When Bad Football Happens to Good People

This past Sunday we were all hurt. Go ahead, let it out, we’re all feeling it. Football season is over and that, that is how it ended.

We expected some discomfort because we were being forced to watch the insufferable Patriots again. But the level of pain we were subjected to was a shock. Missed field goals, dropped passes, bad passes, bad officiating, missed blocks, missed tackles, punt after punt after punt, no scoring.

At the party I attended people were openly weeping, begging deities of all religions to save us. My brother converted to Rastafarianism thinking the music of Eek-a-Mouse would calm his transient nausea, but the last I saw he was in the corner mumbling about not having enough hair to grow dreadlocks. The rest of us called in a pastor for an explanation. We had done nothing wrong, so why were we being punished? As the seconds wound down on the first quarter the pastor himself was on his knees crying to the heavens “Oh God why hast thou forsaken us? They can’t even kick a field goal!”

Mid-way through the second quarter we were so lost we called in a philosopher to help us with our existential dread. His Jean-Paul Sartre quotes of “man is a useless passion” and “nothingness haunts being” were not helpful. By the time he was deep into Nietzsche’s treatise on the abyss we were angry. Punching him wasn’t soothing so we kicked him instead which acted as a mild balm for our wounds. We left him outside contemplating the puddle of snot pooling around his nose and mumbling Heidegger nonsense.

The game was a brutal examination of ineptitude that we dragged behind us like a boat anchor. “Maybe the half time show will cheer us up,” we thought. Music is a great healer.

I think it was my sister who snapped first. “Turn it off, turn it off!” she yelled. “Music isn’t supposed to sound like that!” Every note was like a pill caught in our collective throats. The air became heavy and unbreathable. With each article of clothing Adam Levine took off, the songs got exponentially worse until it sounded like a combination of Mongolian throat singing and Coldplay.

We were barely hanging onto our sanity by the time the second half started. We watched the whole 3^rd quarter under the influence of peyote, hoping to hallucinate a good game. It started off ok as I saw Joe Montana riding a white stallion, throwing passes with both hands to a thousand receivers named Jerry. Unfortunately, a dragon from my niece’s delusion invaded mine and ate Montana. After that the field melted into an ice cream bar filled with trolls, loose change and multiple Walter Matthaus.

The end of the game was chaos. One of my brother’s had his head buried in the cheese dip murmuring “I can’t watch anymore, I can’t.” My sister, on the edge of a nervous breakdown since halftime, was reading Dickens loudly to drown out Tony Romo’s voice: “ ‘IT WAS THE BEST OF TIMES, IT WAS THE WORST OF TIMES . . .’ ” My other brother was on eBay trying to win an auction for an ICBM to blow up the stadium but kept getting out-bid by a penny by some Russian account. My niece took more peyote and was lying prone on the floor. “I’m righteous,” was all she said when asked any question. I was outside walking the neighborhood ringing a bell shouting “10 o’clock and all is not well, 10 o’clock and all is not well.”

What happened to all of us on Sunday was unfair. As football fans, casual gamblers and people who just like eating at parties, we deserved better. Baseball season starts in a few weeks. Perhaps the boredom of that will erase the bad memories of Super Bowl 53.

The Death of Journalism

By the title of this piece you’re probably thinking it’s an erudite, in-depth look at print journalism through the decades and how it has affected all of our lives, from “Dewey defeats Truman” through Watergate to present day treatises on our divided population.

Nah. I’m not smart enough to write that 5000 words of scholarly insomnia cure.

This was an actual headline on the NY Post web site today:

Leonardo DiCaprio keeps his sunglasses on indoors at Lakers game

I searched the entire site but couldn’t find a follow-up article called:

Leonardo DiCaprio wears pants to Lakers game

Of course, what I really wanted was the scintillating story of:

Leonardo DiCaprio packs bag lunch to Lakers game: egg salad and applesauce

What has happened to our nation’s newspapers? How did an actor wearing sunglasses indoors become a story? It wasn’t just a headline, there were several paragraphs breathlessly detailing Leo’s entire sartorial ensemble. The writer’s conclusion was he was wearing the sunglasses indoors to stay incognito. But that didn’t work. Another celebrity, comedian Kevin Hart, spotted Leo right away, giving him the secret Hollywood handshake and double wink of celebrity Illuminati.

