Enter the raw, unedited, unadulterated, uncut, undulating mish-mash that is my mind. The views and opinions expressed herein are what they are...my own. Enjoy them or abhor them, you've made it this far. Hang on and enjoy the ride!
Thursday, February 14, 2008
How About a Little "Clemensy"??
Roger Clemens is guilty as hell.
For those of you who may have an inkling into the world of baseball, Roger Clemens is one of the greatest pitchers ever to grace the game. His power, speed and dominance on the mound is second, in my mind, only to the great Nolan Ryan. He has won 7 Cy Young Awards as the best pitcher in the league over a season...2 more than any pitcher in the history of the league. He struck out a major league record 20 batters in one game in 1986 and 1996. He dominated well into his 40's, and it is now being publicly unraveled that this prolonged dominance may have been attributed to the usage of steroids and/or Human Growth Hormone. And by the looks of everything that has transpired so far, he appears guilty as hell. His once adamant, confident, and defiant denial of any wrong doing has now transgressed into an "Oh shit I'm screwed" denial. Whomever his lawyer was...he's an inept douche bag.
"Just deny everything Roger...they can't prove anything!! We'll play the "Nuh uh...DID NOT!!" card!! It's foolproof, Rog, FOOLPROOF!!!"
He's probably paying hundreds of thousands of dollars to get that delusional legal advice. What a shame...it's Roger Clemens dammit!! Why Roger??
I guess when your best friend rats you out in front of the United States Congress, not much is going to save you from imminent prosecution. Not so much for the fact that you used performance enhancing drugs, but the fact that you have now LIED to Congress about it. That's called PERJURY Holmes!
In what could very well have been a simple, "Tsk, tsk...shame of you Roger Clemens. Bad boy!!" (slap on the wrist and a tarnished reputation). End of Story, life goes on. But instead you have chosen to live out the remainder of your days with a tarnished reputation and career, and a big fat FELONY conviction on your record. Good thing you had a successful career!! Hang on to that cash, because without it you're now screwed!!
But why Roger? It's more than obvious that a relatively high percentage of Major League baseball players use performance enhancing drugs. In a league with so many people fighting for a dream, making the smallest of wages playing 7+ years in the minor leagues in no name towns, they will do anything to maintain that competitive edge. You can go from making $35,000 a year to $2,000,000 if you have a solid year in the majors. The risk is very much worth the potential reward. And for those superstars who age and decline in performance, the threat of the spotlight and glory vanishing is a very difficult and painful thought to bear. So any way you can prolong your career and maintain your youthful dominance, you'll do it. The fire never dies, but the strength of the arm will undoubtedly fade before you're ready for it.
Barry Bonds, the over publicized "guilty as hell" steroid user, went through what Clemens is now going through. Bonds was vilified and his All-Time Home Run Record...the most coveted record in all of baseball...tarnished everything the record and the game stood for. The purity that we all chose to believe was tainted. Even though it was as pure as the most veteran of whores. Bond being guilty as OJ is America's most wide-spread stance on the subject. Many people believe it's because he's black. I say it's because he's an asshole. But calling him an asshole isn't entirely fair. I will readily admit, that the guy is certainly an arrogant prick as well. And that has a large part to play in his public crucifixion by the media and the general public. Every away stadium he plays in, he is faced with a chorus of BOO's so intense, you'd think Bin Laden was playing shortstop. When you're an overall dick to everyone you encounter, not having an ounce of respect for anyone, Karma plays some twisted games with you. Welcome to the show Roid Boy!!
There's something about Barry that elicits an inherent desire in Americans to loathe him and wish him guilt and scrutiny. Probably because he's black. Let's be serious, this is America. Although he DID break the coveted record which was set by another black man, so I don't see what the big deal is, it's not like he was taking it from a WHITE guy. Why are you so mad America? There's nothing to fear..."They" are not "taking over".
Yet...bwah-ha-ha-ha!!!
Roger Clemens is the essence of the game. He has been one of the most prolific players in the history of the game. He is a pitcher you one day tell your grandkids about. The legend of your time. Like the stories of Sandy Koufax and Warren Spahn your father or grandfather told, so you shall tell of Roger Clemens. He's someone you were glad to have seen pitch in the prime of your passion for sports. He was the one who comes around once in a generation. So why? Out of all the scrubs and goons you could have made an example of, you nail one of the greatest ever to play after he's essentially done playing. Where is the logic?
Honestly, I don't care who uses steroids. I don't want to know. If it means you knock 90 home runs out of the park in a season, so be it. It's a new era, a new evolution of the game. The game isn't completely the same as it was when our grandfather watched Babe Ruth and his fat drunken ass round the bases with the speed and grace of a gazelle in the clutches of death amongst a pride of starving lions. Slow as a slug on a fly trap he was. (OK I made that one up) The game evolves every generation, and this is our evolution. Juiced beasts with superhuman strength, speed, and agility. Entertain me gentlemen...even if it's at the expense of your shrinking balls!!
With the country now immersed in a recession, and a Presidential Race comprised of a group of circus clowns on both sides of the ticket, who all show the distinct capacity to be able to single-handedly continue the downward spiral caused by George W. Buffoon...should this government not have FAR MORE important business to conduct? For the love of God, we're entering a trying and critical moment in the history of this Great Nation. Screw baseball you star struck congressional swine!! Balance this budget, solve the housing crisis, fix SOMETHING of worth and significance!! The American tax payers are not paying your salary to nail sports stars who cheat. How about a little Perspective and priority shifting Washington!!
Who would have thought we'd see the day where sports, politics, and media glamorization would merge into one over-dramatized story.
Hey are using Wordpress for your blog platform? I'm new to the blog world but I'm trying to get started and create my own. Do you need any coding knowledge to make your own blog?
Justice has been served!! In what was by far the greatest Superbowl ever played...or at least witnessed in my lifetime...a team of cocky, arrogant, overconfident ass mongers choked in a manner and fashion that was as magnificent as their regular season. But as we all know, the most prolific of regular seasons, no matter how insanely dominant, don't mean shit if you're sent packing with anything less than a world title. I admittedly watched every televised game these Patsies played as I marveled at the sheer dominance they displayed. In what was obviously the most dominant regular season by a team in football history, and being the sports fanatic I am, I was drawn to the spectacle and the manner in which they toyed with their opponents like they were peewee flag football teams. To avoid witnessing what was easily the most dominant regular season on record would be foolish as a fan of the game. But throughout this time I in no way wavered from my detesting of this team what they represented. Much like a wicked car wreck, you never want to see them happen, but you can't help but watch.
And in their historic success, their utter failure and collapse made it so much sweeter. Those who watched at my house cheered and roared as if it were our own teams hoisting the Lombardi trophy. And we were confident 49 other states in this fine country of ours were doing the same. And in a beautiful display of karmic justice, this team of crooked cheaters got what they deserved. And as the further investigation into the history of cheating throughout this now questionable "dynasty", the truth behind their supposed success will be unveiled. Amen!!
While few can question the dominance of this team over the last 8 years, no amount of "Well at least our team made it!!" will suffice as a legitimate retort. Any city who plans a celebration parade with the arrogant knowledge that their team can't lose is a town full of chumps. And chumps they shall remain until the 2008 season commences...and maybe longer. Yes, definitely longer...history is forever. And this choke was as historic as it gets.
In my October 26, 2007 blog titled "Mapleween", I wrote about the harrowing experience my sister and I encountered in our childhood when my Mom decided to send us out trick-or-treating as dual Aunt Jemimas. After my Mom was finally able to dig the photo out of the attic, it has been discovered that it was my sister Jen who received a majority of the brown face. I was either a very light skinned Jemima or the spanish version, Tia Jemimita. The author apologizes for the error.
Ho Ho Holiday suckers! All of you who have eagerly awaited this most "festive" of seasons, the journey is over! Revel in merriment and booze laden rum cakes for it is the only time of year when it is socially acceptable to devour alcoholic desserts anywhere at any hour. But God forbid you chug a fifth of Captain Morgans in your kitchen with your morning coffee while reading Fred Bassett's latest side splitting head scratcher. A sick, depraved drunk you would be!! But inject a "cake" with half a bottle of the good juice and you're simply partaking in a little holiday joy! Kick it up while you can...and for God sakes, someone hide that woman's keys.
Like the flick of a light switch connected to some obscene million watt halogen, blinding us all with the unbearable glare of consumerism, the holiday season has been thrust upon us with the force and intensity of a skilled pimp's well honed bitch slap. It's lethal and powerful, while still possessing the efficiency and accuracy of a laser guided missile. "The Season" is no longer an event of anticipation, building to a grand crescendo as the summer fades and the fall season rolls out the red carpet for the grand trifecta of Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. No sir, we are no longer afforded the luxury of foresight and anticipation...we are TOLD when the season is here. When you least expect it, the switch will be thrown and the marketing orgy ensues. The only true anticipation of this season resides in the corporate war rooms as 9 months of strategic plotting and scheming unfold in an orgasmic fury by men who are too old and blood thirsty to even think about orgasms.
Halloween marks the starting line for an explosion of commercialism so vast and profound it becomes the very essence and the meaning of the 21st century holiday season. No sooner have the children started sorting out the good candy from the shit (if you're the lame sap doling out the mini Tootsie Rolls...that would be you), ready to begin the forcible onset of prepubescent acne, have the holiday commercials begun revving their engines...fueled by the explosive combustion of the almighty dollar. This year we woke up from the High Fructose hangover to find our TV's plastered with commercials typically seen when we awake from the post Thankgiving meal nap. Surely someone in the video room must have been trigger happy...this must be a gross lapse in judgment, right? WRONG my friend. This one is as calculated and crafted as they come. It's 85 degrees outside these walls and the conniving bastards have blizzards and snowmen littering my screen. It's a crime against nature let alone humanity!
