The Problem With Momentum...

When you were a kid, did you ever place a stick into the spokes of a moving bicycle wheel to see what happens? I’m not sure that I did, but I did do something similar that resulted in a never ending source of guilt for me to lay on my father.

During the final days of summer leading up to my freshman year of high school I had gone over to my friend Wendy’s house on my bike. Wendy and I had began “dating” early that summer only to have her break up with me a few weeks before school started because she had a crush on one of her brother’s friends. Even after the horrible, crushing breakup we still hung out as if nothing had ever happened. I’m guessing that’s because of the fact that NOTHING had ever happened. Nothing. I’m not bitter Wendy, but a guy has needs! Geez!!

Anyway, before I left for her house we had been on the phone and discussed playing tennis on a non-existent tennis court at a school playground down the street from her house. I really didn’t know how we were going to accomplish this, but I still gathered up two tennis rackets that I had along with a few balls and headed out to the shed to get on my bike.

My bike.

My bike was a ten speed that my dad had obtained from someone and fixed up for me. It was a really pretty shade of blue and fairly normal looking except for this obnoxiously padded white seat that forced me to sit straight up and take away any shred of coolness that I may have had at that point in my life. I’m not kidding when I say that I was probably riding two feet higher than anyone else I was with. It was not an ugly bike and I was grateful that I had a bike at all, but it was definitely not something that you’d brag to your friends about.

Either way, this bike was my only mode of transportation so I somehow got myself, both rackets, and the balls on this thing and I headed out to hang out with Wendy for the afternoon. When I got there, I don’t think we played tennis at all. We went to the playground and met up with some other friends, but the tennis rackets went virtually unused. After an afternoon of goofing around, it was closing in on dinnertime and I had to get home. I loaded up the rackets and myself (I think we had actually used the rackets briefly, but it only ended up in the tennis balls being forever lost on the roof of the school) and headed home.

Now, during the ride to Wendy’s, I had some trouble balancing the rackets while I was riding. I couldn’t put the straps on the carrying cases over my shoulders due to the fact that I’m built like an arrow, and placing them on the handgrips was difficult because they would swing around every time I hit a bump. My ass wouldn’t feel the bump because of my seat cushioned by NASA, but the rackets definitely would shake around. Nevertheless, I made it to Wendy’s with no problem.

The way home, however, was a little more difficult. I tried placing them on my shoulders again, but as I mentioned, they would just fall down and cause me to almost fall off of my bike. As a result, I simply placed the straps on the handlebars again and made sure that I didn’t hit any bumps to make them swing around and cause me to lose my focus on the ride. After a while of fighting the inevitable swinging, however, I decided that maybe if I put one racket on each handle, then maybe I could hold them more tightly in place as I rode. I was almost home after all and whatever knowledge I gained from this experiment would pay off next time that I had to ride on my bike while carrying two tennis rackets.

Boy did it pay off.

I was pretty close to my house and, if there would have been no trees in way, I could probably have seen it from my elevated spot on 29th street. I had just crossed the railroad tracks being very mindful of every bump as each one would send the rackets flying. Being at the home stretch, I decided to put on a good head of steam because the hill that led down to Route 13 was coming up and it was a really fun hill to go super fast on. As I stood up to start pedaling a little faster, apparently I shifted the weight on the bike and both tennis rackets flew out to the side. I quickly saw in my mind exactly what was going to happen and there was not a damn thing I could do about it.

As the tennis rackets came back from their upward swing, one of them came back handle first right towards the wheel. Now, if you’ve ever tried the stick in the spokes thing that I mentioned before, you know that the stick will likely break into a couple of pieces. Unfortunately for me, this “stick” was made out of aluminum and was much thicker than the average twig that you find on the ground. Instead of breaking into a ton of pieces, the handle simply forced its way into the spokes of my bike and followed the path that the spokes were travelling until it reached a point that it couldn’t travel any farther.

Once the handle hit the fork that supports the wheel, my bicycle came to a dead stop in the road. The bad thing is, I still had momentum in my favor and I continued to travel at the speed the bike was going for about another seven or eight feet – through the air. As I landed ever so hard while wishing the entire time that the cushiony bicycle seat that I hated so much was underneath me to soften the blow, I continued to slide a few more feet with the help of the loose gravel that was on the ground.

I laid there for a few seconds.

I knew I wasn’t severely hurt, but I also didn’t feel very good. My knees and elbows were stinging and I was pretty sure that there was a rock that had started out in a cut on the palm on my hand and was now embedded in the tip of my middle finger. I finally got my wits about me and stood up only to see a car stopped a little ways away. A man got out and started running over to me to see if I was okay, but being the smart boy that I was, I knew that he was a stranger. He got within about 20 feet and asked if I was okay, and even with the blood dripping out of my elbows, knees, and hand, I told him I was fine and picked up my bike to continue the journey home.

That’s when I felt it.

Actually, I felt two things. The first thing I felt was the pang on disappointment as when I looked at the bike, the rim on the front tire was totally bent. There was no way in hell I was going to be able to ride this bike the rest of the way home. On top of that, Dad was going to be mad that I messed up the bike that he had fixed up for me. The second thing I felt, however, was a slight pain in my wrist. It wasn’t a really bad pain, but it hurt nonetheless every time I put pressure on it. Needless to say, pushing my bike the quarter of a mile that remained to my house was not going to be easy, but I did it anyway despite the pain.

During dinner that night, I told my dad what had happened and said that my wrist hurt a little bit. I’m not exactly certain of this, but I think he made me bend it this way and that way to see if I had a full range of motion. I did, but it hurt to do so. Either way, since I had a full range of motion, I must be fine. Wrist = not broken.

Despite my claims that it still hurt, my father made me do the dishes after dinner. I don’t know if he was mad that I messed up the bike or if it was simply my turn to do the dishes, but either way, I did those dishes. Every time I moved my wrist around or put pressure on it, I could feel a twinge of pain. But, since I had full range of motion and had never had a broken bone before to compare the pain to, I had to also assume that it was not broken.

Let me clear something up here. My father is not a monster. He would never ignore the cries of an injured child nor would he have had me do what I did next if I had put up a cry of protest. My dad is just a very strong man who does not see the need for doctors unless there’s bone showing. I can’t begin to count the amount of cuts he’s had that probably required stitches that he simply “glued” shut, or waited it out until it stopped bleeding. My dad is a veteran of the US Army and served in Vietnam. He’s seen and experienced a lot more pain and suffering in his life than I could ever imagine. Had he known the extent of my injury, however, he would have taken me to the ER and gotten me fixed up immediately. But, because of the reasons listed above my wrist was not a big deal, which is why he had me do what I did next.

After I was done washing the dishes, dad called me outside to help him with something. I didn’t know what it was, but I was hoping that it didn’t involve anything with my wrist. It didn’t hurt all of the time, but with the right amount of pressure it hurt pretty badly. Much to my chagrin, I saw my ten speed propped upside down on that goddamned puffy white seat and dad sitting there next to it with some tools. I asked him what he wanted me to do and he told me to hold onto the tire while he tried to bend the rim back to its normal position. Part of me wanted to whine, but instead I shut up and began holding that rim in place while he bent it and jerked it and basically moved it any way it would go while me and my injured wrist were dying in pain. When there was pressure against it, it hurt. When there wasn’t, it was fine. But when it did hurt it hurt badly. We must’ve been in the driveway for 30 minutes or so working on that rim, but we got it fixed. The big-seated monster would ride again.

