Why I Hate Jersey, Part 1

With stress and wanderlust mounting, I decided to hit the road last weekend, leaving my poor blog unattended. Maybe in the future I’ll set up guest authors when I’m out of town. That way, people can get a window into the minds of the crazy friends I keep referring to.

Q: Why are New Yorkers so pessimistic?
A: Because the light at the end of the tunnel is always Jersey.

My journey led me south, through New Jersey. I’m aware that I have a large contingent of readers in California, Virginia, and (for some reason) Canada. For those of you who have never had prolonged exposure to Jersey, allow me to fill you in a few well known facts about this armpit of the United States:

• New Jersey became a state in 1787. It was the first and only state made up entirely of landfills.
• New Jersey’s only two contributions to society are cheap gas and cigarettes. Only fitting of a state whose water, soil and air are technically classified as “Biological hazards.”
• Every “Welcome to New Jersey” sign contains the small print: Surgeon General’s Warning: Pregnant women should stand clear as prolonged expose may cause birth-defects.
• New Jersey alternates between slums and mansions. There is no middle-class. As a result, most of the state now resembles nothing so much as South Africa: Palatal Mansions, guarded by mercenaries with submachine guns overlooking shanty-towns where armed locals, covered in flies and disease, fight over the carcasses of rats and dogs.
• New Jersey drivers abide by rules known only to themselves. To say that their goal is to break every existing traffic law each time they get behind the wheel would be implying some sort of logic. The rules aren’t as easy to grasp as “red means go” or “’Do Not Enter’ means hit the gas.” The second you pass over the boarder, you instantly enter a reality where the rules of the road no longer apply. Red means up; stop means west; merge means engage in cannibalism.

Having observed New Jersey drivers for a good length of time, I’ve put together a few guidelines that would explain their behavior:

Rule 1: Arriving at your destination a fraction of a second earlier is worth risking your life along with the lives of everyone else on the road. It’s as if every single New Jersey driver is perpetually 20 minutes late for the most important event of his or her life.

Rule 2: The only thing more important than arriving at your destination a half second earlier than normal is impeding the progress of everyone else on the road. As such, turn signals should be used only to confuse your enemies. Your enemies are, of course, anyone you happen to be sharing the roads with.

Rule 3: Under no circumstances allow your vehicle to conform to emission laws.

Rule 4: In order to qualify for a New Jersey License, you must have no regard for the lives of your family, friends, strangers or yourself. Common courtesy, indeed, fundamental decency should be spit upon at every possible instance. So what if someone has been waiting in a line for gas? Fuck him! Cut him off and then give him the finger. You decided to make a left on red, across six lanes of traffic and killed a pregnant woman pushing her paraplegic grandmother? Fuck them! Get out of your car, rape grandma and then piss on the corpse.

The Exlympics

You know, a lot of people like to bitch about their exes. Hey, it’s the national past-time of single! Everyone does it; however, have you noticed how some people do it competitively?

“You think you got stuck with a loser? Let me tell you about MY ex!”

You know, it’s really not the kind of thing that reflects well on you. Even if you did nothing wrong in the old relationship, you were still attracted and stuck things out with Mr. or Ms. Horrible.

All that aside, in the honor of the Olympics, I’m proud to announce my Bronze, Silver and Gold Medals for Worst Ex Story Ever. The following stories are all hand to God true, because there’s no WAY I could make this stuff up. Only the names have been changed to protect the victims.

Bronze: My friend was in a relationship with a guy who totaled his car in an accident. She let him use her car, because that’s just the kind of girl she is. She became puzzled, however, when she received a parking ticket from New York City, when she hadn’t been to New York in weeks. So she did some digging and found that her car had been illegally parked outside the apartment of her man’s ex-girlfriend.

Let’s recap what went wrong here, shall we?

1. Was born
2. Got drunk and wrecked his car
3. Somehow convinced amazing current girlfriend to lend him her car
4. Decided to use lent car to cheat on current girlfriend
5. Was dumb enough to not park legally when cheating
6. Was too dumb to pay off the ticket before a second notice was sent

Silver: I was listening to my friend talk about her new boyfriend and frankly, sort of tuning everything out when I heard something.

“Whoa. Whoa! What did you just say?”

