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. 


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. 



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.”


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…


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.


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.


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.


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…

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Dead Guys, Polygamists, The Amish, and Forgiveness...

Before you continue, if you take religion very seriously and don't like jokes about it, stop reading now.

No, really.

I'm super serial.

I'm not kidding.  You'll probably get pissed off.

Well fuck it then. Don't say you weren't advised...

I went to the funeral of an acquaintance the other day.  Actually I had to drive my father to the funeral, which is much different than attending these things alone.  My normal modus operandi at these things is to sign in, drop off an envelope, walk through to greet the family and express various heartfelt sentiments and deepest sympathies, find the donuts and juice, and exit stage left.  Total time spent at uncomfortable event: 8 minutes.

Don’t judge.  We all have our own grieving process.  Mine is just…faster.

But my father, who actually hates funerals as much as I do, feels a sense of responsibility to stay through the whole service and pay his respects.  Please understand that I agree with him if I knew the deceased well or if it was a family member.  But he does it just because it’s a funeral, regardless of how well he knew the person.  My initial theory was that he had to get dressed up for the damn thing, so he may as well get his money’s worth from the Brut aftershave he broke out for the occasion. 

I’m coming to the realization that it’s more than that.  As he gets older, he seems more at ease with the concept of death.  I suppose that’s natural, but it can get unnerving to talk so casually with a parent about their demise.  My Dad is a smart ass to begin with (apple, tree, falling), so he gets his jollies peppering conversations with references to his funeral or preferences as to the preparation of his body:

“These dogs look hungry.  When I die, cut me up in to bite size pieces and feed me to the dogs.  Then when they shit me out, fertilize that tree I like.”

Or this one:

“It’s really windy.  Which reminds me, when I die, burn me and scatter the ashes in to a strong wind that is blowing towards a fancy outdoor restaurant.  That way a whole bunch of pretentious assholes will literally bite me.”

The logic is compelling; I’ll give him that. 

So, since we are suddenly spending more actual time at these damn things, I have to find ways to amuse myself.  There were always the aforementioned donuts and juice to keep a dude busy, but I do have to watch my girlish figure.  For a while, I was telling the children that if they got sleepy during the service, the body would reanimate and hop out of the casket to eat their parents.  However, the reactions were a little more…dramatic…then I had anticipated, so I stopped.

Next, I tried to get an over/under pool going on how long the Eulogy was going to be; with some side action on how many mentions of Jesus there were.  Apparently these people were fairly devout, because I got no takers.  It was at this point that I remembered that this was a Mormon function, so I decided to modify the side bet to mentions of Joseph Smith rather than Jesus, which upped the action a little bit.  Those Latter Day Saints always favor the home team, anyway, so they took Smith and the points.

Having remembered the LDS connection, I then tried to figure out which of the funeral attendees was a secret polygamist.  One bearded guy wearing a hat looked like he was the type to live on a compound with his thirty wives and eighty-seven children.  I began to picture a butter churn on the porch, packs of little snot gobblers wearing patent leather shoes running around rolling big metal hoops before stopping to bathe in a creek of some sort.  Then they walk to their triple-decker bunk beds where they study by candle light and write their math lessons in coal on the back of a shovel.  Finally they extinguish the candles, saying quaint things like, “Goodnight, John Boy.”

Then I realized I watch way too much fucking TV.

I also realized that I was mixing up the Mormons with the Amish again.  The Amish think electricity is the Devil incarnate and that mechanical things make you some kind of sinful pussy or something.  Mormons, on the other and, have nothing against electricity and modern contraptions.  I know this because I have HBO and watch “Big Love” every Sunday.  Since it’s on TV, it must be true.  The family owns a hardware store, part of an Indian casino, and three very large houses on the same street right next to each other.  The lucky husband gets to hop from bed to bed whenever he feels like it, which is awesome because all three of his wives are hot.  Life is a fucking paradise, except for the fact that outsiders hate them and look with disdain on the concept of plural marriage.

Well fuck them.

I wish I could get away with that shit.  It would fucking ROCK to have three wives who I could choose between depending on the circumstances.  Or why choose?  SHARING IS CARING, AM I RIGHT?  Then I would go down to my Indian Casino to look for wife #4 and gamble, after first stopping at my hardware store to pick up a belt sander or a nail gun, just because I can.  So what if 95% of the country disagrees with my lifestyle and thinks I am morally corrupt?  Me and the other 5% are hitting it daily, rolling in the dough, and generally giving everyone else a big middle finger while doing it.

Down Side? None whatsofuckingever.

