Archive for the ‘don’t touch my ball’ Category

Sorry to issue the high alert. Please rest assured that my Eggo is safe. The danger is only figurative.

For now.

But we still have to talk about some things.

First the Fat Boys break up; now every day I wake up, somebody takes something away. My childhood memories are under attack. Maybe yours, too.

There were the new Looney Toons a few years ago that WB called the “Loonatics.”

(Scare the hope and dreams out of children much? They made toys of those; in prisons, probably, considering how much they look like the original models were just sharpened into shivs.)

There was that Alvin and the Chipmunks with Jason Lee.1

(By the way, what are those? And is the new Theodore wearing ski goggles? Apparently he’s gearing up for the Giant Slalom life becomes after childhood.2)

Then they started committing to making movies out of some of my favorite games; out of some of my favorite memories.







But why?! Why are they doing this to me? Leave. my memories. alone. I expected to die with them intact, absent whatever frequent nights of drinking and tangentially related repression have cost me. I expected that when I was 80 or so, I could tell kids about Risk, a game of world domination, and that they’d assume I was just talking the crazy, not that they’d know it as the feature film starring Will Smith as Barack Obama.

I just want things to be the way they used to be. I want my baby back, baby back, baby back. And I don’t mean Chili’s baby back ribs;4 I mean the light in my eyes that is starting to dim.

I also want an explanation. Does no one have any ideas for movies? Because if paying people to sit in a room and decide things like “how to make Battleship a movie” is what Hollywood is doing these days, I, too, often have less developed ideas than chimps do and I can be out to L.A. by the end of the day.


1Why, Jason? Why?

2This ski reference was one big excuse to remember Picabo Street. Yep: just because.

3Neveryoumind that this whole Monopoly City Streets project between Hasbro and Google sounds awesome. Let’s assume that doesn’t shred my point to pieces.

4Barbecue sauce.


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At some point yesterday, there was a playful APB put out on my balls.

Let me assure you, they will not be on display on this blog. Frankly, they are not fans of sunlight. Additionally, there’s always the risk of moisture out in the open and we all know what that would mean.

So rather than write about how they do serve their purpose — despite being attached to a guy who likes a Taylor Swift song — and pretend like I didn’t laugh when I read the DC Blogs teaser, I thought I’d just share a story about a time when the boys were in grave, grave danger of literal extinction.

That’s right. Back on the TMI Thursday train! Chicka-chicka-woo-woo!¹

With that…

Too Close for Comfort

It’s dark; so I turn on the light. It gets brighter.

I’m in the bathroom at “someone else’s” house.² I’d needed to use the bathroom, so… I’d gone into the bathroom.

This house — this house of “someone else” — has a rodent problem. Correction: mice have been so bold as to just chill on the sofa next to you while watching TV. At first, as an invited guest, I had offered my rodent-elimination skills (read: a baseball bat and a floor covered with saran wrap for easy clean-up)³. Eventually, I just gave up trying and looked out for self.

On this fateful night I enter the bathroom, I am not alone. I learn this frightful fact too late.

I am standing over the thing where the stuff you don’t want anymore goes to die, with my pants… ajar. Just about finished, I notice a sound behind the thing that takes the stuff you’re no longer interested in carrying around on the inside.

I freeze. I am surprised. I wonder why I have never heard this sound from the thing that collects organic leftovers before.

I see a mouse poke its head out from behind the machine that collects unwanted donations.ª

(Note. If you’re so sure you’d have gathered yourself immediately and zipped up as quick as gravity and your motor skills allow, trust this: you are full of stuff the machine I’ve been talking about figuratively collects.)

I stay frozen. And then it happens.

The mouse freaks out and leaps. into. the. air.

Did you know mice can jump two feet straight up into the air? I didn’t.

I do now.

Do you know how high two feet is on a man who’s somewhere between 5’11” and 6′? High enough to have everything his sexual life has been and everything it could be flash by.º

I jump back in utter horror against the wall and swing my left foot at that little piece of Satan. I miss, but I get close enough to let it know that if life is like a chocolate bar, this is not one of those “sometimes you feel like a nut” moments.

It continues to freak out. I continue to freak out. It makes its way for the door and squeezes through a crack. I thank the great baby jebus. I walk out tattered and broken but alive and in full possession of what really matters in life.


¹C’mon ride the train, and ride it. C’mon ride the train, it’s the choo-choo…

²To protect the lives of others, I won’t even use fake blog names.

³Just so you know, I love animals. But I have a rule: if it is in the house, and it doesn’t leave when asked nicely, there are few rules. I’m sorry, rodents and insects, I know we’ve built our homes in your habitat, but we’re not going back to caves so deal and respect the boundaries.

