Sing Us A Song, You're The Salesman

Here are the 5 most common songs sung in the cluster of cubes that I am a part of at my wonderfully unfulfilling job:

1. "Against All Odds", Phil Collins

About five minutes ago, three of us were whistling the tune at the same time. And pretty much every other hour or so, someone will be heard singing the chorus...this is historically followed by a resounding chorus of "you're so gay, man."

2. "Low Rider", War

It's on the music channel in our office and yes, I know I've mentioned it before but it's ubiquitous 'round these here parts. All my friends know the Low Rider. Ask them.

3. "Crazy", Gnarls Barkley

Shady, the guy who sits next to me, has it as his ringtone and his cell phone rings probably anywhere from three to fourty-six times a day. Does that make me crazzay? You betcha. Does that make Shady crazy? No, just flamingly gay.

4. "Blinded By The Light", Manfred Mann

Another hit from the music channel here at the office. I'll tell you, has there ever been anybody in the history of man who doesn't know someone who says 'douche' instead of 'deuce' where they hear/sing the chorus? It's not funny; it was never funny, shut the fuck up. You're ruining a perfectly weird song.

5. "Motorin'", Night Ranger

I am solely responsible for this song circulating around the cluster and I believe myself to be a better man for it. COME ON! Look at the chorus:

Motoring
What's your price for flight
You've got him in your sight
And driving thru the night
Motoring
What's your price for flight
In finding mister right
You'll be alright tonight

It's awesome. I like to throw my fist in the air the last time they go into the chorus and the guitars, bass and drums stop...them BLAST back in after he says "Motorin'".

It's GLORIOUS.

Far Out, Far East.

A 107 year-old man from Hong Kong attributes his old age to abstinence...(http://www.nzherald.co.nz/section/2/story.cfm?c_id=2&objectid=10425886) Apparently, this guy has not had sexual intercourse since he was 30 years old. He also smokes butts and may be trying to quit, but only if he's no longer able to legally buy them. Further, his latest physical examination showed that he has unusually healthy and strong wrist and forearm muscles.

We all know this guy...he's the guy who everyone referred to as the social leper in high school; the guy who showed up at the prom with one of the following three things: 1) his sister, 2) a blow-up doll, 3) a hooker. Is there any legitimately rational reason why anyone in his right mind would give up sex when he's 30? Other than the fact that he can't find a single woman who is willing to voluntarily have sex with him? There's just no way. And I cannot IMAGINE how much this guy beats off. I really cannot even begin to fathom the number over the last 77 years...

Another Reuters article talks about a Chinese Businessman who is advertising for someone to stand in and let his wife beat the piss out of her for $573 for every ten minutes, in order to satisfy his wife's anger and urge to pummel his mistress. (http://www.nzherald.co.nz/section/2/story.cfm?c_id=2&objectid=10425965) I wonder if this guy had a conversation with his wife about this one (as translated from their native Mandarin)...

Wife: "You cheat on me? Who with? I beat her."

Husband: "No, you no beat her...I find replacement mistress and you beat her so you no mess up face of real mistress."

Wife: "Ok, but you make sure replacement about same age."

Husband: "Yes, and I pay her 3000 yuan for every ten minute you beat her."

Wife: "Ok, and you still get to fuck current mistress as long I beat replacement whenever I want and you pay for it."

Husband: "You have deal."

I find that news stories from the Far East are far more amusing than those of our own kind. I mean seriously, where else can you find a man who not only gets away with cheating on his wife, but he makes money off of it? Simply incredible. And in case you've been curious about our Cambodian jungle friend from January, there's not much more to report as of late. Apparently she's still expressionless, doesn't talk and appears to miss being in the jungle where she knows how to live. Shocking. I wonder if her family is really surprised by this. Reportedly her father assures people that she will soon marry and have children but for now, they're trying to get her to do something more than grunt and burble. I'm not sure at what point he will deem her ready to bear children, but maybe if she can graduate to hissing and squeaking, that would be a step in the right direction. The same father says she also looks so much like her mother...interestingly an ape was recently interviewed who said the jungle woman sounds just like her daughter. The jungle woman grunted in agreement. I guess we'll never really know the real story, unless we find someone who can translate grunts and burbles. What exactly is a burble, anyway?

bur·ble Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[bur-buhl] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation verb, -bled, -bling, noun–verb (used without object)

1. to make a bubbling sound; bubble.

2. to speak in an excited manner; babble. –noun

3. a bubbling or gentle flow.

4. an excited flow of speech.

5. Aeronautics. the breakdown of smooth airflow around a wing at a high angle of attack.

Well there you go. I'm thinking this is a common sound made by babies, as they make spit bubbles in their mouths.

The QUINN-tessestial RUSSELL-ing of Feathers

Both Brady Quinn and JeMarcus Russell will be successful in the NFL, but since the Sugar Bowl drubbing that Quinn and ND took at the hands of Russell and LSU, Quinn's status in the draft has 'plummeted' to as low as 10th whereas Russell is pretty much assured to go the Raiders as the #1 overall pick in the draft. Let me just say that money aside, I might be counting my blessings if I were Quinn. For one, I can't imagine anyone could legitimately want to play for the Oakland Raiders after this last season. To go in there as the anointed savior AND rookie QB carries the foregone conclusion of failure (perhaps of Ryan Leaf proportions...by the way, kudos to Leaf who is coaching college football in West Texas and enjoying his life again...cheers) and I don't care of it's Russell or Quinn or Tom Brady's baby boy on the way. And going to Cleveland for Quinn, which seems likely, would be a relative homecoming, seeing as it's 140 miles north of his hometown of Dublin, OH. It would be a little ironic if Charlie Weis' first NFL product ends up in the loving arms of Romeo Crennel, wouldn't it?

