Some of my female friends have recently got on my case about my abundant use of the word “chick” in my blog. They feel that the term is degrading or whatever. I think that’s crap and I’ll tell you why.
For all my ramblings and rules and proclamations of relationship know-how, I’m actually operating under one very simple assumption. In my world, you are either a chick or a dude. I realize there are a lot of nutjobs in between but that’s for Dan Savage to work out, not me. In any case, a “dude” is someone who is very logical in nature and a “chick” is very emotionally adept. The clashing of these radical ways of thinking is what makes life interesting.
You really can’t get on my case either because this principle is based on scientific fact. Sure I’ve met a few women with a thought process like a cold calculating computer just as I have met a few men who are intimately in touch with their feminine side. However, in order to simplify things and drive my point into the ground, EVERYBODY is on one polar opposite of the logic/emotion spectrum or the other. It’s also far more entertaining.
If you have any other doubts about my vast reservoir of human knowledge, I also have first hand experience living among the female species on two non-consecutive occasions. I liken the experience to what Jane Goodall did studying gorillas in their natural habitat, except the exact opposite where it is the primates that are trying to figure out Jane. I learned all sorts of crazy shit from having female roommates. For instance, did you know that women hate it when you leave empty beer cans all over the house. I know, it’s weird!
I am going to continue to assert that I know damn near everything about chicks and dudes because it’s fun and it annoys my roommates and my roommate’s girlfriends.
In the meantime, ponder this, because this is ONE question I don’t have an answer for: How is it that I live with 5 other dudes including myself and the day my 6th roommate Abbey moved in, the entire house instantly smelled 50 times better? She didn’t even have half her stuff moved in and that distinctive boy smell (a hybrid odor of feet, laundry, and leftover farts) that plagues college housing across the country was completely gone.
Crazy.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Monday, November 21, 2005
I am a Blaze Orange Cowboy
It’s that time of year again. Deer Fighting Season. Every Saturday before Thanksgiving, the conspiring white-tail deer of Wisconsin band together to wreck havoc on the innocent constituents of Wisconsin. It’s up to us, the hunters, to keep them in check. Deer may seem like peaceful creatures but deep down they’re a bunch of war-mongers; ready to attack when we least expect it. They’re kind of like Canadians. I don’t trust either of them.
A lot of people think that deer hunting is a barbaric sport. These people don’t realize that if deer had access to firearms and had opposable thumbs, they would kill you and your entire family. You just can’t show mercy to these violent creatures.
Being the compassionate man that I am though, I like to give the deer a sporting chance. That is why I have stopped using conventional weaponry like rifles, bows, and bo staffs to take down the enemy. Instead, I like to come up with new and creative ways to hunt the elusive white tail.
This year, I used a Fighting Crane style Jujitsu to take down and humiliate an 8 point buck. The year before, I used a Grecko Roman maneuver to wrestle and grapple a 185 lb doe into submission. In 1998, I actually negotiated the surrender of a herd of deer, using subtle psychological mind games and eventually convincing them they’d be happier as a delicious venison tenderloin sandwich as opposed to roaming free in the wilderness. That last victory is my personal favorite.
I have a hair on my chest for every deer I’ve ever conquered. My friends have started calling me Austin Powers for the glaring similarities. I actually have to hunt shirtless now because my man fur gets too hot for me, even in the sub-arctic temperatures of the great Northwoods. Just call me Benny of the Jungle, swinging from tree to tree, tackling deer and other wild game where I see fit.
In reality, my freezing ass was parked in the woods all weekend and I didn’t see a goddamn thing. Which is fine. People just don’t understand that hunting is much more than just shooting a deer. It’s also more than playing poker, drinking lots of beer, and bonding with family, which is another common and valid argument in favor of the sport. It’s the little things that make deer hunting great, like the funny way the mind begins to wander after being in absolute solitude for hours on end, the wild turkey and homemade bread that my uncle cooks every year, or just inventing colorful new ways to describe a bowel movement. Deer camp is “roughing it” at its finest and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Even though I didn’t bag my trophy buck this year, I’m STILL pretty much the most manly guy that I know of.
On a completely unrelated topic, I saw the midnight screening of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire last Friday and let me the first to tell you, its awesomeness will go unrivaled for any movie coming out this year. I’d tell you more but I’ve got some serious chest scratching to attend to…
A lot of people think that deer hunting is a barbaric sport. These people don’t realize that if deer had access to firearms and had opposable thumbs, they would kill you and your entire family. You just can’t show mercy to these violent creatures.
Being the compassionate man that I am though, I like to give the deer a sporting chance. That is why I have stopped using conventional weaponry like rifles, bows, and bo staffs to take down the enemy. Instead, I like to come up with new and creative ways to hunt the elusive white tail.
This year, I used a Fighting Crane style Jujitsu to take down and humiliate an 8 point buck. The year before, I used a Grecko Roman maneuver to wrestle and grapple a 185 lb doe into submission. In 1998, I actually negotiated the surrender of a herd of deer, using subtle psychological mind games and eventually convincing them they’d be happier as a delicious venison tenderloin sandwich as opposed to roaming free in the wilderness. That last victory is my personal favorite.
