Back in our college days, during the heyday of Culligan Manor, Fundy used to rip on Paul and I for having steady girlfriends. He played it off as us being suckers for being tied down when we were apparently supposed to be out banging randoms by the truckload, but really it was because he couldn't talk to girls unless he was hammered. If The Big Bang Theory existed back in 2002, his nickname today definitely wouldn't be Fundy, it would be Raj. If his house was on fire, and a female answered 911, he'd have to hang up and call back until a guy answered the phone. Then he met Smapes at a party, sparks flew, emotions ran high, and whammo! Fundy had himself a serious girlfriend and joined the rest of us "suckers."
And now, one week from tomorrow, he and Smapes will be walking down the aisle together. I've gotta say, I'm proud of our boy. We've come a long way from high school, when Fundy called up Breezy and asked her to Prom like this (picture Ike and I literally rolling on the floor in laughter as this conversation is going on):
~Fundy dials the number, Breezy answers and presumably says "Hello?"
"WHADDYADOIN?"
~pause~
"OH.YOUWANNAGOPROM?"
~
"PROM?YOUWANNAGOPROMWITHME?"
~
"COOL.OKIGOTTAGO,GOTTAGOBASEBALL!"
~
"IGOTTAGOBASEBALL!!!"
~click~
And a catchphrase was born; one that we still use to this day. I gotta believe that if Fundy could do it all over again, he would've made that phone call in private. But I'm so, so glad he didn't.
***************
Here are some things I thought would happen before we actually saw Fundy get married:
- Tupac resurfaces after faking his own death.
- The Rapture.
- A Y3K scare.
- The Chicago Cubs win a World Series.
- World War III.
- Channing Tatum stars in a movie that doesn't make me want to punch him in the face (Dammit, that's a lie, it already happened. 21 Jump Street was kinda awesome. At least he went right back to being a toolshed with Magic Mike-- although I'm sure most girls, including my fiancee, would disagree with that statement.)
- Coach K is revealed to be a robot.
- Time travel is invented-- shenanigans, mostly of the Michael J. Fox variety, ensue.
- A female President.
- That one thing that Meatloaf won't do for love....he does it.
- World War IV.
- Rick Astley gives you up. He lets you down. He runs around, and deserts you. He makes you cry, he says goodbye. He tells a lie, and hurts you.
***************
Later, skaters. Off to North Dakota to golf, see the entire side of my mom's family for the first time in 15 years, play dollar blackjack, eat at Red Pepper an obscene amount of times, and watch Fundy and Smapes tie the knot. ("Huh? A knot? Ehhh, you better...KNOT mention that again, you cocksuckers." Classic. Let's end on that note.)
Friday, August 31, 2012
Monday, August 27, 2012
Wait, They Traded WHO?!?!
Regarding my favorite sports teams, Easy E and Fundy are constantly blowing me up with fake trades, injuries, suspensions, run-ins with the law....you name it, and they've tried to make me believe it happened. Brandon Rush got caught with a prostitute. Phil Mickelson tore both ACLs while pulling somebody out of a burning car. Chris Johnson got arrested with 50 kilos in the trunk. Steve McNair was killed in a murder-suicide by his mistress (Oh wait, that one was real? Too soon?) With them, no lie is too much of a stretch.
So on Friday evening, I had just finished a round of golf and I was enjoying some beers on the country club patio with Hendo, Matty P, Blaine, Ben, and Wardo. I had been off the grid for awhile, but earlier that afternoon, the last I had heard was that the Dodgers had put in a waiver claim on Adrian Gonzalez, so there may have been some trade talks going on. So when those two idiots called me and were yelling over each other that the Red Sox were trying to trade Adrian Gonzalez AND Carl Crawford AND Josh Beckett AND Nick Punto in one fell swoop, can you really blame me for telling them to STFU, and asking Easy E if he actually knows how the waiver wire works? My Kansas buddies overheard my phone conversation, and we all had a good laugh at my moron North Dakota friends and their drunken shenanigans. Three things in my defense:
1. Easy E doesn't, in fact, know how the waiver wire works.
2. It was Fundy's bachelor party weekend, so I was already on DEFCON 2 alert that these guys would be screwing with me somehow via drunk phone calls.
3. This is probably the single most ridiculous, completely-out-of-nowhere trade in baseball history.
I told Easy E and Fundy I owed them an apology for berating them in front of my friends when I turned out to be wrong, so here it is. (Even though I'm pretty sure the Boy Who Cried Wolf didn't get an apology from the townspeople, he just got his flock of sheep eaten by a fucking wolf).
Now, as far as the actual trade is concerned: I'm trying to talk myself into it. No matter how bad Beckett has sucked for the past year, no matter how much beer and fried chicken he consumed in the clubhouse during last year's collapse, no matter how many rounds of golf he played during the season ("My off days are my off days!")....I can't get on board with trading him. He is most likely my all-time favorite pitcher-- the only possible competition being Roger Clemens when I was six years old, but I mostly loved him because I had a strange obsession with the letter R when I was really young. My favorite ninja turtle was Raphael; my imaginary friend's name was Roger Sanchelly; I strolled around wearing a yellow baseball hat with nothing but the letter 'R' on it....the whole thing was kinda weird. But yet I digress. Bottom line, I hate that my boy Beckett got shipped out. Remember in the 2007 ALCS, when Cleveland brought in Beckett's ex-girlfriend to sing the national anthem before Game 5 with the Sox down 3-1 in the series, and he sat there and smirked and nodded during the whole performance, like OK, fuckers, I see what you're doing here, then came out and struck out like 12 dudes and completely shut the Indians down, and the Sox went on to win the series? Beckett has plenty of spite in his tank, and he's going to empty it out now.
As far as Gonzalez and Crawford, you just know those two are going to blow up for the Dodgers (while Crawford is injured until next year, Gonzo already started with a three-run donger in his first at-bat.) For whatever reason, the Sox are great at knowing when to let a player walk in free agency, letting another team throw big money at the guy right before his skills start to erode (Pedro, Johnny Damon, Jason Bay, etc.) But when the Sox trade somebody....heads up, it's about to start raining baseballs in the bleachers (Manny, Youkilis, Josh Reddick, etc.)
In summation: it's never bad to shed $260 million in salaries, and the prospects the Sox got in return from the Dodgers sound pretty legit (Rubby!) and clearly the team needed some kind of new direction here....but I can't lie and say that I'm happy about this deal. What a mess the last 12 months have been for Red Sox Nation.
Last thought: as I've been saying for about a year BEFORE he retired: make Jason Varitek the manager!
So on Friday evening, I had just finished a round of golf and I was enjoying some beers on the country club patio with Hendo, Matty P, Blaine, Ben, and Wardo. I had been off the grid for awhile, but earlier that afternoon, the last I had heard was that the Dodgers had put in a waiver claim on Adrian Gonzalez, so there may have been some trade talks going on. So when those two idiots called me and were yelling over each other that the Red Sox were trying to trade Adrian Gonzalez AND Carl Crawford AND Josh Beckett AND Nick Punto in one fell swoop, can you really blame me for telling them to STFU, and asking Easy E if he actually knows how the waiver wire works? My Kansas buddies overheard my phone conversation, and we all had a good laugh at my moron North Dakota friends and their drunken shenanigans. Three things in my defense:
1. Easy E doesn't, in fact, know how the waiver wire works.
2. It was Fundy's bachelor party weekend, so I was already on DEFCON 2 alert that these guys would be screwing with me somehow via drunk phone calls.
3. This is probably the single most ridiculous, completely-out-of-nowhere trade in baseball history.
I told Easy E and Fundy I owed them an apology for berating them in front of my friends when I turned out to be wrong, so here it is. (Even though I'm pretty sure the Boy Who Cried Wolf didn't get an apology from the townspeople, he just got his flock of sheep eaten by a fucking wolf).
