep - a result of an inebriated, two-dollar-you-call it one night stand during a road trip to Tijuana back in college.

"Papa?"

With PayPal, Cards, Evite, MySpace and unlimited online porn sites there should be no reason for any sort of card, invitation, old unwanted VHS tapes, or check arriving at my door.

My Mom also still balances her checkbook which is a concept I've never fully understood. In my opinion if someone wants to embezzle $40 a month from my account, I'm completely fine with that if that means I don't have to go through each miniscule transaction, carry the one, add the six and calculate where every penny is going.

Last week my Mom somehow compared the online business networking site LinkedIn with AIDS. (Yes the Auto Immune Deficiency one). The same disease that has killed thousands world wide all of a sudden is no different than logging onto your LinkedIn account to find other investment bankers in your area...

At first I tried to explain the concept - such as you create an account and then connect with other people who have similar jobs or maybe for looking for a new job and then you gain access so you can search their connections and so on and so forth. First she was confused because I had a connection with my cousin Debbie. "Debbie isn't looking for a job," my Mom interrogated. Once we got past the fact that you can just have an account and don't have to be job seeking I explained the networking part of the site, where you connect to others and then gain access to their connections.

"That sounds a lot like AIDs", she responded.

"No Mom, that actually is nothing like AIDs!" I responded shell-shocked.

"Well you sleep with one person, and then they sleep with another, and it's like you are sleeping with everyone," she responded.

"Mom I just don't think you are getting it."

"You should add your friend Joey, he has a good job," she suggested, starting to grasp the concept.

"Mom, I'm sorry Joey doesn't have AIDs, so I don't think I'll be adding him, sorry..." All these sites serve one general purpose and that is keeping in touch with people that you normally wouldn't have. And there is a reason you normally wouldn't keep in touch with them and that is because you don't want to! MySpace is probably the most dangerous for any sort of relationship because it allows any girl from your friend's list, most of whom you have never met to leave whatever seductive, outlandish, and suggestive comment on your page for the whole world to see before you even you. There is no judge and jury of your peers to determine the validity of the message left, just the interpretation of every visitor of your page to decipher the message to their discretion.

Maybe my Mom has it figured out actually. To this day I haven't heard of one incriminating message resulting from the retro-60's Rolodex...Hmm...I might have to cancel my MySpace account and pick up a fancy dex from my local antique store after all.

"Shenanigans Volume IV"

2008-10-09T23:48:00.000-07:00

Throughout this blog I'll be posting frivolous bits of observations that will most likely cause you to scratch your head and thank god the loved ones in your life aren't as wickedly eccentric as myself. With that said, please read on and don't forget to visit the comment page should you choose to add your own shenanigan stories or just need a place to voice your useless tidbits of information as well.

...Is there any sort of time period that a waitress will ignore you before both the patron and waitress just have a mutual agreement that there is going to be no service rendered? At a restaurant/bar last week I asked a waitress for some help who responded she would be back over shortly. She walked by three more times, each time making full eye contact with me while mentioning she would be over soon. Finally the fifth time she just stopped acknowledging me altogether, thus reaching me to the point of no return. (Or no service rather). She never offered and I guess since she had denied me four times that was just the end of it as she kept passing by without stopping, or even looking in my direction for the next hour. It would have been much easier if she just let me know she wasn't going to help ever or at least... "Hello sir, I'm going to walk by you repeatedly, promising service, never actually grant you service, and then finally ignore you all together, how does that sound?" "Wow that sounds great, do I just stand here and look like a moron, for what...say twenty, thirty minutes?"