I have a hair on my chest for every deer I’ve ever conquered. My friends have started calling me Austin Powers for the glaring similarities. I actually have to hunt shirtless now because my man fur gets too hot for me, even in the sub-arctic temperatures of the great Northwoods. Just call me Benny of the Jungle, swinging from tree to tree, tackling deer and other wild game where I see fit.
In reality, my freezing ass was parked in the woods all weekend and I didn’t see a goddamn thing. Which is fine. People just don’t understand that hunting is much more than just shooting a deer. It’s also more than playing poker, drinking lots of beer, and bonding with family, which is another common and valid argument in favor of the sport. It’s the little things that make deer hunting great, like the funny way the mind begins to wander after being in absolute solitude for hours on end, the wild turkey and homemade bread that my uncle cooks every year, or just inventing colorful new ways to describe a bowel movement. Deer camp is “roughing it” at its finest and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Even though I didn’t bag my trophy buck this year, I’m STILL pretty much the most manly guy that I know of.
On a completely unrelated topic, I saw the midnight screening of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire last Friday and let me the first to tell you, its awesomeness will go unrivaled for any movie coming out this year. I’d tell you more but I’ve got some serious chest scratching to attend to…
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Ladies: Never Date a Guy who has a Blog
Sorry, everyone.
I did not mean to get on that Brett Favre tangent for so long. The first Brett Favre post was just an expression of my unwavering loyalty to #4 and I was planning on just sitting on the second post until the Pack would win again which they did last week. Who would have thunk they would beat the Falcons in such a decisive victory?
But now that it’s out my system, let’s talk about the date I recently embarked on. Yes, I know what you’re thinking, how did I manage to trick this girl into giving me three hours of her time on a Friday night. A valid question indeed and it’s one that I don’t have an answer to.
Clearly, she hasn’t read my standards which I will recap:
1. The Hallmark Rule
2. The Volleyball Rule
3. The Parthenon Test
I never made the Parthenon Test an official rule before but I’m going to make it a rule now. At some point when I’m about to settle down with a chick, she has to watch me and my friends eat Gyros at bar time after a typical Saturday night on State Street. It will be and always has been, a seriously offensive sight to anyone bearing witness to this spectacle. If she isn’t pissed off about the inevitable cucumber sauce stains from the feeding frenzy and still has the gumption to talk to me or even make eye contact with me the next day, I’m reeling her in.
Back to my date, to make matters worse for the poor soul, she has to deal with what I’m labeling the November Rule which I think is pretty much universal for all guys but I’m just going to clarify. The November Rule is simply the fact that no guy wants to just start seeing a girl right before the holidays because:
1. There is no Christmas present in the world that sends the appropriate message for someone you’ve been kind of seeing for a month.
2. Explanations of your sort-of-girlfriend status to relatives really blows
3. Valentines Day is lurking just around the corner and every guy hates Valentines Day
Yup, right about this time of year, most guys usually call it quits and start making plans for love around Spring time again. Sorry, ladies, that’s just the way the primitive male brain works. I find it humorous that the same minds that can invent interstellar space travel, artificial hearts, and high definition television can stress out on such trivial matters like gift exchanges. Logic is funny.
In any case, this girl is really cute and pretty sharp so I’m going to nix the November Rule and maybe even cut her some slack on my previously mentioned guidelines. Gee, I’m swell!
I'm not going to lie to you though- this girl is REALLY lucky to be dating me. I think I finally understand what my mother has been trying to tell me all these years; I am a really handsome and charming guy. If you can't trust an unbiased opinion like my mother, then who can you trust?
Thanks, Mom. I'll never doubt you again.
I did not mean to get on that Brett Favre tangent for so long. The first Brett Favre post was just an expression of my unwavering loyalty to #4 and I was planning on just sitting on the second post until the Pack would win again which they did last week. Who would have thunk they would beat the Falcons in such a decisive victory?
But now that it’s out my system, let’s talk about the date I recently embarked on. Yes, I know what you’re thinking, how did I manage to trick this girl into giving me three hours of her time on a Friday night. A valid question indeed and it’s one that I don’t have an answer to.
Clearly, she hasn’t read my standards which I will recap:
1. The Hallmark Rule
2. The Volleyball Rule
3. The Parthenon Test
I never made the Parthenon Test an official rule before but I’m going to make it a rule now. At some point when I’m about to settle down with a chick, she has to watch me and my friends eat Gyros at bar time after a typical Saturday night on State Street. It will be and always has been, a seriously offensive sight to anyone bearing witness to this spectacle. If she isn’t pissed off about the inevitable cucumber sauce stains from the feeding frenzy and still has the gumption to talk to me or even make eye contact with me the next day, I’m reeling her in.
Back to my date, to make matters worse for the poor soul, she has to deal with what I’m labeling the November Rule which I think is pretty much universal for all guys but I’m just going to clarify. The November Rule is simply the fact that no guy wants to just start seeing a girl right before the holidays because:
1. There is no Christmas present in the world that sends the appropriate message for someone you’ve been kind of seeing for a month.
2. Explanations of your sort-of-girlfriend status to relatives really blows
3. Valentines Day is lurking just around the corner and every guy hates Valentines Day
Yup, right about this time of year, most guys usually call it quits and start making plans for love around Spring time again. Sorry, ladies, that’s just the way the primitive male brain works. I find it humorous that the same minds that can invent interstellar space travel, artificial hearts, and high definition television can stress out on such trivial matters like gift exchanges. Logic is funny.
