I’ve been considering the contradictory natures of sports in that many of them are violent, which holds an undeniable appeal—I could generalize even further about the general appeal of violence, but let’s keep the focus.
I’m not saying the entire reason people love football, hockey, UFC or any sport that includes a lot of contact is for the violence alone. There’s always strategy, teamwork and tactics that go hand in hand.
So yeah, we might like seeing guys get buried under linebackers, but they’re encased in armor that’s been designed with that very purpose in mind. And when an arm gets broke or the body gets a sudden injury—well that’s just part of game. The player in question can go cry into his big fat pile of money.
However, I don’t think anyone really loves seeing life altering injuries (paralysis, etc) or death. No one really hopes for that kind of violence (out side of air shows and NASCAR).
Last night, the worse injury in hockey that can happen, happened. You can read all the gory details on your own right here, but here’s the main point I need you to know:
“The Panthers' Olli Jokinen collided with the Sabres' Clarke MacArthur in the corner. As Jokinen fell, his right leg went airborne. Zednik was skating toward the play, and Jokinen's skate sliced into the right side of Zednik's neck.” --John Vogl, News Sports Reporter, (full article already linked)
He had his throat sliced open by a falling team mates razor sharp skate. How this man didn’t die is beyond me. It sounds like you can thank the fairly immediate response by the trainer followed by the attention of the two doctors that got the blood to stop before they loaded him on the ambulance and took him in for surgery.
By now, if you haven’t seen the footage of Mr. Zednik getting his throat opened you’ve either chosen not to or you need to get better at searching YouTube. Either way, do you think more people would have sought the footage out if Mr. Zednik had died, or less?
Monday, February 11, 2008
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Super Tuesday (for My Penis)
My current political party is apathy. I’m not saying I don’t pay attention, but I am saying the only reason I do know my factoids is because it would take more effort to remain oblivious. I listen to the sound bites on the radio, read an occasional paragraph below the headline and I try to stay up late enough for The Daily Show. So, I know all the candidates names, if for nothing else it allows me to maintain brief water cooler conversation. And may the gods help you if you can’t maintain water cooler conversation. You’re fucked.
Politics seem to come up again and again. Someone wants to talk about it. Feigning ignorance is just as bad. The “You Really Should Care About Politics” speech, and any other speach they get to deliver from ahigh on their horse, is just as annoying.
Here’s how to handle the unwanted politichat like a Bastard.
“Obama’s looking good.”
“He better look out for Hilary!”
That’s about what I try and keep the exchange to. Brief and unspecific, maybe followed by a sip of water so you can turn away and B-line it for your desk. Also, you could insert the republican names if you wanted too, they get mentioned just as often are talked about just as briefly. Sometimes, though, it’s a bit more sticky.
“Well, McCain is looking good. They say he’s the only one who can beat Hilary.”
“Well, he was a POW his perspective on war could help us out.”
See that? You just take the lead and respond with something that is easy for them to take as agreement. If they have a backwards way of making their point, they might go the other way on you.
“I hope Hilary goes all the way—I love her enforced health care plan, it really makes the medical lobbyist funding her campaign excited.”
Now you have to be careful. This may be the kind of person who fakes with a soft, casual response to gull you into an equally squishy response—but only because they want to come at your from the other side and beat you down with a few choice facts.
You can either disengage by quickly surrendering verbally.
“Yeah, that’s a good point. I’m totally voting for Hilary.”
You could fake an ailment:
“Ugh, I gotta go take care of this painful and contagious diarrhea.”
I don’t actually know if there’s a kind of diarrhea that is contagious. But you plant the seed of infection and you can buy yourself some buffering time from your coworker who likes NPR.
Lastly, you communicate your unwillingness to talk about what for the most part seems to be emotionally fueled issues lightly tempered with cherry picked facts that sometimes relate directly to issues—by establishing eye contact and farting.
Which explains my steady work diet of chili covered broccoli and roasted garlic. I’m not sure if garlic is one of those “gassy” foods, but it really helps with that hint of tire-on-fire.
