Testing out a feature.
YouTube - Shake Weight: ""
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Why I Love New York City: Case File #216
Two weeks ago I went to a Bastille Day street fair with my girlfriend. In typical New York fashion, it was significantly more aggressive in nature than its relatively asphalt-free counterpart, the rural or suburban county fair.
The fairgoers went about their business briskly as they jostled for superior views of the culinary options, which were many, but not varied. At the majority of vendors' tents Mexican immigrants wearing floppy berets and black-and-white-striped t-shirts sold sweet and savory crepes.
My girlfriend and I wanted to see if we could find food that had at least a whiff of authenticity, so we fought our way through the length of the fair seeking a more palatable option. As we reached the end of the third and final block, we spotted a tent that appeared to be manned by real-life French people selling vaguely French-looking sandwiches. The baguettes, piled high in bins, looked crisp on the outside and soft on the inside. This fact alone was enough to make this tent more promising than the rest.
After spending twelve dollars on two smaller-than-average sandwiches filled with something that was called garlic sausage, but more closely resembled Spam, my girlfriend and I walked into Central Park to find a place to sit. The street fair was teeming with humanity, and we wanted a little bit of breathing room while we ate.
A minute or so after we had found an empty bench, a large, topless man sat down across from us. He waved money in the air and shouted loudly that he would give someone $100 to buy him a six pack of Bud Light. I tried to see if he was actually holding a $100 bill. Surprisingly, it looked like he might have been. It certainly wasn't a single. But after considering the financial, legal, and moral implications, I decided not to enter into a business relationship with this individual.
He began to chain smoke cigarettes, and continued to amuse me with his general demeanor. After a few minutes of this arrangement, my subject noticed that a street performer had sat down next to him. I couldn't have been happier. I had no idea how this peculiar person was going to react to his new bench mate.
Earlier, when he sat down, he yelled at a pregnant woman who had been sitting on a bench by herself. He was upset that she occupied the entire bench. He believed that she had purposefully prevented other people from sitting next to her.
Of course, he never tried to sit next to her. Nobody did. If they had, they would have succeeded. This, however, did not matter to this man. In his opinion, it was that dumb bitch's fault that she took a whole fucking bench. A whole bench. A whole fuckin' bench for that bitch. That dumb bitch. A whole fucking bench.
My mind ran wild with scenarios of how this chance encounter between the two eccentric personalities might shake out. The topless man had already proved himself to be a judgmental individual with strong opinions. He was also a man of action. If he wanted beer, he waved money and screamed wildly. If he did not like the way you took up that whole bench, he yelled threats in your general direction without making eye contact.
How would such a man react to the human who had taken the seat next to him? A human who, it must be stated, was of indeterminate sex and outfitted in a gold suit, gold shoes, gold hat, gold mask, and gold wig. Would my Bud Light-craving friend verbally abuse this person? Would he offer it money for beer? Would he steal its gold hat?
No, he would not. What I had not anticipated was that this man, despite his apparently simple mindset, had the capacity to look with wonder at a fellow creature who he deemed curious, much in the same manner that I marveled at his existence.
Luckily, I was able to capture this fleeting moment with the aid of a cell phone camera.
Just a moment before, I had been sitting on a bench in a park eating a somewhat disappointing, allegedly French sandwich that I had done battle with a large swath of humanity to attain. Then, out of sheer coincidence or beautiful fate, a fascinating glimpse into a primal component of the human psyche had been placed in front of me for what seemed like the explicit purpose of my amusement and enlightenment. It was as if the Gods were saying, "Yes, you have picked the correct place to live. Here is some proof of our approval."
The fairgoers went about their business briskly as they jostled for superior views of the culinary options, which were many, but not varied. At the majority of vendors' tents Mexican immigrants wearing floppy berets and black-and-white-striped t-shirts sold sweet and savory crepes.
My girlfriend and I wanted to see if we could find food that had at least a whiff of authenticity, so we fought our way through the length of the fair seeking a more palatable option. As we reached the end of the third and final block, we spotted a tent that appeared to be manned by real-life French people selling vaguely French-looking sandwiches. The baguettes, piled high in bins, looked crisp on the outside and soft on the inside. This fact alone was enough to make this tent more promising than the rest.
After spending twelve dollars on two smaller-than-average sandwiches filled with something that was called garlic sausage, but more closely resembled Spam, my girlfriend and I walked into Central Park to find a place to sit. The street fair was teeming with humanity, and we wanted a little bit of breathing room while we ate.
A minute or so after we had found an empty bench, a large, topless man sat down across from us. He waved money in the air and shouted loudly that he would give someone $100 to buy him a six pack of Bud Light. I tried to see if he was actually holding a $100 bill. Surprisingly, it looked like he might have been. It certainly wasn't a single. But after considering the financial, legal, and moral implications, I decided not to enter into a business relationship with this individual.
