Tag: Humor

May 25, 2012

The Whipping Boy

It is May, which means two things:

1. The NFL season is still months away, and speculating on it now is pointless and foolhardy.

2. This is America, and we don’t care.

No, in this country it seems it’s never too early to discuss the upcoming football season. We’re all in on the sport – it’s our Hunger Games. Football news, no matter how obscure, unseasonable, or off-topic, is always met with a satisfied nod. At least from anyone who loves America.

And one thing I know to be true is that you, dear readers, are patriots. So you understand that offseason football talk is completely rational. And today, I want to discuss something that should be in the forefront of fans’ minds heading into the 2012 NFL season. This is crucial for football fandom – more important than rosters, depth charts, draft picks, or coaching schemes. It’s something us rubes must embrace, for it has the power to keep fans of even the most soul crushing teams (see: Vikings, Bills, Browns) sane.

The decision every fan should make is: who will be my team’s 2012 whipping boy?

The whipping boy is a key figure on any team, for it keeps fans from killing themselves. Trust me; it’s the only thing that has kept the suicide toll among Vikings fans down for the last few decades. Basically, it works like this: you pick one player you don’t really like, and then blame most (or, in some cases, all) of the team’s collective failures on him. It’s very easy.

My brother Brandon and I developed this system in Minnesota long ago. We’re simple folks. And as Vikes fans, we found a basic need for it in order to suppress the almost inescapable depression caused by moments such as this, this (NO!!!), and, most recently…this. And those are just the high points. Having one finite place to direct your scorn – rather than trying to figure out who to blame (coach, quarterback, owner, father, roommate, fair-weather fan next door, etc.), helps keep things together and removes the need for auxiliary brain function that could be better utilized on beer, wings, the TV remote, and the like. And the great part is, there is no limit to what you came blame on the whipping boy. He doesn’t even have to be part of the play, on the field, or even in the building – no matter what happens, it’s his fault. For example, our most recent whipping boy on the Vikings was fat and stupid offensive tackle Bryant McKinnie. McKinnie was a decent player, but a tailor-made, hall of fame whipping boy (more on that later). Anyway, if the quarterback was sacked from his blind side, clearly it was his fault. But if a running play going to the right side – where McKinnie was not involved – and didn’t do well, we could find a reason to blame him too. Often we’d even deem it his fault when the defense gave up big plays, the kicker missed a field goal, or someone brought the wrong kind of salami to the postgame meal. There’s no logic for this, but there doesn’t have to be – and that’s the beauty of the system. It makes even the angriest, most illogical fan feel a little better because it plays right into those two basic superfan instincts – anger and the absence of logic. Just try it, you’ll like it.

Now, picking the whipping boy is slightly more complicated, and that’s why we’re having this talk. It can’t just be anyone; it has to be a guy fit for the role. Initially it’s probably tempting to pick some poor scrub who barely made the roster, or the longsnapper, or punter, or someone else of that ilk. Those guys are eternally easy to pick on, so I understande that urge. But they don’t work; you don’t see them nearly as much as more prominent team members, and those guys are already low on the totem pole – in salary, fame, and respect – so piling on them just kind of makes you a dick. Instead, it should usually be a player with regular playing time and at least relatively decent talent, with some combination of the following:

– Poor Attitude. Guys with shitass attitudes are unlikable and generally cause trouble, so it’s easy to find or create fault in what they do.

– Unfulfilled Potential. This is a big one. You’re going to have a head start at being pissed off at these guys anyway, because the football-watching world has already decided their level of play isn’t equal to their level of talent. Nobody likes an underachiever. So why fight it? Why not ride that wave and consider your team’s disproportionately high draft pick for the position of whipping boy? They’re very easy to yell at.

– Weight. Simple: the more body mass, the more places they seem to be. And the more places they seem to be, the better probability you’ll see them around a play that didn’t go your team’s way. Plus there’s the classic dilemma of NFL linemen: they only get noticed when they draw a penalty or miss a block. Proper line work usually goes unnoticed. Let’s keep it that way.

– Undue Hype. This is similar to unfulfilled potential, but is more a product of the player being overrated by the rest of the football-watching world. You know, when you’re watching a game and ask yourself “why does everybody think this guy is so good? He doesn’t do shit.” That’s the undue hype guy.

For Vikings fans, Bryant McKinnie was a conglomeration of all of these factors, and thus made the perfect whipping boy. A top-10 draft choice that was expected to step in and dominate from day one, a contract dispute held him out well into his rookie season, and when he did finally show up he never quite got that “dominance” thing. Still a serviceable left tackle, but he always was more worried about his music career (why are all athletes under the illusion they are also rappers?) and partying than he was playing football. He even got kicked off a Pro Bowl team once, due to his South Beach clubbing schedule taking precedence over practice. It was impossible to like this guy.

But alas, when McKinnie returned to training camp extra fat and out of shape last year, the Vikings finally tired of his bullshit and cut his cruise ship-sized ass. While good for the team culture and accountability, it left a gaping hole at left tackle and, more importantly, the whipping boy position. We scrambled to find replacements for both – Charlie Johnson and left tackle and eventually a half-assed attempt at making Donovan McNabb the whipping boy for the season – but neither really satisfied. A washed-up, benched veteran quarterback doesn’t make a great kick-horse, no matter how many passes we saw him skip at receivers’ feet. It worked for a few games, but once he stopped seeing playing time, the thrill was gone. And thus, in the season we needed a good whipping boy most – the squad finished a dismal 3-13 – we were left with none. I will not let this happen again.

Just to give you an idea, let’s look at some blame-dumps from the past.

Past Whipping Boys

Chris Hovan

A white defensive tackle, Hovan was up against it from the start. He actually had a few years as an impact lineman in the early 2000’s, but then his level of play began to seriously slide, though it was at least two years before anyone noticed. One of these years, the Vikes were on Monday Night Football one week and John Madden took a shine to Hovan for some reason. Being John Madden, he wouldn’t shut up about him. This fueled the undue hype machine, and I specifically watched Hovan on every play the rest of that season and waited for him to do anything other than stand up after the ball was snapped, grab onto whatever offensive lineman was across from him, and just kind of stand there. He never did. Still, the John Maddens of the world continued to rave. Hovan currently plays for the Virginia Destroyers of the UFL. His tattoos include barbed wire and an American flag.

