So this fucking story had to sit with me for a while before I could even attempt to help you relive it appropriately…

I was driving down Girard Avenue approximately 7:45 PM last Thursday night and approached a person standing in the middle of the street. As anyone from Philly can tell you this is nothing unusual. You see, people who wait for the bus like to stand in the middle of the street waiting and watching, thinking it will arrive faster. Now, this bus riding little asshole will not move for random gun fire let alone your passing car. You have to practically mow them down if you’re making a turn at their pick-up corner. Right before you’re about to score 10 points they shimmy to the side and give you a dirty ass look like, “what da hell mang!” Pretty standard stuff really.

Having said that, last Thursday was different. As I approached our individual (lets call him “Ping” to authenticate my story) he walked further into my lane, essentially blocking me from crossing the intersection. Normally I would go around, but to my left was a median with a 3-foot guard rail and car to my right. I pulled within 20 feet of Ping and honked my horn. This normally does the trick. After “hearing” my gentle honk Ping slowly stumbled closer to my car. Well this is defiantly unorthodox, what do I do now? I proceeded to move in for a closer look. I super-slowly took my foot of the brake and glided towards Ping. As he stood five feet from my bumper I noticed he was holding a beer can and his eyes were practically sealed shut (more than usual). Okay, so we have a drunk guy here, no problem. He must need some longer horn action. This time I give him a slow and steady master horn press. Like a good South Philly HHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNKKKKKKKKKKKK!

To my chagrin, Ping didn’t even fucking flinch! I mean he didn’t even look in my direction. I swear he might as well have been a zombie. He was totally unresponsive to all my vehicular sound assaults. So I did what most road rage fueled Americans would do-I depressed my brakes and slowly started to approach our walking coma. I mean if he doesn’t hear my horn he HAS to see an SUV attempting to squash him like a bug.

As I gently rolled my 3 ton automobile towards the 4 foot Asian man he didn’t budge…I just kept going. Yep I didn’t stop until I tapped him with my front bumper. He has to get the picture now, right! Wrong. I do believe his eyes rolled back in his head and he used my truck as a crutch as he make love to my bumper. What the fucking fuck! The only thing left to do was a combo horn and bump maneuver. I started bouncing my truck on this guy like a basketball and held my horn extra hard. Bang, bang, bang with a steady HHHOOOONNNNKKK!

Not moving I only had two options left. Hit the gas and bowl him over or gently guide him to safety. Unfortunately, I selected option two. I positioned my truck and was able to bump his ass to the corner. Then just like that, I continued to my destination. I couldn’t help but feel somewhat dirty from the situation because it left me filled with so many unanswered questions:

1. What the fuck just happened!?
2. How fucking retarded can you be to not feel an SUV trying to drive over you? (I’ll have what he’s having!)
3. Did I just commit a hit-and-run? (As I looked around to see if anyone saw me)
4. Man this status update is SO not gonna fit on Facebook…
5. Why couldn’t this↓ have been our damsel in distress? Oh, hey deaf girl begging to get bowled over by my SUV! You’re gross!

Sorry its taken so long for a post. I was on sabbatical.

DON’T LISTEN TO ANYONE

So I’m sure most of you heard by now that Armageddon has taken the form of a tornado menstruating lightning bolts scheduled to make love to the east coast some time today. This raises an interesting question; why is everyone and their mother giving a prediction on when and how bad this bitch is going to shake the shit out of us like Chris Rock handles an out of control girlfriend? “Oh yeah its suppose to start around 5PM and not be that bad” or “The tectonic plates are shifting and el-nino is supposed to ride a lighting bolt to the polar ice caps and fuck global warming in the ass.” The weatherman can’t hit the temperature within ten degrees, WTF makes you think you can track a fucking hurricane. I hope a barn full of pregnant cows falls on your head.

DON’T PANIC

If you happen to listen to the over dramatized media or any of these previously described assholes you are probably running to the store (as we speak) to stock up on white bread, toilet paper and batteries for your flashlight. HEY ASSHOLE, shove your flashlight up your ass and rotate (not sure what that means but I’ve always like saying it). YOUR HOUSE IS NOT GOING TO BLOW DOWN, unless your hiding three rouge pigs and a wolf knocks on your door.

