What Is It About Rosie Perez That Makes Me Want To Smash Her Head In With A Baseball Bat?

Obviously, I'm being facetious. Thankfully, I don't see her too much in movies or on television because she brings out the very worst in me. Maybe it's because she seems the get the most annoying and bitchiest character roles. Maybe it's her grating voice that makes you want to drill holes in your own eardrums.

It's not that I have an issue with latina women. God knows my ex was jealous over my infatuation with Gloria Estefan years back. I don't know exactly what it is, and Rosie may be one of the nicest people in the world, but I can't fucking stand her.

Her character portrayals of spoiled, mouthy bitches coupled with that voice that could peel paint has not exactly endeared me to her. Even when she did a voice over for the female lead in the cartoon movie The Road To El Dorado (2000), my blood pressure rose about 40 points. I think I beat my children immediately after that picture let out, to relieve some tension. And forget about me ever watching It Could Happen To You (1994). I think I would stroke out if I had to sit through her portrayal as that miserable bitch again.

Just about every role I've seen her play gives me ass cancer.

You would think that I'd like her. She's from Brooklyn, NY, just a stones throw away from where I grew up. Nope, I still hate her. Maybe part of me thinks that Rosie isn't playing a role but merely playing herself and I can't separate fact from fiction. Possible.

But it just doesn't matter. I never said it was logical or was a correct assessment. I can't believe she makes a living playing such stereotypical bitches. Maybe that's what it is. Is playing an incredibly annoying bitch that much of a stretch for any woman, let alone an actress? My ex was pretty good at it but I never remenber cashing any royalty or residuals checks.

That's it! Rosie, you are typecast forever in my mind as that person. Congratulations.

Is it too late or did Gloria Stefan hit the wall already?

The Inner Beast

After a Spring Pilgrimage a few years ago, my son, Pimp-n-Playa and I were driving back home along I-90. We were passing the time in customary fashion, bullshitting and checking out the pretty girls in the other cars. That's when we spotted a strawberry blond haired woman, probably about 25-28 years old or so, in the passenger seat of an adjacent vehicle.

Sitting next to her was a prototypical yuppie guy wearing a red polo shirt and you could almost hear the perfect crease in what was probably a wrinkle free tan pair of khaki pants, even though you couldn't see them. I turned to Pimp and we began to craft the following story.

"Look at that smoking hot chick in that car", I said.

"I wouldn't mind banging the fucking bottom out of her", Pimp retorted.

"Look at that guy she's with"

"Why is it all of these fucking hot chicks end up with such fucking nerds?"

"C'mon, son, he seems like a nice guy. In fact he's probably a rocket scientist and the model boyfriend/husband. He probably does anything she asks and gives her anything she asks for. He probably does the dishes and the laundry."

"You're probably fucking right"

"But you know what. Take a closer look at her, son. Look at her eyes"

"Whatyuns mean Dad?"

"Look at her. She's bored to death. Look at her eyes. She's off in space. She may be sitting beside him, but she's not all there. In her mind, she's someplace else."

"What are you fucking talking about?"

"Bear with me on this one. I know that look. Picture a typical day at their house. He probably races home from his job, cooks her dinner and has lit candles on the dining room table, waiting for her to come home. She comes home and is greeted by her nice guy and is pleasantly surprised by his efforts. They enjoy dinner, then he clears the plates and loads the dishwasher, they sit on the porch and talk about what she's interested in for a few hours before retiring for the night. They turn off the lights and quietly make love before falling asleep"

"I don't get it. That actually sounds kind of fucking nice"

"Sure it's nice. That's the problem"

"What the fuck?"

"Look at her. She's fucking bored. What she wants and needs is for him to grab her when she walks in the door, rip open her blouse and start kissing and sucking on her breasts. Then turning her around and bending her over the kitchen island, grabbing the back of her panties and ripping them in half right out of the back of her skirt. Grabbing her by the hair, he mounts her doggy style, gnaws on her neck and starts jackhammering her right in the middle of the kitchen, with her skirt hiked up on her hips. By this time she's so hot and excited that she soaks the kitchen island and is breathless as she comes multiple times. Then he pulls out of her and shoots his load all over her back and then leaves without another word. This is what she's been longing for but too timid to ask her perfect man for. He's satisfied her inner beast"

"Her inner beast?"

"Every woman has an inner beast. Call it her primal, inner slut. If a man doesn't bring out a woman's inner beast, he is doomed to lose her sooner or later. Look at that guy she's with. When he goes down on her for a minute or two before sex, he probably licks a little around the outside before he mounts her missionary style and does his business. He's afraid to stick his head in there and get messy. She needs someone who's going to go in there and go to war with her clit. Doing whatever is necessary to get her off. She needs someone who's going to be a slave to her pussy and love it. I'm sorry, but he's just not that guy"

"Holy shit (laughing his ass off)!"

"She wants someone to take charge, bring out the bad girl's inner beast and leave her totally used, exhausted and wanting more but too sore to even think about it. She wants someone who's willing to spank her ass as he's getting ready to bring it home."

"You are one fucking sick dude (laughing)"

"I'm not saying that she wants that every night or even that frequently at all. But, look into her eyes. She wants the possibility of that kind of passion. Even if it only happens once in a blue moon. She wants to pull herself off that kitchen island, grab her torn shirt and split panties off the floor and use them to rub the redness she feels on her ass and the wetness she's never experienced before between her legs. And as she mindlessly wanders towards the bathroom, she feels like a used little slut. And then she smiles. Because the inner beast has been out for a spin and she didn't have to go somewhere else or to someone else to release it. And it's there in every woman, just waiting to be released. Women may claim to want the sensitive guy, and maybe that's true. But they fantasize at night about the Marlboro man, make no mistake. And this guy sitting next to her just doesn't have it in him. I can tell. And I feel sorry for her."

"That's fucking sad"

"Tell me about it. But eventually she'll find someone to release her inner beast. It's just a matter of time. They all do."

"Y'know, Zap, once I thought you were a big pompous buffoon. Then I realized that inside you were just a pitiful child. But now I realize that outside that child is just a big pompous buffoon." -Leela

"And which one rocked your world?" - The "Zapster", Zap Brannigan

Love's Labour Lost In Space, Futurama - Season 1, Episode 4.

Bluey's Sports Heros

Dave Kingman, 1B-OF - New York Mets et al. deserves to join the ranks in the hallowed halls of MLB's Hall of Fame.

You can take Barry Bonds' swollen fat head, Sammy Sosa's gay corked bat, Mark McGwire's shriveled integrity, Jose Canseco's ass syringes and Raffy Palmeiro's fucking perjury and do the right thing.

Elect Mr. David Arthur Kingman to the Hall of Fame. His mammoth blasts and legendary pop-ups (hit the Astrodome roof for a ground rule double and the Metrodome roof for a foul ball) were absolutely stunning. His at bats were a pure joy to watch. You never knew when you were going to see a 550 foot HR or something you've never seen before. Kingman was rail thin his whole career and his massive uppercut swing either provided fireworks or a trip back to the bench after a strikeout. It was impossible to breathe whenever Kingman swung the bat.

His HR to at bat ratio still rivals Babe Ruth's and his 442 career HR's were accomplished without chemical enhancements or poor post expansion pitching. Kingman was a true character of the game and his gift of a dead rat to a female sportswriter was classic. He was a quiet and gentle giant (6'6") who never asked for the spotlight and he was unceremoniously ushered out of baseball due to baseball owners collusion after a 36 HR season with the A's. He could have easily reached 500 HRs and it's a shame that his career was cut short while he was still productive.

Sure Kingman struck out alot, but not any more than Reggie Jackson, who is universally revered for one 3 HR game and had the benefit of playing on perennial winning teams in Oakland and New York.

I am a Dave Kingman disciple. He is my favorite all time player and I will not rest singing his praises until MLB puts him into the Hall of Fame. With all these steroid junkies passing Kingman on the all time HR list, it's time we make things right, make a statement and put "Kong" into the HOF!

If you never heard Tommy Lasorda's obscenity laced tirade after a 4 HR performance by Kingman against the LA Dodgers, google it and take a listen. It is priceless. I'm not saying that Dave Kingman was one of the best to play the game, but he is certainly as deserving as some who are currently in the Hall of Fame. Baseball should hold precious it's beloved characters. Kingman was a player for the ages. No player before him or since could match his pure power without steroids. In my mind, that makes him a legend.

My sister, Kreeshka's boyfriend got me an autographed Kingman bat this Christmas. It stirred all these feelings up again and I'm invigorated to carry the Kingman torch again. I used to have a saying back in the 80's that summed up my feelings.

"Kingman is God!"

