NFL Action: It's Fan-Tastic!

Two weeks (and a cowboys loss) later, I can finally write about the Redskins. I actually started writing this the day after their loss to Seattle, but since discussing it made me feel like someone kicked me in the chest, it had to wait a while. Oh, but that damn game. That heartbreaking damn game. The single-most depressing sporting event of my life.

The toughest part about this game has been forgiving myself for what may have been a horrible mistake: I didn't wear my jersey. The Santana Moss jersey my brother bought me hours before the Skins beat the Cowboys. I didn't wear it, and I may have cost them the game. Allow me to explain: I figured that since it was an away game, I should leave the White jersey at home and go with my gray Redskins t-shirt. A part of me swears that if I'd worn that Moss jersey, he wouldn't have given up on that pass that Seattle intercepted and ran back for a touchdown. The other part realizes that there's a significant chance Santana Moss has never based any of his life decisions on what shirt I was wearing at the time. About three days ago, the latter part finally overtook the former, and I'm proud to say I've forgiven myself, whether I deserve to or not.

I will bring my Redskins season to an end by telling a little story of my always-rewarding fan experience. This particular story takes place on a lovely November afternoon. The skins were hosting the Eagles. We'd been playing a great game, but Brian Westbrook suddenly broke free for a long touchdown run. The woman sitting next to me, a Philly fan rather bovine in nature, jumped out of her seat and cheered. Suddenly I heard a splash, and noticed some food and liquid on my pants leg, next to my feet, and on the backs of those seated in front of me. At first I chuckled, thinking a fellow Skins fan threw something at her from a few rows back. Then I noticed this woman (no longer cheering, by the way) wiping off her chest and quietly sitting back down. I looked closer at the mess. Oh, it wasn't food. Well, it had been food at one point in time, just not when I saw it. That's right, friends, this woman threw up on me.

If you've never raised a child or gone to Mardi Gras, there's a decent chance you've lived your life without someone vomiting on you. I'd made it a good 26 years, 10 months. Maybe it was just my time. And before I go any further in this story, I feel it's important to mention a few things about this woman: first, she was stone cold sober. Hadn't had a single thing to drink. Second (equally concerning, yet twice as disgusting), she didn't do a single thing post-yak. Didn't go to the bathroom, rinse her mouth out, or anything. Didn't even apologize. And that's what made this all so very odd. She just sat back down and acted like, well, she acted like she hadn't just vomited on me.

Imagine you come home from work, walk in your house and catch your wife having sex with the Hamburglar. Not a look-alike, but literally the Hamburglar, dressed in full Hamburglar garb, going to town on your wife. You'd probably call her a whore, storm out of the room and take about three steps before stopping dead in your tracks and thinking: "wait, hold up: the fuck just happened? Was that the Hamburglar?" That equal blend of rage and confusion is pretty much exactly what I was going through. It felt like the Hamburglar nailed my wife. And it didn't go away, because as I said, the woman just sat down and went about her business. I sat there for about ten minutes before I finally confronted her. And even in my state of rage, I was a perfect gentleman: "Excuse me, ma'am?" I said, "Did you happen to spill something over here?" She calmly turned to me and said "No". Huh. Well then. So, I turned back around and resumed watching the game. What else was I supposed to do? Pretty much everything else hinged on that answer going just a bit differently.

For the next 30 minutes or so, it was all I could think about. Finally I couldn't take it anymore. I gave her one more chance. "Excuse me, ma'am? Are you sure you didn't spill anything earlier?" This time she got all indignant. "I said no!" she yelled, downright insulted that I dare accuse her of spilling something. Again, I turned back around, choosing to spend the remainder of the game in a blind rage. Somebody passed, somebody ran, touchdowns were scored, who cares. The point is, this bitch vomited on me, then repeatedly denied it.

