Sometimes the Mole loves his job. Today I go to talk to one of our contracts people and he decided to unload on me about a problem negotiator that our customer employs. I ask if it's the ice queen that I've had a few dealings with, and sure enough, it was. Anyway we spew a bit about how difficult this chick can be and then he brings the high heat.
You know Mole, I don't mind women in the workplace per se, but I hate it when they have to over compensate for being a woman working in a man's world. I mean, just deal with me like I'm just another person, and don’t be a bitch because you have an inferiority complex about being a woman.
RIGHT EFFIN' ON DUDE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Tell that woman to get in the kitchen and make me some pie! I love this kind of sexism, the overt stuff you get from our "older" generation. The stuff that the "royal we" can't and don't speak about today since we've been pussified with all this politically correct bull-butter. So I figured I'd just run down a list of things that' irritates the Mole to no end about the fairer sex:
Driving - I mean really, when your glove box is filled with make-up, your cell phone is surgically attached to your ear, and teams in your professional basketball league could be beaten by the average High school boys team; it furthers the argument that women don't have the mental capacity, hand eye coordination, or reflexes to be issued licenses.
Personal Appearance - Face it, when products are on the market like fake color for your hair, fake color for your face, jelly filled sacks for your boobs, fake nails for your hands, and wonder bras to give your boobs a better look; should we, as men, have to take you that seriously?
Periods - We don't care about your cramps, just sort it out and leave us alone, the game is on! This is proof positive, if you believe in God, that he prefers men. I mean he created you, right? And in doing so, saw fit to make you bleed a few days out of each month.....HAHAHAHA. And like Mr. Garrison said in South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut, "I'm Sorry Wendy, but I don't trust anything that bleeds for five days and doesn't die."
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go talk to my dog, drink some scotch, and wait for the Mrs. to get home. I'll give that little cookie an hour before we do the no pants dance, time to musk up.
Looks like Fathead is offering a new wall covering. For those of you women that don't know what Fathead is, it's basically a BIG vinyl cut out of your favorite sports team, or player that can be hung on the wall. For those of you men that don't know what Fathead is, remove your balls from betwixt your legs and be done with it. They advertise every 30 seconds during every sporting event on TV and men watch sports, period.
Anyway, for everyone’s masturbatory pleasure, Fathead now has life sized wall hangings of the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders. While it seems that only the back of these cut outs is supposed to be sticky, I'm sure Fathead will now have to come up with an official fathead one of these.
To the Mole's dismay, "Grain-vull's" finest isn't one of the three cheerleaders you can order.
So I've been blogging for a year now, and it's strange to actually go back and look at some of the stuff I've written about. My life has gone through a lot of changes like getting married, losing a good friend, and I becoming a college official. I guess, when you break it down though, it's just life. We continue to live it and try to roll with what happens next.
So, before I step away from the computer for the Thanksgiving Holiday, which round these parts consists of an orgy of food, alcohol, and football; I'd like to say thanks to those who have read, and enjoyed, piss off to those that have read and disagreed, and have a happy Thanksgiving to all.
(Also a special thanks to the grammar and spelling police for not being to hard on a guy that has the writing ability of the average 3 year old)
The Mole's Top 10 Favorite Year One Entries
Out of 85 entries to my blog, these are my personal favorites:
I get home around 12:10 for lunch and notice that the DVD rack has a huge section missing out of it. Since I'm super anal about my movies and music (I alphabetize by title) I immediately notice that it's my Lord of the Rings DVDs that are gone. I then look up to notice that the ps2 is gone as well. None of this bothers me; I just figure that P has taken the movies and DVD player to school to watch with her class. However, it dawns on me that she's not allowed to show anything over a G rating, hummmmmmmmm. So when I get to work I shoot an e-mail to her:
Mole: How did you get the school to approve you showing Lord of the Rings to your class? P: What are you talking about? Mole: You didn't take the Lord of the Rings movies and the ps2 to school? P: Why would I do that?
At this point alarms start to go off in my head. I leave work and run back home to find that our DVD player in the bedroom and my Star Wars trilogy (the new one, not the good one) has been stolen. I'm sick, I've been robbed.
I call the police and they send an officer to my house that has good news, they've caught the bad guys. YES! Score one for law enforcement. When I get "downtown" they take me out back to the truck of the thieves and let me rummage around for all of my stuff. I find all of my DVDs including Starsky and Hutch, as well as my DVD player and ps2. What I'm surprised to find is that they also took my pellet gun, 2 old sleeping bags, a machete my sister brought back from Mexico, and my flip flops. Now, I was disappointed to find my LoTR DVDs gone because they were the extended editions and my parents had given them to me as gifts over the past three years for Christmas. They are good films, but also hold sentimental value because I'm always appreciative of any gift my parents give me, except pleated pants. Anyway, I was upset about losing them, but, when I would have realized that my flip flops had been stolen, I would have been pissed; PISSSSSEEDDDDD!!!!! These flip flops are probably my most prized possession. They are all I wear in the summer and were worth every penny I spent, not mention they can open a beer.
In the end, the officers were really nice, and they let me take all my property back home. I pressed charges, and that's the end of the story. Right? Come on, I live Grain-vull (thanks Deuce). You know there's got to be something funnier than stolen flip flops in the wild ass circus that is my life.
I can talk to anyone, at anytime, about anything. Calling ball has afforded me a pretty disarming charm that makes people want to open up. It's something that's useful when talking to coaches on Friday nights, and equally annoying to P when she's trying to leave Canton and I'm chatting up a dirt merchant about what flag was the official one of the Confederacy.
Focus Mole!!!!!!!! The story!!!!!!!
So I pull into the police station and the officer sends me inside to a waiting area with instructions to wait for him to come get me. As I enter the room there is a couple in their early 50s and an elderly lady that had to be in her 70s. I walk over to the elderly lady and lean next to the wall and it begins.
Elderly L: Did you need to talk to me? Mole: No ma'am, I'm waiting on a police officer. Other Lady: Looks like we all are. ***Silence*** EL: You know, everything started going bad when I moved to Greenville. M: I'm sorry? EL: Everything started going wrong when I moved here. M: What do you mean? El: Well it's just the house I live in, I hear noises. M: You do? El: Well I haven't worn my hearing thang in a while but I KNOW there is something in my attic M: You can hear it moving around? EL: Yes, I know it's there, I know it. M: Is it a squirrel or some kind of varmint? EL: (with a dejected look) I grew up on a farm, I think I'd know what a squirrel would sound like, I'm not afraid of squirrels. M: Oh, sorry. ***Silence*** El: I'll tell you what it is though. M: Ok. EL: Even though my children have looked up there and can't find anything I know what's up there. A Mexican Family. Other Lady:***furrowed brow "WHAT?" look*** M: (winking at the other lady) Really, you're sure? EL: I know it, I can here ‘em up there. I'm scared at night when I sleep, and I'm afraid they're going to steal from me when I leave. But, they're nice Mexicans, they leave everything like I left it between the time I leave and come home. M: Ahhhh. EL: I just can't take it anymore though, they may be nice Mexicans but it's my house, and that’s why I shot by the wall. M: You did what? El: Well, I went by the wall, cause I knew they wouldn't be by the wall, and I shot through the ceiling and through the roof. I didn't want to hurt the Mexicans; I just wanted them to leave but now I have this ringing in my ear that won’t go away. ***as she starts to open hand hit the side of her head***
At this point the other lady is giving me a terrified look and the police officer that is helping me comes in. “Come with me please”, he says. As I leave, I look back at the elderly lady who is still talking, and say, "You take care now".
Really though, this stuff only happens in Grain-vull. You can't make this shit up.
Update: Turns out, that after describing the truck the robbers were using to P's little brother he identified the guy. He's a kid that P has gone to church with her entire life. I wonder if this story can get any more inbred?
Dude, Mexican is not the preferred nomenclature. Hispanic-American, please.
Since I have lost all self respect, I now bowl in a league. I started about 6 weeks ago, and I'm on the cusp of completing all 3 goals I set for myself for the season.