But I believe that both men will succeed in the NFL for the following reasons:

!. Russell is the next Duante Culpepper, but he's had better coaching and college and will be a factor much sooner. Sure, Culpepper is looking up at (gulp) Joey Harrington right now, but in his prime he was a damn good quarterback who could use either his legs or his arm to beat you. Russell isn't the athlete that Vince Young is but he's close and he's a lot stronger. With proper coaching from the Rrrrrrrraiders and help from his receivers, he should be the rookie of the year. Interesting that he could also be aided by the freakish Randy Moss, as Culpepper was during his success at Minnesota. But I'm not counting on it...Moss might not even be drafted in some fantasy leagues next year.

2. Quinn is too smart and works too hard to fail if given the right opportunity. Weis has him going into the NFL with a working knowledge of an NFL offense already, which is a lot more than most QB's can say when entering their first training camp. He threw to NFL-caliber receivers and ends at ND in Jeff Samardzjia, Rhema McKnight and John Carlson and again, was under the tutelage of Charlie Weis for a few years. Wait, who's the last Weis-bred quarterback...can't recall if he panned out...who was it...OH RIGHT...TOM BRADY. I won't get into the whole Brady/Brady thing, don't worry.

3. Vince Young proved that a rookie QB can carry a team on his shoulders and to the brink of the playoffs. What if Vince had started from the get-go? I don't really understand why he didn't, but he still got a good amount of time under center and he was owned by many fantasy owners and starting for a few by the year's end. Why can't Russell and Quinn have the same success? Well, the Browns and Raiders have zero running game, so that could be a tough one. Cleveland has a solid D that will keep Quinn in games and the Raiders D actually isn't too bad either. Look for both to upgrade their running games on draft day as well, with either backs or OL.
I'm not saying either of these teams will even sniff the playoffs next year. Heck, there's a good chance that Quinn won't even go to the Browns if they decide to stick with Frye/Anderson at the helm (for Browns' fans' sakes, I hope this isn't the case). And again, Russell is walking into an absolute circus in Oakland, and that's not a good place for any rookie to start his career. Maybe it'll make him better though, who knows. I just feel like they will both turn out to be leaders and producers in the NFL in a relatively short amount of time.

A Few Odds and Ends:

1. Manny reported to camp today...now EEI will have to find something else to talk about. Good for Manny, though. Can you really blame the guy for enjoying his time off? I hate working. I show up late sometimes and I could easily be accused to of not giving 100%. Granted, I'm not one of the highest paid salespeople in the world and there's not too many people that really give a shit about how I do my job. I don't think anyone has ever thought about slitting their wrists because I failed to land a client, either. I'm just saying...I sympathize, Manny. I do.

2. This is going to be one of those winters that drop some snow, but never enough to shut anything down and make it fun. Scraping my windshield has got to be one of my least favorite things to do. I also hate driving in this shit, walking in it, etc. Remember how awesome it was when your mom or dad would come into your room to tell you that school was cancelled due to snow? Man, I used to get so excited. i think of all those times that my father had to pull me out of bed to get up, and I think that if he had simply told me that school was cancelled, i would have woken up immediately in excitement. I don't care how often he may have given this lie to get me out of bed, either...it would have worked every, single time. That reminds of something truly underrated about my childhood...I used to watch Sox games with my Dad every night but rarely could I stay up for the whole game because it was beyond my bed time...I'd get the score update first thing in the morning from my dad along with a quick recap of how it happened. That went under appreciated on my end, but certainly amply valued. Thanks Pop.

3. Dice-K throws BP for the first time today, including to Papi. Who do you think is more confident in that matchup? Well, I don't care who you are on the mound...there's no way you're not a little bit intimidated by someone who's 7'5, 577 lbs. and carries a billy club. Advantage: Papi.

4. I heard an interview with Larry Bird as given by Dale and Holly on EEI this weekend...Bird recounted the 'steal' and eventual DJ 'layin' that beat the Pistons that fateful night in 1987 during Game 5 of the Eastern Conf. Finals...Bird's recollection was so awesome...I believe it's online somewhere, so find it and listen. You won't be disappointed.

Finally, I saw a commercial last night for the Olive Garden. It showed a couple having dinner on a Monday night and they were super-excited that it was Monday because that's their night to go to the Olive Garden. You know, maybe the free salad and breadsticks are pretty dope there, but it's just not believable. No one could ever overlook the true shittiness of a Monday in favor of Olive Garden elation. We're not talking about the Capital Grille here, folks. How good can a $8 never-ending bowl of pasta be? I'm not buying it. However, if anyone wants to hit up the O.G. tonight, I'm down. Salad and breadsticks are on me.

Overheard

"This guy's hand smells like cheese. You smell that?"

"What? Cheese? No, and will you answer my question please?"

"Oh, right...my bad. Well, I'm not really sure what to tell you there, Al. I mean, it's a beak. It's gonna hurt a little if she pecks at it."

"I get that, but all I'm asking for is all tongue. No beak, you know?"

"I know. But again, if she's pecking...you're not left with options, Al. Tell her not to peck."

"Sometimes I wonder if you have a pigeon brain up there, Gil. Seriously. I gotta go poop, they just put fresh newspaper down. Later."

"Pigeon brain? Dickhead."

It's Getting Late...And I'm Tired...

***last night's attempt at clearing my head***

It's fairly late and I can't sleep. I've thought about this tonight...I usually can't sleep, but tonight is a bit different. I can't tell you how many times I redirected my comforter to be exactly where I wanted it to be...how many times I adjusted my boxers...how many sips of water I took to combat my dry mouth. But my mouth wasn't dry. My boxers were in line...balls in the saddle as they should be. I just could not keep my eyes closed and it was really starting to get to me. No cure...but perhaps watching a little SportsCenter could assist. Then again, maybe not.

