I was watching synchronized diving the other day when I noticed something interesting.  The divers wear very tiny swim trunks.  In fact, I was about six the last time I had underwear that small.  Frankly, I don’t see why they can’t wear something a little less revealing.  I mean, who wants to see that?  Straight women and gay men I suppose.  As I don’t fall into either of those categories, I find their sportswear is a distraction from the event.  (This is known as pretending to care about something you really don’t to make a statement about something else that really isn’t your business.  I learned it from Fox News.)

Speaking of Fox News, I hear they have a little sexual harassment issue.  Let me be the first to say that I am utterly shocked, given the network’s general tenor towards women.  At least we don’t have to see Roger Alies in a Speedo.  Thank the Spaghetti Monster for small favors.  The Spaghetti Monster is a compassionate god- unlike his pal Yahweh who thinks turning women into pillars of salt is an appropriate punishment.  There is probably a connection somewhere in this paragraph, but damned if I can figure it out.  Maybe I should pay more attention.  Being exposed to the barely covered junk of other men has me discombobulated.

Of course, women are often forced to wear skimpy outfits.  Beach volleyball, for example.  I also think their outfits are ridiculous.  Not as ridiculous as the synchronized divers, but close enough for me to consider myself a moral person in the matter.  And if I learned anything in life, it is that self-justification is the basis for good mental health.

After all, do you think that Jolly Roger thinks he did anything wrong by sexual harassing women for decades?  Absolutely not.  He was just complimenting them.  Just trying to be nice.

And get in their pants- an action that he may also have construed as a favor.  Spin, after all, is the lifeblood of the truly successful news program.

Speaking of spinning, it appears that Roger is fond of asking women to spin around for him.  He wants to test their balance, no doubt.

“Wheeeeeeeee!!!” he says as they spin, clapping his fat hands, his pink tongue lolling lasciviously from his mouth.  That’s leadership.  Pow. Pow. Pow.  I hoped you Lazy Libtards have learned something.  “Wheeeeeeeeeee!!!”

“You’ve been promoted!  Wheeeeeeeee!!!”

“You’re so hot.  You’re so effing hot.”  Ooops.  Wrong Fox personality.

Anyway, the Chinese won the synchronized diving with the Americans taking the Silver.  The Chinese were a sight to behold.  Two very fit men wearing the tiniest of Speedos, balls and penises clearly outlined, twirling gracefully through the air and entering the pool with a gentle splash.  The aesthetics of the spectacle is difficult to describe in print.

It is a damn shame that we will have to wait four more years to see it again.

 

You will be happy to know that a new “Miss Hitler” has been crowned.  It seems that a Neo-Nazi group in the UK runs a beauty pageant for aspiring fascists.  And you said fascists have no appreciation for aesthetics.  Interestingly, this Scottish gal has dark hair.  I would have assumed that one requirement for Miss Hitler would be to have blond hair (and blue eyes), but that is what happens when you make assumptions about Neo-Nazis.  They confound your prejudices.

The pageant was created in order to draw attention to the fact that there are Jew-hating women, too.  I had thought this was understood.  Especially given the liberal bias of the lame-stream media and their constant pushing of the feminist agenda.  Bastards.  What’s next?  Gay Neo-Nazis?  Well, probably not that.  Though you never know with Obama in charge.  He is probably a Neo-Nazi sympathizer.  I also heard he was born in Germany.  Stuttgart.  Why else do you think Germany has all of those Muslim immigrants?  Can’t wait until that guy is done and this country can get back on track again.

I wonder if Miss Hitler will note her accomplishment on a resume.  I mean, she did win.  This says something.  Of course, it might just say that there are a lot of ugly Neo-Nazi girls and she was just the pick of the litter of a bunch of runts.

Maybe she could just put that she is certified in “Cultural Differentiation Practices.”  That sounds pretty good.

Now that I think about it, there are a lot of groups who could use a beauty pageant.  Beauty pageants are as American as mom and apple pie (or some kind of pie).  Holding a  beauty pageant is a good way to show that your group, no matter how hateful or bizarre its platform, is full of people who are almost just like anyone else.

The KKK could have a Miss Wizard pageant.  In this pageant your evening wear must consist only of a white sheet.  That would be so hot.