Now, as far as the actual trade is concerned: I'm trying to talk myself into it. No matter how bad Beckett has sucked for the past year, no matter how much beer and fried chicken he consumed in the clubhouse during last year's collapse, no matter how many rounds of golf he played during the season ("My off days are my off days!")....I can't get on board with trading him. He is most likely my all-time favorite pitcher-- the only possible competition being Roger Clemens when I was six years old, but I mostly loved him because I had a strange obsession with the letter R when I was really young. My favorite ninja turtle was Raphael; my imaginary friend's name was Roger Sanchelly; I strolled around wearing a yellow baseball hat with nothing but the letter 'R' on it....the whole thing was kinda weird. But yet I digress. Bottom line, I hate that my boy Beckett got shipped out. Remember in the 2007 ALCS, when Cleveland brought in Beckett's ex-girlfriend to sing the national anthem before Game 5 with the Sox down 3-1 in the series, and he sat there and smirked and nodded during the whole performance, like OK, fuckers, I see what you're doing here, then came out and struck out like 12 dudes and completely shut the Indians down, and the Sox went on to win the series? Beckett has plenty of spite in his tank, and he's going to empty it out now.
As far as Gonzalez and Crawford, you just know those two are going to blow up for the Dodgers (while Crawford is injured until next year, Gonzo already started with a three-run donger in his first at-bat.) For whatever reason, the Sox are great at knowing when to let a player walk in free agency, letting another team throw big money at the guy right before his skills start to erode (Pedro, Johnny Damon, Jason Bay, etc.) But when the Sox trade somebody....heads up, it's about to start raining baseballs in the bleachers (Manny, Youkilis, Josh Reddick, etc.)
In summation: it's never bad to shed $260 million in salaries, and the prospects the Sox got in return from the Dodgers sound pretty legit (Rubby!) and clearly the team needed some kind of new direction here....but I can't lie and say that I'm happy about this deal. What a mess the last 12 months have been for Red Sox Nation.
Last thought: as I've been saying for about a year BEFORE he retired: make Jason Varitek the manager!
Thursday, August 23, 2012
"And We're Baaaaaaaack!"
We're coming up on four years now since ChewGate, and I have still stuck with just chewing pouches, as opposed to the "real" thing. I think it tastes better; I like that I can put one in or spit one out and not worry about if I have a bunch of shit in my teeth; and it's much cheaper. So much to the chagrine of some of my friends who chew the real stuff, I have stuck with pouches this entire time.
So a few weeks ago, we're attending a party in Teens' hometown, and it was a stereotypical small-town Kansas shindig. There were a lot of Southern accents, lots of pick-up trucks parked on the street, and lots of country music being blasted over a beer pong game being played on an old door. Real hootin' and hollerin' type stuff. I only knew three people at the party, so it was one of those nights where you just gotta shrug your shoulders and say "Welp, time to get drunk and make some new friends." Somehow I ended up getting accepted into the toughest crowd at the party. I don't know what they liked the most: if it was my pearl-snap button-down shirt, or gelled-up hair (I had a PERFECT gel job going that night, bro), or biceps the size of a 14-year-old who got cut from the 160-pound weight class on the wrestling team.....but apparently they liked having me around. Sorta like a jester or something. Or maybe I was like Spider in Goodfellas. And we all know how that ended.
In any event, pretty soon we're sitting around a table, playing cards, and talking about stomping the shit out of the random guys from down the street who showed up uninvited to steal beer out of the keg (naturally). I pull out my tin to throw in a Dufner**, much to the approval of the dudes in the group. Subtle glances are exchanged; affirmative headnods are directed my way. My small-town Kansas swag couldn't be any more through the roof. Then, one of the GIRLS across the table asks me to bum a chew. I shake off my surprise (I mean, if she can talk about throwin' some 'bows at the dudes down the street for stealing beer and doing coke in the living room, she can handle a lipper, right?) and slide my tin across the table. She picks it up, makes a disgusted face, and snarls,
"Oh....you chew POUCHES?....nevermind."
Boom. Roasted. In front of all my new tough-guy friends and everything. My swag balloon wasn't just deflated, it was like someone took a knife to it. It popped and the remains flew out of the garage and down the street to the random guys' house-- where now I surely wouldn't be invited anymore when we stormed down the street to stomp them. Not me and my pouches. Maybe the most emasculating moment of my life. I can handle getting ripped on by my buddies all the time for still chewing pouches, but having a girl call me out in front of an entire garage full of tattooed, jean-short wearin', switch-blade carryin', baby-mama havin' Kansans? Ouch.
***************
**I like to call individual chews different names, depending upon the occasion. For instance, if I'm putting in a chew on the 4th of July, I might call it a Thomas Jefferson. If it's during Christmas break, maybe it's an Ebenezer Scrooge. Etc. etc. etc. On a golf course, it's called a Dufner, in honor of Jason Dufner, who has become my hero (don't worry Phil, I still love you more) because during tournaments on TV, he constantly has a sold-out lower deck in his mouth stadium. You know the CBS producers can't be a fan of that, but Dufner don't give a FUCK. And here's his Twitter profile picture:
As a result of his awesomeness, I've taken to calling chews 'Dufners' even when I'm not golfing. Jason Dufner, American hero.
Just don't tell him I only chew pouches....
So a few weeks ago, we're attending a party in Teens' hometown, and it was a stereotypical small-town Kansas shindig. There were a lot of Southern accents, lots of pick-up trucks parked on the street, and lots of country music being blasted over a beer pong game being played on an old door. Real hootin' and hollerin' type stuff. I only knew three people at the party, so it was one of those nights where you just gotta shrug your shoulders and say "Welp, time to get drunk and make some new friends." Somehow I ended up getting accepted into the toughest crowd at the party. I don't know what they liked the most: if it was my pearl-snap button-down shirt, or gelled-up hair (I had a PERFECT gel job going that night, bro), or biceps the size of a 14-year-old who got cut from the 160-pound weight class on the wrestling team.....but apparently they liked having me around. Sorta like a jester or something. Or maybe I was like Spider in Goodfellas. And we all know how that ended.
In any event, pretty soon we're sitting around a table, playing cards, and talking about stomping the shit out of the random guys from down the street who showed up uninvited to steal beer out of the keg (naturally). I pull out my tin to throw in a Dufner**, much to the approval of the dudes in the group. Subtle glances are exchanged; affirmative headnods are directed my way. My small-town Kansas swag couldn't be any more through the roof. Then, one of the GIRLS across the table asks me to bum a chew. I shake off my surprise (I mean, if she can talk about throwin' some 'bows at the dudes down the street for stealing beer and doing coke in the living room, she can handle a lipper, right?) and slide my tin across the table. She picks it up, makes a disgusted face, and snarls,
"Oh....you chew POUCHES?....nevermind."
Boom. Roasted. In front of all my new tough-guy friends and everything. My swag balloon wasn't just deflated, it was like someone took a knife to it. It popped and the remains flew out of the garage and down the street to the random guys' house-- where now I surely wouldn't be invited anymore when we stormed down the street to stomp them. Not me and my pouches. Maybe the most emasculating moment of my life. I can handle getting ripped on by my buddies all the time for still chewing pouches, but having a girl call me out in front of an entire garage full of tattooed, jean-short wearin', switch-blade carryin', baby-mama havin' Kansans? Ouch.
***************
**I like to call individual chews different names, depending upon the occasion. For instance, if I'm putting in a chew on the 4th of July, I might call it a Thomas Jefferson. If it's during Christmas break, maybe it's an Ebenezer Scrooge. Etc. etc. etc. On a golf course, it's called a Dufner, in honor of Jason Dufner, who has become my hero (don't worry Phil, I still love you more) because during tournaments on TV, he constantly has a sold-out lower deck in his mouth stadium. You know the CBS producers can't be a fan of that, but Dufner don't give a FUCK. And here's his Twitter profile picture:
As a result of his awesomeness, I've taken to calling chews 'Dufners' even when I'm not golfing. Jason Dufner, American hero.
