I must own this book and pass on its wisdom to the boy. Here are some of my favorites maxims with comments directed at my infant son as if he were an adult with the ability to reason:
Surround Yourself With Smart People. You are who you hang out with. Your friends will expect you to do what they are doing alongside them. Smart people expect you to be intelligent and well read. Drug addicts expect you to pass the Guns N' Roses coke mirror you won at the carnival balloon-dart game after snorting a line.
It Is Not A Gang Without The Cool Girl. Be sure to always have at least one cool girl in your inner-circle of friends (bonus if she is hot). She can provide invaluable feminine perspective and is bound to bring around other cool girls. You may even marry her someday.
Ask Your Mother To Dance. There is no better way to make your mother's night then taking her for a spin around the dance floor and acting like it is fun and not a chore. You will do this and you will like it.
Do Not Get All Fancy About Your Beer Or Coffee. Coffee? Black. Beer? Yes, please. It is as simple as that.
Do Not Have A Girlfriend In College. Think of all the awesome shenanigans you can get into while attending college. Now think about doing them while maintaining a steady relationship with an average looking girl that you met in the first week of your freshman year.
Never Sit Down On A Ball Field. Take A Knee. You do not sit down on a sports field unless you are severed at the torso and have no legs. Even then, you still take a stump.
Always Meet Your Date At The Door. Do not be the dickhead honking the horn in the driveway. Go up to the door and ring the bell. Doing this affords you the opportunity to open the car door for her as well. Double the points, my son.
Yes Ma'am. No Sir. No Exceptions. People that are older than you are always sir or ma'am. Even if your friends parents tell you to call them by name you still call them sir or ma'am.
Try To Lose The Adverbs. Nothing illustrates how weak your vocabulary is more than an adverb. You are not very tired. You are exhausted. You are not extremely happy. You are ecstatic.
Keep Your Word. Even the over-consumption of liquor does not excuse you from this one. If you tell someone you will do something, you do it.
If You Are Good At Something, Never Do It For Free. Excluding sex, masturbating and murder.
Walk It Off. This philosophy that can be applied to many situations including electrocution, being on fire and venereal diseases.
Never Be Afraid To Ask Out The Best Looking Girl In The Room. Be fearless. What is the worst that can happen? She says no and you call her a lesbian? You are still in the same position you were in when you walked into the room.
You Do Not Get To Choose Your Own Nickname. You are luckier than most as you have a sweet last name that can be shortened to "Broz" or "Brozo." Even so, you do not ask anyone to call you this. They must do it of their own accord.
The wife and I braved freezing temperatures last night to watch game three of the National League Divisional Series in a four and a half hour affair that left our extremities numb. 50,000 faithful at Coors Field were in attendance, an impressive number considering the cold. Some highlights:
The Rockies organization once again fucked up some form of the post-season. The game started at ten after eight. We arrived at the gates at ten 'till eight, happy we would be catching the first pitch. We waited outside Coors Field for forty five minutes in the cold. No announcements as to why tickets were not being taken. No signage explaining why there was a delay. Chants of "Let Us In," almost degenerate into an angry mob poised to rush the gates and get into the game. My sweet wife even mentioned to me how easy it would be to get away with kidney-punching Phillies fan in the mayhem.
By the time we get to our seats, it is the bottom of the second inning and the Rockies are up 2-1. Fucking Rockies organization. I almost do not enjoy my Rockies Dog and refreshing beer(s).
Our section is fun early on; good fans, good spirits and an overall good vibe. This situation changes as sobriety slips away and is replaced with stupidity. Once polite Phillies fans sitting a few sections below us become raging assholes and start picking fights. One of the fans is a fat white guy who has long dreadlocks. Insults are hurled his way. "Cut your hair, white Bob Marley, " and, "Got any weed?" and my personal favorite (because I said it), "Go home to your bottle of shampoo, hairbag."
The couple in the row below us are stoned out of their mind. Through out the game, the guy eats slices of salami he has smuggled into the game via his coat pocket. No Ziploc. No brown bag. Literally eating slices of salami from his coat pocket.
The girl below us dances like she is at a rave every time music comes on. Her balance is so off I remark to the wife, "That girl is going to take a spill." Within minutes of my comment, it happens. The crowd is on its feet after Carlos Gonzalez belts a solo shot to right field and the girl takes a head plant into the seats below her, flips over another row, lands on her head again and somehow manages to finish the maneuver with her ass in a seat four rows down. She looks confused, disoriented and possibly concussed. Her boyfriend expresses no concern and casually takes another slice of salami from his coat pocket.
We decide to head out in the bottom of the ninth as our infant son it at his grandparents and probably needs sleep. It kills us both considering Brad Lidge has been a nightmare closing ball games this season. By the time we arrive at the the car, the Rockies have lost 6-5, unable to cash in two walks.
Upon further reflection, I should have kidney-punched a Phillies fan to make my night more enjoyable. Especially the fat one with dreadlocks.
My mom called this morning to inform me that the boy was exposed to some form of a coughing disease a few weekends ago at her house (my young nephew being the little monkey from Outbreak in this scenario). I told my mom that this weekend the boy was exposed to the drunken stupidity of my sixteenth annual fantasy football draft, his dad repeatedly calling the Rockies a "bunch of dirty ball sacks" for getting swept in San Francisco and the assorted programming of the History Channel including Gangland and one very disappointing show about prison tattoos that mostly focused on the Aryan Brotherhood of Texas. She said I should get him get him "checked out" just to be safe.
A history of modern art in three paragraphs. Marcel Duchamp did change art forever. As for the Dadaists being radically opposed to rational thought? That does not make them punk rock. It just makes them rebellious.
Ted Kennedy is sleeping with Jesus. It has been a bad month for the Kennedys. I think Dennis Leary had it right: "They shot JFK, they shot RFK and when it came down to Ted they just said, 'Leave him be. He will fuck it all up on his own.'"
Mark: Have you heard of Art Brut? Euro-Indie rock band. Not bad. That would also be a good name for your next child other than Spilly. Me: Did you stay up for the game and watch the grand slam? Mark: I did not. Although I was there for Tulo's unassisted triple play and that was dope. Me: This was ... doper? More dope? Dopest? Mark: Unsure.
Ten things we do not understand about humans. I love how pubic hair made the list and I love even more that some scientist has studied pubic hair back to prehistory. For the record: we do not need explanations for why women prefer to go hairless.
