Sign the petition here …
Boston is a much unfunnier place with more expensive public transportation.
And Joe’s (Weekly Dig editor, Boston Magazine contributor) got a pretty good alternative plan here…
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The long weekend really kicked my ass, and I’ve been trying to rally back, but haven’t been too successful…
Anyway, here is a hilarious article that has to be a few years old - I remember reading it a long time ago and recently saw it again. It’s awesome, and if you haven’t seen it, check it out.
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I’ve stated before, that I write for www.thephatphree.com (check it out sometime - they have 5 new articles updated Monday - Friday) Occasionally an article I write gets rejected by the editor… And here is one.
Now I realize that it was rejected for a good reason, and posting it here might be in poor form, but who cares?
The premise is “the Weekend Warrior” which is a series of articles depicting the guy who is quite a sad little milquetoast man, whose weekend sporting activities never go quite as imagined…
It’s long, but if you’re having a slow day, it’s not a bad read…
The Weekend Warrior: Pond Hockey
The chilled air rolls down from Canada slowly this year, but it’s here. This pond left by glaciers millions of years ago, once again, is frozen in time allowing man to walk on water, if only for a few months.
Meanwhile, in a run-down Dutch Colonial near the lake, a man squeaks down the stairs into his cold musty basement. Not just any man… a Warrior. He hastily pushes aside a rusty can brimming with bolts and nails. He reaches his meaty paw for the pegboard where the skates hang.
“Come here, steely dans,” summons the Warrior.
Bauer’s latest model may be 8000, but these are just plain old Bauer. He holds the skates and looks down at them. The name “Dan” is written on the inside tongue of each skate in permanant black marker. He smirks at his clever allusion to the jazzy rock band from way back when.
Just then the Warrior is hit with a realization, and needs to sit. He sees a bit of himself in these skates: worn and leathery, chipped and nicked. Full of character, but with an edge that was lost long ago.
“Edges can be sharpened,” he whispers.
A salty tear of lost opportunity culminates from a thirty-eight year drought. Before he can realize it, the teardrop emancipates from the corner of his eye and slowly climbs the slope of his fleshy cheek like a roller coaster. The drop picks up enough momentum at the apex of the slope to go airborne. Falling fast, the wet drop makes an audible splat on his recently acquired diver’s watch paid for in Marlboro Miles.
He snaps out of his trance.
He looks up at a pipe in the cellar rafter. “Must be a leak” he denies himself. “Old Goddamn pipes.”
Without missing a beat he begins to lace up.
Before he stands up, the Warrior sheaths his blades with white plastic skate guards. He’s ready to roll, but not before slipping into his red and black flannel that smells of stale schwag: a flannel he bought around the time of the debut of Pearl Jam’s Vitalogy; in fact, it may have come free with the band’s concept album.
“Can’t Find a Better Man, is fucking right” the Weekend Warrior demands of his reflection in the mirror with all the bravada he can muster, fooling neither himself nor his reflection.
His new lumber, nicknamed Betsy, is a white Koho stick, with a curved blade so fierce it would be illegal in any organized game, but the pond game is anything but organized.
“You got any assists in you today Betsy?” The Warrior’s got a penchant for personification, but even is his rich imagination does not demand goals from his trusty stick. Today the Warrior is about under-promising and over-delivering.
He grabs Betsy and heads for the door, ungloved and unmasked, skate guards clanking all the way down his dead end street to the path that leads to the pond. He takes his time, pondering strategy.
So deep in thought, he doesn’t even hear one of the neighborhood kids tease, “Nice fucking skates, Messier!”
Maybe he did hear. Regardless he drives on to the pond taking off the skate guards at the ice’s edge. The Warrior hops on to the ice “on the fly” and sprints to center ice pulling up for a hockey stop that sprays snow up to Jimmy’s knee.
“Hey Jimmy, sup?”
“What’s up dude? Nice Koho,” Jimmy replies unfazed by the ice shavings on his snow pants.
“Thanks, man.”
“White Koho,” Jimmy repeats as if he’s trying to commit it to memory.
