November 2010 Archives

over 4000 reasons to kill myself

Remember that post last week where I mocked American celebrity youths? I used a photo of one Miss Cyrus. Unbeknownst to me, the photo had her name and the word c-r-o-t-c-h in the filename. Since that post, I've had over 4000 hits from people searching for photos of that part of that girl's anatomy.

Ew. I itch. All over.

Time to add another deadbolt to my door.

oh, the sacrifices i make for friendship

For the first time in years, Katrina and I were able to go to a Seahawks game together. She normally doesn't have an extra ticket, and I'm normally otherwise occupied. Thank you, Ben's wang, for freeing up my schedule.

The game was a dog—Chiefs at Hawks—but I didn't mind. I hadn't gone to a game with Katrina in a decade. And so we nestled into her dad's season ticket seats, and I marveled at Qwest Field. Sigh. Why teams building stadiums don't simply borrow the blueprints for Qwest, I will never understand. I admired Katrina's family's seats and their excellent sight-lines.

chiefs-fan.jpg"I HATE these seats!" announced a Chiefs fan, sitting in the row in front of us. The three of them were donned in a-DOR-able matching Santa hats. They posed for photos with one another, ignoring the game. They texted their friends, ignoring the game. They ran for beers when their team was driving for a touchdown, missing the score. When they returned and shuffled in front of other fans, it was during a live play, naturally. On the few occasions when she did watch the game, one woman would signal "First Down" when the ball carrier was four yards short, then turn around to bask in the deafening apathy of the "enemy" fans she'd hoped to antagonize. At this point, I started checking off my fan offenses checklist.

About the fifth time the woman stood up during the middle of a play in progress, thereby blocking Katrina's view of the action, Katrina asked the woman to wait until the play was over. The woman stood more than ever, naturally, and now she was turning to face the "enemy" fans even more often.

"You say the word, and I will pummel all three of them," I whispered to Katrina.

"Do NOT get in a fight," she said ambiguously, leaving me just enough wiggle room to get in a fight.

Because she is a season ticket holder, Katrina is ordinarily insulated from the riff-raff. She reads my posts about moronic fans, and she honestly tells me she has never seen this sort of behavior. This led us both to the same conclusion.

"This is my fault," I said when her view was blocked again.

"I know."

"They're always in front of me, whatever stadium I'm in. They're never five seats thataway. Nope."

At this point, I noticed that the guy in front of us was delightedly telling the woman I was talking about her. All her efforts at getting attention were finally paying off!

"Are you talking about me?" she asked, also delighted.

"Not specifically. I was just talking generally about the sort of moron who stands up during the middle of a live play, blocking the view of everyone behind her."

There was a moment of silence, and the woman never looked at us again. The guy, however, belligerently rushed to her defense. I was stupid, and rude, and fat, and an ass, and I had ruined the good time of a woman who had flown 3200 miles from Kansas City to see this game.

Did Kansas City move to Nova Scotia? I thought. Or is this an inflationary universe thing where Kansas City didn't move, but the fabric of space between Seattle and KC has expanded? Heh. That's a good one. I should use that—

And then I looked at Katrina. She was shaking her head. The season ticket holder next to her was shaking his head, too.

Seattle people. Oy.

The man continued his rant. To summarize his better points: their good time mattered, not everyone else's, and their seats cost money, not ours. Plus I should be grateful not to be able to see the Seahawks, he sneered, which might have been the devastating repost he so clearly thought it was if I were actually a Hawks fan.

In the manner of a provocateur who expected someone else to back down and realized, too late, that he was now in an indefinite conflict, he now started telling his companions that the asshole wasn't worth it.

"He's so not worth it," they all agreed, then, turning to me, fired the death blow. "But you started it," the view-blocking, crowd-antagonizing, eavesdropping name-callers said.

"Really!" I chirped. "So out of curiosity, what exactly do you think I did wrong? You didn't like that in the private conversation you eavesdropped in on, I said she was rude?"


"Yes, we've already covered that. But what is it you think I did wrong?"


"Okay, you sober up and choose the right words and—"


"Perhaps you should file a fan incident report, then, if my conduct has been so objectionable. I know I would like to read it."

"Fuck off," the man concluded. "You made her feel bad."

"Good. She deserves to feel bad."

The three visitors gasped. They couldn't have been more offended if I'd added "And I hope she kills herself." Which, incidentally, only Katrina's glare kept me from adding.