She then proceeded to recount her largest complaint about her CURRENT (that’s the key word here—she was STILL DATING HIM) boyfriend. Our boy lived in the dorms and, as college boys are apt to do, was not exactly King of Hygiene. If cleanliness is next to Godliness, our boy was hanging out with John Wilkes Booth, Stalin and Hitler. Not only was he not showering, He was less than prompt emptying a piss-pot.

I’ll repeat that.

HE WAS LESS THAN PROMPT EMPTYING THE PISS-POT.

How lazy and dirty do you have to be to own and use a chamber pot? Seriously. Even in the south they use an outhouse. If you’re 19 and haven’t mastered the high-level skill of potty-training, how did you manage to get into a college?

I know what you’re thinking. “How in the world is that story only number two on the list? What did the hell did Mr. Gold Metal do??? Rape a goat???” Oh my friends, I wish it were only that horrible, but the truth is much, much worse.

Gold: In order to fully appreciate the inappropriateness of this story, I have to set the mood for you:

My friend and her new man of two weeks decided to go camping one night. The moon was bright, but not too bright to drown out the millions of softly glinting stars. Crickets chirped in the bushes, as a breeze whispered through the trees. The two lovers sat in front of a slow fire, their bodies melted against each other and lips explored soft skin. My friend heaved a contented sigh, as women do when feeling generally satisfied with the course of the world, cuddled closer to her beaux and listened to his heart beat for a while. Then she asked, “Honey, where do you see yourself in three years?”

Long silence.

Our man, pressed against a loving woman, surrounded by the beauty of nature, miles away from anyone considers his answer carefully. Our girl is waiting in anticipation. What romantic answer is he considering, “Marriage, kissing you, desperately in love with you”? What will he say?

He clears his throat and my friend leans even closer, trembling just a bit in anticipation.

“Prison…I’m pretty sure I’m going to murder my brother.”

Damn, how do some guys get so smooth?

NASCAR: Why Don't You Just Stay Home And Molest Your Sister Instead?

Every morning I wake up, switch on Sports Center and try to convince myself that I have a good reason to get up. This battle usually takes about 30 minutes.

Sports Center and I usually get along pretty well: I love baseball; I tolerate football and basketball, and have no interest in golf or hockey. I subliminally soak up the sports news of the day and all is well.

Recently, however, Sport Center has been testing the limits of my patience. And not just because of Ron Artest, either. Every morning, for the last two weeks they’ve been flogging the Daytona 500 with segments like “The Legacy of Dale Earnhardt” and “The Safety of NASCAR.”

Listen to me: NASCAR is not a sport. It's not even a game or entertainment. It’s the lowest rung of Natural Selection. Death is the only possible out come when you put drunken hicks into cars and have them make left turns for four hours. I’ve had rashes that were more fun to watch.

And don’t talk to me about the “skill of these great athletes.” I doubt half these drivers can read the advertisements on the sides of their cars. Skill my ass! I drove a truck professionally for a year. When they have to make a left turn across six lanes of traffic, in driving snow, in a busted-ass Ford Ranger without spilling their frosties, I’ll be impressed. As for the athletic part, they are to athletes what Dungeons and Dragons players are to Viking Warriors.

Someone tell me again about what hero Dale Earnhardt was. Ok, here’s the deal: to be a hero you have to do something brave, selfless, and at great personal risk. Dying in a blaze of failure and grease-fire is none of those things. He’s a hero in the same way John Beluschi was a hero. Oh wait, that’s not fair. John Beluschi had talent. Being a dumb redneck and crashing your car doesn’t make you a hero. That’s why everyone in Tennessee doesn’t own a purple heart.

For some strange reason, huge percentages of the south seem enthralled by this pseudo-sport. Hey, I don’t really care if they want to waste their lives. The more time they spend obsessing about NASCAR, the less time they have to don bed sheets, burn crosses and sodomize their siblings.

Generally, NASCAR takes the same general spot of my consciousness as girls shitting: I know it’s done, but I’d rather not have to think about it. And you know what? So far it’s worked pretty well. Then Sports Center starts in on this bullshit and I have to decide which is more entertaining first thing in the morning: Rednecks and they’re cars or the Jesus Channel with the lady with pink hair.

After about a week, I’m about ready to start mailing my money to Pat Robertson.

International F*ck Men and Buy a Vibrator Day

I’ve got it all figured out: In 1701 the yet unborn and un-conceived fetuses of John Wilkes Booth, Hitler, and Star Jones met with Satan to devise a Holiday so evil, so putrid, so absolutely pitiless and devoid of compassion that when the Marquis de Sade first heard about it, he said, “That’s fucked up.”