In any case, this girl is really cute and pretty sharp so I’m going to nix the November Rule and maybe even cut her some slack on my previously mentioned guidelines. Gee, I’m swell!
I'm not going to lie to you though- this girl is REALLY lucky to be dating me. I think I finally understand what my mother has been trying to tell me all these years; I am a really handsome and charming guy. If you can't trust an unbiased opinion like my mother, then who can you trust?
Thanks, Mom. I'll never doubt you again.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
The time I taught Brett Favre how to throw a football.
Imagine one of those picturesque Saturday autumn afternoons, Martha Stewart style; the air is crisp, the leaves are changing color, mom was cooking homemade apple pie in the kitchen, and me and my best chums were playing a game of schoolyard football in the empty lot across the street. I was in the fifth grade at the time so I was about 11 years old.
Out of nowhere, this man emerges on the field. Right away, I was on my guard.
“Hey, you’re Ben Wollin right,” the man said.
“Who wants to know?” I replied smugly.
“I’ve been watching you play here and I just have to ask. Where did you learn how to throw such a tight spiral like that? You’ve got an arm that I’ve only read about in books.”
At this point, I started chuckling to myself. “Listen, guy, you’ve got a lot of guts coming here and interrupting my game here with my friends. I like that. It shows you got courage. If you stick around I’ll show you the secret to the perfect pass.”
After the game, the stranger stuck around so I went over the finer points of where to grip ball, how to pump fake, and pretty much all the basic arm mechanics for throwing the ultimate spiral. I could tell he was impressed. The sun was starting to set but the stranger insisted that we get it right.
“Alright one more, and then I have to go home for dinner,” I said.
The last throw of the evening was a stinger. I caught the ball and then shook out my hands because it burned a little.
“There it is,” I said. “That’s the pepper I’m talking about.”
The stranger smiled sheepishly at me. “Thanks, kid. Thanks a lot.” He then took off into the night in the same mysterious fashion that he appeared. I never thought I would hear from him again.
The very next day, my old man took me to watch Don Majikowski and the Packers play the Cincinatti Bengals in a now legendary game at Lambeau Field. The “Magic” was injured in the first quarter and all hope was lost. Then to my amazement, the strange man I just saw the previous day came trotting onto the field. The man was, you guessed it, Brett Favre.
The rook was a bit shaky at first, you could tell the crowd did not have much faith in the new quarterback. The situation looked bleak for the Packers as they entered in the 4th quarter down 14 points. Brett Favre started scanning the crowds, looking for somebody, anybody, to get him out of the quagmire.
Then Brett Favre saw me and a big smirk, the same smirk you see every time he throws a touchdown, came across his face. I gave him that look, that nod of approval that just says, yeah, you know what to do. Brett Favre gave me the thumbs up, then put his helmet in and ran out to the huddle, a few inches taller, a little more spring in his step.
The rest, as they say, is history. Brett Favre engineered a stunning defeat against the Bengals which eventually paved the way for him to become the greatest athlete in the history of sports. I wish I could take more credit for his numerous titles and records but I had absolutely nothing to do with his innate talent to read the field, his almost mutant-like super stamina, or his preternatural ability to look awesome and grizzled all the time. The man is a champion and no one can take that away from him.
What can I say, I’m a modest guy, I want to give credit where credit is due. You know that actually reminds me of the story of the time Steve Jobs stole my idea for the ipod…
Out of nowhere, this man emerges on the field. Right away, I was on my guard.
“Hey, you’re Ben Wollin right,” the man said.
“Who wants to know?” I replied smugly.
“I’ve been watching you play here and I just have to ask. Where did you learn how to throw such a tight spiral like that? You’ve got an arm that I’ve only read about in books.”
At this point, I started chuckling to myself. “Listen, guy, you’ve got a lot of guts coming here and interrupting my game here with my friends. I like that. It shows you got courage. If you stick around I’ll show you the secret to the perfect pass.”
After the game, the stranger stuck around so I went over the finer points of where to grip ball, how to pump fake, and pretty much all the basic arm mechanics for throwing the ultimate spiral. I could tell he was impressed. The sun was starting to set but the stranger insisted that we get it right.
“Alright one more, and then I have to go home for dinner,” I said.
The last throw of the evening was a stinger. I caught the ball and then shook out my hands because it burned a little.
“There it is,” I said. “That’s the pepper I’m talking about.”
The stranger smiled sheepishly at me. “Thanks, kid. Thanks a lot.” He then took off into the night in the same mysterious fashion that he appeared. I never thought I would hear from him again.
The very next day, my old man took me to watch Don Majikowski and the Packers play the Cincinatti Bengals in a now legendary game at Lambeau Field. The “Magic” was injured in the first quarter and all hope was lost. Then to my amazement, the strange man I just saw the previous day came trotting onto the field. The man was, you guessed it, Brett Favre.
The rook was a bit shaky at first, you could tell the crowd did not have much faith in the new quarterback. The situation looked bleak for the Packers as they entered in the 4th quarter down 14 points. Brett Favre started scanning the crowds, looking for somebody, anybody, to get him out of the quagmire.
