off deck

I’m just going to come out and say it: I hate baseball.

I can’t stand anything about it.

I’ve tried and I’ve tried to get into it, and it just never works.  The thing is, I love pretty much every other sport there is: football, basketball, hockey, golf, tennis, that weird game they play in England that’s kind of like baseball but not really.

And the reason I hate baseball is not unique at all, I just find it extremely boring.

For those of you who don’t like sports (freaks), here’s what happens during a baseball game:

A batter walks up to the plate, then stands there.  The pitcher stands there looking at the catcher. Both scratch themselves.  Two minutes pass. The pitcher throws to the batter, who swings and misses.  They both decide that they better stand around some more before anything crazy, like some fucking action, happens again.  Two minutes pass.

This process repeats itself over and over again until someone wins or another team forfeits because their shortstop fell asleep.

Yes, sometimes there is a home run or a nice defensive play, but those things – those things that are the only thing fun about baseball – happen about three times a game.

It is the most boring sport ever.

I know what you’re thinking now. “Oh but you have to go to a game, it’s so much more fun!”  No.  No it’s not.  Here’s a news flash – all sports are more fun to watch live!  If baseball is already boring as hell, a live game is just above boring as hell, which is about the equivalent of eating lettuce, but you spiced it up with some salt!

Baseball is so terrible, that they even incorporate a period of time (the seventh inning stretch) so that people – because they’re bored out of their fucking minds – can stand up and remember what it means to be alive again!

So come on now – call me anti-American or whatever the fuck people always say when I tell them I hate baseball, I can take it.

It can’t be worse than having to watch a game.

if you don’t like swearing you should read something else or maybe just get a life

I feel like shit because I have allergies and when the seasons change it’s like I get kicked in the fucking face by every pollen-producing flower in the city and even though there’s only like 27 of them it still sucks.

How the hell can I have allergies in the first place?  Aren’t humans supposed to be evolved or something like that?

Did the apes that we evolved from millions of years ago have worse allergies than I do right now?  How is that even possible?

If they did I can’t imagine they got much done in their day to day lives.  Not that stupid cave man gorillas probably had that much responsibility. I have to imagine that their to do lists on an average day looked something like this:

1. Wake up.
2. Scratch butt.
3. Smell finger.
4. Look for food.
5. Punch friend.
6. Eat.
7. Poop on a sleeping dinosaur.
8. Go to bed.

I’m not even going to comment on how much that to do list resembles my day, because the point is these fucking apes should have set us all up better than this.

If they were walking around one day, and discovered that something made their nose stuffed up – THEY SHOULD HAVE SMASHED IT!!!

But no, stupid fucking apes just kept on doing their thing and now I have to sit here like a fucking idiot feeling like death all because some hairy beast couldn’t go out of his way to stomp on some flowers.

You know the only people who are happy our ancestors were fucking morons?  Kleenex.  Those people who invented Kleenex are loving them some ancient gorillas!  I bet they have framed pictures of them hanging on the walls of the plant where they make the damn things.

Now that I’ve successfully bashed apes and the Kleenex brand, I would love to say something about motherfucking Jamie Foxx and how he needs to stop making music, but I can’t, I have to go blow my damn nose.

it is not how many times you fall, but how many times you get back up

Look, I understand being dedicated to fitness.

I mean, I go to the gym almost everyday and despite the granny who works out in her sports bra, I still love a good workout like nothing else.

And I’m sure you were in a rush.  These are busy times.  Everyone is in a hurry all the time.

You probably even thought that no one would notice you, and that your decision was based purely on convenience and not wanting to show off to everybody that you are a Healthy Man and A Cyclist.

But here’s the thing – you made a mistake.  When you decided to do this, you were wrong.  Whatever your thought process was before the moment when I snatched your picture, it was Incorrect.

I know, I know – I’ve made mistakes too.  I’ve been on the wrong side of decisions more often than the right, but what’s important is that I learned from those errors in judgment.  When I wrestle with my dog so viciously that he bites my ass so hard it rips a hole in my sweats, I learn not to wrestle with him so much.  Or at least to run away when I’m done.

So I’m hoping that this is a one time deal, and from now on, there will be no more of this.

Because no matter what you say, no matter how you say it, you will never convince me that you couldn’t have changed before you came to the grocery store.

Yes, those are tighty-whitie lines.

through clenched fists

Well fuck.

Yes, fuck.

Yesterday I found out something that makes me want to watch Lifetime movies while completely sober.  It’s that bad.

Ashton Kutcher is on Twitter.

So is Demi Moore.

Oh and dear mother of god so is Fred Durst.

I know, I know, right now you’re saying, “Who the hell are these people?”  I only wish I didn’t know them.  I only wish that my mind could somehow erase the memories/nightmares of Punk’d, G.I. Jane and Limp Bizkit.  But it can’t.