With the recent retirement of NHL star Jeremy Roenick, Greg Wyshynski compiled a list of his top ten pop culture moments on Yahoo! Sports. Of course the mention of him in the movie Swingers was high on the list (#2). In reference to Roenick being a video game hall of famer I could not agree more. He was without a doubt the most dominant players on NHL '94. I averaged a hat trick with him each time I played as the Blackhawks. Note to my wife: with my birthday impending I urge you to make this happen.
The thirty five worst celebrity tattoos. Fred Durst: thank you for confirming you are the biggest douchebag in a group douchebags. And Reggie Miller? Seriously?
Super Joe hangs 'em up. One of the most entertaining, humble and classiest guys to ever play the game, Joe Sakic could have scored at a nunnery in the dead of winter. He is guaranteed to be a first ballot hall of famer no matter what snow blowers try to do to him. During the span of his twenty year career he is eighth all time in points, has won two Stanley Cups and holds the NHL record for game-winning overtime playoff goals (8). In celebration of watching Joe play regularly since the Avs landed in Denver in '95, here is my favorite "Sakic" moment:
An Open Letter To The Fat Guy In The Spandex Suit On His Mountain Bike I Saw After Lunch Today
You like to ride your bike. I do too. It is a refreshing work out as the warm wind blows on your face while you work up a sweat as your legs pump like engine pistons. I notice you have a Starbucks there. In your hand. As you ride your bike. Sipping on a be-whipped Frappuccino while you ride leads me to believe you are not serious about exercise. I could have never know that from looking at you, however. You know why? You are wearing a triple-XL spandex racing suit like you are training for the fucking Tour de France. Seriously? That is what you decided to wear while riding your bike today? To Starbucks? Squeezed into spandex like some generic-wrapped sausage at the grocery store? Where does one even find a triple-XL spandex racing suit? Is there a Bicycle VillageBig and Tall somewhere around here? At least pretend you are serious about losing wieght by draining that Caramel Light (I will swear on my infant son it had to be a Caramel Light) before you get back on your bike. Thanks for the fat guy pressed ham shot post-Chipotle, too. Helps with digestion. And by "helps" I mean comes back up in chunks with stomach acid in my mouth. Dick.
Timberlake absolutely killed Saturday Night Live over the weekend. I am loving the Color Me Badd personas he and Samberg take on. Acid-washed jeans? Christ.
The Denver Nuggets have been rolling through the first two rounds of the NBA playoffs. The main reason? Homegrown talent Chauncey Billups. I remember watching Chauncey eat my high school alive in the state basketball tournament back in '94. If the Nugs win it all, there is no player more deserving of MVP honors.
Rwanda, fifteen years after the genocide. The new government granted Get Out Of Jail Free Cards to most participants of the single largest mass murder in African history. Good times.
The wife and I are officially prepared for our spawn to make its grand entrance into this world. The nursery is littered with the spoils of numerous baby showers, bathed in gender-neutral tones and is decorated with a ridiculous amount of monkeys. We have registered with the hospital and have taken assorted labor preparation classes. I have read two great books (Punk Rock Dad and Babywise) that have given me honest perspectives on fatherhood and read half of one terrible book (The Expectant Father) before throwing it across the bedroom and calling the author a "new-age queer." All we need now is the living, goddamn baby (the wife is due on April 3). In an effort to celebrate the last few weeks of our baby-free couplehood, the wife and I are spending this Saturday night at the Brown Palace Hotel for a romantic, in-city getaway. It is there where we will renew our love affair and my wife will get her pregnant lady bubble bath on while I drain cocktails at the Ship Tavern and watch opening weekend of the NCAA college basketball tournament.
I do not feel sorry for A-Rod (I think he is serving punishment enough for having coital relations with the Crypt Keeper) and am indifferent over this professional baseball steroid issue. I could care less if a guy is injecting himself with elephant hormones and the back fat of an aborted pig fetus. Pick up a goddamn bat and hit that baseball to China. Nobody (except maybe Wil and DJ) watch baseball to see guys hit singles and bunt in winning runs. Professional baseball should embrace steroid abuse. Not only should players be allowed to do steroids, they should be allowed to use aluminum bats, too. Who will be brave enough to play third base when a juiced meathead three times the size of Mark McGwire digs in at the dish? Let pitchers inject performance enhancing drugs until their fastball is touching 110 mph and their arm vaporizes on the mound. That is something I would pay money to see. Most baseball purists argue that the steroid era has sullied the sanctity of the game and has ruined professional baseball's image. To them I say Pete Rose, Marge Schott, John Rocker and the Black Sox Scandal. Does taking performance enhancing drugs make you a cheater? Probably. But fans like me will only take steroid abuse seriously when professional baseball starts to taking it seriously.
Flying on 9/11 may not be the smartest thing I have ever done (then again neither was this. Or this. Or this), but, as the rabid Carolina Hurricanes fan sitting next to me on the plane said yesterday "If we do not fly on 9/11 then the fucking terrorists win." Preach on, guy who loves Rod Brind Amour, preach on (note to Perez: 'Canes fan was a former Philadelphia Flyers fan which almost made me stop talking to him until I asked him why he stopped rooting for the Flyers. His response, "Because my wife and I have been living in Raleigh for the past seven years and, well, fuck the Flyers"). Sitting in the CLT, here are some highlights from my recent business trip to North Carolina:
North Carolina is green and lush. I mean really green and lush. I guess I am too used to the yellow-brown hue Colorado is covered in year-round. There are a plethora of pine tress in the greater Raleigh-Durham area, too. I was not aware the Carolinas were so friendly to the coniferous tree family.
Various topics discussed with our client that was not related to his website: Carolina Panthers football, the point spread on the UNC-Rutgers game, Indian hotel investors, hairy pussy, bald pussy, Viagra and wine.
Various topics discussed with our client related to his website that had nothing to do with design or development: their T1 connection.
Various topics discussed with our client related to his website that had to do with design or development: none.
I enjoyed a ridiculous meal at a five-star resort called Herons. I gorged myself on a tremendous meal of sea bass, hush puppies, numerous expensive glasses of wine and sweet potato pie.
How many times our client's partner urged me to "beat my children with a strap" upon telling him that my wife was pregnant: 3.
How many times our client's partner passed on the restaurant valet service even though it was free: 2.
The next time I will be to invited fly to Raleigh and "talk about the website": 6 months.