Bowl 200 game - incomplete with a high game of 198
Have a 150 average - incomplete with an average of 147
Bowl a 500 series -complete, through 3 games last night I scored a 520
Looks like that before year end I may have to reevaluate my goals. I'll probably hit my average goal next Sunday night, and I've been playing in the 190s with one game each Sunday, so it's only a matter of time.
Also, I'd like state that I'm openly rooting for Rutgers to play in the BS BCS Championship. I think the only way we'll ever see a playoff is for a school that plays a non-conference schedule of teams that resemble the team who won my high school's district championship make it in.
It's funny that now the computers have Rutgers so high with their zero loss record that they're sitting in sixth. Please God please PLEASE make this happen.
They are both equally retarded, in that they now both have memorials to their respective mascots. (Texas, A&M).
Now I'm sure both will have retard representatives from their student body and alumni that will argue over who has the better memorial "flair". The "Bevo" walk of fame at UT or the dead dog score board at A&M, and in the end it's ridiculous.
I'd hate for the people that came up with these ideas to take Mrs. Garrison's class on evolution. With the ridiculous amount of time and effort they spent erecting shrines to useless dead animals I'm sure they'd be the types that would believe his explanation on the subject:
Evolution was thought up by Charles Darwin, and it goes something like this. In the beginning we were all fish, ok, swimming around in the water. And then one day a couple of fish had a retard baby, and the retard baby was different so it got to live. So retard fish goes on to make more retard babies, and then one day a retard baby fish crawls out of the ocean with its mutant fish hands; and it had butt sex with a squirrel or something and made this, retard-frog-squirrel. And then that had a retard baby which was a monkey-fish-frog, and then this monkey-fish-frog had butt sex with that monkey, and that monkey had a retard baby that screwed another monkey and that made you, so there you go. You're the retard offspring of 5 monkeys having butt sex with a fish-squirrel, congratulations.
Of course later in the show, Mrs. Garrison was screaming for renowned atheist and evolutionary theorist Richard Dawkins, to "bang her monkey hole". Which is as monumentally a waste of times as the afore mention shrines. What's the point in banging a bald gay guy that had a bad boob job and a sex change? It makes as much sense as building a score board for a pet cemetery or a museum for cattle.
Bang my monkey hole, or build a dead animal shrine, it's all the same
So, NPR (National Public Radio, yeah I don't listen either), had an article on their website about drug addiction and the struggle that it causes the family of the loved ones it affects. For the Mole, I've never done drugs. It's probably the only vice out there that I haven't tried. However, I can appreciate what they can do to a family, from personal experience. It's a tough thing that no one should have to endure.
This is why I feel for the family in the article.Their dog is a drug addict. That's right people, this article tales the tells, and in an audio version no-less, of how their Coker Spaniel "Lady" would suck toxic toads to get high.
I'm sure in a few months Lady will form a rock band, sign a multi-million dollar record deal, write shitty songs about how her life of making music, and banging rock groupies suck. She'll sell her record to pimple face kids in black and or flannel; only to blow her head off with a shot gun after she realizes all the toad sucking had landed her an ex-stripper, heroin addict, horrible acting slut of a life partner.
"They break windows to get into houses," Laing said. "They even know how to open doors. And once inside, they make a mess. They empty the fridge, ruin furniture, and defecate all over."
"I have had them in my house several times, even while I was there. They simply brushed past me. I had to get out of the way," Laing said. "Even my husband got threatened by a baboon."
As you can tell, this is one of Africa's most intense problems, and obviously not one that can be solved by God, and his iPod.
I'm sure that science will come up with all kinds of theories and what not to support the reckless behaviors of these animals though. In fact, the article does say that's its human encroachment on their natural habitat that is the source of their tirades. Of course, the Mole has another theory. I feel it's the Eagles loss to the Saints that has these chimps in such an uproar. As you can see below they were pretty upset after Sunday's loss.
"The only difference in these two animals is that the one pictured right is house broken"
The funny thing is, the baboons in the jerseys above look similar these Neolithic bed wetters from across the Indian Ocean. Maybe this will go a long way in proving evolution?
There aren't many things that get me excited. By excited I don't mean 6-year-old Christmas morning excited, nor do I mean Kanye West getting a new Mercedes excited. I mean, nervous, and I'm talking SO tight, that you can't drive a nail up my ass.
Today I had a college tryout to see if I'm good enough to call softball at the next level. I had three games today in a little round robin friendly that consisted of teams from Texas, Oklahoma, and Louisiana. My games weren't perfect, but they were solid, and I felt really great on my drive home.
You know, people do a lot of bitching and complaining about officials and the calls that are made during the course of a game. They speak on how "they" don't care, how "they" take "it" away from the kids, but you should see it from behind the mask. Anyone can be an armchair quarterback, just like everyone can see a strike or ball better when they're looking through a chain-link fence. But Quite honestly, the average person doesn't have the guts, balls, intelligence, or the mental fortitude to not only learn and apply the rules in a pressure situation, but also keep control of a continuingly volatile situation.
Hell, if reffing were easy, they'd calling it coaching......Just kidding Coach Johnson.....
Today I went out, having never so much as set foot on a college ball field, and fucking dominated. I worked my ass off. Not for the coaches, not for the fans, and not for the players, but for me. Even though it was my first time in a college situation, there wasn't a soul that knew it, but me. And that's probably why I spent the majority of my first plate game trying to choke down vomit. It's funny; I care so much about getting it right on the field that it literally makes me sick during a game.
Anyway, I'm here, I'm young, and I'm good. The NCAA is about to be changed forever.
So it's that time of the year, football season. This season I've embarked upon an experiment with football officiating, I've taken on a "white hat". What does that mean? Basically, I'm the guy you'll see on Saturdays and Sundays that speaking on the mic, and giving hand signals to the crowd explaining penalties that have occurred, and what the enforcement of each foul will entail. Funny thing is, the closest guy on my crew to my age is 13 years older, and that's not to mention the coaches that "have been doin' this thang longer than I've been uh-live".
Thanks coach......
Anyway, I had to hand pick a crew. Since, most of the experienced guys where already with other crews I went into the softball kitty and found a group of guys that I knew could handle themselves in game situations. While we got off to a rough start even before the first kick off, we've managed to have really solid games, even with our lack of experience. Things are going really smooth on Fridays, and honestly, I really have to commend the coaches and players of every game we've covered this season. They've all been well mannered, and knowledgeable about the rules; well, all but one team, but they had 50 hung on them by half time. Their coach was crazy. He would not shut his mouth the entire game, and was wound up so tight that I thought the truffle shuffle was going to break out from this Chunk look-a-like.
At least he was entertaining
Anyway, all is well on the varsity side, however the weekend Lombardis of the Pee-Wee leagues are killing me, and I lost my cool last weekend. It was the fourth game of the day, the last game, and since there were only 3 of us working the games, my feet felt like bloody stumps from all of the running on the crappy pasture (field) were playing on. Not only that, I was working the sideline of a team that was getting their ass handed to them 19-0 with under a minute left. Now, the collective coaching knowledge of this group of misfits probably equaled that of Daniel McMann, so I was being the good guy and letting them roam around. I was hot, tired, and generally just didn't want to get into anything. Unfortunately for me, sometimes even when you're not looking for trouble, it'll still find you.
There we are, 15 seconds from the end of the game. The winning team has graciously given up possession on their own 6 so that the team with the goose egg on the board will have a chance to score. A pass play is called and a kid runs a route into the end zone and from my angle looks to catch a pass for a touchdown. However, the kid has his back to me, and my two partners say the ball went in and came out, incomplete pass. Since I can't see through the kid, I don't disagree, and we wave the reception off. This news isn't very pleasing to the coach though, and even with my explanation of not being from Krypton, and therefore can't see through the player to make the correct call, is not good enough.
Coach: You need to be a man; you need to make a call. Adam: Coach, you need to take yourself and your team back to the team area. (the marked space between the 25 yard lines) I don't want to see you for the rest of the game (4 seconds), and I don't hear another word out of your mouth. Coach: Sure *walks off waves his hand at me*
Mole: Did you see that? Adam: What? Mole: That guy just did the one handed blow you off wave! Adam: I know, I'm going to be cool though, he's just another idiot dad living vicariously through his son. I mean, this guy has "COACH" on his shirt, which alone should tell you how small a package he's working with. He's not worth my time Mole: I think you should get him, flag him for 15. Adam: Not now, not with 4 seconds.
