Your Collapse Has Finished Downloading. Would You Like To Run The Program Or Save It To Your Computer?

I've never had a reaction to a bad sporting event like I did last night. I honestly don't think I have an ounce of sadness or depression in my body right now. I was pretty much just straight pissed, then over it. Last night, I watched the endings of both the Sox and Rays game, endured the flood of texties that either tried to console me, rubbed my nose in the collapse a little bit, or cautioned me not to jump. Then I shut my phone down, went to bed, and was asleep in less time than it took for Papelbon to go from 2 outs, 2 strikes, to losing the game.

It's kinda weird. If this had happened in 2003 (besides the fact that Fundy and I would've each been at least 18 beers deep by the end of the game, instead of me being sober on the couch with Christine like last night) I would've been out on the Culligan roof until 4 am, throwing beer bottles at passers-by and setting an American flag on fire or something. If this had happened in 2008, this post probably would've been a bunch of pictures of Red Sox players, juxtaposed against the the lyrics to 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' or something. But in 2011, I'm just worn out and done with the whole season (just like Boston's bullpen!) I know you're worried about me, but don't be! I've got explanations for why I'm not as sad as I should be:

-- The Sox have two championships in the last eight years. Success changes you a little bit as a sports fan. I didn't think it would happen to me, but it did. I thought I would always be a psycho (and truthfully, I still kinda am with KU basketball, I doubt that will ever change) but once you celebrate the first title, it's not quite life or death anymore. I can't bitch and moan for days about missing the playoffs, when plenty of fans have no championships to fall back on-- and when I've got a few buddies in the same boat as me, as Braves fans. How was last night for you, Bergman, Dunph and Zach?

-- It was a month-long collapse, so I had plenty of time to go through the stages of grief. If the Sox and Rays had been neck-and-neck all year, and it came down to last night, that would've been one of the toughest five-minute stretches of sports fandom EVER. But honestly, the Sox didn't deserve to make the playoffs. I've never seen a pitching staff fall apart like that before (although the Cubs in 1993 must have been pretty bad, if they were willing to sign Henry Rowengartner off the street like they did.) I'm sure this stat didn't hold, but at one point around 10 days ago, the Sox were the highest-scoring team in baseball during September. And their record was still like 4-15, because the pitchers were giving up 43 runs a game. What were the Sox gonna do if they made the playoffs, besides getting swept in the first round? Also, fuck you John Lackey.

-- The Rays were just a team of destiny. I admit I felt good last night when the Yanks were up 7-0, but as soon as Tampa pulled within a run, I knew it was done. The whole night was so crazy it became predictable. I looked at Christine and said "Well, the Rays are winning that one. It's either one-game playoff tomorrow, or Papelbon is gonna get to within a strike of the win, then blow it." Scout's honor, I said that. So after Paps implodes, we switch over to Tampa, and Teens, bless her heart, offers up the possibility that the Yankees could still win. My response: "No, Longoria is gonna end it this at-bat." Next pitch, wham, bam, thank you ma'am. If only I could've paused time, logged on to my gambling account, and emptied it on Longoria going yard right there. I'd be typing this from my new yacht I just purchased in Italy. Actually, that's a lie. I would still be typing this on my lunch break, at work. I don't have enough money in my gambling account that one big win would allow me to quit my job, buy a boat (I don't even like water that much) and move to Italy (I don't even like Italians that much.) To insinuate otherwise is just misleading. Borderline dishonest.

And you know what? Whatever. I can't begrudge Tampa being this year's team of destiny. The Sox have been a team of destiny before; it was fun. After Boston came back from 0-3 down in the 2004 ALCS, St. Louis could've rolled out Mr. Burns' softball team of ringers for the World Series, and the Sox still would've swept them. It happens.

I mean the softball team at full strength, obviously. Before the hypnotism, nerve tonic overdose, radiation poisoning, alternate dimension portal, etc. etc.

So here we are. The greatest regular season collapse in baseball history happened to my team, and I'm dealing with it. I think Teddy KGB said it best when he said "It's a fahhking joke anyvay."

How To Get Out Of A Cell Phone Contract

I've been with Sprint for over four years now, ever since I moved down to Kansas. The first few years were great; I had no problems. The last year or so has been a nightmare, pretty much ever since I moved into this house on the far, far west side of town (my friends and I joke that I actually live in East Topeka...a joke that is much funnier if you know how much Topeka sucks.) Internet is brutal, email rarely comes in, text messages are sometimes delayed by hours, and forget about making or receiving phone calls. Also, my AWESOME Sports Alert app that is supposed to give me Red Sox, Thunder, and Titans' scores as they happen never works-- but that's OK, I can just read about the Sox collapsing again in the morning. My house is a bomb shelter.