Jimmy calls the rest of the guys over to pick the teams. Jimmy always picks the teams. The sticks go in the middle and Jimmy separates the sticks randomly. If the teams are unbalanced, trades could technically be negotiated, but it has never happened. To do so would be an admission of cowardice. This is not the stuff of which hockey players are made.
The teams look fair. The other team may have an edge in speed and in youth and in talent, but the Warrior’s squad more than makes up for it in experience.
“It’s funny, Jimmy. I can’t remember us ever being on the same team.”
“Yeah, that is funny,” Jimmy deadpans.
The man-made rink is as symmetrical as God would allow, a perfect oval inlet. The nets are made up of a pair of sneakers on each side separated by a couple feet. In back of each net is frozen earth about a foot higher than the water level which serves as a convenient backstop. This is ideal for the Warrior’s powerful-enough slap-shot that does not dare defy gravity and leave the ice.
The puck is dropped at center ice and the game begins.
Defense wins games, and that’s what the Warriors job is. He never lets anyone from the opposing team behind him. If there is a floater near his net waiting for a rebound, his job is to make sure that floater’s stick never touches the ice. He executes his defensive play flawlessly.
Unfortunately, his offensive play is not as grand. the Warrior’s first pass is a dire mistake. A weak pass in front of his own net, which is intercepted and is put in for an easy goal.
One of his forwards scolds, “Jesus Christ! Never pass the puck right in front of the net like that! You’re fucking lucky we aren’t playing soccer in Colombia, you fat fuck.”
Maybe I just won’t pass again at all, he thinks, starting to pity himself. How did it go so wrong so fast?
Ten solid minutes of uninterupted play passes, and the Warrior doesn’t touch the puck, because he doesn’t deserve to touch the puck. And then it happens. The Weekend Warrior sees a window for redemption.
Their sure-handed defensemen, known only as Lefty, rushes the puck on the right side. As Lefty moves forward, the puck does not. Our hero sees his chance to capitalize on the mistake. Betsy grabs the puck instinctively. The Warrior sees there is no one in between him and the goal. He picks up speed and remains calm. Still, no one has seen what has happened; the lane is clear. He pushes with all his the strength left in his neglected muscles. His left blade, rusty and dull as it is, catches a small stone frozen in the ice. He tries to balance himself in vain. As he falls backwards the Warrior looks, eyes open, to the sky for help.
Betsy breaks his fall only for a moment but is snapped in two like a string bean because of the tension and the inertia and the sheer awesome weight of the Warrior. Not only the weight of his mass made up mostly of muscle wrapped in a thick protective layer of blubber like our mammal friends of the aquatic deep, but also the weight of the world; the weight of the common man. The weight of a Warrior. He lands on the unforgiving ice tailbone first, then bounces hard and lands on the back of his head.
He feels the hair on the back of his head getting warm and wet.
A flash of whiteness, and the Warrior is back on his feet. He skates gracefully towards the goal. Except now, there are three defenders. He shoulder fakes left and goes right to avoid the first one. He spins 360 while putting the puck through the second’s legs. A final bob and weave and the third is toast. A clear shot to the net, he winds up and takes a slapper that rises two feet off the ice and rising… through the goal posts, and keeps going and rising up to the heavens until it is completely out of sight.
the Warrior slowly opens his eyes. The room is white. Jimmy is there.
“…Am I in Heaven, Jimmy?”
“No dude, you’re at the hospital.”
“Oh… Did my team win?”
“No dude, we were killing you guys, and then I had to drive you here, because of your head. You were unconsious and bleeding. The outside of my car is covered in lots of your blood.”
“I’m sorry Jimmy… Wait… The outside?”
“Yeah. I stuck your head out the window, so you wouldn’t bleed all over the leather.”
Final stats
W-L: 0-1
Score: 7-3
Goals: 0
Shots on Net: 0
Assists: 1
Concussions: 1
Stitches: 32
Broken Tailbone: 1
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A friend of mine, who lives in New York, was searching for an apartment. He found what looked like a great listing in Manhattan - spacious, affordable, updated etc… Basically a rare find in Manhattan.
The listing person was looking for another roommate. Said that they wanted a cool guy to hang out with. So my friend shot over an e-mail expressing interest in the listing. The guy called him back.
