Thursday, June 30, 2011

Vegas: Reloaded


Since I have been extremely neglectful of the Cave as of late, I completely forgot to finish the Vegas vacation series.  Two posts in two days.  Shit...this may become a habit.  But probably not.


There is something magical about a restaurant where they wheel a slab of beef right to the table.  It sends a message that says, “A Big Slab of Beef is one of the Best Things in Life” which, coincidentally, is also what Clay Aiken will have carved on his tombstone.  But anyhow, for those of you who have never been to Lawry’s The Prime Rib, allow me to set the scene.

You enter through one of those rotating glass doors, which I love, because someone is always stupid enough to fall for the, “You first” routine and I can trap them in the doors.  That NEVER gets old.

Yes, I am a child.

During the always brief wait for a table, I like to head to the bar for the first of many Fat Tire Amber Ales, but that’s just how I roll.  When consuming more protein than a human being should, it is important to lubricate the throat properly with a few drinks.  Just ask Snooki, from the Jersey Shore. 



Once seated, your server will be called Mrs. Whatever-the-hell-her-name-is because they feel this makes the experience more quaint and rustic.  Well fuck quaint in the ear and rustic can kiss my ass; just get to the part where I get to eat.  But because I am fucking civilized and classy and shit, I wait patiently through the explanations (for the newbies) and cute little pilgrim jokes until the menus are distributed.  This, my gentle reader, is where friendships are made and destroyed in my book.  We are at a restaurant with the words PRIME RIB in the fucking name.  Why, then, does some insufferable little shit ALWAYS ask what the specials are?  And more irritating still, why does a restaurant, with the words PRIME RIB in the fucking name, always have a goddamn fish special?

“Our special today is Chilean Sea Bass lightly braised in a lime aioli soy sauce with a mango and castor oil drizzle, served with a reduction of Tibetan snow peas and aborted baby intestines.  The chef highly recommends it.”

Pretentious assholes.

We are in an establishment that flushes it’s toilets with rendered animal fat.  You can HEAR the blood straining to push it’s way through the almost fully blocked arteries of the regular patrons. Order some fucking beef and have the paramedics standing by, Chief.  Daddy’s gotta get his grub on…

FINALLY, the big silver cart rolls over to our table, where some highly-skilled, illegal alien wetback named Paco proceeds to carve the tender slabs of USDA Prime grade extra fucking A on to your waiting plate.  It’s actually pretty emotional, even as I sit here writing this.  The meat is so soft you can cut it with….well a knife actually.  But it’s still the greatest prime rib I’ve ever had, and the fact that it’s actually carved right there at the table, appeals to my latent Neanderthal eat-what-you-kill ancestral memories.  No me molesta, Paco.  Animal fat is the NECTAR OF THE GODS.  By the way por favor, Donde esta el bano?

Meat es muy magnifico, people. Muy f’ing magnifico…

After such a fine meal, there is only one thing to do in Vegas to cap off the evening.  Ok, well there are several things you can that would really be pretty awesome, but the one I am referring to doesn’t require a drive to a Pahrump whorehouse and a cursory medical examination by a girl named Justice (Call me!).  The ladies wanted to see Barry Manilow, but there was no fucking way any male in this party was going to let that happen.  We settled on going to that Elvis Cirque du Soleil show.  Because I am a great fan of the King, and the show was created with the expressed written consent of the National Football League  Estate of the Late Elvis Aaron Presley, I even agreed to pay for the tickets.  I am so fucking awesome, right?

Until I found out that admission for our party would total just a tad above the cost of an Aston Martin DB9, and that the ridiculously exorbitant amount did not, in fact, include a trip to the aforementioned Pahrump whorehouse.  Everybody was back to being responsible for their own damn admission, thank you very much.  Enthusiasm dampened by the fact that they had to spend their own money to watch clowns push balls across the stage to the strains of “Hound Dog”(I’m assuming), we instead chose to spend our final night in Sin City getting as drunk as humanly possible while still retaining bladder control.  A fine line, as one member of the group, who shall remain nameless, discovered outside of a Sonic Drive In at 4 am.  That was some tRICK.  Yes, it really was a fRICKen shame.  The staff must have had a hell of a time cleaning up the bRICKs outside the restaurant after we left.  Yessiree…

Like I said, nameless…



Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Life Should Really Learn How To Take A F'ing Joke...


It can be bothersome when the real world intrudes on fun time.  I can be sitting somewhere happily enjoying myself, when reality comes barging through the fucking door, with it’s three obese, over privileged, snot nosed children in tow, followed by his ignorant, G.E.D. having, slut of a wife screaming at the kids to “Shut the fuck up you little turds, you gotta be classy like mama!” You sigh as their incontinent dog craps on your shoes, then scoots his shit-covered ass along your $10,000 Persian rug to clean off. 

You peer out the window, hoping this is actually the Mother of All Punks, and that douche bag Ashton Kutcher is outside, smirking that self satisfied, “I’m fucking Demi Moore and you’re not!” smirk he always seems to have.  You think, “If this IS a punk, I may be able to stop myself from kicking Ashton in the vag out of pure relief.”  But all you see outside is a dirt covered, 1973 AMC Gremlin, leaking any number of fluids on to your newly refinished driveway, with a bumper sticker that reads, “My Kid Stabbed Your Honor Student” Your heart sinks as you try and remember where you hid the rounds to your 10mm pistol and your passport.  The non extradition friendly Maldives are supposed to be nice this time of year…

Life does have a way of pissing in your hypothetical Cheerios when you least expect it.  For a while, it seems you have everything figured out and things just…flow.  You even start to get a little cocky and start calling Life your bitch, while sneaking up behind him and giving him a wedgie.  When Life complains, you give him a shot to the nuts and tell him to stop acting like a pussy.  It’s all good.  What’s Life going to do?  You are the MAN…

Life, on the other hand, has his own ideas.  “No one hits me in the nuts!”, Life mumbles to himself.  “I’m Life, motherfucker! I run shit! Once I get my underwear out of my ass crack, I’ll show that fucker what I’m going to do!”

