Tuesday, October 27, 2009

The Tale of Two Shitties

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”

On one hand, his college team, a team coming off a season so putrid that its fans would dive face-first into piles of diarrhea just to avoid its stench, was suddenly showing promise, playing with pluck, heart and creativity for the first time in 7 years. Sure there were still traces and remnants of poop but it was dissipating, leaving only a splash, a pinch, an occasionally mild dusting of poopiness. In short, to be a Washington Huskies fan is analogous to coaching a teenaged-boy as he starts to discover women: sure he says awkward things sometimes like “I masturbated to your Facebook profile last night;” and every now and then you have to pull him aside and say things like, “no, no, you let her order first and then you take your dick out;” but damn it, that little knucklehead sure does make you proud when he does it right.

On the other, his pro team, the one true love of his sports life despite his daily resistance, was mired in the worst possible time: the year before the rebuilding year. After a period of sustained success, the most successful in their relatively brief history in fact, the players got old, bad luck crept in and the wheels started to fall off. In short, to be a Seattle Seahawks fan was kind of like being in a bad relationship that should’ve ended years ago but for some reason keeps plodding along and delaying the inevitable; inexplicably refusing to cripple under the weight of its own limitations. Then, on one particularly crestfallen night, you push all your chips into the middle and take her out for a fancy dinner, get really drunk, laugh genuinely at first, bitterly at the end, and wake up in a hazy stupor to the harsh reality that in your drunken state you accidentally went home with a transsexual florist named Toni. Does that make you gay? It might but who cares? You’d let the entire Cowboys’ offensive line run a train on you every day for the rest of your miserable goddamn fucking life if it meant you never had to watch Matt Hasselbeck play quarterback again, FUCK YOU, SEAHAWKS, FUCK YOU!!!

(Editor’s note: we apologize for the slight break in motif, we will now return to the bad Dickens impersonation)

Add it all up and what did it equal for our fair narrator? Unfortunately it meant that he could not enjoy the success of one while enduring the failure of another. These two completely separate entities had become unequivocally and inexorably linked in his mind, heart and balls. His was a rare and unforeseen torture, one team emerging from the funk and another about to enter in. Falling back in love while futilely trying to fall out. Like hearing a sexy voice and realizing it belonged to a girl who looks like Nick Nolte, or seeing a girl who looks like Megan Fox only to realize that she also talks like Megan Fox.

Sports. What an elaborate prank it all is. The lowest lows and the highest highs wrapped up in a facade of permanence and significance. Did this mean he would stop watching either team? Of course not. Loving your favorite teams isn’t like loving anything else; sports are the only thing in life you can complain about where the complaints are completely surface level, void of any subtext. There are only so many grenades someone can launch in the direction of their wife, partner, boss, co-workers, friends and family without the subconscious starting to reveal itself. Freud once said that “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar” and that’s true with sports. Sometimes you want to light that cigar and then shove it up your ass, but it’s a cigar nonetheless.

With that said, what did this little tale accomplish? Nothing. Do I feel better for writing it? No. Will I still drag myself to a bar to watch DeMacus Ware have sex with Matt Hasselbeck on live TV this weekend? Yes. Am I happy about this? No. Am I going to call Toni the transsexual and see if he wants to Jim Mora my Junior? Maybe. Has this whole situation, this weird, contradictory feeling made me love my teams or sports in general any less? No. If nothing else, it’s just a reminder that sports are one of the rare things in life that still has the capacity to surprise you on a yearly, if not hourly basis. And if you can’t realize and appreciate that simple fact then you’re probably a Seahawks fan. FUCK YOU, SEAHAWKS, FUCK YOU!!!


Thursday, October 8, 2009

A Little Whizzle On The Piss Cake

Here’s a word I can’t stand: prodigious. I also can’t stand when people protest hatred for certain highbrow words purely to sound smarter. That kind of behavior is completely banal and bombastic, two other words I can’t stand by the way.

If I were really, really rich, like A Rod or Shaq rich, here’s a little game I’d play: I’d buy a lesser-known work by a well-known artist; a really obscure Picasso or Dali or something to that effect, put a tracking device inside the frame, donate the piece to a local charity and then see how long it takes for the identity to be discovered and a massive, national story to break out. Then, as soon as the little old lady who bought the painting at Goodwill or a garage sale finished taping Oprah, I’d reveal my little story, starting from scratch and recapping the whole tale, how this sick, sadistic bitch broke into my house, stole my art work, molested my fish and took a fat dump in my oven. Then, when she gets hauled off to jail, I’d have a huge party, drink really expensive whiskey and fuck a dinosaur. Being rich would be so fucking awesome.

Look, I’m fine with Matthew McConaughey and Sanjay Gupta doing a special about the importance of physical fitness, but in order to put this in context, the interview needs to start with the following exchange:

SG (in a nervous yet pretentious “I hid a Jonas Salk pez dispenser up my ass right after makeup and I sure hope no one finds about it” voice): Matthew, what did you do today?

MM (in a slow, drawn out “of course you can put it in your mouth, I just need to do me a little whizzle on the piss cake and score a soda or something first you know” voice): Nothing, man.

SG: Matthew, what did you do yesterday?

MM: You’re looking at it, chief.

SG: Matthew, other than your basic needs as a mammal, do you have any conceivable reason for even getting out of bed in the morning?

MM: Oh yeah, man, exercise.

SG: Okay, great. Matthew, exercise is obviously very important to you. Tell the millions of overworked, underpaid, extremely tired and stressed out viewers why they need to be exercising at least two hours a day.