He began to chain smoke cigarettes, and continued to amuse me with his general demeanor. After a few minutes of this arrangement, my subject noticed that a street performer had sat down next to him. I couldn't have been happier. I had no idea how this peculiar person was going to react to his new bench mate.
Earlier, when he sat down, he yelled at a pregnant woman who had been sitting on a bench by herself. He was upset that she occupied the entire bench. He believed that she had purposefully prevented other people from sitting next to her.
Of course, he never tried to sit next to her. Nobody did. If they had, they would have succeeded. This, however, did not matter to this man. In his opinion, it was that dumb bitch's fault that she took a whole fucking bench. A whole bench. A whole fuckin' bench for that bitch. That dumb bitch. A whole fucking bench.
My mind ran wild with scenarios of how this chance encounter between the two eccentric personalities might shake out. The topless man had already proved himself to be a judgmental individual with strong opinions. He was also a man of action. If he wanted beer, he waved money and screamed wildly. If he did not like the way you took up that whole bench, he yelled threats in your general direction without making eye contact.
How would such a man react to the human who had taken the seat next to him? A human who, it must be stated, was of indeterminate sex and outfitted in a gold suit, gold shoes, gold hat, gold mask, and gold wig. Would my Bud Light-craving friend verbally abuse this person? Would he offer it money for beer? Would he steal its gold hat?
No, he would not. What I had not anticipated was that this man, despite his apparently simple mindset, had the capacity to look with wonder at a fellow creature who he deemed curious, much in the same manner that I marveled at his existence.
Luckily, I was able to capture this fleeting moment with the aid of a cell phone camera.
Just a moment before, I had been sitting on a bench in a park eating a somewhat disappointing, allegedly French sandwich that I had done battle with a large swath of humanity to attain. Then, out of sheer coincidence or beautiful fate, a fascinating glimpse into a primal component of the human psyche had been placed in front of me for what seemed like the explicit purpose of my amusement and enlightenment. It was as if the Gods were saying, "Yes, you have picked the correct place to live. Here is some proof of our approval."
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
This is Your Brain. This is Your Brain After Dropping Too Much Acid Split Open on an Operating Table
At this point in my life I don't watch too much television, but it wasn't always that way. When I was younger, TV watching was just about the only activity you would consider a serious hobby of mine. Technically I played sports, listened to music, and dabbled in a few other traditional childhood past times, but I tackled nothing with as much sheer joy and unbridled enthusiasm as sitting on the couch and stuffing my fat, prepubescent face with Fruit Roll-Ups while Bob Ross painted a masterpiece in 30 minutes flat.
Now that I'm an alleged adult, however, things have changed. I don't have as much free time as I used to, and what little free time I do have is wasted doing horrible, mundane bullshit like washing dishes and making sure nobody steals my underwear from the laundromat.
But in a development even more significant than the tragic loss of my sitting-around time, I came to the realization that few things in life make me feel as useless and pathetic as a multi-hour television binge. It's true that there are some quality programs out there, but not enough to sustain an extended, unplanned veg-out session. You might start out with The Office, Lost, or The Daily Show, but soon enough you've sat through an I Love the 80s: This Time it's Personal marathon without even realizing it.
At our first stop on our tour of the damned, we begin by traveling through an incredibly polluted set of lungs. This is no simulation. We are literally inside the lungs of a heavy smoker, in all of their pussy, tar-filled wonder. We are then told by a doctor that sometimes he can, "hear the cancer" inside of a patient. And, if he can hear it, as is the case with this particular sap, who, presumably, can hear everything the doctor is saying, then it is already too late.
At this point in my life, if I catch myself watching something I'd be ashamed to admit in public, I'll turn off the TV and start doing something a little bit more active. Maybe I'll take out my guitar and noodle around for a little bit, or perhaps I'll hop onto the internet and write a few dick jokes for your enjoyment. Whatever the activity may be, it keeps me occupied without inducing a sense of shame and self-loathing.
But I don't want to give you, the loyal readership, a distorted image of who I am. Despite the fact that I find television, in general, to be a pretty big waste of time, that doesn't mean I'm some NPR-obsessed, artisanal cheese-loving freak show that never watches it. In addition to the shows I mentioned above, I have a select few favorites that I DVR, and I still watch Knicks, Yankees, Giants, and Rangers games. So once in a while, despite my best efforts, I find myself in front of the set for a few hours at a time.
It was during one such recent binge that I came to the following realization:
The most disturbing, scarring, God-forsaken imagery you'll see on television is not found in horror movies, action flicks, or late-night cable access programing. No, the most putrid sights you'll ever lay your eyes upon pop up when you're supposed to be safe from such monstrosities, during the commercial breaks.