Lance Johnstone



A defensive end the Vikings acquired during that same time frame in order to upgrade their dismal pass rush. “We have Lance Johnstone,” the team basically told us, “so our days of being ranked dead last in every defensive category are over.” They weren’t. Johnstone was a washed up version of a player that wasn’t actually that good in the first place, and while he was just fine at rushing quarterbacks, he struggled mightily at actually getting to them. His three and four-sack seasons for some reason didn’t end the team’s defensive woes.

Bernard Berrian

The overpaid, moody, much maligned wide receiver, whose tenure as the whipping boy overlapped with McKinnie’s. Boy, did we have plenty of places to push blame when those two guys were on the roster – really, they were the best one-two punch ever. The Batman and Robin of fan scorn. Again, this guy was brought in to rescue a failed position unit (the receiving corps), and paid much more than he was worth (something like $7 million a year). Berrian never even looked like a solid player, didn’t catch many balls, and watched idly as a hall-of-fame quarterback (Brett Favre) came in and made someone else (Sindey Rice) a quasi-star. Every interaction with the media was a testy one, which didn’t do much to make us like him. If you’re going to be a shitty, overpaid player, at least be nice.

Those are just a few examples. But who for this year? Let’s look at the field (with whipping boy factor, on a 10-point scale):

This Year’s Candidates

Asher Allen, Cornerback

Going into his fourth season, the former third-round draft pick from Georgia has not developed much since his rookie year. In what figures to once again be a very thin unit, Allen will be forced into meaningful action in the secondary – something he’s proven he can’t really handle. In three years with the Vikings, Allen has four interceptions, 11 passes defended, and many, many instances of being five to eight yards away from his receiver when the ball is caught. No attitude or weight problems yet, but you never know. Whipping boy factor: 6.

Phil Loadholt, Offensive Tackle

The logical McKinnie replacement; a huge, massive, gigantic offensive lineman who underachieved last year. Loadholt has talent and solid football acumen, but too often in 2011 you would see him standing there looking down at the quarterback after he’d given up a sack, with this confused look on his face that just kind of said, “sorry?” Linemen are just so easy to blame. I personally don’t want Loadholt to be the whipping boy at all – just look at that face. Look how happy he is. How could you be consistently mad at that guy, even if he’s consistently screwing your team’s chances to win? It’s true – in every public setting, big Phil comes off as possibly the most positive, unassuming guy on the planet. He’s easily the jolliest offensive lineman I’ve ever seen – it’s almost as if he didn’t really want to go into a profession that involves crushing other human beings, but he just kept growing. Loadholt is good fat, so let’s not make him the whipping boy. Let’s look past his flaw. Please? Whipping boy factor: 5.

Toby Gerhart, Running Back

His name is Toby! He went to Stanford! He was a Heisman finalist! Then why in his rookie season did Gerhart look like a man content with taking a handoff, making one slow horizontal move, then falling forward for two yards? This is the visual I have of his first season with the team. It’s not completely fair, because as the year wore on he did improve as a runner, and actually filled in admirably for the injured Adrian Peterson. Still, I have big expectations, so I have Toby on a short leash. Peterson might not be ready for the start of the season, and even if he is, it won’t be at full strength. We’re going to need Gerhart to be solid, and if he isn’t, I’m completely willing to turn on him early on. Whipping boy factor: 7.

Jerome Simpson, Wide Receiver

This could be the one. Simpson recently signed with the Vikings after serving 15 days in jail. He’s being paid 2 million this year, and put up serviceable numbers with the Bengals last year (50 catches, 725 yards, 4 TDs). Looking at those factors alone, expectations would be reasonably low for Simpson with the Vikings. But NFL fans are not reasonable, and will have much higher hopes for Simpson – mainly due to the fact that they saw him on ESPN 2,000 times last year, after he made one of the iconic plays of the 2011 NFL season. That single play was shown over and over again, and due to ESPN’s mammoth reach, the rubes probably think Simpson is better than he actually is. He inadvertently set the metaphorical bar very high for himself. And if things start to go sour – Simpson isn’t catching many balls and starts to complain, as receivers are wont to do – it could get ugly. Also, I’m just assuming he has attitude problems, because he was in jail and he played for the Bengals. What other proof do you need? Whipping boy factor: 9.

 

These are the candidates. Vikings fans, we must pick one. Do you have someone else in mind? Who did I miss? And non-Vikings fans: who will YOUR team’s whipping boy be?

May 14, 2012

Visual Stimulation

Have you read Memoirs of a Gas Station? Are you currently reading it? Is it in your metaphorical “to read” pile? Are you considering reading it, but first trying to get over your deep-rooted psychological aversion to books?

If you answered “no” to all of these questions, that’s okay. Seriously, it’s cool. I’m not even mad. I mean, sure, I put like a year and change into writing the thing, and I’m basically baring my soul for the whole world to see…but no big deal.  I promise. Would you excuse me for a second?

If you answered “yes” to any of these questions, then welcome. Come on in, take off your shoes, and get comfy. Let go of your inhibitions. Be with me. Take your coat off and let me fix you a drink. Scotch okay? Great. For you, I have a little something. You know when you read a book and your mind creates little mental pictures of people and places? I’ve come to destroy those. Not because I hate you…I love you. I just thought it might be fun to put some visuals with the words. So…some photos from the cast and crew of Memoirs:

This is Jim. I chose this particular out-of-focus shot because it captures the essence of working at a gas station: dread, regret, and shame. This was taken immediately after Jim found out he would be spending his summer working at the Lynx Creek Store. See the smirk on his face? He couldn’t help but smile a little at how much life had screwed him over. I can almost here him asking “Why, God? Why me?” It was a true low point in his life, and like any good friend, I was there to capture the moment.