Apparently, Life ain’t nobody’s bitch.  The vindictive prick…

Over confidence of this sort has always been a particularly interesting aspect of being a Man.  What appears to be self-aggrandizing bluster to outsiders, is actually a sophisticated ritual that communicates where exactly one’s “place” in the pack is.  In any group, there can be only one Alpha.  If more than one person thinks they run the show, there’s going to be conflict.  And this conflict WILL be resolved in some manner.  That’s how Life works.  To quote Sean Connery from Highlander, “There can be only one”

But what we fail to realize most of the time is that Life is the ultimate Alpha.  We’re just squirrels trying to get a nut.  No, you say?  Turn the TV on.  At any given time of the day there is an infomercial with some smug prick babbling on and on about how he can help you fix your life.  “Send me $1000, you poor, uneducated hump,” they’ll say.  “In return, I will send you the secret to success that has allowed me, Johnny Brokedick Lying Sackoshit, to buy this mansion, drive these Aston Martins, and marry seven of the world’s hottest supermodels AT THE SAME TIME!”  Actually, what has allowed him to do these things is 100,000 assholes sending his grifter ass, a $1000 each for some pamphlet he picked up in the Piggly Wiggly and Xeroxed in between cocaine binges and enemas.  Why?  Because all of us are just telling ourselves, “This shit must get easier, shouldn’t it?”, and searching for a way to make sense of it all.

Hubris leads us to believe that we can control of our lives, but it’s bullshit.  Men fall prey to this more than women do, partly because we are stubborn sons of bitches, but also because we feel we have to be constantly under control.  Societal norms have dictated that Men be strong, dependable providers and that they “protect” the women and children.  There has been considerable push back against this type of thinking in the past decade, with pundits opining that we are all equal and should be referred to as “humans” and not men or women.  Political correctness asserts that we are all the same, and that anyone can do anything, simply because we say it should be the way things are.

Utter horseshit.

Many people will take this the wrong way, but Men and Women ARE different.  We have different skills and strengths, as well as different challenges.  Life puts different demands on each gender.  I, for example, can’t bear children.  I’m ok with that.  So why does society demand I wear a fake pregnancy belly so I can “sympathize”?  Why do we insist on imposing our “enlightened” notion of how things should work on something that has worked just fine for millennia?  Who do we think we are?  Why can’t it be ok for a Man to act like a Man or a Woman to behave like a Woman?

What is a Man?  A Man acts like a gentleman until it becomes necessary that he does not.  A Man behaves as if the safety and happiness of those he loves is of paramount importance, because it is.  He will sacrifice himself physically and emotionally to ensure this happens.  He will not eat before the stomachs of those he protects are full, both literally and figuratively.  A Man will speak up when he feels something is wrong, even when others tell him it would be easier to keep quiet.  He will refuse to take the easy way, if he feels it’s not the correct way.  He will stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves.

In short, a Man will do what he believes is right, when he believes it’s right, how he believes it’s right.  That doesn’t mean that he’s always right.  But he’ll do it anyway…

Women are amazing. They are strong, capable, smart, and tough while managing to be delicate, beautiful, and gentle.  The correct mixture of these things drives a Man crazy.   After a few beers, the mixture can even be a little light, but it’s still all good.  They can be just about anything they choose to be and they have fought for the right to prove it.  That’s great.  But somewhere along the line, empowering women turned in to disempowering Men.  Society thinks it’s wrong for Men to behave like…Men.  Boys can’t play “rough” sports at school and are taught that they should be subservient to authority without question.  They are ignored in class because society tells us that males have historically had “too many advantages and are ahead of the girls.”

I don’t know what fricken math class they’ve been observing, but every one I’ve ever been in, has been dominated by extremely smart girls.  But that’s the problem with people.  We go off half-cocked at perceived imbalances, then instead of simply trying to balance them, we over react and push it all the way back to the opposite extreme.  A pre-school in Sweden just banned the terms “him” and “her” because it promoted sexual stereotyping.  Fuck me. No gray area for us, Chief. Oh, no.  Let’s slam that sumbitch in reverse at full speed and see what happens…

But Life doesn’t operate according to human whims and wishes.  As much as we try to mold it to our view of how things should happen, Life still operates old school.  We can bitch and moan, but Life just cruises by, rocking Chucks and Levi’s, with a plain white T shirt and greased back hair, laughing at our futile efforts to make nature fit us.  Maybe Life can be a huge pain in the ass because we aren’t playing by HIS rules.  Perhaps, if we stopped trying to hump Life into submission, prison style, things would work out a little more often.  Maybe, WE are the problem.

Or Life could simply be a sadistic asshole.  Like your old gym teacher but without the tight ass shorts…

Monday, June 27, 2011

I'm Not Dead, Just Busy

My real job blew up for the last few months, but has settled down. Have a bit to say about that...new post soon. I apologize for depriving you of my genius for so long....

No, really. I'm pretty damn smart. And handsome. Did I mention handsome?

Thursday, April 7, 2011

Nipples, IPads, and Foreign Relations (Vegas, Part 2)


When we last saw our intrepid hero, he was being summarily kicked out of a Bass Pro Shop for having friends who are just shy of being legally retarded.  This also meant that I now had to make good on the long-delayed promise to take the womenfolk somewhere for wine and horse dervies (I’m sorry, that’s hors d’oeuvres to you uppity, pinky finger sipping, civilized types).  Still playing the odds, the trick was to find someplace that had good wine, yet still had a decent beer selection and horse dervies that a Man could actually eat in public without the need for gender re-assignment surgery.

A quick search of Yelp and we arrived at Mandalay Bay and the restaurant, Aureole.  Aureole, which is French for “nipple” I believe, has this ginormous wine tower that women on ropes swing through to get the wine you order.  It's a fascinating sight, actually and would be better if the women were naked.  But I digress. There has to be several thousand bottles of fine wine in that damn thing, and rest assured, after the Bass Pro Shop debacle, the ladies tried to drink every damn on of them.  The servers were very nice (at least they kept laughing when we asked them where the box wine tower was), and it was nice without being overly pretentious.  We were dressed in jeans and they didn’t seat us in a closet, so I give them props for that. 

They also had the class not to ask us, “Do you think you can really afford that?” as the bill soared past the national debt of Paraguay, though I could have sworn I saw the wait staff massing at the exit with large, blunt objects towards the end there.  But still, classy…

We had some kind of tasting menu, which was pretty good.  One of the dishes was called “Beef Three Ways” which the males at the table found seriously fucking hilarious.  The jokes from that one lasted the whole trip.  There was also a dessert called “Salted Caramel Nut Tart” which pushed us over the edge again.  Even some of the ladies had to admit that the Three Way of Beef complemented the Salted Caramel Nut Tart.

Still can’t write that with a straight face…

We left after a long while, having spent much more money than we had intended.  So much in fact, that the consensus decision was to grab some dinner at Sonic Drive In and head back to the hotel for gambling and other frivolity.  This was the night that I met the Biggest Dumbass, Taint Licking, Crotch Sniffing, Donkey Humping, Shitbird in the Western United States.  For two hours, this douchenugget proceeded to bet No Pass ($700 bucks a roll), against himself mind you, and just suck the fucking life out of everyone’s night.  If we moved tables, and things got hot; here’s fuckass moping along to the table to spread his bad mojo. 