You see I’m one of those people who loves his Twitter.  Yes that makes me a dork, but I’m also one of those people who likes sports and shooting fireworks at people when I’m drunk so I think that evens me out.

My problem with these people invading Twitter is that now some people that I follow are talking about them, which makes me highly upset.

It’s bad enough that Ashton made everyone think wearing a trucker hat was not only socially acceptable, but cool.

It’s bad enough that Demi Moore left Bruce Motherfucking Willis to marry Ashton.

It’s bad enough that Limp Bizkit – well, c’mon, do I really need to elaborate on them?

But now, when I go to my Twitter page, I have to see people talking about “what Ashton said” and “how positive a person Demi is!”  And yeah, there really was an exclamation point, dammit.

It’s just too much.

Sadly, unless all three of them decide that maybe they should stop inadvertently torturing a blogger they don’t know and probably (hopefully) never will, there’s nothing that I can do.

So tell me about how you’re bringing the ascot back Ashton, because that’s just what we need from you, more fashion advice.  And Demi, please post a picture of you two by the Golden Gate bridge, because yes it’s romantic and it only makes me hate you a little bit more.  Yes, even you Fred, quote some more Albert Einstein, because I’m sure you both have a lot in common.

I want it all.

I guess.

unnecessary

This morning while I was on the treadmill and I couldn’t help but wonder if my knees were too small for my legs.  

I was all set to write a post about that thrilling observation, but luckily for you I saw a feature on the news that caught my eye:  Apparently there’s a gym uptown that encourages its patrons to take a nap after the yoga class that is taught there.

There were shots of people being tucked in after the class, then testimony from the instructors about how beneficial it was for people to sleep and, in essence, drool on the floor while dreaming about whether they really do like grapes or just think they like grapes.

Well this is just a brilliant plan.

Look, I know about 98.7% of my readers are women, and you might not want to hear this – but yoga is fucking boring enough as it is, telling people to take a nap afterward is kind of redundant.

Yes, yoga is difficult, but it is mind-numbingly boring.  

You do a move and then you sit there.

You do a move and then you sit there.

And on and on until you’re so bored you start thinking the old woman’s butt in front of you isn’t that bad.  But maybe that’s just me.

Having people take naps after yoga is like telling someone to watch Renée Zellweger movies, you’re just encouraging stupidity.

Why doesn’t the gym just give out complimentary cheeseburgers at the door?

If you’re going to take a nap after working out, just stay home.  Okay?  Leave the gym for the rest of us who are serious about working out, especially those of us who may or may not need extra time for bulking up their knees.

i am irritated

Today is Friday and as we all know – Friday is the day where the Internet goes to die.

Because of that and the fact that 1) I was interviewed by the great Dan Mega and 2) I am having some technical issues with my email (yes this is one day after I said Google was great) I am begging you to go read the interview for your daily fix of my stupid ass.

And in closing, I would just like to say I’ll see you in hell Google.

I’ll see you in hell.

the past and present

I’m a big pop culture fan even though it’s taken me awhile to realize that.  I think it has something to do with Teenage Chris thinking all things popular were stupid, which incidentally might have been the reason I had trouble getting laid.

In fact, if I could write a note to Teenage Chris now, I’d probably say something like “Dear Dumbass, knowing things about celebrities is infinitely more attractive to girls than angry poems and the fact that you think Jim Morrison was a genius.”

But Teenage Chris wouldn’t listen because in high school, actors were the losers. Actors were the dorks who didn’t smoke cigarettes and didn’t want to get drunk, listen to Wu-Tang and try desperately to get into some hot brunette’s pants.

And I think that is why it took me so long to embrace my love of all things “pop.”  If actors were such losers when I was young – why am I supposed to think they’re so cool now?

Obviously, pop culture extends far beyond actors and actresses, but this has always been the part that makes me resistant to embracing the entire scene.

Take George Clooney.

Clooney is the essence of cool, barely beating out Brad Pitt (though I have been one to vehemently argue that Pitt would actually be cooler if Angelina Jolie hadn’t eaten his soul).

I would love to be Clooney.  It’s the old cliche – women love him and men want to be him.

But in high school, Clooney was no doubt a huge loser.  He went to an extremely prissy school in the United Kingdom where he fell in love with acting, then moved back to Kentucky, where he went to high school.

I don’t know about you, but any kid who went to school in Europe and came back wanting to star in hopelessly terrible plays was considered a dork at my school.

I guarantee you Clooney was getting beat up daily and probably had more wedgies than he would care to admit.

But now, suddenly, he is cool.

I suppose the fact that earning an extraordinary amount of money and sleeping with beautiful women is the reason that he is perceived as cool, but it still bothers me.

So much so that maybe I’d even add, “P.S. – Go beat up that whiny actor kid in seventh period” to that note to Teenage Chris.

At least then I’d feel a little better about things.

not worth my time

I never really got into the whole Where’s Waldo craze – and not because I don’t see the allure of the books. Mainly because I find Waldo to be kind of an asshole.