So I finally gave up and went in to Sprint, wanting out of my contract. Something I should've done long ago, really. Of course the guy in the store can't do anything for me except dial the number for customer service. So after 55 minutes, five different service representatives, and about 30 different times I almost just hung up the phone and accepted that I would have to pay the full cancellation fee of $180, I'm finally talking to somebody who can make decisions about my contract. He tells me they would be willing to waive half the fee, "only because you've been a paying customer for four years." He basically comes out and tells me that they don't believe me when I say my phone doesn't work in my house, since on their stupid little computer, it says that all of Lawrence receives perfect coverage, and there are no current outages in their towers.

At this point, I'm done with the whole thing. I'm willing to pay half, even though I'm not happy about it; I know how phone companies don't like to let people out of their contract. By this time I've left Sprint and driven home, but I've been pacing the driveway. I'm not walking inside and risking losing this phone call, then starting the process all over. However, now I have to go inside, to grab a pen and paper to write down my cancellation confirmation number. I sprint (Ha! No pun intended) into the kitchen and start shuffling through drawers, while the Sprint guy tries to make small talk. And it goes a little something like this:

Sprint guy: So, Lawrence, huh? You must be a pretty big KU fan!

Me: Yeah, it's pretty much why I moved down here...

Sprint guy: I'm sorry, what was that?

Me: Yeah, I've been a big fan since I was like 7, so that's-

Sprint guy: Sir?

Me: Yeah, I'm here.

Sprint guy: You're cutting out, sir, I'm having trouble hearing you...

Me, running back out to the garage: YEAH. I DON'T DOUBT THAT YOU'RE HAVING TROUBLE. I JUST WALKED INTO MY EFFING HOUSE.


It was at this point that the Sprint guy busted out laughing, waived the entire cancellation fee, and told me I could continue to use my phone until the end of the next billing cycle (October 14th) for no charge.

Booyeah.

Well....Shit.

I don't make a lot of friends on the basketball court. Back in my younger days, I was a bit of a punk. I never started any shit, but my problem is I can't keep my mouth shut when someone else is being a dick. Whether or not I'm involved in the play is irrelevant- if I see something I don't agree with, I have huge problems keeping quiet about it. Maybe the Stephen Jackson to someone else's Ron Artest? That's about the best comparison I can make. I'm not starting the brawl, but I'm gonna get involved, and it's not gonna be as the role of peacemaker.

(Side note: it's kinda bizarre that I'm like this on the basketball court. In real life, I'm a huuuuge peacemaker. With some of my friends having bigger mouths than I do, and knowing my personal inability to take a punch without crying, I've talked us out of more fights than I can count. I've broken up more fights than the Jersey Shore camera crew. So the fact that I'm such a dick on the court eludes me.)

Over the last few years, I've mellowed considerably. Just to be clear, we're talking player-player interactions here, not player-ref. Though I have improved, these city league refs drive me to the occasional technical foul...although anybody on my team will tell you I get a raw deal, compared to what other, bigger, scarier players do that goes unpunished...I'm getting off-topic here.

Partly because I'm getting older and, one would hope, more mature; and partly because I'm nowhere near my old skill level, and thus can't back up my talk with my play as well anymore, I'm pretty quiet on the court. Nowadays, a player on another team has got to be a pretty big dickhead for me to say anything to him.

So last Sunday night, I'm playing pickup ball in a church near my house (maybe another reason I've mellowed a bit, all our pickup ball in Lawrence takes place in various Houses of the Lord) and right away, me and this guy are having issues. We start out the night on the same team, and he's the typical 45-year-old guy trying to play point guard, directing traffic, and playing coach on the floor. He threw a pass five feet over my head, then gave me a look for not catching it. I hit my first five shots, scored over half our team's points, got us to within game point, then missed a game-winning three-pointer and he admonished me for not "keeping the ball moving."

Later in the night, we found ourselves guarding each other, and soon we were banging down in the low post and getting after each other pretty hard (NO HOMO.) Things got a little chippy, he's chirping a little bit, and I kept quiet as long as possible. Finally one play, I'm posting him up, he goes right through me to deflect a pass, I call a foul, he starts telling me I made a bad call, and I give him a big eye roll and a "Yeah, whatever you say, dude. That was awesome defense, you totally know what you're talking about." Just treating him like any other middle-aged man off the street, playing YMCA ball with the other hackers.