• • •

In the post-mortem on the incident, I remarked that I was impressed that the normally non-confrontational Katrina had asked the drunken women to not block her view. Katrina remarked that she was impressed that I was able to dial down and not get into an actual fight.

"I know that wasn't easy for you," we each said to the other.

kordell hussein stewart

This is not a sports post.

2003 - Kordell Stewart was a Steelers quarterback off and on from 1995-2003. He had his moments, including a Pro Bowl year, but more often he was ineffective. Lots of factors contributed to this. He had three offensive systems in three years, for instance, and a revolving door of receivers and tackles around him. And he was simply not a very good quarterback. There are only 12 very good quarterbacks in the world at any given time, and he was not among them. But he had spurts of success, he could be fun to watch, and there was no one on the roster who was remotely as good. I wanted him gone, but I rooted for him.

You would think that last part would go without saying, wouldn't you? Of course I rooted for him. I'm a Steelers fan, after all, and he was the Steelers' quarterback.

It's kind of like how even if you don't care for the President, you root for his success. You're an American, after all.

Kordell was despised by my fellow fans with a venom I'd not seen before. They proclaimed him the worst quarterback in the history of football—mind you, a qb who twice took them to within a game of the Super Bowl. They vandalized his home. They dumped beer on his head. The belittled his intelligence. They fabricated rumors about his sexual orientation. I heard that Kordell was gay every single day for several years. The abuse and slander was unrelenting. And if I piped up to say something obvious like "Well, he's not the worst quarterback in the history of the planet," I too was vilified. Why, look, everyone—that moron John is proclaiming that moron Kordell a future Hall of Famer! John has a crush on his boyfriend Kordell!

I am not exaggerating.

"What is this?" I wondered. He wasn't my favorite player in the world, but these people were relentlessly trying to 1) inspire his suicide and 2) vivisect anyone who thought #1 was a little harsh. They were hysterical, incapable of reason, brazenly making shit up. They hated him for more reasons than his interception:touchdown ratio. And they hated me for not hating him.

I came to the extremely grudging conclusion that Kordell's great sin wasn't mediocrity, but that he was a black quarterback. I'm just about the last guy to attribute motivations to racism, but his defamers wore me down with their deaf hysteria. It's all they left me to believe. No other explanation fit the facts.

2010 - I've had a familiar feeling lately. It's not welcome.

In retrospect, Kordell had it easy. He was just "gay." Now he'd be the Socialist Nazi Muslim Antichrist with a forged birth certificate who's hellbent on eradicating our freedoms.

gen-x parents, defined

Seven year old, to me at my house, when I declined to change a DVD a fourth time:

"I HATE you."


"Aww, that's so sweet. I hate you too, honey."

Her mother:


yep. i paid for this.

I'd long ago learned not to speak to women at Ed's old dog park in Redmond. It just wasn't worth it. It's the only place in the world, in fact, where I specifically seek out the company of men.

And then I helped plan, finance and build a dog park where I now live, and for some reason, it didn't occur to me that the social rules would remain the same.

I stared at a dog, unable to make out its breed. It was oddly familiar. I just couldn't put my finger on it. Some sort of hound, clearly, but more of a sporting one. Was it...? Could it...?

"Is that a bluetick coonhound?" I asked its owner.

"Yes, it's MY BOYFRIEND'S dog," the presumptuous bitch replied, caps inclusive.

"Ca-righst," I uttered and walked away. Not my best rejoinder ever.

I got myboyfriended at my own bloody dog park. Can't a woman wait until Second Four of an interaction before convicting a random guy of trying to ply his way into her pants?

l.lo.mugshots.jpegIt's Harry Potter time again, which means that the Harry Potter actors will once again be making the talk-show rounds. From the age of ten, they've been making me positively cringe. Mind you, they're fine. They're articulate, cultured, interesting human beings.

And that's precisely the problem.

I can't help but compare them to young American actors who were pampered from the crib and schooled in their luxury trailer by "tutors."

It makes me so, so proud.

chaste nunWhen Daniel Radcliffe speaks of his theatre career, or Emma Watson of her studies at Brown University, I can't last three seconds without thinking of Hillary Duff telling Conan she changed the lyrics in My Generation to "I hope I don't die before I get old."

Because the old way was, like, way too negative and stuff.

straight cred

"Zombies?" Mike texted me, a regular occurrence whenever he feels like laying waste to Xbox zombies. And soon we were meeting online, complaining about the weapons we were given.