Oh boy. The Hot Seat. I paid no attention to the Budweiser Hot Seat tonight. I only pictured myself on the Hot Seat. Here's how it went:

Neil Everett: "French, you are now on the Budweiser Hot Seat. First question...did you think the Boston Celtics would be fighting for the top lottery position at this point in the season this year?"

Me: "Oh, f*ck, Neil. I don't..."

Neil: "Okay, and that concludes your time on the Budweiser Hot Seat. Thank you for being a sport."

French's Recipes: Numero Un.

Perhaps I'm starting to have way too many 'segments' as part of the blog, but I am constantly finding new ones to contribute. Thus, I bring you French's Recipes: Numero Un.

Simpleton Shrimp
1lb. large shrimp (cleaned and peeled...approx 20-25 shrimp)
½ bag of spinach
1C chopped scallions
3C snap peas, in pods
1C olive oil
2 tbsp minced garlic
4C water
½ pkg. Angel Hair Pasta

Heat 2 tbsp. of olive oil in large skillet on medium heat. Add 1 tbsp. garlic and let sit until lightly browned. Add spinach, pea pods and scallions. Cover for five minutes, stir with large spoon and re-cover for another 5 minutes. In the meantime, bring four cups of water to a boil on stove and add angel hair. Transfer vegetable mixture to a bowl, add another 2 tbsp. olive oil to skillet and other tbsp garlic. Brown garlic lightly and add half of shrimp. Cook on one side for two minutes, flip and cook for another 2 minutes. (shrimp should be pink on both sides when done) Remove and add other half of shrimp to pan, repeat process. After shrimp is finished, add vegetables and other half shrimp to skillet. Add pasta and rest of olive oil, sea salt and pepper to taste. Toss for a minute, serve immediately in bowls. Feeds 2.

I'm not going soft here, I just think it's high time someone contributes a recipe or two to his/her blog so that we can all pick up a few tricks here and there.

I was also thinking this morning...about who I would just absolutely not want to be right now...who has just a miserable existence these days and would probably rather be one of those poor bastards who follows the Clydesdale's in parades and shovels their shit. Here are my picks:

1. Doc Rivers.

What a suck-ass life he has right now. You can pretty much read his mind as he sits on the C's bench during games. Last night, he looked like the disinterested JV girl's coach from my high school that only took the job so he could stay after their practice and shoot around until the janitor locked up. Before long, Doc will lose the suit and tie on the sideline and start showing up with an Ohio State t-shirt, denim jams and a beer in each hand and just root for the other team from the C's bench. And how about Wally? I want to feel bad for him, I really do...seeing him weep into his towel on the bench last night was almost too much. But he sucks so fucking bad that I can't sympathize with him. I hate him and hope he's out for the year. Such a liability.

2. Tom Brady

He's still Tom Brady, yes. But if this kid is his, it's gonna suck pretty hard. Sure, he can just throw a bunch of money at Bridget and keep the whole thing in the background and hopefully continue plugging Gisele and the other Victoria's Secret models, but come on folks...this is Tom Brady we're talking about. There's no way he takes the easy way out in this one. He's got too big of a conscience to be an absentee father. No more happy fun-time if this pans out. He'll have to go back to bringing Bridget's V.S. catalog into the bathroom to make love to Gisele. Yeeeeeeee-ikes.

3. Josh Bauer

Talk about a tough fucking day for this guy. He's what, 14? In the last few hours, his Dad was killed by his own grandfather, he found out that this same Dad was responsible for a nuclear bomb going off and killing thousands of Americans, he's had a gun pointed at his head and probably assumed he was going to die. GOOD LORD. But he still has a hot mom, which probably doesn't make a difference to him but he's gotta find something good in his life at this point. Prediction: Josh develops a severe Oedipus complex, starts banging him mom, kills his grandfather with his bare hands and becomes Jack's new arch enemy. It could happen.

4. Jack Bauer

Only if the aforementioned happens.

Lesser Known Oxymorons, Vol. One.

The Uneducated-sounding Sommelier

I was at Kappy's Liquors with La yesterday, looking for a few bottles of wine to take home with us. After finding a few that were looking for in particular, we decided to ask the resident Sommelier if he had Freeman or Layer Cake wines on hand. It was the biggest mistake of our weekend.

You talk about hacks...this guy was one of the biggest fucking hacks I have ever come into contact with. He looked like a cross between Elmer Fudd and Alfred E. Newman, he sounded like Colin Quinn, but after having smoked for 80 years and he quickly vaulted himself into my top 5 all-time Most Annoying People of all time. Believe me, he's in some piss-poor company here, too (to be detailed later).

My stereotype of a Sommelier is someone who comes off a bit stuffy, maybe a bit pretentious...and this is fine with me. Anyone who dedicates his life to one kind of booze kind of reserves the right to be a dick about it, in my opinion. And while it seemed like this dude might have a pretty widespread knowledge of wines, he came off sounding like he was talking about baseball cards. First off, he hadn't heard of either of the two wines mentioned above and one of them is pretty fucking common around here. Second, he used words like 'cool' and 'stuff' to describe some different kinds of wine.

"Now, you'd expect a nice Shiraz to have that nice, full berry aftertaste, which is cool, and it should be sort of tart and stuff."

Yeah, well said captain. I think I heard my 3 year-old nephew articulate how his cookie tasted in a more intelligible way than this. Add in the Jersey accent that he carried and the stuffy nose, and it's just all over. There wasn't a single thing that this guy was going to say that either La or myself would believe. I also wouldn't expect a Sommelier to be desperately trying to keep a customer in front of him, seemingly just to talk. But this guy just kept bringing up new topics so we wouldn't walk away from him. Granted, La kind of sidled off at one point and sort disappeared until the conversation was over, but I would have done the same thing in a heartbeat if he had stopped talking for ONE SECOND. He did eventually give me the opportunity to cut him off and end the conversation and I did, but he handed me his card and basically implored us to return after we had researched the wines we were looking for. I thought to myself, isn't that your job?