...Why do people always have to ask what you do for a living? I'll be out at a bar and some random guy or girl I've just met always has to press that question. Why can't they just ask me something less personal, like how many people I've slept with or something? Since I've been unemployed on and off for the past year I usually try to dodge the question by making a joke and say I'm a stripper on Tuesdays. Or I'll try to change the subject like I knew I shouldn't have eaten that raw jackrabbit earlier and hold my stomach in pain. Let's be honest here, if a girl meets a guy in a bar, what are the chances they get to the point where the guy's profession actually matters anyway? I can't remember the last girl I've run across that met her husband, a molecular chemical engineer at a dive bar on a Friday night. "Meet my husband Rob; he is a NASA engineer and volunteer marine biologist on his nights and weekends. Isn't he lovely? We met when we were wasted, playing beer pong down at the Bub's pool hall..." I mean, if you meet me, I'm a living human being surviving in San Francisco, so I have to be doing something right, does it matter if I work for Google or not? The thing is anyone who asks that question obviously is just dying to tell you what they do, like they are making this huge difference in the world or something. Not many proctologists or janitors are asking you that question so chances are when you hear it you are going up against a financial analyst, a third grade teacher or some sort of fancy title that no one has ever heard of but sounds cool to say like a senior quantitative analyst or something. I love the guys who say yes I'm an Executive Account Quantifier at Charles Schwab. At first you are impressed, but then when you actually start questioning them..."So let me guess this straight, you refill the toilet paper in the men's room so the janitor doesn't have to..." "Well not exactly, I uh..." "So, you're a janitor..."Well not exac-ok yes." So next time a girl asks you what you do for a living just say "I'm a garbage man and I pick up rotting raccoon carcasses every morning...So are we going to sleep together or what?"

...Has anyone out there figured out how vicious, diabolic locked-up inmates get out of jail on good behavior? What does that mean exactly? Isn't that the whole reason they were in jail in the first place; bad behavior? Now all of a sudden these criminal thugs are transformed into Mary Poppins and let out on the street, because they happened not to maim or sodomize anyone while behind bars?

"Well yes Jim does go by the nickname of "Knife Stabber," and yes he did murder a family of twelve in cold blood using only his hands, a staple remover and a Teddy Ruxpin doll causing each of them to die a slow and painful death in broad daylight, but he did plant a lovely row of daisies next to the latrines on the south lawn so he's out on good behavior." Good behavior? Good behavior? He's murdered someone!

Inside the joint it seems like cutthroat losers who are absolute morons on the outside, suddenly morph into Albert Einstein in jail. You always hear about these atrocious weapons being created on the inside out of absolutely nothing. A guy who couldn't even figure out how to work a microwave on the outside all of a sudden miraculously can turn his underwear into a pitchfork on the inside.

"Damndest thing, Rick, One eyed Russell couldn't even spell his name when he came in here. An IQ of negative twelve they said, but last week we gave him a tube sock, a quisinart and three muskrats and the guy came up with this self-generating desalination purifier which can generate four-hundred gallons of drinking water from once ounce of salt water. Brilliant...Did I mention it also converts into a rocket launcher?"

"What is he in for?"

"He murdered seven tourists, but he'll be out on good behavior next week."

"Because of the water purifier?"

"Nope, it is because he cooks a lovely brisket, he sure is a swell guy..."

"Shenanigans Volume III"

2008-09-19T23:39:00.000-07:00

As usual random tidbits of useless information….

…It happens every single time I’m out at a bar, restaurant, “The Hills Season 3 Premier,” or wherever there is a bathroom and a drunk idiot nearby. Why is it that every time I’m standing in a bathroom line some doofas has to ask me if I’m standing in the line for the bathroom? Here are some responses you can tell the ignoramus next time you are asked this ridiculous question as you are lined up directly outside the door with the large bathroom logo on it.

- “No I’m just standing here so I can watchh the chick I came with get hit on in her bathroom line while I stand here with seven guys I’ve never met, each of us enjoying the lovely stench emanating from that room with a bathroom logo on the door”

- “Wow thanks for asking. Not at all, actuually that is Weird Al Yankovic’s dressing room and all of us are waiting for him to come out so we can get our chests signed”

- “Great question! Actually Penelope Cruz iis doing a strip show inside and all of us are just trying to get a look. You should totally disregard those giant letters that spell, what is it? Oh yeah ‘Gentlemen’ ”

- “No, were standing in line to get into thhe Red Sox-Yankees game, where are your seats?”