With the nation's economy spiraling into the shitter faster than most of you reading this now have any conceivable idea, Corporate America decided it was necessary to take drastic action. They decided to start "The Holiday Season" nearly a month early to kick start the economy, prematurely inducing spending. Like trying to force a fetus out of the womb at 5 months. The only way to get John and Jane American to spend their green is to force feed their spongy brains with the manipulative powers of marketing. Nothing in this world has the power to control the thought process of humans like television. Not even...dare I say...GOD. Strong statement, but prove me wrong. I'm a devout follower, but an equally staunch realist. A realist who shall provide a sensible example to what shall undoubtedly be perceived as a blasphemous claim. And that is...
BLACK FRIDAY
I'm not referring to the lunch special Popeye's Chicken holds each week, no sir, I am referring to the day where vast numbers of Americans act in a manner that is so senseless and insane that God Himself must look down upon us and shake His head in shame. He reminisces of the days when He garnered that much passion and respect. When people made tremendous sacrifices of their time, effort, and yes...even their money...for Him. But now, these lunatics waking up at 3am, standing in lines wrapping around city blocks for hours on end, fighting crowds of people with ferocity and lack of civility and respect. This is what the Material Nation has risen to. I await the year that Christmas inherits a sponsor. MERRY PROCTER & GAMBLE CHRISTMAS!! The Holiday season in which we claim to celebrate is lost. Granted, there has always been an element of commercialism for as long as their have been gifts to give, but it has now reached a new low where the gifts were once a small part of the big picture...and now the gifts ARE the picture.
I'm not going to go on the stereotypical Christmas Carol "God bless us everyone" holiday rant about how we need to love and appreciate each other because "that's what the season is really all about". No thanks, we'll all be bombarded with it soon enough in the coming month...no need to bastardize that before it naturally occurs. I'm simply a little peeved about Christmas being shoved down our throats so soon and so intensely. If I wanted to be ass raped by corporate America with a candy cane dildo, I would simply...well, I know a little place that would have given it to me for a few bucks and a 6-pack. But that's beside the point!!
The point is, we were once succumbing to the commercialization of the holiday season just as we were slowly on the brink of global warming. Unfortunately, this seems to be the year where both of them have shown the full brunt of their fury. It makes one wonder where exactly we are headed and how fast we're getting there not knowing where it is we're going. There is a distinct possibility that 20 years from now kids will be listening to Bing Crosby's "White Christmas" wondering what the hell this white stuff is that he is singing about. Lets just hope when they hear it, they know what Christmas is.
Growing up, I was all about sports. I have always firmly believed that sports was the wall that kept my brother and I out of prison or from becoming degenerate scum, infesting the earth like so many do now. Growing up without a father, my brother (along with my 2 sisters) and I did what we could go grow up without that influence. And while Mom worked to miraculously support us, we fended for our selves for a majority of our waking hours. While some kids would emerge into mischievous, deviant creatures...we all were genuinely good kids, and have evolved into great people.
My brother and I immersed ourselves in to all of the local Philadelphia sports teams, played football and street hockey until the sun went down...starting a little after the run rose on weekends. Even to this day my brother and I are die hard Philly fans...texting each other 30-50 times while we watch the same game hundreds of miles apart. And with this borderline fanaticism, I have all of the accoutrement required to represent my teams...the Eagles, Flyers and Phillies. Hats, jerseys, t-shirts, thongs...you name it.
I played a bunch of team sports throughout my youth; football, baseball, soccer, and hockey...hockey being the longest and most intensely dedicated. My Mom would check out a few games here and there, but mostly we'd be dropped off, play our game, and be picked up. It was a blessing and a curse as there was no real pressure or nerves of your Mom watching...but the lack of presence and perceived support had its drawbacks. But win or lose...Mom or no Mom, we did what we loved and it still connects us to this day.
Having a daughter I never felt the disappointment of not being able to share my love for sports. I never threw it on her and never shied away from it. I wore my jerseys, rooted for me teams, and in the process she grew to realize that Dad really gets into this thing! As the years went on she asked questions, cheered when she didn't know what she was cheering for, and in grand Daddy's Little Girl fashion, became a die-hard fan to join her Dad. As she got older she learned more and more, acquiring jerseys and hats of her own, knowing players and positions, and most critically being a Philly fan...knowing who to boo the hell out of. As of late she has been throwing stats and records at me that I had no clue about! Between her step-dad, and me sports too has become a dominant presence in her life. She's a mini Sportcenter at times. I've always wondered if she has truly come to enjoy it, or if she jumps on the train because she thinks it's the best way to connect to connect with me. Thankfully, it has become very apparent that she enjoys it.
I took Abbey to her first Magic game last year and I went in expecting her to lose interest quick. The first time in an arena filled with 19,000 people is quite a site, and the players on the court can often be the last thing being focused on. Basketball being the sport I watch the least, I didn't think she was subjected to it enough to know or care what was going on. Live basketball can be tough to follow as it is. As the Magic are the only professional team in this city I have grown to love them in my years here and the Philly 76ers have taken a backseat to them. And here I was introducing her to a pro sport. My perceptions and expectations of her experience couldn't have been more wrong. She got in to it in ways I never expected. And I knew it was legit and she was screaming not solely because everyone else was, when she jumped up and screamed "Boooo!! You stink Milicic!!" after the team's backup center had been playing horrible all night long. She was screaming for foul calls by the 3rd quarter and with her giant blue foam finger and Magic tee, so was born a soon-to-be die hard fan. And I knew she inherited a little bit of the Philly gene when she started giving our own players flack for missing shots. It was the coolest thing I've ever seen. Who needs a boy to experience sports with...I have the coolest daughter in the world. A grand mix of girly-girl, artsy artist and musician, creative writer, and frequenter of the word "dude"...another little trait from Dad.
About 6 months ago, Abbey joined the YMCA swim team. At 11 years old, it was her first organized sport. She took gymnastics for a year but never competed in an organized meet. From the start we knew she found her niche. She was a natural from day 1. Her form, her focus, and her SPEED, were unbelievable. After trying to figure out for what seemed like forever what activity to put her in, she finally found one that she loves and kicks ass at.
The first few classes she did not have the swimming fins each swimmer uses for practice. So naturally all of the kids had an edge with the fins adding far more propulsion and speed. But Abbey, being ever so competitive, refused to let this hold her back. As they swam laps she kicked and stroked twice as hard to keep pace. Well, she didn't keep pace with the kids. She obliterated them. She was passing her teammates as if she were in a speedboat. It was incredible.
Enter the Fin.
Need I explain the result of the Fins? Domination. As they taught the team additional strokes, she naturally had ones she excelled in, and ones she needed to develop as they were new to her. But regardless of her skill level in any swim style, I am incredibly happy that she found something she loves.
This past Saturday Abbey had her first swim meet. It was an intense and stressful experience for all as her nerves were definitely on edge being in front of hundreds of people at the Aquatic Center. She was to race in 5 races of 50 yards each. It was sure to be a test of endurance...mentally and physically. There were a total of 106 races during this meet - her first being the seventh, and her last being #106. It was a rough start as she began with one of her least favorites, the butterfly. She finished 5th out of 6 but in the end there was a bit of relief on her face having gotten that first one out of the way. But with the adrenaline and nerves she swam so furiously she wore herself out by the end. I ran over and hugged the hell out of her...I was so proud of her. This was her first competitive event ever. The second race was an entirely different story, her favorite stroke...the back stroke. She immediately jumped to an early lead and got to the end of the pool a good 7-10 seconds before anyone else. By the time she was half way back to the other end, the other girls were just turning around at the wall. The last 20 yards she slowed considerably and you could tell she was running on fumes. But even with this drastic trail off, she won by 10 yards. As she swam the last lap I was on my knees at the end of the lane, shaking like a leaf, heart pounding out of my chest, hands together in prayer mode, screaming "GO BABY GO!!!" And when she hit that finish line I jumped like I've never jumped before. I wanted to dive in and swim to the other side to hug her...but I opted to run to the other side instead. She did it, she won her 2nd race EVER. I think she was in disbelief and hadn't truly absorbed the significance of what she had just done. She practices 4 days a week for 2 hours each day, but she wasn't prepared for the intensity of this day. That raced drained everything she had in her, but she was still able to bust out a proud smile. I squeezed her until I absorbed every ounce of water in her swimsuit. It was a moment I'll cherish forever.
Her last 3 races were finished on sheer courage and determination, as she had nothing left to give. She was so exhausted and her muscles were trembling. At this point I encouraged her to give whatever she could in these last races and that she had already achieved so much in her first meet. And I'll be damned if she didn't finish every last lap as hard as she could. After her last race she was so relieved and thankful that it was over...that is until her coach told her she had to swim a relay because another girl backed out. Never before have I seen eyes alone scream "ARE YOU F**KING KIDDING ME???" as these little brown eyes did. I don't know how she did it. But she did.
Few things are more rewarding than to see your child grow to possess such strength and determination when faced with a task or challenge that is intimidating and tests you mentally and physically. I have never been more proud of what she achieved and the little woman...GIRL, girl...she has become, allowing her to achieve it. It will take something drastic or catastrophic to keep me from one of her meets (knock on wood). She will always know that her Dad will be there to support her in her successes or downfalls...whether its in sports or in life itself. And it is my hope that when she one day looks back on her childhood, the meaning of sports in her life will carry an even greater significance than it did for her Dad.
It's almost Halloween. Holy hell where did the year go?? This time of year initiates the grand introduction to my favorite time of year. Although it's still hot as balls for some twisted and cruel reason. Longitude in proximity to the equator may have a hand in this plot, but that's still under investigation. As the kids dart through the rows of carcinogenic plastic, so begins the intensive search for the perfect costume. A costume which reflects the true spirit and inner self of each child. And with this, so begins the rat race that is the fall and winter season. Madness, mayhem and money...and I guess a little Merriment, melody and martyrdom (definitely martyrdom).
