Airports- Hello third world

I now know why my parents decided to drive everywhere when we were kids- the easy answer would be “economical” reasons…nope I’d say its because they raised flight risks.  I, for one,  am a fuckin flight risk to myself.  I’m like that pig who falls off the slaughter line, only to squirm away right before being delivered to his maker; I am all over the fuckin place.  Are they made to feel like I’m being herded to my slaughter?  Cause these “moon walkers'” lazily guiding me along my way? All I need is a chopping block at the end and I'll oink.  Who are all these people and where the fuck is everyone going on a Thursday?! Does anyone work a full week anymore? (myself included) The airport is one giant panic attack waiting to happen for me, and I keep fanning the flame by buying more and more coffee (mmm frappes…) At this point I’m damn near shaking as I thumb the keys, waiting at the terminal.  Airports are by far the closest we’ve come to an Orwellian society- “yes faceless voice over the loud speaker, I will oblige…Walk, sit, stay, board”  That or else it’s a free man’s prison- obey the rules, maintain eye contact to prove dominance, biggest have free reign, security guards, must follow orders, etc..Cause I def mean mug the shit outta everyone! Esp if youre the douche with your Bluetooth attached to your blackberry talking to some phony on the other end with your 40 year old wife dressed head to toe in “pink” clothing- bitch you're forty, they made that for 15 year olds! Pink’s not helping those damn wrinkles or your sagging boob’s…(that’d be victoria secret) I now know why rappers make songs “last real nigga” alive- life is a game of pretending.  Pretending you’re happy, pretending you’re important, pretending you’re talking to someone, pretending you’re reading, pretending you’re interested….I wonder what the success rate is for guys who spit game at the airport? What’s the success rate look like, 0.05%? And that’s for head, I'd say no more than 2% for full on penetration. Either way, it's gotta be microscopic, tho I might bump it up to 10 percent given the amount of women dressed to impress (I'm looking at you, tits hanging out of your lacey black bra) Do airports just feed peoples fantasies about “anonymous sex”? Why again am I thinking of this? (Attention deficit disorder you have your poster child) I hate the small talk that happens in airports (or any sizable social gathering for that matter) Some 40 year old, outta shape, bluetoothed dude's rocking J's- I'm talking the Jordan 11's, the sickest pair (hands down)..So you know I give dude a compliment, let him know “nice shoes man (resisted the urge to drop a “bro”,somehow) He then forces awkward compliment about my “sweet” computer background,, which happens to be the factory background, which while nice, is lame as shit...Right then, I gave up on airport conversation. Oh Christ, international guy next to me, you didn't have fuckin leukemia...”the kind where you only have 1% chance to live”...dude you're prematurely balding, you didn't have leukemia..Now he's talking about some doctor using witchcraft to cure cancer..is it a crime to smash his accented face against the linoleum? I feel like the courts should have a douche rating to crimes- “your honor, he was lying about having a terminal disease to impress a old bag of bones with 3 year old botox and a well, a cute girl- he rates a 9 on the douchemeter” Judge: “I'll allow it”...He just said the witchcraft”left him hung as a horse..Ha Ha Ha” (insert annoying fake laugh) I hope you go home with the bigger older lady and you waft the sweet smell of mothball's as you excitedly munch rug you uber-douche.. Is that the game here? Make up outlandish, attention stealing lies that you confidently pass off to random strangers? Amtrak I heart you right now...

Need my fix

This is a cruel fucking joke; McDonalds, you fucking corporate suits and you're damn need for login information that causes the internet to crash. Here I sit, surrounded by All-American fat asses, hoping that my internet will work. And while my computer currently registers that I have a five bar wireless connection, I sit , dumb founded as to why I can't view anything, stuck in a perpetual state of loading, the depths of internet hell. I contemplate my next move to reacquaint myself with my friend, the internet, but nothing, just blank white and the hope that we may meet again. Is this what heroin withdrawal feels like? I can suddenly sympathize. I wonder how my fantasy baseball team did this week. Almost certainly a loss, with my luck. Truly sad that this is my first worry when it comes to being cut off from the connected world. I feel like more of a creep as I analyze when the Waynesburg high school cheerleading night is at this current McDonalds (September 2^nd!!!!) They have a coach, right? She had to be a former cheerleader (that’s at least my story to the eventual authorities) and given that I'm cruising around in a conversion vehicle/rape/child molester van; I'm almost certain people will think I'm going to ask for help loading a rug into my van to take to my lair and force my victim to lather themselves in lotion. (that last part gave the reference away)..Fuck me, I suppose I'll drown my sorrows in my Frappe and get on with my miserably internet-free existence.

Are you there God? It’s me William (screw Margaret and her period cramps)

I've got a massive headache. Which doesn't bod well for my overall well-being, seeing as I had one of those “what the fuck” moments today. It started when I accompanied my mom to a benefit that a committee she's a member of put on at a supposed mansion in town. Now Carbondale has no real mansions; this is a house with a big ass lawn, that a bunch of old people, looking at the neighborhood of run-down houses, decided this one must be worth something to someone. No one apparently alerted these people of the housing market crash; there's a community band (compromised of old and young mind you) playing for family and friends. All of probably 30 (max). ..the band had about as many members as fans, so its was truly rather sad. So while accompanying my mother, in my standard wife beater, back wards cubs hat and clear blue sunglasses (Tooltown population 1), I needless to say brought all the class to this little mixer. While zoning in and out listening to my mother and several older ladies discuss/babble about the finer points of being a grandmother, my mom introduced me to a little 4^th grader, Max who was out wandering around, off in his own, innocent world. She then let me know that he too “was” a twin. At first, given the fact I was paying absolutely no attention to anything other than to how old the one decent looking Asian broad in attendance was (nice to meet you, Woody Allen!) I let it go over my head. “Oh he was a twin, I suppose I was to before he moved” I thought, which at the time and even now in writing makes no sense and further proves that I am, in fact, a space cadet. Finally, after pondering what my equivalent to still playing in a “community band” when I'm 60 is (the image of me wearing long black socks, eye glare and batting gloves while reeking of bengay/the slow decaying of aging immediately came to mind) I finally returned to the planet earth, and hickory lodge. “He was a twin?” I asked. My mom, who was enjoying the shade of me following her around like I too was 5, “His twin just complained about a headache...and he died a year later.” Hence the what the fuck. Apparently the poor kid was diagnosed with a brain tumor at 4, and died when he was 5. And so now you see why I'm fretting over a headache. He just complained about a headache? So is my headache reason to complain?? I mean I've tried to cut out my once habits of excessively complaining/bitching/moaning/grousing over every little potential for injury, but does this give me a legitimate reason? HE WAS A TWINNER! I'M A TWINNER! IS IT A SIGN?! Where are crop circles when I need'em or a piss stain that resembles the virgin mary. I need a sign (that doesn't involve me crippling over or blacking out).