The apartment guy, we’ll call him Joe, said that it was a great apartment. Joe wanted to meet my friend, who we’ll call Jim, to see if they would be compatible roommates.
Before ending the conversation, Joe stated that there was one more thing. The guys in the house now, were interested in Jim because he was Jewish, and they were looking for a cool Jewish guy for their group. Their group, liked to find girls with whom they would have gangbangs. (True Story) So they liked to have gangbangs and they needed a Jewish guy. Jim was creeped out and never met Joe and kept looking for an apartment…
Joe made a big mistake. He should have showed Jim the apartment. Got him inside - showed the amenities. He needed to sell him on the apartment first. Once he’s got Jim excited about the apartment - then Joe should have eased him in…
- Oh, by the way Jim… the guys and me love to find girls to have gangbangs with… it’s kind of our thing. We’ve already got a black guy, an Italian, an Irish guy, we got a short guy too… We just need a cool Jewish guy… Now you obviously like the apartment, and I’m sure you like sex too right? So you can live here in this awesome apartment - have a few gangbangs once in a while and everything will be right as rain. Sound kosher?
How could he say no to that approach?
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If you ever cared or wondered what girls do on bachelorette parties, all of your answers can be found in a deck of playing cards, titled Dare To Do It Activity Cards. Each card has a wacky dare, which you can be sure, we’ll get to… Once the dare is completed points are awarded to the gal who was brave enough to successfully execute the dare.
In flipping through the deck the realization hit, that although the dares may be fun for a bacholorette party, they are down-right hilarious for a bachelor party. So, in between the sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll at your buddy’s send off to a shackled life – implement this game for a few laughs, and also to embarrass, degrade and stimulate the shit out of him - for one night - the last night you’ll see him, until after the divorce has been finalized.
This game comes with an instructional card. This card has way too many words, which is typical for women’s game; always looking to complicate things - below are the only important rules - however, addendums have been added wherever appropriate.
RULES
1. Find a fun* bar.
Addendum: It may not be a gay bar, and if one of the guys at the bachelor party is gay, he may not participate… tell him to pretend he is playing in a pick-up basketball game, where his role is to sit and fucking watch.
2. At this fun bar, each participant picks cards from the face down deck. He must then complete the dare successfully to receive the alotted points.
Addendum: bonus points may be awarded if an extra dare is also completed.
3. The player with the most points when the game is over is the winner…
Addendum: …and is definitely gay.
*fun bar for a bacholette party usually involves a long tablet of signature drinks ending in “tini,” a DJ spinning top 40 crap and a dance floor where they can totally fuckin’ lose themselves while for a bachelor party fun bar is a place with cheap drinks and girls… Better yet just go to a strip club to play this game.
The Cards.
Point Value: 100 points
Get a guy to donate $10 to help pay for the cost of the bachelor party.
25 Bonus Points: On a cocktail napkin, write out an I.O.U. signed, “your secret admirer.”
Point Value: 25 points
Get the number of a very hunky male
25 bonus points: if you then call him from the bar, sigh and tell him how bored you are.
Point Value: 50 Points
Get a man to give you a piggyback ride.
25 Bonus Points: Challenge people staring at you to a chicken fight.
Point Value: 100 Points
Get a guy to show you a hidden tattoo.
25 Bonus Points: Get the back-story behind the tattoo because every tattoo has an annoying back-story.
Point Value: 100 Points
Write your name with lipstick on the chest of a willing male.
25 Bonus Points: Apply the lipstick on your lips and leave a kiss mark after your name. (There are 4 buckets filled with vomit at my side.)
Point Value: 25 Points
Do a shot with a geek.
25 Bonus Points: a body shot.
Point Value: 100 Points
Get a photo taken of you with a married man.
25 Bonus Points: a rich married man!
Point Value: 50 Points
Dance with the worst dancer… compliment him on his dancing skills.
25 Bonus Points: Kick his ass in a dance-off using only his moves.
Point Value: 100 Points
Get a guy to ask you to marry him.
