Wednesday, June 14, 2017

Top 10 Penguins Parade Observations (6-14-17)


I hit the Pens parade today.  Solo venture.  Walked the upper parade route but settled in down near the end point... at the Point.

There were a bunch of high school kids sitting on top of a Pittsburgh city truck next to the Wyndham.  Probably about 20 in total.  One of them was particularly amusing.  He shouted some great lines as the players drove by.  I snagged the passenger window spot.  So I had a nice, two step height advantage.  I basically just clung to the vehicle door for about an hour.  Killer vantage point.   

10.  Olli Maatta was one of the more inspired paraders.  Slamming a can of Iron City no less.  Running around, revving up the crowd.  A couple weeks ago, Gigi called into the Mark Madden show on WXDX.  She mentioned how his name bears a striking resonance to Ronnie James Dio singing "Holy Diver."  And the SuperPenis regaled her... "Olli Maatta!  You've been down too long in the midnight sea."  Personally, I prefer the improvised... "Olli Maata, You've been scoreless too long at the PPG."

If I were to ever call in, here's my question.  "Yeah, Mark.  Big fan.  Hey man, I was heading down to the Buccos game tonight.  Do you know if the rain's supposed to let up?"

9.  Speaking of Mark Madden, he was conspicuously absent from the parade.  I imagine he would say that he prefers to NOT mingle with the throng of unwashed, backwoods yinzers.  For a brief second,  I thought I saw him coming down Commonwealth, but then realized it was a parade float dispensing confetti.

8.  Ran into one of Gigi's co-workers.  She asked me "how's it going" and I replied, "not good."  Why, what's wrong?"  "Well, I bought two tickets for the parade off Craigslist.  I kinda feel like an idiot.  Didn't know it was free."  In all honesty, this didn't really happen.  But it's a great line if you wish to besmirch or ridicule any transplanted Monroever from adjacent Turtle Crick. 

7.  Earlier, I referenced this one high school kid sitting on top of the city dump truck.  When Jeff Jimerson rode by, he assertively yelled "Mr. Jimerson, you have such a beautiful voice.  I love you Jeff.  I'm in love with your beautiful voice."  Very funny.

6.  That same kid got a pretty raucous chant going when Patric Hornqvist went by.  The crowd erupted with a lengthy, "Horny! Horny! Horny!" 

5.  Everyone knows that Pixburgh is a sports mecca.  Except for Nutting's Pirates.  Fun fact: a bunch of Penguins showed up with the Stanley Cup for last night's Pirates/Rockies game.  Sid even threw out the first pitch.  Congratulations are in order for Bob Nutting.  He finally made good on his promise of bringing a championship to PNC Park.  Lamentably, it was the wrong sport, wrong team.  Right city though.

4.  Attendance for the parade was said to be a hundred thousand more than last year.  I concur.  It was definitely more crowded... but 500,000?  That's a half million.  No fucking way.  Our city tends to exaggerate crowd size.  Almost as bad as Trump's inauguration.  Almost.  The media needs to examine their proclivity for over-analyzing every conceivable sports angle.  Hell, I'm still waiting on the results of Iceburgh's colonoscopy.  Inquiring minds are demanding an analysis.

3.  Didn't see either of the born again religious morons: with their megaphone, monster signs and assorted literature.  Every once in a blue moon, they show up at a Pens game.  Apparently, the Bell-Dirty huffer showed up.  Didn't make it to the parade but he was spotted hanging at the arena.


2.  Having a bonafide interest in public safety and citywide security, I couldn't help but notice all of the municipal city trucks filled with sand and dirt.  Obviously, in this day and age of random terror attacks on large crowds, it's probably a wise idea to take the necessary precautions to prevent a lone "rammer."  However, Pittsburgh seems to take a slightly different approach.  They leave just enough room so the cops, fire dept. and EMT's can jump a low curb and park right next to where they're personally stationed.  I guess the risk/reward ratio isn't really worth having to walk an extra block.  The selfish convenience of having your personal vehicle within 10 steps is paramount.

The city also put up plenty of caution tape for cordoned-off areas.  But people just lifted it up and walked on through.  Nobody gives a shit.

1.  I sent my dad a Father's Day "poetic tribute."  I usually make it about whatever's relevant in the news.  Hardly my best material, but then again, it is what it is.  If you appreciate the hostile, sarcastic cynicism, feel free to steal it.


Back to Back


Winning Lord Stanley, two years back to back
A stunning achievement, taking many aback

Back to back cups, in the era of the salary cap
The players and coaches, have earned their victory lap

Hockey's hopes and dreams, will never fade
So you can bet your ass, there'll be a parade

The band-wagoners and yinzer sheep, will bask in its glow
City police will admonish, scold... and contend with traffic flow

Hundreds of thousands, as far as the eye can see
Let's just hope the celebration, remains stampede-free

For games five and six, Matt Murray was in net
Back to back shutouts, the fans are in his debt

But there was never a need to worry
For our backup goalie was Fleury

The irony is comical, and even a bit funny
Because as I'm sure you know, it's all about money

Marc Andre will be cast off, to the desert in sin city
A consequence of the system, some would claim a pity

The fine line, between profit and pride
Takes all of society, on that inevitable ride 

And while this might sound harsh and a tiny bit curt
You should get your ass to Dick's and buy a Pens shirt

Now some fathers might read this poem, and feel a bit shitty
But rest assured, it's just me... trying to be witty

Happy Father's Day!

Thursday, May 04, 2017

book III


Table of contents:

Chapter 1.  Introduction
Chapter 2.  AFC North
Chapter 3.  AFC East
Chapter 4.  AFC South
Chapter 5.  AFC West
Chapter 6.  NFC East
Chapter 7.  NFC North
Chapter 8.  NFC South
Chapter 9.  NFC West
Chapter 10.  The Pittsburgh Steelers


Prologue


"Saf, why are you trying to destroy the NFL?"

That's the question my buddy Merle asked.  He had just finished reading a draft of my latest book.

"Always with the drama.  Lighten up, man."

But Merle was insistent.  He continued in a haggardly skeptical voice, "Well, let's see.  You systematically tear apart every team.  You openly mock and ridicule the fans and their cities.  You verbally assassinate ownership and management.  You decimate their business models for profitability.  You basically offer a blueprint for the metaphorical demolition of every stadium.  Hell, you even lay into the advertisers and try to dismantle the fantasy football culture.  And topping it off, you raise the specter of the National Football League being the target of a future 9/11... potentially resulting in the biggest conspiracy on the face of the planet earth.  Yes, I do believe that constitutes an attempt to destroy the NFL."

"Listen to me brother, I just want to bring a little balance into the equation.  The current path is unsustainable.  What goes up must come down.  The NFL is a runaway freight train of hubris.  I'm just trying to bring it to a halt, or at a very minimum, slow it down.  Before there's an epic tragedy.  Hey, it's the fightin' side of me."

"Saf, not freakin' likely.  There's no free lunch.  You do know the NFL is about money, right?"

"Agreed.  But you gotta hear me out.  Because they never fucking listen."

Being a pro football fan doesn't come cheap.  But it shouldn't cost you life and limb.  Come to think of it, maybe that's their Achilles' heel.  The tangible locations where greed intersects with safety and security, reality and humanity.  Could there be a point of critical mass?

The NFL functions in an oligarchical vacuum.  It's an entity with an insatiable thirst for power and control.  But is there an antidote?

Perhaps the cure lies within its very own acronym.

No Fun League --- Just because you score a touchdown doesn't mean you're allowed to grab a cheerleader by the pussy.

Not For Long --- Injuries, suspensions and the seasonal round of head coach firings.  The league continually transmits the same message.  What have you done for me lately?  Even Janet Jackson's fake nipple was exposed and quickly discarded.  Take solace though.  Nuthin' beats some good 'ol fashioned Super Bowl halftime nasty titty.

Newton's First Law --- It's more commonly known as the law of inertia.  An object at rest, stays at rest.  An object in motion, stays in motion.  I normally don't objectify people.  Unless there's a stampede where innocent human beings are trampled and crush asphyxiated.  Then they become numbers and statistics.  Still, people often are objectified or materialized.  Hey, for what it's worth, wealth is a convenient way to quantify the inherent value of the rank and file.  As the world moves forward, mankind has increasingly become a function of currency.

For all intensive purposes, for all intents and purposes, I'm a branded man.  Because if this book ever sees the light of day, I'm probably gonna end up stripped naked, chained to a wall, in a dark basement, somewhere in the former Yugoslavia.  This ain't no joke.  Pound for pound, dollar for dollar, it's one of the meanest books ever written.  Ironic because it's both weightless and free.

Simply put, this is a story of revenge.  But it's not all bad.  At least I offer the moral justification for change.

You might be familiar with the standard NFL disclaimer.  This material cannot be redistributed without the written consent of the National Football League.

No such luck here.  Not the case with my material.  Feel free to share.

Copy it.  Paste it.  Print it.
Mail it.  Email it.  Post it.  Repost it.
Tag it.  Hashtag it.  Tweet it.  Retweet it.
Preach it.  Scream it.  Suck it and fuck it. 

Got it?

Dedicated to the late Dan Rooney (1932-2017).   I honestly believe we can fix this mess.
Also dedicated to Roger Goodell and the multi-billionaire owners.  You give us so much.  And ask for so little.  Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.  Gods peed.


Chapter 1


The most recent edition of the Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines a negative feedback loop as... just kidding.  I keed, I keed.  Don't panic.  Let's get this show on the road.

Rather than getting bogged down in technical, scientific descriptions, lemme offer a few examples of negative feedback loops.

1.  Everyone knows that hell is hot.  That's never been disputed by anybody.  So unless you reside in hell, or maybe purgatory, here's something we've all experienced.  When your body gets cold, you begin to shiver.  The act of shivering actually helps warm you up.  It's a naturally occurring, heat gaining mechanism designed to bring your body back into a state of equilibrium.

2.  Higher crude oil prices generally lead to an increase in the cost of gasoline.  Resulting in more people driving less frequently.  This economic reality gradually brings down the cost at the pumps.  It's a self-correcting dynamic.  In 1989, my mother announced a complete boycott of Exxon after the Alaskan Valdez oil spill.  After a couple months of soul searching, she rescinded the boycott.  Turns out she preferred their pumps to the ones at Sunoco.  On a slightly disturbing yet semi-related note, I think all Exxon gas stations should have a private room in the back that sells pornography.  Behind a door labeled XXX-ON, of course.

3.  Consumer surveys are a decent example of negative feedback loops (Unless it's Jenn-Air.  They don't care).  These questionnaires offer an opportunity to provide negative comments and numerical evaluation.  Ideally, the information should help improve the company's products and services moving forward.

4.  A boss reprimands an employee for tardiness, being rude to customers, infrequent urinal cake replacement, whatever.  Theoretically, putting them on notice should help remedy their future deficiencies in the workplace.  Long ago, a supervisor chastised me for repeatedly striking up break room conversations about abortion.  Turns out, I was in the wrong.

5.  At halftime, a head coach bitches out his team for turnovers, penalties, missed tackles, dropped passes, etc.  If everyone heeds his advice, the team's overall execution should improve in the second half.  Unless it's the Browns.

Sorry to belabor you with the five generic examples.  On the other hand, tough shit!  It's the title of the book.  If you continue reading, it'll make more sense.

Naturally, I have a story of my own.  When I was about 10 years old, there was a Baskin Robbins ice cream parlor about 2 miles from our house.  My parents were friends with the owner, B&R Momma.  I always thought the place was called Baskin and Robbins, but that's neither here nor there.  Come to think of it, if you add just one additional flavor, there'd be 32.  One for each NFL team.  They could become the official ice cream of the NFL!  Fick dich, Haagen-Dazs.

Anyhoo, at the time, I had two favorites.  World Class Chocolate and Pink Bubblegum.  One evening, B&R Momma pulled me aside and casually mentioned they were dropping the Pink Bubblegum flavor.  This left me utterly aghast.  "You can't get rid of it!  You're killing me!  Why are you doing this?"  She explained, "Rick, we have a recurring problem with patrons discarding their gum on the underside of the school desk chairs.  We're getting tired of chiseling off the hardened gum every morning."

I countered.  Okay, well what if I go around the store and explain the situation?  That we could lose an important flavor if everyone doesn't get their act together.  Keep in mind, this was back in 1979 and B&R Momma had a little more "renegade spirit" than your average Wheeling business owner.  She smiled and said, "Well, if you wanna take the lead here, go ahead.  I'll back you up."

My exact words when I approached random strangers enjoying their ice cream, "If you like pink bubblegum, you need to get your head out of your ass... and fast!"  Needless to say, she may have underestimated my tenacious resolve.  Not only did I hit up all the customers in the shop but I also bugged the hell out of everyone in the parking lot too.  I was instantly committed.  Possibly my first experience with town hall style democracy, politicking and the art of persuasion.

The reason I mention all of this.  The entire pink bubblegum saga was actually a classic negative feedback loop.  And in a way, I was the self proclaimed Violet Beauregarde of Wheeling, West Virginia.  Same age bracket and outspoken disposition as well.  I knew how to keep my eyes on the prize.  My mission --- bringing stability to the ice cream industry by ordering people to chew responsibly... or deal with the consequences.  Chew on that, pinko!

In retrospect, Gene Wilder's Willy Wonka character really inspired me.  Anything you want to, do it; want to change the world... there's nothing to it.

In that same vein, let's take the venerable National Football League and try to think outside the box.  Conventional wisdom and bourgeois conformity demand that you pick a favorite team and root for them accordingly.  So how about we employ a negative feedback loop?  Instead of cheering for one specific team, why don't we focus our collective energy on doing the exact opposite?  Let's boo, heckle and demonize the 31 other teams.  Screw the passion.  Let's systematically embrace the rancor.  Fuck the love and adoration.  Let's maximize the hatred and malice.  This whole concept is corroborated by the CFL too.  No, not the Canadian Football League.  This is a Costanza Feedback Loop.  After all, if every instinct you have is wrong, the opposite would have to be right.  Right?

It's the reason I write.

In 2016, the 32 franchises had a combined value of 75 billion.  Rest assured, that number is dwarfed by the net worth of the owners.  It's an elite club of multi-billionaires and a helluva lotta "b's."  And those b's aren't bullshit.  They're big bucks.  You bastards!!! (obligatory Braveheart reference)

Sometimes negative feedback loops fail or self-destruct.  I believe this is one those times.  Yes.  I'm hedging my bets against the NFL.  To be perfectly honest, I've been shorting the NFL since the 10 year anniversary of 9/11.  Much like Sal Bass, I'm swimming against the current.  In a desert no less.  Because I am a writer.  And this is my sacrilegious fatwa.


Chapter 2 - AFC North


Baltimore Ravens

Once upon a tailgating spot, while fans wandered the parking lot
Many would observe, the mixed signals of my sign
While they prodded, somewhat intoxicated, about the message 'twas created
Questioning its purpose, as I smugly drank red wine
They once were pleased, but now they whine
Knowing full well, I crossed the line



To properly honor the late Art Modell, I launched a new mode of art.  It's called the "hidden lift up."  These pesky little yin yang signs are the ideal compliment to any game day environment.  A sign with an interdependently opposing message.

The intention here is to arouse joy and inspire camaraderie... and then, with one swift movement, fuel utter hatred and confused revulsion.

For those who don't know, Art Modell was the founder of the Cleveland Browns.  That is, until 1995, when the revered owner closed up shop, changed the name of the franchise and sneaked off to Baltimore in the middle of the night.

The move served him well.  Under the direction of lackluster quarterback Trent Dilfer and homicidal linebacker Ray Lewis, the Ravens would dismantle the New York Giants in the 2000 Super Bowl (34-7).



A larger replica of this sign was spotted along the 500 level of Heinz Field during a Steelers 27-7 victory over the Cleveland Browns (12-7-06).  The crowd response was a roller coaster of emotion, an alternating tidal wave of scorn and ecstasy.

Thirteen years later, in 2013, the Ravens would defeat the San Francisco 49ers under the tutelage of quarterback Joe Flacco.  The sign below was confiscated by Heinz Field security during a Ravens 17-14 victory over the Steelers on October 3, 2010.



The victory in Super Bowl XLVII came roughly one year after the passing of Modell.



In a way, the Cleveland Browns would have the last laugh... I suppose.  Not only did the team retain its historic naming rights, they also constructed some new digs on the pristine banks of Lake Erie.  To many, First Energy Stadium is a building of badness.  But for others, it's a factory of sadness.

Famed resident and actor Drew Carey summed it up best on an episode of his television show.  During a party at his residence, which featured many Cleveland personalities, former Browns quarterback Bernie Kosar asked Drew where the bathroom was.  He guided him to the door and glibly commented, "Just don't take a Modell."


Cincinnati Bengals

The Bengals have become stigmatized through the years.  Plenty of empty seats in the stadium.  Assistant coaches get fired like it's a bodily function.  The players are undisciplined on the field, criminals off the field.  They're rapists.  They're murderers.  And some, I assume, are good people.  On second thought, nix that.  They're all assholes.

In the NFL hierarchy, Bengals management/ownership is often considered "out of their league."  Newsflash: They're out of touch as well.

Proof to my point.  This one's difficult because I can only recall the general nature of the story.  I couldn't locate the specifics --- the who, what, where, when.  Despite an extensive search on the internet machine, I couldn't unearth the details.  You'll just have to take my word for it.

Once upon a time, there was a Bungle.  He had an extraordinary achievement.  Maybe it was the number of touchdowns scored, rushing yards in a single game, whatever.  Something along those lines.  I'm tempted to say it was Ickey Woods, founder of the oafish Ickey Shuffle but I cannot say for sure.  Was it just me or did that end zone celebration dance resemble a lumbering Chewbacca?

In any case, the owner Mike Brown presented him with an "extra special" game ball, signed by the entire Bengals organization.  Plaudits.  Perhaps he had it framed or placed it on his mantle.  I do not know.  What I do know is this.  Weeks later, the Bengals front office sent him a bill for the cost of the football itself.  Yoi!  If that doesn't scream impersonal disconnect, I'm not sure what would.  It's not as bad as other punitive measures, say, withholding bathroom privileges or revoking a stadium parking pass.  But charging the guy for the cost of the football?  In essence, they penalized him for his outstanding play on the field.  Double yoi!!

We've all had an experience like this.  We've all had that one boss whose decisions were incomprehensible. They seem to revel in making their subordinates feel miserable.  Perhaps they're plainly incompetent or have no social skills.  Or maybe they're just a piece of burnt sienna shit.  Regardless, you always have that lingering feeling.  How on earth could this person be in a position of greater authority?  How could they be making more money than me?  Why do they have more control... more power?  It's very frustrating.

Now I suppose there's a possibility that you've never held a job.  But still, surely you've had a bad experience along the way.  The sad truth: a significant percentage of the population is woefully incompetent.  They simply cannot function effectively, or even adequately, in the workplace.  I'd estimate that number to be consistently in the 20% range with a margin of error of +/- 5%.  Maybe it's a hospitality coordinator who isn't the least bit hospitable.  Maybe it's the guy who over-salts the french fries.  Maybe it's the parking valet who can't drive a stick.  That one really grinds me gears.  They come from all walks of life.  Hey, we currently have a president who doesn't know how to preside.  This is sad and bad. #notgood

And yes, maybe it's a bean-counter amongst the Bengals brain trust.  That one obstinate imbecile who can't see beyond the paperclip inventory.  He has no vision.  For he cannot see the jungle, for the trees.

Well, I have a devised a vengeful solution to remedy this problem.  It's the purest form of retaliation scaled accordingly to whenever the Bengals are on the tube.  It has many names --- Bengali bombardment, Bengalese barrage, Bengazi bazinga, cyber-bungalism, etc.  Call it whatever you want.  I prefer the term "blitzkrieg bullying."  The ultimate achievement in cyber-bullying.

To accomplish this feat, let us invoke the most famous victim of systematic harassment.  Late 90's White House intern, and fellow Jew, Monica Lewinsky.

Monica took abuse from every conceivable angle.  Her boyfriend kicked her to the K-Street curb.  The first lady labeled her a narcissistic loony toon.  She was the perpetual butt of jokes from every late night comedian.  Ostracized into seclusion.  And then to top it off, her multiple blow job escapade probably cost Al Gore the 2000 election.  Fallout from the scandal was likely just enough to swing the "over 50 female suburb anti-cock sucking" vote.  Rumor has it that push polls were asking questions about "what the definition of jizz... is."

Let's face the facts.  Her blue dress, you know, the one with the infamous cum stain?  It impacted the trajectory of the planet earth.  Clintonian ejaculate altered the course of history.  If not for the crusted smut, the administration would've simply denied everything.  This is a big deal.  People just aren't allowed to learn about it in the erotic context.  This reshaping of history, this outright dismissal of the presidential load, really leaves a bad taste in and around my mouth.

The same anger I feel for the executive semen has manifested itself almost two decades later.  So we're going to take our cue from Miss Lewinsky.  We're going to fight back by placing power in the hands (and mouths) of the people.  If you've ever been the victim of bullying or professional incompetence, here's your opportunity for revenge.

Watching the Bengals with friends?  Everyone gets to share their stories of personal injustice.  Then, an informal vote is taken to determine the winner based on whomever presents the most compelling tale of woe.

Dig up the enemy's cell phone number, their social media, work related details and immediate family contact info.  The time has come to deliver the blitzkrieg bullying onslaught.  Group participation is mandatory.  If you have hate in your heart... let it out.  Engage.

Here's the progression.  Focus on physical and mental disabilities.  Start with appearance.  Morbid obesity or anorexia.  Thinning hair, hook nose, missing appendages, deformities, gout, gunt, gock, etc.  Next focus on the intangibles.  Body odor, chronic halitosis, excessive flatulence, low T, etc.  After that phase is sufficiently complete, pivot to the mental problems.  Paranoia, schizophrenia, social anxiety and so on.  Now it's time to accelerate the pain and anguish.  Concentrate on themes of infidelity, drug and alcohol abuse, gambling addiction, prostitution allegations, misdemeanor/felony accusations.  And finally, the denouement --- vindictive comments directed at their children, preferably ones that were adopted or born out of wedlock.  Just be sure to avoid any imminently threatening language (e.g., bomb threats, panic-inducing information).  That would be taking it a step too far.  Please note, there is a lone exception.  Imperiling the lives of others with a mass airborne turkey drop.  At the end of the day, remember, we're talkin' Cincinnati.

The best thing about blitzkrieg bullying.  If, say a dozen people target someone simultaneously, the victim has virtually no recourse.  Naturally, you bellow, "But there's a cyber-trail of evidence, damnit!"  Well who the fuck cares?  Will the victim be filing a class action suit against classless people whom he/she does not know?  It's very difficult to seek retribution from a wide array of people when there's no personal connection.  Compounding the problem, no decent, respectable attorney would take a case like this.  Because it's simply not worth their time.  Slander and libel cases really aren't meant for the bogged down judicial system.

Just for the record, if the case actually does go before Judge Judy, use the same methodology to inflict pain and suffering upon her.  Blitzkrieg bullying is intended to be perpetually destructive.  In this case, vengeance thrives organically via the natural progression of its own momentum.

Is this an abuse of the system?  Of course it is.  Do I care?  Uh, that's a negative.  Am I bothered that the bulk of the bullying will be seen in the greater Cincinnati area?  That Hamilton County and the surrounding region will be forever defined as the cyber-bullying capital of the world?  Uh, no.

I spent a couple years in the Dayton/Cincinnati area (1988-1990).  Trust me, I know whereof I speak.  Cincy is a really good fit.  It's a natural hotbed for conflict in the United States, as the population consists of a bizarre amalgamation of residents, ranging from ultra-right wing Christian conservatives to the aborted fetuses to the tree-hugging hippies to the outright anarchists.  The spectrum is all over the place.

Speaking of the spectrum, it has been rumored that Donald Trump's 10 year old son Barron could have issues with autism or ass burgers.  The youngest ginger clone to the Trump fortune will be experiencing his turbulent teens throughout daddy's first term.  How about we incorporate this new concept in bullying and apply it directly to the first family?  It's called presidential pickin'.  The absolute antithesis of the bluegrass spirit I reckon.  But Saf, children have long been considered off limits and out-of-bounds!  We must resist the temptation to besmirch them.  Well, I say fuck that!  If Trump wants to pick on flat chested women, undocumented immigrants or reporters with disabilities, I say we return the favor and inflict merciless viral wrath upon his youngest son.  Incidentally, the same principles apply to the children and grandchildren of NFL owners.  Let's attack their stinking rich offspring.

Presidential pickin', billionaire bullying... you are the weakest link.  Hello!



My personal tribute to the late Myron Cope.  If you wish to incorporate a Beavis & Butthead spin, change it to "Bungholes."


Cleveland Browns

The Cleveland Browns and their notorious Dawg Pound served as the inspiration for my latest creation... Condom Dog.

A prophylactic canine you ask?  Now what the fuck is that?

Well, it's a hot dog wrapped in a rubber.

But it's so much more.  It's the embodiment of your hopes and dreams.  It could be a tribute to the past, a call to action in the present, or even offer a glimpse into the future.  Condom Dog is anything and everything you want it to be.  Keep reading and you'll see how this all cums together.

Directions:  Go to your campus clinic or local health department and ask them for a bag of free condoms.  They'll likely unload a baker's dozen or so.  Next up, head to the discount grocery store and purchase a pack of cheap hot dogs.  Usually you'll be able to find some poultry composite, renegade meat trimmings that retail for about a dollar.

Step 3:  Wrap up those throbbing dogs!

It's best to throw them in the freezer beforehand.  Because there's nothing more frustrating than trying to wrap up a limp dog.  May I also suggest some advance prep.  Discreetly store your entire C-dog allotment in a ziplock bag.  Now seal those stiff doggies up.  Red and yellow make green.

Game day hath arrived.

So where should you place them?  I hope it's somewhere near the stadium.  Maybe it could serve as your tailgating centerpiece.  Maybe you'll integrate it with a hood ornament on an expensive convertible.  How about inside the Rock'n'Roll Hall of Fame?  Hey now, that's the ultimate act of protest or rebellion.  Four dead in O-HI-O.

Perhaps you'll sneak them into the stadium.  Condom dogs will go undetected by a magnetometer.  Honestly though, I actually like the idea of discreetly arousing suspicion if they're in the 12x6x12x official clear bag.

"Excuse me sir, why are those hot dogs ribbed for her pleasure?"

Put 'em wherever your heart desires.  A concession stand?  A merchandise kiosk?  The owner's box?  A changing table in a transgendered, unisex restroom?  The possibilities are limited only by your imagination and creativity.

Now for the most important part.  It's time to personalize the individual doggie.  Give it an identity, a mission, a purpose.  This is properly achieved through those little miniature flags, the ones often used to identify cubes of cheese on a party platter.  You can buy a hundred of them online.  Or just make your own with a toothpick, scotch tape and small section of a blank index card.  This now becomes your bully pulpit, or if you prefer, wiener platform.

Stab that dog!  Just prick it.

So what will it say?  Here's a pic six sample.

Will it be comedic?  Browns Syndrome, Factory of Sadness

Will it be a painfully historic reminder?  The Fumble, The Drive

Will it be political?  Make the Browns Great Again, #BrownLivesMatter

When you plant that meat sheath, make a resolute declaration.  Say it like you mean it.  Like the omniscient, triumphant voice in the commercial.

Trojan Man!  Condom Dog!

Oh, how this takes me back to my 4H days.  No, not head, heart, hands and health.  More like hapless, hopeless, helpless, and harmless.  We're gonna blur the line.

Cleveland Rocks!  Cleveland Cocks!



My favorite Browns story.  On the first day of the draft, the team's social media department posted a picture of the coaching staff and front office sitting around a conference table.  Essentially it was their brain trust hard at work, diligently plotting, engaged in tight-lipped discussion.  However, directly behind them was a massive dry erase board which listed all of their desired picks and potential trade options.  Ancient Cleveland secret huh?  


Chapter 3 - AFC East


Buffalo Bills

Chicken wings. The symbolic sustenance of Buffalo.  Nothing smacks of liberty, tastes of freedom or stains your shirt better than the chicken wing.  There's a seemingly endless variety.  Try the garlic ranch chipotle or the cajun thai basil.  Suicidal, blazing, atomic, inferno... extending into 9/11, nuclear and holocaust.  Yummo Goodo.

We have a wing joint in Wellsburg, WV a couple miles out Washington Pike.  It's a quaint little bed and breakfast which also serves as a bar and restaurant.  Drovers!  Easily the superior choice for atmosphere and ambience, wings and beer.  Nothing else even comes close.

Now the owner's wife is a frenzied, gothic character.  When they're extremely busy, she'll up her game and wait tables.  And on one fateful evening, she waited on us.  Just for the record, my girlfriend at the time, had a staunch opposition to the drummies.  Her rationale mired in "gristle unease."  Naturally, she inquired if she could get an order of all "flatties."  Well that specific request sent witchy waitress into an unforgettably, bizarre rant.

"Oh, you want all double boners.  That's what they're called.  Double Boners.  If you want all double boners, trust me, we'll get yinz an order of 8 double boners.  She tilted her head sideways and reassuringly murmured, "By the way, just between you and me, I also prefer the double boners."