This time of year always makes me reminisce of the days when we cut eye holes in our bed sheets, threw those sheets over our heads and as dull and unemphatically as humanly possible, stood in plain sight and softly say, "boo." to suspecting by passers. The emphasis (or lack thereof) in the "boo" gently reflected the spookiness of the costume itself. As I think back to costumes of yore, I can't help but be inundated with visions of 6 consecutive years of Generic Dracula. Slick back the hair with a gallon of gel, a little lipstick around the face for blood, some dark clothes, and the prerequisite plastic fangs that made you drool like fatty in a donut shop. The latter of those years introduced the vampire cape, adding to an already flawless reflection of the essence that is Dracula. To say it quite lightly...I had that shit DOWN!!!
There were always the "plastic years" when the real deal was the thin as paper plastic mask, which you actually orally ingested as the night wore on. The mask was held on securely by the rejects from the rubber band factory, for once it's on there's no way you can take it off lest the band snap like a brittle twig. Yoda was one of the first plastic mask costumes I wore for Halloween. The heat and moisture created by trying to breathe through slits no wider than the width of a quarter, created a mystical inner mask FUNK. But it was worth it if you could ever get that little pumpkin bucket filled. Of course the little buckets graduated to the medium sided hand-me-out bags you got in school or the grocery store. And then the bags gave way to...THE PILLOWCASE. The mother of all Halloween collection devices. It had it all...height, width, depth, and volume, fortified by the thickest most durable thread available outside of Duluth. If you were able to fill the pillowcase, well....well no one has ever filled a pillowcase. That's just plain crazy.
We all inevitably have the head scratcher years...the "what the hell was I thinking??" costume. Boy did I ever have one of those. I was 4 years old and there were 4 of us between myself, my brother and 2 sisters. We had no dad around, and with only my Mom raising us, money was naturally tight and nonexistent. Time to improvise! There is one picture on this earth of me in this costume with my little sis, and it shall forever remain one of my most cherished.
I am wearing an apron
There is a red bandanna on my head
I have giant hoop earrings in
I'm wearing lipstick
...and...
My face was painted with brown shoe polish, or some sort of brown makeup.
Good God....
...I am....
AUNT JEMIMA.
Now whether my Mom kept a crack pipe somewhere is anyone's guess. I'm thinking its highly unlikely and all but impossible; but my explanation as to why she would decide that her eldest son would be a black woman who adorns a syrup bottle is beyond me. Crack seems to be the only rational explanation. My 4th Halloween on this earth and we make that transition. Plastic Yoda costume at age 3....black face Aunt Jemima at 4. While it would be hilarious at Halloween parties in your 20's (probably getting you shot once the laughs die down upon realizing someone invited Jamaal - the only black guy in the neighborhood), it just doesn't have the same effect in the toddler years.
As for my sis, she too was in black face, a dress, and giant gold earrings. However, her bandanna was blue, therefore eliminating her from the contention of being the ONLY Aunt Jemima costume in southeastern Pennsylvania. And quite possibly the whole northeast. Down south of course Aunt Jemima may have been as commonplace as the white-sheeted ghost. The reason being of course that the white-sheeted ghost is a costume people wear for a whole other reason than hunting for candy. Although the candy is usually brown...and it's stuffed in a bag...oh boy.
So for those of you who plan on getting all decked out for parties this year, or if you're trying to decide what to dress your child as...Jemima baby, Jemima.
So here I am, typing away on a computer, which resides in a home that will be "my old house" by week's end. And to tell you the truth, we can't get out of here fast enough. The past 2 years in the home we rented on a quiet little cul-de-sac in the retirement community of Williamsburg have been great to us. It was the first "single family dwelling" (a.k.a. not an apartment or condo) Kristen and I have lived in and it marked a transition in our lives where we kinda got serious on a relationship level. You know, marriage n'stuff, which is kinda up there between leaving her tooth brush in your bachelor pad and farting in front of each other without grossing each other out. In fact it actually becomes quite competitive (I am the reigning champ by the way...I.B.S. has its privileges). And while our time here has been amazing, the house itself is destroying our respiratory systems as we cough, sneeze, and go through tissues like whores do condoms. No matter how much we vacuum, dust and disinfect the damn joint never fails to make life hell upon walking in the door. Good riddance asshouse...sucks to be the next tenants.
After what has been one of the most exhaustive journeys we have encountered in the infancy of our marriage, the relentless pursuit of a home purchase has been the most daunting and painstaking task to say the very least. 2+ years ago we searched for our first home only to find the housing market inundated with investment buyers from the northeast who had tons of cash to throw around, causing prices to skyrocket and essentially cock blocking the average first time home buyer. We were chased out of the hunt in the midst of homes with 10+ bids on them and paid-in-full-with-cash buyers. We were frustrated, pissed off, and increasingly hopeless. It seemed every time we turned on the TV there was some degenerate, or fresh off the boat alien with a nice home...taunting us and making us wonder, "WHY??? HOW???" We then came to realize that being a white middle class family in America was the real estate curse...real estate and beyond actually. Uncle Sam doesn't toss the greenbacks to whitey. That's too easy for us. But that's another blog for another day. This one is all about gratitude, gratefulness and elation.
After we reluctantly conceded that a home was not in our immediate future, we rented the quaint home that is now on the verge of being a dust trail in the rear view mirror of life. We have been scouring the Central Florida area since January and we've seen what could very well be 40+ homes during that time. It was tiresome and it was certainly frustrating at times, but our patience paid off handsomely. It gave me the clichéd age-old feeling that good things indeed come to those who wait. The months and years of raising our arms in frustration screaming, "WHY?? Why can't we have a home?!?!" It was worth every minute. For this Friday our brand-spanking new 3 week old house will be inhabited by the Boyce clan. Step aside Wu-Tang, there's a new clan in da house! And the el supremo bonus of this whole deal? The builders were so eager to unload the last few houses in the new development in this record setting slow housing market, that they dropped a measly little $72,000 off the price of the home. JACKPOT!!! While our neighbors forked over nearly $100k more for their homes than we did, the miracle of patience turned into instant equity. Thank you God.
For those of you who currently own a home or have gone through the process, you know how incomprehensible the process can be. Its like learning a second language or becoming a master of economics at the age of 7. The verbiage, the laws, the lingo and the mountains of paperwork. For all of the studying via books we've bought and online research we've done, no matter how much you think you've grasped, every day brings about a new "Huh?" It's insane. It makes purchasing a car look like buying a newspaper on a street corner. Here we are in the home stretch, our closing set for Thursday, and I look at where we've been and what's ahead. How we did it will undoubtedly be a blur in the month to come, but there is one definitive part of this entire process which I will remember clear as day for as long as I shall live. And that is the efforts of my amazing wife Kristen.
What can I say, the woman knows how to hustle and bust her ass in ways I've seen few people accomplish. The nature of her career requires immense dedication and persistence to be successful, and the manner in which she aggressively and professionally achieves her success, is nothing short of inspiring. Her motivation and drive has lead to a very successful career which continues to skyrocket. And while she continues this drive in attaining her goals...setting new ones as each goal is realized...she took even more of this effort and mindset, shifted into 6th gear, and jumped on the house train.
To say I am proud of My Boo would be a gross understatement. The woman was so determined to get a home that I seriously believe she willed this home to fall in our lap. I truly believe that she wanted it bad enough and worked for it hard enough that God said, "You know what sister...you've earned this one. You two deserve it." Good call God, you hit the nail on the head. It's going to make an already exciting and joyous experience even sweeter. I am the luckiest man alive and I am privileged to have witnessed my lady kick some real estate ass. It truly showed me that will and persistence can and will pay dividends. It has been the trademark of her career, it helped her land THIS guy many many years ago, and it will now play a huge part in placing a roof over our heads...OUR roof baby!
The next step in the journey of our lives is 4 days away. And as I step back and look at all we have been blessed with and have achieved, I am overwhelmed with a feeling of true and genuine gratitude, appreciation, and gratefulness. It is an exciting time and the future looks bright. And I can think of no one else in the world I'd rather share it with than my amazing and beautiful wife (and my lil girl!).
Why it is I always find myself surprised when I see Black people in a Cracker Barrel? As I entered The Cracker Barrel this evening for dinner I was greeted by the store cashier, a modest looking African-American gentleman with big round glasses and a bright smile. His "Welcome to Cracker Barrel!" greeting was upbeat and quite welcoming. And while he exuded a pleasantness that felt warm and sincere, as if he truly enjoyed and took pride in his job, I couldn't help but feel sorry for the position he was in. He was after all, working at Cracker Barrel. And my pity wasn't due to the fact that we worked at Cracker Barrel, but the fact that he was a black man working in Cracker Barrel.
As I reciprocated with a smile and pleasant "good evening" greeting of my own, I began to meander about the Cracker Barrel Country Store. Ignoring the rows of ceramic farm animals and needle point displays consisting of variations of "Home Sweet Home" and various biblical quotes, I stumbled upon the throwback gag display which contained the classic whoopie cushion, squirting flower, and the newest addition to the Boyce household...Gumby. That's right, Gumby dammit! He was packaged just as he was when he was introduced...whatever the hell year that was. Further down the line was the homemade candy display, a grotesque compilation of confections with ingredients consisting of SUGAR, BUTTER, HEAVY CREAM, PIG LARD, EGGS, FLOUR and BROWN SUGAR. None of the processed chemicals you see on nearly all ingredient labels today. No Sir, there are no chemistry book labels here, you're reading the God's honest country cookin' truth...plain, simple and loaded with fat, carbs and sugar. Well into the double & triple digits in each category. And who do we find pillaging this soon-to-be-depleted display but a morbidly obese Puerto Rican family getting their fix, apparently storing fat for the brutally cold winter months those outside of Puerto Rico are unaware of. This husband and wife tandem birthed a boy and a girl who were no more than 7 year of age, but whose combined weight easily exceeded that of a Volkswagen Beetle. The father alone possessed the circumference of a Redwood. It was as amusing as it was sad. Gorge little Ricans...GORGE!!
