I’m Not Your Clown… Well Maybe

I can’t golf for shit. Fuck this sport. It’s way too hard.

I respect anyone that can golf well. My father has been golfing for decades and that mother fucker can golf like a champ.

I inherited a set of golf clubs from my father and have never possessed the ability to wield them well. But I can do one thing better than anyone onĀ  golf course… Make a fucking deal.

Allow me the opportunity to elaborate. Unless you’re a child prodigy, golf is not about skill, it’s about one of two things, either A) Something mildly athletic that can performed while drunk or B) an excellent way to make business decisions. I use it for the latter.

Many business decisions have been made on the golf course, and typically by men that have a handicap in the high twenties.

I golf for necessity, not for enjoyment. I guess my point is, if anyone that’s dumb enough to read this trash is good at golf, PLEASE GIVE ME LESSONS!

Advertisements

But Why Though?

Can someone please explain to me why a wide receiver has never won NFL MVP?

This is an outrage to me. Obviously I’m not attempting to understate the importance of quarterbacks or running backs, but think about the crop of talented athletes playing the wide receiver role currently. I’ve always said if a receiver were to ever win MVP Antonio Brown could be the first. Or consider the monster season Julio Jones had just a couple years ago. I suppose many would be upset if I didn’t mention Odell, but this kid has to actually play the game in order for me to consider him in contention.

The reason I’ve been thinking about this so much is because of the Minnesota Vikings. As a native Minnesotan, I spend a great deal of time thinking about the woeful Vikings (When I’m not thinking about the soon to be champion Timberwolves!! I realize this is the wrong series for this reference, but I need to say this as much as possible in order to make it true. I think that’s what “The Secret” was about, but I’m not sure because I never read it and have no idea what “The Secret” is.)

The Vikings are rubbish. Even if Sam Bradford comes back it doesn’t matter because he’s playing on borrowed time. This young man is infinitely talented, but let’s face it, he’s suffered two potentially career ending injuries and the fact he can walk is a goddamn miracle. I love Sam Bradford and I wish him the best and most successful career a QB can have, but he may unfortunately become another talented athlete whose career is cut short by injuries (The Vikings need a separate “Ring of Honor” to honor all the greats that never were due to injuries.)

ANYWAY: Receivers, this is one of the things the Vikes do so so so well. Thielen and Diggs are the most lethal receiver duo IN THE ENTIRE NFL. I said it. These men are far from the most physically imposing players, they’re no Megatron, but the thing they do better than ANYONE is run routes. Let this be a lesson to every young aspiring receiver, if you can run mad routes you’ll be a motherfucking star. If these guys are supposed to cut at seven yards, guess what, they’re cutting at seven yards. No matter what QB is playing, they know exactly where the receivers are going to be. This is a crucial role that deserves recognition for it’s contributions to the league. Diggs gets TDs (start in fantasy FYI) and Thielen gets yards (these names may be misspelled but I refuse to spell check, it’s for quitters.)

NFL, make a receiver MVP they deserve it. Think about Jerry Rice, don’t let Jerry Rice down.

Back in My Day

This has been an oddly sociable week for me, as opposed to my typical anonymity and general distaste for small talk, I’ve been trying to go to more gatherings, but I must say, it’s nice to finally be back in front of my computer listening to the new releases on Spotify.

I try not to get personal on this blog and try to stick to my usual scene of drunken hi-jinks, sports talk, and the occasional relationship story, but this has been a pretty unusual week for me, unusual in a good way. I rediscovered my love of meditation and this has lead me to rediscover things I haven’t done since I was a teenager.

I’m a very intense and angry man. Children and people not familiar with my typical aggressive persona have a tendency to describe as “scary,” I’m not fond of this descriptor. I swear I’m a nice guy, I’m just big and loud, but I have a tender soul. A mutual friend of my wife and I has a three year old daughter (she’s a goddamn angel, just the sweetest little girl) and despite having been in her life since she was a baby, she continuously shows apprehension before approaching me, and this happens with every single child I encounter. As a result, I’ve been attempting to go back to my younger days when I was a carefree youngster. Hence my return to meditation. I went through a weird spiritual phase in high school, and made meditation a part of my daily ritual, but as I got older I somehow got the impression this was stupid so I gave it up all together.

I started meditating again this week and it brought me back to the tranquility of youth. It was as if I had jumped into a sci-fi wormhole and became a teenager again. As a result, I don’t hate the world as much. So I guess my point is, find something that makes you feel young again. Regardless of what it is, the simplicity of youth will heal your mind and make you forget about the pressures of adulthood. What works for you? What methods do you all incorporate in your day to day activities that help you achieve peace?