When I was a child, there were commercials that tried to frighten you into either changing your behavior or donating to a charity, but they were nothing compared to what you are subjected to now. Just about the scariest thing we had back then was an animated spot imagining a "World Without Trees." Everything on Earth was a lifeless shade of brown and a business man on the way home from work was desperately hanging onto a lamppost while a furious wind blew him sideways. The message was, as I understood it, "if you don't recycle, you could find yourself in an Aha music video gone terribly wrong."
Modern commercials, on the other hand, make the ones from my childhood look like they were dreamed up by magical kittens who live in a land of rainbows and cotton candy.
Take for instance, the commercials featuring abandoned animals that were clearly beaten by their previous owners and are now lying motionless in a shelter, accepting their fate of certain death. Actually, what I should say is, their fate will be certain death unless YOU rescue them, you HEARTLESS BASTARD!
Of course I understand the motivation behind this particular spot. There are a lot of animals without families, and if guilting me into taking one home is the best way to rescue them, then I guess I'll have to accept that. But sweet baby Jesus, there's nothing as depressing as a sad puppy, is there? What did that little guy do to deserve this? Why, GOD? WHY??? WHAT DID HE DO? HOW COULD YOU LET SUCH BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO SUCH GOOD PUPPIES?
You might be thinking to yourself, "Come on now, Gooch. Get it together. Lonely puppies are sad and all, but that's not exactly a terrifying image that will scar you for life."
To which I might retort, "Perhaps. But allow me to introduce... exhibit B."
Exhibit B
Imagine, if you will, the tale of a Mexican immigrant whose great love in life was swimming. Ah, now truly this will be a heartwarming story. A young man who has come to America bursting with hopes and dreams likes nothing more than the freedom he feels when he jumps into the water and basks in the splendor of nature.
But if you were paying close attention, you might have noticed that I used the word "was" and not "is," to characterize the protagonist's love of all things aquatic. The reason I chose to do so was quite simple. This young man, this hard-working, God-fearing, family man, now has a gigantic hole in his neck due to a horrific case of throat cancer. Not only can he not swim anymore, but water poses such a threat to his life that he is forced to shower with a fucking garbage bag over his head. Poor Pedro can't even go out in the rain without worrying he might drown.
You know how I know this? Because it was shown to me in all of its gory detail in the middle of a Top Chef episode.
You know how I know this? Because it was shown to me in all of its gory detail in the middle of a Top Chef episode.
Don't smoke cigarettes, kids, or your life will turn into an outtake of Million Dollar Baby so gruesome that Clint Eastwood threw up during the filming.
Now, you might be thinking, "Well, at least the poor guy lived."
To which I would respond, "This is true. But did you not see the enormous hole in his throat? Did you not listen to the tale of his shattered dreams? Is this not all a little too much to lay on someone during a break from The Soup?"
And you may ask yourself, "Well, how did I get here?"
To which I would respond, "Are you even listening to me, or are you just playing a Talking Heads album?"
To which you would reply, "Haha, yeah, sorry, what were you saying?"
"What I was saying was, yeah, the guy lived, so it's not a total tragedy, but it's some pretty gruesome imagery to just throw out there without any warning."
At this point you're sitting on the fence about the issue, so you say to me, "I guess, but if the guy walks around in public like that, how bad could it really be? Walking down the street in New York you're liable to see a bum taking a leak on the sidewalk or somebody with really bad burns on their face at any moment. So really, it's not that out of the ordinary."
Fair enough, fictional conversation partner. Although I think it's kind of fucked up that you compared a crazy bum pissing on the sidewalk to somebody who has suffered a severe accident.
But if you would humor me, allow me to present two more commercials. They were made separately, but their vile imagery suggests that they will share a special ring in hell together.
At our first stop on our tour of the damned, we begin by traveling through an incredibly polluted set of lungs. This is no simulation. We are literally inside the lungs of a heavy smoker, in all of their pussy, tar-filled wonder. We are then told by a doctor that sometimes he can, "hear the cancer" inside of a patient. And, if he can hear it, as is the case with this particular sap, who, presumably, can hear everything the doctor is saying, then it is already too late.
Lovely.
In commercial number 2, without any warning, we are taken to a shot of a surgeon (I hope) squeezing tar out of an esophagus, or perhaps it's some sort bronchial tube. I'm not really sure what particular body part I'm looking at because
a) I'm not used to seeing myself cut open and dissected on an operating table, and
b) every time this commercial comes on I begin to uncontrollably gouge my eyes out.
Back in the day they used laughably corny metaphors to tell you how bad tobacco, drugs, and alcohol were. Now, they show the terrifying medical problems that result from heavy use in vivid, high-definition detail.
They could at least have the common decency to put a disclaimer at the beginning of these commercials. I'm thinking of something like a blood-curdling scream that tells me to stop what I'm doing and avert my eyes at all costs.