We finally made our way to the hostess, who possessed all the personality and charm of the dusty jar of pickled eggs rotting on the shelf behind her. As we waited for our table I noticed a family of African-Americans entering the restaurant, making their way to the hostess to get a table. My first instinct was to scream, "What are you doing?? Are you crazy?? Run Black family, RUN!!!" Apparently Cracker Barrels are nonexistent from where these fine folks were from. Were they not aware of the nature of their surroundings? I mean look at this place!! Just as I was certain my look of shock and disbelief would be picked up on, a family of African-American patrons exited the eating area having just finished their meal. My bugged out eyes and "HUH??" expression was now transfixed on them. Are they....are they, HAPPY? By God, they seemed to have enjoyed themselves!! How can this be?? This is CRACKER BARREL for the love of God!!
I began to look around, and there amongst the standard redneck white-bread customers, were a fare share of African-American diners. They were all chowing down on the good ol' southern home cookin' with nary a care in the world other than whether or not the second helping of corn bread would be delivered in time to sop up the remaining gravy left over from the mashed potatoes. It was a display of racial harmony I had not expected in a setting that screamed of the old south. The giant belt buckles, camouflage hats, tight jeans and NASCAR t-shirts that encompassed the wardrobe of your average customer; coupled with the hillbilly music, straw chewin', good ol' boy feel that permeated from the hickory wood floors and walls. It seemed to be the last place you'd find an African-American family. Every time I stepped foot into a Cracker Barrel I got the feel that I had stepped back to a time and place that existed long ago...or still exists to this very day in many parts of the "true south" north of Florida and South of West Virginia. Where smoking or non-smoking is still an option and crayons give way to little white pointed hoods for the kids.
It reminded me that we were indeed in America in the year 2007. And while the racial divide is still quite evident in many parts of our land, "a little racist country town" themed chain restaurant isn't enough to keep all people black, white and morbidly obese Puerto Rican, away from good old fashioned country cookin'.
"Never take anything or anyone in life for granted."
Its almost cliche as this phrase, in its various shapes and forms, litters the landscape of motivational speeches, graduation commencements, eulogies, and the departing words dispensed from those in the fateful clutches of death. These words are powerful, they are significant, and they possess the capacity to shape human existence in a manner seemingly reserved only for works of fiction and happy-go-lucky fairy tales. So simple is the concept yet so elusive is its application in the every day existence of mankind. To truly and genuinely appreciate and embrace your very existence, its moments, and those in it, with all of the feeling and substance God has granted us. To live life fully, capturing each waking moment as if you've experienced it for the first time...and are experiencing it for the last. To ingest the minuscule to the massive, the insignificant to the insurmountable, the meek to the monumental, without prejudice, bias, or regard for whatever inhibitions and insecurities society may have selfishly bestowed upon you.
Perhaps in the inherent simplicity of this philosophy there is a slight taste of overkill that dulls the palette in life's repetitive actions and reactions. After all, most everything in these lives of ours tends to lose it's luster with time and overuse. Remember the first time you tied your shoe on your own? The glory of achievement after countless failed attempts, and the subsequent pride each morning as you meticulously intertwined those laces until your shoes were snugged just right around those little size 11's. The care and attention to detail given to the length of each loop, not to mention the bragging rights awarded in the presence of those who have yet to master this coveted skill set. But eventually as the months and years pass it becomes so routine that you can now do it in our sleep. Such is the case with nearly every aspect of our lives. The more you are subjected to something the more it blends into the fabric of life. It is no less a significant part of our lives, but it all but vanishes from the forefront of our minds.
The concept of never taking anything for granted is undoubtedly as foreign and incomprehensible to a child as capitalism. Sure capitalism flourishes all around them and has a direct impact on their existence, but so what, I have dinosaurs and Barbie dolls to play with! Hopefully not at the same time...unless the dinosaurs are eating the Barbies, then its all good. Such is the mindset and mentality of a child, and subsequently the teenage adolescent. A child loves his/her parents but it is almost a rite of passage to take them for granted. "The big picture" has yet to develop in the minds of youth and therefore they are far more prone to take life and all of its essential contents for granted. Fortunately as this concept develops with age and maturity, you may salvage the ability to appreciate everyone and everything you've taken for granted in your young naive mind.
I grew up with 2 sisters and one brother, with myself being the oldest. There were only 3 years between us all, my youngest brother and sister being twins. We were raised by our mother and forged through life with a non-existent father. As our Mom worked to support 4 kids we fended for, and were dependent upon ourselves to get through each day. We tended to roam from home to home, at one point living in 5 houses in a 4 year span. We got ourselves ready for school, hiked to the bus, minded ourselves after school, and often made our own dinner before Mom came home. It was a test of self reliance day in and day out and as I now look back on it all I am amazed at what we accomplished, growing into responsible, successful individuals void of a criminal record.
Being so close in age, along with the 2 boy & 2 girl dynamic, there was no shortage of drama, fighting, bickering, and tormenting among us. Every brother vs. sister, sister vs. sister & brother vs. brother scenario played out as it does in every family. It seemed more often than not there was an evident rift amongst any one combination of us. Perhaps it was just the nature of sibling rivalry, or perhaps it was our own method of dealing with the curve balls life threw at us by creating walls around ourselves. Whatever the case may have been we were all in the same unique and deteriorating boat doing our best to stay afloat.
As a whole we were a family fairly void of expressions of emotion, except of course for anger, resentment, and the subsequent flow of tears. Don't get me wrong, we had more than our share of fun and laughs and for the most part we all got along well. But we weren't ones to ever say I love you, or show any form of expression along those lines. Why that is I still can't quite figure out. It wasn't until we all moved out of the house and on to our own paths in life did we finally breach that wall. As we all matured, finding ourselves and who we are, we seemed to grow a deeper appreciation for the relationships and bonds we now had. As we often reminisce about the crazy stories of our childhood it is only now that we understand much more fully the life we made it through together. The good times, the bad times, the worse times, and the funny as hell times...regardless of who was pissed off at who or where we stood with one another, we all shared the same experiences and lived the same stories.
Well over a decade has passed since we dispersed into our worlds and we are now all scattered throughout the east coat. My Sister Jen is in Georgia with her husband and 2 amazing kids who you could watch for hours because they are the funniest kids you'll ever see. To see her finally find her truest happiness and how she has grown so much into the most amazing and kind woman I've ever known. My brother Kevin grew from a scrawny little kid into a rock solid Marine, living in Virginia Beach with his wife and 3 kids who are the funniest and most good natured kids you will meet. The effort and work he puts into his life is nothing short of inspiring as he works on his degrees, officer training, and learning how to kill a human 340 ways with a pen cap. I've never been more proud of anyone in my life. My sister Kellie, who lives outside of Philly is the most talented artist/interior decorator/whatever the hell else she does, I know. Her head is screwed on tighter than just about anyone and her drive and ambition, pursuing her goals through so many ups and downs has been simply amazing. I am proud to call myself the brother of these 3.
So in spite of all the trials and tribulations, we have all turned out pretty damn well. As time passes and distances widen between us, we have continued to grow closer. If you think about it, its pretty strange how when you see each other every day you are further apart than when you see each other a few times a year. As we all go about our lives, moving on, bettering ourselves and popping out more children, I find that I miss them all more and more with each passing day. More so now than I ever have before. I remember the days when we would all hang out at home, the holiday dinners when we were all at the same table, shooting hoops and playing hockey with my brother, kicking one sister's ass to save the other, being able to hang out with each other whenever we wanted...all of the things at the time I thought would last forever. The moments I never realized would soon pass and would be so far and few between. All of the moments I took for granted.
Had I known then what I know now, would I have changed anything? I can't say for sure. But I do know that I would have appreciated those moments even more than I did then. I would have let the little things slide off my back and not hold grudges. I would have continued to pee in the back yard every morning when I woke up in highschool without bitching at my sister for hogging the bathroom. I would have spent more time in the living room than in my bedroom. I would have been a bigger part of the family as opposed to being labeled the Family Hater. So I guess yes...I would have done a few things differently.
I always think of how great it would be if we all still lived near each other. I think about all of the kids and how they rarely get to see their cousins. I think of how I just recently saw my nephews and niece for the first time and how much it sucks being an uncle but never really being an uncle. I think of how cool it was for us growing up and hanging with our cousins and how much a part of our lives they were. And I think of how our kids will never get to experience that. But I guess it makes you appreciate the short time we do have together even more.
Right about now as my siblings read this there are undoubtedly a few tears flowing. So I'm gonna wrap this up now because I don't have time for that kind of weepy pussy emotional bullshit. Suck it up assholes...if we all pitch in we'll have this place spotless in 20 minutes!
On this 4th of July, I cannot help but be reminded of the abysmal deterioration of our nation on a political and ethical level as it continues to tarnish the very fabric and foundation this country was founded on, and the very freedom we celebrate today. I find myself engulfed in an overwhelming sense of hopelessness and inner fatigue as it continues to spiral out of control. I have immersed myself in the ongoings of this "government" and the manner in which it has dictated our great nation for many, many years...to the point where I recently had to all but ignore it for my own sanity and hope for our future...for my child's future. It is however virtually impossible to remain blind and "blissfully ignorant" to the injustices, gross shortcomings, and continually blatant disregard for everything this country stands for. It is infuriating, in part, to witness these atrocities, but the true kick in the balls is the apathy and ignorance of the American people.
