Here at the Douche, we like to keep things diversified. "We" of course, being used in a "well, that's simply not grammatically correct, but hell, let's not make a big stink about it" manner, such as asking a few friends, "How are we doing today?" That question, of course, is unanswerable. One can only answer for oneself, unless the few friends intend to answer as a collective. And even if that is the case, their collective response does not fully answer the question because it does not account for the quality of the question asker's day. To include him or her into the collective with no prior knowledge of his or her day would be presumptuous and downright rude, in this author's opinon. Furthermore, one can assume that the asker of said question would not have already informed the group of the contents of his or her day, as evidenced by his extremely introductory salutation.
The next time someone asks you, "how are we doing today?" Make sure you get a grip on their day first. It's just good manners.
Anyway, we here at the Douche, we (i.e. me, Ryan, aside from guest contributor Chad "Stabwound" Remington), like to keep things diversified. But lately I've noticed that the vast majority of my posts have to do only with things that I hate, or that I think are stupid. Ah, hate. Such a strong emotion. What is it about contempt that fuels my grammatical stylings?
Anyway, I figured (well, Brittney figured) I should write about something I love. Football. That's right, kids. Superbowl season is upon us. The greatest moment in the year for sports...the gargantuan zenith of the football season. The most watched game of the most watched sport. In America. We don't like soccer here.
So, we have the Steelers versus the Cardinals. Who would have thunk it? I had Titans/Panthers. Hey, what do I know? For those not too familiar with the NFL, let me summarize these two teams. It's not a surprise that the Steelers are here. Number 2 seed in the AFC, always finding a way to win close games, best defense in the league, scary good, huge hitters. Sometimes their offense is a bit wishy-washy, but that's what happens when your QB follows up a near-fatal motorcycle crash with a neverending string of concussions.
The Cardinals on the other hand...what? If you were to pick the least likely team to represent the NFC before the playoffs, it would have been Arizona in a landslide. They sucked HARD heading into the playoffs, and then brought on the sauce. They've been laying waste to supposedly better teams for weeks now. Every time you figure, "What a run it's been, but now they're playing X team. They're toast." It is because of that unflappable logic that I go against the grain and against the spread and pick the Cardinals!!! Uhh, let's say 27-21.
Next order of business. Fucking Bruce Springsteen. Alright, FCC. Ever since the Janet Jackson titty fiasco a few years ago, you've been sticking every old geezer with a washed up band on stage, so as to avoid any unwholesome behavior. Bono. Tom Petty. Paul McCartney (hey, below average solo career. Bite me. "Live and let die" is still a killer song.) Prince actually kicked ass, though. Best Superbowl halftime show I can remember, at least.
Springsteen is fucking terrible. I know two of his songs, and they both make me want to drink a bucket full of Emperor Scorpions so they can tear me open from the inside out. What a no-talent hack with a gassy chili-fart for a voice. Who else but a half-assed, boring, dipshit-with-a-telecaster, songs-stink-worse-than-Newark douchebag to fit the moniker "The Jersey Boy." Although, if Janet's tit hadn't happened, and we were still pulling from the uninspired top 40 pool, I have a feeling deep down in my duodenum who we'd be dealing with.
Lil' fucking Wayne. My arch-nemesis. One day, Wayne, we will fight. So, I don't know what's worse. Ancient relics of the past trotting out massively overplayed songs to an unenthusiastic crowd, or undeserving illiterate dickheads who never should have been famous in the first place trotting out their oversynthesized cookie-cutter bullshit to a hugely overenthusiastic crowd. Can't we just get Tenacious D for the halftime show or something?
Well, hey. I got to talk a little bit about the Superbowl, right? That oughtta be fun, huh? Beer, wings, football...
Aw, fuck it. The Patriots had the best record ever for a team that missed the playoffs. First time a team with that good of a record missed out since 1985. Everything still sucks.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Monday, January 12, 2009
Being Twenty-One is Horribly Unexciting.
