I wish I was at the Beach

Public Restrooms

2009-04-21T06:05:00.000-07:00

I managed to make it the first 18 years of my life without taking a dump in a public restroom. I would not say I had a phobia about it. Instead, I would say that I'm not a blithering fool. Why would I subject myself to such a horror if I didn't have to? For my first 18 years, my digestive system was as reliable as an Eagle Scout. There was never a pressing need no matter what I ate. I could rip through massive amounts of Taco Bell food and polish it off with a milkshake and then play basketball for two hours and it was no big deal.

Alas, I got older. Now I watch a Taco Bell commercial and start feeling a little uneasy about whether or not I remembered to buy toilet paper. But I digress.

The week that I graduated high school, most of my graduating class took a cruise to the Bahamas. But we took a bus from north Mississippi to Miami to board the ship. Around Hattiesburg, MS, I realized that there was no possible way to make it all the way to Miami with my public restroom virginity. So I did a quick calculation and realized that it would be far better to drop anchor in the restroom of a restaurant than it would be to do it on a bus full of hormonal teenagers.

Now, keep in mind that I had never done this before. I didn't know any of the tricks. As a seasoned professional dump-taker of 31, I look back at the stupid kid that I was then and just shake my head. You know the age-old maneuver of tearing off layers of toilet paper and putting them on the seat before you sit down? That never even occurred to me. I sat straight on the toilet seat. That's right...I went in unprotected when I lost my public-dumping-virginity. Also, though the memory isn't too clear, I might have set my backpack down on the floor of the stall. Another rookie mistake. I got through the episode and learned a few lessons, but I still don't enjoy public restrooms. Here are a few reasons why.

The Trough:

The trough is a feature in many men's restrooms at sporting events. It is a literally a trough, like pigs would eat from, bolted to a wall. So during halftime, or between innings, men will be packed in there shoulder to shoulder, many of them drunk, and relieving themselves while grunting. This is about as uncomfortable a situation as exists in civilized society. The main dangers consist of A) having some dude stare down at your junk and B) inadvertantly looking at some guy's junk and having him see you. There are also guys who have different styles at the trough. Some of them place both palms on the wall like they are being arrested. Some of them shake forever and hold up the line. Some of them want to talk to you. None of this is acceptible.

The Self-Flushing Toilet:

Most people disagree with me on this. They say, "but it's awesome! You don't have to touch anything!" I counter with this: sometimes when you lean forward or shift your weight, the sensor thinks you've gotten up and flushes. This causes dreaded Toilet Water Butt Splash. It is not a good thing. If you don't want to touch the handle, then use your foot.

Costa Rican Toilets:

When I was in Costa Rica, it didn't take me long to notice that there was a garbage can full of used toilet paper beside each toilet. Read that again. Yeah, that's right. Their pipes are so bad that they throw used toilet paper in the garbage can. Imagine being the employee who has to clean that up. You just know that when they are emptying the trash into another container that the used toilet paper will inevitably fall out onto the floor and they will have to pick it up. This happens to us with used kleenex every time we empty the trash so you know it happens to them. I don't want to hear American janitors and maids ever complain again.

Enough hating. Now let me elaborate on the greatest invention of all time: Those toilet guards things that have a hole in them that is shaped like a human head. My heart leaps with joy whenever I walk into a bathroom and see one of these dispensers. They are wonderful beyond description. I'm thinking of getting a box for my home bathroom. I might start giving out boxes as gifts. People really should keep them in their car for the times they have to make a stop at a gas station bathroom.

May all your dumps take place in the comfort of your own home.

The Basketball Diaries

2009-03-08T19:55:00.000-07:00

The kid was trying to desperately to dunk a basketball. He had the springs for it. He just didn't possess any sort of savvy when it came to controlling the ball. He is sixteen years old and he's filling out and he has a ton of nervous energy and every other sentence that comes out of his mouth is a lie. This afternoon he told me he read Stephen King's The Stand. In my English class he has proven that he would have trouble reading the directions on a shampoo bottle, but he thinks I'll believe he absorbed a 1200 page novel. The kid lacks self confidence. In my job, I don't even think about inquiring about a kid's background until he has been here a few weeks. I have to build up that trust. Undoubtedly, there is some nightmare in Jorico's past that has shattered his self-seteem and now he just lies about everything. So watching him try over and over again to dunk a basketball and come up short pained me. He would hang his head after every failed attempt.

I was pretending to nonchalantly talk to another kid while sitting in the bleachers, but actually I was intently focused on Rico's efforts. After he bricked an attempt for the umpteenth time, I jumped up and snapped, "Gimme the ball." He did.

I walked over to him, looked him in the eye, and said "I'm a natural born point guard and all you need to put that ball through the hoop is a good pass. I'll put it right in front of the rim and you'll dunk it. No problem."

He looked skeptical. "An alley?", he replied.

"Dang right," I barked. "And you'll make it because I'll put it in the perfect spot for you. Trust me."

Rico took a few steps back and sprinted toward the basket. I placed the ball directly in front of the rim with a pinpoint pass. He slammed it. Actually, did more than slam it. He threw it down with force. And then he looked at me and beamed.

I grabbed the ball and half shouted, "Now do it again...on your own."

This time he didn't hesitate. He took three dribbles, rose off of both feet, and threw it down again. No problem.

I said, "Rico, all you needed was a little confidence. From now on, you've got it." And then I ripped off a cheesy line from a basketball movie called "The Pistol" and said, "You thought you could do it. I knew you could. That's the difference." And it was one of the cheesiest moments of my life.

And then my mind wandered to last year, when I was coaching a middle school basketball team at one of the poorest schools in Mississippi. Like all middle-schoolers, the kids at my school were selfish. The basketball team was no exception. My favorite aspect of sports is the teamwork and the sacrifice that is learned from helping the team.

I was pulling my hair out in an effort to get my boys to understand tat concept. The season was almost over, and selfishness was still rearing its ugly head far too often. We were not a team. We were a collection of individuals. And then Demetrius changed all that.

There was a back-up point guard on the team named "Lil' Danny." Lil' Danny was about 4'10" with a 90 pound heart. He hustled on every play and had tons of confidence despite his limited ability. He was the kind of player that coaches love. One day, I was running practice for the pee-wee team while the junior high team loafed around in the bleachers or the lobby waiting for me to begin their practice. I was engrossed in what I was doing so I didn't notice Demetrius standing behind me. After a moment he cleared his throat and said, "Um, Coach?"

I turned. "What's up, Demetrius?"

"Coach, K is over there picking on Lil' Danny. I think I need to do something but I don't want to get suspended."

I looked him dead in the eye and said firmly, "It is your obligation to stick up for your teammates."

First a little background: K was a high school student who hung out in our gym after school a lot. He was a whole lot bigger than the players on our team. He was roughly 15 inches taller than Lil' Danny. Also you should know that our zero-tolerance policy required the staff to report any fight that occurred on school grounds. A student who fought would be cuffed, put in the back of a squad car, and transported to the county jail.

I went back to teaching the offense to my team and forgot about our conversation. About ten minutes later I heard an eruption from the other side of the gym. I turned and ran down the court to where Demetrius was pummelling K. And I mean pummelling. Blows were reigning downs on his head and shoulders. My first reaction was to step in and break it up. The rest of the team was looking at me and waiting for me to give the signal for them to pull Demetrius off of K. Instead I looked over them and slightly held my hand up to indicate "wait." And they stared at me in amazement. After 5 seconds or so, I pulled Demetrius off of the larger boy.

"K, leave the gym. Don't come back. Not that I think you'd want to anyway."

The team stood silently in a circle around me. Demetrius stared at the ground. He knew that in 20 minutes he would be in the back of a police car. But he was wrong.

I yelled at the top of my lungs, "EVERYBODY BUT DEMETRIUS ON THE LINE! NOW!!!"

Fourteen boys tore toward the endline so quickly that they didn't have time to process what was going on. In three seconds they stood in a perfectly spaced line awaiting the shrill explosion from my whistle. But it didn't come. Not yet.

I roared. "Demetrius doesn't have to run today. DO YOU KNOW WHY DEMETRIUS DOESN'T HAVE TO RUN TODAY? I'll tell you why. Demetrius doesn't have to run because HE'S THE ONLY ONE OF YOU THAT STUCK UP FOR HIS TEAMMATE! The rest of you make me sick. There would have never been a fight if K would have looked up and seen 15 guys UNITED! Fifteen guys ready to bleed for each other! Fifteen guys ready to go to WAR for each other. You have all failed Danny and you've all failed me. Except for Demetrius, who will be standing beside me while the rest of you run suicides."

And run they did.

The next night, every player on the team scored. That had never happened before. Danny had his career high. We won by 35 points. It was the largest margin of victory of the year.

And that is why, despite a torn miniscus in both knees and 19 sprained ankles, I still walk out on the court and play a game designed for people much younger than me.

Road House: Blow by Blow

2007-05-30T08:50:00.000-07:00

I am no Hemingway. Therefore, I am not capable of writing a proper introduction to the liveblog I am about to undertake. Two syllables: Road House.
.05 – The MGM lion roars. This marks the first time in cinematic history that the logo of the film company actually foreshadows the movie itself. You can’t honestly tell me that Patrick Swayze doesn’t remind you of a lion in this movie. He fights like a beast on the African plains. Also, he has a mane.

.50 – A long legged woman in a ridiculous yellow dress emerges from a Sonny Crockett Ferrari in front of a nightclub. This is how you could tell a nightclub was cool in the 80’s. There HAD to be a Ferrari out front. If there was no Ferrari, then the place might as well have been a bingo parlor. The woman’s dress was so short that I actually lay down on the floor directly under the TV and looked up…and then realized that it wouldn’t work. But the dress was short. You gotta believe me.

1.30 – White People Dancing!

2.30 – The first appearance of Dalton! We don’t know his name is Dalton yet, though. All we know so far is that there is a guy at the bar who A) Has a chiseled face, B) Is rocking the sweetest mullet ever. It’s the Selleck’s mustache of Mullets, and C) Can’t even bob his head remotely in tune with the music being played by the band at the bar. (Sidenote: Is that the band from “From Dusk ‘til Dawn?”)

3:20 – Some random guy stabs Dalton in the shoulder. Dalton literally just turns and looks at the guy. His expression never changes. Is Dalton a pacifist? Is he impervious to pain? I’m intrigued. I MUST KNOW!

3:40 – The random stabbing guy challenges Dalton to a fight, to which Dalton calmly replies, “Outside.” When they get outside, Dalton simply turns and walks back through the door, leaving an impenetrable wall of bouncers between the random stabbing guy and himself. Woah. Dalton is smart. He must be a pacifist.

4:20 – Dalton is stitching up his arm in the back room. He is shirtless and his body is as hairless and sleek as a sea lion. Some dude with a bolo tie opens the door and starts looking hairless Dalton up and down. I fear we might be headed for a Brokeback moment until Bolo Tie asks Dalton to help him clean up his bar. He calls Dalton, “The Best.” How does he know that Dalton is “the best” at bouncing? Have I been missing U.S. News and World Reports Annual Bouncer Rating issue the last few years? Dalton tells the guy that Wade Garrett is “the best.” This must be a Magic vs. Bird type argument among the bouncing community. Garrett vs. Dalton. This is also the scene where Dalton demands 5 G’s up front, $500 a night, plus medical. Geez, he’s the Roger Clemens of bouncing.

6.15 – “You know, I thought you’d be bigger.”

7.15 – Dalton drives a Mercedes…with a tape deck! They made a special point to show the tape deck to further emphasize just how awesome this car is!

7. 28 – Dalton rolls into Jasper. We don’t know what state Jasper is in, but judging from the clientele at the Double Deuce, I have to assume it’s in Grenada County. The Double Deuce reminds me of an old bar in Oxford called The Gin. Except that pro wrestler Terry Funk never threw anyone past Dalton’s feet at The Gin.

8.25 – Jeff Healey is playing behind chicken wire at the Double Deuce. You probably remember Jeff Healey’s song “Angel Eyes” from every Junior High dance where you were far too nervous to approach girls who were a foot taller than you and ask them to slow dance. Also, Jeff Healey is the least famous blind musician of all time. He’s definitely behind Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder, and probably even trails Ronnie Milsap. Go back and listen to “Angel Eyes” and check out how many references he makes to how the girl in the song looks and all the other visual references. It would be like if I wrote a song about what it’s like to be a Croation woman.

10.25 – Ummm, the Double Deuce is a violent place.

12.50 – “I thought you’d be bigger.” The blind guy said it this time.

13.50 – Dalton and I both sort of stand at the bar, listening to music and not drinking when we go out. This is where the similarities end.

14.00 – Ummm, the women at the Double Deuce have questionable moral fiber.

15.00 - A complete brawl breaks out over the aforementioned questionable moral fiber of the ladies. Much chair smashing ensues. Dalton doesn’t participate. He is definitely a pacifist.

16.50 – Dalton says, “Opinions vary.” He’s sort of a pacifist philosopher. He keeps his dialogue short and sweet.

20.00 – Dalton buys a crappy car and rents a crappy room above a barn. He doesn’t care about material things. He lives only to clean up bars so decent people can have a good time. The man is a saint. He’s the Mother Theresa of bouncing.

20.40 – Brad Wesley flies over the barn/house in a helicopter. He does it “just to piss off” an old guy’s cattle. This is the least sinister introduction to a bad guy EVER.

22.00 – Bolo Tie and Dalton present their plan for cleaning up the Double Deuce. He begins by firing half of the bouncers and bartenders and waitresses. He then lays out the 3 simple rules of bouncing. The man has really turned bouncing into an art.

27.00 – He’s not a pacifist after all. Dalton just broke a dude’s nose by shoving his face through a table, prompting Bolo Tie to eye Dalton like a juicy steak and mutter, “He’s good…he’s real good.” I think Bolo Tie is really starting to have some feelings that are strange and confusing toward Dalton.

27.45 – Gratuitous Sex Scene!

28.15 – Dalton fires a bartender for stealing from the register. Dalton is all-knowing. Within the Double Deuce, Dalton is God. It is completely his domain. The chicken-wire stage is his throne, and the bar is his footstool. What kind of house can you build for him? (That was a biblical reference and probably so obscure that only three people I know will laugh at it.)

29.00 – “It’ll get worse before it gets better.” More philosophy.

29.45 – Dalton’s junker car is trashed. He just smiles.

30.00 – Brad Wesley is throwing one of the greatest parties of all time across the pond from Dalton’s barn/house, complete with white guys dancing, girls in bikinis, and a pool. Again, I’m not exactly sure that the filmmakers did the best job of setting up Brad Wesley as a hate-able guy. He just looks like a small town Hugh Hefner.

31.20 – Swayze’s bare butt just made an appearance. Shame on anyone who just made a mental note of the exact time in the movie when this occurs for future reference.

32.40 – Brad Wesley is swerving from lane to lane in his convertible Mustang, not worrying about other drivers. He’s also singing “Life Would Be a Dream,” which is a song I like. Again, this is annoying…but it’s not exactly evil. So far I’m supposed to hate this guy because he throws killer parties, annoys cattle, and drives like a teenager. Darth Vader, he is not.

34.00 – Red West, Elvis’ best friend, debuts. He plays “Red.” Normally, this lack of creativity would drive me crazy, but it is pretty obvious that the only acceptable name for this man is “Red.” If they had named him David, or Kevin, or Phillip, I would have turned the movie off.

34.45 – Dalton’s nemesis, Brad Wesley’s right hand man, appears. His mullet is almost as glorious as Dalton’s. Almost.

35.30 – Dalton is doing some shirtless Tai-Chi in the front yard. This scene is excruciatingly uncomfortable. I’m sure Bolo Tie is hiding behind a tree and watching. Brad Wesley is watching from a Three-Wheeler! This delights me to no end. It’s even better than the tape deck!

37.45 – Big fight between Wesley’s goons and Dalton. Dalton busts out some kung-fu for the first time. Dalton gets stabbed by a fat guy. I think we are just beginning to see the full range of Dalton’s powers. The other bouncers jump in and help. It’s a lot like the “Left Side! Strong Side!” scene from “Remember the Titans,” only instead of racially diverse football players, there are bouncers. But still, you can feel the solidarity.

39.00 – Enter the big-haired, blonde doctor. She fixes Dalton’s stab wound. He refuses anesthesia because “Pain don’t hurt.” He also drops this one on her: “Nobody ever wins a fight.” Fantastic!

42.00 – “I thought you’d be bigger” says the Doc.

42.04 – One of Brad Wesley’s henchmen is driving a monster truck. Like Bigfoot. It’s his regular vehicle. He just casually drives around this monster truck. I’m not making this up.

43.45 – Wesley punches one of his men in the face. It’s not really all that evil but then some evil music plays. I think they realized in post production that they needed to make him more ominous so they threw in that evil music. Didn’t really work.

45.00 – To further illustrate how evil Wesley’s gang is, we see how they cruelly pour motor oil on the floor of Red’s auto parts store. Ummm…that’s not a nice thing to do and all…but it’s not the holocaust either.

46.00 – Sam. Freaking. Elliot.

46.50 – …playing Wade. Freaking. Garrett.

47.50 – The chicken wire is not in front of the stage anymore. I think Dalton is making progress. However, Brad Wesley’s skanky girlfriend has taken a shine to Dalton.

48.00 – The guy is in the monster truck again. Unbelievable! He really just drives it around.

49.10 - “Right boot.” There goes Dalton being omniscient again. What a guy.

49.15 – More Kung Fu! Dalton smashes a knee and a guy drops like a stone! And the hot doctor witnesses the whole fight. I think something might be brewing between them. Just a hunch.

52.20 – Dalton gives a bum some money. This man is a prince!

53.00 – I am completely mesmerized by the doctor’s hair. Swayze and her together is just too much for me to process.

56.00 – Dalton visits Wesley’s house. His skanky girlfriend has a black eye. Normally I would feel bad for her, but some girls are so skanky that they wear black eyes like an accessory. She looks more normal with the black eye than without. Dalton turns down Wesley’s job offer. The man has integrity.

58.00 – White People Dancing!

1.00.00 – Dalton has just walked the doctor into his barn/house. I feel the melding of the hair might be coming.

1.00.25 – That pimp just turned on “These Arms of Mine” by Otis Redding. That’s just not fair. She doesn’t have a chance.

1.03.30 – Brick Wall.

1.06.00 – Wesley was watching the whole time. Perv.

1.07.45 – HUGE TWIST! The hot doctor used to be involved with Brad Wesley! I never saw that coming! Outta Nowhere, I tell ya!

1.08.00 – Wade Garrett just rode up…ON A MOTORCYCLE!!!! He really is tough!

1.10.00 – Wade Garrett and Dalton just beat up the same bunch of guys that have been getting beat up for the last hour. Apparently they never, ever get tired of getting kicked in the knee. After the fight, Wade and Dalton embrace in a way that only two manly men can. Bolo Tie tried to catch a glimpse from behind the dumpster again.

1.17.07 – Red’s store blew up. I bet Wesley was responsible.

1.18.15 – Skanky Girlfriend is putting on an impromptu strip show. If this was filmed in 2007, she would definitely have a lower back tattoo. Dalton is not impressed. Dalton is a rock amidst a raging sea.

