A few friends of mine love to ask for my opinion as to who would win if Batman fought Superman. Now that the trailer for the upcoming film epic has been released, I’m sure they’ll ask again soon. These knuckleheads also enjoy asking me whether the Flash is faster than the Silver Surfer and whether the Hulk is stronger than the Thing. They don’t ask me these questions because of my vast knowledge of fictional superheroes. They ask to annoy me, and because they seem to enjoy my stock answer:
“I’m a grown-assed man, ferchrissakes! Why would I waste my time even considering such an idiotic question?!”
Like most kids of my generation, I watched Superman and Batman on TV. By Superman, I’m referring to a character played by a paunchy George Reeves on a snowy, black and white screen.
By Batman, I mean a character played by a paunchy Adam West – shot in color but viewed on a Sears black and white TV with an antenna clad in wads of aluminum foil.
By the time Hollywood started making special effects-laden blockbusters about these characters, I had already outgrown men in capes and moved on to women in tights (not necessarily super heroines, just women – and not necessarily in tights for that matter). I went through a brief transitional period which my therapist often refers to as my “Julie Newmar as Catwoman” phase.
Despite my ardent attention to Ms. Newmar, I don’t think I ever considered whether she would win in a battle with Diana Rigg as Emma Peel. Irrespective of who would have won, I would have paid my entire allowance for a year to have had a ring-side seat for that clash.
I know that the world is full of unanswerable questions; things like the meaning of life, our fates after death, and why Donald Trump’s hair looks like it does. These are all things we’ll never truly know. Despite their unanswerable nature, we’re destined to ask them again and again.
As for Batman versus Superman, my answer is a shrug of the shoulders accompanied by a roll of the eyes. I’m just amazed that so many people seem to truly care enough to even have an opinion. My only guess is that whichever superhero wins the first battle will lose in the sequel.
I’ll admit it, I watch too much TV. Unlike lots of folks, I don’t just sit there like a potted plant. I constantly complain about bad plots, breaks in continuity, and of course, commercials. The gap between the imaginary world of advertisers and reality drives me nuts. Whining to my wife and dog isn’t enough; I’ve got to write entire blog posts about it.
Ad Portrayal: Tablet users design surf boards, organize food drives and find sources of potable water for refugees in the Sudan. They also use their tablets to take pictures of breathtaking scenery and refer to online astronomy charts while out in the wilderness at night (Despite being a million miles from anywhere, there’s a good WiFi signal).
Harsh Reality: Tablet users are playing Bubble Witch Saga, watching porn in the powder room, or checking Facebook for likes on recently posted photos of their cats and/or nephews. They occasionally “lose” the tablet just to keep the kids from hogging it.
Ad Portrayal: Pick-Up owners are driving to work sites, parking entirely too close to the hearth at the steel mill, and generally playing key roles in building the infrastructure that makes this country great. The guy doing the voice-over sounds like he’s from somewhere in the Rockies, unless it’s Dennis Leary who sounds like Dennis Leary.
Harsh Reality: No one is allowed to put anything dirty in the back of Dad’s truck, including but not limited to: mulch, play sand or lumber. Despite the truck being equipped with Bluetooth for safe, hands-free communication, Dad never answers when his brother-in-law calls because he needs help moving.
Ad Portrayal: SUV drivers navigate through mud, snow and over all sorts of rugged terrain as children play happily in the back seat. Dads reconnect with their children by taking the whole family to the Grand Tetons while towing expensive looking boats.
Harsh Reality: There are damn few boulder fields in suburbia. A few weeks ago, one of the kids dropped an almond butter and jelly sandwich behind one of the fold down rear seats. It smells like it might be fermenting. Having these killer car payments often prevents SUV owners from buying so much as a dinghy to tow.
Ad Portrayal: Healthy, good-looking people have incredibly tasty looking food delivered by a perky, knowledgeable waitress. There are frosty pints of beer handy to wash it down. The diners look like they’re having so much fun, they might not even get around to actually eating anything. The camaraderie is so thick, you can cut it with one of the handy butter knives.
Harsh Reality: The waitress has a hairy mole on her cheek and an Eastern European accent which make the specials at this Tex Mex joint sound like they are composed of boiled cabbage and beet greens. Our trio of diners could each stand to drop twenty pounds. The patrons at a nearby table are loud, and not in a good way. Somewhere else in Svetlana’s section, a small child wails in his high-chair and throws re-fried beans with reckless abandon while his parents pretend not to notice.
