Massages are Gross

Intro: Once again, this a very real story that i am not proud of.

I hate massages. When I say this, people immediately start brandishing their pitchforks and torches and try to chase me out of town. I don’t want a former drug addict with hulk hands touching my body. Massages combine my two least favorite activities: strangers, and being touched.

Neither my wife nor myself have ever had a massage so i thought it would be a lovely anniversary surprise to get a couple’s massage; I was very wrong in my assumption. Let me be clear, this was a very fancy massage studio and I spent a substantial amount of money for this experience. This was not getting rubbed by a strange foreign man in a strip mall, this was a goddamn experience, or so they told me. Needles to say, I walked in with the mentality that I was the best husband in the world and I was quickly punished for my hubris.

We are immediately greeted by the front desk person (let’s call her Susan) and my wife has a smile like a child waiting to get into a theme park for the first time (I was going to use a popular example here, but I’m not sure if I can legally use the establishment’s name, so imagine a popular theme park). Susan sits with us and has us fill out our intake forms which consist of a map of the human body and she has us indicate where we would like to be touched as if we’re molestation victims in a court case. I make no selections on this sheet and my wife selects every inch of her body. Susan then proceeds to ask us a series of questions such as: why are you here? Are there any areas you want us to focus on? Have you ever had a massage before? My answer to all questions is no.

Susan takes a moment and assigns a specialized person for each of us based on our needs and takes us back to our massage room. We are instructed to “strip to our comfort level” I take off my shoes and lay on the table still wearing my jeans and shirt; my wife strips completely naked and hops in bed excitedly awaiting to be groped by a stranger. The specialists walk in and my person is maybe five feet tall and weighs eighty pounds, but she had the hand strength of Hercules on steroids. She asks: “Is there anywhere in particular you want me to focus?” I say: “I guess my shoulders.” I’m fairly certain she dislocated my shoulders several times throughout the course of this massage. Meanwhile, my wife is sitting next to me with the strange woman touching her and she’s asking for her to go harder. I was aroused and emasculated at the same time; very confusing time for me.
By the end of the hour I couldn’t move and my wife wanted to go for round two. The moral of the story is, if you want to learn suppressed secrets about your spouse, go get a couple massage.

Gains

Intro: Unfortunately, this story is very real. This is an actual conversation I had with my brother, remembered to the best of my recollection, and I still feel bad about it to this day. I’m a part time boxing instructor so fitness has always been important to me, especially when it concerns my family.

“You haven’t lost a single pound?” The question stupidly rolls through my lips despite my full knowledge of the answer that is soon to follow.

“Well no, but they say muscle weighs more than fat,” The moronic look on my brother’s face implies he truly believes the spectacular level of idiocy he’s preaching.

“True, but how much do you weigh currently?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Bullshit, you know, but you don’t want t tell me because you think I’m going to judge you.”

“Will you?” He asks without looking at me.

“Will I what?”

“Judge me. Will you judge me when I tell how much I weigh?”

“Probably yes, but if it helps you’ll have no idea, it’ll be silent judgment. I won’t tell anyone I’m just curious.”

“480.”

“480?”

“Yeah, 480 that’s my weight.” I try to stifle my obvious surprise at such a shockingly large number.

“There’s worse,” I say trying to hide my high level disgust that my own brother could allow himself to be so fucking vile. “Shit man, that’s not even a TV special there’s plenty of people bigger than you,” while this statement is true I don’t believe it in the slightest.  

“Thanks, I appreciate that.”

“How often are you going to the gym?” I ask.

“About five times.”

“Five times a week?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck man that’s more than me, what are you eating? You should be dropping weight like crazy if you’re working out that much.”

“I think it’s my thyroid,” My brother says obviously trying to change the subject.

“Shut the fuck up, it’s not your thyroid. What are you eating,” my voice gets increasingly more aggressive.

“Weight gain is a side effect of this new medication I’m on.”

“Is your new medication made out of ice cream?” I’m intentionally being mean at this point.

“I’m really trying my best.”

“What are you eating? What did you have for breakfast today?” I ask knowing I’m not going to like the answer.

“I had a whole wheat bagel,” he says this as if he’s proud of himself.

“Awesome, that’s a solid breakfast. What else did you have?”

“What do you mean?”