Serial Killers could have a Miss Aileen Wuornos pageant.  Unlike other pageants, the goal of this pageant would be to be as ugly and as crazy looking as possible.  After all, ugly and crazy girls never get to be in a pageant.  And the winner could kill one of the judges.  Except we wouldn’t let the judges in on that little tidbit.  It would ruin the surprise.  (By “we,” I mean serial killers.  Not me, of course.)

Imagine a beauty pageant held by the NRA.  You talk about a phallic phestival of epic proportions.  It would be a Freudian rampage.  “Your Second Amendment Never Looked Like This.”  Donald Trump could be the host.  I can see him singing to the winner now.

And the winner is holding her AR-15 and a bouquet of shells while a montage of the Founding Fathers is broadcast on the screen behind her.  Throw Clint Eastwood into the montage as well.  And Charlton Heston (dressed as Ben Hur, preferably).

I am holding back the tears just thinking about it.  God bless America.  Pow Pow Pow.

Reload.

Pow.

In our last interlude, I mentioned that Wild Horses by the Sundays is a great song.  Our readership responded that while that may be true, the song Wildfire by Michael Martin Murphey is a horrible song.  Generally, I find my readership to be rather base and ill-tempered and probably not deserving of my acknowledgement.  However, in this instance I must heartily agree that both Wildfire and its alliterative author should pretty much be banned from existence.

“There’s been a hoot owl howling by my window now for six days in a row?”  WTF?  Owls don’t howl, genius.  They hoot.  You even called it a “hoot owl.”  And why did you find it necessary to write a song about a horse lost in a snowstorm?  That isn’t tragic.  It is negligent horse ownership.  It should have been called “Susie Has No Damn Brains and Needs to Take Some Accountability for Her Actions Before She Ends Up on the Street with a Needle in Her Arm.”

This heroin burns like Whyyyyy-aisle-Fir-errrrrrr.  Anyway, Wildfire makes my bottom 5 of all-time shitty songs.  Number 4 on the list?  Achy-Breaky Heart by Billy Ray Cyrus.

Even among country music, this tune stands out as a golden turd.  First of all, it was sung by a guy in a cut off shirt wearing a mullet.  It is a rule in life that anything associated with guys in cut off shirts and wearing mullets is probably bad.  YouTube is stuffed full of these clowns running their four wheeler off a cliff or running over their sister with their monster truck.

“You can tell your ma I move to Arkansas” isn’t that profound.  “Myself already knows I’m not okay?”  What?  No learn English in West Virginia thinks myself.  Regardless, the song sounds like it was written by a dumb eight year old.  Stop tryin’ to rhyme, your song is a crime.  See how annoying that is?

In third place stands the Thong Song.  Honestly, the first half dozen times I heard it played I thought it was a novelty song.  Or that Weird Al Yankovic was parodying some rap song I didn’t know.  Incorrect, myself.  It was a serious effort.  And a monumental failure.  “Thong, thong, thong, thong.”  Gong.

Speaking of lyrics, try this one on for size.

She had dumps like a truck, truck, truck
Thighs like what, what, what
Baby move your butt, butt, butt
I think I’ll sing it again

Do us a favor.  Never sing it again.  Also, what are dumps?  Speaking of rhyming (and an Honorable Mention) – my humps, my humps, my humps, my humps, my humps.  This lyric only makes sense if you are a camel.  Or a deformed Parisian bell ringer.

Number 2?  A tie!  Islands in the Stream and Ebony and Ivory.  Both are horrid songs sung by people who should have known better.  Why?  You were all rich and famous.  There was no need for this.  No need at all.

And the worst song ever?  Hey 19 by Steely Dan (which is also the worst band ever).  This song makes me want to vomit.  And why did you have to drag Aretha Franklin into it?  She should have sued.

I know I would like to.

Want to hear a good lyric?

“Grandpa pissed his pants again, he don’t give a damn.  Brother Billy’s got both guns drawn, he ain’t been right since Viet-nam.”  That’s what I’m talking about, Warren Zevon.

Awooooooooooooooooooo.  And a pow pow pow.

