I’ve long been of the opinion that people who think baseball is boring or slow are totally missing the point and, most importantly, may be unable to soak it all up.  Many other sports cram action down your throat and direct your vision to a single point such as a tackle or dunk.  Baseball is as much about noticing details as it is about keeping your eye on the ball.  Sure, enjoy the plays at the plate and diving catches, but notice how the shortstop cheats towards second when there’s a runner on first.  Boo the pitcher when he tries three pickoffs to first because his reliever needs a few more tosses in the pen.  Watch how the  bat boy never steps on the foul line when he goes out to give the ump more balls or retrieve a bat.  Sometimes you have to be observant.  Entertainment can’t be all MXC and hot chicks dancing with Warren Sapp.

I attended a minor league game in Memphis last week to watch the Redbirds, the Cardinals farm, team take on the Aces, the Dbacks farm team.  The stadium is absolutely kickass for a Triple-A team, shit it’s not bad for a MLB team, but most importantly, they have barbecue nachos.  Nachos…with pulled pork smothered in barbecue sauce.  And nacho cheese.  USA!  USA!  USA!  They are available in the Rendezvous BBQ stand.  Stop in next time and clog your heart.  I digress.

Beer in hand, pulled pork in gut, I was enjoying the game.  About the 4th inning, the Redbirds pitcher plunks Reno’s second baseman, who subsequently takes his base.  Three outs later, inning over, no big whoop.  Here’s where it gets interesting.  In the top of the sixth, the Redbirds pitcher comes to bat.  No outs.  2-0 count.  Reno’s pitcher comes inside and the batter turns to take it on the shoulder.  The crowd boos of course, because that’s what you do.  As the batter is jogging to first, Reno’s pitcher turns to his second baseman, tips his cap and taps his glove against his chest.  Payback, motherfuckers.

In front of a few thousand people ( it’s Triple-A, come on) you just threw a ball at another man and hit him on purpose and anyone paying attention to the game knows it.  Beautiful.  That’s friendship.  Tit for tat, you know?  It’s one of those traditional parts of the game you love and don’t question.  Just the way it is.  Next time someone tells you baseball is boring, you just show them this.

While traveling home from Phoenix, I saw easily the most attractive flight attendant I have ever met in real life.  She was stunning.  Most flight attendants look like any other lady, except they more frequently wear scarves.  Unfortunately for men everywhere, the porn industry has misrepresented stewardesses, nurses, and lesbians everywhere.

Unlike in porn, most stewardesses look like your mom and do not want to blow you.  Most nurses look like your fat aunt and do not want you to bend them over the electronic adjustable bed while you choke them with their scrub pants. Most lesbians look like your gym teacher from high school and would probably rather drink Coors Light drafts and watch The L Word than hook up with you and your hot neighbor…who just happened to knock on your apartment door…in her towel…because her shower is broken.  What are the odds?  If my next hot stewardess offered to show me why they call it ‘the cockpit’, I wouldn’t be so upset about paying for snacks on Northwest flights.

This is the face of "who are you again?"

There’s a comparison being made in the blogosphere1 between recent comments by CBS golf analyst David Feherty and occasional comedian Wanda Sykes. Feherty insulted our troops by juxtaposing the old “1 room, 2 bullets, 3 people” scenario. Only the one holding the gun in his version is a member of the U.S. Armed Forces, and the 3 people are Nancy Pelosi, Harry Reid and Osama Bin Laden. David Feherty joked that, given the soldier’s assumed disdain for our Democrat representatives, he would be inclined to shoot Pelosi and strangle the other two. The whole concept is ludicrous, as everyone knows you would pistol whip Pelosi and Reid unconscious, waste a round and then shoot Bin Laden in a matter that makes it appear he took his own life. You must knock out the bureaucrats so that you lack witnesses in your inevitable war crimes trial. Read the rest of this entry »

I know what you’re thinking, and yes, this article was inspired by a Miami fan.  I’m not saying all Miami fans are asshats, but at least one is.  Let’s talk about wifebeaters.  No, not your uncle.  I’m talking about the A shirt you’re probably wearing under your Ed Hardy T-shirt.  I submit this as law:

You are not allowed to wear a wife beater as your only shirt if you are:

anywhere you will be expected to trade currency for goods and/or services

anywhere that charges admission or an entrance fee

No clubs, no bars, no restaurants, no national parks.  This should severely limit the places where wifebeaters pass as acceptable attire.  As it should be.  Also, just because it’s black, doesn’t make it any more formal, you fucking south Florida douche rocket.