Where was this headline:

Thousands watch Lakers game with doctor-prescribed eyewear or contacts

Or this:

Hundreds occasionally look up from phones to watch moments of Lakers game

I’m all for light hearted entertainment news, I read Entertainment Weekly. But this. This isn’t “news” of any kind. This is an ego-centric douche wearing sunglasses indoors like ALL egocentric douches do. It’s evolution. Once Leo was human, but with increasing fame and success he metamorphosized to a clothes-wearing douche. Once that happened, the sunglasses indoors were part of his DNA.

The NY Post didn’t have to write about it, they chose to because journalism is dead. The Post didn’t kill it, they just drove the knife in a little deeper.

Lost and Found

It’s ok everyone, I found them. They had fallen behind the couch. 

I want to thank everyone who had suggestions on where my keys were, although not to Dan from Sheboygan who said to look up my butt. Very funny Dan.

Sheila from Niagara Falls was closest when she guessed they were under my fainting couch. I got rid of that though once my case of the vapors cleared up with my program of outdoor activities and pure thoughts.

Gary from New Mexico seemed to think a badger ate them. I don’t even have time to start with you Gary.

Jenny from South Dakota, along with 456 others said they didn’t care where my keys were. Well, that’s really nice. I was just asking for suggestions. I didn’t expect you to fly to my state, rent a car, drive to my home and physically join in the search. And if you had, I would have provided a selection of pepper jack cheeses, cured meats and gift bags filled with hand crafted soaps. So you all missed out.

Roman from Ocean City Maryland, about your suggestion that I dropped my keys into the “vast, crude-oil black skin of eternal nothingness that is life on this rotting planet”, uh . . . maybe you need to get outside more buddy. Get some vitamin D flowing through your system, have a Snicker’s bar, stop listening to Albert Camus books-on-tape, miss a meeting or two of the Nietzsche Admiration Society. Just a few ideas.

Stacey from Washington DC I think you had a typo. I think you meant “re-trace” your steps but it said “re-brace” your steps so I spent the entire weekend building a complicated system of cross-arms and footers for my staircase. Looks nice though.

Anyway, thanks again for helping me find my keys. Now if you have any thoughts on why I enjoy watching baseball, let me know.

Close Encounters of the Idiot Kind

Do you walk into a store and stop two steps inside the doorway so the man behind you trips himself trying not to run into you, falls to the side on his arm snapping the radius bone which breaks through the skin and stabs him in the eye leaving him blinded and unable to work so he has to move in with his daughter who is a vegan that does yoga for 3 hours each morning and doesn't own a TV? Do you drive 15 miles below the speed limit until the driver behind you falls asleep, runs their car off the road into a tree which collapses onto oncoming traffic blocking the road so an ambulance carrying a man who has fallen and broke his arm which stabbed him in the eye can't get through to the hospital? In general, do you behave as if the world revolves around you and no one else's life matters? Then you may have "You're a Fucking Idiot Syndrome".


Doctors have only recently done the first comprehensive studies on YAFIS but have already identified millions who suffer from it, including nearly every person you encounter on any given day.

The spread of YAFIS is alarming. Formerly normal people wake up one morning and have overnight become idiots. The day before they would never dream of standing in a grocery store aisle with their cart sideways thus taking up the entire lane. Then one morning they do it without even thinking and when asked politely to move aside they instead hire Gloria Allred who was in the next aisle buying granola and US Weekly. By Tuesday you're embroiled in a civil lawsuit when all you wanted was a box of Pop Tarts.

How do we combat YAFIS? Sadly there are no good alternatives at this time. Many have taken up arms and shot the idiots they encounter but when examined these people were found to have an alternate version of YAFIS called "Extremist Idiot Disorder" or "Republicanism". Others have tried reasoning with an idiot only to feel after as if their brains had melted and leaked out through their nose. A new study by the Harvard School of Psychology has identified these people as having yet another off-shoot of YAFIS, "Bleeding Heart Disease" or "Liberalism".

So where, as a society, do we go from here? Do we all build compounds, listen to Hank Williams Jr. records and eat meat-like products from a can? Do we bring back talk shows like Phil Donahue so we can work through our collective problems in daily televised therapy sessions paid for by male enhancement pills and diet supplements?

No. The solution lies within us. It isn't found in Eastern philosophy or Western nihilism. Each of us, as individuals, need to promise one another we will do better. We will be considerate of others and understand that we are not alone.