OTHER WEEKEND NOTES:

As promised, G-money lived up to his billing in the Dunk Contest...flying high above the shortcomings of Nate Robinson and his meager repertoire of dunks. I'm sorry, but when a guy uses up the entire 2:00 and has to rely on his final attempt to complete a not-so-impossible dunk, he doesn't deserve to win. I did gain a new respect for him, though. I thought it was a really nice gesture that he volunteered to be in one of G-Money's dunks as opposed to his cardboard cut-out that Gerald had originally planned on using. And Nate's facial expression as G-Money soared over his head on his way to victory was priceless. But it reminds us that this game is fun and the festivities of All-Star Weekend are fun. I'm pretty sure PP had the most fun of anyone there, as he appeared to be having a grand old time in support of his protégé. But I honestly had chills when Gerald peeled off his #5 jersey to reveal the #7 jersey of Dee Brown. That was awesomely creative and nostalgically fun and again, what it's all about.

I've got to give another plug to Nick's Roast Beef of Beverly, MA. Gilbert, I think our idea to write a book detailing the greatest roast beef joints on the east coast is more important than ever now. I find a large three-way from Nick's can cure just about any depression you might fall into. La had her first this weekend and like so many before her, she's now a believer in the beef. If you've never been, go. If you haven't been in a while, go. If I know you and you're going there soon, let me know and I'll buy you your first junior three-way if you're a first-timer. Just get there. You WILL NOT be disappointed...as Ponch knows, we're pretty serious about our beef up here.

Hmm...what else...I think that might be it. Oh, blondes look better in yellow.

4-day week, Y'all.

Get some.

I Hate Cops.

I wanted to title this entry with something much more creative and fun and all that shit, but when it came down to it, I couldn't do it because this one kept coming back to me. And I realize that the majority of us claim to hate cops for several different reasons and my thinking here is entirely unoriginal, but it's 100% TRUE. I fucking hate cops...most of them.

I'm driving home with La last night, just after picking her up at the hotel after work. As we approach a light on Atlantic Ave in downtown Boston, a figure appears in front of my car as I slow down. It took me a second to make out what exactly was in front of me, but eventually (and at the last second) I realize that it's a guy with his hand out, signaling me to stop where I am. I have to apply quick pressure to my brake pedal in order to avoid taking the guy out, but I really couldn't see him until the last second. It was dark out, he wasn't wearing a reflective piece of clothing, etc. So after I bring the car to a halt, this guy, who I eventually see is a cop, comes up to my window and motions for me to roll it down. I do as he asks and once it's cracked a little, he says "What's the matter, you can't stop where I asked you to? Give me your license." I tell him that I couldn't see him right at first, but he barks back that I was looking into his eyes the whole time. So I hand him my license and he walks away.

As I wait for him to return, La and I try to figure out what, if anything, this greaser with a gun could possibly write me up for. I offered reckless driving, even though that was extremely far-fetched. But clearly this dickbag wanted to fuck with me. A few minutes later, he returns to my window and I roll it back down.

"Here you go. You'll receive paperwork in the mail."

"Can I ask what you're giving me a ticket for, officer?"

"Yeah, for not paying attention. You can't stop where I asked you to and you almost hit my knees."

"For not paying attention? But I stopped the car, man. I didn't see you right away."

"Keep runnin' your mouth. I'll get you on assault. Now go ahead, right lane."

Yep. Assault. I was fucking STEAMED at this point, but La alertly asked me softly to stop talking and just go. What I wanted to do was jump out of the car, kick the guy in the balls and sodomize him with his little baton but alas, driving away was the smart thing to do. But was this guy kidding? Assault? I didn't realize that asking a simple question-a fair question, at that-is considered assault in this fine state. We've got spineless d-bags like Patrick Doyle getting a mere six months of minimum-security time for drugs and ignoring the repeated rape of a 9 year-old girl ([http://www.salemnews.com/punews/local_story_044121416] — the sentence was reduced to 6 months) and this cop wanted to take me in on a fabricated assault charge. I'm telling you, 95% of the police force are those macho pricks from high school who are still over-compensating for some deficiency and they make up for it by bullying people and abusing their positions, such as that which an officer of the law carries. I understand, Officer McShitstain, that you're pissed because they stuck you on traffic detail in 5° weather during rush hour. But for all of those good cops out there who actually want to preserve justice and serve it honorably, there's two dozen cops like you who are disgracing those good ones.

I don't want to leave off on a sour note today because it's Friday and there's a long weekend upon us. I hope to have an enjoyable weekend, and here are a few suggestions for you to aid in enjoying yours.

1. Watch the NBA Slam Dunk Contest on Saturday night. You can spare an hour to see Gerald 'G Money' Green defy gravity and make your jaw hit the floor. He will win it, and he will let everyone know who Gerald Green is...at least, those who don't already know.

2. Go to RedSox.com and check in on pitchers and catchers. They report to Ft. Myers today and position players report on Monday. FINALLY...baseball is within telescopic range. We're mere weeks away from Dice-K Delerium...from Papi Pandemonium...from Manny Mayhem...from Drew Doldrums (I'm being purposefully pessimistic on him; what if he actually turns out to be a good pick up? Bonus.) I am FUCKING AMPED. My only quandary is what jersey to pick up. I recently retired my Trot jersey...I'm thinking Youk. Yooooooooooouk. Can't wait to hear that shit again.

3. Do something you haven't done in a long time, like go to the batting cages or the dollar cinema. Reason being, it's balls cold out there and we could all use a little summertime reminder like the cages, or indoor mini-golf, or a blizzard from Dairy Queen. Treat yourself. Do it.

4. Have a fucking donut. When's the last time you went to Dunkin or Twin Donuts and had a Boston Cream? Or a French Cruller? Get your ass out there and eat a donut, would you?

