Monday, September 28, 2009

Babies having babies

I have had it up to *HERE* with people talking about their pregnancies.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Shut up, Barky.

I have a neighbor who lives behind my house. I actually have quite a few of them. I've never actually taken the time to meet any of them. This has been the case because:
#1.) I'm kind of a jerk, and
#2.) I'm not home that much anyway. When I am home, I'm usually in some sort of vegetative state on my bed eating one of Little Cesaer's Hot 'n Ready $5 pizzas and watching a movie. That's what happens when you have two and a half jobs.

Speaking of being in a vegetative state, though, the time that I am not eating said pizza and/or watching a movie, I am asleep. Ah, yes... Sweet, sweet sleep. Most nights, I have ridiculous dreams. Last night's? Sure! I dreamt that Rachel Briggs and I were stock clerks at Kroger and discovered a windfall of baby diapers and ice cream bars that we were going to steal and sell on the black market. After our successful venture into the world of organized crime, we went out and sung Christmas carols. This sounds like it very well could be the sequel to Safe Men. How awesome would that be?! Very. Very awesome.

It's dreams like the aforementioned one that cause me to wake up singing aloud the words to "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!" which has now been in my head since I woke up some four hours ago. If you're doing the math and not paying attention to the stupidly inaccurate time stamp on this here blog, you may deduce that this puts me up somewhere in the range of five o'clock in the morning. It's not like I had anything to do that early this morning. I entertained the idea of going running that early but that was too early... plus this Inland Tropical Storm NeverSeemsToEnd rain we've been having has severely curtailed my athletic endeavors over the past week and a half. What in the world could have awoken me from my slumber?

A barking dog owned by the neighbor who lives behind me.

It's my job to overcome questions (it's not really, because I'm not a salesman) so I know what your first one is: "How did you hear the dog? Don't you sleep with your windows closed when there's 134% humidity?" Under normal circumstances, I would have socked you, dear question asker, in the teeth for asking such a dumb question. Of course I do. My finely honed ears pick up most everything. That and I have to sleep with my window open right now because our air conditioning system is fucked up at the moment. The good and bad of having inexpensive rent, I suppose.

So this dog continued to bark and I continued to lie there awake. The only thing that I could think of were ways to extract my revenge. Why? Because I'm a hell of a dude. None of my ideas seemed to be very good:
#1.) Dogfighting. This has been looked down upon in recent years. Plus, this is the dog that I would be using to fight. She's afraid of water. Seriously. Also, the Rados might get pissed at me.
#2.) Yelling out, in typical East Nashville fashion, "SHUT THAT DAMN DOG UP!"
#3.) Feeding the dog milk chocolate. That's a little too sadistic, even for me.

So, as I listened to Wonder the Never Ending Barking Dog, I came up with an idea that solves almost all my immediate problems: an ice cream truck route. It would give me another job, another source of income, free ice cream, and I'd get to annoy the hell out of my neighbor with "The Entertainer" at an insane volume and on permanent repeat. I've been fervently hunting on craigslist...

Also, I wouldn't be singing Christmas songs in September. It's a win-win for me. And if I could only find that real life windfall of diapers. I'm becoming more and more diabolical by the minute...

P.S. Additional points to whomever gets the sitcom referenced in the title of this blog. Maybe even some free ice cream, too. Maybe.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Don't Hassel the Hoff

David Hasselhoff is a drunk.

That being said, I'd still like to party with him.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Stamp out ingorance

Let me temper this entry by writing that I am not a fan of the United States Postal Service... Especially the one in Inglewood. They are the model of inefficiency. That being said, I went to the post office yesterday on my way home from work. I needed to buy a stamp. That's right. One stamp. 44 cents. When in the hell did sending a letter get so damned expensive? I don't send that many pieces of mail so I don't care that much but I remember when postage was half of that.

I also remember when pop only cost a dime and you could go to the nickelodeon and see two pictures and a news reel. "Those were the days..."