1.20.50 – The Mulleted Nemesis is putting on a little Kung-Fu show with a pool stick. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen someone shoot pool with a pool stick in a movie. However, this marks the 9,000th time I’ve seen a Kung-Fu fight involving a pool stick in a movie. It’s sort of like how rooftops only exist so cops can jump from one to the other in pursuit of a suspect.

1.26.00 – The monster truck just crushed a bunch of cars. I’m glad to see it came in handy.

1.27.05 – Swayze is shirtless, sweaty, and punching a wooden board for exercise…He just took a swing at Wade Garrett and Garrett caught his fist and held it there. Then he told Dalton he loved him. Because he’s Wade Garrett. And he can.

1.30.25 – Another explosion. This time it’s Dalton’s landlord’s house. I suspect Wesley again.

1.31.50 – Looks like the final showdown between Mulleted Nemesis and Dalton. Lots and lots and lots of roundhouse kicks. Swayze just pulled off some sort of flying ballet maneuver that ended in a knee to the chest. That was poetry in motion. Homoerotic isn’t even the word for this fight. Is Uberhomoerotic a word? The Nemesis just yelled something so heinous that my neighbor’s cat blushed. And Swayze JUST TORE HIS THROAT OUT! Fantastic! Wesley looks unhappy with this turn of events.

1.39.57 – Brace yourself. Wade Garrett is dead. I suspect Wesley.

1.40.40 – Swayze is an avalanche of anger. Swayze is hurricane of rage. Swayze is malice with a mullet. And…it…is…on.

1.42.11 – One henchman down.

1.43.00 - Another one down.

1.43.05 – That’s number three.

1.44.12 – Just took out the fat guy with a stuffed polar bear. Don’t ask.

1.44.40 – “I see you found my trophy room, Dalton. The only thing missing is your ass.” – Brad Wesley. And that officially puts this one into the Homoerotic Hall of Fame. I hope they put the plaque up right next to Rocky III.

1.47.00 – Dalton has a chance to go in for the kill, a la Mr. Miyagi, but he takes the high road. Doesn’t really matter because all of the town people just showed up with shotguns and blew Brad Wesley away.

1.49.44 – Dalton and the Doctor are skinny dipping and making out while the blind guy sits on the shore. This strikes me as incredibly strange.

1.50.00 – Roll Credits.

1.50.01 – Start to sob uncontrollably at the masterpiece I have just witnessed.

24 Haikus (Wait, that's misleading...I mean Haikus about 24)

2007-02-28T07:28:00.000-08:00

Hey! That’s that Hobbitt!
The dude who played Rudy, right?
Goonies was the bomb.

Please don’t shoot me, man!
Oh crap! Not in the knee, man!
Aggghhh, you freaking did!

Bauer’s sunshades rock.
When he puts those babies on,
I have a man-crush.

Chloe frightens me.
She is one unpleasant chick.
She needs a hug bad.

My taxes are high
No wonder. CTU has
A million Tahoes.

Hillary? McCain?
Barack Obama? Screw That!
I’m voting Palmer.

China built a wall.
They are gonna need it too.
Shouldn’t mess with Jack.

Edgar is so fat.
He has no chance with Chloe.
Try gastric bypass.

Jack’s wife is heinous.
There is no possible way
she is Kim’s real mom.

Remember that time
Jack shot Chappelle in the head?
I yelled, “Holy Crap!”

How can atheism
Exist in this world when Kim
Wears that ripped red shirt?

2007-01-25T15:41:00.000-08:00

So there I was walking into Wendy's for a little double cheeseburger with bacon action and what did I see when I got through the door? A friggin' long line. So I blew past all those suckers, bumping each one as I made my way to the front of the line. Hard. None of them said a word. And I owe it all to this mohawk and goatee combo. You see, this combo says "Look out! He doesn't play by the rules!" That's right, elderly lady with your 3 grandkids! Better step aside because here comes a dude with a 'hawk and 'tee combo. I didn't even have to say a word. I let my sweet combo do the talking. When I got to the front of the line, an awestruck teenage girl took my order. I could see by the look in her eye that she was thinking "Wow! I bet this guy drives an awesome camaro." But she was wrong. I don't need any ragged camaro when I have this mohawk and goatee. Why waste a few G's on a Chevy when I can grow this intimidating facial hair for free?

Later on I was in a bookstore perusing some Mark Twain books and a couple of sorority hotties were totally checkin' me out. It was pretty obvious they were diggin' the combo...and can you blame them? They couldn't believe that someone with such a daring hairstyle could be so well-read. They could tell that a sensitive heart beat beneath my tough-as-nails exterior. Truly, this was the first time either of these young women had encountered such a Renaissance Man. I tilted my head slightly forward so they could get a better glimpse at the 'hawk. One of them actually moaned with delight. I could tell that she wanted to take me home and caress my 'hawk and give it a pet name, like "The Conquistador" or "El Capitan." She was buying a Spanish dictionary. But in case you haven't noticed, I don't play by the rules of normal society...so I just walked right past them and didn't say a word. This sweet combo plays it cool...real cool.

That night I was sitting at the sports bar and watching a little basketball. My friend Marty The Dwarf came in and a couple of frat guys started giving him a hard time. Calling him Shorty McShorterson and trying to toss him. I saw this from across the room. So I yelled, "Hey! You-buncha-guys-who-wear-those-string-thingies-attached-to-your-sunglasses-and-judge-which-other-guys-are-good-enough-to-hang-out-with-you-through-a-process-known-as-rush!" They slowly turned around and came face to face with the last thing they wanted to see. A dude with a mohawk and a goatee. Needless to say, they backed down. One of them openly wept. My friend Marty The Dwarf came over to thank me but before he could get the words out, I kicked him sqare in the nuts as hard as I could. I don't play by the rules.

Yes, this sweet mohawk and goatee combo has changed my life for the better.

Which way to the tattoo shop?

All You Need is Love, Love. Love is All You Need.

2006-12-27T06:39:00.000-08:00

After my last post, I feel there needs to be some clarification. Lots of people have asked me about it and most of them tried to talk me into taking some sort of meds. A lot of them asked about the girl as well. I thought it was pretty clear that the whole thing was about a lot of different girls that I just sort of combined into one all-purpose heart-stomping girl. Apparently that was not as clear as I thought. At any rate, there is a girl who resides in the shadow of a large stadium named for a whiskey drinking man in a funny hat and she is one of the greatest people I have ever known. That has not changed. Just wanted to say that.

Also, it was generally made known by people who read this that I am, in fact, a Hater. This isn’t true. Well, it’s sort of true. But it’s not the whole truth.

I love mountain lakes and fast breaks, Australian shores and campfire s’mores, Movie snacks and QB sacks, sunsets and poker bets, first kisses and disc golf misses, acoustic guitars and shooting stars, southern breezes and talking to Jesus, tennis shoes and Delta Blues, bream fishing and jumpshot swishing, Kit Kat bites and airplane flights, English teaching and Pat’s preaching, slip n’ slides and bike rides, warm rain and hikes toward Maine, pointless lies and Witt’s eyes, southern writing and fireplace lighting, chicken-on-a-sticks and politics, Graceland Too and Archie Who, Florida Keys and palm trees, foreign nations and constellations, chlorine smells and Isaac’s yells, rappelling ropes and preseason hopes, hippie fashion and Russ compassion, full moons and Buffett tunes, sailboats and famous quotes, road trips and Jolie lips, shaved heads and inflatable beds, dog piles and Skye smiles, crude jokes and vanilla cokes, sushi rolls and football polls, spring days and donut glaze, sports pages and Helen Keller rages, Frisbee flinging and Carly singing, sports bars and dancing in cars, telling stories in Fiori’s, behind-the-back-passes and Lambert’s molasses, long haired skater dudes and Tuscaloosa Indian foods, road trips and cruise ships, fish fries and pop flies, snakebite tales and hay bales, beach sand and the Rossetti clan, Margaret’s heart and comic book art, trick-or-treats and grilled meats, Frost prose and summer clothes, Capture the Flag and my sleeping bag, church league teams and ice creams, Rebel wins and dolphin fins.

Right about now, you are probably thinking, “Holy Crap. You love a lot of things that rhyme.” But that’s not all.

I also love the first day in the springtime when you can walk outside and smell the honeysuckle. I love the way hunters gather at a local gas station/convenience store to eat sausage and biscuits and drink coffee at five in the morning. I love the way that once someone coaches you in any sport, no matter how young you are, you call him “Coach” for the rest of your life. I love to slow dance to Norah Jones. And I love French vanilla cappuccino from the Chevron station. And I love the lingering smell of a campfire in my clothes. And I love sitting in a sports bar and hearing everyone whoop when there’s a big play. And I love being awake at 2 AM with Russ and Anna and laughing so hard that our sides hurt. And I love the way my head feels immediately after shaving it. And I love getting text messages while I’m at work. And I love shooting baskets by myself at night during the summertime. And I love finding a book that’s so good that I finish it in one day. And I love working in the garden with my dad. And I love sweating. And I love the moment when I’m dribbling full speed toward the basket and the defender leaves his man to stop me and I throw a perfect no-look pass for an easy lay-up. And I love walking down University Avenue and catching the first glimpse of a tent in the Grove. And I love the way my heart pounds before I finally work up the nerve to kiss a girl for the first time. And I love the scene from “Braveheart” where William Wallace gives his pre-battle speech. And I love when I am so comfortable around someone that I can take a ride with them in silence. And I love the fact that I don’t even care that I suck at disc golf. And I love sitting around with my friends from Grenada and talking about stuff we did when we were ten. And I love picking up Isaac and throwing him just a little bit higher than is safe and watching him thow his head back and spread his arms like Superman. And I love absorbing a whole season of Lost in 72 hours. And I love writing letters to people. And I love honesty. And I love brokenness. And I love that God is all about second chances. And I love waking up late at my parent’s house and smelling my mom’s breakfast cooking. And I love the way Sarah can say something completely hilarious without cracking a smile. And I love that Todd tries so hard to be cool…and it works. He is. And I love the way wool socks feel on a cold day. And I love opening up the sports page on Sunday mornings. I love the way my whole body tingles when I sing “You are Amazing, God” at church. And I love the way the front of my calves burn when I ride my bike up a hill. And I love the way black families have tee shirts made up for their family reunions. And I love the way the air feels five minutes before a thunderstorm blows through in July. And I love the way my sheets feel right after I washed them and made up my bed. And I love crouching down on all fours behind someone so they can be pushed over. And I love the way the trees explode with color in the fall. And I love watching a North Mississippi Allstars concert and marveling at all the white people dancing…like white people. And I love necklaces and bracelets from foreign countries. And I love falling asleep watching a movie at Witt’s house and crashing there. And I love teaching kids to throw a football and shoot a jumpshot and enjoy poetry and who Daniel Boone was. And I love shaving my beard down to a mustache and playing a character. I love Mississippi. I love Jesus. I love kids.

And none of this takes into account things I have loved at different points in my life. I loved counselor devotion at Camp Lake Stephens. I loved watching The Real World with Kathryn. I loved walking to McDonald’s with Hood, Mario, and Tony. And I loved sitting on Margaret’s swing. And I loved basketball practice. And I loved getting up early to deer hunt with my dad. And I loved Lauren’s slow drawl. And I loved sleeping in Witt and Kathryn’s loft. And I loved every second of every day in the Stud Hut. And I loved the kids in my youth group in Southaven. And I loved seeing wallabies in my front yard in Australia. And I loved falling asleep beside Katie on her parent’s couch. And I loved canoeing with Rossetti. And I loved “bringing it in” at Camp. And I loved listening to stories in Mr. Joe’s living room. And I loved sitting around on the deck and firing up the grill with the boys in college. And I loved drinking water from streams on the Appalachian Trail. And I loved sharing a cabin with my quiet counterpart, Drew. And I loved spending countless hours at Biddy’s cabin in high school.

And people think I’m a Hater.

One Room at the Heartbreak Hotel, Please.

2006-12-14T13:03:00.000-08:00

WARNING:
If you usually read my blog to get some sort of laugh, then this might not be the post you want to read. Unless of course, you are one of those sickos that gets your jollies from the misfortune of others. One of those twisted pieces of crap who laughs when other people hurt. Actually, I am one of those people...but I still hate people like that. So I am also a hypocrite. Whatever.

Have you ever reached a point in your life where you are just completely and utterly heartbroken over every miserable stinking little thing that is occurring in your miserable, stinking little life? Have you ever had your still-beating heart ripped from your chest and shown to you right before you die? By a girl? Or by a missed job opportunity? Or by shooting about 30% in a church-league basketball game against a bunch of freakin' pot-bellied old geezers who you would have been dropping 45 points on a few years ago? No? You haven't? Well, screw you and your charmed life.

Let me tell you about the best ways to really maximize the suffering of a truly shattered heart.

A GIRL:

I've only had my heart completely ripped out and stomped flat by about 47 girls, so maybe I'm no expert. But here are a few good tips on how to really make the most of your soul-killing numbness.

1. Listen to songs that remind you of her all the time. In the car, you can weep and sob like a little girl at traffic lights and slowly look to your left and see a car full of young African-American men in skullcaps and grills blasting Ludacris and pointing and calling you a "Bee-yotch." Add this humiliation to your already meloncholy psyche and it's a good start.

2. As you lie in your bed at night, staring at the ceiling, try to imagine her and who she might be with...at...this...exact...moment. This will probably lead to you balling up the sheets with your fists and pounding the mattress. If you have a particularly lively imagination, it might even lead to you kicking your legs violently, thus untucking the sheet. Crying yourself to sleep while sucking your thumb really makes you feel manly as well. In the fetal position of course.

3. Stare longingly at old photos of you and said girl. Maybe at the prom, or on vacation, or at some frat party. Really any setting will do. So long as you always remember to have a blank stare on your face, like you are staring through the photo, and mutter under your breath, "God, I love her..." And make sure your voice cracks and trails off at the end.

4. Bring up the girl CONSTANTLY to your friends. And I mean constantly. If you are talking about football, say something like "Man, you know who liked Tom Brady?" And then insert the girl's name (I know, I know...this isn't profound. I know 8 DUDES who would make out with Tomy Brady. That guy has it too good).

5. The Big Whammy: This is combining ALL of the above techniques into one massive spirit-crushing maneuver. While crashing at friend's house, put on a song while staring at her picture right before going to bed. This will work a few times for some real sympathy if you have extremely close friends. After the second time, this will result in your friend muttering "God, you're pathetic" and shuffling off to bed.

6. Annoy the everlovin' crap out of her friends. Act like you are really close with these girls even though they've been driving you nuts for years. And then hit them with a barrage of questions about the girl and act all sweet in a pitiful attempt to manipulate the friends into speaking well of you in front of the girl. This is about the lamest thing you could do and it never works. I've tried it exactly 47 times.

Now on, to the rest of the heartache of life. Do you hate your job? And I mean really hate it? I mean hate it like Kramer hates black folks? Hate it like girls hate Paris Hilton? Hate it like Republicans hate "them queers settlin' down?" I have been in a job like this for years. Why hasn't a reasonably intelligent college graduate like myself gotten a better job yet? Hey, shut up. This is about you, not me. Here are some tips on how to maximaize your anguish while working a dead-end job.

1. Talk tough all the time. Tell everyone that you're "about ready to quit." One more slight and you'll walk out. You swear. This time you are not playin'. You simply WON'T put up with this crap anymore. And you might just give your boss a piece of your mind. No, screw that. You might give him a beatdown in the parking lot. Just wait and see. You'll freakin' do it, man.

2. Talk about how you are the ONLY one that does anything around this place. What would this place be without you anyway? It would probably shut down, right? Damn right.

3. Continually kiss the rear end of your boss immediately after you have unleashed a profanity-laced tirade behind his back. Nothing is quite so emasculating as having to do this to get your measly paycheck.

There are a lot of other ways to get your heart broken, but I am getting freaking depressed talking about them all. Maybe I'll make this a weekly feature or something. "Ways Lyle Had His Heart Broken This Week." Of course, Ole Miss football is over and the Saints are miraculously winning (Who Dat???!!!) so even in a life as drab as my own, I may have to be creative. Man, what a boner-killer.

Brainstorming: 12-12-06

2006-12-12T08:40:00.000-08:00

I couldn’t help wondering this while sitting in church the other day: Did Mary ever refer to God as “my baby’s daddy?” Perhaps if someone in Mary’s family was cured of a disease and everyone was saying “Thank the good Lord!” and Mary would just say, “Aw, that’s just my baby’s daddy.”

This has been bothering me lately: Why do people mangle the pronunciation of those peanut butter cups that come in orange wrappers. You know the ones I’m talking about. Pronounce the name of that chocolate treat in your head. Now…did you pronounce it Reece-eez? If you did, you are precisely the kind of person I am talking about. It’s not Reece-eez. It’s Reece-ez. The Dodgers had a shortstop in the 1950’s named Pee Wee Reese. If Pee Wee Reese left his glove in the dugout and you were the equipment manager, would you say, “Hey! Here’s Pee Wee Reese-eez glove!” No. And you should never eat anything that rhymes with “feces” anyway.

If I ever found myself in a situation where my life depended upon wagering on which random Hollywood celebrity would one day be pulled over and a corpse would be discovered in his trunk, I’d have to bet that the celebrity would be Elijah Wood. And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if more bodies were buried in his backyard. That kid is seriously creepy.

What the crap is up with “Today” show spectators? These yahoos stand outside in the freezing cold for a chance to meet Al Freakin’ Roker. Could someone please explain this to me? And they hold up signs that say crap like “Bucksnort, Tennesseee loves Meredith Viera!” Why do people go to such lengths to be on televisions for 4 seconds? Is it so they can bask in the charisma of Al Roker?

I am very annoyed with radio personality “Delilah.” How many callers in one night can say the EXACT SAME THING? “Hi, Delilah. This is Jolene. My husband and I have been married for 2 months and he’s about to go off to Iraq. Could you please play “Love of a Lifetime” by Firehouse for me?”

Does Viagra really help you throw a football through a tire? Can we send some Viagra to Michael Vick?

I am being confronted with something that is making me reevaluate my whole value system. I am afraid that The Eagles could very possibly suck. For pretty much my whole life I like The Eagles. But just the other day at work I heard “One of These Nights” on the radio at work. The high-pitched nasally voice of bassist Timothy B. Schmidt jarred me. This song truly does suck. It made me start thinking about other Eagles songs and I started being honest with myself. Honestly, “Life in the Fast Lane” blows goats. “Heartache Tonight” is pure crap. “Hotel California” is absurd. “Love Will Keep Us Alive” lowers the collective testosterone of any room it’s played in.

I have discovered that a good way to piss off any crowd is say, “Why does Helen Keller get her own quarter? Hank Aaron is from Alabama too, and he hit 755 homeruns. How many did Helen Keller hit? Zero.” And if that doesn’t work, say, “You know who’s a real phony? That Anne Frank.” That should do the trick.

My friend Anna teaches at an alternative school in Tupelo and her 17-year-old students make fake grills for their teeth out of biscuit wrappers. I have no joke. This just makes me laugh.

"Who the hell wants to live in Mississippi?"

2006-11-10T07:29:00.000-08:00

Congressman Charlie Rangel (D – NY) has made the following statement: “Mississippi gets more than it’s share of federal money. Who the hell would want to live in Mississippi, anyway?”