Just don't tell him I only chew pouches....
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Don't Call It A Comeback, I've Been Here For Years
Yes, I'm going to blog again from time to time, I'm not dead or anything. Thanks for all the support from my friends during this hiatus. (By "support", I mean texts/emails that say something to the effect of "Dude, get off your ass and blog once in awhile, you're such a homo" and things of that nature.)
In the meantime, enjoy some clips of Workaholics, a show that has been a hot-button argument amongst some of my friends and I lately. Teens and I are in love with it-- personally, I think it's one of the funniest shows I've ever watched....but Steph and Jared think it's the dumbest show in the history of television, and that you are an idiot if you watch it. So suffice it so say that the lines are drawn. For the record, I can see how some people might not like this show. It's definitely not a smart or subtle comedy. Nobody will ever confuse it for Arrested Development or anything. But I still nearly pee my pants laughing at least twice per episode, so there's something to be said for that, methinks.
In the meantime, enjoy some clips of Workaholics, a show that has been a hot-button argument amongst some of my friends and I lately. Teens and I are in love with it-- personally, I think it's one of the funniest shows I've ever watched....but Steph and Jared think it's the dumbest show in the history of television, and that you are an idiot if you watch it. So suffice it so say that the lines are drawn. For the record, I can see how some people might not like this show. It's definitely not a smart or subtle comedy. Nobody will ever confuse it for Arrested Development or anything. But I still nearly pee my pants laughing at least twice per episode, so there's something to be said for that, methinks.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Back-Back-Back-GONE!
Notes from the Home Run Derby in KC last night:
- I highly, highly recommend going to a Home Run Derby if you ever get the chance. This was a bucket list sporting event for me; I was going to go regardless of price or how many people went with me. And it was expensive: $175 for upper deck seats (great upper deck seats, in the 4th row right by the left field foul pole, but upper deck nonetheless.) And I could only convince one other person to shell out the cash and go with me (big ups, Hendo.) But it was definitely worth it. Two thumbs up.
- Never have I been more proud of a group of fans than I was of the Royals fans last night, booing the shit out of Robinson Cano. And after he responded to the reception by getting SHUT OUT, it instantly became a top 10 all-time Derby moment, in my opinion. I want to see that in a few years on SportsCenter when they're counting down the greatest Derby moments or something. (Although it will never make that list, since the media has a stick up their ass about the whole thing.) Here's the deal: it wasn't this malicious act of hatred that was going on here. Everyone was laughing as they were booing. Cano promised that if a Royals player made the All-Star team, he'd pick him for the Derby. Billy Butler made it, Cano backed out of his promise, so he got his ass booed off. It was awesome. Don't really see the big deal. Boo frickity hoo, Yankees fans and national media. If it was Dustin Pedroia in that same situation, I still would've been laughing, and probably standing up in the crowd in my Red Sox gear, egging people on. Some things are just funny. (But don't tell that to the two little kids sitting in front of Matty P, who were decked out in Yankees gear and bawling their heads off during the entire Cano at-bat.)
Also, this could be unrelated, but during the celebrity softball game the day before, Bill Self got booed pretty hard (there is a surprising number of Mizzou fans in KC-- it's pretty close to 50/50 with KU fans) and he responded by going yard on his first swing. Now I'm not saying that Bill Self should be starting at second base for the Yankees or anything....but I'm not saying that he shouldn't be, either.
- A favorite pasttime of ours at tailgates and/or sporting events: the Jersey Game, where besides awarding points for spotting the most random jersey of the day, we play a game where someone shouts out a player, and the next person to spot that jersey gets a point. As the day progresses (and the alcohol flows a bit more freely) the examples get more and more ridiculous, like instead of just trying to spot the next Priest Holmes jersey, we have to find a Joe Montana 1994 Pro Bowl jersey. It's a crowd-pleasing game. ANYWAY, last night our goal was to spot a jersey/shirt/hat for all 30 teams. We ended up one short, as we never saw a single piece of Arizona Diamondbacks gear. Still a pretty good showing though. It's nice to see everyone represented, it's what All-Star Weekend is all about.
- Even though the Angels are my second-most hated team (behind the Yankees, obviously, and tied with the White Sox)...I became a fan of Mark Trumbo last night. Hendo and I were gambling (weird) and even though Trumbo was on Hendo's squad, I found myself cheering pretty hard for him. Every homer he hit was MASHED. Jolly good show, mate.
- Celebrity sightings: pretty sparse, as per usual in KC...but we did see Ryan Howard walking in the outfield plaza (Phillies first baseman, not the old temp at Dunder Mifflin) as well as John Kruk and Nomar Garciaparra getting whisked away somewhere in an ESPN golf cart as we were leaving the stadium. I got a good "No-mahhhhhhhh!!!!" yell in there. He waved politely.
- Next up on the sporting event bucket list: The Ryder Cup. Hopefully that one is getting scratched off at Medinah this September.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Glove Love
Our co-ed softball team, the Sunday Salooners, finally shut down this year. After seven straight championships (Tom Emanski AIN'T GOT SHIT ON US!) and more free championship t-shirts courtesy of the Parks & Rec department than I could possibly wear, the team finally fell broke apart. Jud moved to Chicago, James had a kid and started wavering on whether or not he wanted to play, Schulz took a summer internship, I reacted to Jud leaving like Toni Kukoc did when Michael Jordan announced his first retirement, some other teammates sorta followed my attitude, and that was pretty much that for the Salooners. Really, half the enjoyment I derived from being on a softball team was knowing that no matter what time we played, be it 6 pm, 9 pm, or anywhere in between, Jud and I would be at the ballyard promptly at 5:15 for "advanced scouting" (read: aggressively drinking beers while listening to 90's hip-hop and heckling whatever teams happened to be playing at the time.)
However, with the possibility of the Salooners starting up again in the future looking pretty slim, I've found a nice silver lining: I officially used one (ONE!) baseball glove for my entire life. My parents got it for me in 1987. It survived tee ball, Parkboard, Bambino, Babe Ruth, got a nice break where its only action was random games of "baseball catch" (which consisted mostly of Russell and I "accidentally" throwing the ball into Nikki's yard across the street since she was suntanning semi-topless) then resumed regular duty with these last seven years of softball.
And my glove was still going strong the whole time; if there was a Gold Glove award for our softball league, I would've won it for first base, no question. Mother fuckin' J.T. Snow and shit.
Should I have referenced Keith Hernandez there? I feel like you guys would take it as a Seinfeld reference, not a "Keith Hernandez won 11 straight Gold Gloves back in the day" reference. Then again, how many of you know who J.T. Snow is? Maybe I over-analyze these things.
And sure, there was the one time in 2006 when I almost cost our team a win when a routine fly ball basically exploded a hole through my glove and allowed two runs to score....and the time in 2009 where (playing first base) I took a hard throw from shortstop, caught it in my palm, and my hand bruised all the way through so I had a lump on the back of my hand.....and the dozens of jokes at my expense about how I was still wearing a glove made for elementary schoolers from everyone on the team (even the girls ripped on me).....but what I'll mainly remember are the good times.
And Nikki suntanning.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Every Day I'm Shufflin'
Since I've mostly lost the will to write, how 'bout if I just turn this blog into re-posts of random Star Wars comedy I find sprinkled throughout the internet? How does that sound? I know it wouldn't get old for me.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Good Job, Good Effort
So our tailgate at the College World Series was awesome enough to make the newspaper....but somehow, that photographer found the absolute perfect angle to completely block me behind the Jumbo Jenga. I still don't know how he did it, probably some trick in the Matrix or something. If you look closely, you can barely make out my right leg behind the board (upon further review: no you can't, since this is a picture of the actual newspaper, and not the digital one online. F word.) At the moment of this picture, I was being especially heroic, sprinting up and leaping to deflect the falling Jenga pieces before they crushed Emily's skull (while being careful not to spill my BL Smoothie). I feel like that would've made a much better picture, but whatever, maybe that's why I'm not a photographer for the Omaha Herald. What a dick.