My wife forced me to listen to country music this weekend.  Perhaps forced is not truly accurate.  It is just that we have a rule that the person who is driving gets to listen to the radio station of his or her choice.  I didn’t make the rule.  But I have to abide by it.  Without the rule of law, man is nothing more than a dirty animal.  And who wants to be that?  Well, there is that guy who lives with a wolf pack and thinks he is a wolf.  That guy sure seems to want to be a dirty animal.

Wooooooowhoooooooo!!!!  Take a shower, wolf guy.  It isn’t cool to let wolves piss on you.  Though some people let people piss on them.  I hear it is good for staving off infection.  Like when you don’t have access to antibiotics, I guess.

Speaking of distasteful things, back to the country music torturing.  You know, it isn’t that I think that country music is terrible.  (It is better than jazz.  Probably on par with techno.  It gives reggae a run for its money.)  The thing I can’t stand about it is that it has lost touch with its roots.  Once, country music was about divorce and bar fights and dead dogs and wolf piss.  Now, it is about some pretty boy from the city faking a southern accent and talking about the dirt roads where he and the boys used ta’ go frog giggin’ and drinkin’ beers (when they weren’t chasing Daisy Sue).

As a rural person, let me set something straight.  Nobody wants to be catching frogs and drinking cheap beer with their buddies.  They would rather be hanging out with a girl and watching a movie (preferably on SyFy, but one shouldn’t be greedy).  The problem is that there aren’t any girls in a rural area.  Or damn few.  And the good ones get snapped up by twenty-three year old guys with their own trucks.  There is nothing cool or romantic about this.  Plus, nobody actually ever catches any frogs.  They are too elusive.  “Ninjas of the Night” I call them.  Ribbit.  Ribbit.  Can’t catch me, hillbilly.  Why don’t you get a girlfriend?  Loser.  Ribbit.

Of course, my wife doesn’t care if I’m tortured by country music.  She has a mean streak, I suppose.  Ten foot wide.  That she learnt while growing up in a trailer.  And drinkin’ in a honky tonk down by the river.  If only this were true.

In reality, she grew up in a nice house on the hill and vacationed with her family at the lake.  See?  Fraudulent.  She did ride horses, though.  Partially fraudulent.  Best horse song?

Wild Horses by the Sundays.  Hands down.  Not a country song, mind you.

And one more thing.  Lynyrd Skynyrd, the Eageles and the Marshall Tucker Band aren’t country music.  Stop your revisionist history, bumpkins.  Have you no shame?

Best country song?  Ruby by Kenny Rogers (of all people).  For those of you who aren’t familiar with it, Ruby is about a paraplegic Vietnam vet whose wife is stepping out on him.   The final line of the song is “if I could move, I’d get my gun and put her in the ground.”  Hahahaha.  Bitch.  Pow Pow Pow.

Now that’s America.

Y’all.

I just returned from my trip to grizzly country.  Luckily, I didn’t see any grizzlies.  Not that I have anything against grizzlies.  After all, grizzly bears have many positive attributes. They look cool.  They have nice, warm fur.  They are an important part of the ecosystem.  Really, the only problem is that grizzly bears sometimes kill and consume human beings.

Generally speaking, I really don’t have too much of a problem with this.  There are a lot of people.  And lots of them are highly annoying.  Honestly, I would cheer a grizzly on if it got its paws on a hedge fund manager.

“Eat his head, eat his head,” I would chant.  “Sis, boom, baaaa.”

“Grrrrrrrr,” says the bear as he chomps down on the hedge fund manager’s leg.

“Help meeeeeee,” says the pathetic stock market manipulator.

“Ain’t no way, ain’t no way, all you do is steal money all day.”

Why do my dreams never come true?  Maybe if I pray harder, the Flying Spaghetti Monster will hear my pleas.

Anyway, bear killing fantasies aside, it is a little dangerous to be in grizzly country.  They can’t, unfortunately, tell the difference between a nice human being like myself and, say, a bank CEO.  To grizzly bears, all human beings are assholes.  Given our general behavior, who could blame them?

Regardless, I was on high alert as we hiked through the Beartooth mountains.  In fact, I was on high, high, high alert.  This is because my wife was reading Night of the Grizzly while we were in Montana.  Unfamiliar with this particular tome?  Let me summarize.  This book chronicles grizzly attacks in gory detail.  One after another.  Hiker goes into woods, sees grizzly, tries to fight, gets mauled and eaten.  And then is cached under a tree to be snacked upon at a later date.