And the beat goes on. And on. And on. Will it ever end? Probably not. It’s been this way my whole life. Now here we are in 2006 and they just refuse to believe that it’s not 1962 anymore. They refuse to believe that there aren’t an army of guys in white robes lurking in the shadows just waiting for a black man to get “uppity” so they can come storming out and lynch him on the town square. They refuse to believe that we don’t all sit around sipping moonshine from a mason jar, sweating profusely, and firing our shotguns in the air every time something “tickles our funnybone.”

If you’re not familiar with Charlie Rangel, he is an African-American man who once called Bill Clinton a redneck. That’s right, a Georgetown educated, Rhodes scholar, former governor, former president of the United States…a redneck. Apparantly if you are a white male from the south, you are a redneck. It doesn’t matter what you have achieved in life, like, oh, I don’t know…becoming the most powerful man in the world. You can never lift yourself above your redneck heritage.

Why do I still get mad when I hear these northern elitists say these things? Shouldn’t an ignorant, backwoods, yokel like me be more accepting of my station in life? Sorry, I shouldn’t lay all the blame at the feet of the northern elitists. Some of it should be reserved for Hollywood. Ever seen the movie “Ghosts of Mississippi?” It’s about the assassination of civil rights leader Medgar Evars. It’s a shameful event in Mississippi’s past. But here’s what really kills me. There’s a scene in the movie where Bobby DeLaughter (Alec Baldwyn) is driving from Jackson to Greenwood in the 1990s. If I were going to make that drive I would take I-55 north to Grenada and then take Hwy 8 to Greenwood. In the movie, Alec Baldwyn makes that drive ON A DIRT ROAD. That’s right, our interstates are dirt roads. If it rains, we just don’t take the interstate, because our mule and buggy might get bogged down.

Now, I don’t want to forget Mississippi’s dark past. How will we ever move forward if we don’t face up to our dark past? But, by God, it’s 2006 and a hell of a lot of progress has been made. And they still portray us as driving around on dirt roads for hundreds of miles. They filmed that freaking movie IN MISSISSIPPI!!! They saw firsthand that things have changed…and they chose to portray things not as they are, but as they were in 1965.

When was the last major racial episode in Mississippi? Was it even in my lifetime? Now compare that to New York, Los Angeles, and Boston. But racism always plays better with a Mississippi accent on television.

When Katrina hit, all the coverage was in Louisiana. People were looting and killing each other in New Orleans and whining about the lack of response from the feds. Mississippians were too busy picking themselves up, dusting themselves off, and working. The camera crews didn’t hear enough whining so they moved on to NOLA. Does anyone even mention that the hurricane’s eye was over Mississippi, not New Orleans?

And yes, I realize that Mississippi is the “50th State.” We are last in everything. And yes, it pisses me off that we can’t seem to get our crap together and climb out of these holes. But that’s not all there is to us. This is the state that produced the finest writers in American history: William Faulkner, Eudora Welty, Willie Morris, Barry Hannah, John Grisham, Thomas Harris, Tennessee Williams, Greg Iles, Walker Percy. The ones who don’t carry a ton of weight academically sure carry a lot of weight on the New York Times Bestsellers list.

What else has Mississippi done? Nothing except for producing the most powerful woman in America: Oprah Winfrey (sorry, Nancy Pelosi and Hillary Clinton…if Oprah ran for office, she’d win. Any office.) And the King of Rock ‘n Roll: Elvis Presley. And the greatest blues musicians of all time: B.B. King, John Lee Hooker, Howlin’ Wolf, Son House, etc. And performed the first heart transplant (University Medical Center). And houses the world’s largest auto plant that was built from scratch. There is one thing that Mississippi consistently ranks first in: Charitable giving per capita.

Do you want to know just how much Mississippi has changed? Want to know who the most popular citizen of this state is? Morgan Freeman. There’s not a person in this state who doesn’t love this man. When a black man CAN PLAY GOD IN A MOVIE, and not a single white person in Mississippi makes a fuss, then you know things have changed.

So once again, somebody who’s not from here starts taking shots at us. And we’ll probably sit back and take it, like always. I guess I’ll have to comfort myself with the 78 degree weather in November as I walk down the street with complete strangers saying hello and girls who would absolutely make an atheist believe in God strolling by.

Sk8 or Die

2006-11-05T07:24:00.000-08:00

I was a skater for about a year and half. And when I say “skater,” I don’t mean ice skating, and I don’t mean rollerskating, and I m definitely not talking about those sneakers that have one wheel in each shoe. Those had yet to be invented during my skating phase but now I’m wondering if they make those in size 11 ½. I kind of dig them now.

No, the skating I’m talking about is skateboarding, by God. I know that when I write that I was a skater, it implies that I actually would stand on a skateboard and propel it forward by means of pushing off with my right foot. But that is not the case. Actually riding the skateboard seemed like a ridiculous and silly venture. Let’s face it, it was a stupid way to spend time…not nearly as important as throwing a round rubber ball through a hoop suspended ten feet off the ground, which was how I primarily occupied myself.

Being a skater was a lifestyle. It hardly mattered if you actually skated. And I didn’t. My buddies were hardcore skaters, which meant that they spent about 30 minutes a week skating and about 40 hours a week sitting around on public and private property whining about how cops (pigs, po-po, Five-O) mistreated us for sitting around on public and private property. Our time was also spent listening to absolutely terrible punk music (The Misfits, Minor Threat, Danzig, Bad Religion), shaving our heads (I didn’t), eating a whole lot of chili cheese burritos from Taco Bell (they discontinued those and I’ll never forgive them for it), vandalizing stuff, and talking about how we had a hard time scoring weed (I didn’t smoke, anyway). The weed discussion is particularly funny now because in Grenada you can get weed easier than you can get an STD. And STD’s are Grenada’s leading export. Having trouble finding weed in Grenada is like having trouble finding an Asian in downtown Tokyo.

Like I said, being a skater had a lot more to do with lifestyle than with actually skating. It was about being in a counterculture, it was about how kids with unstable home lives found solace in each other, it was about being an underdog, it was about rebellion, it was about not having a fair chance at life and wanting to lash out against The Man. So you can see how a private school-educated, middle class white boy with two parents at home just had to take up with a bunch of skaters.

These skater friends of mine were living out Jackass way before that movie was released. My friend Scott, along with another guy, once put pantyhose over his head and casually strolled through McDonald’s wearing only a pair of Van’s. And if you don’t know what Van’s are, then you probably also have no idea what an “ollie” is and the only reason you are still reading this is because you are a close friend of mine and you know that I’ll ask you if you read my new blog about 100 times and it will be easier to read it and tell me that you enjoyed it than it will be to have me annoy you about reading it. Anyway, Van’s are shoes.

Scott and my other skater friends would casually get naked in large groups of people just to see people’s stunned reactions. I distinctly remember one New Year’s Eve when there was a party at Grenada Lake. Scott and a few other guys emerged from the woods completely naked and walked past me at a normal pace on their way to do whatever it was that naked people do in 30 degree weather. And I’ll never forget this: As Scott walked past me he said, “Please don’t laugh at my penis.” It was the most honest thing anyone has ever said to me in my life. I mean, that just gets right to heart of the thing, doesn’t it? Immediately after he said it, he broke into a sprint and ran full speed toward a cliff with a 30-foot drop to the sand below. He jumped as far as he could and when he landed 30 feet later, he hit the ground so hard that it knocked sand into his ears (and God only knows what other orifices…he WAS naked, after all). And he laughed about it.

Another time, I saw Scott strip to his underwear and jump off the emergency spillway bridge. He timed his jump to coincide with the passing of a car. The look of horror on that driver’s face was absolutely haunting. I witnessed this man as he watched a kid falling to his death and I have never seen such terror in another man’s eyes. So naturally we laughed at the guy and called him a wuss as he slammed on his brakes. Scott swam to the edge after his 40 foot leap, put his clothes back on, and rejoined the party. And at this point in my life, stuff like this happened all the time. I can’t believe how these outrageous episodes seemed so normal. During my year-and-a-half skater era, I was banned from Kroger (for huffing Kool-Whip…which I didn’t even do), banned from Subway for “tagging” the tables with a gigantic magic marker, stole a lot of Christmas decorations (I have no idea why we did this), egged about a million cars from a bridge over I-55, and did about a million other stupid things.

My Skater friends, Scott in particular, were obsessive about carrying backpacks with them everywhere. It’s a trait that I developed with those guys and still have today. Scott was the only person at the high school who had permission from the principal to carry a backpack. They knew that he would never carry a gun because he would never take his breakfast cereal out to make room for a gun. He actually carried around a backpack full of breakfast cereal. He ate it dry. And by the handful.

My junior year of high school, something bizarre took place. I became popular. Oh, I was never the most popular guy in school, but I was no longer an outcast. And I grew apart from my skater friends. I haven’t seen most of them in almost 15 years. I have no clue whatever became of most of those guys.

Earlier this week, my mom called and told me that the paper was reporting that Scott was missing. In the story, his father said that he left his backpack when he exited his house that day and his backpack contained his prescription meds. I guess he had to carry a little less cereal to make room for those. His father also said that he loved spending time at the lake. I guess some things never change.

I don’t know why I’m writing all of this now. All my friends I’ve had through the years have helped shape who I am (so some of you reading this are to blame). Looking back now, I can see that a touch of my anything-goes sense-of-humor was forged during those years of watching Scott and the rest of the skaters recognize a line…and go leaping over it with gusto. Or identify a taboo subject…and then attacking it. And we would laugh so hard that our sides hurt. And I miss those days.

So Scott, wherever you are…Johnny Knoxville doesn’t have crap on you, brother.

Sk8 or Die.

Calvin Really Needs to Consult a Urologist

2006-10-17T07:45:00.000-07:00

Guys, I’m worried about Calvin. I’m sure most of you feel the same way. I don’t know how to approach him about his problem. I’ve discussed it with most of Calvin’s friends and we’ve come to the conclusion that he probably has a serious medical condition. None of us can figure out the best way to bring it up around him. Frankly, it is quite embarrassing for all of us. We’ve even tried to contact Hobbes to get him to weigh in on the subject.

It seems that Calvin has a urinary tract infection, or an abnormal bladder condition, or maybe suffering from diabetic symptoms. This is a very crude statement to make but I think bluntness is the only way to talk about it: Every time I see Calvin, he’s peeing on something or someone. We all love Calvin and respect Calvin, but it’s getting pretty freakin’ ridiculous. I mean, what is up with Calvin? Who behaves like this? Certainly Dagwood or Beetle Bailey or Jeffy from Family Circus wouldn’t pull some crap like this (although I think Marmaduke would consider it).

What has gotten into Calvin lately? The thing that bothers me so much isn’t so much that Calvin’s bladder control leaves so much to be desired. I know a lot of older people suffer from incontinence and they can’t really control when and where they let if fly. And if that were the case with Calvin, then he would have my sympathy. But guys, here’s the thing that REALLY bothers me: I think Calvin actually ENJOYS peeing on stuff. You’ll think I’m crazy, but I have seen Calvin sporting a devilish grin while getting his piss on. In fact, every time I’ve caught him in mid-urination, he’s smirking and scowling over his shoulder as if he’s saying, “That’s right. I’m Calvin…and I’m pissing on this Chevy symbol and there’s nothing you can do about it.” I’ve even caught him…well…I’ll just come right out and say it: flipping the bird with one hand while using the other to assist with his peeing. Guys, at that point he’s not peeing for relief. He’s peeing with an agenda. And it makes me uneasy.

As near as I can tell, Calvin’s peeing agenda is far-reaching. I have seen him spraying down Chevy, Ford, Jeff Gordon’s number 24, Jap Crap, Work, Bin Laden, City Boys, and My Ex. Apparently Native American Calvin also is not fond of “broken treaties” and feels that they deserve a golden shower, as well. Fireman Calvin’s stance appears to be that “fires” need a good pissin,’ and Navy Calvin’s position on the U.S. Army is that they are too urine-free for their own good.

For a while there I thought Calvin was a big hater. I was forced to re-examine this idea when I saw Calvin pissing on “haters.”

I don’t want you guys to think I’m just ripping on Calvin. He’s an alright guy. I should probably point out that he’s become very religious as of late. I’ve noticed him kneeled in prayer directly in the shadow of the cross quite often. In fact, every single time I’ve seen Calvin when he wasn’t peeing on things, he was praying. It’s a vicious cycle that he needs to break. Pee on things, ask for forgiveness, pee on things, ask for forgiveness. I’m afraid that one day he’ll get mixed up and accidentally pee on the cross and then ask the Chevy logo for forgiveness. That would make the Jesus Fish hopping mad. Well, not hopping mad, because the Jesus Fish doesn’t have feet. But it might make the Darwin Fish hopping mad. The Ducks Unlimited Duck doesn’t seem to mind all the peeing. He told me that all that piss just rolled off his back like water off…well, you know.

Anyway, if any of you guys talk to Calvin any time soon, let him know that the whole peeing on things deal is just a little bit out of control. And if you hear from Hobbes, see if you can get him to reach out.

And for the love of God, make sure Calvin doesn’t get invited to that high school cheerleading squad carwash fundraiser over at R. Kelly’s house this weekend.

Greyhound: The Only Way to Fly...uhh, I Mean Ride

2006-04-27T21:02:00.000-07:00

Anyone who is reading this is probably thinking, "Wait a minute, Lyle, you are supposed to be on the Appalachian Tail being chased by inbred hillbillies who aren't too picky when it comes to their sexual proclivities right now. So how are you typing this?"

And the answer is simple. Remember my last post where I talked about all my injuries and how my body couldn't possibly hold up to such a beating? It didn't. My knee swoll up like that thing on Aaron Neville's head and I had to take a couple of weeks off. I found myself in Fontana, North Carolina with no way back to the friendly confines of North Mississippi (where the sex-crazed hillbilles at least chase you across flat land). Fontana isn't a town. It's a "village." It's very quaint and charming. Like Jonestown. As a matter of fact, the whole village is privately owned. There was one general store, one restaurant, one outfitter, one hotel, one brothel, one sheep (they pass him around when no hikers are around to be chased). OK, I made up the part about the brothel and the sheep. Of course there could be no brothel because then there would be something to do in the village. And if there is one thing that absolutely categorizes Fontana, it's that there is absolutely nothing to do. The pool didn't open until Memorial Day. Neither did the ice cream parlor. Or the other (cheaper) restaurant. If there actually had been a community sheep, I'm sure it wouldn't have been available until then either. There were also no cellphone towers and just a handful of channels on the hotel TV. There should have been a sign at the entrance that read "Welcome to Fontana Village. Please set your watches back 30 years."

I went to the post office (I think the Pony Express was involved) and addressed the lady behind the counter, "Excuse me, I hurt my knee on the A.T. and I need to get back to Memphis or north Mississippi somehow. How can I go about that? Is there a train station or a bus station?"

Post Office Lady: "Your best bet is to walk to Gatlinburg."

Me: "Gatlinburg is 40 miles away. Through the Smokies. My knee is hurt, you see. You can notice it by looking at how my leg looks like snke that just swallowed a baby pig."

P.O.L.: "Well, Asheville is 150 miles away. Maybe you can try that."

Me: "OK, we aren't understanding each other. Do you see how my knee looks like Barry Bonds' head? I'm pretty sure that it will EXPLODE if I climb any more mountains for a while."

P.O.L.: "Maybe you should just walk to Gatli..."

This was the end of our conversation because before she could finish I had turned and limped out the door. But let me tell you about the kindness of people in Appalachians. I found an elderly couple who were willing to drive me to the Waynesville Greyhound Station the next morning. They were just the kindest, sweetest old couple you ever saw. You could tell that they had seen it all been through thick and thin together. All they wanted was to live out their remaining years helping out their fellow man. So they charged me $80 for the ride. I crap you not.

Upon my arrival in Waynesville, I was treated to an hour and a half wait at the station which was really a gas station with a chair. I helped myself to a honey bun and a chocolate milk and had a delightful conversation with a lazy-eyed girl behind the counter. At least I think she was talking to me. She felt that I should be aware that she was only working at the gas station while she put herself through hairdresser school. I believe it's called cosmetology but that might be the word for Russian astronauts. I quickly decided that this was the equivalent of a stripper who "is just doing this to put myself through college." I wanted to tell her that there was no need to apologize for her crappy job. She had no way of knowing that my job is quite a bit crappier than hers, but I had a mouthful of honey bun so I just let it go.

When I finally got on the Greyhound...well...I don't even know where to begin. Think of the worst possibly stereotypes for every race on earth and then make it a little smellier. Then you might have the smallest inkling of the average Greyhound customer. Black people? Thugs who talk about hittin' the chronic and yelling "holla at me, beeyotch" to every girl with a hint of a butt who walked by. The white people were either A) exactly like the black folks, only they were white (but they talked black, dressed in Fubu gear, had on huge bling) or B) were teeth-missing, dagger-tattoo-having, wife-beater-wearing white trash. The Mexicans, well, I couldn't understand them but there were lots and lots and lots of them. Lots. There weren't any Irishmen there but I'm sure they would have been drunk if there had been.

I had a lovely 4 hour wait in the Knoxville station. I had only been to one University of Tennessee football game in Knoxville before this visit. It was pretty much the same experience.

At some point during this layover a very cute girl who was about 18 came in with 4 pieces of luggage. She was blonde and had blue eyes and was wearing a little baby tee and a short skirt. She couldn't have been more out of place if she had been a turd in a punchbowl. Immediately, and I mean immediately every skanky, crusty man in the place turned their attention to her and started making loud comments about her to everyone within earshot. I walked over to the girl and said, "Ummmm, you don't know me or anything, but I'm going to sit next to you so you don't get murdered." I don't believe anyone has ever been so grateful that a wuss like myself would be watching their back. Sadly, she didn't get on the bus to Memphis with me. I'm sure they found her in a trunk somewhere. Or maybe a ditch.

The Greyhound ride reminded me a lot of the time I had scabies. That should be their motto: "Ride Greyhound and Feel Like You Have Scabies!"

I'd rather hitchhike on Ted Bundy's street.

I Am Still Alive...Though I Still Have No Life: Bring on the AT

2006-02-19T15:03:00.000-08:00

It's been a really long time since I've written anything on this blog. I know my many fans (I can count them on 3 fingers) are disappointed and have had to rely on re-reading the archives to get their daily dose of Lyle.

Anyway, here's the big news: I'm going to hike the Appalachian Trail. For those who don't know, the AT is a 2100 mile trail over the Appalachian Mountains (the name almost gives it away) from Georgia to Maine.

"But Wait!" you are thinking, "Since you have started writing this blog, I have learned that your athletic ability peaked at age 12, you have terrible ankles, you were in pitiful shape when you were playing intramural basketball, you are back in school, and you are generally just a gigantic pansy who gets hurt everytime you venture into the wilderness."

And to that I say, good point. Add to that the fact that the last time I went camping with the two people who are hiking with me, a rattlesnake nearly killed me, and I would say: Excellent point.

But I would counter: Even though my athletic ability peaked at 12, I was only slightly more athletic even then. It's kind of like a big fat person bragging about how "that was the summer I was down to 350" after they balloon up to 400. Like 350 was really the glory days.