All in all, it was another superb year of tailgating-but-not-entering-the-stadium at the College World Series. We hit up downtown Friday night, got a couple hours less sleep than I would've liked, were among the first 15 cars to arrive in Lot B in the morning, survived an early-morning monsoon for the second year in a row, met a lot of randoms and even made a few new Facebook friends out of the deal, drank for about 17 hours, crushed some Taco Bell, and even stayed awake to watch the Dream Team documentary (which was AWESOME) at 3am while battling the noise level from Gangel and Addy, who were put on a 'Dueling Banjos' type snoring-session. Big ups to the Omaha crew again, they really know how to bring it. Maybe next year we'll go inside the stadium.....???
But probably not. I'd rather sit outside and drink all day. My off-days are my off-days.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Things I Think About During Songs. Volume 5.
I am obsessed with the play count on my itunes. I'm constantly checking the top 25, top 50, top 100, etc. I love looking at all the different statistics since I got my current computer six years ago. Lord help you if you're riding in my car and you try to skip a song once it's already halfway done-- by that point it has 'earned' its play count, and needs to be played all the way through. Just total OCD behavior. I have a bunch of playlists that are songs grouped by a certain number of plays, then the playlist is titled by something relating to that number of plays. (Examples: a playlist with a bunch of songs with 25 plays is titled "Bobby Bonillas"; a playlist with a bunch of songs with 13-16 plays is titled "Lizzie McGuires"; etc. etc.)
So I love finding little oddities in the play counts. "Anna Sun" has only been on my itunes for about 16 months, but is already my 14th most played song. 'Fool in the Rain' is my favorite song of all time, but only my 22nd-most played. I only know of about six songs by The Toadies total, couldn't name a single member of their band, don't know anything else about them....and two of their songs are in my top 5 most-played. And so on.
However, I discovered this a couple of days ago, and it has to be the biggest upset in my itunes: the MC Hammer song that has the highest play count is not "U Can't Touch This" and it's not "2 Legit 2 Quit", and it's not even one of the lesser known but still popular hits like "Here Comes The Hammer" or "The Addams Family Groove".....it's "Do Not Pass Me By."
That's really effing bizarre.
So I love finding little oddities in the play counts. "Anna Sun" has only been on my itunes for about 16 months, but is already my 14th most played song. 'Fool in the Rain' is my favorite song of all time, but only my 22nd-most played. I only know of about six songs by The Toadies total, couldn't name a single member of their band, don't know anything else about them....and two of their songs are in my top 5 most-played. And so on.
However, I discovered this a couple of days ago, and it has to be the biggest upset in my itunes: the MC Hammer song that has the highest play count is not "U Can't Touch This" and it's not "2 Legit 2 Quit", and it's not even one of the lesser known but still popular hits like "Here Comes The Hammer" or "The Addams Family Groove".....it's "Do Not Pass Me By."
That's really effing bizarre.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
To Answer A Popular Question:
I had to disable comments for the time being because spammers have taken over the comments sections of blog posts from years ago, and I get an email every time a comment comes in. So I was getting like 30-40 emails a day that were either A) gibberish computer code; 2) links or advertisements for boner medicine; or D) something that looked like Easy E typed it at 4am after 19 Morgan OJ's (I knew it wasn't him, though, since he didn't finish the comment by saying 'weak sauce'.) So I'll see if sitting the next couple of plays out makes the spammers go away, then we'll try enabling comments again. Or as Lane summed it up: "So you're punishing everybody because you're too lazy to read a few emails every day. Real cool." Well put. And very true.
****************
Random thoughts, so I at least kill more than just 30 seconds of your work day today:
>> The Avengers was a pretty kick-ass movie, even though the only character's movie I had seen prior was Iron Man. Still pretty awesome. However, the best random part was at the very end of the movie, in the obligatory "let's show a quick clip of the news to tell the audience how the public is reacting to the aftermath of the battle between superheros and other-worldy monsters that completely obliterated Manhattan" scene. And who was the government figure giving his monologue? Mr. James Eckhouse, aka Jim Walsh from Beverly Hills, 90210. Teens and I nearly jumped out of our seats and yelled at each other in unison: "Jimbo Walsh!!!" which I'm sure went over well with the other moviegoers. I'm sure you had to be there, but it was awesome. So now I've seen Jimbo Walsh in exactly four things in my life: in a 15-second speaking role in The Avengers, as a background guy on vacation when Tom Cruise is bartending in Jamaica in Cocktail, as Eddie Murphy's jail cell guard in Trading Places....and as one of the greatest TV dads in history in 90210. What a career. What a guy. Jimbo Fucking Walsh.
Here's Jimbo giving Tom Cruise his best "Yo, Jerry Maguire, I could use a fresh marg down here, I'm about to close on this broad in the two-piece, but I need a couple more to seal the deal, so let's keep them fucking coming, Top Gun" look. Basically putting on an acting clinic, like usual. Some people don't need to have lines to impact a movie.
>> During Game 5 the other night, I took the next step in my Oklahoma City Thunder bandwagon jumping, a process that has been ongoing since 2008: while watching the game in a bar, I was jumping out of my chair and yelling at the refs/pumping my fists/cursing Manu Ginobili and Tony Parker's flop show/putting up the three goggles after big three pointers/making a scene in general. I can officially say that James Harden is my favorite non-Jayhawk basketball player ever, and that I love OKC more than any other NBA team since the '99 New York Knicks. Big steps for me.
>> Who feels older: Adam Sandler, for starring in a movie in which he plays Andy Samberg's dad? Or me, for being in 5th grade when Sandler's comedy CDs were the funniest thing around? Seems like just yesterday that we had to listen in my bedroom with the volume turned way down so my parents didn't hear Sandler scream things like "Owwww, fuck me in the goat ass!" or "Pretend I'm the pizza delivery guy and watch me whack off" as we rolled on the floor in laughing hysterics. It's a toss-up, really.
Friday, June 1, 2012
Once Again, I'm An Idiot
You can file this under "I'm a Star Wars nerd" or "I constantly have awkward interactions with my co-workers", whichever you feel like.
Co-worker (who is a woman in her late 40's, just to clarify): Oh! Jum, I forgot to tell you, last Sunday I watched Star Wars!
Me, instantly excited and 100% engaged in the conversation: All six of them? NICE! I've been meaning to have a day like that, it's been too long since I've had a Star Wars day. Damn I miss those, we used to have them in college all the time.
Co-worker, confused and slightly taken aback: Well, no...not all six. What? I just watched like half an hour of the first one, I thought of you. Wait, what? All six in one day?
Me: Oh!....oh. Well yeah, I guess that makes more sense. Let's change the subject and pretend I didn't just say that.
Co-worker: Gladly.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
All I Wanted Was A Pepsi, Just One Pepsi
>> A couple years ago I introduced a lot of my boys to Aziz Ansari. I was in a prime spot on the bandwagon because of the Raaaaaaaandy! videos, and I sold a lot of tickets onto said bandwagon. Some time later, Aziz came to perform in Lawrence, and somehow I had no clue it was happening...until J-Dub texted me during the middle of the show, telling me how hilarious Aziz was in person. I was pissed. Not only did I not know Aziz was performing mere miles from my house, but the very people whose lives I had enriched by giving them Aziz all went to the show together, sans me. I raged on J-Dub that day (with a crystal clear "I'm just kidding around, but seriously you guys are dicks" kind of tone) and he never forgot it. So when Aziz came to Kansas City a couple weeks ago, he bought Christine and I tickets to come along with him and Ashlee, as atonement for the last time. His only request was that I give him props in the blog, since I blogged about what a jerkface he was the first time around. So here you go.
>> Sooo, the Anchorman sequel.....I'm gonna have to give it a whirl, but I'm a little bit scared and a little bit excited and mostly just nervous that it's not gonna be as amazing and life-changing as the first one. So it's basically just like I felt when I was about to give my second $4 handjob behind the dumpster at Taco Bell.