Turning twenty-one, for all the hubbub, was supposed to be a life-affirming, destiny-altering moment. Like graduating high school or receiving a Bar Mitzvah. The twenty-first is supposed to elevate you in some way: to the ranks of the legal. Wow, I finally made it. Picture Tim Robbins as Andy Dufresne, on his knees in the lightning storm, arms outstretched towards the sky. If you don't understand that reference, do your fucking homework.
What exactly was it that I was expecting?
When I was 20, I had it in my head that people went to the bars all the time. Hell, every weekend. I, too, would go to the bars all the time, of course. I'll be twenty-one then. No fancy ID scanner or laser gun is keeping me out. Shit, I have lost time to make up for. My great tragedy in life, having a late birthday, has held me out for long enough. Much like Diana Ross, I'm coming out (to the bars). I want the world to know. Yadda yadda.
When I turned 21, nothing really changed. I was still broke. I had had dozens of people to buy booze for me for months by then, so it really only became slightly more available. When going with someone to the grocery store, instead of handing my associate cash and having them buy alcohol while I took care of the rest of the sundries, I would just buy it myself. And so I did. Here it comes...getting ID'd. That's right. Give me a look. I've got a baby-face. Just shaved, too. I've got to be underage. Just card me. I dare you.
"Can I see your ID?"
Oh, now you've done it. Get ready for the truth, sister.
BAM!!!!
"K."
That wasn't as exciting as it should have been.
Okay, so buying alcohol at the store wasn't really worth all the commotion, but hey...bars. I was able to get booze before but I wasn't able to go to the bars... this is the real money shot, right here.
I am outside of Black Bear in downtown Stamford. I am at the end of a line of about 20 people. It's freezing outside. I'm probably underdressed, both in warmth and aesthetic quality of my outfit. Who cares. Tonight is the night before Thanksgiving, a night in which eeeverryoonne will be out. "Dude, it's like a high school reunion." I finally get in, after the guy who looks like Jerry Springer's security guard lets me in. I am already in a bad mood. Upon entering the bar, I can't hear a goddamned thing. My friends are already there. I go to order a Bud Light... something simple, cheap.
"5 bucks."
Holy shit. Didn't see that coming. The sheer severity of the ripoff causes my knees to buckle. Despite the 500%ish markup in price, there are people pouring out of this place. The man literally twists off the cap and hands me a beer. I hand him a 5. He glares at me. Listen, guy. I've worked a lot harder than that and not gotten tipped. That's my bullshit reason. The real reason is because the beer was fucking five dollars. At the restaurant in Maine, Coveside, where I used to work, beers were 3.50. Or something like that...can't remember. Lame, but not $5 lame. My thoughts are racing. Not only is a six-pack of Bud Light 5.99, but I start to think of other things my 5 dollars could have afforded me.
-A whole high-school special at Garden Catering...well, that is before they upped the price a dollar. Fucking inflation. I shouldn't be eating that crap anyway.
-5 songs on iTunes...DC++ stopped working off campus, I'm getting bored over here.
-Five...five dollar... five dollar footlongs... dammit!
I love beer, but I miss my five. I'm drinking it and it tastes like beer. It tastes like the same beer I was drinking before I got here, that cost me like, 1.25. Furthermore, the reason we came out, to see old high-school folk, is also tanking. No one wants to see the people that are coming into the bar. Hesitant head-nods happen. I hated that guy. Oh well, it's been 4 years. We are all huddled in a corner, my group of friends and I, the same people that would have been hanging out had we not gone to a bar, except we'd be able to hear each other and we wouldn't be so close. Dave is breathing on me. We had been talking to two, maybe three people we used to hang out with, but ran out of things to say. So now they're right next to us but with their backs to us. I didn't notice...they must have found a seamless exit point. Gotta hate turning away too early. We all reach the same conclusion at once...fuck it. We grab some McDonald's and go back to my house. What do we have in the fridge...ah yes.
Bud Light.
It has been 2 months since my 21st and I've gone to the bar thrice. The moral of the story is that my life hasn't changed or gotten more exciting since that supposedly pivotal birthday. In fact, one may argue that my lack of social exploration given my newfangled legality, in fact, makes my life less exciting. But that's why there's nickel nights.