Halo 2 Personalities: Part II

(submitted by Irish, embellished and spell-checked by Bluey)

Irish Vehicle Whore:
Battle clad in a gay green shamrock, this kind of player doesn't really try to go for the weapons or the kills, over grabbing the keys to the warthog and driving everyone around from place to place. Typical passenger includes Migrant Mexican blueberry pickers. He's like an Irish Cab driver who can't lay off the vehicles, despite another player having an obvious missile lock and spare rocket for his ass. Usual post game stats read something like this: Kills :1, Assists: 50, Medals: 16*, Life Span: 15 Minutes. If you want to get rid of this player, load coagulation without any vehicles and *poof*, he's gone! This strategy has been used by the Rocket Whore.* In case SeaWall (Spawn Camping Fuck) is wondering, these are "run over" kills medals.

Alaskan Beer Drinkers (AKA The McKenzie Brothers of the Great White North):
I don't know if these guys are Irish, but they sure seem drunk all the time when they play Halo 2. One thing the clan noticed is that you have to turn down your headset volume when the one called Badow screams in his slurred speech. The one called Grip admittedly isn't as bad as his brother, but Badow is known to do some really stupid shit from time to time. (ex run to the wrong base with the flag, or tries to plant the bomb in the wrong place.) Master Chief needs to join the AA at some point to fix this drinking problem. Team play with these two can sometimes be a real experience after they've had a few beers.

Whiskey Playa:
This game type lives in a place called Champagne, Illinois, which shows he also has a serious love for alcohol. This gamer is a perpetual student nicknamed Beeb and has been known to make a mint juleps or two prior to hitting the power button, although a dry martini is not out of line if the juleps is sparse. The drunker he gets, the funnier he is to play with, as he begins to say damn near anything to his teammates, complains about art school, or the crazy bullshit his professors make him do on a weekly basis. The only problem with this type of player is he doesn't play enough, but then again, he's got lots of homework to do. Beebs especially likes forty-something southern broads that live in trailers, especially the Family Gal.

Green-Horn:
This is the person that signed up for X-box live, and maybe uses it 2-3 times per year. They don't play Halo 2 with us much because it intimidates them, or they die all the time. When asked why they don't play much they reply: "All I do is die, and I can't kill anyone. I just suck!" Meanwhile, we all know that this is not so much the result as it is the cause of their suckdom. The reason they suck is because they never play, which causes them to suck, which causes them not to play, which causes them to suck, which causes them not to play..., well, you get the point. I won't mention any names like François, Cupcake, Choder, Specter Zero, etc.

Tank Whore:
This player type lives to hop into the tank and roll over the skulls of those who would dare try to take the tank off of him. He can be found on Coagulation firing the tank gun on innocent spawn victims who happen to pop up around the base. Of course he waits until they are two feet from the base before killing them. He considers this tactic, "giving them half a chance" and thereby relieving himself of the "spawn camping fuck" tag in his own mind. When someone else gets in the tank, he makes it a personal vendetta to recover the tank from the invader. If a person blows up the tank, this player type often seeks revenge. Many boards don't allow for Tanks, which sadden this individual, however he's a capable fighter despite these conditions. His secret wish is for a Tanks on Midship game type.

The Family Gal (submitted by Bluey, no need to get Irish in trouble):
Enjoys watching hermaphroditic porn with her 5-year old son. Claims that her special bond allows them to fully enjoy the medium without it being "inappropriate" as some uneducated cads claim it to be. May or may not live in a trailer depending on who you ask. Henrietta Pussycat makes her wet. The Family Gal can usually be found teaming up with the donkey punched Svetlana in a desperate effort to prove that women can play with the big boys. Unfortunately, she usually ends up as a "snak-pak" and her body pudding can be found littering the game boards. She has a southern drawl and may or may not have a set of balls for a chin.

Perfect Albums: Radiohead - The Bends

Let's face it, there are plenty of great albums out there, but every few years, an artist comes out with the perfect record. I would say that there have been probably less than fifty of them ever made in the history of rock.

Radiohead, The Bends is unequivocally one of them. I was listening to this record the other day and forgot why I stopped listening to it every day. Radiohead used to be one of my favorite bands. This record is so good, it actually caused me to be less of a fan. With every follow-up album Radiohead has made since The Bends was released in 1995, I've become increasingly disenchanted with the band. I never really fully understood why until the other day. It's not they're not making great music, it's just in my mind The Bends was a perfect album, creating a huge measuring stick in the process.

There really isn't a bad track on the album. Fake Plastic Trees, (Nice Dream), Just, My Iron Lung and Bullet Proof (...I wish I was) are my personal favorites but I have to admit that I never skip a song on the entire album. That is what classifies a perfect album in my mind.
I still dig on Radiohead, but I try not to place such high expectations on Thom Yorke and the boys.

I encourage you to take a listen to one of Bluey's "Perfect Albums". Enjoy.

Halo 2 Personalities: Part I

If you've ever jumped on X-box Live to play Halo 2, you realize that the X-box live community is filled with a whole host of unsavory characters that can make your gaming experience an exquisite torture.

The Halosphere is filled with individuals with little to no social grace and have no place in civilized society. Being called a "motherfucking homo nigger" on a regular basis is commonplace. The safety of anonymity lets the retards of society fully express their Id without any threat of repurcussions. Of course, I am always a total gentleman when I play online. I'm the consummate team player and like to think that I make those around me, better human beings. Unfortunately, I can't say as much for others.

I've been playing on X-Box Live on and off sporadically for a year now. Here are a couple of personality types that I've run into during my experiences:

The Balldropper:
The Balldropper is the 8-15 year old kid whose testicles haven't dropped yet. He can be identified by his girlish high screetch as he says things like "I got dibs on the Needler!" and "You took my sniper rifle...give it back!". This is one of the most annoying characters in the game. These little kids curse like sailors and need to be bitchslapped by their retarded parents, who in turn need to be bitchslapped for not being spayed or neutered in the first place.

The Blueberry-Picking Mexican:
The BPM is a real trophy. Because he lives in a warm climate and can't afford air conditioning, he blows a fan directly into his face as he plays. The result, is an insane amount of noise through his mic when he talks. He will consistently call others gay. The peculiar thing is that he often is known to ask other players to suck his dick. He loves riding in Halo vehicles because his blueberry-picking job doesn't afford him the luxury of driving vehicles in real life. He usually can be found driving the warthog or flying the Banshee because he fears the inevitable bitchslapping in hand to hand combat. He's a nice guy but be glad you don't actually have to smell his dirty greasy Mexican ass in person. That is unless he teabags you. It's his signature move. Be glad that the Guardians patrol the US-Mexican border.

The SeaWall (or Spawncamping Fuck-SCF):
The SCF also is not a big fan of hand to hand combat. He is perfectly happy standing 4 miles away from a spawn area with a sniper rifle and waiting an entire 30 minute game to register his 6 kills per game. He is more interested in accumulating medals than actually winning the game. He most looks forward to the game stats at the end so that he can rub the number of medals he got in everyone's face. He spooges over killing defenseless people that have just spawned into the game. The Sea Wall on Zanzibar is soiled beyond cleaning from the amount of time he spends there. No, it's not bird shit, it's SCF jism. The SCF will never admit to his spawn camping and can usually be found in the most obscure place on the board. If he could snipe from space on Headlong, he'd do it.

The Rocket Whore:
This person probably wasn't breast fed enough as an infant and relies on the Rocket Launcher as his pacifier. If you never see the rocket launcher in a thirty minute game, it's because he has the timing down pat to get it every time as soon as it spawns. He wishes that he had the mad skilz of, say...a Bluey, but in the end, he lives by the mantra...One shot, one kill. Psychologists may theorize that he is making up for a deficiency in some area but I'll leave that to the experts. When the rocket whore is not rocket whoring, he's usually sniping (again, one shot...). The rocket whore also knows all kinds of cheat codes to dodge rockets in the slim chance that another player gets to use the weapon. He is known to use the infamous (star,dot, circle, double diamond, left trigger finger) cheat code to have rockets pass right through him.

Henrietta Pussycat:
This fucking weirdo gets off killing people and then in Mr. Roger's Land of Make Believe, Henrietta Pussycat voice says, "meow, meow, killed you meow stupid meowthafucker, meow, meow". Obviously a tortured soul who is probably missing a ballsack due to an unfavourable divorce settlement. Henrietta is a man trapped in a female puppet's body. He probably wears women's panties and rubs his nipples after every kill. Henrietta cannot operate vehicles and has been known to fall out of the Banshee.