"Lemme go make a drink," I said, setting down my headset and returning a few minutes later.

"Mine's a cosmopolitan. Yours?" Mike said, baiting me into mocking his gayness.

"Martini," I said, declining to take the bait.

"See, we're not so different."

"Yeah. Except that I'm using the same olive as three nights ago."

Did Mike make the subsequent gurgling sounds, or was it just the zombies?

the sweetest apu

I promised distinguished Stank troll Gillian that I would write about college football today. I can't muster any outrage about Boise State, however. The Indians used it all up this morning.

I'm an easy-going guy. Ask anyone. If companies want to outsource to India, I'll happily work with Indians. If companies want foreigners being their public voice, I blanch, but I understand. We live in a global world. I have to get along, even if getting along means my answering "Uh. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .yes" to questions I didn't remotely understand. At least I think it was a question. Toward getting along, I even try to put my queries in writing.

Dear Mr. Nahasapeemapetilon,

Per your web site, I'm writing to request we set up electronic invoicing for my company. All the information you could possibly want is attached. Thank you for your assistance.


And then he'll write back, ever so politely.

John, please give me a call at the following number.

Fuck. Seriously?

I'll say one thing for Indians: they don't let a lack of proficiency stop them from talking at 800 mph. Ten minutes of excruciating, chewing-my-own-arm-off-to-get-free conversation later, I wonder: what did I just agree to?


As foreshadowed, I haven't been watching the Steelers this season, yet I've been watching lots of football. It ain't the same. Without a team to root for, that leaves me teams to root against (Dallas, Baltimore), which isn't nearly as satisfying. It's like rooting for someone to not eat the last piece of pizza. It's a pale shadow of eating the last piece yourself.

Dirt is a Vikings fan, God help him. Which means all of their games have been on here at my house, God help me. It's bad when you're looking forward to the commercial breaks.

Roethlisberger can't retire/get traded/die soon enough.

stump the band

All my material sucks even more than usual today, so once again I give you the nominally amusing Plan D: Searches That Led People to This Page.

ohio state cocksuckers without osu
fake whale pictures
is puseous a word?
rules for white guys
james lipton honky (rule: avoid using this word)
joseph gordon levitt circumcised?
circumcised kal-el
cheerleaders weight gain
headhunters cooking naked women
Michigan Stadium urinals
dream of a female friend brushing her
the stupidest kid on the earth
everest corpse pictures
crease in back of head

Yep, I paid money to host these people. Very gratifying.

percy's new home

"If you're ever in Tuscon," the email from the blue read, "Be sure to stop by for a visit. - Percy"

My first invitation of any kind comes after eight years? Weird and awkward to the end, that Percy. What on earth would we say to one another if I stopped by? Would we just stare and shuffle awkwardly, for old times' sake—but now we would also tan?

And with this, I believe I have written my last Percy post. I have promoted him to uber-post. If you look on the right under Categories, you'll see him in his permanent home, his digital senior center.

great reads: bad science

I know I shouldn't look. It never ends well. But when I got to the end of an article about W's new memoirs, I did it anyway. I read the user comments.

"Librals [sic] just can't stand the thought of a smart Republican like Bush being President," said one.

"Bush says its okay for Americans to get waterboarded," said another.

"What is wrong with me that I'm reading these again?" said John. "I mean, seriously?"

greatreads.jpgLibrals, of course, said nothing of the kind, nor did Bush. It was more poor argumentation from a society that seems increasingly unable to separate fact from fallacy, evidence from assertion. And yes, for me it all ties into the validation theory. We assert whatever set of "facts," real and imaginary, validates us. This is why people so zealously believe that which is demonstrably untrue, like, say, Obama being a Muslim Nazi non-citizen. Hell, pick one.

Which brings us to this week's Great Read. On the surface, it actually has little to do with the sort of argumentation I'm discussing. In her Newsweek editorial, "What Kids Should Be Learning in Science Class," Sharon Begley argues that instead of making science students memorize the minutiae of Ohm's law, which most of them will never need to know, we should teach them how to spot bullshit masquerading as science. To make them better thinkers.

"Hallelujah!" I thought as I read this, fresh off the heels of Bush waterboarding Obama's family Mullah. If my generation had learned to think instead of learning the names of the veins in fetal pigs, perhaps we wouldn't be mindlessly buying into counterproductive nonsense like all-electric cars and high-speed rail (this latter article, fittingly, was on the page opposite Begley's).