25 Bonus points: Ask to see the ring.
Point Value: 100 Points
Pass a love not to a guy who is with his date.
25 Bonus Points: In the note write how wrong she is for him.
Point Value: 50 Points
Give a guy a back massage
25 Bonus Points: Give a happy ending. (9 buckets)
Point Value: 100 Points
Get the bartender to give you a free drink
25 Bonus Points: the drink: Midori Sour, extra sour.
Point Value: 50 Points
Pinch a guy’s bottom and tell him he has a nice butt.
25 Bonus Points: Disclaim first by saying, “I’m not gay or anything…”
Point Value: 50 Points
Ask a man for change for the condom machine.
25 Bonus Points: ask him at the urinal, after you’ve already complimented his watch.
Point Value: 50 Points
Do a shot with a blonde man
25 Bonus Points: A blonde man!!!! Hahahahaha! Um, find out if the carpet matches the curtains. (Gross, and I’m out of buckets)
I’ve got a bachelor party coming up in NYC in a couple of weeks – my buddy Matt is definitely doing shots with a couple of blonde guys, that’s all there is to it.
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If you just observe people you realize how funny they can be. Unfortunately the laughter comes at their expense.
I observed something about 15 minutes ago, while driving around Watertown… I thought it was hilarious and it took me back to a long lost memory.
I was at a red light in my car, when a man riding a bike was coming towards me to my right on the side walk approaching the crosswalk at the intersection where I was stopped. He was probably in his thirties, dressed in Friday caz, wearing a helmet one size too big for his head. The bike was a mountain bike, and from the looks of him the only mountain worthy of this cat’s skills is the Catskills. He approached the crosswalk going 5 miles-per-hour or less, and then did a sick skid, turning the bike 45 degrees then to a complete stop, oversized helmet rocking back and forth on his noggin twice too many. There stopped and stoic, aligned perfectly for the crosswalk, he was. But what came next was magical…
He turned to see the skid-mark. He wanted to see exactly how much rubber he had left there to blemish a perfectly rain-washed sidewalk until only God knows when. I couldn’t take my eyes off him – even as the light had changed. He stared at the mark for what seemed like eons. Now, I don’t know how big the mark could have been and anyone familiar with the laws of physics would surely come up with an equation involving the speed of the bike, friction and gravity – and deeming the possibility of a big skidmark damn near impossible. The look on his face proved otherwise. He looked up at me and realized I had witnessed the whole thing – the only expression on his face was one of pride – of accomplishment, and who could argue that?
I don’t know if there was something wrong with this guy or not. Either way, it was pretty awesome.
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Q. How many bloggers are blogging at Starbucks right now?
A. All of them.
Q. Why do the old ladies at Starbucks look like my late grandmother?
A. All old ladies look the same.
Q. Why are those two girls in the corner always studying for a biology test?
A. Beats me. They always fail.
Q. Last time I was there the girl next across form me was met by a total stranger who said he loves her site. My question is, is the ‘I love your site’ to bloggers the equivalent to the ‘I love your work’ said to actors?
A. Dunno, I don’t like your site and the only actor’s work I like is the late Don Rickles.
Q. Don Rickles is still alive.
A. Really?
Q. Yeah, I just heard Stamos mention his 80th birthday party on Stern.
A. Oh. Well I love Rickles work. He’s quick with a joke, or to light up your smoke…
Q. On that Billy Joel kick again?
A. Yeah, the man’s a genius.
Q. It finally stopped raining, huh.
A. Really? You want to talk about the weather?
Q. No. I’m just a little nervous. This is my first time.
A. Don’t be nervous, I’ve done this a million times.
Q. Maybe you’re right…
A. Of course I am… Ok. Go ahead…
Q. Bless me Father for I have sinned, it has been 25 years and these are my sins…
A. Yes, my son?
Q. Wow, 25 years. I’ve done lots of stuff. Let’s see I swore, stole gum, stole some money from my brother, committed adultery… committed a lot of adultery…