ªWordPress.com has run out of numerical footnotes. But just in case I’ve lost you, I am talking about the toilet.

ºStick that measurement in your metric system.

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We don’t pump our own gas (it’s illegal).  We have the driest wit in America.  We lovingly self-deprecate more times a day than you probably say words with the letter “e” in them.  Want proof?  The governor asked the citizens to create and vote for the state slogan.  You know what won?  “New Jersey, Come See for Yourself.

And yes, we’ve heard your jokes.  The armpit of America.  The plays on the fact that we’re literally the densest state in the country.  The smells.  The irony of our Garden State moniker.  The Sopranos/mafia quips.  Once, someone asked me, “What smells and is where people go to fail at life?”  I said, “Nursing home.”  He could barely stop giggling long enough to spit out, “Nope.  Dirty Jerz.”

So yeah, we got your jokes.  But we’ve been able to brush our shoulders off and ignore them, resting on our unwavering kickassedness.

That is, until now.

Now, we’ve had our hideous underbelly exposed by five women Bravo probably MetroNorth’d in from upstate NY or imported from Long Island.¹

I’m speaking, of course, of the Real Housewives of New Jersey.


Let’s get one thing straight: this, is not Jersey.

The Jersey I know is remarkably like a Kevin Smith movie.  Though confused if you don’t, it doesn’t care that you don’t like it.  And it certainly doesn’t parade — from right to left — a lady who won’t stop publicly talking in code about how “tightly knit” her “family” is like the mob’s anthem is a version of “Go Tell it on the Mountain,” three ladies² who’d multi-fail a remedial eating course and a woman (far left) that, frankly, after watching the 22-minute sneak preview, I just don’t like, as spokespersons.

The Jersey I know wouldn’t look at a glass already half-full with stereotypes and ask these broads to piss in it ’til full.  It’s a family thing.  We can say whatever we want about ourselves.  But we keep it in the circle.  You know what I’d do drunk?  A lot.  But you know what I would never do, even drunk?  Insult Jersey in mixed company.

I’m not counting these broads as “Jersey girls.”  That phrase is for a special kind of lady that these women wouldn’t know if one walked up and stealth-punched them in the throats for speaking without being spoken to.  These “real” housewives are a charade.  Just look at them: they’re in couture posing opposite industrial fans to create a wind-blown-hair look, while on the boardwalk at the beach.

If you’re still wondering why this pains me so, the kicker: they’re based in my county, Bergen County.  And that just feels like a sandpaper ball-rub.  The promise of this show feels like someone is sandpapering my balls.  All the pre-show hype (it hasn’t aired yet) is rubbing me against the grain and I just can’t take it.

So, I’m going with the grain. *hangs head*

I’m gonna watch it; at least the first episode.  I gotta keep an eye on mine enemies so that I might trounce them when the time is right.  Maybe I’ll even host a viewing party and make something out of it.  Not to celebrate, of course.  Nubby-balls no!  But so I can teach the non-Jerseyers what is and isn’t true about the greatest state in the union.  I’ll take one for the team and sit through this madness.

If you’ve got any recommendations on a great bourbon for me to slurp straight from the bottle while I watch, the box below is open for suggestions.

Oh, and I almost forgot:

Dear prestigious legal counsel of these five delightful people,
It’s satire and jokes.  Think of it as stand-up comedy from the seated position.
Also, I have nothing.
— f.B

¹I throw you under the bus for kid, NY and LI. For kid.
²Though, in all fairness, the blonde in the pink might know what food is. Maybe.

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Ladies and gentlemen, this…

is TMI Thursday!

If you’re new around here, this is what TMI Thursday has meant to me.  I thought about writing a short composition to explain, but I’m not 11 and it’s not 1956, so I skipped the composition idea and went with that nifty link.  TMI Thursday is code for “remember that time you [insert gross, horrible occurrence] and how you vowed either never to speak of it again or laughed hysterically?  Well, on TMIT, inspired by LiLu, we break those vows and share that laughter.

Today’s TMIT is different, though.  It’s less of a story and more of a public service announcement, brought to you by the good people at the DANGLE Initiative.  No, not this Dangle –

dangle911(though his mere appearance qualifies as TMI) – but the DANGLE Initiative: Dudes Against Netherly Grazing Leftover Excretions.  It is a crack team organized to alert the world to one of its silent and oft-overlooked dangers: the dangle.

What’s the dangle?  Let’s start from the beginning.

This is a Norwegian public toilet:

_38727573_looWhy did I pick a Norwegian public toilet picture?  Because as we all know, the average American public toilet is a steaming disaster filled with post-mudbutt remainders.  And despite it being TMIT, I just wasn’t going to post an image of that first thing in the morning.

