Archive for February 2010

There’s A Snake In My Boots!

February 20, 2010

I want to chime in on the Tiger Woods “interview” really quick.  I put that in quotes since it’s not really an interview if no questions are asked.  That makes it more like a press conference.  But even in press conferences, questions are often fielded.  How about we call it his statement?  Works for me.

I know, I know, it’s being beaten to death all through mainstream media.  I don’t have much of an opinion about the situation itself because Tiger Woods’ life is none of my business.  If he wants to cheat on his wife with a gang of hussies numbering no less than a baker’s dozen, then that is his problem.  It’s not for us to concern ourselves with.

In any case, Tiger’s statement … I didn’t see it on TV.  I caught it on sports radio as I was getting ready for work.  Here’s my take: Why, oh why, do I get the feeling he didn’t exactly read through that speech a couple times before he jumped on the mic?  Listening to him speak, I got the distinct feeling his team of publicists and what-nots wrote that, handed it to him as he got out of the car, and he walked up, and read it verbatim.  If I go to YouTube right now, and I find a clip of that statement, and it turns out that Tiger Woods just set a recorder in front of a microphone and pressed play, then I will not be one bit surprised.  That’s how insincere he sounded.  If it turns out that Tiger typed that speech into his laptop using that program that will speak whatever you type in a creepy voice that clearly sounds like a robot even though it’s supposed to sound human, I will not be one bit surprised.  If I watch it, and Tiger doesn’t look up from his piece of paper once in thirteen minutes, I will not be one bit surprised.

He sounded like a fourth grader reading his report on what he did last summer.  (More like who he did last summer, hey-ohhhhh!) It was a giant, monotone, run-on sentence.  At first, I had to really bend my ear because it almost didn’t even sound like him.  I’ve seen a million Tiger Woods interviews before, during, and after tournaments.  He’s usually a fluid, well spoken communicator.  He can tell people exactly what they want to hear.  Tiger Woods could sell a ketchup popsicle to a woman in white gloves, and make her like it.  So, what happened?

Whether or not he’s sincere, I don’t know.  Not my call to make.  I don’t know how he’s feeling.  Is he sorry for what he did?  Or is he sorry he got caught?  In any case, I can’t, for the life of me, take that statement seriously.  I can’t.  When a man who has given literally thousands of live interviews in his life walks up to a microphone and suddenly sounds like a college freshman in his public speaking class giving his mandatory “Five things about me” speech on the first day of class, my bullsh*t alarm starts going off.

That was the most pathetic attempt at an apology I’ve ever heard.  Funny thing is, I couldn’t care less if he had apologized at all.  Why the hell do I care?  He didn’t cheat on me.  Did he cheat on you?  Did he cheat on anyone at ESPN?  But because he’s the best golfer in the history of the free world, he has to tell his wife and family he’s sorry on national television?  Sure, you can say he brought this on himself by cheating, but I disagree with that too.  Whatever happens between him and his wife, be it divorce and her getting half of his billion dollar estate, whatever happens, he brought THAT on by cheating.  The man will be punished in his personal life.  He owes us, the public, nothing.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is why I believe, Tiger mailed it in on purpose. He wasn’t sincere at all, you could hear it in his voice.  Because he doesn’t give a shit what we think of him.  He only did it because it was expected of him.  Because in today’s society, if you are good at sports, or can act well, or sing well, and have more than ten million dollars, you have to answer to the public anytime you do something wrong.  Trust me, I’m sure Elin got an apology much more sincere than the one we witnessed Friday afternoon, because that’s the one that meant something.  This was just what needed to happen to keep the mass media happy.

As far as his return to golf, he left that one quite open-ended.  He is checking back into therapy and thus, his golf career is on hold while he gets his life together.  That’s the obvious move.  But if I had to make a wager, I’d say he’ll be back sooner than later.  People will eventually stop talking about this ordeal, and soon enough, things will go back to normal.  I mean, if Ray Lewis can kill a guy and be MVP of the Super Bowl THE NEXT YEAR, Tiger can come back from this.