There is a veritable bevy of fantastically stupid laws and regulations on the books in our country, as well as an equally strange absence of laws in obvious areas (Florida Legislature is voting soon to outlaw sex with animals). A couple regulations have been brought to my attention lately which illustrates an overreaching government and the egotistical nature of our representatives. If you’ve ever had any uncertainty that lawmakers consider themselves your only viable caretakers, dutifully observe evidence that should remove said doubt.

In Washington DC, residents are receiving parking tickets for – get this – parking in their own driveways. According to this story, the law states “Any area between the property line and the building restriction line shall be considered as private property set aside and treated as public space under the care and maintenance of the property owner.” Need a simpler translation? The space between your home (building restriction line) and the street (property line) should be treated as public property, but it is up to the property owner to take care of it. So, you must mow the lawn and care for the driveway, but it is technically treated as public property. Therefore, if you don’t park your vehicle even with your home, you are in violation of the law. What happened to the days where you couldn’t even venture onto someone’s private property without a warrant or probable cause? Oh, that’s right; lawmakers circumvent that by claiming your land as being in the public domain. Also according to the story, “It’s why you can get a ticket for drinking beer on your front porch in the Nation’s Capital. You’re technically on public space.” I’d like to hear anyone dispute with me any valid purpose for this law’s existence.

If the laws weren’t enough, the knowledge that I’m being taxed harder than a Bunny Ranch employee’s ass is beginning to grind on me. Just a few minutes ago, it was brought to my attention that Minnesota Congressman James Oberstar wants Congress to enact a mileage tax to recoup a lack of tax “revenue” from gas sales. First, this would likely involve GPS tracking, mileage reporting or another wonderful big brother initiative to keep track of your travel patterns. Pilot initiatives have already been proposed in some states, but Oberstar needs your hard-earned money now! The more troubling thing is that the story makes no mention of an elimination of existing gas taxes, aside from Oberstar’s suggestion of mileage taxes as “a logical complement, and perhaps a future replacement, for fuel taxes.” How long until every bowel movement above the “Federally Suggested Standard” is taxed on a per-flush basis?

In another example of blatant disrespect for the individual, a Popular Mechanics article published last week pointed out the resourcefulness of some homeowners in revisiting the capturing of rainwater, and the legislation in place in some areas that classifies those people as criminals. While it’s true that these laws have not been heavily enforced, the fact that they exist is an indication that the individual’s right to survival is secondary to the government’s perceived right to protect you from your own self-interest.

There is a difference between this and lawfully protecting someone when another’s actions directly infringe upon their rights. This age of entitlement and the elimination of personal responsibility has been completely enabled and taken advantage of by our growing municipal, state and federal bureaucrats, all of whom have a seriously misplaced self-image of protector/caregiver. In the end, the excuse is that it is “for the common good” or, more commonly, “for the children”. For every power-hungry politician who has ever passed spending or tax-heavy legislation “for the children”, I say to you what George Carlin said: “Fuck the children.” We do not live in a third world country, and it does not take a village to raise a child no matter what Hillary Clinton would have you believe.

These ridiculous laws are only the most extreme example of how our elected officials, no more representative of their constituents than The Real World is of 20-something America, have completely deluded themselves into believing they are the only answer to every solution. Unfortunately they have disseminated this narrative into the public domain, where we wait for our particular flavor of handout and excuse the endless growth for the mythological “public good”. There are no party politics at play in this post, precisely because major parties do not have the stones to offer the only viable solution to our ills: Leave us the fuck alone.

The thing about people with kids, they love to show them off.  Pictures in their purses, pictures in their wallets, pictures on their desks.  People love to pepper their personal space at work with items that remind them why they eat shit for eight hours a day.  I was walking to the restroom and some lady had a picture frame one her desks that contained three photos.  The frame said, ‘MOM + DAD = ME’.  Above each word was a picture of the appropriate family member.  How cute, right?  Anyway, it’s a little weird, but I began to wonder what would be a more interesting way to showcase your spawn, yet let them know where the little punk came from.  I submit these alternatives:

MOM + DAD + LITER OF VODKA = ME

MOM + DAD + DAD’S FRIEND GARY = ME

MOM + DAD’S FRIEND GARY = ME

MOM + ECSTASY + MOM’S HOT FRIEND + DAD = ME

MOM + WINE + ROHYPNOL -MEMORY + DAD = ME

MOM + DAD + CONDOM DAD HAD SINCE HIGH SCHOOL = ME

I’d love to hear your suggestions.  Also, next time you go out of your way to show me pictures of your kid, I’m going to show pictures of my balls that I took with my phone.  Chances are your kid sucks.  Keep it to yourself.

