LOSING MYSELF TO DANCE

Sometimes when I’m at Club Shimsham and I’m making a twerk or doing a sick move of dance I get so immersed in my own drumbeat that I forget who I really am. Am I still that innocent, great, lovable, handsome, hilarious, chiseled guy from an upper-middle-class neighborhood in the heart of Denver or am I a sad, lonely drifter from Topeka destined to work in the sporting goods section of Walmart because I once scored a touchdown in JV football so many years ago? I don’t even know. What I do know is I can feel the rhythm of the beat from my head to my feet. Sure, I’m well aware that my next-level moves are 100% grade-A infectious and inspiring to those around me, but when I do a deeper dive, I’m wondering if I’m still that lovable, black cruise ship bartender with a million dollar smile and a ten million dollar mustache. Is he lost forever? Is he still in there? Sure hope so. But for now, I guess I’ll just keep on dancing because it feels hella good.

DUDES READING IN BARS

When I fulfill my destiny as the benevolent dictator I was born to be, one of my first action items will be to make it punishable by death for dudes to read in bars. Let me amend that: dudes reading literature in bars. If a guy is posted up, sipping a whiskey or macro tallboy and destroying a Lee Child, all cool. Magazines and newspapers are fine. Pamphlets are allowed although not recommended because that’s likely personal business that don’t nobody else need to know about. And the ladies can read whatever they want. There’s something hot and mysterious and French about a young lady at a bar solo reading Love in the Time of Cholera. And children can obviously read whatever they want although they should not be at bars by themselves. And certain dudes who can pull it off can read literature from a pre-approved list I will provide once I take office. And punishable by death is a little strong. Punishable by atomic wedgie. Basically, I once saw a guy at a bar wearing a flat cap and reading Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying and I wanted to give him an atomic wedgie.

PUBLIC SOCIAL NETWORKING DISPLAYS OF AFFECTION

Love is a many splendored feeling, but not on facebook. When someone writes mushy junk on their significant other’s wall it makes me want to take off all my clothes and jump into a hot pit of lava. When you do this, you’re not really telling your honey boo boo that she’s the world’s biggest snugglebum, you’re telling the world that you’re the world’s biggest dingleberry. Let’s keep the pillow talk for places with pillows. And maybe the occasional “you smell like a wet puppy” as you hold the door for them. They love that shit.

DUDE ON DUDE LOL ACTION

DUDE1: Hey dude, what’s up?

DUDE2: Just chillin’ LOL

DUDE1: Why are you LOL’ing?

DUDE2: Ha, what’s good with you?

DUDE1: You know, this and that.

DUDE2: LOL

DUDE1: That wasn’t really a joke. Just kind of a throwaway statement.

DUDE2: LMAO

DUDE1: Like, you don’t have any more ass left?

DUDE2: LMFAO!!!

DUDE1: So, do you have that $20 you owe me?

DUDE2: No. Hey, I gotta go.

DUDE1: I need that money.

DUDE2: TTYL

COMPLAINING ABOUT PAPARAZZI

If you ever find yourself in a position to complain about paparazzi, do us all a favor and shut it down. If people are constantly hounding you for a picture it means you have a crap-ton of money. And I’m not saying money can buy happiness, but that’s exactly what I’m saying. If you have money you can buy yourself a water slide right off your bed so you can just roll over, slide down a rad slide and be catapulted into your own private grotto with a breakfast bar and mermaids who swim around and sing magical songs. Or, ya know, whatever you’re into. So if I had to pick between that awesome scenario and nobody ever wanting to take my picture, I’d go for the morning grotto every time.

SAYING "NICE COSTUME" TO SOMEBODY WHO ISN'T WEARING A COSTUME

I’ve done it, you’ve done it, we’ve all done it. Let’s end this vicious cycle and be better than the “nice costume” gag. Lawrence Eugene Walker was the first man to tell this joke in 1976 at his accounting firm in Omaha, Nebraska. We now refer to this as the joke’s golden age. That first year was duck soup for Lawrence. He delighted coworkers with his first attempt: “Nice costume. Jim Rockford?” Then he took things up a notch with the risky, but hilarious: "Love the getup, Alice. You look more like Dolly Parton than Dolly Parton!”