(Epilogue: I do regret stiffing that bartender. I've worked in restaurants and it's a shitty move. I chalk the move up to being in shock. Hey, you're going to get that once in a while when you work in an overpriced bar. Just saying.)
What exactly was it that I was expecting?
When I was 20, I had it in my head that people went to the bars all the time. Hell, every weekend. I, too, would go to the bars all the time, of course. I'll be twenty-one then. No fancy ID scanner or laser gun is keeping me out. Shit, I have lost time to make up for. My great tragedy in life, having a late birthday, has held me out for long enough. Much like Diana Ross, I'm coming out (to the bars). I want the world to know. Yadda yadda.
When I turned 21, nothing really changed. I was still broke. I had had dozens of people to buy booze for me for months by then, so it really only became slightly more available. When going with someone to the grocery store, instead of handing my associate cash and having them buy alcohol while I took care of the rest of the sundries, I would just buy it myself. And so I did. Here it comes...getting ID'd. That's right. Give me a look. I've got a baby-face. Just shaved, too. I've got to be underage. Just card me. I dare you.
"Can I see your ID?"
Oh, now you've done it. Get ready for the truth, sister.
BAM!!!!
"K."
That wasn't as exciting as it should have been.
Okay, so buying alcohol at the store wasn't really worth all the commotion, but hey...bars. I was able to get booze before but I wasn't able to go to the bars... this is the real money shot, right here.
I am outside of Black Bear in downtown Stamford. I am at the end of a line of about 20 people. It's freezing outside. I'm probably underdressed, both in warmth and aesthetic quality of my outfit. Who cares. Tonight is the night before Thanksgiving, a night in which eeeverryoonne will be out. "Dude, it's like a high school reunion." I finally get in, after the guy who looks like Jerry Springer's security guard lets me in. I am already in a bad mood. Upon entering the bar, I can't hear a goddamned thing. My friends are already there. I go to order a Bud Light... something simple, cheap.
"5 bucks."
Holy shit. Didn't see that coming. The sheer severity of the ripoff causes my knees to buckle. Despite the 500%ish markup in price, there are people pouring out of this place. The man literally twists off the cap and hands me a beer. I hand him a 5. He glares at me. Listen, guy. I've worked a lot harder than that and not gotten tipped. That's my bullshit reason. The real reason is because the beer was fucking five dollars. At the restaurant in Maine, Coveside, where I used to work, beers were 3.50. Or something like that...can't remember. Lame, but not $5 lame. My thoughts are racing. Not only is a six-pack of Bud Light 5.99, but I start to think of other things my 5 dollars could have afforded me.
-A whole high-school special at Garden Catering...well, that is before they upped the price a dollar. Fucking inflation. I shouldn't be eating that crap anyway.
-5 songs on iTunes...DC++ stopped working off campus, I'm getting bored over here.
-Five...five dollar... five dollar footlongs... dammit!
I love beer, but I miss my five. I'm drinking it and it tastes like beer. It tastes like the same beer I was drinking before I got here, that cost me like, 1.25. Furthermore, the reason we came out, to see old high-school folk, is also tanking. No one wants to see the people that are coming into the bar. Hesitant head-nods happen. I hated that guy. Oh well, it's been 4 years. We are all huddled in a corner, my group of friends and I, the same people that would have been hanging out had we not gone to a bar, except we'd be able to hear each other and we wouldn't be so close. Dave is breathing on me. We had been talking to two, maybe three people we used to hang out with, but ran out of things to say. So now they're right next to us but with their backs to us. I didn't notice...they must have found a seamless exit point. Gotta hate turning away too early. We all reach the same conclusion at once...fuck it. We grab some McDonald's and go back to my house. What do we have in the fridge...ah yes.
Bud Light.
It has been 2 months since my 21st and I've gone to the bar thrice. The moral of the story is that my life hasn't changed or gotten more exciting since that supposedly pivotal birthday. In fact, one may argue that my lack of social exploration given my newfangled legality, in fact, makes my life less exciting. But that's why there's nickel nights.