So after the commotion, coach 2 inch calls a sweep to my side, and his kid is tackled for no score, time's out, ball game.
Coach: You're terrible!!! Adam: Ok coach. *walks away* Coach2: YOU NEED TO GROW A PAIR AND MAKE A CALL!!!!!
Mole: OH NO HE DEH 'ENT!!!!! Sic 'em!!!!
Adam: What did you say? C2: I said you need to grow a pair and make a call!!!! C: Yeah, you're terrible. Adam: So I'm terrible huh? C: Yeah. Adam: Have I been terrible the whole game? C: Yeah. Adam: See that score board coach, *pointing* I may be bad, but I'm not 19-0 bad. That zero is on you, because you're not good enough to prepare your kids to play a decent game.
With that, I turn and leave. I think I got my point across, what about you?
HAHAHAHAHAHA...............DOUCHE..........can't you do anything right?
This guy is a perpetual loser that has failed at every corner:
*With the 49er's, he couldn't supplant an aging Jerry Rice *With the Eagles, he couldn't win a Super Bowl or win the team over against it's real leader Donovan McNabb *With the Cowboys, he's playing second chair to Terry Glenn *In his generation, he'll never be thought of as the best receiver, Thanks Marvin Harrison!
And now this! I tell you what, if I had been the paramedic on the scene, I would have helped shove the pills down his prima-donna pampered throat. This guy is your typical receiver. Just like they can't do anything on the field unless a quarterback puts a ball in their hands, he can't even kill himself on his own.
It's a sad day. Today is the first time in over 30 years the US Navy doesn't have active F-14s in their fleet because yesterday the Tomcat was retired from active service. Growing up, the Tomcat up as a symbol, to me, of American air power. The plane itself had the ability to intercept most every air target along with the fire power to bring it down. Yet, it also had the maneuverability of the smaller jets to get into close "dog fight" style combat; it was very versatile.
The Tomcat however, was immortalized in 1986 as the fighter jet of choice for gay men. That's right, nothing says American brutality like a pile of guys in towels clicking their teeth at each other, close talking, and telling each other how "dangerous" they are, or can be. Of course I'm talking about Top Gun, a movie that blazed a trail for the "don't ask don't tell" policies of the American military. On top of that, it also glamorized the beard. Thanks to Kelly McGillis, now gay men would no longer have to be seen with those rough looking Fag Hags. Also, this movie put the final nail in the Kenny Loggin's "Hey! I'm still the guy who wrote the Caddyshack theme" coffin, thanks Top Gun.
"Nobody's looking, let me oil you up again, PLEASE!!!!!"
A while back an old college friend who frequents this little bag of nothing called my blog wrote a message saying how much she enjoyed reading my little blurbs. She mentioned that she had no idea how clever or funny, or whatever I was when we were back in college. It made me smile for a few reasons because a) somebody besides my wife and sister was actually reading this thing; and b) I'm glad I've turned a corner in my life.
Ahhh college....
In college, I had to rediscover myself so to speak. In High school I was captain of the football team, had a girlfriend, and worked all the time. Between school, work, sports, and the puppy love, I had little time for anything else. College happened, and with it the realization I was a VERY average athlete, not to mention the afore mentioned puppy ran away. Lots of things can make a person vulnerable in life, and with me two fourths of my life were gone. These things were how I spent all of my personal time; either out with the girl, or being a gym rat, and in the blink of an eye I had none of it. There was no Mole then, there was only Adam, and Adam was lost.
Enter Alcohol....
I can't say enough about how much I enjoy the bottle, it’s comforting and it's easy. Most importantly it's a bomb waiting to go off in the right (wrong?) hands. In my hands, at the time, the explosiveness of that compound was the stuff of legend, and spawn Mole. Are these legends funny, sure? Were they healthy, no? The perpetual haze of those years spent constantly drinking, along with other poor decisions led to one bad relationship after another, with "friends" of all walks. There was so much wrong in my life that the alcohol became a crutch used to escape the madness of how my life was crumbling. You see, when you drink yourself to the point of passing out 3-5 times a week just to find light on a cloudy night, you'll eventually begin to reflect back to think how lucky you are to be alive.
Thank God for graduation....
In 4 years I made it through. Thank goodness it didn't take me any longer, because I was at a point where I was going to wind up dead on the side of the road one night. It took a bit, but I found separation from the evil in my life. It wasn't as clean a break as I would have liked but it was a break nonetheless. I found a job, I started dating, and I moved on. Eventually good things fell into place, and I started to mend fences that were rusted. When you've been to some nasty places you'll appreciate just how lucky you are to have it good.
Mirror Mirror....
My life was at an all time low, and that was just a few years back. I was unhappy with all aspects of it, and my self destructive nature provided a temporary relief so that I could fool myself into believe I had it all. The thing is that while I've moved on, some still find some kind of solace in the past; my nose is pointed forward however. I've had a life plan, and I've stuck to it. Those that didn't want to come along let go, and I'm better for it.
All in all....
I am the Mole, and I love that. What I'm most proud of though is that I've found Adam again. Adam is a real person, and Adam can feel. Mole has no feelings, he's a self centered, egotistical, know it all, beer-swilling jerk off. Mole only loves the fight, and that's why I wasn't as clever, or funny or whatever in college. In college and shortly there after there was only Mole. Fortunately for me, Adam was found under all the rubble that my life had become. While I'm not yet whole, I'm twice the guy I was then. Hell, even the Mole is better behaved when I let him out of his cage those few times of the year he gets to see daylight.
Ok, so I haven't posted anything in quite some time. Simple fact is, I work. And not only is my work hellacious right now, my hobby is kicking my ass. It's the end of the fiscal year, and since I work in Finance, quite honestly, I'd rather get tea-bagged by a 50 year old baboon, for 8 hours than have to listen to the incessant bitching and complaining that's going on at work all the time.
To make matters worse, it's the beginning of football season, and I work games damn near every night of the week. So, not only do I have an endless conveyer belt of Sloth's coming in and out of my office on a minute by minutes basis, I have to deal with people who ran up countless student loans, and wasted government grant money to spend the rest of their lives in a locker room around naked teen-aged boys. (Yes, I know I've used that joke before, fuck off).
Oh a bright note, P and I joined a bowling league. I have a ball, and shoes, and everything.
Why, to watch TO ruin the team of my youth thanks in High Definition. From here on out, you can catch me, and probably P, at my parents on Sunday afternoons. P and my mother will probably sleeping while Dad and I will be dog cussing Jerry Jones and the Cowboys for signing Hitler to a multi-year deal, and all in glorious HD on a 52in plasma.
Eff you Jerry Jones! Hugs and kisses Dish Network........
As most of you can tell, I have a very short temper with certain kinds of people. When I drive, this can escalate; I've been known to throw milkshakes. Anyway, I drive with authority. I'm always looking ahead to plot a course as well as looking behind to make sure I'm not holding anyone up. It's the people who are like the two year olds learning to walk that irritate me. You know the type; they're the ones that like a two year old are just happy to be moving. They're not paying attention; they just wander aimlessly, getting in the way of others. The worst of these are the import tuners. They are the ones that buy the 10 year old Hondas, manually cut their stock springs to lower it, and install fiberglass kits and wheels that are worth twice as much as the car itself. If you add in glowing dashboards you too can prove that you are, in fact, Fast and Furious.
Please.
The worst aspect of these people and their pimped out rides, is the fart tube. It's that muffler, with the 3-inch tip that makes any Honda, or Toyota, sound like my ass when I eat ice cream. These people baffle me. I just want to strangle them when they pull up next to me and "rev" that rubber band engine. Look clown, just because you put a wing, and painted wheels on your rice burning piece of shit doesn’t make it faster than when you pulled that thing off the lot. The fact is, you bought a car that is marketed to ignorant kids that have no idea what real power under the hood is.