Friday. The wife and I attend the 2008 Punk Rocks show at Red Rocks. The band lineup includes NOFX, Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Bouncing Souls, Street Dogs and young Denver skate punks Frontside Five (the Circle Jerks are a no-show). I soon recognize how old I am when I breeze through beer lines in mere minutes. I soon learn that new punk kids like smoking weed way more than old punk kids. NOFX, Mighty Mighty Bosstones and Bouncing Souls are still awesome. The Street Dogs are the opposites of awesome due to an hour and a half set and a fifteen minute dissertation on who the Ramones are and why they are so important to punk music. The only way to make their set less cliche would have be for the lead singer to not remove his shirt before his Ramones tribute song only to reveal a strategically planned Ramones shirt underneath. I conclude that six hour concerts and $7 beers are not nearly as fun in my thirties as they were in my twenties.
Saturday. Enter the annual neighborhood pool luau. We represent a respectable drinking crew and my next door neighbor's classic rock cover band melts faces. Our HOA is awesome because they allow (tolerate) my next door neighbor to wheel an ice-cold keg over to the pool to serve free beer. I soon realize that inflatable monkeys cannot sustain the belly-flop weight of a grown man from a diving board. Post-luau we torch a fire in the backyard pit and the wife provides ingredients for 'smores. Three people fall asleep in their chairs. I conclude that staying up late and drinking until intoxication two nights in a row is not nearly as fun in my thirties as it was in my twenties.
Sunday. My annual fantasy football draft goes down in the living room. Being as this is the fifteenth year of my league's existence and the same team owners have been in said league for the past six years, I expect the draft to take no more than two hours. Four hours and eight cases of beer later, the draft concludes after much humor, animosity and stupidity (this sums up my fantasy football league perfectly: upon the draft's conclusion one team owner loudly proclaimed, "I have to get going. I am late for marriage counseling.") Steak, potatoes and a gigantic apple pie from Costco are then decimated in less than twenty minutes. I conclude that sports gambling and NFL football viewing are not nearly as fun in my thirties as they were in my twenties.
I have been consumed with Olympics viewing all week and thereby disturbing my normal sleep and freelance design routines to watch riveting "sports" such as synchronized diving. The thing I did know about synchronized diving is that synchronized showering and synchronized hot-tubbing are a major part of the "sport." The first week of the 2008 Beijing Olympics has shown the world that at least one female Chinese gymnast is underage, sportsmanship is not necessarily alive and well in Olympiad and Michael Phelps is kind of good. Maybe Michael Phelps can teach Carmelo Anthony work ethic before the next summer games so Melo shows up ready to compete on the world stage instead of spending his entire first game on the bench after going 0 for 3 from the field.
I love me some Olympics. I love the history, the majesty, the competition, the pseudo-sport "athletes" doing lesbian modeling shoots, the underage Chinese gymnasts and the ridiculously shredded Dara Torres looking like she could punch through the ass of a thoroughbred race horse. I long for this Friday's opening ceremony in Beijing where anti-rain rockets will be fired into the atmosphere, crippling pollution will destroy the lungs of the most well-conditioned athletes and the Chinese government will slaughter kittens in the streets. I look forward to the 29th Games of Olympiad to watch the best of the world compete on a grand stage and ogle hot female Olympians. I am especially anticipating rooting for my wife's childhood friend and one of Arvada, Colorado's native sons Casey Malone, who will be representing the United States in discus for his second appearance in Olympic competition (and just in case he forgot, I wish to echo what I told him at his send-off picnic: "If you do not come home with a medal, Malone, do not come home" which loosely translates in Brozovich to, "You show them, Malone. You show the world.") Let the Women's Beach Volleyball, and the games, begin.
Photobombers are people who ruin seemingly nice pictures. Here are some of the best Photobombers from Facebook.
Sportsmanship is alive and well in female athletics. If it were dudes playing in that game the scenario would have played out something like this: Guy hits a jack. While rounding first base he blows out his knee. After making fun of the guy for blowing out his knee while rounding the bases on a home run, the opposing team feigns fake concern until trainers haul him off the field whereupon the umpire makes the proper ruling of a two-run single. The opposing team will later tell their grandchildren about some moron that shredded his ACL after going yard in a bourbon-soaked haze forty years later.
Another reason besides gambling payouts to enjoy college athletics. Note to YouTube video collage guy: Have enough respect for your craft to at least have the images of your obsession sync with the music. And Jimi Hendrix's "Foxy Lady"? Come on. Think it through.
Alamosa, Colorado. Home of the Great Sand Dunes, a college where slightly above average suburban high school athletes go to die and now, free salmonella!
McDonalds sack 1, Brandon Marshall 0. Brandon Marshall joins the esteemed list of other Denver professional athletes who obtained an injury under strange circumstances (read: getting caught in a lie). Congratulations Brandon! You will now be held in the same esteem as Clint Barmes breaking his collarbone while carrying deer meat (read: being flipped off of a four wheeler) and Brian Griese tripping over his dog, falling down the stairs and spraining his ankle (read: taking a tumble while sloppy drunk). Look on the bright side: almost losing an arm is a better thing to be remembered for than talking about practice.
Mirror gets thrown from Colorado University dorm room window. Hijinks ensue.
Click here to see the reason why I am hooked on A&E's Intervention (pun intended). Naked meth whore's journals are eerily reminiscent of a former coworker of mine who was rumored to be on the pipe. She used to sketch magical spirals and write "NO" repeatedly in her notebooks during board meetings.
The Colorado Avalanche made some big moves before the trading deadline netting them Peter Forsberg, Adam Foote and Ruslan Salei. In other 1999 news, American Beauty wins the Oscar for Best Picture and folks are starting to get serious about this Y2K thing.
Tips on managing Millennials (or as I like to call them "The Participation Ribbon Generation"). Not willing to make routine sacrifices, cannot handle criticism well and take things too seriously, you say? I am guessing it had something to do with an entire generation being raised with a sense of entitlement, hyper-sensitivity and not being allowed to fail. Guess we should have kept score at their Little League games after all.
The perfect Valentine's Day gift: Afghani War Rugs! Now available in the new, delicious 9/11 Flavor!
Roger Clemens throws his wife under the bus to protect what is left of his sterling professional baseball reputation. Well played, Mr. I Did Not Use HGH But My Bitch Wife Did.
The always timeless Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue hits newsstands this week and SI has posted a complimentary web directory so comprehensive that it nullifies the need for a printed magazine. The Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue is responsible for me spending the better half of my formidable years tacking Kathy Ireland covers to my wall, enduring repeated viewings of Necessary Roughness and making Pee-Chee folder collages with shots of Elle McPherson and her snorkeling equipment. Back then, you could not find a sport associated with bikinis so it was nigh impossible to justify a pubescent grocery store checkout line purchase to your mother. But than this happened. And it was good.
