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Word to your self

Never build your self image using the opinions of others; for they do not possess all the facts.

Game #7

I'm pacing my living room with my fist in the air. My sporadic shouting is waking my wife and scaring the dog. The Red Sox are winning game six and forcing the issue of game seven. Tampa fans do not understand how this can be happening: some Red Sox fans are in the same boat.

The faithful, though, realize this is when the Red Sox thrive most, only after they have been factored out. Only when winning seems to be an impossibility does this team truly come alive, even as most fold gently to accept the course of events laid at the doorstep of apparent unavoidably. Much like the phoenix rising from the flames of an all but guaranteed fate to become an entity shining brighter even than that of it's stunning life past: let it be a reminder to all of us that when things appear at their worst and defeat is a nap away, hope is available for those who want it most.

The Rodman.

Sometimes certain combinations in life yield such quality products that their values far surpass the sum of their individual parts. Take for example the peanut butter and chocolate of the Recees cup. Either one in and of itself would only be of mild enjoyment (American chocolate…meh.) Whereas together forge a splendid and delicious treat.

Even closer to my heart is an aggregate I get to enjoy every day of my life. I happen to share my home with the perfect dog, a German Sheppard and Rhodesian ridgeback mix named Cordy. To promote the marketability and integrity of this breed I have come up with a cute little abbreviation much like the preceding cockapoo or spoodle; this dog is known as the Rodman. Many among you are not aware of the ecstasy of sharing your life with such a joyful being, so I would like to tell you a bit about what makes this particular breed of dog so special.

Rodmans stand about 30 inches at the shoulder and 38 inches at the head. They have a tall arched back with a strip of hair running the length giving them an appearance of an ugly stegosaurus. Their long broad tail wags with such ferocity it can be very useful in clearing a table of full beer bottles.

The first thing you will notice when entering my home is the dozens of tumbleweed like hairballs that congregate in every corner. Rodmans are well known for their ability to grow hair almost as quickly as it falls out. Did you know that these dogs can shed their body weight in hair every single week? Amazing isn't it?

Another charming feature of this breed is the dislike of using their teeth when eating. They prefer to swallow the food whole so that it gridlocks at the top of their throat causing them to yelp with the cutest whines you've ever heard. Once they dislodge the food, it comes barreling out onto the floor in a slippery pile of three pounds of dog food and two pounds of bile. They will then sniff it and walk away as this meal has been ruined for consumption by a dog as special as this.

Even though absolutely none of the food actually makes it to their stomach, they somehow manage to grow into a behemoth of a dog weighing in at well over one hundred pounds. There is also no shortage of potty breaks. They will need to go out to the yard nearly twice every hour to litter your yard with excrement. Did you know that in a single week, they can produce enough to fill a thirty gallon garbage bag? Amazing creatures they are.

Perhaps, though, the most stunning feature of this breed is its life span. Even though a dog of this size is only supposed to live for 9 years, this one has managed to survive 11. On top of that, I personally believe he will be living another five…easily.

Any takers?

My new vehicle

I'm a badass and every fiber of my existence screams it at the top of its proverbial lungs to the point of laryngitis. Anyone stupid enough to step up and test my resolve will quickly have the opportunity to get a sample of my world famous knuckle sandwich, hold the mayo...you got what I'm saying there, hoss? Of course it does not stop there. Everything that belongs to me must follow equally in suit. If there is a nanofraction in my mind about the badassity of one of my possessions, I will either: A) Flush it down the toilet B) Pour acid on it until it melts down to a reasonable size and then flush it down the toilet or C) Take it out into the middle of the street and beat it until it cries. Yes, I am that serious about maintaining the integrity of my lifestyle choice.







That is why when the decision arose about what type of vehicle I would chose to represent my hardcore to the max image, the choice was an easy one. Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to my new ride, "Red Sonja".


























My next door neighbor, Hank, was always bragging about his Hummer and about how it always made my wife's Honda Civic look like a toy. Who's driving the toy now, Hank?














I had to make a few modifications just in case Hank decides to get him one of these beauties so I will remain the undisputed king of the block. First off, I had to switch over the ornaments I had on my old Ford Explorer (It's embarrassing to admit I once drove a truck so damn tiny). Those of you that know me know that I have a few trademark stickers that must be placed in the rear window of any vehicle graced with my ownership. My absolute favorite is one of Calvin peeing on Calvin peeing on Calvin peeing on a Ford. This is my big "fuck you" to all the Ford hater haters out there. I can't stand them. The next sticker says Nizzo Fizzear, which is how Snoop Dogg says "no fear". That's pretty much how my life rolls and I want everyone to know that in case they are ignorant enough to step to me. The last sticker I have is "Badass boys have badass toys". Even though that last one is a bit redundant in my opinion, it is still required to complete the package.