This leads me to my latest encounter with a Honda Civic, which was "tuned". I was out paying my electric bill, and was pulling out from the utilities company. I crossed over a road and waited for a car that was coming to clear so that I could safely pull out. Unfortunately for me, some poor man's answer to a Britney Spears' back up dancer honks at me. Like I said earlier, I'm a pretty defensive driver, but that's when I'm in the city, not the little sleepy country town that I live. Who the hell is in a hurry here?
For some reason though, I think, "Shit, I need to go", and I start to pull forward. Then as I'm rolling into first gear, the Mole pops in:
Mole: What the fuck are you doing? Adam: Who me? Mole: Yes roach clip. Why are you pulling forward for this clown? Adam: Well, he honked. Mole:Look man, we've already had this discussion once. Adam: Be Steve? Mole: If I weren't you, I'd kick you in the nuts, you're so stupid.
So, fuck it, I stop. However, just like a two year old learning to walk, this guy never notices that something is in front of him and he runs into me. Am I mad, am I hurt, hell no. I'm a in a Jeep, and these things are built to be turned over, plus my bumper is made of steel. That's right real "merican" steel. So with a grin half cocked, I throw the parking break on, and get out.
Honda Douche: Dude, you don't have any damage. Mole: I know, I'm just admiring my new paint. HD: What? Mole: Nothing, are you OK? HD: Yeah dude we're fine. (HiZ GuRl WuZ WiT DaT DuDe) Mole: Does your muffler still work? HD: My what? Mole: Your Fart Tube! HD: *sighs* Yes? Mole: Too bad. Look man, pay attention next time, or buy a car that isn't made by Fisher Price.
So, shaking my head and laughing, I get in, and pull away.
There are a lot of people you run across in life. Some are intellectuals, some are athletes, some are followers, some are leaders, and some are assholes. David Gann was all of those traits, and knew when to utilize each of them to get through any situation. As an intellectual, he constantly kept his nose in his rulebook. He studied, read, and went to classes, so that he would know his craft inside and out. As an athlete, he took pride in his ability to work in conditions that most would find unbearable. In the hot Texas heat, this man would don long navy pants, shin guards, chest protectors, a facemask, steel plated shoes, and a wool hat. He would call games that would seemingly last forever, for teams that were rarely grateful of his presence; just because he loved being around the competition. As a follower, he knew when to shut up and listen. He knew that when certain people told him things he needed to improve on, he'd do it. There would be no questions, he wouldn't roll his eyes and wait for that person to leave so he could go back to the way HE wanted to do it. He would correct his mistake; he would become a better official. As a leader, he would take other younger officials under his wing and tutor them. He would take a role that others took with him so that if they wanted to, the officials he worked with could become better at what they did. And, as an asshole, he knew when to draw the line. He knew when it was time to pull the trigger, and he knew when to say enough was enough. His games never got out of hand.
David and I met 5 years ago when we both joined the Greenville High School fast-pitch softball chapter. We both excelled at the sport, and quickly rose up through the ranks of not only our local association, but also within the ranks of the State ASA organization. Whenever there was a tournament, we rode together. When we called championship play, we always managed to get the same assignment both at the State and National level. And when we went to these tourneys, we showed the world what kind of good young umpires were coming to ASA.
Two weeks ago, I called my last tournament with David at an ASA National, because Tuesday he was killed at work. My competition is gone. The man who personally pushed me to be a better umpire is gone. The reason why I continue to ref football this season is gone. Had it not been for him and our 3rd running buddy, I was going to hang up my stripes. As it stands, I've ventured off on my own with a new varsity crew, and me helming the Referee position. I would have never done that had it not been for him.
Though officiating is a hobby of sorts, I'm a professional. There are very few of us at this level that act in that manner when it comes to officiating, but David was one as well. It's a thankless job we do, and now that he’s gone, I'll never have the chance to thank him for how he pushed me to be the best that I can be. It just seemed like yesterday when we were making plans to try out for a college rotation this fall. I guess I’ll be going by myself.
David Gann was a husband, a father, an official, and a friend.
So the past few months I've had a continued effort to lose weight. Back in March my Doctor flat told me, "Adam, you're too fat". Now, I didn't hold it against him because he's eastern European, and really doesn't know the language well enough to sugar coat anything. But, I did take his message to heart since I don't want to be on blood pressure medication before I'm 30, and I started back into a work out and diet regime. It's been a struggle over the past month with everything that's been going on in my life but today I got back on my mountain bike. I've got a little 8-mile ride down mostly dirt roads and I learned one thing today. When you're 4+ miles into your ride, and you catch a whiff of rotting Longhorn flesh, it'll make you want to throw up.
Ok, so the posts have been sparse lately but I've been busy. I've officially added a new member to my Clan in P, and basically went to Mexico to call a fast pitch softball 16u National Championship tournament; which by the way, I got the plate assignment in the championship game. Anyway, I've been sitting on an experience for nearly a year now that I had with Buddy 1 from the Grape Snow Cones entry. Long story short, I went to a gay bar.
It all started on a cool weekend back in November. I was in McKinney Texas calling a college showcase tournament. These are huge tournaments in which teams from all over the Nation come in and play meaningless games so that scouting agencies and coaches have a chance to see a bunch of players in one setting. I worked with guys that call Big 12, hell, there was even a guy there that worked the plate in the championship game of the World Cup of Softball last month, so it was a cool environment. After the Saturday games were over two other umpires and I were looking for a place to drink. Unfortunately the bar scene in McKinney isn't exactly "hapnin" so everyone went home. For me though, home was not an option, because I was on a mission to drink malted hops, and I'll be damned if I wasn't. So, I start driving toward downtown stinking like asparagus and febreze. I call up Buddy 1 who will be known hence forth as The Devil:
TD: Mole! My friends suck. M: What? TD: Mole, I'm stuck at a party with some old chick, and these people are dinking wine while a group of fags are in the corner playing foosball.
There aren't too many times in my life that I'm speechless, but I was at a loss of words while my imagination tried to conjure this image.
TD: Dude, I've got to get out of here and my friends either won't answer the phone, or they're too stoned to come get me. M: Don't worry man; I'm heading your way. TD: Really? M: Yeah man, I'm driving down 75, butt naked, but I'll be there in 20 clothed. (You get good at changing clothes in the car when you're an official) TD: Sweet, I'm off Greenville Ave. M: Alright, I'll call when I exit Mockingbird, so have someone reasonably sober close to give me directions.
When I finally pull up, TD meets me on the sidewalk and ushers me into another world it seems. I walk up on a scene of some chick hanging upside down from the back porch rafters by her knees, her big fake cans ready to pop out, a group of pseudo intellectuals dressed in clothes I can only assume cost more than the gross national product of Haiti. Not only that, they're talking about such enriching topics like the new Herbie Movie and if the more curvy Lohan, is better looking that coked out version, and of course, a group of gay men in the corner of the yard playing foosball. Me, I'm in flips flops, Levis, a white T-Shirt and my new Budweiser red camo hat bought at the Nextel Cup race from the previous weekend. Thankfully, these people offer me a beer. While I'm polishing it off, I find the "wearing the tight shirt but I have a gut” guy showing off his new iPod as if he's the cave man in 2001: A Space Odyssey discovering a bone can be used as blunt object of destruction. Damn, I wish he would have grunted. Anyway, I'm introduced to everyone, brave their witty conversation, and generally try to be as contradictory and snide as possible, all while sporting an extra thick east Texas accent. The thing about THESE Dallas types is their blatant lack of respect for anyone that lives within a few miles of a sale barn. They look at me and see bumpkin, I look at them and see my verbal fist crushing their skull.
After TD and I mange to piss of the straight people and drink the rest of their beer, it's time to boogie to a bar. As we're walking out the old rafter chick comes running. We say we’re off to a bar, but she has a friend John that is about to meet her, and he wants us to come with him. John pulls up and I'm introduced:
TD: Mole, this is John, he's a fag.