A. (ahem)
Q. lied about committing a lot of adultery to impress a priest…
A. That’s better. Anything else?
Q. Oh, yeah. I disobeyed my parents, stole a pair of panties at a party, looked at porn, masturbated once…
A. (ahem)
Q. Masturbated a lot. Lied about only masturbating once. Got in a fight, killed a Peruvian boy, played with matches, uh…
A. Wait. What was the last one?
Q. Played with matches?
A. No before that?
Q. Got in a fight?
A. After that!
Q. Killed a Peruvian Boy?
A. Yes. Murder is a capital crime; I have to report this…
Q. No, it’s not like that. It was totally a vengeance thing, it’s cool.
A. Oh, I see.
Q. Eye for an eye.
A. Ok, that’s cool. Anything else?
Q. Um, grand larceny, armed robbery… Never raped anyone, so that should be a check in that column… Made fun of a fat girl. Is that a sin?
A. No, but it certainly isn’t nice… How fat was she?
Q. She was so fat that when she fell, I didn’t laugh, but the ground was cracking up!
A. Good one!
Q. Thanks. I stole it from Yo Momma. Is that a sin?
A. Yes.
Q. I think that’s it. For these and all my sins, I am heartily sorry.
A. Ok, you are forgiven, for your penance say Two Hail Mary’s and an Our Father.
Q. Cool. How do those go again?
*Special thanks to Quinn the sinner and Andy the Priest!
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168 hours of rain. Mother Nature is sad. Before that: a serious drought. Hurricanes, earthquakes, tidal waves. She’s a moody bitch! I never really understood a woman’s “cycle” but Mother Nature has been around for a long time, so hers must last longer than the normal 4-8 days. Makes sense right? Maybe all this natural disaster over the last few years is caused by Mother Nature’s PMS. I know a few women that get moody enough that they’d like to have a hail storm come down on my head if they had the power. Well, she does. And she’s one. Wicked. Pissed. Motha. Expect a few volcanoes to erupt soon. Then we should have some smooth sailing for 50 years or so, until Mother Nature’s “aunt Flo” is due back in town.
I feel sorry for the people in a few generations that will be around for her pre-menopausal hot flashes!
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In honor of Mother’s Day on Sunday, I’ve provided a few “Yo Momma” jokes…
Yo momma is so fat, that she needs to go on a diet!
Yo momma is so poor, that she is on welfare!
Yo momma is so dirty, that she need to take a shower!
Yo momma is so stupid, that she has a really low IQ!
Yo momma is so ugly, that she wears a lot of make-up!
Happy Momma’s Day!
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A conversation broke out in our uncharacteristically-lively-normally-droll lunch room today. I’m trying to remember how it started… What the chaotic “Big Bang” was that woke us from our slack-jawed, zombie order…
It was about Rebecca Romijn and her public appearances with new buddy – emaciated Vern from Stand by Me.
“Poor Stamos, they just got divorced,” said one.
“I’m sure Stamos is doing pretty well for himself,” said another.
“He could always go back to aunt Becky,” said yet another.
I saw my spot to jump-in, double dutch style, to the convo.
“Yeah, she was in RAD.”
I was met by blank stares. I locked in on the person closest in proximity to my age (27).
“Come on! YOU’VE seen RAD, right?”
“Oh, yeah. I remember that, sorta, the movie with the dirt bikes.”
“Well, Yeeaah! The fuckin’ tricks they did - I broke bones trying to emulate that movie.”
They were confused, in a horrified confused way.
After that it was a blur. I tried in vain to win them back with late 80’s references. I threw out a Girbaud reference. Nothing. “Come on, you guys didn’t have Girbaud’s??? Does anyone remember how everyone pronounced them differently? I was alwas a fan of Ja-Bow – but I’m a quarter French Canadien, so you know…”
(crickets)
“You know with the tag on the zipper??? I walked into rooms cock-first for years hoping people would notice the tag, and realize how awesome I was! How about Gazelles? You guys didn’t go to Deb and Georges in Savin Hill to get illegal addidas gazelles, sold in a brown paper bag like baguettes? Jones’ in Southie!!! JONE-SES!”
After that I passed out. I’m not all alone, am I? I know you guys are out there. Come to my office – we’ll kick it old school, watch a little BH-90210, listen to a little Color Me Bad!
Help!
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