We continue to live with our heads in the sand, engulfed in our respective bubbles, concerned only with the superficial and materialistic. This war, these lies, the constitution and laws being rewritten, ignored and essentially shit on...they have yet to have a truly direct impact on our every day existence - YET. They have YET to penetrate the bubbles in which we so ignorantly dwell. We see gas prices spike, drop a bit, then shoot up again. We bitch and complain about the unfairness and injustice of this cat & mouse game without really knowing why its happening. It's them damn Iraqis!! Them towel headed Iranians!! It's the greedy oil companies!! We speculate based on vague perceptions of a world we essentially know nothing of.
Every so often we flip through news channels like Fox News or CNN, their screens broadcasting snippets of the war talking about cities and provinces we've never heard of in a country 95% of the population couldn't find on a globe if their life depended on it. They speak of factions and tribes like the Kurds, Sunnis, and Shiites which we interpret as just a bunch of angry Muslims who want to rein terror on our homeland. We fall victim to the fear mongering and the biased reporting of the American media and begin lumping all Muslims into the insane suicidal terrorist column...likely next to the column of black people who have been categorized as drug running, gun toting gangsta thugs. In these brief, hand selected, pre-approved, censored clips, we are given a misrepresentation so profound it rivals the editing chop jobs of your average reality show...cutting and pasting to accentuate the drama, even if the truth is stretched a bit. Or wholeheartedly fabricated. And as we cringe and shake our heads at mere fractions of the reality of the situation, we flip on over to reality show bliss. After all, "The news it too negative. It brings me down."
As I write these words, knowing they will elicit nothing more than, "Huh?" or "There he goes again...I just don't get all that political stuff" or "Oh shit The Bachelor is on!!", I can't help but be overwhelmed once more with a feeling of hopelessness. Sure it's a bit cathartic to get it out, but it doesn't do much good venting to a wall now does it?
My intentions are not to draw intense debate or to suck people in to my views and opinions. If I accomplish one thing in my occasional rants it is to simply spread awareness in hope that people will take a few minutes out of their day to educate themselves on what it REALLY happening. Look at the difference between the US news media vs. the international media. Fox News gives you the news Rupert Murdoch and the Republicans want you to hear. The BBC news will give you the real story without the sugar coating. We simply are not afforded the luxury of ignorance in this most critical of times in this nation. Its not rocket science, its simply a matter of reading an article or two. Baby steps. You are not impacted now, but buffer zone has been breached and that time is about up. When we're sucker punched by the corruption do you want to see it coming and know why? Of would you rather be caught off guard and have it completely rock your world not knowing how, where, why, or what to do? You have a choice, and a responsibility. Step up America. Before its too late...and I tell you now, its almost too late.
The video clip below is a little miracle in my plight for awareness and the truth. As I've stated, the media's reluctance to communicate the truth and tell it like it is has been one of the greatest deterrents to accountability of those who deserve it, and the knowledge we all need. Keith Olberman of MSNBC aired this bit after Bush decided to circumvent the law, the courts and the jury, essentially overturning a verdict of a "man" (Scooter Libby) in his administration who was guilty of many wrong doings (read it on CNN.com). It exemplifies beyond measure the corruption and repulsive abuse of power this administration has shown since the beginning. To see someone in the mainstream media have the balls to FINALLY say what needs to be said is a huge step in obliterating the wall of ignorance we live in. If you do nothing else, please take a moment to view it.
Thanks for hanging in there for yet another rant. I can't say I'll ever give up until the insanity stops. I cannot emphasize enough the importance of awareness and education. Use this freedom...while we still have it.
If you destroy the foundation of this country to defend it, then what are you defending?
“To announce that there must be no criticism of the President, or that we are to stand by the President right or wrong, is not only unpatriotic and servile, but is morally treasonable to the American public.” Theodore Roosevelt
“The greatest tragedy is not the brutality of evil people, but rather the silence of the good people.” Martin Luther King Jr.
“What good fortune for governments that the people do not think.” Adolf Hitler
Tell me its hot outside. Go ahead, do it. I want you to...I NEED you to. Tell me how the humidity is so thick you can wave a knife in the air and spread it on a piece of bread. Tell me the projected temperature today, hell give me the week's forecast. Live a little, roll the dice, take a stab at tomorrow's heat index while you're at it. You know you want to. It's too hot not to, you'd be crazy to ignore the conflagration of the air around you.
I can see it in your eyes as you walk in the door, the cool climate controlled breeze engulfing your perspiring skin sending a long awaited chill down your spine. You let out a long cathartic sigh...aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh...as your skin eases back to the cool room temperature it has grown to know and crave. Your eyes roll back into your head with an almost orgasmic release. Your journey is over, your long tedious struggle through the merciless elements of nature has finally drawn to a close. You have bravely endured what was undoubtedly a rogue offshoot of a direct portal to hell. Either that or you have been silently stalked by an industrial grade coal furnace, following your every move like an elusive shadow in your wake. Whatever the root of the intense blaze that has singed your soul, you are now free, you are safe, the chill is on.
Tell me now, how do you feel? What is it like enduring the heat of the sun with it's rays of intense heat that are apparently confined only to the path in which you travel? While I certainly do not envy your thermal struggle, my curiosity is heightened by the glaring intensity of the plight in which you have just endured. Hell, your look of relief and exaltation alone has peaked my interest to the point that I now tinker with the thought of taking this unknown journey myself. Perhaps it's the masochist in me but I am suddenly intrigued by this phenomenon I have just witnessed. Please, do tell...what goes on outside these doors? What lies beyond the comfort and sanctity of this 72 degree safe haven in which I so obliviously dwell?
As you regain your composure, your skin fading from its intense sweat glistening redness back to its fair milky hue, I straighten up in anticipation of the forthcoming tale. You wipe your brow and neck, let out one last sigh of relief, and summon the strength to mutter the words I have longed to hear...
"Boy is it hot outside!"
And there it was. Thank you...thank you brave soul. The wisdom you have imparted, the observation of a world so far removed from my own has enlightened me in ways I will carry with me for a lifetime. This observation shall be passed down to my offspring, and I will emphasize the dire importance for them to carry this message wherever they shall roam, and to whomever they encounter in the journeys of their lives. For the message they possess and the infinite wisdom it beholds shall prove to be immensely useful when striking up general conversation, breaking the ice, eliminating the dreaded 7 seconds of silence, and above all...to display their finely crafted penchant for observing the blatantly obvious.
You my friend are a master of meteorological awareness. Your selfless conveyance of today's temperature, knowing very well that the same information has been spoken by dozens of others within a relatively short time span, is a testament to your attention to detail and tireless effort to ensure all know what truly lies outside these walls. In spite of the fact that everyone has too endured the same travels. But as they say, you can never be too sure.
They say tomorrow will be more of the same. 94 degrees with a heavy, chest compressing 95% humidity. The fruit of observation is ripe for the picking my friend. And you are the gardener of truth. For if there is ever a shred of doubt as to the root of my excessive perspiration, beet red skin, and the excess heat permeating from my pores, it will be you that I turn to in my time of uncertainty. And when you make your proclamation that, "It sure is a hot one today!" I will be the first to extend my hand and bitch-slap the living shit out of you.
Since birth I have been a die hard fan of the Philadelphia sports franchises. We are a fiercely passionate bunch who cheer, adore and worship their star players one minute...and then mercilessly boo the hell out of them when they falter. We are known nation wide as the toughest city to play against in all sports. Teams have been polled time and time again asking to name the city they hate playing in most. And time and time again Philadelphia is the clearcut winner.
We are the city that is known for booing Santa and throwing snowballs at him. We threw D-cell batteries at an opposing player who a year prior refused to sign with the Phillies. We booed President Herbert Hoover, chasing him out of the stadium in a release of frustration from a horrible season. We cheered mockingly as a hated player on a rival team lay motionless on the football field with a neck injury that ended his career. We fight anyone who dares to cheer for the opposing team, and anyone crazy enough to enter our stadiums with opposing teams garb is as good as dead. We were the first city to install a court and jail in our stadium to deal with the insane hooligans. We are a passionate...and yes, sometimes too passionate a bunch. Growing up I attended many a game, with the most vivid memories being me as a 10 year old boy hearing 19,000 fans should "ASSSSSSSSS HOOOOOOOOLE, ASSSSSSSS HOOOOOOOLE!!!!" To a referee who made a bad call. If you were oblivious to obscenities going into a game, you earned your wings by the end of it. I was in awe, I was in shock...I was in love.
There are many theories as to why we are the way we are. One of the more logical theories is rooted from the generations upon generations of failure and ineptitude. As the Philadelphia sports franchises have each respectively been around for generations, the opportunity for defeat is frequent and long standing. Year after year we are mounted with frustration, let down, and heart ache. Every time we seem to be in the grasp of glory we squander our chances in mind boggling ways. Thus "The Philly Curse" was born.
Phlladelphia has endured 24 years without a sports championship. 24 years for the basketball 76ers, 26 years for the baseball Phillies, 32 years for the hockey Flyers, and47 grueling years for the city's most beloved football Eagles. With each passing year of futility the hope of the city diminishes. But in spite of the continual disappointment we come back time and time again, filling the stadiums in support. Unless of course you screw up, then you're f**ked.
Within the next few months, our Philadelphia Phillies baseball team will reach a milestone never achieved by any team in any sport in the history of our nation. This team has been in continually in existence longer than any team in sports, with its inception in 1883. As of this blog we are currently 15 games away from this milestone that captures the essence of our struggle. We are a mere 15 losses away from reaching 10,000 losses all-time. TEN THOUSAND DEFEATS FOR ONE SINGLE TEAM!! And what do we have to show for our 124 years of "professional" play? A mere 9...NINE...playoff appearances and 1...ONE...world championship. Sad.