Carrie Prejean poses for photos at the 2009 Miss USA Pageant on April 19, 2009 in Las Vegas, Nevada. Denise Truscello/WireImage.com

By now, the tale of Miss California stating her preference for traditional marriage between a man and a woman during the Miss USA Pageant has been passed around more than Kim Kardashian at a Roots concert. The story, the outrage about her alleged homophobia and the counter-outrage over the fairness of the question posed by the Human Torch Perez Hilton is nearing over-exposure, which means it’s the perfect time for me to comment.

I’ll choose not to comment on the forced politicization of the Miss USA Pageant, because in doing so I would also have to comment on its lack of relevance in the Internet Age, save manufactured scandals like the one to which we’re currently privy. Instead, I’d prefer to comment on the apparent obsession with outrage against the un-PC among us. First of all, doesn’t anyone find the irony that someone like Perez Hilton, whose living is made upon trashing other people with hateful, has the vaginal fortitude to muster outrage at Miss CA? But I digress.

Because the question is inevitable, I’ll address my own view on the state’s role in marriage by including this interview with Douglas Kmiec on The Colbert Report:

As an admitted Agnostic Conservative nearing small-L libertarian territory, I say let two people who wish to be legally joined do so, and keep all marriage-related terminology the fuck away from government goons. Besides, equality for every sexual orientation means getting closer to my dream of Straight Pride Parades.

One of the people I follow on Twitter had this to tweet about Miss CA’s answer to the loaded question:

I keep watching the video of Miss California. Never wanted to slap a @#$!% so hard in my life. Opposite marriage? Who is this “doo-da-dooo?”

To answer that question: This doo-da-dooo is a beauty queen (the paragon of intellectual prowess) who either A) Doesn’t have the mental capacity to ponder what the politically correct and acceptable answer to a question is before opening her mouth; or B) Doesn’t care to mind political correctness. While I would love to assume the latter, given the use of the term “Opposite marriage” I’m inclined to go with A. That means, of course, that the pageant is infiltrated by mental midgets from judges to contestants, though that’s no groundbreaking realization.

Fortunately, the contestant’s intention isn’t what is important in this situation. In reality, neither is the question. The important thing to infer from her PR debacle is this: Honesty and Pageantry apparently have no business attempting to coexist. The original question was undoubtedly asked in a rhetorical manner. Wasn’t it? One can only assume, in watching the video, that there was a particular answer expected. The collective shock heard ‘round the net is a result of her answer not falling in line with expectations.

This is indicative of a larger problem in our society, since the entire world stage of politics and business has been reduced to a pageant where nobody wins. If you don’t believe me, think of a time where a film or music star said something off-color that went without much notice or outrage. As the political arena has often been described as “Hollywood for the ugly”, it’s no surprise that the same rings true. Have we become so insulated from reality (reality television doesn’t count) that someone’s honest to God opinion causes us trauma? Are we so thin-skinned that only the “shock jocks” of the world have license to make an unpopular or uncouth statement without fear of damning reproach? If the common trend now is to pander to those who take offense the loudest, you can count me out.

I am glad, of course, to hear the offender in question – who as with all beauty pageant contestants need not be referred to by more than “Miss *insert state*” – stand by her answer. However right or wrong you think she is, a lack of conviction and owning up to our beliefs only strengthens the politically correct crowd, as they realize that their outrage can dictate the course of societal dialogue.

The only natural thing left for me to ponder is: Would the question have ever been asked had Perez Hilton been aborted?

I received this e-mail from MensHealth.com a few minutes ago, and it references a study that echoes my sentiments on Chick Flicks:

Not a fan of Hugh Grant movies? It may be for a good reason. A new study says watching romantic comedies can ruin your love (and thus sex) life.

Researchers at the Family and Personal Relationships Laboratory in the U.K. found that people who watched ‘rom-coms’ were more likely to believe in predestined love and that perfect relationships happen instantly, and less likely to believe that couples need to work at relationships. The seemingly harmless first-date entertainment of choice gives people unrealistic expectations of how things happen in real life.

Fans of chick-flicks such as You’ve Got Mail, The Wedding Planner, and While You Were Sleeping often fail to communicate with their partners effectively, according to the study. Many hold the view that if someone is meant to be with you, then they should know exactly what you want without needing to tell them. Sound familiar?

