Monthly Archives: November 2011
It’s almost like one of those prescription drug commercials:
Do you have a vagina? If so, you may have been sexually harassed by Herman Cain. Ask your bank if coming forward is right for you.
The latest woman to come forward says that she had an affair with him for 13 years. That’s not an affair, that’s a second marriage. Maybe he should be President. He definitely has the multitasking thing down. Keeping two women happy for 13 years while simultaneously sexually harassing four other women and running The National Restaurant Association. I have one wife, no women on the side and I’m stressed out most of the time.
I may have been wrong about him.
Well, Black Friday has come and gone…Thank God!
I like to think that I didn’t grow up under a rock, but the first time I ever heard of Black Friday was during my sophomore year of college. I thought it was something my girlfriend at the time had made up. It would be another four years before I’d hear the term again when I let a coworker convince me to go to Best Buy to take advantage of “crazy deals” back in ’05.
As a testament to my ignorance regarding Black Friday, I showed up at Best Buy “early.” Like, ten minutes before they would normally open. So at 9:50 in the morning I found myself as the umpteen thousandth person to arrive. Obviously I went home empty handed.
Six years later, I showed up to Best Buy at 11 in the morning. I learned my lesson. I just don’t care. I’m not trying to rain on anyone’s parade. Some people have family traditions. I imagine it would be fun to go camp out in line with your mom or cousins after a great Thanksgiving meal. Maybe you and your best friend made a pact to go Double Dragon on em in the store. I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m too picky, cynical and impatient to be a Black Friday’er. The minute someone pepper sprays me for a damn video game console that came out six years ago, it’s gonna get Black real quick.
Gladiators stand in line for hours for the honor to enter a large arena where they’ll battle hundreds of other people for something shiny. Those victorious in battle will then advance to the Feat of Patience where they must stand in another line. If successful, they earn the right to leave the arena but must first pay a toll equal to (but usually greater than) the value of the shiny object. They then jump in their carriages and participate in the Victory Parade which travels approximately 20 mph down the highway.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, going to the mall while wearing my wedding ring and carrying my daughter in my arms is like pulling out the Thundercats sword.
Desperate girls are on the move, desperate girls are loose.
Take their offer, catch some AIDS. Desperate girls are loose.
Skee-zer, skee-zer, skee-zer, skee-zer, SKANK!
Skee-zer, skee-zer, skee-zer, skee-zer, SKANK!
A lady at the grocery store told me that she could tell that I was a good father just by looking at how my daughter smiles at me.
Women can tell those kinds of things. We can tell which men are keepers and which ones aint nothing. Imma be straight up with you, if your wife stops doing her job at home, there are plenty of women working here willing to fill in. You laughing, I’m serious. We been talking about you. All of us noticed you a while ago. That’s all Imma say, she better keep it tight at home.
That is the most flattering and yet stalkerish thing anyone has ever said to me. It’s funny because I know that if I were to get divorced tomorrow, all interest in me would drop to zero. It’s strange how it works. As long as you’re a faithful and devoted husband/father, everyone wants you. The minute you take one up on their offer you cease to be devoted and faithful and no one wants you. So I just keep playing my position.
I wonder who was the first person to say, “Hey, why don’t we all put on matching jackets. grab some clipboards and go ask people for money in front of the subway!” I remember back in the day when “The Clipboard People” (Clipboardians?) would only ask you to sign a petition. Now they want your credit card information. They seem very well organized as a whole in the sense that you never see two different groups at the same station on the same day. I guess they have a calendar or something. Greenpeace on Mondays, Planned Parenthood on Tuesdays. Politely telling them that you’re not interested doesn’t work so I’ve been trying different methods. Here’s my experience this week:
Greenpeace person: Hello sir. Do you care about the environment.
Me: Not really.
Planned Parenthood: Good Morning! Do you support the idea of a woman’s right to choose?
Me: You’re really asking me that while I’m pushing a stroller with a screaming chid in it?
United Way: How are you today? Do you have time to save a life today?
Me: (Pointing at the stroller) That’s what I’m trying to do right now.
