What I DON'T Like About You

Twitter is an amazing thing. In 140 characters or less you can express your views on any topic you so desire to anyone who has either chosen to follow you or who is following a certain hashtag (#). While I do feel hampered by the 140 character limit, I find it to be a unique challenge to craft what I want to say so that I can express my opinion fully within the limits of those 140 characters. No, I don’t tweet anything groundbreaking or truly thought provoking, but the 55 followers I have (it was only 54 until yesterday when Naughty Loving asked to follow me) get very sporadic and nonsensical tweets from me and seem to enjoy them. Prior to yesterday, this is what I considered Twitter to be for.

Amanda Bynes is/was an actress whom you might remember from the Nickelodeon show “All That” or from some of her other film and  television roles including “What I Like About You” or “She’s The Man”. She was never really a big time actress but was very cute and kind of funny. The thing that I noticed most about her, however, and what I truly appreciated  is that she looked like this:

 

In 2010, Amanda “retired” from acting for no apparent reason and since then has kind of disappeared. After that she had a small role in the Emma Stone film “Easy A” but, acting wise, she has been mostly irrelevant and she officially re-retired in 2012.  

No big loss

A few months ago, however, Ms. Bynes reappeared thanks to Twitter and TMZ. She had a string of car accidents, drunken/stoned escapades, and altercations with law enforcement that brought her full swing into the world of the paparazzi and all of the fun that goes along with it. To defend herself, Amanda took to Twitter and began what I like to call the Amanda Bynes meltdown. She has denied obvious drug use, she has denied any kind of mental instability, and she has taken to calling people ugly. I won't go into her various tweets because, simply, there isn't enough room in this blog to fully describe the insanity. Just know that the chick is cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. Given how she looked in the picture above though, I could understand the “ugly” references, but she has also become obsessed with her own looks and has had surgery to correct what she thought was wrong. As a result, she now looks like this:

 

And this

Why would anyone do that to themselves?

 

Now, I love crazy chicks. My obsession with Britney, Mariah, and LiLo (and to some extent my lovely wife) are examples of this. I don’t even mind if you go off the deep end a little bit, a la Britney, and shave your head. But poor Amanda has gone and totally disfigured what was really a very pretty face. On top of that, she’s still calling people ugly.

That's fine. To each their own.

I was okay with that until she referred to a picture of Drake (couldn’t name one of his songs if I had to) with a tweet that I was going to repost here, but has since been deleted from her account. In a nutshell, she claimed that they must have photoshopped  a picture of him to cover up his Downs Syndrome eyes. Drake does not have Downs Syndrome and, for some reason and I have zero idea why, that sent me over the edge.

Which brings us back to Twitter.

Since she posted this on Twitter I took it upon myself to respond to her via the same format to make her aware of my displeasure for that tasteless Downs Syndrome comment. This is what I wrote:

oReply

oRetweet Retweeted

oDelete

@AmandaBynes you are a horrible person and are getting uglier by the minute. NO amount of surgery can cure the ugliness in your soul.

 

After that, I was happy with myself. I don't know why as she has over 2 million followers and I'm sure that just one tweet from me would more than likely go unnoticed, but I felt good knowing that I made a stand. But then it started to get to me that she probably wouldn't see that tweet. What good would my stance do if it would go unnoticed by its intended target?

That is when I made it my goal to get blocked by Amanda Bynes

I've seen this happen before. One of my favorite follows on Twitter is @JennyJohnsonHi5 and she has made a career out of taking tweets from the likes of Kim Kardashian and Chris Brown and replying to them with wit and gnarling teeth to the point where they got sick of her and blocked her from posting to their account. I see no harm in calling out idiots who post idiotic things and pointing out that idiocy for others to see. It's the American way of doing things. As a result, I decided to do my patriotic duty and get blocked myself.

Seeing as Amanda has over 2 millions followers who are probably posting to account on a fairly regular basis, I knew my tweets would have to be quick and sharp. They would need to show up on her feed in rapid succession so that she recognized my name and the smiling picture of me in the upper left hand corner. I then began about the process of posting the following tweets to Amanda Bynes

      

@AmandaBynes saw an old show that you were on, but then realized I was actually watching my neighbors ugly dog dry humping a dead squirrel. 

 

@AmandaBynes I thought you were AWESOME in the title role in Mask.

 

@AmandaBynes if you had to pick between being ugly or having your career be over, which one would you... oh, nevermind. #bothtrue

 

@AmandaBynes Knock knock

                             Who's There?

                             Amanda Bynes

                             Amanda Bynes who?

                             Exactly

 

@AmandaBynes you know that movie you were in about that thing? The one where you were pretty and really nailed he role? Yeah, me neither.

 

@AmandaBynes If an "actress" retires from acting and no one is around to give a crap, does the sound of her bombing movies make a sound?

 

Can't wait for @AmandaBynes rap album 2 drop. SOMETHING needs to replace North West as the worst thing 2 come out of a "celebrity" this year

 

 

At this point I was still able to post to her account so I knew that I had not been blocked. I needed to step up my efforts. I needed to hit her where it hurts. I needed to play on her insecurities. I needed to make her feel super ugly. That's when I invented #amandabynesmustache

 

 

Hey @AmandaBynes!! Let's get #amandabynesmustache trending. You do know about your mustache, right? No? #awkward

 

@AmandaBynes I'm having chicken and rice for dinner #amandabynesmustache

 

@AmandaBynes #amandabynesmustache is not trending yet. Surely with your beauty and star power you can help out, right? #amandabynesmustache

 

@AmandaBynes in an earlier tweet I mentioned my neighbors ugly dog. He's only ugly compared to the dead squirrel. Compared to you, he's cute

 

@AmandaBynes so is the dead squirrel. #amandabynesmustache

 

@AmandaBynes "you are a great actress. I hope that you get back on track because I really enjoy your work" said no one #amandabynesmustache

 

I stepped in a big pile of @AmandaBynes career the other day. I threw the shoes away. #amandabynesmustache

 

 

Still tweeting, still not blocked. It was here that I made my intentions known to my buddy Chris and he, understanding my odd sense of humor and need to accomplish this feat, made a suggestion to me in regard to #amandabynesmustache. Based on that suggestion, I tweeted the following:

 

 

@AmandaBynes I was watching Super Troopers the other day and got inspired to ask you a question. Can I have an #amandabynesmustache ride?

 

 

I was now becoming desperate because my time in front of a computer was ending and I wouldn't be back on for another hour or so which would break my flow. I had to let her know what I was doing. Hence:

 

@AmandaBynes block me and I'll be forced to stop, but then you'll also admit to the fact that you're aware of #amandabynesmustache #quandry

 

 

Nothing

 

My day was over and I drove home a little sad that I hadn't achieved my goal. I know that it takes someone who is really good at what I was trying to do a lot longer to get noticed and then blocked by their intended target. But I was only a novice. It would probably take weeks, if not months, to get blocked. As a result I started thinking of more tweets I could send Ms. Bynes to continue my tirade against her. I continued to think about this the entire way home and began to construct tweets in my mind that I could post in the future. I had one in mind but I had to craft it perfectly. I'm not a crude person and I would not resort to vulgar language just to get noticed. That is why the next tweet had to be worded exactly right to fit in the constraints of those 140 characters and my personal code of ethics. This is what I sent her when I got home:

 

Pretty sure the only thing less attractive than @AmandaBynes face is @AmandaBynes lady parts #amandabynesmustache

 

 

After that, I was officially blocked.