>> So it seems like every single Red Sox story that has broken in the last nine months is just bad news piled on top of more bad news (fried chicken and beer in the clubhouse; Francona is a pill-popper and an adulterer, let's blame the collapse on him and run him out of town; Ortiz isn't a true clubhouse leader; injuries to Ellsbury, Youk, Crawford, Bailey, Lackey-- oh wait that last one is FANTASTIC news, I feel guilty that I didn't get to chip in for Lackey's Tommy John surgery.) But there is a silver lining to the latest controversy, the "Josh Beckett played golf in between starts when he was supposed to be injured OMFG" story. Beckett, being the true dick that he is (in a good way, I say) during the press conference afterwards, refused to apologize for golfing, and multiple times during the presser repeated the line "My off-days are my off-days." I laughed when I read it, I laughed more when I heard it, and now it's ingrained in my lexicon. I look forward to beating that phrase into the ground over the next few years. I come home at 4am when I said I was just going out for a couple of Happy Hour beers...hey, my off-days are my off-days. I win 27 games of beanbags in a row, talking trash to everyone at the party, including the host's parents....my off-days are my off-days. I get refused service at a ritzy bar in Louisville because I forgot I was back-pocketing a Miller High Life when we walked in....my off days are my off days.
I love it. Just when "Sorry for partying" was starting to lose steam for me, Beckett goes ahead and drops this little gem in my lap. Thanks Joshy.
>> Sooo, the Anchorman sequel.....I'm gonna have to give it a whirl, but I'm a little bit scared and a little bit excited and mostly just nervous that it's not gonna be as amazing and life-changing as the first one. So it's basically just like I felt when I was about to give my second $4 handjob behind the dumpster at Taco Bell.
>> So it seems like every single Red Sox story that has broken in the last nine months is just bad news piled on top of more bad news (fried chicken and beer in the clubhouse; Francona is a pill-popper and an adulterer, let's blame the collapse on him and run him out of town; Ortiz isn't a true clubhouse leader; injuries to Ellsbury, Youk, Crawford, Bailey, Lackey-- oh wait that last one is FANTASTIC news, I feel guilty that I didn't get to chip in for Lackey's Tommy John surgery.) But there is a silver lining to the latest controversy, the "Josh Beckett played golf in between starts when he was supposed to be injured OMFG" story. Beckett, being the true dick that he is (in a good way, I say) during the press conference afterwards, refused to apologize for golfing, and multiple times during the presser repeated the line "My off-days are my off-days." I laughed when I read it, I laughed more when I heard it, and now it's ingrained in my lexicon. I look forward to beating that phrase into the ground over the next few years. I come home at 4am when I said I was just going out for a couple of Happy Hour beers...hey, my off-days are my off-days. I win 27 games of beanbags in a row, talking trash to everyone at the party, including the host's parents....my off-days are my off-days. I get refused service at a ritzy bar in Louisville because I forgot I was back-pocketing a Miller High Life when we walked in....my off days are my off days.
I love it. Just when "Sorry for partying" was starting to lose steam for me, Beckett goes ahead and drops this little gem in my lap. Thanks Joshy.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Hide The Money Y'all! There's Poor People 'Round!
Yes, I'll Have Another won the Kentucky Derby, and yes, I cashed a NICE check. Right around $1,100, and I owe it all to that dumb bastard Chaddy and his inability to handle his booze. My inability to lose money at the Derby is becoming ridiculous. As Fundy texted me after the race, "The rich get richer!". However, in true "Hammonds can be an insufferable know-it-all douchebag when he's drunk" fashion, I didn't get to enjoy the victory until about 10 minutes after the race....
Here's how it works in the infield at Derby: since you're in a big field with about 100,000 other people, you're only watching the horses up close for about 10 seconds as they run past you, and the rest the time you're staring at one of many jumbotrons they have set up. Depending on your angle, and the color/number combination of the horse, it's really tough to tell who is in what place sometimes. This is how it came to pass that everybody within a 50-yard radius of our group thought that #15 had won the race (I'll Have Another was #19.) There was one dude holding out, who swore up and down that #19 won. We had put fake tattoos of our horses on our forearms earlier that week, and now I was flashing mine at this guy, playing the whole "Dude, I would know if it was 19. I have a lot of money on 19. I have a fake tattoo of 19 on my arm. I WISH it was 19....trust me. It's not fucking 19 that won that race" card. If you've got drunk with me and we've had a sports argument, you know the face I was making the whole time, too. We started polling people retreating from the frontline back to their camps...EVERYBODY but this one random guy was saying the winner was #15. Then, all of a sudden, they updated the jumbotron with a different view, one that clearly listed the win, place, and show in a more prominent font size. And that's when I realized that it was indeed a 19. And that I had indeed won over a grand. And that I am indeed a douche. Although that random guy and I shared a gigantic hug right at that moment, so I'd like to think he forgave me. If not, then the 50 bucks that I gave him did the trick.
Then Tony (who had jumped on my bandwagon hard and bet even more than I did on I'll Have Another) and I spotted each other, did a running flying shoulder bump, and proceeded to act like the black people receiving reparations in the Chappelle Show sketch for the next couple hours.
And because this has been the busiest week of work in my life (maybe even worse than tax season) and all my lunch breaks have been about 12 minutes long, and because of my unwillingness to spend much time blogging at home anymore, that's about all I have time for. (I know, Easy E, it's weak sauce. Blogging, like pimpin', ain't easy.) But don't misconstrue that as nothing funny happening this year; on the contrary, this may have been my favorite year yet. Great crew, great hustle, great stories, great inside jokes, great time.
I was literally crying laughing at least five times throughout the weekend-- and almost literally crying, period, when some girl with a nose ring tore me apart during the Thursday bar crawl, when I inadvertantly walked behind the bar on my way through to the other section.
Nose ring girl: That's not the walkway, BRO.
Me: I know, that's a confusing setup...wait, wait, wait. I'm not your bro, BRO. (thanks Harold & Kumar for that comeback.)
Nose ring girl: Ohhhh....~pause to gather up her most disgusted facial expression~...YOU'RE A BRO. With your POLO, and your HAIR GEL, and your WATCH!
Me, with no absolutely no comeback, and my eyes almost welling up with tears: Ummmm, I'm gonna go back to my friends now?
The worst part is my hair is pretty short right now, my polo cost like $6 at Old Navy, and though my watch is kinda baller, I found it in a parking lot in Iowa, so what the hell? Actually that's the second worst part. The worst part is that she used one of my favorite sarcastic insults and turned it on me hard. I'm lucky Nose Ring Girl didn't see me the next day at Oaks-- now THAT'S a bro:
Here's how it works in the infield at Derby: since you're in a big field with about 100,000 other people, you're only watching the horses up close for about 10 seconds as they run past you, and the rest the time you're staring at one of many jumbotrons they have set up. Depending on your angle, and the color/number combination of the horse, it's really tough to tell who is in what place sometimes. This is how it came to pass that everybody within a 50-yard radius of our group thought that #15 had won the race (I'll Have Another was #19.) There was one dude holding out, who swore up and down that #19 won. We had put fake tattoos of our horses on our forearms earlier that week, and now I was flashing mine at this guy, playing the whole "Dude, I would know if it was 19. I have a lot of money on 19. I have a fake tattoo of 19 on my arm. I WISH it was 19....trust me. It's not fucking 19 that won that race" card. If you've got drunk with me and we've had a sports argument, you know the face I was making the whole time, too. We started polling people retreating from the frontline back to their camps...EVERYBODY but this one random guy was saying the winner was #15. Then, all of a sudden, they updated the jumbotron with a different view, one that clearly listed the win, place, and show in a more prominent font size. And that's when I realized that it was indeed a 19. And that I had indeed won over a grand. And that I am indeed a douche. Although that random guy and I shared a gigantic hug right at that moment, so I'd like to think he forgave me. If not, then the 50 bucks that I gave him did the trick.