Hi John. John explains that we're going to this bar called S4, so have Julie follow him. He leaves and TD explains to me that S4 is a gay bar. Now, I'm not as apprehensive to this idea as say, Joe Lieberman being used as target practice for Mel Gibson’s personal gun range, but the idea of going to a gay bar is not that appealing. However, since neither of us are in any shape to drive, and I want more alcohol, I decide “it'll be alright, I'll just chill on a bar stool and drink a beer, right”? This is not the case however. We wind up in the Oak Lawn district of Dallas, the gay district of course, and follow John to the doors. It seems like it takes 15 minutes to get in, and the people in line are crazy, but not over effeminate. I'm feeling comfortable, *it'll be ok Mole*. As I near the doors to this place, the thump of trashy techno gets louder, the voices get more high-pitches, and the "product" necessary to make hair do the things I saw would make Günter & The Sunshine Girls sick.
We pay to get in and, for me; I'm bearing witness to something that is like a cross between the club parts of the movie 54, and the orgy scene in Summer of Sam. Seriously, I felt like Ricky Bobby when he said, “I’m gettin' kinda dizzy....from all the...gayness." It was weird, drinks were in order, and since the buzz was wearing off from the wait in line, they were needed FAST. So, as John goes off to play, Julie, TD, and I go upstairs to the less crowded bar. So if being downstairs was like being in 70's sex hell, upstairs was.......was.......was, something that will be saved for later, I'm sick of writing now.
As many of you know, the human brain is a problem solving powerhouse. From early times when we figured out how to create fire, to more recently when we put men in space and learned to split the atom.
Some people though should never be allowed to problem solve because they're stupid. Thankful we won't have this Brazilian man spreading his "seed" of stupidity any further after he died trying to open a grenade with sledgehammer.
So, it's been a while since the old Mole has posted. I know, I know, you've all been wondering what I've been up to. Well, for one, my left hand is now heavier. Yes, it's true, Christy actually agreed to sleep in the same bed with me "till death do us part". That means she's stuck with the Dutch ovens for as long as my lactose intolerant ass wants to eat ice cream.
For those that are wondering, the wedding was everything we could have dreamed of and more. I can't begin to thank the friends and family that joined us in Las Vegas, and I can't begin to explain the feelings that welled up in me watching P walk down the aisle, to say that it was surreal is an understatement. So, what does a newly wedded husband do when after he gets home? Well, if you're the Mole, you don't write thank you cards, that's what the woman is for, and she betta know her place. While P is at home being "domestic", I took a road trip.
Back in April I got selected to an ASA National, so I'm down in McAllen, TX waiting on my first game and umpire meeting. Actually, not waiting, just drunk blogging. So, since the turn out for this 16u B wasn't really high I'll try to give some updates and details later in the week about our excursion to Vegas. For now, I'll leave a link with the pics for the event, enjoy.
At heart I love geeky Star Wars stuff, and because of that I kinda want to see this movie. IMDB is reporting that Goya's Ghosts will feature a scene in which Natalie Portman will "bare all". Even though, the circumstance of her nudity is that she is accused of atheism and stripped as torture, I'm sure the Mole will be able to get passed that because, really, it's still Natalie Portman naked.
I know I haven't written many updates on my NASCAR fetish but this time of the year has been dubbed "Silly Season". It's sort of like the off-season in every other sport but here it unfolds during the middle of the NASCAR season. I mean, it's literally half way through the season right now!
Anyway, drivers are leaving teams, teams are dumping drivers, and we're actually going to get some Ricky Bobby action this year as Juan Pablo Montoya is leaving F1 to come over and drive the 42 Texaco Car for Chip Ganassi Racing. Is this a big deal, probably? You see NASCAR is trying for a big diversity push and bringing in a Columbian to drive is huge on that front. Not only that, he's a proven champion as he's won it all in the American Open Wheel series CART back in 1999, is the 2000 champion of the Indy 500, but is also a multiple winner in F1. Plus, F1 is the biggest and most technologically advanced form of racing on the planet. A steering wheel for one of their cars cost roughly what an engine costs in NASCAR. While it takes millions to run a NASCAR team, it takes billions for the same effort in F1. Through all this, Montoya decided he wants to do some "real racing", as F1 racing is a line up and drive in a single file formation from the drop of the green flag style of racing. I'm pretty interested in this, so we'll have to see how it continues to develop.
On the *snap, snap* front, Ed Carpenter of the American open wheel series IRL (Indy Racing League) made a pretty funny comment in an interview on Saturday night about fellow racer Danica Patrick. You see Danica is the latest pretty face with no wins. She's won no championship in the top racing leagues, she's actually won NO races, and she's the hottest thing going because she's young, "has talent", is reasonably attractive, and a woman. All of this translates into boat loads of sponsor dollars. (The comment Mole, Focus!) So Eddie here says, of the recent talk of Danica moving to NASCAR next season since her contract in the IRL with David Letterman's team is up, is that she has what it takes to succeed in NASCAR. He states that she's plenty aggressive in open-wheel racing when it's "the right time of the month."
People, you can't make this shit up...........I think it's going to be a good day.
We get it Danica, you're 24 and hot, now go win a race or something
In keeping with the theme of The Austin Experience post, The Mole is tired. I've had a long weekend due to the efforts of some good friends that took it upon themselves to not only seek out and find women with the highest of moral fiber, but also brave the wilds of Oklahoma and the Davis Mountains (that's Oklahoma for hills). Usually we wouldn't trek up to red corn country, but if we're going to piss and shit all over God's green earth, better to do it in the U.S.'s own version of a third world country.
Since we didn't have a nurse in the group we couldn't actually main-line any of the alcohol, but rest assured that we drank enough beer (bought in Texas BTW) and whiskey this past weekend to last us at least until Vegas. Thankfully I remembered some the things overheard this weekend and here is a nice little list, enjoy.
*I wonder how hard it is to strip with a cast?
*Mole: Dude, that chick has a hemorrhoid The Communist: I saw that, that's why I got you a lap dance from her.
*(At Subway some where in Oklahoma) Okie: Whtwudyaliketahalf Cage: Yams? What????? That's a topping?????
*The Communist: Hey are you going to take your bottoms off. The Deuce: Na, she's classy.
*Did you see the pit hair on that chick?!
*It smells like Enchiladas and ass!
*I want a lap dance from the midget.
*The red man don't serve firewater in his casinos.
*(While playing penny slots) What kind of a low rent place is this where I have to get Pepsi, instead of Coke?
*Shuffle up and deal Tonto.
*I can spot a bull dike from a mile away.
*Vet: Damn, there's a lot of Mexicans here. Mole: Mi Familia.
*Cage: I can't eat cold hot dogs, Vet: I've eaten meat that said not safe for human consumption....Thanks George W!
*Stripper: You sure you wanna get married? Mole: Well, it's going to take someone hotter than you to talk me out of it.
Students may no longer wear mouth jewelry known as "grillz" (shiny teeth caps) or the earlobe-stretching practice knows as "gauging."
This seems not only be an issue there, but other nearby districts Grand Prairie and Desoto have also ban grillz and will address gauging. The link above goes on to state that the students say body modification is simply self-expression. Mr. Devonte Wright, 16 says, "Really, a grill is just like an earring. It's fashion." The reality though is Mr. Wright probably doesn't have the mental capacity to write his name. However, I'm sure he can tell you just how much a set of "twa-ne fo's" for his 85 primered Caprice will cost. Honestly, this whole issue makes the image of this T-Shirt come to mind:
Then we have the issue of gaugeing. I guess it's not bad enough that these kids want to emulate shitty rappers, and equally shitty emo bands with removable items such as clothing and grillz, but they also want to create physical deformities on their bodies. So, I guess the message here is, "Hey! EMO FAG!!!! If you'd stop gelling the hair in your eyes long enough you'll see that Accenture isn't hiring people that look like this." I really don't think it's the fact I'm getting older that this is bugging me, I think it's fact that I don't want to support you through welfare when you're 38 and playing the local open mic trying to "make it".
This is without a doubt the most boring part of year for sports. We have Men in Tights, Communist Football, Stand Around, and NASCAR to choose from. The Mole, I'm good with NASCAR, but the rest just don't charge me up all that much. George Hincapie is 5th over in the Tour de Tights, but no one really notices since Lance Armstrong isn't racing. Stand Around is just that, and even its stars don't want to play in the All-Star game. I've seen more flopping watching the World Cup than the entire career of Vlade Divac; and he MADE an NBA career around it.