If the powers that be don't take this completely sensible advice, the day could soon come when they make a public service announcement warning advertising agencies not to base their campaigns on gag-inducing medical footage. I'm thinking this particular PSA would be made up of footage of my face melting off as I watch an esophagus get emptied like a tube of toothpaste.
The tag line would be, "You can't stop what you can't see coming."
I don't relish the idea of having to give my life for this cause, but if my martyrdom can save a few unsuspecting souls from having to watch a doctor saw an alcoholic's liver in half in between reruns of The Cosby Show, then I guess my life will have been more consequential than most.
Monday, January 19, 2009
There's No "Bat Shit Crazy Coach" in Team
A few months ago the writers behind Fire Joe Morgan, one of the funniest and well writtenist sports/humour blogs out there, decided that they no longer wanted to waste large chunks of time in a thankless, pointless, and revenue-less pursuit of internet naughteriety (see what I did there?).
Frankly, I'd rather not think about the tremendous amount of time and energy I've sunk into this petty, juvenile, and ultimately disgraceful stain on the shimmering beauty of artistic achievement that is The Internet. And even though FJM's departure from the interwebs has forced me to shine a harsh, unforgiving light upon my own pathetic existence, that doesn't mean I'm not sad to see them go, and it certainly doesn't mean that those sabermetric-loving Bostonites (and therefore likely racists), don't deserve a good ol' fashioned Biological Fanny Pack sendoff.
So, in their anal retentive honor, I will now pick apart, line-by-line, an email newsletter written by a completely real and completely terrifying Pee Wee Football coach.
Certain details have been changed to protect the innocent, and by "innocent" I mean friend who forwarded this to me, but I assure you, almost everything in this letter is 100% real.
Dear Team Parents, Players, Family and Friends,
It is with a heavy heart that I write this note: OUR season is over ……………………..
Ok, we're only at the greeting, but already there are strong indications that we're headed to crazy town on the express train. First of all, does Coach Carter really think this email newsletter is going to be read by distant relatives? Why else would he address "family" separately from parents? He's obviously under the impression that grandparents, cousins, aunts, and uncles are part of his audience.
Well I have news for you, Bear Bryant. There's no way in hell Aunt Jezabel (assumed name), who cut ties with her family 3 years ago in order "to rediscover what's real" by moving to Akron, Ohio and starting a Zoroastrain church, is going to want to read about Little Fatty Boom Boom's struggle to reach the top of the depth chart at right guard for his FOURTH GRADE FOOTBALL TEAM!
Perhaps your players forward it to their friends so they can all laugh at what a complete lunatic you are, but if the parents and family members of your charges are actually perusing this literature, they should all be put away for life for allowing you to look after their children.
Then we have the fact that "OUR" is in all caps.
Before we go any further, let's go over the famous Krazenberg Criteria for determining if you are a psychopath. For each answer that you answer "yes," award yourself one point. If you score 4 out of 5 or more, you are most likely completely bat shit crazy.
1. Do you randomly capitalize letters/words in your Red Sox message board posts/pee wee football newsletters?
2. Do you use punctuation in clusters of no less than 20?
3. Do you think you are an actual part of your pee wee football team?
4. Do you express this opinion using random capitalization and record amounts of punctuation in an email newsletter that you are writing with a "heavy heart?"
5. Do you enjoy the collected works of Carlos Mencia?
That's a solid 4 on the Krazenberg scale, but only because we don't have enough information to make a ruling on Question 5. All in all, I'd say there is a strong likelihood of dementia here.
but what a season it was, what a spectacular way to finish!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I'm not quite sure how you feel here. Are you sarcastically shouting at me, or are you truly excited? You should consider adding a few more exclamation points in your next newsletter to my family, friends, chaplains, parole officers and gynecologists.
Walt Disney could not have written a more storybook ending to what unfolded January 3rd, 2009 on a cold, grey and blustery Saturday afternoon on the turf @ Old Waterlands.
When you're right, you're right. Never in Walt Disney's wildest dreams could he have come up with a heartwarming story about a youth football team overcoming adversity.
Despite the elements and injuries, the Immaculate Nagging of Mary Bulldogs showed the Rolling Hills League what a TEAM, a "Band of Brothers", looks like!
How did these little warriors ever overcome those, "cold, grey, and blustery" elements? Surely this game will go down as one of the all-time great bad-weather games, right alongside The Slightly Overcast Bowl and the I Wish It Were A Little Sunnier Game.
Although some may feel that that is Cliché', I beg to differ. Any Coach worth his salt will tell you that there are certain aspects of sport that can not be taught:
Although some people think that I am a liar, I am not. Hey, have I ever told you about the time I had a threesome with Rosario Dawson and Beyonce?
"heart", "guile", "intestinal fortitude", "passion", "hunger" and "desire".
