May 2006 Archives

jeep wave

A decade ago, Allie challenged my assertion that the male friends hanging around her were, in fact, romantic hopefuls pathetically awaiting their turn. Mine was a limited, biased view of these men, she thought. Not all men are like that, she argued.

Having since fended off the advances of every last one of them, she has changed her view of our original argument. It's not "when John was right and I was wrong." Heavens no. It's not "when I learned about the nature of men." No, it's "when John systematically destroyed my trust for all mankind."

I've had similar conversations with several women since, and I have a go-to anecdote I like to use.

the_jeep_wave.jpgWhen Jeep drivers pass one another, they wave. As with all social endeavors, I put in the bare minimum effort; a half dozen times a day, I lazily extend my fingers, letting my palm remain on the wheel. After eleven years, the practice is ingrained. Sometimes I wave to Jeeps from a rental car.

Once in a while, the person in the other Jeep is a beautiful woman. Enter the anecdote.

I don't see the beautiful woman make the same minimal, reflexive, bored gesture that I do. No. I somehow manage to see actual interest in me. "Hey! Whoa! She waved! Maybe I should turn around!"

Yes, it's moronic. Yes, it defies all logic that someone so versed in the mundanity of the Jeep wave and the eager stupidity of men should have such an impulse. Nevertheless, I have the impulse. Every single time.

"That's insane!" say the women who hear this story. Yes. Yes it is. But your relationships with men make just a little more sense now, don't they?

sans partner

Listening to Dr. Drew perform the "Loveline" radio show without his old partner, Adam Carolla, saddens me. Seeing partner types try to carry on alone always depresses me. Ebert without Siskel, Aykroyd without Belushi, Oz without Henson, Malone without Stockton. It's painful to watch. I can't expect these people to stop their professions, but neither can I stop feeling the limb that's been amputated. Anyone share this sentiment?

A telltale mini-van appeared next door not ten minutes ago. Yes, kids, the dread Percy is back from Arizona.

stank: your baby-hating headquarters?

I'm troubled by the commercials that air during the TV shows I watch. When you find yourself in the demographic targeted by people selling X-Men action figures, "Girls Gone Wild" videos, discount psychics, and Massengill Extra-Cleansing Vinegar & Water Douches...well, it's time for some serious self-assessment.

So is it with this page's readership. Some of you disturb me. Prisoners, sociopaths, Michigan alumni—your pathologies, I can handle. But any time I take a shot at a demographic (right, left, religious kooks, black, white, whatever), the opposite demo, very pleased, writes en masse. And nothing makes the forest rain nuts quite like when I rip parents.

I have somehow become the patron saint of baby-haters. Stop writing me. Stop identifying with me. I do not hate babies. Who hates babies? They never did anything to anyone.

I don't know how I can make it any clearer. I do not hate babies. I hate parents.

nine percenter

I was 23, and Maddie and I were talking about hair loss. I told her my certain fate: like my every male relative, I too would watch my hairline recede until "my bangs" joined "my baby teeth" in the linguistic ashbin.

"But at least I won't be one of those poor bastards who lose it from the back and have a ridiculous little bald circle in the back of his head."

That's the first time I saw The Look. The pitying, tear-welling, oh-my-god-do-I-really-have-to-be-the-one-to-tell-him? look. She couldn't form words. She just handed me two mirrors and fled.

• • •

Years later, Katrina and I were discussing relationships and what we each wanted in a partner. I waxed about a woman we both knew from school. Emma was effortlessly kind, graceful, bright, hilarious, elegant, athletic, and beautiful. She had, as Katrina and I are both fond of saying about people, beams of light coming out of every pore. I never heard a soul say anything but adoring things about Emma, and I was no exception. She was and remains one of my favorite people.

"Emma. Emma is my metric," I told Katrina. "What do I want in a woman? There ya go." The Look fell over Katrina's face. She fidgeted uncomfortably in her seat, averting her eyes, searching for the exact right words. She drew a deep breath and began.

"So why...." Trailing off, she squirmed and thought some more.

"Let me put it this way: what sort of a man gets to be with the Emmas of the world?"

Man. That's some cold shit.

It's obvious. It's right. It's just not a reality I had allowed myself to consider. Emmas marry wealthy underwear-model Pulitzer-winning pianists who, rather than killing a spider, will catch-and-release them—and even make them a tiny sack lunch to go. Why? Because Emmas have their choice of men. Beyond that, because Emmas know better than to get involved in an inequitable relationship. Which is what I would be. Which is what Katrina was saying without really saying it.