The Donkey Punched Svetlana:
This is a Russian chick who thinks she's Ivan Drago and that she can mop the floor with good wholesome American boys. You can find her getting owned on...ASCENSION...as well as countless other boards. What people don't know about her is that it is suspected that she usually hands the controller over to her husband to play while she plays secretary and operates the switchboard. She is extremely susceptible to the donkey punch to the back of the head and prefers you to complete the sodomy after she's dead. She thinks she's a real bad ass but we know better. She's fun to have around and sounds dead sexy with that accent. It's only because the rest of us are beating off to her voice, that she has some stellar games. I can't help thinking about "From Russia With Love", when I'm playing with her.

The Johnny Cash Impersonator:
This guy runs around the board, singing about "his burning ring of fire", while legislating due to his insane rage from grapefruit size hemmorhoids. He's known to pal around with the Rocket whore and it's no wonder "it burns, burns, burns...this ring of fire!". Rumor has it that the two have been seen in a Cleveland hotel together doing the nasty. Mr. I've Been Everywhere also has a soft spot for gay Xbox games such as Championship Poker and more notably, Project Gaythem, where he can be found tooling around circles looking for a boy toy. Mr Cash's singing has been known to make ears bleed and he uses this as a weapon. He also has a strange and sick twisted fetish for claymation and has been known to run a "wererabbit" up the ol' flag pole, if you know what I mean.

To be continued...

The Paula Jones Incident

Back in 1998, during my eighth year of marriage to Mothra, there was an occurence so surreal that a story just won't do it justice. I love telling this story but only one other friend witnessed it live besides my ex and I. That was my buddy, Beukey, who sure got a good laugh over it. God, I wish I had that night on videotape. It was frigging priceless!

After the birth of my third daughter, Kitty, my ex was looking for some fulfillment outside of raising three daughters and needed to blow off a litlle steam and get some adult time. I suggested that she pursue her music interests and she quickly joined a band called "Dream Kitchen". The band was a rock and blues band and was awesome. Most of the time when Mothra played gigs, I stayed home with the girls. Every once in a while I would go to her shows but it could be difficult at times watching strange guys hitting on her between sets. Being a very passionate Italian, I kept my distance and tried to let Mothra do the thing that she thoroughly enjoyed while I used the time to connect with my girls. I loved to watch Mothra play but did not enjoy the meat market bar scene.

One night, I talked Beukey into joining me to watch Dream Kitchen play at a bar about a quarter mile away from where I lived. The bar was packed with the usual locals looking for a night out and a chance to get laid. The band was awesome that night and played a lot of upbeat tunes. Beukey and I grabbed a table and started watching the band. It didn't take long before I noticed that we were being watched by some chick and her girlfriend from an adjacent table. The chick in question was a dead ringer for Paula Jones and I mean she looked exactly like her, right down to the large flattened nose. Hell, for all I know, it may very well have been her. Of course that notion was complete nonsense. We were in the middle of bum fuck Egypt and "Paula" was obviously one of the locals. But if Paula had a long lost twin, here she was.

The crowd was so into the band that the patrons started dancing on the 12x12 foot patch of open area in front of the band.

I said to Jeff, "That woman at the next table is looking over here again. Christ, she looks exactly like Paula Jones!".

Beukey laughed in agreement. Paula had a blonde friend with her and after about five minutes came over to our table.

"You want to dance with me?", Paula asked.

"Uh....I don't really dance....sorry", said Bluey

Paula went back to her table and after the set ended, Mothra walked up to our table."What did that girl want?", Mothra inquired.

"She wanted someone to dance with", Bluey replied.

"Why didn't you dance with her? I don't mind. Loosen up and enjoy yourself. I don't care if you dance with her", said Mothra.

"Ok", agreed Bluey.

I kissed my wife and told her how great they were tonight and she went back to her band and began singing the band's second set. I didn't think about Paula any further because I would have thought that it was obvious to Paula at this point that the lead singer of the band was my wife, or at the very least my girlfriend. Sure enough, like clockwork, back came Paula and her blonde girlfriend to sit with us. We listened to the music and made some small talk.

"I really want to dance! Please dance with me.", exclaimed Paula.

"Sure", replied Bluey.

As we approached the dance floor, Martha gave me a wink and Paula and I started to dance together. I think the band was playing a Stevie Ray Vaughn tune. Maybe "If the House Is A-Rockin (don't bother knocking)". Anyway, we were dancing for a minute or so about 4 feet in front of my wife and then Paula decides to do this dance move where she bends her knees mimicking going down on me and brushed her long hair side to side into my groin. I am horrified because I am looking right into my wife's eyes (she's still singing) while Paula is doing this. I was so close, I could have reached out with my arms and touched Mothra. I shrug a gesture that says "this is all your fault". Paula finishes the move by turning around, reaching behind her back and grabbing my ass and was grinding in front of me doggy style. I was in complete and utter shock.

I never admitted it before today but.......it moved...

While she had a firm grasp of my ass, she bent over in front of me, grinding me like she was giving me a lap dance, again I looked up at Mothra.

Mothra was seething. For a split second I thought Mothra was going to brain Paula with her mic stand. By this time, the whole band was aware of what was going on and the guys were laughing their asses off.

When Paula turned around, I took her by the hands and for the next two minutes I did my best to fight her off. After the song I explained to her that I was a married man (god, I was wearing a ring!) and couldn't be dancing with her like that. She said that it was a real shame and that she would have loved to take me home that night. I thanked her for the dance and sent her on her merry way. I sat down at the table with Beukey and he was also in a state of disbelief. We laughed about it but I was still wondering what Mothra's reaction would be. Unfortunately, we couldn't stay through the end of the second set because I had to get back and relieve the babysitter.

"I wanted to kill that fucking bitch!", Mothra said later that night in bed. "If I wasn't in the middle of a song, I would have!"

"You made me dance with her", Bluey chided, "I thought I was getting a threesome out of it!"(Punch in the arm)

"What the hell was I thinking?", Mothra exclaimed.

"You know who she looked like?", asked Bluey.

"Fricking Paula Jones!", shouted Mothra. "I just couldn't get it out of my head. Me and the guys kept calling her Paula all night. I saw her leave with some guy after the second set. He seemed like a real loser. It's a good thing she left before the set ended"

"That could've been me (snaps fingers)...damn!", says Bluey. "Why is it that I always seem to attract all of the crazy chicks?"

"What does that say about me?"

"Ummmmm.....You want to fuck or what?"

That is a true story without any embellishments.

Separated At Birth!

Why is it that every time I watch Con Air and see the madman Cyrus the Virus, played by John Malkovich, do I think I've seen his evil twin running around somewhere?

Kinda makes me wonder.

...You Shut Your Mouth!

On New Year's eve, my buddy, Spectre Zero, drew this picture of the biggest and baddest mamajama of Ranger fans. Everytime I look at it, I start humming the opening to "Shaft".

I just scanned it onto my computer (which for those who know me, know, is no small feat!) and thought I'd share it with the rest of you guys and gals.

Maybe I can get my own cartoon show on The Cartoon Network's Adult Swim.

Now, I better get back to the gym and work on those puny legs! God knows how they don't snap like toothpicks under my massive upper body!

Thanks Spectre, you the man!

Burning Down The House!

Two years ago while my buddies and I were on our biannual pilgrimage up at Lake Erie, we all had a near death experience.

Some of my friends are schoolteachers. All of them graduated from Slippery Rock University. The SRU alumni began the biannual pilgrimages in the early 1990's and through the course of time added about an equal amount of us non-SRU alums. Us non-SRU pilgrimage members think that our SRU compadres can be a little scary at times. Let's just say that they are not the brightest bulbs in the batch and leave it at that. Us non-SRU alums refer to ourselves as the Geniuses as a running joke to their questionable education at the Rock.

Cupcake, our resident gym teacher, is also our scariest SRU alum. He is the sweetest guy in the world and for all we know, he very well may have a tested IQ of 150. But Cupcake does things at times that really makes you wonder.

One night, as fourteen of us were bedded down for the night in Irish's cottage, Cupcake decided to load the fireplace full of logs and partially close the flue. Well, he fully closed the flue. As we slept, the cottage filled with smoke and it is only by the grace of God that the local rag, The Evening Disturber, didn't run a headline that read "14 Killed By Sheer Stupidity!".

We all dodged a bullet that night thanks to two of our friends, Geniuses by the way, Highmark and Pimp-N-Playa, waking up and alerting the rest of us. I don't know whether there was a real chance of all 14 of us dying of asphyxiation, but we never did find out.

Cupcake's explanation was that he was looking to slow burn the logs all night, but we quietly suspect him of just being "a plain ol' Tard". Maybe he was trying to win the Pilgrimage deathpool and had one of the guys on the 2nd floor. Another explanation is that maybe Cupcake was still suffering the after effects of a concussion from an incident where he was umpiring a softball game for his Special Education girls. While Cupcake's attention was elsewhere, one of the gals swung the bat and knocked poor Cupcake out cold. Cupcake awoke with the girls standing around him wondering if he was dead.