“What else did you have for breakfast? What did you put on that bagel?”

“I put peanut butter on the bagel.”

“Okay.”

“And a little bit of honey.”

“Okay, what else?”

“I made three eggs and some bacon.”

“Okay, egg whites?”

“No whole eggs.”

“Okay, what else?”

“I had a banana.”

“Well that’s good.”

“Yeah!” He sounds so proud it’s stupid. “But I also had a bowl of cereal and two donuts.”

“Okay,” I take a moment to gather my thoughts. I’m going to have to handle this situation tactfully.

“You indicated in your food log that you had a whole wheat bagel for breakfast?”

“Yeah, I did have a bagel.”

“But what about the other stuff?”

“What other stuff?”

“The grocery list you just mentioned.”

“Oh that stuff?”

“Yeah, that stuff.”

“Well,” I can tell my brother is trying concoct some sort of fat person excuse, “I guess I didn’t think about it.”

“You didn’t think about it? Not at any point while you were consuming nearly a day’s worth of calories?”

“It’s not that much.”

“It’s quite a bit.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“Well, let’s find out,” I slide my chair back and go into the living room.

“Where are you going?” my brother asks.

“I’m getting a notepad and a calculator.” I return to my seat with both items and I begin making notes on a blank page.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m rewriting your food log for yesterday. So you started with a bagel, how many calories were in the bagel?”

“About 300 I think?”

“Fair enough, and you put honey and peanut butter on the bagel correct?”

“Yes.”

“So let’s say another 200 calories, give or take.”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“Do you want to fact check my math?”

“No,” my brother’s eyes drop to the floor.

“After that you had three eggs and bacon, so let’s say another 350, sound fair?”

“I have no idea.”

“We’ll say 350, and you capped that off with a bowl of cereal and two donuts, which to be perfectly honest, I have no idea how many calories to say, let’s put down another 500.”

“We really don’t have to do this.”

“You’re goddamn right we do,” I take a moment to add all the numbers together. ‘We’re looking at about 1350 calories for breakfast.” My brother says nothing and I’m starting to feel like an asshole.

“I suppose it could be worse, but you need to get ahold of this shit man. You’re 32 and you’re going to fucking die soon.” My brother starts to cry and I officially feel like an asshole. I never know how to react when people are upset, so I leave and go for a walk. I never said I was a good person.

He’s Just Really Good

It’s very rare my father and I agree on anything, so when these sparse moments do occur I feel obligated to talk about them. There are only two things my father and I have ever talked about: sports, and alcohol (it started off as just sports but once I reached the appropriate age I developed many strong opinions on liquor). I like to raise hypothetical questions to my father about sports and the most recent of the questions was: “If you were going to choose one player in the NBA to build a team around, which player do you choose?”

To my surprise, we selected the same player, Kawhi Leonard. This guy is so damn good it’s unbelievable. He is quite possibly one of the most multi-faceted players in the league today. His upper echelon defense is only highlighted by his offensive dominance and ability to read the court. My question for today is two-fold: Do you agree with our choice of Kawhi Leonard? and if not, which player would you build a team around?

It’s Just Weird Carol

Why do people feel obligated to invite their family members to sex toy parties? My wife has gone to adult specialty events with her mother and aunts, and apparently this isn’t a strange thing to do. A lot of people I’ve talked to have done this same thing. That is so unbelievably fucking uncomfortable I can’t believe this is a real life situation that actually exists. This situation is so unfathomably terrible it’s like something out of my worst nightmares. I don’t want the notion of my family members doing anything remotely sexual anywhere near my mental capacities. As far as I’m concerned, my family members are all asexual and I was made by magic. Maybe I’m too immature for these events, luckily for me, I’ve never been invited and I don’t think men can go to these anyways.

“Hey! Do you want to come look at a bunch of plastic dicks with your mom?”

“Fuck no.”

Pressure without the Peers

I started a fraternity in college with a handful of friends. This was not, in any way, an official college sanctioned fraternity; this was a social club founded by a couple of bored twenty-somethings to have an excuse to drink on a Tuesday mid-morning (not that we really needed an excuse).