You may recall that in an earlier post, I had made a promise to punch such an asshat in the ovaries.  However, SOMEONE read that before we left and made me promise not to, at risk of losing something THAT I REALLY LIKE TO DO.  A LOT.  So needless to say I was reluctant to act on my earlier threat.  But after two hours of this dickless superfart following us around, I was ready to buy myself a case of Vaseline and a Hustler subscription and just get this shit over with.  Luckily, God heard my little mental plan, and since he does not condone people jacking their own beanstalks, intervened in the form of a crotchety old fucker with a walker who was just as sick of the No Pass guy as I was.  Captain Depends turned to the guy and basically threatened to insert the business end of his walker into No Pass guy’s anal cavity sans lubrication.  And he said it fucking loudly too.



No Pass guy was stuck between the proverbial rock and a guy who couldn’t get a hard on.  You could see the scenarios playing through his little weasel mind:

Option A – Tell Cocoon to go fuck himself and look like a dick to a table full of people who really want to beat the shit out of you and are just LOOKING FOR A FUCKING REASON;

Option B – Tell the Golden Guy to eat shit, then punch him square in his geriatric face, hoping like hell that your pussy ass can whip a 107 year old man; or

Option C – Get the fuck out of Dodge, realizing that no one, not the Casino workers, not the gamblers, and not even the homeless guy out on the street would lift a finger to help you if Abe Vigoda here made good on his promise to stick the very large foreign object he was carrying up your ass.

Needless to say, he ran like a bitch.  Old Fart 1, Dickhead 0.

We were allowed to get up at a decent hour the next morning because of our wine bar mea culpa the night before.  Good thing too, ‘cause I had the Old Guy’s number from the night before and he wasn’t going to be tolerating any fucking shenanigans from some skirt.  At least that’s what I think he said, we got a little drunk helping him finish all the drinks people bought him after he went Rambo on that weasel at the crap table.  In retrospect, the Old Guy may have been a little senile, because the phone number he gave me was KLONDIKE 3-2478.

I was drinking with goddamn Sam Spade, which explains why he kept asking where he parked his jalopy, the crazy old fart…

Shenanigans carefully avoided, the rest of the day was spent…wait for it…that’s right, shopping.  Knowing I couldn’t pull another Silverton on them, we parked ourselves at a small bar at the Miracle Mile Shopping Mall while money was spent at an obscene pace.  You have not lived until you have caught a buzz in a shopping mall, my friends.  Soon, we were collected by the ladies and hauled off to the Fashion Show Mall, which didn’t have a bar per se, but did have restaurants that made the proper decision to serve alcohol.  Unfortunately for my bank account, said restaurant was right across from the only Apple Store in Las Vegas.  I will spare you the exact details, but I bought an IPad from a nice looking young lady who may or may not have had the actual power of speech.  Hell, she may not have even had a mouth.  Not that she needed it…

I say may not because I believe I never looked her in the eye.  My eyes were caught at a decidedly lower trajectory and BY GOD THEY WERE MAGNIFICENT!!  I felt like such a fucking perv, I was obligated to buy the damn thing.  Of course I was sophisticated and suave fucking perv, so I still had that shit ON LOCK, BABY!!

Until my credit card was declined.

Apparently, my credit card company (who shall remain nameless but starts with a V and ends with an A) chose this particular moment to START GIVING A SHIT.  All of a sudden they were concerned with the charges being made in another state and had frozen my account until their security people could talk to me.  They couldn’t have developed a fucking conscience yesterday when I spent two hundred dollars on shirts that some fat guy sold me?  No embarrass me in front of the hot girl who gets an employee discount at the Apple Store, why don’t you?

Dicks.

After three transferred phone calls and the look of faded, disappointed love in the eyes of my Apple Girl, they confirmed that it was in fact me that was spending my hard earned money.  Because, like everything else, credit card customer service has been outsourced to a certain country that worships cows, I also had to spend an extra half an hour explaining the confusing concepts of vacations AND Las Vegas.  I think she understood what a vacation was (“Oh, you mean a holiday?”), but Las Vegas completely baffled her delicate Hindu sensibilities (“I’m going to eat at Lawry’s tonight where they cook a whole fucking cow and wheel it to your table in a big silver cart of sin!!” – fucking serves her right for embarrassing me). 

So just to recap, I was losing my buzz, owned an IPad I didn’t really need or want, and was antagonizing Hindu women over the phone.  Something had gone very wrong with this day…

Only one thing can make a Man feel better after a day like that.  40 ounces of medium rare cow.  Light a candle, Lawry’s.  Daddy’s coming home…


Thursday, March 31, 2011

Fear and Loathing at Bass Pro Shop

So, Vegas turned out to be…a mixed bag of sorts.  For the most part, things went well and as planned.  But there was just enough bizarre shit going on to leave the experience with the taint of crappiness and awesomeness not experienced.  That’s needlessly confusing, so it’s better if I explain…

I flew on one of those new Airbus 330’s.  There was noticeably more legroom, which of course translates to more room between rows.  Not having to smell the shampoo (or lack thereof) of the mouth breather in front of me was a refreshing change, as was the absence of the requisite seat back jamming in to my knees as they reclined to a full 180 degrees.  They also have individual monitors in the seats for everyone, which at first blush seemed really cool.  It seemed less so when it became readily apparent that this had become an excuse for NOT SHOWING A FUCKING MOVIE on the flight.  I was really pissed at that because the airline magazine said they were showing the latest Harry Potter flick that I hadn’t seen.   They didn’t even have the balls to announce it; we had to ask.  Apparently, the Airbus 330 equals no free movie for Big Daddy, but I was free to use my credit card to PAY to watch the movies on that little fucking monitor that I was now growing to despise.

Guess the 25 dollars they charged me for the privilege of bringing luggage wasn’t enough. 

Fuckers.