Fuck Your Wedding

I can’t think of a time I have been less motivated to do anything. It’s unfortunate, but I must push through the melancholy and write something, anything at this point.

First off, let me apologize to anyone that listened to my fantasy football advice and started Derek Carr tonight, I really though he was going to go off, but we all make mistakes.

I went to a wedding last night and it was just the worst. I’m not anti-marriage (I’m married myself), but I am anti-wedding the whole institution is so stupid I hate it more than any reasonable person should. My wedding cost me $120 and that was the cost of the marriage license. Most people hear this and immediately say: “Your wife was okay with this?!” to which I respond: “Uhh, yeah. I proposed in a Target parking lot, nothing is worse than that.”

This may sound like a joke, but it’s all sadly true. My wife has been through a tremendous deal with me as a spouse. Essentially, we woke up one morning, and I said: “Want to get married today?” she agreed, and here we are. Best decision I ever made.

My wife is an angel and I’m an idiot, and to us the wedding was never about extravagance or some posh bullshit, it’s about love, and we have plenty of that.

My point is, expensive weddings are dumb and you’re dumb if you have one. I got married in a free suit and I’ve know my wife since we were 7 years old. Marriage is about love, fuck your wedding. Unless you have an open bar. If you have an open bar please invite me and have a hotel nearby.

Free Form Writing Odyssey

I’m not proud of how many tries it took me to type “odyssey” before I got it right (right click is for quitters).

I just tried to make stir fry and it sucked, so now I’m going to make a post with no purpose and no comprehensible plan. It may come as a surprise to many that I actually put quite a bit of thought into these posts, but this one I’m just going to swing for the fences and hope for the best (much like Aaron Judge, suck it Yankees fans!)

I had a birthday this week. Many consider me young but I have the mentality of a 75 year old man so this may as well be a death sentence. I should clarify, I’m not one of these “anti-birthday” people that hate their birthdays, but to me I often forget about my own birthday until someone reminds me, and I then I say “Oh yeah, neat,” and then I go to work.

Birthdays can be fun, but I often have more fun at other people’s birthdays than my own, but this last week was perfect, I stayed at home, grilled some steaks, enjoyed a moderately priced bourbon, and went to bed after watching a baseball game, fucking perfect. To some, this may sound boring, but this what I love. If I am blessed enough to have a pleasant afterlife every day will be like this.

However, my wife LOVES her birthday, like to an extreme level. She could be actively murdering someone and would say: “But it’s my birthday!” and then I’d allow her to return to her murder. And that’s fine with me because I like celebrating her birthday with her. This year I brought her to a concert, we had dinner after, and stayed in a gorgeous hotel in downtown Minneapolis, another great evening, but very different from my own.

I’m going to be honest, I have no clue where I’m going with this post, I just wanted to write some shit. We’re working on a huge merger at work and that’s all I can think about, but I love doing this so I need to write something to distract myself. Our next post will be better I promise.

How do you like to spend your birthday? Do you like simplicity like myself, or are your a flashy individual much like my wife? Let me know, let’s talk about it.

Fight or Flight

Welp, it’s that time of year again. Once Labor Day’s over you autumn crazed fucks start celebrating the fall. Seriously, why are you all so bat shit insane over fucking sweaters and warm drinks? Football’s cool and everything but you people lose your dicks over autumn. I heard the two girls from my office (from the Arby’s story, can’t remember the name, bonus points if you can find it and tell me the name of my own story) they were already talking about haunted houses and hayrides.

I try to not involve myself with their idiotic conversations for fear of becoming even dumber than I already am, but the entire time I was sitting at my desk biting my tongue trying to ignore them. Why are haunted houses a thing? I understand it’s fun to be scared, but I have never once been scared by a haunted house, there’s no element of fear with a sixteen year old in a rubber mask.

Every year my wife and I go to a very popular haunted house in our state with some friends and every year I absolutely hate it. They all cower behind me as I shove my way past frightened idiots and cheap decorations jumping our from around corners. The big finale to the experience is a maze that has a gentleman running around with a chainsaw trying to “kill” you while you search for the exit. Last year, my wife and I found the exit and the chainsaw man jumped from behind a corner and my wife completely froze, by this point I was completely aggravated and wanted this experience to be over and this jackass was preventing me from leaving so I did the only thing I could think of, I elbowed him in the face. As he fell to the ground I grabbed my wife’s wrist, yelled “Come on!” and we left. As we’re leaving all I could hear is “What the hell man?” from the chainsaw guy as he grabbed his face.