STOCKING UP

You’re obviously going to need some food, but why the hell does everyone buy up all the white bread in the supermarket? It being 2011 and all, isn’t there a shit ton of options better than a loaf of wonder bread? For fucks sake, it’s not like you’re going to be stranded on an island for the rest of your life; this is just a day with really bad rain and some thunder bolts (fingers crossed). That also means you don’t need to hoard all the freaking toilet paper! Is this storms wake going to include a tsunami of liquid laxatives causing the world to shit more than usual? If the storm gets REALLY bad you may shit yourself in fear, but if that happens, you will float away anyway. In which case, you can kiss your shitty ass goodbye. For the love of Christ, just have enough food for a couple of days, some booze, and some Xanax. REMEMBER, If things get really bad you can always order some Chinese food because you know those slanty SOBs will be riding their bikes in anything.

I’m really looking forward to fall, which is weird because my favorite season has always been summer. I normally get a little sad at the end of August thinking I have to wait 8 months to see live girls in bikinis again. Am I getting old? Maybe, but I think it’s a combination of my age and my full-blown fantasy football addiction. Football has always been something I look forward too but never was it an overwhelming disease that cripples my Sundays like a man with spina bifida trying to climb a ladder. With the inception of the red-zone channel and personal devices becoming more intuitive this has become an intervention-worthy problem. Not only is this a predicament for men but the women that love us also suffer greatly. Hopefully my take on FF will help ease the pain for those women that get ignored like a redheaded stepchild on Sundays.

You can track my disease all the way back to my childhood. My first introduction to gambling happened when my mom allowed me to participate in her company wide football pool. Why wouldn’t she think it was a good idea to include her children in the illegal gambling ring being held at her place of employment? It was a straight pick-em pool, 20 dollar entry fee, best record take all. To my surprise, I ended up taking first place out of 100 peeps. I guess you could say “The rest is history.”

Thanks mom for teaching me how to gamble at age 12. Surprised I’m not living the good life in my one room studio apartment in a Las Vegas gutter with my roommate Stanley.

Lets play one of my favorite games...Guess the movie quote I used in this comic people!

Because of mothers responsible decision I now take part in a pick-em pool, suicide pool, two seasonal fantasy leagues and a hard-core dynasty league. My participation in these pools literally creates a FF command center in my basement every Sunday, impenetrable by any one with a vagina. I surround myself with laptops, televisions, cell phones, and remotes to keep myself updated on any sudden score change.  My FF-Fortress of Solitude also requires a twelve-hour, empty caloried feeding frenzy of which I consume nothing but grease, carbs, meat, corn and hops. The only reason to get up is to drain the Purple-Helmeted Yogurt Thrower. The longer I sit in my filth consuming nothing but junk the quicker I start to lose my mind. One Sunday I discussed a potential conspiracy theory with a cheese doodle I found in the couch. Well hello Mr. Doodle. How’d you get under there? How long have you been hiding from me? Who sent you?

FF has become a multimillion-dollar industry that has turned men across the country into mindless drooling vegetables. Bottom-line, men look forward to Fantasy Football Sunday’s like women look forward to getting their hair did. For sixteen straight weeks we wake up on our holy day, run downstairs like its Christmas morning and turn on the pre-game show like Raymond Babbit getting ready for another episode of the Peoples Court.

One minute till Wapner.

The Magazine-

Early August and the start of training camp is when the excitement seed gets planted for the upcoming season. We get to see the current draft class on the field, which causes us to start thinking about our potential keepers (in a dynasty format). When the seed roots and takes hold we start looking for a good resource to feed our enthusiasm. The Internet has become flooded with hoards of information making it a challenge to sift through and find something useful, therefore, we turn to the magazine to encompass valuable information. Does this magazine double as a security blanket? All I know is I wouldn’t go into battle without a shield.

Now normal magazines will run anywhere between 2-3 dollars were a FF magazine will run between 5-10 dollars ($15 in Canada). Men won’t bat an eyelash paying top dollar if we find exactly what we’re looking for. Relax ladies, this is our only outstanding FF expense since we play for the respect of our peers. I’m sure you assumed we wager money, but as gentlemen we accept nothing more than a handshake and/or trophy.

Now back to the magazine.