Hunters are quartering a recently shot elk.  They aren’t paying attention.  Grizzly ambushes them before they can get to their guns.  Grizzly mauls and partially eats them.  Caches them for later.

A young woman is sleeping in her tent.  A grizzly pokes around the campground.  The grizzly decides to reach in and drag the girl from her tent.  Maul, kill, eat, cache.

Needless to say, I saw no reason to read this book.  Luckily, my wife saved me the trouble by providing a running synopsis of each maul, kill, eat, cache.  As you might imagine, I began to see and hear grizzly bears whenever we walked in the woods.  It didn’t help that every trail head had a stern warning to be “Bear Aware.”  No problem there.  My awareness level was at peak capacity.

As you might have already gathered, we saw no grizzlies.  They were either sleeping or eating someone else.  So long as it wasn’t me.  This is America.  Every man for himself.  I can’t make America Great Again if some grizzly bear is grinding my skull between her teeth.

We did, however, see a rattlesnake on the road.  It slithered away without bothering anyone.  Not before making an impression, however.  While trout fishing the next day, a small garter snake darted from beneath my feet.  It was obviously frightened and wanted to avoid me at all costs.  In these thoughts, we were of one mind.  Unfortunately, I was unable to hide my anxiety from my bride.  This wouldn’t have been too big of an issue, if that would have been our only snake encounter.  But it wasn’t.  In fact, there was pretty much another snake every ten feet.  It did not make for my most courageous day.  At least my wife found the humor in it.

On the walk back, I found myself hoping we would see a grizzly bear.  I wanted to see the fear in my wife’s eyes.  Ridicule me for being scared of snakes.  I can’t wait to see how scared you are when the grizzly comes firing out of the brush.  Then I remembered that the grizzly almost always grabs the husband first.

Even on vacation, life is not fair.

At least we were able to stop in Bismarck on the way back.

 

 

Every day I take tea to work.  I used to take coffee, but it gave me stomach problems.  So I had to give it up.  It was for my own good.  Anyway, with the tea I now take to work there comes a tag with a little saying on it.  Generally, these sayings are meant to be inspirational – if you are into that sort of thing.  I read them, but have seldom been inspired.  Until today.  Because today’s saying is utterly ridiculous.

“An attitude of gratitude brings opportunities.”

Now, to be fair, I like the rhyming scheme.  Particularly with two three syllable words.  Try rhyming something with syllable.  Not easy.  Spillable.  Ok.  Maybe not that difficult.  If you are a literary genius.  Anyway, I digress.

As I was writing, there is nothing inspirational about this morning’s teabag.  Gratitude doesn’t bring opportunities.  It brings more assignments at work.  Greed brings opportunity.  A well-connected relative brings opportunity.  Fake breasts bring opportunity.

“Hulk Smash.”  Not, “Hulk say thank you.”  Did Dirty Harry keep his job by showing gratitude?  Hells no, as the kids say.  He kept his job by mouthing off to the mayor and telling punks to make his day.  And then shooting said punks with his .44 Magnum.  Pow Pow Pow.  No gratitude to be found.

When Mark Zuckerberg had a guy write the initial code for Facebook, did he say thank you?  I think not.  He stole it from him.  After he stole the idea for Facebook in the first place!  Boom!!  And Pow!!  Thievery and duplicity brings opportunity.  That is what Zuckerberg gets with his teabag.

Zuckerberg is a funny name.  He should have been a fat kid with a lisp.  Who played catcher on his little league team.  But not very well.

Speaking of dorky rich kids, do you think that Donald Trump ever said “thank you” for anything?  Never.  He said “gimme, gimme”  and “mine, mine” and “why is my penis so much smaller than the other boys?”  And now he will probably be your president.

“Hulk Smash!  Hulk Smash!!!”

I know, Hulk.  It disturbs me as well.  What can I tell you?  Nothing.  Because you are a giant, green-skinned behemoth with only rudimentary language skills.  I’m talking about the real Hulk, not the new, wanker Hulk.  I do not recognize any Hulk’s existence unless that Hulk is pretty much nothing but a mindless brute bent on destruction.  Hulk Smash or nothing.  Why ruin a good thing?