Other things that can't be taught: "Sheer and utter madness", "Not getting motion sickness while reading in the car", "thirstiness", and "a desperate longing for attention".
These are fundamental elements and building blocks for success. What these young men displayed on Saturday was remarkable! To be able to absorb a totally impromptu offensive scheme, with new personnel, new positions, new plays and a new Coach 1 hour before kickoff and WIN………………………….. EXTRAORDINARY!
I don't understand. Did you kidnap a remote African village's entire population of children, put them in uniforms, and say, "Go!" Why is the offensive scheme being devised on-the-fly? Why are all of the players being forced to switch positions and learn new plays with a new coach right before the biggest game of the season? Have you done anything to prepare these children to play an extremely violent contact sport?
And oh yeah, what happened to the old coach? Is he being held hostage in your basement, forced to listen to you sing "Who's Sorry Now?" while you dance around with your penis tucked in between your legs?
I'll admit, being able to win a game at which you are completely unfamiliar without any help whatsoever from the man who raped and killed your old coach is truly ........................................
............................................................................................................................................... AMAZING!
The ending was a combination NCAA Basketball 1983 NC State v. Houston + 1984 NCAA Football Game BC v. Miami + Christmas = all rolled into ONE!
Yes, this pee wee football victory was truly as magnificent as the birth of Jesus Christ the Savior, the living embodiment of God Almighty who was sent to Earth to die for our sins so that we may enjoy the everlasting paradise of Heaven.
You're not going overboard at all.
Coaches Berringer, Fiore, O'Malley and myself have spent the last 72 hours replaying THE GAME in our minds and re-living every fantastic moment!
We literally haven't slept in 3 days. We've been holed up in your former coach's home smoking crack and scrawling cryptic messages in blood on the wall.
Which reminds me, the Great Pig Satan Must Choke On the Flood of His Acid Blood.
When you are part of a team, decisions have to be made in the beginning of every Season: Am I willing to sacrifice my "wants" for the advancement of the team?
You want to what? You want to go home and see your Mommy? Well tough luck, you little shit. You're part of a team now, and sometimes being part of a team means not eating for 5 days straight, your petty "wants" be damned.
Everyone wants to play QB, WR and RB but a team needs Offensive Linemen in order to block for them…… and what blocking we had, without the blocks on that last play, Tommy does not have the chance to throw the ball and Steven doesn't have the chance to make "the catch" (move over Dwight Clark)
On Coach Crazy's tombstone I want the inscription to read:
Here lies a man who never met a gross overexaggeration he didn't love. His life was a combination of Tom Landry's, Alexander the Great's, Buffalo Bill's, and Pope John Paul II's.... ALL ROLLED INTO ONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Am I willing to do what is asked of me by the coaches, without regard for myself and what position I would prefer to play? We constantly rotated players and positions on Defense, often without practice……….
This is what's known in the industry as the "permanent physical and emotional scarring clause."
We had the lowest scored upon Defense in the league for the Regular Season
No thanks to you, Coachy McNoGamePlan.
Will I accept a new challenge, place faith in myself, my teammates and God? Saturday was the epitome of this, these boys never doubted that we would find a way to WIN…….the smile has yet to leave our faces!!!!! Remember, football is just a Game! (The boys may have had to remind the Coaches of this fact a time or ten)
Are you trying to suggest that you might be a little too intense about coaching 4th grade football? That would show a shocking amount of self awareness, so I'm going to go ahead and assume that this section of the newsletter was ghostwritten for you.
If you make sure that you have FUN……..the outcome will take care of itself……………..
The outcome, of course, should be winning. So if you're not winning, you must not be having fun. START HAVING FUN YOU LITTLE SHITS!
Will I overcome any apprehension and nervousness that I may have inside? We had 26 players, 8 were first timers on a tackle team…….…… also, the boys were from 10 different schools…………….
What sort of a sick school is this? Are they recruiting 4th grade football players from across the nation? Why are they all transients?
I am not allowed to disclose the location of the Immaculate Nagging of Mary, but I can assure you it is not in any locale likely to be full of misplaced Hurricane Katrina victims.
Am I willing to provide Maximum Effort Every Play? Saturday showed this perfectly "Ability is what you are capable of doing, Motivation determines what you do, Attitude determines how well you do it" (Lou Holtz)
Are you willing to ask a question, then provide a completely random, unrelated quote to answer it? "Possession is 9/10ths of the Law" (Anon)
We look forward to seeing everyone in the INM Gym this Sunday evening @ 7PM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
But until then, I will not tell you where I am keeping your children, so you'll just have to wait!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I will keep everyone updated on when the Season Highlight DVD is complete! We just added more on Saturday!
Honestly, what else does this man have to do to be thrown in jail? HE'S TAPING YOUR CHILDREN AND TIRELESSLY SCOURING THE COUNTLESS HOURS OF FOOTAGE DAY AND NIGHT!