This is Horseshoe Lake, the sight of many moose and beaver viewings. It was a fairly popular, yet cozy little spot. The farthest body of water you can see – on the left side – is the Nenana River. Our living quarters were situated near the banks of that river.

This is a bear. Not exactly sure where I found this guy, but I assume I was staring him down, holding a Bowie knife, and daring the son of a bitch to attack. Or I was in a seat on a bus, taking this picture through a glass window. You decide.

Damian (left) and Kenny, early in the season, getting ready to attack some hills near a place called Toklat. Yes, that Kenny.

On the banks of Horseshoe Lake, watching a moose eat dinner. On the other side, some parents and snot-nosed kids look on.

This is a Dall Sheep. I named him Roland. Kenny and I were near Savage River, climbing a mountain and looking for a suitable campsite, and this guy kept following us. At one point I stopped and waited for him to crest the hill, then snapped a quick picture before he could gore me or whatever they do with those horns.

That’s it for now, but do come back for more in the future!

May 8, 2012

All Underrated List

We’ve discussed who is overrated; now it’s time to spotlight those who get no respect. The unsung greats, the geniuses toiling in obscurity, the hard working, blue collar, middle class of common thought. Yes, it’s time to talk about the underrated.

Now remember, this doesn’t mean these things are unknown; just that they aren’t given the credit they deserve. And again, they’re in no particular order. To the list!

Cauliflower

Cauliflower has long since been the bastard cousin of broccoli, and this is not okay. Broccoli gets all the spotlight because it’s green, and we’re obsessed with green food in this godforsaken hippie health-freak organic culture we’ve built ourselves, but cauliflower is healthy as shit too. It, as Wikipedia tells me, is “low in fat, low in carbs but high in dietary fiber, folate (which I think is a real thing), water, and vitamin C, possessing a high nutritional density.” Yep, nutritional density. Read it and weep, broccoli crusaders. It’s a damn ball of nutrition.

Plus, it’s a very versatile food. It has very little actual taste, just enough to keep it from being tasteless, and not too much to make it taste bad, which, being a vegetable, it almost certainly would, if it had more taste. Instead, this “minimalist taste” is delightfully usable, and lets you combine cauliflower with almost anything and get away with it. Seriously, name any dish and I can assure you that the addition of cauliflower will – at the very least – definitely probably not ruin it. And you can keep it simple too – even just combining it with melted cheese is a common favorite. It’s delicious and makes your fat ass not feel quite so bad about housing what is essentially a bowl full of cheese in a single sitting. Hey, no need to feel bad at all – it’s got nutritional density.

Silvertide

This is a band you probably haven’t heard of, and that’s not because I’m trying to pull some pretentious hipster shit on you. They were just never very well known, and didn’t last very long. Silvertide saw a small glimpse of fame in ‘04/’05 when their one barely-popular single, “Aint Comin’ Home,” was played very occasionally on mainstream rock radio. They might’ve released subsequent singles, but nobody really paid attention. And then they broke up – their career spanned one album.

Why am I telling you this? Because Silvertide f’ing rocked. That one album, Show and Tell, was 11 tracks of blistering, stupid, straightforward rock and roll, and that is something that was painfully absent through most of that particular decade. For me, it was an oasis in a desert of indie rock and easy listenings, and a godsend. They were my new favorite band.

Of course, it ended there, and was seemingly over before it started. There was no second album, as all the band members parted ways to form or participate in other projects, which uniformly sucked (trust me, I’ve checked). But I still listen to Show and Tell; it’s a naïve, underdeveloped, and massively flawed album, but maybe that’s okay. My musical tastes have changed, and I no longer cling to loud, frantic guitar licks and shrill vocals like I used to, but I can still see the good in an album like this. It falls somewhere between 80’s hair metal and modern day mainstream, wannabe rock, and that’s not a terrible place to be.

Bill Bryson

Based on how many books he’s sold I’d assume everyone on earth has heard of him, but that is apparently not the case. I stumbled upon his wilderness masterpiece A Walk in the Woods a few years ago and immediately adopted Bryson as my new favorite author. And not being one to shut the hell up about things, I of course told everyone about it, and was surprised to find a lot of people who hadn’t heard of him either. Well, regarding Bryson’s writings: if you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up. It is so choice. (And yes, you do have the means; your local library will have them, and I’ve recently found that libraries give out books for free. Not sure how they’re able to sustain this business model, but I plan on taking advantage until they wise up.)

Bill Bryson is smart, quick witted, hilarious, keenly observational, well-researched, and blatantly honest. Born in America (the great state of Iowa, to be exact), he moved to Europe and resided there for 30 years before finally coming back home. So right there, there’s something for everyone: the unashamed American nationalists who probably own guns, and the conceited, tea-drinking neck-beard people who are convinced Europe is “sooooo much more cultured” and better than America despite the fact that they continue to –and always will – live here. Both of these groups will enjoy Bryson – he breaks down walls.

The book in question, A Walk in the Woods, takes place just after his return stateside, when he attempts to “rediscover America” on the Appalachian Trail. Between his astute observations, lovable curmudgeon streak, and the fact that he is blatantly unequipped to hike anything, much less something as daunting as the AT, it makes for a great read.

Otters

Much like cauliflower, they’ve been the maligned stepchild of another creature for seemingly all of history. In the animal kingdom, the beaver seems to get all the credit, while the otter is routinely an afterthought. This is horseshit. Yes, beavers are much more hardworking and understanding of middle-class American values – it seems they never take a break from working on those dams, night and day. But that’s their flaw as well: beavers do not understand the work/life balance, and the singular goal of dam-building consumes their lives and gives them one-track minds. These beavers are not well-rounded individuals.