(Epilogue: I do regret stiffing that bartender. I've worked in restaurants and it's a shitty move. I chalk the move up to being in shock. Hey, you're going to get that once in a while when you work in an overpriced bar. Just saying.)
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Fuck you, other drivers.
Having done a lot of interstate driving lately, I've come to understand that few things in life fill me with such venomous rage as highway traffic. As I sit there at a dead stop, I begin to fantasize. See, the world of fantasizing is just like advertising; sex and violence sell. Seeing as how I'm stuck idling in a vehicle and have nothing in the spank bank, it's about time I woofed down a hearty helping of the latter.
In my fantasy, I leave my car, run along the highway until I find the source of the congestion, and start snapping necks like Steven Seagal. Oh, the 70-year-old ladies rubbernecking, slowing down to observe an wrecked car on the other side of the divider. *SNAP!* The insanely overly-cautious teenage girl who never really learned to drive, yet somehow ended up with a license, and is now heavily applying the brakes on the middle of a hill with no cars in front of her. *SNAP!* The holier-than-thou fuckface in the Mercedes or BMW weaving in and out of traffic, passing on the right, tailgating, flashing his brights at people he feels are going too slowly. *SNAP!*
Forget about the logistics of hopping onto/into speeding cars on the highway in order to snap necks. Forget about the logistics of me correcting said car after it begins to careen off the road with a dead driver. It's my fantasy. Fuck you. (You can tell this is a big deal because this rant isn't even fresh in my mind. I haven't been on the highway since two days ago, but alas, my blood boils.)
My God, the world would be a better place without these people.
Dedicated and fortunate readers of The Douche, I put it to you...
-Is it really necessary to slow down to 30 mph every time there's a turn in the highway?
-Must I sit in stop-go traffic because someone is mowing the lawn on the side of the highway, and there isn't even a lane blocked??
-Why do people drive the same speed in the fast lane as the one next to it, so no one can pass?
I wish there was a way to remove all these types of douchebags from the highway. I estimate that traffic would reduce by a billion percent. Approximately. You see, there wouldn't be rubbernecking traffic because all the drivers would mind their own goddamn business. There wouldn't be random slow-downs on hills or turns because everyone would be at least semi-competent...or have a pulse. There wouldn't be accidents because coke-addled bankers wouldn't be weaving through traffic thinking they're fucking Barry Sanders. Can you just imagine?
Yeah. Socialism is a good idea in theory, too.
Sigh.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
'Tis the season for obligatory spending.
Over two-thousand years ago, the Messiah walked the Earth. The King and Redeemer of the Jews, the man who would be betrayed by the very people he had come to enlighten...so the story goes. I talk, of course, of the man upstairs, the big JC.
Two-thousand years later, this conversation takes place.
My sister Meagan: "Hey, what do you want for Christmas?"
Me: "I don't know, what do you want?"
Meagan: "I want Across the Universe. Is there any movie you want?"
Me: "Uhhhh.. Ooh! The Dark Knight."
Meagan: "Okay. I'll get you that. See you later."
(Disclaimer: The Dark Knight is a phenomenal movie and my slight Christmas griping in no way affects how stoked I am to be a proud owner of said film.)
Ah, yes. Christmas. The Granddaddy of them all. The King of all holidays. The McDonald's to Hanukkah's Hardees. But how did we get here?
How has the celebration of the birth of the Messiah been bastardized so severely? Even the most outlandish games of Telephone never ended up this bizarre. How has the celebration of the birth of the martyr of the Christian faith turned into a day in which everybody goes and buys each other stuff?
The sense of obligation is the thing that gets me the most. I don't know if it's because I'm a selfish bastard, or because I just need to save money, but I don't really get into the spirit of giving. I give gifts out of a sense of reciprocity. If people are giving me stuff, I guess I had better give them stuff too, lest I be a huge douchebag. I narrowly avoided having to take from my savings account to finance this Christmas, and I'm trying to reserve said funds for something important in the future, like initial payments on an apartment.