 

And it feels good!!

 

 

 ***UPDATE!!***

While posting this blog on Twitter I mentioned that it was a shame that @amandabynes couldn't read it. Upon doing that I was expecting to be notified once again that I had been blocked. I did not receive this notification. I sent her another test Tweet and it also went through. I am officially unblocked.

While saddened that my blocking only lasted less than 24 hours, I am bound and determined to make it a permanent ban. This is my mission. This is my goal. I'll let you know how it goes : )

Thanks for reading. 

Cub Scouts and Danny Tanner

I, believe it or not, am a huge sap. While this big manly physique and tough as nails demeanor might lead you to believe otherwise, I am, in fact, a sucker for the emotional moments in life. While most of the time I avoid anything that may emit some sort of emotional response out of me, it is the exact opposite when it comes to such moments with my son. I live for the fatherly advice moments. I yearn for the I’ve-been-there-before-and-here’s-the-sage-advice-I-can-bestow-upon-you talks. In a nutshell, I love the Danny Tanner moments.

For anyone unfamiliar with Danny Tanner, he was the character played by Bob Saget on the television show Full House in the late 80’s to early 90’s. Danny was a single father of three girls who, after his wife’s death, asked both his brother-in-law and also his best friend to move in with him to help him take care of his family. Regardless of the kinda creepy premise, almost each and every episode’s plot was resolved at the end when Danny would have a sit-down meaningful conversation with the troubled party and they would work out their differences while both learning a lesson from their encounter.  Was it cheesy? Oh yeah. Did I watch the show regularly? For the purposes of establishing a basis for this story, I’ll say yes. Either way, the Danny Tanner moments were inspiring to me and, once I found out my wife was pregnant, I couldn’t wait to have them with my child.

Now, my son is six years old and, while he is extremely intelligent, I’m pretty sure the Danny Tanner moments I’ve had with him in the past have been forgotten or ignored up to this point. I’m not saying that he ignores me, but his ability to sit still for a meaningful heart to heart and his desire to listen to his old man ramble on and on about anything that doesn’t involve Skylanders, super heroes, or the crappy toy he just got from his fast food kiddie meal box just isn’t there. As a result, I’ve wasted great speeches on topics such as the importance of family, the ability to rise above, and the need to not pull your pants and underwear all the way down to your ankles while peeing in a public restroom.  

It’s okay. He’ll get there.

That being said, last night was a big night for him/me – his first Cub Scout meeting.  We had gone to an informational meeting about a month ago regarding Cub Scouts and had purchased the necessary shirt, belt, poorly-sewn-on-by-his-father-patches, and Cub Scout manual. Last night, however, was his first actual meeting and I thought it was a pretty big deal. Now I, myself, had gone through the Cub/Boy scouts in my youth and never really got that into it as I had some really annoying older scouts that acted like the boss of me (and NO ONE is the boss of me. Well, maybe my wife…). But I was really excited for him because it was something that we could do together. We could go on hikes together, we could go camping together, and I could make his Pinewood Derby car for him and let him add an early coat of spray paint to make him feel like he contributed (thanks Dad). It was really going to be awesome.

After I picked him up from his summer day camp, we went straight home and got him dressed in his three sizes too big Cub Scout uniform. After taking the shirt tails that hung down to his knees and tucking them into his shorts so that it wouldn’t seem TOO monstrously big (he’ll be a scout for years and should grow into it) I stood back to take a look at him.

Man.

Ben’s always been my little boy. He just turned six a few months ago and it amazes me how much he’s grown even since then. I know he’s just a kid and that any stranger that looks at him will still see a six year old, but to his mother and me he is just growing so fast.

Too fast.

Anyway, looking at my grown up little boy in his Cub Scout uniform, I was immediately inspired to have a spontaneous Danny Tanner moment with him. I asked him to come into the living room with me and sit down on the footstool while I knelt in front of him so that we could talk eye-to-eye. I told him that tonight was an important night because he was officially becoming a Cub Scout. I told him of all the great and useful things he would learn like fire building, public service, and general gentlemanly behavior. I told him that when I was his age I was a Cub Scout. I also told him that when I was a Cub Scout my dad had given me a Cub Scout pocket knife and that once I learned to use it properly I was allowed to carry it to meetings and other Cub Scout events.

At that moment, I reached into my pocket and retrieved that very same knife and showed it to him (okay, so this wasn’t entirely spontaneous – deal with it). His eyes widened as he asked me if that was the same knife and I responded with a yes. I opened up the blade and showed him how it stopped at a 90 degree angle and then opened the rest of the way. After checking it myself, I showed him how dull the blade was and told him that we could sharpen it together once we learned how to properly handle, use, and store the knife. I showed him the can opener and I also showed him the ice pick looking thingy that maybe was an ice pick or maybe it was something more handy and useful that I wasn’t familiar with. Whatever it was, I was in heaven as I had his total attention. My inner Danny Tanner was reveling in this moment as I was really connecting with him and he seemed to really understand the gravitas of the situation. I then told him that the knife was now his.

That is the moment where he looked me dead in the eye and said with all sincerity “I don’t want it.”

Excuse me?

Did he not understand what was occurring here? I was handing him what I was hoping would one day become a family heirloom. I was passing something given to me by my father on to him. We were having an emotional connection. I was Danny freaking Tanner. I WAS DANNY FREAKING TANNER!!!!

“It’s too sharp” he said as he handed it back to me. “I’m scared I might cut myself.”

Oh. That wasn’t so bad. Not the response I was necessarily looking for though. I simply told him that he didn’t need to be scared of it because I’d teach him exactly what to do with it and how to take care of it so that nobody got hurt. I also asked him if he’d like me to hold onto it until that time. With a look of obvious relief, he said yes.

From that point we left the house, got dinner, and went on to his first Pack meeting where he ceremoniously received his Tiger Cub neckerchief. He also was asked to be a part of the color guard that presented the flags at the beginning of the meeting. He was well behaved and he was reverent. I was disappointed that the knife presentation didn’t go better, but was proud of him nonetheless.

After the meeting, we went home to find my wife waiting to hear all about his first Cub Scout meeting. After convincing him that we did NOT want to hear about the paper thumb wrestlers he got in his kid’s meal from Wendy’s he began to tell her about what happened at Scouts. He seemed pretty into it and is looking forward to some of the upcoming events. At that point, mostly for my own benefit, I asked him if he wanted to tell Mommy about the knife. To my surprise he lit up, came over and got it from me as I still had it in my pocket, and took it over to Carol. My wife, being the great mom that she is, put on her amazed face and asked him to tell her all about it.