Then Brett Favre saw me and a big smirk, the same smirk you see every time he throws a touchdown, came across his face. I gave him that look, that nod of approval that just says, yeah, you know what to do. Brett Favre gave me the thumbs up, then put his helmet in and ran out to the huddle, a few inches taller, a little more spring in his step.
The rest, as they say, is history. Brett Favre engineered a stunning defeat against the Bengals which eventually paved the way for him to become the greatest athlete in the history of sports. I wish I could take more credit for his numerous titles and records but I had absolutely nothing to do with his innate talent to read the field, his almost mutant-like super stamina, or his preternatural ability to look awesome and grizzled all the time. The man is a champion and no one can take that away from him.
What can I say, I’m a modest guy, I want to give credit where credit is due. You know that actually reminds me of the story of the time Steve Jobs stole my idea for the ipod…
Sunday, November 06, 2005
I love Brett Favre and when I grow up, I'm going to marry him.
It’s hard to say when I first developed my man crush on Brett Favre. I think it all began when Brett Favre threw his fabled pass to Antonio Freeman to defeat the Vikings in the fall of 2000. It’s funny, I’ve already forgotten my graduation day, losing my virginity is a blur, and I barely remember what I did last weekend but I will NEVER forget that epic battle and the aftermath that ensued. My roommate and I decided to set up our massive speakers in the hallway of the 8th floor Witte Hall and blast I Don’t Want to Work, I want to Bang on the Drums all Day because Todd Rungren is the ONLY musician that has ever captured the true essence of shame in a single song. The defeated looks on the faces of my jerkstore Minnesota friends remains in my memory as clear as a photograph to this day. Those truly were the glory days.
Some critics argue that Brett Favre has lost some of magic over the years but I say they can all kiss my pasty ass. The man brought home a Super Bowl title back to Green Bay after 30 goddamn YEARS for Christ sake, what else do you want? I don’t care if Brett Favre throws an interception after every pass for the rest of the season, no, scratch that, I don’t care if he throws an interception after every pass and then gives the middle finger to all the fans as he walks off the field for the rest of the season, I’ll STILL love the guy.
Brett Favre is the reason I support embryonic cloning research. As morally reprehensible as I find the idea of mankind altering genes, essentially “playing God” and thus reducing the grand beauty and complexity of human nature into sub-atomic DNA code, it still doesn’t outweigh the benefits of having a second #4 suiting up in the green and gold for the 2031 NFL season.
When the current Brett Favre retires, I foresee two events happening, neither of which are very good. The first is that mass hysteria will break out, fires will overtake the city, riots and pillaging will be rampant, and the streets will run red with the blood of the infidels. It won’t be pleasant to say the least.
The second, and MORE LIKELY scenario, is that at the ceremony where Brett Favre’s number gets retired, the clouds in the sky will part and a thunderous voice will boom, ”Citizens of Green Bay, you won’t be needing THIS anymore,” at which point a tremendous earthquake will form around the stadium and proceed to swallow Lambeau Field and everyone inside, but not before the mighty hand of God bursts from the heavens and plucks Brett Favre from the crowd to set him down safety on top of a very tall mountain.
Actually that probably wouldn’t happen either because everyone knows Brett Farve has the gift of flight so he could probably just fly away if he needed to. I bet he would save a bunch of little kids and some senior citizens on the way out too, that’s just the Brett Favre way.
Brett Favre’s infinite talent actually transcends the football field and on to the silver screen. Who could forget his unforgettable acting in the major motion picture There’s Something About Mary. His breakthrough role in the film defined a generation and his performance will forever be a benchmark for aspiring actors and actresses around the world. I actually wept, wept with joy, when he uttered those eight magical words, “I’m in town to play the Dolphins, dumbass.” The fact that he hasn’t received a star on the Walk of Fame is a true testament to the wanton corruption that plagues Hollywood today.
I propose that we all honor Brett Favre’s greatness by using his name as an adjective to describe something that’s awesome. For example:
A: “Hey, this pizza is pretty tasty.”
B: “Yeah, dude, this shit is Brett Favre!”
A: “Well, its good, but not Brett Favre.”
B: “You’re probably right. Hey, let’s go watch highlights from Super Bowl XXXI.
A: “Yes. I would like that a lot.”
The only problem is that it’s not very applicable to a lot of situations because nothing is more awesome than Brett Favre. What else more can I say?
Thanks, for the memories, Brett Favre. Thanks for the memories.
Some critics argue that Brett Favre has lost some of magic over the years but I say they can all kiss my pasty ass. The man brought home a Super Bowl title back to Green Bay after 30 goddamn YEARS for Christ sake, what else do you want? I don’t care if Brett Favre throws an interception after every pass for the rest of the season, no, scratch that, I don’t care if he throws an interception after every pass and then gives the middle finger to all the fans as he walks off the field for the rest of the season, I’ll STILL love the guy.
Brett Favre is the reason I support embryonic cloning research. As morally reprehensible as I find the idea of mankind altering genes, essentially “playing God” and thus reducing the grand beauty and complexity of human nature into sub-atomic DNA code, it still doesn’t outweigh the benefits of having a second #4 suiting up in the green and gold for the 2031 NFL season.