He quickly gained a reputation as a first-class yuckster around the office. Then the divorces came.

By 1980, he was all “Nice costume. What are you supposed to be, a goblin?” His joke took on a more sinister edge. The well was tainted by bitter tears, but that didn’t stop him from going back again and again. “Ah, you scared me, Gene. You should be an makeup artist in Hollywood!"

Sadly, his love for "grabbing a few beers" turned into full-flown alcoholism. And it affected his comedy. So he turned to cocaine. As a shadow of his former jovial self, the last straw burst into flames. “Nice costume, Terry. What are you a soul-sucking corporate shitbag with a pathetic excuse for a hairpiece?”

You see, Terry was his boss. Lawrence packed up his things, drove home, sat down on his couch and, well, the rest of the story is too ghastly even for today.

GOTH CHICKS WHO SAY LIKE A LOT

I dunno, just like, society sucks, you know what I mean? I can’t wait for the dark lord master of all things evil to like just take me away from all this boring suburban bullshit. Why am I even talking to you right now? You’re so totally clueless and bourgeois it makes me want to gag in my cauldron. Me and my friends will like rain down hellfire on your corporate ass or whatever. God I hate my parents. They’re so like ordinary, do you know what I mean? Like, they don’t even have any passion in life. Oh. My. Godfire. How boring can two people be? I’m so hella over them. They won’t even let me go see Avenged Sevenfold. Whatever, like I’d even want to get dropped off in our stupid minivan death trap. Yeah right. I’d die. Like, seriously, I’d die in that shitbox. LOL. I can’t even deal. Where are my cloves right now? 

PEOPLE WHO DON'T LIKE TO "PARTY"

Yeah, that's right. You know what I'm talking about. Wink wink. Yeahhh, let's do some Van Damage. Let's have a 45-minute conversation about an episode of Vice you just watched. Let’s spend our diaper money so we can stay up for three days. Let’s invite Mr. Scary over for a Sunday night Shaolin sheet karate sleepover sesh. Let’s spend 70% of our time chain smoking, 20% pooping and 10% talking about ex-girlfriends. Let’s close-talk regardless how much our breath smells like a Newark sewer system. What? No? You’re lame.

SELFIE STICKS

You know what you can do with your selfie stick? You can shove it in recycling, that’s what.

EBOLA FEAR BACKLASH

People are catching all sorts of shit for being freaked out by Ebola, but that stuff ain’t no joke, folks. You should be freaked out. Things can spiral out of control faster than Rob Ford in New Jack City. Before you know it, you could be holed up in some farm doing everything you can to keep your family safe even though the owner and his hot daughter don’t want you there. Good thing she has yellow fever and your buddy is Asian or you’d be back wandering that lonely highway that looks like a Walmart parking lot on Black Friday. Then you find out a big group of infected people are in the barn. Great, now you gotta deal with that. Just when you think things couldn’t get any worse, you find out your best homeboy has slept with your wife. So he has to die. And it’s all affecting your son who won’t take off this stupid civil war hat he found who-knows-where. And you’re concerned because he’s turning into a real psycho, but you can’t delve into that issue because your wife is pissed because you’re pissed about her sleeping with your BFF. Seems pretty unfair, but that’s just the way things are in an apocalypse. Shit just has a way of getting real. But at least your hair looks super-cool when it’s all sweaty and greasy, because who has time to shampoo, much less condition? Regardless, that won’t put food on the table. And just when you think things are back on track after you kill your best friend – who was super annoying anyway – the infected people break out of the barn and start attacking. Naturally, you have to bone out which sucks because you were growing some tomatoes and you’d love to see how they turn out, but you always knew in the back of your head that this was no time for agriculture. So, you wander through the woods. We’re wandering, we’re wandering, we’re wandering until, awesome, you get separated from your buddies, including the hillbilly with a heart of gold and his dope-ass crossbow. The infected could be anywhere and that dude watched your ass even though you chained his brother to a rooftop forcing him to cut his own hand off just to get free, so you’re mad paranoid and your son is still wearing that stupid hat. Finally, by the grace of god, you find a prison that seems like a relatively good idea. You and the mrs finally get back to good and recapture the love, but boom, she dies giving birth and that’s a real bummer until you meet a rad hot black lady with a samurai sword and there seems to be a little spark there but who has time for love to blossom when you could have your face eaten off at any moment. Seriously, it could happen. So, stop being a jerk about my Ebola fear. Just stop.