Acknowledging her point, I bounced back remarkably fast. "So what I want, really, is a woman who's x percent Emma."

"Ca-righst."

"Something more equitable. Someone, like, 80% Emma."

"Oh hell no. Eighty? Are you mad? You are simply not entitled to anyone who exceeds 9% Emma. Anything more than that would be an obscenity."

Sigh.

I bet the underwear model/Pulitzer guy doesn't get The Look, either.


[Editor's note: upon reading this, Katrina denies that she ever went as high as 9%.]

I have my first serious "old man" injury. I hurt my elbow in a spill six weeks ago, and it just doesn't seem to be getting any better. The effect of my right arm not being able to lift more than a can of Diet Coke has been humiliating. I have to ask other people to move, say, bags of dog food. Or to hoist a paint brush. Sometimes lifting the remote control causes stabbing pain.

"Let it rest," says the helpful orthopedic surgeon. His plan's working like gangbusters so far.

I'll never forget my first old man injury. I was about 30, in fine shape. I had my feet on the coffee table as I watched TV. I was sloth personified. Wham! I pulled a hamstring. "How did that happen...?" I said as I walked it off. "I didn't even do anything."

Oh, the naivete of youth.

Do you get the impression that she used pretty much random photos in that animation?

stork

From cartoonist Nina Paley comes this delightful short film. Any further set-up would ruin it. Enjoy.

davinci spinning like a lathe

"Uninteresting." That's the word that kept springing to mind while I watched The DaVinci Code. Other words sprang, too: rote, flat, contrived, Contact.

Carl Sagan's novel Contact will forever be my measuring stick for unentertaining entertainments. I slogged through most of its length and, with a scant 30 pages remaining, abruptly decided that nothing could possibly redeem the book in so short of time. So I quit.

I had several such moments during DaVinci, but I went against my better judgement and remained in my seat. The first such twinge was when Tom Hanks' character is said to be a Harvard "Professor of Symbolology." Unfortunately, the story only got dumber from there. The film is a seemingly endless, neuron-decayingly dull conversation about random contrivances, punctuated by the occasional car chase. The conversation is about the big scavenger hunt our heroes undertake. Clues are typically unraveled with scintillating deductions like this:

Him: "A NIECE PETE SLUT?" Who's Pete?

Her: I don't know. It doesn't make sense.

Him: Wait! Of course! It's an anagram! Look! "PETUNIA CELESTE!"

Her: Of course! The root of "Celeste" means "heavenly" in French. But what do the French have to do with anything?

Him: Whoa. Petunias were Charles de Gaulle's niece's favorite flower. His niece. So if we go to his crypt and look on the ceiling—at the heavens—we're certain to find the next utterly fucking random clue. To the car!

I made that up, but it would blend into the script. Seamlessly.

unbearable whiteness

Jesus H. As if Tom's dancing and Jodie's rapping weren't enough evidence that "white supremacy" is an unintentionally hilarious term, now we have a local math professor beginning a story problem with "Condoleezza holds a watermelon..." and bravely anonymous emailers decrying that a young black woman was elected "Miss Viking Fest."

I humbly submit that when we're back to gleefully wallowing in this level of imbecility, al Qaeda has officially lost.

And just when I thought it couldn't get any more ludicrous, the professor is appealing his suspension. On what grounds, I can only imagine. Maybe he misquoted himself.

look for the hybrid label

I knew I was in Seattle 'cause a complete stranger was chiding me for driving a Jeep. People do that here, and when you're offended, well, you're downright rude.

It would be unethical of me to drive that, sniffed the new hybrid owner who, for consuming the world resources used in the creation of a new car and letting someone else waste oil in his unethical old car, was clearly fitting himself for the Nobel Prize. I talked about relative resource and cost savings, but he wasn't interested. His validation was firmly invested in the hybrid label.

Astoundingly, though, the man has four kids. He's done his part to double the world population. Relative to the amount of resources his four little vanity projects are going to consume over the course of their entire lifetimes, the five gallons per week my Jeep uses to haul my fat ass to work seem trifling. An environmentalist breeder? Is that like an honest thief?

results show

The votes are in, and we have a mandate: leave that toilet seat down! With 64% of the vote, it's a pretty clear majority, especially when you factor in the number of men who doubtlessly ignored my request and voted anyway. ("Cross-clickers," coins distinguished Stank troll Ashley.) Not to mention the ballot-box stuffing attempt from Halliburton. And no, I'm not making that up.

toilet retraining

One of life's enduring mysteries: when I complete my business in a unisex bathroom, what do I do with the toilet seat?

