I have to admit that between work and playing Xbox 360, I am having a lot of problems thinking of subjects to write about. I really don't want to maintain a journal and write about my own life too much. Hell, that even bores me. So, I'll try to come up with a few topics that I can write a weekly column about. I hope that this will help me a bit in achieving my goal of writing something every day. If you can think of a good subject or theme to write a weekly on, let me know.
Fridays are when I award the Sphincter Mouse of the Week Award. This column will cover one person every week who I consider among the worst human beings on the face of the planet. Usually I will award it as a result of something they did that week or at something that at least happened recently.
According to UrbanDictionary.com, a sphincter mouse is “A mouse that digs away at the intestines of its host. Usually it materializes magically in ones ass.” The whole notion of a sphincter mouse is absolutely dreadful to me; the mere thought of it makes my stomach turn and toes curl. This is actually pretty similar to the reaction I have when the name of the Sphincter Mouse of the Week winner is mentioned. Calling this individual a measly jackass or shithead is an insult to all the jackasses and shitheads of the universe. I needed a title so appalling that it matches just how much this person nauseates me.
And now the inaugural Zenestex.com Sphincter Mouse of the Week award goes to none other than Atlanta Falcons “Quarterback” Michael Vick.
Michael Vick: He has herpes.
Mr. Mexico is one of the highest paid players in the NFL, a superstar athlete, a celebrity, and he was living my dream. That is until the douche bag decided that he likes watching dogs maul each other to death. The fact that he “quarterbacks” (usually NFL quarterbacks can, in fact, throw the ball) one of the Bucs' biggest rivals has nothing to do with the award; it's the fact that he threw away everything for something as despicable as torturing dogs.
This story is repulsive on multiple levels for me. For one, I love animals and can't stand watching any animal suffer. I even hate killing the caterpillars that chew my plants down to a nub—gives me nightmares. Anyone who tortures animals should be tied up, dipped in honey, thrown on a fucking ant pile, and left to die a slow miserable death.
This whole story also sickens out of pure jealousy. I love football. Growing up all I ever wanted to do was to play for the Gators and then the Bucs. I refused to even consider any career other than football, which is probably why I changed my major twelve or so times in college. Unfortunately for me I'm short, skinny, and slow; I couldn't even make the University of Florida scout team. It just infuriates me to see gifted athletes like Mike Vick throw away everything by acting like a complete prick. I would have given damn near anything to have even a fraction of his talent.
This is from me to you, Mr. Mexico: You are such an asshat that even Al—freakin'—Sharpton is calling you out. I truly hope you never play another down of football again in your life. You have no right to play a game for a living, much less live period. However, the odds are good that you'll simply buy your way out of this with some nice expensive lawyering. If that's the case, I can assure you that I will not buy anything that you endorse or watch any game you play in except against the Bucs. If you show up on ESPN Sportscenter wearing anything other than prison jumpers, I will change the channel and not flip back. If you ever walk into Raymond James Stadium again I, along with 60,000 of my closest friends, will boo you without mercy and curse you to hell for the entire three hours that your sorry ass is on that field. And I just dare you to flip me off like you did to your own fans.
It only took me one day to break my promise of writing something every day. My apologies. I have an excuse, but I won't bore you with details. I am working on a post today. Here's a hint: It's something about sphincters.
I am going to attempt to post something every day on this site so here goes nothing: I have a good buzz going right now after going to our monthly beer/wings night with my dad, grandpa, uncle, and Cap'n Mac. My alcohol tolerance is actually better than I admit. I usually tell people that I'm a 3 beer and out kind of guy. I had a bit more than that and was still able to make the 12 mile trek home with no problem. I'm just thankful that it's late and there was no one on the road for me to maim as I veered between lanes, sped through red lights, and shouted enraged curse word combos at imaginary cops. I'm just kidding; I would never drive in that condition and my family would never let me leave like that. The cursing out imaginary cops part is true, though.
I really have no fucking clue what to write, so I'll just dig up another post from my MySpace blog and throw it on here. I don't have too many more posts on there; my laziness is going to catch up to me pretty quickly and I'm gonna have to start thinking of new stuff to write. Anyhow, about a month ago my favorite site (www.x-entertainment.com-- Matt is the best writer around) had a topic where people posted five quirks about themselves. Here were mine:
- I absolutely hate cheese or anything with even a slightly cheesy taste–even cheesecake. However, my favorite food is pizza.