Whatever the reason, God smiled on us that night and we were spared. The incident is forever recorded in Pilgrimage Lore and we try to monitor Cupcake when he goes near the fire or the Kerosene heaters.

When asked about the incident, Cupcake, in thoughtful reply, retorts, "Blah..blah...blah...zebracakes...blah...blah..."

Story Addendum:

Pilgrimage officials have now officially downgraded Highmark's role in the incident to "barely helpful". Full credit for saving all 14 pilgrimagers goes to my son, Pimp-n-Playa, who bravely fought through the smoke to rescue us while Highmark (possibly of Mexican descent), rolled over and saw it was not time to leave the cottage before the morning work commenced, and went back to sleep, according to eyewitnesses.

Devil's Playground, PA: Brother Marty Bowl Result!

Geniuses 6*, SRU Tards 3.




One of the biggest upsets occurred on Saturday, February 25th at 12 noon.

After 3 years of futile efforts on the football field, the Geniuses upset the heavily favored Tards in front of a packed 7th circle full of tortured souls.



On Satan's homefield, the Geniuses not only won the contest but dominated play entirely, forcing 5 Meersky turnovers while The Kraut and Pimp-N-Player both threw halfback option passes for touchdowns, Satan threw for three and rushed for the last score of the day. "Babyhands" Poppinfresh made a key interception and knocked down passes all day long and newbies, Patriot and T-Len were the recipients of many passes including 3 touchdowns between them. Patriot and Pimp also provided key interceptions and the Genius defense was stellar in stopping the vaunted Tard recievers, Cupcake the Cottage burner, Irish, Choder, Francois and the usually illustrious Hamdog. Pimp and Poppinfresh played the role of shutdown corners as they refused to give the Tards the downfield pass. This turned out to be the key to the game and the downfall of the Tards one-dimensional offense.



Hurricane gale winds swarmed the ballfield as many of the Tard passes were swallowed by their force. The winds miraculously died down everytime the Geniuses, especially Beelzebub himself, touched the ball. After three years of consecutive drubbings at the hands of the Tards (2003 Tards 7, Geniuses 4, 2004 Tards 7, Geniuses 1, 2005 Tards 7, Geniuses 4), the Geniuses finally achieved the holy grail, even if the game was held outside the traditional pilgrimage venue.

The Geniuses wore a daisy patch of their uniforms to honor one of their fallen teammates, SloppyRob, who earlier this month blew out his knee.Yesterday was a day of true heroes and flags are flying at half mast at Slippery Rock University!



Long overdue congratulations to the Genius football squad who played like true champions on this day.



*An asterisk has been placed on the final score due to Meersky's contention that the game be played to 7 in order to be considered an official game. Many observers and reporters have noted that this game could have been played to 20 and the final score would have been Geniuses 20, Tards 6.



It was that big a whitewash.

My Own Private Idaho

I've been divorced for almost six years and swore that I would never get married again. After dealing with the pain and loss of a divorce, I thought that I was too badly broken to ever take that leap again. I have been dating a woman casually for the past three months and I really like her company. We have hit it off very well and I could see a nice relationship forming. I can see this relationship fitting into a future marriage.

The marriage I'm speaking about though involves one of my best friends, Meersky. Meersky is a man's man but just enough of a bitch to make our marriage work. You see, one night we were talking about the benefits of same-sex marriage and we came up with a grand plan. Our lives compliment each other pretty well and we seem to be able to stand large doses of each other. We do just as much together now than most married couples do. This day and age with same sex marriages on the rise and becoming acceptable, why not just get hitched, share a house, a healthplan, chores, etc...

Neither one of us is homosexual, so this would be a chaste marriage but would involve no jealousy if either of us has involvement with a woman. Not exactly Brokeback Mountain but we could take advantage of the benefits of being married without all the hassle that usually accompanies it. We could sit in the living room watching TV and ignore each other without the random "Honey, what are you thinking?", coming into play. Our telephone conversations are legendary. We average about 14 seconds per call. We are both pretty handy around the house and are anal about keeping it clean. Consider it "Roommates with benefits".

Irish and many of our other friends might be a little put off that they'd be forced to buy us wedding gifts but we'd still be able to provide a central location for guys night out.

We can basically do whatever we want, whenever we want while enjoying the benefits of being married. I may ask him from time to time if I look fat in my "choo choo pajamas" but I think he can handle it. So, the way we figure it. It's a no lose situation. It's not like we have to actually prove that we are gay to get married. Hell, I would argue that we'd have just a little less sex than heterosexual couples after 10 years of marriage. With the divorce rates surging, I figure that marriages these days don't last much longer than the amount of years you stay with a roommate anyway. And Meersky is just dead sexy when he's all mad about losing or being cheated in sports. Ok, maybe there will be some sex involved.

Lastly, it'll give me a chance to have my son, Pimp-n-Playa move in with us and we can be a real family. I guess I'll have to go out and buy Pimp a copy of "Daddy's Roommate" to help him adjust.

Favorite Quotes: Part IV

"She's a Cancer..........like her mother!"
One of my favorite new quotes when people ask me when my youngest daughter, Kitty's, birthday is. I give the date and then her astrological sign followed by the epitaph about my ex. Coincidentally, her mother is a Cancer, so the quote is not necessarily derogatory.

"I don't believe in pre-marital sex.......I do, however, believe in post-marital sex."
I just came up with that one yesterday, when grilled by friends regarding my sexual relations with my girlfriend. A young Irish lass, Erie, was digging for clues and was disappointed when I uttered the first half of the line, and then started laughing when I finished the thought. Much to her chagrin, I'm not a big believer in the kiss and tell. Somehow, my newest quote will probably not dissuade her from future digging.

"I really couldn't give that information over the phone".
This line is meant to be used when standing directly in front of someone, when you really don't want to give an answer. It is guaranteed to cause a few seconds of confusion while you race ahead to change the subject. I've been using this line since I was about 15. It's usually good for a dumbfounded look or two.

So, there you go. A three-fer of Bluey originals.

Death By Snu-Snu (A Valentine Wish)

In one of my favorite "Futurama" episodes (Amazon Women In The Mood), Fry, Brannigan and Kif are sentenced to "death by snu-snu", where they are expected to sleep with all of the Amazon women until they suffer crushed pelvises and die. If life could only be so good.

I don't know a man alive that wouldn't welcome that fate.

Alas, we end up going to the grave with our pelvises intact. What a rip. Death by sex seems like such a prefered method as opposed to death by much too infrequent sex, nagging and guilt trips which seemingly are the cornerstones of marriage.

Men are built to go anytime, anywhere 24/7. Women are very different. There seems to be a whole biorhythm thing at play where the stars have to line up just right for them to feel the same way a man does. One time I asked my ex if she ever got an overwhelming feeling to have sex right there and then. She said that once she woke up at 3am and was really horny but didn't want to wake me.

"Didn't want to wake me!!! Are you crazy!!", I told her. "Wake me right the fuck up!! I don't care when, where, how or why, just wake me right the fuck up"

.I guess it's just nature's cruel joke that we're built so differently.

Death by Snu-Snu. That is my Valentine's wish.

Epilogue: My favorite Zap Brannigan pickup line: "I think the most sensuous part of a woman's body................is the boobies"

The Massachusettes Prune Exchange

One of the most enjoyable jobs I had when I was younger was working the graveyard shift at my local supermarket during the summers when I came home from college.

I worked the midnight to 8:30am shift in the non-foods department packing the shelves with toiletries mainly. I had a buddy, Jefe, that used to work in the aisle next to me and we would spend the better part of the night tag teaming the grocery department crew with a flurry of insults that would last the entire night. Even though the store was open 24/7, we would get on the intercom from time to time and harass the grocery boys who thought our jobs were a piece of cake compared to theirs. We'd do nothing to dissuade them from that opinion and made loud snoring sounds from our aisles to further get their goats.

The other thing Jefe and I loved to do was to make up and sing fictional jingles from the various products we would stock. One of my personal favorites was my "Flush with Fleets (enema)" jingle and I never gave up an opportunity to give a full rendition to the store. The grocery boys thought the two of us were nuts but did enjoy the entertainment (usually, until they ended up as subjects with impacted colons in the twisted jingles). One of my other favorites was "Get the Wax Out (with Debrox)".

One night, I was in the middle of my favorite jingle when I heard this voice of displeasure coming from Jefe's aisle. It wasn't Jefe's voice but that of a woman who yelled over the aisle for me to stop my "caterwallin". Of course, this only provoked the two of us to a rousing rendition of the Fleets song. Then the woman and two guys in tow walked down my aisle. They were not amused.