We just sat there with these mesmerized, disoriented grins.  Neither of us were adequately prepared for the verbal onslaught about dueling hard-ons.  When she left for the kitchen, we busted out in celebratory laughter.  I ended up scrawling a brief message along with the tip.

Perhaps Drovers would consider a new promotion?
Double your pleasure.  Double your fun.
Double your internal penetration with an order of all double boners!

A brief tangent.  As a devout atheist Jew, I've banished all the prayers and silly rituals from my life.  But one aspect of my faith remains steadfast.  Culinary admiration.  Hey, there's nothing like a decent corned beef sandwich from a real kosher deli.  What a shame, that in the year 2016, most god fearing Christians have no idea what constitutes an authentic delicatessen.  Meshuggana!   They honestly think Giant Eagle sets the standard.  They should really call it Gentile Igloo.  A piping hot bowl of Matzoh ball soup?  You southern NASCAR Baptists know it as Mazda ball soup.  But I digress.

So the meal is complete and there's nothing left but a heaping pile of gnawed chicken bones.  What to do.  What to do.

I must ask you, what pairs perfectly with a corned beef sandwich?  The answer is a kosher Claussen pickle, preferably the hearty garlic.  Kosher means they were packed and processed under the vigilant supervision of a rabbi.  Whoopity Doo.  I'm not so sure about the holy sanctity of a cucumber, but they do offer a dillightfully decadent accompaniment, or if you prefer... nosh n'at.  I'll assume their pickles are legit.  Not sure how you'd go about religiously slaughtering and ritualistically packing a jar of pickles.  Although if there is a way, I'm sure some neurotic Jew will figure it out.  Sorry to kvetch.

Now take all of those chicken bones and dump them into the Claussen pickle jar.  The see-through glass container is designed to emulate the look and feel of an owner's luxury box.  Well, except for the presence of mangled bones and cartilage chunks.

Next, remove the existing outer wrapper on the jar and replace it with the words Buffalo Bills Memorial Museum.  This is a spin on the Holocaust Memorial Museum.  I like it because it sounds like Buffalo Bills Memorial Coliseum.  Ironically enough, the Bills used to play in a venue called War Memorial Stadium.  So I do think it's a good fit.  L'chaim!

So whenever the Bills make their way into the end zone, raise that jar of holocaustic bones high in the air.  As if you were hoisting an urn.  Think in terms of the frigid winter transport during the waning moments of Schindler's List.  Reminiscent of victims unknowingly heading to Auschwitz.  Just like blustery weathered Bills fans... cold sheep headed to the agonizing slaughter at Ralph Wilson Stadium.  Hey, it's a new era.  Chag Sameach!

Note: I've never shuffled off to Buffalo for a Bills game.  But I did catch a Dead show at Rich Stadium in the summer of 1992.  Some nice contrast there.



Easily my favorite hidden lift-up.  Scan the lot for cars with anti-abortion, pro-life bumper stickers.  Smite and taunt them accordingly.  "Your daughter is a promiscuous, wild teen.  Taking into account her penchant for dick, you'd be wise to put her on the pill.  Planned Parenthood rules!"


Miami Dolphins

An open admission:  I've never swam with the Dolphins. I've never really wanted to.  I don't wish to hear them squeak or chirp or blubber or perform tricks.  I've never eaten Dolphin meat either.  Cetacean cuisine (porpoise, sperm whale, etc.) just doesn't sound too appealing.  Regardless, I'm pretty sure it's illegal.

However, when extended an invitation to watch the big game at a friend's house, it's only appropriate to bring a food item.  Manners!  But Dolphin flesh isn't a prudent option.  So I've devised a fishy compromise.  I call it "Free Willy."

You see, growing up, roughly 2 miles from my house there was a Long John Silvers.  As a little kid, it's that unforgettable smell you identify with.  I'll never forget my first visit to the establishment.  The line snaked out the door onto the National Road sidewalk.  It was packed.

As we approached the cashier, all hell broke loose.  An angry manager was disgruntled with an employee's sluggish performance.  In a violently trumpeting voice, he yelled, "You're fired!"  The kid screamed back, "Fuck you!"  He then ripped off his pirate hat and flung it to the ground.  An astonished hush fell over the crowd.  Having never witnessed such chaos in the workplace, I just stood in motionless shock.  Then, the manager suddenly grabbed this massive metallic deep fryer basket and shook it furiously.  Evidence that excess oil would be drained in a timely fashion.  He flashed me a vexing, acidic stare, and emitted a disgruntled "Ahhhrrr."  I'm not kidding.  That actually happened... except for the "Ahhhrrr" part.

That was my first experience at LJS and pretty much my last.  My mother forbade us from walking the plank.  But there was this one occasion when she was out of town.  So yeah, my father and I went to LJS.  And trust me, that acronym didn't stand for "Lengthy Jewish Service."  I even recall him feigning confusion about its location.  He asked me whether it was toward Fulton or Woodsdale.  Dad surely knew the truth but required a certain degree of plausible deniability.  Because if word ever got out, there would be hell to pay.  After all, this was an illegal dinner escapade.  He knew it was a no-no but could not resist that tempting Griese layer of salacious breading.

About a decade later, during my semi-impoverished college years, I revisited Long John Silvers.  I conceived of a way to literally eat and drink for free.  Nope, not the local food kitchen or homeless shelter.  But that very same LJS.  I would hit the drive thru and place the following order.  The conversation went something like this.

LJS Attendant: "Thank you for choosing Long John Silvers.  Can I help you?"

Me:  "Yes.  Uh, I'd like to get an order of crumbs."

LJS Attendant: "Okay.  Would you like something to drink with that?"

Me: "Uh yeah, can I just get a water."

LJS Attendant: "Will that be all?"

Me: "Yep."

LJS Attendant: "Alright, that will be a total of zero.  Please pull up."

So what's the point of this small fish tale?  Well, the answer is pretty obvious.  If you're on a tight budget and in need of a culinary contribution, try the crispified grease nuggets. Crumbs, crunchies or crunchers.  Whatever you call them, feel free to use my strategy dating back to the early 1990's.  You needn't buy the 100 count frozen shrimp ring, which incidentally, really plagues my sensibilities.  Those morons who come to the party with a frozen consortium of circular, conformist crustaceans.  Great!  All I wanted was to thaw the damn thing.  And now my hands and shirt have shrimp-stank all over them.



This one's just plain mean.  Respectfully and respectively, target the morbidly obese.


New England Patriots

Donald Trump is our new president.  He's friends with Robert Kraft (the Patriots owner who just won Super Bowl LI).  It was an unprecedented second half, 25 point comeback victory.  He now has 5, err uh, 4 Super Bowl rings.

Donald Trump is our new president.  He's friends with Vladmir Putin (the Russian dictator who kills his enemies).  Journalists, agitators, political opposition, whoever, whomever.  You name 'em, he'll slay 'em.  One thing is certain.  Polonium can be just as deadly as plutonium.  Poison sucks.  Just ask Alexander Litvinenko.

Back in 2005, Kraft was visiting the Kremlin.  Putin asked to see his latest Super Bowl ring.  Kraft obliged him and handed it over.  Putin thanked him, put the diamond encrusted ring on his middle finger and was conveniently whisked away by KGB security.  Kraft was later pressured by the White House to say the ring was actually a gift to the Russian people.  He complied but then later redacted the story.  Poor guy.  Perhaps if he had only spent more time in Gorky Park.  Maybe the winds of change would have blown some street smarts up his ass.  Hey, it's hard to think outside the box when you're trapped in an owner's luxury box.

In the history of mankind, I'm guessing there's never been a "strong armed, sleight of hand robbery" between players of this magnitude.  Kraft is worth about 5 billion.  Putin is worth about 200 billion.  That's the funny thing about a person's net worth --- you can lie about numbers, but numbers themselves, cannot lie.  5 billion or 40 fucking times that amount.  Whether it's a narrow 6 point overtime victory, an unspoken number of critics who've been "silenced" or a vexing victory margin of -3 million votes.  Numbaz is fo' real.

Enter Donald J. Trump.  Kraft has allegedly tasked Trump with the mission of reacquiring his precious ring.  Obviously, this is merely a rumor.  But as the years go by it might become an interesting sideshow.  Something to keep an eye on.  Who knows?  The $25,000 ring might end up being the false flag trigger for World War III.  Gotta be honest.  Crazier things have happened.

So let's extrapolate here.

Ask any voter, "Which U.S. politician strikes you as an immature, narcissistic, petulant, mentally unstable, egomaniacal, carnival barking imbecile?"

Now ask any football fan, "Out of all 32 head coaches, which one is most likely to cheat, lie or steal?"

If I don't automatically hear Donald Trump and Bill Belichick... well, I think you've got a bad case of confirmation bias.  Don't worry so much.  Confirmation bias ain't lethal.  But I assure you, it can be highly contagious.

Here's the takeaway.  Just like numbers, words are real too.  And yes, words can have very real consequences.

In this new age of xenophobic nationalism and contrived patriotism, there exists a fundamental question.  And it must be asked.

Beyond the votes, is it conceivable to numerically quantify a wave of political fury?

Remember, numbers are numbers and votes are votes.  You can't just go around making things up.

Well, I've devised a quickie quiz for all you patriots out there.  It's easy, peesy, Bob Kraft cheezy.  Hey you're a diehard Patriots fan, right?  Now it's time to accurately gauge your true level of patriotism... with a New England nor'easter libtard twist that is.

Just rank these 5 slogans and 5 statements.  On a scale of 1 - 5, of course.

1 - strongly disagree
2 - disagree
3 - neutral
4 - agree
5 - strongly agree

Donald Trump will make America great again.
Abortion is murder.
Guns save lives.
Build the wall.
Drill baby drill.

The biggest threat to the United States is radical Islamic terrorism.
Prayer belongs in public schools.
The theory of evolution is just a theory.
Global warming is a hoax.
Tax cuts for the wealthiest 1% are good for the economy.

Scoring:

46-50 points.  Despite your inability to spell the word "molasses," you have the mental acuity skills necessary to reheat a container of baked beans.  Congratulations are in order.

41-45 points.  You believe television character Sam Malone of Cheers and Sam Adams are related... based on their similar first name.  Not too bright, eh?

36-40 points.  Your ultimate fantasy is to eat a Lobster Roll (with heavy mayonnaise) while simultaneously singing Rock Lobster at a Karaoke bar.  Pinch me, I must be dreaming.

31-35 points.  Fish and chips anyone?  You think Filet-O-Fish and a large fry set the standard.  Your official designation is McPatriot.

26-30 points.  How would you like your clams?  Fried or steamed?  Oh, you want them pureed.  Hmm.  Mmmm, hot clam juice!  Note: This might be the weakest excerpt in the entire book.  Still, some things are better left unedited.

25 points and below.  Well done.  You're a marginally acceptable human being, but still an NFL suck-up who puts the "sick" in sycophant.  Remain seated in your personally licensed stadium seat.  Do not pass go.  Do not collect $200.  Go directly to Gillette Stadium.  Continue your unwavering, financial support of the mega-moneyed.   #PSL4life

Don't forget your hidden lift-up Pats sign.  The conflicting message extends well beyond Tom Brady, Bill Belichick and Robert Kraft.  The presidential edition is currently our most popular.  It's the ideal message for any spontaneous protest.



Definitely one of my best hidden lift-ups.  Perfect for any anti-Trump rally.  Really anywhere for that matter.  Random street corner, company picnic, high school graduation ceremony, even the trip to Walmart.  Pose accordingly with his dumbshit supporters.  If you can obtain a before/after pic with the current president or anyone from his cabinet, post it on the internet and I'll make a donation to a mutually agreed upon charity (on your behalf).  $100 for a member of his administration, $1,000 for the t-rump fuck himself.

Have you heard the good news?  Trump will eventually be gone.  But I suspect he'll remain in power until, and only until, enough people unexpectedly die in order to satisfy his ego.  That's how these things have played themselves out since the emergence of governance.  The United States is not somehow magically immune from this historical blueprint.  The problem is... nobody's allowed to frame it in these stark terms until AFTER the fallout.


New York Jets

J-E-T-S.  Jets, Jets, Jets!  Such an obvious, ironically pedestrian call to arms.  Those 4 letters affectionately represent the team's nickname, gang green, or if you will, gangrene.  The New York/New Jersey faithful would surely benefit from a greater presence of homemade signs in MetLife Stadium.



Healthy blood flow and circulation are critically important.  I imagine the NFL would likely be opposed to raising awareness on the subject.  Unless it's a Viagra advertisement of course.  That's why fans should literally and physically take matters into their own hands.

Oddly enough, gang green is an eggcorn for gangrene.  Ask the smartest person you know if they're familiar with the term "eggcorn."  I suspect they'll be humbled.

Okay, we'll be needing a green vegetable.  Since guacamole is one of my favorite dishes, as well as a legendary tailgating staple, let's go with the classic avocado.  Incidentally, I tend to get frustrated when someone says, "Mmm, that's some really good guack."  If you're insistent upon the cutesy abbreviation, I'd prefer you use "gock."  "Mmm, that's some really good gock."  Gock is so much more than a combination of gut and cock.  Confused?  That's understandable.  You're more likely acquainted with its sister term, gunt.  A combination of gut and cunt.

I have one additional pet peeve regarding avocados.  It's the self avowed nutritional experts who are overly eager to tell everyone, "Well, there's good fat and there's bad fat.  (placated reassurance) Avocados are a source of good fat."

Gunt you, gocksucker!

For each letter of the J-E-T-S Jets, I've devised a practical application for the discarded parts of the avocado.  This is in keeping with how our native American friends used the entire buffalo.  We could've learned a great deal from the Indians.  Instead, we gave them blankets tainted with smallpox.  U.S.A.!  U.S.A.!

1) What of the pit?  The avocado pit goes inside your ass.  You are now an aspiring Anal Avocado Acrobat.  Insert, expel, repeat.

My friend, Carlito's Way is a nurse practitioner.  She once told me,  "Eric, you know those pornos where the girls are repeatedly getting fucked in the ass?  Well as they get older, they're going to develop problems with shitting themselves. Hell, some of them take two dicks in the ass.  They probably can't walk 10 feet without some degree of anal leakage.  They might look good in the here and now, zipping around the San Fernando Valley in their souped-up sports cars.  But wait until they turn 50.  They'll be shitting all over the place.  Trust me, I know what I'm talking about.  I've wiped plenty of asses in my time."

The moral of the story is evident.  The next time you treat your body like it's an amusement park, maybe give a little consideration and appreciation to the women who've permanently sacrificed control of their sphincters... just so you can jack it.

2) What of the sticker?  All avocados have a little barcode sticker.  Remove it and place it on the center of your forehead.  I call this Ash Sunday.  Or Ash Monday.  Or Ash Thursday.  Or Ash Saturday.

Repent, and believe in the NFL.

3) What of the nub?  If the avocado is missing its outer brown nub, there's a greater likelihood it's rotten on the inside.

Time for a little football-hockey cross sport reference.  Every Super Chex II bubble hockey table has 4 "nubs" in the respective corners of the dome.  If you use the nubs to gain possession of the puck, and score immediately as a result, it's customary to sing the song of Buh-Weet.

"Wookin pa nub in all da wong paces.  Wookin pa nub."

4) What of the skin?  The outer skin of the avocado doubles as a surgical mask.  Feed a piece of string through both ends and tie it in the back.  Take it a step further and cover your eyes and ears.  See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.  Congratulations.  You've succeeded in becoming the prototypical NFL fan.  Do not think.  Do not ask questions.  Give them your money and everything will be fine.

On that note, here's Saffy's final thought.  If you look up in the sky, on any given day, you will see jets... in the form of airplanes.  Next time you're at MetLife Stadium, try to remember something.  Jets owner Woody Johnson is friends with an orange anus right across the river in Manhattan.  #MakeAmericaSafeAgain

What if the imbecile-in-chief tweets...

National Emergency!  Plane hijacked out of Newark International.  Transponder is turned off.  Not good.

This is real-world!  MetLife Stadium could be targeted!  Get those fans outta there...  NOW!!!

Get 'em out!  Get 'em out!

And one last thing.  An avocado is a fruit, not a vegetable.  If you didn't catch that, you're a presidential clown.


Chapter 4 - AFC South


Houston Texans

Houston, we have a problem.

On a lone Seinfeld episode, the inquisitive, gossipy Rabbi Kirschbaum summed it up best.  "Elaine, often times in life there are problems, and just as often, there are solutions."

So what's the problem you ask?  Okay, I'll cut to the chase.  It's the hot button issue of illegal immigration.

Behold!  I have devised a comprehensive solution to one of America's biggest headaches.  But first we must acknowledge a very uncomfortable proposition.  What if... maybe, just maybe... Donald Trump is right?

Could building a great wall actually be a great idea?  Will it keep the bad people from pouring in?  Will it stop the foreign invasion?  The criminals, the drug dealers, the gangsters, the murderers, the terrorists, the aliens, the bad.  I don't know about you, but I don't like the sound of those people.  Consequently, let's put this border wall to the test.

If I wanted to go under a wall, one word comes to mind: shovel.  Followed by a 3-letter word: dig.

If I wanted to get over a wall, one word comes to mind: rope.  Followed by a 5 letter word: climb.

If I wanted to travel above a wall, there are these things called airplanes: fly.

If I wanted to go around a wall, I'd find out where it ends and go around it: walk.

If I wanted to float around a wall, I'd look to see where it intersects with a body of water: swim.

These are admittedly big words and challenging concepts. Dig, climb, fly, walk, swim.  Tunnel, ladder, plane, car, boat.

There was this late '80's movie "Planes, Trains and Automobiles."  Two salesmen, Steve Martin & John Candy, wanted to get home for the holidays.  But they kept encountering a series of persistent, incomprehensible obstacles.  Still, in the end, everything managed to work itself out.  Why?  Because where there is an economic will, there is a physical way.  The building of a wall, or the building of anything, for that matter, is inherently grounded in the laws of supply and demand.  And a border wall... no matter how great, no matter how big, no matter how amazing... will ultimately fail.  Because it fails to adequately address the underlying rationale for building it in the first place.

Saf, yeah I get it.  We already know all this shit.  So what's your solution?

I give you, drumroll please, the Trump stamp.

 

This is not to be confused with a tramp stamp.  A trump stamp is much, much sexier.  It's also wonderful.  The physical and literal branding on the small of your back.  You just got trumped!  A lot of it is about staying on message.  After all, the trump card is the winning card.  It's proof that you're a winner.  And not only will you benefit from all the winning, you'll start to think like Trump too!  It's called being smart.  This will make you a very, very good person.  And not only that, everyone will like you.  Everywhere!  It doesn't matter if you're in a big football stadium.  Wow!  Or a gay bathhouse.  Disgusting!  The trump tattoo affords you the privilege to go absolutely anywhere your heart desires.  No more problems with doors and gates, fences and walls.  Trump stamp delivers freedom of movement and copious amounts of winning.  It transcends everything.

Remember back in the day, when people had to "show their papers?"  Our last president felt compelled to show his birth certificate.  Some carnival barker bullied him into it.  The Trump Stamp would have nipped that whole controversy in the bud.  Because it supersedes the need for identification altogether.  No more birth certificates or drivers licenses.  No more green cards, passports or travel visas.  All you need is Trump, Trump.  Trump is all you need.

Keep in mind, there's no such thing as a temporary T-stamp.  A Trump stamp is permanent.  There's no middle ground.  No shades of grey.  You either git on the Trump train or yer gonna git left behind.  Doesn't matter if you're from Syria or Iran, Canada or Mexico.

Well I wanna hop on board, damnit!  Choo fuckin' Choo.  It's nice to feel wanted and be a part of something biglier.

So what the hell does any of this have to do with the Houston Texans?  That's a fair question.  Here's the deal.  Before nationwide implementation, we must learn if Trump stamp theory actually applies to the real world.  Therefore, we'll be using NRG Stadium as a venue incubator.  Think of it as a Texan-sized petri dish.  The NFL would be so much better off.  No more expensive magnetometers and video surveillance.  No more clear plastic bag silliness either.  Precautionary security measures won't be necessary.  Why?  Because the issue of safety is no longer relevant.  The Trump stamp effectively becomes a guardian angel... for humanity.

So if you ever have a problem with anything, the answer has never been so easily remedied.  Just show 'em that Trump stamp.  You might also want to cue the Lee Greenwood (God Bless the U.S.A.).  Cuz guess who's gonna pay for that fucking wall you stupid fucking idiot?

Meh-hee-co?  Uh, no.  Uh, Merica.



This sign is ideally suited for gridlock, hurricanes and whenever the Texans dip below .500.


Indianapolis Colts

Fact:  A colt is by definition... a young, uncastrated male horse.  So how does an animal like this spend most of its time?  Well not to be presumptuous, but other than consuming good 'ol grass and water, I imagine their primary objective is to spew semen.

Fact:  We all know that Indianapolis, Indiana is the crossroads of America.  Multiple interstates intersect.  Much like a whorizontal gangbang with miscellaneous throbbing dongs.  You might see where I'm heading with this.

Fact:  Virtually every pornographic video has one thing in common.  They all seem to climax with the inevitable cumshot.  Sometimes multiple cumshots.  Rows of young women eagerly line up to receive glazing facials.  There's a certain irony here as most appear delirious with joy and visual anticipation.  But at the same time, must suddenly and instinctively close their eyes.  Or else.  The consequences would be akin to liquid puffer shots of manifold loads.  Just ask any ophthalmologist.  They'd label it Glaucoma Girls Gone Wild!

All of my life, I've been searching for a physical approximation of horse cum.  It's the consistency that's the challenge.  For me, this is more than a hobby.  Some people collect license plates.  Others play golf or foosball.  I, on the other hand, have an insatiable craving to find the perfect substitute for horse cum.  After all, cum is a valuable commodity.  Gazillions of sperm representing infinite life.  That's a big deal.  And, it goes way beyond horses.  We, as a society, cannot continue to waste our cum.

Just an aside, the wasting of cum (cum waste) is the reason I'm unabashedly pro-life.  Wouldn't our country be a better place if we punished women for having abortions?  I'd like to take it a step further with the appointment of special prosecutors whose purpose is to investigate any failed pregnancy.  All future miscarriages must be thoroughly scrutinized.  We've got to determine if those unborn children were victims of premeditated murder.  To not do so would represent a miscarriage of justice.  If she's found guilty, well then I say, "Lock her up!  Lock her up!"

Back to the issue at hand.  Humanity is squandering our most precious resource... that which is cum.  The seminal seed of life itself.  I say stop the madness!  There's got to be a better way!

And there is.

Have you ever thought to yourself... feels like an Arby's night?  Well I sure have.  And you're waiting in line.  And you're hungry.  And the redneck retard in front you is ordering his roast beef, curly fries with two easy cheesies and a Mountain Dew.

But then IT happens.  Goober requires a packet of their signature horseradish sauce.

"Can I git some horsey sauce?"

The cashier hands it to him.

Goober doltishly nods, "I need horsey for my bun."

It was that "moment in time."  The stark millisecond when I equated horsey with cum.  And to a lesser extent, discovered the alternative functionality of mayo.

Hit the Arby's drive thru and ask for 50 packets of horsey.  If the cashier objects, just tell them the truth.  Hey you need some reinforcement cum for a pornographic video.  They should acquiesce.  If they don't, just pork over a couple bucks.

So the game is over.  Regardless of whether the colts win or lose, calculate the point differential.

1 point equals 1 packet of horsey.  2 points equal 2 packets of horsey, and so on.  10 points and you're already in gang bang territory.  20 points would represent some kind of monster orgy in a sunken living room.  God forbid a 40 point euro-blowout.

Set aside the requisite amount of horsey in a large bowl.  We use Fiesta.

All of the women are now participants.  Break out the horsey and commence the facial drenching.  This is not an isolated schmear of Philly cream cheese on a bagel.  It's a shared horsey cum coating on all of the applicable faces.  Foreheads, eyes and noses.  Cheeks and chins.  It's known as the act of being "colted."

Everyone pose in a line and shoot that group selfie.  The digital photo will be immediately uploaded as everyone's new social media profile pic.

Moral of the story?  Win or lose, you all came together and united as one.  People be like, wow, the Colts may have lost, but that was one hell of a party.  If I had known, I would have went.  Maybe even stuck my dick in the mashed potatoes.  Because when they ask me, "Saf, how's it goin' with the ladies?"  I reply, "It's not the going with the ladies I care about.  It's the cumming."



I've said it before and I'll say it again.  "Cocksucker" could quite possibly be the most underrated word in the history of genitalia-based slang.  "Gunt" being a close second.  Honorable mention: dickwad.


Jacksonville Jaguars

In Pittsburgh we have a saying, "Fuck you, you fuckin' jag-off."

You hear it everyday.  It might sound exclamatory but it's actually rather declarative.  Some would even label it humdrum.

Chevy Equinox won't let you merge on the Fort Duquesne Bridge.
Random yinzer douchebag orders a Primanti's cheesesteak without the fries.
After a wedding trip to Kennywood, the couple will reside in Swissvale.
Dating profile from the local city paper: Carnegie Mellon grad seeking full figured female for bumping uglies.

Fuck you, you fuckin' jag-off.

The term jag-off loosely translates as someone who's stupid or inept.  The Dictionary of American Regional English defines it as a "general term of disparagement."

In 1995, the expansion Jacksonville Jaguars entered the league.  In our division no less.  Everyone has called them the Jacksonville Jag-Offs since O.J. was found innocent.  Steelers Nation never gave it a second thought.

In 2002, the team moved to the newly configured AFC South.  Good riddance, ya fuckin' jag-offs.

An uneventful decade passed in Northeast Florida.  Until 2011 when the team was sold to multi-billionaire Pakistani, Shahid Kahn.  But this owner didn't resemble the other mega-rich whiteys.  He had long, unruly dark hair and a thick, Nike swooshing mustache.  I wouldn't necessarily call him brown.  He's more of a khaki wearing, beaver building mogul.  For the sake of posterity, we'll refer to him as a "tan."

Turns out this tan jag-off is one of the NFL's wealthiest owners (currently worth an estimated 7 billion+).  Peculiar that he'd purchase one of the weakest, least profitable teams.  I guess beggars can't be choosers.

Somewhere along the way, Shahid decided to Americanize his name.  He dropped the "hi" part and changed it to Shad.  Rhymes with Maude.  And then there's Shad.

It had been reported that several NFL bigwigs felt uncomfortable around Shad.  Many labeled him "the Manchurian owner."  Possibly even a radical Islamic terrorist.  For the love of Allah, why on earth would a Pakistani want to own an American football team?  It's called football, not soccer.  And in of all places... Jacksonville, Florida?  Isn't that city known for its Confederate flag-waving remnants and ubiquitous trailer parks?  The wheels on the house go round and round, round and round, round and round.  Seriously, it's not a good fit.

The narrative has been established.  The stage has been set.  So guess what time it is?  It's game time.

Everyone in the room writes down disparaging remarks about your host... the man or woman of the house.  These slanderous comments are at the total discretion of the guests.  It could be a few derogatory observations.  It could be a hateful song or an abhorrent poem.  Or it could be right outta the Old Testament --- godawful, scathing acrimony.  Fire and brimstone cruelty akin to the wrath of God.

Here's an example of how this works.  Let's pretend we're watching the game at Shad's $8.3 million dollar penthouse in downtown Chicago.  Ideally, the youngest person in the room, preferably his daughter, reads all of the comments aloud.   It's my sincerest hope that you'll write something like this:

Shad is a wad of crap.  Like everyone else from Puke-i-stan or India or wherever, he reeks of b.o.  His urine smells like cumin and his shit stinks like curry.  Fuckin' useless Muslim pile of chutney shit.  He's a fucking greedy, shifty asshole.  I trust him about as far as I could throw him.  Vile Paki-nigger.  Probably finances Al-Qaeda.  Get the fuck out of America.  Why don't you put on a suicide vest and blow up your kids.  I hope you rot in hell.  Now go fuck a goat.

Wasn't that uplifting?  You'll only have to sit through another dozen or so.

Hopefully, this game will help make the NFL great again.  Because many of its teams just aren't winning enough.  More teams need to start winning.  The Lions aren't good.  The Browns are very, very bad.  And yes, the Jaguars aren't as amazing as they should be.  Losers!  With so much money at stake, you'd think these teams would want to fix things and start winning.  But they don't care.  These teams are stupid and their owners are dumb.  Not good!  They need to be wonderful and terrific.  If they won more games, that would be huge!  #jagoff



Since the term "jagoff" originated in Pittsburgh, I thought I'd weigh in on a highly controversial subject.  Does a lawn chair constitute a legally binding measure to reserve your curbed parking spot?  Well, that's a bit too inflammatory.  Round deez parts, the wrong answer could get ya killed (particularly on the South Side, and to a lesser extent, Wilkinsburg a/k/a we'll kill yinz burg).

A friend's uncle once died "by chair."  No, not the electric one.  It was actually one of the cheapo Walmart variety.  He went to sit down and the thing collapsed.  One of the longer synthetic shards of plastic punctured his internal organs.  He died weeks later from a variety of complications.  The moral of the story: be mindful of inexpensive, weathered plastic lawn chairs and miscellaneous patio furniture, especially ones that are in the latter stages of deterioration.