I was sitting in Panera Bread the other day when a family came in. The mom was pushing the double stroller and went straight to the tables while the dad ordered the food. I could see the stress written all over the guy’s face. He had that look of defeat that only another parent would understand. I know how bad it is trying to go out in public with just one toddler. He had twins.
Poor guy. He had to be in his early thirties but his hair was already starting to gray. The five o’clock shadow and wrinkled clothes said that he didn’t even care anymore about his appearance. He kept his head down so not to make eye contact with anyone who might see the tears he was probably trying to keep back. I wanted to make eye contact with him, you know? Let him know that I understood. Maybe salute him or something.
Then he started walking my direction. His torso was no longer obscured by that wall-thing that separates the booths from the line. That’s when I realized it was worse than I ever could have imagined. He was wearing a Baby Bjorn. It wasn’t twins. It was triplets. He glanced at me briefly as he passed by me…as I wept for us both.
Soooo we were in the pediatrician’s waiting room today waiting for a flu shot when I made the stupid decision to give my daughter my iPhone to keep her still. Even though she was younger than every kid in there, they were somewhat (how do I put this?) siddity and I didn’t want her to Fight Club any of them.
They called me up to the counter to sign some papers and I left her in the chair as she dazzled the people sitting around us by knowing how to unlock it, tap the photo app and swipe through pictures. All of a sudden I heard music playing. I could tell by the smiles on their faces that they didn’t know what song it was else they would’ve given me a harsh look right away. Instead the women around her were smiling like, “Oh that must be her favorite song.” I tried my best to sign those forms as fast as possible and get that phone outta her hand before the chorus came in.
Their adoration turned to admonition as Kanye West blurted out:
Pop champagne. I’ll give you a sip
Bout to go dumb. How come?
Yeah that’s my bitch!
Yeah that’s my bitch!
Shorty right there? That’s my bitch!
What made it so bad is that I don’t even like that song. It just happened to be the one that came on after New Day, which I do like. So in addition to being judged for a song that I don’t even listen to, my daughter makes it worse by clapping and shouting, Yay!, while the song is playing. I can’t help but wonder if she actually enjoyed the song or if she was applauding herself for a job well done as she’d exacted revenge for my not allowing her to go play with the other little kids.
Up until a few days ago, I really didn’t know much about the NBA lockout except that both sides were arguing about how much of the “too much money” they’d get to keep. Now, I’m a little more informed and my views have changed a bit. The lockout basically boils down to this:
The players want the revenue to be split 50/50. Revenue. That’s the word of the day. Revenue is how much money comes in the door whereas profit is how much money you have left after all expenses have been paid. The owners pay expenses. They players do not. So basically the owner’s beef is that they don’t want to split the money evenly if they’re left to foot the bill for everything else. Not all teams are profitable, so it is possible that after the players walk away with 50%, the owners are left spending more money to keep the team going than they actually made that year.
In all honesty, I think it is silly that someone gets paid millions of dollars to play a game. But I don’t think the solution is simple as some people would argue. If you pay athletes less money, then that money would simply shift to the pockets of the owners and other people who make a living promoting professional sports. It bothers me when people pretend like its the athlete’s fault that they make so much. It’s society’s fault as a whole.
Basketball shoes cost about $125 on average. NBA 2K12 on PS3 and X360 is $60. Decent seats to a game start in the hundreds, while jerseys and hats aren’t cheap either. Don’t even get me started on those Total Access Cable Packages. These aren’t arbitrary numbers pulled out of a hat. There are marketing strategists in every business that have their finger on the pulse of consumer spending who can determine to the penny what the average person is willing to spend. The only reason this stuff costs so much is because people are willing to pay it and the NBA gets a chunk of the revenue from every item sold.
They wouldn’t build multimillion dollar stadiums if people weren’t willing to pay big money to sit in it and have a crappier viewing experience than if they watched from home. We’re in a recession and they’re still making bank. The fault is with us. Sports have an intrinsic value in society. They’re our source of escape. They give us reasons to gather together in a bar to cheer with strangers, they bring excitement and adrenaline rushes to our self-imposed monotonous and often mundane lives. We rally behind and cheer for athletes who become our champion each season. When they win, we win. Do they deserve millions of dollars for that? Apparently we think so.