Despite the stigma, fraternities and sororities do a lot of good for the community and serve as an important social environment for many college students. Our fraternity was nowhere close to any of these things. We were rowdy, belligerent, and overall rude. For the most part, we were how fraternities are portrayed in movies and television. I never amassed a large amount of amusing stories from these days, other than the typical drunk nonsense, but there’s one moment that always sticks with me.

Chad (not his real name) was Chinese, this detail is not important for the story but just for character development, but Chad was not from China. He was a fifth generation American so he was about as Chinese as I am Irish. He spoke with a very standard “Dude Bro” voice that most frat guys have. One afternoon, Chad and I were sitting on the porch of the rundown home we rented as our clubhouse and he started smoking a cigarette. I have never noticed Chad smoke before so naturally this caught me off guard.

“When did you start smoking?” I asked inquisitively.

“Oh this?” Chad said pointing to the cigarette in his mouth.

“Yeah that.”

“I started smoking last week.”

“Last week?”

“Yeah.”

“You just decided to take up smoking?” I ask, admittedly very confused.

“Yeah.”

“Any particular reason? I don’t care, I just find it odd that you have the mentality as if you started a normal hobby like jogging.”

“Well I get high every once in awhile,” Chad says.

“I’m aware, but that doesn’t explain the cigarette,” now I’m getting annoyed.

“So, you know that girl Kate (not her real name)?” Chad asks.

“Yeah?”

“She smokes, so I figured this gives me the perfect excuse to talk to her,” Chad says this as if it’s a totally normal thing to say. Needless to say, I’m speechless.

“Fuck you,” I finally say after several minutes of silently watching cars drive by.

“What?”

“You’re kidding right? You started smoking so you’d have an excuse to talk to a girl?”

“Well, not just her, a lot of girls smoke,” Chad says trying to defend himself.

“That doesn’t mean you start smoking! Just go talk to them like a normal person” I start yelling.

“But this gives me a perfect intro.”

“So does ‘hello’ you fucking idiot, except ‘hello’ won’t kill you faster!”

“Whatever man, you’ll see, this is going to work great.”

It did not work great, at all. Kate completely ignored him, and so did virtually every other girl Chad tried smoking with. The worst part of all, it’s been several years and Chad still smokes, granted so does his girlfriend, so maybe he’s a secret genius, but I still think he’s an idiot.

I’ll Rest When I’m Alive

Intro: This is the last post from our sports page before I transferred all future operations over to the Reader

FYI: I’m super sick right now so I’m going to try my damnedest to conjure up a coherent piece of writing for the sake of discussion, even though I’m pretty sure no one reads this damn thing anyways.

Resting players is bullshit. If your player has a legitimate injury, by all means let them rest, BUT if your player has one of these pretend fairy tale injuries like a cramp or they had a bad run in with a butterfly in the parking lot, they better play. I’m not going to name any specifics but we’re all going to understand who is being referenced in this piece.

My first NBA game ever was the Timberwolves against the Kings. I got to see Kevin Garnett and Chris Webber live, two of my favorite players, when I when I was eight years old, that was a big moment, and these are the kinds of moments all fans deserve. If you rest your players without legitimate cause, you’re a criminal and the players don’t deserve these insane contracts that are being offered after this new TV deal that has been signed.

What’s your opinion on resting players? Please let me know, even though none of you will.

Quick Update

Just a quick update. I’m going to be closing the sports site and transferring all sports related posts to the Reader. I’m trying fully integrate everything so all posts can be accessible from one place, so over the next few days I will be re-posting the newer sports articles on the Reader. Thank you everyone for checking us out I greatly appreciate all the support. Great things are coming. Have an amazing day!

I’m Cheap and Lazy

I hate potlucks. Anytime I hear an even is going to be a potluck I either eat before or after the event. Let me be clear, I love to cook, and over the years I have amassed a fairly solid repertoire of meals I can prepare at a moment’s notice, BUT I do NOT trust YOU. I have no idea what you’re going to put in whatever meal you brought with you, and I’m not adventurous enough to try your spouse’s famous chili.

So, I bring alcohol to every event. That’s my contribution; you’re welcome. I don’t care if you’re having a christening, or a dinner party, or a a child’s birthday, I bring alcohol. Someone always appreciates the alcohol, and if they don’t then I have something to entertain myself while I watch your horrible friends and family make awkward small talk with one another.