E.D.. Medications – Single Dose
Ad Portrayal:A rugged-but-sensitive looking guy finishes fixing a broken section of barbed wire fence out on the back forty. His pick-up truck gets stuck in a muddy rut on the dirt road. He ties the draft horse from his trailer to the front of the pick up and pulls himself back onto dry land. His MacGyver-like solution to the dilemma is clearly just another day in the life of a fellow who gets things done. He looks like he might be the guy doing the voice-over work on the truck commercials when he’s not working his ranch (but not like Dennis Leary). He pulls up in front of the cozy farmhouse, where the warm lights in the windows are a symbol for the waiting arms of the gorgeous woman who awaits him. If “Old Yeller” aint up for hunting , MacGyver can fix that too.
Harsh Reality: Misinterpreting his wife’s sleeping moans as those of desire, Mr. Fixit slips into the bathroom and pops a little blue pill. Upon returning to the bedroom his wife is silent and there is unpleasantly aromatic evidence that her moaning was not actually desire-related at all, but rather directly tied to the sizable amounts of pinto beans in her meal earlier at the Tex Mex joint. Despite the lack of romance in the air, the pill does it’s job. After some grumbling, the husband decides to sleep on the couch, and maybe catch up on some emails on the tablet.
E.D.. Medications – Daily Use
Ad Portrayal: Another good-looking guy sorts through boxes in the attic with his wife and stumbles upon a well-worn record album. His wife, despite looking like she is a generation younger than him, is immediately touched by the guy’s selection of the music (which would likely be relevant to only one of them). They commence to slow dancing among the boxes as late afternoon sun slants into the storage space. The picture fades to dark, and we all know what comes next.
Harsh Reality: The guy takes these pills everyday, along with fish oil and baby aspirin. When cleaning the attic, he comes across a record album. He cannot play it, as he hasn’t had a turntable since his junior year of college. He shows his wife the album. After a moment, she berates him for keeping old crap and tells him to put it in the junk pile. The daily-use ED medications will later be expelled from his body, as he sits in the powder room, trying to reach the next level of Bubble Witch Saga on his tablet.
It’s that time of the year again when people buy these hideous things in the name of Easter tradition. While the package points out that Peeps are both gluten free and fat free, it fails to note that they are also pretty much food free. They do include yellow dye #5 and carnauba wax. For those of you who don’t recognize that last item, it’s a major ingredient in car wax. I’m not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV, but I would not suggest eating things which are best suited to bringing back that new-car luster to your Pontiac. By the same token, I would also side against trying to shine up your jalopy with a fistful of marshmallow chicks..
I’m sure by now there are a few irate readers who are cursing my blasphemous criticism of their beloved Peeps. To be honest, it brings a wry smile to my face to think of them sitting there spewing frothy orbs of half chewed yellow marshmallow all over their computer screens and smart phones.
The only good thing I can say about these vile, bottom-dwellers of the candy world is that they often serve as a replacement of an even worse tradition. Back in the not-so-distant past, some people actually gave their children live chicks for Easter, only to discover that with the exception of farmers and perverts, no one actually wants live chickens.
Dentists aren’t even fans of Peeps, preferring that the Easter Bunny bring jelly beans, Jolly Ranchers and BB Bats, all of which are much more likely to pull out fillings and cause tooth decay. Face it, even if Peeps are just gussied-up marshmallows, no one is all that crazy about that sad confection either. Were it not for their presence in s’mores, those bags of fluffy white nothingness would sit on the supermarket shelves until someone needed them for science fair catapults.
Tune in again next time when I trash another iconic holiday staple. I’ve got it narrowed down to elves on shelves, green beer and candy corn.