Me:Interesting. Jake: Meh. She does not stun me. Who cares if she can play some golf? Me: I guess it is nice to know that she is not just a useless hot bitch. She can hit the shit out of a golf ball, too. Jake: Give me Heidi Klum playing with her tits any day. Me: Well, duh. Her tits are fantastic. Jake: "Great knockers!" Me: The Seal thing baffles me. I bet she is a size queen. It is the only explanation. Jake: Never thought of that. Me: Him and Edward James Olmos could be brothers with all that shit on their faces. Jake: Ha! Seal had lupus. Cut the guy a break. He is just trying to get by. Me: I do not call banging Heidi Klum "Getting By." I call that "Out Punting Your Coverage." "Getting By" is laying wood to someone like Britney Spears. Jake: That is not "Getting By" that is "Giving Up." Me: Nice.
The New York Jet's D Concourse becomes Mardi Gras at halftime. I am actually surprised this does not happen during the entire game being as New Jersey tunnel trash lifting up their shirts seems far more interesting than watching Kellen Clemens play quarterback. It is sad when the best thing that happened to your professional sports franchise in the past decade was this.
Vintage photography of a 60s era sex party (NSFW).
Obesity trends in the USA from 1985-2006. Good to see Colorado representing the low end of the scale along with Massachusetts and Connecticut. Do us all a favor West Virginia and Mississippi; put down the cupcakes and go for a bike ride or something.
In just a few short hours World Series tickets will be going on sale. I will be attempting to score seats for games three, four and/or five. Being as tickets are only being sold online, season ticket holders get first dibs and only 18,000 seats will be available to the general public per game, chances are slim that I will be drunkenly heckling Coco Crisp for being benched from the nosebleeds. I claim partial responsibility for the Rox incredible run, so I think the baby Jesus owes me the blessing of tickets to one game (at least). If no tickets are procured, I will officially renounce the Christian messiah and go the god-hating way of Perez.
Update: The risen infant Christ has forsaken me. Ticket purchasing attempts were made on a Mac via Firefox, Safari and Netscape while simultaneously rolling the office PC test computer on IE, Firefox and Netscape. All to no avail. (Shaking fist at sky and screaming, "Evolution rules!")
Congratulations to 2007 Miss Teen USA Hilary Cruz (from Colorado; represent). I trust your response during the question and answer segment was not anything like this.
I understand life on the streets is daunting. I am not judging you for climbing on the hood of a car and offering to perform oral sex on an undercover cop. I am even willing to overlook the fact that you have AIDS yet still sell your diseased ass to be violated by anyone with a twenty dollar bill. It is unforgivable, however, to be wearing a Colorado Avalanche sweater in your booking photo. Were they all out of Kenyon Martin jerseys when you stole that from Sports Authority or something? Your only saving grace would be if you lifted a Brad May or Temu Selanne sweater off the clearance rack.
Yesterday the wife and I took in a Father's Day barbecue and a 100-degree scorcher at my sister's house out on the plains. I stayed inside with the air conditioning most of the day and had a glorious nap as the final round of the US Open played out before me. The male contingent of the barbecue were emotionally invested in the tournament, getting excited at good shots, sizing up the leader board and making the standard comments that professional golf fans make ("He can hit a (insert club here) that far?" or "They all make it look so effortless.") Although I play golf a handful of times each year, I have no desire to watch it played professionally nor do I care if a nobody from Argentina wins the thing. I did discover that professional golf woos me to sleep as if I were an infant wrapped tightly to her warm, bare bosom. Sit me in your rocking chair and sing me a lullaby, professional golf. Your sweet baby boy has a stomach full of bratwurst and needs the sleepy.
The wife and I spent the weekend gallivanting around Boise, Idaho and visiting with family. Some highlights:
Taking your intermediate level skiing wife down a run called Widowmaker first thing in the morning does not help her psychologically for the rest of the day. It just scares the bejesus out of her.
My wife's grandfather, aged 97, to me regarding the Boise State Fiesta Bowl victory: "It was the best thing to ever happen to this town."
A hotel room sink packed with ice can hold a twelve pack of Alaskan Amber nicely.
My wife's grandfather, aged 97, to the jabbering ladies on stage during Robbie Burns Night: "Get on with it!"
Haggis and Scottish shortbread cookies make for a fine meal.
If the United Nations would only listen to heavily intoxicated, foul-mouthed artists and German citizens working towards Ph.D.'s in brain cancer research than this world would be a much better place.
I was recognized as "That guy from the parade" twice in the same night. Once next to the urinal in the men's bathroom at the Bittercreek Alehouse and once outside the Bittercreek Alehouse by a throng of intoxicated college girls.
The wife and I spent the Christian New Year within stumbling distance from the house by slogging it to a party in a foot and half of ice, slush and snow with a backpack full of booze. We welcomed in 2007 with burnt pizza, shots of Jack Daniels, warm Squirt chasers and countless games of Guitar Hero (Kaye and I rocked in 2007 with a head-to-head ax battle of Cheap Trick's "Surrender" neither of us caring that it was past midnight). On New Year's Day we invited the in-laws over to watch the Fiesta Bowl in High Definition and eat sweetened swine. Three native Idahoans were in the house as Boise State upset Oklahoma in overtime to go undefeated on the season and wreak havoc on BCS voting. Swept up in the heat of the win, famed running back and crochet master knitter Ian Johnson proposed to his girlfriend. In other news, Jessica Alba throws a football in a bikini.
Paparazzi shots of Britney's cash and prizes (very un-work safe). Five years ago this link might have melted my face, but now her nether regions are about as interesting to me as an introductory to statistics college course. Bonus: C-Section scars!
Snow reports for local ski areas. With an intense Arctic storm moving in, ski areas could be getting upwards of two feet of snow and I could be spending the next couple of days on the slopes reveling in soft, champagne powder while you jerks are stuck in a cubicle at work.
Selections from the notebooks of Max Roosevelt, 15-year-old socialist.
Big local news (so big in fact, they interrupted an episode of Judge Joe Brown for the press conference yesterday): Jake Plummer gets benched and Jay Cutler will start as the Broncos quarterback on Sunday. I am officially nicknaming Cutler "The Paperboy" because he bears striking resemblance to a chubby neighborhood kid that slings the daily news and not because he looks like the one-hit rap wonder of the early 90s.
Wikipedia for GG Allin. Specifically, the "Death" heading.
The wife and I celebrated our annual Thanksgiving tradition and ran in the Denver Turkey Trot this morning. The weather was beautiful and my legs and lungs felt good. My iPod crapped out on me during mile 3 and after numerous attempts to reboot the device, I am now faced with retiring the old girl for one of those new fangled jimmys. Soon we will be off to gorge on basted fowl and curse Jake Plummer as he fumble fucks around on the gridiron and causes our beloved Broncos lose two in a row to division rivals. Happy Thanksgiving.