One love,


Jennifer Lopez Has Nothing On Us

February 18, 2010

Planning a wedding is very different from how I imagined it to be.  I’ll admit, I was nervous at first about a short engagement like Jess and I decided on.  I wondered if we’d have time to pull everything together, and I had visions of stress-filled months resulting in me melting down.  I was paranoid that amidst all the chaos, I would panic and completely overlook something major like inviting my mother or booking the caterer. 

However, as it turns out, it’s actually a fairly easy process.  I mean, I’d like to think that if J-Lo and Matthew McConaughey can pretend to plan a wedding for a movie, I’ve got a fighting chance.  Their combined IQ probably barely creeps into triple digits, so I like our chances. 


 Yeah, a couple of first class Albert Einsteins.  The glasses don’t make you look smarter, Matt.

Anyway, as it stands, I’ve been involved in basically every major decision except the flowers (let’s face it, I don’t know a daffodil from a chrysanthemum) and I figured out that once you get rolling with the plans, things tend to come together quite nicely.  It’s just a matter of taking some time to talk about what you want, making a phone call or a hundred, and taking a few days here and there to iron out all the seams.  Jess and I work completely opposite schedules and we have taken care of things in less than three months.  All of our big tasks are done for the most part, and I can’t tell you how good that feels.  Anyone who tells you that you need a year to plan a wedding is full of crap.  All that does is give you seven months to procrastinate and let panic set in once you realize you haven’t done anything.   People kept telling me I wouldn’t regret a short engagement, and they were 100% right. 

We have only a few small things left to take care of, and then I am sitting on easy street.  As I type this, the invitations are being printed, and I think the last big task we’ve got ahead of us is buying nine million stamps, stuffing all the envelopes, and getting everything in the mail by (fingers crossed) the end of next week. 

Since we’re talking about the invites, I wanna put something out there and get feedback from outsiders.  I’m going to type this as impartially as I can, so as to get  impartial feedback from those with an opinion.  Between Jess and I, one of us thinks it’s somewhat tacky to list, on the invitations, the places we’re registered for gifts.   The other one thinks it’s helpful to those persons receiving invitations.   Your thoughts? 

One love,


P.S.  In case you were wondering, the couple is registered at Macy’s, Crate and Barrel, and Williams-Sonoma.

Paying The Piper

February 11, 2010

Well, after a season-long bet between JK and I came to a close with a Vikings loss in the NFC Championship game, it was time for me to collect.  I have finally been delivered the prize I was wagered, in the form of a video from JK himself to be posted right here.  There was only one caveat from JK : he asked that the video be played in its entirety without any editing on my part.  Seems fair enough.  After the video, I will throw in my two cents as per usual.  Without futher ado, here is JK in all his losing glory …  (Fair warning, it’s a little quiet so you may have to turn up the volume a little bit in order to hear the whining).

Jordan, you can’t even look me in the eyes and tell me the Vikes are the best team in the league.  Do you honestly expect me to believe that if the Vikes had fallen behind 10-0 in the Super Bowl against the Colts that Brad Childress could have put together a game plan and done what was necessary to get points on the board?  No effing way.  He would have been too busy soiling himself and combing his mustache to even think of opening the second half with an onside kick or take half the risks Sean Payton did in order to keep the Colts’ offense off the field.

Secondly, why bring my Tar Heels into this?  What have they ever done to you?  The team can’t be super successful every season.  I’m strangely content with the two National Titles they’ve won in the past five years.  Sure, they’re a mess now, but every team has rebuilding years.  I mean, don’t you remember how the Vikes had to rebuild after the last time they won the Super Bow … Ohh, this is awkward.  Also, nice Notre Dame hat.  How did they do this year?  How’s Charlie Weis?

On a closing note, JK, you say that Favre will be back, and we need to step up our bet for next year.  I agree on both accounts.  I’m ready to talk terms now.  What are you willing to lose next year?  You already gave up your pride this year, so what’s next?  Short of betting actual humans, I’m open to pretty much any suggestions anyone has.  Wow me.