Women, as a gender, like to assign importance to special dates: first time they met their man, the first time they kissed him, the first time they agreed to gang-bang 12 of the guy’s best friends behind a Denny's on a Wednesday night: it’s just something they do. Men are somehow expected to recall these events with perfect clarity and without prompting 364 days later. Ladies, here’s what you don’t understand: I can’t even remember the date of New Year’s. I’d forget about my birthday if people didn’t remind me. There is no way I’m going to recall every date that you randomly assign importantance to.

Fuck Valentine’s Day! Anyone who's ever tried to buy a gift for a girl that he’s dating knows that shy of hooking up a car battery directly to one’s prostate, there is no greater hell than shopping for a female. Valentine’s is just another opportunity to fail miserably at finding a gift that, based on truly bizarre, random tidbits known only to those who have a uterus, sums up the entire relationship a man has with a woman. Bitch, you're lucky I even remember your name, let alone what kind of chocolate you mentioned you like in passing two years ago! When guys exchange gifts it’s fun. I never had a dude ask, “What exactly is this cigar supposed to say about your feelings for me???” It says you’re a flaming, phallus-shaped, $10 trick. Now shut the fuck up before I slap you!

If nothing else, at least Valentine’s Day is an equal opportunity misery generating machine. While it rains a world of hurt upon guys in relationships, it pours flaming agony on every single woman. It’s as if Hallmark has somehow managed to sanction an international “Congratulations, your biological clock is one year closer to needing a new battery” holiday. And if you’re a single girl on Valentine’s Day, you’re going to need those batteries for a device a whole lot more important than your biological clock.

I actually used to be into Valentine’s Day. Actually, Valentine’s Day plays a large role in my generally negative outlook on life. For the span of four years, I used to write a poem for every girl I knew. I don’t mean I would write one poem, copy it 40 times and then hand it out. I mean I wrote an individual, personalized poem for every woman. I would say that in the span of 4 Valentine’s Days I wrote, conservatively, 120 poems. Would you like to know how many women that got me? Go on, guess.

ZERO.

That’s right, girls who did nothing but bitch about how guys never did anything romantic for women anymore ALL had better things to do than hang out with someone who had busted his ass in the name of selfless chivalry. It’s not like I was asking for sex. But if just one of them had taken it on themselves to give me head, they might not have killed the idea of romance for me. Oh well. If you’re female and you don’t get a hand-written poem from me, you can thank 120 single woman who were too good to take one for the team.

In retrospect, I realize my fatal error: I bought into this bullshit holiday and acknowledged its existence. The truth is that this is a holiday that is nothing but and empty, never-ending cycle of hostility, loneliness and inadequacy.

Needless to say, no one sends me Valentine’s Day cards anymore.

Lawyers, Guns and Money

I’m sure much will be made in the blogosphere about Dick Cheney shooting a guy over the weekend. There were really only two comments I have about the whole incident.

The first is how sensitive we’ve become over violence. I believe Alexander Hamilton was the last Vice-President to shoot someone…while in office, at least. But Andrew Jackson used to duel. He even beat off an assassination attempt with a cane.

Normally I’d be the first one to jump on Cheney (he is, after all, one of the 50 most Loathsome people in America), but in his defense:

1) His pact with Satan not-with-standing, the man can only survive so many heart attacks. Cut him some slack

And

2) It was a lawyer. And a republican crony lawyer at that. I think we can let this one slide.

Besides, anyone stupid enough to pose for the picture below and still make the major news due to gun carelessness deserves our pity. It’s the political equivalent of Magic Johnson endorsing condoms a few months before announcing he had HIV.




On to other topics...

I woke up today to a Sports Center interview with Ron Artest. For those of you who don’t follow sports, Ron Artest has a six year deal that will earn him $42 million dollars. He also charged into the stands and assaulted a fan who threw a cup of beer at him, inciting a riot, gave an interview where he said he wanted to desert his team for two months to work on his rap career and demanded to be traded from a team that had stood by him and supported him through out.

It’s a sucky way to start your day. Well, it would have been sucky enough if he was just giving a standard “I just want to put the past behind me and do what’s good for the team” interview. But within 15 seconds of consciousness I heard this exchange that flipped me from barely cognoscente to a full-on, murderous rampage:

Pretty dark-hair Interviewer: Ron, why do think you have a bad image?

Artest: Racism.