Last night I watched the Avs home opener from a luxury suite at the Pepsi Center (the boys lost to the Stars 2-3 in OT). The old man, Jake, Nels and Aaron were also in attendance. My pops was responsible for the hook up as he procured the tickets through assorted work connections. The suite came equipped with a private bathroom, assorted domestic beers, food platters, period-by-period stat sheets and a computer with internet connection. Our luxurious time was surrounded by famous radio personalities with fake cans (Clear Channel suite next door), one drunk fan trying to start an "AVS RULE!" cheer (seats below us) and the now infamous silver bucket of happiness. The life of an unemployed artist is glamorous and fulfilling.
My third week of unemployment will include two web design job interviews; one in the heart of downtown Denver which is a block off the 16th Street Mall and the city's main bus depot (I'm all about the public transportation) and one a few blocks away from Govnr's Park which has amazing happy hour beers and a Slider Basket that would make Wimpy cry (the Won Ton Juans are equally as glorious). Keep your fingers crossed that one of these interviews will pan out before my severance runs dry and we will be subsisting only on a meager public school teacher's income. The wife has yet to wear tattered clothing and babble incomprehensible phrases while standing over a barrel fire, but I can assure you that that time is nigh, my friends. Onto an unemployed artist's browser history:
An anti-NCAA Hazing website where images of basketball chicks wearing blindfolds and sombreros while drinking from a beer bong and snorting things off the floor live.
Nate Dogg makes a Wolverine costume for Halloween. Hijinks and homoerotic posing ensue.
Future Garfield strips if Garfield aged at the normal feline rate.
Bo Jackson runs wild in a game of Super Tecmo Bowl. My Dad would say that Bo did this in real life every time he played against the Denver Broncos and then he would call Bo a "bag of shit."
Watch this video and then ask how far you would go for some free porn.
The reason the Duke Lacrosse season was suspended indefinitely. It is one thing to call strippers bitches and threaten to skin them; but if you do these things while "cumming in your Duke issue spandex" then you have crossed the line.
Seven famous songs with factual or logical mistakes in the lyrics.
It is official; I have won the March Madness office pool for the second time in five years. Special thanks to the Wichita State Shockers, the Georgetown Hoyas and Glen "Big Baby" Davis. I plan on buying the future wife a pretty little dress and a steak with all the extra cabbage.
A sculpture dedicated to The Birth of Britney Spears's son, Sean Preston. The installation is said to be an idealized portrayal of Britney in delivery with a distended belly, lactating breasts and a posterior view that depicts widened hips and reveals the crowning of the child's head. According to the artist's interpretation, Britney gave birth on all fours (which is fitting, I suppose, because I am guessing that is how she conceived) stroking a bear (wolf?) head. Are bears (wolves?) symbolic of fertility and childbirth? If so, I am going to start rethinking some things.
I am using a hockey analogy for this link. Every team has a collection of diverse players with specific skills; a select few are pure goal scorers and play makers, others are defensive specialists, muckers, grinders, etc. The point is a good hockey player knows their role and is happy to contribute. You are nothing more to the human team than talking boobs, Jessica Alba. The sooner you accept and embrace that, the better off we will all be.
The future wife and I got the hell out of town for an alpine sports adventure weekend in Summit County (click here for some hot Flickr action). After a six mile snowshoe hike on Friday, we celebrated St. Patrick's Day like an old-married couple; drinking two Kiltlifters and inhaling bacon-wrapped Filet Mignon at Pug Ryan's then falling asleep before ten thirty watching reruns of Murder She Wrote. On Saturday we skied Breckenridge expecting spring break and weekend crowds only to be surprised by a dead resort due to local weather professionals prematurely calling for an immense spring storm. It is back to work in a few hours unless the city shuts down due to a blizzard (it could happen again, you know).
This is what happens when atypical fat Goth chicks have no talent for writing poetry in a cemetery.
A burglar avoids a prison term until he can regain control of his manhood. (The condition known as Priapism (or "the perpetual erection") was named for the Greek god Priapus, who was the protector of livestock, fruit plants, gardens and male genitalia and subsequently hung like a moose).
Well done, ladies; but no matter how high you jump and how far you can pull and spread those young, taut bodies, my bracket tells me that you are getting smoked like a Parliament in the second round by Wichita State.
John Buccigross on why March is the greatest time of the year for hockey. I enjoy the tale of his six year old son getting his first goal and a humorous anecdote regarding one of my favorite hockey personality's Shjon Podein. Excerpt:
So, I'm in my rookie year in Edmonton and it's my birthday. We had just come home from one of our infamous 15 to 20 day road trips and my family is there to celebrate. So, the family and I go out to have dinner and drinks. We're just relaxing when one of my brothers gives me a four foot high inflatable Tyrannosaurus rex for a birthday present. My other brother gives me a sombrero. We get back to the hotel and get Mom back in her room. As we're leaving Mom's room, my brothers jump me and rip my suit off in the hotel hallway, leaving me with just my boxers, a sombrero and my four foot high inflatable Tyrannosaurus Rex. So I'm wandering the hallways of the hotel trying to find my room. We'd been on the road for 15 to 20 days, it's late, and I can't remember my room number. I stick my room key in a number of doors, hoping to find the right one. All of a sudden, I look up and there is one of Canada's finest security guards.
I go, "Hey, what's going on!"
The security guard says, "We've had a complaint that some guy is walking down the hall in his boxers, wearing a sombrero, with a bottle of Bud in one hand and an inflatable dinosaur in the other making too much noise."
I looked at him and said, "You've got the wrong guy, brutha."
The rise and fall of an Indian reservation drug dealer. Jake digs the bear claw tattoos prominently displayed on homegirl's sweater puppies. He would. The guy does shit like this on the weekends.
A dissertation on the NBA logo. The article argues whether the logo should be redesigned to reflect the current culture of the league or remain the way it is. I say redesign the logo to something that is indicative of the modern NBA; a tattooed kid with cornrows that cannot play defense and has no outside shot but can dunk like a hungry police officer at a coffee shop.
Watching the Winter Olympics for the past week has lead me to one undeniable truth: there is nothing more gay than single male figure skating. I do not deny the skill and hard work it must take to do all those tricks on ice, but an extravagant swan outfit? All I ask is that our diminutive homosexuals dressed as princess fairies are better at silly little ice spins than other country's diminutive homosexuals dressed as princess fairies. Way to fuck that up, Johnny Weir.
