The Full Games :This time we're playing with a full stomach...

Papa?

Just when you thought it was safe to open up your email and these blogs were done; like that they return. And like the child who showed up on your doorstep wearing a sombrero and a t-shirt that says Cancun Spring Break 2006, they won’t be going away. 

The Hunger games was finally released in theaters, but I’ll be honest, I’m not even that hungry for them. My Mom always told me not to play games on an empty stomach so I went ahead and ate. It’s not my fault these other participants weren’t fortunate to have a Mom concerned about their nutritional intake. 

Despite immediately sniffing each other’s rears at every chance they get, I still feel it's important for most dogs to maintain a reputation socially. When they see another dog heading in their direction with one of those huge collars on their neck that prevents them from chewing off their own fur, it probably goes something like this:

Dog #1’s mind without plastic collar: Oh god here is another one, ok don’t look at him, don’t look at him, stop looking at him, what are you doing, oh son of a dog bone, I can’t stop looking he looks ridicule-

Dog #2: Look away, look away, I’m hideous, oh god, please look awa-

Dog #1: “Oh hi Rex, how are the bitch and pups?”

Dog #2: (sheepishly) "Great, good, well, see ya"

Dog #1: That was awkward
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So Apple came out with its new iPad this month. Despite everyone already having an iPhone, iPod, iPad, and whatever else, can we justifiably say that Apple can literally come out with any product at this point and slap an i in front of it and make millions? They could literally sell an Apple.

“So what is this product here?”

“That is my apple I brought in for my lunch”

“Wow that sounds great, I will take it. How much?”

Apple releases its long awaited new
product; an apple. 

“Sir that is literally an apple.”

“Sounds great. $200 it is.  I’ll take your iTUNA, and iBANANA too, unless you think there will be a software update on them anytime soon.”

“There will be?”

“Doesn’t matter, I’ll take them.” 

And why is it that the iTunes disclosures are longer than the one you have to sign when you go sky diving? Since you have to download a new version every fifteen days anyway, is it necessary to have 32 pages of disclosures? Is a flesh eating virus going to pop out of my laptop once I download and they feel the need to legally protect themselves from such an apocalyptic abomination? Jesus, I’ll just go bungee jumping over crocodile infested waters instead of downloading new software; probably a whole lot safer.

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We get it, you're a big deal

Why is it that a Mahi Mahi feels so self righteous that it thinks it deserves two names? What other sea creature is so vain that in needs to be said twice? You don’t see a Swordfish Swordfish, Salmon Salmon, or Scallop Scallop on sale at the market so what makes Mahi Mahi so special?  I’ll be honest, I’m sick of its attitude. 

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

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

Christmas has come and gone and, like a Kim Kardashian marriage, it started with a lot of hype, ham shaking, and unemployed basketball players... then ended in disappointment. You are then left with only a father who looks like a lesbian or a large credit card bill. 

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 bad decisions 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 after year.

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

The day after Thanksgiving, the lights would magically turn on, 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 each other as much as those darn lights? One small light would go out on the strand and instantaneously the others commit Hari-Kari and turn to mince meat.

If humans worked on this same concept, we’d all be dead at first 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 the paper shredder by the dozens.

The Four Horseman of the Apocalypse have this thing all wrong. 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 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 this year was no different. I’m not sure if I’m alone on this, since now that I think about it, my Mom buying my underwear is actually pretty disturbing. It was also disturbing that she told my brother-in-law this year that she didn’t recognize him with pants on… (No he wasn’t the santa lurking outside with no pants you sicko).

Still not the Four Horseman of Apocolypse

Oh C'mon now

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

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

“Ho, Ho,Ho…

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

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

“Merry Christmas! “Ho, Ho, Ho.”

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

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

“Merry Christmas…”

That’s all she wrote tonight… Happy New Year!

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

All The Hip Kids Are Doing It

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

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

"Er... coach, that is actually 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 matter how diabolically inappropriate an email is, if you add "kind regards," to the end salutation, the recipient will take it as a kind correspondence.

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

Kind Regards,

Sebastian

CEO: Hmm… you know what he actually seems like a pretty decent guy. Evelyn, get in here! Do we have any more of those Columbia House tote bags? Can you send one out to this kind chap? Or maybe those pink shirts that say Gorgeous on them for his girlfriend?

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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)

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"

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"

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"

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

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.

1. “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…

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 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/