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.
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.
