Sports

Uncle Sean’s Story Time… Being A Boob And Having A Ball

Posted on by sgottahurt

Gather ’round, gather ’round, kiddies… it’s time for another one of Uncle Sean’s drunk stories… this one is about what happened after a bachelor party… and it’s not quite what you think…

I’ve been to more than a few bachelor parties in my time.  Some have occurred on buses that took us to magical places (two of the best adventures, I must admit).  Most times, the magic visits upon us.  One time, and only one time, the bachelor wanted nothing to do with any of the magic, so his uncle enjoyed the sanctioned magic instead.  Another time, we sought out all kinds of magic in a city where magic never sleeps.  But I digress…

On the day of this story, the magic was visiting us.  I had planned on calling it an early night, since I had something to do, early the next morn.  Five beers tops, I promised myself.  But unlike the other shindigs I had been to, this one had kegs rather than cans or bottles (this was early in my bachelor party years), and my plastic cup never ran empty, courtesy of the handled couriers that were passed around.

When the magicians finally arrived (some extras appeared unannounced), the festivities flared.  Cash flashed (amongst other things), and soon the booze was tapped dry.   Due to the inundation of said magic and the awkward payment situations that followed, the party abruptly came to an end.  Phase One, anyway.  My initial hope to cut-and-run was quickly forgotten when Phase Two was announced.

In probably not the safest collected cavalcade, we embarked on a journey to the oldest part of town, where the Big Three Kings once ruled.  We visited an establishment that specialized in, um, magic, and as the night and my buzz winded down, I recalled my plans:  “I have the GRE tomorrow!”

I bid my farewells and ferried off left.  The next morning was to clarity as glass was to stone.

As I say in the lobby of the testing facility, I glanced at the other patrons.  I was the best dressed, I decided, mostly because they were all still in their pajamas, and I wore what I… slept… in.

We had to sign a form beforehand that required us to write a paragraph in cursive.  I failed to recall any of the letters, namely the capital-I which began the paragraph “I agree… blah, blah, blah.”  Looking around the room for any clue, my eyes stumbled upon the heroine of the show.

(I should note that in situations like these, I always daydream that the surrounding players and I are the cast of a TV show.  I’m the hero, of course, and I have to pick my supporting cast.  This daydream involved the rest of the world disappearing outside of the clinic’s walls, and us survivors picking up the pieces of… whatever.)

Somehow, my heroine sensed my selection of her as my co-star, and she looked up from writing.  I asked, “How do you make a cursive capital-I?”

When I was called into the interview room, the nebbish gentleman verifying my identity asked if I had any questions.  I did.  “Do you have any aspirin?”

Without irony or any further prompting, he leaned back and shifted his gaze upon me.  “Do you work for… them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you work for… the company?”  (I swear this happened.  It wasn’t hangover induced or a daydream.)

“What are talking about?”

Finally, he relaxed and explained that the parent corporation that hosts the testing will send in dummy clients to test workers.  He told me they were not allowed to give out “medication.”  I reminded him it was only an aspirin that I wanted; he gave me the option of leaving to purchase some prior to hitting the questions.

“I’ll survive.”

The exam was equally grueling and a blur.  The first math section was Headache Incarnate, but it was the essay that I’ll never forget.  I had to write a piece on… well, that part I forget.  All I remember from the whole experience was that I ended up going on and on about Tiger Woods.  About how I feel his naturally talents could have possibly been squandered by being put into golf at such an early age.  On how his mind might have been built to tackle insane astrophysics or abstract geometry – not to hit a little ball in a hole far away.  I don’t believe I ever made my point in the essay, and I remember rushing to even finish a sentence before the clock ran out on the computer.

MORAL OF THE STORY: Drunken ramblings work better as vocal rants than as GRE essays.

Uncle Sean’s Story Time… Hoop There It Is!

Posted on by sgottahurt

Gather ’round, gather ’round, kiddies… it’s time for another one of Uncle Sean’s drunk stories… this one may explain where the “Twilight Zone” got its name… you know, ’cause something weird happened at twilight… well, at about 6pm or so…

The bulk of the friends I have I’ve had for almost all my life.  From grade school on, there’s about a handful of us that keep in close touch contact with each other, and still hang out.  They’re like brothers to me, and hence are like Uncles to you.

Your Uncle Tom and his then fiancée, Aunt Jenny, invited a group of us up to her family’s cabin.  Upon arrival, we spend a good amount of time chatting and partaking of spirits.  We had a late lunch and decided to head off to the lake.