Tennessee Titans

The Tennessee Titans used to be the Houston Oilers.  They used to play in the Houston Astrodome, a building commonly described as the eighth wonder of the world.  It's a mammoth venue resembling a cartoon spaceship.  However, in the mid 90's, owner Bud Adams wanted a better stadium.  Something new.  Something different.  But mayor Jeff Spicoli said, "No dice, Bud."  So the adventurous Adams struck a deal and moved the team to Nashville.  Welcome to the Music City.  "Hey, Bud let's party!"

Unfortunately, the stadium wasn't quite ready.  So the team opted for the Liberty Bowl in Memphis.  This didn't go over too well.  The drive from Nashville was over 200 miles.  Ouch.  That's a 3+ hour drive.  Not exactly a home field advantage... homey.  More like homeless!  As expected, attendance was the weakest the league had seen in decades.  On one occasion, the Tennessee Oilers played before a pitiable crowd of 17,071.  Naturally it was against the Bengals.  They ended the season 8-8.

The following year, the nomadic team continued its meandering journey through lower anti-Appalachia.  This time taking up pigskin residency at Vanderbilt University.  Attendance continued to remain, shall we say, lackluster.  The whole transition was failing miserably.  Still, the team once again managed 8 wins and 8 losses.  Their motto?  Even Steven.  Mediocrity at its finest.

We need to take a break here.  Gimme a break.  Break me off a piece of that N-F-L.  For the record, not all owners are created equal.  Some have more money than others.  And these billionaires have problems too.  Both on and off the field.  It's a social anxiety thing.  My deepest sympathies.  We, as a hyper-capitalistic society must take a collective breath and try to empathize with the plight of the ultra-pecunious.  It's the multi-b's who worry me the most.  All I'm asking for is a little compassion, particularly from the penniless --- the ungrateful segment falling below the 2016 poverty line ($11,880 for individuals, $16,020 for a family of 2).  They're the worst.  I hate them all.

The unusual thing about Bud Adams is that he never physically moved to Tennessee.  He preferred living in Houston and opted to commute.  Oh the trials and tribulations of the uber wealthy.

Finally, the Oilers settled into their downtown Nashville destination and officially changed their name to the Titans.  And guess what?  The 1999 season was an unbelievable success!

Their wildcard playoff game against the Bills was one for the ages.  On the game's final play, the Titans pulled off the Music City Miracle.  A kickoff return lateral across the entire field resulted in a touchdown.  The call was close, but upon review, upheld.  The team eventually made their first trip ever to the Super Bowl.  Bud Adams was thrilled.  And then they lost a heart breaker to the Rams.  Bud Adams was dejected.

One thing is certain.  The games will come and go.  The players will come and go. The teams will come and go.  Regardless, Nashville will remain the music city.  So in keeping with that pick up drivin', tobacco spittin', honky tonk tradition, I've devised a simple game based on the age-old tradition of musical chairs.  Slightly adapted for Titans fans.  Here's how it works.

Every time the Titans register points, two things will happen simultaneously.

Part 1:  The dumb music of the smart phones.  I've intentionally chosen the worst ditty in the history of sporting anthems.  This will serve as an incessant, poorly synchronized reminder of the team's failed heritage.  It's the resurrected Houston Oilers fight song.

"We're the Houston Oilers, Houston Oilers, Houston Oilers number one."

Part 2:  The undesirable changing of the seats.  As the game progresses, participants will begin to realize that a celebratory touchdown is actually an opportunity to sit next to an individual for a lesser amount of time.  Since there will inevitably be an extra point or 2 point conversion.  This makes people internally weigh their inclination for inter-connectivity.

Hmm, I don't care much for Uncle Ray.  That piece of shit molested me as a child.  I'll use up one of my touchdown seating options on him.  Unfortunately, the extra point bounced off the upright.  Or the Titans went for 2 points and failed to convert.  So I'm stuck next to this fucking pervert for the duration.  See how it works?

These days, the Titans are owned by KSA Industires.  A consortium of children and grandchildren from Bud Adam's spermicidal lineage.  It's common knowledge that they're hoping to sell the team.  Hey, maybe Trump could get a good deal.  He's always looking for a bargain.  He doesn't mind commuting.  Also, there's Nashville's thriving ginger population.

But be forewarned.  If the team does bad, here it comes:

Trump tweet -

I payed for a bunch of chockers.  This team is rediculous. They loose all the time.  Still, I'm honered to be part of such a great team.  #needmorewinning

And you thought the Dan Quayle "potatoe" incident was bad.  Trust me, it's got nothing on the agent orange Irish Potato rebellion of 2016.



A Chorus Line opened on Broadway in the mid 70's.  But opening night for me was on a family vacation in the back of my father's Oldsmobile Cutlass.  No nudity to speak of.  Just my dear mother crooning at the top of her lungs... tits and asssss.  In retrospect, this may have been a contributing factor to my body dysmorphic disorder diagnosis.


Chapter 5 - AFC West


Denver Broncos

Neighhh!  It's a bucking bronco.  Nay.

But could it be a fucking bronco?  Yay.  Gidee-up!

Ever hear the expression, "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on?"  This might come as a surprise, but for several years, I've been leading a nuanced campaign to bring back dated slogans like Cool Beans and Face.  No shit.

There is no greater embodiment of a bronco than "Blucifer."


A cobalt horse with glowing crimson, laser beam bloodshot eyes.  This majestic animal sits outside Denver International Airport.  The statue literally "came to life" and killed its creator, Luis Jimenez.  In his own studio, he was putting the finishing touches on the "Blue Mustang" when it toppled over and severed an artery in his leg.  Prayer would prove woefully ineffective as he bled out on the cold floor.

For the record, I wouldn't wish death upon even my worst enemies.  But it's actually quite common for NFL fans to explicitly root for injuries to the opposition.  This is far from a myth.  Just check out  the online trash talk and verbal heroics of any fantasy football league.

So you know what they say about Colorado.  It's not the altitude.  It's the attitude.  That same vibe carries over to the cap city of Denver.  Many local residents believe that any who travel through DIA could end up DOA.  The airport itself is "cursed."  Due to the fact that the untamed statue played an unusually prophetic role in the death of its owner.

And this leads us to the suffocation game.  Hey, erotic asphyxiation is making a comeback these days.  The trick is to suffocate to death while experiencing a self-inflicted orgasm.  I'm not gonna play nice here.  Before the game is over, someone in the room will have to kill thyself.  Thou shalt take matters into thine own hand!  I'm currently lobbying the NBA (National Bible Association) to lend me a hand with this one.  Regrettably, the Ten Commandments are ill-suited for an addendum.

So every time the Broncos win a playoff game, protocol dictates a human sacrifice via auto-erotic asphyxiation.  Preferably a male virgin to appease the football gods.  Could this be construed as a bit harsh or excessive?  Hard to say.

It begs the question, is calling for these voluntary killings going overboard?  I don't think so.  And here's why.  The elite NFL owners have requested so little but delivered so much.  I say the time has come.  The line must be drawn here!  We will honor their nobility and regale them accordingly with a myriad of human sacrifices.

All kidding aside, I have a friend whose son took his own life at the age of 18.  He was a statistical byproduct of the United States military.  She made it her mission to raise awareness about the dangers of mental illness.  Specifically, she is seeking to abolish the phrase "committed suicide."  It's her contention that people should refer to it as "death by suicide."  When you use the word "committed," it implies criminal activity and stigmatized intent.  Wouldn't it be a superior option to acknowledge and attempt to treat symptoms of mental despair?  As opposed to maintaining the status quo and keeping the epidemic of suicide under the radar?

"I think that it's very important that we continue to talk about suicide in the same way that we talk about other types of physical illnesses, so that we can sort of break down that stigma and bring suicide awareness into the light."


I've deemed this the "suicide solution."  This is a challenging conversation involving very sensitive social mores.  Bringing an extremely uncomfortable, socially transformative issue to the forefront is always an uphill struggle.  Trust me, I know where of I speak.  For many years, I've also been waging a war of words... or lack thereof.  Just please know that I am sympathetic to her struggle and committed to her battle.  She's a fighter.



Having a "horsecock" is a proud distinction.  But I've always begrudged people who use the term wienerschnitzel.  What does a penis have to do with a thinly breaded veal cutlet?  Sounds annoyingly nerdish with unintended overtones of castration.  Better than filet, I suppose.  Here's a thought.  If you're going to assign meat-like names to the male anatomy, how about "strip steak?"  Or for the rare monster cocked Jew... beef brisket.


Kansas City Chiefs


The Chiefs are one of the oldest, proudest NFL franchises.  Their name exemplifies the courage and valor of the native American Indians, a people we heroically slaughtered long ago.  Despite the ancient grudges, I say let's bury the hatchet.  We smoke 'em peace pipe.  That Thanksgiving day reconciliation, you know, the one where the Pilgrims and the Indians sat down together, broke bread and munched maize?  It reminds me of another ancestral anecdote.

One day, an inquisitive brave asked his father about his name's origin.

"Father, what was the inspiration for my name?"

"That's an excellent question my son.  On the day of your older brother's birth, I crawled out of teepee.  The first thing I saw was a soaring eagle.  I named him "Soaring Eagle."  The morning your sister was born, I crawled out of teepee.  The first thing I saw was a little fawn.  I named her "Little Fawn."

"Why do you ask Shitting Dog?"

That joke has admittedly little merit.  However, it's one of the few attempts at canned humor I'm able to tolerate.  I've come to realize that the majority of things most people find humorous consist of memorized, regurgitated droll.  Knock knock jokes, why did the chicken cross the road, Roger Goodell - Donald Trump - Hillary Clinton walk into a bar.  These stylistic brands of humor are without a doubt the lowest common denominator of comedy.  Hey, ya wanna know something that isn't funny?  Pedophilia.

Not every aspect of raising children is fun and games.  Take for example, the undiscussable plague of child molestation.  There are an estimated 42 million victims of childhood sexual abuse in the United States.  No big deal really.  That's just 15% of the entire country.  Roughly seven times the population of Missouri.

As of late, the NFL has been relentlessly promoting their "football is family" agenda.  All the commercials showcase infants emblazoned with their exclusive team colors.  Instead of "mommy loves me" or "daddy's little princess," your defenseless infant wears the logo of the Chiefs.  World's youngest Chiefs fan!  Yeah, I get it.  It's the same kid who's repeatedly urinating and defecating all over themselves.  A strong candidate to make informed decisions.  Ya think?  Fear not, Roger Goodell will commence the indoctrination process right outta the womb.  He's sending an official NFL representative to cut the umbilical cord as we speak.  No time to waste.  No amniotic fluid to taste.  No time to spare.  Only official merchandise to wear.

Here's the bigger picture.  Every season, fans celebrate or commiserate, fornicate, conceive, and nine months later, give birth.  It's the perpetual cycle of league wide devotion.  While these commercials may appear regeneratively uplifting, I think the NFL does the general public a grave injustice.  They fail to shed light on the plague of child rape.

With that in mind, I propose that an NFL franchise be the poster child for child molestation prevention.  One of them needs to step up to their game.  So who's it gonna be?  Well, how about the Chiefs of the Show Me State?  In this case, show me your pre-pubescent genitalia while I go grab the rape kit.

Every Christmas, a gazillion parents, glistening with glee, celebrate the holiday season by going to the nearby shopping mall.  Resembling a cross between sheep and lambs (shambs), they stand in line, complain about the wait, and pay the obligatory $25 - $100 dollars to get their children's picture taken with Santa Claus.  Ho fuckin' ho.

What they fail to realize, or even worse, deliberately suppress, is that roughly 50% of mall store Santas are actually aging pedophiles.  Jolly St. Nick's dick is rubbing up against their infant son's backside.  His elder sister, three year old Joy, isn't feeling particularly joyful either.  Santa's one hand is firmly placed on her inner thigh while he surreptitiously caresses her ass.  Seriously, try to be objective here.  Why else would an elderly male seek out a low paying, seasonal job with no benefits?  Because he wants to share the rapture with anonymous families?  Yeah, right.  Keep telling yourself that.  You might get a few believers: Rick Santorum, esteemed clergy and those on the friendly neighborhood sex offender registry.  How's that for a convincing reaffirmation?  Tis the season.

Ever wonder why so many of the kids are bawling their brains out, screaming bloody murder and puking all over the midgetized elven helpers?  It's because they're being discreetly molested in front of everyone and nobody seems to give a shit.  At least Billy Bob Bad Santa had a glimmer of dignity, a willingness to be true to himself.  Mall store bad Santas have been sexually baptizing children with impunity for decades.  Their team of dedicated workers is complicit as well.  The photographer, the I.T. nerds, even the valiant mall security.  Everyone's in on it.  And not only that, but they make you pay for their services.  Ka-ching.

If there's one unifying display of NFL holiday solidarity, it's the shirtless, beer-gutted fatso donning the obligatory red and white Santa hat.  Do you remember the negative feedback loop?  It's freezing outside so you need to keep active.  How about some Bigly Chew?  You're in the big leagues when you're into Big League Chew!  Gotta give that Santa something to keep his circulation going.  Chew fuckin' chew.

By decree, all future Chiefs games will serve as an opportunity to heighten pedophilia awareness.  Let's bring the issue out of the darkness and into the light.  Arrowhead's well known for being one of the loudest stadiums.  Instead of cheers and boos, let us reflect on the silent screams of terror.  The Chiefs are synonymous with the colors red and white.  As far as the NFL goes, they own it.  I say let's turn Arrowhead Stadium into the largest outdoor mega church of the divided states of Murica.  Fuck Yeah!

We're from America, We're from America
Where we eat our young
It's where Jesus was born


--- Marilyn Manson

Absolutely nothing spells Christian like Christmas.  Go to any goodwill.  There should be plenty of bargain Santa hats.  For the most part, they're a resilient seasonal commodity.  If you can't locate any cheapo hats, snag some off an internet discount site.  Buy 'em up and hand 'em out.  Now you have an army of Santas prepared to do God's will.  Christian gangbangers if you will.  Prepare thyself for the dispensation of Santa semen.  It's called, "Putting the cock back in Christmas."  The christening of collective cum on your face.  We're not only from America.  Uh, we're from Missoura too.

To this end, guess who's conveniently located only an hour's drive away, across state the state line in Kansas?  The blessed Westboro Baptist Church of Topeka will be more than willing to lend a hand.  You might be familiar with this fine organization.  They're the ones who protest everything from country music concerts to military funerals.  Nothing spells honor like making the ultimate sacrifice.  Knowing full well that a group of pious zombie zealots will come to your funeral and display a colorful sign that reads "God Hates Fags."

Pedophiles have always been a target of the Western Baptists.  Likely the Vatikansan's only redeeming quality.  I'd like to see the WBC take a more active role with the NFL.  They occasionally protest events in neighboring Missouri, including a Guns'n'Roses concert at Arrowhead in the summer of 2016.  Let's add the eight regular season Chiefs games.  Playoff games and preseason games too.  It could all be part of the Sunday mix, the lord's day, a time to pray.

We can achieve all of this and so much more.  All we require is a little assistance from the Chiefs organization and their owner Clark Knobel Hunt.  How ironic that his middle name is noble.  Or is it?  Reminds me of Evil Knievel... without the "K."



Eat, Pray, Kweef.


Oakland Raiders

He growls as he storms the country,

A villain big and bold.

And the trees all shake and quiver and quake,

As he robs them of their gold.

--- an excerpt from The Autumn Wind

Who the fuck would honestly equate this bone-chilling poem with Mark Davis?  For those who don't know, he's the perpetually disheveled, bowl-cutted owner of the Oakland Raiders.

The poem was written in 1974 and has been dubbed "The Battle Hymn of the Raiders."  It visually encapsulates the essence of their infamous logo.  Ahrrr you feeling the silver and black?  My girlfriend's a big Raiders fan.  Although I doubt she'd be able to name a single player on the current team.  Jab.

Las Vegas and the Raiders are an ideal fit.  It was a pretty safe bet the team would end up in sin city.  At the end of the day, it's the betting mecca of the United States.  Think of the new stadium as a concrete tribute.  Paying long overdue homage to the gambling paradox which envelops the National Football League, and to a greater extent, our country as a whole.

I often wonder which is worse.  The wealthy people who fly to Vegas and can afford to lose millions.  Or the legions of impoverished who regressively purchase lottery tickets and scratch-off silliness.  Either way, it's purely an attempt to get that rush.  There's a reason they call it dopamine.  You wanna know who the dopes are?  NFL fans.  Believe me, I'm one of them.  Quite possibly the dopest mutha fucka of them all.

Gambling usually has negative connotations.  Unless you're dumping money into the stock market.  Then, all of a sudden, the word magically changes to investing.  Similar to the catch-22s that govern drugs and prostitution.  It'll be okay... as long as you do it "our way."  Everything will be hunky-dory.  Believe me.  I get it.

A personal admission: I've never had an interest in casino style gambling: poker, blackjack or roulette.  It just doesn't do it for me.  Conceptually speaking, I like the idea of sluts but not slots.  Unless of course, it's the slut who's pulling the lever.  What really bewilders me is the notion of horses and greyhound animals engaged in repetitive NASCAR-like behavior.  Not a big fan of the church bingo circuit either.

However, I will concede that I used to bet on football.  And I have some grievances I'd like to air.  I got a lot of problems with you people!

George Thorogood and his Destroyers had an unusually cumbersome cover song.  In 1978, they stole, er uh, did a remake of Bo Diddley's "Who Do You Love."  People love to tell you who they love.  But I'm just the opposite.  I'd prefer to tell you who I hate.  It's the people who zealously share their gambling stories and knowledge of the NFL.  I have a bad bone to pick with all of them.

The following list is an attempt to calibrate my contempt.  A tactical effort to raise awareness and educate the masses.  Potentially piss some people off as well.  Now you'll be able to call these assclowns on their stupidity.  Expose them for their fraudulent ignorance.  Fun, fun, fun.  I'd make a Top 10 t-shirt about it, but the explanations are too lengthy.  Feel free to print it out and share at-will.  I felt pretty passionate about this, so I changed the number from ten reasons to a baker's dozen.  Behold, the blessed template of hate.

#1:  Let's kick this off with the phony gamblers.  The ones who engage in fake betting.  They desperately thirst to be "a part of something bigger."  So they can sit at the bar and yell at the television screen.  They long for a return to the days of fraternity.  Mindless conformity.  It's a perpetual attempt to placate themselves during their endless quest for self-reaffirmation.  But it's merely a desperate plea for attention.  Ask them who they placed their bet with.  They'll likely respond, "My bookie... but you wouldn't know him."  Yeah, Fast Freddie or Stevie the Sharp or Jimmy Two Times.  I'm gonna go get the papers, get the papers.

#2:  The gamblers who think that a big upset, yields big returns for the house.  "Oh yeah, Vegas made a killing on that game!  The Raiders were an 18 point road underdog.  But they pulled it off!  The bookies are gonna celebrate tonight!"  And of course, everyone nods in agreement.  Breaking News: The house doesn't care who wins.  They balance their bets accordingly and absorb the 10%-15%.  This isn't rocket science.  It's the reason the entire gambling industry exists.

#3:  "The fix is in.  It's all fixed."  While I wouldn't completely deny the historical art of point shaving and intentional flop performances, if you were seriously going to "fix" an outcome of a sporting event these days, professional football would be the absolute worst option.  Take into consideration all the money, stakes, prestige.  Not to mention the highest pad refs and visual exposure.  No serious person seeking to corrupt an outcome would look to the NFL.  You'd ideally look to boxing or UFC.  Sporting events that offer the fewest individuals and binary outcomes.  It's a lot easier to bribe a single person as opposed to a complex entity.

#4:  Those who excessively use terms like parlay or teaser.  This is solely an attempt to impress anyone and everyone.  Those who bemoan the 1/2 point hook.  Or maybe they didn't get the push.  Those who complain about the juice or the "vig."  Most of these imbeciles wouldn't know the difference between vigorish and licorice.

#5:  People who make ridiculous futures bets, purely for the sake of devotion or allegiance.  Sure, a $10 long-term Super Bowl bet at 150-1 might sound like a decent proposition.  You could win $1,500!  But let's be honest.  You basically just ate 10 bucks on the Browns.

#6:  The self avowed "professional" gamblers.  People that revel in the notion of being perceived as a real-life wise guy.  Let's repeal the word "professional" and replace it with the word "degenerate."  That would be an advisable course of action.

#7:  I've always been troubled with the people who prefer casino style gambling.  The entertainment value is so much less.  Think about it.  At least with football, you get to see these skilled behemoths beat the living crap out of each other... sometimes for nearly 4 hours.  Rolling dice instead?  Now that's a bunch of crap.

#8:  Most fans have heard of this thing called the salary cap, but when a player leaves their favorite team in search of greener pastures, they always blame the greedy owner for being such a tight ass.  For the love of Roberto Clemente, it's not Major League Baseball.  It's the fucking NFL.  Learn the difference between Babe Ruth and a Baby Ruth.  One of them was a mammal.  The other a candy bar filled with chocolate flavored nougat.  Incidentally, I always thought the lyrics to Queen's sports anthem "We Are The Champions" included the line "sold house for nougat."  Turns out Freddie Mercury was actually singing "no time for losers."

#9:  The rows of idiots sitting at the bar.  Whenever there's a safety, they awkwardly throw both arms above their heads.  Clasping their hands together in disjointed revelry.  Observe the barflies trending homo.  It bears a striking resemblance to the choreographed Village People singing Y.M.C.A.  Honorable mention goes to the juggling refs.  A ball is caught dangerously close to the sideline.  Two striped officials fervently charge toward each other, stare deeply into each others eyes and gesticulate these simultaneously terror-stricken juggling signals.  This rare sighting borders on flagrant, communicable autism.

#10:  The armchair quarterbacks.  They repeatedly complain about the coaching and play calling in the vaguest, simplest terms possible.  All they demonstrate is a steadfast propensity for stating the obvious.  It's number ten.  Hence a quick ten.  Not the Pearl Jam set list we witnessed in Philly.

Running game:  They need to run the ball more.  Pound it!
Passing game:  They need to throw the ball more.  Air it out.  Chuck it, fuck it.
Run Defense:  They're killing us in the trenches.  We can't stop the run.
Pass Defense:  Blown coverage!
Quarterback Sack:  He's getting killed out there.  Needs better protection.  And he needs to get rid of the ball faster.  Agreed.  No duh.
Fumble:  He's gotta do a better job of holding onto the god damn ball!  Idiot better get a grip.  Cocksucker has fumbalitis.
Dropped pass:  Catch the damn ball!  He's got a case of the dropsies.  Drop it like it's hot.
Blitzing:  The notion that every defensive play call should be an all-out blitz.
Bomb:  It's the same yutz who always calls for play action and taking a shot at the end zone.
Block in the Back:  A flag is thrown on the punt return.  Sure enough, Zeke is utterly exasperated and seizes the opportunity.  "It's fucking coming back!  Fuckin' block in the back."  Ahh, the anguished oink and insight of an NFL savant.

#11:  The official merchandise fan.  This applies to basically everyone, particularly the stadium sheep. They garner immense pleasure through the purchase of overpriced jerseys with generic names on the back.  Personal monogramming is extra, but well worth the additional cost.  Brown, Johnson and Williams.  Wilson, Miller and more.

#12:  The exhaustive overuse of announcer kitschy slogans and catch phrases.  Chris Berman was pretty much the founder of this movement.  He. Could. Go. All. The. Way!  Over and over again.  The phrases have actually been dumbed down even further... if that's even possible.  "C'mon Man!"  I hate that one the most.  How about, "He got JACKED UP!"  This obviously doesn't sell as well in the glasnost concussion era.  I also have a strange obsession when an announcer says, "he had to burn a time-out."  Yeah, I get the wasteful chronological analogy.  But when people talk about burning one, it should exclusively refer to the sparking of a doobie.  No exceptions.

#13.  All things being equal, my favorite NFL line is the one you hear at every game without fail.  "This telecast is copyrighted by the NFL for the private use of our audience. Any other use of this telecast or any pictures, descriptions, or accounts of the game without the NFL's consent, is prohibited."  Remember when it used to be "written consent" and "strictly prohibited?"  Apparently, some corporate attorney thought that language was a bit too excessive.  Lawyer up, bitch!



I propose we rename them the Oakland Traitors.  Another eggcorn: Oakland Traders.  Sounds about right.

Does anyone wish to acknowledge the notion of a Raiders fan going to Las Vegas for his bachelor party?  Here's how it unfolds.  Blake and the gang are from Paducah, Kentucky.  They're all heading to southern Nevada for a weekend of debauchery.  Naturally, they nearly get kicked off United for repeatedly insulting a gay flight attendant.  Upon landing, they spend three hours playing the slot machines at McCarren International Airport.  Next, the best man maxes out his Discover card so they can all get a suite at the ironically named Wynn.  Dinner and drinks are served at Applebee's.  Then, they seek out some prostitutes at the Area 51 Alien Cathouse, conveniently located 90 minutes away.  Everyone achieves sexual gratification but also acquires a virulent strain of gonorrhea.  Finally, game day arrives.  They're all hungover and exhausted.  They just want to cut their losses and bail.  So Blake tries to sell the four $250 club seats for a hundred bucks a ticket.  He's quickly arrested for violating county scalping laws, even though he's taking a $600 hit below face.  The crew posts bail and they eventually head back home.  But Blake's fiance, Cydnee... well, she has decided to move on.  Yep, you guessed it.  She's on the way out to Vegas with her new fiancee, Blake's cousin Jimbo John.  They decided to elope.  While the boys were gone, they went out and got drunk.  And one thing led to another.  And the band played on.


San Diego Chargers

Few people know that I was a big Chargers fan back in 4th grade.  The date was November 18, 1979.  Sensing my older brother's allegiance to the Steelers, and always one to be an instigator, I made a sudden commitment to root for the Chargers against our hometown border beloved Steelers.

This wasn't a routine 1 o'clock game.  It was a 4pm start.  Normally, my father would feast on an enormous bag of pistachio nuts to the point where his fingers were blood stained red.  However, the late afternoon start meant something different.  Dinner in the den.  A very rare occurrence indeed.  Reserved for things like the attempted Reagan assassination of 1981, the MASH finale in 1983 and the Space Shuttle Challenger disaster in 1986.  And even the moon landing when I was a mere embryo at the inverted age of negative one.

As the game became lopsided, my father and brother hurled insults at the consolidated Solid State television/liquor cabinet.  I reveled in their disgust.  The Chargers bolted to a 35-7 upset.

The next day, I went to celebrate my victory at Woodsdale Elementary school and encountered a similar degree of malevolence.  Running through the various pods.  Antagonizing the masses.  Funny how time stands still, eh?  Amusingly ironic how my love and hatred of the NFL started at the tender age of ten.  It has waxed and waned, simmered and festered for 36 long years.

By the way, the Steelers would bounce back and defeat the Los Angeles Rams that same year in Super Bowl XIV at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena.  More irony I guess, as the butt-headed Rams recently returned to Pasadena, awaiting their shiny, multi-billion dollar digs in Inglewood.

But this is about the other team that moved to LaLaLand.  I guess owner Dean Spanos wasn't feeling the vibe with the San Diego faithful.  And really, why should he?  He's only worth 2.4 billion.  And the value of his team has been languishing for years.  That spanakopita Greek bastard deserves better.  Opa!

They'll be temporarily playing for two years at the StubHub Center in Carson, CA.  Home to Major League Soccer's LA Galaxy.  The venue has seating for a maximum of 30,000.  If you ask me, that's relatively electrifying.  In a toxic shock kinda way.  After all, who doesn't like the idea of NFL fans paying big bucks to sit on metal benches?  They can collectively complain about their sore asses.  This should help build anal camaraderie in the form of bleacher butt hurt.  There you go.

So... what does every Charger fan (and member of the human race) have in common?  Well, they all use a charger for their cell phone.  Without the precious charging unit, the phone goes dead and becomes useless.  Hmm, kinda like a stadium going dead when the fans don't show up or the team skips town.  Don't worry though.  Attendance really doesn't matter anymore.  As long as the correct people reap the benefits, the NFL will plow its way into a future of greener, turf-like pastures.

Here's the deal.  Every time the Chargers score a point - the number of points shalt be converted to minutes.  Two minutes for a safety or a 2 pt. conversion, three minutes for a field goal and six minutes for a touchdown.  Extra points are exempt from the equation.

During that time frame, any and all communication with friends shall be done exclusively over cell phones.  Texting is the preferred method.  But if you wish to verbally communicate, you've got to dial the number and take it from there.  People can resume their normal conversational styles only AFTER the allotted time has expired.

Make no mistake about it.  This is strictly a deliberate attempt to sabotage the party itself.  Doesn't matter if you're in a living room, at the bar or the stadium itself.  This is quite possibly the most annoying scenario I could fathom.  The concept being... that the Super Bowl-less Spanos family has inflicted much pain upon their fans.  It's time to expand that contempt, infecting new markets and society as a whole.