Otters, on the other hand, live life at a different pace. They aren’t concerned with dam-building, oil wells, gold mines, or real estate; they mostly go wherever the tides take them. Indeed, otters can usually be seen floating leisurely on their backs, cracking crabs on their chests and basking in life’s beautiful glow. Their priorities are different. Clearly otters, along with koalas, are the hippies of the animal kingdom. But unlike human hippies, who commonly have dreadlocks and poor hygiene, the animal hippies stay groomed and work when they have to. They just understand there’s more to life than building homes or constantly hunting. We could all learn something from the otter.

May 3, 2012

The Finger

Following the release of my book Memoirs of a Gas Station (*cough cough* $2.99 on Amazon *cough*), I’ve been digging through the media archives for pictures and short videos of the excursion. This is partly for general reminiscence and partly to make sure I haven’t grossly distorted any facts (no comment). In the process I’ve come across some entertaining little nuggets, which I’ll be sharing here in the near (and possibly far) future.

Today, I’d like to take a look at this gem: it’s a quick video chronicling some minor home surgery on one of my fingers. And by “minor home surgery,” I mean thrusting a blackened needle through the fingernail to release the considerable pressure from blood that had built up underneath it. If you’ve read the book, you’ll recall this was a consequence of accidentally let it slam between two large steel doors with faulty springs. This was also the same time I realized the dining hall closed at 7 p.m. It was 7:15. I was hungry. Overall, not a good night.

The finger of course turned purple and immediately swelled up to the size of a small pineapple. And, oh, it kind of hurt. In the coming days the swelling would get better, but as the fluid beneath the fingernail filled up more it became almost impossible to use the finger, for each time it was so much grazed by a paper bag I was using to corral some senior citizen’s six-pack at the gas station, my hand would shoot with pain. It was during one such bagging session when a passerby noticed how I was favoring the finger, and told me to use the technique shown below.

This video is highly embarrassing for a few reasons. First, judging by the pitch of my voice, I either hadn’t gone through puberty when this was shot or had just inhaled a balloon full of helium. Whatever. Second: the obvious physical and mental struggle I went through just trying to accomplish the simple task of putting a needle through my fingernail. I was clearly confused on the proper procedure, and I think my hands were sweaty because I knew it was all being captured on camera.

Regardless, roll the tape.

That was Part 1. You probably noticed a voice in the background talking to some hipster probably named Blake about some band probably called Animal Collective. That was Jim – much more on him on this blog in the future. He was on the other side of the room looking away, because he knew what was going on and had some blood/sight issues. I offered him a spot on the surgical team, but he for some reason declined.

Anyway, we took a break to strategize the best practice for the procedure, and somewhere in that discussion the needle found its way into where it needed to be. Which is when the camera began rolling again. WARNING: This one is a little more graphic. So if you’re squeamish…just be ready to cover your eyes.

And just like that, Kenny – who had been observing the ordeal –grew tired of my inability to finish, jumped right in with his unsweaty hands, and pulled the damn thing out. I really do owe him. The finger got much better after this (I squeezed most of the blood out), and eventually the fingernail just fell off to make way for a new one. The circle of life, ladies and gentlemen.

I’d like to thank Kenny for his uncanny action and also the female behind the camera – who will remain nameless, to protect her innocence – for shooting it.

Please feel free to share similar experiences or just make fun of me in the comments section down at the bottom of the page.

April 11, 2012

Dear Parking Services

Dear Parking Services,

Hello. My name is Sam. In fact, we’ve met before; I was the one on the phone with you just a minute ago. Since I wasn’t articulating my feelings that well, I thought I’d write you, just to clear the air.

You see, I don’t hate you. I just want to know why you are the way you are: the exterminator of good times, the crusader against happiness, the perpetuator of technicality. I don’t question your duty, either – keeping parking lots free of unlawful parkers and other miscreants is of utmost priority – and I’m well aware that I was parked illegally. But why must you go to the extreme with your occupation? You’ve clearly found that writing parking tickets is your calling in life, and for that I applaud you, but the fervent nature in which you execute said calling is slightly baffling to me. For instance, was it really necessary to give me three consecutive tickets for the same parking violation? Wouldn’t one, or even two have sufficed? I gladly would’ve paid two, since I am a good American who understands commerce and likes to make a deal. But sadly, your policies were without leeway. Very well, three it is.

But why the excess of pictures taken? I understand you need photo evidence, so as to safeguard against disgruntled offenders who think they can talk their way out of these things – which, believe me, I would’ve tried, so props to you – but were 10 photos really called for? I admit, despite my car’s age, I do keep it looking good, so I can see how you might want to admire it later from the comfort of your own home, but I assure you three or four pictures would’ve done the trick.

And finally, let’s discuss the late fee. This one really befuddles a common man like myself, so bear with me: since the vehicle in question was parked behind a locked chain-linked fence (which would seem like a place out-of-the-way and obsolete enough not to cause trouble, and that was really my intent, but I digress), you were not able to reach the car and serve the tickets on its windshield, in traditional parking cadet fashion. Instead, you mailed them, and let me first just say I appreciate your support of the United States Postal Service. They’re really hurting right now, so your patriotism is admirable. But then, dear parking people, the citations did not reach me until after the arbitrary and much-sooner-than-reasonable deadline for payment, and thus you asked for a late fee. This seems odd, for a small-minded Midwesterner like me cannot know to pay a citation before I am notified that the citation exists, but my arguments to that point didn’t seem to resonate with you. Those are the rules, I was told, and the rules are rigid.

I would fight you on this, but the excess of photo proof and diligent note-taking done by your office would make that an exercise in futility, and plus I’m not much of a fighter anyway. Instead, I just want to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry, parking people, that life has been so unkind to you. Clearly you’ve been beaten down and pushed in the proverbial mud since childhood, for that is the only logical scenario that would breed a creature so bitter and intent on others’ unhappiness that they would actually willfully work for a branch of government that’s sole purpose is to ruin people’s days. It must be very tough for you.