Arrival in Las Vegas was uneventful.  The cold was welcome and luggage/shuttle/rent a car all went very smoothly.  We tried a new hotel this time around because they offered to comp the rooms for our party.  While I would love to say that they did so for the pleasure of our warm company, they really wanted a crack at the obscene amount of gambling we do.  It seems they did the math, and free rooms, food, and booze for us is worth the money they win from us.  If you ask me, someone forgot to carry a three or something, because in my opinion, it wasn’t even close.  Don’t get me wrong, we are not high rollers by any stretch of the imagination; and this wasn’t the Bellagio we’re talking about here.  But it was a nice property, and it seemed to me that they came out on the losing end of the deal.  At least I did my best to make sure they came out on the minus side of the ledger.  But I’m just a guy who drinks too much, not an accountant…

On a side note, by this time I was fucking OBSESSED with seeing that damn Harry Potter movie, something I hadn’t given three seconds thought to, prior to getting on the damn plane.  Don’t want to show me the movie, FUCK YOU!  I’ll watch the damn thing on my own.  That’ll show you that I am not a man to be trifled with!

It sucked by the way.  And the hotel charged me $12.99.  Apparently the only thing that wasn’t free were the movies.  Now I don’t feel bad about those six bottles of shampoo…

After checking in, we decided to grab a bite to eat before heading to the table for the Inaugural Rolling of the Dice.  Not feeling the least bit guilty about ordering a Mushroom Swiss Burger at 1:00am, we tucked in to our food like super models after a colon cleanse.  The female contingent of our party was actually embarrassed at our gastronomic display, and elected to change tables, hectored by a chorus of male voices (ours) yelling, “Good, beat it!!  Your loss, honeycakes!!  Don’t come around later begging for shopping money, toots!!”

An hour in Nevada and we had already managed to get ourselves in trouble with the lady folk.   And we weren’t even drunk yet. We would come to regret those words over the next few days.  There’s something about a group of men bonding over charred flesh and alcohol that ends to bring out such bravado.   It also apparently brings out the 1920’s gangster in us, because somebody actually used the term, “toots”.  The fact that we didn’t sleep alone over the next four days was is a testament to the charity of the women in our lives.  We are very lucky.

But I’ll fucking deny it if you tell anyone I said that…

After going to bed at 4am, the first taste of sweet female revenge arrived when we were roused at the ungodly hour of 7am.  Being a man awakened by a beautiful woman, I awoke sporting an impressive…hangover.  Protests ignored, we were hustled off to breakfast and the start of the LONGEST SHOPPING TRIP EVER.  I do not think I am exaggerating when I say there may have been a Western States Shopping Record set.  I fully expect to receive a letter of commendation from the Governor of Nevada for our group’s contribution to the coffers of the state.  The ladies were actually being high-fived by grateful store clerks as we exited shopping malls, and at the Outlets in Primm, they were actually carried through the food court by ten large, swarthy men wearing loincloths.  I think I actually gained ten pounds of muscle just carrying Ann Taylor shopping bags.  How many silk tops does a person need?

Payback is indeed a bitch.

But as dinner approached, shopping fatigue caused the Retail Brigade to commit their first tactical error.  I suggested we stop at nearby Silverton Casino for “some wine and appetizers before dinner”.  The ladies, apparently full of excise tax induced hubris, readily agreed, even congratulating me for the “wonderful suggestion” I had proposed.  If you have never been to the Silverton Casino, there is nothing in the last few sentences to cause any suspicion or raise any red flags, right?  If you HAVE been to the Silverton Casino, you will know that it is also home to this:



Redneck Disneyland.  For the next several hours, fuming women plotted our slow and painful deaths as grown ass men cavorted in a two story, 165,000 sq. foot Man Cave, replete with speedboats, grills, fishing gear, dried animals of every sort, crossbows, knives, ammunition, guns, and other implements of destruction.  I bought a squirrel hat.  Why?  BECAUSE THEY FUCKING HAD ONE MY SIZE.  This place had everything.  Fishing rod? Yes.  Bowie Knife? You betcha. Toilet seat shaped like a bass’s mouth? 10 of ‘em. Tactical Stealth Night Vision Capable 20 Shot Capacity Stapler? ON SALE. More tools of death than a Postal Worker’s Convention? Maybe not.  BUT IT WAS DAMN CLOSE.  We shot crossbows, compound bows, and long bows.  They kind of looked at me funny when I asked if they had any sticks of dynamite so I could tie it to the arrow shaft, like they used to do in the “Dukes of Hazzard”.  There being no explosives, we just contented ourselves calling the range masters Uncle Jesse and Cooter, and yelling “Yeeeeehawww” at the top of our lungs every time we let an arrow loose.

Next we went over to the gun range to shoot shit for a while.  In retrospect, this was an exceedingly bad idea.  Almost immediately one of us was kicked off the range for waving his gun around and doing his best Wyatt Earp impression from “Tombstone”.   It was pretty good, but I’ve always been a Doc Holliday-I’m-your-huckleberry-kind-of-guy myself.  So we started capping off rounds wildly, aiming in the general direction of some paper silhouette targets that had been set up for us.  As I was yelling, “Johnny Ringo, You’re no daisy!!!” I heard a loud shout to my right.  I looked in that direction in time to see one of us falling to the ground, flailing wildly as he fell. 

Putting the Smith and Wesson 4506 on safe and laying it on the bench, I dashed over to Rick who was still flailing on the ground, his face contorted as if in pain.  I reached his side just as the range master did, pointing and yelling at our other friend to call 911.  As we began to assess Rick for injuries, I looked at his face and saw him smiling.  I suddenly recognized that he was laughing hysterically as he pulled his right hand from behind his back to show me a 9mm brass shell casing that he had fished out from down his shirt.  John, who had been sent to call 911, looked at the 9mm Glock 17 still in his hand and back at the shell casing Rick was holding.  We all realized what had happened – the white hot shell casing from John’s Glock had been ejected and flown four feet to land down the back of Rick’s shirt, causing him to scream in pain while flailing to fish the damn thing out.  He lost balance like the uncoordinated spaz that he is, and fell ass over teakettle to the range floor, dropping the Smith and Wesson 686 revolver he had been shooting in the process.

More than somewhat relieved that everyone was safe, we all began to laugh uncontrollably at the absurdity of the incident.  Everyone except the range master, who didn’t quite share the same sense of humor we all did.  He got REALLY pissy, and began to shout as if someone had violated his prized Belgian Malinois on the kitchen table during Christmas dinner.  As his beet red face sputtered on and on about how we had scared the life out of him and should never be allowed to handle firearms ever again, I began to realize that he was in full panic mode and was becoming irrational.  Ushering my laughing friends out seemed to be the most rational course of action, and I did so, while inquiring about a refund for the unused time we still had left. 

That didn’t go over very well.

But to be fair, we had really scared him.  Plus, I think a little poo came out of him, because he was walking funny as he chased us out. 