I do, in fact, have terrible ankles. Nineteen sprains between the two of them. This is a concern.

I'm taking the semester off school. You know how you meet people who take off school and you ask them why? They always get this serious faraway look on their face and say "I'm just going to find myself." Well, those people are morons. They have already found themselves. They just didn't like who they found. I have a free semester because that's just the way it worked out. I figured I could hang around Oxford and work at the job that makes me want to vomit my guts out on a daily basis or I could go for a walk. Easy choice.

You are probably also saying to yourself: "But Lyle, you can't go 45 minutes without eating large quantities of food that would kill a normal person." Well, I can't argue that either. There was a study that was released last year that claimed that Burger King stock dropped 19 points when I lived in Australia. Baskin-Robbins nearly went belly up during that same year. But "The Chicken Shop" in Springwood, New South Wales had earnings that surpassed Microsoft during that same year. This has become known in economic circles as the "Lyle Morgan Variable." The owner of the Springwood Chicken Shop, a man known as "That Chinese Dude With that Wierd Thing on His Face" actually passed Rupert Murdoch on the list of richest Australians during 2001. Sadly, he didn't fully grasp the "Lyle Morgan Variable" or know when my visa expired and he lost it all when I returned to the States in 2002. He was last seen selling t-shirts next to the Sydney Opera House promoting "Paul Hogan for Prime Minister, 1986."

But I digress. So, yes, this little stroll will probably be the hardest thing I've ever attempted. I'm going to miss Pirates of the Caribbean 2 out there. Oh, the humanity!

The Blog Turns 1!!!! Lyle Turns Older than 1!!!!!!

2005-10-04T11:40:00.000-07:00

Okay, first of all, big shout-out to Leigh Ann's roommate whose name escapes me (Laura or Lauren, or Laurie or something).

I started this blog last October for therapy I guess. I was seriously depressed and on the verge having a breakdown. I could look at my life from a distance and kind of shake my head and say "Wow, that's pathetic." And it was. I was living with my parents, didn't have a job, couldn't get any women, wasn't exactly sure what to do with my life, couldn't get into shape, and woke up every day saying "Why am I on planet earth?"

BUT WHAT A DIFFERENCE A YEAR MAKES!!!! I don't live with my parents anymore. Well, basically everything else is the same. Baby steps. Anyway.

The blog originally started because I had just had a birthday and was feeling lower than a Delta high school's ACT scores. And tomorrow I have another birthday. I won't say how old I'll be because I stopped paying attention when I started getting closer to 30 than 20.

So I started thinking...am I really all that different than I was 10 years ago? What about 15 years ago? 20 years?

THINGS I ENJOYED DOING 10 YEARS AGO THAT I ENJOY TODAY:
-going to the movies
-playing basketball
-flirting with 18-old-girls
-eating junk food
-wearing sneakers
-wearing Hawaiian shirts
-listening to Jimmy Buffett
-riding around Grenada Lake jamming out to Blues Traveller's "Four," sporting my coolest "Rough Hewn" shirt, making plans to see Happy Gilmore at the movies, while wondering if this whole "internet" thing was just a fad.

OK, the last one I don't enjoy anymore.

THINGS I ENJOYED 15 YEARS AGO THAT I ENJOY TODAY:
-going to the movies
-playing basketball
-looking at 18-year-old girls
-eating junk food
-wearing sneakers
-telling dirty jokes
-telling dirty jokes at inappropriate times
-telling dirty jokes to inappropriate people
-watching the Simpsons
-wearing my football jersey to school on gamedays while making my mom switch the radio station so I can hear "Janey's Got a Gun" and wondering if girls found guys who weighed 98 pounds attactive

Made that last one up again...I don't do that stuff anymore and I now weigh slightly more than twice that much.

THINGS I DID 20 YEARS AGO THAT I STILL ENJOY TODAY:
-playing on Slip n' Slides
-playing football video games
-wondering why girls are so stupid and confusing
-idolizing Larry Bird
-wondering why the crap David Lee Roth left Van Halen
-wearing a little mini-mullet

Again, just kidding on the last one. No mullet anymore...one of my friends says I have a "Front-Mullet" now though.

So now I'm forced to look at myself and ask "Will I ever be a grownup?" Will I ever look at myself in the mirror and think "Before me stands an adult?" God forbid that ever happens.

Mortgage. Lyle jr. SUV payment. Cholesterol. High School Reunion. These are all words that scare the crap out of me.

I want to be Peter Pan.

"After changes upon changes we are more or less the same, after changes we are more or less the same." - Paul Simon

Basketball Games Where All the Players are Six Feet Tall and White: Athleticism at it's Finest!

2005-07-17T14:39:00.000-07:00

I've been meaning for some time to recap my intramural basketball season. It ended back in February or March or something. I think enough time has passed that my level of shame and humiliation is now at a manageable place in my heart.

Some of my friends that I work with at the dreaded textbook store talked me into being on their basketball team back when I re-enrolled in school. I was very wary because A.) I'm 27 and most everyone in the league is 20, B) I'm about 50 pounds heavier than I was back when I could actually play basketball and C.) Because I once was pretty good, I have some severe pride issues. I envisioned dragging my old, out of shape butt up and down the court trying in vain to keep up with guys as much as 9 years younger than me and watching them blow by me for layup after layup. This is, of course, exactly what happened.

The first time I went to "practice" with my teammates, we absolutely slaughtered a group of ROTC guys who also were in the league. Our front line was 6'4" and 6'3" and that's a pretty good-sized middle for intramurals. My teammates decided I should play point guard. Now, I am a natural born point guard. I can legitimately pass the ball better than anyone I've ever played against. I can also dribble and shoot fairly well. But sometime in the last 7 years my body absolutely betrayed me. Kind of like Tom Cruise's mind has betrayed him. I can't jump or run anymore. My knees and feet feel like Joan Rivers' face looks. My mind sees something on the court but my body moves at such a slow speed that it doesn't matter.

There are several types of guys involved with intramural hoops. The first kind is:

THE WAY TOO SERIOUS GUY:

This guy is really, really into intramural basketball. He talks trash, screams at the top of his lungs whenever he gets a rebound or blocks a shot, and scowls at all his teammates and the refs. This is the kind of guy who bet on a runner at the Special Olympics and then trip the other kids so his guy wins. I pretty much wanted to punch every guy that I encountered like this. This guy was usually seen checking the standings as if they were x-rays of his mom's cancer. Usually this guy wasn't even all that good.

THE TOTAL GEEK:

I have no explanation for why this guy ever played. There were lots of them though. Didn't have a trace of athletic ability, didn't know the rules, got pushed around. I would understand it if they appeared to be having fun but they usually looked miserable. I guess it's no fun to have the wind knocked out of you while trying to get a rebound.

THE GUY WHO HAS NO BUSINESS PLAYING INTRAMURAL BASKETBALL:

This is the most infuriating of all the guys. This guy is so freaking good that he just wrecks whoever tries to guard him. There was one guy who used to play for the Ole Miss varsity out there. He rode the bench for Barnes but the dude was 6'8" and weighed 260. Why in the world was if fun for him to play against us? For him it was like playing chess against someone who deaf, blind, and retarded. There was another guy who must have been in grad school or something because he was a starter on an Ole Miss team that won the freaking division in the 90's. This was how their offense wnet. Dribble, dribble, pass it to dude, dunk. Dribble, dribble, pass it to dude, three pointer. Dribble, Dribble, pass it to dude, dunk again. Sometime they would mix it up by letting him get the rebound, dribble it up himself and then dunk.

GUY WHO IS BASICALLY JUST REALLY COOL AND GOOD-LOOKING AND THERE JUST FOR FUN:

This was just me.

GIRLFRIENDS OF THE GUYS PLAYING:

These were the only specatators ever. Usually they were pretty good looking and it was emabarassing to screw up in front of them even though you knew they weren't there to see you. Generally these girls started out intently watching the game for the first 17 seconds. Then they would talk on their cellphones. Their boyfriends, who were always frat guys, would do something that were very proud of (it was usually something that was a regular white guy move...like an uncontested layup), then they would look into the crowd and see their girlfriend on the phone and getted pissed that she missed his moment of glory. It was quite entertaining.

My team pretty much sucked and we didnt't make the playoffs. It was pretty fun though. During one game I hit a three at the end of regulation to send the game into overtime (we lost in double overtime). That was the first time I ever did anything like that. Also, I had an opportunity to put on a sweat-soaked jersey immediately after the first game ended. That was pretty great.

Billie Jean is Not my Lover, She's just a Girl Who Says That I am The One...and I'm Trying to Bang Her Son

2005-06-16T14:02:00.000-07:00

Michael Jackson.

First of all, I didn't watch the trial. I have never watched a celebrity trial. I generally just don't care about that crap. Robert Blake? Never heard of the guy until he killed his wife. O.J.? Destroyed the future of the "Naked Gun" series when he went midieval on Ron and Nicole. I didn't care about O.J., but I felt kind of bad for Nordberg. R. Kelly? I gotta admit, if that one would have been on T.V., I would have watched it. He peed on the girl. That's a heck of a lot more interesting than murder. I wish they would have a case like that on C.S.I.

Warrick: (said with that Warrick wierd eyebrow scowl): "Grissom, we talked to the girl but she claims to have wiped the pee off with a towel and then she threw it somewhere in the Indian Ocean."

Grissom: (handing Warrick and Nick a scuba tank and goggles while smirking): "Rent a boat."

Now there's Michael Jackson. Has he ever molested children? Only God, Micheal, and the children know for sure. Oh yeah, except for the other 6 billion people on planet earth with functioning brain tissue. Well, make that 5 billion. I won't count the Japanese and Chinese fans who always turn up to cry when Michael walks by. This has always baffled me. Do his songs even translate into Japanese? How does "Sham On" and "Annie is you OK" translate into other languages? I mean, I understand "Eeeeheeee" translating, but not "Sham On."

Another thing I don't understand is whenever they talk about him in the media, they always say the usual crap about him being a freak, yadda, yadda, yadda...but then they always add, "But there's no denying that he's a musical genius." Well, I'm calling B.S. on that. I don't think a legitimate list would ever look like this:

1. Mozart
2. Beethoven
3. Michael Jackson
4. Bach
5. Handel

And so on and so on. Let's see here...does he play an instrument. No. Does he sing particularly well? For a guy without a nose, cheeks, lips, or tongue I guess he's decent. Does he write great lyrics? Well, see if you can pick out the Michael Jackson lyric from this list:

1. Secrets that we shared and mountains that we moved/caught like a wildfire burning out of control/until there was nothing left to burn/and nothing left to prove...
2. If you thinkin' bout bein' my baby, it don't matta if you black or white.
3. It's getting dark/too dark to see/ feels like I'm knocking on heaven's door.

So I'm not really understanding the "musical genius" thing. I can't really tell any difference in Usher and Michael. Oh, except for the whole "Usher isn't a total nutjob" deal.

Seriously though, I think Michael Jackson just tries to help people less fortunate than him and is just a big kid at heart and just loves to be around children. And when I say "help people less fortunate" I mean "molest their children." And when I say "big kid at heart" I mean "pedophile." And when I say "to be around children" I of course mean "touch their wieners."

Sham on.

Return of the Cynical Man

2005-06-14T12:43:00.000-07:00

So I guess it's been months since I've posted anything. I have no idea if anyone will ever read this. I have been a blog slacker. And it's not because the world has been harder to mock. Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes, the terrible remake of "The Longest Yard," my experience with a special education class, intramural basketball season, Michael Jackson, all the girls at Ole Miss wearing skimpy clothes for spring and summer, the two weddings I have been in, and on and on. There are plenty of things for me to rail on and/or make fun of myself over.

School is just beating me like I owe it money right now (in fact, I do owe it money). I intend to pick up the rants and vents again soon though.

Stay tuned.

All the World's a Stage

2005-03-28T08:16:00.000-08:00

I had to go to a play the other night. It was a requirement for my Theater Appreciation class. They should really change the name of that class because after watching the play I realized that I don't appreciate theater anymore than I used to.

Let me make clear that I'm not TOTALLY devoid of culture. I have read books that are considered classics. And enjoyed a few of them (I just enjoyed books by James Patterson a whole lot more). I have seen the Sydney Symphony perform and I found it quite pleasing (just not as pleasing as seeing Jimmy Buffett or the Allman Brothers). So I went into this play with an open mind. I really did. No, really. Honestly. I was just really hoping that:

A: There would be a set.
B: There wouldn't be really effeminate guys playing regular masculine roles.
C: A plot.

That's not really a lot to ask for is it? Of course it is. This was a play put on by the theater department at Ole Miss. There are no masculine theater majors. Not one. So I go to this play by myself (I knew that I didn't have any friends who were willing to go to this thing so I didn't even ask..."Need to borrow some cash? No problem"..."Need me to come bail you out? I'm on my way"..."You need an alibi for the murder charge? I'll say you were with me." I know my friends could utter any of these statements at some point in my life. But I will never be able to envision a situation arising in which one of them would say, "Sure I'll pay $10 to go watch the student production of "Art" with you.")

Yes, the name of the play was "Art." I should have known there wouldn't be a plot. As soon as I walked in I saw that the entire set was three chairs sitting in the middle of the stage. That's two strikes. I was relying on guys who weren't extremely effeminate...And I shouldn't have. The three guys in the play pretty much floated across the stage. I don't think their feet ever touched the ground.

You know how you watch a movie set in the south and all the actors in the movie aren't from the south and they all do horrible southern accents? They say "you-all" instead of ya'll...and they use it when addressing ONE PERSON? (ex: Allison Eastwood in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil addressing John Cusack: "Do you all have some ice?" AAAARRRRGGGGGHH! This drives me crazy.) I realized that having guys, who while not necessarily gay, are just so limp wristed playing manly men is just as annoying and absurd. At one point the characters left their chairs to have a fight and it was like watching a daisy fight tulip while a buttercup waited for a chance to jump in. I mean, there was just nothing threatening about this fight.

The entire audience roared throughout the play. They thought it was just the funniest thing since the platypus. Everytime one of the actors would use the F-word it would get a huge laugh. But not from me. I was offended at how poorly they used the F-word. Ever seen the Kings of Comedy? Now THAT'S how you use the F-bomb. Bernie Mac and Steve Harvey can say that word 75 different ways and it's hysterical. Effeminate guys yelling it just sounds whiny to me.

You want to hear a remarkable contrast? I also attended a live pro wrestling event earlier in the week. That, like intramural hoops, will have to get it's own post later. I will say that the Nancy Pants fighting of the play was just as intimidating as the absurd body slams of the WWE.

And now I leave you with a deep bow from the waist and a hand flourish...

Spring Break Post # 2 (I should have changed the name of the blog to "I'm finally at the Beach" for last week)

2005-03-21T08:00:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm back from Spring Break. And man, am I relaxed.

Not really. Actually, my biology teacher, a real prince of a man, gave us a test at 8 AM the Monday after Spring Break. The man is Scott Peterson-heartless. I guess since he's from some unspecified foreign country where they don't have Spring Break, he doesn't understand how the Old Guy needs to unwind. I believe he's from one of the Balkan countries. Maybe Yugoslavia. Haven't they been killing each other over there for about 100 years? Don't they understand the need to just take a break every once in a while? Will somebody with connections please get W on the phone and tell him to make me an Ambassador to all the Balkan Nations?

I would clean that part of the world up with my plan for instituting Spring Break. Tell me this wouldn't work:

"Slobodan, you can continue with all this ethnic cleansing/slaughter crap...OR...you can trade in your guns for beer funnels, drive on down to the Italian coast, and have a foam party with a bunch of girls who are aching to flash a total stranger for the "Girls Gone Wild: Baltic Nations Edtion."

Who wouldn't rather do this than shoot someone? Vlade Divac is behind me on this one I bet. I've caught his eyes wandering toward the Laker Girls too often for him to not be down with this idea.

Anyway, my professor with the heart as black as coal scheduled this test and I'm pretty sure I failed it. Oh well.

Now to see if my predictions came true:

- I did want to hear Jimmy Buffett in the car, but I didn't take my CDs. This may have been the hugest mistake of my life (and I once ate dog food on a dare at Hood's house.)
- My driving companions never really did get mad at me. This was a miracle on the level of Moses parting the Red Sea. God must have granted us ridiculous reserves of patience.
- It didn't rain and it wasn't cold. However, the wind did blow like a mofo. The first day on the beach I gave up when the sand actually filled my ear as I was reading.
- I didn't get sunburned. This may be the first time this has ever happened. My sunburns usually resemble a flesh-eating virus. I turn lobster-red, my skin bubbles, I itch like crazy, and I whine like a little girl. None of this happened this time. Maybe it's because I put on enough sunscreen to stop a bullet.
- I never actually heard anyone yell, "SPRING BRAY-YEK!" at the top of their lungs. I guess it's because a very generous friend let us stay in her condo. I felt like a pauper in the palace in this place. College students weren't staying anywhere near where we stayed. Perrier poured from the showers.
- Unfortunately, the car that was blasting Usher was the one I was riding in. But I did get a newfound appreciation for Usher. I had no idea that someone could put out something like 5 albums where every single song on every album is about "freaking the honeys." Pretty impressive. My name is U-S...H-E-R...
- Nobody was playing football on the beach, so Rossetti and I didn't make fun of anyone. We did, however, spend a whole afternoon kayaking around talking manly while secretly fearing that we would capsize and humiliate ourselves. We paddled under the big bridge in Destin. So now Rossetti and I have paddled under that bridge and also the I-40 bridge that runs from Memphis to Arkansas over the Mississippi River. We are a modern-day Lewis and Clark. And by that I mean Jerry Lewis and Dick Clark. That's about how much skill we have with a paddle in our hands. More than once our companions looked at us and then looked at Rossetti's baby and pleaded sincerely with us "Ya'll be careful" before we set out.
- The baby did not puke on me. But he did pee on Lindsay. This led to me nicknaming the baby "R Kelly." And if you didn't get that joke, consider yourself lucky.
- I ate about 2 1/2 pounds of shrimp and 1/2 pound of crab meat. This did not equal my body weight. I put up a valiant effort.
- I didn't get a tattoo. I considered having Larry Bird's Celtic jersey (road Green, of course) cover my entire upper body, but then punked out.

Sorry I didn't get the Baywatch line exactly right on my last post. Luckily, I have total losers who read this and can correct me. I may not know all the words to that themesong but I sure as heck know all the words to Magnum P.I.'s theme.

"Dunh, Dunh, Dunh, DUNH!!! Bumpadumpa da bumpadumpa da bumpadumpa da DUNH DUNH!"

Floridays: My Odyssey As The Old Guy in College Continues

2005-03-11T08:38:00.000-08:00

Now that I've flirted with freshman chicks, flunked a Biology quiz, played a season of intramural basketball (that will get a whole post unto itself later), lived off Ramen Noodles, sat in the outfield and taunted opposing outfielders, listened to some bands at Proud Larry's, played darts at Murff's, attended the Thacker Mountain Radio Show numerous times, and flirted with more freshman chicks, it's time to fulfill the last thing that will complete my transformation back into a college student: Spring Break in Florida.