“It’s a Cub Scout knife. It was Dad’s when he was a little boy.”

That’s all I needed to hear.

He had listened and he got it.

I was Danny Tanner.

Thanks for reading

Number One? Think again...

I’ve spent some time over the last few weeks reading some of my previous blog entries. There were some stinkers, there were some (many) with typos, and there were some that were obviously written just so I could say I wrote something that day. And, as much as I’d like to say that even the bad ones are worth a quick glance for just a few laughs, most of them were just god-awful and should never have been written in the first place. For that, I apologize.

On the other hand, there are a few that are my personal favorites that I believe to be undiscovered gold. Sure, Ben’s green eggs and ham was popular, but what about the one discussing my soccer abilities? And, while some of my more serious ramblings about our Veterans and our duty to our country have been well received, I noticed a severe lack of readership for my fictional tales of the Tro-lo-lo guy and Rick the cougar chaser.

The reason I bring this up is that on my blog site I have a section entitled Scott’s Greatest Misses. It lists, in order of popularity, my most accessed blog entries. It doesn’t mean people have read them, but it means they have at least opened the link, read a few sentences of this drivel, and closed the page soon after. Hopefully most (more than likely some, or even more likely than that, very few) have stuck around long enough to read an entire blog entry, but I’m going to guess not because sitting at the top of the list for almost the entire life of my website has been the same freaking entry:

“Damn you Joel McHale”.      

For longtime readers of this blog, you may be able to remember back to its earlier days when Joel McStinkbutt was a frequent topic of my disdain/homoerotic fantasies. It wasn’t until this recent perusal of my blogs that I discovered how many references I made to this jerk face/stud muffin. You could say I was borderline obsessed. Luckily, up to this point, I had moved beyond this and no longer felt such intense dislike for a man I have never met (those feelings are now saved for Chris Brown and Justin Bieber – but for totally different reasons). But that does not change the fact that my entry entitled “Damn You Joel McHale” is the most accessed/read blog on my site.

Yes, I know it is because I tagged Joel McHale and that anytime someone does an online search for him my article will be referenced. But shouldn’t they have to scan through about 23,187,554 other online subjects pertaining to “Joel McHale” before coming to my piece of crap article about him? Wouldn’t you think that something entitled “Damn You Joel McHale” written by some bald-headed nobody on a more than obvious blogging site be skipped over for anyone looking for the slightest bit of credible information on a mainstream star? Hell, in a quick Google search for Joel McHale, in the first 20 pages of results there were at least three references to Jerk McHussein discussing Seth Meyers’ boner and not one link to my article. Seriously, how is anyone accessing this?

But then it hit me.

It’s McHale

You see, I called Joel out on more than one occasion. I told him to keep his hands off the beautiful Allison Brie, but did he? Noooooooo. I told him to keep his damn shirt on, but did he? Of course not. I told him there would be serious repercussions for his actions should he continue on his path of sexy destruction and he defiantly did not heed my warning.

But it scared him. It scared him bad.  

It scared him so bad that he forced his show Community to take a brief hiatus at the beginning of last year’s season in fear of what I might do. It scared him so bad, in fact, that he started a rumor that the show might be cancelled in order to throw me off my tracks. In his defense it may have worked as, in its absence, I found other much more entertaining (you hear that McPoopforbrains? MORE ENTERTAINING!!!) shows to watch. Even after Community returned mid-season, I still neglected to watch it because, quite frankly, I had lost interest in both the show AND my feud with Just McHorrendous.

Well played, sir.

But after doing some (not-so) serious, very (not at all) thorough, and (absolutely none of my) time consuming research I discovered that while my “Damn You Joel McHale” article was the most accessed blog entry on my site, it was only being accessed by one man. This one man accesses it multiple times per week. This one man accesses it multiple times per week from a computer in Los Angeles, CA. And this one man who accesses it multiple times per week from a computer in Los Angeles, CA is the one and only – Steven Rothschild.

DUHN-DUHN-DUHN. (That’s the climatic music that plays when the villain is discovered. I really need to get a soundboard for this website to make it more dramatic).

Who is Steven Rothschild you ask? I honestly have no idea. But, if my spidey-senses are in tune I’m going to bet that it’s an alias. It’s an alias for someone who has an interest in me and my writings. It’s someone who has a vested interest in what I’m going to write about next. It’s someone who is fearful that if he steps out of line one more time that I’m going to follow through on my threats of composing strongly worded letters to the networks. But mostly, it’s someone that craves the attention. That someone is – Joel McHale.

DUHN-DUHN-DUHN (seems more dramatic now that you know what it means, no?)

I’m on to you McHale. More on to you than I ever have been on to you before. I’m so on to you that my on to youness is only surpassed by how on to yourself that you are. (??) You read that article because you’re vain. You read that article because you like the attention that I give you. You want it to be the most read blog on my site because it makes you feel good. But most of all, you read that article because you don’t want it to be over. You want my hatred/homoeroticism. You NEED my hatred/homoeroticism. Well, guess what McHardabs:

You’ve got it.

I will not have you besmirch the other great writings I have written about in my writings. I will not have some over the top diatribe about my half-truth/half-playful feelings for you sit atop my most read blogs anymore. While I can’t make other people read my other blogs so that it overtakes yours for the number one spot, I can call you out – once again – and make it be known that your secret is no more. I know you read the article. I know you read it every chance you get. And I know that by making reference to it multiple times in this blog (and offering links for my readers’ convenience) I am only drawing more attention to it and to you. That’s fine. You can win this battle.

I’m in it to win the war.

McHale, we live in a world that has blogs. And those blogs have to be written by men with wit. Who's gonna do it? You? You, Joke McHasbeen? I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for Chevy Chase and you curse the bloggers. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: that this blog, while tragic, probably makes people laugh. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, makes people laugh...You don't want this to end. Because deep down, in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me writing this blog. You need writing this blog.

I use words like blog, awesomesauce, randumb thoughts...I use these words as the backbone to a lunchtime spent writing something. You use 'em as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very entertainment I provide, then questions the manner in which I provide it! I'd rather you just said thank you and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a pen and write you own blog. Either way, I don't give a damn if you want the blog about you to be number one!

It is my hope that calling attention to this will shame you into not reading it anymore – but we both know that is not going to happen. If not Steven Rothschild you’ll just find another alias to access it under. Maybe you’ll even find a different server in a different state or even country to access it under in order to go unrecognized. That’s fine. Do it. Just know that I know that as long as that blog is sitting as the number one most read entry on my site – you’re reading it. And as long as I know that you know that I know that, that’s good enough for me.

I’m on to you, McHale – like never before.

And it feels good.

Heavyweight Champion of the World!!!