When the current Brett Favre retires, I foresee two events happening, neither of which are very good. The first is that mass hysteria will break out, fires will overtake the city, riots and pillaging will be rampant, and the streets will run red with the blood of the infidels. It won’t be pleasant to say the least.
The second, and MORE LIKELY scenario, is that at the ceremony where Brett Favre’s number gets retired, the clouds in the sky will part and a thunderous voice will boom, ”Citizens of Green Bay, you won’t be needing THIS anymore,” at which point a tremendous earthquake will form around the stadium and proceed to swallow Lambeau Field and everyone inside, but not before the mighty hand of God bursts from the heavens and plucks Brett Favre from the crowd to set him down safety on top of a very tall mountain.
Actually that probably wouldn’t happen either because everyone knows Brett Farve has the gift of flight so he could probably just fly away if he needed to. I bet he would save a bunch of little kids and some senior citizens on the way out too, that’s just the Brett Favre way.
Brett Favre’s infinite talent actually transcends the football field and on to the silver screen. Who could forget his unforgettable acting in the major motion picture There’s Something About Mary. His breakthrough role in the film defined a generation and his performance will forever be a benchmark for aspiring actors and actresses around the world. I actually wept, wept with joy, when he uttered those eight magical words, “I’m in town to play the Dolphins, dumbass.” The fact that he hasn’t received a star on the Walk of Fame is a true testament to the wanton corruption that plagues Hollywood today.
I propose that we all honor Brett Favre’s greatness by using his name as an adjective to describe something that’s awesome. For example:
A: “Hey, this pizza is pretty tasty.”
B: “Yeah, dude, this shit is Brett Favre!”
A: “Well, its good, but not Brett Favre.”
B: “You’re probably right. Hey, let’s go watch highlights from Super Bowl XXXI.
A: “Yes. I would like that a lot.”
The only problem is that it’s not very applicable to a lot of situations because nothing is more awesome than Brett Favre. What else more can I say?
Thanks, for the memories, Brett Favre. Thanks for the memories.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Halloween is the new Christmas
The perennial favorite holiday, Christmas, in my mind, is about to be unseated by a new contender. Even though the juggernaut is responsible for presents, great food, and a day off from work, Halloween could quite possibly be the most fun and obnoxious day of the year. (Note: I use the two adjectives synonomously). It’s the one day where you are completely free and actually encouraged to make a complete jackass of yourself without any repercussions. Remember, it’s not YOU being a jackass, it’s (insert whatever costume you could scrounge up at Ragstock) that drank too much, passed out in the bathroom, and allowed a phallic symbol to be drawn on his or her forehead with permanent marker. You YOURSELF are off the hook!
I take my Halloween festivities very seriously. But this year, for the first time in my life, I was at a complete loss to materialize an outfit for maximum embarrassment potential. Fortunately, in a divine moment of creativity, I came up with what I humbly consider one of the most original costumes of the year. By original and creative, I mean, incredibly dorky and only about 10 people are going to “get it” but the people that “get it” are REALLY going to “get it.” The costume I am referring to is my rendition of a human sudoku puzzle.
The following things were yelled at me on State St:
1. “What the hell are you!?”
2. “Bingo!”
3. “I hate you.”
4. “You’re that thing, what are you called, again?”
5. “You’re math!”
6. “Are you like a puzzle or something?”
7. “I don’t get it.”(By far, the most popular saying)
I left a lot of people very confused. Mission accomplished. My biggest regret was that I didn’t get to bust out my pick-up line, “Hey! If you take a picture of me now, you can do me later.” It’s probably okay though, there’s no way I’d be able to say that cheese with a straight face anyway.
And speaking of hot girls on State Street, yeah, there were plenty of them. I know I am 24 years old and I’m supposed to be a responsible adult and everything but how can anyone get sick of watching young co-eds in scandalously short skirts and how-much-more-cleavage-could-you-possibly-show outfits shivering in the cold October air? As long as I have a pulse, that will ALWAYS be cool. What’s not cool is me becoming a creepy old man, but I still have a few more years before I have to worry about that. Whew!
Everybody knows that a chick can dress up as slutty whatever and guys are going to love it. In this case, everybody is right. But I think it would be an absolute riot if a girl, with the proper assets, went as a slutty guy for Halloween. The confusion factor that I am so fond of, would be through the roof. “Oh my God, look how hot that guy is! Did I just say that? Shit.” Just imagine the look on a dude’s face when he has to explain to his buddies about the super hot man he just saw. Priceless.
What’s not priceless are all the Richie Tennenbaums, free mammogram guy, and guy dressed up a present that says To: Women From: God. Those costumes were sooooooo Halloween 2003, hello-oh! My vote for best costume is a 3 way tie between Tampa Bay Buccaneer head coach John Gruden, my brother the drunken leprechaun, and my buddy Robert Goulet, who actually went as that last year, but was so convincing, especially seeing all the wannabe Robert Goulets last night, makes the cut this year. Kudos to you, gentlemen. Thanks for making our night a little more surreal.
Tis the season for drunken revelry. I hope you all enjoyed Halloween 2005 as much as I did. I know Christmas was always the best time of year as a kid but I think Santa Claus will understand if you change your mind about your new favorite holiday. In fact, I know he will. I saw him do a keg stand at a house party on Saturday night and he seemed to be pretty cool with the whole idea.