You know, African Americans have been discriminated against in the past. There’s no way around that. They got a genuinely raw deal and racism is a terrible and all too prevalent reality in American Society. But you are not allowed to assault someone and claim people hate you because of racism. You certainly can’t make $42 million dollars over six years and complain about being discriminated against. Ron, people don't hate you because you're black. People hate you because you’re an immature dick who refuses to exert any self-control, forethought or consideration. Your life resembles nothing so closely as a plantation owner circa 1823. If you’re being discriminated against, I’m Malcolm Fucking X. Shut you’re privileged ass up and play ball.

Somehow both my heart and my TV survived the interview, but Sports Center: You’ve been warned.

Pure Fluff

Generally, I like to write about stories or experiences which happened to me that somehow relate to whatever I'm going through. I was watching The Aristocrats yesterday, and it inspired me to write a pure comedy ruitine. For those of you haven't seen the movie, "The Aristocrats" is a joke that comedians tell each other. The joke changes depending on who’s telling it. It goes like this: a guy walks into an agent’s office and pitches an act that he does. The act is always the most horrible, disgusting, offensive thing that the comedian can think of. Generally incest, bestiality, violence and bodily functions play a big role. But the punch line is always, “What’s the act called?”

“The Aristocrats.”

The dialogue below is NOT true and is simply me giving my own offensive and funny version of the joke. Enjoy:

I was speaking to a girl the other day who happens to be Catholic. Very devout: no premarital sex, worships every Sunday…some Sundays twice. Of course, evil, sinning, Jew that I am, I started questioning her about it.

Me: So, everything in the world is predetermined, God knows everything that we’re going to do before we do it, and we are made in God’s image. Why exactly should we feel guilty for things we do again? Isn’t everything we do part of God’s plan? Or is his plan just the good stuff? If it is, then it’s not much of a plan. If it’s not, why should we feel sorry? Aren’t we just carrying out His will?

Her: It’s not like that! You should just come with me one day!

Me: Yeah, I can see it now. I’ll come sauntering in and give the old pistol salute to the priest. "‘Sup, Padre?" Then the quick point over to Christ on the Cross. "Jesus. Good to see you’re right where I put you."

Her: That’s a terrible thing to say!

Me: You want to hear terrible things to say in a church? You should have heard the things that priest said to me the last time I was in a church.

Her: You were in a church? What’d he say?

Me: I don’t know…You’d think it was the first time he ever walked in on someone having sex with a "technically" underage girl in a confessional. Wasn’t it Jesus who said, "Suffer the little children, come unto me"?

Her: That’s NOT what he was talking about!

Me: Were you there? All I know was he was a single dude who hung out with 12 other single men, roaming from town to town. And FYI, it’s a good thing for him that the Messiah thing worked out for him. Because if He was any kind of halfway decent carpenter, His dad would have made Him stick around. How shitty a carpenter do you have to be where when you tell your dad that your life calling is to wander the desert with other single men, your pops says, "You know…yeah. You do that. I got the carpenter thing taken care of. It’s not like your mother or I need any help supporting ourselves in our old age."

Her: Are you saying that Jesus was a bad son?

Me: All I know was my parents wouldn't let me drop out of college to join a band. I guess Mary must have known something when she said, "No Joe. His path is roaming campsites and truck-stops with unshaven single men."

Her: Oh my GOD! What does your shirt say?

Me: This? It says, "Jesus was gay." The other side has a picture of two Mexican dudes making out. Now listen, you should come hear my band play.

Her: What's your band called?

Me: We're a Christian Rock band called "Pious."

Ta Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Break Up Lies And Torture By Indifference

I was reading Gary’s blog and he had a post about women using the phrase “Let’s just be friends.” It’s a great topic, so I’ve decided I’m totally going to mooch off of him and steal it.

I’ve never actually been told “I like you as a friend,” but as far as I’m concerned, hearing that line would lead to a bitch out of epic proportions. Here’s why: I have no problem with rejection. Rejection is fact of life. Not everyone can get along with everyone else. What I do have a problem with are blatant lies. Lies that just insult your intelligence and have obviously not even warranted any amount of effort. Like when people say that that Maria Carey is good.

If I’m going to be lied to by a girl, I at least want there to have been some energy put into the lie. That’s why I would much rather hear any of the following lines from a girl who didn’t want to see me:

• I have a crime-fighting alter-ego, and I can never risk the lives of the ones I love by getting too close. Now I must go, for the good of the city!
• Tonight at midnight I will magically return to mermaid form and spend the rest of my life under the sea.
• Tomorrow I leave the country on a swash-buckling adventure to search for the legendary arc of the covenant.