Needless to say, my wrist was broken. I think both dad and I were in denial because the physicals for freshman football were literally the next day and we were both really excited about it. I went to the physical and got measured, weighed, felt up by a stranger as I turned my head and coughed, and was all set to go until the head football coach asked me how I was feeling. Me, being the wuss that I am, said “well, I fell off my bike yesterday and now my wrist hurts a little.”

On that note, my football career at Althoff was done forever. They told me that I needed to get it checked out before I could begin any practices (which must have killed them after seeing what a physical specimen that I was). My sister Melissa then took me to the doctor’s office that afternoon where they confirmed that I had broken the absolute smallest and hardest to get to bone in my wrist.

After Dad realized that my wrist was, in fact, broken, he felt bad about making me hold that tire. I still give him crap about it today, but it’s all in good fun. There are no long term effects of the abuse that he put me through until I went to the doctor that day. To be honest, the day that I went to the physical, the pain in my wrist had decreased significantly and had the coach not asked me that question, I probably would never have had it checked out. Still though, it gives me good ammo against Dad and we can all laugh about it.

Now, the thing with my splitting headaches and my mother never taking me to the doctor… that’s a different story altogether.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

I Love you


Thanks for reading

Cholesterolapalooza 2010

Well, Cholesterolapalooza 2010 has come and gone, but unfortunately due to a court mandated gag order, I am unable to discuss anything that occurred at the event. I’m not even joking here. A few of us got arrested and were released on bail with the one stipulation being that we won’t discuss anything that happened at Cholesterolapalooza prior to our court date. I know many of you were looking forward to some details here, but this is all I’ve got. Sorry.

What I can do is let you know some of the dishes that were presented at this year’s event. Just like last year, and just as we’re hoping will be the case for years to come, there was a wide variety of bacony goodness inserted into every dish that we ate. Everyone put a lot of time and effort into their concoctions and we had a nice array of food to eat. Here’s a small sampling of what we ate

Bacon wrapped asparagus
Potato soup with bacon
Bacon wrapped jalapeno poppers
Caramel apples with bacon bits instead of nuts
Bacon vodka
Bacon, egg, and cheese strata
Green bean casserole with bacon
Bacon/cream cheese dip with pork rinds for dipping purposes
(There are more, but these are the ones that I am able today)

Beginning last year (which was our inaugural year), Carol decided to pass out awards for not only the best recipe, but also for the most creative. Because I’m so awesome, I won the award for best recipe with my bacon wrapped shrimp covered with raspberry jelly while my buddy Chris won MVP (Most Valuable Pork) with his Bacon Explosion (a delicious concoction of bacon, sausage, and everything else that totally embodies the entire spirit of Cholesterolapalooza). While my strata was not quite the hit that I wanted it to be (not one vote) Chris almost repeated as MVP with his bacon vodka. Unfortunately for him, he was upstaged by none other than his wonderful girlfriend Sarah and her…

Bacon Bourbon Ice Cream

I know, it sounds disgusting. Really, really disgusting. Even with my absolute love of bacon I was turned off at the thought of bacon flavored ice cream. And to make matters worse, it wasn’t even bacon flavored ice cream – there were actually chunks of bacon in there. I’ll let your stomachs sit on that for a bit while I tell you more about the other dishes.

Everything was delicious. I don’t eat asparagus, but in order to give a fair and accurate vote as to the best and most creative dishes I had to try everything (except for the green bean caserole. Sorry Melissa - I don't do caseroles. Ever). As a result I tried the bacon wrapped asparagus, the bacon wrapped jalapeno poppers, and the bacon based dips which I would never normally eat. They were all fantastic. I also ate the potato soup, the green bean casserole, and everything else on the table that had bacon on or in it (which was everything). As I was finishing my last bite of the potato soup, I was having a hard time picking a winner because everything was just so good. Since I wasn’t allowed to vote for my own recipe, I was leaning towards Carol’s dip because a) she’s my wife and she works really hard to get everything ready for the event, b) it was really good, and c) you had to eat it with pork rinds which I love almost as much as I love Lindsay Lohan. I walked inside knowing that even though I had two deserts to try yet (caramel apples and the dreaded bacon bourbon ice cream) I had pretty much made up my mind.

Well, was I in for a surprise.

I did not want to try the ice cream as the thought of bacon chunks in the best frozen dairy product of all time really grossed me out, but I made myself a bowl and was immediately shocked. It was absolutely delicious. I’m not sure if it was the bourbon flavoring or if it was the fact that after a few beers and a shot of the bacon vodka I was pretty accepting of anything, but it was really, really good. I didn’t fully trust it so I took another bite only to find that it was just as delicious as the first. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who felt that way as Sarah not only took home the MVP trophy, but she won the top prize of Best Dish as well. Well done, Sarah. Well done.

Other than that, the night was pretty tame. We ate, drank, played euchre, played asshole, threw all of our empty beer cans into our neighbors front yard in response to them parking a Nissan in ours the night before, drove around the block while it was raining at around 1:30am in our neighbors really old and barely working car with no headlights, windshield wipers, or power steering with my head out the window, Chris riding shotgun, and Jeff laying on the hood holding a flashlight so that I could see where we were going (don’t worry about our safety. Jeff was yelling “chugga-chugga-choo-choo!” the entire time so people would be able to hear us coming).

Needless to say, Carol and I had a great time and I hope that next year’s event is an even bigger success. Mark your calendars now for Oct 8, 2010. Cholersterolapalooza III will be bigger and better than ever before!!

Seriously, mark your calendars now. Everyone’s invited. No joke. Just bring a dish with bacon and you’re admitted. We have a numerous places to sleep around the house if you need to crash. Sleeping arrangements will be determined by level of attractiveness, state of inebriation, and ability to keep a secret.

Thanks for reading.

Jack of All Trades or Just One Big Jack Off?

Have you ever heard the phrase “jack of all trades but master of none?” I’m not so sure that I exactly fit the jack of all trades title, but I can guarantee you that I am a master of none. In fact, in most cases I know just enough about something to be dangerous.

Extremely dangerous.

Carol and I are currently in the process of doing a project outside our house that, once finished, is going to look awesome. As a matter of pride, I really wanted to handle this project from start to finish by ourselves to prove to us and others and we are fully capable of doing something of this nature. We’ve both been working very hard and have been spending a lot of our time and money into making this project a success. (I can’t tell you what the project is because I want to surprise my Dad with our accomplishment once we’re done.) Due to the fact that we rarely have free time together, we have had to do a lot of this project at night after Ben has gone to bed but I think that has made it even more special. We’re actually doing this together.

The problem, however, is that this project involves electricity.

Since I’m not all that versed at dealing with electricity and have a horrible history of breaking or losing (or having had stolen) any type of electronic gadget that I encounter, I figured that I should probably call in for some additional help with this one. Thankfully, my cousin Ryan is an electrician and was more than willing (as is a wonderful trend in my family) to help a family member out in a time of need.