Then Tony (who had jumped on my bandwagon hard and bet even more than I did on I'll Have Another) and I spotted each other, did a running flying shoulder bump, and proceeded to act like the black people receiving reparations in the Chappelle Show sketch for the next couple hours.
And because this has been the busiest week of work in my life (maybe even worse than tax season) and all my lunch breaks have been about 12 minutes long, and because of my unwillingness to spend much time blogging at home anymore, that's about all I have time for. (I know, Easy E, it's weak sauce. Blogging, like pimpin', ain't easy.) But don't misconstrue that as nothing funny happening this year; on the contrary, this may have been my favorite year yet. Great crew, great hustle, great stories, great inside jokes, great time.
I was literally crying laughing at least five times throughout the weekend-- and almost literally crying, period, when some girl with a nose ring tore me apart during the Thursday bar crawl, when I inadvertantly walked behind the bar on my way through to the other section.
Nose ring girl: That's not the walkway, BRO.
Me: I know, that's a confusing setup...wait, wait, wait. I'm not your bro, BRO. (thanks Harold & Kumar for that comeback.)
Nose ring girl: Ohhhh....~pause to gather up her most disgusted facial expression~...YOU'RE A BRO. With your POLO, and your HAIR GEL, and your WATCH!
Me, with no absolutely no comeback, and my eyes almost welling up with tears: Ummmm, I'm gonna go back to my friends now?
The worst part is my hair is pretty short right now, my polo cost like $6 at Old Navy, and though my watch is kinda baller, I found it in a parking lot in Iowa, so what the hell? Actually that's the second worst part. The worst part is that she used one of my favorite sarcastic insults and turned it on me hard. I'm lucky Nose Ring Girl didn't see me the next day at Oaks-- now THAT'S a bro:
***************
Kentucky Derby weekend is always insane amounts of fun...it just managed to be fun AND extremely profitable in 2012.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Derby Up!
This year's Derby edition should be exciting, as we have added a few fresh-faced rookies to the 12-man squad (Tony, Tom, Katie, Jill); recaptured somebody after a two-year sabbatical (Kyle); re-signed the always entertaining wild card (the incomparable Slough); and of course have the cagey veterans signed to long-term contracts (Schne, JV, Tim, and I'm including myself, as this is now my 5th year in a row.)
I'm a big believer in betting strictly on a horse's name in the main event, since the last few years that race has been mostly a crapshoot anyway. Sometimes it pays off (Big Brown) sometimes it doesn't (Mission Impazible, Homeboykris). I guess at that point of the weekend, I barely care about betting smart anyway; it's more fun to wing it. This year's Derby field happens to include a horse named "I'll Have Another". I'm most likely going to bet more on him than any other horse I've ever bet on, and I'll tell you why:
Back in college, Paul and I both kinda fell into seperate Bromances with a couple of guys that we worked with at our respective jobs. After awhile, we found out that our two Bromances were also roommates with each other (what are the odds?) and a full-fledged four-way Bromance bloomed. Pretty soon our entire friend groups were combining for nights out on the town, and legendary shenanigans ensued. (This was also the period in college where Paul and I rarely said anything that wasn't an Anchorman quote, the Red Sox won the World Series, and despite it being my toughest year of school as far as accounting classes were concerned, I was getting b'd out on the reg during the school week. So in other words, one of the greatest stretches of my entire life.)
One night Paul and I were out getting rowdy with our Bromance crew (they called themselves the Sauce Monsters, whereas we were the Warriors, and sadly, that's not a joke. We've got t-shirts and everything.) Chaddy, who was undoubtedly the lightweight/bitch of their group, got particulary shitfaced, and without warning, started projectile vomiting ALL OVER the bar, without moving from his stool. When the carnage was over, and everyone within a 20-foot radius was done screaming and backpedaling, he calmly lifted one finger off the bar, and with puke dripping from his chin, casually told the bartender: "I'll have another." Needless to say, a catchphrase was born.
My only concern is that there are going to be a million other douchebags like me who will like this horse for the very same reason. As of now, I'll Have Another is going off at 15-1, but I'll bet that he becomes the favorite before everything is said and done. Not the worst thing in the world, but obviously it's more fun to bet on an underdog.
On a scale of 1-10, I'm super excited to leave tomorrow morning.
I'm a big believer in betting strictly on a horse's name in the main event, since the last few years that race has been mostly a crapshoot anyway. Sometimes it pays off (Big Brown) sometimes it doesn't (Mission Impazible, Homeboykris). I guess at that point of the weekend, I barely care about betting smart anyway; it's more fun to wing it. This year's Derby field happens to include a horse named "I'll Have Another". I'm most likely going to bet more on him than any other horse I've ever bet on, and I'll tell you why:
Back in college, Paul and I both kinda fell into seperate Bromances with a couple of guys that we worked with at our respective jobs. After awhile, we found out that our two Bromances were also roommates with each other (what are the odds?) and a full-fledged four-way Bromance bloomed. Pretty soon our entire friend groups were combining for nights out on the town, and legendary shenanigans ensued. (This was also the period in college where Paul and I rarely said anything that wasn't an Anchorman quote, the Red Sox won the World Series, and despite it being my toughest year of school as far as accounting classes were concerned, I was getting b'd out on the reg during the school week. So in other words, one of the greatest stretches of my entire life.)
One night Paul and I were out getting rowdy with our Bromance crew (they called themselves the Sauce Monsters, whereas we were the Warriors, and sadly, that's not a joke. We've got t-shirts and everything.) Chaddy, who was undoubtedly the lightweight/bitch of their group, got particulary shitfaced, and without warning, started projectile vomiting ALL OVER the bar, without moving from his stool. When the carnage was over, and everyone within a 20-foot radius was done screaming and backpedaling, he calmly lifted one finger off the bar, and with puke dripping from his chin, casually told the bartender: "I'll have another." Needless to say, a catchphrase was born.
My only concern is that there are going to be a million other douchebags like me who will like this horse for the very same reason. As of now, I'll Have Another is going off at 15-1, but I'll bet that he becomes the favorite before everything is said and done. Not the worst thing in the world, but obviously it's more fun to bet on an underdog.
On a scale of 1-10, I'm super excited to leave tomorrow morning.
Friday, April 27, 2012
You Put Two Of America's Most Wanted In The Same Muthafuckin' Place At The Same Muthafuckin' Time?
Full backstory: when I was younger (younger meaning from 1996 all the way until probably about six months ago) I believed that Tupac faked his death. I had done hours and hours of "research", to the point that when I based my final Lit paper in senior year of high school on this topic, I barely had to crack a book since I already knew pretty much everything. (Yes, I got an A on the paper. When I did my final speech on Tupac the next year in college, I got an A+ and a "Wow!" comment from the professor. West Si-yeeeeeed!)
So I have to admit, when I watched the first couple seconds of this clip, my heart skipped a beat or two, since I had not heard anything about this hologram stuff at Coachella prior to loading this video. That was some realistic shit. If this had occurred in 2003 (when I originally predicted Pac was going to resurface from faking his death) I would've started running around the room and calling all my friends before I could've realized it was a hologram and not really a human being. And can you imagine if I was actually at Coachella, with no prior information, under the influence of who knows what kinds of drugs, and all of a sudden Tupac just magically appears onstage? That would've been my heart attack that I've been waiting on for a few years now. The filthy grounds of Coachella, surrounded by hipsters and portapotties and cigarette butts and glowsticks and sunglasses being worn at night, would've been my deathbed. Game over, man. Game over.
OK, real talk: I still think there's a chance that Tupac faked his death. I'm not ready to give up that dream yet.