That's right, after I take my quiz in Theater Appreciation, I'm off to Destin for a week of debauchery. Well, it's only mild debauchery. OK, actually there will be no debauchery. It will be as wholesome as an episode of Little House on the Prairie, actually. The cast of characters involved will be:

1. Three high school girls (this sounds like debauchery, but it's not. Two of them were campers when I was a camp counselor, one is my friend's little sister)

2. My two friends and their baby.

3. The mom of one of the high school girls.

4. A friend who may or may not want to kill me by the end of the drive (odds are 4-1 that she will, indeed, want to kill me).

So all in all it will be a strange mixture of slack-jawed yokels crashing at this condo.

So now I will make my predictions about this trip. When I get back, I will post an update on whether or not these predictions came true.

- I will immediately want to play Jimmy Buffett music in the car.
- My driving companions will get sick of Jimmy Buffett 1/3 of the way through the first song.
- We will scream at each other before we even get to I-55.
- It will rain.
- It will be cold.
- It will be overcast.
- I'll get sunburned anyway.
- On of my friends will forget I'm sunburned and slap me on the back for some inexplicable reason (ever notice how nobody ever slaps you on the back when you aren't sunburned?)
- Some drunken yahoo will stick his head out of a passing car and scream "SPRING BRAY-YEK!" at the top of his lungs.
- Usher will be played by every car full of girls.
- Lots of guys will dive for footballs on the beach in an attempt to impress girls.
- Rossetti and I will make fun of those guys.
- The baby will puke on me.
- I will eat my weight in shrimp.
- I will talk about getting a tattoo the whole way down there, get to the beach and see how ridiculous all the guys with tattoos look, and then I will change my mind.
- I'll get home and whine about how I didn't get a tattoo.

I'll try to update everyone on my little social experiment as the Old Guy on Spring Break. We'll see how it goes. Maybe I'll enter a wet t-shirt contest. Maybe I'll bungee jump. Maybe I'll body-paint a pair of speedos on myself. Who knows? There's just no limit to the amount of zaniness that can occur when the Old Guy goes on Spring Break.

I'll keep you posted.

"Some people live in the darkness, afraid to step into the light..."

Bonus points for anyone who can tell me what line this is from.
-

Happy V.D.!

2005-02-14T09:50:00.000-08:00

Today I will be writing about Valentine's Day. Since I'll be having to type it so often, I'll just refer to it as V.D. for the rest of this post.

So, it's time for V.D. Does anyone really like V.D.? I mean, I've talked to a lot of people about this and one thing I have concluded is that nobody likes V.D. Most people think it's a big old pain in the butt (or other places...like the wallet, ha ha).

Single people hate V.D. So do people who are married or dating someone. V.D. is just one big hassle. And it's espensive too! It seems like everyone I know is spending a ton of money on V.D. They don't want to, but they all say it's necessary. Most of them say they can't wait until it's over. It's V.D.-this and V.D.-that with all my friends. Everywhere I turn it seems people are eaten up with V.D.

Nobody even thinks about V.D. until it rears it's ugly head. Then they can't stop thinking about it. Sometimes I just want to scream, "GET OUT OF MY FACE WITH ALL THIS V.D.!"

But I guess we all better get used to it. V.D. is here and it's not going anywhere anytime soon. It's here to stay.

Anyway, I hope you all make the best of it and spread your V.D. cheer wherever you can today.

Stupor Bowl Monday

2005-02-07T07:40:00.000-08:00

Well, the Super Bowl was yesterday. Does anybody really care? Two teams that I have no emotional interest in played yet again. The Patriots won. Again.

The Patriots are probably the most boring team to ever play professional football. It's like watching paint dry. And Tom Brady...how much do I hate this guy? My friend Goode summed it all up one night, "Nobody should have it that good." He's right. The reason I hate Tom Brady is jealousy, pure and simple. The guy never loses, he never makes a mistake, and to quote George Costanza: "I have an unblemished record of staunch heterosexuality," but even I have to admit that the guy is handsome. Is there any guy in the world who wouldn't trade places with Tom Brady? No. We all would. No matter who you are, no matter how successful and rich and good looking you are...you'd still trade places with him. During the halftime show Paul McCartney kept thinking "Man, I wish I was Tom Brady...even though I hate him." I could see it on Paul's face.

How about that halftime show anyway? What old fossil will they drag out next year to entertain the crowd? Pat Boone? Tony Bennett? I watched the Super Bowl with a large church youth group and they couldn't have been more uninterested in Sir Paul. Here are some of the great lines I heard during his performance:

"Who is this old guy?"
"Can he get away with that politically incorrect song...Hey Jew?"
"Maybe he'll fall down and break his hip and that will be interesting."
"Where is the DJ?"
"Where are the dancers?"
"Call me when another commercial comes on."
"Was he in the Monkees?"
"Who were the Monkees?"
"Didn't the Beatles rip off the Monkees?"
"Is this guy even from America?"
"His guitar is stupid looking."
"Live and Let Die? He's ripping off Guns N' Roses!"
"Who are Guns N' Roses?"
"Naa, Naa, Naa, Naa, Naa, Naa, Naa...Hey Jew!" (all at once)
"So the Beatles were named John, George, Ringo, and Sir?"
"Is that Justin Timberlake's dad?"
"I think I saw this old guy on a Saturday Night Live rerun once."

Personally, I thought it was the best halftime show I've ever seen. I understand the kid's disappointment though. Most of them don't have Cinemax and this was their one shot at seeing a boob this year. Oh well.

I didn't pay a whole lot of attention to the commercials. I only looked up every once in a while so I'm not sure I was actually saw what I think I saw. I think I saw a bear kicking Burt Reynolds in the nuts and I think I saw M.C. Hammer get thrown over a fence. Other than that I don't really remember anything...oh yeah, I saw about 100 different Ford Mustang commercials. I highly recommend getting Mustang convertible. They make you feel pretty cool. Until they fall apart and you have to get a Pontiac because it's "dependable."

The game itself was as boring as every Super Bowl. I'm a Saints fan so my usual method of following football goes like this: Pull really hard for the Saints and then jump on someone else's bandwagon when the Saints are mathmatically eliminated from the playoffs in Week 7. This year I jumped on the Colts bandwagon. It didn't pay off.

Anyway, those are my thoughts on the Super Bowl.

Tom Brady, may the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits.

Holy Crap! This Woman Is Crazy!

2005-01-21T09:20:00.000-08:00

A lot of you may not know that I don't have a television. Well, that's not actually true. I do have a television, but I don't have cable and I don't have bunny ears so I only use the television to watch DVD's. Whenever there is a big news story, I'm usually the last to know. I know that I'm not always the most informed person on a lot of topics because of this. But I just heard about something that's so outrageous that I HAVE to speak up and be heard.

Have you heard about this woman in the Pacific Ocean who's been going around killing everyone and destroying crap? I keep hearing people talking about her at work and around town. I'm not sure of all the details, but frankly I'm outraged. Her name is Sue Nahmi. I'm not really sure if that's how you spell her last name. Those wacky foreigners with their funny names! Ha.

Anyway, this chick bumrushed about 100 countries and just wiped out all these people who were just chillin' on the beach and minding their own business. What's up with that? I personally think that anyone who would do that is pretty sick in the head. She tore up a bunch of buildings and stuff too. I guess Sue is really pissed off or something. Maybe she didn't get enough attention as a child. Too bad nobody hugged her when she was little. Maybe then she wouldn't have such issues.

I've pieced together a few more things from listening to people talk about this psycho. She's a member of PETA or something. From what I can tell, everyone is saying she sent out emails to all these animals and told them that she was going to come wreak havoc and all the elephants and tigers and hamsters and pelicans and monkeys and donkeys and fleas and armadillos all got out of there before that snake-headed woman showed up and trashed the place. They say that she cleaned house like Dalton at the Double Deuce.

So now all these countries all over the world are sending money to stop Sue Nahmi. Hey, I'm all for it. We can't let her go around ruining people's vacations and tearing down their houses and killing them and stuff. We should get Rumsfeld to draw up this plan where we invade her crib and then never leave or something. On second thought, she probably doesn't even have a crib. I heard this dude at the gas station talking about how she went back into the ocean. This chick is tough. She lives under the water like Aqua Man or Kevin Costner in Waterworld or Godzilla or something.

Now that Roy Jones Jr. got knocked out, I don't even know who we could get to face her. Maybe Dalton would grow his mullet out again and come out of retirement. All I know is that I haven't been this scared since that Russian dude came down to the Gulf Coast and tore that place up. Ivan or something. Maybe we could get Putin to talk Ivan into mellowing out and trying to talk some sense into Sue.

Well, whatever happens, take comfort in the fact that I'm here to give you informed opinions on today's crazy world events.

Oh yeah, and State lost by 49 to Bama.

Back to School, Back to School...To Prove to Dad That I'm Not a Fool...

2005-01-19T07:20:00.000-08:00

I've been getting a lot of complaints that I don't post on the blog enough lately. To all those people who complain I say this: My own life bores me. I can't imagine it being interesting to anyone else. The thoughts that run through my head on an hourly basis would probably shock and horrify Adolph Hitler and Ted Bundy. And then I have the poor judgement to actually write these thoughts down and post them on the world wide web...AND USE MY REAL NAME! So everyone who reads this is probably sick in the head and should never admit it to begin with.

I really don't have much time to post right now because I'm working and (tap your desk at a drumroll pace now, please) taking 19 hours in school. This is day 2 of class for me. Going back to school at age 27 is, well, horrible. And here's the worst part of all: I'm the "Old Guy in the class" usually. You all know the "Old Guy in the class." The OGITC who sits in the front row and asks a million questions and talks about all his life experiences with the professor and makes all A's and ruins the curve for everyone else and is hated by everyone, including the professor...you know the guy. Well, I am bound and determined not to be that guy. I've invented a new twist on the OGITC. I'm a new breed of OGITC. I'm the "Creepy Old Guy in the class who sits way back in the back and never talks to anyone."

My Biology class has about 100 people in it. I'm by far the oldest one. There is a girl who was in my youth group in Southaven sitting right in front of me. She was in 9th grade when I was there. I've been approached by a few kids who were junior high campers under me at Camp Lake Stephens. I feel like I'm one step away from falling and breaking my hip and developing cataracts when I talk to these people. My biology professor threatened the class in regards to absences by saying "You know your parent's will receive notification if you skip too many classes."

This made me think: If, by some chance, they did this for all students and my parents received such a card, what would their reaction be?

Mom: "I saw where you missed class. Anyway, when are you going to give me grandchildren?"

Dad: "I saw where you missed class. How could you sleep through an 8 AM class? Yesterday I shot and cleaned a deer, vaccuumed the house, hauled some firewood, raked the leaves, read the paper, watched the Weather Channel for 20 minutes just so they could tell me it was cold outside, and sat at the Biscuit Pit with all the other old farts for 2 hours before 7:30AM."

I feel a lot like Rodney Dangerfield in "Back to School." Not so much because we both went back, moreso because neither one of get any respect.

Crap, gotta run...I'll be late for my Theater Appreciation class...at least there I won't be the OGITC...I'll the the "Straight Guy in the class."

What the Cell?

2004-12-29T18:57:00.000-08:00

If you have had a lifelong dream to do something- skydive, see the the Grand Canyon, watch the Packers at Lambeau Field- you need to hurry up and do it. The world just might be ending soon. I don't recall too much about the book of Revelation, but I'm pretty sure that one of the signs of the end of the world just came to pass.

I'm considering buying a cell phone.

I'll pause so those of you that know me best can pull yourselves together, climb back into your chair, and breathe again.

OK, got your crap together? Good.

I might be the last person in the world to get a cell phone. I hate those things. Here's how cell phones rank on my "Annoying Scale"

5. Ole Miss running up the middle on 3rd and 9.
4. Ashton Kutcher
3. The decline of Patrick Swayze's and Tom Selleck's careers
2. Getting a tiny little piece of popcorn husk stuck way back in my teeth
1. Cell phones

Why do I hate cell phones? Because they are the Antichrist. There are so many wonderful things that have been ruined by cellphones. Does anyone remember the days of being able to go off by yourself and be alone? If you got in a fight with your girlfriend or boyfriend, or needed time to think and pray, or wanted to go sit under a tree and read a book? Well those days are long gone (much like Patrick Swayze being a big star). All of you devoted cell phone users are saying "But, wait! I can still go be alone. All I have to do is turn my phone off!"

What a bunch of crap.

If you leave your phone off, then you'll have to answer the inevitable question, "Why did you turn your phone off?" And you can't say "Because I wanted to be left alone." Because then whoever was trying to call you will say "Even from me?" And you'll be thinking "ESPECIALLY from you." But you can't say that.

And of course, you can't go to the movies without some schmuck ringing from their nether regions. Don't you love it when you hear that ring and look beside you and someone's crotch area is glowing and vibrating. And then you hear that magic phrase: "Hello...no...I'm in the movies..." If you are extremely lucky, this will be the end of the conversation. But no, more often than not, this knucklehead will carry on an all out conversation with whoever called them and you'll be getting mad and giving them the "I'm-about-to-bend-you-over-and-cram-that-phone-in-a-place-so-horrific-that-roaming-charges-will-be-the-least-of-your-worries" look. And by the time the guy gets off the phone, you look up and realize that you missed Angelina Jolie's nude scene (Not that you should have been looking anyway. Perv.).

Cell phones have also become the killer of car conversations. How many times has this happened:

You are riding along with someone and having a great conversation about how not that many bands pretend to worship Satan anymore or whatever and then the phone rings. It's immediately answered without so much as an, "Excuse me." Now you are sitting there trying to figure out who your companion is talking to and trying to piece together this conversation by only listening to one end of it. When the phone rang you became a second class citizen. No matter who calls, they have become the number one priority. Even if your companion HATES THE GUTS of the person who called, they will still answer it and talk to them instead of you.

I'm am so glad that nobody had cell phones when I was in high school. Half of the greatest stories of my life would have never occurred if we had carried cell phones. Broke down on a back road and had to walk 2 miles with your buddies to find a phone? Not anymore. Decided you were going to say screw it and stay out past curfew? Nope, your folks are only a phone call away. And here's the granddaddy of them all: Pretended that your car is out of gas parked by the lake with some girl? Don't worry, I'll just call my dad to pick me up. MY GOD MAN! IS NOTHING SACRED ANYMORE???

And why is it that black people like to use the earpiece thing more than white people. I can't tell you the number of times that I thought some black person was talking to me only to find out that they were using the earpiece thing. Why do they use it more than white people? Is this going to be the new politically incorrect thing to say? Will some coach get fired for talking about how his star outfielder uses the earpiece thing? I better stop talking about this before the Rainbow Coalition comes over and boycotts me.

Don't even get me started on text messaging. This has ruined the age-old art of passing notes. Now the teacher says "Julia! Get up here and share it with everyone!" And then Julia slowly shuffles to the front of the class with her head hung and mumbles "Have u seen kelly's fake louis vitton? omg...that is lame...ttyl.?"
On second thought, instead of getting Julia to read the message aloud, she'll probably just tell her to text the same message to everyone in the class.

I would give anything to be able to go back to the days of "I'll meet you there at 8 o'clock tonight" being the final word on the plans. That will never suffice again. Now there are 47 phone calls to confirm that, yes, we really are meeting there at 8 o'clock tonight. I'm scared to death that within a week's time I will become utterly hooked on the thing like a crackhead. Everyone else is.

I hate cellphones with the white-hot intensity of 1,000 suns. I hate them, I hate them, I hate them.

So why am I considering buying one?

Because everyone else has one.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

2004-12-19T21:19:00.000-08:00

Can you feel that in the air? It's turning cold. Decorations are popping up. Carols are on the radio. That's right, it must be book rush.

Don't know what book rush is? Let me tell you.

For the past couple of years I have worked at a college textbook store. While everyone else in America is looking forward to a lighter workload and some time off, I'm staring down the barrel of a three week window where every freaking textbook you can imagine has to be dealt with before the next semester starts. You guys know the drill: You drop $500 on books at the start of the semester and then you sell them at the end of the semester and you get about $50 back. This doesn't really amuse any of the students. They usually let me know that they don't find it very amusing.

Some girl told me that there was "a special place in hell for me" for not giving her enough money back. I said, "At least it's special." She found that even less amusing.

You know what else people really hate? When you make this statement (which I do at least 5 times a day):

Me: "Where'd you get those shoes?"

Pissed Off Student: "Footlocker"

Me: "Why don't you go back to Footlocker and demand that they give you 75% of what you paid for those shoes when they were new...after you've used them for 6 months and worn them out?"

This really, really makes people mad. And the more I smile at them, the more they look like they want to rip out my tongue and paint their houses with it.

There's nothing that can make you feel more hated than being the guy who tells someone with a $175 Engineering book that it's worth "$10...but the price might go down in a few days." It's kind of like being O.J.

Here's another great thing about buying back books...there are always, ALWAYS a number of idiot thugs who come in with stolen books and try to sell them. And it's always the same: Some guy wanders in who obviously lacks the brain power to have ever gotten into college and brazenly tries to sell back about 15 books. I guess you can say I'm profiling but anytime someone with jailhouse tattoos, a Low-Jack on his ankle, and who can't remember his social security number tries to sell a book entitled "Lehninger's Principles of Biochemistry" I get a little suspicious. These guys are just hilarious. I love to screw with these guys.

Me: "Man, that class sounds hard."

Thug: "Uhhhh...yeah."

Me: "Who was your teacher?"

Thug: "Uhhhh...some guy...ummm, he was trippin'..."

Me: "What's your major, anyway?"

Thug: "Uhhhh...science or sumpin'"

Me: "OK, can I see your Ole Miss ID?"

Thug: "Oh man, I left it back at the crib"

Me: "That's OK...you can just tell me your ID number"

Thug: "Ummmm...9? (long pause)...3?...769?...2..."

Me: "You still need three more digits."

Thug: "Look, just let me go back to the crib and find my ID. I'll be back."

About 20 minutes later the guy will return and he will have some ridiculous ID that is obviously not his. Usually it will be someone of a totally different race and occasionally someone of a different sex. I can't tell you how happy it makes me to deal with these people. I feel like I'm on CSI questioning a suspect- "Oh, these are your books? Well, that's funny since I just got a lab report that says a hair recovered from page 256 contains the DNA of a Pakistani student named Habeeb. Would you like a lawyer?" It's the closest I'll ever get to being Gil Grissom.

So while all of you are relaxing and watching Charlie Brown's Christmas, I'll be knee-deep in textbooks and frantically trying to sort them all out before the next semester starts...all the while conserving the one piece of coal that old Scrooge lets me have to keep me warm on Christmas Eve.

Happy Festivus.

Wal-Mart in December or a Kick in the Crotch? It's a Toss Up.

2004-12-12T15:44:00.000-08:00

While I was in the shower this morning, something dawned on me. This would be the absolute last squirt of shampoo that I could squeeze out of my Finesse bottle. Oh no. Then, when I started to brush my teeth, I realized that I would get no more than one more squeeze from my toothpaste. And then I scored the hat-trick: My deodorant would only last about 2 more days as well.