Well it sure as hell beats milk and cookies…
I take my Halloween festivities very seriously. But this year, for the first time in my life, I was at a complete loss to materialize an outfit for maximum embarrassment potential. Fortunately, in a divine moment of creativity, I came up with what I humbly consider one of the most original costumes of the year. By original and creative, I mean, incredibly dorky and only about 10 people are going to “get it” but the people that “get it” are REALLY going to “get it.” The costume I am referring to is my rendition of a human sudoku puzzle.
The following things were yelled at me on State St:
1. “What the hell are you!?”
2. “Bingo!”
3. “I hate you.”
4. “You’re that thing, what are you called, again?”
5. “You’re math!”
6. “Are you like a puzzle or something?”
7. “I don’t get it.”(By far, the most popular saying)
I left a lot of people very confused. Mission accomplished. My biggest regret was that I didn’t get to bust out my pick-up line, “Hey! If you take a picture of me now, you can do me later.” It’s probably okay though, there’s no way I’d be able to say that cheese with a straight face anyway.
And speaking of hot girls on State Street, yeah, there were plenty of them. I know I am 24 years old and I’m supposed to be a responsible adult and everything but how can anyone get sick of watching young co-eds in scandalously short skirts and how-much-more-cleavage-could-you-possibly-show outfits shivering in the cold October air? As long as I have a pulse, that will ALWAYS be cool. What’s not cool is me becoming a creepy old man, but I still have a few more years before I have to worry about that. Whew!
Everybody knows that a chick can dress up as slutty whatever and guys are going to love it. In this case, everybody is right. But I think it would be an absolute riot if a girl, with the proper assets, went as a slutty guy for Halloween. The confusion factor that I am so fond of, would be through the roof. “Oh my God, look how hot that guy is! Did I just say that? Shit.” Just imagine the look on a dude’s face when he has to explain to his buddies about the super hot man he just saw. Priceless.
What’s not priceless are all the Richie Tennenbaums, free mammogram guy, and guy dressed up a present that says To: Women From: God. Those costumes were sooooooo Halloween 2003, hello-oh! My vote for best costume is a 3 way tie between Tampa Bay Buccaneer head coach John Gruden, my brother the drunken leprechaun, and my buddy Robert Goulet, who actually went as that last year, but was so convincing, especially seeing all the wannabe Robert Goulets last night, makes the cut this year. Kudos to you, gentlemen. Thanks for making our night a little more surreal.
Tis the season for drunken revelry. I hope you all enjoyed Halloween 2005 as much as I did. I know Christmas was always the best time of year as a kid but I think Santa Claus will understand if you change your mind about your new favorite holiday. In fact, I know he will. I saw him do a keg stand at a house party on Saturday night and he seemed to be pretty cool with the whole idea.
Well it sure as hell beats milk and cookies…
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Greatest Villain Ever: Darth Vader Vs. The Dean of Discipline
Okay, clearly there is no competition between everyone’s favorite high school administrator and the Lord of the Sith (even with that no-talent vagina Hayden Christianson under the helm), in fact, putting the two in the same arena is kind of an insult to one of the greatest villains in cinematic history. I just didn’t want anyone questioning my sexuality with a title like “Top 5 Reasons why I just loooove the O.C. and why it’s the greatest show ever!”
That last statement is obviously an exaggeration as well but I would be lying if I didn’t think this prime time soap opera was a mighty fine distraction from reality. The lesbian subplot last season was mildly entertaining but I am glad to see the show is going back to its roots, mainly Ryan brooding and fighting a lot. And who can blame the guy, with that evil Dean of Discipline strutting around the school like he owns the place. He’s EXACTLY the type of asshole you see wearing a pink shirt and thinking he’s the shit. I hope Ryan knocks that shit-eating grin right off his stupid monkey face.
But without further ado, I present:
The O.C. Survival Guide
1.) If you have a secret or are doing something you aren’t supposed to be doing, it is 100% guaranteed someone will inadvertently catch you in the act. You could be in a sealed bank vault and you can bet your ass that Marissa or Summer will accidentally wander in there because it’s Take a Tour of a Sealed Bank Vault day at Harbor High or some other cockamamie reason like that. The writers of the show certainly have their situational irony nailed down, but I’d like to see a plot advance through other means; natural disasters are always a crowd pleaser. I bet the drama of a surprise volcano eruption in Newport Beach would bring out Ryan’s true feelings for Marissa.
2.) You have to listen to Emo. There’s no getting around this one here, people. If you don’t listen to wiener rock 24/7, you’re destined to be an outcast. I just wish there was some way the producers could shamelessly promote a new crappy band every week so we could know what to listen to…
3.) Infinity pools are sweet. Get one as soon as possible.
4.) Unless you’re incredibly attractive or a lovable comic book geek, you have zero chance for survival in Orange County. Fortunately, I happen to rock both worlds so this won’t be a problem for me.
5.) You know what? Screw the O.C. What the hell do they have that good ole’ Wisconsin doesn’t have to offer? I don’t know about you but I like my winters cold, my women slightly rotund, and my binge drinking socially acceptable.