I thought my last post was pretty good. It had lots of great ingredients including a bubble-headed newscaster, Lady Gaga, Academy Awards and racial slurs. In my book, that’s a can’t-lose recipe. I tossed that crap in my handy WordPress Lazy Blogger Crock Pot®, set the timer and toddled off to work. Eight hours later, I’d open the front door and be greeted by the savory aroma of delicious comments and a bountiful platter of steaming “likes”. I knew better than to hope for any Freshly Pressed action – this post was discomfort food, not French-Asian fusion cuisine featuring fair-trade organic lemongrass and sustainable free-range snails [Food analogies inserted to whet the readers’ appetites and make blog writing seem as effortless for me as slow cooking. Analogy of Freshly Pressed as some sort of trendy, politically-correct restaurant is due to my being a bitter man who can’t get a reservation]
I followed the instructions to the letter, adding a little extra salt and a pinch of cayenne, then left for my day of toiling making the world a better place for special-needs youngsters [Shameless self-promotion inserted to make people feel crappy for not reading my last post]
I trudged through the door that night and rushed to turn on the laptop. I was greeted with a mere four likes and a handful of comments from a few of my more ardent supporters. Four likes?! A fifth like showed up later, but it was clearly a “sympathy like” at best. I responded to each and every comment, and waited patiently for the momentum to pick back up. I jiggled the cord to make sure it was plugged in and touched the side to see if it had warmed up [Appliance malfunction analogy inserted to hint at my disappointment and grumbling stomach. Grumbling stomach analogy inserted into aside to imply that I’ll starve without positive reinforcement. Rushing to my laptop involved ignoring the greetings of both my long-suffering wife and gimpy-but-faithful dog]
It’s been too long now, there may be more likes trickling in and possibly a comment or two, but by this point, the post is buried and the expiration date on the topics has come and gone. My post before that one was over at The Nudge Wink Report. It had just a few words and was mostly comprised of cut-n-paste images of Kim Kardashian and her ample tushy being put in a bunch of silly places. It was far from my best work and I was fully prepared to be accused of having “smart-phoned it in”. Despite my doubts about the quality, the post got a butt-load of likes and a bumper crop of comments! Mrs. Kanye West’s ass pasted onto my dog’s nose is apparently blog gold. [Kim and Kanye reference inserted to allow me to put them in my tags for this post with a clear conscience – thus increasing my hits exponentially. Choice of using the words “butt load” and “bumper crop” in reference to ass-themed post responses was entirely intentional]
My first instinct, as a born pleaser, was to try to figure out what I’d done wrong. Surely there were errors in my less successful post and some sort of mysterious appeal to the more popular one. This is far from the first time I’d wondered what I’d done to displease the masses. [Self-reflection reference inserted to paint the author as being a little deeper than someone with an apparent fascination with Kim’s sizeable fanny might otherwise appear]
The bigger question eventually rises to the surface and sits there waiting to be acknowledged, like a turd in the punch bowl which can’t be ignored any longer. Here it is; Who exactly am I writing for? [Rhetorical question inserted in hopes of eliciting cries of “Me, Dave! You’re writing for me – I simply can’t get enough of your snarky brilliance!”. Turd in the punch bowl analogy inserted because, you know…poop humor]
I’ll be the first to admit that most of my blog posts are not exactly the stuff of literary artistry. I have written a handful of serious posts and some marginally humorous fiction in the past, but my blog identity is largely that of a smart-ass commenting on the news and/or the idiocy of the world. I enjoy making people laugh or even just smile. I like the thought of being the sarcastic voice of people who are annoyed or amused by the goofiness of our world. [As if to imply that most folk simply can’t read news stories and shake their heads in amazement without checking for my two cents first. You really should be insulted]
If I’ve learned nothing else from drawing and writing, it’s that people are going to like what they like, and not necessarily what I find appealing. The differing tastes and opinions of people is part of what makes the world go ’round. [Reference to my occasional drawing inserted to portray myself as something of a renaissance man, albeit one who had to try three times before finally spelling “renaissance” correctly. Reference to “making the world go ’round” is a bold-faced lie – we all know damn well that people with poor taste should not be tolerated, and couldn’t have less to do with the rotation of a planet]
Please don’t think this is some kind of a “Read my blog or I’m gonna quit” threat-fest. [Actually, that’s exactly what this is – you damn people better start coddling me a little or I’m going to take my mad writing skills over to the “Rants and Raves” section of the local Craigslist and hang out with the illiterate crowd. They’ll appreciate me even less, but there’s no like button there, so I won’t know]
Here are a few links to some of the posts I mentioned – no obligation, I’m just happy you actually got to the end of the post:
By now you may have heard about the Fox News anchor who used a racially derogatory word in her discussion of Lady Gaga’s performance at the Oscars. The beauty-pageant winner turned newscaster said it was hard to really hear Gaga’s voice with all of the “jigaboo music” accompanying the singer. I missed seeing the Academy Awards again this year. I think my streak for skipping that show for 56 consecutive years is impressive, but I’m not here to grandstand.