I’m going to let you in on some classified information, I don’t bring good alcohol. I have a collection of fancy liquor bottles, but they’re all empty, so I fill them with cheap bottom shelf swill. Example, I will bring my Grey Goose bottle and have it filled with Fleischmans. The amazing thing is no one has ever noticed or called me out on this.

Moral of the story, don’t invite to your BYOB Food events and if you do invite me, I’m going to get wrecked on cheap alcohol in a fancy bottle.

Fight Night

Intro: This another bit I used to talk about in my open-mic sessions.

I’ve been thinking about my parents a lot lately, they’re not dead or anything, I’ve just been thinking about them. If I had to fight one of my parents, I’d rather fight my dad. Now, let me be clear, I’m not refusing to fight my mom because I’d “feel bad” or have to “go easy on her” but I genuinely do not believe I can beat my mother in one-on-one physical combat.

Please don’t confuse my message, my dad is a big strong farmer, but my mother is infinitely more terrifying. My father is such an easy going man, if one were to get in a fight with him, it would be their fault because he’s such a sweetheart, in order to get him angry enough to fight you, you really fucked up. Whereas my mother is almost always ready to throw hands, she rolls out of bed and is ready to kick ass. If my parents were dogs, my father would be a Newfoundland, and my mother would be a Pug.

My mother is 5 feet tall and weighs maybe 90 pounds if she swam laps in an Olympic pool while wearing a suit of medieval armor, but she grew up in Chicago and used to beat kids with the rubber from old bike tires. She still scares me to this day and I’m a very large man. My mother once pushed me against the wall in our hallway, slapped me in the face, and told me to “stop being an asshole,” and I was never mean to her again.

My point is, respect your fucking parents and don’t be an asshole.

ALSO: I finally joined the 21st century and joined Twitter so check me out on there and please look up our founder on Instagram as well.

 

Clipboard

Intro: This is a bit I used to talk about in my stand-up routine. It’s a real story and I always enjoy reminiscing about the absurd lessons my parents taught me (or tried to teach me).

Both of my parents were elementary school teachers, a very noble profession that I have the utmost respect for, but the only problem with this, my parents never stopped teaching once they left the classroom. They liked to treat every moment as a “teachable moment” and much like a 90’s sitcom every action had to have a lesson associated with it, and these lessons didn’t always stick, or you could tell they were poorly thought out and my parents just said “fuck it” and went with it in the vague hopes my siblings and I would learn something. This is one of those moments.

I got my first real job when I was sixteen, measuring men for suits and tuxedos. This job was absolutely ridiculous for someone that just learned how to drive three months ago, and to this day I have no idea how I got the job, or why they even gave it to me. I assume the store owner didn’t know either because I was fired two months later for “not being professional enough,” a reason that made complete sense to me at the time because apparently “Hey bro,” was not the way they wanted their customers greeted.

Anyway, when my father heard about the job he sat me down and gave me, what I thought, was going to be a piece of life changing advice, and I guess it sort of was. I wandered into the kitchen to find my dad sitting at the table drinking coffee and pretending to read the paper like he was auditioning to be an extra in a diner scene for an independent film.

“Isaac, take a seat,” my dad said gesturing to the seat across the table.

“Yeah dad?” I sit down and fold my hands and try to look as serious as possible. My father hated when he thought we weren’t listening.

“I heard you got this job, and that’s great, but I wanted to give you some advice in order to succeed.”

“Yeah of course,” I’m actually quite intrigued at this point.

“If you want to get ahead in business you have to do one thing…”

“What’s that?”

“You have to carry a clipboard.”

I’m silent for a very long time because I can’t tell if he’s serious.

“A clipboard?” I finally ask.

“Yeah,  a clipboard, always carry a clipboard. Do you have a clipboard?”

“No I don’t have a clipboard. Do you have a clipboard?”

“Fuck no I don’t have a clipboard, I’m an elementary teacher what would I need a clipboard for?” My father says not seeing the flaw in his logic.

“Listen,” my father continues, “think about this, if you’re in a store and you need help, and there’s two people in front of you and one of them has a clipboard, who are you going to ask?”

“The guy with the clipboard…”

“The guy with the clipboard! Exactly! Now go buy a clipboard!”

And that’s exactly what i did, I bought a clipboard, it was completely useless and I got fired, but I give my dad credit for trying, thanks dad.