It was a beautiful day, so they took us out on the boat.  I dove off the back while we were cruising (the spirits moved me to do it).  It was shallow where we were (I was unaware of that fact), so luckily we were at travelling speeds.  Otherwise, I might have sunk down rather than skim the top.  Nonetheless, I spent the rest of the ride drying off and grinning from ear to ear.

On land, where the towels were actually at, I continued to fill my tummy with carbonated carbs after I changed out of my bathing suit.  The basketball court was empty, so a few of us guys grabbed the orange orb from my car’s trunk and he hit the pavement.

Someone decided it would be a good idea to try to incorporate drinking into the gameplay.  So what we devised was each person had to hold a can in one hand, and dribble/shoot/block with the free hand.  If you spilled your lager – you had to drink.  If you spilled another player’s – you had to slam dunk yours.  We dribbled our way to 21 (ironic) for awhile, when a group of kids showed up.

They were adolescents and their numbers matched those of us playing.  They kept trying to steal the ball and play in our game, but as they did not have beers, we would not let them.

One of them was a little bit obnoxious, and one of your uncle’s wasn’t afraid to be obnoxious back.

One of them had a broken arm; one of your uncle’s broke his arm at that age.

One of them was plain clumsy, as I oft tend to be.

From the sidelines, your Uncle Rodney started laughing as the battle waged on.  The sun was lowering and the rest of the group was packing up to head back to the cabin.  I asked what he found so funny.

“They’re all miniature versions of you!  Even down to the hair color.”  Red for red, brown for brown, and blonde for blonde.

MORAL OF THE STORY: Don’t drink while out too long in the sun or you might cause a dimensional vortex that could threaten the fabric of our universe.

Neener, neener, neener, neener, duh-duh-DUH!

Neener neener, neener neener, duh-duh-DUH!

Drunken Recollection… Monday Night Nerdfest

Posted on by sgottahurt

Monday Night Football Trivia was in full effect last night, and I learned that there were more U.S. soldiers in the Korean War vs. the Vietnam War, Turkey was not only a part of the Ottoman Empire and Iran was not only Persia (they were both a part of Mesopotamia), and prior to “Titanic,” the highest grossing Best Picture winner was “Forrest Gump.”

While the competition occurred (we were in third place before the last question, but we wagered all of our points on “Gone With the Wind” on guess-which-question), these were some of the topics of discussion:

  • I have had a song stuck in my head for a few days.  I had the melody and this lyric: And somebody picked on me.  It turns out that the lyric is actually: And somebody snitched on me.  The song was “I’m Getting Nothing for Christmas.”  (Thanks to Kelly for playing Scooby Doo on that one.)
  • Talk about holiday parties began, and about how cool it would be to hire a waiter or waitress for New Year’s Eve.  I thought it’d be funny to hire one for any day.  Have a couple of friends over… the waiter/waitress can change the channel, get us beers and snacks… you know, stuff like that.  When nothing was going on, the waiter/waitress could play video games with us, or watch the season finale of “Lost” with us.  We wouldn’t be dicks about it.  It would be for the sake of uncomfortable awkwardness and a good story to tell.
  • Speaking of dicks – this store’s name brought us grown infants a heaping amount of joy:
    I originally saved this file as dicks, but changed it to avoid confusion.
    I originally saved this file as ‘dicks,’ but changed it for obvious reasons.

    We talked about how their midnight madness sales could be called “nocturnal emissions” and that the idea for the event “came to them at night.”  This was the least crass example – trust me.

  • The night ended not at the bar, but playing “Call of Duty 4” once again.  As we were leaving, paintball was brought up, and one friend stated he would wait in a tree outside my other friend’s house in order to ambush him.  Due to the cold weather we’re experiencing, it was also brought up how he would freeze to death waiting.  Since this particular friend is leaving the state for a new job, everyone would think he left early, and no one would notice he was missing until the spring.  But since my friend didn’t clean all the leaves that are awaiting under two feet of snow, his body would get lost in the leaves… yada yada… I’ll stop there.  This is what video games are doing to adult minds – imagine what they do to the kids.

Drunken Recollection… Misunderstandings, Winter Wear, Big Noses, And A Song About Monkeys

Posted on by sgottahurt

After having bee trapped in my home for the last sixty hours (57.5 of which were probably spent on the couch) due to a snow storm, I finally ventured out last night.  Grant it, my car got stuck in the driveway, but I still managed to head out to one of my old dives.

While there, my friend, Jay, and I watched football highlights and waxed poetic about the old days in the joint.  We talked about whether the Lions would fail us and actually win a game.  And we laughed at the amateurs playing in a televised poker tournament (one woman named Ellen had no poker face, but she was kicking aces!)