I was hoping beyond hope that the post office would still be open when I got off of work. That maybe they were open until 6 o'clock like so many banks are. That maybe I could catch a dude inside who would be willing to sell me one stamp so that I could mail in my car payment thus allowing me to continue to go to work for the next four weeks and race around afterwards hoping to get to the post office the next month and do it all over again.

Now, I know what you're all thinking: "Why don't you just buy a book of stamps? That way you don't have to keep going to the post office." Books of stamps invariably get lost in the black hole that is my bedroom. I'm fortunate most days to find a clean pair of underpants in there. Monday, for example, I couldn't find any so I went commando. Sexy.

I got out of The Family Truckster and started walking toward the door. It looked unlocked! Hooray! I was actually excited to go in to the post office. There was but one other car in the lot and I knew, I KNEW, I KNEW that it had to be one lone postal worker getting ready to end his or her shift. I was jovial. I was excited. I was going to make this person's day! Most days, I don't get to do that.

I bounded out of my debt machine car and towards the front door. Being ever vigilant, I locked my car with my key fob. I always lock my car. I had my car broken into about 10 years ago and it's about the worst feeling in the world. Anything that I can do to deter theft of my personal belongings (i.e., my Louisville Slugger that I keep nestled between my console and passenger seat), I am pretty much all for. Being obsessive with locking my car, I always confirm said locking by pressing the lock button again, thus emitting a pleasant "honk, honk" from my car and even further putting my mind at ease.

And so I did.

"HEY! THAT'S DAMN RUDE!" A voice from behind me shouted. "HEY!"
I live in east Nashville, so having some dude yell in my direction is not entirely uncommon. Usually, it's some dude getting ready say "Hey, lemme ask you a question..." and then proceeding to ask me for 44 cents for the bus. Strangely, that's the same cost as a postage stamp and for being somebody who hordes his pennies in a jar in his bedroom, I am not one to give up my beloved change so easily. Dudes don't need to lie to me... You're using that money to go get a beer. If it weren't for me having to spend my money on postage, I'd be using it for the same thing, so I don't fault you entirely for trying. In that respect, homeless dudes are like drunk chicks at the bar... 'Cept for they probably don't go "Wooooooo!" as much. I mean, they are homeless after all.

Back to my story.

"HEY!!! DON'T YOU KNOW IT'S RUDE TO DO THAT?!" I turned around in a fervor getting ready to punch this dude square in the jaw. "IT'S VERY RUDE TO HONK YOUR HORN AT SOMEBODY."

Some dude hanging out at TitleMax (they of the "Get your title back with TitleMax" jingle) next door got mad because I decided to lock my car. Being someone who has worked in the world of sundry financial services, I all too well know the clientle; this confirmed my satisificatory locking.

I kept walking. I couldn't get to the post office door fast enough. And, it was open! Huzzah!

This, however, was truly temporary and fleeting for two reasons:
1.) The door to the inner sanctum post office counter was locked and the lights inside were turned off, and
2.) Homeboy followed me inside the lobby.

He continued with his civics lesson: "DON'T HONK AT PEOPLE!"
I replied: "I wasn't honking at you. I was locking my car."
He stood there, dumbfounded. "You can lock your car with your keys?!"
"Yup. It's pretty bitchin'." I figured if I was gonna piss off an old, black Southern dude, I was gonna go whole hog.
"Man... what'll they come up with next?!" he replied.
"I'm gonna leave now." And out the door I walked.

I thought Obama was gonna fix all of our racial and social problems. I thought he was going to be a great communicator (as long as he's got a teleprompter). I thought he was going to bridge the gap. Not only between Giants fans and non-Giants fans the nation over but between all people. I mean, he's done a great job of communicating to the US that he thinks Kanye West is a "jackass" [Writer's note: Way to go, Mr. President! Seriously. I don't much care for this administration but you nailed it on the head with that one.] But he's done little to educate lifelong Tennessee residents on this new fangled door-locking technology. Maybe that wasn't covered in the automaker bailout. Well, clearly it wasn't. Supporting iniativies to educate the less fortunate about key fobs must have gotten vetoed or pigeonholed or other-ed along the way. No matter.