Political soap box part dubya

I have a new found fascination with an American president(no homo); let me rephrase that, I am fascinated with a president's failures. That president is one George Walker Bush, better known as Dubya. Having now read two (whole) books (without pictures :( ) about the presidency of Dubya, I've come to realize exactly why the story fascinates me so greatly. It's truly a story of karma; how in the end the chickens will always come home to roost, what goes around truly comes back around. Karma, when seen in it's purest of forms, gives me hope. (somewhat pathetically) I feel like my good deeds or good intentions will be repaid back to me, the opposite of course being true as well. And the story of Dubya's rise and fall from grace has all that interwoven within it, which makes it so damn compelling. In 2000, when Dubya and Al (I won an oscar dammit) Gore were in a dead heat for who was going to take Florida, and thus the presidential election, Herbert Walker Bush (the 41^st) called in every favor he had left. The Bush Dynasty was going to live on, at first with the oldest son Dubya, then in 2008 with Jeb. They even made Jeb, the Governor of Florida and (at that point) a potential presidential candidate in his own right, come to bat for them. Between the H.W. Bush appointed justices that populated the supreme court (2 of 9, while 7 total leaned right) and Jeb, the Bush's were able to rig an election in their favor and take the presidency by force. Thus beginning what would in hindsight be the most unsuccessful and highly regarded as the worst two time presidency in American History. So bad in fact, that when it was all said and done, the Republicans were left to roll out a woman for Vice President with no real/valid political experience and minimal sex appeal (if having an unstoppable desire to hate fuck her is in fact considered “sex appeal”) to lose handily to the first black president. The nation, which was two elections removed from considering which born into political royalty candidate would make the best president (Gore/Dubya) now shat on the republican party and all they had dreamed they had built, by electing a black man with relatively no experience to office. I'm not sure there is a bigger reminder as to how badly you really fucked up if your Dubya. There are stories of H.W. crying at the end of 2007, knowing that the Bush legacy had been irrevocably destroyed, because his true favorite son, Jeb, would never get to be president. Talk about burning the bridge down, Dubya damn near salted the earth as he went by. And now, you are probably beginning to wonder, how does all of this make any fucking sense? Where the fuck is the karma? Well chillren, lemme tell you how. You see, the Bush's thought that if Dubya won the presidency it would redeem H.W. For his humiliating lose to Clinton in '92, by defeating Bill's protege (Gore) in 2000. And though there's almost no chance they won this without rigging the election, thanks in part to
“Boy Genius” Karl Rove's playbook, a wins a win. And then in 2004, the luck of the draw/ sacrificial lamb of the democratic party (John Kerry) and again Rove's sadistic playbook (google widespread vote discrepancy in Ohio in '04) allowed for Dubya to continue on with his destructive ways. But you see, karma begins to shine through. Dubya should never been president to begin with. One aspect of our presidents is that they tend to be knowledgeable men; Dubya was not. And while he was smarter than he let on, that’s a back handed compliment especially when you're the president. He was under-qualified to state it mildly, and it should have been Jeb carrying on the Bush name. Jeb gave the process of running for president its due diligence, taking an almost identical path that his father took; rose from the leader of the Republican party in his adopted hometown (Florida), then to Governor. In 2004, he would have run for President, sans Dubya. But Dubya wanted the spotlight, and dammit he took it, leap frogging Jeb to take the Bush crown. One in which he would shatter, stomp, break and obliterate before it could ever so much as touch Jeb. When H.W. Came to bat for his oldest son Dubya in the 2000 campaign, he did so by attempting to thwart attacks that Bill Clinton had levied against his son, claiming Dubya was “only there cause he was a son of a president”. That was when karma decided, H.W. If ya want this so badly for your son, here you go...but I'll see you in eight years. And as H.W. Probably spent a year of his life loving it, and the next seven wishing he'd had thought better, Dubya was running amok. Karl Rove was attempting to catapult the Republican party to a future of running the country for years and years to come. And eight years later, Karma decided she'd (sounds cooler as a woman) had had enough. Eight years of mismanagement, neglect, abysmal approval ratings, personal agendas, and cronyism at its finest, she was ready to collect on some debts. Dubya was exiled back to Texas, nary to be heard from again. Herbert Walker is still crying, wishing it had been his level headed son Jeb, who took after him, and not Dubya, the one who took after Barbara. Karl Rove and Dick Cheney are relegated to defending their “legacies” (if overwhelming failure does in fact, lend itself to legacies) nightly on Fox News, and democrats not republicans, are fixin to rule the city (D.C) and the country for years to come. It's gotten so bad for the Republican party Newt Gingrich has decided he's gonna give it a crack at the ole' presidency in 2012; the same Newt Gingrich who once said of his wife, who he was pressing for a divorce while she lay in the hospital recovering from cancer that “She isn't young enough or pretty enough to be the President's wife." Oh how the mighty have fallen. Thanks Dubya, and while you may be shunned by your party, forced into a slow death in exile in Texas, I as a democrat would like to thank you; without you and your idiocy/incompetence none of this (Obama's America) would be possible. And you see, that's where it's karma. A family who believed it was self-entitled to serve as president for however many years it bear the offspring to do so, was humiliated by allowing it's black sheep to leap its prodigal son, fooling even his own family into thinking he was fit to lead the free world. And by that token Dubya himself said it (worst)“fool me once, shame on- shame on you. Fool me- you can't get fooled again.” The American people, who were too distraught after 9/11 and the ensuing attacks on Afghanistan and Iraq to do more than elect Dubya a second time (when 55 million americans were ridiculously wrong simultaneously) he only allowed the American people to see through his flaws, to see that he really was an overprivileged man-child with no business being in the position he was in. And while the Republican party should be sitting back and smoking stogies, talking about how Jeb's doing a fine job and will for another 6, we democrats are saying the same thing about Obama, laughing all the way. Karma remains a cruel bitch.

Where’s the fuckin twinkies!

Having just returned from a Southern Illinois Miners game, a baseball team in Marion, Illinois (haven’t heard of it? Its called a fuckin map, take a look) in which we sat 6 rows from home plate, for a whopping 13 bucks. Usually, I’d take a caving in of my facial structure by a foul ball before I’d ever complain about any of this, but today was different; today we we sat in front of two male twinkies (twinners for you scoring at home) who couldn’t have been more than 13ish..I’m a terrible guesser of age (unless you’re a 17 year old girl: I smell jailbait) but the twinkies were there with their dad and older sister. Needless to say when I realized that I was having a Marty McFly moment in which I was looking at myself in the past, I immediately looked skyward and thought “lets see where this goes”. If you’ve read any of these posts (long winded back story), you know I have no idea what I truly look like, so it wouldn’t surprise you the slightest when I admit I’ve never thought of myself as a twin; growing up or now. It was always like I had a best friend, and we happened to have the same parents “you mean she’s your mom too?! Sicckkk broski” (verbatim conversation). I never grasped that whole “clone” of me concept. Note: I was born first, so that does give me claim to the fact that B is in fact, my clone. Anyhow, as I was sitting here, (creepily) watching/stalking these twinners, I came to far too many conclusions (none of which was “I’m gonna have to register as a sex offender if I don’t mind my own fucking business”). For starters, god created twins so that the introverted twin would always be the extroverted’s sidekick- a robin to his batman, a pippen to the others Jordan, a Ed McMahon to the others Johnny Carson, a Kevin Eubanks to the others Jay Leno (without the gay black man part) ..one was clearly more talkative, engaging his dad and sister constantly throughout the game, texting away. The other twin, not so much; he sat stoically, thinking and talking pretty much only to his bro. Though he seemed to articulate his points better (while still using “dude”, “sweet” and “lol” that is) and got better reactions from his sister when he did speak, he didn’t say a whole lot. (creeped out? Cause I am) While psychology would suggest that I was merely projecting my own insecurities off onto what I was seeing (this is why I like the Japanese; psychology is (can be) misused by those who wish to dismiss human behavior by categorizing it neatly into different diagnoses) I would tell that person to suck my dick cause that’s some steaming pile of bullshit. Well, not really, I’d probably agree (reluctantly), fuck. I watched these twins cause I wanted to know on a scale as to what I must look like to the general public (sans my massiveness). My true feelings are twins are each others best friend, while also being each others true nemesis. While in the process of how many years two twins “hang out” they get to know each other strengths, while also figuring out just how to bring the other down at any given point: there's always a way to completely destroy the others self-confidence, a way to bring the other so far down that they have to struggle to get back up. (sounds like an extremely cliche comic book) I know what I would have to do to my brother; I'm sure, as I've experienced some of it that he too knows how to do this to me. At that point, I feel as though there truly is an age where twins have to decide; are we mentally weak and going to live the bro life forever (and inadvertently remain in a perpetual state of some fucked up bachelorhood) or grow apart while doing it all on our own. Much like when Pippen ran the show in '94, its completely plausible.

(Note: in sticking with this analogy, while Pippen and the Bulls lost in 7 to the Knicks in the East Conference Semi finals (so clearly not the same results) he still averaged 21 ppg and 8 rebounds so, while he sat out and pouted cause it was Toni Kukoc who took the last shot in Game 3 of that series; I think its a sound analogy. Fuck I'd be pretty fuckin pleased if I could say I made the equivalent to the Eastern Conference Semifinals. While I'm unsure of the equivalent (imagine cars (WITH 22s!), broads (chicks or chickas) and money (cash, deniro, guap, chedda, bread, dough)

Were at that point; at times I feel bad for Bradley, because its hard for him to be himself around me. Not so much around me, but when I'm around, specifically if I'm the third wheel. There's a part of my personality which lends itself to being more compassionate, less aggressive than my brother.(Less manly, I’m sure) And while that makes him who he is, that’s also what sets me apart. But while I ponder all of this, I go for a walk, to grab two more beers (to begin the forgetting process). While on that walk I notice two more male twinners, these two all of five years old and dressed identically, head to toe. My initial thought was that this was all an elaborate dream, that I could flinch myself awake. (Fuck I def looked like a spaz) No dice, I then begin looking for Jack Nicholson wielding an ax, prepared to scalp me with one fell swoop; nope, I'm just stuck in twinkie land circa Rent One Ballpark. Sigh, if only it were The Shining.....

