The End

To modify a phrase from our esteemed First Lady, For the first time in my life I’m ashamed to be an American.

Yesterday was the surest sign I’ve seen that this country is lost.  And for the first time I’m not sure we can ever win her back.

The worst President in the history of our country, who added trillions of dollars in debt, who lied about pulling us out of one war while sticking our noses in multiple other regional conflicts (usually on the wrong side).  Who didn’t improve our economy one iota in four years.  Who saddled us with a socialized medicine program that is destined to fail just as badly as every other attempt across the world.


This country is well and truly fucked.  And you know what?  We deserve it.

I don’t know what to do next.

And that’s why I’m going on sabbatical.  Until I know what the fuck to do with my life and with my country I’m not going to waste time writing frivolous shit.  I’ll re-post some of my old stories from time to time so the page doesn’t go totally dark (does WordPress shut down blogs if they go dormant??), but for now I have nothing new to say that won’t just be angry, violent, possibly illegal ranting and calling to arms.

So good-bye for now.  Good luck to all of you.  I’m getting a gun tomorrow.



Happy Communist Workers’ Holiday Weekend

Kind of a fitting lead in to the Democratic National Convention.

I’m off to the backwoods of Wisconsin to celebrate. They better have cable so I can watch some college football!

Operation: Jayhawk Down, Part IV

Watching the Olympics reminded me it’s been awhile since I continued the sad story of my quest to bang a water polo player.  Catch up with Parts 1, 2 and 3.

This one is painful.  As you will recall, the plan was to call Julie Monday when she got back from her weekend of drunken debauchery.  Our previous phone conversations had gone so well that I wasn’t even dreading the prospect of using my most hated form of communication.  The plan was simple: after exchanging pleasantries, asking about her weekend, yada yada yada, if the conversation was going well I’d go for the Big Date.  If I wasn’t feeling the vibe, a tactical retreat and just another group outing to some fine drinking establishment would be an acceptable consolation prize.

But then something happened.  Although I had seen Julie in my building maybe two or three times in four years, I ran into her and two of her friends Monday afternoon.  I was totally unprepared.  At first things went well, everyone made fun of her puking episode, there were a few laughs about the whereabouts of my shirt (I was a little hurt she didn’t sleep in it, but I guess it’s a little soon for that).  Her friends were friendly, even Casey, so I took that as a good sign.  But when we parted ways, when she said, “Alright, I’ll see you later,” rather than saying something smooth like “Yeah, I’ll call ya,” or, better yet, something really ambitious like, “What are you doing tonight?  I’ll give you call,” I just went along like a fucking doofus and said, “Yeah, I’ll see ya later!”

Don’t mind me, I’m just a fucking moron.

As soon as I said it I knew I had fucked it up.  But by then it was too late.  I left kicking myself at my stupidity.  Visions of Mikey from Swingers flashed through my head, sulking away saying, “She didn’t like me, alright?”

I called Tripod and explained the situation, concluding with my analysis that I now couldn’t call her any earlier than Wednesday.  Tripod agreed.  “That sucks, dude.  It’s not the end of the world, but it’s a setback.”

“Like a sack on 1st and 10,”

“Exactly.  But you can still recover.”

*              *              *

Tuesday I had a long talk with my friend  Country and broke it all down for her.  She listened sympathetically without laughing too much at my bumbling stupidity.  But then she broke out a disturbing piece of gossip that, if true, could change the entire course of the game.  She claimed her roommate, a baseball player, had fooled around with her a little a while back but had backed out because he thought she was a virgin.

My heart stopped.  “She what?” I stuttered.

“Yeah, he said he didn’t want to take her V card.”

“Did he…did he, did he know this for sure?”

“No, but he suspected.”

“How, how long ago was this?” I asked, hoping she’d say something like freshman year.

“Last fall.”

“Jesus Christ, I’m too old for this, Country.”

*              *              *

That Friday we started the conference softball tournament.  Three days of fat lesbians bunting their way around the bases.  I don’t even like baseball, but softball is like the Special Olympics version of baseball.  To make matters worse, day one was set to be a quadruple header.  Every single game ran long, so they finally delayed the final game when darkness fell.  I didn’t get home until after 9.