She was a fat goth chick with blue hair and all kinds of ugly, crammed into black leather and fishnet stockings, and her two boy toys were equally goth and pasty white and reminded me of Jack Sprat and his brother John. When we were done singing, she said that our singing was atrocious and that she should know good singing because she was the lead singer of the Massachusetts Prune Exchange!

"The Massachussetts Prune Exchange?", I bellowed out loud. "Holy shit! Can I have your autograph?".

She went on to describe to us how her band was on the cutting edge of punk and that we were nothing but a couple of working stiff jackasses who would never amount to anything. She was a star and should not have to suffer through our singing.

Jefe and I were crushed. She was right. We never amounted to anything musically although we did record a demo tape produced in Jefe's garage that included our version of "Louie, Louie", an improvisational 18 minute version of the PC Richards jingle and a various assortment of other silly and worthless nuggets.

The MPE diva was right.

We were a bunch of no talent hacks, but we didn't exactly let her leave without tormenting her until she left spewing a fountain of obscenity our way. I guess we were just a bunch of stupid kids in the presence of real talent.

By the way, If anybody knows where I can get my hands on some Massachusetts Prune Exchange LP's, please let me know. I guess the demand was so great, they just couldn't keep the stores stocked fast enough. I've never seen one.

Congratulations To The Steelers!

God knows it wasn't a super effort by either team and the officiating stunk (again) but the difference was that the Steelers made the few big plays necessary to win the game.

You can make a case that Seattle outplayed the Steelers, but Seattle could not finish drives (regardless of a few iffy calls by refs). Having a field goal kicker that can't split the uprights doesn't help. Oh, and don't forget what a horrible job Holmgren did at the end of both halves managing the clock. The Steelers played a solid defensive game and that helped carry the offense until the Steelers were able to get a few big plays (Parker's 74 yd run and Randel El's pass to Ward). This game reminded me of old school low scoring superbowls before all the glitz and hype.

And Thank the Lord I won't have to hear that fucking "Here We Go" song much longer. That has to be one of the most annoying songs in the world. Not only do I want to slit my wrists when I hear it, I'd like to have about 60 pounds of plastique strapped to my body to take out those stores that insisted on playing it 24/7 in a continuous loop (Walmart, Dick's etc...).

Maybe I'd get 100 slightly used MILFs in heaven if I did the deed for Allah.

Whoever thought that this song should be a fight song needs to be executed. I literally walked out of stores this weekend to escape it.

So Congratulations Steeler Nation and please retire that stupid song before I kill someone.

Oh, and my favorite commercial. The friendly football game in which some guy legislates some chick with a blatant late hit after she catches a touchdown pass. I laughed my ass off.

What does that say about me?

Pittsburgh Steelers 109, Minnesota Vikings 18?

Yep, I had a Superbowl dream last night in which the Steelers totally dominated.

The only problem was that they had just handed the Minnesota Vikings their 5th Superbowl defeat. There were no Seahawks to be found in my dream.

I'm not even a Steelers fan, so God only knows what the hell that dream is supposed to mean.

Jeffrey Forester Is Dead!

When I was younger and in college, I was pure evil. My best friend, Beukey, wasn't much better. We spent the better part of four years tormenting those around us at our small liberal arts college. Our pranks were legendary and admired even by the resident preists on campus.

Beukey's roomie, Applebutter, was a Laurel Valley, Pa. yokel, who was a good guy, and was an avid Three Stooges fan. When the college sponsored a Three Stooges retrospective (hosted by "noted Stooge expert", Jeffrey Forrester), Applebutter was beside himself with joy and got his tickets early. He was real big into the Stooges. Beukey told me about his obsession but I never let on to Applebutter that I knew about it. Neither Beukey or I could give a fig about the Stooges, so we devised an evil plan.

We employed our resident dorm priest (who was one of our biggest fans) to set the trap. The night before the big event, Applebutter came into the dorm and Father Joju played his role perfectly. He went to the bulletin board and wrote CANCELLED on the flyer advertising the event. Applebutter, seeing this, asked the priest what was going on. The priest told him that he wasn't exactly sure why the event was cancelled.

When Applebutter came into his and Beukey's room, he seemed out of sorts. I asked Beukey if he had seen that there was a small craft accident at the local airport. Beukey feined ignorance and I proceeded to tell him that some Joe Forrest guy was killed who was supposed to visit the school. Applebutter's ears pricked up and asked me to elaborate on what I heard. I proceeded to concoct a tale of a small plane crash that had happened about ten miles away at the local airport. All three occupants were killed and one was supposed to be visiting the school but I pretended not to know what for. I told Applebutter that I had seen it on the local news and that the guy's name was Forest-something. Applebutter was beside himself and proceeded to explain to us who he thought it was.

Applebutter was in tears and went back to Father Joju and said to him, "Father.... Jeffrey... Jeffrey Forester is dead!"

How the priest kept a straight face is still a mystery to me. Having felt bad employing a preist to my evil plan, we broke the news about the prank to Applebutter. I think he wanted to kill us both but was a good sport about it in the end.

God knows that was only one of many, many pranks we pulled on him with the most infamous being "The Light Bill".

That story, however, will have to be reserved for another day...

Oh and a shout out to my daughter, Loni. Happy 12th birthday sweetie! We just returned from the Pens-Senators hockey game tonight. 7-2 Sens :(

The Cheerleader: Epilogue?

One more interesting tidbit to accompany the story of the Cheerleader.

It concerns Poppinfresh walking by the bathroom one day and being stopped by the building maintenance guy, Chaz.

He says to Poppinfresh, "Come on in here, you've got to see this.". Poppinfresh obliges and he is directed to a toilet where seemingly the world's largest turd resides.

Chaz wonders out loud, "That should have come with it's own trail of blood!"

Coincidence???

The People That You Meet While Using The Restroom - Volume 1

Going to the restroom during working hours used to be a rather mundane activity. You're in, you're out and back to the grind. Not for me, Blue and Poppinfresh.

You see, we share a restroom with an adult daycare facility. Now, going to the bathroom is an adventure. You never know who you're going to meet in there and what crazy antics these folks will be up to.

It all started one day (before Blue was hired, incidentally), about a year ago when I walked into the facilities and stood in front of the urinal. From the stalls I heard someone chanting:

"Yeah...oh..ok...yeah....hmmmhh...good...ok.....yeahh...ohhhhhhhh....yeah....."

I was startled. What the hell is that? I turned around towards the stalls...

"Ooohhh....ok.....I just......gotta.......oh.......yeahh.......ok.........gooood....."

Thus was born character number one: The Cheerleader

I kind of feel sorry for The Cheerleader. The poor guy either suffers from such an exagerated self esteem or he has the tightest sphincter muscle known to man. I've had more than my share of run-ins with him. At first I am standing there and I'm thinking to myself, "What is that guy doing in there? Spanking off?"

He sounds like he is doing something worth cheering about. He seemingly is praising himself for some sort of process that he is in the middle of. But, he doesn't sound exactly overjoyed, he actually sounds kinda pained.

You see, this guy just can't experience a quick and total full bowel release. It seems like he's paying the sacrifices for a strict diet of oatmeal, bran muffins and metamucil. He sounds like he's trying to push four pounds of chopmeat through a crazy straw and is just giving himself the verbal props and accolades for accomplishing the task.

He doesn't seem to be put off in the least by the presence of other people in the bathroom during his rectal exercise. In some ways, as vocal as he is, he seems awfully proud of himself, this being his way to show the world that "He's the man!"

The first time I experienced his cheerleading, I didn't think anyone would believe my story. That's partially true. I am known for my ability to embellish a story but in this case, I'm not the only one to experience The Cheerleader's moves. The scary thing is that The Cheerleader is so passe now. So many other characters have eclipsed his shananigans that when I run across him, I don't even think twice about it.

In the coming months, I will highlight more of the characters and add new ones as I encounter them. They are an odd lot.

Have You Checked The Children?

Now I think I've seen it all. Has the movie industry gotten so lame that we need to remake mediocre 1970's horror movies?

A remake of "When a Stranger Calls"(1979)? Are you fucking kidding me?
I think Hollywood needs to get it's head examined to dip back into this well.

I saw the original when I was a kid and was never impressed enough to rewatch this movie again and I was a horror movie junkie. This is a one trick pony, gimmick movie, nothing more. If you think that knowing what was going to happen for 2 hours is suspensful, then this movie is right up your alley. Plus in this age of cellphones, is it really a surprise when you find out that the creepy calls are coming from inside the house?

I guess I should have seen the writing on the wall when Peter Jackson took an amazingly mediocre movie "King Kong" (1933,1976) and made it 3 hours long. As if the story wasn't insufferable and unbelievable enough. There's a reason why the movie took 43 years to be remade in 1976. We weren't due for more King Kong schlock until 2019. I was really hoping that I would be dead by then, thereby escaping it.

Now, we get a 2nd rate horror movie like "Stranger" remade.