Since I didn’t see it, I guess there’s a slim possibility that Gaga’s back-up music was so raucous and bizarre that the standard English language was simply insufficient to adequately describe it. If that was the case, the reporter had little choice but to resort to jerky hand gestures or funny sounding slang words like “razzamatazz” or “badonkey-tonk”.
When criticized for her use of the slur, the news anchor Tweeted her little heart out, spewing apologies and offering the explanation that she didn’t actually know what the word meant when she said it (twice, but who’s counting, right?). The guy to her left seems to be a little more familiar with it.
In these N-word sensitive times, many white folk simply aren’t up to speed with the broad selection of racial epithets available out there to insult most any group. In truth, there’s no shortage in colorful words and phrases with which to simultaneously flaunt both ones racist leanings and impressive vocabulary. I’m not interested in helping popularize any of these lesser known terms and will keep them to myself, unless someone cuts me off in traffic.
As a lifelong speaker of English, I understand that we sometimes say things we don’t mean to. I say the wrong thing fairly often, such as “Hell yes!” to the offer of yet another pint of beer when I meant “No thank you”. The difference is that I know the meanings of the words, I just chose the wrong ones.
When I go to Starbucks, I order whichever coffee drink I’m interested in having, and specify whether I’d like a small, medium or large. I do not order a yeti or a grande. Though I’ve certainly been to enough Mexican restaurants to know that grande probably means large, I’m not positive, so I don’t use the word. To further complicate things, Yeti is another name for Bigfoot, which has the word “big” right in it. No wonder people are confused. Besides, the whole thing smacks of pretentiousness, but that’s for another blog post.
The real story is not that some perky newscaster used a racist term. The big message is that this woman, who talks for a living, had no idea what she was saying! Thousands of viewers tune in to find out what’s going on in their corner of the world and this is one of the people who tells them!? She didn’t know what it meant, and said it anyway – at least that is what she Tweeted, but there’s a chance that she also types things she doesn’t know the meanings of.
It’s commendable that people turn on the news in the first place, considering the sensationally tragic nature of most news stories. Even if some of them are only tuning in to find out who won the game or to ogle the weather girl, at least they’re taking some slight bit of interest in the world around them and not parking themselves in front of a “13 Wives and Counting” marathon on A & E.
This talking head has done little to restore peoples’ faith in the news media. If only she’d stuck to the teleprompter. In other news, Walter Cronkite is still spinning in his grave like a rotisserie chicken on a cordless drill. When pressed for a comment, Chet Huntley and David Brinkley both stated they could do a better job handling broadcast news despite their mutual state of deadness. Stay with us for continuing coverage, we’ll be back with weather and sports after these messages (Pull back to studio shot and cue the Starbucks commercial).
Nothing says Happy Valentine’s Day quite like some unsolicited smut. Don’t ask me how I managed to get this into a heart shaped box, but now that you’ve opened it…
Over the days leading up to Valentine’s Day, the search topic which has sent the most people to my blog is “detailed penis drawing“. Apparently drawing hearts isn’t how everyone decorates their cards. Either that, or they’re hell bent on rendering Cupid just right. I’m fairly confident that those faceless web surfers out there have been disappointed by having their search land them smack dab ( umm okay – bad choice of analogies) in the middle of my award-winning blog post* which featured an interview with politician/e- exhibitionist Anthony Weiner’s weiner.
It’s funny if you think about it. I mean, the internet has no shortage, so to speak, of pictures of naughty bits. If you want to see what a schwantz, some knockers, a va-jay-jay, or a booty looks like, you’re in the right place. There are many folks who would testify that even if you don’t wish to see any such anatomy, the internet will be more than happy to show you anyway.
Someone who is actively searching for detailed drawings of a ding-a-ling is probably not expecting to find one with a jaunty cap, cigarette holder and an ascot. A quick creative aside, I had considered drawing Anthony’s pecker wearing a “dickey” instead of an ascot, but as it happens dickey is funny to say but not all that amusing to look at. Besides, an ascot gives an air haughty sophistication, and goes incredibly well with a tufted smoking jacket.
I’m not particularly choosey about who reads my blog, in fact, I don’t even care if readers speak English. I get the occasional notifications of new followers and I’m happy to have each and every one of them. That being said, I’d like to take a moment to welcome the latest ones, including pp-looker, durtydurtydude, mindifistare?, holdstillwhileIgetmysktechpadandcharcoal, and of course package-chekker34.