Forever, women have been professing the horror of having to sit on the seats of one of these public toilets, claiming to risk life and literally limb as their quads feel the burn of squatting at odd angles to avoid contact.

Ladies, we have it worse. We dangle. What you fear is outside the heart of the great American porcelain beast. That stuff on the seat? Arguably accidental. Sure, some people are just all sorts of stupid nasty. But what you face is mostly lazily inaccurate excretion.

We face excretion where it’s meant to be, and we face it head-on.

Size doesn’t matter here. After decades of research, DANGLE can guarantee that every male has sat on at least dozens of toilets while fearing the centerpiece of his nethers dangling and thereby grazing the INSIDE of the toilet. The INSIDE.

The process goes a little something like this:  We sit.  Where does the netherstick go?  We remember that there’s a no-tuck rule, especially when a tuck in this situation virtually guarantees the soil on your part would be your own.  We consider sitting our now nervous buddy on top of the seat, maybe even on a bed of TP.  But no; then there’s a risk of spraying your jeans with stuff that was still left in the tank.  So you point it down, begging it not to touch that stain of butt-fudge and what-looks-like-a-raisin on the front inner-rim.  Sometimes you walk away victorious.  Other times you almost make it out alive until you flush too early and get a soggy netherstick.  And worst-case scenario…  we here at the DANGLE Initiative are here to prevent the worst-case scenario.

Now an obvious suggested resolution is that men should start to squat above the seat.  But men only hover when in a hovercraft. Not even the strong risk of having our netherstick graze the lining of an uncleaned public toilet can overwhelm our stubbornness and respect for a challenge.

Therefore, here at DANGLE, we are working hard on a solution.  And we want you to help us.  There’s a DANGLE suggestion box below and we’d love to hear your ideas.

Save a netherstick, save the world.

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The Detroit Lions finished the season at 0-16.  0 and 16.  Way to show up, guys.
In honor of their professionalism,  I went searching for a professional sports idea worse than having bought season tickets to Detroit’s sideshow.

I had only three rules:

  1. had to have been “born” in 2008
  2. must be about sports
  3. must suck.

I didn’t have to try that hard.

It turns out, some Carnegie Mellon engineering students are developing technology to stuff GPS systems into game-official NFL footballs and gloves.

Andrew Rush                          

They’re also pushing to figure out how to equip them with motion sensor capability and an accelerometer to gage the speed of the ball.

According to the brainchild, aside from the “obvious” officiating advantage it would offer in games, it would also help with scouting:

“Suppose you’ve just lost your second-string quarter back.  You’d love to be able to find out who can replace this person…. you could have whoever you’re scouting wear these gloves and… ask, well, does he throw the same way under the same defensive schemes or does he run the same way and make the same kind of cuts as a terrific running back does?”

Uh huh.

You see, sometimes we think beyond our means.  This sounds harsh, I know, but there are limits to our imaginations and boundaries for our talents.  We see it all the time.  Like when this happened:*


I learned that you really just can’t party all the time when I thought my greatest idea of 2007 was finding a way to already have the ketchup injected inside the french fry by the time it got to my mouth.  Culinary professional friends and family turned and walked away in silence (actually, even non-professionals thought it ridiculous).  And I’ve come to understand why.  Because it would be gross.  Because you’d have deep-fried ketchup, or at best some congealed goo wrapped in potato.  And so my best laid plans were actually the crayon markings of an idiot.

I understand the worth of innovation.  I do.  But while instant replay was a step forward, auto-location services for footballs is a step into madness.   I’m not a drone for tradition, but GPS-stuffed footballs — like they’re pregnant with Tom Toms — just aren’t enough of the change I can believe in to make me abandon the status quo.  I like the old guard.  It’s fuzzy and familiar.

When I was a kid, I thought I was gonna be the next Jerry Rice.**  Sometimes I slept with a football next to me — kind of like how we’d sleep with a book under our pillow when we hadn’t studied enough, hoping to absorb some knowledge (except I slept with the ball out of love and not fear).  It would have been freaking creepy if that ball was transmitting my location and how fast I rolled over in bed via satellite to anyone who wanted to know.

And since that extended analogy makes no sense in the context of game-used footballs, just wait until it rains and electrocutes someone.

And since that scenario is subject to being readily avoided by waterproofing, just know I don’t have anything left other than an appeal to decency: I just don’t want to watch a game with GPS footballs.

*Fair enough.  That was awesome.  But an exception.  I probably should’ve chosen something more in line with the rule.  Like Karl Rove doing what someone told him was rapping:

**Ignore the fact that mom refused to let me play football but let my little brother start playing when he was still in elementary school.

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