See, I’d like to think that woman letting me down actually had to suffer a little bit. And if I feel that they haven’t suffered adequately, then I think it’s my right, nay my duty, to make her squirm.

For example, one of my favorite moments was when I was in the room of a girl I had been seeing for about two days, and she said, “I don’t think I’m right for you. You’re too good for me.” In a split second, I decided that I was going to punish her for her lie.

Without blinking an eye I said, “Yeah, I agree. So what’re you up to now?” Where-upon I proceeded to park myself on her couch with a grin on my face, not in the least bit troubled. I hung out with her for about two hours, chatting away, joking and smiling. She had a miserable time. I could see the surprise fade to agitation, and the agitation fade to resentment and the resentment fade to anger. By the time I left, I’m pretty sure that she was ready to stab me on sight.

See, when you prepare to break up with someone you always mentally prepare yourself for the worst: yelling, crying, begging, or pleading. No one prepares themselves for indifference. The worst part about my torture was not even sitting there twisting the emotional knife in her heart for two hours. It was that late at night she was going to wonder why I had absolutely no reaction to being dumped. Was she not pretty enough? Not smart enough? Bad in bed? Was I seeing someone else?

So here’s the cardinal rule of break-ups: be honest, or, failing that, at least be plausible. Otherwise, you have every right to be called on your bullshit. And there are still some people out there who have no problem doing it.

Women Drivers

Not too long ago, I dated a very upfront, take-charge type of girl. We got together like this:

I was outside a bar one night, when I stuck up a chat with a girl who was smoking outside. Things progressed nicely, and I ended up joining her and her friend at a table for drinks. We had a great time joking around, but finally she had to leave with her friend.

“Hey, I’m having a small get together at my place next weekend. Do you want to come?” she asked.

“Yeah, let me get your number. Maybe I’ll swing by and make an appearance.” I answered.

So I recorded her number, said fair-well and hugged her goodbye. Then I moved closer to stage to get a look at the band. It was a small venue, perhaps the no more than 30’ across. The band was all the way in the back, and a number of chairs and the pool table had been pushed to one side to form a small dance area just in front of the stage.

I was off to one side, leaning against the pool table, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Ms. “I’ll see you this weekend.”

“So,” she huffed. “You were just going to let me leave without making out with me?”

Far be it for me to deny a lady’s request. I promptly picked her up, placed her on the pool table and made out with her like a felon at a conjugal visit.

When I ended up sleeping with her (it wasn’t that night. I’m sleazy, but not that sleazy), what I was struck most by was how opposite she was in bed. This was a girl who had no problem picking me up and asking me to make out with her in a public spot, but in bed she really didn’t like taking charge at all.

It was really adorable. She liked to curse, and yell and state her opinions, and was upfront about what she wanted, but when the lights went out, she needed a guy to throw her down and treat her like an object.

I’ve found that this is the norm and it’s not necessarily something I mind. There’s a certain deep-rooted satisfaction that comes with absolutely tossing a girl around in bed, putting her exactly where you want her and doing it right. I suppose that deep down every girl wants to be dominated a little. But I once knew knew a girl who never wanted to be on top.

Probably 9 times out of ten I’ve got no problem doing most of the work, but there are nights where I just want to lie back and let her drive. If I were really mean here, I’d insert some comment here about how poor women are at driving. I just think that they’re out of practice. With that in mind, I’m proud to announce the opening of Ehren’s driving instruction course. Get your engines started ladies and bring some protection. Driver’s Education is now in session.

The Rolling Stones 2079: The Colostomy Tour

A few thoughts about the Rolling Stones after watching the Super Bowl Half-Time Show:

• Jagger is now probably banging the grand-daughters of the girls he screwed during the Stones’ early tour.

• The Stones still think they're 17. There is no excuse for 65 year-old men to be wearing belly-shirts and sequins. In fact, there’s no reason for any man to wear belly shirts or sequins unless your name is Siegfried or Roy.

• Last night history was made, when it was revealed that the new bass player is black. It was only the second Rolling Stones concert in history attended by a black man. I believe they made a documentary about the other one.