On the ride back to the neighborhood, a conversation came up about Under Armour.  Don’t know how, but it proabably had to do with insulated clothing in the cold.  He brought up how they have cold weather lines and hot weather lines.  I wondered if I should invest in the hot weather line when I play soccer, yada yada.  The part that made me laugh was when Jay described the technology they use.

“Wicket,” I thought he said first.

“Like the Ewok?” I asked.

“Wicked,” he repeated.

“Like the porn company?” I wondered.

We didn’t get to me mishearing Wiccan, and I think we decided on Wicket (I can’t find anything about this on their site or Wiki page), but it reminded me of one of my all time favorite comedy scenes in a movie.  It’s from “Roxanne.”

It’s subtle – sure.  But I love misheard-based humor.  Here’s the lyrics for a song I wrote when I had a band named Monkey Spank Monkey Do that eventually became oddcookie.  (This sight was thatclose to having the original band name, but I was afraid of what type of people might visit).  We never did much as a band anyway.  Sorry I’m not attaching the music.  Whatever you make up in your head will probably be better anyway.

Simianuff

That day that you told me
You didn’t want to see me
Anymore I just didn’t know

I wanted to ask you why
You didn’t even start to cry
Up and out you gave this reply:

You never simianuff, you never simianuff, you never simianuff

After that I had went on home
My mind so far it had been blown
Away by your rationale

I wanted to ask what you
Meant by saying “simianuff”
But I didn’t want to piss you off

So in turn I became primate
And bought myself a monkey suit
Bananas and “Tree Climbing Monthly”

I hope I’m simian enough, I hope I’m simian enough, I hope I’m simian enough

I started hanging around you
Quite often literally
Being my new simian self

You acted like I was
Insane, was what you called me
I only did what I was told

So you said, “I’ll see you around”
Mumbled something under your breath
I haven’t ever seen you since

You never see me enough, you never see me enough, you never see me enough
You’re never seein’ me enough, you never simian enough, you never simianuff…
Oh fuck…

(P.S. I must also have a fascination with monkeys.)

Drunken Recollection… Douchbag Machines

Posted on by sgottahurt

See, you punch it, and it gives you a score... what do you mean what else does it do?

See, you punch it, and it gives you a score... what do you mean what else does it do?

I hate this thing.  I really do.

I wish I never set my eyes upon it.  I’ll go one better and wish my friends’ eyes had never set upon it, because they’re the facilitators of the addiction.

Meet Punch!  Or BoxClub… or Boxing… or whatever version the bar has.  They’re all over the place, like a drunk girl on me (I wish).  And they have been for awhile, but I’ve managed to keep my distance from what I designated as the Douchebag Machine.  The higher the number you can hit on the dangling nutsack, the bigger the nutsack you are.

Or so I used to pretend.  Now it’s almost like a Holy Grail when I step into a gin joint.  Whomever spots it first begins the murmurs – “Did you see?  Did you see?”  And every unit is different.  Ssome bags are soft, some are hard.  Some respond well to running at it and others don’t. 

So am I a douchebag for playing?  Nope.  And neither are my friends.

But everyone else still is.

All I Want For Christmas Is… A Quadski

Posted on by sgottahurt

But can it go on water?

But can it go on water?

But can it go on land?

But can it drive on land?

All I can think about when I see Gibbs Technology’s Quadski is, “Me wanty, me wanty!”  Let me explain it to you in simple terms if the pictures aren’t enough (actually, you might not even be reading this and may still be staring at the photos).

I don’t live near water any body of water but the Rouge River, so this would come in handy when I finally set forth my plan on traversing the bendy once-heavily polluted now not-as-nasty stream as if it were the Mississip and I was Huck Finn.  I’m sure I could get my Neighbor Jim to tag along.

Um, okay… how’s this for another crack at a wry, wrong joke – How do you say “a table for four” in a Polish restaurant?  Ah forget it.  Watch this video of my future speed-raft instead:

Drunken Recollection… Boxing My Head

Posted on by sgottahurt

R U serious?

R U serious?

I’ve put ideas out into the collective unconscious before, only to have them robbed and bastardized without any input from me.  Joe Piscopo’s stinker, “Dead Heat?”  Mine first (“Harry Cadaver”).   JCVD’s “Timecop?”  I had the idea two years earlier with the same title (this one I’ll forgive because it’s not that creative).  Eddie Murphy in Eddie Murphy in “Meet Dave?”  I originally thought “Osmosis Jones” plucked my idea of having Robin Williams inside of Bill Murray’s spaceship body, but “Meet Dave” robbed us both (“The Neuron Conquest”).  Even He-Man stole (or borrowed liberally) a character I entered into a contest.  Their Snout Spout was my Elephantom.