- I refuse to read any email or message that contains overuse and/or misuse of the ellipsis.
- Peanut butter and jelly is my morning staple. Not just any sandwich, though. It has to be Smucker's Natural Peanut Butter and Polaner All Fruit wrapped in a Flat-Out flatbread. I have eaten this every morning for over two years.
- I subconsciously rate every chick I see on a scale of 0 (has ebola) to 10 (I'd drink her bathwater). If a girl I know does something to annoy me, I exact my revenge by lowering her score.
- If someone is watching me brush my teeth, I feel compelled to act out a scene where the tootbrush is strangling me and I'm drowning in my own toothpaste-saliva froth.
As a rule of thumb you don't want to make fun of your own mother. Other than the obvious fact that she's your freaking mother, I'm fairly certain that making fun of her breaks one of the Commandments. Plus, she has known you all your life; you just know that she has an endless supply of compromising baby photos of you naked in a bathtub and a repository of embarrassing stories about you that she can unload at any given moment. Well, I'll just have to weather the inevitable retaliation I will receive for posting this story on the internet because I can't resist. I am weak. I am a sinner. And as for the sin, I have been a relatively good person so I think that I can absorb the red mark in the Book of Lambs and still avoid an eternity of fiery torment in Hell. Or I can just change my religion to one where you can make fun of your mother on occasion.
The kickers in the Bucs-Falcons game this past week put on a clinic on “How Not to Kick Field Goals.” I believe there were five or six missed field goals overall. Ugly. This reminded me that my mom previously stated that she could kick a 35 yard field goal—and easily. I mean, how hard can it be right? To ease the pain of watching my Bucs defense go from diamond to turd in just eight months, I decided to call her on claim. In response to my challenge and ten dollar bet that she would not only miss the ball entirely but also fall on her butt while missing the ball, we headed over to the local high school football field to test her kicking abilities.
We walked to the high school and found the gates chained and locked. I don't know when the school started locking the gates to the football field on weekends because they sure didn't do it when we were kids and played pickup football there. I assumed the locked gates would be the perfect excuse for my mom to bow out gracefully with the completely acceptable excuse of not being able get onto the field. But that would be your mom—not mine. No, my mom is the most stubborn woman to ever walk this green Earth and no mere six foot chain-link fence installed upside down so that there are spikes on top is going to stop her from proving a point.
I scaled the fence and landed on the football field. My mom, for some reason, decided that she would hop the fence about twenty yards further down. What she did not realize until she fell, ass-first, on the other side of the fence was that the inner fence separating the baseball fields from the football field was chained and locked as well. Unfortunately, she fell on the baseball field side of this fence. Already invested, she decided she would climb again to get to the football field. She found a nice corner of the fence and reached the top.
Mom climbing the second fence
It was here that she would lie, on the spikes, and contemplate her next move for five minutes. My mom observed her surroundings and noticed that there was canvas covering the adjacent baseball field fence. She grabbed the canvas and decided to use it like a rope to rappel to the ground. Gravity won this round as she grabbed about seven feet of canvas for her six foot drop and fell, ass-first again, on the football field side of the fence. Before I get flamed for not helping, I did try. But, she refused any help that I offered.
Now, I would love to tell you that she nailed the field goal. I really want to tell you that. I am tempted to just lie, say that she made it on the first attempt, and conclude with “I ate a nice serving of crow.” However, I am a lousy liar and besides, that would be breaking another Commandment. I am already pushing my luck.
The kick is up! And, juuuuuust a bit outside!
My mom might have a slight shot of making a 35 yard field goal if she was perfectly healthy and had hurricane force winds to her back. But after falling from the top of a fence, twice, I figured I would go easy on her on move it up to a 13 yard field goal. After six field goal attempts, the closest she came was wide left and about five yards short. The other five kicks skidded harmlessly across the turf. I will give her credit—she tried. She tried when almost anybody else, including myself, would have given up. And she hit the ball each time dammit! Now, I owe her ten bucks.
There are no words that can do justice to her trek back over the fence. As luck would have it, my lovely wife was standing by—camera aimed and ready—to document the events that followed.
I love you mom.