- “This is the line, but I’m not in it. I just enjoy smelling the horrendous odor. It reminds me of when I was a kid and I used to swim in a pool of raw sewage and horse manure.”

- “Common mistake! I know the big sign thatt states ‘Men’s Restroom’ can really throw you off. This is actually the line to get a rectal exam. Myself and the seven other derelicts in line often enjoy doing one whenever we enter a bar, since good proctologists are hard to find these days.”

- “Really great guess, actually they are paassing out free lobster to everyone coincidentally in the same room that has a door with a large man logo on the outside and says ‘Bathroom’.”

- “Really glad you asked, when the owners oof the bar built this room they were afraid the large ‘Gents’ writing with the picture of a toilet would confuse people. Actually this is the line for a sex change operation, what are you going in for?”

- “Close, but no we’re all standing in linee to get N’Sync tickets. They disguise the ticket offices as bathrooms per a request from Lance Bass.

…Have we gotten to the point with the invention of Evite invitations that we can’t even invite someone over anymore without one? No longer can you just invite some people over to watch the game, but now you need to send them an Evite. I tried to invite my friend Karen over to watch “The Hills,” episode (oops did I say that out loud) and she wanted me to send her an Evite. I was like actually I’m just inviting you over the phone, so see you Monday? Nope still need an Evite, sorry. What’s next, you meet a girl at a bar, then have to scramble home to conjure up a quick Evite for an invite over to your place?

"That's My Wife"

2008-09-01T23:36:00.000-07:00

I’d like first off start this blog to let everyone know that I love homosexuals. Wait, I mean I approve-ok I’m not gay – “not that there’s anything wrong with it,” to quote my far-from-admirable hero George Constanza.

While I don’t engage in the same activity, I have nothing but respect for what homosexuals go through; the discrimination, harassment, and constant jokes they constantly endure. (Some even from my website unfortunately). In my defense my jokes are merely an attempt to show what it is like as a straight guy to live in San Francisco and mean no harm, nor any disdain.

In any case, now that is out of the closet, I would now like to call mercy to every homosexual male out there. Us straight guys know we are no match should they choose to actually hit on a girl. Gay guys possess three talents that no straight guy on the planet has managed to master, and many have been ridiculed, ostracized, or outright banished for even suggesting trying such a feat. Gay guys can actually listen and understand everything a girl is saying, they have great fashion taste and best of all, (or worst of all for us straights); they can dance. I’m not talking about the Charleston, Macarena, or the Drunken Elaine that Jim in accounting does every year at the company Christmas party. These supposed uninterested lady stealers are no more than wolves dressed in Justin Timberlake clothing, primed and ready to summon our woman to the dance floor as soon as the latest Usher, Chris Brown or Beyonce song comes blaring through the speakers.

I’m not asking for a one-way green light to certain success – I’m just asking for a fair chance. Please? Right now it feels like we are a bowlegged, pimply cub scout with freckles, and headgear going up against Brad Pitt.

At this point, we get it. You win. Were throwing in the towel. We can’t compete. We are losers.

If you want me to sacrifice for the rest of the uncoordinated non-dancing straight guys out there by growing out a four-day shadow, dawning a pair of pink shorts and aviators like George Michael in his “Wake Me Up,” Eighties video and take my new fashion game out on the town, to change your ways I will. I’ve got spare time and some really white unattractive legs. In the meantime for the sake of all straight guys out there, will you please stay off the dance floor and at least give us a fighting chance?

With that said…

Obviously judging by my seven paragraph statements above I know where I may have success at a bar and where I might not. Unfortunately the list of not is currently winning forty to one over the places of success. At the table, telling jokes, working the crowd, is where I feel most comfortable. The dance floor is not quite where I feel I’m best, and if the night ever moves to that level I’m essentially a fish out of water, squirming, flipping upside down and trying to breathe out of my gills (not an analogy, those are actually my uncoordinated dance moves).