Oh, and I didn't get my stamp. I had to go to the post office on my lunch break yesterday to do it.

Longer hours... That's all I'm asking for.

I did give this guy the ol' one-two as I drove away. Just to be nice.

Monday, September 14, 2009

Keira vs. Kanye. Keira wins every time.

I was going to write a damning blog about Kanye West being a giant douchebag but it wouldn't have been insightful. We all know already he's a douchebag.

I was then going to write a blog about how this is the best publicity that Taylor Swift ever could have received. CNN is going to show coverage of some weak ass awards show every 37 minutes and she's gonna sell a shit-ton more records.

No, I am above all that.

What I am not above is providing you with a link of pretty much every Keira Knightley picture known to man. There's too much negativity in the world. I'm just trying to spread some love and make the world a better place.

Through pictures of Keira Knightley.

That's right.

Friday, September 11, 2009

Fashion can make some people puke

Having Ellen Degeneres as the new judge of American Idol makes about as much sense as a gay dude judging a women's beauty pageant. Of course, America's already been down that path before and that turned out fuckin' great!

Speaking of gay...
Last night, I was over at Sam's (manly bar) watching football (manly sport) when I got a phone call from Micah (kinda manly except for when he runs around the house naked and giggles) who is in town for an extended weekend. Turns out he and his wife were right next door at POSH for a fashion show. Actually, the show was being held on the street next to POSH. Now, for the uninformed lot of you, POSH is a store that I can't afford to shop in and while I often decry the world of fashion at large, I semi-secretly wish that I could afford to shop there. If there's one thing I know about life, it's that broads like gents that wear their $347 pair of jeans as well as their unkempt beards. If there's two things I know about life, it's that women like to be called broads. If there's three things I know about life, it's that it's damn hard to get a properly poured pint of Guinness in this town except for, of all places, Cabana where I ultimately ended up last night for Colson's birthday party. Cabana is not very manly at all. Even less so than naked giggling racoon eyes Micah.

As I was standing there talking with my friend and former roommate about Obama's speech to the nation about Awesome Chili Cheese Fritos health care reform, the aforementioned fashion show began.

Remember who's writing this by the way. Perhaps the least fashion forward man you are ever likely to meet. I'm talking "sweatpants + roller skates = first date attire" type of guy. Let's hear it for unneccesary quotation marks!

A voice over came over a set of loud speakers. Something about the dawn of time. And the beginning of man. And how we came to be. And romanticism. It reminded me of "Stonehenge" from This is Spinal Tap. I was hoping that some little people were going to come out dressed in some sort of elfin outfits in which to frock. I immediately thought that this was going to be the best fuckin' fashion show of all time. Easily the best that I had ever been to. I mean, the new line of Russel Athletic Wear comes out soon (they're partnering with Rollerblade for a unique fall look is what I'm hearing) and I went to their show a few weeks ago and it was off the chain! Oh, how excited I was!

And then David Beckham showed up. On a fucking horse. With a sword. Part of that is a lie. But a dude that looks an awful lot like David Beckham did show up. On a fucking horse. With a sword. You know... David Beckham? Football Soccer player? Has a movie named after him starring the greatest actress in all the land? Married to that anorexic chick from Spice Girls? Yes! That dude! I'd post a picture of him on here but I think I've exceeded my quota for homoeroticism for at least the next 8 days or so.

I'm not too sure what fashion has to do with medieval outfits. Unless this was a fashion show for Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure 3: The Search through the Last Several Years for Alex Winters' Career I'm at a complete loss. Maybe chalk this one up to ignorance or me failing to see the big picture but I just didn't see the correlation. Even the techno beat remix of "Ave Maria" didn't quell my confusion.

I stayed for the whole thing because, well, why the hell not?! The size negative infinity lady models were nice to look at and wonder what they looked like naked. The part where the lady sitting in the VIP section in the front row projectile vomitted from drinking too much organic wine which we were informed has "215 less chemicals than regular wine" [Writer's note: I don't know if projectile vomitting lady is a good advertisement for the wine or not.] was pretty sweet. But really, at the end of the show, I just wanted to run out onto Belcourt Avenue and stomp the little buildings that were set up with cute little lights in 'em.