May the Grace of God be with you all during this Holy Season!
Coach Bat Shit Crazy
May God have mercy on the souls of your children.
Love, Coach.
P.S. I know/assume that my Company is pleased that I can now focus more of my attention on work; however, that provides little "Solace for the Soul".
You can't have it both ways, buddy. Either you know something, or you assume something. The two are mutually exclusive. However, I have a little "solace" for your "soul." You're not in jail yet. You should thank the dear sweet Lord every night for this miracle.
P.P.S I found a reversible jacket (Nautica, Size 12/14 Blue, Red and Grey/White) and a Fleece Redskins hat on our bench after the game. I will bring these on Sunday…………...
The owner of the jacket, however, has already been skinned and turned into a full body suit that I will wear to the gym on Sunday, at which point I will punish your children for their untimely exit from the playoffs by shooting them one at a time, firing squad style, as you look on paralyzed by shock and horror.
Frankly, I'd rather not think about the tremendous amount of time and energy I've sunk into this petty, juvenile, and ultimately disgraceful stain on the shimmering beauty of artistic achievement that is The Internet. And even though FJM's departure from the interwebs has forced me to shine a harsh, unforgiving light upon my own pathetic existence, that doesn't mean I'm not sad to see them go, and it certainly doesn't mean that those sabermetric-loving Bostonites (and therefore likely racists), don't deserve a good ol' fashioned Biological Fanny Pack sendoff.
So, in their anal retentive honor, I will now pick apart, line-by-line, an email newsletter written by a completely real and completely terrifying Pee Wee Football coach.
Certain details have been changed to protect the innocent, and by "innocent" I mean friend who forwarded this to me, but I assure you, almost everything in this letter is 100% real.
Dear Team Parents, Players, Family and Friends,
It is with a heavy heart that I write this note: OUR season is over ……………………..
Ok, we're only at the greeting, but already there are strong indications that we're headed to crazy town on the express train. First of all, does Coach Carter really think this email newsletter is going to be read by distant relatives? Why else would he address "family" separately from parents? He's obviously under the impression that grandparents, cousins, aunts, and uncles are part of his audience.
Well I have news for you, Bear Bryant. There's no way in hell Aunt Jezabel (assumed name), who cut ties with her family 3 years ago in order "to rediscover what's real" by moving to Akron, Ohio and starting a Zoroastrain church, is going to want to read about Little Fatty Boom Boom's struggle to reach the top of the depth chart at right guard for his FOURTH GRADE FOOTBALL TEAM!
Perhaps your players forward it to their friends so they can all laugh at what a complete lunatic you are, but if the parents and family members of your charges are actually perusing this literature, they should all be put away for life for allowing you to look after their children.
Then we have the fact that "OUR" is in all caps.
Before we go any further, let's go over the famous Krazenberg Criteria for determining if you are a psychopath. For each answer that you answer "yes," award yourself one point. If you score 4 out of 5 or more, you are most likely completely bat shit crazy.
1. Do you randomly capitalize letters/words in your Red Sox message board posts/pee wee football newsletters?
2. Do you use punctuation in clusters of no less than 20?
3. Do you think you are an actual part of your pee wee football team?
4. Do you express this opinion using random capitalization and record amounts of punctuation in an email newsletter that you are writing with a "heavy heart?"
5. Do you enjoy the collected works of Carlos Mencia?
That's a solid 4 on the Krazenberg scale, but only because we don't have enough information to make a ruling on Question 5. All in all, I'd say there is a strong likelihood of dementia here.
but what a season it was, what a spectacular way to finish!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I'm not quite sure how you feel here. Are you sarcastically shouting at me, or are you truly excited? You should consider adding a few more exclamation points in your next newsletter to my family, friends, chaplains, parole officers and gynecologists.
Walt Disney could not have written a more storybook ending to what unfolded January 3rd, 2009 on a cold, grey and blustery Saturday afternoon on the turf @ Old Waterlands.
When you're right, you're right. Never in Walt Disney's wildest dreams could he have come up with a heartwarming story about a youth football team overcoming adversity.
Despite the elements and injuries, the Immaculate Nagging of Mary Bulldogs showed the Rolling Hills League what a TEAM, a "Band of Brothers", looks like!
How did these little warriors ever overcome those, "cold, grey, and blustery" elements? Surely this game will go down as one of the all-time great bad-weather games, right alongside The Slightly Overcast Bowl and the I Wish It Were A Little Sunnier Game.
Although some may feel that that is Cliché', I beg to differ. Any Coach worth his salt will tell you that there are certain aspects of sport that can not be taught:
Although some people think that I am a liar, I am not. Hey, have I ever told you about the time I had a threesome with Rosario Dawson and Beyonce?