I texted back and forth with Ryan and explained what I wanted to do and he told me that it should be really easy and that he would be able to come out on Wednesday (yesterday) to assist (do it all by himself) while I was still at work.

Now, had I been a patient man I could have let it go at that. The job wouldn’t be difficult and Ryan is fully capable of doing what I needed to be done. But as I’ve mentioned before, I’m a proud man and I can’t let someone work on a project of mine and Carol’s creation without being able to be there and not at least have some pre-work done for them. As a result, I ventured into the forbidden land of wiring.

It wasn’t like I was going into this blindly, however, as I had seen my father work with wires on numerous occasions. I had even attempted changing household outlets on more than one occasion with great success. I can’t say that my experience with the thermostat went wonderfully, but after 2 or three days in early summer heat of hot air blowing out of the vents whenever I turned the air on, I figured it out and our house is now as temperature controlled as it can possibly be.

But that stuff was a little easier than what I was attempting on Tuesday night. That night I had to cut wires and leave them overnight so that Ryan could work on them the next day. Now, when I say I “had to,” I really didn’t have to, but I really wanted to be a part of this so I did what I did. Just as I had watched and learned from my father, I knew to turn the breaker off, snip the wires with the appropriate tools, strip the conduit off and then cap the wires together so that they would be protected from the elements. So far, so good, right?

Well, there were two things that I hadn’t planned on being a factor and each played a role in what happened next.

The first thing was that once I had the wires capped I turned the breaker back on so that the other parts of my house that the breaker affected would have power. Normally that wouldn’t be a big deal, but the switch that controlled the wires had, unbeknownst to me, been left on. Now, if you know anything about wiring (which, like I said - I know just enough to be dangerous) you know that as long as you have the wires capped, you can keep the power going to them with no problem at all. What I didn’t know though is what could have killed me.

After Carol had left the house to go meet up with some friends, I stepped out on to the back deck to get some fresh air. I had already been texting back and forth with Ryan to let him know what I had done to a) inform him that he wouldn’t have to worry about it, and b) to impress him with my advanced electricional (just made that word up) knowledge. While outside, I decided to wander over to the wires and see exactly how much slack we had to work with the next day.

Bad idea.

As I bent over and picked up the wires there was a huge pop, an even bigger spark, a sizzle, and the smell of burnt hair (it was my leg). I quickly looked around and noticed that some lights in the house were out, the dog was barking, and burnt leg hair really, really stinks. I immediately knew that I had done something wrong with the wiring (you think?) and that it had caused the breaker to pop. The good news is that I also knew how to fix it.

I went through the kitchen door to check on the switch, and sure enough, it was still on. I turned that off and then went down to the basement to check on the breaker, and sure enough, it had popped. I turned it off, waited a few seconds, and then turned it back on which caused all of the lights that had gone out to come back on. Good start. The question remained though, what had I done wrong?

I immediately went back to my phone to text Ryan. I had an idea of what I had done wrong as I had slightly questioned it as I was doing it, but I wasn’t sure. I knew, however, that Ryan would know what had happened and would be able to tell me how to fix it. This was our conversation:


Ryan: Cool, I’ll be there around 3:30. Leave a shovel out 4 me. And an address.

Me: 122 N 38th St. Do I need to turn the breaker off or just the switch? Also, should I cap the ground with the other wires?

Ryan: Nope, grnd dnt need a cap. And just the switch is fine.

Me: If I did cap the ground with the other wires, would it cause a spark and a popped breaker like what just happened?

Ryan: LOL. Yes!

Me: K. I’ll go fix that.

Ryan: : )

Me: I’m missing some hair on my leg now

Ryan: Dude! L!M!A!O!

Me: Sometimes I’m too proud for my own good.

Ryan: I’ll take care of you bud.



After admitting my blunder to Ryan and rubbing some lotion on my leg to cover up the burnt hair smell, I went back outside and (after checking that the switch was still off) recapped the wires while leaving the ground wire exposed. Ryan was then able to come over yesterday and finish up the job for me. Thanks again bro.

So, apparently there are some things that I still need to figure out about wiring – but I’m trying. Sure, Carol could have come home and found me laying unconscious in the yard due to electrocution, but she didn’t and that’s what’s important. Whatever doesn’t kill us makes us stronger right? Well after Tuesday night, I feel uber strong. On the other hand though, I’ve never claimed to be good at electricianing (yes, I made that word up too). In fact, it goes to further show that there aren’t a ton of things that I’m very good at, but when it comes down to it…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XtMy5IBmX7E

Thanks for reading and thanks again Ryan. We’re just the next generation of helpers helping family. Let’s carry on that tradition.

I'm Here to Help

I am always looking out for the best interest of others. Additionally, I am always looking not only for ways to improve myself, but for ways to improve this great nation of ours. I feel that I was put on this earth to be a beacon – a guiding light if you will – to those in need of assistance whether it is mental, physical, or emotional help. So, when I hear of people in trouble, my mind (and heart) immediately start thinking of ways in which I can use my skill sets in order to help those troubled souls come back to not only a sense of inner peace, but to an environment in which they feel love and compassion. That is why I have decided to begin the next chapter and latest venture in my life:

Dr. DJ Awesomesauce’s Female Celebrity Rehabilitation Center

I am aware that the title may be misleading as I am not an actual doctor, but neither are Dr. Dre, Dr. Seuss, or Dr. Kenneth Noisewater (re: Anchorman). Besides, I don’t believe that you need to have some silly piece of paper from some fancy college to prove that you are proficient at something. I’ve known for a long time that I am extremely skilled at expressing love and compassion. Are you telling me that because I have not gone to an accredited university, taken specific training classes, and received a degree that I can not practice this love? I think not. Therefore, Doctor it is.

Being a doctor, it has become increasingly obvious that the female celebrity faction of this country is experiencing a bit of an epidemic, and that epidemic is too much partying. Now, I’m not opposed to a good party now and then and I’m certainly not opposed to having a good time while you’re at said party. But these poor misunderstood ladies are being taken advantage of at these parties and it is affecting their lives in a very negative way. Because they are beautiful they are given things such as alcohol and drugs for free and these young women just don’t know how to handle it. My 5 step program will teach them everything they need to know about using their beauty to their advantage and staying away from the horrible vices that they can’t control.

For your benefit, I will outline the structure of my program so that you will understand how helpful it will be. Additionally, if you have heard of any recent female celebrities that may have gotten into a bit of trouble with John Q Public, then maybe you could do what you can to send them my way.










These are the rules:

1)The first rule of Dr. DJ Awesomesauce’s Female Celebrity Rehabilitation Center is that you don’t talk about Dr. DJ Awesomesauce’s Female Celebrity Rehabilitation Center.
2)No more than two patients at a time.
3)Hugs are required, not optional.
4)No whining.
5)Encouraging pats on the backside are to be accepted, enjoyed, and returned.
6)All patients must read me an excerpt from Penthouse Forum prior to tucking me into bed at night.
7)Eye contact with the Dr is prohibited at all times.


These are the steps

Step 1: My patients will be required to stay in my house.