On the one hand, we have my childhood shock therapy suggesting that the thoughtful thing to do is lower the seat. On the other hand, we have the next guy coming in and power-washing the seat I so thoughtfully lowered. So I leave it to my female readers. Which of my two options is the considerate one?

I'll posts results tomorrow.

A delightful read about a Seahawks player's visit with overseas troops. Too bad I only have three Steelers fans in my known readership.

crap tv week

I've been laid out for a few days with a cold, and that's never good for this page. No people, no complaints.

I've spent most of my week prostrate—now there's a letter I always triple-check, right up there with "hard disk"—and watching TV. Really crappy TV. Observations:

  • This week on 24, Jack chased this week's McGuffin for 59 minutes, at which time next week's McGuffin was introduced. Rinse. Repeat.
  • On American Idol, I found myself not caring which of the remaining one-trick ponies won. But who didn't enjoy the look on Chris' face when he lost? Or the post-show interviews where he was explaining away his loss as the result of "my overconfident fans" not voting? Yeah, Asshat, you don't have fewer voters, just lazier ones.
  • On Lost, Kate has officially become a beige accessory worn by alternating men. Meanwhile, the show continues to find innovative ways of not advancing the story, this time by offing recently introduced characters. Yawn. If you take a few months off between episodes in a serial, shouldn't it take more than five minutes to get caught up?
  • Survivor hit a new low, stretching out a boring episode and then cutting away to a "To be continued" card right before someone got the boot, making the entire hour moot.
  • I watched 2005's King Kong again. Now here's entertainment that the 30-second skip button was invented for! I watched its 3:08 length in about 1:20. Not surprisingly, the movie's far more enjoyable when its plodding excesses (spiders, Adrian Brody) are trimmed. The green screen composites look even more fake here than they did in the theatre. It's astonishing, for all the money they spent on this flick, to see an evenly lit Naomi Watts in the shadowy hand of Kong. Whoever lit the actors in front of the green screen should be tossed under an interminable brontosaurus stampede.

paula abdul bawling

phone thrusters

Phone thrusters: what motivates them? I'll be talking to my friend on the phone when suddenly, they'll thrust the phone into someone else's hands, and then, with little or no transition, I'll be awkwardly talking to their kid or S.O.

"Ohmygod. Here, tell Steve what you just told me!" she says, throwing me Steve's way.

"Hello?"

"Sigh. So I'm at the office the other day—"

"I'm sorry. Who is this?"

"John."

"Oh, hi John. Why am I talking to you?"

"Because your wife is a fucking tool."

"Ah. Yes."

Awkward though this is, it's infinitely preferable to being in the middle of a sentence and suddenly hearing the "Blap!" that signals that I'm now talking to a 14-month old, as 14-month olds don't so readily understand that their mother is a tool.

This all stems, I'm assured, from my friends' desire to make me closer to their family members. I suppose being thrust into the same moment of stammering awkwardness is a bonding experience of sorts, but still. I'll ask for 'em.

the ex line

I'm playing catchup with an ex right now. My plan to say that I married Khristi (17 years her junior), who bore me two beautiful, green-eyed children, was subverted by her own lie that she's a stereotypical suburban mom.

Ha, ha. No, nothing whatsoever has changed in five years with me, either. Ho, ho. My life is exactly the same, only balder and fatter. Har, har.

Continuity is overrated.

This did get me thinking about commonalities in these little catch-up conversations with friendly exes. Here are the odds on the content of any such chat.

The odds are... That she'll say...
2-1 "As soon as we broke up, I cut my hair really short."
1-1 (astoundingly enough) "Everyone says the short hair looks great."
4-1 "I haven't had a pizza in years. Still sick to death of them."
5-1 "How come you never mention me on your web site?"
5-1 "I come across as such a bitch on your web site."
10-1 "I'm in love for the first time in my life!"
12-1 "I married a guy named Gary."
12-1 "At the end of my life, I want those years I spent with you back."
20-1 "You think of me as ex? Really? I thought it was just a sex thing."
20-1 "You still listening to that die-bitch-die music?"
30-1 "Being around you was like being around radioactive waste. Sooner or later, your blood just starts to turn bad."
100-1 "I should have treated you better."
100-1 "John, I can't begin to describe how much knowing Jesus has changed my life, and I hope for you to know this kind of piece." [sic]

Here's an IQ test. Banks are offering 50 year mortgages now...with variable rates, yet! So the same $250,000 mortgage that would cost you $132k in interest over 15 years and $319k over 30 years will now cost a whopping $596k in pure interest. That's before the variable rate goes up, of course. Spend $596,000 to borrow $250,000? What a deal. Don't tell my sister.