Maybe if I would have made some sort of Godzilla like noises. Breathin' fire. Wompin' shit with my bad ass tail. [Writer's note #2: Don't make any "In danger of being crushed by a dwarf" jokes or I will destroy you.] That sort of thing... Then maybe it would have been okay. But discretion is the better part of valor and I decided to let David Beckahm, Jr., ride off into the street lights sunset with his dame while I promptly went over to Cabana and enjoyed my pints. Besides, I don't know how many other middle aged women were there that would have been eager to projectile vomit on me. That would have been a quick end to my night and I had plans of making an ass out of myself and ain't no one was gonna stop me.
And no one did.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Keep it... I've got a Pitbull now!

I was driving home last night from job number two and a half (I now have a vested interest in keeping score at bar trivia nights - free pints, free french fries, twenty bucks) and was headed north on I-65. You may be wondering what exactly I was doing on that particular stretch of interstate when the easiest and quickest way for me to get home is Ellington. It's called 'not paying attention' and that's exactly what I was or, rather, was not doing. In fact, I didn't even realize it until I got to about Trinity Lane or so. This proved both tempting and problematic. Tempting because every time I drive down Trinity Lane I want to stop at Checker's/Rally's and buy a Buffalo Chicken Sandwich for $1. Problematic because I knew if I did get off the freeway that I would go get said sandwhich and invariably have dreams about being chased through a forrest by Foghorn Leghorn while carrying a spatula in one hand and the keys to a 1974 Chevy Nova in the other. I mean, stranger things have happened.

However, had I not been a dunderhead and missed my exit, I would not have seen a billboard which has inspired this entry. Call it providence 'cause I'm inspired.

The billboard of which I speak was for a local radio station in town. I think it calls itself "The Party". It plays 'party' music. You know... Like "Party in the USA" by Miley Cyrus and "Rock the Party" by P.O.D. and "Party all the Time" by Eddie Murphy and so on and so forth. Really, though, it only plays the first of the aforementioned artists as indicated by the three other artists on the billboard:

(A highly airbrushed) Kelly Clarkson,
Daughtry, and

I have no idea Pitbull is. How he got on a billboard is even further beyond me. I'm pretty up on my shit, too, so I figured I'd have heard of him.

After thinking "Who the hell is this dude?" I ran through the veritable encyclopedia in my head of things that have to do with pitbulls.

Entry number one: Griff Tannen's Pitbull Hoverboard from Back to the Future 2. [Gee, thanks for watermarking the hell out of that picture. I'm specifically not directing readers to your site because of it.] That thing was bad ass. I actually always wanted one. As a matter of fact, my Uncle Mike promised me one for Christmas in 1989. Twenty years and exactly zero Pitbull hoverboards later, I am still waiting. A good thing to be associated with; way to go Mr. Pitbull!

Entry number two: Michael Vick. This seemed unlikely that the shitty noted quarterback and a burgeoning rapper might some how be connected. I googled it. They're not.

Entry number three: I don't have an entry number three.

So, I got to work today, where all of my good internet research is done, and looked up this Pitbull dude. He sucks. The last time someone tried to rap about Miami, we got this which turned out to be as dangerous as a buffalo chicken sandwich from Checker's/Rally's.

Then it all became clear. I knew where I had seen this Pitbull fella before: he was making those awesome buffalo chicken sandwiches at Checker's/Rally's!!! Seriously. Look at this guy! He's a damn paper hat away from slingin' some chili fries in my direction. And he's a music star?!
Whatever happened to a little image? A little pizzaz? A little *oomph*? I want artists to look like they care about what they look like... Not like Dr. Evil with a goatee. I want artists that have a little pride in themselves. I don't want to listen to some dude rap about beachfront property and a weak ass football team. Nobody wants that.
And there he was... billboardin' it up.