And it went on from there. Really not a big deal in the grand scheme of things; it's not like we were throwing punches, or even raising our voices or anything. Two reasons why it was noteworthy:

First, towards the end of the night, he tried to make amends. As a new game was about to start, and we found ourselves guarding each other again, he gave me a little friend punch on the shoulder and jokingly said, "Ahhh man, I have to guard this guy again? This is terrible, he's been torching me all night." Now. 95% of the time, if a guy and me have been having issues during pickup ball, a line like this is all it takes to squash the beef. I don't want to make enemies, I can leave it on the court. One joke is enough for me to know we're cool. For whatever reason, that night I made the conscious decision in my head to say "Nah, fuck this guy, I'm not buying this shit." I stared straight ahead, didn't acknowledge the dap, and completely ignored the comment. Really weird behavior on my part, and I still don't know why I did it.

Second, I got an email this morning from another guy who was playing ball that night, just telling me it was good to see me since I hadn't played in a few months, and at the end of it he casually mentioned "You know who that guy was that you were bumping with, right?"

Um, no, not really. Should I?

Kevin Pritchard. As in, former starting guard for the 1988 National Champion Kansas Jayhawks Kevin Pritchard. As in, former 2nd round NBA draft pick, six-year NBA veteran Kevin Pritchard. As in, former Portland Trail Blazers General Manager Kevin Pritchard. As in, GUY WHOSE ASS I SHOULD HAVE BEEN KISSING THE ENTIRE TIME I'M GUARDING HIM BECAUSE WHO KNOWS WHAT KIND OF CONNECTIONS I COULD BE MAKING OR WHAT KIND OF TICKETS I COULD BE GETTING IF, INSTEAD OF BEING A LITTLE BITCH, I JUST TALK BASKETBALL AND WOW HIM WITH MY PERSONALITY AND BASKETBALL I.Q. KEVIN PRITCHARD.

Kevin Pritchard.

FML.




And then, the little shithead goes, "That was awesome defense. You totally know what you're talking about." Are you kidding me? Like I don't know what good defense is? Like I didn't help revolutionize advanced defensive metrics? Like I haven't been watching game tape since he was pooping in his diapers? For shit's sake, I'm watching NBA players scrimmage right now. Who the hell does this kid with the headband think he's talking to?"

Cocking Off, As Related To Beanbags And Duke Basketball

Ok so before I write a post based partly upon how I don't usually like to brag too much, allow me to brag for a minute here, purely for background information: I'm really good at beanbags. Gangel and I held the boards at the College World Series for hours, before I finally gave up my spot to Addy since I just wanted to sit down for awhile. I once held court at a KU football tailgate for about 25 games in a row, and my partner was a 21-year-old Asian chick who had never even seen the game before (that was one of my all-time favorite "sports" accomplishments, since there were around 100 people watching that tournament, and our competition was fierce.) We have bags tourneys at almost all our tailgates and/or BBQ parties here in Lawrence, and I've NEVER lost a tourney, no matter who my partner is (I've lost three individual games, but never a double-elim tournament, so my record is probably somewhere around 125-3.)

For the most part, I was pretty quiet when I played. It's a gentleman's game, and besides a few comments here and there (and almost always in response to someone else's verbal jab) I mostly just make my shots and concentrate on complimenting my partner/coming up with elaborate handshakes with said partner. Team chemistry goes a long way in bags.

At our tailgates/BBQs, we always set up what we call "Heckler's Row", which is basically a line of 15ish lawn chairs right next to the bags game, so we can all properly talk shit to whomever is throwing in the current game. And because my streak of tourney wins has lasted over three years now, my games always attract a large crowd, full of nonstop heckling, pretty much all directed my way, simply for the fact that I win all the time (I was partners with Tara a few weeks ago, a girl who is relatively new to the group, and my friends actually pulled her aside to make sure she knew that her team was going to get booed a lot, but none of it was directed at her, so not to get bent out of shape about it. Naturally, even though she had never played bags before, we rolled through the tourney.)