But these things are just stickers, you say. Surely there must be more to your persona than these menial trivalities. Rest assured, loyal followers, the stickers are only the icing on the cake. No large truck would be complete without loudly stating the gender of the one driving. That's where the truck nuts come in. Make no mistake, though, they couldn't be just any color truck nuts for someone who has nuts of solid steel like me. Nothing says "I'm a true man" like a pair of these bad boys.







Normally old red here would get 7 miles to the gallon but that was before I made my other pièce de résistance addition. To show that I don't fall for that commie liberal agenda about global warming and oil being a natural resource of limited supply, I filled the truck bed with a thick layer of solid concrete. After all, I'm an insurance agent and not a damn contractor. Besides, now I won't have any of my fool neighbors wanting me to help them move. So what if it only gets four miles to the gallon now? Respect does not come cheap.

Speaking of respect, this last Sunday I had to get into it with this son of a bitch who cut me off in his pussy ass little Toyota Prius. I was on my way to church but I decided to follow his ass down the road to give him a piece of my mind. When I pulled up next to him at the next stop light I rolled down my window and shouted down at him. "Why don't you watch where you're going, asshole?!!"

He replied to me "Your vehicle only has the stock acceleration ability to go zero to sixty in 14.4 seconds and yours looks like it could barely make it in 30 seconds, I took my chances. Since you didn't even catch up to me until I had to stop at this red light, it looks like my gamble paid off."

Before I could even formulate a response, the light turned green and he sped away. I pulled into the next side street, parked by the curb and did something I hadn't done since I was twelve. I cried. Now, don't you get me wrong here. It wasn't because that little jerk off got the last word on me. That was just the straw that broke the mules back. The real reason I was crying is because just last week my grandmother was killed in a tornado that ripped through The Villages in North Central Florida. It struck in the middle of the night so she didn't even know what hit her.

After a few minutes I just got plain angry at myself. How could I have let myself cry like that? To make it up to myself, I found a few teenagers walking down the street, jumped out of my truck and punched both of them in the face. That made me feel a lot better. I even made it to church on time.

A Very Disturbing Message

The office in which I work is a microcosm of society representing each and every walk of life all self contained in a quaint little 20,000 employee building. We have shops, banks, bakeries, a cafeteria, and even a McDonald's right around the corner from me. Working here has shown me the other side of life of which I am all too often unaware. Take today, for example. I was in the upstairs cafeteria bathroom either scratching off some lottery tickets or masturbating (I can't remember which, but both activities sound exactly the same to a passer by) when I beheld a very disturbing message on the back of the stall door. Three simple words with such an evil connotation that would become forever etched in my mind..."I hate crackers!"

I thought to myself, "Why would any man or woman harbor such a deep resentful vendetta against crackers, enough to want to take time out of their day to scratch it into a metal stall door?" Then thought, "Yeah, it was probably a man since I am in the men's bathroom, after all."

At first I just couldn't believe that anyone would have the gall to be so crass. I mean, sure they're white, dry and salty, but hate? That's a pretty strong word. I can't remember detesting anything enough to permanently document it on the wall of a public toilet. Actually that's not true. There was this one girl I knew in high school named Laura who walked up to me with her snobby friends at phys ed class after I had run a couple laps around the track and said, "Jeez, Steve. Work out much?!!" OK so I was sweating...badly. Lots of guys sweat when they run track. The worst part is that I just laughed nervously as if to say, "No, Laura. As a matter of fact I do not. That was pretty funny the way you just humiliated me while simultaneously making yourself look cooler in front of your friends. Kudos to you, old chap."
Two years later I thought of the perfect response, which was "Fuck you, whore!!!" That would have been sweet because she was one. Heh heh.

Anyway...back to crackers. Was it a certain type of cracker that this man dislikes so much? Maybe he had a really dry mouth and tried to eat a saltine. I've heard that sometimes when people abuse drugs like marijuana, their mouths get dry. Perhaps he was stoned and didn't have a drink of water nearby? Of course I soon realized this theory doesn't make sense either, since I've heard from numerous reliable sources that dope smoking hippies are a peace loving group that does not even own the word hate in its vocabulary. They only use words like "man, dude, totally, whoa, and patchouli."

It would be a bit more understandable if they picked a certain brand. I personally bear somewhat of a grudge against Ritz crackers, with their whole self important "I'm better than you" attitude. They really tick me off sometimes, too, especially if topped with something smug like caviar or oysters...bastards. Or perhaps it was one of those horribly crunchy sesame seed crackers that almost break your teeth when you bite into them. If I am correct in this line of thought though, I'm puzzled as to why the cracker hater would think of either of these two brands as they don't serve anything close to them in our cafe'. The only types they serve are club crackers and captain's wafers, both of which in my mind are virtually unhatable.

Well, I guess I will never know why this man felt so compelled to announce to the world his extreme dislike of these delicious buttery cheese platforms. However, I vow that if I ever find this man, I will encourage him to try other varieties before writing them off completely. If he does not, In time I fear his narrow minded hateful view may eventually transmogrify into more grave schemata, such as an abhorance of those of a different skin color.

Peace, my bruthas and sistas.