Things could be going great; girls are falling out of their seats laughing, and then right on cue I hear those frightful words, “I love this song!” Like a deer caught in the headlights, my arm is yanked and I’m tossed up onto the stage like a fish flung between two butchers at a Seattle fish market. Why do girls put us through this nightmare and automatically assume that since we tell a few jokes and make them laugh we can hold our own on the dance floor? My un-rhythmic undulating movements on the dance floor making me look like a bobble head doll shaken by a roguish two-year old hopped up on Red Vines don’t do much to fend off the two dozen drooling guys, each one ready to pounce on my chick like lions hiding in the tall grass ready to yank a freshly killed antelope from my cat-like grasps. To recreate this feeling, if you’re not familiar, just go out to your local harbor and sit on a buoy of rotting tuna carcasses in shark-infested water. You may not see any sharks lurking right away but you know darn well they will be on their way as soon as they glance up from their Budweiser.

After a few uncoordinated gyrations it becomes painstakingly obvious my perfectly played night is headed for disaster. It is sort of like a UFC fighter who fights well standing up, but once the fight goes to the floor, he can’t grapple. In my case I can’t dance. Sometimes I can buy some time by making fun of some idiot crip walking on the dance floor. Every club, bar or even bar mitzvah has one of those morons who thinks its cool to crip walk on the dance floor so if you do some funny impressions of him without getting jumped, maimed, or stabbed by the cripwalker and his cronies you can often buy yourself some time and hope the girl tires herself out.

Then of course there is the NGGTCD (Non-gay guy that can dance) that you have to look out for. A girl will instantly forget that you just made her laugh for two hours if some straight Usher look-alike comes over and can actually dance. At this point your night is seconds from being over and you need to make a miraculous recovery or watch your girl go “Nice & Slow,” with Usher for the rest of your lonely evening. So what do you do next, one might ask?

It is only when there are no other options, you’ve pulled your goalie and the clock is running out that you can attempt to throw up one last Hail Mary pass. Go up to the marauder and let him know that he is dancing with your wife. I know sounds distasteful, and absolutely odd, which by the way it is, but this is a guaranteed successful plan of attack. Even a drunk sleezeball like David Hasselhoff will respect that he is dancing with your old lady and back off. I think it’s the fact that guys respect that you’ve probably put up with a bunch of her crap and the least they can do is not feel your bride up right in front of you, but instead wait until you’ve headed to the bathroom, pulled a hammy or just left the club and left her to the vultures before they perform their act of rapine. The best part is you don’t have to have any answers prepared. No guy is going to ask you when your anniversary is, where you spent your honeymoon or even what the girl’s name is. They are going to hightail it off that dance floor faster Rosie O’Donnell heading for at an all you can eat buffet.

Don’t worry about feeling bad about this. Girls use the husband, fiancé, or boyfriend line all the time to avoid obnoxious guys, so there is no reason we can’t use the same idealogy and make guys they are interested in disappear. A few weeks ago I was at a bar roaming to the back like cattle in a box car trying to catch some fresh air when the girl ahead of me started to attempt to deflect some catcalls from some lunatics off to the side. Before I even knew what was going on she pointed back to me and mentioned that I was her fiancé. Fiance? Boyfriend ok, but fiancé? What was I supposed to do with this one, I thought. Without thinking I just ran with it. I spouted off about six fake facts about the girl, when the wedding was, who was attending, where it would be, etc. I couldn’t believe what I was saying. And the worst part was I think I did it because I thought the guy was a sleezeball and thought he was wrong for harassing the young lassie. How quickly you jump sides when you are the one called to put out the fire not the one starting it. Afterwards the guy profusely apologized and later even bought me a shot to earn my forgiveness. Any honest person would have come clean at that point, but of course I didn’t. I told him it would take two shots to make up for his flippant behavior.

"The Unexceptional Athlete"

2008-08-17T23:29:00.000-07:00

Last week while finishing off a pint down at a local bar the Beijing Olympic games came on the TV. An inebriated chap next to me slammed down his beer abruptly, while simultaneously throwing a few kernels of popcorn in the direction of the screen to signify his excitement. He looked like a baboon at the zoo who was seeing a naked female baboon for the first time.