So as this passionate city prepares for this milestone, there is a celebration brewing as we embrace once again our role as the eternally defeated. In some ways it seems we secretly hope for defeat so that the city has something to bitch about. If we finally win one, where will we go from there? When the excitement of the championship finally wanes a year or two later, we will only be a few years removed from glory. Not much leverage to whine and complain there. And a city of raw, uncensored blue collared Philadelphians will be left with nothing more to bitch about than the mere daily shortcomings of individual games. Where's the fun in that? Futility and disappointment have become our identity, a birthright passed down from generations. Its the only explanation as to why we continually come back for more, filling seats and cheering our team on with an intensity unparalleled in any other city in America. We are the masochistic city fueled by failure. And we have 10,000 reasons to back it up.
As a man, there are many situations we encounter with other men that can be deemed awkward and unusual, creating uncomfortable silences or eliciting immediate talk about football or pussy. Things such as; drawing attention to a piece of decor that has been added to your living room accentuating the drapes; telling another man his haircut looks great; hanging out with a guy who thinks the pink shirt fad is cool; or simply making the slightest inadvertent contact with another man's hand when you're walking next to him. Its these situations that make men cringe, creating the heeby-jeeby's and sleepless nights. These are the moments that keep therapists in business. We're all bound to experience them at one time or another, but dread the sheer thought of ourselves being the perpetrators of these situations.
One of the more delicate scenarios in a man's existence can be encountered in a place we cannot avoid as the necessity of human function requires it. It's called the restroom, the can, the john, the pisser, mom's kitchen...whatever you may call it, the purpose of this room is the same. When you gotta go, you gotta go. There is an obvious but distinct difference between a men's restroom and a women's restroom which alters the experience significantly. Tampon slot machines and "feminine waste" containers aside...which I suppose is about as awkward and uncomfortable as it gets, not to mention downright eerie and nasty...men face an experience that can be considered uncomfortably personal if not played right.
Women have the distinct luxury of solidarity in their restroom experience as they are cordoned off in individual stalls like horses in a stable. Fortunately piles of poop resting in mounds of hay has given way to plumbing and much more sanitary means of waste disposal (with the exception of the aforementioned "feminine waste containers", or "poon boxes" as I refer to them). This level of privacy most certainly creates an element of comfort and relaxation, allowing the flow of whatever substance is exiting to do so freely and with ease. It's a temporary barrier from the world around you, a few brief minutes of peace...or 30-45 minutes depending on what you ate for lunch. And because the stall is the only option in the restroom experience of a woman, the need to maintain the cleanliness of the throne in which you squat is paramount. For men unfortunately...Well let's just say our experience is as different as men and women themselves.
Going back to these "awkward" situations between men, none is more prevalent and unavoidable than a trip to the urinal. Standing less than 3 feel from another man whilst both of your dicks are whipped out sheltered only by hand that guides it...now THAT'S peace and comfort!! We are the unfortunate breed who are not afforded the sanctity of our own urination luxury boxes. Yes I know, most women will bitch that they have no choice but to squat and our ability to stand is a gift in itself. Well to that I say...OK you're right, it is pretty badass. But for every gift of badass-ness, there is a price that must be paid.
There are unwritten "Rules of Engagement" when using a restroom urinal. Rules that you must heed to not only relieve yourself, but to survive. The fact that rules even exist to answer the call of Mother Nature is in itself cruel, but it is a daunting task we as men must face...the sacrifice for sweet release.
For whatever sick, twisted and perverse reason most men's restrooms contain an odd number of urinals. Who devised this urinary schematic should be shot. I'm assuming it was either a woman or a gay man. First Rule of Engagement, if you are blessed with an empty restroom (cue Halleluiah chorus), always...ALWAYS choose the urinal on the farthest left or right. This not only affords you the comfort and peace of mind knowing your personal space will be upheld for the duration of your experience, it is an expected courtesy to those who may enter thereafter. Tactically it leaves only one exposed side to defend. DON'T be the guy who is standing in the middle of an empty row, no one likes "that guy". You might as well have a sign on your back that says, "Waiting for Strange Cock".
Should you enter a restroom with sporadic urinal occupancy, always go with the "every other urinal" rule, NEVER taking a urinal directly next to a man when it is not absolutely necessary. Life and death, my bladder is about to explode necessary. This is the same philosophy used when determining seating when seeing movies with a group of guys (which in itself is a questionable decision). If every other urinal is taken you have 2 choices:
1. Find a stall. Every attempt should be made to avoid being a urinal neighbor. If the stalls are taken by other wise gentlemen who follow the Rules of Engagement you can do as I do and head to the sink to pre-wash your hands, buying time for the appropriate spot to open. Rule of thumb, do not wait behind a man who is doing his business. It's creepy, it adds pressure and its voyeuristic in a way that should only be reserved for S&M gay bars.
2. Suck it up and join the herd.
Should you find yourself filling a void next to, or worse, in between two guys, a whole new situation presents itself. Peeing next to another guy is a battle of mind over matter as well as intense discipline. To me it's the equivalent of a porn star who is being directed to give the money shot with little to no notice. Cameras rolling and 15 people staring...waiting. You simply freeze up and the floodgates are slammed shut. It becomes particularly difficult when the restroom is small and silent. You want to drain that bad boy quick and get the hell out, but the pressure to put a rush delivery on the stream only hastens the process. When I am personally faced with this dilemma I simply close my eyes and envision myself of a deserted beach peeing freely into the ocean as the waves crash around me and the breeze tickles my nads. Always does the trick.
Once the flow is a go, there are rules that must be followed:
Eyes forward! Never, under any circumstances, look anywhere but straight ahead or down at your dick. You should know your dick better than the alphabet through the intense observation required from your urinal experience. Should you have the tremendous fortune of having a blessed divider between you and your pee neighbor this task should be much easier and the experience far less stressful; but the significance of The Rules of Engagement are never to be diminished, lax, or downplayed. The result could be catastrophic.
If you find yourself in a cheap and evil establishment that wouldn't front the measly bill for a damn 2 inch thick 4x2 foot piece of wood, leaving only the air between you, you've gotta be on the ball.
Wait a minute, on second thought scratch that. Stay the hell away from the ball. EYES FORWARD! Study flecks of paint finding ones that resemble silhouettes of cast members from Gilligan's Island; look through the wall like it's one of those 3-D pictures that make you cross-eyed; memorize the "for a good time call" phone number on the wall (calling it later is optional and acceptable in moments of desperation); stare at that wall it as if it had a picture of the most beautiful woman you've ever laid eyes on laying spread eagle on the hood of the hottest car you can imagine (whatever you do, DO NOT sport wood with this thought). Total focus, undeterred like a laser beam. If you happen to be cursed with exceptional peripheral vision, sucks to be you, close your lids fish eyes. You may not want to look, but you'll see.
Don't talk! There is no excuse, reason, or rationale for urinal chat. There are no barstools or TV's in here, and I'm not your shrink, your buddy, or your priest (if I was your priest I'd have your dick in my hand by "hello"). If this rule isn't a documented law, then our great nation is worse off than I thought. I'm here to piss, our dicks are in our hands, I'm focusing on peeing freely in the ocean, this isn't Oprah...save it for your boyfriend Dr. Phil.
These are but a few of the simple but critical rules for the male restroom experience. If you follow them correctly you'll get out of the restroom with not only your dignity, but your manhood. Treat your restroom visit like a mafia hit is going on at the table next to you. Sure you can clearly see Vinny No Thumbs choking Johnny the Snitch to death but, "you know nothing and you see nothing"...eyes in your plate. Enjoy your fucking linguine. This is why men have incredible bladder control, we are trained to contain.
So you see, its sometimes a delicate task for a man to heed the call of Mother Nature. And forget about #2. No man shall shiteth in a public restroom. The only exception being a disguised fart that spilled a little somethin' somethin' in your drawers. It's already there and you've gotta let it go. And explosive diarrhea is a given. The necessity of stall use to avoid being a pee neighbor essentially makes toilets enclosed urinals. Blind quadruple amputees have better aim than the atrocities that lie everywhere but the inside the bowl. The regard for toilet cleanliness is non-existent in a stall and no level of colon pressure can justify squatting on those bad boys.
So women, as you wait in the inevitable queue lines that snake a path hundreds of feet from your restroom entrance, always remember that your patience and time shall be rewarded with an experience that would be deemed heavenly and immaculate by men's standards. For us there are rules to follow, strategies to be plotted, movements, mannerisms, actions and reactions to be monitored and calculated, and even when you play the game right there is no guarantee you will have fulfilled the purpose of your visit. Unless of course you have your own beach to get you through...but it sure as hell better not be MY beach because if you so much as LOOK at my beach while I'm pissing in my ocean I will kick your ass!!!
I leave you with the words of a bathroom attendant I saw in a club years ago after every man finished his business,
I remember it as if it were yesterday...May 20th, 2007. Wait, that was yesterday.
January 11, 2004...the Philadelphia Eagles are up against the Green Bay Packers in the NFC Divisional Playoff game. The Eagles had just commenced a stellar 12 win, 4 loss season claiming 10 victories over their last 11 games. The Packers of Green Bay finished off their season with a respectable 10 win and 6 loss record and were seemingly outmatched against a deep and well rounded Philadelphia squad. Philly was playing a sub-par game and found themselves trailing 17-14 with less than a minute left in the game. The Eagles were driving to get into field goal range in a desperate attempt to salvage what had up until this moment been a strong season. As QB Donovan McNabb dropped back to pass, the entire city of Philadelphia felt the prick of a rusty hand crafted prison shank pierce their lungs, deflating all hope of a Super Bowl year. McNabb was sacked for a 16 yard loss. 4th down, an insurmountable 26 yards to go.
