Approximately 8PM @ Dick’s house yesterday. Wishing AIDS on renowned Jesus freak and aspiring closet homosexual, Tim Tebow.
Me: “I hope Tebow claims he ‘got it from a blood transfusion’ all the way to his AIDS-filled grave.”
D: “Virgin AIDS?”
J: “The Immaculate Infection.”
I just completed my fifth year working for the same company. To honor my dedicated service and stellar work ethic I was awarded this:
A pen.
It’s not any ordinary pen, though. It is a sterling silver Tiffany pen which costs TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FIVE MOTHERFUCKING DOLLARS.
This, ladies and gents, is exactly what is wrong with Uhmericah. I don’t care if it’s lovingly hand-crafted from virgin unicorn horn and 24 karat blow jobs. No pen is worth that price tag, even if you’re using it for “sounding”. Be sure to Google that at work.
In the interest of SCIENCE!, an example:
Maybe I just lack the refinement to appreciate such accoutrements, but to my eyes, the writing from a pen which costs .001% as much looks better than the Tiffany Fuckmaster 6000 Ultra.
This leads me to my other point, which is:
Q: If the extremely expensive pen is less functional than its cheap, mass-produced plastic counterpart, what possible value does it have?
A: It’s a status symbol. And if you’re the kind of person who mistakenly believes that dropping $225 (or, for fuck’s sake, more) on a pen will impress your friends, colleagues, and/or trophy wife, you should immediately go home to your four-car garage, shut all of the doors and windows, start up your Bimmer, Porsche, Bentley, and Rolls Royce and breathe very, very deeply. You are a spectacular asshole and failure of a human being, and are actively working against the advancement of your species.
I don’t want to appear to be looking a gift horse in the mouth. My boss is a nice guy, and I am not ungrateful. The recognition is very thoughtful, but the price is astronomically retarded.
I am the .001%
Like most people from the Philadelphia area, I am a sports fan. Sports are a lot like religion if you’re from here. The ritual of getting together with friends to eat, drink, and yell at a TV screen or live sporting event is sacrosanct. I’m not saying that the Philly teams or their players are the be all/end all of our existences, but they are very, very important.
Although many of us wouldn’t admit it, I think the motivating factor in our shared sports obsessions have more to do with the Us vs. Them mentality. Nobody does “Fuck You” like Philadelphia, and we relish that capability. Really, it’s all we have. Regardless of the scores or standings our perennially underachieving teams deliver, we have been the reigning champions of the Super Bowl of Hate since the Declaration of Independence was signed, and we are often inclined to treat outsiders accordingly.
As much as we and the Philly-area media try to downplay the situations where drunken 700-level shenanigans turn into the abject terrorization of fans from out of town, I think we secretly enjoy, cultivate, and exaggerate that image as much as possible.
Upon the eve of their first visit to one of our stadiums, I have been repeatedly asked by fans of non-Philadelphia teams how to dress, or act, or whether to attend a sporting event at all. My usual response goes something like this:
“Under no circumstances should you dress in your team’s apparel, cheer if your team scores, look at or speak directly to any fans wearing our colors, or appear to be enjoying the game at all. It is of the utmost importance to constantly remember that you are there at the pleasure of an easily angered, callous, hyper-drunken hivemind, and BAD THINGS happen to those who foolishly taunt such a malevolent beast.” Or some approximation thereof.
I’m not implying that this is a factual depiction of reality at a Philly sporting event. Quite the contrary. With the advent of exorbitant corporate backing of professional sports teams, camera phones capable of uploading directly to YouTube, and a well prepared and experienced security staff, it is extremely uncommon for any truly vile acts to go unnoticed or unpunished. You’re probably just as safe in one of the stadiums as you would be in any other public place. But we like to keep opposing fans guessing as to whether a normally inoffensive fist-pump or high five will result in the rape and murder [and not necessarily in that order] of them and their friends and/or family in attendance.
This introduction is supposed to help you understand the following story:
Bobby Orr and The Space/Time Rapedick
I regularly get together with a group of people to watch sporting events at the house of one of my best friends; a bachelor with a nice-sized living room, a taste for good beer, booze, and food, a high def projector, and an extremely tolerant marijuana policy in his house, even though he doesn’t smoke. I’ll call him Dick to protect his innocence, and because dicks are his favorite thing.