I’d write more, but I’ve got a card to make for my wife.
*In the spirit of full disclosure, I’m pretty sure that post didn’t win any awards, which was unfortunate, because I had one hell of an acceptance speech written. I also had a snazzy smoking jacket picked out to wear the the ceremony!
I look for blog topics everywhere I go. A case in point, while looking through a trash can near the Santa Monica pier for half eaten burritos and/or aluminum cans, a wadded up piece of paper from a yellow legal tablet caught my eye.
I unwrinkled and smoothed it out as much as I could. After reading it over a few times, I’m convinced that this random piece of trash may in fact be Bruce Jenner’s Bucket List. Give it the once over and decide for yourself (I took the liberty of adding a few pictures – the original only had some doodles of hearts, unicorns and Olympic rings in the margins).
1. Win Olympic Gold Medal – Done 1976
2. Grace the cover of the Wheaties box – Done (Twice, but who’s counting?)
3. Get involved with a zany family – Done – Married Kris Kardashian 1991
4. Become a reality TV star – Done – After various attempts, finally hit the big time with “Keeping Up With The Kardashians” in 2007
5. Give Kim all the relationship advice I can – I’ve tried, Lord knows I’ve tried. She’s Kanye’s problem now!
6. Get safely past the menopause years before changing my gender – As a 65 year old gal, I’ll avoid hot flashes and qualify for an AARP discount at The Fashion Hutt! Since I technically still have my boy parts, I can’t cross this one off the list just yet!
7. Become a woman just in time to take advantage of the Bea Arthur estate sale – I haven’t seen any flyers posted down at the community center, I hope I didn’t miss it!
8. Find the most sure-fire way possible to get back on the front of the tabloids – Done! Those rags are gobbling this story up! The only celebrities who have weirder stories than me are Michael Jackson and Elvis, and they’re both (supposedly) dead.
9. Piss off the Wheaties people by going both gluten free and penis free – Almost done. I assume I’m close to achieving this, their people haven’t returned my people’s calls in a few years
10. Get on “The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon” – Done!
11. Get on “I’m A Celebrity – Get Me Out Of Here!” – Done!!
12. Get on “My Strange Addiction” – They haven’t called yet, but I’m thinking they will
13. Talk to Kim about how to get some junk in my trunk – Maybe when she’s done breaking the interweb and naming her kids after directions on a compass, she can give me some booty pointers
14. Play Pebble Beach from the ladies tees. Soon, baby…Soon!
15. If I’m going to throw the javelin, I need to learn to throw it like a girl (and not one of those East German chicks from back in my Olympic days).I saw on that Super Bowl commercial that it’s not politically correct to talk about “throwing like a girl”, but if I’ve learned one thing from this “journey” it’s that just growing my hair long and smearing some Mary Kay foundation over my 5 o’clock shadow doesn’t make me a woman.
16. Learn how to walk in heels – I won the Olympic decathlon, for crying out loud! How hard can a nice pair of pumps be?!
17. Make America proud – Done! That gold medal in ’76 certainly did the trick
18. Make America throw up in its mouth a little– Working on it every day. I can do this, I know I can!
19. Take advantage of these incredible cheekbones! – This rouge is tricky stuff. If I don’t get the hang of it, I’m going to end up looking like Leona Helmsley
20. Start peeing sitting down – This one should be easy, after teetering around in those heels, I’ll take any chance I can get to get off my feet!
I don’t know about you, but I’m sick and tired of reading reviews of the latest supercar from Maserati and how it compares to the Lamborghini. Even if I won the lottery I doubt I’d drive one of those cars. With this in mind, I’ve taken it upon myself to review a few other rides. These models are readily accessible to almost anyone, and can be experienced, if briefly, for just a few coins.
This is a sad approximation of one of the true classics. Notice the faux stone disk wheels instead of the stock limestone cylinders. To add insult to injury, all of the interior wood grain has been replaced with plastic trim. (Photo by the author)
The ride quality on this one really suffers in a side by side comparison to the original. The polycarbonate body is no match for the standard giant log construction. In addition, the lack of foot contact with the pavement results in both a significant decrease in both road feel and braking. Aesthetically, the absence of an animal skin canopy on this model truly detracts from the classic-yet-primitive lines of the original. The missing roof is all the more apparent should the driver become a victim of pterodactyl droppings.