Yes, my family and I live in a small house but we do have a basement. The basement is not finished and is infested with both spiders and crickets, but not so many that it is a health hazard. I will set up one cot in my basement and allow them to sleep there as long as they abide by the rules that have been set forth. My patients at the time can decide between themselves whether one will sleep on the floor or whether they should snuggle close together and share the same cot. Failure to abide by the rules will first result in a loss of blankets, pillows, and then items of clothing.

Benefits: This will allow them to appreciate the finer things in life. When I wake up in the morning to go throw my clothes in the dryroning machine, they will see how well rested I look and be jealous of their harsh surroundings. I also sleep in my underwear and walk down to the basement wearing just those (if even that) so they will learn to appreciate the use of their blankets and pillows as a tool to cover their eyes.

Step 2: I will enforce a very strict dress code.

I find that the designer clothes that they are accustomed to wearing may tend to be a distraction. It will not only remind them of their pampered lifestyles in New York, Los Angeles, or whatever entertainment mecca that they are residing in, but it will also remind them of the clubs and restaurants that they frequent which allow them to dabble in the drugs and alcohol that they are now experiencing problems with. As a result, I will enforce a strict dresscode of a white tank top, daisy-duke jorts, and black high-heeled shoes.

Benefits: Showing this much skin will give them a chance to examine their bodies and an opportunity to learn to appreciate it. This will teach them humility. Drugs and alcohol adversely affect the natural shape of one’s body and also bring on premature aging. Being able to see the early warning signs of this “body fatigue” will encourage these women to take better care of their bodies and further enhance the idea that a clean lifestyle is the right lifestyle. Breaking of any of the rules that I have set forth will result in loss of clothing items in order for them to see more of what they are doing to themselves. The high heels will be the last clothing item to go.

Step 3: They will do all of the household chores.

Seeing as I will be offering my home to them for free for the purpose of their healing, I will require that they perform household chores as a form of payment. They will be required to make the beds, do the laundry, dust, vacuum, mow the lawn, clean the bathroom and kitchen, cook, and keep the house in generally excellent condition.

Benefits: Having them work both physically and mentally towards their recovery will teach them a sense of responsibility. They will learn what goes into a normal person’s life and make them appreciate gift of the pampered lifestyle that they will no doubt be returning to even more. Also, providing them with a daily schedule of what task must be completed by what time will get them into a routine of sobriety that they can take with them when they leave my facility. Failure to complete the chores within the given time frame will be met with punishment such as washing our cars using soap and nothing but the clothes they are wearing as rags. This will teach them to appreciate what they’ve been so graciously given.

Step 4: They will be required to babysit Benjamin while Carol and I go out in the evenings.

Healing doesn’t just happen during the daylight hours. Healing is a 24/7 process that must be constantly addressed. Just because they are done with the household chores does not mean that they are done healing for the day. Ben is a good boy who is very adept at using his imagination and playing by himself, so taking care of him should not be much of an issue for them. All they have to do is play with him, read him books, give him baths, and put him to bed. While they are doing this, Carol and I will be going out to dinner and having many drinks at local bars to celebrate the good work that we are doing for these misguided ladies.

Benefits: Childcare is not easy. Along with all of the wonderful aspects of parenthood come the unfortunate temper tantrums, hitting, and general disregard for anything you have to say to them. Being a part of raising this child and seeing the negative aspects will remind these women that drug and alcohol abuse often lead to wild, crazy, unbelievably hot but sometimes unprotected sex. This sex could lead to an unwanted pregnancy and the additional baggage of having a douchebag such as Kevin Federline father the children and, as a result, remain on their payroll for the rest of their lives or at least until the child turns 18. This is sex education at its finest. Now, I know the question of leaving my child with the likes of a recovering female celebrity may seem a bit misguided on my part, but I will use the funding I get from the US Government to install high tech HD cameras all over my house – especially in the shower area where most addicts are likely to relapse – to monitor the proceedings. All of their proceedings during the day will be recorded and carefully observed on the monitors that are set up in my bedroom prior to me going to sleep at night. Additionally, in my absence I will have trained security personnel (mostly my buddies or anybody willing to make a donation to the “female celebrity recovery fund”) on hand to personally hand out the appropriate punishment should they ladies get out of line.

Another aspect of this is that they will be required to get up many times during the night to either take Ben to the bathroom, cover him up, or make French toast for Carol and I as we stumble in the house drunk off our asses at 3:00 in the morning. The benefit of this is that I will have French toast.

Step 5: The Challenge

Now, over the course of their recovery the ladies may happen to come across a refrigerator full or beer, a bag of weed in my underwear drawer, a few bottles of various uppers and downers in the toe of my snow boots in the back of my closet, or an 8-ball of cocaine hidden in the container of drill bits which is in the tool box in the workshop area of my garage. These are here strictly as a test for these young women. Should they find them, they are to return them directly to me and not say a word to Carol about them.

Benefits: The benefit of this is that it will prove them to be trustworthy. By not telling Carol that they found these items, they are showing me that our bond is a close one and that they have accepted me as their healer. I will simply ask them to bring the items to me, watch as I do them so that they see how stupid they look, and then return to their cot for some meditation.

Should they choose to break the rules though and utilize these items for their own personal use, our sexcurity cameras (oops, I mean security) will catch them in the act. Such an act would be considered a failure in their recovery program and would result in them having to start the 60 day healing and recovery process all over again. They would further be punished by being forced to go out and replace anything that they may have drank/smoked/swallowed/snorted by midnight that night. I only have so much – for the purposes of the test, that is.


Recovery: Should the ladies get through this 60 day process without breaking any of the rules, they will be forever cured and ready to rejoin society as a fully contributing member. There will also be a graduation ceremony filled with joy and a shitload of beer. Being fully recovered, they will ignore the beer and simply revel in the fact that me and all of my buddies are getting hammered in their honor. I fully expect these ladies to go on to prosperous music, television, movie, and even political careers. I only hope that when they do reach the pinnacle of their fame that they remember the one man that helped them achieve this success. I hope that they look back and realize that attending Dr. DJ Awesomesauce’s Female Celebrity Rehabilitation Center was the start of their new life – a life full of hope, love, and fulfilled dreams.

Now, if someone could start planting bags of coke in the purses of these women http://scottchronicles.blogspot.com/2010/06/top-five.html, I’d greatly appreciate it.

Thanks for reading.

The Be All End Zone

In honor of my cousin Jamie’s 34th birthday, I would like to dedicate this blog to her and how in one quick utterance, she prevented me from being cool for the rest of my life.

The story goes like this:

Back in grade school, there wasn’t much to do on the weekends. You could have sleepovers, go to the mall, or go to the movies. Outside of those three options (at least in my sheltered little world) there was not much else to do unless you wanted to spend time with your parents. And at the ripe old age of 12, that is the last thing that anyone wanted to do. At the beginning of September, however, and for the next three months there came an option that if you chose it and if you did it right, you could stake your place in the world of popularity for the rest of your life.

The Althoff Catholic High School football games.