Politics, as I understand them, is about selecting officials to govern us, the people, in a just and reasonable manner. Which is no where close to what politics are actually about.
Most people don’t actually think past their political figure head. Either they treat their choice like religion—whatever ma and pa roll with, or you go the other way and pick that other party so you can show them how independent you are.
And after that, it’s like watching a two team sport—but with much higher budgets.
I think having two parties actually works against us. I feel like you should sit down, see what you think is important and then see who best represents those beliefs. Make them fight to be your candidate! Competition is generally regarded as being good for any market.
Right now, it’s the opposite. All day long we’re told what the hot button issues are, and it’s more or less a given you’ll be voting for your potential party candidate. I am so sick of pro life/choice, I’m this close to aborting myself.
At the end of the day, it seems like both parties are both puppets on either hand of big business and money. Maybe the candidates want to make changes, but the ever present pressure of outside funding is always looming large. Sadly, that's but one of the many problems surrounding politics.
Politics seem to come up again and again. Someone wants to talk about it. Feigning ignorance is just as bad. The “You Really Should Care About Politics” speech, and any other speach they get to deliver from ahigh on their horse, is just as annoying.
Here’s how to handle the unwanted politichat like a Bastard.
“Obama’s looking good.”
“He better look out for Hilary!”
That’s about what I try and keep the exchange to. Brief and unspecific, maybe followed by a sip of water so you can turn away and B-line it for your desk. Also, you could insert the republican names if you wanted too, they get mentioned just as often are talked about just as briefly. Sometimes, though, it’s a bit more sticky.
“Well, McCain is looking good. They say he’s the only one who can beat Hilary.”
“Well, he was a POW his perspective on war could help us out.”
See that? You just take the lead and respond with something that is easy for them to take as agreement. If they have a backwards way of making their point, they might go the other way on you.
“I hope Hilary goes all the way—I love her enforced health care plan, it really makes the medical lobbyist funding her campaign excited.”
Now you have to be careful. This may be the kind of person who fakes with a soft, casual response to gull you into an equally squishy response—but only because they want to come at your from the other side and beat you down with a few choice facts.
You can either disengage by quickly surrendering verbally.
“Yeah, that’s a good point. I’m totally voting for Hilary.”
You could fake an ailment:
“Ugh, I gotta go take care of this painful and contagious diarrhea.”
I don’t actually know if there’s a kind of diarrhea that is contagious. But you plant the seed of infection and you can buy yourself some buffering time from your coworker who likes NPR.
Lastly, you communicate your unwillingness to talk about what for the most part seems to be emotionally fueled issues lightly tempered with cherry picked facts that sometimes relate directly to issues—by establishing eye contact and farting.
Which explains my steady work diet of chili covered broccoli and roasted garlic. I’m not sure if garlic is one of those “gassy” foods, but it really helps with that hint of tire-on-fire.
Politics, as I understand them, is about selecting officials to govern us, the people, in a just and reasonable manner. Which is no where close to what politics are actually about.
Most people don’t actually think past their political figure head. Either they treat their choice like religion—whatever ma and pa roll with, or you go the other way and pick that other party so you can show them how independent you are.
And after that, it’s like watching a two team sport—but with much higher budgets.
I think having two parties actually works against us. I feel like you should sit down, see what you think is important and then see who best represents those beliefs. Make them fight to be your candidate! Competition is generally regarded as being good for any market.
Right now, it’s the opposite. All day long we’re told what the hot button issues are, and it’s more or less a given you’ll be voting for your potential party candidate. I am so sick of pro life/choice, I’m this close to aborting myself.
At the end of the day, it seems like both parties are both puppets on either hand of big business and money. Maybe the candidates want to make changes, but the ever present pressure of outside funding is always looming large. Sadly, that's but one of the many problems surrounding politics.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Bastard Vs Bastard
My blog is fairly new, and I would like to thank those of you who are both reading my posts and even showing your friends. To those of you just doing one or the other—watch your back. Honestly though, I appreciate it. I’ve started publishing more—something I am committing to stay on top of. From here on out, I’ll be doing my damnedest to publish Mondays and Thursdays.