If the kids want to see this movie, do yourself a favor and pick up the original in a cutout bin and watch it at home, where it would probably be that much scarier.

What's next?... "Prom Night" (1980, holy shit...it looks like it was remade in 2005!) and "Sleepaway Camp"(1983)? What tripe. If this movie grosses more than 25M, it will prove that we are a bunch of retarded lemmings headed for the cliff.

Now, a "Don't Look In The Basement" (1973) remake....I'd be up for that! ("You bad....you killed Dr, Stevens and broke my boat...you bad...). A true classic. I'm going to use a future post to document my favorite lines from that one! Hell, why stop there, let's remake "Dementia 13" (1963) and "Barbed Wire Dolls" (1975), while were at it.

Yummy, nothing beats movies about caged women.

Fire Cowher...And Ladies, Please Support Your Steelers!

All year I had to deal with insufferable Steeler fans calling for the brass to fire Cowher, who has not provided the Steelers fans with a title.

(1980!...1980!...1980!...)

Now I have come around to that point of view. With any other coach they would have been able to beat the #1,2 and 3 AFC seeds by much larger margins.

I say string the bastard up right next to the NFL refs at the Superbowl halftime show! Let Chuck Noll coach the team on Superbowl Sunday and return the glory back to the Burgh!

Any chance we can get Bradshaw back to QB. Ben seemed a little nervy today.

Listen, I love them dearly but Steeler fans are absolute whackjobs. You'd think 25 years of losing would temper their lunacy. It's only gotten worse.

Bluey wants to see a Steeler victory, if only to pacify the crazy mob although I hesitate to be out and about on that day. It just may not be safe...regardless of the outcome!

If Cowher manages to win the game, I am predicting that he will be the Steeler coach for at least the next thirty years.

Lastly, interesting statistical tidbit from the Elias Sports Bureau. No team who's 18-35 year old female fans flashed their breasts most in the time leading up to the superbowl has ever lost the NFL title game. So, girls, get to work supporting those Steelers.

Paint one black and the other gold! Go Steelers!!!!!!

Favorite Quotes - Part 3

"...because I'm the man and you're my property. It says so in the Bible...(and then making quotations gesture with both hands)...PROP...PURR...TEEE!!!"

It really is truly amazing that I was married for as many years as I was. Whenever I wanted a sure fire way to hit my ex-wife's button, I would use the above quote to explain why I was right in an argument that we were having. Nothing set her off quite like it. It would usually cause her to vault at me in attempt to choke me to death.

"Suck it like you're trying to find the cure!"

This quote is predominantly uttered by Irish although I'm not exactly sure of it's origin. It's meaning is self explanatory.

"Hung like a bull hamster"

Compliments of HMO Blue, explaining a man's (sometimes his own) natural endowments. This always makes me chuckle. Alternative saying "Hung like an infant". Funny stuff.

"Just tell Blue to run a back end query"

This is just about my favorite saying at work and comes courtesy of Poppinfresh. Whenever we have some sort of programming issue, Poppinfresh asks Blue (our senior Boys Club member with cantankerous tendencies) to "run a back end query" to fix the problem. The back end query has become synonomous with waving a magic wand as being a cure all for every problem. Whenever anything is wrong, regardless of what it is, I always ask Blue for a back end query.

The Inner Beast

um...er...I don't think that the world is ready for that one quite yet.

Let's do a take two, because in order to appreciate "The Inner Beast", you need to have a little background. So, Take Two!

My Son, Pimp-n-Playa

Many of you who have been reading this blog, know that I have three young daughters. But what you don't know is that I have a deep dark secret in my past. Dim the lights, turn on the strobe and cue KC and the Sunshine Band's "Get Down Tonight" (do a little dance, make a little love...). But in order to tell this story I need to take you into the wayback machine to Studio 54, New York City, circa 1981 when a young guido named Riccardo Suave was tearing up the dancefloor dressed in snake skin pants, a white dress shirt unbuttoned to his navel and enough gold chains to burn out retinas. This God's gift to women scans the floor looking for some fresh talent, having exhausted the city gals and the jersey babes.

This is when he spots a smoking hot blonde, naive western Pennsylvania gal who is in town for a little big city fun and totally unaware that tonight is the night that her life changes for good. Rico makes eye contact and swoops in for the kill. The girl is like a deer in the gold chain glitter and can't take her eyes off Rico's manly chest turf. He whispers in her ear and they go upstairs into the bowels of 54. Her friends protest briefly but let her go. Isn't that why they came to the big city? For a little fun?

Fast forward to a 54 broom closet. With the strobe light and the music still pulsing, Rico bends her over and grabs her by the hair. He relieves her of her pants and they go at it like animals in heat. Rico is gently spanking her bottom as the Clash's "Magnificent Seven" replaces "Get Down Tonight". As the two lovers sweat and explode in passion, the world around them dissolves. They finish and come to their senses and begin to dress. Rico tucks his magnificent seven back into his pants and gives the girl his phone number, kisses her neck and sends her back to her friends, who surely are worried by now.

The girl tries to find Rico in the crowd later but he has evaporated into the scene. The girl returns to Western Pennsylvania the next day and tries to phone Rico. She dials the number and is greeted with "Madison Square Garden, can I help you?". The girl is devastated but is not too disappointed. For she had the best New York City had to offer and this would keep her warm on cold winter nights in her old age. Nine months later she would give birth to a son and name him Pimp-n-Playa.

Pimp would go through 18 years of his life until he meets his real father at a pick-up hockey session in Kittanning , Pa. No longer going by Rico, I chose to reveal my secret a year later while Pimp and I were teammates on the Cosmic Debris team in an Adult Ice Hockey League. It turned out, that Pimp had inherited his mad skills from his old man and led the team in goals while his yet to be revealed dear old Dad was manning the Debris defense.

It was the last game of the season and the Debris was a dismal 0-9 although Pimp had racked up most of the team's goals. He went on a pregame tirade chastising the team, calling them a "fuckity bunch of motherfucking fucking fuckers". He goes to leave the locker room and starts to flick the lights in a strobe light fashion.

"This is to remind yuns older fuckers what it was like to be young!".

It was at this moment I chose to unburden myself of the truth. I said, "Pimp, I am your father. Many years ago I met your Mom in Studio 54 and we had a brief moment."

I started to flicker the light in the locker room and explained how I briefly bent her over and spanked her while I gave her Rico's passion. I even sang the song by which the tender Pimp was procreated. I told him that I always held his Mom to be special but had no intention of moving to Deliverance country to raise a son.

Pimp was speechless and shook his head. He walked out of that locker with his life changed for good.

For he was the son of a man commonly referred to by his friends as Satan. And now Pimp would have to go through his life as my son, Satan's Seed.

Some of the names and events have been changed to protect the innocent, but the story above is loosely based on a true story.

This post is dedicated to my son, Pimp-n-Playa. Hopefully, the next twenty years will make up for the first twenty that we missed out on.

Super Bowl Halftime Public Lynchings

I propose that this year as a halftime spectacular, that the NFL build a 12 person gallows on the fifty yard line and have a mass hanging of their referees at the Superbowl.

Never in my 30 years of watching pro football have I watched such shoddy officiating that has threatened the outcome of the games. I have no rooting interest in any of the teams in the playoffs but these guys were god awful this weekend. You would think that instant replay would help the refs make the proper calls. Instead, they continue to butcher the calls even with the benefit of slow motion replay.

Now, I'm sick of my friends whining and complaining about the refs each week but after watching that debacle of a game that was Pittsburgh-Indianapolis, I am convinced that the refs should be executed for doing everything in their power to insure the Colts victory. There was a clear pass interference by Indy on Randle El that they turned their backs on, a scrimmage infraction that turned out to be a phantom call and two interceptions by the Steelers that were ruled incomplete. On the second, which ocurred as the Steelers apparently iced the game on a wonderful play by Polamalau, the play was challenged by Indy. It was so obvious an interception, I have no idea but to assume that the ref was bribed to throw the game. And I really can't give a fig who won. The refs basically became the most important aspect of the game and were so inept it made me sick. Even with a clear replay of the interception, he overturned the call on the field. That ref should be fired tonight!

But I'll go one step further because the Patriots-Broncos was also an officiating nightmare. I think that at the halftime at the Superbowl, we should hang all the guilty refs for their calls/non-calls. Let's execute these shrivs and get some refs in who have a clue. My interest in football has waned in the last few years and now I think I know why. Let's watch those bitches swing while the music plays and lets get some refs in there that are younger than 50 years old and many years away from cataract surgery.

NFL, what a fucking disaster. If there isn't a full inquiry into the refs at Indy this weekend for bribery charges, then the league is a goddamn joke. There is no other explanation except that they were bribed.