Though there is an upside.  At least the Chargers will get to co-host Super Bowl LV in 2021 in the more important owner's stadium.  Why do I get the feeling that neither the Rams nor the Chargers will be a participant?  Better yet, hopefully they really are the contestants.  Sounds to my like a concomitant absurdity.  So obviously, I'd be all in for a West Coast gangsta subway series.  Dare to dream.



Exactly who are these diehard fans willing to make the 2 1/2+ hour drive (without traffic) from San Diego to L.A.?  They're deserving of a characterization which adequately reflects their newly found commitment.  Let's label these mindless zombies... the Dolts of I-5.  Honorable mention: The I-Fivin' Fucks.


Chapter 6 - NFC East


Dallas Cowboys

It was the summer of 1998.  An innocent society was on the cusp of wireless proliferation.  In an entirely unrelated matter, the Steelers were hosting a preseason game against the Atlanta Falcons.  But the game itself was being played in the Mr. Rogers approved, neighboring Morgantown, West Virginia.  Interesting discrepancy.

It made me wonder.  What might happen when the NFL's best tailgaters merge with the greatest college game day atmosphere?  What might happen when these two worlds collide?

That specific curiosity drew me to Mountaineer Field.  Yeah, I know it's called Milan Puskar Stadium.  Funny thing though, other than television announcers, I've never heard anybody actually reference the venue by its official name.  Sounds too poindexterish.

How was the game?  Did Pixburgh win?  Was the weather hot and sticky... like my balls?  None of that really matters as the entire evening had the bland, preseasoned insignificance of a boiled pierogi (pronounced per-oh-hee!).

Into the darkness, on our way back to the car,  I was approached by a young black kid who bore a slight resemblance to a visor-less Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge.  Hunched over and weighed down by a leviathan backpack of folded cargo.  He sprung into action, hoisted a t-shirt in my face and yelled "Dallas sucks!"  He flipped it to the other side without skipping a beat.  (in a significantly calmer voice) "Jerry Jones swallows, ten dollars."  The delivery was bliss.  He was more machine than man.



Needless to say I was blown away.  With a mere seven words, this kid encapsulated everything I stood for.  I've always loathed the Cowboys.  The team makes me sick.  Their botoxed owner, the bandwagon fans, the rodeo circuit, the compulsion to line dance, restaurants that encourage customers to throw peanut shells on the floor, Jock Ewing and his bastard son Ray Krebbs.  Basically anything affiliated with the cowboy milieu.

Now as a former hawker/vendor and someone who has sold thousands of t-shirts, the notion of actually buying a t-shirt was completely ludicrous.  Except this once.  Seriously, what other choice did I have?  I thanked him profusely.  Then I invited him to consider the cosmic coincidence.  How it must have been fate.  The odds of our encounter.  The possibility of me purchasing anti-Dallas garb, at a Steelers/Falcons game in a drunken hillbilly context no less.  It was destiny.  Kismet!

Little did I know, this incident would mirror an experience nearly two decades later.  In 2016, I went to a slew of Trump rallies.  I also hit up the Cleveland Republican National Convention (as a protester of course).  At the corner of Prospect and 4th, the street peddlers had stacks of t-shirts. Many of them illustrated a harsh message.  HILLARY SUCKS... BUT NOT LIKE MONICA.


On the final night of the convention, the shirts evolved into HILLARY SUCKS... TED CRUZ SWALLOWS.  Sales were a bit more tepid.  I think they may have overestimated the Republican delegation's interest in fellatio and male ejaculatory consumption.  But it did make me realize how everything comes full circle.  Hey, fashion is cyclical.  Just ask Morty Seinfeld.  The beltless trench coat was never dead.

A month later, we saw the same shirts for sale at the 2016 Hall of Fame game in nearby Canton, Ohio.  No kidding.  How fitting.

An open admission.  Despite having slung tons of shirts, I have absolutely zero fashion sense.  Fashion, in general, just ain't my thing.  Until now.  Let's make some cheap shirts.  The flimsier and shittier looking, the better.  All 32 teams.  All 32 logos.  All 32 owners.

I recommend the Avery 12 pack of 8.5 " x 11" t-shirt transfers for inkjet printers (light fabric transfers).  At a mere $11.18, it's the bargain of the century.  Just enough transfer sheets to get you through an entire regular season, minus one.

Try not to deviate from the team/owner approach.  I want this NFL gear to remain as consistent as possible.  My only request --- please refrain from divulging the women with significant ownership stakes.

Joan Tisch - New York Giants.  Her son Steve Tisch or co-owner John Mara are the better options.
Martha Ford - Detroit Lions.  How about her grandson, William Clay Bill Ford Jr.?  Slap his lengthy, prestigious name on the back.
Virginia McCaskey - Chicago Bears.  Stick with her son George McCaskey.
Denise York - San Francisco 49ers.  Use her son, Jed... instead.  That kid, born in 1980, would be better off in the role of Titans owner (Hint: Tennessee Jed)

Speaking of which, the Tennessee Titans have two women at the helm (Susie Adams Smith and Amy Adams Strunk).  I'd prefer to exempt their organization from this blasphemous attire.  The Titans should get a pass.  Why?  Because "Strunk Swallows" sounds a bit unhinged.

If you're unwilling to slander the owner, please use the team president, general manager or head coach.  Just know it's my preference that the shirt reflect animus toward the exclusive, multi-billionaire boys club.

Now eventually, some of these male owners will succumb to illness and die, thus rendering the t-shirt a bit dated and distasteful.  In spite of that fact, I truly believe the idea has merit.  It's very much in keeping with the spirit and core inspiration of the book you're currently reading.  The essence of a negative feedback loop.



Cowgirls?  Cowpies?  Nope.  Let's double down on Jerry Jones.  This one assuredly goes from bad to worse.


New York Giants

"That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."
--- Neil Armstrong

Giant things come in small packages.  Believe me.  I once had a plump, white Good & Plenty that bore a striking resemblance to Dom DeLuise.  Could have auctioned it off with Sotheby's or Christie's.  Coulda made millions.  Instead, I showed it to Governor Chris Christie at a health care town hall in A.C.  It goes without saying, he gobbled it up.  How rude!  In retrospect, he probably needed the candy morsel more.  Cellulite can be a heavy burden, I silently rued.  I also had a Milk Dud that resembled Bill Cosby.  But that's a story for a different time and place.  Perhaps a late night encounter, at a Red Roofie Inn, in a hazy Philly suburb, puddin' his dick where it don't belong.

When you think of giants of their time, General Ulysses S. Grant comes to mind.  I'm admittedly not a civil war buff, but I do know he was widely considered the greatest general in U.S. history.  And shortly thereafter, one of the worst presidents in U.S. history, even though he won... twice.  Quite a rare distinction.  When it comes to these historical evaluations, who really knows?  My high school history teacher, Channel Seven, made us memorize his ranking system for all the presidents.  He'd assign them an arbitrary rating.  Excellent, above average, average, below average, poor.  For some odd reason, I felt compelled to challenge his judgement on Rutherford B. Hayes.  I'd throw out some trivial nonsense to test his assertions.  "Sir, it seems to me that President Hayes was above average.  His wife banned alcohol in the White House.  They nicknamed her Lemonade Lucy!"  I even started to believe my own whimsical propaganda.  But Channel Seven wouldn't budge.  In this begrudgingly adamant, monotone voice, "Eric, I've reviewed your concerns.  And I can assure you, history has unequivocally judged President Rutherford B. Hayes as an average commander-in-chief."

"Everyone's got a god-damned opinion!" --- Johnny Sac

Could we be witnessing the historical demise of the wealthiest/poorest President, right before our very eyes?  Honestly, I'm not sure.  I didn't live through the Teapot Dome scandal.  I never witnessed the accusations of Grover Cleveland fathering a bastard son during two non-consecutive terms.  Hey, cut me a little slack.  Crafting these timeless NFL team narratives is a real pain in the ass.

Seriously though, Trump's supposed to be the greatest.  The grand wizard of television.  The master manipulator of social media.  The deporter in chief.  The enforcer in thief.  The tweeter in queef.  He snagged five, count 'em five, Vietnam draft deferments.  One of them was for bone spurs in his heels at age 22.  In a physical sense, a half century later, I guess he heeled up good.  Just ask his podiatrist.  I'm sure he'll verify that Trump has the best feet in the world.  The other four deferments were for his continuing education which set the stage for a relatively alarming president.  Either way, that's five big ones for an uneducated imbecile with bad tootsers.  Maybe he should have soaked those barking dogs.  Or at least taken a shvitz.  Trump's definitely not the kinda guy I'd wanna randomly meet up with in a Love Boat hot tub.  What if he grabbed me by the scrotum?  Seriously though, when it comes to alpha male dream hunks, I prefer the balding bliss of Captain Stubing and Mr. Wonderful.  They're the real deal.  Not atomic tangerine side-do fuck.

With the advent of the internet, lots of people think they're metaphorical giants.  Simply put, it's an easy way to empower yourself.  The problem though, the internet itself, particularly social media has become so littered with information, disinformation, exaggeration, deception.  Even if something has value and importance, it really doesn't matter.  The content has been rendered worthless by the clutter and digital litter.  Cyberspace is mostly a dystopian refuge.

Speaking of trash (garbage not human), my dear friend Kiss My Grits is a dingy broad that lives on Alice.  She thinks that Coke drinkers are classy.  And Mountain Dew drinkers are the epitome of white trash, the anti-swank.  This isn't hyperbole.  She has evidence to back up the claim.  Just look on the side of the road.  Four out of every five prisoners in orange jumpsuits will tell you they spend more time picking up Pepsi Cola products as opposed to Coca Cola products.  I simply refuse to believe this refuse is some grand coincidence.  Big Slam Dew, Monster Gulp, Code Red, Kickstart?  The dog breath dirt bags chug it, belch accordingly and chuck the empty plastic bottle out their car window.  What the fuck is that?  Team Dew recently reintroduced Mountain Dew Pitch Black, a deep purple, black grape-flavored pop.  That's right!  Round here we call it pop, not soda.  Pitch Black is back on the market after a multi-year, McRib-inspired hiatus.  When those two worlds collide (Pork Soda), it signals the apocalypse is near.  Either that or Les Claypool is dusting off a rare classic.  Either way, don't sweat it.  You'll be feelin' just fine.

The greatest cause of obesity has got to be pop.  High fructose corn syrup is the culprit.  The end result: a heartland of physical giants.  Perhaps that's why they call it fly-over country.  Because so many in God's land cannot reasonably fit in a coach airline seat.  I witnessed this first hand on a trip to Maui.  Back around the turn of the century, my girlfriend Can I Get A Witness won round trip tickets from her workplace for outstanding achievement in the realm of cell phone propagation.  We were part of a select group, the esteemed Circle of Excellence.  One of the other winners was so rotund, he required an additional seat.  He was part of a secondary offshoot group, the Circumference of Excellence.  Maybe I should be less judgmental.  Turns out that during the scavenger hunt, physical challenges and character building exercises, our group, Team Baharu, finished dead last.

The U.S. morbid obesity epidemic is at an all-time high.  Our country has the greatest percentage of malnourished fatsos.  I call it SFBS --- Southern Fried Baptist Syndrome.  Have you ever noticed the link between excessive prayer and excessive weight?  Reflect for a moment.  Would God really give a holy shit if you did a hundred jumping jacks instead of fifty?  Twerking and pelvic thrusts might be a different story.  MC Hammer claims that if you pray, you will indeed, make it today.  I'm a little skeptical.  Maybe you'll make it in a few months.  Maybe it will take years.  Maybe you'll walk outside and get hit by a Megabus.

I've been to a few secular humanist conventions.  There just weren't that many heavy people.  There's a correlation in play here.  When the mind is stimulated, the body tends to be stimulated as well.  An urge to experience new things, meet different people, travel more extensively, abandon your comfort zone.  On the contrary, fat people tend to stay indoors, play video games and watch television.  And eat.  And pray.  I recall a television episode of a man nearing the 1,000 lb. plateau.  He needed to be rescued from his own home.  His body had become physically embedded in the ultra king size mattress.  A pillow had form-fitted into the folds of his neck back, while the faint sounds of Nickleback played in the background.  Lesson learned: if you require Caterpillar heavy machinery and a life-saving wrecking ball, you've probably waited too long.  Or shoulda prayed harder.  Here's a good rule of thumb.  It's okay to be big, but if you stand straight up, look down, and can't visually see your own dick... well, you're probably too big.  Burdensome gock has always been a major concern of mine.

Some additional evidence on the shortcomings of giants.  A few years back, my Arizona parents flew back home for a Jew wedding, in of all places, central West Virginia.  I asked them how it went and my dad replied, "Well it was a pretty big wedding."  This struck me as odd because I knew the bride and groom were pleasant, but for the most part, neurotically reclusive homebodies.  "Hmm, that's kinda surprising.  Those two never struck me as very outgoing."  My father replied dryly, "No Rick, you misunderstand.  The entire wedding party was just really huge.  Everyone there was physically enormous.  At the buffet station, I felt like a Lilliputian in Gulliver's Travels."

I've had many experiences with giants.

A group of us saw the indie rock band They Might be Giants at the Wheeling College Fieldhouse in 1992.  We left mid-concert and went to the downtown adult book store to purchase "cassette head cleaner."  Our driver Quark poured a little on his sleeve and started huffing.  Then, he put the car in gear and drove straight into a bus stop enclosure.  Probably about a thousand dollars worth of damage.  I managed to somehow summon the physical strength, drag him out of the front seat and throw him in the back.  We returned to the concert as if nothing had happened.  As if it were all a dream, a bad hallucination.  Later on that night, NCIC (National Crime Information Center) fell through the metal bleacher seats and busted up his face and forehead.

That same year, in a totally unrelated huffing incident, our neighbor Dexter wasn't particularly dexterous.  He took a hit and fell head first into a concrete patio.  Did I mention it was the night before his wedding?  Busted out his two front teeth requiring emergency replacement surgery from a periodontist shortly before dawn.  At the reception, the following afternoon, he was an incoherent mess.  Battered and bruised, ramped up on how many painkillers, I wouldn't even hazard a guess.  Not to state the obvious, but the marriage got off to a really rocky start.  Divorce papers were filed before the year was out.  The moral of these stories mirrors the big bad wolf.  If you huff, instead of puff, your world will come crashing down.  The Ohio Valley might just be the huffing capital of the world.  Our PPG Paints majority shareholder is known far and wide.


Adventures with giants continued.

Back in the early 90's, I used to hang out with these guys in a local rock band --- Sleeping Giants.  They unitedly dismissed my suggestion for a different band name --- Flaming Stingers.  Probably a wise course of action.  You may recall their appearance on Conan O'Brian.  The band recorded some originals and did some overplayed covers.  Alice In Chains' "Man in the Box" comes to mind.  God, how I've grown to despise that song.   Heaven let your light shine down had little soul or collective appeal.  STP's Interstate Love Song?  When I'm taking a shower, that song still comes on the radio.  Naturally, it sucks having to jump out and change the channel.  Their bass player, once ate spaghetti in my apartment... directly off the kitchen floor.  Disgusting.  There's a reason I mention him.  He briefly dated one of Jaromir Jagr's girlfriends.  We'd refer to her as Jagr's side bitch, and eventually, just, Sidebitch.  On one occasion there was a gig at The Firehouse in downtown Wheeling.  This woman, whatever her name, sneaked into the kitchen and stole all the silverware.  The owner, Iggy, chased after her, up and down Main Street.  But to no avail.  She made off with a slew of utensils.  What the fork!

Giants are everywhere.  Or so they think.

Maybe you drive the most expensive car, a Lamborghini or Ferrari.  I drive a Subaru.  Suits me just fine.  Personally, I'd feel uncomfortable spending big bucks on a vehicle.  Wouldn't you be worried about it getting dinged?  What about some road rage paparazzi moron running you off the road, trying to get a gander of who's inside?

Maybe you bought the most expensive house in the neighborhood.  A 50 million dollar mansion w/ all the bells and whistles on a gated estate in a gated community.  Plenty of gates.  My old neighbor Fuckface had a gate at the bottom of our collective driveway.  He was driven to the brink of insanity by the mere fact that I could open and close it using a button in my laundry room.  The mere presence of this lone button, one which I never used during my entire decade long stay, crippled him on an emotional level, severing any attempt at a normal, neighborly relationship.  Gates, much like walls, can have a destructive impact.  Don't ask Trump.  Try Roger Waters instead.

Maybe you're a giant in the world of fashion.  When I think of dressing myself, I think of dressing, myself.  Salad dressing to be precise.  Anything but French, Thousand Island or those disgusting variations of honey mustard.  A suggestion: if you're going the ranch route, spend the extra dollar and get Hidden Valley.  Rise to the moment!  I'm also working on a side project that amplifies the crouton industry.  Brings them into the snack aisle.  Swarms of hipsters in Lawrenceville.  Walking the main drag, poppin' Salad Crispins?  Uh yeah, very attainable.

I once ordered an Oriental Chicken Salad from McDonald's.  Why?  I was fascinated by the politically incorrect usage of the term Oriental as opposed to Asian.  I also required resolution with the thought of McDonald's embracing the land of the rising sun.  The kid behind the counter appeared flummoxed.  He wasn't accustomed to the notion of someone ordering a bed of mixed greens.  But I could tell, he was still eager to help.  He asked if I wanted dressing on it, to which I responded, "just a little."  He flashed me a look of gung ho compliance and with seemingly reckless abandon, squeezed the container with all his might.  Up and down, back and forth, side to side.  I experienced a vivid flashback of the Karate Kid.  Like Daniel-san painting the fence, sanding the floor, waxing the car.  By the time he finished, the salad was completely immersed in a sweet and sour gelatinous tub of liquid discharge.  This salad artisan thought he was doing me a favor.  In this isolated case, although obviously lacking malicious intent, revenge was a dish best served overdressed.

You know, we all have experiences with giants.  We all have experiences with people.  In this day and age, it's really become an us vs. them mentality.  I suppose it's always been like that.  Things just seem more prominently on display in the here and now.  Sunni vs. Shia, Muslims vs. Christians, Jews vs. everyone, wealthy vs. poor, the worldly vs. the xenophobic, fat dumbshit fuck vs. anorexic crack whore bitch.  But I really think it's more about two distinct groups.  Those who are intellectually curios and those who are not.  Those who question the way of things vs. those who automatically accept the way of things.  The numbers break 50/50.

These stories about giants are tangentially endless.  Because they represent a microcosm of society, the battle of short or tall, giant or small.  The vexing conundrum of societal girth is a biggie.  Can I fix it?  Probably not.  But I'm gonna give it my Skinnygirl Vodka best shot.

At the beginning of the NFL regular season, everyone pitches in $20.00.  Now whip out the scale.  Not the one for your homegrown pot, a schedule 1, class A felony level narcotic.  With each Giants game will come the dreaded weigh-in.  Two options here.  Men strip down to their underwear.  Women strip down to bra and panties.  If you go commando (a term that really annoys me), well, that means you'll be nude.  I once tried to sell an XL t-shirt to this brash, bleach blond, dark rooted, chain smoking woman named Livin' the Dream.  She was "backing that thang up" in a reverse dry hump move.  Rubbing up against my dick while simultaneously playing her IGT video poker machine at Wakim's, a club near DiCarlo's Pizza in Elm Grove.  She was interested in me... but not the shirt.  She said she didn't wear t-shirts.  Regardless, it was too big.  I told her she could sleep in it, wear it to bed.  Abruptly, she rusticly belted out, "I sleep in the nuuude!"

If you wish to avoid the pdn (public display of nudity), remove your shoes and subtract the customary weight of clothing.  For women: -1.75 pounds.  For men: -2.5 pounds.

Everyone's week to week weight gain or loss will be publicly documented.  The greater the level of frustration and humiliation, the better.  At the end of the season, the person with the greatest weight loss wins the pot.  The biggest loser, the individual with the biggest weight gain, must stand outside the closest fast food restaurant and hold a sign that reads.... I AM A GIANT FUCK.



The G-Spot is named after Ernst Grafenberg, a/k/a "Squirting Jew," a German born, Jewish physician (1881-1957).


Philadelphia Eagles

Which came first?  The chicken or the egg?  It's the age old paradox that transcends the evolution of the NFL.  Only a psychotic individual would even attempt a zygotic response.

My buddy Danno is from Philadelphia.  Yardley to be precise.  He won't eat eggs.  Claims they smell like sewage and have the consistency of snot.  I fire back, "You need to grow the fuck up.  They're a good source of cheap protein.  (3 second pause)  Ass."

Bleeding Green is from Philadelphia.  He had a great scam.  His girlfriend was a manager at Kroger.  So whenever he needed money for beer, he'd return empty cans of food, half-eaten loaves of bread, melted ice cream, chewed gum, whatever.  No remorse, no regrets.  No receipt either.

My ex-neighbor Fuckface was from Philadelphia.  A couple of sentences won't do this guy justice.  If you're languishing in boredom, try Chapter 5 of my autobiography.

Take it from me.  I've made numerous Pittsburgh to Philadelphia trips.  The PA turnpike is a source of utter revulsion.  Why did it cost me $30-$40 to drive on that thing.  Was it the back-to-back tunnels?  Was it the endless array of Auntie Anne's soft pretzel shops?  What about the ill conceived farmers markets and spontaneous yard sales?  Why is some local Amish mafia farmer named Tony Zeke hanging around the toll booth?  And why is Mr. Zeke willing to settle up for a crate of zukes?

For the love of Roy Rogers!  I mean, I realize the state of Pennsylvania is a political T:  Pixburgh and Philly with Alabama in the middle.  Trust me, I know it all too well.  That same agrarian road rage propelled an orange prick into a white house.  The Keystone Firewall?  Yeah, right.  Gimme a fucking break.

Keeping with that spirit, here's what we're gonna do with the Philadelphia Eagles.  Prepare a dozen hard boiled eggs.  Set the carton temporarily aside.  Snag a sharpie and promote your anti-Philly freedom agenda.  Assuming you lack the creative inspiration to conjure up your own, here are 12 pre-packaged libelous statements.  I've included brief explanations so as to offer a little background.

Bad Santa --- Cold, windy and raining.  On a miserable day at the Vet, Philly fans didn't appreciate the halftime score.  So they retaliated by pelting a skinny, raggedly looking Santa Claus with a barrage of snowballs.

Where Eagles Dare --- Underrated Iron Maiden song.  Has nothing to do with Philly.

Fog Bowl --- 1988 loss to the Bears in the divisional round of the playoffs.  "A man can't see, he can't fight."  The prophetic words of Thomas Ian Griffith who played the villainous role of Terry Silver in the warped Karate Kid Part III.

For who? For what? --- The explanation given by Ricky Waters when asked why he wouldn't go across the middle in a 1995 loss to the Tampa Bay Bucs.

JAWS --- A vivid reminder of Ron Jaworski's nickname and his 3 interceptions in the 1981 Super Bowl against the Oakland Raiders.

Tony Franklin --- Who can forget the indelible sub-zero images of kicker Tony Franklin walking onto the ice cold astroturf.  His entire career begged the question, "Wouldn't he have been better suited for a dome?"

General Strangeness --- In the book If Football's a Religion, Why Don't We Have a Prayer?, JereƩ Longman described the fans of the 700 level of Veterans Stadium as having a reputation for "hostile taunting, fighting, public urination and general strangeness."

Brotherly Love --- Am I the only Pennsylvania resident who wonders about the incestuous connotation?

July 7, 1989 ---  The final concert at Veterans Stadium.  Ironic that the stadium greatest achievement would be a Grateful Dead concert.  Honorable mentions to '85 Live Aid and the long overdue implosion in 2004.

Bounty Bowl --- And you thought the issuance of bounties only applied to Georgia Championship Wrestling.  Not true.

Judge McCaffrey ---  So many incidents occurred at a 1997 game against the 49ers, that at the following home game, Judge Seamus McCaffrey began presiding over a temporary courtroom in the bowels of the stadium.  Twenty suspects came before him that day and were sentenced accordingly.  Fan behavior improved after the team's move to Lincoln Financial Field and "Eagles Court" ended in December 2003.

Tony Luke's cheesesteak? --- In the historic battle of Pat's vs. Geno's, Lincoln Financial Field offers Tony Luke's.

Shine the light.  Won't you shine the light.
Philadelphia freedom, I love you.  Yes I do.


Spring.  Rejuvenation.  Rebirth.  Everything's blooming.  All that crap.  My final spring in Wheeling, I heard a song emanating from the city park below.  The same tune has flooded the airwaves for 3 years straight.  Toyota Prius, Lay's potato chips, Best Western hotels, Shell Oil, and god knows what else.  This song is commercially omnipresent and recklessly indifferent.  It will consume and destroy all those who oppose it.

"Wo-o-o-o-o-o-oh.  This is gonna be the best day of our lives.  Ah wa oh oh oh aw wa oh."


That American Authors song repeatedly cascaded over the hillside for the annual Wheeling Park Easter Egg hunt.  Over and over.  Again and again.  Lasting three straight hours.  It made me ponder, what on earth was the sound guy thinking?  I once knew a guy who ran sound.  One night, he went into extensive detail about his sexual encounter with a melon.  A honeydew to be precise.  He'd carve out a tight circular opening.  Then, cook a batch of ramen noodles to the perfect al dente consistency.  Next, he'd funnel the noodles into said melon.  And finally, he'd fuck the living shit out of it.  According to him, "Cantelope just wasn't a credible alternative."  I'd encourage you to share this graphic Easter Egg hunt throwaway every time someone mentions the resurrection of Christ.



Seek out some gruff tailgating lesbians in the parking lot of Lincoln Financial Field.  The butcher, the better.  The objective here is to encourage a dyke administered beat down in the city of brotherly love.


Washington Redskins

Democrats, Republicans, Redskins fans, lend me your ears.  Take a moment and sequester yourself from the outside world.  I will regale you with an epic tale of a savage battle.  One that's still being fought... to this very day.

Redskins owner Daniel Snyder vs. Scalping Jew

Have you ever been to an NFL game?  Legions of dark men encircle the stadium lots, scurrying back and forth, selling tickets, parking passes and counterfeit merchandise.  But take note.  One man stands apart from the rest.  He is the pale faced, seemingly misplaced, wandering Jew from Wheeling, West Virginia.  This is his story.

Back in the late 70's, during the malaise of the Carter administration, the Zionist youth of the West Virginia northern panhandle would congregate in the basements of our reformist fathers.  A physician, a mechanical engineer, a retail shopkeeper and a car dealership owner would teach their children knot knotting skills and how to start a fire, in a gas fireplace no less.  Hint: You turn the knob clockwise.  Our survival skills were unparalleled.  We harnessed the power of a compass when scavenging the house for the mysterious afikomen.  We quantified the monetary value of clipping coupons.  A tribute to our future banking and accounting skills.  We reveled in woodworking, even though one us was incapable of pronouncing the letter "r."  Hey, those wooden dweidels didn't whittle demselves.

We were the Indian River Trail Guide.  A breakaway group, a knock off version of the Boy Scouts.  You see, back in 1978, the Ohio Valley experienced a regional wave of anti-semitism.  At the time, the Boy Scouts of America consisted of two distinct factions --- god fearing Christians or those who would spend eternity rotting in hell.  This didn't leave much room for minority groups.  Let's just say that our provincial area wasn't exactly a melting pot for religious diversity.  We were left outside, on the societal periphery, standing out there with our circumcised schmeckels in the wind.  Scalping Jew learned the cold truth at an early age.  Discrimination is real.

Five years passed.  It was 1982.  Assuming you were white and crotchety, the early Reagan years ushered in a surge of nationalistic pride.  But one man stood apart from the rest.  Proud and defiant.  His name was Chief Jay Strongbow.  Hailing from the arid plains of Pahuska, Oklahoma.  Sounds a tad more credible than an Italian American from Philadelphia, eh?  Although I do reckon his patented tomahawk chop could have easily morphed into a mafia wop chop.  Hey, there's a reason they called it studio wrestling.

When our tribal elder went on the warpath, he became impervious to pain.  His opponents would kick and punch, gouge and choke, but he'd just spiritually shake it off... mentally tailored and swiftly invoking the tenacious perseverance of his Indian ancestors.  Tatanka, Wahoo McDaniel, Billy White Wolf, et al.  I felt a kinship with Chief Jay Strongbow.  His ceremonial headdress mirrored my yarmulke, born of utility but worn with futility.  Scalping Jew would eventually learn the difference between that which is real and that which is fake.

Many moons passed.  Many bountiful harvests as well.  The produce section of Jebbia's Market.  The poultry of Riesbeck's.  And yes, the meat department of Krogers.  West Virginia natives always pluralize the Kroger.  There were many, many feasts.

I would tend the fields.  Translation: there was a compost heap in the corner of my lawn.
I would prepare roasted sweet corn in its very own husk.  Translation: I once had a lighter with a picture of an ear of corn.  Alongside was the inscription, "Me So Corny."
I would spear the rainbow trout and filet the carcass.  Translation: Coleman's Fish Market in Center Wheeling.  I'll take one fish, bread separate, one seasoned fry and a small packet of tartar sauce.

Alright, I think you get the gist of my heritage.  In 2014, the nomadic Scalping Jew migrated to Pittsburgh.