“What amazing athletes they are yeah,” the lush exclaimed, motioning in my direction.

I glanced back up at the TV just in time to see a pimply-faced, one-hundred pound, gangly Kyrgyzstanian archer pull back a crossbow, getting ready to send his arrow spiraling into the Beijing sky.

“Yeah,” was all I could muster to shoot back at the intoxicated primate, as I noticed one of his tossed popcorn kernels had made my pint of Sierra Nevada its final resting place.

The archer had released his arrow and at no point during the entire process did this out-of-shape archer (yes this is a word, I looked it up) break a sweat or seem to put duress on a single muscle in his body. I truly believe the guy could have been high on LSD and obtained the same score.

Amazing athlete or just one step removed from a game of darts at a local dive bar? No offense to the archer community out there, but I’m pretty sure I can steal a few bar darts, find a sturdy rubber band and shoot to my heart’s content with just about as much success. And what is the off-season training regiment that these archers are participating in? I’m pretty sure they aren’t doing two-a-days and running up flights of stairs to gain that competitive edge. And are there famous archers that these “athletes” aspire to live up to?

And is it me or is every event in the Olympics always resulting in a new world record? Michael Phelps is on pace to break eight world records this Olympics. You’re actually telling me that throughout the entire history of the Olympics there hasn’t been a single guy better than Michael Phelps in every single event, or is the official guy in charge of the stopwatch just losing a step each Olympiad?

Lets take archery for example, since were on the subject…

“Next we have Svetlana Kohsivich from Russia…She pulls back the bow, wow, look at that amazing muscular structure – Svetlana has been training 19 hour days for competition…and she shoots – Bulls eye – new world record, amazing!”

“Now Chips Magee stands up, a 7-11 store clerk from North Dakota. Lets see… reading his profile, Chip’s training regiment consisted of twelve PBR’s a day and a heavy dose of illegal narcotics… lets see how he does - Chips reaches back, grabs a Mickey’s 40, pounds it, shoots the arrow-bulls eye! New world record…! What an exceptional athlete he is...”

Chips relaxing after an exhilarating archery match

Of course…

So the question is, what really determines a sport? I feel that any sport I can do while intoxicated and achieve the exact same success rate if I was sober should not be a sport. This eliminates about half of the summer and winter sports.

We’ve already covered Archery, but there are additional sports that really don’t have a place. Badminton? Canoeing? Kayaking? Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always loved a game of badminton and often have enjoyed a day of leisure drinking and paddling a kayak, but I just can’t support them as Olympic sports. Maybe if there was just one kayaking event, I would be ok with that, but is it necessary to have both flat-water kayaking and slalom kayaking as events? Are these really spectator sports anyway? I apologize if I’m upsetting any slalom kayaking enthusiasts, but really? Other than a few lost hikers and a couple of moose having a leisurely drink at the river’s edge, who is watching these events? Can’t we just send a few archers in kayaks out on the open water with a few tall cans and see who can stay upright on their kayak the longest without accidentally submerging themselves in the water or taking an arrow in the jugular? That would take care of three unnecessary sports right there.

Badminton is a sport that I thought previously only existed during my middle school P.E. classes. Before these Olympic games, I thought finding people that play badminton on a competitive level would be about as hard as convincing my Mom to crowd surf at an Alice in Chains concert, but I guess you live and learn. Are these badminton players training year round at underground badminton communities, surfacing only to compete for Olympic glory? I can’t recall a single time I met someone and asked him or her what they do and they respond with, “I play badminton for a living.” Some may find badminton exciting, whereas I on the other hand find it rather uninspiring. However, I do find it comical watching grown men dressed up in full pajama looking outfits like the ones four-year old kids wear with the attached slippers stabbing each other with swords. Since fencing rules make absolute no sense, we could eliminate both badminton and fencing in one fell swoop and introduce Fencemitton to the world. This game of skill would combine the riveting excitement of badminton with the ferocious stabbing of fencing. Rules would be simple: a player hits the shuttlecock over the fence and the partner on his team will run to the other side and can maim, stab, bite, or eye gauge the opponent on the other end until the shuttlecock is returned to the other side. The team with the most points, or the most flesh wounds would be deemed the winner. You could also combine this with Taekwando. (You haven’t really watched a sport until you’ve seen someone jump kicked while trying to return a shuttlecock).