At the end of the game, my brother stepped in and decided to say something. "Excuse me, but I've sat here the entire game, waiting for you to do the right thing, and you never did, so now I have to say something. Look, we saw you vomit, we saw you cleaning yourself off, and you didn't do a thing about it. And even when my brother asked you if you did it, you just denied it!"

"No," she said defiantly, "he asked me if I spilled something." I'm not making that up; that was her serious answer.

"You vomited on him!" he said, "You don't think that counts?!"

Her husband then stepped in, curious as to why two young men were yelling at his wife. He asked what the problem was, so I informed him that his wife vomited on me and never even apologized. Only when he confronted her did the wall crack a bit "Well, I did get sick," she admitted.

Faraji chimed back in with his last bit of editorial: "I'm just saying, act like a grown up, and take responsibility for your actions. The way you just sat there and acted like nothing happened was incredibly offensive!"

"Well!" she said (still a bit upset about the accusation), "sorry for offending you!"

"Hey, while we're handing out apologies," I said, "how about you apologize for vomiting on me?" And then she finally said it. After all of that, she said she was sorry.

And so my story comes to an end, officially bringing my fan season to a close. In only about seven months, we'll begin our run to the 2009 Super Bowl. And when we do, I'll be at every game wearing my Santana Moss jersey, screaming at the top of my lungs, and praying I make it through the day without some bitch vomiting on me.

It Takes a Nation of Children

The recent weeks have brought two of the finest reality shows of all time (The Pick-Up Artist and Rock of Love, of course) to an end. Fortunately, a new, differently (yet equally) moronic show came along just in time. That show? Kid Nation on CBS.

On paper, Kid Nation is the greatest television show of all time. If you haven't heard about it, here's the deal: CBS somehow gets their hands on 40 children¹ and dumps them all alone in some wild-west ghost town for 40 days. No parents, chaperones or anything. Then we watch them like an ant farm as they run their own government, break up into cliques, get into fights, and (I'm assuming) burn the whole place to the ground.

Remember when you were a kid and your teacher left the room for a minute? Sure you do. Now, just imagine your teacher left tomorrow and didn't come back until Thanksgiving. These kids are going to stay awake for 2-3 days at a time, they're going to forget to take their medications, it's going to be an absolute crime scene. They're going to catch all sorts of random-ass diseases like scurvy, some diptheria, maybe some measles, who knows. Can you catch polio? Well, somebody's getting it.

We're about three episodes in, but before the show started, I made a few predictions that I'm still standing by. Out of these 40 kids: 12 will get salmonella, 5 will lose at least one body part (28 if you count teeth), and I'm thinking 2 or 3 will get pregnant. But here's the big one, the one of which I'm absolutely certain:

One of these kids is going to die.

Now, CBS isn't saying this, I am. It's bound to happen. Be it heatstroke, poisoning, malaria, or (my personal front-runner) piledriver, one of these kids isn't going home. They might not even show it, and just never mention the person again like they did the little sister on Family Matters, but it's definitely happening. When I first heard about this show, I thought somebody would die. Now that I've seen the show? Oh man, I've never been more sure of anything in my life.

If you haven't seen the show, and think I'm exaggerating about this, there are two important pieces of evidence to support my claim.

1. Seeing as that there are no adults, these kids have to cook all of their own meals. And while I probably would've just forged on my own, some of these plucky youngsters are cooks, preparing meals for all of the other kids. And they're not heating pre-made food; they're really fending for themselves. Two weeks ago, they killed and ate two chickens. How are some 10-year-old morons supposed to prepare healthy meals for 40 people? I can barely cook for myself, and I'm 26. And a super genius. On second thought, change my salmonella bet to 14. And give me two for E. coli.

2. For some reason, CBS is trying to kill these children. I assume good old Darwinism would have taken care of this, but apparently the network doesn't have that kind of patience. An example: during a town-wide party, a guy and his friend were having a friendly contest to see who could mix the best-tasting drinks for the campers. Among the random ingredients he threw into his concoction: bleach, conveniently stored in the kitchen in an unmarked bottle. Unmarked bottles of bleach? In the kitchen? Don't you dare tell me CBS doesn't want to murder at least one of these kids. $50 side bet says these kids stumble across a loaded gun during sweeps. Who's in?