This donkey looks a little shady, we might have to check that barrel for a hidden panel. Also, why the hell is that cactus so happy? (Photo by the author)
This one harkens back to a simpler time, life moved at a slower pace, and racism was fun. Today’s edition displays a Hitler-youth version of the traditionally Mexican donkey, complete with blond hair, a Dr. Seuss-inspired hat, and what appears to be a serious skin condition covering his hide. The ride was nearly as disappointing as the altered appearance. The anticipated rhythmic rocking in the saddle on the back of a jack-ass has been replaced with a rather jerky anterior-posterior motion not unlike the mechanical bull at Gilley’s Saloon in Vegas. The tinny mariachi music emanating from the grinning maw of the adjacent cactus offers little to enhance the experience, though it does reflect the original South-Of-The-Border charm which the ride had prior to its P.C. make-over.
Look at the face on that Mr. P wouldja? He looks like Kim Kardashian is about to squeeze her big caboose right into that tiny seat. That over-sized Tater Tot sure has a thing for celebrity dumpers. (Photo by the author)
Mr. Potato Head Buggy
This is an updated version of a vehicle which was a short-lived, commercial flop. Historians feel the problem may have stemmed from using the words “potato” and “bug” in the name. Sadly, this version does not offer the driver the option of changing out the facial features of the Potato Head seat-back or front-grill, which was honestly the only thing to differentiate this dud of a spud from the Rocket To Mars out in front of the Shop-N-Save.
The ride’ll run you 75 cents. For that kind of scratch, they should supply the user with a cute little chain to attach their cute little wallets to their cute little belts. (Photo by the author)
This is a miniature version of the classic Harley favored by outlaw bikers (and investment bankers going through mid-life crises). Though a rumbling soundtrack accompanies the swaying ride, the lack of wind in the hair, bugs in the teeth or frightened glances from neighboring minivan passengers detract from the overall experience. The nearby bench does provide adequate seating for your old lady (or Mommy), as the fine print points out that “this hog don’t come with no bitch pad“.
Vehicle design notwithstanding, Baby Kermit exhibits an undeniable lack of any resemblance to Miss Piggy. (Photo by the author)
S-Street: P is for Poultry, and also for Propulsion
America’s pioneering children’s television series has clearly sold out. Baby Kermit’s eyes reflect a fondness for Phish concerts and if I’m not mistaken, he’s making the hand signal for the “sinsemilla sidecar” wherein new passengers can expect the entire vehicle to be in the smoking section. If you doubt this premise, then explain how a typically flightless Blue Hen can be converted into a rocket. I won’t even get into reviewing Snuffie’s Colombian-Themed Party Bus.
Portrait of the artist as a well paid football coach with furrowed brow
Attn: Director of Personnel – NY Jets
I am Mr. One Point Perspective, part-time, award winning blogger extraordinaire and full time jack-ass. I would like to take this opportunity to formally offer my name for consideration as Mr. Rex Ryan’s successor as the head coach of the New York Jets.
As you are undoubtedly aware, the world of professional football is going through some challenging times in recent years. On the field, teams have taken to using formations of such complexity that many teams have resorted to hiring choreographers. Celebratory dances alone have nearly been elevated to an art form. From a play-calling standpoint, things have gotten so confusing that the referees are often the only ones on the field who aren’t either calling audibles or decoding the giant postcards held high on the sidelines by back-up quarterbacks and assistant-assistant coaches.
Off the field, things are stickier than ever. Player behavior is making headlines for all the wrong reasons. The public relations quicksand gets deeper by the day. Who would have guessed that giving millions of dollars to idolized young men who make their living doing violent things could possibly be lead to problems?
These league-wide scandals, in addition to your abysmal record the past several seasons may have disastrous results. At this rate, there is a distinct possibility that some fans may actually be upset enough to give up their season tickets, mandatory pre-season ticket packages and seat licensing fees. Without taking action, there is a chance the Jets organization could end up losing a few doubloons over this, not to mention your share of lucrative parking revenues!
The time is now, gentlemen. Your organization can be a pioneer in making the bold move into uncharted territory by hiring a middle-aged guy from suburbia to be your head coach. A person with no practical experience in coaching can provide your team with the fresh, unpredictable direction which only a true neophyte can provide. My attached resume will show that I’ve spent my adult years following several career paths, none of which involve professional football.