So I have to admit, when I watched the first couple seconds of this clip, my heart skipped a beat or two, since I had not heard anything about this hologram stuff at Coachella prior to loading this video. That was some realistic shit. If this had occurred in 2003 (when I originally predicted Pac was going to resurface from faking his death) I would've started running around the room and calling all my friends before I could've realized it was a hologram and not really a human being. And can you imagine if I was actually at Coachella, with no prior information, under the influence of who knows what kinds of drugs, and all of a sudden Tupac just magically appears onstage? That would've been my heart attack that I've been waiting on for a few years now. The filthy grounds of Coachella, surrounded by hipsters and portapotties and cigarette butts and glowsticks and sunglasses being worn at night, would've been my deathbed. Game over, man. Game over.
OK, real talk: I still think there's a chance that Tupac faked his death. I'm not ready to give up that dream yet.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
An Emotion Says A Thousand Words
Wanna know the exact moment when I was the most nervous in the last week or so? (Hint: it wasn't when I got down on one knee and asked somebody to be my wife, until death do us part.) It was when Bergman came to visit last weekend, we fired up the Sega for some NBA Jam, entered in our names, and it looked like our all-time records had been erased. That was easily my biggest freakout of the week. We hadn't lost a game since 2007, yo!
Don't worry though, turns out Bergman had put in the NBA Jam Tournament Edition cartridge, and our records were saved on the original. Still, it was a rough 20 seconds or so before we found out. Boomshakalaka!
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Damn You, Brangelina
You're a real son of a bitch, Brad Pitt. One-upping me on our respective engagements like that. (Although I'll allow it if, when Brad got down on one knee and held up the ring box, Angelina did her best impression of Brad's weird faces during the ending of Seven. "What's in the baaaawwwwx?!?!?!?!" That would be awesome. If it didn't go down like that, then I'm still pissed at them.)
Scattered thoughts from getting engaged:
-- Ring purchasing, somewhat surprisingly, was a generally positive experience. As long as you're OK with the fact that you're spending thousands of dollars to put a small object on someone else's hand-- as opposed to buying a Golden Tee for your basement, paying for a lifetime supply of Chipotle burritos, or having the greatest weekend in Vegas EVER. It was kinda fun walking into the ring shop, being supplied with free beers, and spending some time learning about Emerald cuts and balancing carats and all that hullabaloo. I went in knowing nothing....and left knowing slightly more than nothing. After I made my selection and signed away my dream of owning my own Golden Tee anytime in the next decade, Gem Diamond and I slapped hands and exclaimed "Bada BING!....Bada BOOM!" so hopefully Christine's finger doesn't turn green now. I don't want to have to get Kung Fu Screech involved.
-- In order to lure Christine to a nice hotel in Kansas City without making her suspicious, I had to tell her that we were meeting Dunph, since he routinely stays in KC hotels for work, and our usual plan is that he leaves me a room key in case he isn't done working for the day yet. (TRUST me, involving Dunph in something as sacred as a marriage proposal hurts me more than it hurts you. It was too perfect a setup to pass up though.) Christine was so in shock that after saying yes, her first question was "Soooo are we still meeting Dunph?" and her second was "Are we still going to Jack Stack for dinner?" I think her brain was just firing off random questions at that point, like when Mel Gibson's wife is dying in Signs. Swing away, Merrill.
(Also, as far as Kansas City BBQ is concerned, there's Jack Stack, and there's everything else. Anyone who says any other place is better is either lying or wrong.)
-- Something I will laugh at when thinking about this night, probably forever: Teens is tall and skinny, sometimes wears glasses, and has a red-and-white-striped shirt that she wears from time to time. She made the mistake of wearing it the first time she came to North Dakota to meet a bunch of my friends last year, and within an hour she had picked up the nickname Waldo, for obvious reasons.
Since she had no idea last weekend about what was going to happen, and she wasn't too concerned about what she was wearing....she was sporting the Waldo shirt again. I was on the fence on whether or not I wanted a photographer there, ultimately deciding against it. If I would've known she was gonna be getting her Waldo on when I proposed to her, I absolutely would've brought one along, mostly for comedic purposes. That shirt is awesome.
-- If I was doubting my proposal at all (I wasn't) and needed a confirmation as to why I wanted to marry this girl (I didn't) I received one almost immediately, anyway. After the initial excitement of her saying yes died down, we hightailed it downstairs to the hotel bar. We were housing beers probably within 10 minutes of her saying yes. Hey, we have plenty of time to consummate this thing later...but right now we need to get down to the bar. Free cocktail hour ends at 7:30, bro!
-- I have a friend (who shall remain nameless) who has a girlfriend who is, um, ready to be proposed to. This friend and his GF also happen to be visiting soon, and he requested that I wait to propose until after they visit, so as not to send his woman into Proposal Frenzy (as is wont to happen with girls in this situation, as every dude on the planet who has ever been in a relationship knows.) After initially agreeing, I ended up not waiting for them to visit first. It was in the aftermath of me telling him my plan, and that it was happening immediately, that he wrote this suggestion for my proposal, which I found hilarious:
“Teens, you have been the brightest light in my life since I met you, sure I’ve had a best friend since I was 6 years old, but you mean so much to me and I just couldn’t wait the obligatory Best Friend Two Week Buffer after purchasing this fine ass ring. You look a bit confused but don’t worry, Dunph’s not here, this was the first of many lies I will tell you for the rest of our lives, until death do us part. And I couldn’t be happier spending it with anyone else. Marry me Teens and let’s get rose petal stains all over this bed!”
Scattered thoughts from getting engaged:
-- Ring purchasing, somewhat surprisingly, was a generally positive experience. As long as you're OK with the fact that you're spending thousands of dollars to put a small object on someone else's hand-- as opposed to buying a Golden Tee for your basement, paying for a lifetime supply of Chipotle burritos, or having the greatest weekend in Vegas EVER. It was kinda fun walking into the ring shop, being supplied with free beers, and spending some time learning about Emerald cuts and balancing carats and all that hullabaloo. I went in knowing nothing....and left knowing slightly more than nothing. After I made my selection and signed away my dream of owning my own Golden Tee anytime in the next decade, Gem Diamond and I slapped hands and exclaimed "Bada BING!....Bada BOOM!" so hopefully Christine's finger doesn't turn green now. I don't want to have to get Kung Fu Screech involved.
-- In order to lure Christine to a nice hotel in Kansas City without making her suspicious, I had to tell her that we were meeting Dunph, since he routinely stays in KC hotels for work, and our usual plan is that he leaves me a room key in case he isn't done working for the day yet. (TRUST me, involving Dunph in something as sacred as a marriage proposal hurts me more than it hurts you. It was too perfect a setup to pass up though.) Christine was so in shock that after saying yes, her first question was "Soooo are we still meeting Dunph?" and her second was "Are we still going to Jack Stack for dinner?" I think her brain was just firing off random questions at that point, like when Mel Gibson's wife is dying in Signs. Swing away, Merrill.
(Also, as far as Kansas City BBQ is concerned, there's Jack Stack, and there's everything else. Anyone who says any other place is better is either lying or wrong.)
-- Something I will laugh at when thinking about this night, probably forever: Teens is tall and skinny, sometimes wears glasses, and has a red-and-white-striped shirt that she wears from time to time. She made the mistake of wearing it the first time she came to North Dakota to meet a bunch of my friends last year, and within an hour she had picked up the nickname Waldo, for obvious reasons.
Since she had no idea last weekend about what was going to happen, and she wasn't too concerned about what she was wearing....she was sporting the Waldo shirt again. I was on the fence on whether or not I wanted a photographer there, ultimately deciding against it. If I would've known she was gonna be getting her Waldo on when I proposed to her, I absolutely would've brought one along, mostly for comedic purposes. That shirt is awesome.
-- If I was doubting my proposal at all (I wasn't) and needed a confirmation as to why I wanted to marry this girl (I didn't) I received one almost immediately, anyway. After the initial excitement of her saying yes died down, we hightailed it downstairs to the hotel bar. We were housing beers probably within 10 minutes of her saying yes. Hey, we have plenty of time to consummate this thing later...but right now we need to get down to the bar. Free cocktail hour ends at 7:30, bro!