In high school you were the fat kid with acne, and you spent most of your days trying to stop your peers from bombarding you with corn nuts and other small projectiles in the hallways. This, for some reason, you were unable to get past as you matured, and now your mission each morning is to get back at those bastards for what they’ve done. I would tell you that, at 30 years of age or so, it’s time to forgive and move on, but I don’t think it would do much good. Or perhaps you were a goth, with the black clothes and dog collars and face paint and Manson shirts, and while the wardrobe is gone, the attitude on life inexplicably remains. If that is the case, go ahead and keep writing parking tickets, but please stop performing sacrifices on your neighbors’ cats, okay? Or maybe you’re just a person with a natural inclination towards bitterness and power trips, but you failed out of the police academy. In that scenario, I’d suggest you just go and die somewhere.

Okay, I’m not serious about the dying part. That seems a little extreme, and extremity is the very thing I’m speaking out against, isn’t it? But something must be done, and since the overwhelming amount of evidence you’ve compiled prohibits me from contesting the parking tickets, I’ll just have to fuck up your world instead. Yes, miserable loner, I have a plan. I’m not going to hurt you, but I’d like you to feel a similar level of irritation as I did when dealing with you. So I’m going to break into your place of residence one night. You’ll be sleeping, probably on the couch with an empty bag of Doritos on your chest, with the TV left on. This is fine – I work quietly, so I won’t wake you. My first order of business is finding your collection of Star Wars figurines and cutting limbs off each of them. I know how much they mean to you, and I feel this is a good place to start the sabotage. After that, I will locate your Xbox live headset and piss on it. This way, the next time you’re pwning noobs on Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3 in an online skirmish, you will smell my urine. I might even eat some asparagus first just to amplify things. Finally, I will enter your room and draw mustaches on all of your Jonathan Taylor Thomas posters. It’s kind of weird that you like him so much, especially at your age (and, you know…you’re a guy. And Home Improvement was like 20 years ago), but any defamation of J.T.T. will surely bring you to your knees. This, I’m afraid to say, will bring a smile to my face.

After I exit, I plan on finding your car in the driveway and attaching the boot I bought off Craigslist to one of the tires. Then, and only then, you will finally understand: that kinda sucks, doesn’t it?

October 18, 2011

The Worst Mascots in College Sports

It’s pretty simple, the recipe for a college mascot. Take an overenthusiastic member of the student body, put him or her into a costume depicting a large animal or mythical creature, and have them jump around and wave a lot. There are a few simple rules for the costume: it should look friendly – more like a Saturday morning cartoon character than an actual animal. Stitching an obnoxiously large smile on the creature’s face usually takes care of this. Its upholstery should be soft and furry – anywhere from something resembling wool socks to shag carpeting – for this is what makes mascots lovable. The fuzz factor certainly plays to the hearts of children, but also appeals across age demographics (much like the movie Shrek…and pretty much anything else Disney and/or Pixar put out). Just make the damn thing furry.

These are fairly rudimentary criteria, yet somehow schools still manage to fuck them up. The majority of mascots have at least some endearing factors, but some are just downright atrocious.

Before we go any further, one thing must be clear: any school which employs a live animal as its official mascot is automatically awesome. They’re just better. Most of the time, live mascots are also accompanied by a suited character, but regardless of any flaws the latter might have it is exempt from ridicule. Employing a real animal gives you a free pass in anything else you might do in the mascot realm, for it just shows more proverbial balls. This goes for schools such as Georgia, Florida State, and Colorado, which takes the unquestioned crown of greatest mascot ever: Ralphie.

I will admit I’m biased here; I do work at the University of Colorado. But I’ve yet to meet anyone to argue that a gigantic buffalo thundering across the football field in front of a game is not the most badass tradition in college football. So regal, so majestic – the Ralphie run always motivates Colorado’s football team to win games  play well compete with passion.

So Ralphie’s the best. With that squared away, let’s look at those schools that really screwed the pooch: the worst mascots in college sports.

Kansas State

In my opinion, the unquestioned leader of mascot shame. Why on earth would you combine a giant cat head with the body of a skinny white male? Why not just make it a whole cat suit? It’s as if the funding got cut after the head was bought, so instead of scrapping the project they just threw together this mascot Frankenstein. Look at the picture – even the little girl is creeped out by the creature. Repulsive. Combining humans and animals is never a good idea; it’s why centaurs never really took off. Even mermaids have slowly lost traction over the last 25 years or so. And “Willie the Wildcat” is worse than either of these. Plus, this happened:

Iowa

Again, my bias is showing. I’ve had a strong disdain for the Hawkeyes since I’ve been old enough to say “herpes.” But look at this asshole; he’s a total train wreck. First of all, he’s wearing a helmet without a facemask. Safety hazard. Second, he’s just skinny and awkward – no fuzz factor. And while I realize it’s fairly hypocritical for me to belittle someone else for being a lanky bastard, I more or less gained my stature through natural causes. Herky over here was presumably conceptualized by an overpaid marketing whiz and created by a seamstress. They actually wanted this to happen; the damn thing is designed like a real bird. And it can’t even fly. Failure on all fronts.

 

 

 

Harvard

I hadn’t seen this one till recently, but the boy-geniuses up in Cambridge must not have saved any of their abundant brain power for the mascot. Holy shit, this thing looks like a hung-over guy who just had a stroke.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Penn State


The mascot equivalent of Joe Paterno: an exceedingly outdated design that nobody wants to get rid of in fear of messing with history. Seriously…the scarf? And what’s with those fangs? From the neck up it looks more like a dinosaur than a nittany lion, whatever that actually is. Wait…is that even a real thing? Why am I wasting my time on Penn State? This is slightly demoralizing. I feel like Joe Paterno looks. I’m going to spend the second half of this blog up in the press box.