TAKING THE SAME PICTURE 50 TIMES IN FRONT OF ME AT A SHOW

Listen, bro. I didn’t pay 7 bucks in ticket fees so I could see my favorite band through the screen of your dumb smartphone. Just get it as high as you can, tap to focus, fire away, bring it into instagram, select Amaro, add the hashtag, choose a location, upload, then head to the bar for a PBR tallboy to celebrate your victory. It’s not that tough. The shot is not going to get any better the harder you try. Photos don’t care which song it is. In fact, let’s all just use this shot and be done with it.

TOM SHANE

Every time I hear Tom Shane’s voice on the radio I have Vietnam flashbacks, and I wasn’t even in Vietnam. I’d rather hear #24 being called at the DMV when I’m holding #346. I’d rather hear Edward Scissorhands and Freddy Krueger play Hangman on a chalkboard. I’d rather hear my parents making love. I’d rather hear Drew Barrymore talk about politics. I’d rather hear my Aunt Gertie talk about getting Shingles. I’d rather hear a fracker tell me why Obama sucks. I’d rather hear Russell Crowe sing. I’d rather hear someone in flip-flops step on a rusty nail. I’d rather hear Tyler Perry pitch me ideas for a Mcdonald’s commercial. I’d rather hear Rosanne Barr sing the national anthem. I’d rather hear Gilbert Godfrey read Mountain, Get Out of My Way by Montel Williams. I’d rather hear Train cover Nickleback songs.

SEGWAY TOURS

I actually can’t figure out why this bugs me so much. People seem like they’re having a great time checking out the city, broadening their horizons and utilizing a kick-ass technology in the process. What’s wrong with that? Why do I want to throw a stick in their wheel of happiness? Why do I hope one of them gets clotheslined then poop-bombed by a seagull? What does that say about me? Am I an animal? Am I a Killjoy Jenkins who can’t stand to see people having righteous goodtimes? Or am I disappointed about what the segway has become? We thought it was going to change the world, but it just turned out to change the world for meter maids and goofball tourists. I think it’s how they look at me as they go whizzing by. They know how annoying they are. You can tell by the gleeful shame written all over their faces. Or maybe they just look stupid in those helmets. Yeah, it’s the helmets. Nah, they’re legally obligated to wear those. No sense suffering massive head trauma just to avoid annoying me. Maybe I’m just mad about how expensive it is. God I want to go on a segway tour so bad.

 

EVERY WIFE ON EVERY SHOW ON HGTV

I took a crack at what the casting specs must look like for ladies on shows like House Hunters:

Female, any race, ages 23-45. Looking for perpetually displeased women who feel like getting a 4 bedroom 2.5 bath is a god-given right. Must be really into laminate wood flooring, but only if it’s dark, because light wood is “so 90’s.” Must be between a 6 and 8 because we wouldn’t want to upstage the hosts, now would we? Bonus points for those willing to “do some of the work yourself” even though all you’ll do is move a small plank from the kitchen to the back yard. Pear bottoms are preferred. Applicant’s default facial expression must look like you’ve just smelled a compost bin in Mississippi in August. Your chances increase exponentially if you appear to be constantly on the verge of burning this whole motherfucker down. An underlying tension between you and your spouse is ideal. We want your overall aura to oscillate between a smoldering disappointment about having settled and genuine excitement about starting your first home with your young family. Must be able to speak freely about how hard it is to raise a kid and how you’re on the fence about having a second. Must also be comfortable with unleashing poison-tipped comments about how your significant other just has to have that man-cave for watching action flicks and football even though everybody knows it’ll just turn into a masturbatorium with wall-to-wall carpets.

And for the men:

Male, any race, ages 23-75. Just looking for some pushovers who look super-uncomfortable on camera. 