As I sat there in complete shock and disbelief, tears started to well in my eyes. How could this be? Were we cursed? Had we pissed off God THAT bad? Why were we being handed down this cruel twist of fate?
The Eagles exited their huddle looking like someone had stepped on the heads of their new puppies. And as McNabb took center I saw it out of the corner of my eye. The remote control had been moved! It was no longer pointing Northeast!! Before the ball was snapped I dove to the coffee table and readjusted it's position. The ball was then snapped, McNabb was patient in the pocket looking for an open receiver...time slowed to a crawl. He scrambled to avoid being sacked once more and launched a bullet up the middle of the field to wide receiver Freddy Mitchell. Mitchell absorbed the pass and was hammered on the spot. The pass gained 27 yards. First down!!! The Eagles marched down the field and tied the game, eventually winning in overtime. That play would forever be heralded in Philadelphia sports history as "4th and 26". It was a moment that t-shirts were made after. And this bit of history would never have been had I not caught the misaligned remote.
August 23rd, 1993...Phillie vs. Mets. The Phillies were clinging on to a tight divisional lead as the playoffs approached. The rival New York Mets were hot on their trail. In a pitchers duel between Doc Gooden and Curt Schilling the Mets had a 2-1 lead going into the 9th. Gooden was on fire as he struck out 12 batters on the day. Going for a complete game he walked lead off hitter Lenny Dykstra with 2 outs in the 9th bringing up Darren Daulton. Daulton was down in the count, 0 balls 2 strikes. Gooden had owned Daulton all game striking him out 2 times prior to this at bat. The game was looking bleak. The frustration and desperation was plastered all over his face. "What the hell is up with Daulton?", I thought to myself. Then it all became clear. I was sitting on the wrong end of the couch. The entire game I had been sitting on the same side of the couch I sat on when the Phillies blew a 5 run lead to the Pirates just weeks earlier. How could I have been so foolish!! I quickly darted to the correct cushion, Gooden winds up, fast ball inside...CRACK...gone!!! The 2 run homerun by Daulton won the game for the Phils who eventually went on to the World Series.
Few things are more gratifying than knowing you did your part to help your team avert defeat. Whether it's wearing the same clothes you had on the last time your team won...perhaps refusing to wash them in between. Inviting the same people over and positioning them in the same place they were in last game...and kicking out those who weren't there before without a second thought. Turning wall pictures upside down, eating dinner for breakfast and breakfast for dinner, counting the number of steps to and from the bathroom maintaining the same count each time, growing your playoff beard, or placing your team hat on top of the TV, these "superstitions" play a role in the outcome of games that few people truly understand.
Just this past weekend I had the tremendous misfortune of witnessing a very dear friend lose the Preakness Stakes and to a certain degree I feel partly responsible. A week earlier the Kentucky Derby ran and he was monumentally victorious, breaking a 5 year drought of picking the winner of this sacred race. As we set up for the Preakness the coffee table was moved to the side as it had during the Derby, we sat in the same seats as we did a week earlier, we wore the same clothes, the surround sound was turned on and at the exact numerical volume level as before. Everything was a clone for this race as it was the last. With one glaring exception...my wife had a friend over. As she walked in the door an hour before the race something inside me felt off. Would her presence throw off what we had so meticulously recreated? I eventually dismissed the idea and wondered if my friend had thought the same.
As the race ended in the most gut-wrenching defeat we began to ponder what went wrong. We eventually both crossed paths at the fact that this additional individual had been present. It all became glaringly clear. I knew in my heart I should have kicked her out at the first sight of her, but I didn't react to my most primal of sports instincts, to follow your superstitious vibes as if they are the word of God.
A very valuable and equally painful lesson was learned this day, further proving the point that these little intricacies have a profound impact on the sporting world. Never again shall I brush aside these gut feelings. I should have known better. I've followed this philosophy religiously all my life and the results have spoken for themselves.
There are certain things you just don't mess with in this world; speeding freight trains, women who are PMS'ing, hungry alligators, naked black men with "Man Lover" tattooed on their foreheads, gravity, the IRS...and sports superstitions. Now if I can only figure out how to rearrange my bedroom furniture to land an Eagles Super Bowl win, I can die a happy man.
There are many things in this world of ours that test us and taunt us in a manner which can create a mountain of self doubt and the feeling that what we feel and where we stand is invalid and inconsequential.Each of us is unique in that we react, emote and are conditioned to respond to various situations in a multitude of different ways.Any one given instance, event, or action can result in nearly every response and reaction imaginable depending on the individual.This is the beauty of being an individual…who we are and what we feel is unique unto us.It is ours, and whether perceived as right or wrong it is no less significant or meaningful because others may not see it that way.
We are all bred and ingrained with “buttons” that when pushed send a surge of emotion that trumps all others.Perhaps they are rooted from our upbringing, or created by moments in our past that forge mechanisms of defense, fight, or flight.They are meant to protect, they are meant to alert, and they are even mean to entice and arouse.Some of us have more of these “buttons” than others, but regardless of how many we possess and the functions of them each, they are ours and they serve a purpose for a reason that is our own.
Agreeing to disagree is a common ground without a common view, a compromise forged when a stalemate has been reached and two sides remain planted firmly in their ideas, actions, morals, or beliefs.While one side may not necessarily agree with the stance of the other, agreeing to disagree can take 2 paths when this situation presents itself.
The first is to Respectfully Agree to Disagree.While the two sides may not see eye-to-eye, the opinions of each can be generally understood by one another as they attempt to put the shoe on the other foot to better comprehend the stance of one another.These topics are generally less controversial than most, typically inciting less passion or fanaticism in the debate.Topics such as; white vs. wheat, Rocky I vs. Rocky III, or Brunettes vs. Red-heads (Redheads baby…read-heads).While Respectfully Agreeing to Disagree debates can be quite heated, they generally do not create stubborn blindness and a refusal to see where the other side is coming from.
The second is to Begrudgingly Agree to Disagree.These tend to be the doosies…the whoppers that incite riots, rampages and mayhem.OK, perhaps that’s taking it a bit far but these debates nonetheless create an absolute refusal of both sides to see, understand, or accept the stance of the other.These debates are commonly referred to as taboo in most conversational situations and can range from the abortion debate, religion, gay marriage, politics, and cannibalism (tastes like chicken!).These are the untouchables, the topics that are carved in stone, the unwritten laws that hold firm and steadfast in the individual regardless of what opinion, idea, or philosophy may counter it.“The sky is blue and no matter what you try to tell me or convince me otherwise it will be that way…PERIOD!Don’t even try it because I’m not budging!”And as the other side twitches in befuddlement, stirring in an incomprehensible stupor, they must settle, and like it or not…Begrudgingly Agree to Disagree.
To me, this is the beauty of individualism.The fact that regardless what our feelings and beliefs may be, they are our own.And they are so to the point where we stand our ground on them, firm and solid.Whether its faith, belief or hardcore fact, we have come to this conclusion for a reason.And that conclusion is now a part of who we are.Our ideals, visions, beliefs, morals, thoughts, ideas…our conclusions, make us the individuals we are.And while some may be deemed stubborn, ignorant, or blind in the views they possess, the strength in maintaining your respective stance only deepens the significance they hold.
Every day minds are changed and ideas are presented that shed new light on subjects that were once thought to be in essence, law.An open mind, regardless of how firm our stance may be is the key to approaching situations of conflict or debate.But every so often when the volleys are lobbed back and forth, each time hitting a wall as thick as the one it rooted from, the decision must be made to Agree to Disagree.When faced with this situation, remember that no matter now passionate or intense your opinion or view may be, the other side has come to their conclusion for a reason.It may be a reason you will never comprehend or understand, but the reason for their conclusion is no less valid or legitimate than your own.That is the beauty of Agreeing to Disagree.The beauty of compromise.
I've been in a God-awful writing slump lately and to tell you the truth its beginning to piss me off. I've written dozens upon dozens of paragraphs over the past 2 weeks force-feeding my fingers to type things that simply don't exist in my brain. These droughts are nothing new to me as I have a tendency to have bursts of thoughts and ideas where I can crank out 4-5 blogs a week like some assembly line processing good old fashioned boxes of brain flakes. Then, without warning I hit a brick wall. The valve is shut, the lights are turned off, and the WELCOME WE'RE OPEN sign is slowly flipped over to SORRY WE'RE CLOSED as the credits role and the exit music plays.
Perhaps I spout out too much too soon. Maybe I should learn to pace myself. Slow and steady wins the race right? Bullshit. When you have a thought, rant or desire to purge you've gotta go full force. With the inner workings of my mind I've gotta grab what's in there and hold on to it for dear life. Too many brilliant ideas have come and gone like puffs of smoke from a finely crafted glass bong. But those days are done, and with them the excuses for low productivity. So its time to get my ass in gear and rise to the occasion!! What occasion you ask? Well lets take a look at how insane the world has become. These are but a few of the actual "occasions" for the month of May:
Asian/Pacific American Heritage Month Mental Health Month Allergy/Asthma Awareness Month National Good Car Keeping Month National Strawberry Month National Chocolate Custard Month Foot Health Month National Physical Fitness and Sports Month National High Blood Pressure Month National Hamburger Month Arthritis Month Better Sleep Month Correct Posture Month National Salad Month Older Americans Month National Barbecue Month National Bike Month National Mine Month National Egg Month National Artisan Gelato Month National Asparagus Month National Macaroon Day National Salad Month National Salsa Month National Share A Story month
I shit you not. These are all legit. This is what the month of May represents. Screw the April showers that bring May flowers, there is Artisan Gelato to recognize!! And you WILL recognize!! First there was Black History Month and now THIS?? Our penchant for drawing attention to the useless and mundane has reached new heights. Bravo America...BRA-FUCKING-VO!!