Christmas...the holiday in which you contemplate dipping into your account for the future in order to buy your mom's boyfriend a waffle maker, for the sole reason that you've noticed a To/From involving the two of you already under the tree. What a kick in the pants.
In the olden days, Christmas was a magical holiday when Santa came in the middle of the night and gave you everything you wanted. Now it's the holiday in which you run presents by your whole family beforehand, because if you're going to spend X dollars, they'd better like it.
Until we can find a happy medium between rampant consumerism and religious fanaticism, Christmas will continue to be a major headache. But hey. At least I got a bunch of cool stuff.
Two-thousand years later, this conversation takes place.
My sister Meagan: "Hey, what do you want for Christmas?"
Me: "I don't know, what do you want?"
Meagan: "I want Across the Universe. Is there any movie you want?"
Me: "Uhhhh.. Ooh! The Dark Knight."
Meagan: "Okay. I'll get you that. See you later."
(Disclaimer: The Dark Knight is a phenomenal movie and my slight Christmas griping in no way affects how stoked I am to be a proud owner of said film.)
Ah, yes. Christmas. The Granddaddy of them all. The King of all holidays. The McDonald's to Hanukkah's Hardees. But how did we get here?
How has the celebration of the birth of the Messiah been bastardized so severely? Even the most outlandish games of Telephone never ended up this bizarre. How has the celebration of the birth of the martyr of the Christian faith turned into a day in which everybody goes and buys each other stuff?
The sense of obligation is the thing that gets me the most. I don't know if it's because I'm a selfish bastard, or because I just need to save money, but I don't really get into the spirit of giving. I give gifts out of a sense of reciprocity. If people are giving me stuff, I guess I had better give them stuff too, lest I be a huge douchebag. I narrowly avoided having to take from my savings account to finance this Christmas, and I'm trying to reserve said funds for something important in the future, like initial payments on an apartment.
Christmas...the holiday in which you contemplate dipping into your account for the future in order to buy your mom's boyfriend a waffle maker, for the sole reason that you've noticed a To/From involving the two of you already under the tree. What a kick in the pants.
In the olden days, Christmas was a magical holiday when Santa came in the middle of the night and gave you everything you wanted. Now it's the holiday in which you run presents by your whole family beforehand, because if you're going to spend X dollars, they'd better like it.
Until we can find a happy medium between rampant consumerism and religious fanaticism, Christmas will continue to be a major headache. But hey. At least I got a bunch of cool stuff.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Okay Publicists, come up with something else.
Why is it that every time some young Hollywood punk like Lindsay Lohan goes out and gets a DUI, the country doesn't burn her at the stake? I mean, that's a pretty dick move, and as a public figure and role model to an unfortunate few, she should certainly be castigated. But she usually does just fine. Why??
Rehab! Yay!!! I love this time-honored strategy of douchebag pampered California kids evading responsibility for their actions by blaming a nonexistent addiction. Half the time these people are like 18, 19, 21 years old. They're not alcoholics. They're just idiots. But this way, they get to blame the booze, total lack of control, and it wasn't really their fault to begin with! YAYYY!!
I imagine the conversation must go something like this.
Publicist (P): Man, Young Hollywood Douchebag, you've really done it this time. I can't believe you flipped your Hummer on Rodeo Drive, rolling over a crowd of Japanese tourists and right into an expensive boutique. How are we going to clean this up?
Young Hollywood Douchebag: I know right??? It's like, crazy though! *Texts on Blackberry*
P: I've got it. You're an addict. You'll go into a cushy Beverly Hills rehab for a week, sit in a spa and exfoliate, and text on your Blackberry. Instead of being completely lambasted by the media and never working again, people will feel bad for you. Then, if you ever do clean up your act, whether superficially or actually, everyone will be very excited and you'll officially be making a "Comeback." How's that sound?
YHD: *Texts on Blackberry*
P: Alright! Well I'll alert the newspapers.