Being a small Catholic high school in Belleville, IL, Althoff did not have the funds to have their own football stadium. As a matter of fact, all three high schools in Belleville were forced to share one local field which just happened to be about a mile down the road from my house. On any given weekend night in September through November, you were more than likely able to drive by the small stadium and catch a glimpse of the scoreboard and of the overhead lights. In fact, if the wind was blowing the right way on one of those nights, I could even open my bedroom window in my parent’s house on Route 13 and sometimes hear quite clearly the sound of the announcer belting out “Touchdown.”

The inside of the dilapidated old stadium (which is still in use) consisted of the typical four sides to sit on, but where you sat was not really an option as the seating chart had been clearly defined through some sort of edict of yesteryear. On one side sat the visiting team’s fans which was usually fairly scarce unless two of the three high schools that shared the stadium were playing against each other. On the other side sat the home team’s fans which, during the Althoff games, consisted of faculty, the player’s family and friends, and on the very far end, the student section. At the end zone by the entrance gate, you would commonly find various stragglers and people who just wanted to catch a high school football game for the evening. The seats behind the other end zone, however, were the seats to have. For a grade school kid, sitting in that section was a big deal. That was the section where you wanted to be. That was the section that housed – the popular kids.

I don’t know what made this the popular kid section or what even made these kids popular, but as if nature had decreed it, these were the majority of the kids that went on to the various Belleville high schools and were in the “popular” crowd. Was it money? Looks? Pedigree? The fact that even though the Midwest autumns sometimes got freezing cold, none of them in the section would dare wear a heavy coat and would instead stand there in their uber popular nylon Nike jackets with their teeth chattering until a couple of fillings came out? I really have no idea. What I do know is that back then being able to sit in this section was a big deal. If you were there as an 8th grader, your ticket was as good as punched for the popular crowd during your freshman year of high school - and everybody wanted to be there.

I wanted to be there.

Sure, there were other ways to be popular, but this was the only one that I was aware of at that point in my life. I was in 7th grade and knew from going to a few games with my parents that the far endzone looked like a lot of fun (we would usually sit with the stragglers). I would often pass it on my way to the concession stand in the hopes that somebody would think “hey, that guy looks pretty fun. Let’s invite him up to our land of cool and see how he fits in.” Unfortunately, as I passed I would see guys that I played basketball or baseball against, but because my acumen at both sports was somewhat forgettable, I was never noticed. It also didn’t help that I was in the 7th grade. Sure, there were 7th graders up there, but they were being groomed by the 8th graders to rule the end zone for the next season. This was a time honored tradition and the hand-picked 7th graders that got to go up there were a select few. I was not so select.

One Saturday night, however, I decided that I wanted to be in that crowd. I had to be in that crowd. If I was ever going to make a mark for myself, now was the time. My parents weren’t going to the game, but they were never opposed to dropping me off at the stadium to watch. My dad would always listen to the games on the radio, so whenever they were over, either he or my mom would drive the short distance up the street, pick me up at our predetermined designated location, and drive me home (these were the days before cell phones so a predetermined location was a necessity). Anyway, before the game I got into the coolest clothes that I had. I put on my stone washed jeans, my Notre Dame sweatshirt, my Notre Dame hat, my Althoff jacket, and my Converse basketball shoes (which were forbidden to be worn anywhere other than the gym floor for fear of losing their traction). I was looking cool (so I thought) and ready to go. The only thing I needed was a little bit of courage and an “in” to the cool section - and I had it in my cousin Jamie.

Jamie and I are only three months apart in age, but because she had a late birthday and I had an early one (in academic standards), she was a year ahead of me in school. She also had an advantage over me because whereas she went to Cathedral grade school which excelled in many grade school sports (another shoe-in for popularity), I went to St. Mary’s which excelled in getting our asses handed to us by schools like Cathedral. At this point in time, Jamie was in 8th grade and hung out not only with popular kids, but in the popular section at the football games. I had seen her there during past games on my way to the concession stand, but the last thing I had wanted to do was to flag her down like a dork from the walkway and bring unwanted attention to myself. I wanted to be invited into the section, not brought up out of pity.

Well, maybe I shouldn’t speak too soon on that.

On that night, I purposely got there early and walked around “the section” while keeping an eye out for Jamie. The section never filled up very quickly so it would be easy to spot her, and if she got there early enough and I made myself noticeably visible (I was 6’2” and built like a beanpole so I was fairly easily spotted) maybe she would see me and start talking to me. Sure enough, Jamie got there and immediately went over to the popular section to begin talking with her friends and I casually walked back in forth in front until she saw me.

According to my plan and reliance on Jamie being a kind soul, as soon as she spotted me she invited me up to come sit by her. Now what the popular kids didn’t realize was that being invited up was a huge deal. They had pretty much always been there or been expected to be there so it was as commonplace as brushing their teeth to them. But to someone like me - a gangly, gawky 7th grader with not a cool bone in his body - this was a huge deal. Jamie politely introduced me to all of her friends, but I was so nervous (and cold because it was a chilly night but as I said before, no one would be caught dead wearing a heavy coat) that I couldn’t have told you their names five seconds after I was introduced.

As the conversation progressed, I was starting to feel a little better. They were all talking and I was nodding my head for fear of opening my mouth to say something stupid which would get me immediately evicted from my seat of prominence. New people would come by, ignore me, and begin their conversations with the other popular kids. I tried to listen to what they were saying about who was dating whom and who just got what cool thing, but I didn’t know any of the names and chose to remain silent. I wasn’t being openly involved, but I wasn’t being shunned either. This was a good start and I was on my way to certain popularity.

That’s when it happened.

I guess I should mention at this point that it cost money to go to the games. It cost money to get in and it cost money for sodas and snacks. Actually, I was getting to the point in my life where I was constantly asking my parents for money for whatever in the hell it was that I spent money on in the 7th grade. As a result, my parents got me a job. It wasn’t a hard job and certainly didn’t break any child labor laws, but it did put a little bit of money in my pocket. The job consisted of going across the street to our neighbor’s house every other Saturday after I saw a UPS truck make a delivery, and help unload boxes, put together orders, and stamp about 500 books with a due date for the next order. Our neighbor was an Avon representative and both my sister Melissa and I were grateful for the few dollars that she would pay us for helping her out.

Well, apparently being in the 7th grade and having a job was the talk of the family. Seeing as nothing ever has been or ever will be able to be kept a secret on my Dad’s side of the family, I don’t know why I was surprised. In fact, I didn’t even think it was that big of a deal until Jamie brought it up at the football game.

Now, anyone who knows Jamie knows that she has a big mouth. God love her, but she will say whatever is on her mind whenever she wants to say it. And, the meaner that little thing is that she wants to say, the more evil her smile gets prior to saying it. I didn’t know this back then, but that night I learned the smile and will never forget it.

I’m not sure how the conversation started or even how it got to that point, but the basic gist was that Jamie told me that she’d heard I got a job. Me, being proud of the fact that I was gainfully employed and thinking that it might impress her very cute friends, went right along with her and began describing what I did. It was at this point as Jamie and her friends listened that Jamie began to get that evil smile on her face. I didn’t know what it was about so I kept going on with my story. When I had finished and was beaming with pride at how grown up and cool I sounded, I noticed that Jamie’s smile had gotten even bigger. I still didn’t know what was was going on until she looked directly at me and said quite clearly while raising her voice so as to be heard by everyone within a 20 foot radius, “so, you’re an Avon Lady?”