I consider myself a homebody with aspirations of becoming a shut-in. That said, I actually left my house this weekend. Typically, I’m distrustful of any group or organization willing to include me as a member. But even I have a small clique of friends. Granted, they should know better after all these years—but that’s why I’m pro-blackmail.
In my own life, I’m not really a violent guy. It’s typically avoidable. But, I do find the skill and technique involved in mixed martial arts fighting compelling. I’m fairly new to the Ultimate Fighter Championship, but my friends, if you enjoy boxing type sports (boxing being what everyone USED to watch before they see UFC), it’s hard not to love seeing two men step into the octagon.
One of those few friends was celebrating his birthday by watching UFC 81 at yet another friend’s house. (I’d really hate to give anyone the impression I have a large quantity of friends—I don’t. They’re all quality though.) Since one is paying to see the fights live; there are a lot of matches on the card. After the main event, you get to see the smaller, non-title match matches.
The great thing about UFC fights is you just never know who will win. Some matches look like a David and Goliath type match up, only David’s not allowed his sling and stone.
I watched guys lay on the ground as elbows and fists rained down on their heads, only to twist suddenly as their opponent shifted their stance and before you know it, they’re both on the ground and the big guy with the elbow storm is tapping like crazy to get the guy he just bloodied to stop applying the pressure to their knee.
Twice I saw the bigger guy lose because the smarter fighter was able to get a submission hold on their opponent. The only thing to rival to the fights are the after-fight interviews—
“You just spent the last fifteen minutes getting punched in the head. Could you say something profound for us about the fight?”
I say we have them them huff some glue real fast and then see if you can get some coherent thoughts from them. And then maybe fight some ninja's, for ninja-fighting-sake.
I consider myself a homebody with aspirations of becoming a shut-in. That said, I actually left my house this weekend. Typically, I’m distrustful of any group or organization willing to include me as a member. But even I have a small clique of friends. Granted, they should know better after all these years—but that’s why I’m pro-blackmail.
In my own life, I’m not really a violent guy. It’s typically avoidable. But, I do find the skill and technique involved in mixed martial arts fighting compelling. I’m fairly new to the Ultimate Fighter Championship, but my friends, if you enjoy boxing type sports (boxing being what everyone USED to watch before they see UFC), it’s hard not to love seeing two men step into the octagon.
One of those few friends was celebrating his birthday by watching UFC 81 at yet another friend’s house. (I’d really hate to give anyone the impression I have a large quantity of friends—I don’t. They’re all quality though.) Since one is paying to see the fights live; there are a lot of matches on the card. After the main event, you get to see the smaller, non-title match matches.
The great thing about UFC fights is you just never know who will win. Some matches look like a David and Goliath type match up, only David’s not allowed his sling and stone.
I watched guys lay on the ground as elbows and fists rained down on their heads, only to twist suddenly as their opponent shifted their stance and before you know it, they’re both on the ground and the big guy with the elbow storm is tapping like crazy to get the guy he just bloodied to stop applying the pressure to their knee.
Twice I saw the bigger guy lose because the smarter fighter was able to get a submission hold on their opponent. The only thing to rival to the fights are the after-fight interviews—
“You just spent the last fifteen minutes getting punched in the head. Could you say something profound for us about the fight?”
I say we have them them huff some glue real fast and then see if you can get some coherent thoughts from them. And then maybe fight some ninja's, for ninja-fighting-sake.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
In the Name of the King
The other day, I went to grab a burger for lunch. A simple task for me, a simple man, right? Not quite.
I placed my order, probably the most generic and common order ever, and then was floored.
“We’re sorry, sir. We no longer serve the Whopper.”
The words turned my blood to ice. It’s like I was being told my kids were dead, my car had been stolen or that porn was no longer allowed on the internet.