If you haven't been watching this show, there's still plenty of time to hop on the Kid Nation bandwagon. You should really watch at least once, just to see the old-timey sweatshop conditions they put these children under. Not only have their water pumps already frozen solid, but a dust storm recently swept through the town, leaving the community outhouses (that yes, they are in charge of cleaning) overturned. But the real reason to watch: you want to be there when (not if) one of these kids dies. Frankly, I can't wait. I've never rooted so openly against the well-being of a group of children. Well, there was one other time, but that's between me and the original cast of "Saved By The Bell: The New Class". I don't want to talk about it.

¹ They don't explain how they got parents to sign off on this. I'm guessing the network adopted or kidnapped them.

Day of the Transformers

Today is an exciting day. Just how exciting really depends on when you were born, and how much you've got going on in your life right now. If you answered "late 70's-early 80's" and "not a whole lot", respectively, then this just may be the biggest day of your year. Maybe your whole life.

As I'm sure you know, today is the day "Transformers: The Movie" comes out. I know a lot of people are excited about this, but sadly I'm not one of them. I would be excited, but I'm too nervous. I just know they're going to screw this movie up. This is how parents must feel as they drop their kid off at college: all these new people, money flying all over the place, you know your baby's coming home all effed up and crazy, and it's completely out of your hands.

Before we continue, it's important to note the somewhat misleading title of this movie. As you may remember, there already exists a "Transformers: The Movie". It was a feature-length animated movie, it came out in 1986, and it was awesome. The highlight of this movie, a sentimental favorite in the Rosenthall household, is the unexpected profanity. Nothing catches you off-guard like a cartoon robot yelling "damnit!" or "oh shit!" when his plans go wrong. These things aren't officially ranked, but when it's all said and done, a robot swearing in a children's movie may be the funniest thing ever.

Anyway, back to my problem: I'm pretty sure they're going to screw this up, for two main reasons. ¹

1. Bumblebee. You've seen the commercials, right? That's not Bumblebee. I can't stress this enough. That. Is. Not. Bumblebee. They shouldn't even call him that. That should've just called him Frank or something, and said he was Bumblebee's cousin, like when they replaced the original guys on "Dukes of Hazzard." Think I'm making too big a deal out of this? Okay, well how about this: I'm making a movie with the Miami Heat. Instead of Shaq, I'm just going to hire a Puerto Rican midget² and hope nobody notices. Same thing?

It's extremely easy to mess this movie up. Why? Okay, I'll tell you. But first, take a deep breath and relax, open your mind. Okay. Ready? Here goes:

2. Transformers is a really stupid idea for a movie. Seriously.

Okay, caaaalm down. I knew this would happen. Let me explain. I'm not saying it was a stupid show, because it obviously wasn't. The show? Awesome. The concept itself? Very, very stupid. Say I made a movie that I want you to see. Here's my pitch to you: "Okay, there's these giant space robots, right? They fly down to Earth for some reason, and they fight each other. Also, they all have the ability to turn into various modes of transportation, like jets, cement mixers and what not. I call it 'Car-bots'. Taa daa!" See? No way in hell do you see that movie. It's all in the presentation. I could (and in all likelihood, probably did) write one of the dumbest songs ever. It really sucks. Give it to say, Mariah Carey, get the Neptunes on the beat, and next thing you know, "When we gonna start humpin?" is certified 5 times platinum. See, you just need the right people taking care of your project.