Then I saw this commercial for Flagstar bank yesterday at the bar.  I guess it premiered in this year’s Super Bowl, but since that game was so good (Giants spanked the ButtPats), I probably hit the can during the ads and missed  it.

This reminded me of a story I wrote in high school and submitted to our literary journal called the Curio.  No wonder I never dated.

B O X I N G   Y O U R   H E A D

 

     I feel deviated like a septum.  Separated, apart from what it seems I should be a part of.  Not fitting in, a circle in a world of squares.  Here I, Lucas Pendleton, sit at the counter of Sigmund’s Soda Shop, and I watch my peers across the way, celebrating and playing by the jukebox.  And I can’t be with them.  I’ve tended to put my head in the proverbial box for years.  So now’s the time to consider it for real.

     Here’s a napkin and… here’s a pencil.  I need to write this down or I’ll forget.  If I did put a box on my head – cardboard being the only choice – it would need to have strategically placed eyeholes so I wouldn’t stumble through life (I do enough without a cube around my head). 

     As for eating, I would feed my mouth through the opening in the bottom.  I wouldn’t need to talk with anyone.  The only thing anyone cares about is your name, if even that, and I can have that printed across my forehead.  If no one was asking that question anymore, I wouldn’t need earholes.  There, the designs are finished.  And I’ll never remove my perfect separator for any reason.

     Rain.  It’s raining outside now.  I need to compensate for the dampening spirit that falls from time to time.  I’ll draw a little umbrella that could be attached to the top.

     Look at them standing over there.  Not a care about my plans of seclusion.  Will they be sorry, not at all.

They don’t know me anyway.  That’s so clear.

     Clear.  I see clear because of my contacts.  How will I remove them?  I’ll get corrective surgery done on my eyes.  That’s easy.

     What’s another problem?

     Hygiene.  Well, I’ll deal with that as it comes along.

     Sleeping comfort.  I’ll pad the walls.

     Television, movies, and music.  How can I enjoy if I can’t hear?  I’ll add earholes to the design, very small ones.

     A sneeze, I just heard a sneeze.  What if my nose runs, or I sneeze?  That could get messy.  But only I’d know, and only I-I-d–achooo!

     “God bless you.”

     –Care.  Did someone say that to me, or the other guy?  Maybe I’ll respond… just in case… to be polite.  “Thanks.”  See, it wasn’t–

     “You’re welcome.”

     Well, it’s a female voice, coming from behind me.  Should I look?  Or did the other fellow say thanks at the same time I did.  I’ll say another thing to check.  “That’s nice.  Thanks.”  Stupid, stupid…

     “Really?  You think so?”

     It’s gotta be me.  I’m gonna look.  I grabbed the counter and hand over hand I turned around to see a woman standing behind me, beautiful as could be.  She wore splashy hued shoes and a colorful box-pattern dress.  Her flowing brown hair came down past her shoulders from beneath the box she wore on her head.  I couldn’t believe it, I was in love.

     “Whatcha doing?” she asked me as she tried to peak at my napkin.  I just looked at her eyes shining through the sufficiently cut eyeholes.

     I sighed in response to her question.  She approached me, and I then noticed the earholes she had made.  Her cute ears were exposed enough to easily hear me as well as the other man sneeze, yet she chose to ask God to bless me!

     “A box, huh?  That umbrella idea will never work.  Believe me.  Oh, believe me.”

     She pointed out my flaws in design, and I didn’t care!  She tilted her head to me and smiled.  She cut out a space for her mouth… and her gorgeous smile.

     “Why do you need a box on your head, anyway?”

     “I’m thinking the same thing!” I said.  I hope she thought I meant her.  She brushed her right hand through the top of her flowing brown hair.  I didn’t even notice the top and back portion of the box were missing.

     “I mean, you’re attractive.”

     “As well as are you.”  I saw her cute nose wrinkle when I complimented her.

     “And after all, you thanked me… twice.”  She laughed an uplifting laugh.  “Quit designing that box for your head.  It’s a waste of time.  Come on and dance with me.”  Her smooth rosy cheeks lifted because of her smile.  I could see her entire face.  Her entire head. 

     She took my hand and did that twinkle thing with her eye.  There was no box on this woman’s head.

     With my free hand I crumbled the napkin.  There was no box on this man’s head either.