“Excuse me?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“Burger King no longer carries the Whopper.”
The sounds of the world were buried under the dull roar filling my ears. A red film settled over my vision and when it cleared, I was alone in parking lot, covered in blood, fry sauce and brain—human brain, not the cow brain found in delicious fry sauce.
The cops understood, though. It happens quite often, apparently. They hosed me off and sent me on home wrapped up in one of those fuzzy grey blankets you normally have to survive a fire or a car crash to get.
Nothing makes me miss the days of not having cable hooked up to the T.V. more than commercials. As advertising slowly absorbs popular culture, commercials start to look like movies from the past.
Enter the Jackass style Burger King Commercials. What? You want a Whopper? Oh snap! You just got punk’d with a Big Mac, bitch! How entertaining! What effective advertising. I’m definitely going to willingly go to the website to see more commercials.
After I go buy a Triple Whopper, I mean.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for filming unaware people freaking out, especially if there’s profit to be made on top of my amusement (or they’re having sex). But watching people come unhinged and barely restraining themselves from starting a fist fight because they don’t get what they want for lunch isn’t as entertaining for me as it is disturbing.
Maybe it’s a little funny, but now remember one little fact: these people are roaming around, free to travel, loose in society. Maybe they’re in front of you in line at the gas station and about to find out their brand of smokes aren’t available. Maybe they’re behind you at the movies and you’re talking too loud. Maybe you just cut them off in traffic.
Me, I live in fear. I always have a Whopper in my pocket, you know, just in case someone I encounter by chance is out of their meds.
I placed my order, probably the most generic and common order ever, and then was floored.
“We’re sorry, sir. We no longer serve the Whopper.”
The words turned my blood to ice. It’s like I was being told my kids were dead, my car had been stolen or that porn was no longer allowed on the internet.
“Excuse me?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“Burger King no longer carries the Whopper.”
The sounds of the world were buried under the dull roar filling my ears. A red film settled over my vision and when it cleared, I was alone in parking lot, covered in blood, fry sauce and brain—human brain, not the cow brain found in delicious fry sauce.
The cops understood, though. It happens quite often, apparently. They hosed me off and sent me on home wrapped up in one of those fuzzy grey blankets you normally have to survive a fire or a car crash to get.
Nothing makes me miss the days of not having cable hooked up to the T.V. more than commercials. As advertising slowly absorbs popular culture, commercials start to look like movies from the past.
Enter the Jackass style Burger King Commercials. What? You want a Whopper? Oh snap! You just got punk’d with a Big Mac, bitch! How entertaining! What effective advertising. I’m definitely going to willingly go to the website to see more commercials.
After I go buy a Triple Whopper, I mean.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for filming unaware people freaking out, especially if there’s profit to be made on top of my amusement (or they’re having sex). But watching people come unhinged and barely restraining themselves from starting a fist fight because they don’t get what they want for lunch isn’t as entertaining for me as it is disturbing.
Maybe it’s a little funny, but now remember one little fact: these people are roaming around, free to travel, loose in society. Maybe they’re in front of you in line at the gas station and about to find out their brand of smokes aren’t available. Maybe they’re behind you at the movies and you’re talking too loud. Maybe you just cut them off in traffic.
Me, I live in fear. I always have a Whopper in my pocket, you know, just in case someone I encounter by chance is out of their meds.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Lucky Bastards
This is the true story of a lucky bastard.
I can’t imagine the kind of fight that has to ensue that you would wake up at the ungodly hour of 5 a.m. to drive three hours to purchase a $150 pair of jeans. I’ve been trying to find a mental touch stone from my own life to picture how the conversation begins, escalates and then ends knowing your life would be better if she had those jeans.
And, the pair of jeans is so specific—it’s not just a name brand or the desire to own a status symbol to help you feel better than people; it has to be THAT pair of jeans from THAT store in Atlantic City. To the credit of the evil being and what seems could be the very definition of a Money Eating Bitch Girlfriend, he had been told to fetch the jeans before—AND FORGOTEN.