MM: You bet, Ganja.

With the Scrubs era winding down, the predominant Zach Braff question has evolved from “how the fuck did a show starring Zach Braff stay on TV for eight years?” to “when Zach Braff starts a conversation with a chick at a bar by sliding a DVD across the table, does he use ‘Scrubs: The Complete Series” or does he still stick with Garden State?”

When you think about it, there isn’t a combination of 8 words in the English language that raise more questions than: I like to masturbate to pictures of elephants. Can you imagine how many questions you’d ask if one of your buddies said that? Now put yourself in my shoes. How many fucking questions would you ask about yourself if you were the one who thought of that sick shit? I haven’t had this kind of introspection since I found that Mr. T Pez dispenser in my ass and had no idea how it got there.


P.S. I haven’t been this high in two years.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Straight Thumpin'

by Magglio and Jericho

They say Jesus was a carpenter? I’m not buying it. I see those crosses everywhere. I mean if Jesus wasn’t a marketer I don’t know what he was.

It was good to see the Twins win in 12. What a great way to finish a season. And for all you hillbilly Minnesotans out there, congratulations. But here’s my problem. It’s the celebration in the locker room. Sure, jump up and down like idiots when the winning run crosses the plate. But be cognizant of who’s on deck. Pouring champagne on each other until the wee hours of the morning isn’t helping anything when facing CC Sabathia this afternoon. I know I sound like an old man, but the celebration in baseball is out of hand come playoff time. Watch it unfold. It’s obnoxious. A team will win this first 5 game series and they’ll do the whole champagne thing in the locker room…again. And then again the next round. Kinda loses its luster don’t you think?

Longtime A&M friend Icee sent us the link to the Erin Andrews video. Jericho said we can’t post it cause it’s creepy and perpetuates that sort of behavior. While I agree, I still think her tits should over rule any sort of logic in this argument. I mean seriously. Email me at applesandmoustaches@gmail.com if you want the link.

Our wives are both out of town through the weekend. They’re actually together right now. Spending our money and being sexy. It’s what they do best. (Jesus, nice old guy joke, when did I turn into Paul McGuire?) You know what that means…man date. Yep, this Friday me and the other ball and chain are going to a steak house where we plan to strap a fade on like it’s 2001 all over again. The only rules for the dress code is no tie. I’m still not sure what I’m wearing. I’ve been worried about it all week.

I’ve been on Facebook for about two months now and have three overarching thoughts / comments:

1. Get better looking friends. This goes for guys too. When did everyone get so horsey?

2. Stop taking quizzes and telling me about it. I don’t care what kind of horse you are, which Bob Marley song you are or which Pixar character you think gives the best head (my money is on Nemo here, btw, nice and slippery). The only quiz you should be taking is “how can I get better looking friends who enjoy posting compromising pictures of themselves?”

3. Stop telling me what you like and don’t like. John thinks Sully from Monster’s Inc would give the best head because you could just fuck his enormous eye. 5 people like this. You want to like something? How about you like yourself down to the corner and meet some good looking friends, goddamn it.

A co-worker is having a Halloween party where only a few of us in the office will be invited. I told her I can’t wait to tell the other people that they weren’t invited. She told me that’s such a Blair thing to say. Honestly, it made my day. And yes, I’m a straight male.


Monday, October 5, 2009

A&M and Niners Defense!

Shouldn’t we be celebrating the guy who secretly videotaped Erin Andrews nude rather than arrest him? He’s supplying a need to roughly 100 million other men with his fearless efforts. Some day this will be looked down upon as being as ridiculous as banning gay marriage, the iPhone only on AT&T and anyone who actually thought The Soloist starring Robert Downey Jr and Jamie Foxx was a good idea.

I’m putting money on Favre tonight and giving the 5 points. Look, I hate that old fuck as much as the next guy, but he won’t lose this game. This is the equivalent of when Jon Gruden faced the Raiders in the Super Bowl as coach of Tampa Bay. There was no way Gruden would lose a game against his former team. I’ll tell you one thing though. If I have to watch Favre cry tears of joy one more time I might fist fuck a squirrel. Not sure the connection. But drastic measures would be called for. This is football for fuck’s sake. Why does he cry so much?

If you’re going to fart in a super market do it near the fancy cheeses.

I’m so confused by this whole Starbucks Via thing. Let’s look at a hypothetical situation. Let’s say I’m a well hung, incredibly attractive, young professional who works a desk job. Everyday around 2pm I enjoy a cup of coffee. Now, prior to Starbucks dumping $100 million into an ad campaign to ensure I knew of Via’s existence, I would mosey on down the block, plunk down $1.75 and get a gigantic cup of pretty shitty Starbucks coffee. I would walk back with my green and white cup, silently announcing to my co-workers that I was in fact drinking a Starbucks coffee. Now? When 2pm rolls around I dig into my pocket to find a baggy of grains like a fucking crackhead, dump it into the mug with ladybugs on it, mix with hot water, and voila. It cost me less money. I don’t have to go into a Starbucks. Nobody knows I’m drinking a Starbucks. And most importantly it takes away one of the highlights of my day…leaving the office. I just don’t get it.

After reading through hundreds and hundreds of resumes, cover letters and introductory emails I have one word of advice for aspiring professionals applying for a job online. Be different. Seriously. If I have to read one more “I look forward to the opportunity” I might pull my hair out. Where’s the intro email that says simply “Let’s cut the crap. I’d tear this job up. Call me.” I’d hire that person on the spot. Ya heard?