The future wife and I spent the past few days in the bustling metropolis of Boise, Idaho. We visited with grandparents, caught some early bird specials (unfortunately Perkins was one of said early bird specials), attended an Idaho Steelheads game and walked around Hyde Park, Boise State and the downtown area. You can view all of the hot Flickr action here. All you need to know about big happenings in Boise is that they usually revolve around the P.F. Changs.
Me: I bought some new skis last night. Monica: Oh, nice. Me: Notice the urban graphics that will illustrate how much of a non-conformist I am while skiing. Because that is important. Monica: Keeping it street on the slopes? Me: Right. Represent. Monica: Represent Arvada? Me: "I am riding for the water tower today, bitches." Monica: "This is for all the homeys that are working at the gas stations, getting their weed delivered to them that cannot enjoy the mountain today." Me: "This bump run is for my boys that drink too much beer, still live at home with their parents and work at Randy's Pizza; sorry you did not make it, playas."
The Avs are playing with verve and poetry and there can be only one explanation; the magic Christmas sweatshirt. Since the future wife gave it to me for Jesus's birthday, the Avs have gone 8-2 and are now in first place in the Northwest division.
You also may have heard about the other Denver professional sports franchise. If they beat the Steelers this Sunday, they head to Detroit for their seventh Super Bowl bid in franchise history. Take care of business, D-Broncs. Daddy wants to see another Lombardi trophy in case at Invesco Field.
An Open Letter to the NFL: Who's idea was it to have Detroit host the Super Bowl? Whoever it was, you should fire them. Was Miami or San Diego closed that weekend? If I am going to risk getting shot outside a stadium during the big game, I expect to feel a warm ocean breeze on my face as I hold my intestines in my hands and writhe in agony while waiting for an ambulance to arrive. Also, as you are probably aware, the Roman Empire collapsed almost two thousand years ago. We use these things called numbers now. Look into it.
Being as its Martin Luther King, Jr. Day and I am white, it seems only fitting and respectful to Dr. King to bash white celebrities that I despise. I am sure Dr. King would agree that all that brotherhood and hand-holding business would be out the window if these jag offs were standing next to him:
Scott Stapp. Can someone please grab this guy with their arms wide open and squeeze him until his eyeballs pop out of their sockets? If not, we will have to keep getting updates like this. I checked out his bitch's website and noticed that she bears an uncanny resemblance to the brunette Carolina Panther cheerleader that got arrested for trading fur and slap boxing in a public restroom.
Peyton Manning. The most entertaining part of the NFL playoffs for me is watching Peyton Manning fail. Take a seat next to Dan Marino, Peyton. You have a long career of post-season disappointments and bad commercials ahead of you.
Tara Reid. Please bury your face in a mountain of cocaine and breathe deep ala Tony Montana, Tara. How Taradise has not been canceled yet reinforces why the plug needs to be pulled on the E! Network.
I was pulling for the Indianapolis Colts to go undefeated this season. Not because I like them, mind you, but because I am sick of the 1972 Miami Dolphin alumni celebrating like the worthless, glory deprived, ex-jocks that they are. Their lives are so empty that they follow undefeated NFL teams around the country with a bottle of champagne to open when said undefeated teams lose. In that fabled 1972 season0, the Miami Dolphins played only two teams with a winning record. They are proud of this accomplishment? That is like being proud of the valedictorian honor at summer school. I equate their "record" to that of a runt bastard I attended high school with who bragged about going undefeated in NHL '95 on Sega (he failed to mention that he turned offsides and icing off, played against the computer on easy mode and forced unfair trades through the league that netted him Wayne Gretzky, Mats Sundin, Mario Lemieux, Jeremy Roenick, Ray Bourque, Al Iafrate and Patrick Roy). I can do without Bob Griese telling me how magical the '72 season was on Sports Center every time the "record" remains unbroken, too. You know what would have been magical, Bob? Teaching your son how to throw a goddamn football and how to handle his liquor. Were you not on the bench nursing sore fallopian tubes most of that 1972 season anyway? So just shut the fuck up. That goes for all of you.
NC State runs a classy program. All I know is that if that Mexi-Cam business were pulled at Invesco Field At Mile High during a Denver Broncos home game, the stadium would probably be burnt to the ground.
A funny anecdote regarding the kissing cam: A few years ago I was in attendance at the Pepsi Center when the Colorado Avalanche took on the St. Louis Blues. In the second period, Joe Sakic fires a slap-shot that shatters the non-shatterproof glass behind the goalie. This causes a long delay in the game as the Pepsi Center crews work on cleaning the glass off the ice and installing a new panel. The Jumbo Tron begins entertaining the crowd with video clips, hockey highlights and the kissing cam. The segment drags on longer than normal due to the delay, and finally, it casts a parting shot of the St. Louis Blues bench; more specifically Keith Tkachuk and Barret Jackman. The players, engaged in a conversation, look up to see themselves on the Jumbo Tron kissing cam, smile and then lean into each other and kiss. For that brief moment in time, I actually liked Keith Tkachuk.
David Copperfield is going to impregnate a girl with magic. "Presto! You are knocked up! Now you will have wait nine months and see if the trick worked." This does not sound like a magic tick to me. It sounds like the modus operandi of a guy I went to high school with.
This poor girl has a doppelganger starring in porn movies that even made her parents question her social habits. Luckily, my online dopplegaenger only plays the drums in a hardcore metal band and I do not ever get mistaken for him.
Bill Romanowski protects his mythical fortress of solitude from a black stallion with a magical orange maine.
The Philadelphia Flyers Have a Time Machine: Installment Five. I would also like to add the obligatory "Fuck the Flyers" for any hockey fans (Jake, Gary) who may harbor the delusion that I cheer for that asshole organization that took Foppa away.
Pierce Brosnan requests that James Bond sex scenes be more explicit. I think he sums it up best: "What Bond needs is a good, palpable killing sequence and a good sex scene." I can get behind that, Mr. Brosnan.
Jason Sehorn should be beaten with a sock full of quarters. Seriously. Marc Bulger over Tom Brady? The only thing that guy ever did right was landing this.
A recipe for backcountry disaster: sleep deprivation, painkillers, alcohol, an abscessed tooth and moonlight four-wheeling.
This weekend there was a brawl at the Olive Garden that is within walking distance from of house.
The Denver Broncos were the only NFL team to go undefeated in the 2005 Pre-Season which led to fans throwing around terms like "Solid all around" and "Championship contenders" before the season started. Enter this past Sunday. Now fans are throwing around terms like "It was too hot" and "It is just one game." Getting beat by the Kicking Mule and last year's NFL doormat is no way to start the season.