Cause everyone else is doing it- Lebron James

I envision Cleveland looks similar to the scene in Armageddon where everyone in the world is listening to the radio for every conceivable update as the fate of the world rests in the balances (and its daylight all over the world in this scene which is why I hate Michael Bay, but I digress) I envision Clevelanders crowding around the 5 or 6 radios (forms of communication) that are left in a city that has the look of one that is disserted, one that will be disserted by its favorite child….If this were Armageddon (and my analogy made sense), Bruce Willis just got shot in the chest by the dude with a gun on the space shuttle, and the astronauts (insert: Lebron and his boys) are hauling ass out of there to witness the end of the world (ugh hang with me: end of cleveland) from a front row seat, far-far out of harms way…

The NBA wants Lebron in Miami; don’t let ESPN and every other media outlet fool you. Tim Legler was asked would this be good for the NBA? He answered, well fuck I dunno I can’t listen to ESPN carry out David Stern’s message. Stern is the architect, the man behind it all, a marketing genius that almost made basketball bigger than soccer internationally. He attempted to overthrow the international sport for the poor peasant, a sport that only requires a ball. Basketball, similarly, only requires a ball and a hoop. You can begin to see just where they got off thinking this way. (Long tangent with my dislike for the jewish mob boss) The NBA was at its absolute best in terms of revenue and global appeal came during the 1996-1998, the Jordan comeback years. The cast of characters; Jordan (the greatest), Pippen a formidable Robin to Jordan’s batman, and Rodman, the wild card who was part crazy, part druggie, and part outlaw. These three ran the NBA for three strong years, taking the Bulls (and the league) to places it had truly never been, including the likes of Singapore and deep in China. When they left, Stern had no idea how to market the NBA; he had gotten lazy, hadn’t kept up with the market. He thought that superstars could continue to carry the NBA, that the public’s infatuation with larger than life players who transcended the game would allow him to continue his push abroad, and his global takeover would be complete. He failed for multiple reasons. For one, Iverson had a run as the most marketable player in the NBA because he was in direct contrast to Jordan. He played like he was at the Rucker, with the killer crossover, cornrows and large entourage of black men to match the persona. He waived a gun, slapped around his wife and famously questioned practice; he didn’t give a shit what people thought of him, and that’s why people liked him. Jordan became so consumed by the notion that he had to have a perfect image that fans never felt we could relate, only imitate and emulate his greatness. But while Iverson was too short and never played within a team concept, Shaq and Kobe were cast as the heir to the Bulls throne. They weren’t the Bulls, even if Phil Jackson was cast to complete the allusion that they were. They couldn’t win consistently without Stern and his flunkies (referees, henchmen’s) help. Stern had to keep small market “teams” from beating his conglomerate of superstars. So he began what would effectively be known as “Sternball”, fixing games by telling the referees what fouls to call the night before the game, and letting them know the commissioner (who signs their checks) will be in fact watching to make sure the calls are made. Tremendous stress was put on the referees to follow with Sterns orders, to carry out his ultimate goal of global domination (this sounds like a Pinky and the Brain episode). Foul discrepancies became so ludicrous, if anyone disputes the fact the Kings should have handedly defeated the Lakers in 2003 or the Blazers should have won the western conference series in 2000 they have a refusal to admit and analyze facts. If you in fact think that I am a conspiracy theorist (in judging by the aluminum foil around my head, you’d be correct) I am not alone; read Tim Donaghy’s series on the NBA Finals on Deadspin in which it all but indicts Stern as the string puller of his group of marionettes. There has been a constant push to continue the superstar conglomerates, look at the 2008 Celtics as further proof. The Lakers, well they’re a marketable team back to the 1980s when Magic and Kareem led the NBA; as were the Celtics. The renewed rivalry was orchestrated, in part, because of the idea that sports (and life) are cyclical: that what we as consumers enjoyed back then, we will enjoy once again. (The McRib is the McDonalds equivalent of this) But the Lakers and Celtics only further proved that their sun is setting; they are getting older, look at Kevin Garnett’s knees for further example (Tangent) I love K.G., have ever since he came into the league. He plays basketball the way I believe I would (if I were a 6’10 black man with actual basketball talent); he plays like the horse in Animal Farm who constantly says “I will work harder”. But now, he’s reached the point in basketball lore when you must either reinvent your game as a jump shooter, or struggle and force all of your once fans to wince as you get out jumped by point guards and blocked by small forwards. The NBA knows this: that’s why there is no push as the Celtics being a marketable entity, because their best is behind them. They have heart, but that won’t beat talent 9 times out of 10. Alright, back to where I was….

There is no secret that these three, Bosh, Wade and James first became friends while playing for The Redeem Team in Beijing. Beijing, the capital of the largest untapped market in the entire world (China), acted as a stage for the three to begin to see just what they could be together. Winning would come easily; nightly they could each focus on other aspects of their game, without having to exhaust themselves by doing it all. No longer would Lebron have to leave it all out on the court only to be dead tired by playoff time. (or quit on his team and pout like he did this year) He could depend on others, those he thought as his equals on the court, who could take him to the promised land of championships, rings, champagne (groupies) and most of all the figurative mountain top that is a players marketability, the likes of which haven’t been seen since his airness. James wants to be Jordan. His only failure is in his desire to want to be like Mike; he comes off, and more than likely is, a megalomaniac in his own right, so consumed by his brand, his image, his appeal and constantly hearing just how great he truly is that he’s lost how to effectively communicate his desires to the public. Every word, hell every fart would be documented by (at least) the tag-alongs he kept along from his High School days, “his friends” who would constantly reassure him of his greatness, if only because they have three state championship rings (not to mention room, board and riches- think the Black Entourage) because of it. They run a company with his name on it, with the end goal to make Lebron bigger than anyone else in the sport(s). They have espn in their back pocket, but really the NBA does. The deal they signed allows ESPN to get first choice on most games it broadcasts, and to allow the average fan unprecedented access. Of course, few us of really give a shit about this access, but ESPN believes we must want it, because they force feed it to us and we are far too stupid to object and turn it off (guilty as charged) All of this culminating in tonights “the Decision” in which a full hour of riding Lebrons dick will come to head. The NBA loves it, a Heat triad would then recast Lebron, Bosh and Wade as the Jordan, Pippen and Rodman of this generation, and again would attempt to grease the (NBA marketing) wheel that has remained shut down and rusted, neglected since the days of the Bulls. This is Sterns chance to finish what he started. The invasion of basketball into China, a country with no noticeable national sport with the exception of sumo-wrestling and chess, could be swayed by a team so great that the world, including communist China, would take notice. Not to mention the target audience already had a teaser trailer, watching first hand just how great the team was when it destroyed the competition and took the gold medal stage in Beijing in 2008. This, my friends, is a heist one in which we haven’t seen at this magnitude. The drama is being billed, our emotions are being played upon and it all culminates at 8pm. Soccer, you’ve been warned, you’re time as the International pastime is in the cross heirs, and Stern wants to fire the deadening blow, a final knockout. For good reason, this drama is unfolding at the same time the World Cup is coming to a climax, in a blatant attempt to steal the thunder away from the momentum it had gained from High Definition television and a new generation’s appeal of an art form that takes shape in sport. Basketball can be this; watch the 80-90s NBA. Nowadays? It feels more like WWE, scripted theater in which a CEO is pulling the strings, casting villains and heroes who further help the rise and revenue of his fledgling company. In short, good bye Cleveland, your economy and place as the epicenter of this circus will be nuked at precisely 8:10 central time, with Lebron leaving his hometown, and you can begin to mourn the loss of any potential sports championship. There’s always Jake Delhomme and the Browns