We’re usually at Dick’s for Eagles games on Sunday, but in this instance, we were watching the Flyers versus the Boston Bruins in the 2010 conference semi-finals. If you don’t know the history, the Flyers had spotted the Bruins a three games to none lead in the series. Facing elimination, they won a crucial game four in overtime at home and were headed to Boston for game five.
The night of game five, after what was likely three or four joints, we were watching the pregame festivities going on outside the Ignorant Southie Fuckwit Arena [or whatever-the-fuck those inbred, vowel massacring, Beantown massholes call it]. They were unveiling a statue of Bobby Orr to commemorate the 40th anniversary of his Stanley Cup-winning goal against the St. Louis Blues; the only time in history that anyone in Boston had done anything worthy of merit.
Being the relentless optimists we are, the general consensus in Dick’s living room was that the Flyers would contravene common sense and most of sporting history, win game five, and go on to win the series in seven games. However, to me, just winning the series wasn’t enough. My thought was that in order to have a proper and fully-realized victory against Boston, we would have to go back through time, raping and denigrating every Bruins fan and player throughout history. Especially Bobby Orr.
To accomplish this task, we would need something that could disturb temporal space and defile everything Bruins fans held dear. In a pot-inspired “Eureka!” moment, I envisioned the “Space/Time Rapedick”. Something that could go back and befoul all of the moments of joy and triumph Bruins fans had experienced through the years. It would extend all the way back to and through May 10th, 1970, the date of Bobby Orr’s game-winner. This would affect the space/time continuum so that the statue would now be modified to include the repugnant, corrupting timecock, impaling Bobby Orr like a pig on a spit made of dick for all eternity.
Not pictured: Bobby Orr's dignity. Thanks, Mike!
What the rapedick really indicates, other than my deep-seated emotional problems, is a weapons-grade FUCK YOU to anything and everything relating to opposing teams and their rich histories and fan bases. I’m sure you’re aware that as sports fans, we are a long-suffering people. Championship teams are extremely hard to come by in Philadelphia. Of course, when life gives you lemons, you convert them to some sort of airborne poison and deploy it in a highly populated area.
Anyway, the Flyers went on to win that series in seven games. During those remaining games, “Space/Time Rapedick…clap clap clapclapclap” became our rallying cry and incantation to bring about the Bruins’ failure. It was used extensively during the most delicious, cherry-on-top game seven win wherein the Flyers allowed three first period goals, only to come back to tie the game and finally win on a power play goal halfway through the third period. I still masturbate to the thought of the extreme elation of the Bruins fans when their team took a can’t-possibly-lose, three goal lead, contrasted by their despondent wailing when the final buzzer sounded on their season ending 4-3 loss.
This picture is so fulfilling, I might print a copy and eat it.
Sure, the Flyers lost to Chicago in the finals, and the following year were swept by the very same Bruins team on their way to a Stanley Cup. But for one brief moment it was the best thing any of us had ever witnessed in Dick’s living room. To this day, we still use the chant when we need a break from wishing career-ending injuries or AIDS on opposing teams’ players and coaches.
My hope, as unrealistic as it might be, is to someday hear the sound of “SPACE-TIME-RAPE-DICK” reverberating off of the walls of the [Despicable Scumbag Bank] Center instead of “LET’S GO FLY-ERS”. I mean, come on…it has the right amount of syllables and rolls off the tongue easily. That would be totally sweet.
One can dream, right?
These stories have to do with two highly formative events which happened to me in preschool. A psychologist would likely say that both laid the foundation for the person I am today. Granted, these memories are of the hazy, 16-mm film variety from when I was four, but the important details are still vivid.
Mr. Whippins
I don’t remember his name, but one of my preschool teachers was this mountainous, imposing black guy. He could have been 5 foot nothing and as meek as the black Mr. Rogers for all I know…but little me and the rest of the kids were terrified of him.
Whenever one of the kids started acting like the defiant, obstinate, “NO!”-loving cunts four-year-olds can be, he would threaten to take them to “Mr. Whippins”. Usually this involved some initial persistence on the kid’s part, but without fail, the child would be reduced to a blubbering, docile lamb by the time the teacher had led them out the classroom door.
This was 1980. Threats of violence from a teacher or his imaginary, sadistic subordinate didn’t result in a flurry of ACLU lawsuits or media reports back in those days. His method worked, and that was all there was to it.