No gratitude, that’s why.  And what was the reward?  They made a bunch of movies with the Hulk in it and everybody got rich.  Except for the Hulk.

“Hulk Smash!!!  Hulk Smash!!!”

On the other hand, a hillbilly in a rusty truck turned right in front of me yesterday.  Luckily, due to the MO’s superior reflexes and driving ability, I remain unscathed.

You know who that hillbilly is voting for?

Hulk Smash.  Hulk Smash.  Hulk Smash.

Thank you, Hulk.

Tuesday, June 28, was the anniversary of the famous Ear Bite Fight between Evander Holyfield and Mike Tyson.  Surely, you remember the scene.  Tyson was getting whupped so he bit off a piece of Evander’s ear and spit it out.  Ptuiii!  Too salty.  And then he bit him again- presumably because Tyson didn’t want to be a quitter.  Plus, how do you eat an Evander Holyfield?  One bite at a time.  One bite at a time.

You will be pleased to know that Evander and Mike have since made amends.  In fact, Tyson is helping to sell Evander’s BBQ sauce.  (As a sidebar, why are former heavyweight champions so into grilling?  It doesn’t really make sense.  Perhaps it affords them a sense of normalcy after living the life of the paid gladiator.  Maybe they are just hungry after years of starving themselves.  But this is just speculation.  The real reasons remain a mystery.)

“Ear Licking Good,” Tyson says about Evander’s sauce.  Hahahahaha.  Biting pieces out of people’s ears is the joke that never gets old.  I’ll bet cannibals laugh all day long.  Though they probably don’t eat the ears.  Too much cartilage.  It would be like chewing on a shoe.  I think a nice, tasty quadriceps would be much more appealing.  With a little picante sauce.

Speaking of ear mutilation, I read that the story of Van Gogh’s ear mail is really apocryphal.  Apocryphal is a fancy word for bullshit.  (I’m here to entertain, not to send you scurrying for the dictionary.  Does anybody ever scurry for a dictionary anymore?  I suppose not.  I lament the loss of book scurrying.  But time marches on.)  You say you knew what apocryphal means?  There is a prevarication if ever I heard one.  I sound like Steven A. Smith or Howard Cosell.  I should cut off my own ear.  Anyway, I digress.

So Van Gogh didn’t cut off a piece of his ear and send it to a woman.  He was still crazy.  All the Dutch are.  Who else would wear wooden shoes?  Can you imagine the chafing?  That’s why little Dutch girls are crying all the time.  But there is a silver lining to their misery.  For it is the salty tears of discomfort that bring forth the mighty tulip.  Little known fact.  That is why tulips only grow in Holland.

Another little known fact is that Evander Holyfield has eleven children by eight mothers.  Tyson only has eight kids.  Once again, Holyfield defeats Tyson.  No wonder Mike bit a piece out of that guy’s ear.  He wins at everything.  I am sure that all 19 of these children will be Rhodes Scholars.  One of them might, anyway.  The more you have, the better the odds.  One of them might be an eater of people as well.  Yin and Yang.  I suppose that another one might have Dutch ancestry.  She would be a very good neighbor to have if you wanted to grow tulips.  Or if you needed someone punched in the face.  Pow Pow Pow.

“I’m a little Dutch girl, with a tulip growing tear.  If you screw with me, I’ll bite off your MFing ear.”  The Dutch.  So droll.

June 28 is also my parent’s anniversary.  What a coincidence.  Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad!

I wonder if my parents were watching when Tyson bit off Holyfield’s ear.  Talk about a mood killer.

I hope.

 

The British are not coming.  Ever again.  They opted out of the EU.  Technically, they really didn’t.  They merely held a referendum of the people on whether they should leave the EU.  Basically no one thought they would actually leave.  It is kind of like the guy who tells his wife that she knows where the door is if she wants out of the marriage.  And then she finds the door.  In this example, the wife is very pallid with not very good teeth.  So maybe the husband is happy she left.  I don’t know.  Some people are into crooked teeth.  Pretty much the whole of Appalachia.  Reportedly.  I haven’t been there.  Since watching Wrong Turn I have no desire to do so.