Nothing good comes from patronizing a strip club in the middle of the day (except maybe $60 dollar hand release from a broke single mom who sees your cock as a means to an end). If you do not believe me in this matter click here.
This is why I taught my sisters how to spit out the window of a moving car.
I get crazy competitive on the putt-putt course. I will talk tremendous amounts of smack, gloat over good shots and try to humiliate my opponent with superior putting. Thankfully, I draw the line at body-slamming children.
The NHL unveiled a new logo for the upcoming season. Notice how the text direction was merely flipped from the old logo and the orange was replaced with cool, metallic and unnecessary grayish-blue gradients. I could not be happier that professional hockey is back (the future wife is even more ecstatic as she will not have to endure any more NHL Classic games on Altitude) but I have only two words for the new logo: very pussy.
To say the Japanese are not fanatical about young girls underwear would be like saying the Nazis did not hate the Jews. Case and point: intricate fiberglass carved panties.
Ben Saunders: Athlete, adventurer, motivational speaker and attempting to make an 1800 mile trek across Antarctica with no dogs, vehicles, kites or re-suppling. There is a reason that man-hauling across the Antarctic continent has only been tried once in 93 years, it is called Robert Scott.
A great story about Dock Ellis, the Major League pitcher who threw a no-hitter on acid. I miss the good old days of professional baseball when hurlers high on amphetamines would put one in your ear-hole just for stepping into the batters box.
It's such an important aspect of the game [hitting a batsmen]. All hitters know they're gonna get hit. They just don't know when. The kicker for the truly good hitters is, you cannot hit me as many times as I'm gonna hit you. They take that hit to get six hits. But you gotta pop their ass so you can get an 0 for 4 on them one day. Don't get cocky now, motherfucker. The challenge is on. So let's get it on. Other guys might explain it differently, have different reasons, but that was mine. Right about the time I left, it changed. You can't throw at anyone without getting thrown out of the game. The announcers today say it ruins the game. They never talk about the fights that Cincinnati and St. Louis got into 30 years ago. Barry Bonds? I'd hit him at least once a game. 'Cause he's got all that shit on. Yeah, let's see that shit stop the ball from hurting him if I hit him on the motherfucking elbow or something. I'd hit him just to see, does it work?
Highlights from my past two weeks of travel (click here and here some hot Flickr action):
At the HOW Design Conference, I learned some new tricks, saw some awesome design work and ate deep-dish pizza and drank numerous beers with friend/former coworker Michael. I cannot wait to get back to work with renewed creative enthusiasm only to have it crushed in a matter of seconds when I am given four pages of copy and told to "make it work" on a one-sided direct mail postcard.
Caught a Cubs game at Wrigley Field. The future wife and I soon discovered that our alcohol tolerance is much higher in the Midwest that at altitude. I spent the entire game covered in sweat due to high humidity and a broken air conditioner on the El-Train ride out to the game that waspacked butts to nuts.
Visited the Art institute of Chicago and saw some amazing work (Picasso, an orgy of impressionism) and some atrocious work (minimalism and American Gothic). Best quote while looking at the Georgia O'Keeffe collection: "She is very vaginal."
The future wife and I took a beautiful sunset architectural tour of Chicago.
Visited future in-laws in Eugene, Oregon. I found out that Eugene is almost identical to Boulder, minus the sex assaults, random rioting and the Flat Irons.
Animal House was filmed at the University of Oregon so the future wife's cousin took us on the Animal House tour at U of O, showing us the infamous frat house (currently vacant) and the cafeteria where the food fight scene took place.
Drove up the Oregon coast on Highway 101 that is incredible for scenery, shitty for traffic and great for fried seafood joints.
Spent three days in Long Beach, Washington in the heart of Lewis and Clark Country. We did the tours of various Lewis and Clark outposts, forts and landings, learned that the proper pronunciation of Sacagawea is Sa-caca-we-ah and ate a cut of fresh fish the size of our heads in Oysterville, Washington.
The closest I got to the ocean was dipping my feet in the 42-degree water. The oceans surrounding the Columbia River are some of the roughest and most treacherous in the world. Mix that in with the fact they are as cold as an Eskimo's vagina so swimming is not ideal (unless you are white trash parents laying out on towels "watching the kids play in the water" while smoking cigarettes).
Sidenote: After months of procrastination and toil, I finally got Broz Design up.
All you ever wanted to know about Trucker Bombs (with helpful imagery of assorted gallon containers brimming with piss).
A high school baseball coach resigns after whipping out his cock and asking his players if they had one. I side with the coach on this one as his lesson would have been far less memorable without the visual aid.
Woodward's story on how Mark Felt became Deep Throat and the reactions of various figures of Nixon's White House.
Children cannot hit slowly thrown balls because their brains are not wired to handle slow motion. From this day forth, whenever I play soft toss with a kid, I am throwing heat. I will even brush them off the plate so they know I am boss. "How does that chin music sound, Timmy? How does it sound?! You are in Daddy's world now, bitch!"
Architectural projects for the Soviet Union (circa 1930-1950) that were never realized. My personal favorites: The Palace of Soviets and The Aeroflot Building.
The ten biggest threats to Earth and life as we know it. I am hoping humanity does not get wiped out by a viral pandemic (too boring) or terrorists (too cliche). If anything, I am pulling for a super volcano to rain down ash and fire on us or for hyper-intelligent robots to turn our planet into a goddamn apocalyptic nuclear wasteland like in The Terminator.
The Philadelphia Flyers Have a Time Machine: Installment Four.
I like the way Michael Vick plays NFL football with the running and the throwing and the eluding of pass rushers the size of Mack trucks. I also like the way Michael Vick, er, Ron Mexico, gives the ladies herpes.
My boss just gave me a bottle of Greg Norman Estates Shiraz 2002 for the holidays. I am assuming the Shark makes a pretty mean wine despite his colossal chokes in major tournaments. When it comes to wine I honestly do not know what is good and what is not (my experiences are limited to thumb hole jugs of Riunite and the assorted boxed blends of Franzia). It is time to break out the good glasses, honey. Daddy is bringing home some Christmas wine.
In the midst of the NHL lockout, the Altitude Sports Network (carrier of Colorado Avalanche) has resorted to showing classic NHL games. Last night I watched Patrick Roy face a career high number of shots in a 2-2 tie versus the Toronto Maple Leafs in 1997. I think I have hit rock bottom. Next, I may be seen on an episode of Cops running down the street wearing nothing but a throwback Colorado Rockies jersey, drunk off Canadian Mist whiskey, fresh from smacking my lady around screaming, "It was not Claude's fault! Draper was skating with his fucking head down!"