 

 

 

Missouri

To be honest, I remember Mizzou’s mascot being much uglier than it is. I for some reason had the notion in my head that this stuffed Tiger was kind of haggard and disgusting, when in reality it actually looks pretty normal. Preconceived notions, probably mostly because they had the audacity to name it “Truman.” Is Andy Bernard naming your mascots now? Anyway, I kept it on the list as sort of a protest against the fact that they don’t have a live mascot. I know it’s not practical, but come ON! A live tiger? How f’ing awesome would that be??? Just have the damn thing pace in a cage on the sideline…the other team would piss its collective pants. I’m also petitioning Baylor to have a live bear and Alabama a real elephant. I don’t care what animal rights laws you need to break, just get it done.

Notre Dame

Um…what the hell is this? It’s just a guy. There’s no animal element whatsoever. No stuffing. No fur. This blows. Unacceptable. At least make it accurate; they’re supposed to be the Fighting Irish, and this is just a run-of-the-mill college tool. More fitting would be a slurring drunk with an overinflated sense of national identity.

Texas Tech

As you can see, this is a live mascot, which I said were above ridicule. Well I’m breaking my rule. This is a matter of principle – I have no direct problem with the mascot per se, but I just despise everything and anything about Texas Tech. The colors, the (former) coaches, the stadium, the town of Lubbock, TX – they’re all terrible, and I can’t even put my finger on why. But everything in that town just seems lopsided and dry. And why the hell can kids play football for four years at a tech school? That’s always bugged me. Aren’t they supposed to stay for two years and then go make cabinets or something? Whatever. Just add it to the Tech list. And give me a little time with this mascot – this female Zorro – and I’m sure I can learn to hate it as well.

Tulsa

No words necessary.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Anything from the NFL

 

 

 

Yes, this blog has been about college mascots, but I feel compelled to add this category because any attempt at a mascot in the NFL – or, to a larger extent, any pro sport – usually ends in disaster. I’m not sure why they keep trying; there’s no pageantry in the NFL. It lacks the “school spirit” element of which the mascot plays such a crucial role, so in turn they just end up being weird guys in weird costumes that everyone tries to ignore. Just look at some of these examples – hell, the Patriots guy looks like the main character from “American Dad.” And nobody likes that show, just as they don’t like pro mascots, yet both endure.

Oklahoma State

Not really a terrible looking mascot, but the creep factor is off the charts. Instead of being rowdy and exuberant like most characters, Pistol Peter here is just the opposite, and it’s weird as hell. His head seems to rotate in slow motion like the girl from “The Exorcist,” and every time he walks it is in slow, measured steps, as if he really needs to take a shit and is afraid of moving too fast lest he might have an accident. Not sure what Pistol Pete’s mannerisms should be, but this isn’t working.

September 23, 2011

Status Abuse

Mother of god, THEY’VE CHANGED IT AGAIN!

There I was, minding my own business and carelessly clicking on the Facebook shortcut for the 787th time today, and what do I see when the page loads? Carnage. It’s completely different! The things that were over there are over here now, and the things that were over here…well shit, I can’t even find them! How the hell am I supposed to know whose birthday it is? This is complete and utter chaos – the stock markets will surely drop because of it. My god, another recession is coming! Why would you do this to us Mark Zuckerburg? Do you hate us? DO YOU HATE AMERICA???

This is a summation of some statuses I’ve seen since Facebook made a few minor changes to its layout this week. It happens once every twelve months or so – The ‘Book does a subtle redesign to shake things up a little and ultimately improve functionality, and The People Of Facebook collectively react as if a cow had jumped in their bathtub. In reality there isn’t much difference from the previous version, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Why would they change a perfectly good thing? the people moan. It’s as if we expect the developers to consult with each of us individually before making any changes. The irony, of course, is that in another twelve months when Facebook does another minor redesign, we’ll collectively freak out again and long for the days of THIS version. The one we’re currently condemning. It’s a vicious cycle.

Anyway, this public outcry made me think about other stupid things people do with their statuses. Be it worthless, obnoxious, or mind-numbingly repetitive, there is a lot of Facebook status garbage out there. I call it status abuse, and it annoys the hell out of me, just as I’m sure it does many of you. Disclaimer: yes, I know I am under no obligation to read or expose myself to other people’s statuses or Facebook altogether, just as the layout change bitchers are not required to visit the website at all if they find it unsatisfactory. Nobody is holding a gun to our heads – we have complete autonomy to use Facebook as much or as little as we want. But let’s be real: we’re all hopelessly addicted, so there’s no way we’re gonna quit. It’s like nicotine, and there’s no Facebook patch. So instead? We come back again and again, and piss and moan about what we don’t like. It’s just easier that way, and I’m totally okay with the arrangement.

So, commence pissing. Commence moaning. Here’s a (certainly not exhaustive) list of status abuses; things that if people stopped doing, it would make the digital world just a hair better. And yes, I realize pointing out ridiculousness in social media is not exactly a novel concept…it’s been done once or twice. That’s fine. I’ll be following this blog with a standup routine about how men don’t like to stop and ask for directions.

Here we go – examples of status abuse in italics, with descriptions to follow:

Ugh I’m so bored! – While I’m sure you are, since you’re spending your time writing something so inconsequential on a website, this has no meaning. You’re bored. Great. Why do you think we need this information? What are we to do with it? I do not care how bored you are, just as I do not care how tired you are. These are things we all experience, but do not need to be shared with the digital world. Please save your posts for something at least marginally in the same neighborhood as interesting. Also, “ugh” is not a word. It just sounds like you’re pooping.

Working till 4, going to the gym, then having dinner – This is not a status; this is a summary of your day. Again, pointless. Those who need to know what you’re doing – anyone actually involved in your day-to-day life – will already know your personal itinerary. The rest of us don’t give a fuck.

Looking forward to the weekend! ­­– We all are.

(a constant barrage of pictures/posts about your infant or toddler) – Listen, I get it. You’re a mother/father, and your child is your life. It’s how it works, and that’s great. But please try to realize your child isn’t everyone’s life. If they do something of actual note or something actually funny, by all means share it with us. But playing flag football or trying on Dad’s hat do not count. In these cases, keep it in house. Tell your spouse and move on. And all those people commenting on how cute your kid is? They’re just being nice. Sorry.