REALIZING YOU WEREN'T PAYING ATTENTION WHILE READING

Unless you’re immersed in the groundbreaking comedy that is this blog, reading can be a stone-cold drag. Just saying, the mind tends to drift when you’re forcing down something like The Corrections by that Snooze King Jonathan Franzen. It’s just droning on and on about some white dude in NYC who’s bored and has a shitty family. Everybody has a shitty family, man. Go hit some balls at Chelsea Piers then catch The Book of Mormon for chrissake. You’re in Manhattan. If you’re bored there, you suck. At least go chase down a good drunk over at McSorley’s. But it keeps droning on and on so you start thinking about awesome stuff, like finally getting bowling lessons or how fucked up zoos are. In fact, you’re probably thinking about something else right now while you’re reading this. I get it. No offense taken. I could say anything and it wouldn’t matter. You smell like my Uncle Pete’s gym socks. See, you have no clue how I just burned you two ways to Sunday. Nope, you’re too busy thinking about how cool it would be to have an invisibility cloak backstage at a strip club. In fact, I’m not even paying attention and I’m writing this shit. What was I talking about? Oh right, how boring reading is. So, you’re forcing The Corrections down like cold broccoli because you want your friends to think you’re smart and you start wondering if cavemen ever laughed at each other’s farts. I feel like it was such a common occurrence that it never fazed them. Plus, I bet dinosaur meat toots are so putrid they’re not even funny. Still, it’s great to think about them sitting around a cave chuckling over a few air biscuits. And then your realize you have no clue what that last six pages were about, so you have to pick right back up where the guy is complaining about not being able to write that novel that everyone’s going to forget. Goodness gracious, just walk out your door and get a sandwich in Soho or something. That area is sweet.

FOOD ADJECTIVES THAT DESCRIBE NON-FOOD ITEMS

Isn’t he yummy?

It’s a really juicy novel.
That skirt is spicy.
Check out those tasty waves.
Those breasts are extremely well-seasoned.

Okay, maybe not that last one.

CALLING THEM "ATM MACHINES"

The "M" stands for "Machine." Not a huge deal, but let's keep that in mind when asking people where the AT Machine is.

SINGER-SONGWRITER BANTER

(Tuning guitar) Thank you, thanks a lot. It’s great to be back at Jimmy’s. (Strumming) Ya know, we all go through times in life when, well, things seem to be changing, all around us (more strumming). A while ago I was experiencing a particularly tough series of transitions and this one sorta just, I dunno, it poured right out of me. It’s called “Sycamore Tree” (strumming harder). (Pause in strumming) It’s funny, isn’t it? The crazy‐go‐round we call love. (To the sound guy) I’m gettin’ a little too much in the...can you? Thanks. Anyway, what was I sayin’? Oh yeah, love, it can really put your head and heart in the spin cycle (strumming). The twists and turns, peaks and valleys. Like a, like a tornado ripping through a laundromat...in Peru. Metaphysically speaking of course (pensive chuckle). But maybe that’s just the crazy ravings of a madman (intense strumming). Or maybe the crazy ones are the only sane ones after all (mild strumming). When I was a kid, my pop would take me for long drives. Often down one of those two‐lane highways in West Texas. You know what I’m talking about (wink, knowing chuckle). One day always stood out to me. Not a cloud in the sky, radio turned up, Seger I think it was (wink). We had this green ’93 Buick Lesabre, with these really round wheels and a bumper and headlights on the front. And I’ll never forget, we drove past this old oak tree...(Intense strumming). Sometimes I think love is like that old tree. Thanks a bunch guys. That’s my time!

SHIRTS THAT TELL ME THERE IS NO OFF-SEASON

There is in fact an off-season, in every sport. In Major League Baseball, it goes from November to February depending on how far you go in the playoffs. In football, it starts right after Labor Day and ends sometime in December or January. Basketball and hockey – May through September. It’s a time to stop cheating on your wives and spend a couple hours a day watching your maids play with your kids. A time to catch up on your reading of comic books and positive articles about yourself. It’s your chance to get talked into purchasing the car dealership that will eventually bankrupt you. It’s months and months of nonstop pinball next to that stripper pole you had installed in your house. It’s heading down to the Keys with your teammates for some deep sea fishing by day and wife cheating by night. So, when you see someone with a “There is No Off-season” shirt, remind them to kick back and take it easy. You can't crush it 24/7/365. Then ask them why they tore the sleeves off. Those were probably perfectly good sleeves.