My weekend was filled with disturbing programming flashing across the television. On Friday night Monica brought over her fella and some Chinese food over and we all watched Monster. I thought Charlize Theron engaging in lesbianism would soften the disturbing nature of the film (even if said lesbianism was with Christina Ricci who is hot if you are into elf sluts with big foreheads) but I was dead wrong. I have three words for you: tire iron sodomy. (I was guilty of this hot-chick-doing-an-uncharacteristic-sex-act fallacy during Requiem For A Dream, too. I heard Jennifer Connelly took a double ended dildo up the chute and that sounded like something I would enjoy watching. First, I had to endure a smack addict's arm amputation (his limb became black and gangrenous due to his love of the vein candy) and an old woman being committed to a mental health facility for her eating disorder and addiction to diet pills. When the scene finally arrived, it was more disturbing than hot).
Saturday morning I made myself a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and turned on the Olympics in the hopes of catching some Women's Beach Volleyball (Holly McPeak. Yummy). Instead I get the a broadcast of the Gymnastics Trampoline. The competition goes as such: an athlete (use the term athlete loosely) does tricks on a trampoline for an Olympic medal. We need an international competition forum for this? There was a kid named Jimmy in my neighborhood who would have dominated this event in the early eighties. That fucking kid was a wild man on the trampoline. His signature move was jumping off the roof and going into a double flip. I was waiting for a tandem Gymnastics Trampoline event when two competitors had a seat war or played a game of crack the egg. You know this event is not taken seriously when commentators had this exchange:
Announcer #1: Oh! That miscue on the back flip there is going to cost him. Announcer #2:Yes. What kind of experience do you have with this event? Announcer #1: Well, I have been jumping on trampolines since I was eight years old.
A link to a great email exchange that began with Team USA getting beat like they stole something in Olympic basketball by Puerto Rico (it is worth the read, trust me). For the record: I feel that we as a society should root for the Predator in the Alien vs. Predator conflict not because it seems more human-like but because the Predator is what we as a society should hope to one day become. The Predator, like an onion or a Photoshop document, has many layers; it is a skilled hunter, an assassin, intelligent and is a perfect example of the philosophical superman Nietzsche wrote about. The Predator is not a mindless drone but a free thinking individual that learns from its mistakes and is wise enough to outwit its enemy (like not walking into Dutch's crude jungle trap, for example). The Alien seems singular in its focus to destroy whatever creature/culture crosses its path and less concerned with educating itself on its environments, its enemies and most importantly, itself. The Alien mirrors contemporary society; mindless, submissive and narrow minded, whereas the Predator symbolizes enlightenment. Also consider that a woman with a bad perm adorned in cotton panties killed the Alien and the Predator wiped out an entire platoon of Special Forces soldiers skilled in the arts of guerrilla warfare before a strategically placed tree stump took it down.
French fans spat on Lance Armstrong as he pedaled to victory during the latest stage of the Tour De France. Barring a cataclysmic disaster, Armstrong is poised to win the race for the sixth consecutive time. Whats the matter, France? You cannot handle an American with one testicle winning your silly little bike race six years in a row? Show him some respect or the next time tanks come rolling through the Champ Elysees you will be on your own.
With the 2004 Olympic Summer Games forthcoming in Athens, athletes from all over the world are training their bodies, preparing mentally for competition and waiting in anticipation for the drunken fuck fest that is the Olympic village.
Jake knows of my adoration for women's tennis (more specifically, of my adoration for Maria Sharapova). Today, as I ate lunch from home, he calls.
Jake:Turn it to ESPN. Me: Why? Jake: Just do it.
I turn the channel to see Maria Sharapova, adorned in her little skirt, grunting, moaning and serving heat to Japan's Ai Sugiyama at Wimbledon. In a well-played tennis match, Sharapova won 5-7, 7-5, 6-1. She will now face Lindsay Davenport in the semifinals. It is moments such as these that reinforce why I am friends with Jake.
Women's tennis has always mesmerized me (this goes back long before Anna Kournikova appeared on the scene). It is a combination of the short skirts, the athleticism, the undulating buttocks and the orgasmic cries of ladies as they whack at the ball with all their might that does it for me. Today at lunch, while Jake and I dined on brisket sandwiches from Brothers Barbecue, my obsession with women's tennis reared its ugly head. Jake was trying to make conversation with me but my attentions were transfixed on the television behind him that was broadcasting a French Open match between Vera Zvonareva and Maria Sharapova. It was an epic struggle and, just in case you care, the 18th seeded Maria Sharapova upset the 10th seeded Vera Zvonareva.
Designer #1: I remember you telling me that you and your girlfriend are runners. Are you running any upcoming races? Me: We are running the Bolder Boulder on Memorial Day. Designer #2: Oh, I think I have heard of that. Designer #3: How cool! Me: It is a fun race. At the end you get to run around Folsom Field. Designer #2: That's where CU plays their home football games, right? Me: Yes. They added a feature this year where a group of college football recruits will be sexually assaulting a drunk and incapacitated 18 year-old girl on the fifty yard line. Designer #1: Oh ... 10 seconds of silence ... So, did everyone enjoy the keynote speaker this morning?
I just played a game of catch with a large hotel security guard with a Nerf football I won at the Boise Paper booth. He said the football's colors reminded him of the of the local arena football team the San Diego Riptide. Being as the football is green and orange and the Riptide colors are blue and gray, I think he was probably stoned or, like me, had too many drinks at the hotel lounge on the 40th floor last night.
When participating in sports at any level, men need to understand hazing is part of the gig and they have to be ready for it; even if it entails a cock to the skull. I still will not fall asleep on buses due to the fact a sick bastard on my high school football team would wake sleepers up with a used, sweaty cup pressed firmly to their nose/mouth region. I still keep my head on a swivel whenever I take a public shower because another dirtbag on my high school football team would sneak up behind people when they were soaping up and piss on them.
The Avs lost their playoff series last night. The Broncos season does not start until September. The Nuggets got knocked out of the playoffs over the weekend. All this town has to watch now is the red-headed stepchild of Colorado professional athletic franchises: the Rockies. Sports fans will receive another summer of Larry Walker injuries, the formula* for winning baseball in Colorado explained in detail at least fifty times by baseball analysts, the Rockies winning 80% of their home games and losing 90% of their road games and colorful stories in the press about baseballs being stored in a humidor because sportswriters have nothing else interesting to write about this sack of shit team.
* Load your team with steroid freaks that can hit the ball to kingdom come and pitchers that do not care if their ERA is above six.