"heart", "guile", "intestinal fortitude", "passion", "hunger" and "desire".
Other things that can't be taught: "Sheer and utter madness", "Not getting motion sickness while reading in the car", "thirstiness", and "a desperate longing for attention".
These are fundamental elements and building blocks for success. What these young men displayed on Saturday was remarkable! To be able to absorb a totally impromptu offensive scheme, with new personnel, new positions, new plays and a new Coach 1 hour before kickoff and WIN………………………….. EXTRAORDINARY!
I don't understand. Did you kidnap a remote African village's entire population of children, put them in uniforms, and say, "Go!" Why is the offensive scheme being devised on-the-fly? Why are all of the players being forced to switch positions and learn new plays with a new coach right before the biggest game of the season? Have you done anything to prepare these children to play an extremely violent contact sport?
And oh yeah, what happened to the old coach? Is he being held hostage in your basement, forced to listen to you sing "Who's Sorry Now?" while you dance around with your penis tucked in between your legs?
I'll admit, being able to win a game at which you are completely unfamiliar without any help whatsoever from the man who raped and killed your old coach is truly ........................................
............................................................................................................................................... AMAZING!
The ending was a combination NCAA Basketball 1983 NC State v. Houston + 1984 NCAA Football Game BC v. Miami + Christmas = all rolled into ONE!
Yes, this pee wee football victory was truly as magnificent as the birth of Jesus Christ the Savior, the living embodiment of God Almighty who was sent to Earth to die for our sins so that we may enjoy the everlasting paradise of Heaven.
You're not going overboard at all.
Coaches Berringer, Fiore, O'Malley and myself have spent the last 72 hours replaying THE GAME in our minds and re-living every fantastic moment!
We literally haven't slept in 3 days. We've been holed up in your former coach's home smoking crack and scrawling cryptic messages in blood on the wall.
Which reminds me, the Great Pig Satan Must Choke On the Flood of His Acid Blood.
When you are part of a team, decisions have to be made in the beginning of every Season: Am I willing to sacrifice my "wants" for the advancement of the team?
You want to what? You want to go home and see your Mommy? Well tough luck, you little shit. You're part of a team now, and sometimes being part of a team means not eating for 5 days straight, your petty "wants" be damned.
Everyone wants to play QB, WR and RB but a team needs Offensive Linemen in order to block for them…… and what blocking we had, without the blocks on that last play, Tommy does not have the chance to throw the ball and Steven doesn't have the chance to make "the catch" (move over Dwight Clark)
On Coach Crazy's tombstone I want the inscription to read:
Here lies a man who never met a gross overexaggeration he didn't love. His life was a combination of Tom Landry's, Alexander the Great's, Buffalo Bill's, and Pope John Paul II's.... ALL ROLLED INTO ONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Am I willing to do what is asked of me by the coaches, without regard for myself and what position I would prefer to play? We constantly rotated players and positions on Defense, often without practice……….
This is what's known in the industry as the "permanent physical and emotional scarring clause."
We had the lowest scored upon Defense in the league for the Regular Season
No thanks to you, Coachy McNoGamePlan.
Will I accept a new challenge, place faith in myself, my teammates and God? Saturday was the epitome of this, these boys never doubted that we would find a way to WIN…….the smile has yet to leave our faces!!!!! Remember, football is just a Game! (The boys may have had to remind the Coaches of this fact a time or ten)
Are you trying to suggest that you might be a little too intense about coaching 4th grade football? That would show a shocking amount of self awareness, so I'm going to go ahead and assume that this section of the newsletter was ghostwritten for you.
If you make sure that you have FUN……..the outcome will take care of itself……………..
The outcome, of course, should be winning. So if you're not winning, you must not be having fun. START HAVING FUN YOU LITTLE SHITS!
Will I overcome any apprehension and nervousness that I may have inside? We had 26 players, 8 were first timers on a tackle team…….…… also, the boys were from 10 different schools…………….
What sort of a sick school is this? Are they recruiting 4th grade football players from across the nation? Why are they all transients?
I am not allowed to disclose the location of the Immaculate Nagging of Mary, but I can assure you it is not in any locale likely to be full of misplaced Hurricane Katrina victims.
Am I willing to provide Maximum Effort Every Play? Saturday showed this perfectly "Ability is what you are capable of doing, Motivation determines what you do, Attitude determines how well you do it" (Lou Holtz)
Are you willing to ask a question, then provide a completely random, unrelated quote to answer it? "Possession is 9/10ths of the Law" (Anon)
We look forward to seeing everyone in the INM Gym this Sunday evening @ 7PM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
But until then, I will not tell you where I am keeping your children, so you'll just have to wait!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I will keep everyone updated on when the Season Highlight DVD is complete! We just added more on Saturday!