All of this added up to one horrifying conclusion: I would have to go to Wal-Mart. In December. Sometimes life is just so cruel. Dante wrote a charming little story called "The Inferno" quite a few years ago. In this story, He chronicled the different levels of hell as he envisioned them. If Dante had lived in Mississippi in 2004, then at least 3 of these levels would have been in Wal-Mart on a weekend right before Christmas. I would rather be 11-years-old again and spending the night at Neverland Ranch than go to Wal-Mart right before Christmas.

I started strategically planning my trip to Wal-Mart while I was in the shower. I decided to wait until the evening when, I theorized, a lot of people would be at church. So I waited until halftime of the Packers game (I used Brett Favre as inspiration for my trip...he seems like a real Wal-Mart kind of guy), and then I set out on my journey.

I turned into the parking lot and was immediately stunned. I had obviously underestimated the religious fervor of the average Wal-Mart shopper. Nobody was going to church. There were Spongebob accessories to buy, by God! So I cruised the parking lot searching for a parking space. After about three laps I decided I would go ahead and bite the bullet and park by the Winnebago at the entrance of the lot and walk the 4 miles across the lot to the store. And then a Christmas Miracle occurred! (I said a quick prayer thanking St. Sam Walton) A parking space was open not too far from the door. So I gunned the engine of my beloved (piece of crap) Mustang and shot across the parking lot, weaving through cars and people like Jeff Gordon, and beat three other cars to the spot. There were four @#$%&ing shopping carts in the space. So I conceded defeat, drove back to the Winnebago, and started the 4 mile trek across the lot to the store.

After the walk, I headed to the hygiene aisle, or the grooming aisle, or whatever it's called. Luckily, all of that stuff is in the same area. Here's the strange thing about the aisle with all the shampoo and soap and stuff on it: The other people who are on that aisle always look like they have never, ever, under any circumstances, used these products. I have a theory that these people are just there browsing...looking at stuff they'll never buy. It's sort of like me stopping to peer into a Mercedes at a car dealership. Anyway, all of the men in this area were wearing camoflage hats and all the females under the age of forty were wearing those "baby t's." You know, those tiny little shirts with all the "sassy" sayings on them? Stuff like "Diva," and "Naughty," and "Your Boyfriend Thinks I'm Cute," and "I'm a Complete Slut." OK, I made that last one up. But that's what they all SHOULD say.

On my way out of the hygiene section, something extraordinary caught my eye. There were huge remote control Escalades for sale. They were about 3 feet long. Just extrememly large remote control cars. And they had "real spinners" on them. There was a little hole in the package where you could spin the spinners. And I did. They spun. They put me in a bling-bling hypnotic state. Also, you could push buttons on the remote conrol. There was a button marked "Music" on the remote. Against my better judgement, I pushed the button. Now, just pause for a second and try to guess what song would be played from a gigantic remote control Escalade with spinners...

If you guessed Sugar Magnolia by The Grateful Dead, then you are a complete moron. It was that song by 50 Cent...I believe the title is "In Da Club"...you know the one "You can find me in the club...something something something...I'm into having sex I ain't into making love"...you know the song I'm talking about. And really, it had to be that song, didn't it? Surely everyone guessed correctly, right? It couldn't have been any other song. Why don't kids dream of owning Ferraris anymore? Are all kids destined to be crack dealers? This is too depressing to think about anymore.

So then I walked through the DVD section and saw Magnum P.I.'s first season for sale. I have never lusted so much for a material possession in my life. Oh well. Once I finish school and start making that big-time teacher money, I'll be able to afford it.

Then, I headed toward The Line. The Line is whole community unto itself. The Line is like the last 2 miles of a marathon. You have things in common with the other people in The Line. The end of your journey is in sight. Finding a good line is very important. I prefer to get behind an attractive girl. That way you can say really clever things like, "So, you like to buy batteries, huh?" Or, "Wow, that's a lot of Diet Coke, ha ha." They don't call me "The Smooth Operator" for nothing. If you can't find an attractive girl (and in my town, you can't), then try to stand behind a mom with a whining kid. This gets on most people's nerves, but I find it quite refreshing. Usually, I hate to be reminded of how I'm single and will probably die alone, but hearing a kid go on and on and on about how he must have a pack of Skittles immediately really makes me happy to be single. The mom will generally be so frustrated and ready to get out of there so she can smack the child without some bed-wetting liberal giving her a lecture, that she will just swipe a card and that's much quicker than a check. Debit and Credit cards are God's gift to weary Wal-Mart customers.

So, I stocked up enough so that my toothpaste, shampoo, and deodorant will last through Christmas. Then I'll have to face the people there to exchange stuff. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

Recess Is Over

2004-12-07T21:17:00.000-08:00

Well...it finally happened. My vacation from reality, which has been going on for 9 years, has finally ended.

I'm going back to school and am actually planning on (I can't believe I'm typing this) pursuing a career. That's right, an actual career. When I obtain this second degree I will be thrust into the world of actually having health insurance, retirement benefits, and (God help me) responsibilty. People will inexplicably drop off their children and trust me to care for them for 7 hours a day.

That's right, I'm about to get a degree in Elementary Education. No Child Left Behind never could have envisioned this.

When I fist enrolled in college 8 years ago I intended to become a teacher. Somewhere along the way I had delusions of grandeur that I could actually find a job in summer camps and changed my major to Parks and Rec Management. I had no idea that there were only 11 camp jobs in the entire world. So there were about 5 million people with the same degree as me trying to fill these 11 jobs. I didn't have to take many math classes to get that degree but I don't think those odds are very good.

So here's what I'm facing: Continuing to live at home, driving to Oxford every day, and working in Oxford at my former job again after class (at a greatly reduced salary...just kidding, you can't GREATLY reduce such a small amount of money). So student loans are about to be in my future as well.

Not only that, but I get to go back and pick up some freshman classes that weren't required the first time around. I get to take Biology with a bunch of 18 year-olds. I could have kids that were my elementary campers at Camp Lake Stephens laughing at me for not being able to remember what an aorta is. And I get to hear a bunch of Sorostitutes go on and on about Rush all over again. Granted, these girls will be extremely hot...but none of them will be old enough to remember "The Macerena." I have to shamefully admit that I danced to this song on my senior cruise.

So here's the rundown...When I finished high school I wanted to teach so I majored in history for 2 1/2 years, changed to Parks and Rec, worked in camps, worked for a church, moved to Australia, moved back to Oxford, lived on a friend's couch, lived in a concrete building with no kitchen, no TV, no phone, lived in a one-bedroom apartment, with the same friend who provided me the aforementioned couch, been shipping manager at a bookstore, took a three month break from any and all responsibility and to look for a job in the Recreation field...and now I've come back to teaching.

So maybe, just maybe, I have my act together now.

Look! A New Post!

2004-12-06T16:11:00.000-08:00

Why has it been so long since my last update?

Well, demons possessed my computer. Seriously. There were demons in my computer and I couldn't make it work. So I called a priest and he came over and performed an exorcism on my dinosaur of a computer. Somehow it's working again. I hate that all 3 people who read this were denied my opinions on all the hot topics of the sports world the past 3 weeks. Because basically, all hell broke loose in sports.

1. David Cutcliffe was fired as head coach at Ole Miss.

To me the biggest news story that has occurred since David Cutcliffe was hired as head coach. Sure, that whole 9-11 thing was a pretty big story, and there have been a couple of presidential elections and a war since Cut's hiring...but come on, how do those things really affect me? I've never been to New York or Washington D.C. or Iraq...but the Grove is somewhere that I've wasted thousands of hours following the hapless Rebels.

We are getting hammered in the media (local and national) for firing Cut. Well, to the Clarion Ledger, and Pardon the Interruption, and the ESPN crew I have only one thing to say to you: I hope you all find yourselves walking through a pitbull breeding farm with 30 packages of Slim Jims crammed in your underwear. When was the last time anybody said ANYTHING good about Ole Miss? James Meredith is over it. Why can't everybody else get over it? They all say "Who do they think they are? Why do they think they can do better?" Is it so wrong that we are going to actually TRY to do better? Should we just sit back and watch the rest of the SEC kick us in the nuts every year just because everyone says that's the way it should be?

I have no problem with the Cut firing. Even if we hire some schmuck, it's a lateral move. Cut refused, absolutely REFUSED to put the best players on the field. We could have had a starting backfield of Charles Stackhouse (started for the Giants as a rookie), Deuce McCallister (pro-bowl running back) and Eli Manning (hallowed be his name) in 2000!!! Has there been a better backfield in the SEC in the last 30 years? But no, we played Romaro Miller.
At least we finally discovered how to make Cut show some emotion. Fire him. That seemed to do the trick. And if Cut is such a great coach like the media is saying, then how come nobody else has offered him a job?

2. The Piston/Pacers fight.

Here what nobody is saying about the fight: It was the coolest thing I've ever seen on TV. Can't we all just enjoy it? I mean, it was awesome. Everyone is talking about how terrible it was, but I thought it was wonderful. I got to watch the biggest headcase in sports melt down right in front of my face on live TV. I loved it. It was the only thing exciting that's happened to the NBA since Jordan retired. Everything about this fight was awesome. NBA players who can't throw a punch, Some poor dude in the wrong place at the wrong time getting pummeled, the commish acting like a tough guy. When Commish David Stern was handing out suspensions he said "The vote was unanimous. One to nothing." This oneliner is Schwarznegger-worthy. Seeing a short Jewish businessman act tough like that was delightful. Everyone is acting all concerned over that little boy who was crying. the only thing sad about that is that all his friends will mock him at school for crying. Other than that, he's got a great story to tell for the rest of his life. Every life threatening experience that doesn't actually kill you makes a fantastic story. Especially if you are a youth minister (which I'm not, but I can just picture youth ministers turning a life threatening expereince into a great illustration). I wish they had fights like this about twice a week.

3. Steroids in baseball

What??? Barry Bonds is on steroids??? You must be joking!!! Are you telling me that you don't hit your athletic prime at 40? Are you telling me that putting on 40 pounds of muscle in one winter isn't natural? Are you trying to say that hitting 73 homeruns is not a supernatural freakish thing to do? Are you sure that it's not normal to have a head like Charlie Brown? I just don't believe you.

I can't wait until I'm 40 so I can dunk a basketball again. It sure will be great to turn 40 and watch my abs transform into a six-pack.

Man, next you'll be telling me that colleges buy cars for athletes.

Brainstorming II

2004-11-17T15:03:00.000-08:00

These are things that have been troubling me lately:

1. Remember playing Hide & Seek as a kid? Well, how come I always had to take a dump whenever I was hiding? I know that I'm not unique here. I've had other people tell me the same thing. I think that doctors could really help people with constipation problems if they would prescribe something like this: "Go hide behind a tree or bush and have someone search for you." This is a foolproof method. It would work ten times better than any laxative.

2. Why do cowboys always die so dramatically in movies? Every western I've ever seen features a cowboy falling through a rail when they get shot and falling about 25 feet. Was this really as common as they make it look? It's almost as if all these saloons and banks and hotels built these balconies just so someone could fall through them. Aren't these rails really just a tad weak? As soon as the shot cowboy touches it, it just falls apart. What would happen if a little child leaned up against these rails? Old West carpenters really must have sucked.

3. Have you noticed how often musicians on TV use the word "collaborate?" We are talking about some real idiots using this big word. You'll never hear Christina Aguilera say "I sang a song with Missy Elliot." No, she'd definitely say "I collaborated on a song with Missy Elliot." They all do this. Crappy rock stars, rappers, pop singers. They all love to say "collaborate." Start listening for it.

4. How come Denver Nuggets star Carmelo Anthony isn't doing commercials for Caramello candy bars? He has to! He just has to. He was just a rookie last season so I tolerated this deal not happening. But now it's his second year and he is well known and it's just too perfect not to happen. Carmelo eating a Caramello!
This is as disturbing as former Mets All-Star Howard Johnson not endorsing Howard Johnson Hotels. I've never been able to get over that.

I should probably seek professional help soon. Things like this float around in my head for about 9 or 10 hours a day.

I'm a sick man.

Mississippi's High Holy Day

2004-11-16T15:44:00.000-08:00

Do you realize what this Saturday is? It's the High Holy Day of the great state of Mississippi. That's right, Saturday is the first day of deer season. So let me make this public service announcement:

Don't go anywhere near the wilderness this weekend. You will be shot. It's that simple. The good 'ol boys have been waiting all year for this day and they will shoot at anything that moves this weekend. How do I know this? Because I used to be an avid hunter. Most people who know me will be shocked to hear this because they can't picture me wearing anything but tennis shoes and those aren't ideal for hunting. Nike never advertises hunting shoes. (but wouldn't be great if they did? Can't you just picture Michael Jordan and Charles Barkley tromping around in the woods with a hip-hop song in the background? Jordan and Barkley riding around in a pick-up wearing camouflage and gutting a big buck. Just Do It.)
Anyway, hunting used to be sort of fun just because I love being outside. When I was about 15 I quit hunting. I developed a curious little voice in my head that said "You moron. Why would you possibly wake up at 5 AM and sit in a tree in 25 degree weather just to shoot at a fuzzy animal?" I had no intelligent answer for this little voice. So I stopped hunting.

I don't even know why they call it "hunting." They should call it "sitting." That's all you ever do. You sit. Usually in a tree. It's not really hunting when you wait for something to wander across your path and then you shoot it. There's this guy who hunts with my dad, and when referring to this guy, my dad always says "That boy sure does hunt hard!" He says it so admiringly. My dad WISHES he could hunt as hard as this guy. It's like saying "That boy sure does watch TV hard!" I mean, he just sits there in a tree!

My dad...ahhh, my dad. If Ole Miss was playing for the national championship in a game featuring Jessica Simpson buck naked washing a Ferarri that my dad had just won as the halftime entertainment...well, she had better make it quick! There's trees to sit in, DADGUMMIT! My dad loves hunting. Probably because he loves guns. This is a man who was a sargeant in the 1st cavalry division (like Mel Gibson's crew in "We Were Soldiers") where he was a Sharpshooter. One of the biggest disappointments in his life (besides me and my brother) is that no one has ever tried to break into his house while he was home. He would have a real problem trying to decide which gun to use on the thief. "12 gauge? No. Too messy. .357 Magnum? Nah, rather go with a rifle on this one. .22? Well, there wouldn't be much to clean up afterwards but I'd have to shoot him 5 times. Mini-14 assault rifle? Ding Ding Ding! We have a winner!"

One night, I was shooting hoops (the only kind of shooting I'm good at) in my front yard when I was in high school with this guy from down the street. Some kid had broken into a house in my neighborhood and was running through backyards to get away. He jumped the fence into our backyard, ran across it, and vaulted over the other side. He was being chased by an overweight bicycle cop who was wearing shorts. He jumped the fence too. I could see what was about to happen here. I asked my hoops buddy, "Hey, wanna see my dad shoot a cop?" We went to peek over the fence into the backyard.

The cop made it about halfway across our backyard when the floodlights hit him. My dad stepped out of the shadows with a maglight in one hand and a .357 in the other. Pointed at the cop's face. Seems dear old dad didn't recognize him as a cop since he was wearing shorts. I have never, ever seen a cop look so utterly terrified. He had absolutely no control of the situation and it toally freaked him out.

Anyway, dad didn't shoot the cop, the kid who robbed the house got caught, and the cop's wife had to send his underwear through the washing machine three times to get the stains out.

My dad is not unique. Every guy in Mississippi loves guns and loves to hunt. Have you ever been to a deer camp? It's great. It's Guy Heaven. Deer camps are full of grizzled old veterans, fat slob rednecks, young trans-am driving mulletheads. And they all sit around eating fried food, farting, and making disparaging comments about their wives. There will be one group sitting around playing cards, one group playing dominoes, a bunch of guys outside drinking beer and cussing. At least half of them will have a "spit cup." (if you don't know what a "spit cup" is then you have also probably never "gotten a wheel" while riding an empty street late at night)

If the hunting club uses dogs then all these guys will have CB radios and they will drive like Dale Jr. down gravel roads. The radios will screech to life with statements like "we got us a big' un crossing the pipeline...waitaminute...he just took off over the cutover, comeback." And all these CB guys have these fantastic handles. When I was a kid my dad was "Supercop" (he was a cop at the time). He had friends named Whirlwind, Papa Bear, Snake Doctor, Spark Plug. How cool is this? I'd kill to have my friends call me "Whirlwind."

One of the greatest things about hunting season is that our local paper will start running pictures of people with dead deer. The thing that's so great about this is that the caption always says something like "Billy Russ Collardgreen and the buck that he harvested this weekend." HARVESTED! What a great word. Can't you just picture Billy Russ riding around on a combine chasing down a deer? Harvested! I have never once heard a hunter say, "I gotta get up early to go harvestin'" or "I harvested me a 6-point today."

Ever seen a deer get cleaned? That's a bigger mistatement than calling it "hunting." There is nothing clean about cleaning a deer.
But I'll spare you that.

Anyway, I hope some kind soul out there finds it in their hearts to bring me some deer sausage, deer burgers, and good old venison steaks.

Screw PETA.

He was Old. He was Dirty. He was a Bastard.

2004-11-15T15:03:00.000-08:00

(Allow me to be serious just this once. Far be it from me to make fun of someone who died)

I see that Ol' Dirty Bastard died. No, not Yassir Arafat. The rapper, and ironically, he was young.

I guess this little tribute could be called his O-bitch-uary.

ODB was known for his brilliant work with the groundbreaking hip-hop group "The Wu-Tang Clan." He also went by the names Dirt McGirt and Big Baby Jesus. What? He went by the name Big Baby Jesus? What a friggin' moron. I can't NOT make fun of this guy. I just can't. He's just too big of an idiot.

When I was a junior in high school we had to put on a banquet for the seniors. It was held at the local country club. I remember sitting around watching the TV over the bar at the country club with all my friends when we were supposed to be working on this banquet. I'll never forget this...a girl in my class busted out laughing because MTV was doing a story on a guy named Ol' Dirty Bastard. That name still makes me smile. There are a thousand stupid names in the rap world - Xzibit, Ludicris, Snoop Doggy Dogg, Chingy, Juvenile (it will be ironic when he gets old, just like it was ironic that ODB was young)- but ODB went absolutely over the top. He came up with the dumbest name in music history. And it's a pretty huge accomplishment to have the dumbest name in music history. Guns N' Roses had an Axl, a Slash, a Duff, and an Izzy. And that's just ONE BAND. For some reason "ODB" wasn't quite stupid enough for him, so he switched to "Big Baby Jesus" for a while. I have to admit, he outdid himself. That name is even worse.

I remember, at various times, seeing ODB pick up his welfare check in a limousine, hijack some awards ceremony, and perform with Wu-Tang while having warrants out for his arrest. He also had a whole bunch of illegitimate children. Young Dirty Bastards.

When I first heard that ODB died, I was horrified because I was afraid that the media would Kobain him into genius status. I don't think that will happen now. ODB will probably go the way of Left Eye and Aaliyah...not quite elevated to genius status.

But we will always have his music. Who can forget the song...ummmm...uhhh...well, did he ever have a song? Has anybody ever heard a song by this guy? I guess he was only famous for being famous, like Paris Hilton.

He was the perfect MTV icon. He didn't play music and neither does MTV.

Anybody know where he will be buried? His teeth are worth a fortune.

ODB, watch out for the crossfire from Biggie and Pac in the afterlife.