I miss football. However, the season is right around the corner what with training camp coming up and all. Since the new ESPY commercials are touting Vince Young and his performance in the BCS National Championship game, I'm sure it's a matter of time before we're endlessly pounded with, "When will Vince take over the Titian's offence". With Vince Young poised to be a media darling because of all this, I've wondered if he'd take the route of Brian Bosworth (Stone Cold) and try to make it in the movies. Two roles that would have fit him perfect have already come and gone but, Vince, Hollywood is into remakes.........
Taking into consideration his "remarkable" Wonderlic test score Vince could have made a great Radio
Also, with his "unique" throwing motion, he would have been a perfect choice for Uncle Rico
Update: The link to the Obama stuff is here, also I want to make it known, that I support and will vote for John McCain, I'm recycling this post because I'm fucking sick and tired of the retards spreading ignorant "Red Scare" type propaganda. If you have to look up Red Scare, and or you continue to forward this garbage and believe it without research; then you should probably stay away from the poles in November anyway. Having people like you vote on the future of our country is why we're so beloved around the world in the first place.
Ok, just a little rant here:
Forwards are fucking stupid: I really don't give a shit about some little kid with cancer of the rectal wart who needs an $11.73 donation so that they can get the curing miracle milk suckled directly from a goat that lives in a Tibetan monastery which is infected with syphilis.
I don't give a flying fuck what you ate for lunch, if you're in love, what's in your CD player, and where your first kiss was. I especially want to shit on your chest if you tell me in a forward or a myspace bulletin every other day.
Also, for all of you Ringer extras out there that are fooled by anything. Before you click forward on that e-mail, check this website out www.snopes.com. Don't look stupid to your friends.
Remember the golden days of your youth? Back when you were a child and would ride on Daddy's back like he was a horse or if in a daring mood, a rodeo bull. Now you can do those things and more in The Daddle. For those of us that don't have the natural ability to shed our dignity (like wearing corn-rows, being a back up dancer, and marrying Britney Spears), this will allow everyone to lose what ever cool points you have left.
The thing is, I can't help but think that this will end up in a Real Sex fetish clip about sex toys.
Yes, even the Mole will have one from time to time. Even though I'm a NASCAR fan and drop F-Bombs like Mark Cuban, my Id will drive me to indulge in such things as Star Wars. Most recently I commented in a friend’s blog about the superiority of Transformers to GoBots.....I need to get laid. Anyway, since both of these things are nerdy and were an extensive portion of my youthful playtime, seeing two things about them in one day, one of which combining the two, caused me to have a Nerdgasm.
First, we have the Transformers Deluxe Series. This is a set of special edition Transformers in which the vehicle basis for the toys are those from the Star Wars universe. The best part is that not only do these vehicles transform, but they transform into the character that "drove" them in the various films. How cool is that?
Second we have the Yoda Back Pack. Putting it on sort of replicates the scenes from Empire in which Yoda puts Luke Skywalker though his Jedi paces.
After seeing this, I had to go clean up after a Nerdgasm.
I'm not sure how literate many of you out there reading me actually are, but if you like to read, let The Mole suggest this book Save Toby. The book even has a website savetoby.com in which they give a short description of the book and its purpose:
Toby is the cutest little bunny on the planet. Unfortunately, he will DIE on November 6th, 2006 if you don’t help. I rescued him several months ago. I found him under my porch, soaking wet, injured from what appeared to be an attack from an alley cat. I took him in, thinking he had no chance to live from his injuries, but miraculously, he recovered. I have since spent several months nursing him to health. Toby is a fighter, that’s for sure.
Unfortunately, on November 6th, 2006, Toby will die. I am going to eat him. I am going to take Toby to a butcher to have him slaughter this cute bunny. I will then prepare Toby for a midsummer feast. I have several recipes under consideration, which can be seen, with some pretty graphic images, under the recipe section.
I don’t want to eat Toby, he is my friend, and he has always been the most loving, adorable pet. However, God as my witness, I will devour this little guy unless I sell 100,000 copies of my book, Save Toby: Only you have the power to save Toby.
This site has great section that include cute pictures of Toby as well as many tasty recipes on how to filet and cook a bunny.
Imagine: you are a foot soldier in a paramilitary group whose purpose is to remake America as a Christian theocracy, and establish its worldly vision of the dominion of Christ over all aspects of life. You are issued high-tech military weaponry, and instructed to engage the infidel on the streets of New York City. You are on a mission - both a religious mission and a military mission -- to convert or kill Catholics, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, gays, and anyone who advocates the separation of church and state - especially moderate, mainstream Christians. Your mission is "to conduct physical and spiritual warfare"
WOW! Warning: I'm going to steer away from my normal ramblings and talk about a subject I have pretty strong feelings on. Though I'll try to stay neutral on the subject, you can rest assured that from my personal experiences this posting may veer in a direction that some of you may not like.
Growing up Catholic in a little east Texas town never really mattered to me until I got to high school and began dating. Through a few distinct experiences I became pretty aware that I was "Catholic" as if that's a bad word. I guess it's just the fact that I live in the Bible Belt and being Catholic here is like being a Gummy Bear in a bag in M&M's. Even though you're candy you're different. Anyway, I've fought a battle within myself over my short adult life with religion. A few small-minded people cut me pretty deep as a kid, and as such I've struggle with my "relationship" with God. I've worked through those issues after having a long talk with one of the involved parties, it helped resolve the issue within me. I've forgiven them, but I'll never forget the pain.
This brings me to Left Behind Games Inc. This company is a sister of Left Behind Inc., and both of which are in the entertainment business. What is their subject matter, you ask? Well, they deal with religion. Their works span many different topics but our focus is going to be the Left Behind series. This series deals with "end times" that can be found in The Bible's Book Of Revelation. As you can imagine their book and the movie based on the book sensationalize the events written in the Bible as they try to "Change your Life".
I find all this fascinating, especially with the video game. Isn't God about love and peace? I'm not sure that the good lord would put his golden stamp on a game that promotes such Christian values as "rotting bodies of New Yorkers piled high on the city streets". That just makes me giggle uncontrollably; sometimes you don't have to work for funny, it just writes itself. I know what you're saying to yourself, "Mole, it can't get any better/worse can it?" Wait for it cowboy, because in this game you're the leader of the "Tribulation Force" which includes a main character from the book, Buck Williams, played by none other than Mike Seaver himself Kirk Cameron. That's right not only do you get to execute those who don't believe the same way as you, but you get to do it leading a guy who made a name for himself playing a trouble making, panty chasing, slacker. So much for coming to America to escape religious persecution. I guess I could continue on with the irony that is Left Behind: Eternal Forces but I think we should view this as a way not to do things. This game and the "values" that it seems to glorify are the exact same issues behind Oklahoma's legislation trying to get Bill HB3004 signed into law. I'm probably not going out on a limb to far to say these people are the religious right types. *cough*Election Year Politics*cough*
You know, there's nothing wrong with religion. I feel that people should believe in what they want and not push their belief system and structure onto others. I mean, look, as Catholics, we did the whole crusade thing a long time ago, how did that work out? It's this kind of bigoted attitude that turn people away from Christianity. Not only that, it's these same kind of fundamentalist views that make people want to crash airplanes into skyscrapers. It's funny that ole' Kirk can have a website like this, but choose to associate himself with all of the Left Behind stuff. But, history has taught us that religion can be very profitable; from the temples of Rome, the pyramids of Egypt, the dark ages when priests were selling salvation, and even in recent history with the televangelists. I wonder how these holy publishers, and actors are doing?
Exodus 14:14 teaches: "The Lord will fight for you while you keep silent"
Maybe it's time for these people to reevaluate?
What's the difference between these two pics? A sheet.......
So, the Mole was working on a new entry about the Social Cuckold that envelopes our world, and how I am and have been sick of it for years. I had all of these well formed thoughts put to "paper", but after reading Tucker Max's review of "The Alphabet of Manliness" (which by the way is debuting at #4 on the NY Times Best Seller's List) there's no need for me to continue.