AND we have Brett Farve. Checkmate, California.
A Typical Day on the Set of the O.C.
“Okay, Ryan, for this next scene we need you to be real upset and troubled. You’re dark and mysterious.”
“Great! Now give me real angry. You’re pissed off at the world and you want everyone to know it.”
“Excellent! In this next shot, you are in love with Marissa and everything is going great. I need happy and joyous.”
“Perfect! I really felt the emotion there, Ryan. That’s a wrap, people, let’s call it a day.”
That last statement is obviously an exaggeration as well but I would be lying if I didn’t think this prime time soap opera was a mighty fine distraction from reality. The lesbian subplot last season was mildly entertaining but I am glad to see the show is going back to its roots, mainly Ryan brooding and fighting a lot. And who can blame the guy, with that evil Dean of Discipline strutting around the school like he owns the place. He’s EXACTLY the type of asshole you see wearing a pink shirt and thinking he’s the shit. I hope Ryan knocks that shit-eating grin right off his stupid monkey face.
But without further ado, I present:
The O.C. Survival Guide
1.) If you have a secret or are doing something you aren’t supposed to be doing, it is 100% guaranteed someone will inadvertently catch you in the act. You could be in a sealed bank vault and you can bet your ass that Marissa or Summer will accidentally wander in there because it’s Take a Tour of a Sealed Bank Vault day at Harbor High or some other cockamamie reason like that. The writers of the show certainly have their situational irony nailed down, but I’d like to see a plot advance through other means; natural disasters are always a crowd pleaser. I bet the drama of a surprise volcano eruption in Newport Beach would bring out Ryan’s true feelings for Marissa.
2.) You have to listen to Emo. There’s no getting around this one here, people. If you don’t listen to wiener rock 24/7, you’re destined to be an outcast. I just wish there was some way the producers could shamelessly promote a new crappy band every week so we could know what to listen to…
3.) Infinity pools are sweet. Get one as soon as possible.
4.) Unless you’re incredibly attractive or a lovable comic book geek, you have zero chance for survival in Orange County. Fortunately, I happen to rock both worlds so this won’t be a problem for me.
5.) You know what? Screw the O.C. What the hell do they have that good ole’ Wisconsin doesn’t have to offer? I don’t know about you but I like my winters cold, my women slightly rotund, and my binge drinking socially acceptable.
AND we have Brett Farve. Checkmate, California.
A Typical Day on the Set of the O.C.
“Okay, Ryan, for this next scene we need you to be real upset and troubled. You’re dark and mysterious.”
“Great! Now give me real angry. You’re pissed off at the world and you want everyone to know it.”
“Excellent! In this next shot, you are in love with Marissa and everything is going great. I need happy and joyous.”
“Perfect! I really felt the emotion there, Ryan. That’s a wrap, people, let’s call it a day.”
Friday, October 14, 2005
What will YOU do when the Zombies come?
If Hollywood has taught me anything, and it has, it’s that our wonderful planet is due for some kind of inevitable zombie attack. Right now it is unclear if the assault will come from an army of the formerly deceased by an apocalyptic gesture of God or merely the spread of an airborne virus from an evil corporate conglomerate (Halliburton comes to mind). One thing is for certain, there is no stopping them.
I, for one, would like to welcome our new undead friends. I feel it will finally give me the chance to fulfill my destiny as the shotgun wielding, cigar smoking, hell-bent motorcycle warrior I was to born to be (I still haven’t decided if I’m going to wear shoulder pads with spikes protruding from them yet, but I definitely wouldn’t rule it out). Nothing gets me through a boring day at the office more than the possibility of slaying a pack of flesh-eating people freshly diagnosed with a scorching case of zombiism. I wouldn’t hesitate what to do in a second and neither should you.
That’s why it is important to formulate a game plan for dealing with the zombies in various scenarios you may find yourself in. For example, when you’re in lecture or something, you’re going to want to know where all the exits are and where to find the nearest fire hatchet or at least a blunt object to strike down the zombies when they try to eat your brains.
I’d like to take a moment here to dispel a rumor that eating asparagus will make your brains less tasty to the zombies. It won’t. Don’t waste your time listening to that bogus advice, it might just get you killed or eaten.
I STRONGLY recommend that at the very least, stock up on plenty of ammunition, and if you can, get your ass to the target range to work on your head shots. Don’t be fooled by the zombie’s soft flesh, a good blow to the dome is the only way to take down the walking dead, unless you have time to remove all their arms and legs but who has time for that? Don’t get fancy out there in zombie world. Vince Lombardi once said “Stick to the fundamentals” and that advice rings true for eradicating zombies as well as winning Super Bowls.
I have hordes of other useful knowledge for exterminating zombies but I’m keeping them to myself and for all the beautiful dames I decide to rescue along the way. In the meantime, practice those head shots and just pray we don’t have to deal with the zombies in 28 Days Later. Those fuckers were FAST.
I, for one, would like to welcome our new undead friends. I feel it will finally give me the chance to fulfill my destiny as the shotgun wielding, cigar smoking, hell-bent motorcycle warrior I was to born to be (I still haven’t decided if I’m going to wear shoulder pads with spikes protruding from them yet, but I definitely wouldn’t rule it out). Nothing gets me through a boring day at the office more than the possibility of slaying a pack of flesh-eating people freshly diagnosed with a scorching case of zombiism. I wouldn’t hesitate what to do in a second and neither should you.