How does this work? It's so see-through, it's insane. The celebrity-rehab defense is akin to chasing some sort of criminal around... you've almost got them, BAM! They're in a church. They've got Sanctuary. Well, you can't do anything now, right? Rehab is celebrity Sanctuary. Fuck that. I hate these people. I guess anything to keep TMZ on the air, right?
...Stop it.
Rehab! Yay!!! I love this time-honored strategy of douchebag pampered California kids evading responsibility for their actions by blaming a nonexistent addiction. Half the time these people are like 18, 19, 21 years old. They're not alcoholics. They're just idiots. But this way, they get to blame the booze, total lack of control, and it wasn't really their fault to begin with! YAYYY!!
I imagine the conversation must go something like this.
Publicist (P): Man, Young Hollywood Douchebag, you've really done it this time. I can't believe you flipped your Hummer on Rodeo Drive, rolling over a crowd of Japanese tourists and right into an expensive boutique. How are we going to clean this up?
Young Hollywood Douchebag: I know right??? It's like, crazy though! *Texts on Blackberry*
P: I've got it. You're an addict. You'll go into a cushy Beverly Hills rehab for a week, sit in a spa and exfoliate, and text on your Blackberry. Instead of being completely lambasted by the media and never working again, people will feel bad for you. Then, if you ever do clean up your act, whether superficially or actually, everyone will be very excited and you'll officially be making a "Comeback." How's that sound?
YHD: *Texts on Blackberry*
P: Alright! Well I'll alert the newspapers.
How does this work? It's so see-through, it's insane. The celebrity-rehab defense is akin to chasing some sort of criminal around... you've almost got them, BAM! They're in a church. They've got Sanctuary. Well, you can't do anything now, right? Rehab is celebrity Sanctuary. Fuck that. I hate these people. I guess anything to keep TMZ on the air, right?
...Stop it.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
"Push to Cross" buttons...the Placebo effect?
Here at the Denim Douche, I, your humble friend and narrator, like to steer clear of the esoteric. That's right, we're all about universals here. And by we, I mean me. The other day I had a post half typed up about a strange new trend in my music listening patterns whereupon my iTunes top 25 consists of 18 instrumentals and 7 songs with vocals. But then, I realized that nobody really cares. I realized that I was drifting towards the cardinal sin of all Blogdom...chronicling boring crap about my life that really could be best kept in a Hello Kitty diary under my pillow.
However, amusing anecdotes about the minutiae of day to day life, in the Jerry Seinfeld vein, are a clever way to sidestep this problem. Everyone has a special place in their hearts for "I can relate to that!!!" common observations and potentially crackpot theories. So without any further ado, I present...
"Push to Cross" buttons actually do nothing.
You know, I've been alive a while. It's been more than 21 years now, but who's counting? I've stood at my share of crosswalks. I've waited for my share of white-silhouetted men to replace that foreboding red hand. In all of my life, I think I have been to approximately three million crosswalks. I'll have to check with my statisticians. Anyway, there are times when I stand and do nothing, and there I times when I tap the button like I'm winding my Shy Guy in Mario Party 2, and there is no difference.
Why is this button here? Is it even connected to anything? Pressing questions to say the least. But invalid? I think not. When I was a naive young child, much like the girl in that photo up there (internet photo...my days of following young children around with cameras are over), I had my theories.
1. The cross sign wouldn't appear unless I pressed the button. Wrong. It comes up anyway.
2. Pressing the button will make the light change sooner Nope. It's on a timer.
3. (Approx. 1995-Present) The button doesn't do a goddamn thing.
Now, of course, this theory is based solely on observation. But like I said...I've spent a lot of time observing, and I'm pretty sure something like this couldn't just slip by me. Not if lab rats can learn to collect food on a fixed ratio system! Whoops, too much Learning Psych.
One day I'll have to do some real data collection...hit the button 10 times, not hit the button 10 times, note the differences. I doubt it'll be as easy as the back cover of Highlights, though. In the meantime, I suggest that those of you with any knowledge of the inner workings of electronics re-wire these useless buttons to at least frighten the elderly. Set off some explosions, administer an electric shock... buttons weren't made to do nothing, god dammit! It's time for a revolution in intersection-navigating technology, and I want all of you to be at the forefront. Ready...go.