But I was talking about a funeral.  There was a lot of talking interspersed with the occasional properly somber musical number, followed by a lot more talking.  One of the songs was called “Scatter Sunshine”, which instructs us as to the proper attitude expected by the supernatural Big Guy.  Apparently He wants us to:

“Scatter sunshine all along your way,
 Cheer and bless and brighten every passing day…”


In retrospect, I can honestly say that I have never actually scattered sunshine.  Not ever.  Not in any way shape or form.  I do not recall an instance where I hopped along, scattering sunshine, and brightening or cheering the day for anyone.  If you did that in my neighborhood, you’d wake up naked and chained to a car radiator, wondering why you were wearing lipstick.  Suffice it to say, I began to get concerned for my spiritual well being at this point.

A further perusal of the hymnal confirmed my growing fears.  One after the other, these hymns encouraged me to treat others with love and caring, faithfully follow the 17 Commandments (I think there were 17.  Maybe 20?), shower blessings upon the weak and infirm, and generally run around grinning like a moron with a giant rainbow crammed up my ass.

This didn’t look good.

They also admonished against all the GOOD sins, like Greed, Gluttony, and my personal favorite, Lust.  Why not warn me to avoid the really BAD things, like Broccoli, Taxes, The View, and any song by Justin Bieber?  That’s the shit that makes the kids crazy these days.  No one ever caused a riot rushing the stage to see Sloth and Despair play a twin bill at the Staples Center, have they?  But you get a couple thousand pre-pubescent teenage girls in the vicinity of Bieber and you have a shrieking riot on your fucking hands. 

I’m not saying that hymns shouldn’t be sung; just that maybe we could use a little more perspective when writing them.  Maybe praise me for letting old people cross the street without running them over.  Or some encouragement for not farting in line at the supermarket.  Or maybe even acknowledging the fact that I have not, as of yet, strangled one of those assholes who cut in front of me in traffic, then slow down to a crawl while talking to some other asshole on the phone, as I seethe behind them looking at that fucking Jesus fish on the back of their car.  WWJD?  He sure as fuck wouldn’t drive like a lobotomized shit stain, cutting people off and behaving like an asshole.  I’d like to think our Lord and Savior would use his blinkers and mirrors, and you should too, dick cheese.  That’s in Leviticus somewhere, I think.

 So I sat there, becoming increasingly aware that my mortal soul was in peril, and wondering just what I could do about it.  I pondered going to church , but that really starts too early and they make you wear pants.  Then I figured I would start volunteering at a soup kitchen, but I really can’t stand the smell of homeless people.  They smell like sour soup smothered in deep fried onions, so that’s out.  Donating to charity? Maybe those Habitat for Humanity projects? Delivering meals to elderly shut-ins?  The thought of doing any of these things gave me a screaming headache and a sinking feeling in my gut.  People should be doing shit like that for ME, not the other way around. 

As all of these thought spun around my head, I heard one of these religious dudes say something that actual managed to get through.  Apparently, if you ask for forgiveness for your sins, even right up to the actual SECOND before you die mind you, you get to go to heaven.

Fuck and Yes.

I had no idea that God had such a liberal return policy.  This, of course, puts my mind at ease.  So unless I am unable to send a quick, mental, “I’m sorry for being an asshole.” to the nearest God-owned cell phone tower, I should be gold. 

Well I’m going to go out and get my debauch on.  Those hymns say God is always watching.  He may want to change the channel for a while, ‘cause this may not be pretty…

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

It's a Small World (of Porn) After All

 I’ve been sick for a week or so and because I’m thoughtful and responsible like that, I stayed home.  While it was a HUGE sacrifice on my part to miss work and avoid spreading my surprisingly clean germs to my staff, I’m a giver, so naturally I wasn’t going to sit on my ass and do nothing for all of you.  I needed to find a way to continue making important contributions to the National Discourse.  But how to do that while holed up at home?

Porn, naturally.  You can only watch so many reruns of “American Chopper” before feeling the need to end someone’s life, so I spent a large (yet not abnormal) amount of time reviewing pornographic offerings on Al Gore’s Internet invention.  The Internet is a valuable tool for increasing productivity, spreading vital information, bridging international chasms of communication, buying Snuggies, and getting your rub on, if you get my meaning. 

Not necessarily in that order.

I am by no means passing myself off as an expert in the ways of perversion and pornography.  I’m no slouch to be sure, but I am sure that there are millions of hairy-knuckled, pale-skinned, raw-dicked guys out there who spend countless hours every day whacking it and letting loose loads of tadpole shaped palm children on the family drapes.  And I am equally certain that there are millions of women out there rubbing it out au natural or draining batteries like a Samsung Vibrant while watching “Avatar”. 