Anyone who takes out a 50 year mortgage should have their voting rights stripped, on general principle. Their vote will doubtlessly cancel out mine.

more, ye say?

As esteemed Senior Troll Jen points out, you gotta have audio for this.

i wince more with every viewing

My eyeballs finally popped from all the pressure.

the ballad of greg biekert

A norte for non-sports types: this will seem like a football story, but really it's a story about smiting a celebrity. So keep reading.

• • •

tomczakian [tom-ZAK-i-an] adj. - said of a moronic act of intense granduer and cruelty.

Mike Tomczak was a quarterback at Ohio State when I was a kid. He had his moments, but he also had an uncanny gift for idiocies like taking modeling jobs that violated NCAA rules and, worse, throwing untimely interceptions. On a throw to the sideline (called an "out" pass), he would loft the ball so high and so slow that a moth could alight upon it mid-flight. Tomczak got to the point where I would see him begin to throw an out and the world would click into slow motion. "NNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO..." I would yell in an otherworldly baritone. As soon as the defender intercepted the ball and began his sprint toward the end zone, the world clicked into double-time.

Every sports fan has That Guy. That unspeakable bastard. That irredeemable fucker clearly put on this earth just to torture you, only you, in repayment for some atrocity you committed in a previous life. Tomczak was mine.

He cemented his status during a crucial game against Purdue. Down by a touchdown with something like 30 seconds left, having driven Ohio State the length of the field, Tomczak dropped back to pass, surveyed his options, and, not liking what he saw, calmly threw the ball out of bounds to end the play.

On fourth down.

Purdue ball.

Game over.

When he graduated, I breathed a sigh of relief. Still, it pained me that during his rookie year in the pros, he got a completely undeserved Super Bowl ring as a backup on the Bears. But I let it go. Live and let live. Mike "Out" Tomczak was someone else's problem now. And then my Steelers signed him.

"NNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO..."

Astoundingly, he hung those out passes in the air even longer in the pros. In the time it now took those passes to complete their arc, defensive players could stroll under them, choreograph their touchdown dance, make their grocery list, do their taxes, and complete half a crossword puzzle. Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! went the interceptors the other way. Every year, I kept waiting for someone, anyone else to secure the quarterback position. Every year, I heard those damned whooshes!

On Football Weekend '97, we went to Jacksonville for the city's first Monday Night Football game ever. In a game that was blissfully Tomczak-free, my Steelers and the Jags battled all night long, and finally the game came down to the Steelers needing to make a chip-shot field goal with only two seconds left. The field goal team took the field. Through my drunken haze, I noted Tomczak trotting out to hold the ball.

"TOOOOOOOOM-zak!" I bellowed. "TOOOOOOOOM-zak! "TOOOOOOOOM-zak!"

He bobbled the snap. The kick was blocked. Jacksonville scooped it up and took it 80 yards for a touchdown. Game over. My buddy stared at me. "Maybe you shouldn't have said anything to him."

I sobbed into my hands.

Mike Tomczak TomzcakTomczak lost a few more games for the Steelers before the owners finally sobered up and cut ties. He signed with the Lions and on August 18, 2000 suffered a career-ending broken leg. Most fans didn't take notice—the player, game and team were just too insignificant—but not me. For doing God's work, Raiders linebacker Greg Biekert—my new hero—received some fine cigars.

And that, I toasted anyone within arm's reach, is the end of that.

And then he got a job on the Pittsburgh Sports Tonight TV broadcast, and he was preening for the cameras in my living room every night. I shook my fist at the heavens. How is this prick still in my life six teams, 2500 miles, and nearly two decades later?