Let the fucksticks swing I say! (fucksticks, a new word brought to you by B., my girlfriend's cousin)

The Wonder Years

I had dinner with my old roomate, Pablo Honey tonight. I lived with Pablo for about 4 years after I moved in with him, Buchie and Teddy Ballgame after my separation in 1998. We were reminiscing about the good old days in the old apartment together and I was reminded of a funny story.

Pablo has a cousin, Kevina, that he is close to. There was always some sort of drama happenning between the two of them back then since they were so close. They were like an old married couple and we used to compare them to Paul and Kevin on the "Wonder Years". One night, when "Kevin and Paul" went to a Steeler game, Buchie and I put a Wonder Years narrative message on our outgoing answering machine. If you remember the ending of just about every Wonder Years episode, you'll get a kick out of this.

Each episode of the show ended in some sappy narrative about how the events of the show had "changed their lives forever". I only wish I had a copy of the tape or the numerous out-takes that me and Buchie busted out laughing while leaving the message. Of course I don't remember the exact message but this is a "tribute" to the greatest message in the world. I wish you could've been there.

"And as we walked back to our car
after the game under a moonlit night,neither of us spoke.
For we knew that the events of the night
would forever change the way we looked at each other.
No longer would we be carelessly flipping baseball cards
or riding our bikes without thought of tomorrow.
For tonight the world has changed and
we could never go back to a simpler time
of youthful indiscretion.
Our lives had been touched
and our relationship would be redefined
by our experiences on this winter evening.
Time marches forward and carries us into adulthood
regardless of our wishes, hopes and dreams unfulfilled.
But one thing remains constant...
my friend Paul...(cue "With a Little Help From My Friends" music)"

God only knows how many takes it took us to place that message on the answering machine but I know that after me and Buchie left that message, I knew that our lives would be forever changed.....lol

11 Years Old

Today, I have two 11 year old daughters. Bebis turned 11 today. She's a set of Irish twins with Loni, who turns 12 in 4 weeks. And if you've been reading this blog, you can probably guess what I got Bebis for her birthday. Yup, you guessed it...an Ipod Shuffle. I guess I better get out into the backyard and start digging a second hole.

I don't remember too much of my eleventh year. I remember Star Wars coming out that year, my brother Frunkel was born and my maternal grandmother dying at the year's end.

My most lucid memory of that year (1977) is the NYC blackout in July, when the lights were out for over 24 hours. That was the year the hated Yankees were vying for yet another World Series title (while my beloved Mets seemed to be just as hapless as always), the Son of Sam killer was lurking in the shadows, killing young girls (my older sister wasn't allowed to go anywhere unattended) and it was hot as hell that day, much like the rest of that summer. I remember my Mom getting us ready for bed when the lights went out, so it must have been around 9 or 10 PM.

After the lights went out, it seemed like pandemonium hit throughout the city. I lived in an Italian neighborhood and everyone was on their porches the second the lights went out. I guess a few people had radios that reported that there was already incidents of looting occurring all over the city especially in Brooklyn, the Bronx and Manhattan. All of us kids were told not to go anywhere alone that summer for fear of the "Son of Sam". At first there seemed to be a general panic in the neighborhood. We had no idea what to expect and even the adults seemed very insecure about safety. As the adults congregated in the streets, us kids were told to stay indoors.

And then something wonderful happened. The adults got together and decided that it would be best to stay awake, patrol the nieghborhood and have a big sort of block party. Adults were dispatched to either side of the block with baseball bats and an assortment of weapons to make sure no undesireables wandered onto our street. Cars were parked across the entrance and exit of our street to block off any road traffic. Grills were fired up and the street was lit up with the lights from candles, trashbin fires and flashlights. It didn't sound like the power was going to be on anytime soon, so people started emptying their fridges and cooking on their grills. No one went to bed that night. Us kids got to play in the street all night. I never remember being happier as we played, ate great food and helped the adults patrol the neighborhood. We played until we passed out probably sometime around daybreak. Us kids all secretly hoped that the blackout would last another night but the electricity did end up coming on late the following evening.

I know that the 1977 blackout was different for many other people in NYC but I will always remember it fondly as one of the best parties I remember. Our Italian community really came together and made a nice memory out of a potentially disastrous one for us kids.

NHL Lingerie

Really. Is there anything sexier than a woman in a hockey jersey and nothing else?

Victoria Secret can keep their frilly, skimpy lingerie. I would rather see a woman in a hockey jersey. That's a bigger turn on to me. It doesn't even necessarily have to be a NY Rangers jersey although, say a Philadelphia Flyer jersey, may just elicit some angrier sex. The scary thing is that some lingerie costs as much as a hockey jersey. Hell, the jersey doesn't necessarily have to be an NHL jersey. It could just as easily be an AHL, ECHL or just a simple practice jersey.

Maybe I'm nuts. But that's just the way I'm wired. Maybe playing ice hockey for most of my life has knocked a screw loose or maybe I've taken one too many pucks to the head.

Now if I can just convince Tori Amos to wear a NY Rangers jersey on the cover of her next album. Maybe I should just send her one with a note. Hell, she breast fed a piglet on the Boys for Pele album, so my request would seem rather tame compared to that, you'd think.

I'm just trying to figure out if she'd look better in the home white or the Statue of Liberty third jersey. Or maybe the crested old school home white. So many choices...

Bluey's Angels: The Apples Don't Fall Far...

I like to play Halo 2 online from time to time with my friends. Sometimes we get together at my place and connect multiple Xboxes and shoot the images on the walls with projectors.

There's only one problem. Apart from not being particularly good at the game, I am not exactly a team player. My style of plays tends to be mindless and vengeful, bent on random and wanton destruction. I can't seem to focus long enough to be part of a strategy. Of course, it drives my friends absolutely nuts. Because I am such a pain in the ass, I generally make no attempt to change my style of play. I don't know why Griffin, Irish and the multitude of online friends put up with me and allow me to play with them. I am sometimes just about likely to kill my teammate as I am the enemy. For some reason I just can't help myself. I always wondered if it was some sort of character flaw that maybe I should do something about. Griffin had thrown his hands up long ago with me. Sometimes I swear, I can hear his teeth grinding over his headset.

But, on Christmas, I was redeemed! I can't be held responsible!

You see, on Christmas, my three daughters received Shrek 2 from Santa and the game has the capacity for 4 player mode. I took Shrek, Loni took Princess Fiona, Bebis took Gingy and Kitty took Donkey. What followed was a lab experiment that I will never forget and was extremely enlightening.

Loni kept slowing down time, preventing us from proceeding while beating the rest of us up, Bebis had Gingy whacking us with a candy cane and throwing cookies at us and Kitty kept donkey blasting the rest of us every chance she got. It was a team effort thrust into total pandemonium.

As I watched the events develop, I cracked a smile. It was total chaos!

Any thoughts of these kids being the milkman's faded. I started drop kicking and belly flopping on everything that was within a foot of me, enemy and ally alike.

All was right with the world. I can't be held accountable for my style of play.I'm the product of my genetics.

Sweet vindication!

Is That How They Do It On Humpback Ridge?

I had a get together at my place last night and one of the things that ended up being discussed was whether it was okay for the best man at your wedding to cry while giving the toast.

My buddy, Horatio, had his best man give an incredibly teary send off at his wedding in the Spring and while it was well recieved, I still cringe when I think about it. My friend, Meersky, of course thought that the toast gave him images of a man sorry that he was about to lose his "Brokeback Mountain (aka Humpback Ridge)" partner.

While I think that it is fine that men cry, I don't agree that a wedding toast is the proper opportunity. Had I been the groom, I think that I would have put my head in my hands in embarrassment.

Of course, the toast was wonderfully received by all of the women and most of the men. I've stood as best man three times now and have never been induced to tears. I always thought that the toast should be sort of a funny review or roast of the groom's past and an acknowledgement of the bride's qualities for putting up with him. Make a few comments regarding how happy your friend is with his new bride and then clink glasses, roll the music and let the reception begin!

Of course, my reaction probably fuels looks of disdain from women who think that the speech was a rare tender moment between men. I say "bah"! No man should ever do that to a man in a public forum. I think it's okay for two men to cry together in private but save the public display of "Humpback Ridge" for the silver screen.

The Question

I had a date yesterday and of course since we've both been married before, eventually you have to share war stories of past relationships.

In the midst of the date, I recalled one of my more amusing anecdotes that I love to tell about my married days. And it goes like this:

One day, after coming home late from my second job and getting my children (2,1 at the time) to sleep, I was sitting on the bed, putting on a pair of sweatpants and waiting for my wife of 7 years (at the time) to come out of the bathroom. I heard the door open and my wife walks in with a very distraught face.

She says, "Bluey, I want to ask you something and I want you to be honest with me."

