Greg Altmann is my Best Friend

Greg Altmann is my best friend but NOT because of the following reasons:

1. One time in high school he threw me into a big pile of lunch trays for no reason.

2. On my 18th birthday, my parents threw me a huge party at a park and invited all my friends. We were playing football and my dad inadvertently threw the ball like a girl and everyone at the party laughed. I wasn’t even that embarrassed. Everybody has seemed to have forgotten about the incident except Greg, who reminds me and makes fun of me every time I see him.

3. He was an accomplice to the time that Mike Servais robbed me of my coat and shoes and made me walk home from the airport in the middle of Winter. It was freezing outside. Greg was the getaway driver and he laughed at me a lot while it was happening.

4. He sucks at Ping Pong.

5. One time I saw Greg talking on his cell phone and he dropped it into a pint of beer.

Other than that, like I said, he’s a pretty good guy.

Here is a brief synopsis on how I feel about my roommates:

Joe Daniels: Big dork and kind of stinky
Aaron Van Lieshout: Jerkstore
Abbey Selle: Girl
Dave Dimmer: Sucks at Mario Kart
Andy Copely: He’s okay

Here’s a picture of the worst roommate of them all:















Yeah, his name is Hercules and he likes to bite at my feet and ankles all the time. One time, he came barging into my room and began to chew on my good dress shoes. I politely asked him to stop. Then he looked right into my eyes and took a huge dump in the middle of my carpeting. The poop was gross and disgusting. Then Hercules started biting my ankles and feet again. I was super pissed.

Chicks and Dudes

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.

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…

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.

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…

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.