Like I said, I'm certainly nervous. But I'm excited too, and I'll definitely be in the audience as soon as the movie is out. I didn't think I'd be able to sleep tonight, but luckily I spoke with someone who helped me put things in perspective: my mother. I told her how worried I was, how I wish they hadn't even made the damn movie. She wiped the tears away from my cheek, sat down, and said "Honey, I'll tell you exactly what I told your father the day you were born: 'It doesn't matter what you want; it's here now, and you need to get over that shit'". In just one conversation, good old Mom took care of that issue for me. Might've created some new ones, but we'll deal with those later.

¹There are actually three reasons, the third being the mere presence of Anthony Anderson.
²This was originally going to be much funnier, but a Google image search of "Puerto Rican Midget" was quite fruitless. Thanks a lot Google. Dicks.

Maine

So I just got laid off. 2/2 was my last day at work. I'm now officially a bum.
Instead of moping around and feeling sorry for myself (or getting a new job, which may have been the best idea), I decided to have a good time and do some traveling. Early last week, I loaded up the car and made the easy 10 hour drive to Saco, Maine, home of Brock.

If you've never been, Maine is really far away (500 miles to the north) and really cold (-3 degrees on Tuesday night). I find it impossible to believe a settler found this the optimum place to live. There's no way a guy was in Northern New Hampshire and thought he needed to go about eighty miles further North before setting up camp. I don't have anything against Maine itself, I'm just not sure why America goes this far. I think we should trade it to Canada, can we still do that? Listen up, Canada: We'll give you Maine for Steve Nash and the naming rights to your delicious circular bacon. Deal?

Before getting to Brock's neighborhood, I had to pass through a region I'll refer to as "The dark recesses of my nightmares". I know I've spent too much time in Northern Virginia, because dark open spaces now apparently creep the hell out of me. Every road I turned down, I thought I was going to die. If I was on The Sopranos (back when it was good), somebody definitely would have ambushed me. Since I'm not, I just assumed a moose would be the one to take my life. I turned on my brights, but immediately turned them off, because I didn't actually want to know what was surrounding my car. Anything I did happen to catch under the moonlight just made me more nervous. There were broken swing sets, abandoned barns with their doors falling off, basically if the Blair Witch made sweet love to a Yeti, their kid would live here. But I'm happy to say I got through the area, and arrived at Brock's house without dying a single time.

On Wednesday morning (I say morning but we obviously never woke up before noon), Brock and I drove up to Shawnee Peak resort for some snowboarding. Something you may not know about snowboarding: if you've only done it three times, apparently riding a halfpipe is not an easy thing to do. It may prove to be even more difficult when your foot is not properly attached into your bindings, which was a little discovery I made on my own. I dropped in the halfpipe, my front foot rose about three feet in the air, and the next thing I know I'm auditioning to be the new "agony of defeat" guy for Wide World of Sports. Other than that, it was a great day of snowboarding.

Brock is a sports writer for his local newspaper, meaning we had to attend various high school sporting events during the week. We went to two basketball games and a hockey game, where interestingly enough they actually played "Who let the dogs out" before it began. I don't know who was in charge of that, but I hope someone punched them in the face. Now, as I already mentioned, Maine is bitterly cold. The low temperatures and harsh wind chills are extremely harmful to a dry-skinned gentleman such as myself. I'm outside for 20 seconds and I turn into Pookie from New Jack City (what's my demographic here exactly, does anybody get that?) Anyway, now I'm going to the local High School girls' basketball game, licking my lips like LL Cool J on ecstasy. It's not a good look. I brought along a notepad and jotted down fake notes whenever a young girl appeared concerned/interested by my presence (the breakdown was really about 70-30) so I looked like a reporter. Paranoid? Yes, but the smartest decision I've made in a long time. When we went back to the newspaper after the game, Brock worked on his basketball article while I did some work of my own. Brock reviews movies as well, so I decided to write this letter to his editor. Apparently it was printed, copied, and passed around the office, but sadly it didn't work. By the way, Brock: Almost $37 million this weekend, #1 movie in the country? I rest my case.