If that doesn't work there's always flippin' 'em the bird and shouting "What are ya, a fuckin’ idiot?"

A Foodie Fairytale

Dilly Dan was a pickle man, selling his gherkins and garlics on the corner of 1st avenue and 12th street. His cart was in the shape of a dill and he wore a uniform of all green, down to his socks and shoes. Dan lived for pickles. He ate them at every meal, canned them, sold them and slept on a green pillow.

All was green and briny in Dan’s world until the day a new food cart opened for business across the street.

Funnel Fran was a funnel cake girl, a fourth generation food cart vendor. Her great grandfather Penny Candy Stan the Cheap Candy Man opened a cart on 4th avenue in 1932 selling licorice, bubble gum and ribbon candy. Fran’s grandfather Corndog Bob operated his cart throughout Central Park. He passed the cart onto his son, Fran’s dad, who transformed into Apple Pie Peter whose pies were known all over the five boroughs.

Funnel Fran opened her cart across the street from Dilly Dan on a warm July morning. It only took until the afternoon for Funnel Fran to be out of ingredients. The local people were crazy for her cakes. Meanwhile, Dan had only sold one pickle, a Texas Dill to a small child who took a bite and dropped it down the storm drain.

That evening Dilly Dan concocted a plan to get his business back from Funnel Fran. Dilly Dan was a big fan of plans as well as cheese in a can, spray tans and ’64 Chevy oil pans. When Dan made his way to 1st avenue the next morning he was sans cans, tans or pans. In his mind he carried only his plan. And in his arms he carried a 5 gallon drum of pickle brine.

He found Fran hard at work inside her cart. She had four plastic containers each filled with her famous funnel cake batter. Dan needed to distract his rival so he set her cart on fire. While Fran sprayed the flames with an extinguisher, Dan snuck into the cart to pour his pickle brine into the funnel cake batter. Dan stirred the juice into the batter until you couldn’t tell it was there.

Dilly Dan snuck away to watch from the shadows as Fran’s business was ruined when she sold funnel cakes that tasted like pickles. However, to Dan’s astonishment, people loved them. Fran couldn’t make them fast enough. The line at her cart stretched across the road, blocking traffic. Drivers abandoned their cars to purchase a Funnel Fran funnel cake.

Dan got in line himself and purchased one of Fran’s confections. As he ate it he fell into a state of bliss he didn’t know existed. The combination of the sweetness of the sugar, the thickness of the dough and the tartness of the pickle juice made for a flavor that outshone pork rinds, fried Oreos and pheasant broiled in a white wine reduction and covered in mango hollandaise sauce.

Dan looked at Fran with her frizzy blond hair, crooked smile and giant, mannish hands and realized he was falling in love. As he ate his funnel cake he envisioned the two of them working side by side in their carts selling pickles, cakes, pickle flavored cakes, cake flavored pickles, and assorted souvenir hats, shirts, bumper stickers, iPad cases, nasal inhalers, lunch meats, lemon reamers, cutlery, hair clips, antiperspirant, window decals, combustion engines, flower vases, front end loaders, breakfast cereal, balloons, alpacas, finely crafted furniture, ceramic mugs, notebooks, pocket watches and sunglasses. Lots of sunglasses.

Dilly Dan wandered the streets until the end of the day. When Fran finally put out her closed sign, Dan approached the exhausted confectioner. He introduced himself as Dilly Dan the pickle man. Fran smiled shyly.

“I’ve seen you with your cart,” she said.

Dan smiled back and told her how much he loved her funnel cake. Fran thanked him but explained she didn’t even know how they got that flavor.

“I’d love to sell more,” she said, “but I don’t know how I did it.”

“I can help you with that,” Dan told Fran. “You could say it was my recipe.”

Dan explained how that morning he had been angry with Fran for taking his business. Using animated hand motions he described his love of plans, cans and tans and how he executed his plan at 8 a.m. by setting her cart on fire then sneaking in and pouring pickle juice in the batter. Dan continued his story and was at the point of the souvenir combustion engines when Fran punched him in the face. Repeatedly.

Dilly Dan was a pickle man until he lost all his teeth and his eyes swelled shut and that cut on the bridge of his nose wouldn’t stop bleeding and his ear drum perforated and his brain swelled inside his skull . . .