Diggin thru the archives- Cinco De mayo

To prove I have some knowledge, I’m going to write about baseball. If you read this and don’t like baseball (terrorist!) you are definitely a homeland security risk. Anyways its my birthday/yearly reminder Im one day older to dying, and espn classic just helped me realize the baseball gods do love me. All those years of unrequited little league baseball love, the black eyes from missed baseball (read: gold glove worthy) I was the daryl strawberry of little league. Unlimited potential. I mean, I was a batting machine hall of famer, just crushed it. But put me up against live pitching, and I was terrified of getting hit (the irony being I would soon get hit(by people) playing football for 8 years)..Sidenote: you’d think with twinners, one of us would have developed some sort of fastball throwing to the other one. Nope, both have terrible mechanics. Just didn’t have the intangibles (mel kiper!) But this is all for down the road, to a therapist I assume…The reality is with my little league career (or lack there of) and my favorite team is the Chicago Cubs…yeah, you’d feel unloved too. Baseball hasn’t really shown me much love, but today the baseball gods smiled upon me. I got to watch the 2001 World Series Game 7 (widely regarded as the death of the Yankees dynasty), backed up by Barry Bonds 756^th home run. And I realized I didn’t immediately know how many home runs Bonds ended with. Now, If you can read, and have proved it by reading previous posts you’d know Im not only insane about my random facts, but Im a sports junkie (literally, withdrawals are the worst) So for me not to know this, was sad. But not surprising (given my college lifestyle) that I cant. Disappointed with myself; (until) I shifted the blame. Its not my fault I don’t know this stat, its society and the people they employs (newspaper writers, keep up) fault. There the ones who made me feel guilty about my obsession (no homo) of the 90s power hitters. I was a huge fan, I fuckin loved gorilla ball. Just meat sticks hitting cock shots way outta the park with little visual effort, with fluidity and gracefulness (it is a word!), yet such raw power..well dammit its impressive. It made me feel like, “these guys are gladiators”; I could never do that. Now a days, the people in and around baseball have done there best to bury the era of statistics I grew up pouring over. I mean Bonds hit 756 and 6 more (762 for you dumbasses) at 43. Yeah it was ridiculous, retirement coulda been 46- fourty fuckin six he coulda still been playing for millions. Still commanding oh 3 million dollars (ex:Jason Giambi) for maybe a .260 with that more times than never but never is damn close, raw flashes of what once was. Why did we not allow Bonds those years; best typified by the movie The Wrestler, we could have seen those three years (ex: David Ortiz) where a former somebody (akin to the heavyweight boxers plight) crumbles in front of your eyes. They think they still have it, they WANT it SO BAD, but there’s no gas left in that tank, and there the only ones who don’t see that were all witnessing the” diminished skills” years (big ups Ken Williams) of otherwise hall of fame careers. And on my birthday I want that. I want to think, “he’s falling apart at 39..sucker” I have to feel young. And if we had allowed Clemens and Bonds to do it until they were 46, fuckin A! I would’ve been set into my 30s of this uplifting tradition. Watching my heroes of yesteryear crumble in front of my eyes and realizing “Im still young look at this old fucker” (yes, I am vain) side note: (which excuses the fact its completely random) I just realized I was watching western Michigan vs Michigan softball…and they say heroin is an addiction…try sports But, sportswriters and there pretensions and soap boxes they preach on to scare the 35 year old soccer moms who trust them cause it occasionally makes them laugh/cry/feel sentimental I’m looking at you, Rick Reilly. The same sportswriters who give the Justice system legitimacy in there voting and presiding over who makes the Baseball hall of fame. Ron Santo not being a hall of famer is all evidence I need to question the credibility of the MLB hall of fame process/baseball sports writers. The idea is if Santo is a hall of famer the 1969 team would have 4 hall of famers.. That’s a shit ton, that’s saying half of your lineup is great. And you never won a pennant. Santos overall impact on the game, at this point, is hall of fame worthy (regardless if he is senile), the bottom line is: the fucker has two fake legs. Let him get elected before he dies, those blissful years (are you seeing a trend? I feel fuckin old!) before they fade completely to black. HE CANT ENJOY IT WHEN HES DEAD.

The truth shall set you free

Lately I've been hard to reach
I've been too long on my own
Everybody has their private world
Where they can be alone

Are you calling me?
Are you trying to get through?
Are you reaching out for me?
I'm reaching out for you
-Eminem, Beautiful

On the strong urging of those who apparently know me better than I may know myself, I was told to look into B.D.D. For those of us who laugh and often times mock the ridiculousness of the idea that all humans can be categorized with disorders and defects, body dysmorphic disorder it seems is a disorder that haunts those of us with a mirror problem. For the past two years since my own college graduation, I’ve become increasingly more obsessed and, at times defeated by the “man in the mirror”. The man in the mirror never seems to agree with me. He’s always filled with self doubt and feels the need to constantly expose my flaws; if it’s my oversized ears, my increasingly rounded face, my haircut..well you can see where the hell im going with this, it can be rather debilitating. And while I’ve since realized that my habits of obsessing over the mirror is not only abnormal but derived from my house of mirrors (literally). I’ve got mirrors everywhere in my house, including one so that I can look at myself taking a shit…yep…like I said, a problem. Now I’m not writing this for sympathy; If I had to give reasons for my desire to write about this disorder as it relates to me, I’d say its 1) to further explain to people why I’ve since become a recluse since my graduation of college 2)because I know myself too well. All the books and websites on b.d.d. stress going to seek psychiatrists help in dealing with it. Yeah, can’t evvvver imagine myself doing that. Not because I’m so tough that I cant pour my heart out to a psychiatrist, its more so because I’m too stupid/stubborn to actually follow thru with it Writing about it, and sharing it will have to do as it is more than my usual response to b.d.d., which has always been to work out harder- I’ve at times spent anywhere from 3 to 4 hours routinely/daily working out (that isn’t a weekend that is) At one point the lady working the desk at the gym I attend, after seeing me and my twin brother working out together for the first time in what had been months rationalized that I must’ve been two people all along because I was in the gym for so long each day. Definitely realized I had a problem at that point. But that seems normal to me. And then there was the times when I wouldn’t leave my bed, not wanting to face the day. I’d sleep until 2pm regularly. I didn’t want to face myself, didn’t want to look in any reflection and see a person who I didn’t feel like could be useful to anyone. I just wanted to sleep, workout and come home to wait to do it again the next day. I’d avoid any and all social interaction (not much different than today) and hope to talk to no one at work. I’d race up to my perch of an office, talk sparingly to my office mate, and for two hours wait to work out- and that was only if I actually made it to work by 2. More than once I slept til 4pm, get up, shower and go workout. Painful and dark times in my life, only now do I truly see why I did it. At the time, I had this misconceived notion of reality, stuck in my own head about my relationships (or lack thereof) and forcing situations with people who probably didn’t realize why suddenly now I had become so awkward /uncomfortable in my own skin…
Most often times I obsess over my stomach. Which is even harder to admit aloud (not that I really am) because that feels even more, dare I say, effeminate. And while that is extremely sexist, dudes my size with big chests and arms don’t usually obsess over their stomachs; my own twin brother could give a shit less about whether he works out his abs or does some insane amount of cardio- he’s more than happy knowing he’s the biggest damn dude in the room. That’s an admirable quality, one that I increasingly envy with each passing day. But not one that’s realistic for me to just suddenly adopt. I don’t desire that for one, but also because of some deep rooted psychological problems from growing up as the fattest kid in most rooms. (ugghh one of those excuses) But in all seriousness, there’s some intense truth to it, I just never really recovered, I always wanted vindication for those years of my life, for people to tell me constantly how I look now to make up for the years of “big willy” or what ever long since repressed social memories I have from my days of being a chunker. I suppose a lot of the obsession is derived more so as a response to those years of growing up fat and being unattractive, my way of saying “how do I defeat obesity”, and my overwhelming desire to not only defeat it, but to destroy that part of me, to suffocate it so far in the back of my mind and body that it completely disappears.
“A distorted image of self can also occur after weight loss. Some people who have lost significant weight have a difficult time accepting their bodies. With this phantom fat phenomena, they may be disappointed in the way their newly-thin body looks, or they may have a hard time viewing themselves as anything but overweight.”(thatsfit.com)
It’s always nice to find out God has a sense of humor. Phantom fat phenomena just doesn’t seem fair if it wasn’t for comedic purposes, in the sense that people such as myself who lose what would be considered a major amount of weight (prob 50ish lb’s for muah) still mentally live with that weight can only be laughed at. Otherwise I’d probably just bash my head until I forgot all this knowledge, because it would be my reaction to finding out that while I can physically lose weight, mentally I never truly can.
And while my pursuit of said desire, to eradicate “Big Willy” (as I was so aptly nicknamed because of the wretched trash that Will Smith released during my childhood) has never been actually stated knowingly (its not as If I’d list it on my life goals) I know I’ve had problems with it for a long time. But it wasn’t until I began to reflect on my two years spent in what I describe as “undergrad purgatory” in which I’ve stalled my life stuck in whatever misconceptions I created about myself during my four years of undergrad are replayed constantly because of the associative properties my memory possesses when it comes to this place (Knox). I’ve become so closed off since the days of undergrad, increasingly distanced from the realities of everyday life, stuck in the perpetual ineptitude of having to rationalize my own appearance to myself, the one person who should be in tuned with that. I envy those who can be fat, not workout, and yet still get smoking hot women. And by envy I mean, I want to thrash the life out of you (or at least devour your soul) because of how fucking hard I’ve worked and for what? To become strikingly more reclusive, at times debilitated by my need to be able to look in a mirror and see just how I look on a regular/obsessive basis. Its as if I overcame so much to finally reach my potential in my final two years of college, making good friends during all four years of college, only to have an increasing distance from so many of them because of the constant thoughts of “why would anyone want to talk to me on a daily basis” or the ever present idea that no one truly likes me because I have so little impact on their lives/aren’t attractive enough. And I’m sure at this point, if anyone (doubtful) is actually still reading this, you’d think enough with this self-pitying bullshit. And you would be correct, however it’s the first time I’ve ever felt comfortable even talking about any and all of this so fucking deal with it (please). How does one go about acquiring what is described as “chronic low self esteem”? who the fuck did I get cursed by in a previous life? This has to be like the movie ”thinner”. I can only hope I too was getting a roadie when I hit a gypsy. My biggest fear of b.d.d. has to be the fear of intimate relationships. That to me scares the shit out of me. I don’t want to be alone, or in my case a career third wheel, spent latching onto my brother and whoever it is he’s dating at the time only because I have a fear that no one would ever truly want someone who “looks” like me. I blow most situations in which a girl likes me because I really don’t think they actually like me. I spend most of the time with said girls looking for some reassurance that they do in fact find me attractive. Enough is enough, and I suppose that means I’m gonna have to figure out a way to either; defeat this thing, or marry Jillian Michaels. While I prefer the ladder, I unfortunately don’t think shes playing full time for our team (if ya know what I and women’s health mean) and not to mention the lack of mirror space for two (sigh)..Its hard to sustain successful relationships of any type, when one is constantly focused on “is my hair too long on my neck” or “do people see the bloating of my stomach” and I’m now bowing out. You win man in the mirror…