The movie Wrong Turn could, now that I think of it, be a metaphor for the Brexit.  You see, all of the United Kingdom is in a car (imagine a Prius with a bunch of heads sticking out the windows).  And this car is driving along a rural road and not really paying attention to much other than checking their cell phone to see what the Kardashians are up to when all of the sudden they are on a gravel road and their cell phone service is gone and a bunch of giant inbred cannibals are chasing them through the woods.

“Holy shit!” the wayward islanders scream.  “This is a bit of a kerfuffle.”

Kerfuffle, indeed.  Too bad for you, Percival.  Your head has just been lopped off by a strategically strung strand of barbed wire.  (As a side bar, did you notice the alliteration?  Literary genius, I tell you.  What?  You don’t know what alliteration means?  Are you from Liverpool? Loser.)

Mary runs through the forest.  She is dressed like her favorite Spicegirl.  I don’t know- Posh Spice, let’s say.  And now her leg is caught in a bear trap.  And here comes old Lester Turnbuckle, salivating at the thought of an exotic meal.

Right before Mary gets it, she yells out, “I didn’t even know what the fucking EU was!”

This scene provides a segue back to the Brexit vote.  For, you see, the day following the vote to leave the EU was dominated a Google search.  What was the search?  You guessed it.  What is the EU?  Apparently, many of the people voting for the Brexit didn’t even know what the European Union was.  They just voted Leave.  It seemed like a good thing to do and they were bored.  Hahahaha, United Kingdom.  You might be even dumber than Americans.  You are the lowest of the low.  USA!  USA!  USA!  In your buccaneer face, Brits.  Pow.  Pow.  Pow.

Yes, I know Trump is the presumptive Republican candidate for President.  I’m just trying to provide a distraction.  Like Penn and Teller.  If only they could make Trump disappear into the ether.  What a trick that would be.  Poof!  And only his hairpiece remains.

Anyway, people in the UK are starting to panic a bit.  I’m talking about the ones who knew what the European Union was before the Brexit vote.  The other ones are drunk and lamenting the loss of England to Iceland in soccer.  Did you watch that match?  Mighty Thor did.  And he was pleased.

“Icelannnndddddd!!!”  Thor roared as he slammed his mighty Hammer into the ground.  The earth and heavens shook.  The Icelandic crowd did a cool, clapping them.  And said, “Ommm, Ommm.”  With an Umlaut.

Meanwhile, back in the United Kingdom, the good people were Googling on their phones.  Where is Iceland? 

And How do I escape from a backwoods cabin in West Virginia owned and operated by inbred cannibals?

I do not understand your question, says Siri.

“Goallllllllll!” says Thor.

 

 

A woman in New Mexico was running a marathon.  If you have ever run a marathon, you know that it is not that much fun.  Anyway, she was at mile 24 when she noticed a black bear coming at her.  The bear attacked (it had a cub with it) and pretty much tore half her face off.  She laid there for a while until another runner found her and she was airlifted to the hospital.  The woman survived.  The bear, I am sorry to say, did not.  By any measurement, this bear was incredibly unlucky.  If only she had gone up the hill or decided to sleep in or was just a little more neglectful mother, she would still be around eating berries and shitting in the woods.  And that’s the problem with life.  You make all of these decisions and you can never be sure if you are making the right one or not.

Say you are going to get married.  You like the guy- even love him- but you have some trepidation.  Perhaps he is a little shorter than you’d like or doesn’t make quite as much money as your father does.  You think you can look past those things, but you aren’t sure.  And there is no real way of knowing.  To make matters more complex, your old boyfriend from high school is trying to contact you via Facebook.  He is both taller and more successful in his career than your fiancee.  Conundrum for sure.  But momentum rules the day and you take the plunge.  Three years later you are getting divorced.  “Why did I make such a stupid decision?!” you cry out when you realize you could have a house twice the size of your current one if you had only gone with the old boyfriend.  It seems so obvious now.

But you are wrong.  The high school boyfriend was only contacting you because he was on the rebound from another woman he liked way more than you.  You were never more than a consolation prize.  He would have dumped you in three months.  Additionally, the man you did marry would have decided to move to Chicago (instead of staying close to your family at your behest) and would have written a screenplay that would have been eventually made into a blockbuster film.  He would have been rich- if it wasn’t for you.