By the way, I also bought a HUGE infrared grill that was on sale at a pretty deep discount.  It was such a good deal in fact, that it cost me more to ship the son of a bitch home, than it did to buy it.  But the new technology allows the grill to reach a million degrees and cooks a steak in 4 seconds or something like that, so I had to have it for the Cave.  The sales guy played up the fact that the grill “burns cleaner” and that the meat tastes better because of “the sear achieved by the high heat.”  Fuck all that noise, because the selling point for me was that you could cook almost immediately upon turning it on; eliminating wait time.  I’m going to call the company up and propose a new slogan:

Infrared Grills – When you want a fucking steak RIGHT NOW!!

Catchy, right?  I should go in to advertising…


Tuesday, March 22, 2011

What Happens in Vegas, May Result in Massive Bleeding

I'm heading to Vegas in two days.  I've spent the last two days trolling the internet for escort services meticulously researching churches and homeless shelters where I can volunteer my services, in between degenerate gambling and shamelessly gorging myself on crab legs and prime rib.  But before I get there, I have to make sure all of my work is done ahead of time so I am not constantly bothered by people who can't think for themselves can rest assured that I have done the best job possible before going on vacation.



My desire to avoid contact with the working world means that I have literally spent the last week anticipating EVERY possible problem or issue we may come across in the next six days, and devised INGENIOUS contingency plans to handle them.  Run out of paper? Covered. Building burns down? Handled. Flood?  Hurricane?  Check and fucking mate.  Return of the Messiah?  Give him the corner office and a parking pass.  Godzilla and Mothra banging in the courtyard? See page 546, Section C, Sub Paragraph 7.  I have planned for every possible issue and there should be no reason AT ALL for me to receive a phone call from them for the next 6 days.

Right?

I give them an hour before someone calls me looking for a paper clip.  Book it.

Common sense is becoming a rare commodity these days.  You can't drive two blocks without running in to some douchebag talking on a cell phone while eating a sandwich while shaving while BLOCKING THE FUCKING ROAD trying to make an illegal left turn in to a 7-11.  When they finally do get an opening, they stall out in oncoming traffic because no one ever taught the brain damaged twat how to drive a stick shift.  NEXT TIME STEAL AN AUTOMATIC, you toothless waste of space...

And it really shouldn't take us 10 minutes to order a sandwich from goddamn Subway.  Or to explain to the kid at Burger King that I do not, in fact, require pickles on my hamburger, and that I was under the impression that I could have it MY OWN FUCKING WAY, and not have to explain my dietary preferences to a pre-pubescent, acne covered, basement dweller working to earn video game money thank you very fucking much.

Like I said, no common sense.

Which is why I am looking forward to Vegas, the only city in the world where you are legally PROHIBITED from exercising any common sense.  Oh, except Washington D.C., you can't have any common sense there either.  By the time I make my trek to Sin City, I am so worn out from having to deal with the mental pygmies of the world, that it is truly gratifying to give in and become one for a week.  So with that, I composed a letter to Las Vegas in anticipation of my arrival:

Dear Las Vegas,

By now you know that I will be arriving in a few days, so I just wanted to clear a few things up before we got down to business.  First, please lay in a proper stock of Fat Tire Amber Ale, Jack Daniels, and King Crab Legs.  A good guide as to what a "proper stock" is, would be order what you would normally order for a week, then double it, while tacking on 10% for pilferage.  Better safe than sorry, I always say...

Second, please notify Lawry's The Prime Rib, that I will be dining there on Sunday evening.  I would like to be served by Mrs. Otis (The servers are all called Mrs., like pilgrims, I guess) who is the best damn server they have .  I will be ordering the Diamond Jim Brady Cut, so please make sure we are seated next to the big silver serving cart, so Mrs. Otis doesn't injure her back carrying that freaking huge slab of meat to the table.  Yes, I am aware of the innuendo involved in that last sentence, but I am really concentrating on the Prime rib, right now...



Oh, all right.  That's what she said...

Third, please advise all who will be playing on the same Craps table as me that betting No Pass while I am shooting will most definitely earn you a punch in the ovaries.  There will be no exceptions.

Fourth, if you could arrange a nice Police involved shooting while I am there like you did a few years ago, that would be cool.  Last time, your fabulous Las Vegas Metro cops chased some evil-doing shit hook down the Strip until he ran in to a pole twenty feet away from me and tried to escape on foot.  The Metro cops were kind enough to shoot his ass six times for his trouble.  The whole time, I kept hearing the COPS theme song...

Bad Boys, Bad Boys
What you gonna do?
What you gonna do when they come for you?

Bleed out in the fucking street, apparently.  Nice work, officers.

Lastly, I apologize in advance for any violations of law or social propriety that may or may not occur during my stay in your lovely city.  While I normally pride myself on my decorum and self control, I am also cognizant of your rather catchy slogan, "What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas".  I agree wholeheartedly. 

Sincerely,

BDC

Now that's out of the way.

Ladies and Gentlemen, We have a new shooter coming out...

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Go Forth and Sin No More...


I’m giving stupid people up for Lent.

My life for the past few weeks has been a constant parade of inbred, knuckle dragging, cousin marrying, mouth breathers.  And those were the women.  I know that I consistently vent about people who have no sense of personal responsibility which can be the only reason that the Cosmos has chosen to grace me with the presence of every freaking idiot and moron in the Western hemisphere lately.  Thus, I have been forced to spend my time at work lately actually…working.  This cannot be allowed to continue.  Stupid people must go…



Stupidity comes in many shapes and forms.  I am sensitive to the fact that people are different, and that some people are more “special” than others.  Fine.  But can they at least TRY not to demonstrate their special brand of cognitive diarrhea while talking to me?  I swear I have lost at least ten IQ points since Valentine’s Day talking to these jackasses.  If I hear another excuse from someone with the mental acuity of a retarded hamster, I will burn down an orphanage.  Just saying…

A friend of mine is giving up Facebook for Lent.  While I am boggled by the fact that Facebook has become such an addiction for her that she feels the need to give it up in order to demonstrate her love for God, I am moved by her sincerity.  So, I decided that I would give up porn for Lent.  It’s fitting that I make this sacrifice to demonstrate my dedication to our Lord.  Now if He would only come through on that Mega Bucks thing we discussed when I’m in Vegas next week.  Counting on you, Big Guy!!!

So it’s settled.  I’m giving up Gay porn for Lent.  The fact that I have never actually watched Gay porn should in no way be interpreted as a lack of dedication to the principles of Lent.  In case you don’t believe me, I will give up Gay porn and those pornos with really old, wrinkled people in them.  And clowns.  Clown porn is out too.  That’s right.  I am MUCH holier than you. Blow me.