It was really sad to watch them stagger around the stage. At one point, these guys were dangerous, unpredictable, and electric. Now they can’t even shit on their own. Mark my words, on the Rolling Stones’ 2079 World Tour Keith Richards will have a colostomy bag hooked up to his guitar while Jagger struts his sequin wheelchair up and down the stage.

The Stones really summarize everything that sucked about the 60s and Rock Music. There was so much hope, possibility, and real willingness to change the status-quo. Where are we now? The Stones are sponsored by an insurance company and play a half-time show because The NFL commissioner doesn’t want anything Risqué.

Can anyone remember the last band that people were actually scared to go see? It depresses me that this generation has boy bands and teen idols as their spokespeople and role-models. What happened to the days of liking bands that your parents forbade you to go see. In fact, can anyone even name the last band that made people nervous?

I’m not really an Ozzy fan. I appreciate his contribution to music history, though. And I get real pissed when people refer to his tunes as “Devil music.” Ozzy’s music is pretty much based on a society of outcasts. The points of Sabbath’s tunes were “fuck the norm. Embrace your differences. Don’t bother trying to blend in.” Compare that to N’ Sync which pretty much says, “The only way to be cool is to be exactly like this.” Which is more evil? Minor chords do not a Satanist make.

In case you didn’t notice, I utterly failed in my attempt to drink the Superbowl into tolerance. The day after has left me feeling like a woman on prom-night: not nearly buzzed enough, bored, and utterly unsatisfied. Welcome to American Culture and Rock Music!

Game On!

I’m just about to launch myself into the fray of male-utopia: violence, meat, alcohol, corporate sponsorship and a sport involving a ball. Look, the Superbowl is no longer about football. Everyone should understand that. No one really cares who wins or who loses: we’re all just looking to be a part of an annual tradition like Thanksgiving or that crazy, Mexican, dead-person Christmas.

And now a list of the things I hate about the Superbowl:

1. The 17 hour pre-game special. The entire country has been mercilessly flogging this event for two straight weeks already. There shouldn’t even be a pretense that any time during the 50 straight uninterrupted hours of pre-game show anyone will say ANYTHING meaningful, insightful or accurate. Basically, it’s just an excuse for retired players to parade in front of lights and pretend that they’re capable of abstract thought. You just want to pat their heads and say, “Awwwwww…they think they’re people.” The only possible use of the pre-game show is the final motivation to snap and kill 37 people in a bloody murder-suicide.


2. The National Anthem. Does anyone remember when the National Anthem stood for anything other than horrible singers testing the limits of their range and our patience before a disappointing sporting exhibition? Listen to me, Aaron Neville. You’ve already butchered enough songs during the course of your recording “career.” Do everyone a favor and continue our agreement: you proceed to stay the hell out of my way and I’ll overlook your existence. Slink back under the rock you've been living under and assume the role of permanent irrelevance and anonymity.


3. The Halftime show. I remember a few years back when the country pretended to be shocked about Janet Jackson. Listen, the halftime show is produced by MTV. If history has taught us nothing else, it’s that MTV knows absolutely nothing about music, TV or good taste. To quote Lewis Black, “MTV is to music what KFC is to chicken.” The network is just 24 hour soft-core porn set to worse music. It was a breast. Stop pretending that no one in our country had ever seen one before and move on with your lives.


4. The commercials. I know a lot of people get really excited about the commercials during the Superbowl. Let’s be honest though. There hasn’t been a really good ad in years. Furthermore, it’s really sad that we as a country dedicate a whole evening to being corporate shills.


5. The game. I always forget that the Superbowl actually includes a game. It’s because after the 780 hours of pre-game coverage, the 15 minute version of the National Anthem, the introduction of the players, the coin-toss and the 9 billion commercial breaks they’ve already taken, I’ve completely forgotten what the hell it is I’m supposed to be watching in the first place. On top of that, the game is almost ways bad. And football is a pretty lame sport. I get really tired of the 70 minute touchdown/interception/kick/I managed to tie my own shoe celebrations. I don’t see me holding a 50 minute long dance celebration when I file a report correctly. Big deal, you did what you were paid millions and millions of dollars to do. Sit the fuck down and let us watch the cheerleaders.

Fortunately, I’ve found away around all these problems: alcohol. Yes folks, the reason that beer is such a good seller at football games is that it’s impossible to watch the event otherwise. This year, the plan is to drink enough that I completely overlook all the issues I listed above. That’s the beauty of American Sports: it’s not who wins or loses, it’s how drunk you get. Game on America!