BAD HEROIN

There is nothing worse than a bad bag of Big H. I’ve seen it a thousand times. There you are on your futon on a Friday night getting amped for that sweet sweet China white. You’ve wolfed down a cold cut footie knowing that the black pearl will be the only thing on the menu for the next four to seven days. You can almost taste that Mexican mud coursing through your veins as you line up your water jugs so the skunk doesn’t dry you out like Tucson in August. You lick your lips with the excitement of a million sunsets, overjoyed to be hopping on that train for one more trip to Chivatown. But it’s not quite time to dive into the junk drawer because you still have to lay out 20 of your most reliable battery-powered votives to set the perfect mood for dancing with the dragon. Of course, you don’t want actual candles out because you have no clue how hard that gypsy horse is going to buck. Once the brown sugar makes it’s way into the cake, you don’t want flame anywhere around. I mean, why call the fire department when the white nurse is already on call? Then the moment of truth arrives. You’re ready to smack your friend in the face with a monster snowball. So you fire up the shit, take a puff and let out a disappointed cough. “Man, this stuff tastes like farts!” you yell angrily at your ferret as the scag pipe goes flying across the room. 

WAVING YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR LIKE YOU JUST DON’T CARE

Why don’t you care? That’s messed up. Do you have any idea how much shit is going on in the world right now? Let’s start with ISIS. Those Arabian ninjas will chop your head off just for eating chicken wings at Hooters. Also, is it ISIS or ISIL? Aren’t you even a little bit concerned that we can’t align on a name, Mr. Wavy Hands? The Cobra Commander has his taser on kill mode and you’re just heyin’ and hoin’ like a wet t-shirt contestant in Daytona Beach. You’re probably on ecstasy right now, aren’t you? And don’t get me started on climate change. Too late, you already did, Jo Jo Dancer. Did you know that since 1996, Bark Beetles have decimated an area roughly the size of Washington State because it hasn’t been cold enough to kill them off? Oh and California is on fire, but since it’s not a roof you don’t give a shit. While you and Lindsey Graham are busy doing The Watusi planet earth is going to hell in a handbasket. And what about Meg Ryan? She used to be America’s sweetheart, but now she looks like Michael Jackson. What’s going on with her psychologically? Aren’t you worried about that or is it all about getting turnt with you? This is some serious crapola and you are not a Laker Girl. Get your priorities straight for crying out loud.

THE TIME COOK BUTTON ON MICROWAVES

If you can’t simply enter your desired time then hit start, your microwave is so good it sucks, end of story. Otherwise you need a degree in mechanical astrophysical bioengineering to make it work. You have to hit time cook, then enter the time, then, well, sometimes it works, but sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it makes you hit a power level. And that power level button works 4% of the time. When you finally get the power button to beep, how the hell do you then enter the time? So you hit cancel and you’re back to square one. By now your appetite is gone and all you taste is pure, rage-filled frustration. You don’t even want that quesadilla anymore. What you do want is to throw that microwave out the window, but you can’t even do that, because you snuck into a complete stranger’s house to make a righteous quesadilla and throwing out their microwave would be insanely disrespectful. And you know what else chafes my undercarriage? When people throw down an emphatic “end of story” then continue to tell their story.

 

THE MUSIC VIDEO FOR “WAKE ME UP”

“Wake Me Up” by Aloe Blacc was one of my favorite songs from last summer. Let’s end this crazy charade that it was from some Swedish meatball named Avicii. It’s got more Aloe in it than Aveeno hand cream. I recently stumbled upon the music video and, I got to tell you, that noise was dumber than Ray Rice popping by The View. 

http://youtu.be/IcrbM1l_BoI

Don’t get it scrambled, I give music videos a long leash. The weirder the better. For my money there’s nothing better than firing up a salad and getting lost in Die Antwoord’s entire collection. See I Fink U Freeky, Baby’s On Fire and Fatty Boom Boom for a nice starter course. And yes, scrambled is the new twisted.