This is merely a quick review of the state of International porn, a country by country roundup of what’s out there.  And believe me, there is a surprising amount of porn on the Internet.  Yeah, color me shocked.   Fuck 31 flavors at Baskin and Robbins.  There are thousands of sub genres in pornography, and in the 7 days I was stuck at home, I was committed enough to view every one of them.  Yes, I care enough to do that for YOU.  You’re welcome.

Japanese porn is interesting.  They mosaic (blur) the actual genitalia and penetration, but have no compunction in showing the “money shot” in graphic detail.  So I am not allowed to see some Japanese guy’s pecker, but I can watch him skeet soy-flavored semen all over some dentally-challenged ex-Disney Japan employee?  Even through the mosaic, it is obvious that the female participants need to “mow the lawn” a bit before getting in front of a camera.  A little turf on the field is cool, but let’s not get all “grassy plains of the Kalahari”, ladies. 

And can somebody tell me why they always make sounds like a monkey being impaled by a broomstick?  It’s almost enough to make a guy stop watching.


One of these girls is named Maria Ozawa and she has spectacular frontal assets.  I mean they are the stuff dreams are made of.  I remember reading somewhere that she is part Japanese and part Caucasian and speaks both languages, which I bring up only because of the fact that she makes those same damn noises when she’s having sex.  But you can tell it’s forced, because when she really starts getting in to it, she loses the monkey noises and appears to have to remind herself that she is required to sound like Curious George humping a flagpole.  I can only conclude that this noise is an affectation that turns Japanese men on for some reason, which reinforces my belief that foreigners are, indeed, fucking strange.

I’ve only seen one actual Chinese porn movie in my life.  And a half an hour later, I wanted more porn!  Hey now!!! 

Sorry, couldn’t resist.  I have actually seen one, actual made in China, porn movie.  And since I am a judgmental prick, I feel it’s perfectly reasonable to judge every Chinese porn ever made by that one example.   It was bizarre, because they couldn’t figure out if it was porn or a Kung Fu movie.  People were spinning around and fucking from treetop to treetop like horny, over-caffeinated pigeons.  And for some reason they wouldn’t get naked.  They sort of just pulled their robes aside, pumped like crazy for a few minutes, then went on their way.  I remember there was a dragon at some point (of course), and a blind guy with a cane (naturally).  Don’t remember if they fucked each other though…

German Porn.  Fuck this shit is sick.  There appears to be a law in Germany that you are not allowed to star in a porn movie if you are a female and: a) under 60 years old; b) own AND know how to use a razor; c) weigh less than a small love seat; and d) are attractive in any way.  There must be some lingering sociological effect from getting spanked in two World Wars, because these people have severe self-esteem problems.  Between letting people piss in their mouths or shit on their chests, there are some serious toileting issues that maybe the school system needs to address or something.  A little fucking decorum is in order, people!  Jesus…

I saw one clip where a hirsute Fraulein found the need to do herself with the stick shift of a Mercedes.  Yes. A Mercedes.

Does she know what that does to the fucking resale value?

Not to mention the sanitary issues.  You’d have to douche with a garden hose and a gallon of Clorox after that.  Worse if it was a rental.  You’d never get the deposit back, that’s for sure…

When they aren’t relieving themselves on each other or violating automobiles, they are industriously fornicating in public bathrooms, on trains, on crowded highways, dressed as farm animals, encased head to toe in latex, wearing gas masks, and hanging from various hooks and other hardware.  It’s a wonder they ever get around to making Volkswagens and Sauerkraut with all the fucking that goes on.  They also like to fuck old people. A lot.  If I never see another grey pube in my life, I will die a happy man.  Distinguished, my ass…keep your old scrotum in your drawers, Hans.  I don’t need to see it.

Indian porn is…different.  I mean 7-11 Indian, not scalp your ass Indian.  For some reason, they feel the need to wear a lot of jewelry while riding the baloney pony.  The jingling is almost distracting, in a Hare Krishna, selling flowers at the airport kind of way.  Now you have to know that there is a niche where some geographically unaware ass hat finds a hot Hispanic girl, throws her in a sari and some costume jewelry, and has her Bend it like Beckham.  The fake accents are terrible but they are very…enthusiastic.  The authentic stuff is usually much more grainy, filmed with poor lighting, and less energetic.  The men all look like this guy…


Yeah.  I’ll pass.