February 2012 Archives

victim of the week: danica patrick

Rewarding achievements in claiming victimization

"Do you call Blake Griffin a sex symbol because he was on the cover of Men's Health with his shirt off?" asks Patrick.


"People just don't know what to call women who look attractive. The easiest thing to do..."


"...that gets the most attention..."


"...is (calling me a) 'sex symbol.' I don't think that's who I am, but it is how people describe me," she said.

And thus did I just click Send on my reply to the actress who was in the well in Silence of the Lambs.

Life is weird.

mind the gap

I asked this question a couple years ago, and the response was so counterintuitive, I've never really accepted it. In a unisex public bathroom, would women prefer I put the toilet seat down like usual, or is that just inviting the next guy to pee all over it and I should therefore leave it upright?

I recalled this yesterday while in a Chinese restaurant's unisex bathroom, which added this twist: the gap.


Ladies, to men, this is a double-dog dare. Your odds of sitting in pee just went up by an order of magnitude. When we see this configuration, we think only one thing: "I can totally thread that."

I remain befuddled that 2 of 3 women would prefer that I leave that seat down. Is this a function of not understanding men and simply hoping for the best...which is really the same thing?

cringing chuckle

The new coaching staff at Ohio State has wasted no time rekindling the contempt toward Michigan that was the norm when I was a kid. No one refers to them by name. They are simply the school up North.

This sign just appeared at the OSU football facility.


God knows I love making fun of the Harvard of Western Southeastern Michigan, but 24 Communication and Family Resource Management majors? Really, Ohio State? If you had a rhetorician in your ranks, I think he would have advised you to focus on 4x the engineers, 7x the biologists, and an 8-0 record in business majors. Alas.

victim of the week: floyd mayweather

Rewarding achievements in claiming victimization

Fresh off his saying Filipino fighter Manny Pacquiao is a "yellow chump" and that "I'll make that motherfucker make me a sushi roll and cook me some rice," American boxer Floyd Mayweather is commenting on Jeremy Lin.

"All the hype is because he's Asian. Black players do what he does every night and don't get the same praise."
It's about time someone called out the planet for not showering enough attention on black NBA players. Criticized, Floyd responded like only a good American could: he claimed victimhood.
"Its OK for ESPN to give their opinion but I say something and everyone questions Floyd Mayweather. I'm speaking my mind on behalf of other NBA players. They are programmed to be politically correct and will be penalized if they speak up. Other countries get to support/cheer their athletes and everything is fine. As soon as I support Black American athletes, I get criticized."
Wow. So much stupidity, so dense. If stupidity were an astronomical body, this would be a neutron star. Where to start?

  1. It's spelled "it's." Three letter words are tough; I know.

  2. What opinion did ESPN give? That Jeremy Lin set an all-time scoring record— white, black, brown and yellow?

  3. You didn't state your opinion. You stated as fact what other people feel. That makes you a stupid dick with delusions of omniscience.

  4. Everyone questions you? That's a lot of people. Perhaps you're just a stupid dick with delusions of relevance.

  5. People who talk in third person are stupid dicks.

  6. I'm pretty sure NBA players wouldn't choose a racist, stupid dick as their spokesperson.

  7. Name an NBA player who's been penalized for speaking up. I'll wait.

  8. People who use "politically correct" in defense of their racist remarks are stupid, racist dicks.

  9. "Other countries?" What country were you speaking about, the country of Asian people? As opposed to the United States of Floyd Mayweather, which supports black athletes. Wait. This is starting to make sense to me. I need to stop.

ughs, uggs

The woman behind the bank counter looked me up and down, a slight sneer on her lips. I can't really blame her. I was going for homeless chic that morning. Black t-shirt, tattered gray sweatpants, and brown Uggs where men with bosses or wives would wear shoes. And I surely looked miserable.


"Can I help you, sir," she stated instead of asking.

"Yes, I said. "I'd like to deposit money into the account of one of your customers."

I directed her to the college fund that my co-worker's widow set up for their two kids. The teller softened.

"Oh dear. I'm so sorry."

"Thanks. Me too, but it's not my tragedy," I assured her. I hate when people co-opt others' drama.

The transaction took an inordinate amount of time, during which the teller segued into the hard sell: I really, really needed to move my personal and business accounts to her branch. Why? That part was fuzzy. But it was very urgent indeed. And oh, so tasteful.

"Now this...this is my tragedy," I said, trying to shake her off my leg so I could leave.

You're all class, Wells Fargo. And this is coming from the bum in Uggs.

I'm enjoying the Sensational Sixes. The children of the 2005 baby boom are really getting interesting, now. And by "interesting," I mean that if properly armed and aimed, they can drive my friends to despair.

My friends deserve no less. Ironically, because they had kids.

The only boy of the group, Henry, is the gift that keeps on giving. Boys are such low-hanging fruit. Drum set, whistles, cymbals, super-soaker, industrial-grade megaphone (with siren!)...it's all worked to perfection. This week he received a Nerf machine gun. In the video Mom sent me, Henry literally vibrates when he first sees it. "Look, it's got bullets! AND EXTRA BULLETS!!!"


That night, darts everywhere and the dog traumatized, Mom was putting him to bed when he asked incredulously, "How did Uncle John know I wanted a Nerf machine gun?"