I thank God everyday that I avoided assault charges, not my proudest moment (I’m a little proud of this story) but in the end I managed to elbow a grown man in the face and avoid jail.

Am I a Prostitute?

EDIT: forgot a title yesterday. My bad.

Last week on our post “I’ve Got Problems Man,” I talked about the time I dated a stripper, and since then I’ve gotten a couple questions from my friends that saw the post and instantly became curious about my sex life. This is never a touchy subject for me, which is pretty obvious considering I share these details with strangers on the internet, but one thing that became abundantly clear, after speaking with my inner circle, there’s a lot of animosity towards sex workers.

Perhaps my friends are just awful people (sorry guys) but they did not find my post as charming as I had initially expected. This bothers me because dammit haven’t we all done some shit that, in one way or another, is at least a little fucked up? Why the fuck should I judge a stripper? Even though Roxie from my last post stole from me and tried to kill me, this doesn’t mean I now judge all strippers (seriously though, read that post if you haven’t already).

We all do dumb shit, I was once paid for sex, not necessarily in a traditional sense, but I had sex with a woman and was given cab fare for a ride across town, does that make me a prostitute? And if so, am I now a worse person because I accepted dirty sex money? (Not my proudest moment, but I had to get home).

I was a senior in college and by this point I did everything in my power to avoid house parties because they are the absolute worst thing that has ever existed. Hundreds of underage people violating all fire regulations just to rub against strangers and drink too much; although, I too enjoy drinking too much and rubbing against people, but at this point I was a grown ass man and could do this legally in a bar, and the frat house of Delta Chi Who Gives a Fuck as not an ideal location for me to be.

I went with a friend of mine because he assured me: “It’s going to be awesome bro!” It was indeed, not awesome bro.

I hated everything almost immediately upon arrival. People were pissing in the alley, girls were crying, and dudes were fighting in the front yard, all the signs of a garbage evening. BUT I am a supportive friend and I was bound and determined to make the best of a bad situation. I had a few drinks, had some good conversation, and after about an hour I was looking for the nearest object to hang myself on. Then, through a slight clearing in the crowd, I saw her, Karen (not her real name).

Karen, was interesting, she stood out from everyone at this horrible gathering (mostly because she was about six feet tall and looked twenty years older than everyone, seriously, I’m fairly certain this was someone’s mom that came along to the party. To this day, I don’t know why she was there or how old she really was. “Karen” if you ever read this, how old are you and WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU DOING THERE?!)

I walked over, not drunk but charmingly seductive, and began with some general conversation:

“This place sucks right?” She laughs, (I’m in).

“You here with anyone?” I ask.

“I came with some friends, but I don’t know where they went,” she responds.

“You’re too beautiful to stand alone, let’s go outside and talk,” SIDE NOTE: This line will most likely reoccur throughout A LOT of stories because I used it all the fucking time. For some reason, drunk girls love it so I kept it in my rotation. Karen naturally obliged and we went outside and talked, without talking. I grabbed her hand and lead her through the crowd of miscreant youth, and the second we stepped outside I put my arm around her waist and made my move. We made out in the front yard for what felt like an eternity.

“Come back to my place,” I said.

“My place is better,” she responded. I assumed she was correct because my apartment was horrible and my roommates were the worst.

We caught a cab and arrived at a home so beautiful I wasn’t even aware houses this nice existed in Minnesota. I thanked the cab driver profusely as she paid. We strolled to the front door and the second we stepped inside she attacked me. I was completely thrown, she became a newly freed monster. Within seconds my back was on her bed and she was on top of me. We made love for what felt like an eternity. We laid next to one another in a steaming pile of passion and exhaustion for about ten minutes before she said the words I’ll never forget:

“What time are you going to leave?”

Apparently I’m not that good. I changed and left immediately, but not before I had the most humiliating conversation of my life:

“I can leave now, but I don’t even know where I am.”

“You’re at *address*.”

“I live in the East Village.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow, well that’s too bad. Listen, there’s forty dollars in my purse on the chair over there. Use that for a cab.”

“Alright.” I got dressed, walked a couple blocks, caught a cab, and rode home.

I woke up he next morning with nothing but regret and dirty clothes. So, you tell me am I bad person?