I'm like, holy fuck, what did I do this time? Her tone seemed to me to be the most grave I ever heard from her.

I said, "Sure honey. What's wrong?"

"I don't know how to ask you this question"

"Just ask me, honey"

And after some hemming and hawing...

"Is your Father in the mafia?" she blurts out sheepishly.

I start to laugh.

"Don't laugh at me!"

As my laughter subsides, I say, "Let me try to understand this...We've been together for ten years. We've had 2 children and have been married for seven years. And NOW, you finally decide to ask if my father is in the mafia?"

Her eyebrows raise, her mouth opens and I continue, "No, my dad is not in the mafia. He works two full time jobs, one hauling garbage for the NYC sanitation department and the other hauling cases of beer for the local distributor. I hardly think he does those jobs as an elaborate cover for any position in the mafia."

She is relieved.

I wonder if I will ever be asked a funnier question in my life.

Okay, I Guess I'm A Bad Parent, A Blowhard And A Hypocrite

But not necessarily in that order.

After my November 17 post railing the notion of buying children expensive Ipod's, what do you think I did? You got it! I went out and got my eldest daughter, Loni, a $100 Ipod shuffle. While I can sit here and try to justify that buying a $100 shuffle is not the same thing as buying her a $300 nano, it is. I'm sure someone who would hurt her for the Nano would probably do the same for her Shuffle.

Hey, I never said that I wasn't a blowhard and I don't always claim to make sense. I guess I just don't love my daughter enough to deprive her of the only Christmas gift she really wanted.

Now excuse me while I get my shovel and start digging a hole for her in the backyard.

Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer AKA "The Land Of Sadistic Assbags"

I have been watching this Christmas special ever since I was a small boy. It is my 2nd favorite Christmas special just rated slightly underneath "The Year Without a Santa Claus" (I just can't get enough of the Miser brothers!).

The one thing that I notice with each passing year is how utterly horrible many of the characters are portrayed. Many of the characters have little redeeming quality and the show is filled with some vile and nasty sons of bitches, especially Santa, who is a real douche bag who seems to look down upon everyone working for him, elves and reindeer alike.

Like it's such a chore to sit on his ass, eat like a pig and listen to the elves sing for 364 days!

Donner is a real ass munch too in his drill sargeant role to the young reindeer bucks and is over the top nasty to Rudolph.

But it doesn't stop there. Rudolph's Dad is a real jerkoff too as he continually berates him for his nose. Nothing says, "I love you", like having a father that is embarassed to have you as a son!

Of course Rudolph isn't the only one who has to deal with the bullshit. Hermy's got the Head Elf busting his balls and even the Lion King of Misfit Toy island treats them all like a bunch of lepers. All of these characters make the Abominable Snowman seem like a walk in the park.

Why Rudolph wants to please his Dad, impress Donner, carry toys for Santa and help out the Lion King give away his reject toys is frigging beyond me. If it was me, I'd end the show having Rudy, Hermy and Yukon Cornelius going postal on Christmas town, with Hermy giving Abominable Snowman razor sharp teeth and letting him run loose on the lot of em'.

Especially, the sadisticly stupid elf who throws the misfit bird "who can't fly, he swims!" out of the Santa's flying sled without an umbrella.

I don't know who wrote Rudolph the red-nosed Reindeer. But it was obviously someone with an axe to grind with Santa. I have no idea what the message is supposed to be but what it says to me is that you can only be redeemed by cow towing to a bunch of insufferable assbags.

Gold At $530 An Ounce?

The way the City of Pittsburgh/Allegheny County uses it's road salt, you'd think that road salt futures were selling for $530 an ounce!

Last night, we got our first snow storm of the season and a simple 4-6 inch storm turned into a fiasco because the absence of snow plows/salt trucks. The Parkway West was a graveyard of cars and 18 wheelers due to 3 inches of snow laying on the upgrade to Greentree Road that was unsalted and untouched by a plow.

Returning with my youngest daughter, Kitty, from the Penguin game, we watched cars and trucks helpless to climb the grade and slide off the road. Kitty was in tears from the experience. Needless to say, I returned her home to her mom and spent the night in a hotel because I was hesitant to approach Pittsburgh a second time in one night.

The Washington County roads were fine. The left lane of I79 got a nice scrape and the right lane was salted and was melted down to blacktop in the wheel ruts. Funny how they managed to keep the roads passable.

Which leads me to think that there is some hapless Allegheny County bean counter who sits and tries to conserve every penny at the expense of us taxpayers. How I would have loved to just backhand that guy in the mouth last night. I grew up in NYC and if this ever happened there, someone in public office would have been whacked while he slept.

Salt and plow the goddamn roads already, Allegheny County and City of Pittsburgh. Why do we have to wait until 4 hours into a storm before anyone is sent out? The main arteries should have been pre-salted before the storm and the plows should have already been dispatched, waiting for the snowfall.

You cheap fucking bastards.

One Of Ameica's Great Newspapers? Bah!

I don't remember exactly when it was when the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette started declaring itself one of America's great newspapers. Five...Ten years ago??? Maybe it was when they redesigned their front page years and years ago. All I can be sure of is that from 1992, when I first moved to this wonderful city, to now, the newspaper has done a steady decline in quality. There used to be two newspapers in this city. Back then, I thought the Pittsburgh newspapers rivaled those printed in New York City for story quality. Ever since the evening paper and the Sunday Pittsburgh Press went away, the quality of the Post-Gazette has been waning away. Journalism got lazy without the competition. I actually find the paper to be virtually unreadable now save for a few columnists. The Sports section is a travesty and if the game you're looking for didn't end by 11pm, you can forget about seeing a boxscore. Thank heaven for the internet. It pretty much has made all newspapers an archaic form of getting daily news. But, here in Pittsburgh, this has been the case for at least 5 years due to the drop in quality of the local rag.

I don't really have an interest in bashing the local paper for it's decline but I do take issue with its' self proclamation of being one of America's Great newspapers on it's front page. What exactly does a paper have to do to get such notoriety? Is there some sort of governing body that certifies such a distinction? Is there some sort of jury of peers that bestows that designation? All I know is that the paper is absolutely horrible, is filled with dated AP stories and is filled with the same tired nonsense that hardly evokes any thought provoking discussion. If this is one of America's Great newspapers, then I'm afraid that print news is dead.

It's a real shame that the only paper worth buying in this city is one that is published out of town. And don't get me started on the Tribune Review.

Favorite Quotes: Part 2

"I'd like to stick my dick in her issues!"
My buddy, Irish and I were at PNC Park when some hot young punky chick walks by with her boyfriend. She's got purple and black hair, studs and rings in her ears, eyebrows and nose and a few tattoos. You could tell she has a real pretty face and has a smokin' body. I turned to Irish and said, "Check her out", Irish turns to me and says, "Dude, that chick has got issues!" to which I retorted with my infamous reply.

"Why is it, the only way I can have an orgasm these days, is if I'm choking a dog while someone punches me in the kidney?"
At lunch one day, my buddy Poppinfresh, who is the straightest straight man you'd ever meet and usually not prone to silliness, uttered this sentence imitating the voice of his no nonsense pater familis as a joke. Needless to say, I started crying with laughter and the rest of the luncheon patrons must have been looking at us like we were a bunch of idiots. It took me almost three minutes to stop laughing/crying. I was set off again when Poppinfresh says, "I don't know where that came from".

"This chocolate tastes like dick!"
Uttered by one of my buddies at a long past pilgrimage up north to Lake Erie. This saying never gets old and many foods can be substituted for the chocolate. It never fails to make me laugh.

The Matrix: In Lieu Of The Nursing Home

I was talking to my buddy, Poppinfresh, today and we were discussing a relative who was very old and in poor health. I lamented that it must be hard mentally when you know that your body is failing and you don't have much time left. It's not like you could run around and make the best of your final days. Poppinfresh insisted that he would find something to keep him occupied in old age to which I replied that he'd be the world's oldest gamer cursing his hands for being so darned slow. Then I speculated that he would probably have replacement robotic hands. Then, my mind raced to another idea. Mind/computer interface that would diminish the need for any body parts. And then finally to the idea that when he gets to the point that his body can no longer function adequately, he can just plug himself into the Matrix (assuming his wife isn't around to veto the idea), generate electricity with his worn out body, and let his mind live as a perpetual 18 year old in the Matrix as he finishes out his last years.

With energy prices going through the roof, maybe this is the alternative to ugly wind farms and covering the desert with solar panels.

Think about it. The Matrix is only bad if it's stealing away your productive years. When my body becomes broken, I tell Morpheus to shove the red pill up his ass, take the blue pill, do my civic duty keeping a few street lamps lit while in my mind going back to playing ice hockey and hitting on 21 year old chicks!