Life as a middle child

In an attempt to fire up the troops (and to interact with actual people) I sent this email to my bro and sister about our upcoming date with destiny (and to further prove Im not a unibomber shut-in) I'd be pathetic and publish it to the web for cheap laughs. Go fuck yourselves. you know you were thinking it, I had to say it. Alright- ENOUGH IS ENOUGH read on



Simone,

As you’re probably aware, you’re graduation is coming up. (Id be more
amused if you weren’t but anyway) That being said, it appears we will,
in fact be joining in the festivities. And by “joining in the
festivities” I really mean coming to get wasted. There’s no better
way to celebrate (see also: mourn, irish wake) the move to the real
world then by getting absolutely annihilated drunk. Seeing as we will
be in a 10 mile radius of Frat Brah u.s.a. (aka a college campus of
any size or status) we will be required to partay as such:
1. 8 foot table (or just a long surface; one of ur monster bros isn’t
opposed to breaking a door off the hinges if failure to comply)
2. 20 Solo cups
3. Ping pong balls (I think ya know where I’m going with this one!)
4. The best (as surveyed by you of course) local brewing company
-side note= best must take into account: taste/price/bang for the buck
(so most beer for cheapest price)
5. Where the college coeds go to the bar at (a place where I can
wear my v-neck, order a JAEGA BOMB and drunkenly hit on 19 year olds
is preferred but not mandatory)
6. the name of the best (in walking distance) late night food place..i
didnt get this size by eating just 3 meals a day after all
- unless of course you would like to join me in the dui club! (any
takers? no? *crickets chirp*) dammit, worth a shot

Oh yeah, get use to me “accidently” calling you “bro”…sis doesn’t
quite have as great a ring to it, after all and well..its part of my
lexicon. The goal for the night: forget how much the real world truly
sucks by partying it up undergrad style! Bonus points will be rewarded
if: we run into any cousin/relative. Those bonus points will be
doubled if said relative joins us (with all lost if its Danny the
mountain man who hasn’t interacted with women other than his mother
and sister in the five fuckin years hes spent as a college junior) and
tripled if they are Dan the father (like what I did there with the
biblical reference) and or mother. Also…Well I’ve probably
overwhelmed you for now, Ill give ya some time, take all this in, and
prepare to have the best (and or possibly worst)time you won’t fully
remember. That is all..(15 days, 5 hours, 22 seconds and counting)

p.s. do you still have those "vases" that were "left by the previous
renters"?(*nudge wink*)

mooooo

It’s been one of those days where you’re so hungover, its all you can think about. And by that I mean, I’ve been dragging ass all fuckin day. I’ve had a difficult time maintaining anything that resembles a conversation I’ve been that hungover. My eyes are the sunken in, “looks like he drank a 30 pack” look to em, while I wreak of death. My legs are sore from drinking. I have the shakes. (Note to self: I may be an alcoholic) But somehow I made it to the bank, while badly needing a nap, before noon today. The poor teller who had to help me set up a savings account (im such a stud)..shes this little old lady (and that means 55ish) who’s far too happy to get someone to set up a savings account (THERES NO COMMISSION! QUIT BEING NICE TO ME BITCH!) I stroll in with 10 minutes left before they close to set up this saving account, and begin to fidget and look around (think poster boy for ADD) as if I’m about to rob the place. The poor lady begins to go into detail about how there washing the carpets after I leave, to which I mumble
Me: oh that’s what all these Mexicans are doing
Teller: yep, that’s what these nice men are working on
Me: groan
As I sit and day dream about holding the bank up and begin my search for a worthwhile Bonnie to my Clyde (its all 50+ women, nope *sigh*) I decide to pay attention to what the teller is saying. Blah blah bank blah, I look down and close my eyes. Must have been minutes that passed cause she had stopped talking when I finally looked back up and the poor lady was too scared to ask me to sign the paper work. She was sitting there for what had to have been fuckin minutes while I rested my eyes. Lady, don’t creepily stare at me tell me to sign the damn papers! I don’t have ESP! (that you know of) Got out of there without taking any fire from the security guard as I grabbed the loot/ no stares from the Mexicans as I walked out with my new check book I decided I’d go to Jimmy Johns. No I’m not gonna describe how awesome my sandwich was, and Im not going to bore you with the details of me eating a footlong (No homo) but as I walk in I notice 3 full blown heffers (fatties) walking towards me. And by walk, I mean they were rolling, and using what would resemble their legs (if they still had or could see them) to stabilize the rolling. This little shit is taking off in front of them, full bore. I mean the kid is sprinting, he’s “got running from the cops speed” (thank you, Gus Johnson) and these heffers begin to yell at him to stop. I wanted to interrupt and be like “if you fat fucks ran once in a while you could see your feet! Don’t yell at your offspring, he’s lucky he’s not selling advertising on the blimp that is his stomach! You better encourage him to run, hell even if he runs into traffic, the fucker is still burning calories. That’s more than these three heffers following him could say, weezing and grazing as they mooed their way to the car. Christ, I bet the shocks on that car are crying for help. Ugh, fooooooddddd

“this girl was fat. I hit her with my car. She asked me, “why didn’t you go around me?” I told her, “I didn’t have enough gas.” I mean fat. She was standing alone. A cop told her to break it up. She stepped on a scale, a card came out. It said One at a time.”- Rodney Dangerfield, It’s not easy bein’ me

The sweet smell of rejection

One thing I’m beginning to hate about the real world, well one of the main things, is the “rejection letter”. Those of you who’ve never seen one of these (and for that you deserve a cunt/dick punch for being fuckin perfect) it’s a letter letting you know you didn’t get the job you applied for. One particular rejection letter that sent me off the edge reads:
Dear William,
Thank you for applying for the 2010-11 West Virginia University sports communications graduate assistantship. We have offered the position to another candidate and they have accepted.
This year’s candidate pool was tremendous and we thank you for making our decision extremely difficult.
We wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.

Now, I don’t understand the point of these fuckin letters..What do they honestly think, Im that dense? I didn’t expect it to read “William, where the hell have you been? We hired you over a month ago, and expected you to be slaving away at your desk already”. Its an email, fuckstick, send one and not some cheesy piece of stationary to let me know I didn’t get a job I never interviewed for. I’d rather not get any notice then have a bunch of letters from colleges that go along the same lines as this one. I’m half tempted to send this douchenozzle a letter that says
Dear (Dickbag)
I’m thankful you have learned how to use the copy and paste tool in Microsoft word. I realize how hard it can be to type up one letter and change the name at the top, and sign your name; believe me I did it with my cover letter and It was not only painstaking, but a waste of my fuckin time. So thank you, for being able to change the name at the top of the stationary. Now apologize to the fuckin trees you killed so that you could write me an obvious form letter to tell me I didn’t get a job I never so much as received notice that I was, in fact, included in your search. Haven’t you read the Lorax! The trees are going to revolt and wither and die, all cause you are to impersonal to send me a damn email. You inconsiderate prick.
Signed,
The motherfuckin tree that’s gonna fall on your house and family and kill your dog, Lassie cause you killed my friend..Eye for an eye mutha fucka!