For the 2016 Monday Night Football season opener, my girlfriend Mason and I took a little road trip to Washington, DC.  Landover, Maryland to be precise.  We watched the Steelers dismantle the Redskins (38-16).  What peaked our interest was the nationally televised 15 year anniversary tribute to 9/11.  Let it be known, Scalping Jew understands generational warfare.  Horses and rifles were the historical equivalent of air power.  Bows and arrows vs. guns and ammunition.  How peculiar that the word "caliber" has two distinct meanings: the quality of a person's character and the diameter of a bullet.

Upon entering FedEx Field, we were handed a souvenir towel.


I quietly wondered to myself, could these limited edition towels be tainted with smallpox?  What if Daniel Snyder decided he needed a shiny new stadium?  What if he inflicted a bio-bomb upon his very own tribe?  Force the venue into accepting a Chernobyl-like designation and have it declared off limits.

Well, he'd be needing a new home for his beloved Redskins.  They can't just play on any dang 'ol reservation.  You need personal seat licenses and luxury boxes, elevator attendants who serve caviar, flat screens as far as the eye can see.  For those unfamiliar with the current Redskins stadium, lemme tell you straight up.  It's a cavernous dump.  Massive chunks of the upper tier have been permanently cordoned off with these box frame tarps.  Multiple concession stands go by the name, "Eat it and Beat it."  It's difficult to differentiate here.  Are they talking about foodstuffs or stuffing your face with human cock?  Regardless, culinary delicacies abound: pulled hog meat sandwich, steamed dog, acorn mush, soggy cornbread, day-old stale pretzel and other appetizing options.

Compared to other NFL citadels, FedEx is just really bad.  Maybe it was the legions of people smoking on the concourses.  I watched this elderly guy eye up a young gal's Marlboro Light as if it were a T-bone steak.  Others were violently vaping.  Ever see those people who inhale an entire cigarette without ever removing it from their mouth?  It's the same ilk who smoke while changing their baby's diaper.  Oops, a little ash feel in there.  Sorry, my bad.

Redskins fans likely notice a recurring theme every 2 to 3 years.  An individual goes to the press with allegations that the name "Redskins" is offensive.  The story of native American Indian discrimination predictably hits the news cycle.  Rest assured, nothing ever gets resolved.  #redlivesmatter

But in 2014, Daniel Snyder came to the rescue.  He formed the Washington Redskins Original Americans Foundation to provide opportunities and resources to aid tribal communities.  The organization was formed to address the challenges in the daily lives of Native Americans.  This begrudging act of heroism makes Scalping Jew proud.

And to that end, with any luck, we'll get Mr. Snyder that brand new stadium.  Hopefully within close proximity to our nation's capital.  He deserves nothing but the best.  The Redskins franchise ranks #5 in the NFL hierarchy.  It's valued at near 3 billion.  Snyder's net worth is just over 2 billion.  Not too shabby.  I'm sure these stats are numerically embraced as a source of tremendous pride on your typical Indian reservation where unemployment and poverty run rampant.  Alcoholism and addiction flourish.

A necessary admission.  I'm aware that the smallpox blanket story is widely considered a hoax.  But honestly, we slaughtered the living shit out of these people.  And in many ways still do.  I've always thought it peculiar when people long for the good old days.  Slave owning, indentured serving, witch burning, minority herding, Hammurabi encoding.  Maybe we're finally heading back in that direction.  Lest ye forget, everything comes full circle.

Okay, time to bring it on home.  I have two ideas.

Take a cylindrical Kleenex box filled with tissues.  This will serve as your mock totem pole.  In this case, a monetary representation of human value.  Next, google a list of Redskins and their yearly salaries.  Print and tape.  Every time someone cries or their heart skips a beat, you'll have a poignant reminder of the plight of our nation's true inhabitants.  The bona fide founding fathers.

"One does not sell the land people walk on."
--- Crazy Horse, Oglala Lakota Sioux (1840-1877)

My other idea is a crowd funding strategy.  It will provide the necessary financial resources that Daniel Snyder so desperately needs.  First, we must finally change the team's logo but still manage to stay on point.  Since the name Snyder already has potato chip overtones, I'd suggest a potato.  Yep, put a big 'ol spud on the helmet.  Instead of the Redskins, they'd become the Potato Skins.  This logo would have tremendous appeal, because it reflects potatoes and skins that are real.  Far less offensive too.  Unless you're from Idaho I suppose.

Sunday afternoons aren't just for football fans.  They belong to the churchies and their farmers markets.  My friend Mitch Nitrous used to go to Sam's Club and buy five 50 lb. sacks of Green Giant Russet Baking Potatoes.  Each bag was about $10.00.  Total cost --- $50.00.  Then, he'd redistribute them into individual 5 lb. baskets.  He'd label them as ORGANIC POTATOES and include a xeroxed handout listing the health benefits of organic produce.

He'd wear his suspenders, authentic Amish hat and sell each basket for $10.00.  Total gross profit --- $500.00.  Total net --- $450.00.  Not bad for a 3 hour stint, lounging around a church parking lot, listening to Dead bootlegs.

We can use this same methodology to help Daniel Snyder pay for his new digs.  If every season ticket holder participated, we'd have the requisite funding in no time.  Let us invoke the words of George Costanza.  "Danny, it's not a lie... if you believe it."



Hey, it's D.C.  Winning is important!


Chapter 7 - NFC North


Chicago Bears

It's every person's worst nightmare.  Let me rephrase that.  It's something the vast majority of people prefer not to do.  It's doo-doo.  The act of having to take a shit outside one's comfort zone.  But sometimes, there's simply no reasonable alternative.  After all, shitting yourself is not the best way to get the party started.  But neither is fumigating your friend's bathroom.  On the other hand, a Chick-Fil-A is an A-okay for a fecal foray.  Let's just say there's a delicate balance.

This begs the age old question, "Does a bear shit in the woods?"  And if it did, would anyone give a crap?

So here's my suggestion.  Bring a small dry erase board and prominently display it in any restroom.  This also applies to bars and restaurants where the game is being shown.

We do not require a sophisticated flowchart with directional arrows and diamond shaped decision markers:

Q:  Do you need to take a shit?
A:  If no, go fuck yourself.
A:  If yes, you are a true Bears fan.  Shit elsewhere (preferably the woods).

If it's a public restroom, write it directly on the mirror.  Use anything at your disposal: a marker, lipstick, the blood of a lamb, etc.

Granted, this idea isn't terribly productive.  It's just an attempt to antagonize those who are at their most vulnerable.  It will leave everyone wondering...

Was it a foul attempt at folly?
Was it a stank attempt to be dank?
Was it an ominous attempt to be odorous?
Could it be a posturing poo-poo portent?
A fecal fancy to be feculent?
A depraved desire to dispose of defecation, to dissuade diarrhea?

Whatever it is... it will likely stir the shit storm and become a hot topic of conversation.



Chicago has been labeled the murder capital of the United States.  A midwest destination hub for domestic carnage.  The only way to remedy the crisis is to showcase themes of justice and divine retribution.  Burning in hell, smoldering in agony, writhing amidst the flames.  The Bears organization should take a leading role in discouraging cold-blooded murder by threatening their fans with retaliatory eternal damnation.


Detroit Lions

Ahh, Mo-town.  I've had plenty of experiences at the perpetually #1 ranked party school.  Outsiders think it's located in Virginia or Western Virginia.  Many even call it the University of West Virginia.  Not to be confused with the urination of the best vagina.  But this is about a different Mo-town.  Not the centralized hillbilly equivalent.  This is about Detroit Rock City.

When you ponder the urban decay of Detroit, what four letter word comes to mind?  It's neither "shit" nor "fuck," even though those terms do provide an apt description.  The jeopardized answer we were looking for --- "What is Ford?"  May I offer an observation about one of the most successful, longest running, prime time game shows?  When contestants provide an answer, since it's in the form of a question, shouldn't the inflection in their voice properly mirror what they're actually saying?  Instead, the answer is always spoken in the form of a hasty declaration.  The routinely condescending Alex Trebek should take this into account.  Because every time he ignores my concerns, a trivial angel loses its ephemeral wings.

The late Henry Ford was the patriarch of Detroit, Michigan.  The legendary Ford family owns the team.  They put their name on the building when it opened in 2002.  Of all the NFL stadium naming rights, I do believe that Ford Field is here for the duration.  A tribute to the team's organizational stability and on-the-field success.  Uh yeah, right!

A few of my favorite NFL stadium names that failed to stick the landing:

CMGI Field ---  Can't Make a Good Investment?  Crummy Miserable Godforsaken Internet?  Call Me Gillette Instead?  Why acquire the naming rights, when nobody has a clue what the acronym means?

Trans World Dome --- The Rams former home in St. Louis.  Never a good sign when the airline goes bankrupt before the venue opens to the public.

Adelphia Coliseum --- Guess what happens when a company hides billions in debt and the board of directors syphons off hundreds of millions?  I'll give you hint.  The Tennessee stadium remains nameless for four long years.

PSInet --- A regional internet service provider was hoping to strike it rich.  But the company fared poorly during the dot com bust.  With both Ravens fans and their detractors calling it Pissnet, you know urine trouble.

Back to my point.  Henry Ford was widely credited for two accomplishments: the creation of the modern day assembly line and providing a generous living wage to his employees.  The end goal being that his workers could afford to buy the very same vehicles they produced.  His business acumen helped spawn the formation of the middle class.  Kudos to Ford's sharp instincts.

However, most people are unaware of the corporation's ill-fated attempt at social engineering.  There was an extensive "Morality Department" which permeated the Ford Motor Company.  An intricate network was created to spy on its very own employees.  Management exacted paycheck deductions for those who engaged in vulgar behavior.  Gamblers, heavy drinkers and deadbeat dads would suffer financial penalties under the Ford regime.

Ironically, the only American to be spoken of favorably by Adolf Hitler was none other than Henry Ford himself.  A rather ignominious distinction.  Ford summed up the problems facing American society with three simple words --- "too much Jew."  Bubba Maisa!  As a pseudo-hillbilly atheist Jew, and someone who actually knows several individuals named Bubba, I take great offense.  Bubba Maisa is a Yiddush term which loosely translates to "bullshit."  Moral of the story?  We must judge people based on their actions and behavior, not their religion or ethnicity.

Yet there is one person who has the ultimate authority to render judgment on all social norms.  He's a daytime television personality.  That man is fellow Jew, Maury Povich.  Known worldwide for paternity testing and the vilification of wild teens, he also sets the standard with intrusive lie detector tests.

Did you agree to have sex in exchange for a bag of potato chips?  Yes.
Were the chips ruffled?  No.

Regarding the mysterious condom that Kitty Boom Boom found stuck to the bottom of your shoe.  Did you use that same condom for having sex with a prostitute in a Taco Bell bathroom?  You said no.  The lie detector determined that was a lie.

Yesterday afternoon, while in our green room backstage, did you tell our sexy decoy that your favorite position was doggie style?  You said no. (deliberate pause).  You were telling the truth!  Turns out Hambone's favorite position is actually reverse cowgirl.  Didn't see that one coming.

Did the milky white stains on your bed sheet come from you having sex with another woman?  Dustin said no.  And guess what?  He was telling the truth.  Turns out it was the extra mayo from his turkey sub!  A bold attempt to redefine the concept of breakfast in bed.  Dustin calls it "lunch in bed instead."

What's my point to all of this?  Well in this new era of fake news, fictitious polls and alternative facts... now more than ever, American society needs to start hearing the truth.  We mustn't stop believing.  I will repeat in an operatic voice.  Don't stop believing!

So in keeping with the spirit of Maury Povich, that indomitable circumcised prick, I created two salacious questionnaires.  A total of 10 questions designed to get to the bottom of everything.  One for men.  The other for women.  Print out copies and distribute accordingly.  Share the results at halftime.  Call me crazy, but I have a hunch it will turn up plenty of cowardly lyin' lions.

Men:

Describe in detail your first meaningful sexual encounter.  Age, location and duration.  Hand job, dry hump, oral, vaginal, anal, all of the above?  Please rank it on a scale of 1-10.

Have you ever paid for the services of a prostitute?  If so, please disclose information regarding dates, payments and nature of the acts provided.  Also, provide a detailed physical description of the prostitute's appearance, degree of engagement and overall attitude.

Do you have a pornography addiction?  If yes, please comprise a graphic list of any fetishes and preferred categories.

Have you ever taken drugs designed to increase the potency of an erection?  If so, was it effective?  Was it well-received?  Feel free to elaborate.

Have you had a secretive tryst or fornicated with anyone in the room?  If yes, then who?  Why was the relationship unavailable for public consumption?  Point them out and explain your rationale for keeping the matter confidential.

Women:

Describe in detail your first menstrual cycle?  Age, location, etc.  Did you share the experience with anyone?  If so, who?

Have you ever had an abortion?  If yes, was it performed with a rusty coat hanger in a back alley?

Have you ever engaged in a threesome or participated in group sex?  Specific details are encouraged.

Have you ever engaged in prostitution?  If yes, describe in detail.  The frequency, nature of solicited acts and monetary payments received.

Have you ever been anally penetrated?  Digitally?  Fisted?  A single cock?  Multiple cocks?  Foreign objects?  Please elaborate in painstaking fashion.



I'm from West Virginia, not Western Virginia. I've partied at West Virginia University, not the University of West Virginia.  I don't sit on couches.  I burn them.  There can be only one true Mo-Town.


Green Bay Packers

The frozen tundra of Lambeau Field, a peculiar place to play
Despite the endless refrain, of bang on the drum all day


Curious how Packer junkies take such pride in those awkward sectional cheese heads.  They seem a little over-sized.  Don't they obstruct the view of the field?  Kind of self-defeating if you ask me.  Lately, the Green Bay merchandising effort has entered expansion mode.  You can even get a cheese head in the form of a cowboy hat, graduation cap and French beret.  Just for the record, I do not support these festive options.  Unless you were attending a King Diamond concert.  Then, I'd be willing to entertain the concept of a cheese head top hat.  Salutary Grandma!  A tribute to granny's parched pussy.  But nothing more.

I will now share six stories about cheese.  One for each letter of the actual word, CHEESE.  These stories are of unparalleled generational significance.  Put them in a time capsule.  Print them.  Copy and paste them.  Sext them if you must.  Share them with your children, and their children, and their bastard children, and their cunting daughters.

My high school teacher Frenchie was lazy, corpulent and eccentric.  Huzzah, the trifecta.  Really nice guy though.  On more than one occasion he remarked that "cheese was better than sex."  He also had a penchant for loudly farting during class.  The notion that 25 students were in his presence didn't seem to phase him.  Even in the slightest.  Every time he farted, the class would erupt with a collective... "Monsieur!"  Depending on the volume or pitch of the fart, the class would adjust their enthusiasm accordingly.  Smaller, more duckish squeaky farts, would render a softer, more reserved response.  A casual, less-heralded mumbling of monsieurs, hither and thither, here and there.  Keep in mind, this went on for years.  Not months.  The definitive macrocosm for cutting the cheese.

On one occasion, I was dining with a group of eight.  A brutish woman ordered a meat & cheese plate appetizer.  Without hesitation, she felt compelled to share her love of "smelly cheese."  "Oooh yeah, the smellier the better!  I really hope it's smelly.  Mmmm."  But she made it a point to tell the entire table, one by one.  It was this bizarre, pseudo interrogation shit.  We all had to abstain from conversation while she interviewed each person individually.  Every time she opened her mouth, it felt like a cheese grater raking my foreskin, agonizingly back and doggedly forth.  Finally it was my turn.  I was next up in the line of Roquefort fire.  "Eric, do you like smelly cheese?"  My eyes dimmed and I went into full-retard, down syndrome vocal mode.  "Yeahhh.  I like it cheesy.  It's yummy in my tummy."  Finished it off with a Cartman special olympics "Duhhh!"  There was no response.

Five years later, I would get that response.  I had a run-in with Funky Cheeser.  We were sitting around a campfire at Raccoon State Park.  She was strumming away on her acoustic guitar.  Her song of choice --- Come to my Window by Melissa Etheridge.  Now for the record, I absolutely despise that song.  When it surfaced in the early 90's, it was more overplayed than a mid 80's Sussudio.  I looked her way and clamored, "Nooo!  I can't stand that song!  That might be the worst song ever written."  Little did I know that she was a lesbian.  I honestly hadn't given much thought to her sexual preference.  And her less-dykish partner was sitting there too.  I didn't even know the two of them were seeing each other.  Didn't have a clue.  Even worse, it turned out that Come to my Window was "their song."  How was I to know this was their first ever scissoring experience?  That sacred moment in time when the dueling meat curtains majestically opened for their vaginal invitational.

This time she spoke.  She looked at me with utter contempt.  And in the most lesbionic, sickened, disgusted voice you've ever heard --- "I hope you die."

On the other hand, there's my adorable girlfriend.  She buys plenty of cheese.  I often wonder if she's a covert collaborator with the Kurdish Wheys and Means committee.  At least that would explain all the different varieties of cheese in the Maytag Box.  Yes, that is the terminology I have chosen.  Garage = Carhole.  Microwave = Scientific oven.  And yes, refrigerator = Maytag Box.

My father had a particularly strong intolerance, borderline psychosis, toward those triangulated cheeses.  You know, the ones you might find in a traditional Hillshire Farms gift box.  We'd get inundated with them around the holiday season.  Christmas gifts for a secular humanist, Jewish dermatologist.  Yeah, sounds about right.  I'm not sure if it was the mediocre, non-kosher summer sausage, the scented degree of bacon cheddar smokiness or just the plain revulsion toward seeing a slew of half-eaten, cell-o-wax, scalene cheese triangles in the Whirlpool Box.  Come to think of it.  That would piss me off too.  Like father like son, I suppose.

My ex-roommate Alex the Great a/k/a Alexi Lawless went to one of those hippie festivals in Brandywine, Maryland.  On the way home, he decided to score a little extra gas money.  So he set up his grilled cheese stand at a rest stop outside the DC beltway.  For reasons unknown, he thought it prudent to saute some leftover celery and diced onion and add it to the sandwiches.  So not only was he trying to sell something totally disgusting, but keep in mind, he was returning from a three day long campground festival in the blazing humidity of August.  I assure you, he was reeking havoc, both mentally and physically.  So you've got this stank freak trying to independently sell grilled cheese at a rest stop near Frederick.

"Hot grilled Cheese with all the fixins!  One dollar!"  What if you were the one accosted by some weirdo at an interstate rest stop?  All you want to do is take a quick piss and get the hell outta there.  Why's this vegan burn-out talking to my kids?  Please, somebody call the cops, or the FDA, or maybe even the Department of Transportation.  Anyway, the whole grilled cheese endeavor wasn't having the desired economic impact.  After an hour of utter futility, he closed up shop and called it quits.  Fortunately before the authorities arrived.

If Forrest Gump's buddy Bubba hailed from Wisconsin, he would've had a field day with cheese and its many applications.  Fried.  Melted.  Chunk.  Hunk.  Shredded.  Cream.  Cheese comes in many forms.  Slices, cubes, curls, stringy, its.  My favorite snack is the reduced fat Cheez-Its which are notably superior to the regular Cheez-Its.  I attribute this superiority to the cracker niblets being lighter and airier.  Crispification is more than an art from.  It's a science.  And don't forget about the cheese that exists in canned configuration.  Reminiscent of a master dessert chef utilizing a pastry bag.  Easy Cheese, the rallying cry of the Walmartonian.  It has this indefinable synthetic consistency.  No such adjective exists to describe Easy Cheese.  Go ahead.  Try to concoct one.  You will fail... miserably.

Since we've already shredded the majority of dairy norms, I will now focus on six specific cheeses.

American cheese ---  Every time something bad happens in the U.S.A., two whiteys promptly surface.  They arrive on the scene faster than the first responders.  Their names are Toby Keith and Lee Greenwood.  They done showed up!  One of them sticks a boot in your ass while the other croons about how God has truly blessed our great nation.  Let me put forth a hypothetical.  What if these two yokels are actually domestic sponsors of international terrorism?  From a financial outlook, nobody has benefitted more.  And the publicity angle is always off the charts.  How ironic, that the country music lovin' sows, the most fervently patriotic subsection of America, would be completely oblivious.  Then again, these same people think their achy breaky tractor is sexy.  Not to mention how they're beholden to the phrase "chew tobacco, chew tobacco, spit, spit."

Heluva Good brand --- Do you find it peculiar that Christian conservatives pronounce it "hih-loo-vuh" instead of "hell-uh-vuh?"  You can spot these zealots coming from a mile away.  Take your pick of bumper stickers:  NRA 4 LIFE, Jesus Take the Wheel, Abortion Stops a Beating Heart, Angels are Everywhere, It's a Flag, Not a Rag.  Engage them in a discussion about the theory of evolution and you'll surely hear the following... "well, if humans came from monkeys, then where are all of the hairy human, half ape creatures?"  Planet of the apes?  Not quite.

Swiss cheese --- My ex-girlfreind's parents had two mini-goats on their farm in Smithfield, Ohio.  One of them was named Swiss Miss.  The other one was named Buzz.  Based on the life expectancy of those things, I can logically determine that both animals are deceased.  I'm pretty sure one of them died while we were dating.  True story.

Head cheese --- Every time I think of head cheese, I'm reminded of the pro wrestler Al Snow.  He would enter the ring, grasping the head of a mannequin, fittingly named "Head."  He'd grab the mic and cosmically growl, "What does everybody want?  What does everybody need?"  And the crowd would deliriously fire back... "HEAD!!!"  Snow would boldy thrust the cranial prop upwards, toward the heavens... of any convention hall or municipal arena.  I'd like to think the rafters are filled with the grappling angels of King Kong Bundy, Abdullah the Butcher, Rowdy Roddy Piper, and so on.

Blue cheese or Bleu cheese --- The proper spelling seems to have permanently revolved back to "blue."  Not sure who made the final decision on that one.  But keep the faith.  The pendulum has spoken.  The French gave us the Statue of Liberty.  They fought alongside our troops in the Revolutionary War.  How did we re-pay them?  Freedom fries.  How do they re-pay us?  Roman Polanski.  And the metronome plays on.  Kick Cock, Kid Rock, Tick Tock.

Nacho cheese --- With the national spotlight shining brightly on the Trump brothers Eric and Donald Jr., nacho cheese has been making a comeback as of late.  Beavis and Butthead would be delighted to usher in this new era, governed by socially inept tweets and dimwitted vocabulary.

I nearly forgot.  There's usually a customary pinterest idea.  This one's easy.  Go to your local Piggly Wiggly or Chez de Fromage or wherever and snag one of those misc. cheese cube plates.  Get it a few weeks ahead of time.  Let it sit out, like a baby bump.  And bask in the glow of pregnancy, like transitional microbial fungus.

The Pack is back.  Game day hath arrived.  Arrange the moldy cheese cubes on a chilled platter and serve with a generous allotment of honey mustard dipping sauce.



Purely meant to humiliate and infuriate female Packers fans.  Ideally suited for upscale wedding receptions at Lambeau Field.


Minnesota Vikings

The color purple.  Most people think of Prince, the movie of the same title or the artist formerly known as Oprah.  But I tend to reflect on the vaunted defense of the 70's Minnesota Vikings --- The Purple People Eaters.  That collective unit had a ton of sacks.

However, the most celebrated sack of them isn't a ball sack.  It's not Sacajawea either, the female Indian who assisted the Lewis and Clark expedition.  The most important sack is the little cloth sack that houses any size bottle of Crown Royal whiskey.

Check this out.  My girlfriend made me a blanket.  I wear it anytime the Steelers play the purple teams, whether it be the Vikings or the Ratbirds.


Every time I see that blanket, it reminds me of back in the year 2000 when I drove a crew to a wedding in Charlotte, NC.  One of the passengers insisted on bringing a Crown Royal bag.  He used it as a container for his marijuana, pipe, pills, coke, pocket knife, and god knows whatever other drugs and miscellaneous contraband.

My concerns for a modicum of discretion were not only dismissed, but openly mocked and ridiculed.  This bothered me because I didn't like the idea of driving around in unfamiliar territory with an out-of-state license plate.  Seriously, if I got pulled over for speeding or some minor vehicular infraction, common sense tells me that the police officer would notice his alcoholic advertisement in the form of a blinging purple bag.

If a scenario like this unfolded, surely the cop would ask, "What's in the bag" or "Whose bag is that?"  I have absolutely no doubt my backseat buddy's response would have been only one of two. "Not mine" or deafening silence.

To my point.  If you're heading out to watch the Vikes, fill that sack up with mind altering substances or anything illegal.  Might be Xanax.  Might be Oxy.  Could be Viagara.  Could be individually wrapped ganja goo balls.  Could be squares of window pane or a bundle of pinner doobies.  Even a handful of crick shrooms.  It can be whatever you want it to be.

Wash it down with Purple Drank.  Ingredients: 10x the recommended dosage of prescription strength purple cough syrup, Sprite and an optional piece of grape hard candy.  Combine everything into a styrofoam cup.  Raise the Jolly Rancher!

Everyone must agree to partake of the infamous Crown Royal bag of mystery.  It's everybody or nobody.  We call it the Purple Party.  It's the place to be.



Seek out a Minneapolis Jew, or as they're popularly designated... "Minnie-Jews."  Stoke a heated argument with someone sporting sideburn ringlets!  The ensuing physical confrontation is gonna look Zionically cool.


Chapter 8 - NFC South


Atlanta Falcons

The NFL is filled with relatively obscure mascots.  Fans see them on television but often have little or no idea what these caricatures represent.  Other than the easily discernible, f'in alliteration, I'm not exactly sure why the fuckin' Falcons named their mascot "Freddie."  Sounds better than Fido for dogs or Fluffy for cats I suppose.

But it makes you sound like a retard (correctly pronounced reh-tard).  Look over there, it's Freddie Falcon!  Note: it's not Freddie the Falcon.  It's just Freddie Falcon.  Maybe the Dolphins should change their mascot's name from T.D. (The Dolphin) to Fishy Fish.  We've got Steely McBeam.  Even though most of my friends refer to him as Steely McFaggot.

Suffice it to say, the Falcons need a new mascot.  Fonzie the Falcon?  Uh no, that's a big thumbs down.  Frankie or Francis?  Uh no.  Too wop-inspired, er uh, tomato-infused, pasta-centric.

But how about Falco the Falcon?  Or better yet, just Falco.  Does anyone remember the 80's one-hit wonder Johann Holzel (1957-1998)?  Some would argue that he was the artificially generated forefather of the German techno music scene.  Fun fact for ya --- he died in a coke-a-holic car accident in the Dominican Republic.  He was 31.

So yeah, let's petition the Falcons front office to change their mascot from Freddie to Falco.  Cue the Montell Jordan.  I'm kinda buzzed and it's all because... this is how we do it.

Just youtube "origami falcon."

I prefer red paper.  It makes for a distinctive contrast.  Next, print out a pic of the late Falco's face, preferably one with his slicked back hair, patented black leather jacket and bow tie.  Now cut it out and tape it to the beak.

Falcons are birds of prey in the genus Falco.  And Falco is back!
Resurrected if you will.  #heisrisen
Rock Me Amadeus!  #RiseUp



The brand new, billion dollar plus, Mercedes-Benz Stadium will host it's first regular season game on September, 17, 2017.  Taking into account the epic Falcons loss to the Patriots in last year's Super Bowl, the level of enthusiasm among tailgaters might vary considerably.  I'd suggest looking for a lively, energetic crew of fans who are drinking heavily.  Flash them this sign and prepare yourself for a rise in everyone's blood alcohol level.


Carolina Panthers

Yeah, there's the Tar Heels and the Blue Devils.  Great names by the way.  And sure, you've got Carolina Panthers football.  But above all else, Carolina is NASCAR country.  Boogity!  The financial hub of downtown Charlotte is Bank of America Stadium.  And the NASCAR Hall of Fame is only a mile away.  It's a great place to see Dale Senior's spark plug or Rusty's radiator or Cooter's caliper.  A racing enthusiast's nirvana.

The most colorful sport of them all has got to be NASCAR.  The colors make the advertisements come alive.  The logos are splashed all over the parking lots, the track, the cars and particularly, the human participants.  People literally wear their emotions on their sleeves.  NASCAR drivers are passionate about a lot of things.  A staunch refusal to turn right, the desire to profusely thank their corporate sponsors, but most of all, it's the costumes.  Hey, like other sports, it's a monetary fashion statement.  Except this one's on high octane optical steroids.

Think beyond sports.  People assign specific colors to certain days.  What woman doesn't wear red on Valentine's Day?  What drunken reveler doesn't wear green on St. Patrick's Day?  They even puke green, a regrettable by-product of the emerald dye in their Bud Light draft.  Groundhog day?  One time, I purposely dropped a brick on G-Hog from my upper deck.  Nicked him in the butt.  Then, I hit his fortress of solitude with a barrage of stink bombs.  I even tried to poison him with marshmallows inserted with Double Bubble.  The gum's supposedly indigestible.  Don't ask.

People seem to gravitate toward these cyclical, yearly events, i.e., birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, Flag Day and so on.  They help reinforce elements of tradition and continuity.  God forbid, we forget Good Friday.