One of the finest vacations I've ever had got a whole lot better that night, when we stumbled across what some call the greatest band ever. Their name is The Watson Mill Gang, and good God they're awesome. Check them out, just let that funk marinate on you for a while. I got home on Saturday night, and now I've got just enough time to unpack, do my laundry, and re-pack. Next stop: Mardi Gras in New Orleans. After that, I'll get back to work and officially retire from being a bum. I promise. Probably.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

A lot of you have been asking what I've been up to. It seems I haven't been around that much as of late, and I certainly apologize for it.
Fortunately I wrote in my journal every day this summer, and I figured I'd share a few entries so we're all caught up.

June 7th: I just sold my first commercial jingle. They start shooting the first music video for my "klee-nex mafia" song at the end of the week.
I can't believe they paid me $1 million to write a song that goes:
"Ever since I can remember, I've been wiping my nose,
every time it gets runny, in my hand."
As soon as I get that check, I make two promises: To spend it wisely, and never change because of it.

June 8th: I just bought a set of gold-plated platinum grills with fur around the gums and spinners in the canines.
$850,000 and worth every penny.

June 10th: Since I quit my job today, I finally got around to starting that one-man band I've been planning.
I named it "Snarl Malone" and recorded my first single, "Insane." It's already gotten 768 plays on myspace; I knew I was awesome.

June 14th: I used the rest of my money to finally build that tv studio I always wanted. My first show is called "Alexandria".
I'm going to follow a bunch of high school kids around and record their lives, just like "Laguna Beach". I think it'll be a big hit.

June 23rd: The "Saved by the Bell" exhibit finally opened at the Smithsonian, so I went down and entered the Zack Morris look-alike contest.
I finished 38th out of 14 people. I don't know what I was thinking.

July 4th: Went to the Nationals game. During the 7th inning stretch, I decided to fiddle around with some molecular research, ya know,
see what the big deal is behind this whole "bird flu" thing.
By the bottom of the 9th, I'd developed a vaccine that would be easy to produce if it ever mutates into a widespread human form.

July 20th: Gave a speech at the Center for Disease Control on my human bird flu vaccine. It turns out that my "human bird flu" is really just
"the flu", and all the scientists laughed at me. Why did they let me talk for two hours before they told me that?
Scientists are jerks. I made slides and everything. I'm so mad.

August 8th: With Snarl Malone (over 500,000 myspace views!) doing so well,
I was invited to give the commencement speech for the summer session at Lincoln Technical Institute.
I completely forgot to write a speech, so I just recited the theme song to "The Facts of Life". Worked like a charm.

August 15th: Got a call from my lawyer this morning. Apparently some band wrote a song called
"Crazy" earlier this summer that sounds just like "Insane", and now I'm getting sued.
Also, it seems that I didn't fill out any permits or waivers before filming those kids on my "Alexandria" show,
and, well, long story short, now I have to register with some people anytime I move into a new neighborhood.

August 29th: Well, looks like the summer's over. I can't believe how quickly it's flown by, but I'm ready for it to end.
I really need to relax, get my act together, and get back in touch with some of my old friends.
I'm in debt, plus I've got a criminal record and what not, but I wouldn't have done anything different. Well, I would've fed my gerbil.
Other than that, not a damn thing.

The State of the Peppers

So I'm sitting at home by myself on a Saturday, as the cool kids tend to do, when the Red Hot Chili Peppers hop on stage
as the SNL musical guest. When it comes to the Chili Peppers, I'm usually on board no matter what.
They're incredible musicians and one of the few bands with a live act that sounds better than their studio work.
Like I said, I'm usually on board. This was not one of those times.

The guys were playing "Dani California", the first single off of their new album, and something wasn't sitting right.
It's not that the song's first solo is basically just Led Zeppelin's "All of my love", and it's not that the second
seems pretty heavily inspired by "Purple Haze". Both are possible coincidences,
and quite forgivable. Suddenly the real problem hit me, and I will not ignore it any longer:

Why do the Red Hot Chili Peppers keep singing about states?