Let’s get something clear right off the bat: I know wrestling is fake. I’ve known wrestling is fake for the better part of the 28 years I’ve been watching it. Sure, there were some times during the early years where I thought George South was actually going to beat Arn Anderson for the NWA TV strap and, sure, I was slightly devastated when King Kong Bundy attacked Hulk Hogan leaving the real American lying motionless in ring after countless big splashes on Saturday Night’s Main Event. I may have even shed a tear when my beloved Road Warriors turned on Dusty Rhodes by shoving a metal spike into his eye possibly blinding the American Dream for life. But as I grew older and became wiser to the product I realized that this was all part of the huge male soap opera that professional wrestling/sports entertainment is. They feed you the bait. They lure you in. They get you to want to watch and see what happens next week.

And I’ve been tuning in “next week” for the past 28 years.

I’ve seen wrestling through the high points and the low points. I started out as an NWA guy watching he likes of Ric Flair, Dusty Rhodes, the Rock n Roll Express, Baron Von Raschke, and Lex Luger. I also gravitated towards WCCW with the legendary Von Erich family (before they all died), Rick Rude, Chris Adams, and the Fabulous Freebirds. Heck, I would even tune into ESPN in the middle of the afternoon to catch some AWA action with Larry Zbyszko, Nick Bockwinkle, and a very young Shawn Michaels as part of the Midnight Rockers.  

But the main show of the day and, with the exception of about a year and a half in the mid 90’s, the consummate pro wrestling benchmark was the WWF. Now known as the WWE, the WWF took the smoky bingo hall wrestling that previous generations had known and transformed it into a testosterone driven broadway spectacle. Guys like Hulk Hogan, Roddy Piper, Andre the Giant, Junk Yard Dog paved the way for younger guys like Bret Hart, Shawn Michaels, Steve Austin, HHH, and the Rock to do what they did on a worldwide stage; a worldwide stage that has generated billions of dollars and a publicly traded company for Vince McMahon.  

Not bad for a bunch of juiced up rednecks rolling around on the ground in their underwear.

The truth is, I love it. I love the simplistic storylines. I love trying to guess what is going to happen next and tuning in the next show to see if I’m right. I love the pageantry. If you’ve never sat down and watched a WrestleMania I highly suggest renting a DVD at least once and watching it. The production and presentation are beyond compare. The wrestlers try harder, take more risks, and put on a show worthy of the Super bowl, World Series, Stanley Cup, and Daytona 500 of professional wrestling.

Yes, it’s fake.

But I also know a shit ton about it.

Now, I’m probably the exact type of wrestling fan that Vince McMahon doesn’t want. I don’t buy the merchandise. With the exception of a few Royal Rumbles here and there, I don’t buy the PPVs. I also don’t go to the live events. On the rare occasion when WWE comes to St Louis, I rarely even take going to the event into consideration. I am only willing to pay so much money for live events of any kind and that amount of money usually puts me in the cheap seats. For things like concerts and such, the cheap seats are fine. For wrestling, however, the closer you can get to the action the better. These guys are “actors” and their facial expressions tell a story in the ring. Plus, the chance of getting spit/sweat/bled on by one of your favorite superstars has a certain redneck appeal to it. So, when I heard that WWE was bringing its Extreme Rules PPV to St Louis, I didn’t even bother to worry about getting tickets. I’d just hang tight and read the results on the internet the following morning.

But that was before I heard the announcement.

A radio program that I listen to in the morning on 590 AM (yes I watch wrestling AND listen to AM talk radio in the morning) announced that they were giving away ringside – yes, RINGSIDE – seats to the PPV and all I had to do to get them was to go to Hot Shots in Arnold, MO and answer trivia questions on the history of wrestling.

DONE!

Had it been just regular tickets to the event I wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but these were ringside seats. I stood the possibility of sitting close enough to actually see them not hitting each other with my own eyes. And, given my vast wrestling knowledge and attention to nerd details, I was a shoe-in to win these things. I was sure of it. I even began prematurely bragging to people that it was a lock that I was going to win.

So I promised to blog about it.

With that setup, I bring you to the actual day of the event in real time fashion. To recap, I was going to a wrestling trivia contest. At a bar. In Jefferson County, MO. I wasn’t sure what I was going to encounter when I got there, but I knew it stood the chance of being backwoodstastic. Luckily, I wasn’t terribly disappointed.

1:00 PM – Got back from my lunchhour and decided to do some studying on various websites to test my wrestling acumen.

1:15 PM – finished my games of Candy Crush and got down to the actual studying

1:18 PM – finished another game of Candy Crush after I was given an extra life by my cousin, Ryan Harres

1:20 PM – went to Sporcle.com (greatest website ever) and began taking WWE quizzes. Did pretty well. Simultaneously raised my arms in victory and hung my head in shame. Being a wrestling fan with all of your teeth and sleeves on your shirts is a conflicted existence.

2:15 – got a call from my wife where I had to remind her to wish me luck on this all-important evening. She seemed anything less than enthused in her response.

4:30 PM – left work while bragging to my co-worker that I was probably in for a long grueling night of wrestling trivia but that I would come to work tomorrow victorious. He was genuinely excited for me. I’m pretty sure it was genuine. Maybe.

5:00 – arrived at Hot Shots. Surprisingly enough, I was the only person that showed up two hours early for the event. There was a smattering of people seated around the bar. There was also a smattering of cloth covering the bartender’s ample bosom. Additionally, there was only a smattering of teeth amongst the people and the bartender combined. Given the lack of fabric covering the bartender’s chest, however, I’m surprised I even gazed far enough north to notice her teeth or lack thereof either way.

5:02 – ordered a Stag, was served a PBR. Didn’t notice until the boobs had made their way to the other side of the bar. Didn’t complain.

5:10 – Macho Man Randy Savage entered the establishment.  “But the Macho Man’s been dead for a few years now” you say. I know. That’s what I thought too. But there he was. The sleeveless wonders around the bar that had no clue about the trivia contest could do nothing but stare, mouths agape, toothless gums bared for all to see. 100% in character he approached the boobtender and asked what time the trivia night started. She laughed, jiggled a bit, and said that registration was going to start around 6:30. His response? “6:30? Oh, yeah!!! Dig it!!” I was awed.

5:23 – I ordered a cheeseburger. I think. At least that’s what she of the 75% exposed breasts brought me later on. I wasn’t going to argue.

5:40 – Larry Nickel walked in. If you’re not familiar with Larry Nickel (and there is no reason on earth that anyone really should be familiar with him) he is a contributor to the radio show that was sponsoring the event. Much like Howard Stern has his Wack Pack, this radio show has its share of colorful characters that contribute on a regular basis. Larry Nickel is one of those guys. He’s also one of those guys who believes wrestling is real. And he’s older than I am. This is Larry. He was our emcee for the evening.

 

5:45 I made a friend. This is the conversation we had:

Him: Um, so what’s going on here?

Me: I think it’s some sort of wrestling trivia thing

Him: Oh, I heard that was going on. Are you playing?

Me: Yeah, I guess. You?

Him: Yeah probably.

Me: It’s nice to meet someone as equally ashamed of what they’re spending their evening doing as I am.

Him: What? Sorry, I was staring at the bartender’s boobs.

This man is my new best friend.