     I threw the napkin in a trash can – a trash can in which, as I was informed later, contained several wet pieces of cut cardboard… and a broken umbrella.  

Legion Of Seans… Sean (Avery) Gone Wrong

Posted on by sgottahurt

As a founding member of the Legion of Seans (along with Mr. Penn, Mr. Connery, Ms. Young, and Mr. Combs), I’m very displeased with Mr. Avery’s recent comments regarding Canadian hottie, Elisha Cuthbert.

From WWTDD (via Yahoo):

Reporters were waiting to speak with Avery about disparaging remarks he’d made last month about Flames star Jarome Iginla when Avery walked over to the group and asked if there was a camera present. When told there was, he said, “I’m just going to say one thing.”
“I’m really happy to be back in Calgary; I love Canada,” he said. “I just want to comment on how it’s become like a common thing in the NHL for guys to fall in love with my sloppy seconds. I don’t know what that’s about, but enjoy the game tonight.” He then walked out of the locker room.

Sean Avery used to be a Detroit Red Wing.  When he was traded to the L.A. Kings, he dated Cuthbert and Rod Stewart’s ex-wife, Rachel Hunter.  Now that he’s in Dallas with the Stars, he’s probably fearful Jessica Simpson might have her sights set on him.  Regardless of the situation, the Legion of Seans have released this statement on the matter:

Sean Avery’s ex-girlfriends cannot be referred to as sloppy seconds, due to the fact that Avery is a giant douche. 

In closing, a final message from the Legion of Seans to one Mr. Carter: until you change the spelling of your first name to the correct Irish way, you will not be granted entrance.  Good day!

elisha-cuthbert

JusWondering… Is Mark Hamill Playing Bob Costas?

Posted on by sgottahurt

When I was watching any football game but the Lions this weekend, I couldn’t help but notice announcer Bob Costas was beginning to look like a certain Jedi Knight.

Trust me - watch NBC Sports

Trust me - watch NBC Sports

Throw a little Botox into Mark Hamill’s visage, and he could be playing the guy giving the play-by-plays (or at least his analysis thereof).

…Or maybe I was just drinking too much this weekend.

Batter up!

Batter up!

Drunken Recollection… Things Learned Over Thanksgiving Weekend

Posted on by sgottahurt

Thanksgiving weekend has come and gone, as has all the turkey (et. al.) through me.  With this in mind, I shall impart onto you the various things that I learned over the past four days.

1) There is something called The Amazing Plant Lamp.  As the website proclaims:

The only lamp of its kind where you quickly touch the live plant to turn it on and off or hold a leaf and it works as a dimmer.

Ain’t that the bees knees!  Just stick the Amazing Plant Lamp kit in any plant and voila!

2) Raisins are forcibly put into too many things, like cinnamon bread and puddings.  I usually don’t eat any of these foods anyway, but I can relate because of how common it is for bakers to put nuts in fudge brownies (that could be taken out of context)!  Enough!  I want choices!

(SIDE NOTE: I used to like Fig Newtons as a kid because I thought it was some kind of weird tasting chocolate.  Then I learned and thus hated them.)

3) Chocotinis have zero alcohol content, despite what anyone else might claim.  My sister was pulled over for having non-working turn signals.  She was nervous and forgot her alphabet.  The cop made her do the random balance tests and the such, then he gave her a Breathalyzer test.  She blew zero.  Case closed!

4) You can break the bottom off a beer bottle with water and a hand slap.  Basically, take an empty bottle (in this case, it was Coors Light), fill it halfway with water, hold the neck in one hand, and slam the palm of your other hand on the bottle’s mouth.  The bottom drops out from the instant air pressure, I guess.  Apparently, beer has more shock absorption.

5) My cousin Steve might be a diabolical genius.  In discussing the biggest insults one man could make against another (backhanding was #3… spitting in face was #2… we didn’t go beyond what’s to follow), he declared the greatest coup, the most humiliating attack, the most degrading defeat, the biggest insult to be ever perpetrated in the world would be this – to tickle a man in front of his family.  Right in front of his wife, his children, and his dog.  Tickled to the point of tears and uncontrollable laughter.  It’s guaranteed that after the giggles were through, he’d pack up his things and walk out the door, not saying a word, not making any eye contact, swearing to himself to never return again, and all this would be understood.  Out of humiliation he’d still support the family, though thousands of miles away.  And his family could become your family.

6) As a kid, I watched WXYZ Channel 7 way more than I realized, because they had a special on about their past 60 years, and I got choked up.  Stupid nostalgia…

7) I would put that the Detroit Lions suck, but I already knew that.