Unfortunately, refusing to watch Matthew McConaughey convince yet another hot actress she’s “the one” may not be enough to read your wife or girlfriend’s mind. But if you keep her happy in other ways, she may let you off the hook.

So stay in tonight, put leftovers to good use, and watch your favorite action movie. You have a much better chance of looking romantic with Gerard Butler in 300 on the screen.

None of this is particularly surprising, but isn’t it a little depressing knowing how this cheese can significantly alter one’s perception of reality? I mean, I love many kinds of movies, but I have a fairly good concept of differences between fantasy and reality. MythBusters taught me that shooting a gas canister does not make it explode, which is a shame as that would be highly useful during an argument at a gas station. Nut-shotting someone with your tee shot is not nearly as easy as Rodney Dangerfield makes it look. Removing a zombie’s head requires a stronger force than swing of the cricket bat, unless of course it’s a child zombie.

Of course, tons of things can ruin one’s love and sex life. Porn or hatred of porn, for example. But this preconceived notion of “Instant-Love, Add Some Dude” is a key reason I avoid the relationship-seeking types. I’m not sure they realize exactly how batty they come off. A few years ago, a girlfriend of maybe 3 weeks brought up children and marriage in the hypothetical as a topic of casual conversation. “Flabbergasted” is not a strong enough term to describe my reaction, though “scared shitless” may be. Now I can’t read minds (yet), but the mentality of this woman must have been along the lines of “I’m in the relationship, so it’s time to look toward the next step(s).” It’s true that politics and religion make for horrible conversation, on the first few dates especially, but mentioning engagement and kids during the first year is 100% Guaranteed Effective Significant Other Repellent.

Just the thought of “predestined love” alone makes me want to stab that part of my brain with a sharpened #2 (pencil, you ingrate). Are people so lazy that they can’t bear the thought of putting work into a relationship, let alone actually working at one? My mother’s favorite saying — at least it must be, as often as I’ve heard it — is “Relationships are a lot of work.” Yet another reason I’m single: I’ve got enough projects on my plate that satisfying another human being physically, mentally and emotionally isn’t in the cards. And who would want to half-ass a relationship? That’s why God invented hookers

In short, I want to lay …  nay, throw down some truth on those of you with a “How to Lose a Guy In 10 Days” fetish:

• Lust at first sight exists. Love at first sight does not.
• Marriage is a beginning, not a destination.
• Stop trying to find someone to complete you. Nobody wants to be tied down to half a person.
• Kids smell funny, and dogs are more loyal.
• If you don’t have the stones to tell your S.O. what’s wrong, do not dare show the nerve to blame him/her for not knowing. I wish everyone had to live a day out of Liar Liar.
• I may not look or act like McConaughey, but let’s be fair: You’re no Kate Hudson.

Trust me, I’m a doctor.*

* - not actually a doctor

I fly pretty often for work and I like to think I have the security line down to a fine art.  Belt undone, headphones off, laptop in one bin and all my other shit in another, I stride with confidence towards the metal detector.  I am a fucking pro.  I appreciate the job the TSA is doing keeping America safe from terrorist threats and anyone attempting to carry shampoo onto an airplane, but what I’m asking for is a little consistency. 

I fly out of MCI in Kansas City all the time.  You could pretty much strap an RPG to your back and get through security.  The airport is big, but the security is lax compared to other places I fly in and out of.  They let me through without taking the goo out of my bag for everyone to see and they rarely catch the fiberglass shank I affix to my ankle.  Knowing this, I wasn’t shocked when they let the jar of peanut butter in my carryon bag get through.  Yeah, I travel with peanut butter and bread in my bag.  I also bring plastic knives and Ziploc bags so I can make PB sammys whilst on the road.  You don’t understand my relationship with peanut butter and I would appreciate it if you would keep your opinions to yourself about it.  Anyway, the new, factory-sealed jar of PB slides through the MCI security unhindered and I travel to North Carolina for the week.