However, amusing anecdotes about the minutiae of day to day life, in the Jerry Seinfeld vein, are a clever way to sidestep this problem. Everyone has a special place in their hearts for "I can relate to that!!!" common observations and potentially crackpot theories. So without any further ado, I present...
"Push to Cross" buttons actually do nothing.
You know, I've been alive a while. It's been more than 21 years now, but who's counting? I've stood at my share of crosswalks. I've waited for my share of white-silhouetted men to replace that foreboding red hand. In all of my life, I think I have been to approximately three million crosswalks. I'll have to check with my statisticians. Anyway, there are times when I stand and do nothing, and there I times when I tap the button like I'm winding my Shy Guy in Mario Party 2, and there is no difference.
Why is this button here? Is it even connected to anything? Pressing questions to say the least. But invalid? I think not. When I was a naive young child, much like the girl in that photo up there (internet photo...my days of following young children around with cameras are over), I had my theories.
1. The cross sign wouldn't appear unless I pressed the button. Wrong. It comes up anyway.
2. Pressing the button will make the light change sooner Nope. It's on a timer.
3. (Approx. 1995-Present) The button doesn't do a goddamn thing.
Now, of course, this theory is based solely on observation. But like I said...I've spent a lot of time observing, and I'm pretty sure something like this couldn't just slip by me. Not if lab rats can learn to collect food on a fixed ratio system! Whoops, too much Learning Psych.
One day I'll have to do some real data collection...hit the button 10 times, not hit the button 10 times, note the differences. I doubt it'll be as easy as the back cover of Highlights, though. In the meantime, I suggest that those of you with any knowledge of the inner workings of electronics re-wire these useless buttons to at least frighten the elderly. Set off some explosions, administer an electric shock... buttons weren't made to do nothing, god dammit! It's time for a revolution in intersection-navigating technology, and I want all of you to be at the forefront. Ready...go.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Competitive Eating.... What have I done with my life?
On some Thursdays, I like to wander over to the Hooters in Manchester for the glorious man-ritual known as all-you-can-eat Buffalo wing night. I bask in the sights, the sounds, the glory. You may not be able to see it through the flat-screen TV's, and walls covered with vintage 80's photos of Hooters girls posing next to the likes of Woody Harrelson and Jay Leno, but all-you-can-eat wing night is a primal, guttural throwback to my favorite time...the time of the hunter-gatherer.
You see, back in the good ole' days, before bullshit like portion control and vegetables came into play, people ate as much as they could in one sitting. Hey, you don't know where your next meal is coming from... eat up! So, here I am. Hooters is my tribe. I'm being served copious amounts of poultry from my squaw. I prefer the squaw that's sitting at the stool next to that lonely guy over there, but mine will do. I'm being served plate after plate of steaming tasties, when all the sudden my thirst for flesh is quenched. After about 35 wings, I call it quits.
(Aside: Those well versed in early human evolution might be noticing at this time that my idyllic vision of a hunter-gather Hooters features neither hunting nor gathering. In fact, it more closely resembles early human agriculture, in which humans started raising livestock as a community so as to largely eliminate the need for dangerous/strenuous hunting. While that is true, and certainly relevant, the point I am trying to make is one regarding the pure voracity of the hunter-gatherer appetite. Agricultural humans, having a much more stable source of food, were able to portion control and eat vegetables, both of which have no place at all-you-can-eat Wing night. I'm talking pure indulgence. Like Michael Phelps without all that pesky swimming.)
After this man-sized meal of nothing but meat, I am quite pleased with myself. After coming home, I become curious... I probably ate for a solid 30 minutes (with breaks in between plates of wings, but the fact of the matter is, I was full)... what's the record? What man has eaten the most wings in that span?