I do take solace in one tiny little thing: the fact that I make as little money as I do with my two and a half jobs is tempered by the fact that Pitbull is a mere paternity suit away from working until 11 o'clock at night the rest of his life and asking me if I want my fries "loaded".

Ladies of Miami, you have a job to do.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Final Fantasy Football IV

...pales in comparison to my beloved Detroit Lions and how they've named Matthew Stafford their season opening starter. Because if there's anything that instills confidence in fans of the worst franchise in the league (that's a finger wag at you, Oakland Raiders' fans) it's this:

There's nothing to inspire hope in the beleagured and much maligned fans quite like a drunken and spooning frat boy. Restore the roar, Detroit.


Monday, September 7, 2009

Baby, baby

Since today is Labor Day, I figured that the best way to celebrate the day would be by, well, laboring. Using that word is a bit too generous however since all I've managed to work on today is to have received two phone calls and send one email. One of the phone calls that I received was from the other person in my department unfortunate enough to work today informing me that she was "tired all get out" and would not be coming in.

My ass is tired, too. You know where I am? I'm in my cube earning time and a half, that's right! But that's not the point.

Also, I don't think that having built a fort out of your desk and various other office supplies counts as work as it relates to my profession. It looked pretty good, though, when I finished. I'm quite the talented fort builder, I must say.

I want to talk about babies. That's right. Babies. They're like inebriated midgets who roll around on the ground. You know what I'm talking about. I figure with the actual birthing process being called "labor" and today sharing that same moniker, I might as well...

I'm getting past the point in my life when my friends are starting to get married. I've been in and to plenty of weddings. Strangely enough, I am not much of a fan of weddings. Receptions are great though. Receptions with mashed potato bars are even better. Better than a reception with an open alcohol bar? Indeed. By this point in time, if you can afford a mashed potato bar, you most certainly have sprung for an open alcohol bar. This doesn't change the fact that I still may make a trip to the bathroom to do shots of whiskey out of mouthwash cups but that's neither here nor there.

Where was I? Oh, yes... past weddings. I'm getting to the age when most of my married friends are either getting divorced or having kids. This is much less strange to me than the whole marriage thing. Why? I have no idea but I don't feel a sense of malaise with it all. Plus, kids have birthday parties and that means I get invited over for free cake and ice cream and I don't have to wear a suit and tie to make it happen. Maybe it's just the suit and tie that I hate. I don't know. I'm not Dr. Scientist. I haven't done research.

I am revelling in bachelordom. It's nice. No in-laws, no trips to Bumfuck, Indiana, for Thanksgiving, not worrying about filing my taxes as either "married, filing jointly" or "married, filing seperately". None of that. Plus, my roommate cleans the bathroom almost incessantly. All I have to do is remember to put the toilet seat down. We even sleep in different rooms. It's practically like we're married! Sorry, Brandal... That was weird. Not as weird as me running around the house in my underpants and practicing karate moves but that's what dudes do. And as long as every woman I meet can handle me doing amateur ju-jitsu, I'm okay with it.

I don't think babies complicate friendships any further. Weddings do. If one of my friends were to get married to a total jackass, I'd have to do a whole hell of a lot more work to keep being their friend. If same friend married to said jackass has a kid, I'm probably out of the picture pretty early. Just like Emilo Estevez in Mission Impossible except for I wouldn't be crushed against the top of an elevator shaft. Well, probably not, anyway.
So to all my friends who are having babies... Please stop. You're making me look bad in front of my mom who oh, so desperately wants to be a grandma. Really, that's what all of this was about.
Mashed potatoes sound pretty good right about now...

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Dear AT&T

Dear AT&T,

My account is not past due. It never has been. Please see to it that you reconnect my service immediately. Oh, wait... You can't? Then what good are you?

Sure, you've got the iPhone. It's (sort of) the only network that it will work on. Sure, I've got the iPhone. It's not everything that it's cracked up to be folks. It's like a blackberry with much worse email connectivity and a touchscreen. Sure, having iTunes on it is nice and all. But I've never noticed any massive improvements of one over the other.