Every guy has different criteria when choosing his hand-held holy grail. Me personally, I pay extra for glossy paper and color pictures throughout (Makes me feel like I’m putting in the extra effort). Screw that black and white newsprint garbage. Nobody ever won a championship being cheap! Some standard requirements are as follows: a top 200 cheat-sheet, strong rookie evaluations, each position ranking and each position sleeper ranking.

Men will stand until our legs cramp looking for just the right combination of hints, tips and sleepers. A good comparison for this selection process is when you women go shopping for greeting cards. Finding just the right message can sometimes take a while but when found, it simply melts the heart. You know the one that makes you shed a tear right there in the store? Yeah, it’s just like that.

The Draft-

DRAFT DAY, HELL YEAH!!!!! The sun rises with a smile as men everywhere welcome this day with open arms and hug it like their grandmother. What’s not to love? All your work and preparation is about to pay off! A common strategy for a FF draft is having a first round target and a plethora of middle-to-late round sleepers in your back pocket. As long as you’ve done your homework the rest should fill in systematically. You should feel unstoppable heading to your draft. OH YEAH! I’m a high-speed, Coors Light silver-bullet train and nothing can derail me; my confidence is sky-high. I got this! I’ve been training all month for this day and when it’s my pick I’m going to FUCK-SHIT-UP! I get there a half hour early, grab a beer and a prime seat for the festivities. After everyone arrives and its greeted accordingly (depending on last years finishers) its down to business. The draft order is determined by the numbers in the hat routine. “Who wants to pick first?” “I do!” C‘mon pick number 1! I choose pick 7. FUCK! I didn’t prepare for pick 7.

It’s too early to take a quarterback and all the backs and receivers I’ve been targeting are gone. *Panic ensues*

“Give me Miles Austin” WHAT!? And just like that your day is ruined. NICE PICK ASSHOLE! THANKS FOR THE DONATION DOUCHE! Everyone knows Austin is a mid-to-late second rounder at best. You spend the rest of the day trying to rectify your mistake.

The rest of the draft moves rather quickly and is usually filled with friendly banter throughout. We like to repeat quotes at nauseam from commercials that we’ve seen over and over on our favorite sports station. This year between all the screams of “Championship” and “T.J. who’s your momma” I noticed we do something that is completely unorthodox in all non-gay males circles; we compliment each other.  The more I analyzed this the more I realized it’s about the ONLY situation a group of 10-12 men will sit in a room and be supportive. “Ooooooooo nice handcuff!” or “Savvvvvvy value pick.” Of course as I proved earlier the compliments are intertwined with insults and sarcasm but we compliment each other nonetheless. Hmmmmmm, what other scenario has a group of men sitting together, drafting other men to achieve a high “scores” while showering each other with compliments?

Gay speed-dating.

Opening Day-

You’ve checked your starting lineup 10-thousand times comparing matchups and stats. You’re still left with one receiver or running back dilemma that keeps you up at night. Whichever way you go it’s inevitably the wrong decision. The guy you start will have 2 receptions for 26 yards and the guy on your bench will blow up for 100 yards and two touchdowns. You vow to never sit your stud again, and all he does is suck balls for the rest of the year. The good news is, when you shit the bed, it’s always best to have an accident week one since you get the first pick on the waiver wire.

Trades-

There’s one guy in every league that submits the most ridiculous trades ever. “Ill give you a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon and Chris Henry for Aaron Rodgers?” No? Okay I throw in Donnie Avery’s ACL? It’s always the same guy that sends you about 10 trade proposals on the same day. His tactic is to flood the market and see who bites, then take THAT interest and annoy you into submission. I’m not a trade master and unfortunately lost two leagues last year because of my boneheaded decisions.

REALLY DUDE?! Pump the freaking brakes!

In conclusion, I could go on forever but feel the need to stop here to protect myself from myself.

P.S.

It’s only a matter of time before women jump on board with this phenomenon by starting a “Dancing with the Stars” or “American Idol” fantasy league.

P.S.S

I won my dynasty league last year by beating my twin brother in the championship game because he didn’t start Brent Celek. Loser.  Is there anything sweeter? Actually, YES there is…He bet a future 2010 11^th round pick that he lost in our head-to-head, mid-season match-up (that has since stirred a lot of controversy, thanks Scott (nice team)).

