Seriously though, don't call it a comeback. I've been wearing a Kangol and appearing on terrible WB sitcoms for years. And with the NCAA tournament safely out of the way, I can now remove my tail from between my legs and offer some trenchant analysis on those titular subjects where I am not demonstrably stupider than 90% of Yahoo users. For those of you who finished lower than me with your brackets, 'titular' refers to the title of this post but it's cool if you giggle a little because it's totally dirty sounding, dude.
The Masters, opening week of the baseball season + my HR Derby entries with Barnyard and Dr. Norwood, and the NHL playoffs are all topics on which I plan to weigh in with 20% reasonable analysis and 80% insufferable navel-gazing over the coming days. To tide you over however, I want to share this snappy article from the men's lifestyle section of MSN. It's got all kinds of great advice about how to be funny and what it means to be a man. Consider if you will, this fractured take on modern life:
"The secret to a successful salvo is surprise. For instance, you're out to dinner at a fine restaurant with your buddies, enjoying a civilized chat about the markets. Your friend Bob politely asks you, "Hey, could you pass the salt?" You respond, "Sure, jackass." That's a guaranteed laugh."
A guaranteed laugh no kidding; I'm chortling right now!
In the spirit of the article, specifically the part that says that making fun of your friends is cool, let me tell all of you that Big Blue Monkey was once accused of having poor personal hygeine, Barnyard has been referred to as 'geriatric' in the sack, MuuMuuMan was once mistaken for the cousin of a hulking mentally retarded Hardee's employee, Miwicar licked a tire for $20, and Jerious Norwood (the commentator, not the running back) is uncircumcised. The real shame is that I've got nothing on Badcock. He's a sweet, pleasant young man who has never said an unkind word to anyone and who reads to orphans in his spare time. I want to pay him the ultimate compliment by making fun of him but with the exception of his mildly amusing hobbies (submitting humorous essays to Readers Digest and buiding ships inside of bottles), I've got nothing. Can any of you slack-jawed idiots help me out? Hee-hee. Slack-jawed idiots... that's fucking priceless.
He used to wear these leather pants out to bars, and I don't even think it was for $20.
He does have many old paint cans in the garage... OLD PAINTY CAN BADCOCK!!
I prefer "Sure, you right cunt!" over Jackass. Special thanks to my inspiration Shane McGowan, the only song writer to end a song by sceaming out "cunt".
"I remember going to the Hope & Anchor [a pub where many folk punk acts played in London]. The Pogues were all on stage and ready, it was a full house, but they hadn't started yet. Then this character shambled in through the door and shambled downstairs. I thought, 'Jesus, you're not letting that guy in are you?'. Then he walked on stage. That guy was Shane MacGowan!" Robyn Hitchcock, speaking on the Folk Britannia television programme, BBC4, first broadcast February 2006
Excuse me, MacGowan. I shall be called typo-no-spell-good-man.
"The most important thing to remember about drunks is that drunks are far more intelligent than non-drunks. They spend a lot of time talking in pubs, unlike workaholics who concentrate on their careers and ambitions, who never develop their higher spiritual values, who never explore the insides of their head like a drunk does."
Once under the heavy influence of a hallucinogen, which shall go un-acronymized,Badcock disappeared from public only to found later by the rest of us hiding under his cat.
badcock would often delay dozens of people so he could "finish this cigarette" or "tie my shoes". These acts often took 20 minutes or more.
Also, without Stephane Richter, his record in NHL 95 would have been about 30 points below .500
But you see what Garwood is doing lads, don't you? He's giving us badcock, so we don't start recollecting his acts.
So, who's got a Garwood story?
One time, at band camp....
Actually, I remember attending a JV basketball game at Macalester where Garwood was wide open on a breakaway and given his height, but not his white man "ups", decided to attempt a dunk. The excitement caused him pick up the ball at the free throw line. A few steps in and you could tell he started his jump prematurely. He bacame air borne at mid box, but the apex of his leap was well before the hoop. You could see Garwood willing himself just a inch higher but to no avail. He slammed the ball into the rim so hard it deflected past mid court, at which time members of the JV team on bench fell of thier chairs and literally rolled on the floor with laughter (ROTF for you lazy typers).
My horizontal is admittedly poor but I would like to say that I knew I was in trouble, tried to windmill it, and threw it off the back of the iron. I did not get stuffed by the rim.
The truly embarrassing portion of the story was that my High School basketball coach was in attendance as his nephew played for Gustavus. I went up to him before the game to say "hi" and his response was "Garwood? Wow. They must be really hard up for players."
I knew I'd goad you into some more dialog by changing your story. Sure, chucking the ball of the iron is slightly less humiliating than getting stuffed by the rim - anyone wanna weigh in on that? However, having your gimpy douch-bag high school coach taunt you post game does take the cake. And lest you forget, he's not a fucking prick - he's a right cunt he is.
So, these are nice stories but they’re old. So what humiliations have been bestowed on us lately? I’ll go first, this happened just today!
One of my daughter’s friends (she's a bit older and likes to plays with my girls as if they are living dolls) joined us for Pizza at Skinny Jay's in Boulder, CO (I highly recommend, especially if you have munchies). I hear her say to my eldest, "Hey, that guy looks just like your dad!" She's pointing at the television. The show? None other than "That 70’s Show." The character on screen? No, not Ashton. Not Fez. Not Donna. You've guessed it - Red fucking Foreman. Sweet.
By the by, Big BM, it is "Stephane Richer" not "Richter."
Considering how many times his name appeared on the screen (Star of the game? Star of the game.), you ought to be able to spell it.
AND you are forgetting the Bill Guerin reach-around, the Claude Lemieux in-the-crease and of course the rare but elusive Niedermeyer slapshot.
I'm wearing leather pants right now, by the way. It looks like I'm smuggling pancakes.
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