As I was sitting at my desk this morning, getting ready to check my email on my phone (gmail is blocked here, yo!), I received a "No internet connection" message on my screen. I thought that this was a bit odd considering that I just sent in my payment of last month's full total (plus an extra $20.00 to credit to my account) which was received and credited to said account. I know... I checked online. I figured that maybe you were experiencing some network issues, what with the storms outside and all. I simply turned off my phone and turned it back on again which, as I'm sure you know with the iPhone, takes about 7 minutes. That function is slower than all get out. Upon turning my iPhone back on, waiting a few seconds, and checking my email again, I received the same "No internet connection" message.

Perplexed, I called your handy-dandy toll free from my phone. This was met with an automated message that announced "Your account has been temporarily suspended due to lack of payment."

Hulk. MAD!

So, I did what anyone would do... I got on my work phone and called that same number. I spoke with a CSR who, much like the automated message I had heard previously, informed me that my account is $414.24 past due.

Let me write that out for you:
Four hundred fourteen dollars and twenty four cents.

Do you realize what kind of money that is? Not to just me but to anyone? That's some serious change. That's the kind of money that stands between me and about 5 kegs of Yuengling. And that includes the deposit on all the kegs. Not that I would ever need that much beer in the near future... unless Tom Petty or someone decided to randomly throw a concert in my back yard. I would be completely cool with that. He could play "Walls" about 17 times in a row, call it a night and I'd be okay with it.

What if I have an emergency today? What if, on these rain-slicked roads full of Nashville drivers who are among the worst in the land, I get into a collision and need to call 911 and I can't? What if, God forbid, my beloved dog Sam dies? He's nearly fifteen years old and isn't in the best of health these days. If I find out he dies four days after the fact because you can't figure out how to turn my phone back on, I'm going to be very mad. Even more mad than my reference to The Incredible Hulk up above. Hmm... That would be a cool name for God, I think: "Dear, The Incredible Hulk... Thank you for this bounty and these, thy blessings, and so on and so forth..." But back to Sam the dog. I hope news of this atrocious customer service does not reach his little Shih Tzuian ears. Poor little fella might have a heart attack and die. Of course, I wouldn't know about it for several days after the fact when my mom sends me an email that I read and start bawling like a boy who just lost his dog. Which I would be.

So, AT&T, get this fixed. Right now. Otherwise, you'll just be a bunch of puppy killers.


Stephen P Bohn

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Owen Sixteen

It's finally September. It was yesterday, too, I know but I was (rather, am) far too stressed about my paycheck being 5 days late now to worry about it then. Nonetheless, it is still September. A time when a young man's thoughts turn piles of leaves, coeds rooting for their boyfriend's favorite and decidedly OVERRATED SEC team, and Sam's in Hillsboro village being far too full all weekend long.

But speaking of football, I am very excited about the upcoming seasons: pro and college. Sure, I've been spoiled by having gone to the greatest university in all the land: their academic and athletic prowess knowing no bounds (last season's 3-9 football team not withstanding). I've expected nothing less than excellence from the ol' Maize and Blue and they've almost always delivered.

My beloved Detroit Lions, on the other hand...

Yes, folks, I am a Lions fan. I have been ever since I was old enough to play football in my parents' basement much to their chagrin. I've watched more games and thrown more pretzels at the television than I care to count. I've let fly a string of blue words that would make even the most hearty of sailors turn and hide his head in shame. Or at least pat me on the back and say something about the sea and how she is a cruel mistress. Cruel as the ocean may be, she's never treated me as poorly as my Lions. At least when you go to the beach, there are going to be girls running around in bikinis and drinking ice cold Coors Light.


And you probably won't see that at a Lions' game. If some woman started running around in a bikini, I'd probably start wondering what kind of drugs she was taking. And then I'd remember the time that I had my wisdom teeth pulled out and the doctor gave me some drugs. And then I'd start thinking about how I ventured out of my bedroom while on said medication and saw a giant purple dragon flying down the hallway towards me which, subsequently, caused me to lock my door for the next three days and not emerge until I had to go back to school. That was the best visit to a maxillofacial surgeon ever.