That’s why it is important to formulate a game plan for dealing with the zombies in various scenarios you may find yourself in. For example, when you’re in lecture or something, you’re going to want to know where all the exits are and where to find the nearest fire hatchet or at least a blunt object to strike down the zombies when they try to eat your brains.
I’d like to take a moment here to dispel a rumor that eating asparagus will make your brains less tasty to the zombies. It won’t. Don’t waste your time listening to that bogus advice, it might just get you killed or eaten.
I STRONGLY recommend that at the very least, stock up on plenty of ammunition, and if you can, get your ass to the target range to work on your head shots. Don’t be fooled by the zombie’s soft flesh, a good blow to the dome is the only way to take down the walking dead, unless you have time to remove all their arms and legs but who has time for that? Don’t get fancy out there in zombie world. Vince Lombardi once said “Stick to the fundamentals” and that advice rings true for eradicating zombies as well as winning Super Bowls.
I have hordes of other useful knowledge for exterminating zombies but I’m keeping them to myself and for all the beautiful dames I decide to rescue along the way. In the meantime, practice those head shots and just pray we don’t have to deal with the zombies in 28 Days Later. Those fuckers were FAST.
Monday, October 10, 2005
I am an original disciple of the Bubble Gum Punk revolution
You are not a punk rocker.
I hate to burst your bubble but listening to Blink 182 and Good Charlotte does not mean you are into punk. Don’t get me wrong. I love the genre. I enjoy those soapy lyrics and juicy guitar hooks just as much as the next pre-pubescent teen. But let’s get the facts straight.
Before you take heed of my words you should probably know I’m not underground music listening hipster guy with a vendetta against corporate rock. Far from it. But I know a thing or two what constitutes punk.
Punk is something you would never hear on the radio. It’s something that would never be recorded in a fancy studio with fancy bells and whistles added in post production. Punk is having a shaved head and stomping the shit out of someone wearing steel toed boots at a Sex Pistols concert. That’s about as simple as I can explain it.
Enter 2005. I recently attended a Green Day concert here in town. I was a little confused at when I first got there. What the hell were all these rugrats doing here? Is fucking Raffi in town? Maybe there was a different Alliant Energy Colliseum in Madison that I supposed to be at? I was clearly the oldest person in the crowd with the exception of the chaperones in the top bleachers (those kids need a ride home somehow, I suppose). Although it was a huge boost to my ego beating the crap out of a bunch of toddlers in the “mosh pit” as it were, I realized this was the end of an era.
It’s not all sad though. I enjoy both worlds of rock. If Zeppelin were a four course meal for your lobes, then Simple Plan would be the equivalent of taking one of those awesome bags of flavored sugar you used to eat as a kid and pouring it directly down your ear canal. Thanks to MTV, we can complete the analogy by taking that weird sugar paddle spoon thingy and jamming into your eye. Both are great, whatever you are in the mood for.
I'm getting a little preachy here, so I'm just going to shut up and let you keep on a boppin’ along to your high octane bubble gum punk if that’s what does it for you. Just do us all a favor and take off that ridiculous Ramones T-shirt. Joey Ramone doesn’t want you wearing it and neither do I.
I hate to burst your bubble but listening to Blink 182 and Good Charlotte does not mean you are into punk. Don’t get me wrong. I love the genre. I enjoy those soapy lyrics and juicy guitar hooks just as much as the next pre-pubescent teen. But let’s get the facts straight.
Before you take heed of my words you should probably know I’m not underground music listening hipster guy with a vendetta against corporate rock. Far from it. But I know a thing or two what constitutes punk.
Punk is something you would never hear on the radio. It’s something that would never be recorded in a fancy studio with fancy bells and whistles added in post production. Punk is having a shaved head and stomping the shit out of someone wearing steel toed boots at a Sex Pistols concert. That’s about as simple as I can explain it.
Enter 2005. I recently attended a Green Day concert here in town. I was a little confused at when I first got there. What the hell were all these rugrats doing here? Is fucking Raffi in town? Maybe there was a different Alliant Energy Colliseum in Madison that I supposed to be at? I was clearly the oldest person in the crowd with the exception of the chaperones in the top bleachers (those kids need a ride home somehow, I suppose). Although it was a huge boost to my ego beating the crap out of a bunch of toddlers in the “mosh pit” as it were, I realized this was the end of an era.
It’s not all sad though. I enjoy both worlds of rock. If Zeppelin were a four course meal for your lobes, then Simple Plan would be the equivalent of taking one of those awesome bags of flavored sugar you used to eat as a kid and pouring it directly down your ear canal. Thanks to MTV, we can complete the analogy by taking that weird sugar paddle spoon thingy and jamming into your eye. Both are great, whatever you are in the mood for.
I'm getting a little preachy here, so I'm just going to shut up and let you keep on a boppin’ along to your high octane bubble gum punk if that’s what does it for you. Just do us all a favor and take off that ridiculous Ramones T-shirt. Joey Ramone doesn’t want you wearing it and neither do I.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
If Lizzie McQuire were on the cover of Maxim...
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