Now were getting somewhere!

I finally had the pleasure of watching a real water polo game for the first time and to my surprise, I’ve actually been playing water polo for years! The rules are fairly simple; you throw a ball around the pool while attacking, strangling, groin kicking, or drowning your opponent. Ultimately you’ll have to throw the ball into the net, but that is not exactly an arduous task; the goalie covers about 10% of the actual goal and since he or she is treading water, they have the same vertical jump as a cow on rollerblades. (The team with the most goals or players remaining that still have full use of their family jewels are deemed the winners). How does this differ from you and your buddies drinking a few cold ones, jumping in the pool and attacking each other for an hour and a half while attempting to get the ball between your Mom’s petunia’s and your dog Scrap’s water bowl?

I think if we all band together to support the change in Olympic sports we can bring the Olympics back to the way they were when the Olympic forefathers started them in Greece. Of course, back then they did compete naked and while that may not work for the new archery games, since I’ve heard taking an arrow in the groin can be slightly painful, I think we’ll be on the right track…

Some future sports to consider?

Ro sham bo
Pillow fighting
Mercy
Pin the Tail on The Donkey
Chutes & Ladders
Duck Duck Goose

"My Fantasy Football Addiction"

2008-08-11T23:24:00.000-07:00

“Its not even real life, it’s a fantasy,” my girlfriend used to argue.

“Not to me it’s not,” I would shoot back, ignoring warning signs triggered by my insatiable urge to check statistics each waking moment. I would even sleep walk to check a box score if necessary in case I accidentally induced myself into a football watching, wings and seven-layer-dip-coma on the couch.

This past fantasy football off-season as I was mounting (or sticking rather), my 2007 award in the place of my now ex-girlfriend’s picture I took a moment to reflect and look back. “Was it all worth it?” I thought as I admired my 9th place ribbon barely affixed to the mantle, secured by just a lone piece of scotch tape. Like a rock climber suspended in mid air with a carabineer attached to his crotch, my ribbon was holding on for dear life. My sacred prize looked like a creation done by a kindergartner who ate too much glue, but that didn’t stop an amiable smile from appearing on my face. I had developed a strong connection with my fantasy players during the past season – a strong connection with their statistics that is. Just as I started to think that maybe my fantasy statistical crushes had started going a bit too far, a gust of wind dislodged my ribbon sending it spiraling out the window and into the awaiting grasps of a strategically positioned ribbon-stealing pigeon perched in a nearby tree. While I can’t lay direct blame to the pigeon for rapaciously burglarizing me of my prized ribbon, he didn’t exactly move out of the way and let it fall peacefully to its demise in the trash heap awaiting below either.

My ribbon is now probably the finishing piece on a nest somewhere to be admired only by roaming gangs of jealous pigeon thieves.

In a league comprised of just ten teams, a ninth place finish is nothing to get excited about anyway so I suppose that blasted pigeon did me a favor. I probably should have thrown in the towel at that very moment, but my addiction had been building for years…

Two seasons ago after trying to reason with my family that Saturday was a much better day for a ceremony, I found myself at my Great Uncle’s funeral on a Sunday in early December. Locked in a tight race for the fourth and final playoff spot in my fantasy league I tried to sit calmly in my church pew as the ceremony commenced.