At 6am on September 11, 2001, my girlfriend and I were sitting on a plane, on our way East for a trip that would culminate at the Steelers' opener in their brand new stadium. The trip and the game never happened, of course, but I was determined to see the new home opener in October. She declined to get on a plane, so I went alone. In a very sober affair, I watched my boys beat the Bengals, and then I adjourned to a bar near my suburban motel. I walked inside and immediately heard Tomczak on the radio. Shit. He's got a local radio gig, too. I took a seat at the bar and nursed a Long Island, staring absent-mindedly straight ahead...at Mike Tomczak.

He and his partner just happened to be doing their post-game broadcast from the bar that just happened to be nearest my hotel after the game that just happened to be the makeup home opener. Jesus, what are the odds? Sigh. About 1:1. I sat there and glared at him, and then I told the other patrons about my Tomczak curse. When leaving, I decided to hit the bathroom first. I opened the door with some urgency.

WHAM!

I clobbered Tomczak on the ass, knocking him into the paper towel dispenser. He had been talking to his broadcasting partner, who was still at the urinal. "Wham!" laughed the partner. "Nailed by a blind-side blitz!"

I apologized, a reflex for which I despise myself to this day. Tomczak left, and I assumed the urinal next to his partner. He made more blitz jokes. "Actually," I said. "That was a long time in coming."

"How's that?"

And then I spilled my guts. I told the whole tale. The partner was delighted and couldn't wait to get back to his microphone. On my way back to the hotel, I tuned into the radio station.

"Jerome Bettis passed 10,000 career yards rushing during today's game, but before we get into that, Mike, I want to talk about something that just happened in the men's room. Some guy burst in and clobbered, I mean really walloped, you in the backside with the door. At first I thought it was just an innocent accident, but now I'm not so sure. After you left, he told me how he feels that you've victimized him his whole life, first at Ohio State, and then with the Steelers. He even said he considers you some sort of karmic punishment for something horrible he did in a previous life."

"What?!? What did I ever do to—"

"Well for starters, he said that at the end of the game against Michigan, you threw the ball out of bounds on fourth down."

"IT WAS PURDUE! If he's gonna call me out like that, he should get his facts straight."

"Oh that's right, he said Purdue."

"Oh."

And on it went. He completely humiliated Tomczak. He publicly flogged my longtime persecutor with the weapon I, myself, had crafted and handed him. I laughed myself to the point of near-unconsciousness. I didn't even care if I had a heart attack. I could die in peace now.

Not long after, Tomczak disappeared completely from my life, never to return. Coincidence? Perhaps. Or perhaps I'm his karmic punishment for some horrible things he did in a current life.

electric busses

At least one reader thought I was ridiculing busses and mass transit, so to clarify: I was ridiculing them thar electric busses. Simple physics tells us that the resistance in miles of power lines requires that far more power, hence far more pollution, be produced. The notion that these monstrosities are somehow cleaner and consume fewer resources is bullshit feel-good fantasy. They are, in my humble estimation, a monument to the ditzy left.

Stank stands by the the pickup truck with the machine gun.

fringe benefits

seattle electric trolley bus.jpgEight years of living in the Seattle area had me wondering if at heart I wasn't an AM-radio listening, bible-thumping, card-carrying member of the GOP. Not that my dial ever switches to AM or that I even own a bible. I just so perpetually wanted to pimp-slap the smug left, I found myself waiting in line with Republicans. Chattering airheads lectured me about my diet, recycling habits, gas-powered car, aversion to protests, etc. from the moment I arrived until the moment I left. In reaction, I even started using that most Republican of epithets: "the elite." I despise their public masturbation, their sneering presumption, their group-think. I especially despise their self-inflating answers to questions no one asked.

pickup truck gunJust when I was about to buy a red, white and blue SUV made of old growth timber by non-union labor and fueled by baby-seal head-pulp, I moved to Metamuville. Now I'm a left-wing nut. I'm one of the "librawls" I hear derided pretty much every day. Good lord, I hear he even votes both ways. Clearly, he don't support the troops. It's time for an intervention. John needs some learnin.' Conservative learnin.'

If I vote for a school levy, refuse to fertilize my lawn, or ask that racial slurs not be used around me? I'm a bleeding heart librawl. High gas prices? Librawls' fault. Requirements that you have a permit to construct a building? Damned librawls. Can't smoke in restaurants? You better believe it's the librawls. Ill-read, ill-educated cretins made these self-inflating pronouncements, parroting, I suppose, what they heard on the radio or O'Reilly.

A typical such moment: last week I was at a buffet with some Metamuvillians. The waitress took our drink order and forgot about it, and a fellow got up and got his own. "See, I ain't no librawl," he said pointedly. "A librawl would have just sat there and whined for someone else to bring them their drink, where me, I just took care of it myself."