Now if I wasn’t in constant fear of the FBI bashing down my door (damn you paranoia) I would send this letter. But the fact of the matter is my asshole is an exit and not an entrance (sorry Bubba and ur massive crank) and would rather not meet the authorities (again). I’m sure he expects me to be blown away with that “thank you for making our job extremely difficult” bullshit. I’m about to make your life a whole lot more difficult if I knew how to send computer viruses (damn you Hollywood for making it look so easy; well and for me being so damn impressionable) Any school that hires Bob Huggins and Rich Rodrieguez can keep their fuckin job, I’m not interested..have you ever heard of guilty by association? Fuck that..why am I surprised I got this letter again?

Caffiene sucksg

bold statement I know..but sympathize with me, if you can..Im still fucking awake at 445am because I took a 5 hour energy at 10pm...a) I hate my life right now, b) i will still hate my life tomorrow...sweet deal, i love the win-win situations I put myself in. So I just wanna go off, say everything on my mind.. I'm drunk, which means every racist thing I spew out would be completely justified (right?) or every misogynistic (try spelling that fuckin word drunk) statement I make will be left alone..But then again I'd need an actual thought..All I can think about is hideous fat bitches and slamming my head thru mirrors to go to sleep..Does forever sleep count? eh..not worth all that..So we started the night at billiards, which is actually my neighbor on the block (no seriously, its next door)...Not only does the bartender choose jameson as the shots were taking, but a girl I went on a date with and never called back (she was a 1, and I wanted it, just too fuckin lazy...the story of my life) was there with a fatty..I understand ladies, its hard to get past me, but come'on...a fatty? sadly its true..one of my buddies said she gave me a look that said "I'm with this dude, only cause I can't be with you"...Now I smell bullshit, tho my buddy said this before I gave him the back story, so who knows..I'm consistently an idiot...went to the one bar we always go to, and believe me the same results..went to seminary and bought shots for a girl who just turned 21 and her friend who had braces..yeah, I swear she wasnt 17 (I keep trying to tell myself this)..I mean a mouth full of chrome..I was tempted to sing Paul Wall's song..And met two 40 plus year old women who, one was a white sox fan and the other was a red sox fan (fuck my life) I talked so much shit I talked myself outta seeing these girls after the bar closed..I have standards, and bitches who "like baseball" but suck picking their "favorite team" (aka whatever all the guys like!) deserve to get clowned until I relent. I'm drunk and jaded guess how this story ends up....

The brain is a wonderful thing to waste

I’ve come to the conclusion that the more I learn in this world, the less I remember. I’d say this was unfortunate, but without spell check I wouldn’t know how to spell “unfortunate”, so I’m moving on, sans my emotional reaction. (no homo) I really feel like my brain operates as a rolodex; unlike the normal brain, which attempts to keep pertinent information mixed in with useless trivia facts, the operators of the rolodex in my head said “fuck it, this shit blows..throw it out!” So don’t attempt to engage me on anything “scholarly”..it ain’t happenin’ (apparently im a southerner now too) Sure I can give you a bullshit reaction to any political argument (usually punctuated with a “I vote democratic” for full effect), but if you truly try to engage me on said topic (which, judging by my oh-so large viewership I can only imagine you want to) I will probably flop around more than a fish outta water. Gee, paw can we go down to this here waterin’ hole and find us some snails to poke at?...What just happened? I think I blacked out..Damn you brain operators, you’re doing this to me on purpose! Where was I? (Note to self: talking to the voices in my head does in fact make me look crazy) See I have the unique ability to be able to remember absolutely useless sports trivia, and even pop culture references that, while can be cool to impress people with (on the occasion), most times I come off sounding like rainman. That’s the only explanation I can have for when I string together an articulate sentence that has to do with said useless trivia facts and I get these looks like “wow, he can talk”, as if their head is going to explode from my vast knowledge of uselessness. Yes, dickbags, I have a brain, and I do (occasionally) use it. The same reaction comes from people when they see me reading a book. “William, you are actually reading a book! Does it have pictures in it?”, “Do you need help with the big words?”, and “you’re finished! Good job!(that’s what she said)” Well that was when I was in the children’s section of the gburg public library…don’t judge me. You wanna know who scored the winning run in Game 6 of the 1986 World Series? Ray Knight. You wanna know who scored to tie it up? Kevin Mitchell . You wanna know who scored before that? Gary Carter. The only walk off home run to win a world series? Bill Mazeroski. Ralph Branca threw the pitch to Bobby Thomson in the shot heard round the world. Wanna know who’s been seen out with Gerald Butler? Jennifer Aniston. You wanna know who the president is in Poland? GOTYERASS there ain’t one! whooow the south will risssseeee again. Maybe I should just move south. They’ll be impressed by these useless facts I spew out, fuck I’ll be mayor or senator in no time. “This boy here, he can read! And Write!” You see, I’m convinced that the more I learn, the more that gets left behind. Sorta like that episode of Married with Children when Al attempts to teach Kelly useless trivia facts to win a game show- the more she learns, the more her brain has to throw out to make room for the newest information. (obscure pop culture reference: check) I also just compared myself to Kelly Bundy…I need a concussion immediately…

The art of not paying attention

I’m beginning to feel as though not-paying attention is a skill. Let me rephrase that, constructively not-paying attention (if there's such a way) while in a meeting with 8 of your “co-workers” (I use the term loosely) is a skill. Every Wednesday I have the insufferable pleasure (akin to the feeling of a catheter) of attending a meeting where we discuss the finer points of public relations. I’ve long thought “maybe I can gauge my arties with my numb fingernails and get outta this” but then realize they would probably only continue the meeting, speculating as to who was going to write my obituary. And none of those fucks are writing my obituary. That’s saved for the library of congress (if ya catch my drift). One such meeting, I showed up noticeably sick. Now, I didn’t know I was sick; I merely thought I was having a moment of weakness. (side note: the males in my family believe that sickness equals weakness, pain equals weakness, and weakness in both cases cripples confidence) So as I’m struggling to so much as pick my head off the desk, I begin to search keywords that keep coming into my head. At one point, as I’m wedged between two of my “co-workers” (again, with that word) and I’m searching Depression and side effects/tale tall signs. Pretty sure that was the last time anyone ever sat next to me at one of these meetings. And by pretty sure, I think most of them are shocked they haven’t found me hanging in the storage closet yet. More so, the skill is not caring what people think of you as you scroll the blogs of choice and give little effort except for my (insert- glowing, wonderful, beautiful) presence. A skill that I have not only mastered, I'm a sensei. Now back to today’s meeting. I say my piece as to what I can remember is happening in the Athletics department, appease the writers (see: people picked on by jocks) by making a joke about the particularly difficult year we’ve been having in the win-loss columns (“an aversion to winning”) and while suppressing the urge to scream out "NERDS!!!", I bury my head in the glorious world wide web.
2:02- Check Deadspin
2:03- Check Espn.com
2:03.33- check deadspin (maybe they updated it)
2:04- Check Fantasy Baseball team
2:06- Ponder what my starting outfield should be (Jason Heyward you are all that is man!)
2:08- Check Google News
2:09- Check Facebook
2:11-Check Espn (come’on breaking news!)
2:13- No such luck, I read about Big Ben
2:15- I lift my head up for air when I hear someone rumor the meeting being adjourned. Bitch was lying
2:16- Repeat cycle
Now this meeting went until 2:37. (this is how you know I was bored) I checked deadspin and espn a combined 12 times, that I can remember. I swear that when browsing the internet my brain completely turns to mush. All I can do is sit like an autonomous droid and click on link, type in new address, scroll down, repeat..click on link, type in new address, scroll down, repeat…click on link, type in new address, scroll down, repeat. Shit, I’m doing it again…The entire group continues to drone on and on, sounding something like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Except I wish the words were really that incoherent. My problem becomes that I can still make out the words, I just don’t have a fuckin clue as to what they’re saying or talking about (note to self: this happens when you nevvver pay attention) Instead they just sound like people worrying to fucking much about mundane details that don’t have a worldly effect. Not that I have room to talk. I’ve literally became so consumed by my desire to talk nothing but sports that I’m either a) a misdiagnosed Asperger’s suffer, b) that damn locked in, c) really hate human interaction. And we all know sports talk has no worldly effect, and thus I find my place at this meeting, a massive jock in a world I know nothing about (public relations), hoping that the meeting will end and I can go back to the comfort of my own, secluded, world.