But back to the Lions.

I've never seen anything more ineptly run than that franchise:

-- They've won ONE playoff game in the past 50 years. Yup... ONE. That equals the same amount of drinks that I bought for a woman at the bar last night only to have her tell me "I love you, Peanut! Peanut! I love you!!!" and then turn around and start talking to some other dude and not say anything else to me the rest of the night.

-- Their colors are Honolulu Blue and Silver. I don't know what the hell Honolulu has to do with the color blue (and to an even lesser extent, the city of Detroit) but that doesn't exactly strike the fear of God into any opponents, does it? That is, of course, unless the opponents had a rather severe case of cyanophobia. If so, everything would be going to plan. I am currently unaware of any professional football player with this condition.

-- Their last few first draft picks by position starting with the most recent year and working backwards are as follows: quarterback, offensive tackle, wide receiver, linebacker, wide receiver, wide receiver, wide receiver, quarterback, offensive tackle, offensive tackle. If you can count to the number "1" and I'm assuming that you can, you'll deftly notice that there is exactly that many of defensive players chosen by the KittyKats Lions in their recent history. What's the old sports adage again? Offense wins games, defense wins championships...

--...Unless of course you were on last year's team and finished with the worst single season record in the history of American professional sports. Ironically, they finished the preseason undefeated. Shut up... It's the little things that get me through the day.

Here's the rub: They can't be any worse this year than the were last year. It's absolutely impossible. I'm hoping for some sort of Disney-like magic to help the Lions get over that hump and maybe even win a game or two. Hell, with Disney acquiring Marvel this week and still being into all things "schmaltz", they might be able to throw Captain America our way. Or, at the very least, Captain Americana. "What? I'm sorry! I thought this was America!"

We Lions' fans don't ask for much. We aren't even asking for respectability. We're not asking for a first class ticket to the Super Bowl® and we certainly don't believe we'll see our beloved team get there anytime soon. All we want is one win. Just one damn win. And maybe wasting our number one pick on another offensive player next year. But we'll worry about that next April.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009


A few days ago, the world was all a-twitter with the latest "celebrity" death. This summer has certainly been the one for it. Calling Billy Mays a celebrity is like calling me handsome. I mean, sure, to some people he is but by and large he was more infamous than anything.

"Ah, Dusty! Infamous is when you're more than famous!"

I don't know if that's necessarily a good thing or not or even if that's necessarily true or not. But since Martin Short said it, I'm gonna run with it. Especially not in his case. Especially when the autopsy revealed large amounts of cocaine in his system. In Billy Mays' system... Not El Guapo's. His life was as clean as his mother's kitchen floor. Minus the whole, you know, extortion and holding towns for ransom things. By the by, the fact that copious amounts of Colombian candy were found in Mays' system should have come as a shock to absolutely no one. Dude looked like he was already to party.
As you may have heard, some dude named DJ AM died last week. Until he was involved in a plane crash last December with the talented member of Blink 182 I had no idea who this guy was. Even when after that happened, I still had no idea who he was. Turns out, this guy's initial brush with stardom came via Crazytown.
<---Remember them? They were horrible. And, for a song and 6 weeks, huge.
The truth of the matter is this, though: DJ AM survived a horrific plane crash and was given a second chance at life. It's sad to see that this is how he chose to repay the universe. And he's being musically martyred for being 'talented' and 'a real loss to the community'. I'm callin' "bullshit" on that. Sure, his music was terrible. Sure, his band was even worse. Sure, he wasted his talents on being a part of a one hit wonder and then making mix tapes and mash ups. But none of that is what pisses me off. What pisses me off is the fact that he was given a second chance and this is how he used it; by overdosing on drugs a few months later.
The real tragedy is, though, that we'll never get a CrazyTown reunion... I had a new pair of Adidas picked out for the show and everything.