So I started calling myself the Duke basketball of beanbags, since I'm hated simply for being good at what I do. This understandably infuriated my friends (in a funny way, I don't want to give the impression that we're having fights or anything here) and now they mockingly call me Coach K and cheer against me even harder. I read something from Simmons back when JJ Redick was the best shooter/biggest cockbag in college basketball, and it said something like "if JJ Redick was named James Redick and played for Indiana and not Duke, he'd be the most popular player in the country." This theory was proven correct this last year, when Jimmer Fridette, from BYU, became the most popular player of the last few years for doing the same things Redick did five years earlier. Granted, Jimmer was about 1/10th as cocky as Redick, but I also believe that if people wouldn't have hated Redick from the beginning (for going to Duke and being an amazing shooter) then he wouldn't have turned into such a dick.




I say this because it's currently happening to me. I started out polite and deferential. Amongst my friends, I've incorporated the hats-off, 18th-hole handshake that pro golfers do into beanbags, Golden Tee, and everything else where there's competition, in order to promote good sportsmanship. But I got mercilessly heckled for being good at bags. So now, I've embraced being the bad guy (something the Miami Heat should've done from the start last year.) And now I'm not just beating everyone, I'm letting them know I'm doing it before, during, and after the beating. And it's awesome.

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This is unrelated, but I guess sort of relevant, if we're talking about cocking off. My buddies enjoy watching sporting events with me when I've gambled on them, because I get, shall we say, animated, during big plays-- both good and bad. So there was plenty of laughter at my expense last week, after there was a stretch of about 15 minutes when all the games were going my way, capped off by the Seahawks scoring a touchdown to get within the spread, and me leaping off the couch and exclaiming "Everything's coming up Hammen!" Almost immediately, the 49ers took the ensuing kickoff back for a touchdown and I eventually lost the bet. The Gambling Gods HATE bragging, apparently even if it's in the form of a Simpsons reference.

Things That Used To Be Awesome. Volume 2.

Donruss Diamond Kings. The coolest baseball cards ever. For my money, it doesn't get better than the 1989 Chris Sabo. And now that I think about it, I'm not just restricting that sentence to baseball cards. There are few things, in all walks of life, that are/were cooler than Sabes in '89.

Brother loves to make fun of me for the hundreds (thousands?) of baseball, football, basketball, and even some hockey cards stacked in my old bedroom at my parents' house, saying it was a gigantic waste of money (between cards, Starting Lineups, and video games, I'm positive I didn't spend a dollar of my own money on anything else until I was 23.)

But I disagree. That's my childhood there. Cleaning the entire Bergman house top to bottom, splitting 7 dollars three ways, then walking over to Gold & Silver to haggle with Mr. Nelson over the Kenny Lofton rookie card on the top shelf of his rotisserie case. Getting dropped off at Sports Emporium in South Forks Plaza so we could shuffle through every "4 for a dollar" rack in the place, buy as many as possible, then hide the rest in the walls of the store so nobody else could get them before we returned with more allowance. Haggling over trades for days, until either a fight breaks out, or finally one side caves in and accepts the conditions. I loved it.

And the old Donruss Diamond Kings were the coolest. When I was scrolling through the google images, I was getting hit with pangs of nostalgia everywhere. Like if someone tipped over a beehive in my office, and I was covered in honey, and maybe the beehive was shaken up before it was tipped over, so the bees were super pissed...but they were nostalgia bees, so instead of a painful stinger, I got little nostalgia bites all over my body. But I'm not allergic to the nostalgia bees or anything, so my body didn't puff up all weird and I didn't have to go to the hospital. You get it.

Here were some of my favorites:



Rickey Henderson- looking about as cocky/retarded as you would expect him to be.



Jesse Orosco- almost definitely a serial killer. Registered sex offender, minimum.



Tim Raines- they never should have got rid of those old Expos unis. So baller.



Bobby Bonilla- when I was a kid, inexplicably one of my favorite players. By all accounts, he was a prick. He was probably the most overpaid player in the sport. I kinda hated the Pirates and Mets. But yet, I loved him. The moral: never underestimate the weight a sweet nickname carries with an 8 year old. Bobby Bo!

Dan Gladden- if I was a Twins fan, he'd be my all-time favorite for sure. Champion mullet-stache combo.

Darryl Strawberry- You don't have to worry about putting a good curve in your brim when you're high all the time. GANGSTA, son.



OK I seriously have to stop. The collection of illustrated 'staches, rapist beards, jheri curls and old-school unis are almost too much for me. Don't go google imaging Donruss Diamond Kings unless you have at least 35 minutes to spare. Fo' reals.

9/11, Football Football Football, Chicago Jim

Ten years since 9/11 already....damn.