Shortly after kickoff, or as the Priest liked to call it – “Friends, today we gather to celebrate the life of…” the anxiety started to kick in. I felt a drop of sweat trickle down my forehead, travel past my nose, and then free fall onto the pew making a sound loud enough for a menacing glance from my Mother to shoot in my direction. Unfortunately that drop was just the beginning and soon I felt like San Francisco quarterbackAlex Smith trying to elude an ominous pass rush with the third string center as his only line of defense. To my chagrin, I didn’t have the luxury of even an eighth string center, but I did have my eight-year-old cousin Milo. Unfortunately, he was more interested in picking his nose and depositing it in the church hymn book than to be concerned with my desperate perspiration.

Would Roethlisberger go to the air against Cincinnati or stick to the running game? Was Brian Westbrook, a game-time decision, even in the game? I was miles from a computer or active Internet connection and even if I were to locate one, a brigade of defensive lineman in the form of my immediate family members would certainly stand my path of any possible first down; or escape rather.

I was screwed.

Just then the amazing happened. I started breaking out in a rash and the sweating became uncontrollable. My Mom’s menacing gaze became enraged and she motioned to the door for me to excuse myself. Seizing what I thought was my only chance, I climbed backwards over the pew crashing down on the floor behind me with one leg still caught on the back of the pew above. During the post game interviews, or reception rather, some said the ceremony stopped for a whole minute as people exchanged perplexed glances, but I wasn’t around to check it out. I was already half way to the reception hall in a Reggie Bush-like sprint searching desperately for any portable device I could find. Ten yards from the door of the hall, a cook held a Palm Treo in his hands. He never saw me coming from the weak side and didn’t have time to defend himself as I latched onto his arm and begged him to see the Philadelphia-New York box score. He nervously agreed and brought up the game. My rash began to recede and my sweating slowed as I felt the warm feeling of my addiction taking over once again. With the box score up and Philadelphia inside the ten I waited anxiously for Westbrook, (represented on the game cast as a blinking green football) to get the call. I watched the blinking football with the focus and determination of a cat stalking a mouse that was doused with catnip.

‘Hand off to Westbrook,’ was the last text I remember seeing before I blacked out.

‘Touchdown New York,’ apparently came next, without any explanation of what had happened. There was no warm touch from a friend telling me to sit down and warn me before the news broke. There was no one assuring me everything would be ok. There was no announcer warning me of gruesome graphics and to look away if I had any Eagle players on my fantasy team. There was just ‘Touchdown New York.’ That was it. Was it a fumble returned for a touchdown? Did a trick play go awry? Did Westbrook get confused and run the wrong way? Did a raging, drunken David Hasselhoff stumble into the press box causing statisticians to make an error? What in God’s name happened? Damn these online game casts…don’t they know people’s each awaiting gasp of life is hinging on these text updates?

When I came to, the cook mentioned something about me trying to strangle him to get more information from the Treo, and me telling him to call someone named Berman and he’d know what had happened, but everything is still kind of hazy…

“So let me get this straight, you’re not actually watching the game, you’re watching stats calculate?” my ex would inquire, mystified. “How often do you need to check that thing?” In my head I was thinking every minute, every second, and every moment of my existence! “A few times a day,” I would answer sheepishly, assuring her that it was just to make sure my stats were calculating correctly. In actuality the stat programs are probably created by MIT software geniuses and rarely miss anything. (This also didn’t explain why I was checking the stats at 11am on a Wednesday during a tour of the wine country when most games are played only on Sundays).

Luckily I had heard that there was help out there so I went online to research a good therapist. Instead I ended up re-ordering my projected 2009 running backs for my upcoming draft and ultimately concluded that there is no cure. I am tied for life to my addiction and I now have set my sights on at least a sixth-place ribbon this upcoming season and wonder if it’s worth risking any more relationships. Ultimately I figure girlfriends come and go, but Fantasy Football ribbons last a lifetime. Well, they last at least until the cheap clothe wears out, a pigeon steals it, or your dog chews it up which happens more often than you would think...

For the record no Great Uncles, catnip covered mice, or cooks holding Treo’s were hurt during the writing of this blog, nor were any girlfriends lost. If you actually believed this story was true I appreciate your credulous attitude…