Whatever you choose to do, have great long weekend. For another way you can donate to the Cure for Breast Cancer cause, visit http://www.mass.gov/rmv/express/plates.htm if you're a MA resident. These plates are an easy and effective way to support the search for a cure.

Top Six List, Volume One

Here are the top six ways you can effectively fuck with Tim Hardaway.

6. Call him and put on your best gay man voice. Tell him you miss his sweet, silky-smooth drives to the hole from his days as a penetrating point guard.

5. Call Chris Berman and pay him off to talk about Tim Hardaway during his next SportsCenter appearance. Make sure he uses the nickname of Tim "I like it in the ass and I like it the" Hardaway.

4. Plop a nice, big rainbow sticker on the back of his ride. Make sure it's plainly visible to everyone who sees him driving.

3. Ask him to autograph a picture of himself, and have him make it out to your gay brother Benji, with hugs and kisses.

2. Send exactly (2) throwback jerseys to his house, custom jerseys with 'Hardaway' on the back: the old school Nuggets jersey, circa Alex English, and the old school Astros jersey, circa Nolan Ryan.

1. Order him a year subscription to Playgirl, and make sure he gets the free gift...which is a dildo that has John Amaechi's head for the tip.

To Be Blount...(would suck)

One thing I failed to mention about this weekend was the C's/T'Wolves game. I know a lot of you saw the highlights and I need to say a few things about that game. First off, the C's continue to play with heart and passion for the game, which is something that you can't say about the Grizz, the Sixers or other cellar dwellars in professional sports. That makes me love this team even more than I did before the season started.

Now to my negative commentary on the game against Minnesota. Is Ricky Davis FUCKING kidding me? Did he really pose with his hand in the air after making that 15-footer with time expiring to beat the WORST TEAM IN THE LEAGUE? And did Mark Blount really run over and bear hug him as if they won the conference? What a goddamn disgrace that was to Minnesota fans. Ok, so you beat the team that traded you for Wally. You should have been fucking thrilled to get the hell out of Boston because you, Blount, were hated by pretty much everyone in the city because you sucked and still suck, might I add. This is a great quote from Barstool Sports:

Yeah, seeing those two jump around like they just won the championship was fucking annoying. I hate Blount so much. He's the starting center on the "if only they gave a shit" team. He only plays when properly motivated.

He was seriously hooting and hollering after the victory, and seeing the highlight made me want to run out and commit capital murder (with Blount as the victim, of course). A little comparison for you: the last emblazoned memory of a guy holding his hand in the air after nailing a J to seal a game belongs to a one MJ, following his sweet jumper that buried the Jazz in 1998. Here's an example of when it's OK to leave it up there. Ricky, you just beat the youngest and most futile team in the NBA. You're not going to Disney, you're not going to be interviewed because no one GIVES A SHIT and you're not going to be applauded by anyone except Mark Blount. But I hope you and Mark went straight to the showers and enjoyed hours and hours of @nal joy following your flamboyant little celebration.

Pieces of shit.

California Dreamin'

Before I begin my candid recollection of the trip to Malibu that just was, I would like to dedicate this entry to my dear friend Cindi, who will undoubtedly be the hottest woman ever seen in a wig. Obviously many of you have already helped donate to breast cancer research due to people close to you, but if you need an outlet, you can make a small purchase from this site and a portion will be donated to the cause: http://www.pinkribbonshop.com/index.asp?PageAction=VIEWCATS&Category=43.

The way I see it, there is a difference of about sixty degrees between heaven and hell. Granted, hell is reportedly hotter than Death Valley on its hottest day, but today hell goes about 8° above zero and inverts ones scrotal sac into his body. La and I boarded a plane in Long Beach at about 9pm last night, walking outside and up into the plane in the midst of a warm night. As we exited the plane this morning at about 530am, the 8° Boston air took my balls, squeezed the ever-loving shit out of them and carried me into the terminal where the blasting heat brought me back to my senses...thus ending our short-lived trip to paradise.

I'm choosing to relay the details of my trip in a 'best of' and 'worst of' theme. There really isn't too much in the category of 'worst of', but the trip had its moment of not-so-much-grandeur.

Best Elderly Person goes to La's faux grandfather Dick. Man, what a guy Dick is. For one, he's an absolute windbag. He'll tell you a story that should take no more than two minutes and you'll find yourself three scotches deep as he's saying 'where was I' for the tenth time. Yikes. His line of the weekend came on Sunday night, when he turned to me and asked "So, are you a mover and a shaker up there in Boston? Are you tops amongst your peers?" No joke, this is what he asked me. He also welcomed me into the family, propositioned La for $100 and invited me down to Puerto Vallarta to see his impressive home down there. Apparently Dick was a Navy man, as I learned from La's brother Tito. Quote from Tito on Sunday night at dinner: "Dick told me that one of his buddies in the Navy had crabs, and they used to pour brandy all over the guy's body and have crab races." AWESOME. Another quote overheard from this particular dinner tables came from family friend Bob Shipley, who remarked that "it's not the size of the dick, it's the size of the pussy." Dick followed this up by correcting him and noting that it's what you do with it that matters. Gross. GROSS.

Biggest Casualty occurred at the batting cages in LA, somewhere near UCLA. After deciding that it was a good idea to crank the machine up to 75mph from 55mph, La and I both lost a significant amount of skin from the popped blisters we got. I then lost a bet with La's 12 year-old brother Alexander, whom I didn't think would be able to catch up to a 75mph fastball. I gave him 10 tries, and he connected on the first one. And the next one. And so on. And I'm down $20. He asks to go double or nothing on 85mph, but I decline. Then we both proceed to knock the shit out of the ball at 85mph, as I ignore my mangled left hand. My advice to you men out there is to find a girl who likes to go the cages on a Saturday afternoon. Fucking glorious.