Jared from Subway: Not a Cool Guy

2004-11-12T17:17:00.000-08:00

Jared from Subway.

Those three words just inspire laughter. Just picture him in your mind for a second.

OK, if you didn't just crack up over that mental image then you have no sense of humor. At least not one with a touch of cruelty. I hesitate to make fun of Jared...I sort of feel sorry for him...and he is SUCH an easy target. I mean, just picture him - Jared from Subway. I shake my head and laugh every time I type it.

Why did Subway choose this guy as their spokesman? I know, I know. America is obsessed with weight loss right now and Jared lost a lot of weight by eating veggie subs. So I understand the marketing strategy in theory. But in reality, who really wants to be like Jared? So he went from being a big fat slob to being a guy who looks like he got the crap kicked out of him in the locker room before junior high gym class. This is really a step sideways instead of a step up.

Subway is so self-righteous with these commercials now that they make me want to puke my steak and cheese halfway across the room. Have you ever seen such a smug little attitude from a sub shop? "Why, you'd have to eat 42 veggie subs to equal the fat in ONE Big Mac!" Subway is the same restaurant that offers "Two for Tuesday" where I can get 2 feet of meatball subs and a Mountain Dew so big that it comes with a snorkel for seven bucks! I mean, TWO FEET OF MEATBALL SUB!!! That's 1/3 of my height! And this is the healthy alternative to Burger King? Jared always pops up at the end of these commercials and says "Make your choice. I made mine." Yes you did, Jared. You chose to be a tool. Congratulations.

But the worse of these commercials are the "inspirational" ones with the kids. Have you seen these things? All these kids who used to be fat holding up their old jeans? These kids are doing all these athletic things now...swimming, running...just because they started eating at Subway. How wonderful. Here's the problem with all of this. When I was a kid, I was a basketball playing machine. I could jump through the roof and dunk a basketball with little effort. You know what I ate almost every day during the summer? Cookie dough. Straight out of the tube. With whole milk. That was my breakfast and lunch. So don't try to pass off Subway as the food that will turn kids into athletes.

These inspirational commercials end with Jared standing there holding up his old jeans. They are blowing in the wind like the flag at Iwo Jima. These jeans are ludicrous. You could park an Escalade in one leg and an H2 in the other.

All of this leads me to: The Bowflex Guy. He isn't as famous as Jared and I don't know his name. I'll just call him BG. BG and Jared have pretty much the same story. BG used to be a mass of blubber as well, but he used Bowflex to drop about 300 pounds. Also like Jared, this guy is still a dork, there's just less dork there than there used to be. BG is so absurd that he actually takes a shot at Jared on the Bowflex commercial. He calls Jared out. He says "I know other guys lost weight from eating sandwiches but I don't see them on TV with their shirts off." Oh, come on. BG is cavorting around in the pool with some beautiful girl who was hired for the commercial and all of a sudden he's calling Jared out. What an easy target. How come he doesn't call out Chuck Norris for using that excercise thing that he endorses. Oh yeah, it's because Chuck Norris would show up on the set and punch BG in his adam's apple and then watch as BG slowly died.

So here's to you, Jared and Bowflex guy. Two of the worst advertising decisions in the history of the world.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas in Sodom & Grenada

2004-11-11T13:12:00.000-08:00

(Note: This rant is dedicated to Ashley, the Joey Potter to my Dawson Leery. I couldn't have asked for a finer companion to have lived 200 yards from me in high school - 50 yards if I cut through backyards and woods)

Well, it's 75 degrees outside and Halloween just ended. That means it's time for all the redneck zaniness that makes Grenada so charming to get under way. No, I'm not talking about teenage pregnancy and crystal meth (although those are two fine traditions here, too)...I'm talking about Christmas in G-Town. There are two absurd traditions here every year that warrant mentioning. The first one would make Cousin Eddie utter "Well, that's a little on the tacky side." The other one would give Stephen King a nightmare. So, here we go:

1. "Sykes Hollow"

This is an area that is your basic redneck light display. I see these in almost every small town in Mississippi. You know, there are about 5 or 6 houses in every town that go so incredibly overboard with lights that their homes look like Six Flags Over BFE for two months a year. So you're probably thinking that this isn't so unique. But wait! In every other town these nutjobs would be spread throughout the community...miles and miles apart. Not here. Through some cosmic tacky coincidence all 5 or 6 of these wackos LIVE ON THE SAME STREET. Not only that, but the entire street is populated by these people only. There are only 5 or 6 houses on this dead end street. So when the temperature drops to about 88 degrees every year, the lights go up. Not just lights either...flashing, multi-colored lights, disco balls, strobes, floodlights. Lights, lights, lights. It's an epileptic's worse nightmare. There are also plywood cutouts of Santa having his butt bitten by a dog, Santa smashed against a tree, Santa hanging perilously from the roof, Santa in a compromising position with a reigndeer while two elves film it (I just made that last one up). There are also nativity scenes everywhere. Music comes from every direction. I've never been able to locate the speakers but Christmas carols run on a loop from somewhere in Sykes Hollow. It's possible that the music doesn't even come from speakers...it might be really tacky Heavenly Angels, assembled to sing the praises of plywood snowmen in tropical heat. Who knows?
Here's the thing about Sykes Hollow though...I love it. I'm a sucker for all those tacky decorations. I bet that those wackos' kids and grandkids think it's the greatest thing ever.

Neil Armstrong once said that the only manmade objects you could see from space were the Great Wall of China and Sykes Hollow.

2. "The Grave"
This is the strangest, spookiest thing. There is this little country cemetery out in the middle of nowhere and somebody decorates it for Christmas. Seriously. It's the creepiest thing. It's like a scaled down version on Sykes Hollow in a cemetery. The story behind it is this: About 30 or 40 years ago this teenage girl killed herself over some sort of spat with her mom, I believe. So now the mom decorates the grave for Christmas. So there are lights and stuff strung on and around tombstones. And there is always music playing here too. It's always religious carols which makes it a little spookier somehow. Something is very odd about being out in the middle of nowhere, staring at this grave when "O Holy Night" starts wafting through the air. Plus, the mom sits there every night, alone in her car, way down the road...just watching. And there's a book that everyone signs when they go see this grave. Judging by the things people write in this book, "The Grave" is the highlight of their year.

"We never miss a Chrismas! It sure is pretty this year! We drove all the way from Duck Hill! This is our favorite vacation spot!"
- Clyde and Ruby Turnipseed

Happy Holidays (I have to go change into shorts and turn the AC down now).

It's Hard to be Humble When You're Unemployed and Live with your Parents

2004-11-09T16:38:00.000-08:00

I hate to brag but, yes, I'm unemployed and I live with my parents. I know, I know...why do I insist on telling people this when I know they will become very envious of me? I don't know. I guess I just can't help boasting about my good fortune. Let's face it, there is nothing cooler than pushing 30, not having a job, and moving back home. It's James Dean-cool. It's Mick Jagger in 1965-cool. People look at me and they can't help but be jealous at my lifestyle. That's just the way it is. Take this situation for example:

The other day I bumped into one of my old high school friends who was home for a visit with his parents. This was how our conversation went:

Me: Hey! What have you been up to?

Old Friend: Well, when I finished law school, I got a job at a great firm in Dallas! Then I got married! Have you met my wife?

Me: Hi. Nice to meet you. You sort of look familiar...

Wife: Well, I've done a few ads for Victoria's Secret. You might have seen me there.

Old Friend: Hey, who would have thought that I would have married a lingerie model and had a 6-figure salary back when we were in high school?

Me: Certainly not me...I once saw you drink the water from a bong.

Old Friend: Yeah, well...what have you been up to?

Me: I'm unemployed and I live with my parents.

Score!!! That's the line I had been waiting to deliver while listening to this loser ramble on and on about his stupid wife and his stupid condo in Aspen. Hah! I could see the envy in his eyes as he said "Well, keep your head up, buddy" and walked off. I probably shouldn't have said it in such a bragging tone, but hey, when things are going great, it's hard not to toot your own horn.

I talk to other people my age and they go on and on about the fabulous new restaurants in all the exotic places where they live. But I know that every single one of them would love to change places with me when I tell them that my dad is cooking cabbage for dinner.

Speaking of my dad, sometimes there is so much excitement going on with him that I have to pity all those poor schmucks who are out there on their own, making money and building their careers. As an example, I'll share this conversation that I had with my dad this weekend.

Dad: Come watch the football game with me! I've been waiting for it to come on all day.

Me: OK

Team then marches down the field and kicks a field goal.

Dad: Well, this game is over. I'm going to bed.

Me: But Dad, there are 12 minutes and 23 seconds left IN THE FIRST QUARTER!

Dad: Boy, it's obvious that they can't stop 'em. I'm going to bed.

Me: It's 7:15. You're going to bed?

Dad: Yep, I gotta go to bed. If I didn't go now, then how would I wake up at 5:30 in the morning to vaccuum right outside your door?

Then, the next day, I tell my dad that the team he said would get blown out actually won 38-17. He'll usually utter "Well, I'll be."
If I had a job and lived in a different town, I would miss these fun exchanges.

And let me just tell you, there's nothing like being unemployed and living at home if you want to impress the ladies! The honeys can't stay away when they find this out. I was pumping gas the other day and a very attractive girl pulled up beside me. She smiled and said hello. I smiled back. She mentioned that she hadn't seen me around before. I said that I had just moved back to town after years of living elsewhere. She gave me a grin. I said "Say, would you like to come over to my parent's house tonight for a glass of water and some cabbage? There's nothing quite as enchanting as the aroma of my dad's Ben-Gay." She said "Uhhh, no thank you" and got in her car and drove away. Don't you just love it when they play hard to get? That means that they are really interested.

And the sense of accomplishment that I get is just fantastic. I have a lot of friends who work in ministry and they call to tell me things like "One of the kids at my church has finally got his life in order. He quit doing drugs, got a college scholarship, and turned his life over to God."

So what? I just beat Miami in the Rose Bowl to win my 19th consecutive national championship on Playstation college football.
And I clipped my toenails today.

So, I hate to make everyone jealous, but if you got it, flaunt it.
Living at home and being unemployed is undeniably cool.

Almost as cool as showering with your grandmother.

AAAARRRRGGGHHHH!!!! Turn off the radio!!!!

2004-11-06T23:46:00.000-08:00

I drove for 4 hours on Friday and I spent the majority of the time listening to the radio. I rarely do this. Since my CD player is worth more than my car, I try to take advantage of it (and my CD player is a piece of crap). I have been suspecting that every single song on the radio sucks for years now, and Friday confirmed it. There isn't a single song on the radio that you can A) Rock out to, B) Sing along with, or C) sort of get emotional over.

I think it all started with Nirvana. Nirvana ruined music. You can't convice me otherwise. All rock bands became depressing after Nirvana. For some reason, everyone started saying that their music "meant something" and it made Motley Crue, Poison, and Guns N' Roses look silly. Yeah, right. Like Poison needed any help looking like imbeciles. But here's the thing about Poison: If "Talk Dirty to Me" had come on the radio while I was driving, I would have cranked that mofo up and ROCKED OUT. Yeah, I said it. Now, if "Rape Me" by Nirvana, had come on the radio I would have screamed like Homer Simpson and lunged at the radio like a cheetah after a gazelle. I couldn't have changed the station fast enough.

Nirvana also ruined music videos. Whatever happened to scantily-clad women with big hair dancing around and being exploited? Whatever happened to faked backstage footage of the bands clutching bottles of Jack Daniels? I'll tell you what. They've been replaced by crap like close-ups of a cockroach crawling around on the floor (Nine Inch Nails' "Closer"). Is a cockroach crawling around really more meaningful than the girl from "Cherry Pie" getting hosed down with a firehose by Warrant? Not to me. As a matter of fact, if the girl from the Cherry Pie video walked into my room right now, I'd probably offer her a Little Debbie oatmeal cream pie and then propose to her. I'd just step on the cockroach.

I hate that Kurt Cobain died. I really do. Not because he was a genius. Because he wasn't. He played 3 chords and wrote lyrics like "I want to eat your cancer when it turns black" and "Grandma, take me home" (he repeated this line over and over again in the song titled "Grandma, Take Me Home"). Also, what kind of a genius marries Courtney Love? I'd rather marry the cockroach from the Nine Inch Nails video. No, I'm sorry he died because everyone elevated him to "genius" status because he died young. The same thing happened to Jim Morrison, who was also an idiot. Maybe if he hadn't died, he would have continued to make crappy, depressing music and everyone would have gotten sick of listening to that morbid crap and he would have faded away. But no, he has been branded a genius. That means he influences all these other depressing bands that are out now. I can't tell the difference between Three Doors Down, Nickelback, Saliva, etc... I just know that they never have an air-guitar inducing killer solo in any of their songs and they all sound exactly alike. I blame Nirvana for this. None of these bands have any sort of a sense of humor either. I miss the days of Van Halen with their funny videos.

And so...I must turn to rap even though I don't like most of it. At least those guys still have a sense of humor (Eminem has funny videos), always have girls shaking booty, and you can usually rock out/sing along to these tunes (Don't believe me? Nelly is the most singable guy out there right now...think about it). Tupac and Bibbie almost ruined rap the way Kurt Cobain ruined rock, but it didn't happen. You do hear people refer to Tupac as a genius quite often, but thankfully none of the other rappers have given up the money and booty lifestyle yet.

Here's a list of the best song to rock out to that you'll probably never hear on the radio again:

1. Wanted Dead or Alive by Bon Jovi: I've seen a million faces and I've rocked them all! Just classic.
2. Sweet Child of Mine by Guns N' Roses: It's just so singable.
3. Rebel Yell by Billy Idle: "She cries More, More, More!"
4. Something to Believe In by Poison: This is better than "Every Rose Has It's Thorn." Probably my favorite power ballad.
5. Ice Ice Baby by Vanilla Ice: There is not a single person on earth who doesn't turn this up and sing it when it comes on. "Did you stop? Naw, I just drove by."
6. The song by Journey that goes "Just a small town girl...livin' in a lonely world." I don't know the name, but it's easy to rock out to. Also "Open Arms."

There are a lot of others. I'm sure you have your own. I miss fun music.

Rock on. And rock out.

Brainstorming

2004-11-06T00:01:00.000-08:00

These are random thoughts that occur to me at odd times:

Am I the only one that noticed that Christopher Reeve looked EXACTLY like Lex Luthor the last year before he died? This is absolutely the most ironic thing that has ever happened in the history of the world. Superman looked exactly like his arch-enemy. Why am I the only one who noticed?

I saw Joe Simpson interviewed on CNBC the other night. He's Jessica and Ashlee Simpson's father. This guy scares me. At one point he said that he wanted to get Newlyweds on the air so "people would see past Jessica's boobs and hair to the person that she really is." This isn't all that disturbing. What IS disturbing is that I had read an interview with him previously and he said "Jessica can be sexy in a bikini or a t-shirt." Now that's twice that I've seen this guy refer to his daughter's boobs in the national media. That's a pattern. This man is sick. Who does that? Plus, he used to be a youth minister and look at all that gel in his hair! Youth ministers aren't supposed to be as cool as this guy. Youth ministers are supposed to wear white sneakers to church in an effort to appear cool and get really excited when Jars of Clay come to town. Joe Simpson is waaaaay too Hollywood cool to have been a youth minister. And what kind of guy pimps out his daughter on the cover of Blender like this guy? He blows my mind.

On the other hand, let me sing the praises of Nick Lachey. I have to admit it: I really like this guy. I can't name a single song he sings. I don't know anything about his boy band. But I really like this guy. I would hang out with him. From all indications, he lives every guy's dream life. He sits around all day watching sports. He wears flip-flops, sleeveless t-shirts, and baseball caps every day. He goes on vacation about twice a month. When he does dress up, he dresses like a normal human being, unlike most celebrities. It appears that he realizes his fame is fleeting and he needs to save some cash. He's pretty cool to everyone he meets. Oh yeah, and he's married to a human Barbie doll. If it wasn't for his sleazy father-in-law, I'd love to be Nick.

You know, Screech was actually the sixth most popular kid in the school. They always tried to make him look like he was unpopular, but he was always with the cool kids. His best friend was the most popular kid in the whole school. Screech was apparently a musical phenom since he played piano, wrote the school song, and sang for the "Five Aces" doo-wop group. He also was a key member of "The Zack Attack." On top of all that, his girlfriend, Violet, went on to become one of the six most popular kids at Beverly High. I would even argue that Screech was more popular than that bull-dyke Torrie with the leather jacket. At least Screech had a change of clothes. All Torrie owned was the leather jacket. Ahh, Samuel Powers. We hardly knew ye.

Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth in Hollywood

2004-11-03T17:28:00.000-08:00

On the day after the election, I Wish I Was at the Beach has been granted exclusive interviews with a number of celebrities with political interests.

Bruce Springsteen

Me: So, Bruce Springsteen, how do you feel about Kerry's defeat?

Bruce: "BO-WEN IN DA USA! I WAS BO-WEN IN DA USA!"

Me: Yes, well, Tom Daschle, one of the most prominent leaders of the democratic party also...

Bruce: "BO-WEN IN DA USA!"

Ashton Kutcher

Me: Don't you personally benefit from Bush's tax cuts?

Ashton: Dude, where's my car?

Me: Ahhh, ok...ummm...

Ashton: You got punk'd! Ha Ha! You sooo just got punk'd.

Sean Penn

Sean: I think that Bush's evil war in Iraq has only put a wedge between the U.S. and the peace-loving middle east. Why is our country so violent?

Me: Didn't you play Spicoli the Surfer on "Fast Times at Ridgemont High?" And didn't you assault a photographer for taking your picture when you were married to Madonna? Do you have any credibility at all when speaking on such things?

Sean: Aaaarrrggghhhh (and then he punched me in the face)

Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon

Susan: I think Bush is outsourcing all of our jobs. Americans just can't find any work!

Me: Don't you own 3 German-made cars?

Tim: I played Nuke Laloosh in "Bull Durham!!! You must respect me!!!

Michael Moore

Michael: My next film will expose George W. Bush as a pedophile who stomps on little puppy dog's tails!!!

Me: I'm sorry...your chins have hypnotized me...I can't concentrate.

Michael: Bush stole the election! Bush didn't do anything to prevent 9/11! Three Hurricanes hit the Gulf Coast during Bush's term! Kobe and Shaq couldn't get along under Bush's reign! And poor Laci Peterson died under his watch!

Me: You are simply the most revolting slob I have ever seen. I'm sorry, I have to end this interview. Please shave, comb your hair, and take off that silly hat and maybe we'll continue this.

Sorry, I didn't have time to get around to Janine Garafalo, George Cloony, Barbra Streisand, or Ben Affleck. They were all locked behind the gates of their mansions and whining about the plight of the poor and how the government does nothing to help them.

Presbyterians Love Election Day

2004-11-02T18:37:00.000-08:00

Well, it's November 2. You know what that means. Some rich guy will continue to be president or some other rich guy will become president.

Here's how screwed up American elections are: There are more people registered to vote in Missouri then there are people in Missouri. Same thing here in Mississippi. I saw that my brother is still registered to vote in my hometown. He's also registered to vote in Jackson. Since there is no voter ID in dear old Mississippi, he could vote twice. This state is so backwards. Only state in the union without voter ID. But then, we never really did like following the Union.