Now that you've all been injected with that dose of brilliance (my apologies), on to the point I intended to write many, many tangents ago...
I was watching a show on the National Geographic Channel yesterday about the history of Suicide Bombers...or The Cult of Suicide Bombers as they craftily deemed it. Back in the mid 80's some geniuses in the Middle East contrived the idea of using their own people as human weapons against their enemies. Truthfully, its not a bad scheme if you look at it from a tactical standpoint. They caught not only their enemies off guard, they caught the world off guard. Young men and women are brainwashed under the guise of martyrdom, ingrained with the belief that their acts are honorable, heroic and will please their god sending them to an eternal paradise. They later went on to throw in the "12 virgins await you in heaven" as a sweetener to the deal. Its the same concept "NOW WITH MARSHMALLOWS" had with Alphabets Cereal. Even martyrdom needs to stay up to date with the fads of the kids, and the kids love them some virgins!
As the "craft" of suicide bombing evolved, they soon upgraded to car bombs and truck bombs. Equally evasive and inconspicuous but with hundreds of times they destructive power. Crafty little towel heads...crafty! As I'm watching the videos of these pieces of sand sludge videotape the "missions" from a distance, a few of them tickled my fancy in a way that suicide bombings really shouldn't...but they did.
Johnny Jihad is driving a nondescript truck hauling ass to catch up with a bus full of Jewish settlers. Being ever-alert and rightfully on edge, these brave (insane?) bus drivers are always aware and vigilant of such attempts. So the driver of the bus sees what's transpiring and proceeds to haul ass through the valley. Much to the dismay of Johnny Jihad (JJ) whose truck is packed so full of explosive goodies he simply cannot catch up. Presumptuously distraught and eager for martyrdom (after all, I bought this jumpsuit for death and I'm not about to return it!), JJ abandons his chase and seeks a new target. Off in the distance a checkpoint of Jewish soldiers catches his eye. YUMMY! Fortunately they've witnessed this cat and mouse chase and are prepared for what lies ahead. As JJ speeds toward the checkpoint, the 4 soldiers manning their post haul ass in every direction. And in the blink of an eye - BAM!!!! A massive explosion rocks the area. The shock wave covers and area of 500 feet and a cloud of smoke plumes hundreds of more feet in the air. The damage...no one dead, no one injured, not even so much as a broken nail.
Johnny Jihad died for naught. SUCKER!! These are the stories that make me giggle with glee. The horror and insanity of a suicide bomber does indeed have a humorous side to it...those who fail. I envision the preparation, the prayers, the goodbyes, the coaching and coaxing, the time, effort, sweat and tears. So much invested, so much hope, so much evil...and they fucked it up. Morons.
Every cloud has a silver lining, and this my friends is the silver lining of the suicide bomber. There are those who are bound to fail, and the more destruction and terror they cause, the more it amplifies the hilarity of their shortcomings.
Where I went with this blog may be questionable, tasteless, or simply "HUH?" My point isn't really to make a point, rather this is my way of unclogging the pipes. The usual flow, direction and substance I try to maintain has been chucked out the window to get the cogs in motion once again. So don't hold this one against me or use it as a reference for future literary compilations of the 21st Century. More will follow...hopefully soon. Should it not....well.....shit.
OK folks, this whole Imus fiasco has gone on long enough. The media circus is still revolving around this story with the intensity of starving vultures over a massive herd of freshly slaughtered cow carcasses. The fact that it even received this level of attention to begin with is appalling. We're going on 2 weeks now since first Imus spoke those words and its still as fresh in the spotlight as the moment the first person said, "Oh no he didn't!!" With all of the far more serious and critical news and information that so desperately needs our attention, our simple-minded short attention spans are diverted to this bullshit like a jingling shiny object to a child with A.D.D. Its no wonder we can't repair what is so evidently crumbling around us. The urgency needed to turn this misguided and deteriorating world around is overshadowed weekly by mundane, insignificant, mindless bullshit that serves no purpose other than to dehumanize us and further enhance our finely crafted penchant for ignorance and stupidity.
Yes, Imus is an idiot for not knowing when and where to speak the garbage that litters his decrepit mind. His words, thoughts, rants & raves fill the airwaves throughout this great nation on a daily basis. His audience reaches well over a million people, with the potential for millions more. Certainly any and all verbal purges he does not filter or censor will be scrutinized under the microscope of political correctness this country has shamefully fallen victim to. He's done it before and he will surely do it again...and he has. Except this time its bitten him in the ass...hard. His job, and likely his career, is over. Is the punishment fitting? Absolutely not.
Nearly 2 weeks ago, Imus called the Rutgers womens college basketball team "nappy-headed hos". A team that is primarily comprised of black women. Poor choice of words there buddy. Anyone with half a brain can should know that spouting out words like that will not incur the most positive repercussions. For a man who's been in the business for decades, he should know better. But judging by past moments of ignorance, he seemingly falls just below the bar of half-brained. So it's settled, the man made a dumb ass remark and consequences are sure to...and should...follow. This is where things get carried away.
Lets forget about the First Amendment and Freedom of Speech for one moment. We are living in 2007 America anyway so its not too far fetched to imagine an existence with limited and regressing rights. While this amendment is one of many which are vital to the integrity of our country, there are tremendous limitations when using this right in certain forums. Particularly when Big Business is involved; when your words now represent Big Business and the sponsors get angry, the almighty dollar trumps this freedom. I get this, and the Freedom of Speech argument I've heard regarding this subject doesn't hold water here...unfortunately.
Double Standard. Perhaps you've heard this phrase echoing the TV and radio stations as they find every conceivable angle to approach this story. For years now black rappers, comedians, TV personalities and actors to name a few have talked about bitches and hos, and nappy ass weaves quite liberally. They speak a word that was once so abominable and derogatory that up until 15 years ago the use of it would incite anger, rage and resentment. I am of course referring to the word n*gger. As I write that sentence I debate whether or not to edit it as I have. Even if it is being used to explain a point in which it refers. The point in this Double Standard? When and why is it OK for some people to use a word, but not others? If it's good for one, it should be good for all. The "n-word" in my mind is indeed an abhorrent word, but how can it not be to the people it was used against for so long? I can never conceive of nor understand this point for obvious reasons. Now what about nappy-headed hos? It's sung about, talked about, used as the subject for comedy as well as insult. Its used as freely and openly as "please pass the salt" in come circles. Its OK for them, but not for Imus. Double Standard.
Now lets talk about the apology. Imus made a remark to the women of the Rutgers College basketball team. They were the subject, the target...the victims if you will. And because race is involved (although nappy headed is a knock on their hair, and hos refers to a woman who gets around...no race there, right? I know, I know.) the typical slime seeps out of the woodwork. Somewhere in a dark pit of sleaze and greed a red phone rings. The phone sits on a pedestal in the center of a room like the centerpiece of some priceless museum display. And when it rings lights flash, sirens howl and bells ring like a fire house in go-mode. It is the cornerstone of the organization, the key to its success. Whenever an issue of race hits the news this is the hub, central operations, the command center of it all. Racing to the ringing phone with the speed and fury of doped track star Ben Johnson, a man jerks the receiver to his ear.
"Go ahead"
"Mr. Sharpton...we have a situation"
And so it begins. Sharpton sounds an alarm in the Civil Rights Bat Cave and soon his sidekick Jesse Jackson darts eagerly to his side. Finally, they have a situation to exploit for their own agenda and their attention starved egos. We now have a "representative" for all black people who have been slighted. They were not called or summoned by the women of the Rutgers basketball team. Hell, no one asked them to crawl out of the rocks they reside under. They just appear, like roaches when the lights turn off. It's time to spark a protest, a boycott...a travesty is in the making!! Make sure you get my good side for this press conference!!
Sharpton is now the judge and the jury. For it is he who will ultimately accept or deny the apology that ensues. Just as he did in the Michael Richards fiasco, Sharpton represents and speaks for an entire race of people. I don't know about you but if someone had the audacity to speak for me if someone took a jab at me, I'd tell them to back the hell off. I fight my own battles. Who the hell entitles this man to do what he does?
Listen, the man was put through the ringer. Like I said, his comments were off base, ridiculous and ignorant. I in no way condone his words, nor do I support him. But for the love of God to take away his job??? That's just bullshit. Overkill because when a jackass like Sharpton takes advantage of the race card, corporate America falls to its knees because it fears the dreaded race card more than any other. And Sharpton knows this. Can no one tell Sharpton, OK the guy has been punished enough, he apologized, has been dragged through the mud in the press, and his reputation has taken a huge hit. Apology accepted, let's move on. Go back to your radio show where the leash will be tighter than ever, serve a lengthy suspension and prepare to live under an electron microscope for the rest of your career. That would be more than punishment enough for a comment as simple as "nappy-headed hos". Ever listen to Stern when he was on radio? Nappy-headed hos is NOTHING!
Shame on you Imus for being a moron. Shame on you Sharpton for taking advantage of racism and using the black people as your publicity and agenda plugging tool. Shame on you corporate America for bowing to your knees and being the spineless bitch of people like Sharpton. Shame on you America for allowing yourselves to be sucked into this story and every other senseless gossip column controversy as you remain inexcusably blind to the stories we all need to pay attention to.
And shame on me for allowing this bullshit to eat away at me enough to have to write this. But hey, someone has to bitch slap you bastards to open your eyes. Wait, did I say bitch slap? Isn't that what a pimp does? Oh shit, Sharpton's phone's ringing!!!
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