Best Meal was a tough one for me to decide on. I toyed with giving the top prize to In and Out Burger, where I feasted on a double-double with everything at 1030 am on Saturday. Then I thought that perhaps the prize should be awarded to the meal we had our first night there, when we ate sushi with Cindi and let it sink in that we were wearing flip flops and t-shirts in February. But the top prize must be awarded to the New York Steak at the Riviera Country Club in Pacific Palisades. The food was awesome, what we saw of the course where Lefty will try for two in a row this week was equally awesome, and watching La's grandmother Sally roll her eyes at Dick's incredibly long-winded stories was a riot. Did I mention that I had to borrow a blazer from Dick to wear to the club? He reminded me about a ten times that it was cashmere, asking me "doesn't that feel nice?" The thing had a fucking handkerchief in the pocket, for fuck's sake. But it was nice; the cashmere, that is.

Best Text Message Received appeared on Cindi's phone, sent from La's brother Ilan who was at the Westminster Dog Show in NYC: A Mastiff just took a dump in the ring. Enough said.

Best Overall Place must be Paradise Cove in Malibu. We had lunch there on Sunday, played football on the beach and just kind of hung out for a while (see photo above). Not to mention, a school of dolphins swam by and it was pretty awesome. If you go here, avoid the seafood omelette. La's pere said it was awful.

Most Disturbing Thing Said came from La's grandmother, Sally. La and her mom had gone wig shopping on Thursday in preparation for Cindi's impending hair loss...and they brought this wig to dinner. Enter Sally (80 years old), wearing the wig, asking Tito's best friend Taylor if she 'makes him horny, baby' in the Austin Powers voice. So fucking weird and distubring and funny and nauseating.

Ok, I'm getting sick of the theme shit, so I'm going to stop. Another incredible place we went to was this unreal house up in Malibu that belonged to some tv/low-budget film producer. It was called Stone Manor and it was the nicest place I've ever seen in my life. It's tough to do this place justice with words...I looked for the website, but it's not up. This fucking guy's house is over like 50 acres, all stone walls and shit, lemon trees, blood orange trees, grapefruit trees, butterflies everywhere and a sick adjustable hoop that I was throwing down on. Granted it was at 8', but I still pulled off a one-handed alley from Alexander, off the backboard G-Money-style. Sick.

La and I made our way to two shrines: the Lake Shrine (http://www.windmillworld.com/world/lakeshrine.htm) and the Serra Retreat (http://www.serraretreat.com/communities/retreats/serra/index.htm). If you're ever out there and you want to clear your head, both of these places are worth it. Plus, if you want to see the house where Sara Foster grew up, go the Serra Retreat and you'll have a bird's eye view of this mansion. Pretty amazing shit. Speaking of celebrities, we only saw two to speak of: Bill Maher and Matt Leinart. Nothing too exciting. Then again, who gives a shit about seeing celebrities. I'm much more impressed with the Pacific Coast Highway's offerings, but not the Malibu Fish Pier. I was really looking forward to our trip down there, thinking it would be all fun and games. And it was all fun and games; arcade games, skee-ball, funnel cakes, a ferris wheel and a bunch of Mexicans with dustpans and brushes, cleaning the pier. Look, I'm only saying 'a bunch of Mexicans' because there were a bunch of Mexicans. If there were a bunch of silver-top octogenarians cleaning the pier, I would have said so. But the place was just kind of crappy. I don't know what I was expecting, but I think it produced the only disappointment I had the whole time. Of course, when you're looking down on miles and miles of sandy beaches and million-dollar homes, a seedy amusement park isn't exactly a close second.

A final photo: La and I at the Long Beach airport. This is my first-ever attempt at taking a picture of myself by holding the camera out in front of me:

Vagrant's Lament

A bag of cans he poured into his cagy chest of drawers

But this chest bore no drawers at all in its frame of 2' x 4'.

A woolen scarf, a holy hat and fingertipless gloves

Such joy found in a leftover slice of pepperoni love.

I thought of what I know as cold, entering my heated car

As he laid next to the laundry vent adjacent to the bar.

For him, they'll pour no drinks; they'll serve no greasy BLT

Just puddle splash and crumpled cash are the offerings he sees.

He'll save enough for smokes and booze and maybe just one taste

Of that which certainly got him here, which made him such a waste.

Forgoing rent and every cent on crack can't hurt no one

Especially if you consider being homeless lots of fun.

Scrambled Eggs

Add salt to taste.

1. The Colts were welcomed home by 40,000 screaming and appreciative fans at the RCA Dome yesterday. My problem with this is, the dome seats 60,500 people. There is no fucking way that Gillette doesn't fill up to welcome back the Pats. This just further proves that Indy fans are entirely half-assed about the love for their team. Give me a break. Believe me, I think Indy deserved to win the Superbowl after taking care of the Pats. But if I were a Colt player, I'd be pretty disappointed to look up in the stands at our welcoming party to see 20,000 empty seats.

2. I still don't get why anyone is a fan of NASCAR. I listened to D&C babble on this morning about how not-fun the sport is to watch, and I couldn't agree more. There is no thinking involved from a fan's perspective, it's loud as FUCK, long as all hell and I can't think of anything more boring to do in a 4-hour stretch of time...except maybe watch hockey. I don't understand the lure of this sport. A caller on EEI this morning remarked that the sport requires more endurance than any other. Excuse me? I'm sorry, I guess you've never heard of the Tour De France, or the Iron Man Challenge, or ANY OTHER SPORT for that matter. This guy's claim was staked around the fact that the car's seat is uncomfortable and that it's really hot in the car. Well, I drove to work this morning with my heat on high, going 140MPH while sitting on a sneaker and it wasn't that bad.