One love,


The Day That Fell Flat

February 4, 2010

How can driving someone else’s car result in a man laid out with back spasms?  Follow along, because I have the answer.  But first, a little back story, (no pun intended).

If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you know that back in October, I moved in with my fiancee and her parents in an effort to save money toward the purchase of our first house.  The last few months have been going so smoothly, even I can’t believe it.  I basically get treated like royalty around here.  Case in point, since we live just outside of town, I was offered the use of a spare vehicle that has all wheel drive for snowy days.  This was an incredibly thoughtful gesture since my vehicle – affectionately known as Gladys – isn’t exactly the best on snow and ice.  So for the past two months, I’ve been taking advantage of that offer, and in the process, my truck was completely buried in the 30 inches of snow we’ve had since Christmas.

Aaaaaand, cue the story.

Tuesday, 1:55 pm: I arrive at work as per my usual routine.

11:06 pm: I emerge from work to find that one of the tires on the car is about half flat.  No big deal, there’s a gas station a few miles up the road.

11:09 pm: I realize that the car isn’t responding well to speeds in excess of 35 mph, so even though the speed limit is 55, I drop it down to 30.  I literally can’t drive 55.  Take THAT Sammy Hagar.

11:14 pm:  I arrive at said gas station and attempt to put air in the deflated tire.

11:17 pm: I’m not the smartest man alive, but I am fairly sure that the tire isn’t holding any air.

11:20 pm: I succumb to changing the tire and putting the spare on.  I open the hatch, take out the jack, lug wrench, and the spare tir… There’s no spare tire.

11:26 pm: I pace around the car, pondering my options while I guzzle an iced tea.  No tire shops are open in town, and at this hour, anyone actually willing to tow the car is invariably going to charge me nine million dollars and put his fist in my rectum. Nevertheless, I thumb through the phone book in case anything jumps out at me.  Sadly, no one has an ad that says “Reasonable after-hours rates for people who are in a predicament and running out of options!”

11:38 pm:  I make the call I didn’t want to have to make.  I called Jess, whom I knew was already sleeping.  She had to be up the following morning for work at 4-something, so I’m sure she was super eager to get out of bed and venture out into the 15-below zero temp to come get my dumbass.  Thank God she already agreed to marry me.

11:54 pm:  Jess and I piece together a plan that gets her to work in the morning, but still leaves me a car so I can take care of the flat tire.  There’s just one caveat: I’ll be waking up at about 4:45 the next morning to drive her to work.

Wednesday, 4:46 am:  I stumble out of bed, bring her to work in her car, and head back home to get a few more hours of sleep before tackling the other car situation.

6:10 am: Still awake.  The sun is starting to rise and I’ve gotten roughly three hours of sleep.

6:51 am: Finally fall back asleep.  My alarm is set for 9:00 so I have plenty of time to take care of business before going to work.

9:47 am: I muster up the strength to pull myself out of bed, I snowsuit up, and I head out the door.

10:08 am: I get to the car and pull out the jack and the wrench for round two.  My plan was to take the tire off, bring it to the tire shop to get fixed or replaced, and then set into motion an incredibly intricate series of drop-offs and pick-ups in order to get all cars returned to home base and get me to work.

10:12 am: I clamp down on the first lug nut, and it doesn’t budge.  So I move down the line and try another nut.  Nothing.  Not one of the five lug nuts on this wheel are moving a millimeter.

10:14 am: I am standing on the wrench and bouncing.  Still nothing.  You’ve gotta be kidding me.

10:20 am: I call up a service shop and start to explain the situation.  I’m a little frustrated, kind of hungry, and completely flustered that I can’t make any progress.  On top of everything, I’m starting to get stressed about the time frame of the day’s events.  With that in mind, my mouth is going faster than my brain while I am telling the mechanic what I need done.  I basically tell him I just need someone to come out to loosen the lug nuts on the wheel because they’re too tight to be done by hand.  He says, “Well, it’s $50 for me to come change the tire for you.”  To which I replied by saying, “Well, I don’t need a tire change, I just need someone to come jack these nuts off.”  Kill me now.  Those were my EXACT words.