Being as calm and cool as I have always been, my face and ears reddened and I stumbled over my own tongue as I tried to disqualify what I did as being an Avon Lady. Unfortunately, no matter how much I protested and how much I fought, all of the girls that were listening began referring to me as “Avon Lady.” In fact, anyone within earshot was now calling me Avon Lady. People who hadn’t even heard the story about what I did for a job and had only heard Jamie’s announcement were calling me Avon Lady. Scott had ceased to exist, DJ Awesomsauce was twenty years from coming to fruition, and I was known for the rest of that night and all future games that I dared show my face to that season as Avon Lady.

Thanks a ton Jamie.

I’m not sure if I ever became “popular.” I know that I wasn’t invited to all of the cool parties in high school, but I did have a ton of fun hanging out with the friends that I did have. I did receive a vote (or several, for that matter) of confidence by being elected first to Junior class president and then to Student Council President, but I think that was just because I had a great ass. And, in hindsight, maybe it was the best thing for me. Had I joined the ranks with the popular end zone kids, my life may not have turned out like it did. I’m not saying that it would be better or worse, but it might be different and I’m not so sure that I would like that. I like my life and the way it turned out. In fact, I love it.

So Jamie, what I’m trying to say twenty years later, is that I forgive you for ruining my life at the time and making me cry myself to sleep every time that I think about it. I forgive you for making me feel like an outcast and for making me quit that job therefore starting a never ending trend in my life of quitting things as soon they get too difficult. I forgive you for figuratively stomping on what little self confidence I may have had as a fledgling youth and crushing all of my hopes and dreams of being accepted not by just the popular kids, but by everyone. And lastly, I forgive you for being as evilly brilliant as you are. It took me years to figure out that being mean to someone can be way more fun than simply telling a joke while you had that figured out by the 8th grade.

Bravo, Jamie. Bravo.

And happy birthday.

Thanks for reading

Love,

The Avon Lady

Did You Miss Me?

After a much needed break from entertaining the masses with my highly comical yet extremely insightful blog, I have returned from my hiatus with absolutely nothing to talk about. Nothing at all. In fact, I debated whether or not I should even attempt to write one today as after such a long layoff, my devoted readers would be expecting more of my champagne quality humor at an even more elevated level due to the time I’ve had to contemplate my next entry. Unfortunately for you, the best I can do is give you…






More randumb thoughts.

I am destined to win $500 sometime soon on Rewind 103.3. I entered my name online and every week day at 9:00 am, noon, and 3:00 pm they draw and announce a name. Once my name is called I have 10 minutes and 33 seconds to call in and claim my prize. To be on the safe side, I’ve been calling the number three times everyday at 9:05 am, 12:05 pm, and 3:05 pm to ask if they had called my name just in case. If anything, they’re going to either purposely draw my name or just give me the $500 so that I leave them the hell alone. This plan can’t fail.

Is it wrong that I am in the process of convincing my son to start referring to me as DJ Awesomesauce?

I changed the water in Fishy McFisherson’s bowl this weekend. Unfortunately, even though I used tap water and didn’t put the drop of water purifier in the tank like the instructions recommend, the little bastard still didn’t die. I even “accidentally” dropped the poor guy on the family room carpet right in front of the dog and even she wouldn’t kill it. This fish will never die.

Speaking of my dog, she is the worst “dog” ever. She’s a very good girl and well mannered, but in terms of being a dog, she’s horrible. She can be laying on the deck looking at a rabbit hopping through the back yard and not even budge. She should be chasing those things down and eating them, but instead she just looks at them and will only give them a half-hearted chase if she’s prompted by Carol or me. Of course, she may just be too fat to get up. She does have a thyroid problem…

Regarding rabbits, I am on a mission to destroy any and all rabbits that enter my yard. At first they were cute and Ben was impressed by them, but they have proceeded to eat half of the hostas that I have growing in my front yard and I am now sick of them. As mentioned in previous blog entries, my lawn care skills are minimal at best (I even had to look up how to spell “hosta” – and I’m still not sure it’s correct) so the fact that I even know what those plants are called is amazing. I’ll be damned if some furry little reproduction machine is going to eat them all. It’s time to break out a lawnchair, 12 pack of Stag, and my slingshot.

My cell phone finally broke and I was forced to buy a new one. It had been literally hanging on by a thread for the past 3 months, but it finally broke in two pieces and I was forced to get a new Samsung Intensity II. Never heard of it? That’s not a surprise as when I asked for a non-smart phone (as I am non-smart) that didn’t require a data package, I was pointed to a dark staircase which went down two flights of stairs leading to an elevator that would take me down another 3 floors to the basement where they I was led along a dingy hallway with bare fluorescent light bulbs hanging from the ceiling and mold growing on the walls to a back room where they had a small table of four phones that I could choose from. Damn you technology and your discrimination against those of us who aren’t “tech savvy.” To piss the salesman off for making me feel ignorant, I didn’t even buy the accessory package which not only messes up his items per sale, but also his dollars per transaction (see Carol, I do listen to your stories about work).

Carol and I have been joking for a long time that we would either have another child or Carol would get a boob job. With Ben’s recent behavioral problems, it looks like we’ll be having twins.

I keep seeing on CNN.com all of the updates on the Chilean miners. It seems kind up dumb to me that they’re trapped down there in the first place. Don’t they know that chili grows on trees?

My buddy Jim asked me the other night what it took to get a mention in one of my blogs…

My buddy Jim is the proud owner of not one, but two, very nice Ford Mustang Shelby’s. I’d go into all of the specs that he tells me about to convince you how freaking awesome that these cars are, but I honestly have no clue what he’s talking about. Now, I’ve heard about guys buying fast cars to make up for a lack of size in a certain crotchular area, but Jesus Jim, how small does it have to be to require TWO Shelby’s?

You’ve now been mentioned…

By the way, I drive a 1993 Buick LeSabre which is not a fast car at all. Take that for what it’s worth.

Cholesterolapalooza is right around the corner. For those that don’t know, Cholesterolapalooza is an event that Carol and I started last year in which all of the attendees bring a dish that must include the bestest and tastiest meat product known to man – bacon. Yes, we eat a ton of bacon which is probably not the best thing health-wise for us, but one of the by-products is that you consume so much grease that it is almost impossible to get drunk no matter how much you drink, thereby saving your liver. If you are free on 9/25 come on by and participate. Last year was a blast and I’m sure this year’s will be also.

We’ve also determined that next year’s event will be held on a different weekend. Somehow we forgot again this year and picked the weekend where I think either three of four of our friends all have birthday parties for their kids. It’s not intentional guys, we’re just not that good at remembering things.



Apparently, Lady Gaga wore a dress made of meat to the VMA’s this past weekend. I’m all for being outrageous, but that’s just plain disgusting. No joke here, I just wanted to say how freaking gross that really is.

While we’re on the subject of the VMA’s, I watched a video of Justin F*cking Beiber’s performance from the event. Gotta say, I just don’t get it. She’s not even that cute. Maybe I’ll change my mind once she gets her boobies.