6:05 – Macho Man walked back in. Apparently he had just been standing by his car in the parking lot with the doors open and the radio playing. I mentioned to my friend that I hoped to God he was blaring the Macho Man’s theme music from his car stereo. I didn’t go outside to check but made the decision that if I had enough to drink I was going to get into that car and cruise up and down Highway 141 with the Macho Man while screaming “Oh yeah” out the window.

 

6:06 - In one of the most surreal moments of the evening, Larry Nickel (who believes wrestling is real) comes face to face with the Macho Man doppleganger and stops in his tracks. All of the air seemed to be sucked out of the bar as the anticipation of what was going to happen next built to a crescendo. Luckily for all in attendance the meeting went well, Larry didn’t freak out at the possible ghost sighting, and they shook hands before parting.

6:15 – paid my tab at the boobs so that I could breast my cleavage and move to another jugs by the contest on the other side of the knockers. I was gonna miss her.

6:30 – picked up my sheet of 60 questions. The top three scores out of these 60 questions would move on to the next round. I quickly glanced at the questions and saw that I already knew the answers to the first 8 questions. This was going to be a piece of cake.

6:32 – realized I had no idea what the name of the stable was that consisted of Owen Hart, Vader, and Yokozuna. Damnit!! Despite the brief blow to my confidence I skipped the question and moved on with the self-assurance that I would know the rest.  

6:32:30 – realized I couldn’t remember where WrestleMania 30 was taking place. Crap!! That was two I might get wrong. Looking around I noticed that instead of the redneck wonders I was expecting to see there were actually quite a few normal looking people participating in the contest. I also noticed, however, the guys wearing the wrestling t-shirts. Anyone in their early to mid-thirties willing to wear a WWE shirt out in public was someone that I knew would be competition. I counted about 6-7 or them and knew immediately that I was going to have to answer every question correct to get this. It was on. I put down New Orleans as my answer and planned to check my phone for the answer immediately afterwards.

6:33 – Which one of Chyna’s friends did Mark Henry have a liking for? What? When did this happen? I don’t remember this storyline. Anything here will be total guess. Yes, this is one of those points where I’m fully expecting you to judge me even more so than you have in the past

6:35 – Is Glacier dead or alive? I wrote alive but didn’t have confidence. Since it was the last question I decided to skip it and go back to check my previous work. I am a college graduate. I went through 8 years of Catholic grade school, 4 years of Catholic high school, and 4 years at an accredited university and at no point ever during those 16 years of education did I ever once go back and check my answers on a test. Not once. In my defense though, my teachers were never offering ringside seats.

After getting back to the Glacier question I crossed out my answer, second guessed my second guess, and re-wrote “alive”.

6:38 – turned in my sheet knowing that I had at least two wrong.

6:38:05 – got on my phone to check some of my answers. WrestleMania was indeed happening in New Orleans and Glacier was, in fact, still alive. Boom!

6:38:45 – Rufus R Jones, however, is dead. Damnit. Three wrong. There was nothing left to do now but wait.

6:45 – read on my phone that Dick Trickle had shot himself. I quickly went up to the organizers of the event and let them know that there could be a major reaction to that news amongst the patrons. We were, after all, at a wrestling trivia contest, in a bar, in JeffCo. This could be akin to Kennedy getting shot. Luckily, the news must not have traveled very fast as nobody even mentioned it.

6:53 – Mike Lee just arrived. Much like Larry Nickel, Mike Lee is another personality on the radio program and is famous for nothing othe than being Mike Lee. The story behind Mike is that he would call the radio station 30-40 times a day and the only way to get him to stop was to put him on the air for about 2 minutes every day to discuss how Ozzie Smith came to the Steak N Shake that he works at. Now, all he talks about is how people know him and always want to get their picture taken with him. I have no idea why anyone would ever want to get their picture taken with him.

This is Mike Lee:

 

 

7:23 – still waiting for the results.

7:23:01 – the sound system just gave off a noise that led me and other patrons to believe that the building was blowing up and that we were all going to die. After it was clear that we were going to be okay it occurred to me that my obituary was going to say that I died at a professional wrestling trivia contest. In a bar. In JeffCo. I quickly escaped to the bathroom to have a good cry.

7:30 – The winners have just been announced. The final three had scores of 59 and 58. I had a 57 so I didn’t make it. I was overcome with simultaneous feelings of great sadness and great relief at the fact that I did not know enough about pro wrestling to win a contest. In a bar. In JeffCo.

7:31 – I was going to leave but decided to order one more PBR from my new less-than-chesty waitress and watch what would happen in the final round. It would be a series of 15 questions to determine the winner. Somehow my ego needed to know that I was better/more pathetic than the three who had moved on instead of me.

7:45 – 15 questions later and I had my answer. The winner answered 12 of the 15 questions correctly. I knew 14 of the 15. Oh well.

The guy who won had been sitting with his friend at the table next to mine. It was obvious pretty early that he was going to win so I began nudging his buddy and telling him he was going to sit ringside. He kept looking at his friend and cheering him on while giving me the occasional no-look fist bump. Once it was official that his buddy had won I congratulated him and wished him luck at getting the second ticket. It was at that point that he turned to me, smiled, and exposed both of the teeth he had in his mouth while saying “I thure hope he takth me inthtead of hith wife.”

Yep, I was at a wrestling trivia contest. In a bar. In JeffCo.

I didn’t go on a drive with the Macho Man.

I also got my picture taken with Mike Lee. I have no idea why.

Thanks for reading.

 

Voices

I have a voice. When I wake up in the morning it’s a little rough and much lower than it is the rest of the day, but I have a voice.

I have a voice. After I drink my morning coffee it gets a little louder and I speak a little faster than the people I am speaking with deserve to endure, but I have a voice.

I have a voice. When I eat cheese, which I seem to have an odd allergic reaction to, it gets a little nasally and I will go through a lengthy sneezing fit which could last upwards of 8-10 sneezes, but I have a voice.

I have a voice. If I happen to enjoy a few too many alcoholic beverages it sometimes becomes rambling, slurred, and progressively incoherent, but I have a voice.

I have a voice.

Luckily for me, my voice is able to be heard. It’s loud and often carries much farther than I’d like, but it is able to be heard.

My voice is able to be heard. The very fact that you’re reading this proves that my voice is able to be heard. My voice, MY voice, takes on a life of its own when I put it to paper. The things that I want to say and the way that I wish to articulate them translate much better for me in this format. In conversation my voice can be quiet and stuttering. It can be loud and rambling. It can be confused and unable to find the big word I want so desperately to use.  But still, it is my voice.

And I will use it.

I will use my voice to tell you how I feel. I will use my voice to make you laugh. I will use my voice to tell you what I think. Hopefully, I will also use my voice to make you think as well. But never will I use my voice to tell you that your voice doesn’t matter.

We live in America, idealistically the greatest country in the world. I can use my voice to scream from the rooftops or from atop our highest mountains and tell everyone within hearing distance my feelings on any topic that I choose. I can also get on a computer and write a seemingly random thought in 140 characters or less and instantly have it spread throughout the world.