I think I’ll also give up vegetables, soy milk, tofutti, that nasty bean curd stuff they put in Indian food, The Oprah Network, Lady Gaga, reruns of The Golden Girls, and those fermented soy beans they put on sushi.

Not necessarily in that order.

On the plus side, during Lent you can get a Filet o Fish sandwich at McDonalds for breakfast, Steak houses are noticeably emptier, and those women who have given up smoking need something to put in their mouths.  It’s not for me, you understand.  It’s for Jesus…

Friday, February 25, 2011

Against the Wind


Against the wind
We were runnin' against the wind
We were young and strong, we were runnin'
Against the wind

I don’t like to admit it, but I’m getting old.  Not as much physically as mentally, and it’s changed the way I perceive things.  I don’t feel comfortable calling it maturity, because I’m fairly certain that would be stretching the definition of the word.  But I have noticed that I react differently to situations these days and I seem a lot slower to anger and less excitable about the smaller things. 

I was thinking about this the other day and found myself reflecting on being back in school of all things.  While at the time it seemed to be the hardest thing in the world, in retrospect, it was the simplest.  There was a girl named Jennifer who liked to chase the boys around in Kindergarten and try to kiss us.  It seems ridiculous now that we saw getting caught as the most horrible thing in the world; but there we were, running and hiding from this pretty little girl who just wanted to plant a kiss on us.

You were correct, ladies.  Boys are stupid.

The years rolled slowly past
And I found myself alone
Surrounded by strangers I thought were my friends
I found myself further and further from my home

My best friend Duke and I used to catch the bus to school together.  We would huddle on the floor of the school bus and use the bench seat as a place to do homework, play football with those little paper triangles, and listen to music.  Despite the fact that he had been dead for years and that we were in the third grade, we both had a fascination with Elvis Presley, and used to play cassette tapes we got from our parents as the bus made the long journey to school.

We were inseparable.  When an 8th grade girl thought it would be funny to put gum in my hair, he defended me and backed up my story to the bus driver.  When a 6th grade boy tried to take Duke’s tape recorder, we both wailed on him until he gave it back.  3rd and 4th grade flew by in a haze of Elvis, touch football, and frequent bus skirmishes.  But school friendships are notoriously fickle and tend to be based on shallow things.  Duke was my best friend because we lived on the same street, we liked the same stuff, and we were in the same class.  Once that changed, the friendship faded and we moved on.

On a side note, that 8th grade girl went on to be a pretty well known musician around here.  She doesn’t know it yet, but I will get my revenge.  Even if I have to put gum in her hair at her damn funeral, I will get my revenge…


And I guess I lost my way
There were oh so many roads
I was living to run and running to live
Never worried about paying or even how much I owed
Moving eight miles a minute for months at a time
Breaking all of the rules that would bend
I began to find myself searching
Searching for shelter again and again

It’s amazing how bloody intelligent I became in high school.  I knew more than my parents, my teachers, and any other adult that crossed my path.  And I made such good choices!  Why I was not immediately handed a diploma in 9th grade and sent off to Harvard to save the world is one of the deepest mysteries of our time, and historians will ponder the injustice of it all for centuries to come.  It was a travesty, really.

Lost is an understatement.  I should really be dead.  I can recall at least four occasions (vaguely), that should have resulted in my death or serious injury.  There were certainly more.  And contrary to what I hear from the teenagers I am forced to talk to everyday, every one of those occasions was MY FAULT.  I made mind-bogglingly stupid decisions despite the best efforts of my parents.  They tried their best to raise a son who knew his ass from a hole in the ground and they did the right things.  I KNEW the difference between right and wrong.

And that what made me such an insufferable little prick.  I knew better, but still chose to act like a complete asshole.  The embarrassment I caused them was inexcusable and I am lucky that they didn’t kick me out or disown me.  For people whom I treated like they were lobotomized lepers, they were pretty patient with my consistently poor judgment.  And they were always there to offer shelter and a hand to pick me up after another spectacular fall…

Against the wind
A little something against the wind
I found myself seeking shelter against the wind


Well those drifter's days are past me now
I've got so much more to think about
Deadlines and commitments
What to leave in, what to leave out

I don’t like being more careful.  I don’t think it’s even a conscious decision.  There’s certainly more to lose now if something should go wrong.  I have responsibilities, and not just to myself and to my family.  An entire community is affected by the decisions and the choices I make these days, and as cavalier as I try to appear, this reality does affect my decision making process.  Not because I have become particularly mature but simply because I have become a Man.

I often think about what it would be like to cash it all in, fly off somewhere no one knows me, and disappear.  Re-inventing yourself with no limitations holds a certain appeal, as you could literally become anyone you wish.  But then I realize that while such escapism is great for a quick daydream, it’s just that; fantasy.  Realistically, you would be hiding out from your past and yourself.  I can make up a wildly exciting background for myself and have everyone think I was great, but when it’s all said and done and I’m alone, I’m still me.  And I would know it, despite the persona I created.

Part of being a Man is doing what needs to be done and doing it to the best of your ability.  It means that I take all potential consequences in to account and look beyond the immediate gratification of my own wants.  It ultimately means that I give a shit; not just about myself.  Being a grown up requires that I do so.  Being a Man means I do it without bitching, whining, and worrying about things that aren’t “fair”.  Life is a crap shoot; we take the punches along with the rewards.  We have to be able to accept either with the same grace and gratitude, because we learn from both outcomes.

Doesn’t get any easier, though…

Against the wind
I'm still runnin' against the wind
I'm older now but still runnin' against the wind

“Against The Wind” by Bob Seger




Tuesday, February 15, 2011

The S#!T Hits The Fan...Hopefully


(Part 2 of 2 of my post NFL Therapy Session)


But all is not perfect in the land of football and gratuitous violence.  While not the fault of the game (Hint: Men like to talk about “the game” like it’s an actual living thing), societal influences have worked to undermine Men’s enjoyment of our favorite sport. 

FANS

By fans, I mean those drunken buffoons at a Buffalo Bills game in December, standing in a fucking blizzard with their shirts off, showing every inch of that 460 pound frame that was lovingly built by Budweiser and Bratwurst.  While normal game watchers are bundled up in seven layers of clothing, these idiots are trying to start the wave and wondering how long it will be before they develop nipple frostbite.  Having already covered themselves in several gallons of body paint in team colors, they habitually belly bump each other after every play, causing one or more of them to fall backwards, crushing your 12 dollar nachos and sending half frozen beer flying in every direction.  Then they drag their stinking, paint covered carcasses to the bathroom smearing paint all over your kid, your wife, and the old couple unfortunate enough to sit on the aisle, slurring half-mumbled apologies with bratwurst and onion breath.