Think about what it must be like to be friends with that guy.

You’re hanging out, having a good time, you turn your back for a second and the dude is gone.

Then you spend the rest of your day asking people if they’ve seen a tall, lanky guy who tends to just stand around in one crowded-ass place with a goofy smile on his face.

And if you’re not already with him, just imagine trying to get in contact with Waldo.

Impossible.

Waldo doesn’t care about anyone but Waldo.

He’s traveling the world, having the time of his life, and you’re blowing up his cell, leaving voicemails that grow increasingly more angry as the hours pass by.

7:42 PM: “Yo, Waldo, my man – it’s Frank.  Me and some other dudes are heading out to the bars tonight, give me a call, trying to see if you wanna roll.”

9:58 PM: “Waldo.  It’s Frank.  Are you coming or not man?”

11:23 PM: “Dude – you fucking suck.  Where are you, the Great Barrier Reef or some stupid fucking place like that again?  Great. I’m not coming after you this time man – I’m not doing it!  Fuck you man.  Fuck you.”

Not only does Waldo always make you come find him – he always wears the same damn clothes.

Some jeans, a striped red and white long sleeve shirt and a red and white winter hat.

Every single day.

Even when you have to fly to Egypt to find his dumbass – there he is, wearing that outfit in the hot sun. What’s he trying to do – be funny?

I don’t think it’s funny.  Not at all.

I think he’s an annoying fucker who deserves to stay lost.

Where’s Waldo?

I don’t know – but I guarantee you he’s being a bitch.

(The contest is over – so go please check out the Win Something! page for all the great stories that I received.)

the day the music died

Bon Jovi.

The name invokes many thoughts, feelings and even memories, doesn’t it?

Right now you’re probably thinking of that time when you heard “Livin’ on a Prayer” and you thought to yourself that you could identify with Tommy who used to work on the docks and was down on his luck because you, too, thought life “is tough, so tough.”

Or maybe you’re thinking of how great you felt when you belted out “You Give Love a Bad Name” while downing cans of Busch Light at the local bar and the woman with blonde highlights and cut-off jean shorts thought you “rocked” and went home with you even after you vomited on her leg.

But not me.

I don’t have fond thoughts.

I hate Bon Jovi and I want them to go away.

The only thing that gives me an once of respect for them is that they produced a pretty decent song for Young Guns 2, which was a bad ass movie.

Other than that, I could be perfectly happy with my life if I never had to hear “Livin’ on a Prayer” or any other song by them again.

For awhile, I thought that I was in the clear.

There were some years when the sun was shining, the birds were chirping and no one had heard from Jon (Your name is really spelled John, by the way, you fucking ass – what, taking the “h” out of your name made you that much more rocking?) and the gang for quite some time.

Then they came storming back with the single “It’s My Life,” which makes me want to stab my ears with a spoon because it is so damn cheesy.

And just like that – no more sun shining and no more birds chirping.

Just the sound of terrible pop music sung by a man who sports a woman’s haircut while jamming to guitar riffs played by quite possibly the ugliest man alive.  Okay, it’s a toss-up between him and Tom Petty.

My hate for Bon Jovi has been reignited because it has just been announced that the band will be playing here at Central Park on the 12th.

Guess who’s going to that show?

Me.

I’m going to show up early so I can get a front row seat, and when that bastard comes on stage, I’m going to tell him how I feel and maybe throw my dirty socks at his head.

I’ve had enough Bon Jovi.

The shitty music must stop.

Get ready for hell.

hard knock life

It must be hard to be Osama bin Laden.

He’s this crazy terrorist dude who the entire world wants to find and eventually kill or put in jail until his beard is so long that it touches the ground and that is just gross.

So he has been in hiding since forever, and no matter what our genius of a president has done, he has somehow been unable to find him. Which makes me think that Osama must’ve been one hell of a Hide n’ Seek player as a boy, one of those kids who would hide so well that you’d eventually just give up and go home for dinner because you couldn’t find him.

Imagine living in caves for years and years.

Not very fun.

No watching Jeopardy! every night. No tuna casserole for dinner, because that is just not happening when you live in a cave. The tuna would stink up the place for days.

Also, there’s the fact that Osama hates everything.

Everything!

He hates Jews, gays, drinking (!), gambling, the entire United States (!), Israel, women and children – and that’s just on Tuesdays!

Osama really has no interest in liking anything.

Well, aside from Jeopardy! and tuna casserole, because call him what you will – the man knows good things when he sees them.

I don’t think I would ever be able to make it through life having to hate everything, so I know it’s got to be tough on Osama.

I bet there are days when he wishes he could just kick off his sandals, grab a piña colada, lounge around the pool and check out all the fully-clothed women sun bathing around him.

But he can’t.

Osama must sit in his dark, gloomy cave and think of new things to hate every single day.

I just hope my blog isn’t next.