Instantly throughout the world.

And that’s where it gets scary.

Too often in this age of instant news and its resulting reactionary response we forget to put thought behind our voice.  This lack of thought is often facilitated by the ability to hide behind a screen name or nom de plume. It does our voice no favor when it has to be hidden. It does our voice no favor when it insults or degrades someone else’s.

Right now in this country we are experiencing possibly the second greatest divide between red and blue, conservative and liberal, gun lovers and tree huggers - whatever you want to call it - that we have ever seen. We are no longer one nation under God, but instead two nations struggling to live as one.

Struggling mightily.

Today, I use my voice to make you think. Today, I use my voice to ask you to use yours. But there’s a catch. Today, I ask you to use your voice not as a weapon of righteousness or indignity but instead as an instrument of hope and enlightenment. I ask you to use your voice to address the issues at hand and tell the world how you feel without belittling those who choose to use their voice in opposition. Let your opinions be known, your facts be received, and your strategies for improvement be submitted while being open to the same opinions, facts, and strategies of those you disagree with.

We are still a young nation. We have yet to get it right. Together, though, using the voices that we were given we can start to mend our fences. Respectfully, responsibly, and receptively we must use our voices to encourage those with a larger audience to see that the way things are working are not working at all. We may not have all of the solutions, but by using our voices we can help create a pool of new ideas to work from.

We are at a crucial stage in our brief history where things could go right or could go horribly wrong. Our voices are our best means to ensure that the result is positive. Write a letter to your mayor. Write your senators and congressmen. Write your governors. Write the President of the United States of America. But do not use your voice to tell them what they’re doing wrong.  Use your voice to offer solutions. Use your voice to offer support. But most of all - use your voice. It’s how our country was founded in 1776 when 56 men used their voice to declare independence from a king across the ocean.  They used their voices to enable me to have the freedom to use mine.

I have a voice

My voice is able to heard

So is yours

Use it, and use it wisely

Wake Me Up When Postseason Ends

This is my life. It's a life I've chosen and will not move away from, but this is my life.

Sung to the tune of Green Day's "Wake Me Up When September Ends"

Summer is gone at last

100 years and more have passed

Wake me up when Postseason ends

Like the promise of seasons past

A Championship not in our grasp

Wake me up when Postseason ends

Here comes the cold again

Chilled from head to toe

Other fans can celebrate

While we just sit at home

As our memory rests

Of Go Cubs Go and of the Stretch

Wake me up when Postseason ends

Summer has come and passed

The Cubbie blue had faded fast

Wake me up when Postseason ends

No hope for a W again

Like it was when Spring began

Wake me up when Postseason ends

Here comes the rain again

Falling from our eyes

Drenched in our pain again

Watching these other guys

As we put away our gear

The other teams still shout and cheer

Wake me up when Postseason ends

Summer will come again

Maybe next year’s when we’ll win

Wake me up when Postseason ends

Like my father’s seen before

I hope my son won't see much more

Wake us up when Postseason ends

The Root Beer Diaries

In my last blog entry I mentioned that I was looking for a hobby. After sifting through many of the suggestions I was privately sent, I decided that since most of things recommended were either illegal or physically impossible to do to one-self, that I would just continue sitting on my couch. My father-in-law, however, had something else in mind.

While reading my suggestion of brewing my own beer, he remembered that while his son, my brother-in-law, was in college he had bought my father-in-law a home brewing kit. My father-in-law, while interested at first, opened the kit and read the instructions only to find out that the first 14 steps or so were about cleaning and sanitizing the equipment. He quickly lost interest and put it away somewhere to possibly be revisited at a later date. After reading my blog, he went downstairs, dusted it off, and presented it to me the next time I saw him.

Now, when I suggested that I could brew my own beer I quickly dismissed the idea due to the facts that a) I’m lazy, and b) I was under contract to Stag. When my father-in-law gave me the box with all of the brewing tools inside though, I saw on the outside of the box that I could also brew my own root beer using the exact same kit. Now, that didn’t rule out reason “a” as I am still pretty darn lazy, but it did cancel out any false contracts with Stag that I had made up for the sole purpose of not doing something that may prove to be difficult and lead to failure. I immediately got excited, took the box home, and set it on the basement floor where it would sit for the next few weeks. Did I mention I’m a tad lazy?

Any who, I had every intention of looking in the box to see what was inside and to read the instructions to determine exactly how difficult this process would be. Days passed, however, and despite walking by the box numerous times over the next few days and sometimes multiple times per day, I neglected to even pick the box up to further my knowledge of root beer home brewing.

On Saturday, that all changed.

Ben and I had plans to go swimming on Saturday but upon waking I saw that it was raining. I looked at the forecast and saw that the rain would stop around noon but when I asked the boy if he still wanted to go swimming he was pretty adamant that a day watching Yo Gabba Gabba sounded much more exciting. Determined to keep him (and myself) from being trapped in front of the TV all day I decided that he (I) needed a project. I went downstairs, kicked the cat out of the way, picked up the home brewing kit, and brought it back upstairs.

Upon opening the box to inspect its contents, I discovered that what was inside was pretty cool. Rather than go over each item and the instructions thoroughly, I instead went to the list of supplies needed to determine whether I would need to go out and buy anything first. I saw a few items I needed, ran some other errands, and picked up the required sponge and bleach while I was out. With the exception of the bottles that I determined I would need at a later date, I was set. The rest of this will be an ongoing entry which will document my adventures in the home brewing of root beer. This is going to be a lot of fun!!

Saturday, August 4, 2012

I opened the kit and went shopping for supplies. Got home and asked the boy if he wanted to help. He said no. I followed the instructions which basically stated that I needed to clean everything. Thoroughly. I made the bleach/water concoction to clean the sink, counter top, plates, and everything else that I was going to touch. It recommended that I wear rubber gloves so I looked under the sink to find that the wife had some under there. She has smaller hands than I do but I figured I would be okay. Five minutes later when I had maneuvered my hands into her Cee Lo Green hand-sized gloves, I wiped away the sweat (yes, I broke a sweat putting the damn things on), sterilized the gloves and everything else within reach, and began filling the “fermenter” with another bleach/water concoction. I sterilized the fermenter with this concoction and poured the rest into the sink as it would be used for sterilizing the tools and equipment as I went along. I took off the gloves.

A minute later I realized that the sink had not properly been stopped up so all of the bleach/water concoction had drained out. I also realized that there were many more things that needed to be sterilized. I looked at the gloves, cursed at them, and spent the next five minutes trying to put the now wet and inside out child sized rubber gloves back on my hands. I began cursing my wife at this point for having hands smaller than mine. I got them back on, finished sterilizing the equipment, read the next few steps that I was positive did NOT involve any type of sterilization, and took the gloves off – again.

The next few steps were easy and basically involved a lot of mixing. I opened the provided yeast packet and stirred it in with the water. I got my gallon measuring unit – which was obtained by pouring out our gallon of milk into a Kool-Aid pitcher and then sterilizing the gallon jug – and carefully poured the tepid water into the fermenter as suggested in the instructions. I mixed it all together and was under the impression that I was done until a few days later when the root beer was done fermenting.