Colors mean a great deal to people.  I usually wear the opposing team's colors.  Makes for an intriguing dynamic.  Rather than embracing the harmony, I feed off the hate.  The scowls provide visual sustenance.  Granted, most people take a different approach.  They prefer unity over divisiveness.  I guess it helps cement expectations of victory.  These days people call it "winning."  If you're not winning, then you're losing.  Fall somewhere in the expansive middle?  You're a loser.

In an effort to super-empower my belief system and further glorify my personal agenda, I have created ten unique, color coordinated holidays and assigned them specific dates.  So yo, here we go.

1.  As a 15 year old, I lived through Live Aid.  The concerts were larger than life itself.  We were besieged with contrasting images of a non-pigmented Sally Struthers vs. the insect-covered hordes of African children suffering from abdominal obesity and genocidal cleansing.  No doubt about it, food is a weapon of war.  If you don't eat, you cannot fight.  If you don't eat, you starve and die.  On the anniversary of Live Aid (7-3-85), we shall celebrate Starvation Day.  And we're going to bring it back with the fashionable midriff.  Or if you will, crop top!  It was popular then and it can be popular now.  For men, women and everyone else along the genital spectrum.  Not only is gunt and gock coming back into vogue, but it also demonstrates a modicum of tangential empathy with the present day side effects of carb based diets in war torn regions.  Makes sense to me.

Furthermore, July 3 is the heart of summertime.  Women are virtually naked in their bikinis.  In many cases, a strip of nylon dental floss is all that covers their gaping asshole.  Men sport their swim trunks.  Time to show off that rectus abdominus, or in more common parlance, alcoholic 6-pack abs.  It's a vivid reminder that nudity and starvation often go hand in hand.

2.  People are comprised of blood and guts.  Not so, cockwad!  The average adult is actually 60% water.  Turns out that water's really important.  Who woulda thunk it?  World Water Day officially falls on March 22.  So we'll use that one.

Back at West Liberty State College.  Every day, Christie K would be toting her distinctive Fuji-cubed water bottle.  One day, our Corporate Finance professor asked me a question about asset depreciation.  I had no idea what the answer was, so I spontaneously decided to engage in reckless obfuscation.  I exposed my friend Christie.  I stood up, "Well ma'am, I didn't do the assignment but I do have something to contribute to the discussion.  You see, Christie here wants everyone to think she drinks the most expensive water all the time.  She's trying to make some kind of H2O fashion statement.  But it turns out she's been using the same bottle since I don't know when.  She fills it up at the water fountain in the hallway."  I was hoping for this hushed gasp to permeate the room.  Instead, the class remained confused, indifferent and dead silent.  Except for this one dude in the back corner, who tilted his head my way, and uttered two words.  "You suck."  To this day, I have no idea who that guy was.  But I'd be honored to include him in my will, or at the very least, serve as godfather to his only begotten son.

But what to wear?  What's the fashion statement for Clean Water Day.  How about this?  Women --- wear one of those broach-like, clown squirting flowers.  Men --- purchase a miniature squirt gun and string it to your belt.  When people say hi or good morning, look 'em directly in the eye, draw your plastic gizmo and proclaim "dems fightin' words."  Suddenly discharge your weapon.  In da face!  In da face!  Or even better yet, shoot from the hip and aim for the groinal region.  Groinal is an ideal name for any heavy metal band.  Good from a search engine perspective too, as it's considered the rarest of venereal slang.  Feel free to steal it.  It's infectious!  Boogie, woogie, woogie.

3.  GDP stands for gross national product.  Though I prefer Generic Day of Protest.  Think about it.  Everything is directed toward one day of political action.  Election Day.  And then, all of a sudden, it's over.  The following day is a bit of a letdown, a drag.  I say fuck that.  No more!  The accusations, the lies, the divisity.  Hey, it isn't over.  It's never over.  It has just begun.  We must carry on.  When everyone's at a fever pitch, you do not change the subject.  You do not throw in the towel.  You need to distribute that disappointment, electrify that edginess, harness that hatred.  Get it?  No, you got it!

Your personal protest can be about anything.  Maybe you're upset about renegade pirates off the coast of Somalia.  Maybe you're disgusted with the Pittsburgh Pirates and their number crunching commitment to mediocrity.  Maybe you're angry about the cost of oil.  Maybe you're angry about the cost of olive oil.  I don't know about you, but I get a little uneasy when the Quaker Steak waitress unassumingly asks me, "And what choice of lube would you like for your salad?"  Our Bob Evans waitress had a similar vibe.  She would hauntingly murmur, "And your choice of breakfast meat?"  She sounded like the ghost of Christmas past... down on the farm.

If you stand for nothing and just need a generic protest sign, nothing says it better than... I PROTEST SIGN LANGUAGE.

I have nothing against the deaf, but I do have a a big beef, a major beef, a Beef Wellington if you will... with the basket of deplorables.  Here's a hidden lift-up sign I created exclusively for them.  It should appeal to their sensibilities.  First, it's good.  Then, it's bad.



When I see Trump supporters with their young children, I always make it a point to tell mom and dad, "One day, your child will grow up to be as smart as the President of the United States."  Usually, they reply with a resolutely reassuring "thank you very much."  I think I figured out the chink in their armor.  It's intellectual sarcasm.  They take after their leader.  Nuff said.

The point is to bitch, biatch.  Cuz if you don't bitch and complain, who the fuck is ever going to find out?  How will your voice be heard?  Regardless, there needs to be a universal location for the post-election Bitch Fest.  I'd recommend the city county building or the municipal administrative offices.  Head downtown and embrace the day of rage.  Performing your civic duty goes well beyond clicking a button or posting a provocative facebook comment.  We live in the reclusive era of social media and indoor protest.  Here's a thought.  If you're interesting in making change, you might consider going outside.  Even though I never cared for the guy with the ABORTION IS MURDER sign at the corner of National Road and Route 88, I always respected his decision to magnify his voice.  Fifty percent of the time, I'd roll down the window and boo him.  Actually, I told him "go fuck yourself" (an expression I've always thought was way underrated).  But the other half of the time, I'd honk and give him an Eat'n'Park smiley thumbs up.  Even though I fiercely objected to his message, I figured the mixed feedback would encourage his return to the battlefield.  And I was correct.  Once a week, every Wednesday morning... for decades.  In snow, in rain, in heat and gloom of morning.  Salut.

4.  Addiction, not Jane's.  Back in 1988, we went to Eide's Record Store on Penn Avenue.  Our goal was to meet The Crumbsuckers, a musically viable, unknown band of the late 80's punk/thrash movement.  I made my first ever t-shirt which just had four letters --- B.O.M.B.  In retrospect, BOMB (Beast on my Back) was likely a heroin reference.  Hard to say, because the vocals were beyond indecipherable.  And the lyrics weren't offered on the cassette sleeve.  Anyway, the lead singer drew a picture of a stick figure smoking a joint on my t-shirt.  I was in heaven.  Out of all the metal shirts I've ever owned (probably 25 or so), none of which I currently have, this one was my most beloved.  Not sure when it disappeared, but oh what a tragedy.  Even worse than my loss of a vintage Death Angel "Frolic Through The Park" shirt.

So let's call it O-Day.  Overdose day.  Take it from me.  I'm from West Virginia, one of the most drug addicted, smack injecting, pill poppin' states in the country.

I'd suggest a plain white shirt.  Get out that sharpie.  Anytime there's an overdose death, write the name of the individual and the date of birth/death.  On the back, a list of drugs that factored into their death.  If opioids played a significant role, make sure to include the pharmaceutical companies.

5.  God is everywhere. He's all around us.  The $24.99 Walmart LED acrylic nativity scene.  The church bingo auditorium.  The multifaceted transgendered glory hole.  The Easter Egg McMuffin hunt.  It's just so hip to be filled with the spirit of the lord.  Ba Da Ba Ba Bah, I'm lovin it!

Well I don't know what any of that shit fucking means.  Ergo, I propose a day of the devil.  A satanic celebration day.  Let's go with the mind numbingly obvious choice of June 6 at 6pm.   6-6-6, mutha fucka!  Kind of like a demonic 4:20.

St. Clairsville is a dry, little community of 5,000 god fearing residents in central Eastern Ohio.  It boasts a high school whose mascot is a Red Devil.  Every proud parent's vehicle sports both a Jesus fish and a devil's head.  It's an unusual phenomenon.  As you may have surmised, the name of the football team comes under relentless attack.  Roughly once a week, people call in to the local talk radio shows and complain about the influence of satan on our impressionable youth.  Belmont county residents write letters to the editor.  How can we, as parents, dutifully raise our children when the local Board of Education actively promotes satanism?  It's an ongoing cycle of heretical lunacy with no end in sight.

So to properly honor the sacrifice of the Red Devils (present, past and future), I would suggest that once a year, everyone adorn themselves in all red clothing.  Since I'm in charge, let's call it King Diamond Day.  Our Danish heavy metal, soprano superstar is well known for his trademark top hat.  I'd encourage everyone to don a black top hat and drape themselves in red.  Dare I say ensconced in red velvet.  I love this idea.  Groups of people breaking bread at an Arby's speakeasy, chomping on subpar gyros, sharing a sprawled out tray of seasoned curly fries, ingesting the auditory Spyro Gyra and talkin' all fire and brimstone.  But that's just me.

6.  I'm also proposing Anti-Religion Day.  It offers three distinct opportunities for yearly celebration, coinciding with the first Thursday, Sunday and Monday of the NFL regular season.

This would encompass all the skeptics, atheists, secular humanists, agnostics, nonbelievers, freethinkers and anyone else willing to acknowledge the existence of cognitive dissonance.  On the day of your team's NFL opener, everyone wears their monogrammed jerseys.  It's a very seasonal routine as nothing beats the camaraderie of opening day.  My proposal: how about a little official merchandise identity hijacking?  Instead of Roethlisberger 7.  Or Elway 7.  Or Kaepernick 7.  How about we try this one on for size?  Some alternative customization.  GODLESS 1.  Or UNHOLY 1.  Or SINFUL 1.  Or EVIL 1. Or maybe even PERVERTED 1.  One size fits all.

7.  Most people are familiar with the term I.E.D., improvised explosive device.  Far fewer know about I.A.D., Incarceration Awareness Day.  Merica, land of the free.  Isn't it ironic (nauseating Alanis Morrisette reference) that we're the world’s leading jailer.  Representing just 5 percent of the world’s population, we currently hold 25 percent of its inmates.  That's more than a dubious distinction.  The United States easily surpasses all other "civilized" countries.  Could there be a reason?  Oh yeah, prison privatization.  I nearly forgot.  It's the epitome of easy money.  And if you think it was bad during the Obama administration, try to imagine what the prison industry will look like under the reign of Trump.  Lock her up!  Lock her up!  Finally, Trump would have something in common with Oprah.  Well, at least her upbeat dark side.  You go to jail!  You go to jail!  You go to jail!

Orange jumpsuits symbolize the imprisonment culture.  If you don't have any orange clothing, dig out that Charlie Brown great pumpkin shirt.  Or maybe that vintage Carrot Top fan club sweater vest.  Slap on the Trump wig, whatever.  The world is your oyster.  From Orange County, California to Orange Township, New Jersey, we're gonna do this East Coast West Coast shit, homey.  Every July 4th, instead of the sure-fire red, white and blue, we're goin' orange instead.  Haven't you heard?  Orange is the new wack.

Also, make sure to print up a thousand business cards and hand 'em out or put 'em on parked cars.  People should consider expressing their political agenda on business cards.  It's cheap, easy and effective.  This particular one's designed to fuel provocative conversation on the ride home after the fireworks.

Front side --- Is America still the land of the free?

Back side (Three straightforward statements or questions)

Define the term "Prison Industrial Complex."
Is it reasonable to incarcerate a human being for the crime of smoking marijuana?
At what point does solitary confinement become a form of mental or physical torture?

These three have a certain penal panache, but feel free to create your own.

8.  Minnie Mouse and Jerry Sandusky.  They're polar opposites.  One's an adorable cartoon character.  The other, a convicted serial pedophile.

Other than Minnie's polka dot attire and the notion that she appeals to little kids, I know admittedly next to nothing about this delightful Disney character.  I'm more of a Speedy Gonzales man myself.  Andele, Andele!  Ariba, Ariba!   Parenthetically speaking, it's now permissible to use this terminology at a Mexican restaurant.  I hereby decree that it's no longer politically incorrect.  Just don't be obnoxious about it.

Then there's Sandusky.  The guy was charged with 50+ counts of sexual abuse over a 15 year period.  Of course, nobody knew.  Wrong.  Everyone knew.  The problem is that nobody gave a shit.  And the few who actually did care, were silenced and squelched by the money and prestige of the Penn State football program.  Make no mistake.  Entities can exert pressure, much like people in positions of power and authority.

Mankind needs a day entirely devoted to recognizing the scourge of child sexual abuse.  On January 26 (Sandusky's birthday), I want women to wear polka dots and men to wear stripes.  Much like the striped officials on the field whose job it is to uphold the integrity of the game.  The sport of football needs a universal sign for pedophiles.  May I suggest the Generation X, "let's get ready to suck it."  Anytime child molestation is spoken of, please perform the universally accepted "Suck It."  Same thing goes for the Carolina Panthers.  Why?  I have no answer.  That same empty explanation applies to the rationale for a grown man sodomizing a defenseless child.

9.  I'll never forget the day Prince died.  It's just one of those things.  Mason and I met up with Kiss My Grits for lunch.  They wanted chicken'n'waffles.  Our destination?  A dirty lil' Waffle House in lil'  Wash Pa.  In any event, all the the waitress could offer was an order of waffles with a side of chicken fingers and barbeque dipping sauce.  I knew something had gone drastically wrong.  We paid for the coffee and O.J. blood and made a hasty exit.  By the way, I'm pushing a side agenda where the CCGA (California Citrus Growers Association) must refer to orange juice as O.J. Blood.  You wouldn't understand.  It's a murderous, Simpsonesque, gang related thang.

We ended up at The Upper Crust.  A non-chain, gourmet soup, salad and sandwich shop.  5 stars.

April 21.  That's the day it happened.  We had just left the restaurant and started the car when Kiss My Grits made the call.  "You're not going to believe who just died."  I replied, "Who?  One of the Golden Girls?"  Two words.  "Nope... Prince."

Prince was more than an artist.  He was funkin' musical royalty.  He wrote.  He sang.  He played every instrument.  He defined a generation.  The antithesis of a poor man's con man who isn't even remotely deserving of the sophisticated title of charlatan.  A self-anointed king, an impetuous tweeter who spews nonsense and childlike vitriol.  Trump is a keratin-infused cunt who brings disgrace upon the country, not to mention the color orange.

Roughly 20% of the population, is for the most part, worthless.  They function in society at a negative level.  Meaning that virtually all of their decisions have a detrimental impact.  Maybe you're a musician who has never heard of Anthrax.  Nice fucking life.  Maybe you're a biochemist who's unfamiliar with anthrax.  Never from livestock.  Maybe you're a dual anal actress who doesn't know the difference between herpes simplex 2 and a zit.  As a tribute to Prince, may I suggest we all wear purple every April 21.  The day will serve to remind humanity of that which is unmistakably, curiously authentic as opposed to that which is an outright sham.

10.  Every day is human day.  To that end, I have resurrected the Human Fund... money for people.  You probably remember it as the Festivus episode.  Original air date --- December 18, 1997.  Just in time philanthropic inventory, right before the celebratory churn of Christmas.  Of course, the human fund was a categorical fraud.  I think there's a lesson to learned here.  Oh, the words people attach to their lobbying groups.  The lovers of freedom.  The patriots of America.  The defenders of liberty.  Ooh yeah.  Those do sound quite righteous.

Keeping in line with Festivus dogma, I also believe that tinsel is distracting.  May I suggest a silver feathered boa which is a pretty decent approximation to the wearing of tinsel.  You might think that drag queens have an erotic fashion monopoly on the boa.  You would be incorrect.  Every December 18, wear yours with pride, preferably while engaging in feats of strength.



Panty waste has two distinct meanings.

#1:  The dried crusty mucus secretion left in female undergarments.  Gotta admit, I'm 46 years old and until the year 2017 had never heard of the term "clitty litter."
#2:  A sissified boy who is afraid of getting hurt.  See also - pussy, wussy, chicken shit.


New Orleans Saints

Few cities in the United States, or on the planet earth for that matter, can match the revelry of New Orleans.  Witness the gratuitous displays of balconized nudity or hunker down for some sadomasochistic dungeon fornication.  All mixed together with some street music and 'ol time religion.  The Saints aren't just stopping by to say hi.  They're literally in formation... marching in.  Ya know, I've always found that upbeat ditty to be a bit of an oxymoron.   Oh, when the Saints go marching in.  Seriously, why must we joyously celebrate the apocalypse?

Morning beignets and cafe au lait in the morning.  Sazeracs and Hurricanes in the evening... or until six in the mornin'.  Six in the mornin'.

So you're hungover but wide awake.  Your cranium pulsates as you prepare to embark on the hair of the turbo dog.  Sipping on a mamosa while taking in the endless parades and marching bands.

The seafood --- Oysters, crawdads and shrimp.
The style --- Jumbalaya, etoufee or gumbo.
The preparation --- Cajun, creole or soul.

N'Awlins is the gastrointestinal pub of food.  The libation destination for drink.  And of course, the apex of sex.  So a blessed culmination of the three, in a tailgating atmosphere, would surely represent the ultimate trinity.

It's a semantic climax that all cums together at Jizz Fest.

Prepare a vegetable tray of your choosing.  In keeping with geographical tradition, I recommend celery, carrots and a variety of bell pepper.  Keep it nice and colorful.

Now it's time for the dip.  I put my hand upon your hip.  When I dip, you dip, we dip.

Fake semen recipe:

Crack one egg and segregate the yolk.  Whites only!  Add 1 cup of water, 2 tablespoons of cornstarch, 1 tablespoon of plain yogurt (Greek yogurt seems to have the best consistency) and just a pinch, or punch, of sodium.   Whatever amount you deem satisfactory to meet your salted, seminal specifications.

This veggie tray and ejaculatory, jazzy jizzy dip are sure to be a huge hit.



The only reverse hidden lift-up.  If you wish, change the "S" to a "T."


Tampa Bay Buccanneers

Make your very own Tampon Bay Buccanneers centerpiece.  Tampax, Playtex or Kotex.  Doesn't matter.  Strange how all the major brands end in the letter "x."  Seems atypical of competing retail products.

First, an open admission.  I know very little about tampons.  And I know even less about flowers.  But if you were to combine the two, now that's a different story.  Introducing the Tampon Flower Bouquet.  Being artificially indestructible, it will never wilt or shrivel.  And if you incorporate the scented brand, it will emit a fresh spring-time fragrance.

No need to provide detailed instructions.  Just google "tampon bouquet."  Plenty of crafty blogs and pinterest themed entries.  Gotta be honest here.  Until I searched on it, I had no idea that such a flowing feminine subculture even existed.

It's safe to say that every woman on the planet has a story about their menstrual cycle.  Even I have a riveting tale.  And I'm a man.  Back in the mid 90's, I was roller blading around my apartment complex.  I encountered my neighbor Kristin, an albino, heavyset woman with three ill-behaved children.  The kids were arguing and fighting amongst themselves as she unloaded the groceries from her Dodge minivan.  Sensing her distress, I asked her how it was going.  She gave me a blank stare.  A slim menthol cigarette dangled from her mouth.  Smoke billowing as if there had been a terrorist attack.  Defeated and exasperated, "Eric, I'm not menstruating.  I'm marinating."

Now how the fuck do you respond to a comment like that?  "Oh well, at least it's nice outside," I awkwardly mumbled.  Bloody well right it's nice outside.  I'm gonna takes these blades off and go for a Sunday drive.  Maybe blare an old school Supertramp bootleg.  Anyone remember the world's greatest musical dilemma?  Maxell XL-II 90 vs. TDK SA 90.  Quite the high bias controversy.

Anyway, something good did come out of the marination comment.  It served as inspiration for this little ditty.  I call it... "Amazing Blood."

Amazing Blood, how red the dead
That spilled into the sea
I once was cut, but now am healed,
Band-Aid, but now, I'm free


Accusations of plagiarism?  Take it up with the Johnson & Johnson legal department.  If that fails, try the estate of former slave ship master John Newton (1725-1807).

A flood of blood.  Yes!  That's easily my favorite religious expression.  The notion of receiving emotional comfort via someone being tortured, mutilated and meticulously bludgeoned to death.  Now that's uplifting!  Hard to fathom why this narrative plays so well with the masses.  Then again, the average American Christian is pretty bloodthirsty these days.

It doesn't take a genius to realize that God has plenty of standing with the NFL.  Obviously, a Christian god is the superior option.  Everyone celebrating, pointing to the skies.  Everyone kneeling and praying.  I'd suggest against proclaiming Allah Akbar on ESPN.  You might've gotten away with it pre-9/11.  But present day, it would really be testing societal norms.  Hailing Satan might be the better option.

I'll never forget the former Rams owner, Georgia Frontiere, introducing herself to the world after the Rams won the Super Bowl in 2000.  No lengthy victory speech.  She just repeatedly and triumphantly proclaimed, "Thank you Jesus!  Thank you Jesus!  Thank you Jesus!"

Evidently, the body of Christ was the primary reason for the team's success that year.  The coaches were secondary.  The players were tertiary.  Still, I think it's safe to say the holy ghost was appreciative.  Odd that God would have taken such an active interest in two small market teams.  Then again, he is everywhere I suppose.  And the game took place in the Georgia dome.  Hellooo!  The female owner's first name was Georgia.  Now how could that be a coincidence?  Well it isn't a coincidence.  It's God's work.  Everything happens for a reason.  Thank the lord.  Praise his name.

Let's take it a step further.  Let's say you just won the Super Bowl MVP.  This is quite possibly the most prestigious designation in the history of sports.  Rather than the typical, "First I'd like to thank God almighty," I'd like to see a little more in depth acknowledgment of the blood itself.  If they were interviewing me, I'd say something along these lines.  "I wouldn't be standing here today if it weren't for the blood of Christ.  I have been spiritually rewarded with a transfusion of type A negative.  But all I can feel is the positive.  My leukocytes (white blood cells) are fending off the devil.  My platelets are truly blessed.  My plasma is alive and well, carrying the chemical message of a celestial deity.  I want to go to the highest heavenly rooftop and heap hallowed praise upon thy hemoglobin.  Now chant with me, "Flood of blood!  Flood of blood!" and so on.

This all makes sense to me.  Wouldn't a more detailed message be in order?  Simply thanking the lord just seems a bit blase, bordering on apathetic.  So for anyone giving live televised thanks, feel free to apply this methodology.  It doesn't matter if you won an Olympic triathlon or the annual Pinewood Boxcar derby.  Either way, God is great.

This bloody template extends into all walks of life.  Don't be vague.  Precision is vital.  I, for one, would be more appreciative of music that accurately echoes the Jesus experience.  The following songs represent some of the finest Christian contemporary melodies.

This Blood --- for lawyers and ambulance chasers in the courtrooms of America.  Cite it like a legal statute.  Be judicious!  For Christ sake, he's the son of a Jewish carpenter.

O The Blood
--- for poets, philosophers, and to a lesser extent, phlebotomists.

Beautiful The Blood
--- for beauty pageant winners, especially those little girls on Toddlers and Tiaras.

It's Your Blood --- for patriots and freedom warriors like Sarah Palin.  This blood is your blood.  This blood is my blood.  From the Alaska glaciers to the blood drenched islands.  From the swelling arteries, to the pumping ventricles.  This blood was made for you and me.

It's All About The Blood --- for the battle rappers, hip hop wiggers and Puffing Daddies.  It's all about the Benjamins.

Your Blood Ran Down
--- for anyone who runs in the streets.  Oh those zany, charitable 5Ks.  Participants in their costumes, lingerie and underoos.  Or the elite Christian voodoo worshipping, marathon runners of West Africa.  Workin' on a mystery.  Goin' wherever it leads.  Runnin' down a dream.

Covered By The Blood --- A definitive statement on the Affordable Care Act.  Are you covered?  Trumpcare???  Do you really think Trump cares?

Nothing But The Blood --- for the degenerate gamblers.  You might wager away your life savings, but they cannot take your blood.  Unless, of course, you hit up one of those plasma Rent-a-Centers.  Believe you me, their intravenous intentions are entirely noble.  They'll extract your blood for all it's worth, reward you with an Eat'n'Puke smiley cookie and turn that frown upside down.

There Is Power In The Blood
--- for the various metal Gods and thrashing musicians.  Slayer cannot indefinitely reign in blood.  Eventually the band will die and take up residence down below... in hell.

And finally, the inquiry every dutiful parent should make at bath time.  "Are you washed in the blood?"  Would someone please think of the children?  We must teach them the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth... so help me dog.  My sincerest apologies for the inverted typo.  It's neither the time nor the place.



Exclamation point!


Chapter 9 - NFC West


Arizona Cardinals

Every time I plan a trip to Phoenix, I experience the same phenomenon.  I call it Scottsdale Rising.  Someone approaches me and says, "Ughh, it's the middle of August.  It's going to be so hot."  They reflectively pause for a moment of deep thought.  "But then again, it's a dry heat."  Yeah, dry heat.  Like I've never heard that one before.  Rhetorical, fruitless weather observations really bother me.

For example, when you're in a check out line and the cashier asks the person in front of you,  "Still, raining out there?"  When it's unquestionably obvious that if she tilted her head, just ever so slightly, she'd observe the ongoing torrential downpour.  Then, she turns to you and asks the exact same question.  Some might consider this a quaint exchange of pleasantries.  Others would call it verbal diarrhea.  As a writer, words are important to me.  I care about what people say.  When they say it.  How and why they say it.  Even where they say it.  Since the Glendale Cardinals are literally the West Coast dumping ground of the Pittsburgh Steelers, this seems like an ideal location to vent.  Thus I will, in excruciatingly exhaustive fashion.

Let's focus on the weakest forms of discourse.  Some statements serve little purpose.  Other questions are woefully obnoxious.  At any rate, they are symptoms of communicable disease.  These are the conversations to be bemoaned.  In keeping with the idea of mixing it up, we'll randomly intersperse five huge ones with five of much lesser significance.

1.  First are the questions which do not merit an answer.  These are the inquiries of unmitigated chutzpah, baseless temerity.  They usually come from someone you barely know or have never met.  Right off the bat, out of their mouth comes, "What's your monthly car payment?" or "How much do you make a year?"  Summer School Ritalin once asked me how much I paid for my house.  I replied, "Oh, don't worry about it.  I got a pretty good deal."  He actually fired back, "Well you know I can go down to the city county building.  It's all a matter of public record."  Did I feel a tinge of incredulity?  Uh, yeah.

2.  "We were planning a vacation trip to the beach, but with the cost of gas n'at, we had to cancel."  New York, London, Paris, Munich?  Not quite.  When you're from West Virginia there are four very specific getaway options.  Jamboree in the Hills, Ocean City, Myrtle Beach or the Outer Banks.  Of the utmost importance is to buy an OBX oval sticker and place it next to your WV chromium emblem.  Now if there's a jesus fish too, we call that a hillbilly trifecta.  Back to the cost of gas.  Remember when the IRS wanted to round everything to the nearest nickel.  Well, there's a reason the penny will never go away.  It's because of the scrutinizing gas hawks.  Here's the deal.  If the price of a gallon of gas is seriously going to impact your vacation plans, it might be a good idea to forego the trip itself.  Funny thing is, after endless griping about the rising cost of gasoline, they go regardless.  First stop, TGI Fridays where they buy an appetizing round of tequila shooters... the equivalent cost of filling their tank.

3.  Conversations about patriotism are at an all-time high.  Stand for the pledge of allegiance.  Rise for the national anthem.  Remove your ball cap and place your hand on your heart.  Show some damn respect.  Dog Bless America!  Let me make myself clear.  I deplore the "patriot police."  Those who question your love of country solely through what they visually observe.  No exchange of ideas.  No serious discussion.  It's all about a symbol.  It's all about the flag.  Some cloth attached to a pole.  The mandatory lapel flag pin in the presidential debates sets a pretty low standard.  But far worse are the politicians who require a dozen towering U.S. flags behind the podium.  One or two just won't cut it.  If you want leadership to properly quantify their love of country, you gotta have the abundant flag backsplash.  Verified patriotism at its finest.

Were you offended by Colin Kaepernick's decision to remain seated during the national anthem?  Were you truly bothered by the site of grown men raising their fists in alliance with the black lives matter movement?  Boo-hoo.  I doubt you'll care much for my plan to abolish high school drug testing.  The team's lined up for the Friday night game.  Carly Rae Jepsonian, or whoever, is singing the national anthem.  O say can you see.  Right here, I'd like to see the players whip out their dicks and take a piss on the field.  The concept here is pretty straightforward.  Hey, if they need our untrustworthy urine so bad, let's fucking give it to them.  This has serious viral video potential.  Cock jocks gone wild!  I say what the hell.  Eradicating the invasive, established drug testing culture is going to require a shock to the system.  High school kids figuratively pissing on the flag.  Yeah, that might get the ball rolling.