3. Can someone explain to me the difference between a bowtie and a bear claw? Aren't they both just over-sized glazed donuts that are shaped differently?

4. My company is hell bent on keeping the same musak channel active in our office and it's driving me crazy. I hear Low Rider about three times a day, not to mention Meatloaf and Bob Seger. I can deal with Seger and most of the other shit, but Low Rider is absolutely killing me. I can hang my hat on the fact that the first time it comes on in a given day, the guy next to me will be whistling the chorus until the end of the day. I can't take it anymore. I find myself daydreaming about stabbing him to the beat of the song: "The ma-che-te has a sharp tip, now. The ma-che-te has a rubber grip, now." I sing this as I bob my head and casually stab him repeatedly. But alas, it's just a daydream. Sigh.

5. Is it weird that I like to use a paperclip to clean my ears at work? The rounded edge is superior to the cutip when it comes to digging for chunks of wax. Give it a shot sometime and report back to me on your findings. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised.

6. One of the more underrated scenes in Billy Madison occurs when Sandler is playing ball with the middle schoolers. After draining a mid-range J when he's left open, he gets in the face of the kid who was supposed to be guarding him and says, "Oh my dear Lord! Never leave me open, son. 'Cause I'm gonna hit it every time. You want some more of this? I didn't think so." Really good stuff.

Birthdays, Bad Bears and a Big 'Ol Slab of Beef

Here's a roundup of my weekend that just was. Overall, I give the weekend a score of 8 and you'll see why.

Friday night was tremendous. La and I settled onto my couch at around 8pm with our D'Angelo's subs and the movie Friday Night Lights. If you haven't seen this movie and you watch the show, see the movie ASAP. I've seen it a number of times, but this was La's first. It's a great movie and it's definitely a better depiction of what it's really like down there in Texas when it comes to high school football. Anyway, we were in bed at 10:30 and we slept until noon on Saturday. I give Friday night a score of 9.5.

Saturday was...well, it was exactly what I predicted it would be...a fucking circus. We went to Ned's to celebrate Richie's birthday in grand style and the crowd did not disappoint. I think 100 people showed up just for Rich, which was a nice thing. I'd say 83% of those ended up blacking out before Burnt Sienna's second set, or at least 2%...that being me and La. I can't really say what happened that night with great certainty, but it was fun as hell. There was plenty of Jameson consumed, the band was great and again, a lot of people showed up. The highlight of the night for me occured later on, when we were dropped off at the Greenhouse (La's home) at around 2am. She gets out very hastily and I fumble with the cab fare and wait for change. Next thing I know, the cabbie is telling me that I "better tend to my girl, man", and as i look over, I see her sitting indian style in the middle of Huntington Ave, pale as all hell. Awesome. Just a perfect way to end a great night of gassing Irish Whiskey and Bud Lights. Did I mention it was -100 degrees out? I give Saturday night a score of 9.5 as well.

And then we have yesterday...a bad day for hangovers, a horrible Superbowl and a glorious 5 lb. roast from the kitchen of Kathy B., also known as me mum. I laid in bed with La until 3pm, hoping her hangover would subside enough for her to join me and my folks for dinner. Didn't happen. So I go to Bev-town solo, feeling decently normal. I would grow progressively more hungover as the day wore on and I couldn't do a thing to stop it. I had 4 glasses of chianti with my parents, did a few loads of laundry and tried to sweat out the hangover, but it tightened its grip. Later, the three of us pulled up some chairs and feasted on this enormous roast beef and it was just spectacular. I'm a meat and potatoes type of guy; so is my dad, his late father, his late grandfather, and so on. So we know a thing or two about a piece of beef. This thing was fucking gorgeous. Perfectly pinkish-red, warm center, a nice peppery crust on the outside and au jus that a Frenchman would easily give up his children for. I ate probably a whole pound if it myself and neither me nor my father said a single thing throughout the meal except "more meat". It was just what I needed. Then we watched Rex single-handedly lose the game for the Bears and at the same time, prove to any and all doubters that he is, indeed, the worst QB in the NFL. His long balls were like Dell Curry three-balls...touching the clouds and dropping straight down. Only these fell into Indy defenders hands, not a net. Just atrocious. And on the biggest stage of all, too. Unacceptable. He's fucking terrible. I don't want to say much more than that about the Superbowl. The only good thing to come of it was the Uncle winning the fourth quarter square and taking home $1500 for it. Solid work, chief. I give Sunday a 5, and only because the roast brought this up from a 1.5.

Only three more days until myself and La find ourselves in Malibu for a nice little vacation. The forecast for those 5 days is...wait for it...ALL RAIN. FIVE FUCKING DAYS OF RAIN. I give the weather report a score of 0. At least it's gonna be 65°, though. Better than 11°. The wind chill is -15 today. To give you an idea of how cold that it, I saw a polar bear on my way to work this morning, holding a cardboard sign that read "WILL WORK FOR A BLANKET". A fucking polar bear. Pansy.

Rot in Hell, Friday.

I'm gonna call today 'Fuck Off Friday'.

I'm sick of everyone being elated with the fact that it's Friday. Big fucking deal. Like the women in Customer Service have these big, exciting plans for the upcoming weekend that they just can't wait to get to. I know, I know, the Ocean State Job Lot can be a sick way to spend a Saturday, what with sifting through the racks of third-hand dresses and someone's Dad's, Dad's, Dad's smoking jackets. Here's what will really transpire in your weekend, Judi. You'll go home tonight to do the usual Friday night rituals of ordering nine pizzas and plopping yourself in front of the newest Pixar movie to come out on DVD. Sweet. Somewhere over the course of the night, you'll make popcorn. You'll melt enough butter to drown the entire population of Guam, but this in only to offset the aftertaste of ball sweat in your mouth because you lost the 'who-can-eat-more-chicken-wings-in-thirty-minutes' bet with your husband. Problem is, he weighs somewhere in the vicinity of a kiloton so the duck butter really builds up down there. Then you'll make your way up the stairs to bed, a process that takes upwards of 45 minutes because it's a loooong way up to that 12th stair, you'll forgo brushing your teeth because you're so winded from climbing the stairs and you'll finally go to bed. Sounds like a real fucking hoot.