Why does everything always turn out like this? ­­– Ah yes, the classic vague downer fishing for sympathy. If you’re gonna publicly feel sorry for yourself, at least literally tell us what’s going on. We still don’t care, but that would be slightly interesting. But simply posting a few ambiguous words about how unhappy you are, and hoping someone asks for more info – that’s just pathetic. How insecure can we be, people?

LOL – Stop. Just stop. This has gone on long enough. You are not laughing out loud. So stop. For god’s sake just stop.

Stop.

(song lyrics) – I love music just as much as the next guy, so I completely understand how song lyrics can make you feel, and why you’d want to share that feeling. But when will we finally realize that words sung over a tune do not translate to text in a status box? Even if the reader knows the song and the lyrics, the feeling doesn’t transfer. It usually just ends up looking like a poorly constructed sentence. Which reminds me…

thought i’d hed over to smittys and get a beer anyone want to join meeet me over their should be a god time after thatwe can hit the trails or whatever anywon wanna come jis hit me up on the cel – Listen, this is the internet; I’m not asking for perfect grammar and punctuation. But for shit’s sake have some self-respect. This looks like you vomited your status.

(self-pictures) – You know, a single person holding out the camera and pointing it back at themselves (or taking it in the mirror, same thing) for no real reason, other than to show the world how good they look. Usually alone in their home or a random location. This does not make you look fun or pretty, just lonely and insecure.

Down 25 pts in my fantasy league but got Brady playing tonight. Come on Pats! – Hey, I’m as guilty as anyone of oversharing about fantasy football. But what we need to accept, fantasy players of the world, is that nobody cares about our fantasy team but us. Really, it’s less interesting than Chris Daughtry. Share with people in your league, nobody else.

Headed to the show with @JennyMarquis @PaulDzzz, gonna be crazy! #Aintnostoppingusnow – Wrong website. This isn’t Twitter.

That’s all I got right now. What did I miss?

August 31, 2011

The Greatest Rant In Sports History

Why do we love watching people get angry? Watching them lose their shit? Witnessing them meltdown, raise their voice, and finally express just how pissed off they really are?

For some reason, being there when someone else throws a fit of rage in a public fashion makes a lot of us happy. It’s an inverse effect. And this is especially apt in sports; we love watching sports figures rant and rave. Probably because they’re so composed most of the time, giving stock answers and blank stares, dodging questions in postgame interviews, toeing the company line, and avoiding anything resembling emotion. They desperately avoid telling us what they’re really thinking, and I’d be willing to go out on a limb and say most of them probably don’t even know why they do this. It’s just what they’ve been taught since sixth grade: feelings are bad, so don’t share them with the public. Most coaches/managers/owners preach this religiously, for they seem to think any shred of internal truth that’s shared with the public will surely sink the ship. They might be right; I don’t know. And I don’t really care.

The point is, when a sports figure goes off, we love it. It’s spontaneous and unintended, so we know we’re getting the genuine article. Most coaches don’t ever want to show emotion, so when they do, it’s clear they’re straying from the script. Which is awesome. We finally get to hear something real. What a day!

Coaches tend to be more well-spoken than players, plus they fear fewer repercussions – a coach can’t discipline himself, and I’ve yet to hear of one getting fired for a rant – so when they go off, they really get after it. And we celebrate the rant for years – ESPN will replay it constantly, and YouTube has itself another star. Everyone loves a classic coach rant. Denny Green made our week when he informed us the Bears were who they thought they were. Mike Singletary (re)won America’s heart with his impassioned plea for integrity. Jim Mora is just a weird little man. Mike Gundy had possibly the longest sustained streak of neck-vein bulging we’ve ever seen. Jim Calhoun verbally curb-stomped a reporter. And you could spend a month watching Bob Knight’s best stuff, and still probably not get through it all.

These men are the legends of the field, and for that I commend them. But none of these is the greatest coaching rant of all time. No my friends, that title belongs to short-lived and mostly unsuccessful Chicago Cubs manager Lee Elia. Lee managed the Cubbies from 1982-1983, and did little of note from the dugout. But on April 29, 1983, after another loss which dropped his club to 5-14 on the year, he had had enough. Fans in the stands had been consistently booing and heckling the team, and Elia was not going to take it anymore. So in a postgame meeting with reporters, he went off like an atomic bomb. Unfortunately, being 1983, TV cameras did not exist, nor did fluorescent lights, indoor plumbing, or automobiles, I assume. Anyway, the rant was not recorded on video. But luckily for us, a shrewd ol’ dog named Les Grobstein got the audio on tape. Great work Les!

Now I give you the greatest rant in coaching history. Lock the doors, hide the children, turn down the volume if you’re at work, and find a room away from your parents if you’re 14 or younger – this clip is obscene. Like seriously, saying it contains offensive language is like saying New York City contains man-made structures. Lee was not one to mince words, and for this I love him. I don’t think censoring was invented yet, either, so if you’re offended by profanity, I’m going to need you to either develop a sense of humor or just leave.

(pause)

Still there? Great. I knew you wouldn’t bail after all that buildup. Without further ado:

Here it is.

Isn’t that great? He had absolutely no regard for tact or self-restraint; he didn’t care who heard him or what they thought. He even explicitly told the reporters to “print it!” Outstanding. The man just murders his own fans! The people that essentially pay his paycheck, but Lee Elia doesn’t care. Lee Elia doesn’t give a shit, he just does what he wants. What an outstanding display of keeping it real.

Lee Elia: the greatest rant in sports history. I’m giving him the title. See? The Cubs have won something in the last 100 years.

July 7, 2011

Oh Look, a Deli Meat

Heavyweights is the greatest film of all time. This is purely a statement of personal preference, but it is not an opinion; something that feels this undeniable can’t be anything other than fact. When asked to list my favorite movies, I feel compelled to mention that Heavyweights is number one and everything else is residual. Simply put, the movie is a masterpiece, a piece of art so divine that it can only be the work of God himself. Walt Disney Pictures claims ownership, but this is a farce, for no one entity can truly own this film any more than one can own the sun, sky, or oceans. Heavyweights belongs to all of us.