Because dudes ain't exactly complex, little man. Enjoy.

Chicks are harder work. I had to get the ball rolling with Annalie over video conference, where I showed her the unloved kitties and doggies awaiting death at her local pound. She brought home her kitten Cookie a few days later. Cookie drives Mom nuts while she works, which inspired me to take it up a notch by sending Cookie a box full of toys. I selected the toys by searching Amazon for "annoying" and "noisy."

barbie.pngThe most evil gift went to Danielle, d'Andre's six year old. She received a Barbie. Not Black Barbie, either. Cracker-ass Barbie. With tea set and golf clubs, the whitest accessories I could find. Mom was amused at first, saying something about it being "important that Dalia learn that some people aren't racists so much as just dicks." And then Dad, who always has to one-up me on that count, brought home a companion for White Barbie: Black Ken. Mom is now ready to divorce both of us.

Other friends have a severely autistic 6-year old. So severe as to be nearly feral. Because I feel sorry for all concerned, they've gotten a free pass. And upon hearing these tales, weary Dad remarked "Finally. An upside to autism."

Katrina was having none of my martyrdom.

"I'm not criticizing you," she corrected me. "I'm making fun of you."

if i should die young

Whitney Houston is dead at 48, and on the same day, a colleague died at 41. Like everyone else, I'm dumbstruck and saddened to see them go so young, still in their primes. This has, of course, led me to think a bit about my own mortality.

There are a few things I want to be clear.

• • •

To my friends, family, trolls and hangers on, on the occasion of my premature demise:

I implore you not to grieve for me. Except for Dorkass, who I want to drape herself across my casket while it lowers into the ground, sobbing and wailing "No! NOOOO! Why him? WHY? Take me instead, Lord!"

But I digress.

I didn't want to die yet, particularly, but frankly I see the upside. My mom died after a protracted bout with cancer, my dad with Alzheimer's. I assure you, having seen that up close, I was not going the same way. Would you rather I die young of, say, a heart attack, or live another twenty years, start degenerating like my dad, and blow my brains out during a moment of lucidity? I vote for youthful heart attack. You should, too. This way, instead of questioning whether there was something more you could have done to keep me from self-euthanizing, you can blame my death on the pizzas and booze and cigars and sloth.

Speaking of which, I regret none of it. Don't let some Seattle asshat use me as a parable that validates his tofu-and-sprouts brunch before he hits the gym. I was way, way happier than him. Until I wasn't. But who are you gonna miss when they're gone, me or him?


Anyway, don't grieve. This is not tragic. It's not my first choice, but it's pretty far from my last. I have no kids. The dogs are taken care of. After it buys a safari, the money is making the world a better place. As for me, I get to spend eternity in Heinz Field. It's ugly, but it's home. I'm not really seeing the downside.

To summarize: this isn't tragic, and fuck vegan douchebags.


P.S. If you found my body on the jon, would you do me a solid and pull up my pants?

a reason to live: iron sky

Is this movie trailer a put-on?

God, I hope so/not.

for buffy fans only

For a moment, Allie and I were 10 again, choosing which characters we "are" in different entertainments. In the Buffy universe, I said, she's Tara.

spike andrew.jpg"You're part Giles..." she said of the mentor figure. I'm old now. I can live with that.

"...part Spike..." Now we're talking!

"...and part Andrew."

It's seldom that you're insulted so confusingly and yet so completely that you don't dare ask for clarification, lest there be some.

At my grocery store last night.


deep freeze

Atlantic Monthly has the best photos from Europe's deep freeze that I've seen. Just jaw-dropping. Especially the Roman ruins.

siri and the scots

My recent survey unearthed precious little annoyance with the Scottish accent, which disappointed me. (C'mon, English. That really doesn't drive you mad?) This link from distinguished Stank troll Laura helps ease the sting of rejection.

dialogue leads

"Hey Susie! What are you doing Saturday night?"

"Watching Love Boat again. I love that Gopher!"

"You should come to the dance at the Rec Center and help raise money for the homeless!"

• • •

I call the above a "dialogue lead." They were the scourge of my high school newspaper. I banned them from the pages I controlled, and for that I was despised by the lazy preliterates who relied upon them.

Well, not just for that.

I just realized that the modern-day equivalent is the alleged professional alleged journalist who quotes random twits on social media—as opposed to doing any sort of legwork like, say, interviews or dialing a phone number.

This is from a random CNN story.

The offer of a free night wasn't the most popular move among some of the posters on The Mansion's Facebook page.

"Tom Brady, a free night? Why? He's an insulting, pompous (fill in the blank)," wrote Kathy Dembek-Licata.

The Mansion said on its Facebook page that it's "having a bit of fun" with the incident, using it to promote the Buffalo area. "Tom Brady is an exceptional athlete and, much like the Patriots, The Mansion also strives for excellence!"

That's scintillating stuff that I certainly couldn't find myself. Quoting bathroom walls would be better journalism.

great reads: to my old master

Seldom in life does one come across such a elegant "go fuck yourself." I can only envy the skill.

Enjoy this letter from a former slave to his old master.

moron taxonomy
stupid church signs
super bowl xl officiating
percy chronicles

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