Honestly, what else does this man have to do to be thrown in jail? HE'S TAPING YOUR CHILDREN AND TIRELESSLY SCOURING THE COUNTLESS HOURS OF FOOTAGE DAY AND NIGHT!
May the Grace of God be with you all during this Holy Season!
Coach Bat Shit Crazy
May God have mercy on the souls of your children.
Love, Coach.
P.S. I know/assume that my Company is pleased that I can now focus more of my attention on work; however, that provides little "Solace for the Soul".
You can't have it both ways, buddy. Either you know something, or you assume something. The two are mutually exclusive. However, I have a little "solace" for your "soul." You're not in jail yet. You should thank the dear sweet Lord every night for this miracle.
P.P.S I found a reversible jacket (Nautica, Size 12/14 Blue, Red and Grey/White) and a Fleece Redskins hat on our bench after the game. I will bring these on Sunday…………...
The owner of the jacket, however, has already been skinned and turned into a full body suit that I will wear to the gym on Sunday, at which point I will punish your children for their untimely exit from the playoffs by shooting them one at a time, firing squad style, as you look on paralyzed by shock and horror.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Reason Number 23,682 Not to Read Metro
Metro: You were once shot in a drive-by. Can you tell me about it?
Jamal "Gravy" Woolard: Nah, I don't want to talk about that.
STOP SNITCHIN', METRO!
(Getty Images: Carmelo Anthony is not pleased.)
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Attention Passengers: We Have a Sick Customer
(Getty Images: Fuck this guy)Now, I've had my fair share of problems with the subway, but ever since I moved out of Queens and into the Fratastic capital of the world (Upper East Side), there's been a new, immensely annoying component added to my morning commute.
The Sick Customer.
I don't know if it's because the people who ride the 4, 5, and 6 are generally less healthy than those who ride the N or W (doubtful), or because the conductors on this line default to "sick customer" every time there's a delay (more likely), but at least once or twice a week my half an hour train ride becomes an hour or longer due to some possibly imaginary asshole getting sick on the train.
Since I'm not sure what the actual explanation is, allow me to share my thoughts on both possibilities.
Possibility 1: Legitimately Sick Customer
Ok, here's my question for you, legitimately sick customer: If you're so fucking sick that you need to halt the most widely-used subway line in the entire country to receive medical attention, then WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU GETTING ON THE SUBWAY IN THE FIRST PLACE? You couldn't have possibly anticipated that your nasty case of Ebola was going to prevent you from completing your trip?
Really?
Here's some friendly advice for you: stay the fuck home. Nobody wants to be near you or your fatal case of chlamydia. And we certainly don't have the patience to wait for an ambulance to make its way through rush hour traffic in order to tend to your diseased phallus.
Now that we've covered that, here's my question for the subway staff: why don't you just boot this person off the train and be done with it?
"Um, dispatch, we have a problem, a woman is complaining of chest pains on the Bronx-bound 4 train. How should we proceed?"
"Whatever you do, DO NOT TAKE THIS WOMAN OFF THE TRAIN! The worst thing we could do right now is get her to a hospital as soon as possible. Our only chance is to keep her strapped to her seat next to the homeless man drinking vegetable oil. Also, don't forget to put a wooden spoon in her mouth."
As far as I know, the only thing that you don't move a patient for is spinal injuries (full disclosure: I am not actually a doctor). How many commuters are getting into head-on collisions with NFL-caliber linebackers on the subway? Unless someone is in danger of being permanently paralyzed, get that sick motherfucker off the train and keep moving. How does this not make sense?
Possibility 2: The conductor is lying in order to defer blame
As we discussed above, the possibility that there are actually that many sick customers is remote. Which leaves me with one other, much more plausible explanation.
The MTA is full of shit.
This really comes as no shocker, considering the MTA won't open its financial records to public inspection and is generally known to be more corrupt than a congress made up entirely of clones of Rod Blagovedevichiegevej (topical!).
So here's my question, MTA: Why the lies?
I don't ask for much in this life. I just don't want to be jerked around (by anyone other than my girlfriend, that is. HEY OOOOOO!!!).
So next time, instead of feeding me a line of bullshit about some sick grandmother in Brooklyn, just tell me the truth. Seriously, try it out. I think you'll find it liberating. Here, I'll even help you get started with some examples.
"Attention passengers, the Brooklyn-bound local 6 train is running with minor delays due to Albert. He didn't show up to work this morning and we had to hire a vagrant to take his place. As you could imagine, there's a pretty steep learning curve for this job, so don't expect to get where you need to go anytime soon."
Or, perhaps:
"Attention passengers, due to our complete and total incompetence, we will be getting you to work 45 minutes later than you had anticipated. We thank you for your patience."
Or even this:
"Attention passengers, we fucking hate your guts and are doing this just to fuck with you. See you in hell, motherfuckers."
Now doesn't that feel better?
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