10:22 am:  I hang up the phone pondering whether the mechanic will show up with an air wrench or a bottle of KY Jelly and latex gloves.

10:46 am:  He shows up, and I see no signs of any sexual paraphernalia.  Thank God for background checks because who knows what kind of sexual deviants I could have attracted with such a request as “someone to come jack these nuts off.”  Seriously, what the hell is wrong with me?

10:59 am:  He proceeds to get the LUG nuts off (paying no mind to any other nuts in the vicinity) and starts to pack up his gear, reveling in a job well done.  Mean while, I am getting ready to toss the flat in the trunk of Jess’ car so I can bring it to get fixed.  Just as the mechanic is about to leave he says, “Well, I better make sure the tire comes off before I go.”

11:08 am:  The tire isn’t coming off.  This can’t be happening.  It appears that a combination of rust and ice has basically spot welded the wheel to the axle.  We fight with it for a solid twenty minutes before he finally gives up and leaves.

11:28am:  Back to the drawing board.  I stay and fight with the tire for a little while longer before giving up myself and heading home.  On the drive home, it hits me: I still have my truck.  All I have to do is dig it out of the snow … and pray it starts after not having been started for two months … and pray I can dig out enough snow to actually get it out of the driveway.

11:47 am: I arrive home, grab two shovels, an ice pick, and a big ass broom.  I’m not exactly showing up to a gun fight with a knife here people.  I’m in it to win it.  (Hang on, I’m gonna try and think of more cliches … Okay I guess I’m out).  I do some quick math and figure that if I can get the truck dug out by 12:30, that will give me enough time to have lunch and get ready for work.

11:50 am:  The digging starts.  It bears mentioning that I was working on knee-high snow around the entire perimeter of the vehicle, and the snow wasn’t exactly light and fluffy.  We’re talking about that rock hard, iced over crap that only comes from wet snow that is then subjected to below-zero temps for extended periods of time.  Two months of snow in 40 minutes … maybe this was a tad ambitious.  Still, I press on.

12:25 pm:  I’m shoveling like a mad man and making good progress.  I’m almost to the point where I can try to drive it out. I’m impervious to pain and I’ve got my eyes on the prize.  (Hey I found another cliche, nice).

12:31 pm:  Time to try to start it.  I rub my rabbit’s foot, knock on wood, cross my fingers, throw salt over my shoulder, kiss a midget, and turn the key.  To my eternal surprise, (and further proving that Gladys is a pure champion), it started with absolutely no problem at all.  It had to be the whole kissing a midget thing, that never fails.  Write that down.

12:36 pm:  Using tactics that can be described as nothing less than MacGyver-esque, I got Gladys unstuck in just a couple of minutes.  Onto the next task.

12:38 pm:  As I let it run, I began to chip away at two months of ice and snow that accumulated on the windshield and hood.  It was around this time I realized that I hadn’t eaten all day, and I felt my back tightening up.  I paid it little mind while I put the finishing touches on getting my truck ready to drive me to work.

12:50 pm:  I kill the engine and head inside for a quick bite and a shower with just enough time before I have to head out for work.

12:57 pm:  I stand up after sitting down for all of five minutes, and it feels like someone hit me with a dump truck.  I’ve had back issues in the past dating back to a high school football injury, so I already know where I’m headed.  I’m on the road to Laydownandrestyourbackville, population: me.

1:00 pm:  I drop my boss a line telling him work isn’t going to be much of an option, and I commence operation sit around all night and take ibuprofen every two hours.

It’s lucky for me I live with two nurses because they keep me in line as far as taking care of myself when I get into these situations.  I battled common sense and basic life skills for a solid 14 hours, and stupidity won in straight sets.  Moral of the story here kids: don’t ask any one to jack your nuts off over the phone.  It’s just in poor taste.  Unless, you know, it’s THAT kind of a phone service.  If that’s the case, then knock yourself out.  I’m not here to judge anyone.

One love,