But back to the lecture at hand. Allow me to give you a little recap of the video. It opens up on half a second of a vineyard shot, then boom, a shot of a rundown shack apparently near the vineyard. So far so good. Not usually feeling the wine vibe, but hey I’m saddled up and ready to ride. Yeehaw! In the shack we find a beautiful model - we’ll call her Logan - waking up next to her model-in-training little sister, whom we’ll call Ruby. They’re both sporting tattoos that look like the “doors open” elevator button. Not sure how that’ll come into play but color me intrigued. And they may be birthmarks, we don’t know at this point. Logan looks hellified sad, so she gets up and stares at her own beauty in the mirror for a bit. This cheers her up. More shots of the birthmark elevator tattoos.

Cut to the two as they leave the house and head down the street in head-to-toe Anthroplogie regalia. When they turn a corner Ruby looks like she’s seen a ghost. But it’s not a ghost. It’s worse. It’s ugly, poor people dressed like Mumford & Sons. The two look mortified. Granted, the dust bowlers throw around their fair share of shade, but c’mon, who needs the latest suburban mall fashions thrown in your face when you’ve spent the past eleven hours squeezing apple juice just to scrape enough pennies together to buy some oats. So, Logan and Ruby continue to get some serious what-the-fucks from Poor Ed Norton, Poor Tony Hale, Poor Viola Davis, Poor Jessica Chastain and Poor Kenny Rogers as they continue their stroll.

Finally, a young girl holding a basketful of empty dreams sees them and desperately wants to hang out. But the models ice her out like girls used to ice me out in high school. But this isn’t about me.

The sisters decide to take a load off and regroup on a fence after the harrowing experience of walking through a town filled with grubby townies. Ruby says to Logan in a super-bitchy way, “The others, they don’t like us. Why?” Logan can’t bring herself to say it, but we know her answer: “Because we’re pretty, Rubes. Because we’re pretty.” Instead, she wraps a bony arm around her little sister and holds her tight.

Cut back to the two in their stylish shack bed. Logan wakes up all sad once again. We think she’s about to take another hit of that sweet sweet mirror, but not today. In an act of astounding irresponsibility she decides to ditch her sister, hop on her Ralph Lauren saddle and blaze through the vineyard. Where’s she going? What’s she doing? Are they out of groceries? Is she going to find work? Is she going to make sure the local school system is adequate for a 9-year-old girl with model potential? Is she on her way to Stink-eye City to gun down the dust bowlers? Is she off to give Poor Kenny a good rogering? So many ways this could go.

Before we know it, she’s riding slow-mo through a river. Finally, she ends up in, you guessed it, post-apocalyptic Los Angeles. The buildings make her happier than a loft full of mirrors. She ties her horse up to a phone pole and sets out through the seemingly deserted streets. But wait! She sees somebody. Holy fucklesticks, it’s another model! And she’s got the same birthmark. Could this be the mark of the beautiful? Holy Diet Coke, another model appears! And this one is a dude who makes Lenny Kravitz look like Edward James Olmos. They all hop in the back of a vintage truck and drive off. Boom, they’re out of the truck and into a line filled with more models, all with the mark of beauty. Why do they get to go to the front of the line? Because this girl is a bona fide asshole. That’s the kind of shit she does! No problem getting in because suddenly they’re jamming out at a packed show. That Swedish toolshed Aviccii is spinning mad beats on stage with his hat on backwards. Aloe Blacc is singing his nuts off and smiling from ear to ear thinking about the check he’s about to collect. Oh, and we have touchdown on the significance of the beauty mark. It's the unifying symbol for people who are really into looking cool and listening to Aviccii's progressive house-soul mashups. You see, it sort of looks like an A and a V. So that's what that is.

Someone breaks out a smartphone and takes a selfie of Logan and her new beauty buddies, even though they have yet to say one word to each other. Beauty doesn’t require banter. In fact, it only gets in the way. Logan is so happy, so carefree, so far away from those ugly rural buttholes!

Cut to her blazing through the vineyard on the horse that miraculously didn’t get stolen. Cut again to her slow-mo-ing it through the river in a stunning violation of editing continuity. She wakes her sister up and says something to the effect of, “Get your shit. I found a place where everybody is super hot and on ecstasy!”