4.  The Retail Routine.  These people speak of only two subjects: where they shop and what they eat.  Not to sound sexist, but it's almost always women.  Oh, you bought the 360 Degree Mirror from Sharper Image.  Yes, the perfect gift for dispelling your vanity obsession.  You probably think that mirror is about you.  And which restaurant will it be tonight?  Lemme guess.  The Bloomin' Onion appetizer with extra dipping sauce.  Outback it is.  That should help with your phony kangaroo diet.

The Retailers rarely have anything interesting to say.  Nothing introspective.  Nothing to boggle the mind or challenge the imagination.  And guess what?  Nine times out ten there's a problem at the restaurant.  The steak was medium instead of medium rare.  The waiter was rude.  He kept interrupting our conversation.  "Would you like to hear the specials?  Can I get you something to drink?"  My favorite is the people who fervently insist on eating out every Saturday night.  They never make a reservation and always complain about the wait.  And what about the diners who must attend every grand opening?  Then, relentlessly complain about banal trivialities.  Guess what?  It takes a couple of weeks to work out the kinks.  I know you're excited about the inaugural debut of that casual upscale chain restaurant.  But chances are that you do NOT have to speak to the manager.   Rest assured, I'm sure you will.  The parking lot was full.  We had to park on the street!  Hey, maybe they'll give us a free dessert if we bitch about the ice cream melting.  Perhaps you suspect there was a booger in the rice pudding, but the evidence had "inconsistencies."  Whenever I see this happening, I go into fake coughing, pseudo-Tourette's mode... fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

5.  The Pornicators.  "REAL MEN DON'T USE PORN" billboards popped up all over Ohio during the Clinton administration.  Conveniently located near every Lion's Den, a rural pornographic emporium of sorts.  What's up with the notion that normal males don't watch porn.  That a typical, honorable man would voluntarily refrain from viewing pornography?  For the love of Long Dong Silver, if I was a woman, I'd be way more scared of the religious creeper, born again fucks.  Those are the ones you gotta keep an eye on.

Back in the 80's, the concept of buying or renting pornographic VHS tapes made sense.  Trust me, there's a reason the adult movie drive-in business model failed.  Cuz most normal people prefer their porn in a private setting.  Unless you're mulling the possibility of a live mule show in Tijuana.  Hell, we used to copy and sell the videos (not of the donkey persuasion).  Cassette tapes too.  I spent most of my high school years running a variation of the Columbia House deal.  11 cassette tapes for only a penny!   But this is 2017.  Who the fuck would actually buy pornography?  For Christ sake, isn't the internet sufficient to meet your ejaculatory requirements and mete out your self-inflicted meat punishment?  Do you really need to buy the entire $19.99 DVD about a lactating MILF's journey to the center of her ass.  Here's a thought.  Go to any XXX search engine.  There's roughly a gazillion.  Type in your specific fetish and add the word "compilation."  Shut. Your. Ass.

6.  "OMG, oh my god, you don't believe in god???"  Listen up Preachy.  If you're going to ask the god(s) question, then be specific.  Which one is it?  The multi-appendaged elephant from India?  Or pastoral cow or whatever.  The faceless, bombastic Allah of Islam?  The nuclear Christian triad which is everything but new or clear?   The one where the overseers and administrators homo-rape little boys?  You see where I'm heading with this.  If you're gonna ask a dumb ass question, at least be specific about it.  That way I can proffer you the appropriate, godless response.

A good friend of mine, Withered Wife Beater, was the prototype church-going conservative.  Whenever the conversation drifted into religion or evolution or the bible, I'd occasionally infuriate him with an offhanded comment.  "Everyone knows that Jesus Christ was a faggot" or "the Mother Mary can suck my mother fuckin' dick."  He'd become instantly incensed.  Funny how much I've changed over the decades.  Nowadays, when the conversation turns religious, I generally remain silent and just listen.  Mostly because of the utter futility of it all.  But politics... hey, that's a different story as you're about to find out.

7.  Defense wins championships.  Yeah, I suppose that's right.  About 50% of the time, not factoring in special teams.  Maybe a little higher in the modern NFL.  It takes a special kind of fan to cut up an actual "D" and carve out the fence.  In essence, you've assumed the heralded status of 12th man.  And with that distinction, you become sectionally obligated to obstruct everyone's view and irritate the entity you've pledged to represent.  Kind of a double edged sword.


“We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.”  Yep, it's the enduring preamble.  Seems like our country is rapidly trending away from its mission statement.

Here's a not-so-friendly budgetary reminder.  When you hike defense spending, there are real-world consequences.  It leaves you acutely vulnerable in other areas.  Agriculture, clean water, education, healthcare, infrastructure, the humanities.  There exists a timeless question --- who watches the watchers?  We're quickly discovering who insures the insurers, who secures our insecurities.  Our general welfare has become nothing more than a justifiable promotion.  I ask, "Will this new version of justice be justified?"  Will the citizens of the United States ever stage a true rebellion?  Will they take offense upon the behalf of our collective defence?

An open challenge to any member of the White House press pool.  Pose the following question.  Should Donald Trump issue a formal apology to President Barack Obama for the years of incessant birther propaganda?  Continuously challenging his citizenship, thereby, attempting to delegitimize his entire 8 year presidency.  Same thing goes for Senator John McCain.  Would he be willing to apologize for trivializing his years as a prisoner of war?  A victim of torture for 5 1/2 years.  This coming from a man who received 5 deferments during the Vietnam era.  This is a straight morality play in the realm of common decency.  It's a game changer with ongoing relevance.  There's an acute danger with a President who never apologizes, has zero empathy and sees everything in terms of black and white.  He wants to be my president but doesn't know how.  He is not my president.

8.  Many people indiscriminately misuse the term "hacking."  Not just the obnoxious orange ogre.  I'm a little sympathetic on this one.  For as we grow older, we become less familiar with the newest technologies.  I don't have the latest model iPhone.  And I'm hardly up to snuff on the animated Pokemon characters.  But when Trump speaks about hacking, it descends into this awkward, nonsensical abyss.  "We came in with the internet.  We came up with the internet.  When you look at what ISIS is doing with the internet, they're beating us at our own game."  A few sentences later, "Cyber is very important to me.  We need to do better with the cyber."

May I float an observation?  Perhaps Trump thinks the word "cyber" is actually "saber," as in a Star Wars lightsaber.  When he says "like cyber," I think he's thinking "light saber."  As though he believes it to be a physical element of internet security.  A verifiable weapon-like glow stick.  When he regurgitates key talking points, how we must be vigilant in protecting American citizens from acts of terrorism.  That includes the gangs and the drugs.  We need stronger planes and ships, we need more nuclear.  And we must do better with the internet, light saber!

He repeatedly speaks of how "everything is hacked."  The terminology lies somewhere between unintelligible coherence and irrational gibberish.  When does it become morally acceptable to openly discuss the benefits of hacking the president.  No, I'm not referring to his twitter account.  I'm talking about physically taking a machete and hacking him to death.  When Kennedy was assassinated, the entire country was devastated.  When Reagan was shot, everyone prayed for a quick and speedy recovery, despite the ideological differences.  But if Trump was murdered?  An act of regicidal retribution?  I think a significant number of people would celebrate, even dance in the streets and hold rooftop style tailgate parties.  Count me in.  You know, like the thousands of Muslims in Paterson, New Jersey.  Then again, Trump's murder could actually come at the exPence of this once great nation.

All of this begs an "unaskable" question.  Discussing the undiscussable is always challenging, so I'll phrase it in Trumpspeak.  This way the leader of the free world won't require an explanation from his national security advisor.  If our cyber is bad, could people end up getting killed?  Although inarticulately framed, I believe the answer to be a resounding yes.  It's only a matter of time, the impetus of which could be real or fake, fact or fiction.  If the POTUS had his way, he'd probably bomb the shit out of me.  Regardless, more and more I wonder if it'll be Trump's twitter account that ends up killing innocent Americans.  And I'm not speaking metaphorically.

9.  The Perfect Tipper at the Chinese Restaurant.  I deplore this conversation.  It's the one I've never had.  Yet it haunts me in my dreams.  Everybody from work has lunch at Golden Chopsticks or House of Wang or Mousy Tongue or wherever.  One person, it's almost always a man, comes out swinging.  When the waiter asks if a single, "Chiang Kai check" will be alright, for the love of Confucious.... NOOOO!  He demands that everybody get separate checks, even the recently engaged couple on the end.  Why?  Because Frugal Gourmet has a superior economic dining strategy.  One that must be fulfilled at any cost.  Well, not any cost.  It's actually a very precise cost.  Frugally yours found a tasty lunch special that sells for exactly $8.30.  Kung Pow!  With tax, the total bill always comes to $8.30.  And that's a generous 20% tip of $1.66.  With 4 cents to spare!  The $10.00 lunch becomes a financial certainty.  And ya wanna know what's even more fucked up?  He actually pays cash with a five dollar bill and five single ones, as if to lend visual credence to the possibility of an even greater tip.  Just in case he gets called on it.  What can I say?  Saf likes his chicken spicy.

Egg Drop, Hot and Sour, or Wonton?  If you believe soup is good food, it's an existential question.  Incidentally, the correct answer is Tom Yum.  Alex the Great referred to "wonton soup" as "chicken wonton."  This always bothered me.  Yes, I'm aware of the chicken broth overtones.  Nevertheless, he'd place the order as an act of spite.  Let it be known, I can forgive but I don't forget.  This will always be known as the wanton wonton.  Inevitably, irrevocably.  Happy Chinese New Year?  No such thing.  In the end, I achieved a minimal degree of revenge via a submission to his mother's local church bulletin --- The Paper Prayer Chain.  My angelic request?  That we pray for his mental health and restored libido.

10.  Time is a constant.  The seconds are stable and steady.  The minutes monochrome.  But can time be improved?  When my mother was running behind, my father had an expression.  "Doreen, take your time... but hurry up."  He was a punctual man.  I may lack his finer qualities, but I do possess his penchant for precision and punctuality.  I don't like to keep people waiting.  The St. C. Deity is the exact opposite.  Always late.  It's my assertion that this is strictly an empowerment ploy, designed to make him the center of attention.  The simplest means of manipulation and control.  Just keep people waiting.  Let their frustration build.  Whether the consensus reaction is positive or negative is completely irrelevant.  Do you know someone who's always late, like habitual clockwork?  It's not by accident or mishap.  It's a physically deliberate calculus.  They're attempting to position themselves at the center of the universe.

Driving a limo gave me a better appreciation of time.  When people make arrangements, it's usually in 5 or 10 minutes.  Or an hour or so.  The only thing predictable about these estimates is their predictability.  Why not be as specific as possible?  The technology is right in front of your face.  Literally.  Your cell phone.  So how about a prognostication?  3 minutes, 18 minutes, 47 minutes.  This level of exactness would hold people to a greater degree of accountability.  Most important, it makes people think.  Takes into account the snow-related conditions, rush hour traffic, bridge closings, etc.  Either way, not only will it improve everyone's mental acuity skills, but also, you'll get a factual, definitive statement on a person's dependability or lack thereof.  Either way it's a win-win.

We've reached the curtain call, or if you will, the final countdown.  As I mentioned earlier, the Cardinals are essentially some kinda Southwestern Steelers catfishing impersonation organization.  All the way down to the terrible towel.  Except their hankies are white w/ red print.  So here's my idea.  Hit up your local Bed Bath & Beyond.  Purchase the 7 pack of white banded hand towels.  Snag a red sharpie and let's cook.  If you lack the requisite creative inspiration, here's a cheat sheet:

I'd rather sniff ammonia than live in Arizona
I'd rather have pneumonia than vacation in Sedona
This state is too fucking hot
Scottsdale Trophy Wives of the World Unite!
You look like a javelina.  Half raccoon, half warthog
MMA?  Mixed Martial Arts or Mesa Mormons of Arizona
Kurt Warner's Wife



If you're one of those cyber gun totin', Ted Nugent rockin', online defenders of the Second Amendment, it's highly probable that you frequently use the word "libtard."  So when it comes to all those women in the streets, marching against Trump, you should consider labeling them "labiatards," or even better, "labe-tards."  This will give you and your ilk a signifcant favorability bump in the court of public opinion.


Los Angeles Rams

The arch of St. Louis is one of our country's more distinctive landmarks.  I seen it on seventy drivin' through the Show Me State.  It represents expansion, pioneer spirit and the gateway to the West.

But Rams owner Stan Kroenke took that message a bit too literally.  You see in 2016, he moved the team from Missouri to California.  The 6 billion dollar man had a different vision.  He needed more money.  More billions.  Kroenke and Los Angeles are a mobile marriage made in movie heaven.  But no actors need apply.  Because L.A. Stan is the real deal.

Enter Los Angeles.  A bold new horizon.  It's the mecca of mammaries.  A lycra spandex factory for fake titties.  Silicon breasts and plastic chests.  I've even heard Angelinos speak of "artificially generated cleavage."  Simply stated, the city is breast obsessed.

I'm gonna give it to you straight up.  Stanley might be able to take the Rams out of St. Louis, but he'll never take the Arch out of the Rams.

Arches and breasts.  Interestingly enough, outlines of them both can be relatively similar.  This is what happens when two worlds collide.  And we're gonna use it to kill Independent Stan.

Project:  Construct a replica arch from tin foil.  If you require instructions on this one, I might suggest practicing stop, drop and roll scenarios.  You probably shouldn't be reading this book.  Ideally the arch should be about the size of a horseshoe.

Now comes the fun part.  Exhibitionism.  Whether it be frontal, sidal or rear.  Every time the Rams score, the male host tosses the miniature arch to any woman in the room.  The woman is then instructed to flash the crowd.  Understandably, not all females are comfortable with living the lifestyle of Sue Ellen Mischke, the braless O'Henry candy bar heiress.  As a fallback plan, the woman is permitted to lift up the other side of her shirt, exposing the arch of her back.

Why am I pushing the nudity angle?  Because California is the worldwide hub of pornography.  After your acting career has failed, think of it as a precursor to your career in the porn industry.  The game is designed to acclimate you to the hedonistic lifestyle you will eventually succumb to.  It's a good thing.

What movie will it be?  Assablanca?  A Tale of Two Titties?  Or something more hardcore like Planet of the Gapes.  Even the Burgh inspired Star Whores from Zack and Miri Make a Porno (obligatory yinzer shout-out to all you Monroevers).

Consider it advanced preparation... H.  The "H" standing for hedonism.

And that's exactly what I want.  For Stan Kroenke to become inextricably linked to the porn industry.  Every time you think of the Rams, I want you to visualize Stan Kroenke getting rammed in the ass.  I want you to mentally incorporate the non-lubricated sodomizing of someone who built an empire based on fucking over everyone in his path.  I call it turning the turntables.  This will be the true Kroenke legacy.  Payback's a bitch.



Honorable mention: RAM IT UP YOUR ASS.


San Francisco 49ers

Open up and say... Ahh!

Ahh, San Francisco.  Welcome to the fairy capital of the west coast.  LGBT... Q?  Cue the LGBT community.  The time has come.  I say fuck the closet.  The time has come to cum out of the armoire and proudly share its contents.  Strap-on dildo?  Nipple clamps?  Butt plug?  Cock ring?

What better a way to embody the fag movement than a miniaturized replica of Levi's Stadium in Santa Clara, CA.  Yes, I realize it's not San Fran.  But we'll do our best to recapture the essence of a lavish gay hippie pride parade.

All that's required are a few items.

1) A discarded rectangular tissue box.  This will set you back about a buck.  After all, it's snot free.

2) You'll also be needing some scotch tape, a hot glue gun and a couple of glue sticks.  These items can also double as a bondage and sadomasochistic torture device.  Hot. Hot. Hot.

3) And finally, a bag of gummi bears.  These colorful, little dancing bears might remind you of the famed intersection at Haight and Ashbury.  Be grateful, you ungrateful piece of shit!  Gummi bears represent all the colors of the rainbow.  They're a very inclusive candy.

Somewhere over the rainbow
Up your thigh
The wet dreams that you creamed of
Be fruitful and multiply.


That final biblical passage really doesn't mesh well with the queer version.  How about, "Be fruitful and fructify?"  Of course.  That's much better.

Directions:  Cut the top off of the tissue box.  Slice a slit down the short sides and separate at a 30 degree angle.  This is correctly referred to as the "cardboarded meat curtains" effect.  Next is the creative part.  It's time to fill up the stadium.  Fill 'er up like a Sunday matinee orgy at a posh homo whorehouse.

Glue those gummies at your discretion.

Winning record?  The stadium is packed with an almost fudge-like consistency.
Bad season?  There's gonna be quite a few no shows.  Fans stay home... in the closet where they belong.

You might wish to reinforce the stadium with some stiff wood.  Chopsticks, tongue depressors, whatever.

And always remember, you can't spell "stadium" without the AIDS.



Normally, I have minimal admiration for those who ink themselves with Jesus crap.  But ya gotta love Kaepernick.


Seattle Seahawks

Once upon a time, back in the early 1980's, at the height of Nancy Reagan's "Just Say No" campaign, middle school kids from all over the Ohio Valley descended upon the Wheeling Civic Center.  The inspirational speaker was an anti-drug advocate named David Toma.  Toma?  What's a Toma?  Let it be known, I got a lotta laughs that day.  Telling anyone and everyone, "I don't understand why all of us have to go see Yoda.  What makes him so wise?"

A school principal made the introduction and got the whole arena chanting, "Toma! Toma! Toma!"  All the kids were fired up.  The municipal building was at a fever pitch.  Picture a throng of kids with the collective sass of a Gary Coleman and the spunk of a Punky Brewster.  United as one.

As a 6th grader from an admittedly conventional family, up to that point, I had led a pretty sheltered life.  Definitely when it came to issues like drug and alcohol abuse.  My mother drank an occasional glass of wine, but aside from iron and calcium supplements, I never saw anything in the realm of pain pills.  The same is true of my father.  He'd occasionally have a Miller Light... but only with his meal.  Dope just wasn't a factor in my day-to-day activities.

Toma's speech was incendiary.  He captivated us with a story about a recovering addict who had snorted so much cocaine that his septum had eroded.  Alas, the booger partition was no more!  The guy was able to feed a handkerchief from one nostril to the other.  Toma vividly recalled the man yanking the handkerchief back and forth, with absolutely no resistance whatsoever.  Even though I'd eventually hit 46 Grateful Dead concerts and have my fair share of mind altering experiences, that particular tale is the one that leaves me with riveting, olfactory flashbacks.

Depending on your perspective, it's funny (or sad) how the United States government will always view the drug problem from the supply side.  Why?  Well because that's where the money is.  No duh (another 80's expression that's making a snappy comeback).  Isn't it peculiar how so many of our representatives have little difficulty disregarding the fundamental laws of supply and demand?  Oops I did it again.  I forgot.  It's all about the fabulous moola.

When you think of the nationwide heroin epidemic, the city of Seattle seems to stand out.  Not sure how much this impacts Paul Allen.  He's the one who owns the Seahawks.  The reclusive co-founder of Microsoft has a paltry net worth of 20 billion.  Much to his credit, Allen is quite the philanthropist.  Donating vast sums of money to a wide variety of causes.  But to the best of my knowledge, nothing in the realm of drug prevention and awareness.

Whaddya say we change that?  I formally challenge Paul Allen to lend me a hand and embrace the drug counterculture, in a way that some might argue is counterproductive.  Let's bond together and fire a warning shot across the bow of drugs.

I call it O.S.S.  No, not the clandestine Office of Strategic Services, a branch of the CIA.
This is O.S.S. --- Operation Seahawk Shots.  Go Hawks.

Purchase a 25 pack of EZ-Inject Jello Shot Syringes (medium 1.5 oz) or anything comparable.  Each plastic syringe usually costs about a buck.  You can even purchase flesh or chocolate colored "Peni-Colada" syringes.  Yep, you guessed it.  They're cock replicas.  The perfect fit for any bachette party.

Go youtube a video for syringe jello shots.  There are plenty out there.

I've devised a comprehensive list of every conceivable Jello flavor and cross-referenced them with popular street names for illegal drugs.  It's based on mnemonic alliteration.  Helpfully designed to heighten narcotics awareness.  This should theoretically improve your street cred when engaging in future thugging endeavors.  Think of all the people who'll be impressed: white college kids from the DC beltway, skaters, ravers and miscellaneous hipster dufii with massive earlobe holes and surgically implanted horns.

Combine the names for an appropriate label.  For example, apple atom bomb, apricot African salad, and so on.

Apple - atom bomb (marijuana mixed with heroin)
Apricot - African salad (kat)
Berry Blue - black beauties (Adderall)
Black Cherry - bloom (bath salts)
Black Raspberry - battery acid (GHB)
Blackberry - B-40 (cigar laced with marijuana dipped in malt liquor)
Blackberry Fusion - blue (OxyContin)
Bubble Gum - biscuits (MDMA)
Celery - chalk (methamphetamine)
Cherry - cactus (peyote)
Cherry Lemonade - chronic (hip hop term for potent marijuana)
Chocolate - champagne and caviar (cocaine and marijuana)
Coffee - cubes (crack cocaine)
Cola - circles (Rohpinal, a designer date rape drug)
Concord Grape - cat valium (ketamine)
Cotton Candy - cartwheels (amphetamines)
Cranberry - china white (heroin)
Cranberry Strawberry - candy blunt (a blunt dipped in cough syrup)
Fruit Punch - flake (cocaine)
Grape - goods (drugs)
Green Apple - goofballs (barbituates)
Italian Salad - "I wanna talk to Samson" (line from the movie Half-baked)
Lemon - liberty caps (mushrooms)
Lemon Lime - love trip (ecstasy and mescaline)
Lime - looney tunes (LSD)
Mango - moon gas (Nitrous Oxide)
Maple Syrup - mind blow (LSD)
Margarita - Molly (Ecstasy)
Melon - Mister Brownstone (heroin)
Melon Fusion - Miss Emma (morphine)
Melon Berry - Mushies (psylocibin)
Mixchief Grape - Mow the grass (to smoke marijuana)
Mixchief Juice - Matchbox (a container w/ 6 marijuana cigarettes)
Mixchief Soda Pop - Maui-wowie (meth)
Mixed Vegetable - Merk (cocaine)
Orange - ozone (PCP)
Orange Banana - on ice (in jail)
Orange Pineapple - on the bricks (walking the streets)
Passion Fruit - platters (hash)
Peach - poor man's ecstacy (cough syrup)
Pina Colada - purple haze (marijuana)
Pineapple - planks (Xanax)
Pineapple Grapefruit - pepsi (crank)
Plain - poppers (inhalants)
Raspberry - rock (cocaine)
Raspberry Mango - rock star (a woman who trades sex for crack)
Root Beer - road dope (methamphetamines)
Seasoned Tomato - serax (tranquilizers)
Sparkling Berry - soda (injectable cocaine)
Sparkling Mandarin Orange - shabu (ecstacy)
Sparkling White Grape - sugar cubes (LSD)
Strawberry - skittles (Ritalin)
Strawberry Daiquiri - special K (ketamine)
Strawberry Punch - snuff (chewable tobacco)
Strawberry-Banana - scratch (Vicodin)
Strawberry-Kiwi - schwagg (low quality pot)
Triple Chocolate - temple balls (hash)
Tropical Fruit - tweekers (those who use meth)
Tropical Fusion - Twenty and Forty (A $20 bag of marijuana and a forty ounce bottle of malt liquor)
Watermelon - wack (PCP)
Watermelon Candy - whizz (crystal meth)
Wild Strawberry - whippets (inhalants)
Wild Raspberry - white horse (cocaine)

Best served chilled.



Ka-Kaw, bitches!


Chapter 10 - The Pittsburgh Steelers


I saved the best for last.  The team with the most Super Bowl wins.  The epitome of stability, consistency and integrity.  The mighty Stillers are the envy of the league.  Well, except for New England.

Scrolling back through these electronic pages, you might get the impression I really hate the NFL.  But that's not entirely true.  As of the publication date (5-4-17), I've attended 101 Steelers games.  Isn't it peculiar how an individual with such contempt in his heart would freely attend the games?  Emphasis on the word "freely."

But then I got the call from Mason.  I was out golfing with Ratboy.  "Eric, two detectives stopped by the house.  They want you to stop putting your business cards on the cars outside Heinz Field.  Said they've received complaints.  I told them you'd call them back."

 



Granted, it's a tad apocalyptic.  But at least it's not religious.

I phoned them the following morning and explained my rationale.  Since the venue has 68,000+ cell phones and the stadium is a wirelessly hyper-connective environment, I think it would be a good idea to divulge some common sense, public safety information.  Please be advised, it is not the policy of Heinz Field to issue emergency evacuation orders via your personal cell phone.

Reason being, if an evac order came from your cell phone, it's obviously a hoax designed to create a panic.  In this new social media era of fake news and viral hoaxes, it would seem wise to get ahead of the curve on this one.  Now from an awareness perspective, if they wish to take it a step further and educate their fans about other aspects of the problem, well, that would be up to them.  All I want is for them to disclose the bare minimum amount of relevant safety information.  It's a morality thing.  You know... if you see something, say something.

I've had plenty of encounters with stadium security.  One experience bordered on the bizarre.  I struck up a conversation with an event staffer outside Heinz Field and she totally freaked out.  Stuck both fingers in her ears and started violently stomping and screaming.  "I can't hear you!  I can't hear you!"  It had this screechy Saved by the Bell vibe.

Apparently, Steelers management has warned their employees, "if you engage this guy in conversation, you'll be fired on the spot."  They even refer to me as the lunatic who wants to blow up the stadium.  It's hardly the first time I've encountered resistance.  The cops back in Wheeling labeled me "manifesto fucktard."  For what it's worth, I actually liked that nickname.  Had this anarchistic spiffy hillbilly gusto.

Venue evacuation orders don't come from your cell phone.  If an evac is deemed absolutely necessary, incident command uses the public address and the video monitors.  NOT CELL PHONES.  Hmm, maybe the material is too complex.  Maybe if I simplified things a bit.  Rather than broaching themes of plausible deniability, hypothetical litigation and the lose-lose proposition.  Rather than explaining the paradox or walking them through the catch-22.  Maybe if I took a more streamlined, comedic approach.  Maybe that would work.  Hell, I've tried everything else.  Why not give it a shot?

Like I was saying, since younger people in their 20's and 30's have less difficulty comprehending the security disconnect, perhaps it would be wise to reconfigure my message for these old-timers.  Therefore, I devised a new strategy for senior citizens.  Those who sit on their front porch in the summertime, in a rocking chair, drinking Country Time or Iron City.  Hopefully, it will resonate with the Heinz Field geezers.

Simplification is all the rage these days.  Nobody has the time to listen to the intricacies.  And the few that might give a damn, often lack the requisite intellectual curiosity.  So I assembled a cast of familiar cartoon characters.

Here's what I'm thinking...

Personal Introduction:
Hey hey hey!  (Fat Albert)
I will initiate all future conversations with some jovial banter from legendary comedian, beloved television father and serial rapist, Bill Cosby.

Mission statement:
Here I come to save the day!  (Mighty Mouse)
That's right.  I'm here to fix your stadium security issues.  Best of all, much like any superhero or miniaturized rodent, my services are free and designed to mitigate social media pestilence.

Assertion:
Cell phones are bad, m'kay.  (South Park's Mr. Mackey)
Believe it or not, I'm not the only person on the planet earth who has theorized of the wireless equivalent of shouting "fire" in a crowded theater.  Just the first to write about it... in sweeping detail.

Hand them my card:
And now, here's something we hope you'll really like!  (Rocky)
Well, not quite.  In fact, those little cards have made me the most deeply misunderstood, heavily despised resident in the entire city of Pittsburgh.

Knowledge:
I am so Smart! S-M-R-T!  (Homer Simpson)
I'm smarter than the av-er-age bear/Jew.  (Yogi Bear/Yogi Berra)
D'oh!  The great Yankees catcher once said, "It ain't over til it's over."  I concur.  My qualifications aren't as much about education as they are gumption and perseverance.

Debate:
That's all I can stands, I can't stands no more!  (Popeye)
When they attempt to scrutinize my concerns or play devil's advocate regarding a subject which they know next to nothing.

In summation:
A little consideration, a little thought for others, makes all the difference. (Eeyore)
Rather than viewing the problem in terms of your own specific stadium, maybe it's time to think of the entire overlapping system.  I realize that ancient Greek platitudes aren't as much fun as "Here we go, Steelers, here we go."  But try to think in terms of Aristotle --- the whole is more than the sum of its parts.  It's about ALL of the stadiums, not just yours.

Closing Farewell:
Th-th-th-that's all folks!  Shalom.  (My personal variation of Porky Pig.  The name's Kosher Swine)

Furthermore, in an attempt to explain this generational warfare conundrum and make the asymmetric cyber-security threat "more fun," I've also been working on a Dick and Jane narrative.  Regrettably, those two must learn the hard way how it's possible to indiscriminately kill people without conventional weapons.  This ain't terribly uplifting, but hopefully, it will strike a chord.

The idea here is to dumb it down.  Explain the progression at the level a toddler would understand.  Think of it in terms of a national security briefing for someone with the mentality and intellectual capabilities of a petulant 7th grade bully.  Hmm, sound like anybody we know?