We had naptime [boy...talk about not appreciating a good thing until it's too late] after lunch and recess, and all of the kids would lay on little mats on the classroom floor. One day, I was refusing to lay down and disturbing my classmates as the aforementioned four year old cunts are wont to do. Of course, this resulted in the usual threat to deliver me to some punishment from the business end of a belt, or reed, or paddle, or acromegalic Andre-The-Giant-hand in whatever dank, sub-basement boiler room Mr. Whippins called home.
However, on this occasion, I was unmoved. I remember calmly walking with the teacher as he led me to the door and out of the classroom filled with napping preschoolers. We started slowly walking down the empty hallway. Five paces. Then ten. Little me, walking along with the teacher, cool as Mr. Hand Luke. No sobbing or attempts to escape his tight grasp around my wrist.
We were approaching the front entrance of the school when I looked up at the teacher and said, matter-of-factly, “There is no Mr. Whippins, is there?”
My most graphic memory of the entire incident is the worried look on his face changing to disbelief, then resignation. All of the icy demeanor and stern words had left him. Turning around to walk back to the classroom, he looked down at me and said, “No, there isn’t. Now get back in the classroom and take your nap.”
And I did.
The Invisible Triumph
In addition to the swingsets, slides, and four square courts on the school’s playground, there was a raised platform, maybe about 4 feet high, with a slender base at the center. All of the older kids would climb and play on it during recess. It was more or less off-limits for the preschoolers and kindergartners. I’m guessing it was because of the potential hazard of falling and spilling the contents of our fragile, egg shell skulls all over the asphalt.
For weeks I’d be playing with the rest of the preschoolers, but I would watch the older kids playing on the platform as it loomed large in the middle of the playground. I would occasionally try to climb it, and the preschool teachers would come grab me and gently remind me that I shouldn’t. This was followed by the inevitable heckling I’d receive from the older kids for trying to get up there in the first place. It was my Everest, and their warnings only succeeded in amplifying my desire to master it.
I’m not sure why I wasn’t subject to the teachers’ usual attempts to deter me during this particular recess, but I was free to do as I pleased and decided that this day was THE DAY.
The problem was, it was too high. I was probably all of three feet tall, and my tiny arms weren’t capable of pulling me up on their own. So, I devised a plan to shimmy up the diagonal metal struts which attached the platform to the base with my arms AND legs.
I worked diligently for most of the recess. Taunts rained down on me from the older kids above. I would get most of the way up one of the struts and expend all of my stamina only to drop down when I got tired near the top.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, I reached the platform, put my armpits on the ledge, and with the last vestiges of my remaining strength pulled myself all of the way on top of it.
But the platform was empty. So was the playground.
Lost in the vacuum of my own determination, I had neglected to realize that recess had ended. All of the teachers and students were already back in the school and I was alone. In addition, the platform now seemed as if it was 12 feet off of the ground instead of 4.
I yelled for help, but since the platform was about a hundred yards from the school, nobody could hear me. Not to mention, WHY THE FUCK WAS THERE AN UNATTENDED FOUR-YEAR-OLD IN THE PLAYGROUND? But I digress…
After a few minutes of puzzling over my predicament, I decided to get down the same way I got up. I laid down on the edge of the platform, swung my legs over the side and promptly fell, skinning my elbow in the process.
After that, I don’t remember what happened. I don’t know if I got yelled at for overstaying my recess, or if I ever told my parents about the incident. The one thing I will always remember is the feeling I had up there, after the initial wave of triumph subsided.
Why did I bother?
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After using two mountain metaphors, this song just popped into my head. Maybe I just figured out why I like it. Here’s the lyrics if you give a shit.
I was trying to come up with a good reason to delete my Facebook account, and this is it.
My wife asked me the other day why I hadn’t read some recent post about Jerry Sandusky on Facebook. I said that the reason why I don’t constantly check my Facebook account is because I don’t give a fuck about anyone or their aspirations, ruminations, speculations, deviations, procrastinations, ejaculations, etc. I feel like my visits to Facebook are like walking into a crowded party two hours late where everyone has had plenty to drink and are loud and feeling like they’re MOST INTERESTING…but they’re not. And I’m sober.
Of course, if you’re reading this, I don’t mean that about YOU, just everybody else.
It’s about signal-to-noise ratio, and shit is getting noisier every day.
Even if I’m hearing my voice echo off of the walls of an empty room, at least it’s quiet.