I know we're only around half way through the year, but if any article eclipses this one on the unintentional funny scale then I'll kick myself in the nuts.
Maybe if the owner or breeder had taken a class on how to speak "Dog" this could have all been avoided.
I'm not sure Willie had the human train-wreck and some Canadian clown in mind when he wrote this song. But needless to say, if I had a son, I'd have a hard time steering him in a direction to cheer for the Cowboys with their two newest members. The two castoffs they picked up this off-season would be better off with Rudolph, Hermey, and Yukon Cornelius on the island of misfit toys; but Jerry Jones has managed to place them in Dallas.
Just as I thought, the least important of the two, and actually the least important person on any football team, the kicker, made what might be the worst analogy of all time. In this article on ESPN.com Mike Vanderjagt stated:
"Michael Jordan missed game-winning jump shots, Tiger Woods missed putts. Does that mean they're not as good as you think they are?"
"I'm the best kicker in the history of the game regardless of whether I missed my last kick or not, and that's the way I look at it."
Lets break this down:
Michael Jordan missed game-winning jump shots - He also made 25 game winners with the Bulls alone, 28 total, not the mention the one in the '98 finals to win his sixth and final championship. Hell, Gatorade as built part of their new ad-campaign around one of his game winners and his ability in the clutch. Mike, on the other hand, can't even make a game winner to get his team to the championship game.
Tiger Woods missed puts - Here's a couple of stats to run by you, 9-1 PGA Tour playoff record, most tour wins by a golfer before the age of 30, not to mention his victories in 10 majors. How many puts did he have to make to get those stats?
I'm the best kicker in the history of the game - You know, football really isn't a numbers game, that's baseball, but I'll play. I'm not a sports almanac by any means but the one number that counts are those in the win/loss columns. Mike, you don't have enough in the "W" column to call you self the best ever, hell, you're not even the best current kicker in the game, that's Adam Vinatieri, period, end of discussion.
The fact is Mike; you have a record of kicking consistency that is very high. There's no doubt in my mind that if the Cowboys had you last season then they win a few more games, and are probably in a dog fight for the conference championship. However, until you make a great kick, a kick that elevates your team into the next round, then you will always the "Idiot Kicker". When the pressures on, you undoubtedly have the biggest mangina ever.
Take it easy, Champ. Why don't you stop talking for a while.
This film was shot during a sold out concert at Madison Square Garden in New York where 50 lucky fans were handed video cameras to document the event. Afterwards, director Nathaniel Hornblower assembled the footage which was first screened at the 2006 Sundance Film Festival, and later put on a limited release in March. We can now personally own the film that won awards such as 2nd Place Best Dressed -LeFrak City Movie Contest.
I'm so looking forward to this. By the way, if you don't like the Beastie Boys, or, if you are a "fan"; you know, a fan who knows all the words to Brass Monkey yet has no idea what a Hip Hop Masterpiece Paul's Boutique is. Please, give me call so I can serve you up a big ice-cream cone of my nuts - with pubic shaving sprinkles.......
Well, I'm fed up. This past week I spent four long excruciating nights calling something that appeared to be fast-pitch softball, with my only break coming on Friday before our district’s "Championship" tournament. I spent four long nights after working the 9-5 gig, making sure my uniform was cleaned and pressed, my shoes were nice and shined, so that our league teams would have a proper official to conduct their games. Unfortunately, just because I care about the game and how I look, it would seem our league teams don't have the same enthusiasm. I know I gripe and complain some on here about the stupid things that High School coaches say and do, but really, they are professionals, and they try hard. Mostly they get the rules wrong because it's in the heat of battle and they're not thinking on their feet as well as they would if the situation wasn't so pressure packed. Summer ball is a completely different animal, and we're not really dealing with paid coaches, it's a weekend thing for most of these people, and so I've dubbed them "Weekend Lombardis" or "Weloms" for short. These are the people that have practice once a week, put on a T-Shirt with their team's designation, live vicariously through the accomplishments of their children, and expect me to respect them like some sort of demi-god. The only people that are on a lower level than these are the parents/fans of these teams. These people represent the lowest common denominator of sports fans. Their level of idiocy reaches points that would make people like David Blaine refer to them as douche-bags.
Back to my week, Monday through Wednesday consisted of the typical crappy games in league play. These teams are primarily made up of girls that just want something to do in the afternoon and parents that really don't take it too seriously, thank Christ. Thursday rolls around and this is where my week starts on the down swing. I've got a pretty decent team playing a really bad one. The really good team is beating the shit out of the really bad one and the bad team's coaches and fans are starting to get pissy. Basically, the bad team can't do the four fundamental things you have to do to play softball which are pitch, catch, throw, and hit. It would seem to me that if you were going to pay money, sign up, and play, you'd practice at least one of these four. This however seems to have slipped the minds of their crack coaching staff. So, I have a walk-a-thon on my hands when the bad team is playing defense. The coaches and fans are moaning and groaning about the strike zone because little Suzie is making it over the plate. Yes, this is true, but when the ball is coming in nose high, I can't very well call a strike. It even gets to a point where during a walk when I'm stepping out from behind the plate to watch the batter go to first a coach says in a voice just loud enough for me to hear, "they get that strike why don't we". You know, their pitcher puts it in the zone. Their pitcher obviously works to be good, can you not see that?
I just get so sick and tired of these Welombs and their snotty remarks. Questioning the strike zone, just like all other judgment calls is an ejectionable offense. However, I'm keeping it calm and cool and I just bite my tongue. I tell myself, Mole, they don't know, they're not good, and this game won't last long, keep on trucking. Between innings a mom comes up and asks for my name, so I give it. What's she going to do? Get me banned from her games? Good!! I mean, look, I know that you spent a good hour and a half creasing your capris and painting your face to come to ball park. I know you spent 15 minutes making sure you pants were low enough so that everyone could see the tramp stamp tattooed on your lower back, and I realize that it costs quite a bit to look as cheap as you do. People already notice you sweetheart, no need to make a scene with me. I also fully understand that you're getting little Janie primed for marriage in 8 years when she graduates from high school so that she can dish out her own brand of snide remarks when her tramp in training is playing 10u ball. I get it, but she's not getting a nose high strike.
These people burn me up; do they not understand what kind of a pride swallowing experience it is to call their game? Do they not understand how bad I want to call a strike? I WANT to get some outs, I WANT to get away from this game as fast as I can, but I can't because you're not good, you don't practice, and I'm quite sure Special Olympics participants would kill your little girls in the softball throw competition. Why, because those retards care, unlike yours. Seriously, the amount of intestinal fortitude it keeps from dropping a pile of half digested carrots I had for lunch at what I'm having to bare witness to should be the stuff that legends are written about. Finally, it ends, but it's not over.
We have our Distinct Championship tournament this weekend. This is an open event for all the teams in our district, in which the winners in each age group get a bid to their division’s State Championship tournament. I get put in the 14u bracket, good right? WRONG!!!!. The 14u division is the worst of the whole weekend. The winner's bracket final featured a score of 18-0 after the first inning, THE FIRST EFFING INNING!!!!! Without a doubt, this might have been the biggest ass whipping I've ever taken, I couldn't believe I was even a part of these games.
I managed through it but I'm so tired, and I'm so frustrated today. I've worked really hard in my short time as a softball official. I've been selected for multiple State and National Championship Tournaments where the best of the best compete. These tournaments also feature some the better umpires around, and with my limited experience, I've managed to call behind the plate in the championship game of every State or National I’ve ever worked. I've worked High School playoff games almost all the way to the State Tournament. I spend hundreds dollars annually of my own money and time for training to learn and become a better official. I'm young, and still a little green, but I'm good and only getting better. The thing is, I can't figure out how slumming this weekend could make me any better. I can only have the building character BS pushed on me for so long.
People want to complain about how an official cost them game, well let me tell you something; I'm not the team that had 20+ errors charged to me in a single game. Go practice and maybe just maybe, you'll be good enough for me to call your game, someday.