Joey Chestnut. And that's where the fascination began. Chestnut ate ONE HUNDRED NINETY EIGHT wings in 30 minutes. Oh my Chestnut. That man is truly the second coming. I delved deeper. Chestnut, of course, was the man who shattered Kobayashi's hot-dog record...he now holds it at 66 hot dogs and buns in 12 minutes. WHAT???
I had heard of Kobayashi, and known that someone had beaten him a while back, but it wasn't until I stumbled upon http://www.ifoce.com/records.php
that I started to realize the enormity of some of these feats.
Why the hell isn't competitive eating more popular? Mary-Kate Olsen aside, everybody eats. That is to say, everyone can realize the craziness of competitive eating accomplishments. If Kobe averages 35 points a game, half the country will say, "Is that good?" But nobody can tell me that they're not blown away by the 198 wing count. And if you define athletics as a competition between people pushing the limits of the human body, competitive eating certainly applies.
I hereby start a committee. Let's do away with NASCAR, because it's stupid, and appoint Competitive Eating as the heir apparent. You can't tell me the Southerners will notice. We're the fattest country in the world. You'd think we'd all be able to appreciate something like this! And with the amount of gluttony going down in our country, you've got to think some of our best eaters are hiding in plain sight. Maybe Joey Chestnut is the man right now, but I'd be willing to bet his successor has simply yet to realize his calling.
Step 1: The Challenger...
You see, back in the good ole' days, before bullshit like portion control and vegetables came into play, people ate as much as they could in one sitting. Hey, you don't know where your next meal is coming from... eat up! So, here I am. Hooters is my tribe. I'm being served copious amounts of poultry from my squaw. I prefer the squaw that's sitting at the stool next to that lonely guy over there, but mine will do. I'm being served plate after plate of steaming tasties, when all the sudden my thirst for flesh is quenched. After about 35 wings, I call it quits.
(Aside: Those well versed in early human evolution might be noticing at this time that my idyllic vision of a hunter-gather Hooters features neither hunting nor gathering. In fact, it more closely resembles early human agriculture, in which humans started raising livestock as a community so as to largely eliminate the need for dangerous/strenuous hunting. While that is true, and certainly relevant, the point I am trying to make is one regarding the pure voracity of the hunter-gatherer appetite. Agricultural humans, having a much more stable source of food, were able to portion control and eat vegetables, both of which have no place at all-you-can-eat Wing night. I'm talking pure indulgence. Like Michael Phelps without all that pesky swimming.)
After this man-sized meal of nothing but meat, I am quite pleased with myself. After coming home, I become curious... I probably ate for a solid 30 minutes (with breaks in between plates of wings, but the fact of the matter is, I was full)... what's the record? What man has eaten the most wings in that span?
Joey Chestnut. And that's where the fascination began. Chestnut ate ONE HUNDRED NINETY EIGHT wings in 30 minutes. Oh my Chestnut. That man is truly the second coming. I delved deeper. Chestnut, of course, was the man who shattered Kobayashi's hot-dog record...he now holds it at 66 hot dogs and buns in 12 minutes. WHAT???
I had heard of Kobayashi, and known that someone had beaten him a while back, but it wasn't until I stumbled upon http://www.ifoce.com/records.php
that I started to realize the enormity of some of these feats.
Why the hell isn't competitive eating more popular? Mary-Kate Olsen aside, everybody eats. That is to say, everyone can realize the craziness of competitive eating accomplishments. If Kobe averages 35 points a game, half the country will say, "Is that good?" But nobody can tell me that they're not blown away by the 198 wing count. And if you define athletics as a competition between people pushing the limits of the human body, competitive eating certainly applies.
I hereby start a committee. Let's do away with NASCAR, because it's stupid, and appoint Competitive Eating as the heir apparent. You can't tell me the Southerners will notice. We're the fattest country in the world. You'd think we'd all be able to appreciate something like this! And with the amount of gluttony going down in our country, you've got to think some of our best eaters are hiding in plain sight. Maybe Joey Chestnut is the man right now, but I'd be willing to bet his successor has simply yet to realize his calling.
Step 1: The Challenger...
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