And perhaps, just perhaps, a fellow who demands that scientists pony up evidence to back their claims would demand likewise from himself.

lebron james: victim

I haven't commented on LeBron James' flight to Miami because I hate to feed media whores and, well, I don't care. I stopped being interested in the NBA when Magic and Bird and Jordan were succeeded by players consumed not with beating one another, but with raising their Q score.

LeBron, for those of you who do not watch sports, is a basketball prodigy. He went straight from high school to the NBA, playing for his hometown Cleveland Cavaliers. At 18, he called himself the Chosen One. He promised his lowly franchise a championship, and they adored him for it. Fairy tale stuff. The years passed, and he failed to deliver in the playoffs, and championships did not come. And when he become a free agent, he bolted his hometown team for Miami, where he would become a role player next to other superstars.

But he didn't merely bolt. He waited until Cleveland could not replace him with other free agents, then held an hour-long TV special called "The Decision" where he announced "I'm taking my talents to South Beach." He not only utterly fucked his adoring hometown fans, he went out of his way to humiliate them worldwide.

At the time, I thought it was narcissistic and classless, and I thought his legacy was now forever capped at "fantastic sidekick," a la Scottie Pippen. But I didn't hate LeBron. Even when he said the criticism of him was racist, I didn't fully hate him. Not until this week, when his new commercial aired. In it, he does what all assholes do when the lights come on and their nature is revealed: he claims victimhood.

Now, I hate him. I despise him. What a narcissistic, self-important, selfish, clueless, shameless, dickless, ringless loser marketing-puppet.

• • •

The fan response from Cleveland:

Argh. I've started three posts this morning, each a varying degree of suck. I'm under deadline and haven't really left the house this week, so there's not much interesting to rail about. Not unless you want to hear about the dumbass "Ribbon" design in Microsoft Office.

I think I'll go to the dog park and kill two birds: 1) exercise the twitchy, needy thing nudging my thigh with her nose every .0062 seconds and 2) seek inspiration in the assholes that comprise the world outside my house.

Hopefully someone will piss me off.

trailing the dead candidate by 14%

I've felt like a loser at times, sometimes colossally, but how must John Stammreich be feeling this morning?

you have a friend request from self-awareness

I added a bunch of stupid church signs this morning. Enjoy.

reader mail: finesee-ese

I didn't get flamed for last week's posts (I, II, III) like I expected. Most of my mail was from guys. Really bitter guys. Really bitter guys looking for a hug.

Keep looking.

Distinguished Stank troll Dinah was the only woman to take a stab at writing finesse-ese for men. Italics are me.

When he says: "Ummm, yeah that might be fun..." He means: "I will make sure to be as passive aggressive as possible and ruin whatever it is you think might be "fun".

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't done this. I hadn't thought of it in those terms, of course, but "passively ruin whatever it is you think might be fun" did immediately make me think of certain occasions. I'm not proud.

When he says: "You're embarrassing me." He means: "You're having a good time. I hate it when you're happy."

Whew. After your first one, I'm relieved that your second one isn't me. An alternative explanation that springs to mind is that your happiness makes him feel excluded, which is both more understandable and more pathetic.

When he says: "I don't go in for public displays of affection." He means: "I don't want any random females in the area thinking we're involved, just in case I want to fuck them."

Sadly, this transcends gender. Alternate interpretation: "I don't want anyone thinking we're involved, 'cause, well, I'm ashamed of you. Now. Where are you taking me for Valentine's dinner if I don't get a better offer?" And you had better have bought me jewelry."

When you say: "Hey you look great! Is that a new shirt?" He hears: "God, I hate that shirt."

What I hear: "You wanna stop wearing a black t-shirt every goddamned day? Christ! Is it the same shirt, or so you just own 10 of them?" (Answer: the latter)

When you say: "Let's go out Friday night!" He hears: "Here's your chance to publicly humiliate me!"

Aw, come on now. You know we can't plan this far in advance.

When you say: "Would you like to come over for a home-cooked meal?" He hears: "I want isolate you from everything you hold dear."

When you say: "Why do you have only one pillow on your bed?"
He hears: "I plan to move in with you."

Excellent stuff.

moron taxonomy
stupid church signs
super bowl xl officiating
percy chronicles

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