I was wrong

The next step, which I had failed to read because I am pretty sure I know everything there is to know about anything, was to begin pouring the root beer into bottles. I didn’t have bottles. I had bottle caps, but no bottles. Shit. I grabbed the boy and drug him out the door so that we could make it to our local home-brewing store with the hopes that a) they were still open, and b) they sold bottles. Lucky for me, both ended up being true and despite the fact that the guy helping me was both a close-talker and kinda creepy, I was out the door and headed back towards the house within a few minutes.

When I got home I read the next step that reminded me that before I put the root beer into them, I had to sterilize the bottles. I now had two dozen bottles, an empty sink because the bleach/water concoction had of course drained through our useless f*cking stopper, and a pair of rubber gloves that wouldn’t fit on the hands of the Keebler mother-f*cking elves. I took a deep breath, struggled for a few minutes to pull on those stupid piece of shit gloves, filled the sink once more with that stupid bleach/water concoction, and began sterilizing the bottles.

I won’t go into how long this took, nor will I go into how when I was halfway through I unknowingly knocked one of the bottles into the drain stopper thereby slowly releasing all of my bleach/water concoction down the drain once again thereby creating the need to make the concoction once more. What I will tell you is that after a long while I was finally able to get the stupid gloves off my hands and was ready to start filling the bottles. This was the easy part. I filled each bottle to the recommended once inch below the top and set them aside. I had made 2 ½ gallons of root beer which was supposed to fill 24 bottles. When I was done, however, I had a lot of root beer left. Rather than waste it, I took each bottle that I had already filled and pretty much topped it off. Remember this point. I then sat down at the kitchen table and used the cool bottle capping tool they provided to place a cap on each bottle so that it could ferment over the next week in my basement.

Later that evening

Upon capping the bottles and seeing how awesome it was that I had made an entire case of root beer, I began to get really excited and began making plans for my next batch. I even went online and ordered my own set of personalized bottle caps. I also came up with the idea that, as a thank you/birthday present, I could present my father-in-law with the first bottle when we saw him the next day. I was super excited.

It was at this point when I started thinking about the timeline involved with all of this. My father-in-law had said that his son had got it for him when he was in college. It occurred to me that my brother-in-law was 40 years old. I quickly looked at the instruction manual to see when the copyright date was and it said 1994. That was 18 years ago. This root beer could very well be toxic.



Sunday August 5, 2012

I presented my father-in-law with the first bottle of my as-of-yet unnamed root beer. To quote Ivan Drago in Rocky IV, “If he dies, he dies.”

Just kidding. I knew that, according to the instructions, it still had 6 days left to ferment before it could be refrigerated and another two weeks after that before it would be ready to drink. I had plenty of time to research the effects of ingesting 18 year old root beer extract and yeast. The idea of giving it to him was more of meaningful gesture and a way of not spending any money on a birthday present than an effort to off him. As far as you know.



Monday August 6, 2012

I did some very meaningful research to determine and ill effects of ingesting the root beer made from 18 year old root beer extract and yeast by going on Facebook and asking if I had any chemist friends. Lucky for me, I didn’t have any chemist friends, but my friend Kathy has a brother-in-law who is not only a chef but a home-brewer as well. She checked with him and we basically determined that while no one is probably going to die from the ingredients, the root beer would probably taste like crap due to the yeast possibly losing its effects over the years and the extract becoming bitter. At this point I decided that I was going to have to try again by dumping out all of the bottles I capped on Saturday and reusing them with supplies that I will be buying this weekend. Bummer. I also went online to look for other recipes and methods for making my own root beer. Along with the multitude or things I want to try, I also came across some information that I wish I’d had prior to leaving for work today. Apparently, the extra inch of air that I had originally left in the bottles as I filled them is to allow for pressure to build as the fermentation is taking place. If you remember, I filled up that space with the remaining root beer so that I wouldn’t waste any. I also read in multiple places that the fermentation process does not take an entire week, but only a few days. Like around two or three days. At that point, you should put the bottles in the refrigerator so that the fermentation stops and so YOUR BOTTLES WILL NOT BURST DUE TO PRESSURE. That’s with the extra inch of air that I did not allow.

So, as I write this I have thoughts of home where, if the yeast is in fact active, I could have glass bottles bursting open all over my basement right now spraying my walls and the cat with bitter tasting root beer that I will never get to drink. Still, I am not deterred. I will go home, clean up the mess, let the cat deal with its own problems, and carry on in my efforts to make a delicious root beer. I will also be buying new rubber gloves and a better stopper for the sink.

*Updated*

Later that evening

I came home and luckily the root beer had not blown up and painted my basement a nice shade of poop brown. I decided to open one up to test the fermentation and was greeted with the sound of nothing. No fizz, no pop. Nothing. I then proceeded to empty each bottle out individually and was greeted with  the same nothingness with every cap I popped. Depression set in as I dumped my entire day's work out into the sink while filling the kitchen with the aroma of flat root beer. I did keep three bottles as an experiment to go through the entire process. I'll open one on Saturday to check the fizzibility (my new root beer brewing word that I just made up). If it's flat, I'll dump the rest. If not, I'l put the remaining two in the fridge for the wife and I to enjoy.

Friday, August 10

My new bottlecaps came in the mail today. They are stupid wicked awesomesauce.

This will be updated as I find out more. Stay tuned.

Hobby Lobbying

I need a new hobby. I should probably take out the word “new” as I haven’t really had an old hobby that I’m sick of which would require a new one. Of course, if you count laying aound like a slug on the couch either watching TV, playing Playstation, or reading a book as a hobby then, yes, I had one and need a new one. But since I get very little reward from those other than the occasional “yay, I just hit 82 home runs in one season and nobody gives a flying crap about it but me” or “I just got through the last 10% of my book (since I got the Kindle I measure books in percentages and not pages) before going to bed tonight,” I have decided that I need something else to do.


The wife, I’m sure, could think of a lot of things I could do. I could help out more around the house, I could cook more, I could finish up projects that have needed to be finished for quite a long time, and I could even *gasp* throw in a load of laundry here or there, but I want something fun. I want something I can look forward to doing. I want something that, when completed, I can show to other people and say “look what I just did” and have them be impressed with the outcome. Even though that statement could apply to my wacky adventures in both cooking and laundry it’s not exactly what I had in mind. I want, no, I NEED a hobby that will give me both satisfaction and ample opportunity to shirk the household and husbandly/fatherly duties that I should be taking care of.

But I can’t think of a damn thing.