I always feel a little guilty about 9/11, because of my initial ignorance of the situation. I was a freshman in college, living in the dorms, and routinely slept until the last possible minute until class started. Occasionally I would wake up earlier, roll over to Paul's side of the bed and ask him if he wanted to get any breakfast at Wilkerson, but mostly I just went straight to class.

And so it was that morning. I went directly to class without even 5 minutes of SportsCenter, and our lecture hall was buzzing as I took my seat. The professor showed up looking disheveled, said something quickly to the effect of "Well, I suppose by now you've heard. Obviously, class is cancelled. I suggest you all get back and turn on the news." And that was it. No details. So immediately I was excited-- I never imagined it was anything serious. I practically skipped back to Walsh Hall. My day was now wide-open, and full of options. When I crack my first beer this morning, do I put in Office Space or Big Lebowski? Do I go back to bed, and wait until lunch to start drinking? Is the slushee machine up and running this early in the morning? I could go for a Slodka. How quickly could we organize an early-afternoon game of beer pong?

It wasn't until I got back to my room and actually turned on the TV that I found out what was up (and I probably would've been a couple more hours behind if I hadn't turned on ESPN before putting in a DVD.) What was worse was that Paul's dad, Rod the Bod, was scheduled to be at the Pentagon that day. Everything turned out OK (for Rod) but it was a crazy, awful day for New Yorkers and our country. So every time I think of 9/11, I have that quick little twinge of guilt, thinking of the 15-minute span where all I cared about was having a day off of classes, not even giving a second thought to the possibility that there was a very serious reason why we received the day off.

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Because you care so much, I'm pretty happy with my fantasy team. I wasn't going to play this year because all I do is bitch about my bad luck every year and never enjoy wins, but I got talked into it and so here we are. I got Jamaal Charles and LeGarrette Blount at RB; Megatron, Steve Johnson, and Manningham at WR; Big Ben fell into my lap; and I've got some good trade bait on the bench (Stafford, Julio Jones, and once Arian Foster gets hurt for good, I'm gonna hold Bergman over the barrel to get Ben Tate from me .) So yayyyy Fantasy Football!

But what I really care about is the gambling. After the Packers made me look awesome last year, covered a game for me in preseason, and again covered on Thursday night, they are now officially in "shoot 'til you miss" mode for me. My over/under bets for wins this year look like this:

Steelers over 10.5- I'm hoping to cover this by week 14 with their easy schedule.

Eagles over 10.5- one of those that might not be a good money bet, but I don't care. They have too much talent for this not to happen. If they don't get to 11 wins in that division, I'll just tip my hat to the Gambling Gods.

Dolphins under 7.5- I also hope to cover this by week 14.

Buccaneers under 8.5- I feel worse about this bet every day. If I had the option to cancel this bet I think I would take it. I got hung up on their tougher schedule and tougher division this year, but failed to take into account a bunch of young guys all getting one year better.

Giants under 9.5- probably my lock of the year.

Rams over 7.5- I've always hated the Rams since they beat my Titans in the Super Bowl, but I'm all in on them this year. My Sam Bradford Fathead is currently being shipped.

Side note: back when Bradford played at Oklahoma, Lane once described him as "a slightly retarded-looking version of Bergman." I laughed for about 20 minutes at that, and ever since, have struggled to take him seriously (Bradford, not Lane. I've never taken Lane seriously.) Little scary to be financially invested in a guy who looks like Bergman after about 18 beers and two concussions.

And for those of you who know Bergman, the comparison is pretty true.

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A couple months ago we went to a Cubs/Royals game, and while tailgating we discovered a stranger we quickly dubbed "Chicago Jim." Nelle and Meg were the first ones to spot him, and when they pointed him out to me, I literally did a triple take. It was creepy. So we made a bunch of jokes about it, blah blah blah, then when we saw him again after the game, and were drunk enough to approach him, I had to take a picture with him. I finally saw the picture for the first time last week, and I have to admit I'm a little disappointed. I think you have to see him from the side or something, to really capture the full Chicago Jim effect, with our bent Chris Dudley noses and all (plus this picture will be smaller because of blogger, it looks better on Facebook when it's blown-up.) And it's not just the booze talking, we saw him right when we were setting up the tailgate, so we were sober. Without further ado, Chicago Jim and I:



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Now I'm going to watch football for the next ten hours. Does it get any better than NFL opening Sunday?