-- I have a friend (who shall remain nameless) who has a girlfriend who is, um, ready to be proposed to. This friend and his GF also happen to be visiting soon, and he requested that I wait to propose until after they visit, so as not to send his woman into Proposal Frenzy (as is wont to happen with girls in this situation, as every dude on the planet who has ever been in a relationship knows.) After initially agreeing, I ended up not waiting for them to visit first. It was in the aftermath of me telling him my plan, and that it was happening immediately, that he wrote this suggestion for my proposal, which I found hilarious:
“Teens, you have been the brightest light in my life since I met you, sure I’ve had a best friend since I was 6 years old, but you mean so much to me and I just couldn’t wait the obligatory Best Friend Two Week Buffer after purchasing this fine ass ring. You look a bit confused but don’t worry, Dunph’s not here, this was the first of many lies I will tell you for the rest of our lives, until death do us part. And I couldn’t be happier spending it with anyone else. Marry me Teens and let’s get rose petal stains all over this bed!”
Friday, April 13, 2012
Life Support
You know that scene at the end of Smokin' Aces, where Ryan Reynolds is in the hospital, holding the life support cords of the two bad guys, searching his soul for a few seconds before saying fuck it and pulling both the cords? (I'm not offended if that scene doesn't ring a bell-- I'm probably in the 99th percentile of Smokin' Aces enjoyment. It's one of the few things I can't successfully recommend to people, along with the movie Hot Rod, the song 'Tom Hark' by the Piranhas, and getting people to call Bud Lights 'BL Smoothies' (copyright Gangel) and Busch Lights 'BL Rockies'. Oh well.)
ANYWAY, I'm Ryan Reynolds right now with this blog. I should probably yank the cord, but I'm not quite to the point where I just say fuck it and pull. I clearly don't have enough time or willingness to keep this thing entertaining anymore (I'm sure you've noticed the sharp decline of both quantity and quality the last six months)....but after almost six years, it would be a weird feeling to not have this outlet for random thoughts anymore. Mostly I'm just bored with listening to myself.
Stay tuned, I guess.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
2012 All-Ugly Team
Bench:
Tyler Zeller, North Carolina. Both Carolina and the Ugly Team loses Zeller's ears to graduation this year.
Mike Bruesewitz, Wisconsin. He shaved his Carrot Top 'fro, which kept him out of the starting lineup this year.
Brandon Triche, Syracuse. To quote Dr. Dre, circa 1992: "Gap teef in yo' mouf, so my dick's gotsta fit!"
Matthew Dellavedova, St. Mary's. Looks like he should be playing someone's bratty little brother in an 80's teen comedy. The little brother who is constantly trying to peek in his sister's bedroom when she has a slumber party or something like that.
David Stockton, Gonzaga. Classic case of a dude growing shitty facial hair in an attempt to differentiate themselves from a famous father/sibling/son. His 'stache is almost like the hidden object in a Magic Eye picture...you have to concetrate and squint really really hard to see it.
Teeng Akol, Western Kentucky. With a forehead like that, he had a receding hairline by age 6.
Brady Heslip, Baylor. Let's not get it twisted: if he played for KU, he'd definitely be one of my top 5 favorite Jayhawks of all-time. Let's see: he's got shitty, greasy-looking hair that he constantly has to brush out of his eyes; he's an unathletic white guy who used to be 30 pounds heavier and still somehow got recruited to a D-I school; he does almost literally nothing besides shoot open 3's; and he loves to throw up the Three Goggles after makes. The more I think about it, he'd probably be my favorite Jayhawk ever. Still time to transfer, dude....
Starting Five:
Ryan Kelly, Duke. If I ever saw him on the street, the only thing I could ever think to say to him would be "Nuhhhhhhhhhhhh."
J'Covan Brown, Texas. Left early for the NBA, presumably because the feedbag at his locker ran out of oats, and Coach Barnes wouldn't refill it. (Get it? Cause he looks like a horse? I know, that one sucked. Whaddya want from me? It's Saturday morning, I'm hungover as balls.)
Deniz Kilicli, West Virginia. Still ugly as hell, but he's definitely been beefing up since he got to school; he could put me in the hospital with both arms tied behind his back. Let's hope that cavemen don't know how to use Google yet.
Hugh Greenwood, New Mexico. Remember Hermie the Elf from the Rudolph movie? The one who didn't want to be an elf, he wanted to be live at the Island of Misfit Toys and be a dentist or whatever? Turns out he did neither-- he grew up and played basketball at the University of New Mexico.
Anthony Davis, Kentucky. For the first time in All-Ugly Team history, the Captain is also the best player in the country. It's tough to make a original unibrow joke about Davis, since the whole country has been making them for seven months now, but I'll try: it looks like Gordon from Sesame Street had a kid with one of the puppets.
Tyler Zeller, North Carolina. Both Carolina and the Ugly Team loses Zeller's ears to graduation this year.
Mike Bruesewitz, Wisconsin. He shaved his Carrot Top 'fro, which kept him out of the starting lineup this year.
Brandon Triche, Syracuse. To quote Dr. Dre, circa 1992: "Gap teef in yo' mouf, so my dick's gotsta fit!"
.jpg%253Fw%253D440%2526h%253D330%2526aspect%253Dnostretch&w=440&h=293&ei=f1V_T5_NN8OugweP6NXmBw&zoom=1&iact=rc&dur=109&sig=108657280734883501915&page=1&tbnh=142&tbnw=187&start=0&ndsp=9&ved=1t:429,r:10,s:0,i:97&tx=124&ty=87){kind=link}
Matthew Dellavedova, St. Mary's. Looks like he should be playing someone's bratty little brother in an 80's teen comedy. The little brother who is constantly trying to peek in his sister's bedroom when she has a slumber party or something like that.
David Stockton, Gonzaga. Classic case of a dude growing shitty facial hair in an attempt to differentiate themselves from a famous father/sibling/son. His 'stache is almost like the hidden object in a Magic Eye picture...you have to concetrate and squint really really hard to see it.
Teeng Akol, Western Kentucky. With a forehead like that, he had a receding hairline by age 6.
Brady Heslip, Baylor. Let's not get it twisted: if he played for KU, he'd definitely be one of my top 5 favorite Jayhawks of all-time. Let's see: he's got shitty, greasy-looking hair that he constantly has to brush out of his eyes; he's an unathletic white guy who used to be 30 pounds heavier and still somehow got recruited to a D-I school; he does almost literally nothing besides shoot open 3's; and he loves to throw up the Three Goggles after makes. The more I think about it, he'd probably be my favorite Jayhawk ever. Still time to transfer, dude....
Starting Five:
Ryan Kelly, Duke. If I ever saw him on the street, the only thing I could ever think to say to him would be "Nuhhhhhhhhhhhh."
J'Covan Brown, Texas. Left early for the NBA, presumably because the feedbag at his locker ran out of oats, and Coach Barnes wouldn't refill it. (Get it? Cause he looks like a horse? I know, that one sucked. Whaddya want from me? It's Saturday morning, I'm hungover as balls.)
Deniz Kilicli, West Virginia. Still ugly as hell, but he's definitely been beefing up since he got to school; he could put me in the hospital with both arms tied behind his back. Let's hope that cavemen don't know how to use Google yet.
Hugh Greenwood, New Mexico. Remember Hermie the Elf from the Rudolph movie? The one who didn't want to be an elf, he wanted to be live at the Island of Misfit Toys and be a dentist or whatever? Turns out he did neither-- he grew up and played basketball at the University of New Mexico.
Anthony Davis, Kentucky. For the first time in All-Ugly Team history, the Captain is also the best player in the country. It's tough to make a original unibrow joke about Davis, since the whole country has been making them for seven months now, but I'll try: it looks like Gordon from Sesame Street had a kid with one of the puppets.
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