Actually, I have thought of quite a few, and they all have merit and could keep my interest for about a week, but in the end they fail to live up to what I want out of it – attention. In case you haven’t figured this out by now, I am an attention whore and will use any opportunity, good or bad, to get the attention, good or bad, I require to keep myself going. Why do you think I (occasionally) write this blog? Why do you think that, once I post it, I check back every few minutes for “likes” or comments? Hell, even a comment that says “you suck – never write again” is great because I’m getting attention. I would apologize for using you all like this but I’m really not sorry. For whatever reason, you choose to read this garbage through no fault of my own. I simply write it and post it. Don’t get me wrong though. If I can make you giggle, laugh, or, dare I say guffaw, then there is no better feeling I could have. God didn’t give me much in the looks or athleticism department, but what God did bless me with is the ability to make people laugh and I use it every chance I get – sometimes to a fault. But the bottom line this blog is all about me getting attention.

So, I’ve decided to create a list of a few hobbies that I’ve come up with and some pros and cons (mostly cons) of each in an effort to weed through them and decide which route I’m going to take. Please, feel free to comment on them or suggest your own (see – looking for attention again. I’m pathetic).

Running/Exercise

Every couple of years or so the wife and I look in the mirror and decide that we need to join a gym. We talk up what a good idea it would be, we talk about when and where we could go and how we’ll wake up early to hit the gym before we go to work, and we talk about all the stuff we’ll need to buy to get ourselves ready for the gym. We then join the gym, buy the new bags, water bottles, clothes, etc, attend with gusto the first few weeks, brag about how well we’re doing, find a reason not to go one night, and then never attend again while still paying the monthly dues because we just know we’re going to go back but don’t. Then, three months later I do the walk of shame into the gym to cancel my membership and, despite my urge to write down something obnoxiously creaitve in the “reason for cancelling” box, mark “lack of use.”

It’s a shameful process but one that we have repeated time and again and, I’m sure, will repeat as the years go on and my once slender frame gets ever softer. Plus, everybody runs. Well, maybe not everybody, but you can’t get on Facebook without seeing picture of people at marathon finish lines or bragging about the 7 miles they just ran that morning. I have all the respect in the world for those people but A) shut up! You’re making me feel lazy(er), and B) if everyone is doing it then I won’t feel as special. Yes, I’m really this much of an attention whore. Exercise is a no-go.


Woodworking

Woodworking you say? Where the hell did that come from? Well, my grandfather was a bit of a woodworker. In fact, there is furniture in both my house and my sister’s house that was constructed by the late great Kenny Hopfinger. My father, while not a furniture maker, is very handy with tools himself and can fix/construct anything that he wants to. Me? I have all the tools in the world including a table saw, a circular saw, a router, and seven hammers. Yes, seven hammers. There are many more tools in my workshop (yes, I even have a workshop)but I couldn’t tell you what half of them are for. And what is the only thing I’ve ever made with any of those tools? I made a stool for Ben to stand on when he brushes his teeth. It’s not a bad stool and I am actually a little proud of it, but I’m just waiting for the day I hear the boy crumble into a bloody, crying heap on the bathroom floor because my shoddy craftsmanship was less than stellar. Plus, hardware is expensive. On top of that, my workshop is attached to my non air-conditioned garage and carries an average temperature of about 107 degrees in the summertime and -4 in the winter. Woodworking is not going to happen.


Baking

I don’t mind baking as long as my friends Betty Crocker or Duncan Hines are involved, but baking would lead to taste testing and taste testing would lead to weight gain and weight gain would lead to me looking in the mirror more often than every couple of years and deciding that I need to join a gym which we’re already covered. Baking is out.


Puzzles

I enjoy making puzzles. I don’t enjoy the cat or the boy running away with a piece of it which is never to be found again. Plus, not even in my desperate clamoring for attention could I call someone and say “Hey, you’ve got to see this puzzle I just finished - with one piece missing. It’s wicked awesome!” On a side note, I’ve decided that I’m going to start saying “wicked awesome” more often. Puzzle making is out.


Sports/Athletics

I played on a softball team about 13 years ago where my season of record-breaking infield pop-ups was miraculously cut short by the breaking of my hand on a close play at home plate. No, I wasn’t running the bases but instead was relegated to playing catcher as that is about the max that my athletic ability allows. While I did get the guy out, I certainly didn’t rush back to the team once I was healed. Last summer I stumbled into playing for another softball team by pure accident. I was there to watch my buddy Jeff, they were short a player and asked if I’d step in, so I did and ended up going 5 for 6 and was asked to join the team permanently. I don’t know how that happened as that feat has certainly not repeated itself. On Thursdays I now show up with full knowledge that I’ll be playing catcher and batting last. It’s not pretty and nobody even comes to watch us play which means I don’t get any attention. This will be my last summer of softball.


Male gigolo

While I could TOTALLY pull this off, the wife might have something to say about it. If anybody is interested, however, give her a holler. Maybe you and she can work something out.

I was going to write that I come cheap in the most innocent of connotations, but it just sounded SUPER dirty so I decided not to include it. You’re welcome.


Writing a book

I would love to write a book, but I have nothing to write about. I’m not a novelist nor do I want to sit in front of a computer goofing around all day (those who follow me on Facebook will laugh heartily at that). My only chance of writing a book is if I printed out all of my blogs and three-hole punched them into a binder. Viola – my book. I doubt highly someone wants to read 300 pages of my by then outdated Randumb Thoughts. If I can’t take the time to spit out drivel like this on more than a bi-monthly basis, why would I think I could take the time to write an entire book? Plus, my writing style is too immature for adults and too adult-like for kids. I could aim for the tweens, but I have no desire to write about wizards, vampires, or zombies. After that, I’m pretty sure that Beverly Cleary has covered the rest.

Also, writing a book involves sending your book to a publisher and getting rejected countless times. Even if your book is published, you have to go through the editing process and I am not going to deal with someone telling me how I should write something. I’m sure that my writing could be enhanced by such feedback, but if I really cared about that I’d proofread my blogs before publishing them. Or, maybe I do proofread them but leave just enough mistakes to make Chris Reed have a brain hemmorage…


Brew my own beer

Now here’s a hobby I could sink my liver into. I think it would be wicked awesome (see?) to brew my own beer but I’m not a patient man. It takes a while for the brewing process to complete and I’m an instant gratification kind of a guy. I don’t want to be sitting outside on the deck thinking “boy, that beer sure is going to be tasty in three weeks.” I’d rather go into the fridge, grab myself an ice-cold Stag, and enjoy the frosty goodness that it provides on the spot. Plus, I have a sponsorship agreement with Stag that prohibits me from making my own beer and/or mentioning any other beer by name.

*the thoughts and opinions in this blog are solely the views of this author and do not necessarily reflect the views of Stag Brewery or any of its subsidiaries*


So, as you can see, there’s not a lot left. Maybe I’ll just go back to my Playstation. Maybe I’ll plant – and not water - a garden. Maybe I’ll join a bunch of adult websites and write critiques of their movies. Maybe I’ll just go back to the housework I should be doing instead of plopping my ass on the couch and staring at the TV every night. No matter what I decide to do, however, please know that whenever I screw up or make an ass of myself (which is often) you will know as I will embellish the hell out of it and write it down on this blog just for my attention-getting pleasure.



Thanks for reading