The plot is simple – a bunch of overweight youngsters are shipped to a summer camp with the express purpose of getting their weight under control. The veteran campers are not worried in the beginning; they have developed a system of staying well fed, minimally active, and generally obese throughout the summer, which is why they return year after year. The camp owners – the Bushkins – do little to hold the kids’ feet to the fire; they seem content to buy them go-karts, jet skis, and large inflatable water toys while watching them enjoy the hell out of the summer and neglect any form of weight loss. This all changes when the camp is bought by Tony Perkis (Ben Stiller, before he was Ben Stiller), an overbearing fitness freak determined to whip the little fatasses into shape. All hell breaks loose, the campers eventually mutiny, and general hilarity ensues. Also there’s a hot nurse.

If you are an inferior cinema mind and haven’t seen Heavyweights, you might ask why I hold this movie in such high regard. Well, it has everything:

Fat People

More specifically, fat children. It’s a well-known fact fat people are funnier than the general population; they need to be to make up for their physical situation. It’s natural selection, really. But fat children are funnier yet, with their underdeveloped social skills, irrationally optimistic views on life, and chubby cheeks. Naturally, Heavyweights is full of fat children – it is after all a movie about a fat camp – and it utilizes them to the max. Aside from the obvious curb appeal of lead man Gerald Garner (age 11, 141 lbs) and his phenomenal side-part, the movie also features a young Keenan Thompson as Roy and Shaun Weiss – best known for his work as Goldberg in Mighty Ducks – as Josh. A star-studded cast, all fat, young, lovable, and hilarious.

And let’s not forget camp counselor Pat Finley, who is repeatedly berated by Tony Perkis throughout the film until the end when he overcomes and hooks up with Julie the hot nurse. I’m giving their relationship credit for setting off the rash of “fat guy with hot wife” sitcoms the past 10 years (King of Queens, According to Jim, Grounded for Life, even Family Guy).

A packing/unpacking montage – Always a good idea, executed to perfection here. When Gerry makes his first visit to the Chipmunk bunk – early on in the movie, while the going is still good at Camp Hope – Josh introduces him to the Chipmunk way of doing things. “Chiiiiiiiiiiiipmunks, download NOW!”

Tony Perkis – As mentioned before, played by Ben Stiller, in undoubtedly his greatest yet least celebrated major role ever. Tony is the classic villain, ruling Camp Hope with an iron fist and not allowing even a shred of positivity creep into the campers’ lives. He even has his version of the SS – Team Perkis – to do his bidding and eradicate all candy and fatty food from the grounds. We come to find out that Tony’s intention is to make and sell an infomercial out of the kids’ weight loss that summer, and when things don’t go according to plan, he begins to lose it.

A certain member of Team Perkis does play a crucial role in ensuring all the campers are using the buddy system during swim time, possibly their one redeeming quality. Which brings me to…

An obliviously funny foreigner

A David beats Goliath moment – I assume this cliché still works if David is actually bigger than Goliath, which is the case here. At the end of the summer, the kids are forced into a competition of skill known as the Apache Relay against neighboring Camp MVP, the jock camp. As one would assume, they get their large, round asses neatly kicked each year, but this summer is different. Through sheer willpower, an eclectic skill set, and the cunning orchestration of Pat Finley, Camp Hope finally wins the Apache Relay, and we are all along for the ride. The race culminates in Gerry actualizing his lifelong dream of driving a go-kart as he beats a skilled driver from Camp MVP by jumping clear over him. If you would like to raise the point that this might be a tad unrealistic given Gerry has never driven a go-kart in his life, you can go fuck off somewhere. Gerry had it in him, I’m sure of it.

Inexplicably the Apache Relay is not on YouTube, which is akin to not being able to find any clip from the Boise State/Oklahoma 2007 Fiesta Bowl. A damn shame. I would go through the process of putting this clip up myself, but nobody actually puts any videos on YouTube. We just wait for other people to do it.

Moral of the story? If you want to experience the finest in American cinema, watch Heavyweights. If you’ve already seen it, watch it again, for I assure you it gets better with each viewing. My brothers and I watched the VHS until the tape began to wear out, and then we watched it some more, filling in the quotes of any parts that might be damaged. We couldn’t help but gravitate to its genius. My life will forever be changed by the day my father came home from the video store, set the movie down on the counter, and after examining the front cover, asked “hey, you guys want to watch a movie? Something about kids who make sandwiches?”

Yes we do, Jer. Yes we do.

June 21, 2011

Casual Thoughts for the Arrival of Summer

–  Web developers: when designing a drop-down menu to select one’s “country of origin,” and when the majority of your traffic comes from the United States, please just make the USA the first option. I applaud your effort at equality and cultural sensitivity by listing every country on the planet (and seemingly, a few made-up countries as well) in alphabetical order, but the functionality is a bit flawed. I don’t need to wade through the names of every third-world truck stop before I find my nation. Thank you.

– Why do I continue to see private business names containing the word “armadillo” in them? The Brass Armadillo, The Armadillo Mexican Restaurant, and The Armadillo Border Grill are just a few examples of stores or eateries that have the uncanny effect of making me want to be as far away from them as possible. To whom, exactly, is this repulsive animal supposed to appeal?

– It seems that telling a woman in her early 20s she reminds you of “a young Meryl Streep” is not considered a compliment. Odd.

– Would there be many feelings more satisfying than shooting a neighbor dog that refuses to stop barking? I’m doubting it.

– “This vehicle stops at all railroad crossings.” How am I expected to use this information? It’s awful nice of them to pre-warm me about the looming stops, but aren’t brake lights designed to accomplish that same goal?

– Two magnificent things containing animal names with the word “honey”: Black Joe Lewis & The Honeybears and the Honey Badger YouTube video. If you aren’t familiar, they’re worth a few minutes.