A few sammys and days later, I go through the ritual undressing and unpacking that preceeds the shoeless metal detector walk through security at GSO in Winston-Salem.  I hand my boarding pass to the large-foreheaded gentleman and wait for my belt and shoes on the secure side of the x-ray machine.  The guy manning the machine looks at the screen and looks at me and goes, “You got a jar of honey in here?”  I reply, “Don’t be ridiculous.  It’s peanut butter.”  He was not amused.  “Bag check!”  His manager comes over and eyeballs the suspicious gel substance in the jar marked Smuckers Natural Chunky Peanut Butter that may or may not be a homemade bomb.  He grabs my bag and we walk over to what I like to call the “Let’s pull all of your shit out in front of everybody” area and he pulls out the jar of Smuckers deliciousness.  “Is this yours?”  Now, for a moment I though of going, “Dude…what…the…fuck…is…that?!”  and backing away slowly like he was holding a grenade or something.  I owned up to the peanut butter bomb and he informed me that, unfortunately, the spread would not be accompanying back to Kansas City. 

When I sat down at gate 31, I opened my backpack and pulled out…a peanut butter sandwich.  I had made one that morning so I could have something to eat in the airport without shelling out nine bucks for a greasy gyro.  So, TSA, peanut butter is acceptable when on bread, but not when in a sealed jar?  Christ alive.  Not only are you sending me mixed signals about when it’s safe to travel with my spread of choice, but also if I must have it in sandwich form or not.  Alert to terrorists: spread your highly flammable explosive gel on a piece of wheat bread and sail through security, no questions asked.  Just do me a solid and don’t fly out of Kansas City

A few months ago I came to a stunning realization. It was one of those moments which felt eye-opening yet simultaneously a little depressing. That’s saying something, as I am depressed a total of about 22 minutes each year. While watch TV—a unique pastime, to be sure—I was racking my brain trying to think of the perfect type of business to start. First it would be a side project and, eventually, would allow me to depart my 7-5 desk jockey habit. Every personal and business development blog in my reader always suggested going into an industry that related to a hobby. This is where the depressing part came in. I realized I didn’t actually have a hobby. I’m of course making the assumption that weekend partying doesn’t qualify. Hell, I hadn’t turned on the 360 in weeks, so I couldn’t even count videogames.

Fortunately, finding a new activity isn’t difficult, even in Tallahassee. Sticking with it, on the other hand, isn’t as easy as one would think. I went deep sea fishing for the first time just after Grouper season reopened in March and have been out a handful of times since then. Fishing is an easy activity. All it requires is a collection of boat-owning friends and a little gas money at the least. If you’re fortunate, you compensate for the gas investment with whatever you catch. My first Grouper would have cost well over $50 at the grocery store, well worth pitching in for gas to the tune of $20. Granted, I haven’t caught much of anything worthwhile since the first day, but the sheer experience of being on the water, in the Florida sun for 5+ hours is worth any reasonable fuel donations.

In May, my parents came to visit for the Memorial Day long weekend. It’s funny to hear the day-to-day occurrences of a recently retired couple (though only funny the first half-dozen times) who don’t know what to do with all that free time. Fortunately, after about a 2 years of various busywork projects, my dad took up golf for the first time in over 25 years. I’m honestly surprised it took that long, as my assumption was if you were retired in Central Florida and didn’t play golf, they kicked you out. His excitement about playing and steadily improving inspired me to drag my beaten up clubs from the back of the closet. Now that I’m playing on a fairly regular basis, I have a newfound respect for even the average golfer, to the point where I’ll actually watch TV coverage (though only in HD … Goddamn, golf courses look beautiful in HD).

It’s tough for a competitive personality to really suck at something he enjoys, and I really enjoy golf. I love the days I show improvement, but I even derive joy from the rounds I backslide 4 or 5 strokes. The difficult part, I fear, will be when I really hit a brick wall and am not improving. That may be a year from now or it could be ten, who knows. I can say all I want that I just want to be average, and to shoot in the 90s consistently on public courses, but I know myself better than that. In middle school gym class, I would re-run races if I finished slower than someone I thought I should beat. It’s nothing against those people, but I’ve conditioned myself to be my biggest critic for 26 years, and that does not change overnight. Why the fuck would I want to change it anyway?

Now I know what you’re thinking: “Why am I reading this when I could be downloading bukkake porn?” Or maybe, “Why is this privileged middle class prick whining so damn much?” Ok, maybe I don’t know what you’re thinking. But I was thinking that, yeah, writing could definitely be considered a hobby. The problem lies in the following question, and the simplest yet most apt answer to it that I’ve ever heard.

Q: Why do we write?

A: We write because we have something to say.

This is why I haven’t posted anything in over a month. I haven’t had anything to say. This will change, as I’ll begin exploring different topics that inspire me to open MS Word. With any luck, something will stick and this site may *GASP* find focus.