Lets see if I know how to do this....

Kermit Washington knocks Rudy T. the fuck out

In case, you too didn’t spend your childhood absorbing as much sports television as possible in the basement while the other kids were out playing (who really needs a social life?) I have found a clip that may highlight one of the greatest moments in pro basketball history; actually it’s a close second to this. But oh so close. Just look at the form on Kermit Washington. Christ, he decapitates him. Has a perfect shift in his weight, he’s like a heavyweight boxer. Rudy T., who went on to be the neurotic coach of the *NBA Champion Houston Rockets, ended up in a coma after this punch. In case you were wondering, I’m not much for this posting clips and rambling on and on about what is in them or not, just watch the damn clip and quit being an internet snob. Its youtube for fucks sake. Whew, I feel better, rage subsiding……

*Championship came when M.J. was suspended for gambling- or as David Stern called it “playing baseball”

Day 586 in Undergrad Purgatory

I’ve decided to keep sauntering(as you can see, Ive been reading the thesaurus) on with this blog. Not that I think people are actually reading it, more so just to continue having a one person dialogue with myself. Always healthy. (and no the least bit crazy) So I will continue to subject the internet to my every thought and whim. That’s what you get internet, you dirty, dirty whore.

Newsworthy in my life (sadfully)

I finished 3866 in the masters best ball challenge on Espn. I have now completed step one by admitting “I have a problem”. I’m to the point of my fantasy sports life, that I not only entered, but did well in the masters best ball challenge. I mean, I know probably 10 (giving myself a lotta credit here) golfers. I saw they were giving out 3k for this particular challenge and the competitor in me tore into it. I quickly silenced the part of my brain that kept repeating “no wonder youre single William” (silly sub conscious) and went to work on picking the four best golfers to further cement my status as a sports nerd. (not that there was ever doubt) I literally pick four guys that I have heard of (one being Tiger, Tiger Woods y’all) and went to work. I finished in the 96.6 percentile of this particular challenge, in contrast I finished in the 75th percentile of my graduating class in college..wonder if I can put this on my resume. {At a job interview, not to distant future} So William, it says here that you have been the sports info director at Knox for 2 years?
Me: yes ma’am, two whole years
Interviewer: blah, blah interview question blah. So I also see you finished 3866 in the masters best ball challenge.
William: yes ma’am, quite proud of that accomplishment. (not that ive ever had a female A.D interview me, but hey this is my fantasy)
Interviewer: Get out of my office
William: Did I get the job?
Interviewer: Get out
William: So no?
(If this in fact reminds you of a scene in Step Brothers…you win a big slice of “fuck you”..i gave dream sequence a try, and apparently im as bad at that as I am fantasy hockey (ba-da-bum!) And I also have the comedic abilities of a less Hispanic George Lopez.)

And after this particular dream sequence, I’m further convinced I may be interested in smh. So ladies out there in the internet world, hint hint…

Where was I? Oh yeah off on a tangent about how truly awesome I am at everything sports related. Howwww ever could I forget…In reality I just needed to tell/brag to someone..It helps with my recovery process. Now if only I could apply this vast knowledge to the real world, I could get to work on that cure for cancer (or just get to grad school)

My impersonation of Tucker Max- WB edition

Well, its time to put the trip in writing. So I take off at 7:20, 30 minutes after I was in fact supposed to leave. (Amtrak you government run cocksuckers) eh, at this point Im in never-never land (not the one run by Michael Jackson) and pondering which girl on the train is most do-able (a scale of 1 to 0 as my measuring stick) when I notice a girl yapping loudly behind me to apparently the cop who is sitting next to her. And by yapping I mean I doubt she stopped running her mouth about her fuckin friends that I knew this ‘fun vampire’ was 32, has been to Flunk Day (bitch) and dating a 25 year old who is clearly going to dump her old ass in a matter of days and fucks. (fucks of course coming before the days) As my luck has it, the battery in my 40 dollar mp3 player is already dying, so in order to preserve some for the ride home I take off the headphones. The rage is building. I am about green and a thousand pounds when I get off the train, with the constant day dream of smashing this broad’s yapping mouth into the window having played through out that brutal 40 minute ride without the comfort of my music. Get to Grant’s apartment, which is huge and puts the house I rent to shame. Not that life is a contest (yet), but I already begin to feel out of place. Grant’s friends are a kid who looks like The Situation and a Puerto Rican Marine; I feel a little better. I get some 'fuck it' in my system; I can’t feel anymore. If I could in fact feel, I would’ve felt like Alan in the Hangover; I hum to myself, the three best friends…The bars are the bars, I tend to bounce into everyone, knocking into both chicks and dudes. I am huge. Oh, and I wore sandals (with my customary unkept nails, Im classy) with shorts (plaids) and a v-neck tee. Its all of maybe 40 degrees. I have finally gained tool status.

The day starts for me at 7:15am. Too anxious to sleep, I’ve seen the highlights of yesterday’s games for the third time. (I slept with the tv on and watched the highlights another 4 times at least) The thoughts of how great this day could potentially be have filled my head, as I cram all 240 pounds of my massive frame onto a small couch. An hour and a half of trying not to wake anyone up and be that dude (or a 12 year old on Christmas eve) I finally go to wake up Grant at around 8:30ish. He reluctantly gets out of bed, only to lay on the couch and watch the highlights with me (my 6thish time mind you) before we go get booze and mcdonalds breakfast at 915am. (after all, no day of drinking is complete without mcd bfast twice) Booze is bought, and at 9:45am the first Busch Light is cracked. After half a b-town bomber and three busch lights for me (everyone else may get down one) we head for the train around 1030pm. Did I forget to mention I got a pump in, in there make shift gym/office/smoke den. Yep, I’m a meathead. I cram my pockets with three extra beers, on top of the bag of beers Grant has in hand, which we all drink on the metra train into town. I’m probably at least 7 beers deep when we get to Chicago, at the very least. I’m feeling good. We get to the ticket place 12:15, which with the game starting at 12:05 I’d normally be pissed. However, Lady Luck, Karma and God all got together and decided to reward me (for what I will never know) and The Situation gets us up to the rooftop in the right field of Wrigley where its all you can eat and all you can drink. After shoveling down a plate of the driest chicken breasts (PROTEIN!) I have a keg poured blue moon in hand. The cubs are losing, which is also code to get even more fucked up. I pound my way through five total blue moons (cant beat free) and am feeling good. I wave bye to two girls I went to college with, who happened to be sitting in the adjacent (that’s next to-take that seventh grade geometry teacher!) and we begin to make our way out. It’s the fifth (ish?) inning and were on our way to seats that are 5 rows behind the cubs bullpen. And by on the way, I mean I make it down the three flights of stairs at the rooftops and literally puke up anything and everything I had in my system. Puke and rally at 2pm. I am heralded as the ultimate partier (by a random dude who originally thought I was a jackass before he realized it’s my buddies b’day) which is a huge distinction for a frat brah like me. I am on cloud nine.

We get into wrigley, and Grant’s buddy The Situation is in fact as money as I probably told him (which after that much beer I’d say was four times at least) we are literally four to five rows back. (seeing as I was oh 10 beers deep at this point, I say four or five because that was my visual of it) Eight inning, cubs are down 4-0. Ramierez and Soriano both rope balls (haha) the left field line, zipping past our seats. The score is 4-3. With two runners on and 2 outs in the ninth Kosuke Fuck-u-do-me gives one of those swings a half retarded special class kid gave back in little league. He literally twists his body swinging at a pitch that hits the dirt to end the game. I’m pissed, but not surprised. Carlos Marmol, the closer who was left at the alter by the cubs, happens to throw the ball he was warming up with into the crowd. I’m a hawk, and after some bad no catches (drunks) I snag the ball off the ground and deposit it in my pocket. Mine bitches. I shoot that look and growl at the hands and people around me, while all three buddies are impressed that I did so with no fanfare or celebration. In reality, I was being protective of my baseball. We leave for what is the first of many bars. Mulligans (I believe) to play some darts with a couple of Knoxies. We head to sluggers too, which is a haze. We end the night at a bar that has a dance floor which brought only this Denis Leary quote to mind. “Straight men don’t dance, remember birthdays or marry chicks with hearing aids” However, my group has never heard this quote. That is my only thinking when they start busting out the moves on the dance floor. Grant is balls deep in a thigh high fastball (I use baseball analogies like its my job) who has already given him the signs as to what she’ll be throwing next. She wants cock, and his will work wonders. I leave him and am stuck, latching onto Johnny (Puerto Rican marine) who has already let me know that a)he’s banged skins once already and b) he wants to again, without a phone. Sweet. I’m attempting not to freak out that so many men are dancing like it’s Saturday Night Fever that I keep drinking. A little, has to be Italian woman keeps trying to get me to dance. Cant do it, I say. Doesn’t work. She has a wedding ring. Mmm…I try to muster up the dance moves, only to realize I am not nearly drunk enough, and still am holding myself accountable for my awful dancing (fucking self-esteem issues). I return to the bar, and the night gets hazy. I end up looking at my phone at 11pm, and saying to no one in particular “we got alotta night left!” I fist pump. It is the last real clear memory I have.