But then they start walking down a highway. They don’t even take the horse! They leave the fucking horse! The horse is going to fucking starve!

And we haven’t even gotten to the worst part. The absolute worst part of the entire video is right at the end. They cut back to the sad, poor girl from earlier who just wanted some friends and to possibly get a killer makeover. But there she stands, alone on a sidewalk, staring longingly at a world she’ll never get to experience. So she turns away, resigned to a life of abject poverty and crushing loneliness. What the fuck man!

456,057,033 have seen this video so far.

NEEDING AN EXCUSE TO GO OUTSIDE

Outside is the only excuse you need to go outside. There are trees and grass and mountains and air and motherfucking lakes sometimes. There are streams and toads and breezes and ladybugs and birds. Outside is the motherfucking shit. The only reason you need to get all up in it is that it’s a day of the week. Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday Sunday, go outside! January February March April you get the picture, go outside! If Mother Nature were a real lady I would make love to her ever-so-gently after waiting at least four dates, because I respect the hell out of that sweet bitch. Go outside! Golf isn’t a good excuse to go outside. Sunsets, sunrises, the moon, stars, fucking snowballs and raindrops are. Don’t even bring up acid rain you crazy nuts because that shit feels nice on my face when I look up and laugh and stomp in the puddles. Outside is so goddamned amazing it even has a magazine named after it. That’s some next level Oprah Winfrey shit, you ungrateful bastards! Go Outside! Don’t even get my shit started on flowers. Have you ever stopped to think about how goddamned motherfucking amazing flowers are? They make your heart sing like Luther Vandross at his niece’s graduation ceremony. They’re more beautiful than Angelina Jolie and that fine ass ladywoman who used to be married to Seal. Maybe she still is I don't even know. Go outside! Outside has bears and zebras and giraffes and motherfucking bunny rabbits. You don’t need an excuse, you need a door you greasy lunkheads! Or a window! I’m gonna jump out of one right now! Then I’ll be out motherfuckin side!

 

WEARING GOLF SHOES TO A PRO GOLF TOURNAMENT

Let me paint a little word picture for you. A guy wakes up on the couch still reeking from the 9 Bud Light Limes he drank the night before as his kids finished the Internet on their iPads. His wife doesn’t appreciate when he “gets that way” because he acts weird and snores in his sleep. Hence Sofa City. He’s recently taken up permanent residence in Chateau Bowwow, but he can claw his way out of that tomorrow. Today, he and a few of his old fraternity brothers scored free tickets to the Quicken Loans National PGA Golf Tournament just outside Bethesda, Maryland. 

He claims to love golf because it’s a nice excuse to be outdoors and enjoy a sport that not only relaxes and challenges him, but gives him a chance to ponder the big picture. The real reason he loves it is because he can drink all day, be away from his kids and gawk at that friendly cart girl with the epic rack. He’ll never do a deep enough emotional dive to come to grips with the fact that he actually hates the sport. He has no talent for it, so it’s slowly becoming one more thing that makes him feel small. What he really wants to do is paint landscapes, but fears the razzing he’ll get from his friends about how much a cock-gobbling homo he is. 

Apathetic is the best word to describe the way he feels about his job as an outside sales rep for a large medical equipment company. But he endures it. After all, it’s too late to change careers at this point, right? He’s recently taken out a 2^nd mortgage on his home and borrowed a sizable chunk of money from his sister, unbeknownst to his wife. Not because times are tight, but because of a few bad decisions involving penny stocks. 

Still, he’s obsessed with having the latest and greatest golf equipment. He loves the look of pure covetous jealousy when he whips out his surrogate wang on that first tee box. He always pushes to hit from the blacks, but is secretly bummed when his friends acquiesce. After he throws on his pleated shorts, striped polo, ankle socks and a visor, it feels downright criminal to wear normal running shoes. It’s like he’s offending the great and powerful golf gods. Plus, he’s wants to get close to his favorite player, a 22-year-old Aussie who’s as sharp on Twitter as his is around the greens. There will be grassy knolls and uneven terrain for him to contend with all day long. He’d hate to miss out on seeing his hero. Or worse, spilling any of that sweet sweet hair of the dog.