It all started innocently enough back in 1999 with Californication. What seemed like just a clever pun was a red flag in hindsight,
and the band has insisted on bludgeoning us with states ever since.
They mention five in the album's first song alone, and it just kept coming from there. "Dani California" features six states
(five of which they hadn't mentioned before), and they throw in a song with Michigan in the title a few tracks later.
I don't know if they have kids in elementary school, I don't know if they're auditioning to be the next Rockapella,
I don't know what the hell's going on. But enough is enough.

Since they've been making albums since I was three, I'm not going to tell the Red Hot Chili Peppers how to do their job.
But I will say this:

Guys, if you're reading this (and I assume you are), please stop singing about states. I get it, there's a lot of states.
Damn near 50. How about you sing about some other places you've been.
Ever been to Canada? They've got all sorts of provinces you could sing about.
Here, I'll get the ball rolling. The capital of Saskatchewan is "Regina". It rhymes with "Vagina". You're welcome.

Listen, I understand it's tough to stay fresh for decades, so I won't give you that hard a time about this.
Just admit you've been slacking, promise to try a bit harder, and we'll be just fine.
Well, while you're clearing the air, why don't you also admit Will Ferrell's your drummer.
After that, all is forgiven.


vs.

(Ever see Will Ferrell at a Chili Peppers concert? Didn't think so)

What Cinco de Mayo means to me

I'm sorry, I just don't get Cinco de Mayo. I never have. People ask me what I'm doing for it, and my answer is the same as it would be on any other day.

For some reason or another, I never got on the Cinco de Mayo bandwagon; it just felt like a dumb holiday. But I didn't want to dismiss any of my Mexican
fans out there, so I decided to throw my full enthusiasm into Cinco de Mayo, 2006.

First on the list, I decided to do some homework about the holiday. Of course, everybody knows it's the Mexican independence day, but what they may not know is they're completely wrong.
Mexican independence day is Sept. 16th. THIS particular holiday celebrates one time when the Mexican army beat the French army in a battle. Don't I mean a war? Oh no, just a battle.
They'd been losing all along,  but the Mexicans won on 5/5/1862. And only on 5/5. Of course the French came back on 5/6 and beat the hell out of them. Hey, what a great holiday.
Let me give an updated NBA analogy: the Milwaukee Bucks squeaked out one win on the Pistons before losing the next games, and eventually the series, by an average of 20 points.
I can't say the Bucks won't throw a party to celebrate their one win, but it's pretty sad if they do. Okay, so history says this is a dumb holiday. No matter, I'm moving on.

Suddenly it hit me: I know what this holiday needs, a good carol! Nobody sings Cinco de Mayo carols, and it's a damn shame.
So I decided to write one. All I got was "Something something maracas, something B.A. Barracus", and I left to buy some M&Ms. I'm ashamed of my lack of resolve; Mexico was counting on me.

At this point I had to come clean: I just didn't care. But why? Oh yeah, because it's a Mexican holiday and I'm not a Mexican. I've never been a Mexican. I don't even know any Mexicans.
I know a Peruvian, I had some Puerto Rican friends at college, I met some nice Salvadorians during my stint in MS-13, but I don't know a single Mexican.
If I did, maybe they'd get me in the spirit. But I don't, and I'm not.

I suspect a lot of us don't know any Mexicans, but we still love Cinco de Mayo. If I learned anything at all today (which I didn't), it's that Americans don't need justification to celebrate your silly foreign holiday.
Whether it's St. Patrick's Day or Cinco de Mayo, all we really need is alcohol. That's what it is. Holidays are like college keg parties, and foreign ones are the shady kids nobody invited.
We're not too sure about you, but if you're here to get us nice and drunk, I guess you can come in too.

So it's 9:15pm and I'm going out to celebrate after all. Don't get me wrong, it's still a dumb holiday, I just happen to have a serious drinking problem.