I end up texting whoever I can, nobody's coming to wrigleyville. Mother fucker. I get drunker. I hear I was kicked outta the bar for attempting to steal bud lights (scummy) and I take a picture of a pitch dark Wrigley field at 2am. I’m sure I was jacked about this at the time. 4:43am- I come to, outside of the train station. This can’t possibly be just luck. I have two weird scratch marks on both thighs and reak of a days worth of drinking and have no idea where in particular I am. I can’t help but think I am still dreaming. In fact It reminds me of a dream I had, only this is real and damn im in a world of pain. All day drinking just aint my thing, I guess (I’ll never be a functioning alcoholic!). I scrubily ask the lady working the desk how I can get to Claredon Hills, and she says get on the train and ride. I oblige. At the next station, this time its 5:02, I ask a well intoxicated black man how to get to the metra. He lets me know I should get off at Jackson. Thank you random drunk black man. A group of coked out posers enter the same train, tho I cant even look up to acknowledge them. Still too out of it. I get to the Jackson area, and Im freezing. Still in my shorts, cubs shirt and cubs sandals, its all of 30something degrees out with no sun. IF I were a bum I’d die, I have no discovered. There goes that potential life plan (sigh). I get to the service desk, and pathetically ask a black man and black woman who work at the station how to catch the metra to Claredon Hills.
Black man: The metra?
Me: yes to claredon hills
Black woman: Where?
Me: (still slurring my speech and in a daze) Claredon hills, my buddy lives there.
Black woman: Where were you at?
Me: The cubs game
Black man. THAT WAS TWELVE HOURS AGO!
Me (looking as much the part of a scrub as possible): uhhh, yeah…..
They point me in the right direction, alerting me that I will need to get to Union Station. That its only a few blocks up and out of where I am, in fact three total blocks. Its still cold and I still feel like dog shit, but I stagger my way into Union Station, fitting right in with the bums who normally populate a train station at 545 in the morning. It gets worse. I realize the metra doesn’t begin to run until 830, which means I will have to manage for a solid 2 plus hours. I’d get mad if I could, or if I was at all surprised my luck had clearly run dry. I wait..I try to sleep on a hard wooden bench but the damn breeze and my fuckin summer wear aren’t doing it. I walk to mcdonalds where I order what looks good. I take two bites and pound the orange juice I ordered. My head was clearly bigger than my stomach. My mission of starting and ending the day with mcd is complete and my medal is no where to be found, so I rest my eyes. Less than 15 minutes later I am awoken by “cant sleep here sir, get up and get some air”. Fuck my life. I get up while realizing my stomach feels like death. So I head to the bathroom only to shit thru a screen door and puke almost in unison. While my mouth is still full of puke I hear someone slam on the door of the stall “sir you cant sleep in here!” Like what the fuck? Who the fuck would wanna sleep on the stall of a Union station bathroom? Sure I would love a venereal disease sir, this is a perfect spot to sleep. I muster up enough where withal to tell this jerkoff that I am in fact not sleeping and to get the hell away from me. I finish leaving everything I have consumed in the past 12 hours in the union station toilet (including both my pride and dignity) and pass out on a bench at 645. I am awaken at 738 to be told, that once again, there is no sleeping in union station. Im just thankful I can buy my metra ticket. Which I, in fact do, and at 8 oclock I find myself boarding the metra. I am giddy to not be told that I cant sleep, so I close my eyes. I am awoken when the train lunges forward, and again when a bomb detonates in my stomach. Motion sickness/hangover are in full effect, and thank god a pretty girl who I’ve been eye fucking all morning is there to witness it. I first attempt to hold it in. “Come on William, you pussy shove it back down (no homo)” I keep telling myself, until finally it spews out a little and on to my hand. I give in, and lean over the trash can at the end of the metra. I am again, that guy. (This time im an inconsiderate party animal who pukes in public places) Just a little baby puke and my stomach feels better. I sit, having lost my dignity hours ago, without much embarrassment as to my current state. I shoot the pretty girl a “hey, don’t stare at me, party!!” look and she gets the deal. I get off at Claredon Hills. Finally, dry land. Its 9:00 and my luck continues to be dried and out of commission. I call Grant every 15 minutes from 9 to 11, with no answer. I remember him and his roommate telling me its “.7 miles” from there house to the train station, so I get the idea that I will just attempt to walk .7 miles in every direction and I will surely find there apt. I realize now how truly stupid this plan was. After 2 hours of walking in endless directions and seeing places I try to convince myself I’ve seen before, I kick out around “Blackhawk drive”. Seeing as I remembered making an off hand, random comment about how its “Blackhawk drive” we were driving on two nights before, I am certain it will lead me there. No dice. I find a 711 to hydrate myself at and realize my luck has changed ever so slightly. They have Gatorade on tap. Oh sweet nector of the gods, I buy the largest cup (I’m a man, yes I am) and settle down on the curb to drink it in all of its deliciousness. It’s no more than 47 degrees (approximately) and I continue to wander. I call my bro, who helps me navigate to Grants apt using mapquest. Thank you, Bradley. 2 hours later and roughly 4 miles (when I finally called B it was 1045 and I was 1.56 miles from Grants) I get into Grants apt and shower. I feel like the scene in King of New York where Frank White showers after he’s released from prison. (I also realize you have to be a Biggie Smalls fan to have ever considered watching this movie) Glorious. Its 1230 when Grant and his boys come home, and I must look like dog shit. We all share stories, and return to wonderland before the train ride. I’m glad I survived the night. Grant drops me off and I get my ticket. The old, stern looking Amtrak attendant lets me know I must take the tunnel down to where I need to be picked up. I ignore him foolishly, and stand outside. I make eye contact with a chick with a big ass and a soft “fuck me crazy” look on her face. Boner. I’m in a zone. I board the train with her. My first thought is, “man these seats don’t look like Amtrak seats”. The train lurches forward, and I continue zoning in on the thick girl with a work of art for an ass. The conductor interrupts my day dreaming to let me know that I am in fact on the wrong train, and someone will be along to help me out. I let the ticket taker know this, that I am on the wrong train and what should I do he responds “you better get off the train!” Which I oblige, and make further eye contact with the beauty on the metra. Oh so close, I give her a look and she smirks, most likely at my stupidity. I tuck my tail in between my legs and wait at the Lisle train station for a train back to Naperville, so that I can once again board a train for Galesburg. I let the Amtrak attendant know that I am in fact an idiot (my exact words), and that I missed my train. If this stern old man could even smile, he would’ve, I am confident. Lady Luck/Karma/God give me a break, and hang one for me; I will only have to wait another 15 minutes for the train. Oh joy. All I had planned to do was curl up and die (figuratively, but soon to be literally at this point) on the train, which I have now been awake/blacked out for 32 consecutive hours. Ugh..I find out we have assigned seats on the train, and I get slotted next to my #2 girl. (Side note: I’ve spent so long watching, viewing, obsessing over sports that I must rank girls by looks in every social situation) Shes cute but uninterested. I think of making small talk but I pass out, all to happy to finally (and legally) close my eyes. 510 rolls around and I awake. Almost home. 6oclock hits and we arrive. The train conductor makes an off-hand comment about how much the town we are entering sucks (a synopsis of her words, not exacts) and I know it is Galesburg. I have never been so happy to be back in all of my life. 20 minutes it takes me to stagger home, I quickly derobe, send some texts and lay in bed. 1:38am hits, and I am starving. I realize I just passed out for 7 hours, I devour two handfuls of left over stale popcorn, and return to my slumber. I awake at 8:32, some 14 plus hours of sleep and am ready for Monday. I think I am…