I had pretty much decided not to call until Friday after my stage fright moment on Monday.  Make her wait a little bit, maybe wonder if I was still interested.  But then, during the day while I was running back and forth between the softball field and the Athletics building, I ran into Kenny, the assistant coach.  He told me they were heading out to the ‘Comber again.  I kind of blew him off, giving him the “I have to work early tomorrow,” excuse.  But just as I was walking out of his office, I ran into Julie.  Now remember, prior to this week I had seen her in the building maybe three times in four years.  Now I was bumping into her for the second time in a week.  Maybe it was a sign?  She also gave me the word about the Beachcomber, and I again gave the noncommittal answer, but inside I was already making up my mind to go.

As soon as I got home I started drinking.  A couple shots, then a stiff cocktail for the shower, and I was feeling pretty good by the time Will The Mormon picked me up at 10.  We rounded up Tripod and headed out.

Not a whole lot of exciting details this time.  As usual she was somewhat intoxicated, and her friend Casey was shitfaced.  I bought Casey a shot and got a few laughs out of her.  Julie was wearing her “Not Everything is Flat in Kansas”  shirt again, and goddamn she looked good (even with no boobs to speak of).  It was a much more low key night, no dancing or any of that bullshit, just hanging out and drinking.  Hot Hippie was there again, and again she monopolized Julie’s time; clearly I was going to have to have a talk with that girl about wingman responsibilities.

Eventually, Casey was so belligerent she got kicked out, so we went outside to wait for a roommate to come pick them up.  Casey was getting bitchy again, and Tripod was trying to distract her while I worked my magic.  Unfortunately, I was somewhat intoxicated and said in full-on Loud Drunk mode, “Julie, why doesn’t Casey like me?”  That started her on a tirade, and poor Tripod had to pull out all the stops to calm her down and keep her away.  Only a bean and cheese burrito from the taco stand next door saved my life.

While we were waiting for their ride and Casey was gorging herself, I finally got a few minutes of quality time.  I was shitfaced and thus smooth as ever.  She had mentioned earlier in the night that she was going out of town for the weekend, so I put my arms around her and asked “When should I call you?”

“Whenever you feel like it,” she answered with a slightly devious smile.

“No,” I said, firmly “when should I call you?”

“Well, I’m having surgery Wednesday on my knee.”

“So…when should I call you?”

“Whenever, really.”

“No, don’t give me that shit.  When do you want me to call you?”

She finally succumbed to my charm, or something like that.  “Call me Wednesday night.”

“Alright,” I said.  “You gonna be hopped up on vicadin?”


“Sweet.”  And for my efforts I was rewarded with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Are you fucking kidding me?  This shit is getting old.

*              *              *

I got home around 1:30 and had to be at work at 6:30 again Saturday.  The delayed game from the previous day went 14 innings, basically fucking the schedule for the rest of the weekend.  I made Country drive me in the golf cart to her apartment where I pounded two beers just to take the edge off.

Just what in the fuck do I have to do to get a fucking kiss???

When is it OK for a Man to Cry?

I can only think of four appropriate times:

#1- Sports.  It’s ok to cry when your favorite sports team loses in the championship game.  Or when your favorite player retires.  Getting choked up is also acceptable when they win it all.  However, crying over a regular season loss (or even an early-round playoff exit) is going too far.  Unless you’re a Cubs fan.  Then feel free to cry for the rest of your life.

#2- When someone murders your school’s mascot.  When political correctness takes away the one and only thing that made the second-rate university you call your alma mater special or unique.

#3- When anything bad happens to your pet.  Again, getting choked up is acceptable when grieving the loss of a parent, spouse, child or close relative (or even a friend for that matter), but crying is only allowed if it’s your four-legged companion that is sick or dead.  Because let’s face it, nobody loves you as much as your dog.

#4- And last, when Mick dies in Rocky III.  Nothing else needs to be said.  Saddest moment in movie history.  (And I’ve seen Atonement.)

Doin’ the Ol’ Knuckle Shuffle on the Piss Pump

I have a friend who told me once that although he’s right-handed he masturbates with his left. Because, as he put it, “I’m too good with my right, I want it to last.”

That must be one really talented hand!


Leaving for Minnesota tomorrow.

Not exactly bikini country, but at least they have alcohol and hockey, which is more than I can say for Utah.  And I’ll be back in Big Ten country and NFC North country.  So all in all I guess I can’t complain.

And now that the Wild have signed one of my favorite players in Zach Parise I guess winter will be almost tolerable. Might have to climb on that bandwagon!

A New Low

Set a record of sorts yesterday. My fewest page views in at least a year. Apparently my girlfriend was right, nobody cares what I have to say.

Now, a lesser man would consider giving up, take it as a sign that nobody cares.

But not me. To me it’s just a sign that I need to start drinking harder to make better stories.

You’re welcome.