I stared at him. So this is what passes as a friend in the post-baby-boomlet era. Shudder.

Maybe if I make fun of him.

"Yes, we're all very proud of you. But you did that server's job for her. She's going to get paid for not working. How do you reconcile that?"

"Good point. I hadn't thought of that. Damn."

Maybe Guam. I hear good things about Guam.

My childhood has been restored.

feh

When Minette and I spend our time with gray whales discussing either

  1. how boring they are today, or
  2. whether that awful smell is a) decay or b) whale flatulence
it's a feh day. Still, there are worse views.

smelly grays 03May06 008.jpg

you don't know me

It happens about once per month. I'll get an email in which someone who knows me only through this page purports to know me. Sometimes the emails are thoughtful, even concerned and psychoanalyzing. I'm too self-flagellating, too hung up on something in the past, etc. And sometimes the emails are less kind.

One day a few weeks ago, I received two such evaluations of myself. The first proclaimed me a thoughtful, sensitive, ideal man; the second derided me as a misogynist and included my favorite line of all time. Consider the whole paragraph [sic]:

Guys like you make me happy with my hairbrush, because you are a repulsive and self centered twat. Hey yes, how does it feel to have some of those sexist drogatorys used, you would be proud if I called you a dick, but no, I am calling you a twat, and you are a bitch too, and even a cunt, even a cunt from hell. And incompetant, so how do you expect us to find you sexy?

Marriage proposal or drogatory, I found the confluence of those emails to be pretty scary. If you know me just through this page, then you don't know me at all.

Despite appearances, the content here is not all that intimate. You don't really see the wrinkled old man behind the curtain. The Stank persona, while me, is but a carefully controlled subset of me. Everything here is cherry-picked to serve that persona without betraying my privacy. You don't see me rip friends until I've given up on the friendship. Likewise, you never know when I'm dating, let alone who. If you need to know who I'm angry with/sleeping with, you already do. Likewise with my demons. By the time they become fodder for this page—the exes, Dad, Mom, etc.—you can rest assured that I consider them long past. They're harmless, slayed demons. You don't get a whiff of the harmful, live ones. Does this make me dishonest? That's subjective. I would say "not always forthcoming."

Either way, the headline stands. Before you tell me who I am, please consider that you likely haven't a notion, yourself.

• • •

I will admit to one gleefully deliberate form of dishonesty on this page, something I just can't help: sometimes I crucify Dorkass by cherry-picking facts about her. For instance, when I chided that someone from her IP address was searching for the word "Dorkass," that was true enough. What I didn't say: it was me, visiting her house. The more I cheat, the more agitated she becomes, so the more I cheat. And the circle of strife continues.

immigrunting

I celebrated the "Day Without Immigrants" by watching two Mexicans and a German wrestle a 1200 pound concrete slab from one side of my house to the other.

"Hey, Javier. Can you rotate it so the handprints are facing the right way?"

I love this country.

• • •

The demonstrators have taken enormous pains to characterize themselves as "immigrants" opposing infringements on "immigrants' rights." This is, of course, a half-truth. We're not talking about enforcing the rights to which legal immigrants are obviously entitled—we're talking about granting new legal rights to illegal immigrants. This is not an insignificant difference. The demonstrators do their cause a disservice by attempting to blur the distinction between the two. I'm not unsympathetic to their arguments, but I've learned to distrust that sort of posturing. I find it disingenuous, disquieting. They'd have done better if they'd been forthright.

When drivers flash their brights at me and I don't have my brights on, and I get to sear them as they pass.

When an old fart kills one of their own on Metamuville Road instead of an innocent.

When my 32 year old ex and her husband move in with her parents.

Fred PhelpsWhen some raging homophobe turns out to be gay.

When Ohio State has two players drafted before USC does.

When on draft day, the ESPN ticker ran down how every team's season ended, and one-eighth of the league said "Defeated in playoffs by Steelers."

When I'm called "cracker-assed" by the right people.

When a particularly evil former boss started going blind and his wife left him.

When Dirt tells the story about former Ohio State fullback Vaughn Broadnax hitting Dirt and blowing his knee out.

When prisoners shiv a child rapist on principle.

When attention-whoring celebrity marriages fail.

When Rush Limbaugh gets arrested on drug charges.

When implants go horribly, horribly awry.

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