Anyway, I think the election should be run more like student elections at Ole Miss. Here's how student elections were way back when I was in college:

I would be up by the crack of noon and on my way to class. I would see a mob of people campaigning about 100 yards ahead of me and my mind would begin to race-"how can I get to my building and still manage to avoid these mindless sheep?" While I stood motionless, going over all the possibilities, a car would creep up next to me.

The car was usually a convertible BMW or Mercedes. Somewhere during my time at Ole Miss, the car became a luxury SUV. The car was always packed to the gills with incredibly hot girls. I mean, just the finest examples of human flesh ever to walk the earth. The girls would then give me serious "come-over-here-and-do-things-with-me-that-are-illegal-in-37-states-plus-Puerto Rico" eyes. Then, with a voice that you usually pay by the minute to hear, they would ask me if I wanted a ride to class.

Now, let me explain something here. I'm a huge sucker for cute girls. Probably the biggest sucker in the world. But even someone as moronic as myself could see right through this. These girls would never, ever, under any circumstances, offer to squeeze me into their cars for a ride to class on any day that wasn't an election day. So I would usually get really mad and ask them if they would have offered me a ride on any other day. They always coo "Of course we would have!"

I would then decline their ride in a way that was oozing with sarcasm and it would go over their heads and they would moan "Well, would you vote for Mary (fill-in-the-blank...all the girls who ran for anything were named Mary Something, i.e. Mary Elizabeth, Mary Claire, Mary Kathryn, Mary Kate, etc...)?

Then they would drive off to make some other guy believe that they would fulfill every filthy thought he had had since he was 13 if he would vote for their candidate.

I would then realize that it was inevitable to have to walk through the mob to get to class. They would all accost me and be ever so sweet and the guys would give me a firm handshake and look me in the eye and assure me that Chas, or Todd, or Brandon would be the best candidate to be elected Col. Reb.

Then I would round the corner, stick my head in the shrubs and vomit with terrible force.

After class, there would more of the same. Usually some idiot would see something about me that stood out and use that to make "idle" conversation before asking me to vote for some other idiot. It would go something like this:

Some hot girl: "Wow, I see that you are wearing a Jimmy Buffett t-shirt!"

Me: "Yeah, do you like Jimmy Buffett?"

Some hot girl: "No, but I do love music...and so does Mary Jane! You should vote for her!!! Ya'll have so much in common!!!"

At some point during this exchange, she would undoubtedly touch my arm or shoulder in a way that said "I would love to have your baby."
As much as I knew that this was all an attempt to manipulate me, I couldn't help myself sometime and I would actually stand and talk to the random hot girl for a while. I was sure going to take advantage of an event as rare as some hot girl walking up and shamelessly flirting with me and playfully touching me. So we'd talk a while and eventually she would be forced to reveal that she had a boyfriend who was a Sigma Something or Other. No kidding! And here I thought you wanted to bare my kids!

So, I never voted in an Ole Miss election.

I wonder if Condaleeza Rice is pulling up next to some poor schmuck and flirting with him right now.

Bury My Heart at Vaught-Hemingway

2004-11-01T16:53:00.000-08:00

Is there anything that can rip your heart out like being an Ole Miss Rebel fan?

No.

There is nothing as emotionally gut-wrenching as being a Rebel. Seriously. And here's why:

1. The mediocrity. For some reason the mediocrity is worse to me than just sucking. We always play a close game. No matter how much better the other team is we always play them just close enough to make us think we have a chance (except Alabama, who always crushes us in the first 10 minutes). The David Cutcliffe era has been marked by 7-4 years (and yes, I'd kill for a 7-4 year this year and that proves that I'm part of the problem because I would settle for mediocrity).

2. David Cutcliffe. Here are some typical things overheard in Vaught Hemingway over the past several years:

"Wow. Romaro Miller sucks today. That's his 3rd interception in 4 drives. Who's that 6'5" guy holding the clipboard and backing up Romaro? Oh yeah...It's Eli Manning. I wonder if he's any good?"

"Hey, didn't Deuce just run for 100 yards and return a punt for a TD in the first 3 quarters of this game? I wonder why he only has 1 carry in the 4th quarter?"

"Ethan Flatt just led us to a touchdown and field goal on his last 2 drives. Hey, who is that midget wearing #16 and playing quarterback?"

"Do you remember that guy who played in all 13 games as a true freshman at safety for Spurrier at Florida? His name is Larry Kendrick. He was national JUCO player of the year last year. He's our 3rd string wide receiver this year. Sure is strange how he can't break into our secondary rotation."

"Look at the jumbotron! Cut is advertising for a new defensive coordinator DURING A TIMEOUT!!!"

3. The SEC West Co-Champions sign from 2003. I can't even describe how pathetic this is.

4. David Kellum. I would rather swan-dive naked into a pool full of broken glass and needles than listen to a close game called by Kellum. "Dou Innocent up the middle...MAKES A MOVE...FAKES OUT THE LINEBACKER...HOLY CRAP, LOOK AT HIM GO!!! WHAT A MOVE!!! GAIN OF 4!!! Second and 6 for the Rebels."

5. The fact that we actually were a powerhouse in the '50's and '60's. If you go back and look at the records for the Vaught days, we were simply awesome. We were so good that even after 40 years of mediocrity, we still rank really high on the all-time bowl appearance list and wins list. The problem is that guys like me have been spoon-fed stories of the good old days from the time we came out of the womb. Part of me still believes we can get back there one day. I have no idea why I hold on to this irrational belief. It leaves me constantly disappointed.

Oh well. Being an Ole Miss fans builds character. We have a tiny budget and live in a poor state. When we do achieve some success, we really appreciate it.

Hotty Toddy.

"Pimp My Ride" is Getting Predictable

2004-11-01T15:22:00.000-08:00

I, like so many of you, turn to MTV when I want to see some real quality television programming. I have a beef with one show on that fine network, however.

"Pimp My Ride" is getting a little too predictable for me. At one time, this was the most suspenseful show on TV.

I always tuned in with breathless anticipation to see what would happen next. Would Xzibit show up to help the person in distress? Would the fine people at West Coast Customs put rims on the automobile? What about speakers?

Eventually, after viewing 67 episodes I began to be able to pick up on how things would turn out much like I could after reading several Agatha Christie or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle thrillers.

I'll give you some helpful hints on how to predict the ending of each episode:

1. When the head guy at West Coast Customs asks the wheel specialist what he will do to improve the car, the wheel specialist will say: "We're going to go with the 18 inch rims."

2. When the head guy asks the electronics guy what he will do, the electronics guy will say "We're gonna go with the flip-down screen for the DVD and we're gonna throw some speakers in the back."

3. When the head guys asks the paint guy what he will do, the paint guy says "We're gonna paint it (fill-in-the-blank absurd color).

4. When the pathetic loser comes in to see his/her new car, which is still a total piece of crap with $10,000 worth of junk on it, he/she will jump up and down like a chimp screaming "OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD...THANK YOU XZIBIT, THANK YOU WEST COAST CUSTOMS"

Eventually the pathetic loser will also say something along the lines of "I really think I'll get respect now that my '78 Ford Pinto has an MP3 player in it!"

I hope that this guide will help take some of the edge off of watching this show. Before I figured out the formula, it had me on the edge of my chair, biting my fingernails trying to figure out what would happen.

You've been pimped, daddy.

Six-Year-Old Trick or Treaters Don't Necessarily Worship Satan

2004-10-28T14:13:00.000-07:00

I love Halloween.

In honor of Halloween, today I will list some of the scariest and most disturbing movies.

1. "Deliverance"

This is the scariest movie ever made. There is no other movie that's even in the same ballpark. The two mountain men who rape Ned Beatty and Jon Voight are the most horrid villains ever put on film.
I would rather have Freddy or Jason put an axe through my skull than encounter these two mountain men any day of the week. The most famous line from this movie is "Squeal like a pig, boy." And yes, in the context it's used, it is a freaking disturbing line. But there is an even more twisted line a little later. The mountain man with the bad teeth tells John Voight to get on his knees and then he utters, "You're gonna do some praying for me, boy...and you better pray good." How freaking twisted is that line? This scene is simply horrible. I have never, ever been able to see Ned Beatty and not cringe ever since I saw this.

I rafted the Chattooga river where this was filmed a few years ago and actually witnessed the exact spot where the love scene was shot.

After watching this movie, I curled into the fetal position in the shower and scrubbed furiously, muttering "I can't get clean enough."

2. "American History X"

Everyone thinks I'm gonna talk about the curb/face kicking scene and the prison shower scene, and they are right. That crap was ridiculous.

3. "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" (the new one)

Leatherface cuts that guy's leg off and then hangs him on a meathook. I couldn't really relate to this because I have both legs and have never been hung on a meathook. But then, oh crap...then Leatherface gets a handful of salt and rubs it in the spot where the dude's leg used to be. This made me want to scream like a girl.
When I was a little kid I cut my thumb pretty bad on a stake that was tying down a volleyball net in our front yard. Shortly after that I grabbed a handful of Pringle's chip and the salt got into the cut and it really, really hurt.

4. "About Schmidt"

I've never actually seen this, but I heard Kathy Bates gets naked.

5. "Return of the King"

I hate that big spider. I'm not even scared of spiders but I hated that big spider. Tolkiien's imagination was pretty great but he took the easy way out when he took regular animals and just made them bigger. There are really big elephants and a really big spider. Too bad there wasn't a really big Cocker Spaniel puppy.

Happy Halloween.

Loss of 15. Repeat the Down.

2004-10-27T19:15:00.000-07:00

This year marks the 15th anniversary of my greatest athletic accomplishment. It doesn't rank up there with Barry Bonds' 73 homeruns or Wilt Chamberlain's 100 points in one game, but Bonds is on steroids and Wilt was seven feet tall.

Yes, 15 years ago I played the greatest football game of my life. Unfortunately, I peaked at 12 years old.

I was playing in a rinky-dink game coached by the high school football players at my school with the real coaches looking on. They liked to see what kind of talent they had moving up to the Junior High team the next year. They would occasionally step in and give us some coaching. At the time, I was the fastest person in my class. Remember the days when running fast actually insured your popularity? In my school, if you were good at freezetag then you were Pimpdaddy Supreme (although I had no business laying claim to that title because I was painfully shy around girls...a condidion that lasted until I was around 19).

I was always scrawny as a kid. At the time of this game I weighed about 80-85 pounds. Because of my slight frame, I played wide receiver and cornerback. In case you aren't familiar with Jr. High and below football, a wide receiver does ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. The quarterback never, ever throws the ball. I don't even remember ever being asked to run a route. I was supposed to block the cornerback on every play and the cornerback was always the scrawny little dork on defense so he was never going to make a tackle anyway. So basically I was out there just so we would have 11 players on the field (interestingly enough, I even screwed this up in Jr. High by moving before the ball was snapped and getting a penalty once. Thats right, a false start on a freaking wide receiver...I might be in the record books for this).

But in this particular game I made my mark on defense. For some inexplicable reason, the other team actually dropped back to pass the ball once. I dropped back in coverage...probably by accident since I was clueless. The next thing I knew the ball was headed in my direction...another guy tipped it (this guy became an all-conference safety our senior year) and it landed right in my hands. I sprinted 40 yards down the sidelines for a touchdown. It was the only one I ever scored. The high school guys who were coaching us were friends with my older brother and they were all screaming "Thatta way to run that ball, Morgan!!!"

It happened so swiftly and it was so easy that I took it for granted. I thought there were a million more touchdowns in my future. My God, how ignorant I was.

But that's not the play I remember most vivdly. At some point after that TD, the other team faced a 4th and 5. If they get it, the drive stays alive and they have a chance to win. If they don't make it...our ball, and we win.

Now let me add this: The other team had a player that I will refer to simply as "The Manchild." I weighed 80 pounds and he weighed about 135-140 pounds I'm guessing. "The Manchild" has become a bit of a legend everywhere he has been. The guy is mammoth. Absolutely huge. He's always been this way. He's bigger and stronger than anyone I've ever seen. He also has a mean streak as wide as Julia Roberts' smile. When I was in college with "the Manchild" he was bench pressing 515 pounds. I'm not kidding...he benched more than anyone on Ole Miss' defensive line one year. When he did leg presses he would max out the machine and then ask 2 people TO SIT ON THE MACHINE SO IT WOULD BE ENOUGH WEIGHT FOR HIM TO WORK OUT.

Now the stage is set. We noticed something strange when the offense lined up. The other team's wise-guy 18 year-old coaches moved "the Manchild" from the offensive line to tailback. By the time I processed what was going on the ball was snapped...and they handed it off to "the Manchild" who was building up a full head of steam. Around the end. Right toward the scrawny little cornerback who had torched them with a long interception return. Me.

I didn't have time to think. I didn't have time to be scared. "The Manchild" was churning up yards in my direction. I ran as fast as I could and met him head on. I hit him as hard my 80 pound body would let me hit. I put every single once of effort into that tackle. He crushed me like an empty coke can under an 18-wheeler. Ran right over the top of me. There is an expression in football: "Getting your bell rung." This expression didn't do justice to what "the Manchild" did to me. He should have been arrested for assault. It was that ugly. I literally saw stars. It was a really bright light exploding into a million other lights. But I didn't let go. I dragged him down as I fell. He landed directly on top of me and almost killed my skinny butt.

Gain of four. Turnover on downs. My team wins 6-0. My teammates were slapping my helmet and my shoulder pads and whooping and yelling and the coaches were laughing at me and shaking their heads in amazement at the same time and pounding me on the back. I have never felt a moment that wonderful since.

It was the last time I ever played with no fear whatsoever. The next year I was 13, playing Jr. High football, and the gap had widened even further between my skills and the skills of the other boys my age. I weighed less than 100 pounds, 98 to be exact, and got slapped around in every game and every practice that year. Why is there such a huge difference in how you view yourself when you are 13 compared with how you view yourself when you are 12? I felt like I was onstage and the whole world was watching everything I did in Jr. High. I became scared. Michael Jordan said that he feared losing more than he loved winning. That's what drove him. My fear was different. And it robbed me of what little I could do on a football field.

I became the most frustrating of athletes: the kind with some talent but no heart.

Years of injuries have toughened me up. I learned that I can cope with torn knee cartilage, pins in my foot, 19 sprained ankles, a big chunk cut out of my heel, and a snakebite. I wish I had known that I was a little tougher than I thought before I quit football.

I will never forget the last game I ever played with no fear. It was probably the last thing, sports or otherwise, that I EVER did with no fear whatsoever.

Youth is wasted on the young, they say.

Tribute to a Legend

2004-10-26T11:09:00.000-07:00

Throughout history a number of great men have risen above oppression and tyranny to carve out their own immortality. Men who have fought tooth and nail for what they believed and vanquished those who stood in their way. Some men, like Alexander the Great, used force. Some men, like Ghandi or Martin Luther King, Jr., used their minds.

On man used both. This man cleaned up a bar, destroyed a tyrant, saved an entire town, and got the girl. This man, of course, was Dalton.

Dalton...the very name itself inpires people to greatness. When Dalton was hired to clean up the Double Deuce the task seemed impossible. The bartender was watering down the drinks, the waitresses were dealing drugs, the bouncers were getting freaky with underaged skanks with big hair in the back room. Pro wrestler Terry Funk was very uncooperative. And all the while, a blind man was tearing up the frets of his Stratocaster behind chicken wire. It was, in a word, chaos.

Enter Dalton.

How does Dalton deal with all of these problems? How does he free an entire town from the ruthless grip of the loathsome Brad Wesley?
He uses his philosophy degree...and his crazy brand of mullet kung-fu.

You heard me right-this tough guy was a philosopher. His main philosophy was this: "Pain don't hurt."

It has often been said that behind every great man there is a woman. And While Dalton was no stranger to the ladies, this doesn't necessarily apply to him. For behind Dalton...was Wade Garrett.

Wade Garrett was a slow-dancing, hard-hitting, ponytail-wearing piece of iron that was not to be trifled with. For those who trifled with Wade Garrett ended up on the business end of a severe beat down. Don't believe me? Ask those four guys who tried to destroy the beer order arriving at the rear of the Double Deuce. "The biggest guy will drop like a stone if you take out his knee" was Garrett's personal philosophy. He was obviously a big influence on Dalton.

Alas, Dalton is like Jesus in a lot of ways. We don't know what either one did for years before they rose to prominence. They both go by only one name. They were both philosophers. Both saved a lot of people.

In many ways, they are nothing alike though. While Jesus espoused "Turn the other cheek," Dalton liked to tackles guys on motorcycles, rip out their jugular veins, and float them across ponds. One of Jesus' more famous quotes was "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you," Dalton liked to say "Right boot."

So here's to you, Dalton. The world is a better place for you having been in it.

If you would like to know more about Dalton and Wade Garrett, turn on TBS right now because I'm sure their story is on as you read this.

People That I Hate

2004-10-25T18:42:00.000-07:00

The inaugural post of my Blog is about people that I hate. I'm sure this will be a regular feature.

People That I Hate:

The cast of MTV's Real World/Road Rules Battle of the Sexes. Really I hate most of the cast members of plain old "Real World" too.

This will not be a comprehensive list because I don't watch this show enough to know who all is on it. I only watch it enough to genuinely hate some of the people on it.

1. Eric (Nies, Neis, Nease, Neece?) from the very first season in NY. I actually liked this guy once upon a time. When I was about 13 and he started his MTV adventure, he wasn't nearly so annoying. Actually, he still doesn't really do anything annoying...it's just that he's still around. He has to be pushing 40. Everyone else on that show is 20 and he's still competing. He's the Jerry Rice of MTV. Except Jerry Rice is respected and we know who he is for a reason. He has accomplished some things. All I know that this guy Eric has accomplished is being on MTV. As a matter of fact, I bet he's the oldest guy on MTV, period. I bet all the other people from Real World 1 get together and talk about this guy. No, on second thought they are too busy making fun of Andre's band to make fun of Eric.

2. Mark from the first Road Rules. I hate him for the EXACT same reason I hate Eric.

3. Theo. I heard he went to LSU.

4. Genesis. They stopped casting ignorant rednecks from the south in favor of ignorant lesbians from the south. Plus, her name reminds me of Phil Collins.

5. The Miz. Oh, how I despise this guy. He calls himself the Miz. He has shirts made up that say "The Miz." How can anyone not hate this freaking guy? I mean...he calls himself "The Miz." I can't emphasize that enough.

6. Cameran. She's also from the south. And she's kind of cute. I hate her anyway. She reminds me of a terrier on speed.

7. Puck. Seriously, what is this guy's deal? Has there ever been a bigger idiot on TV?

8. Jud from San Francisco. I have never seen anyone with a face so punchable.

9. Johnny Moseley. Wasn't he an Olympic skiier? Why is he on this show? Why would they possibly ask him to host this? These questions are totally unanswerable. Why do all the morons on the show cheer whenever he makes an appearance? Is he friends with all these losers? He has the personality of a chunk of concrete. He has the charisma of Ralph Nader. Is he supposed to be cool? Are we really supposed to look at this guy and say "Man, what a cool guy! It's a breath of fresh air seeing someone like THIS on TV!"

I'm sure I could think of more of these people if I really thought about it.

I hate them.