The cou’de gras, my brother called begging for his pick back. His tactics were as transparent as a wet t-shirt contest.

1. Guilt trip-“Dude you won last year, you’re not really going to keep that pick are you?”
2. Offer money-“How much for the pick back?”
3. Desperation-“Is there anything I can do or say to get that pick back?”
4. Reverse psychology-“Screw you man I don’t need you or your stupid pick anyway!”

He will never admit it, but losing the championship game will eat at him like a leech attached to his testicles.

CHAMPIONSHIP BITCHES!!!!

That would be me...The Vagina Gurus!

2009 Standings:

The Grid Iron (keeper league): 1st The Grid Iron Guru

Glenside Pub: Did not make playoffs because of a horrible trade

Freight House: Came in third place because of another horrible trade

2010 Standings:

The Grid Iron (keeper league): 3rd Place

Glenside Pub: 1st Championship Bitches!

Freight House: 1st Championship Bitches! I drafted this team while driving and appropriately named my team “Drafting while Driving.

2011 Standings:

The Grid Iron (keeper league): TBA

Glenside Pub: TBA

Freight House: TBA

Street-cred is a level of respect gained from experience or knowledge in any urban environment issue. Two ways of earning street credentials are wearing pants around the middle of your thigh to expose underpants or speaking in something loosely resembling the English language called ebonics.

Here is a fine example I found online:

Ebonics: “You gots to git those Benjamins so you cin git dat bling-bling fo yo ride”
English: “You need to get money so that you can get expensive accessories for your car.”

Putting rims on anything immediately increases street-cred. After sinking every penny into tires and ridiculous looking rims, you should  drink a 40 oz. in celebration and drive around all night drawing attention to yourself.

Very practical!!

While there are many things that increase street-cred one of the most annoying is leaving trash on a newly purchased item. I say trash, but to some, this little sticker is flaunted like a street badge of honor. Or perhaps maybe, just maybe, its to visually announce “THIS HAT IS NEW PEOPLE!” Who knows. For those not familiar with this practice please see my outline below ↓

Just for shits and giggles lets apply this Einesteinion logic to other fun scenarios. YAY!!!! Here we go…

Hipster Street-Cred

Stupid Street-Cred

So remember, you can go from an irrelevant suburban boy to a gang-banging street thug in less then 3 seconds by simply not removing that sticker. Damn son, you GANSTA!!

***PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT***

There are people on the internet that want to screw you for no reason!!!!!

I was able to thwart a potential hostile takeover just last week when trying to sell a couple Phillies tickets.

Still waiting for a response.

In hindsight, maybe I should have slow-played my hand a little longer.

BIEBER VACATION

*To be “Justin Bieber-ed” Is when you have sex with someone anally and pull out and swipe feces across their forehead to form “brown bangs” like the ever popular Justin Bieber haircut.

*MEANWHILE, off in space the rebels are about to make their assault on the Death Star*…

Lando Calrissian: We’ve gotta be able to get some kind of a reading on that shield, up or down.
Nien Nunb: [speaks in Sullustese] pop-pop, eeeep ting-ting, ah-la. *Sigh*
Translation: I’m upset my face looks like a butterflied, morbidly obese, hot pocket (vagina). *Sigh*

Lando Calrissian: But how could they be jamming us if they don’t know… if we’re coming? *pause* Wait one cotton-picking minute!
Lando Calrissian: Break off the attack! The shield is still up!
Kitty Leader : I get no reading. Are you sure?
Lando Calrissian: Pull up! All craft, pull up!

To be continued…?

With all the natural disasters, the month-long periods of ran, and the 20 degree temperature shifts does anyone else think our national weather conditions are starting to feel like the movie “The Day After Tomorrow?”

I also would like to beat everyone to the finish line that will suddenly transform into CAPTION OBVIOUS METEOROLOGISTS using Facebook as their doppler-radar breaking news platform…

If you’re this obvious add something amusing or maybe use a funny analogy. What kind of status update is “It’s so hot out”? Oh that’s right, it’s not an update, stupid!