Not only that, but after getting dumped by your high school boyfriend, you would have started dating a man named Tom.  Unbeknownst to you, Tom would have started dealing drugs out of your house.  Eventually, Tom would have gotten caught and you would have been convicted along with him for running a drug house even though you didn’t know what he was doing.  Do you see now?  The decision to marry- while seemingly bad- saved you a prison sentence.  Your husband is the one who got screwed.  He is the mama bear in your story.

On that note, back to the marathoner who was attacked by a bear.  You see, she started running because her husband casually mentioned that she had gained a few pounds after having the children.  Before that, she was a yoga/ take a walk kind of girl.  But she joined a running club to lose the baby weight.  There, she met a lesbian who she was interested in (though she would never act on it).  Instead, the woman split the difference and made sure she was always at running club.  Eventually, the hot lesbian suggested running a marathon together.  The woman agreed.  Halfway through the training, the lesbian developed an IT band problem and couldn’t train anymore.  The woman wanted to beg out, but she was already committed.  And she didn’t want to disappoint her lesbian crush.  So, she ran the race solo and the bear who should have been sleeping in ended up mauling her.

However, if she hadn’t run the race she would have been killed in an accident on the way to the store to buy some donuts.

All’s well that ends well.

 

I thought it was a commercial.  But I was wrong.  So utterly wrong.  In fact, there were two guys on ESPN 2 playing Madden football.  With commentators who questioned both of them at halftime of their fake football game.  What in the Flying Spaghetti Monster is this abomination?  Did I mention this is a fake football game?  Ronnie Lott doesn’t play for the Raiders.  He is a man in his fifties with bad knees.  Tony Romo doesn’t play for the Bears.  That is just wishful thinking on the part of a bunch of overweight people with Polish names.  The worst part is that they were analyzing the “play” is if it were something that was actually occurring with actual human beings playing an actual game.

For a little perspective, the “combatants” were known by their nicknames “Problem” and “Stiff.”  (No, I am not making this up.)  If only the commentator’s nickname was “getting” or “keeping.”  Alas, no one has a sense of humor this week.  It is probably the sense of impending doom wafting over from the upcoming election.  Pow Pow Pow.  Hell hasn’t frozen over yet, but the devil has been given his frost warning.

Anyway, I thought it would be cool to put my own team in the MFL (Madden Football League) next year.  Starting at quarterback will be Zeus.  Flash will be my halfback and the Hulk will play fullback.  The professor wearing Flubber shoes will be at one wide receiver slot.  I am thinking Riddick will play safety.  I can imagine the halftime interview now:

Commentator:  Maximus (my nickname), you seem to have run up a substantial lead in the first half.  What was your strategy?

Maximus (me):  Well, Keeping, early on we kept giving the Hulk the ball.  His life mantra of smashing puny humans really gives him the drive to put that ball in the old end zone.  Of course, Flash can’t really be seen when he runs fast, so that fly sweep has been pretty effective as well.  Defensively, Darth Vader has really controlled the game from his middle linebacker position.  The Jedi mind trick has resulted in four consecutive interceptions.  Not to mention the time where he choked the running back to death with his Sith powers.  Fum-bllleeeee!  Whowhee, Keeping.  Things are going well.

Keeping (commentator):  What do you plan to do in the second half, Maximus?

Maximus (me):  You know, I’m thinking of putting Bilbo Baggins in for the second half kickoff.  He has that invisibility ring you know.  Now you see him….now you don’t.  And we might move the Hulk around a bit on offense.  I’d like to get him the ball in a position where he can run down Ronnie Lott.  I always hated that guy back in the 80’s.  I also have OJ on the bench for a little change of pace.  Young, good looking, Hertz plugging OJ.  Though I do have murdering OJ over on defense in case things get ugly.  He and Riddick make a hell of a one-two punch at the safety position.

For cheerleaders, I will have some of those Japanese anime women.  From the PG Japanese comic books, not that other stuff.  You know, what is it with those Asian guys and cartoon women?  Weird.

They could just look at real women on the Internet.

This reminds me that I could put a couple of Ninjas on my team.  And Godzilla.  He would make a great D-lineman.  Go, go Godzilla (sing the Japanese cartoon characters).  And then Godzilla eats up a bunch of Smurfs that have been stuffed into a giant Blue Gatorade bottle.

There goes Tokyo… Smurf.  Go, go Godzilla.

Hulk Smash.