I did play football in high school. Granted, the game was different back in those days, we didn’t wear gloves or Darth Vader visors. I do recall a few guys on the JV team who tried to sneak gloves out onto the practice field when the weather got cold – they were subjected to some good natured ribbing, let me tell you.
I have participated in a fantasy football league for several years. The experience has been one of rather limited success, likely due to my drinking too much at the draft parties. The large amounts of beer and tequila may have been the root cause of my drafting players who were not actually available to play due to incarceration, retirement and in one case, death. The parties were typically held at my home, so there was no driving under the influence or other scandalous behavior on my part. I can’t speak for Hacksaw or Tommy Tilt, both of whom have left the league. You’d have to speak with their respective wives for full details as to why they withdrew.
Since I have none of the football coaching experience of Rex Ryan, I’ll compare myself to him in a general sense;
Rex Ryan has been rumored to have quite the foot fetish and his wife even allegedly appears in several videos, showing off her tootsies. While I won’t deny being as much of a fan of pretty toes and dainty arches as the next guy, I have the common sense to keep the camcorder in its case except for family birthdays and holidays.
Rex has a brother, Rob Ryan, who is a defensive coordinator for the New Orleans Saints – at least he is at the moment. I also have a brother, and like me, he has no experience coaching football. He keeps his thinning hair much neater than Rob Ryan’s tangled mane.
Rex is known for being outspoken and a straight talker, much like New Jersey Governor Chris Christie. I’m also widely considered to be a loudmouth, especially when I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. Predictably, Gov. Christie is a Cowboys fan and to the best of my knowledge is not interested in coaching your NFL team, as he has eyes on bigger game (or it could be he’s looking at the “sale” sign in the front of Tartaglione’s Cannoli Emporium).
I can’t beat the Patriots either, but I’ll damn sure dress better than Belichick on game day.
My noteworthy personal attributes include:
I haven’t managed a whole team of players, but I did have a hand in raising three children, none of whom have served any significant time in prison.
Mike Vick and I go way back – Oh the dog-fighting yarns we could tell!
I’m okay with sharing a stadium with another team as long as those Giants fans promise to pick up after themselves.
I appreciate the history of your great franchise – for example, I’m pretty sure that Weeb Ewbank did not host The Newlywed Game.
I look really good in green
In closing, I’d like to thank you for your consideration. Again, I urge you to take the trailblazing step of handing the reigns over to a complete novice, before another team steps up and does it first. To be completely fair, I intend to send similar applications to parties in Atlanta, San Francisco and Chicago. Since I already live in Jersey, I’ve decided to give you first dibs.
One Point Perspective
P.S.: I understand a position has also opened up in Buffalo. I don’t want to be an NFL coach badly enough to apply for that gig.
Now that kids all over the country have had a chance to dig into their new toys, manufacturers are dealing with the occasional fall-out from products which offer less (or more) than parents bargained for.
It seems the good folks at Hasbro have just such a pubic relations issue with their new Play Doh cake decorator extruder-thingy. Rather than describe the issue, I’ll just post a little pic of it below and see if you can guess the problem.
You couldn’t see what the issue with the toy is? Me either! I did an online search and found some customer complaints, maybe looking at them will shed some light on the problem.
“Why did Santa bring this? Mom already has one in her sock drawer” – Becky K. – Joplin, Missouri
“Tell your sister she has to share, Johnnie! You both get to play with the extruder-thingy” – Nancy R. – Medford, Oregon
“Don’t bother looking at the directions kids, Daddy knows how to use that thing” – Brad H. – Toledo, Ohio
“You’ll shoot your eye out, kid!” – Department store Santa – Jacksonville, Florida
“Dad! I can’t find the cake extruder-thingy and Mom won’t come out of the bedroom to help me look for it” – Jimmy P. – Des Moines, Iowa
“Mom! Timmy wants to fill it with lemonade and try to write his name in the snow!” – Brittany M. – Grand Rapids, Michigan
“Mommy, why did you think this toy needs batteries?” – Filbert H. – Baton Rouge, Louisiana
“Daddy, why did my new Play Doh cake decorating set come with Anthony Weiner campaign literature?” – Giselle T. Brooklyn, New York
I’m sure that Hasbro doesn’t see a problem either, but you know, the customer is always right. Parents need to accept that even without a cake decorator extruder, that’s one of the first things a lot of kids are going to make out of Play Doh anyway.