I’m going to the Cardinals/Cubs game tomorrow night with my buddy Chris. As he reminded me last night via text once I mentioned that the game didn’t have the same feel as a normal Cards/Cubs game, it’s been since before 2003 that neither one of them has been in first place this late in the season. All I have to say is, c’mon Cardinals – you can’t always rely on the Cubs to win the division. You have to do your part once in awhile too…

I need a toy moose for my desk. I already have a chimpanzee, a penguin, and a pig. I now need a moose to add to my collection.

They just announced a name for the $500 winner on 103.3. It wasn’t me. I’ll call in a few minutes to verify that.

I was forwarded an email of “inspirational” posters and came across one that made me LOL (see, I’m hip). It said “Blogging – Never have so many people with so little to say said so much to so few.” Yep, that’s about right.

I’ve just been threatened by the employees of 103.3 that if I continue to call, my name will be withdrawn from the competition. My plan is working to perfection.

The other night at around 7:30, Ben asked me if he could have a banana. Realizing that he goes to bed at 8:00 and that the natural sugars in a banana would make it difficult for him to fall asleep, I told him no. He then asked for an apple which based on prior reasoning resulted in the same response. Knowing that he was hungry, however, and not wanting him to go to bed on an empty stomach, I gave him a bowl full of chips. And THAT my friends, is why I am DJ Awesomesauce.



Thanks for reading.

Cartoons, Birds, Tubas, and Weed...(and a little Polka)

This is dedicated to Erin. Ask and you shall receive.




It had been a long season of touring for the Hayes Boys and Herb was getting a bit bored. For the past 6 months he and the band had been playing every Saturday night at various chicken and beer dances, birthday parties, and retirement home singles nights. And every night they played the same polka hits time and time again. It was now entering Octoberfest season and if Herb was going to make it through another two months of this grueling schedule, something was going to have to change.

He had entertained the idea of quitting or at least taking some time off, but he knew that ever since the horrific death by Tuba at the Shriners parade of their original lead singer, accordion player, and patriarch John Hayes two years ago, the Hayes Boys had had a difficult time replacing him. It wasn’t until they had discovered Herb in his original polka band Herbie and the Herbstreet Herbcats that they had found what they were looking for. Since that time, some of the other Hayes Boys had retired or passed on, but Herb had remained, knowing how important he was to the band.

But if he couldn’t take any time off, he knew that something would have to change. Something would have to be drastically different. He finally decided that rather than go on feeling trapped, he would gather the two remaining original Hayes boys, John Hayes and John Hayes, and have a conversation regarding the monotony of their schedule.

As per usual, John and John arrived together (smelling oddly of marijuana and Schlitz) and sat down at the VFW hall bar right next to Herb. Herb began “Boys, you know I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and I really love playing with the Hayes Boys, but I’ve gotta say, I’m getting a little worn out. All we do is play the same polka songs – and let’s face it, they all sound the same – every rootin’ tootin’ week, and quite frankly it’s boring me to tears.”

“Oh” said John.

“I see” said John.

“What I guess I’m getting at fellas,” said Herb with a bit of uncertainty “is I think we need to change it up a bit.”

“Oh” said John.

“I see” said John.

“Well,” said Herb “do you have any ideas?”

John and John looked back and forth at one another a few times, giggled a bit, and then ordered a beer each. After a few minutes of waiting for a response, Herb asked them again, “Well?”

“Well what?” asked John

“Yeah, what?” said John

“Ideas! Do you have any ideas?” Herb repeated.

“For what?” asked John

“Where’s are the damn pretzels?” asked John.

Disgusted, Herb was ready to walk out of the VFW to his 1993 Buick Lesabre and go home never to think about the band again, but as is normal with anyone his age, he had to use the bathroom first. After numerous attempts to get a steady stream going without the burning sensation that he’d had since his tour of duty in Korea, Herb finally finished and exited the restroom.

Upon his exit from the bathroom, Herb was greeted by a joyous “Herb!”

As he looked around, the only other people in the VFW were John Hayes and John Hayes. Although he had just spoken with them 5 minutes ago, they reacted as if he had just gotten there and greeted him as such. After a few handshakes and “how ya doin’ you old fart” comments, Herb bellied back up to the bar to continue/begin his conversation with them.

“Herb,” said John. “We’ve been talking.”

“Yeah, “ said John “we think our act is getting a little stale and we need to change it up a bit.”

Herb looked at them in astonishment. “That’s what I was just saying to you not five minutes ago” he replied. “Do you not remember me sitting here and talking to you?”

“Herb, you old con artist” said John.

“Always trying to pull one over on us,” said John.

“Anyway,” said John “we were thinking about making a change. Now, we’ve discussed a few different things we can do, but we’re gonna leave the final decision up to you.”

“So the way we see it,” said John, “is that we need to do something to get this shindig hopping. We want something that is going to get the kids talking about us.”

“Yeah,” said John. “Dad always wanted to get more kids at our shows but he didn’t know how.”

“Oh great!” said John with tears welling in his eyes. “Why’d you have to bring up Dad? Now you’re going to get me crying.”

“Well,” said John “you’d better not start crying because then I’m gonna start crying. And you know darn well that Dad never wanted us to cry.”

“There you go bringing up his name again” said John, tears now streaming down his cheeks. “If it weren’t for that damn careless tuba player, poor old Dad would be sitting here right next to us enjoying this beer."

“To Dad,” said John, raising his glass.

“To Dad,” said John, raising his glass in turn and toasting his brother.

Herb looked on in amazement. He had dealt with John and John a lot over the past two years and had seen this scenario play out before. Any mere mention of their father and his untimely passing was sure to bring about tears and drinking and cursing of the tuba player who they blamed for prematurely ending his life. And inevitably, they would end up telling the story.

“Why did they have to place us so close to that high school marching band?” asked John to no one particular.

“Those young kids don’t even know how to handle their instruments,” said John to the same no one.

“If only Dad could’ve held off peeing until the next break, then he might still be with us”

“But you know Dad’s bladder. If it wasn’t being filled, it was being emptied.”

“To Dad”

“To Dad”

“How in the world does a bird fly into a tuba”

“You’d think that the noise from the parade would’ve scared the damn thing away, but nooo, this one had to fly right into that young boy’s instrument.”

“If that had been me and my tuba, I would’ve simply turned it upside down and tried to shake it out.”

"You don't even play the tuba and you know that."

“Even so, I don’t get how anybody could have the lung strength to blow a live bird out of a musical instrument at that velocity”

“And with such precision too. Poor Dad, died of a bird beak to the heart. He deserved a much better fate.”

“To Dad!”

“To Dad!”

The tears were now flowing and John Hayes and John Hayes were holding each other in a brotherly embrace.

“I still watch Fat Albert all of the time,” said John. “It was Dad’s favorite show.”

“Well you should,” said John. “It’s a fantastic show chronicling the adversities of African American children growing up in a financially strapped urban environment. Although it was there for comedic value, it also spoke wonders of the problems in American society and how the African American culture had to deal with it. It was well ahead of its time as both a comedy and a social essay.”