My problem with Friday is this: I'm always looking forward to the weekend (or working for the weekend, if you will...nothing like a Loverboy reference here and there) but it goes by so fast that come Monday, my hangover hasn't even had time to process the headache and greasy food cravings. It flies by without mention of wishing it could stay longer and then there I sit, in my leather chair in my ample cubicle, staring Monday in the face. This weekend promises to be no different. I'm taking it easy tonight in preparation for Richie's birthday celebration tomorrow night, which will lead me into Sunday where i can occupy my time doing laundry at my folks' house and when I'm done, I can come home and go to bed and wake up on...you guessed it, Monday. Some break from the work week, eh? Fuck that. My buddy Roy ( I love using 'buddy' in reference to 60 year-old men) in our cafeteria lent this idea to me this morning: he's working on a scheme to reverse the weekend/workweek layout, wherein we'd have a 5-day weekend and a 2-day work week. Nothing for nothing Roy, but if you figure this out I will name all of my children Roy, in your honor.

I'm really just in a bad mood today and I'm taking it out on the weekend. It's nothing against every other weekend, just this one in particular. It's been a bad week and I spent the better of yesterday being pissed off something that is allegedly nothing to be pissed off about at all. Although I shouldn't complain, because I'll be halfway to LA come this time next Thursday morning. I'm sure this weekend will be a hoot and I really am looking forward to blacking out at Ned's tomorrow night. My only suggestion for the attendees who will read this is: please, no back-to-back-to-back-to-back Jameson shots like last weekend. Try to understand the timing of these things and space them out. Otherwise, Kristin and the Noise becomes Kristin and the Induced Spins very quickly and I don't want to lose my coat check ticket again. I promise not to Irish goodbye, Rich. The threat of your doom-infused text messages are enough to deter me from that (the last time I did this, I was encouraged to drink poison, among other things).

Enjoy the weekend, everyone.

Fist Pumps and Dissed Chumps

I got to thinking about the fist pump this morning, and all of the different uses that it has in my life. I am fairly certain that I use this action at least once a day for some reason or another, but it's got so many uses that I can't possibly predict when one might surface. But one came out of me this morning, so I've decided to dedicate this blog entry to the fist pump. I'm also opening the comment floor to details of strange placements of the fist pump.

I gave a pretty emphatic fist pump this morning upon arriving to my car. You see, when I sleep at La's, I have to park on the street...which is never an issue unless it's Wednesday night because they clean the main street on these nights. Anyway, I parked on the this main road prior to going to the C's game, thinking I'd just move it when we got back. I did just this, but only to one of the adjoining side streets which are not on the same street cleaning schedule. The only problem with the side streets there is that they are resident parking only, whereas the main road is just metered parking during the day. I've parked on the side streets before and been ticketed, so I was expecting another ticket this morning. But alas, when I arrived at my vehicle at 7am to drive to work, NO TICKET. This provoked what I like to call the 'Bledsoe Fist Pump'. This entails a stutter step backwards and then a full-out, over the head fist pump while falling back on your back foot. Unexpected fist pumps are usually of this variety because you're kind of taken aback before you pump the fist.

Here are some different varieties of the fist pump which you may have different names for:

The Indy - performed when walking through a crowd of booers; you're probably in enemy territory and surrounded by said enemies. But you proudly raise a fist in the air and walk on, smiling. The Indy is especially well complimented by one of your buddies displaying one finger that signifies that you're also number 1. The boos will intensify, however.

The Arsenio - rarely used anymore, unless you're watching Springer. You know the one, where you make the fist and then move it in a circular motion around your ear/ side of head. I only find this one appropriate if you're in the company of many friends and you make a derrogatory kind of joke that gets a lot of 'oohs'. You would do the Arsenio while yelling "whoop, whoop", then you look around and say, "what, no good?"

The Vegas - I think this one was spawned during my last trip to Vegas with my boys, and it kind of invented itself while we were watching the Cowboys game which we had some money riding on. When it was finally certain that we had won the parlay and we'd be getting a table at Body English, I put my arm around Carl, placed my head on his shoulder and pumped lightly with the free hand. It was more of a relief-laden type of fist pump where you kind of want to shed a tear because of the events that just unfolded. Another version of the Vegas would occur if you didn't have someone like Carl there...if you were alone, you'd place your head on the table which you're sitting at and lightly pump the right fist in a sort of relieved jubilation.

I'd have to say that these are my favorite variations of the fist pump. I'd like to round off this post with a little commentary on the C's-Lakers game that La and I attended last night. I am pretty certain that Kobe is the first person that I have ever legitamately wanted to be maimed. I mean, truly physically harmed to where he endures more pain than Jesus supposedly did while on the cross. He's such a piece of shit. He attempted no less than 6 behind the back passes in this game, and one of them literally rolled to Lamar Odom because it was from so far away. I know he's a great player and his skill is nearly unmatched but he's so unhumble that it makes me physically ill. Way to go Kobe, taunting a team that has a starting lineup where the average age is 23...showboating in front of the future of the league and he (Gerald Green) is the one acting like a seasoned veteran after making an eye-popping move. I guess that's my point here. No one should act like you and when a 19-year-old acts more mature than you, it's blogworthy. Congratulations, Kobe. You beat the worst team in the NBA, and you showboated the whole way through it like you had just won the title. MJ never did it. Larry never did it. You truly are in a league of your own. Actually, no...you and T.O. are there together, holding hands and whacking each other off.

Happy Thursday,

One Disgusted Frenchman