The other Tuesday I did a Google search for “Panda Bear” (don’t ask) and made a magical discovery. Apparently, the Giant Panda has a “distant” relative that is MORE raccoon than bear. YOU DON’T SAY!? Intrigued by my findings, I researched the shit out of this bastard. Digging just a tad further I unearthed the unthinkable…Without further ado, I give you the bad-ass honey badger’s red-headed step brother, the fucking GINGER BEAR! Thats right people; I’ve discovered the ginger of the animal kingdom…

DRRRRRRR! You crossed-eyed fuck!

Fun factoids about our genetically mutated new friend…

Dwarfed by the black-and-white giant that shares its name these red pandas a.k.a. Ginger Bears typically grow to the size of a house cat (yeah, if your cat were a ring-tailed, fork-tongued, red pandacoon born in the seventh circle of hell), though their big, bushy tails add an additional 18 inches (relax ladies).

The ginger bear shares the giant panda’s rainy, high-altitude forest habitat, but has a wider range. Red pandas live in the mountains of Nepal and northern Myanmar (Burma), as well as in central China. Thank god, if this anomaly tried cutting me off I would squash him into a gourmet pandacoon pizza with my pumas (20 years bad luck to have a ginger bear cross your path).

These animals spend most of their lives in trees and even sleep aloft. When foraging, they are most active at night as well as in the gloaming hours of dusk and dawn in hopes to avoid other woodland creatures that will ridicule them unmercifully. “Go back to the circus freak!” “Your momma is a whore!” Things of that nature are commonplace in the young ginger bear upbringing.

Hey look, is that a raccoon or a fucking ginger bear?

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" says the ginger bear.

Red pandas have a taste for bamboo but, unlike their larger relatives, they eat many other foods as well—fruit, lions, acorns, bat guano, eggs, whale blubber, buttons, cheese doodles, gazelle testicles, roots, honey bees, unicorn horns and elephant tusks. Like giant pandas, they have an extended wrist bone that functions almost like a thumb, which aids their grip in all masturbatory purposes (Jesus knows these vermin aren’t getting any). This appendage can also extend outward for the obligatory “thumbs up” used for positive feedback or hitchhiking after a long night.

They are shy and solitary because of the years of torment suffered during childhood. Females give birth in the spring and summer (when lucky enough to get knocked-up), typically to one to four runt-rehtards that are very susceptible to sunburn (wear your sunblock!) and look like a litter of irritated buttholes. Getting knocked-up is not abnormal  since the mother’s panty dropping instincts are passed from one generation to the next. These red bear-whores will spread her paws for ANYTHING in the wilderness.

Young gingers stay in their nests for about 90 days, during which time their mother cares for them by nourishing them with her milk. Suckling mommas teet, when it’s not being occupied by other random passers-by, can sometimes cause the youngsters to stay longer then the allotted 90 days. If the cub gets hooked on mommas milk she has no choice but to close shop and gently whisk her offspring into the wild.

We have recorded footage of one of these heartwarming interventions; lets listen closely…

Momma coon: “I’m all dried up! You kids and Ray Ray the orangutan from down the way suckled all my shit dry!”
Baby bear: “But momma I’m hungry.”
Momma coon: “You think dis milk grows on tress? DO YAA?! LORD JESUS!! Don’t choo start crying you little asshole. MOMMA GONNA GIVE YOU SUMTIN TO CRY ABOUT!”
Baby bear: *sob-sob* “But momma I love you.” *sob-sob*
Momma coon: “I’ll slap da taste out chor mout! Say I won’t?! *slapping the little bear repeatedly upside the head* Your momma got babies to make. Schiiiiiit I’m done wit yo scrawny red ass.”

*Meanwhile, in the distance.*

Ray Ray: Dats right bitch! That be Ray Rays sweet nectar!

And just like that the poor little ginger gets jettisoned into the wilderness to fend for itself.  (Males take little or no interest in their offspring. True dat!)

The red panda has been classified as a relative of the giant panda, and also of the raccoon, with which it shares a ringed tail. Currently, red pandas are considered members of their own unique family—the Ginger Bear.

So in layman’s terms, once upon a time this shit happened…

And den you know dis shit happened…

Then before Ms. Coon can get to the end of her "knocked-up" story...

 

LORD JESUS!

P.S. No animals were harmed in the making of the post, PETA!

“Red Pandas, Red Panda Pictures, Red Panda Facts – National Geographic.” Animals, Animal Pictures, Wild Animal Facts – National Geographic. Web. 13 May 2011.