See Dick run.  See Jane run.  Who are these kids?  Hey, maybe there's a reason they're running.  Because the kids are NOT alright.  Oh, the simulated horror!

So I'll continue on with the business cards.  All the while, stealing multiple rolls of industrial strength garbage bags conveniently located along the stadium perimeter.  It' s not a big deal.  I'm a huge Steelers fan, emphasis on the word "steel."  As in every time I leave the game I steal a roll of trash bags.  They actually make for outstanding, utilitarian housewarming gifts.

On a more sentimental side note, check out these handmade "terrible twirlers."


Just send me cash or a check for $25.00.  E-mail me for details (sonofsaf@mail.com).  These are the ultimate stocking stuffer for any atheist Christian, diehard Steelers fan.  Each twirler comes with one of my original business cards.  It offers a black and yellow window into my unique story about why I'm the most hated man in Pittsburgh... and beyond.



Wouldn't it be ironic if my favorite stadium was spared from the carnage?  Kinda figures the Steelers would open on the road this year.  The cities I'd be most worried about on September 10, 2017 (the day before 9/11): Buffalo, Landover, Nashville, Miami, Houston, Detroit, Chicago, Cincinnati and Cleveland.

"And Rooney, you're doing a heckuva job!"


Epilogue, Part I


In 2003, I organized a Benny Hinn protest.  For those unfamiliar with the faith healing circuit, he's one of the world's wealthiest, most prominent televangelists.  Hinn was hosting a miracle service at Pittsburgh's Mellon Arena.  It was my contention that Mellon Bank should be held accountable for allowing a con artist to use a taxpayer funded, municipal arena.  After all, they bought the naming rights.  Their name was on the building.  Therefore, they had a moral duty to ensure the arena was not used to commit acts of outright theft and fraud.  From a public relations perspective, I was hoping the board of directors would agree.  In an ideal world, actively promoting and tacitly endorsing the televangelism industry should be construed as bad for business.

This seemed like common sense to me, but in retrospect, I had way too much faith in the big banks.  Perhaps, in our vast cosmos, this was the reason I was never able to become a banker.

I would suggest a similar boycott for official NFL sponsors until the league voluntarily divulges generic public safety information regarding outdated stadium emergency evacuation protocol.  Here's a generally vindictive list of reasons to reject the following products and corporations.  Let's showcase some of the National Football League's longest running advertisers.  We'll do a dozen, cousin.

1.  Ford ---  Spending the majority of my life on the West Virginia/Ohio border, I've become intimately familiar with the Chevy vs. Ford debate.  It seems to overlap the other great debate.  The hillbilly vs. the redneck.

A hillbilly elegy
to those driving a Chevy
is scorned and deplored
by the redneck in a Ford


I have an inclusive strategy for bringing these two subcultures together.  It's a mutual bonding experience that matches the wonderment and awe of visiting Yosemite National Park.  Here's the plan.  Establish a government funded project called "Trump Flap."  It's conceptually grounded in Obama's socialized "Cash 4 Clunkers" program.  Every pick-up truck driver gets a free pair of mud flaps.  But instead of the fiery Yosemite Sam, it's the putrid face of Trump.  Back off!

2.  Gatorade
--- Does anyone remember Gatorgum?  It came in two distinct flavors, lemon lime and orange.  It was an explosion of artificially generated saliva.  Quite possibly the tastiest product ever.  One that lasted for... well, about 7 seconds.  Then it became one of those things where you just chew and chew.   Eventually you were left behind with a flavorless TMJ headache.  Comparable to chewing on a broccoli wad rubber band.

3.  Campbell's ---  Soup is good food.  Who would have dreamed that an advertising campaign from 1975-1982, would be so relevant in the year 2017?  That marketing slogan strikes me as a little Trumpesque.  "Yes, we're going to eat some really great soup.  I think we're all going to enjoy the taste and be impressed.  It will be nice and really, very wonderful."  Anytime Trump endorses a product, say dandruff shampoo for instance, society should dutifully reply, "Yes, dandruff shampoo is mmm mmm good."

A fantastic trivia question for all you schmoopies out there.  Can you name the nine different flavors mentioned in the Soup Nazi episode?  Mulligatawny, turkey chili, crab bisque, lima bean, jambalaya, gazpacho, corn and crab chowder, wild mushroom and cold cucumber.  Forgive the cynicism, but with all the palatable choices, why would anyone opt for cold cucumber?

4.  USAA Insurance
--- Easily my biggest pet peeve.  An insurance company whose primary marketing angle is to espouse militaristic themes of god & country.  For Christ sake, it's the fucking insurance business.  It doesn't give a fuck.  Even if it could excrete incremental turds, it still wouldn't give a shit.  USAA apparently stands for United Service Automobile Association but they rarely disclose the acronym.  They just want you to stand up, wave the flag and shout U.S.A.! U.S.A.!

I am not a number, I am a free man.  Yes, that would be correct.  You're free to buy mandatory insurance.

5.  Frito Lay ---  Whenever I'm going to a go-go or going golfing, these are my go-to snacks.  A bag of Funyuns for the front 9.  Around deez parts, we ask the question, "Are you frontin' Funyinz for the front?"  And a bag of Munchos for the back.  Easily my favorite brand of genetically engineered potato crisps.  Such a shame that mentioning the product makes you sound like a fucking retard.  Those salted, seasoned fucks!

6.  Marriott
--- Nearly every day, for almost ten years, I'd go the nearby Courtyard by the Marriott hotel.  I'd steal three newspapers from the separate stacks in the lobby.  The Wheeling Intelligencer, a U.S.A. Today and The Wall Street Journal.  Then, I'd help myself to a yogurt, miniature box of Raisin Bran and a piece of fresh fruit.  Every once in a while, I'd stick around and make a waffle.  This was my life.

One day, at the Walmart in Dallas Pike, a woman in the check out line turned to me and said "Hey, I see you everyday.  How's it going?"  I was perplexed. "Thanks, I'm good.  But I'm pretty sure you have me confused with somebody else."  She smiled and snapped back, "No, it's definitely you.  You probably don't recognize me cuz I'm not wearing my uniform.  You're the guy who comes in every day and steals the newspapers!"  Taken aback, I squirmed.  "Uh yeah, that would be me.  You're not planning on ratting me out, are you?"  Her cheerful verbatim response, "Oh no!  Everyone likes you.  We just don't like the creepy guy who steals the papers."  I was in disbelief.  "You gotta be kidding me!  There's another guy who steals newspapers?"  She eyed me up, "Yep!  We talk about you guys all the time.  It's like you're part of our extended Marriott family."

7.  Visa --- This world renowned credit card company used to have a little kiosk outside Heinz Field.  It was one of those, sign up for an official looking Steelers credit card and get a free t-shirt, blanket, poncho, whatever.  But on this occasion, the promotional freeblie was a plastic, reusable alcohol bladder flask.  I couldn't believe it.  How could stadium security be okay with that?  It was basically a ringing endorsement.  We're begging you to smuggle liquor into the stadium!  Naturally, the Captain & Cokes flowed like Captain & Tennille.  It made me reflect upon my rocky relationship with the Pittsburgh Steelers.  Aww, mixed drinks will keep us together.

8.  FedEx --- Was it just me, or did the movie Castaway seem like a two and a half hour commercial for Federal Express.  Just kidding, great movie.  Many moons ago, I came up with a tailgating game.  It's a slick way to get your kicks.  I call it "Thread the Needle."  Set up shop near the main entrance of the venue.  Over time, a staggered crowd will enter the facility.  Your goal is to kick a soccer ball, back and forth, between the line of incoming attendees.  See how long you can go before some drunken moron intervenes and kicks the ball into outer space.  When it inevitably happens, cry out "WILSON!"

9.  Papa John's --- The most obnoxious imbecile I've ever encountered was my freshman college roommate at the University of Dayton.  He was an aspiring mechanical engineer who was consistently failing basic algebra and other remedial math classes.  In my writings, I specifically make it a point to avoid using real names.  Not this time.  Mike Bowlen, currently age 46, originally from Buffalo, New York.  This witless moron would regularly call various local pizza joints and place fictitious orders.  Then, he'd zip down to the lobby of Stuart Hall, hide in the corner and watch for the delivery guy.  He'd get this warped satisfaction from basking in their confusion.  For him, each and every time was a unique source of hilarity.  He'd take tremendous delight in the thought of a manager deducting money from the poor schmuck's paycheck.  No transaction, no tip and a lot of wasted time and energy.  What a fucking jag-off.  Complete detriment to mankind.  He also had a strange penchant for repeatedly blaring songs about women, although to the best of my knowledge, never got laid.  (Beach Boys - California Girls, Motley Crue - Girls, Girls, Girls, etc.).  I honestly hope the guy's dead.

10.  Verizon --- Stealing cable.  Nothing gave me greater satisfaction.  I used to live in Oglebay Village Apartments.  A low income housing complex situated next to a 5 star Arnold Palmer golf course.  That's Wheeling for ya!  We'd continually pry open the cable box, remove the blocker and insert the coax directly into our apartment hookup.  Weeks or months would pass and we'd eventually get caught.  But there was never any retribution or retaliation.  Every time it happened, the cable guy would just fix the situation.  This routine happened about 5 or 6 times.  One day, the television went blank.  I waited for the cable guy to leave, ripped off the box and our coax input area was covered in a ball of this slimy, smelly, sticky goo.  Mother fucker gooped us!  Well played.

11.  Proctor & Gamble --- P&G has a myriad of products.  But the one with the biggest potential for explosive growth?  Pampers.  I can't tell you how many times I've seen a dignified mother on Maury Povich.  "Murrie, my baby needs pampers and wipes!"  Well, you'd best take heed.  I'm interested in fueling the diaper market.  Taking it to a time and place where no diaper dispensing magnate has gone before.

Seriously, wouldn't the world be a better place if grown men and women went around town shitting and urinating all over themselves?  You're probably thinking, "Saf, how could that be a good thing?"   Well, if everyone jumped on board, we could eliminate the need for public restrooms altogether.  Think of all the money saved on construction costs and janitorial services.  Not only that, but we just squashed the ongoing transgendered bathroom controversy in one fell swoop.

I even have the perfect spokeswoman in mind.  Local musician and fellow Pittsburgh native, Mt. Lebanon's very own, Grace Martine Tandon.  You probably know her as Daya... as in diarrhea.  If she declines, plan B incorporates Urethra Franklin.

12.  McDonald's --- The pink slime controversy?  The seasonal sabbatical of McRib?  The notion that their beloved clown mascot bears a striking resemblance to the President of the United States?  Lordy, McLordy.  Trumpy, McTrumpy.  So many options here.  I will focus on two of them.

The notion of a Hamburglar intrigues me.  A jailhouse character so obsessed with hamburgers that he'd be willing to risk perpetual incarceration.  Hey, isn't the Alcatraz correctional attire a dead giveaway?  For what it's worth, I openly encourage theft from McDonald's.  I used to steal their ash trays and velcro them to the furniture in my apartment.  Pretty sure that smoking is now prohibited at all participating locations.  So how about we start a new trend?  I call it "drive thru, fuck you."  Say it like you mean it!  DRIVE THRU FUCK YOU!!!  Basically, you place an order and then just drive off.  I recommend something in the $20 range.  This reeks absolute havoc with their internal operations.  The busier, the better.

There's exists a youtube internet subculture that promotes cell phone captured video of drive thru mayhem.  You place your order, pull up to the window, pay for it and then throw the beverage back at the employee.  This delightful prank is called "fire in the hole."  That's what you're supposed to yell as you toss back the "drink grenade."  I heartily condone this behavior.  But I'd like to slightly alter the rules.  Instead of a soft drink, I want the aggressor to throw McFlurries or Shamrock Shakes.  Instead of yelling "fire in the hole," might I suggest hooting "McFlurry" or howling "Shamrock Shake."  Pittsburgh residents only: you're allowed to shout "flurry."  In honor of Penguins goaltender Marc-Andre Fleury.  "Furry fury" is acceptable too, but only during the annual Anthrocon celebration at the David Lawrence Convention Center.

In the future, whenever someone orders one of these items, it will strike fear and terror into the hearts and minds of McDonald's employees everywhere.  "Shamrock Shake," she uttered in a trembling voice.  This is the world I want to live in.

As you near the end of this unorthodox dissertation, you may have noticed one glaring inconsistency.  The book contains a slew of unique pinterest-oriented projects.  But there are no pictures.  Why is this?  Well, there's a reason.  I didn't want my specific inspirational vision to skew the reader.  My hope is for people to unleash their own brand of creativity.  Not just merely replicate the pictures they see on a computer screen.  In my case, imitation is not the sincerest form of flattery.  Believe me, if y'all viewed the world as I do...


Epilogue, Part II


Fantastical Football

Back around 1990, a disturbing prenatal precedent emerged.  For reasons unknown, parents began naming their male babies after cities in the great state of Texas.  Austin, Houston, Tyler, Bryan, Irving... even more obscure names like Amarillo.  Label me a cynic, but if mommy and daddy are both a hundred pounds overweight and decide to name their boy Lubbock, in all likelihood, they've probably done the little lardy chubster a grave disservice.  If your family tree has a history of mental illness, for God sake, don't name the kid Waco.  However, I do like Corpse Christ.  It's the favored evangelical variation of Corpus Christi.  Hey, it's a natural spinoff on the body of Christ, body of Christ.

An NFL athlete should consider executing something I've termed the "pigskin bomb."  It's a tremendous opportunity for a mediocre player, preferably a wide receiver.  May I recommend legally changing your first name to Dallas and your last name to Sucks?  That's right!  Dallas Sucks.  If you find this too distasteful, maybe change your first name to Dal, last name to Ux, middle name Ass.  It's a fair compromise.

Every fantasy league has that bleak moment at the end of the draft.  When each participant chooses a relatively obscure athlete in order to complete their roster.  Dallas Sucks would be something akin to a misguided prophecy.  Does he suck?  Will he suck?  Does it even matter?  Hell no.  He'd clearly steal the spotlight by virtue of his name.  It's an announcer's wet dream/worst nightmare. Kind of like a spoken word, golden ticket.  The ultimate achievement in marketing.

The NFL owners have made it abundantly clear that maximizing profit, at any cost, is their ultimate goal.  They have zero loyalty to the cities in which they reside.  They regularly chew up and spit out players, leaving them concussed and demented.  The fans are financially exploited for personal seat licenses.  A hot dog and draft beer usually sets you back twenty bucks.  The privilege to park your car, $50.00.  And the taxpayers foot the broader bill for their perpetual greed.

It's time to break that cycle.

Does anyone recall the brief career of Rod Smart?  Smart did something, well... smart.  He wasn't as athletically gifted as some of his counterparts so he unilaterally altered the playing field.  Instead of putting the name "Smart" on the back of his jersey, he opted for the grammatically challenged phrase "He Hate Me."  Of course, he could only have pulled off this stunt in football's studio wrestling league.  Still, that jersey became the #1 seller of the now defunct XFL.  From a branding perspective alone, it was a kill shot.  In the NFL, where self promotion and renegade publicity are the new norm, why not take it to the limit (Eagles style)?  The only downside... every time he drops a pass, you'll assuredly hear the cacophony from the dimwitted football acolytes.  "Dallas Sucks!"

This concept has merit because it appeals beyond the Cowboys fan base.  Redskins and Giants fans would eat this shit up faster than an emaciated Tiny Tim consuming a bowl of cold porridge.  Eagles supporters, like a pureed cheesesteak in a pot of Chilean gruel.  Just an aside, always be leery of a menu with "cheeseburger soup."  Do I really need to explain why?

Regardless, this works for anybody, even a lowly AFC Browns fan.  Anyone can wear a DALLAS SUCKS jersey.

Why the Cowboys you ask?  Because they're "America's team."  Come to think about it, as you're approaching the end of this book, you might be experiencing a revelation of sorts.  This guy and the NFL appear to have a mutually parasitic relationship.  While there may be a nearby Harmony, Pennsylvania, I'm sensing a connection that is anything but harmonious.

One might surmise that the NFL cares far less about me than vice-a-versa.  But you'd be wholly incorrect.  Roger Goodell and his consortium of elite multi-billionaires truly despise me.  They're terrified of my agenda.  Of course, they don't know me personally.  Many are just secretly aware of some hillbilly Jew bastard, who on a routine basis, seemingly takes delight in jeopardizing their brick and mortar, warrior empire.

Let it be known, I wish to advance the cause of humanity DESPITE the existence of the NFL.  Our interests are mutually exclusive.  Think in terms of the coin flip at the Super Bowl.  One side is heads.  The other is tails.  You can't have it both ways.  The only viable alternative would be to refrain from the coin toss itself.  I say, "No.  Fucking.  Dice."  I'm going to roll the dice and flip that coin, while simultaneously flipping them off.  And just how will they respond?  Cowardly silence.

So here's a genuine proposition.  If anyone affiliated with the NFL is willing to acknowledge my concerns, I'll legally change my name from Eric Saferstein to Aunt Jewmima to Auntie Jo Meemaw to Judas Iscariot.  That's four, count 'em four, distinct name changes.  Except I want 32 silver coins.  One for each team.  How's that for a negotiation tactic?  Sonofsaf.  I's in town, honey.  Big bang baby.  Jesus Christ > Superstar > Who in the hell do you think you are?

Coaches often prep their team as if they're going to war.  It's a predictable analogy.  Incidentally, one that does an immense injustice to those who actually serve our country for paltry wages.  Ya wanna know something?  The NFL would eagerly declare war upon me.  Oh, if only they had the testicular fortitude, in the form of balls.  But alas, they were ethically castrated long ago.  These are the real games.  The games people play, with a discernible inevitability in play.  In the darkness and under the lights.  Remember, in war, there are no rules.  Principally, I am the one who's morally holding them hostage.  I'm the one who has intellectually occupied their domain.  This isn't a negotiation.  The National Football League must concede to my larger demands.

Little does the NFL comprehend my secondary related objective.  To degrade and destroy Fantasy Football as well.  So to that end, I came up with an alternative game.  It's equally entertaining.  Requiring more thought, focus and deliberation.  And it will make you a superior observer of the game itself.  It's called Fantastical Football.  More on that in a bit.

Like much of society, I jumped on the fantasy football wagon back in the late 90's.  Participated for a few years.  Mother of Mary, we were all so innocent.  Little did we know the game would burgeon into a phantasy phalanx.  Fifteen years later, I rejoined the collective.  This wanted man ventured out of the cellar and returned to the scene of the crime.  I was back for more.  Ratt'n'Roll.

Fantasy Football carries with it some recognizable frustrations.  But the most obvious annoyance is "the conversation."   The worst case scenario is the Monday morning workplace water cooler discussion.  They all take turns.  Going back and forth, spewing the Sunday stats.  Everyone cares about one thing and one thing only.  Intermittently espousing their own player's accomplishments.  They name names like a blacklisted communist at Hop Sing's.

My running back is a beast.
That stupid idiot failed another drug test.
So and so is worthless.  He always ends up on injured reserve.
One of my perverts was arrested for sucking a cub scout's dick in a public men's room.  Whatever the case, he's dead to me.

It reminds me of the current political climate.  Everyone chimes in from every conceivable direction about their personal agenda but nobody listens.  Nobody wants to hear anything.  Except the sound of their own voice.

I originally created fantastical football as a game to play with my girlfriend who was equally annoyed by the same incessant gibberish.  The irony of the male dominated fantasy leagues?  Most men are non-communicative imbeciles.  At least this gives them a reason to talk.  But when they do engage each other, it's all ego-emboldening, nonsensical bullshit.  It's all a desperate ploy to live vicariously through their statistically designated heroes.

The rules for Fantastical Football are pretty straightforward.  Print out a list of the weekly games in the format below.  Circle your selections and predict a final score.  For reference purposes, here is a sample sheet from the final week of the 2016 regular season.


If the spread or over/under is a scratch, no point(s) is awarded.  If the game ends in a tie, the spread is still applicable.  Unless of course, the line was even or a pick 'em.  I'm telling you the same thing I told Mason.  Integers are numbers.  Numbers are definitive.  They do not lie.  Unless it's Trump's inauguration attendance or his high favorability ratings.

1 point for a correct winner
1 point for correct line
1 point for correct over/under
1 additional point for all of the above
3 points for an upset
1 additional point for an upset of +7 or greater
10 points for an exact score
* = doubles your point total

-1 for an opponent's incorrect score
Individual game point total is nullified (zero points) for a personal miscalculation or incorrect score

Home teams are in CAPS.
Each player is afforded 2 asterisks which can be applied to any of the games.


* since the last book

Pittsburgh Panthers vs.

Virginia Cavaliers, 10-10-15, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
North Carolina Tar Heels, 10-29-15, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Notre Dame Fighting Irish, 11-07-15, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Louisville Cardinals, 11-21-15, Heinz Field , Pittsburgh, PA
Villanova Wildcats, 9-3-16, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Marshall Thundering Herd, 10-1-16, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Virginia Tech Hokies, 10-27-16, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Duke Blue Devils, 11-19-16, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Syracuse Orangemen, 11-26-16, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA

Pittsburgh Penguins vs.

Toronto Maple Leafs, 10-17-15, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA
Buffalo Sabres, 10-29-15, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA
Los Angeles Kings, 12-11-15, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA
Washington Capitals, 12-14-15, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA
Columbus Blue Jackets, 12-21-15, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA
Philadelphia Flyers, 1-21-16, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA
Ottawa Senators, 2-2-16, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA
Winnipeg Jets, 2-27-16, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA
Arizona Coyotes, 2-29-16, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA
Buffalo Sabres, 3-29-16, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA
Tampa Bay Lightning, 5-16-16, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA
Detroit Red Wings, 10-5-16, PPG Paints Arena, Pittsburgh, PA
Carolina Hurricanes, 12-28-16, PPG Paints Arena, Pittsburgh, PA
Tampa Bay Lightning, 1-18-17, PPG Paints Arena, Pittsburgh, PA

Pittsburgh Steelers vs.

Minnesota Vikings, 8-9-15, Tom Benson Hall of Fame Stadium, Canton, OH
Green Bay Packers, 8-23-15, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Carolina Panthers, 9-3-15, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
San Francisco 49ers, 9-20-15, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Baltimore Ravens, 10-1-15, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Arizona Cardinals, 10-18-15, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Cincinnati Bengals,11-1-15, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Oakland Raiders, 11-8-15, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Cleveland Browns, 11-15-15, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Indianapolis Colts, 12-16-15, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Denver Broncos, 12-20-15, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Detroit Lions, 8-12-16, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Philadelphia Eagles, 8-18-16, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Washington Redskins, 9-12-16, Fed Ex Field, Landover, MD
Cincinnati Bengals, 9-18-16, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Kansas City Chiefs, 10-2-16, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
New York Jets, 10-9-16, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
New England Patriots, 10-23-16, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
New York Giants, 12-4-16, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Cleveland Browns, 1-1-17, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA

Pittsburgh Pirates vs.

Detroit Tigers, 4-13-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Detroit Tigers, 4-15-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Milwaukee Brewers, 4-17-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Cincinnati Reds, 5-4-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
St. Louis Cardinals, 5-8-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Minnesota Twins, 5-20-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Milwaukee Brewers, 6-9-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Cincinnati Reds, 6-23-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
San Diego Padres, 7-7-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
St. Louis Cardinals, 7-9-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
St. Louis Cardinals, 7-10-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Washington Nationals, 7-23-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Chicago Cubs, 8-5-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Los Angeles Dodgers, 8-8-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Los Angeles Dodgers, 8-9-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Arizona Diamondbacks, 8-18-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Arizona Diamondbacks, 8-19-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
San Francisco Giants, 8-22-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Colorado Rockies, 8-30-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Milwaukee Brewers, 9-10-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Chicago Cubs, 9-15-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Chicago Cubs, 9-17-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
St. Louis Cardinals, 9-28-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
St. Louis Cardinals, 9-29-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Cincinnati Reds, 10-4-15, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Cincinnati Reds, 5-1-16, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Milwaukee Brewers, 5-17-16, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Atlanta Braves, 5-19-16, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
New York Mets, 6-8-16, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
San Francisco Giants, 6-22-16, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Arizona Diamondbacks, 6-25-16, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
San Diego Padres, 8-9-16, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Houston Astros, 8-22-16, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Milwaukee Brewers, 9-2-16, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Chicago Cubs, 9-28-16, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
New York Yankees, 4-21-17, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Chicago Cubs, 4-26-17, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA

Pittsburgh Riverhounds vs.

New York Red Bulls, 3-25-17, Highmark Stadium, Pittsburgh, PA

Rock Concerts

Chris Robinson Brotherhood, 2-8-15, Mr. Smalls Theater, Millvale, PA
Todd Rundgren, 4-25-15, Stage AE, Pittsburgh, PA
Primus & The Chocolate Factory, 4-14-15, Stage AE, Pittsburgh, PA
Styx, 5-8-15, Stage AE, Pittsburgh, PA
My Morning Jacket, 6-3-15, State Theatre, Cleveland, OH
My Morning Jacket, 6-4-15, Stage AE, Pittsburgh, PA
New Kids on the Block, TLC, Nelly, 6-14-15, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA
Rob Zombie, 6-16-15, Stage AE, Pittsburgh, PA
Rolling Stones, 6-20-15, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Widespread Panic & Umphrey's McGee, 6-21-15, Stage AE, Pittsburgh, PA
Rolling Stones, 7-4-15, Indianapolis Motor Speedway, Indianapolis, IN
Jane's Addiction, 7-10-15, Stage AE, Pittsburgh, PA
Mayhem Festival (Slayer, King Diamond), 7-18-15, Burgettstown, PA
Van Halen, 7-28-15, First Niagara Pavilion, Burgettstown, PA
Phish, 8-7-15, Blossom Music Center, Cuyahoga Falls, OH
Foo Fighters, 8-25-15, First Niagara Pavilion, Burgettstown, PA
Brit Floyd, 8-28-15, Stage AE, Pittsburgh, PA
Global Citizen Festival (Coldplay, Ed Sheeran, Beyonce, Pearl Jam), 9-26-15, Central Park, New York City, NY
Chris Robinson Brotherhood, 9-27-15, Mr. Smalls Theater, Millvale, PA
Marilyn Manson, 12-30-15, Stage AE, Pittsburgh, PA
Stevie Wonder, 10-19-15, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA
King Diamond, 12-23-15, Stage AE, Pittsburgh, PA
Bruce Springsteen, 1-16-16, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA
The Who, 3-16-16, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA
Living Colour, 4-13-16, The Altar Bar, Pittsburgh, PA
Pearl Jam, 4-28-16, Wells Fargo Center, Philadelphia, PA
Pearl Jam, 4-29-16, Wells Fargo Center, Philadelphia, PA
The Avett Brothers, 5-12-16, Stage AE, Pittsburgh, PA
Alice Cooper, 5-20-16, Stage AE, Pittsburgh, PA
Beyonce, 5-31-16, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA
Billy Joel, 7-1-16, PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA
Weezer & Panic! at the Disco, 7-3-16, Stage AE, Pittsburgh, PA
Def Leppard & REO Speedwagon, 7-8-16, First Niagara Pavilion, Burgettstown, PA
Dave Matthews Band, 7-9-16, First Niagara Pavilion, Burgettstown, PA
Dead & Company, 8-13-16, First Niagara Pavilion, Burgettstown, PA



Steely Dan, 7-17-16, First Niagara Pavilion, Burgettstown, PA
Coldplay, 8-4-16, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA
Snoop Dogg & Wiz Khalifa, 8-10-16, First Niagara Pavilion, Burgettstown, PA
Bobby Blotzer, 8-16-16, Jergel's Rhythm Grille, Warrendale, PA
Korn & Rob Zombie, 8-25-16, First Niagara Pavilion, Burgettstown, PA
Kiss, 8-26-16, Covelli Centre, Youngstown, OH
Slipknot, 8-30-16, First Niagara Pavilion, Burgettstown, PA
Umphrey's McGee, 9-9-16, Stage AE, Pittsburgh, PA
Bruce Springsteen, 9-11-16, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA
Slayer, 9-15-16, Stage AE, Pittsburgh, PA
Chris Robinson Brotherhood, 9-24-16, Rex Theater, Pittsburgh, PA
Ratt's Stephen Pearcy, 3-23-17, The Kent Stage, Kent, OH
Son Volt, 4-4-17, Mr. Small's Theater, Millvale, PA
Bon Jovi, 4-5-17, PPG Paints Arena, Pittsburgh, PA

Miscellaneous

Ultimate Fighting Championship
UFC, 2-21-16, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA

Women's Soccer
United States vs. Costa Rica, 08-16-15, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, PA

WWE Wrestling
Monday Night Raw, 11-30-15, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA
Monday Night Raw, 3-14-16, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA

NCAA Men's Basketball, 2nd/3rd Round
3-19-15, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA
3-21-15, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA

World Cup of Hockey
North America vs. Czech Republic, 9-14-16, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA
Canada vs. Russia, 9-14-16, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA

David Cross, 2-18-16, Carnegie of Homestead Music Hall, Munhall, PA
Joel Osteen, 8-19-16, Consol Energy Center, Pittsburgh, PA