End Of An Era

Monday, September 5, 2011. Approximately 1:35 Central time. That's when my world as presently constructed fell apart. That was when I pulled into a parking slot at Sonic and casually ordered a mayo cheeseburger with no tomatoes, and two frito chili cheese wraps, like I have countless times before. Then I heard the nine words that ruined my day and will no doubt change my life going forward:

"Frito chili cheese wraps? We don't carry those anymore."

What? WHAT?!?!

I didn't even try to hide my dismay; I slumped forward against the steering wheel and let out an anguished moan into the loudspeaker. After a few seconds, I gathered myself and started trying to figure out how I could still get my chili cheese wrap fix. The bargaining stage of grief, I guess you could say. Were there any fritos left in the back that you would be willing to bust out for me? No. Not any? I swear I don't care how old they are. No. Could you take your chili cheese tots and wrap them in a burrito for me? No. Would you just make it a chili cheese wrap, without fritos or tots or anything else in it? No. I told them thanks anyway, put my car in reverse, and sadly backed out and drove off, likely never to return again.

And so ends the torrid love affair between Sonic and I. It began the very first day I moved to Lawrence, when we gorged ourselves immediately after moving in all our stuff in 110 degree heat. It was my first ever Sonic experience (we don't have them in North Dakota) and needless to say, it was a good one. I was like a confused 17-year-old who innocently enough tries cocaine at a party one time, and by the next morning is a full-on junkie. There was a Sonic next door to my apartment complex, and across the street from my job, and as a result, for the first two years I lived in Lawrence, the longest I went without having Sonic was 11 days. It has tapered off somewhat in the last couple years, but you could still definitely classify the amount of Sonic that I eat as "unhealthy."

But without the frito chili cheese wraps, it all stops for me. That was my go-to. While the burgers are pretty awesome, and 44 oz. Strawberry Limeades are the bees' knees, very little else on the menu is enjoyable for me. The frito chili cheese wraps were like the Big Lebowski's rug-- they tied the meal together for me.

And I know that some menu items aren't meant to be caged...their taste is just too delicious. And when they're removed from the menu, the part that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice. But still, your stomach is that much more drab and empty when they're gone. I guess I just miss my friend.

You're Too Stupid To Have A Good Time

In case you hadn't heard (and you probably hadn't, unless you're somebody I've talked to personally in the past ten days, or a member of the Morningstar family) my boy Brady Morningstar signed with a team in Greece, and now will be getting paid actual money to play professional basketball. I don't have much to add here, just that it's pretty awesome. Definitely not something that many people thought possible as recently as seven months ago.


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Book recommendation: 'In Broad Daylight' by Harry MacLean. It's the true story of Ken McElroy, who was like the real-life version of Wesley, the bad guy from Roadhouse. He terrorizes the small town of Skidmore, Missouri for years, until finally a bunch of guys gun him down in the street, with dozens of witnesses, and the whole town collectively shrugs its shoulders and says "Meh, I didn't see nothin."

(It's badass, but still not quite as badass as Roadhouse, where Swayze gets in a fight with Wesley's right-hand man, rips his throat out with one hand, screams "Wesleyyyyyyyyyyy!" in the direction of his mansion, then returns the next day, beats Wesley up but decides not to rip his throat out, and then some townspeople show up, shoot him, shrug their shoulders, and say "Meh, we didn't see nothin.")

ANYWAY (I need to stop now or else I'll write 1,500 words on Roadhouse before I even know what's happened) 'In Broad Daylight' is a great read, as long as you're prepared to be awake at almost 3 in the morning, unable to put the book down or sleep, because you're almost shaking in rage at the shenanigans that McElroy pulled on this town before they finally gave him the Wesley treatment.

....But seriously, he TEARS HIS THROAT OUT! It's like Swayze is a Mortal Kombat character and he has a sweet finishing move. Is this the best fight scene of all time? Most likely. You know how Grantland has been doing those columns where they write either a sentence or a few paragraphs on their favorite youtube videos? I could write a thesis paper on this one.


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Wanna hear one of the best stories I've heard in 2011? Of course you do. My friend Amber's little brother Josh, who from some of the things I've heard over the years, is pretty much a hero amongst men, was out on a date with a lady. Sometime during dinner, he said "Smalls, you forgot to round second base!" That comment went over her head. Later on, he referenced Wendy Peffercorn, which again failed to draw a reaction. He then asked, "Have you ever even seen The Sandlot?" When she replied that she hadn't, he calmly stood up, put some money on the table, politely said "Thank you for a lovely evening" and walked out the door.

Seriously, hero amongst men.


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Have a good holiday weekend.