I’ve discovered a litmus test to seperate the true hardcore fans from the soulless bandwagon-jumpers we wish had been aboard the Challenger.  I call it, “The Fellatio Test.”  It works like this: if someone could promise your team an undefeated season and a national title on the condition you put another guy’s dick in your mouth, what would you say?  If your immediate reaction is “Hell, no! That’s disgusting and I’m offended you would ask that,” then you’re not a true fan.  A true fan doesn’t have to actually do the deed, but he’ll ask a couple of questions first.  Like, “It doesn’t have to be an ugly guy, right?”  Or, “Jeez.  I don’t know.  How many points would we beat Auburn by?”  Of course, ideally, even the true fan stops short of homosexuality.  Especially when he’s already fallen for that trick four times in five years.  (Incidentally, if a Genie ever offers you three wishes on the condition of performing oral, there’s a strong chance he’s not really a Genie.  He’s probably just a homosexual con-artist in a really authentic looking costume with a fake Arabic accent.  Hindsight is 20/20, you judgemental hypocrites.)

The old “Mr. Peepers” skits on SNL are hands-down the unfunniest sketches in the history of the show.  I’m even including the non-Lorne Michaels years where Anthony Michael Hall and Robert Downey Jr. were regulars.   I like to think that Chris Kattan is huddled in the corner of a one room New York shanty, shivering underneath a bare burning lightbulb, thinking to himself  “Corky Romano was such a good script…I….I don’t know where I went wrong.”  And, no, I’m not bitter that Kattan almost single-handedly ruined the “Will Ferrell years” of Saturday Night Live. 

Before I gave up boozing, I was drinking about 2500 calories a day.  Naturally, I’ve lost a couple pounds since I went on the wagon.  For those of you concerned about my relinquishing obesity without a fight, please don’t worry.  Men’s Health has a BMI (body mass index) calculator used by physicians worldwide to determine physical fitness.  Feeling pretty good about myself, I logged on today just to see what my BMI might be.  I don’t think it’s relevant to this discussion for me to bother with the details of what that magic number was, but suffice it to say I played with the BMI calculator long enough for it to tell me I needed to be about 7′ 6″ in order to not die of heart disease/ diabetes within two years.  If I could find a way to enter my two-pack-a-day Marlboro Reds habit into that calculator, I’ll bet it would sound-off  like a slot machine. 

Adam Morrison’s unbelievable play is being seriously undermined by the pencil-thin moustache he’s wearing.  Against Santa Clara last night, he was on the receiving end of the greatest burn in collegiate sports when the student section chanted “Dir-ty San-chez” everytime he went to the penalty stripe.   (Although, it didn’t seem to rattle him too much since he dropped a forty spot without even trying.  Warrants mentioning.)

Today, I was on the receiving end of the worst haircut ever given since barbers quit doing surgery in the Dark Ages.  How hard is “clipper setting two for the head, trimmer setting one for the beard”?  When he spun the barber chair to the mirror, I cackled in disbelief like a post-plastic surgery Joker.  He gave me some sort of pseudo- ‘high and tight’ Marine haircut, with a little fade thrown in on the sideburns.  So I’m 27, I have a hairline receding like the French in battle, I’m about seventy-five pounds overweight, I wear glasses, and I have a sweet ‘Jarhead’ hairstyle.  Basically, I’m Private Pyle from Full Metal Jacket.  I’m definitely photoshoping my Match.com picture.

It’s about 9 p.m. on a Friday night, and all my friends are out with their wives while I’m at home writing on the internet.  While my married friends are free to enjoy the lifetime benefits of their respective soulmates such as compassion, friendship, and intimacy; I am stuck alphabetizing grandpa’s pharmaceutical grade laxatives.  But now that I’m single, I can openly keep teenvagina.net on my “favorites” list!  Clearly, I’m getting the better end of the bargain. 

I’ve got to quit calling my friends so much.  I’ve somehow become “The Guy who shows up on caller I.D. but you don’t answer because he talks too much.”  Everyone has someone in their life like this, and this person is universally disliked.  I don’t know how it happened.  The revelation of my metamorphosis became clear when I called my buddy Mysterioso today.  We usually watch sports together, but he didn’t answer his phone all day.  Finally, he picked up the phone after I had called about five times and told me he couldn’t answer my calls because he was moving his refrigerator all afternoon.  Ouch.  Admittedly, I’m grateful he lied instead of telling me “Dude, this is sad.  You know I know you’ve called five times.  I just can’t keep pretending to care about a three-game parlay you hit in Arena League, or how you can’t believe the Comets are only laying four points tonight in WNBA.  We can’t go on like this.  I’m sorry.”  Because there’s nothing more painful than being dumped in a heterosexual friendship.

These are the things that keep me awake at night. 

 

 

 

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