Since the old Mole is an avid watcher of Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy I've always wondered in amazement at the relationship between Papa Burgundy and his dog Baxter. I think their relationship is the most pure example of the where the saying "Man's best friend" was derived from, I'm also sure that Champ Kind would object if some PC fag wanted to coin the term "Woman's best friend"; FOCUS MOLE!
What's really funny is how they've broken out the different sounds a dog makes into grunts, whines, yelps, screams, howls, growls, coughs, barks, tooth snapping, and panting. This class is supposed to clear up, for the owners, what kind of attention the dog needs when they are making these types of noises. Since most of you dog lovers out there are probably using your money to pay for your G500's, and can't make the trip across the pond to take the course I'll give my best crack at what these sounds mean:
Grunt: "Hey", as in "get me something you hairless ape."
Whines: "Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy", as in "I really need to pee you hairless ape."
Yelps: "HEY!!!!", as in "quit pulling my tail you drunk hairless ape."
Screams: "HEYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!", as in "I'm under your foot you drunk hairless ape."
Howls: "HHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!", as in "the drunk hairless ape, put me outside and it's cold."
Growls: "Hey bitch", as in "I'm sick of Ole' Roy, buy me the good food you hairless ape."
Coughs: "CEY!!!!", as in "I hope the hairless ape can tell I need to go to the vet."
Barks: "HEY!", as in "look over here you hairless ape."
Tooth Snapping: *Click*, as in "*click*, damn I almost bit the drunk hairless ape that time."
Panting: "huh huh hey", as in "I'm effin tired you hairless ape, I hate walks."
You see, even if you're not a man, you know, a man who discovered the wheel and built the Eiffel Tower out of metal and brawn. If you're just a woman with a small brain, a brain a third the size of us (It's science); you too will be able to decipher what a dog would say if it were chasing a squirrel on Tuesday and fell off a cliff in the Pacific Palisades.
"You're so wise. You're like a miniature Buddha, covered with hair."
No, we're not talking about the ever expanding head of Barry Bonds; this post is about the PPV show that O.J. Simpson took part in. From the article, Simpson took part in many "funny" situational skits, but the one in question is where he's working as a car salesman, trying to unload a white Ford Bronco.
Yes, a white Ford Bronco.....
It seems the family of Ron Goldman aren't happy about it, and Nicole Brown Simpson couldn't be reached for comment.
Edit: It seems Nicole Brown Simpson couldn't be reach for comment because she was stabbed to death by her crazy ex-football player husband.
You know, when you have platinum album sales, Pamela Anderson to primp for videos, and trying the spearhead riotous comments about George Bush and his efforts to help those effected by Hurricane Katrina; sometimes you'll forget to make payments on your Mercedes G500 (G5-double-O, G-Fi Hun-nod as the rap guys would say).
So, the people who hold the lease are suing ole Kayne Wizzle for back payments, punitive damages, not returning the vehicle, blah, blah, blah.
Kayne West doesn't care about people who have real jobs......
From the coverage that we see plastered all over the television, the Kentucky Derby at Churchill Downs has always seemed to be an event for the elite. From high-dollar suits, to the ridiculous hats, this place has always had an air about it that smelled posh, at least too posh for a country boy like me.
Fortunately, after watching a video from the people at We Are the Postmen it looks like this place is more like a NASCAR race than I was once lead to believe. In fact, it looks like a great place to break out The Beer Belly.
For those of you that can remember when rock was still rock. I'm talking the days when our rock stars sang about banging every chick they came across, instead of a "emo" sad bastard singing about the jock in high school that is banging the chick he can't get because he'd rather gel his hair in his eyes, and play Everquest. For all of you that remember when Cliff Burton was with Metallica and they weren't sandwiched between Avril Lavigne and The Backstreet Boys on TRL I present to you June 6, 2006; The National Day of Slayer. That's right, on 6-6-6 Slayer gets their own Holiday. I remember Slayer playing the first national Ozzfest back in '97 and they were truly awesome. I also remember them milling around the crowd, and I remember shaking Tom Araya's hand. For a group of death metal guys that sing about the Devil and stuff, they were really down to earth.
Strange.....
Anyway, seeing as they have their own Holiday I'm going to start a campaign to get one for GWAR. These guys are freaking awesome if you've never have a chance to see them live.
I'd like to see GWAR chop up and eat most of today's "rock" bands.
The Mole gets overly excited at some of the simplest things. This however, will make you have one of those "why didn't I think of that" moments. Through some of the blogs I read, I found this little gem; and so I present to you the The Beerbelly. It seems that the days of hiding flasks in our boots, buying mini bottles, and hiding them in our coat pockets, and buying new plastic flasks because Jerry Jones now has metal detectors at Texas Stadium are in the past.
The concept is simple enough; it's similar to a Camelbak only you wear it in the front to give the impression of having a beer belly.
The page even goes so far as to have tips to get out of getting caught wearing it. My personal favorite, "This is a medical device that I think we’d both prefer not discussing or viewing in public."
God, why can't you make me this clever? Aside from the Shock Absorber, this might be my favorite invention of all time.
Who cares how I look, I don't have to pay $20 for an 8oz beer
You know, the old Mole has been swamped at work. Not only that, but the toll of calling an assload of fast pitch (ASA/HS) not to mention the under paid babysitting I do (slow-pitch) has kept me away from my blog. This week though I got a breather so I sat down and watched a movie with P.
We're playing a bit of catch up, so we're just now getting around to Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind; a very enjoyable movie. It's a bit nonsensical in parts but I really liked it. Afterwards P went to bed and I got to thinking. What, would the past 5 or so years of my life be without her? I can't even imagine it. Don't get me wrong, we've had our struggles just as we've had our candle lit dinners, but really, if I had all the memories of P erased from my mind, I just know I'd feel some longing emptiness.
And it's the little things we share, you know. It's nothing exciting but things like how her favorite thing to eat is an Olive Garden salad. The way we baby talk our dogs, pet names for each other, silly things that every relationship has, and with us are built from a foundation of memories over the past few years together. Some are funny, some are lessons learned, but the thing is, we're stronger from each experience. Without those memories we would never have turned into the people we are: P, the patient and caring one, me more brash and open. We're the balance in our lives.
A few years back I was out with two buddies, and as usual we were on a weekend long alcohol binge. At one point we took a break from being the most abrasive people in the group and we went to a snow cone stand. Buddy 1 (B1) looks at the menu and decides to order Tiger's Blood. After a bit of thought B2 decided that he's getting Lion's Roar. Now it's my turn, and what do I order, Grape. After I pay I turn to see two gapping mouths, and befuddled, half drunk faces.
B1: What did you just get? Mole: A Grape Snow Cone. B1: What for? Mole: I wanted a Grape Snow Cone. B1: We've spent this whole weekend doing things that normal people don't do. Everyone that we're around this weekend hates us, but us. And you order a Grape Snow Cone? Mole: *shrugs shoulders* B1: See, that's a metaphor for your whole fucking life, man. You have this passion and charisma, yet all you want is a grape fucking snow cone. Mole: I like grape, grape's good.
It still is. I've done a lot of things in my life and I've dated a few different girls, but now I've found what I need to keep me straight, to keep me grounded. There's a lot of flavor in life and it's good to be young and taste it, but Tiger's Blood and Lion's Roar are fleeting. Before long they'll be replaced with something even more wild and crazy like Katie Holmes pacifier, or baby Cruise placenta. In the end Grape is concrete, Grape is true, Grape will be here after we're all gone.
You see I've tasted Tiger's Blood and Lion's Roar, but they're not what I want, they're not what make me happy. Grape is my flavor, and P is my Grape Snow Cone. Those other flavors celebrate month anniversaries (what?). Those flavors have "songs" and "movies". Those flavors aren't big time, and that's why they'll get replaced. My feelings for P aren't replaceable. They're not the type that can be encapsulated in some cheesy ass song or parallel some sappy love story. They're true, and that's why I chose to wake up next to her the rest of my life.
The fire won't fade away, and there will never be tired excuses, we'll never be on opposite ends of the world.
First I like going to the beer store to find the cheapest case they have, I will go the local gym, set up a lawn chair, order pizza, and make fun of fat people going to work out.