A frosty bottle of Romulan Ale
Before our trip to Vegas this past summer, I heard that the Star Trek Experience at the Las Vegas Hilton has some cool rides. Since I'm a complete whore for theme parks rides, we decided to spend a few hours there one afternoon. Now, let me preface this review by saying that I am not a Trekkie. Sure, I'll sit down and enjoy some Trek every now and then, but I also think Enterprise is the best Trek TV show, while the Original 60's series just plain sucks. That fact alone makes me an outcast in Trekkie circles, which is actually quite sad when you think about it.
I initially balked at the $39 admission to the Trek Experience. In hindsight, after spending three times that for tickets to several shows and $2.25 for a bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper, the price of admission was a relative bargain. The Star Trek Experience consists of two rides, a museum, and a kick ass bar and grill called Quark's. For those that don't know, Quark is a character in of the Trek shows who, oddly enough, runs a bar on the space ship. After going through the museum, which sucks, and a ride, which is awesome, you are herded into a gift shop that contains every item created since the dawn of man that is even remotely related to Star Trek.
Following the gift shop you are given the option of having some food and drink at Quark's or going back through the Experience for the second ride. We decided on Quark's. Even a month later, I'm completely shocked by how much I enjoyed Quark's. The whole atmosphere the bar creates is just plain fun. It is like sitting in on a Star Trek episode with the themed food and actors roaming the premises dressed as Vulcans and Klingons. I was tempted to get the Romulan Ale right then and there, but we had a coupon for a free Warp Core, so my wife and I decided to get those instead and buy a six pack of Romulan Ale for the road.
Warp Core: the drink of the gods
Warp Cores are made using five different rums, Razzmatazz, some sort of berry juice, and dry ice for bubbling and smoke effects. After spending any time in the Vegas summer heat, there is nothing like an alcoholic beverage chilled with frozen carbon dioxide to cool you down. The Warp Core is the best mixed drink I have ever had. And it's not even close. If anyone can find out where in the hell to get some dry ice, I've got the recipe and the rums. We'll drink.
Moving on to the review, about a month after our Vegas trip we finally decided to pop open some of that Romulan Brew we spent $14 on. Romulan Ale is a blue beer based on the drink from some of the Star Trek shows. The beer itself smells similar to a Corona, which means it smells like ass. Glancing at the smurf hued ale, you might think that it tastes like blueberries, Artic Freeze Gatorade, Windex, or maybe even remotely like beer. Nope, Romulan Ale tastes like blue fucking piss. You want the recipe for Romulan Ale? Drink 8 ounces of blue food coloring, 16 ounces of water, and piss into a glass. Serve chilled.
If you ever find yourself in Quark's remember that Romulan Ale is only for diehard Trekkies and Urophiliacs. All other carbon based life forms should stick to the Warp Cores.
In any televised sport, game, or reality show, you are bound to hear at least one of the competitors drone the tired cliché, "Well <Insert Host Name>, I'm just gonna go out there and give it my 110%." Oh, is that all? Why stop there? Why not 111% you lazy, mildewing, sack of shit? How about 522%? Now that would be pouring your heart out and giving it your all.
Why is 110% the new 100%? You cannot give more that 100% of your effort. If you can give more, then that is your 100%. If you are in a competition and giving what you thought was your maximum effort, but then reached down and found a way to 10% give more, then what you thought was 100% effort was more like 90%. So, just stop it with the 110% already. 100% is plenty and I doubt you will even give that.
I was looking in the mirror and styling my buzz cut yesterday morning when I noticed a strange glint of light emanate from my dome. Curious, I turned my head in all directions in an attempt to reproduce the phenomenon. With my head turned to the right and tilted slightly up, I saw the brilliant sparkle of light once again and pinpointed its origin to my left upper sideburn. I asked myself, "What in the hell would cause that?"
I flicked my fingers through my sideburn thinking that maybe a piece of tinsel had gotten lodged in my hair even though Christmas had long since past and we don't use tinsel. I flicked my sideburns for a few more moments until I saw the light sparkle once more and realized it was a hair that was causing the flashing display. I quickly dismissed the hair as a stray blond hair since I was blond until I was about 2 or 3 years old. Maybe I was going back to blond. Sweet!
But the hair still held me transfixed with curiosity. Why is it there? Has it always been there? Should I pull it? What if I am driving along the Lee Roy Selmon Expressway one day and my hair reflects off the morning sun into some poor soul's eyes blinding him and causing him to careen into the never-ending wall of construction and delay everyone's morning commute for over an hour? No, this hair must be pulled. If only for the safety of my fellow man.