“Dad just liked the opening,” said John.

Growing tired of this conversation between John and John, Herb paid his tab and walked out of the VFW. He loved being a part of the Hayes Boys but knew that this would be his last tour. After the Octoberfest portion of their schedule, he was going to hang up his accordion and relax for awhile. Maybe, if he was lucky, he may even go to a few Hayes Boys shows and possibly meet a girl of his own to polka with. It had been a long time, but he was sure he was still up to the task.

But, before that he had business to take care of. Herb decided what he needed to do in order to change things up, thank the Hayes Boys for letting him be a part of their life, and pay tribute to the original John Hayes for the wonderful band that he had put together.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XtmuXWCFQzE

And of course, after the song, John Hayes and John Hayes cried.

Hey Hey Hey!!

Thanks for the link Jamers.

And thanks for reading.

Nothing Left to Say

He had never in a million years thought that he would get back on that horse– but the time had come.

The year was 1988 and in Moscow, Russia young Mitslov Kologrivov had been making a name for himself in the entertainment industry. After graduating high school he immediately began dancing in the Saint Petersburg Ballet, a longtime dream of his, but was soon dismissed due to his enormous genitalia. Rumor has it that while all of the female dancers were begging to be his partner, the seamstress was having a difficult time creating patterns and costumes that would mask his mighty manhood. After having trained for ballet his entire life only to be thwarted by the Russian Nightmare that he was hiding in his jockeys, Mitslov began thinking of other avenues in the entertainment business that he could pursue.

One day, while sitting in Red Square watching a juggling act, he noticed that the barker was having a difficult time getting the audience’s attention. Mitslov noticed that no matter how loud the barker made his voice, it just didn’t have the right tone. There was nothing compelling or extraordinary about it at all. Being the owner of a deep, yet pleasant voice, Mitslov made the decision to approach the barker and offer his assistance. Within seconds of picking up the megaphone and shouting for the audience to come and witness the amazing Kiprisov Brothers Juggling Act, the corner was filled with people watching and listening in amazement at the performers in front of them. The Kiprisov Brothers quickly dismissed their previous barker and hired Mitslov on the spot for a salary of two pieces of bread per week. Mitslov had found his calling.

After working with the Kiprisov Brothers for a few years, Mitslov began exploring other avenues in which he could lend his vocal talents. He began doing radio voice over work for clothing items such as hats and coats, and then eventually transitioned into television commercials for restaurants such as McDonalds. Before he knew it, Mitslov had so much radio and TV work to do that he had to quit the Kiprisov Brothers in order to make time for it all.

Additionally, young Mitslov was earning quite a living for himself. He was quickly becoming the face of Russian television and it was expected amongst the entertainment insiders that he would soon become the next big Russian star. He now had his own nightly talk show and was a frequent host for television events such as the Russian Grammys (The Rammy’s) the Russian Oscars (The Roscars) and the Russian Opry Independent Dancing awards (The Roids). He was so popular, in fact, that they were in talks to make a movie about his life in which he would both produce and star in. Mitslov Kologrivov had made a name for himself.

Not only did he have fame, but he also had fortune. Mitslov was living in a huge house and was constantly surrounded by beautiful women and countless other celebrities. He was a favorite of the media and was often photographed driving luxury cars and having outrageous parties. He was living the life.

Unfortunately, with fame comes the seduction of an unhealthy lifestyle. Like many before him and the many that will follow, Mitslov began dabbling heavily in prescription drugs and alcohol. After awhile of abusing those items, Mitslov started experimenting with heavier things such as cocaine and heroin. At first he would only use when it was convenient and never let it affect his jobs, but inevitably Mitslov began missing work and, when he did show up, performing terribly. It got to the point where rather than walking through a door, Mitslov would stumble through and fall to the floor. One of his comrades would pick him up and sit him on a nearby couch, but Mitslov would slump over and pass out until a few minutes before the show was to start. At that point, his helpers would administer whatever drug was needed to shake him from his current state and he would be revived enough to go on, but it just wasn’t the same Mitslov that the Russian nation had grown to love.

Eventually, Mitslov was fired from all of his different ventures and was left to wallow in nothing but addiction, debt, and self pity. His comrades had abandoned him and the Russian beauties that were constantly at his side were no more. Due to his inhuman man-package he was often able to whore himself out to settle bills or get his next score, but eventually time took its toll and even the Russian Bear could perform no more. In one last desperate attempt to feel anything, young Mitslov took a needle and injected heroin directly into his temple giving him the high of a lifetime but leaving him virtually dead.

Three days later when his incoherent moans became too much for his neighbor to bear, his near lifeless body was discovered and he was rushed to a local hospital. It was discovered that while he would make an almost complete recovery, the heroin had affected the part of his brain that dictated vocabulary. So while Mitslov was going to live a mostly normal life, he had lost the one thing he had that had made him famous – his voice.

Devastated by this news, Mitslov vowed to turn his life around for the better. After he left the hospital, he went directly to a rehab facility in order to shake the demons that had affected him for too long. With the help of strenuous therapy and a wonderful caring staff, Mitslov was soon clean and sober and ready again to take on the world. He knew that he had burned bridges in the entertainment industry, but he hoped that maybe he could be forgiven and given one more chance in a production role.

Luckily, one of the nurses in the rehab facility that he had attended happened to be the sister of the executive producer of the upcoming Roids celebration. Upon mentioning to him how well Mitslov was doing and how seriously he was taking his newfound sobriety, the executive producer became interested and decided to give Mitslov another chance. Mitslov was thrilled to hear the news and headed out to work the next day with the intent of reclaiming his proper place in the upper echelon of Russian society.

Three weeks in to the new job, Mitslov was flourishing. Granted, all of his communication had to be done via pen and paper, but his points were communicated well and the results were phenomenal. The Roids were going to burst out of the television screen this year and Mitslov was going to be given full credit for it. There was nothing that could stop him now.

For all of the success that was bound to come his way, however, Mitslov still felt that there was something missing. He regretted with all of his heart the way that his career in front of the camera had ended and wanted just one opportunity to relive that glory again. But, with no ability to speak, what could he possibly do in front of a camera that would allow him that satisfaction? Having nothing in mind, Mitslov continued on with his producer role and did it to the best of his ability.

Then one day, as if fate were calling on him, Mitslov received horrible but fantastic news. Yakov Smirnoff, who had been scheduled to perform the opening to the show, had to cancel only two days prior to the event. Attempts were made to coerce other Russian celebrities such as Nikolai Volkoff of WWF fame, the guy who played Drago in Rocky IV, and a gaggle of hockey players, but no one was going to be able to perform on such short notice. It was then that Mitslov got his idea.

So, after years of making a name for himself and a very brief time tearing it all down, Mitslov used some 60’s psychedelic visuals which were just now becoming popular in Russia, a brown suit, and a model of the entrance gates to Graceland to set the scene for the one thing he knew that he and his enormous manhood could still do.

Trololo


Mitslov Kologrivov never appeared in front of the camera again, but will be known throughout Russian history as one of the bravest, most horribly lip syncing men of all time.

Cheers to you Mitslov.


Thanks for the link Dan

And Thanks for reading