In other words, assholes. 



These are the same jackoffs who have parked their motorhome across ten parking spaces in the lot in order to set up the 20 by 20 pop up tent with their team logo on it.  They set up barbecues so fucking big they have to be towed and cook entire sides of beef, along with pretentious shit like canap├ęs and jambalaya because they think it makes them look cultured.  Their houses look like the NFL Shop blew a load of team colored semen all over the living room and I GUARANTEE there are at least two cars in the garage with cute license plates that read G0 P4CK or PATSROOL. 

Assholes.

UNIFORMS

I play in a Fantasy Football League that has two women in it.  One of them, despite being a Bills fan, is very good.  So good, in fact, that she has come in second the past two years, which I can only say with no shame at all, because she came in second to me.  Otherwise, I would have never admitted it.  In any case, because she was so good last year, we let her bring in a friend, vouching that she knew what she was doing.

Not so much.  I knew something was amiss when she asked, during the draft mind you, who Adrian Peterson was.  We laughed because it was a cute joke, which stopped being funny seconds later when she asked again.  Dead serious, “No really. Who is he?” 

Wow.  Just, wow.

Only Purple Jesus, the greatest running back to play for the Minnesota By God Vikings, lady.  Then I thought, “Wait.  This is good.  She doesn’t know who he is and I FUCKING DRAFT NEXT!”  Purple Jesus was as good as mine.  Someone explained that he played for the Vikings and was a running back.  They gave no further details, sensing the same thing I did, that she wouldn’t pick him.  Plus she was a Giants fan.  All was well until the following statement was uttered:

“The Vikings are the purple ones right?  I like purple.  I’ll take him.”

FUUUUCK!

I just got screwed in the draft because this bitch likes the color purple.  Rent a fucking Whoopi Goldberg movie then.  Don’t draft the best running back in the NFL just because of the color of his jersey.  That’s like a social worker drafting Eli Manning just because he’s retarded.  It’s just not done. 

Men do not follow a team because they have pretty uniforms.  If this was the case, the Cleveland Browns would be playing in front of the janitors and parking lot attendants every week, because they have the ugliest uniforms in history.  Shit brown jerseys, white pants, and an orange helmet do not inspire devotion.  Men follow teams for good reasons, such as appreciation for the offense, how tough the defense plays, and how little their cheerleaders wear.  If the coach wears a cool hat, bonus points…

Speaking of uniforms, a grown ass man should not be wearing the jersey of another man.  I don’t care how much you admire how well they play, wearing a Drew Brees jersey after the age of 21 is gay.  You may as well go to his fucking house and put on one of his dress shirts just so you can smell his cologne.  My 10 year old nephew has a Brian Urlacher jersey he likes to wear, but if he wears one after he gets married, I will punch him in the nads myself.  The only exception to the jersey rule is if you order one of those custom jobs that you can put your own name on and wear it to a bar pretending you actually play for that team.  Even then, it’s only acceptable if it gets you some, so don’t think you can weigh 325 and get away with telling the ladies you are a running back, tubby…

ANNOUNCERS


John Madden was a great football announcer.    Any man who has the stones to give away turkey legs as awards for great play on Thanksgiving is all right in my book.  Madden put the Turducken on the map by incessantly talking about it every year.  Sure he had an unnatural affection for Brett Favre, but he has a great video game, so he gets a pass.  However, it takes more than NFL experience to make a great announcer.  Much more.

Take Dan Dierdorf for instance.  He played exceptional football for the St. Louis Cardinals for 12 years, and was rightfully enshrined in the Hall of Fame in 1996.  But as an announcer he makes me want to stab myself the face.  He offers great insight in to the game, with pronouncements like, “They need to score more than the other team in order to win”, and “Punching someone in the groin is illegal in football”.  Because he is such a genius, we have created a drinking game dedicated to Captain Obvious.  Anytime he says something that would be readily apparent to a blind monkey, you take a shot.  Simple, right?

I have never seen the second quarter of a Dan Dierdorf announced game.

Another announcer who makes my ears bleed is Tony Kornheiser.  While he is entertaining on Pardon The Interruption arguing with that fat bald guy, that shtick doesn’t translate to the announcer’s booth.  During his four years as part of the Monday Night Football crew, he proved time and again that he was incapable of providing any substantive contribution to the athletic discourse.  In other words, he talked about anything except the game he was watching.  I find it a constant source of amazement that Jon Gruden never punched him in the ovaries on live television.  I believe that he was probably the worst MNF announcer in the history of the program, and this is a group that counts that fuck Dierdorf as an alumnus.  That’s saying something…

An announcers job should be to inform the viewer what is happening during the course of the game.  They should enlighten us as to the subtle nuances of the game or remind us how completely fucked up and abstract the rules have become.  I should not be forced to listen to Bryant Gumbel talk about how he shot a 72 at Sawgrass on Thursday, or Deion Sanders talk about ANYTHING.  And it’s not just the booth announcers, the pre-game crowd is just as bad.  Are Shannon Sharpe and Keyshawn Johnson long lost twins?  They must be, because they both speak the same language, Gibberish. Keyshawn still thinks the Tampa Bay Buccaneers will call him back from his little hissy fit walkout in 2003. If you can understand every fifth word out of Sharpe’s oversized mouth, you should be a translator at the United Nations.  And they both suck dick so hard, they should moonlight as Shop Vacs.

Men watch football despite these unpleasant distractions, because it truly is a throwback to our atavistic roots.  Our basest instincts are represented in the epic struggle between good and evil, played out on the grassy plain of the gridiron.  Like battle, strategy and overwhelming physical superiority determine who the ultimate victor will be.



Well, that and the cheerleaders.  Did I mention the cheerleaders?

Monday, February 14, 2011

Why Men Love...Football (Part 1)


Note:  This ended up running long, so will be a two part post.


So I survived the first weekend without football.  And before someone starts a debate about its “proper” name being American Football, please give it a rest.  I am fully aware that the rest of the world refers to soccer as football and that is just peachy for all of them.  I, however, call one sport soccer and the other football, and would appreciate being allowed to express my thoughts on either one without someone getting heir panties in a wad and starting an International Athletic Incident.  What others call chips; I call French fries, in case anyone wants to start a Potato Flame War.  And it’s Potato, with no “e” at the end…

Back to football.  I managed to make it through the weekend without the NFL, but only barely.  Sunday without football is like a pizza without cheese; you know what it is but it sucks because it’s missing the key ingredient that defines it.  The NBA? No concussions.  NASCAR?  Way too much safety equipment. Plus, it’s just a bunch of cars turning left for four hours.  Golf?  If they hit each other with the clubs, maybe, but until that rule change happens, no.  MLB?  Watching baseball is like watching paint dry.  Actually paint drying has the added effect of the fumes giving you a buzz, so watching baseball is WORSE than watching paint dry.