Now, I’ve had some hellatious fights in my time, but none of them started because I was holding out on the truer signs of love—a willingness to submit to unreasonable demands (aka the conditions of love). Too much porn? Sure, that’ll start a fight. Didn’t notice your girl shaved her head? Yeah, you’re in trouble. Forgot to blow $150 on a single pair a jeans? Brother, there’s a special level of hell reserved for people like you.
Before the sun was up, it was probably on the sneak—to his remaining friends I mean, that Sammy Zabib drove with a photocopy of the jeans so he wouldn’t purchase the wrong pair—which at this point would be reasonable ground for Money Eating Bitch Girlfriend to murder him.
His eagerness to please worked against him though. He arrived before the shop was even open. With nothing else to do but wait, Sammy started hitting the slots to pass the time. Until the machine he was playing on stopped working. When he fetched security to help him with his problem, they were quick to figure out the problem.
The machine wouldn’t work because Sammy Zabib had hit the jackpot. Maybe not in the girlfriend department—but certainly in the free money department. Nearly $800,000 had been won by our whipped friend (nevermind he thought it was a broken slot machine).
Is this a testament to the power of bitch girlfriends snapping their gum, bouncing their heads side to side while shoving the talk-to-the-hand hand in one’s face, or does it exemplify man’s willingness to do what ever it takes to get her to shut up?
Who knows. Either way, I’m betting Mr. Zahib’s girlfriend is undoubtedly a bitch; and him having a sudden $800,000 isn’t going to improve her demands of him. She definitely deserves some gold dipped chocolates, $1000 skirts and a spa treatment with imported mud. Hopefully though, he’s not so whipped he’ll be able demand at least a threesome.
I can’t imagine the kind of fight that has to ensue that you would wake up at the ungodly hour of 5 a.m. to drive three hours to purchase a $150 pair of jeans. I’ve been trying to find a mental touch stone from my own life to picture how the conversation begins, escalates and then ends knowing your life would be better if she had those jeans.
And, the pair of jeans is so specific—it’s not just a name brand or the desire to own a status symbol to help you feel better than people; it has to be THAT pair of jeans from THAT store in Atlantic City. To the credit of the evil being and what seems could be the very definition of a Money Eating Bitch Girlfriend, he had been told to fetch the jeans before—AND FORGOTEN.
Now, I’ve had some hellatious fights in my time, but none of them started because I was holding out on the truer signs of love—a willingness to submit to unreasonable demands (aka the conditions of love). Too much porn? Sure, that’ll start a fight. Didn’t notice your girl shaved her head? Yeah, you’re in trouble. Forgot to blow $150 on a single pair a jeans? Brother, there’s a special level of hell reserved for people like you.
Before the sun was up, it was probably on the sneak—to his remaining friends I mean, that Sammy Zabib drove with a photocopy of the jeans so he wouldn’t purchase the wrong pair—which at this point would be reasonable ground for Money Eating Bitch Girlfriend to murder him.
His eagerness to please worked against him though. He arrived before the shop was even open. With nothing else to do but wait, Sammy started hitting the slots to pass the time. Until the machine he was playing on stopped working. When he fetched security to help him with his problem, they were quick to figure out the problem.
The machine wouldn’t work because Sammy Zabib had hit the jackpot. Maybe not in the girlfriend department—but certainly in the free money department. Nearly $800,000 had been won by our whipped friend (nevermind he thought it was a broken slot machine).
Is this a testament to the power of bitch girlfriends snapping their gum, bouncing their heads side to side while shoving the talk-to-the-hand hand in one’s face, or does it exemplify man’s willingness to do what ever it takes to get her to shut up?
Who knows. Either way, I’m betting Mr. Zahib’s girlfriend is undoubtedly a bitch; and him having a sudden $800,000 isn’t going to improve her demands of him. She definitely deserves some gold dipped chocolates, $1000 skirts and a spa treatment with imported mud. Hopefully though, he’s not so whipped he’ll be able demand at least a threesome.
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