Apparently some network thought it would be cute to show a Rugby game on Sunday.  It is called a game, right?  Or is it a match?  That’s the problem; I don’t understand the damn event.  The violence level is acceptable, but who knows what the fuck they are doing?  One minute they are having a group hug and the next someone stops and kicks the ball at some goal posts.  I like the concept of no pads, but can someone throw the fucking ball forward and get some excitement going, please?  I suspect that this is against the rules, but again, how the hell do I know?  I am much too lazy to bother learning the rules of a sport I see once a year.  That’s why that movie, “Invictus” didn’t do well at the box office.  No one understood what the hell was going on.  Plus Matt Damon has the worst South African accent ever.  Not like that guy from “Lethal Weapon 2”.  DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY!!!

No, Men watch football.  But why?  I mean apart from the standard love of competition and strategy.  You could watch two homeless guys with no teeth playing chess in the park for that.  There is something about football itself that is athletic Spanish Fly to Men.  After some beer-fueled introspection, I think I have a bit of a handle on it (That’s what she said. Hah. Really, that joke never gets old.), and since it is my job, nay duty, to educate the world about being a Man, here goes.

CHEERLEADERS

Obviously the number one reason.  Those Production Truck pussies never show cheerleaders enough, but the presence of scantily clad women shaking what God gave them makes ANYTHING better.  Your Uncle’s funeral would rock if a Seattle Sea Gal or two were standing near the casket waving their pom poms around.  Note to Fox Network: Less Pam Oliver sideline reporting, more Tiffany with the cut off shirt that’s three sizes too small jumping around.  These are highly skilled dancer-athletes who deserve the recognition of being on TV 50 to 60% of the broadcast.  These women sacrifice greatly, taking time off from their real jobs at Scores or The Flaming Cheetah, to cheer their boobies off for a team they don’t really know, playing a game they don’t really understand.  SOME AIRTIME IS IN ORDER, ESPN!!!

Here’s a surprising fact.  Men like to watch women jiggle around in public.  Not their wives mind you, that’s fucked up.  Your wife should jiggle in private just for you.  I have met women who actually believe that ogling cheerleaders (or strippers) is tantamount to cheating.  This is patently absurd.  Just because we look at what is freely being offered, doesn’t mean that we want to cheat on you.  No one is “demeaning” anyone; these girls KNEW what they looked like before they ventured out.  They weren’t suddenly surprised by the fact that they were wearing a thong and a tank top just because some Man noticed her and stared.  They counted on it.  And if that is your choice, by all means, dress how you want.  And I will continue to stare distractedly and almost cause car accidents.  It’s nature.

We will not cheat on you with these women for one very important reason.  THEY WOULDN’T GIVE US THE FUCKING TIME OF DAY.  We are thankful that you love us, because no one else will.  You have become immune to our quirks and character flaws, yet you stay with us anyway.  You bitch about us all the time, but get paranoid that we will leave you.  In retrospect, wouldn’t that be a good thing?  So we look at other women, and then come home to you for some bada boom.  Like I said, nature.  Don’t question God baby, He is wise in ways we do not understand.

HIGHLY FOCUSED VIOLENCE

Or senseless violence for that matter.  There is something highly entertaining about a cheap shot that sends some prissy Wide Receiver spinning through the air like a helicopter crashing into the jungle.  Or an illegal cut block that turns a 275-pound lineman ass over teakettle before crumpling in to the turf.  It’s just that there is not enough senseless violence in your average football game, so we take what we can get.  To be truthful, the “clean” hits are just as fucking brutal sometimes.  You can never get enough of watching a slot receiver on a crossing pattern getting his head sheared from his body by the linebacker.  And if you’ve never seen the footage of Joe Theismann getting his leg snapped in half by Lawrence Taylor, do yourself a favor and Google it.  It was a completely clean play, but ended with Theismann’s broken tibia sticking through his skin on Monday Night Football. 

Football is not for pussies.

The fact that someone can get hurt at any moment is a big reason football is so popular.  Yes, that potential exists in other sports.  Take NASCAR for example.  The potential for injury is high when you are slinging a piece of metal around a track at 200mph for hours at a time.  But the drivers are actively trying to AVOID hitting each other.  Football is three hours of 22 guys trying to beat the shit out of each other over an oblong ball.  EVERY PLAY ends in a violent physical collision.  It’s no coincidence that the average player plays from 3 to 5 years before having to retire.  This is why it is so fascinating to watch and play.  There is a Russian Roulette aspect to every play that Men are drawn to.

It’s not as sick and twisted as it sounds.  Football is the civilian equivalent of war.  For centuries Men have been bred to fight in defense of what they hold in esteem.  It was a Man’s duty to protect his village, people, family, or “team”.  When Men were not at war, they competed against each other in sport to remain physically and mentally prepared for the rigors of battle.  Football is no different.  Man needs a way to channel his aggressive impulses in a relatively safe manner and the violence of the game meets this need without exposing society as a whole to danger.  It is this danger and our ability to place it in its proper perspective that makes football as popular as it is today.

Society’s preference is to rid Man of these aggressive impulses altogether.  I submit that by doing so, the Man ceases to exist.  The essence of being a Man is the ability to CONTROL and channel our aggressive nature.  The douchebag who runs around full of rage, randomly striking out at anything and everything is not a Man; he is an assclown.  Lack of self-control makes us no different from animals.  At the same time, someone who voluntarily gives up his aggressive nature and meekly submits to anyone and anything that threatens them or those they love is not a Man either; he is a sheep.  Sheep need others to protect and herd them.  Those who end up doing so are most often Men.

GOOD VS. EVIL

Football is a morality play and who you choose to side with says a lot about you as a human being.  For instance, if you cheer for the Philadelphia Eagles, you are a douche.  If your team happens to be the Minnesota Vikings (like me), you are a cynical asshole who has been tempered by the fires of loser hell that has been your team’s existence for the past decade.  Even when we get close to another Superbowl, fate snatches that hope away like a fat chick grabbing the last Little Debbie snack cake, as that fuck Favre throws another interception in the NFC Championship Game.  If you cheer for the Buffalo Bills, just fucking shoot yourself.  You’ll be better off.



Next time:  Men like to watch football despite these things…