It is beginning to look like legendary NFL quarterback Brett Favre will continue to complete impossible game-ending passes long after he is granted membership to the AARP.  Indeed, the man will most likely dart around the field for decades to come, pulling his oxygen tank with him all the while.

I can offer you no explanation for Favre’s fabled career, which is longer by a few months than my life, but I can speculate.  Oh, I can speculate.  I present to you my three most impressive and unreasonable explanations for Favre’s continued success.

1. First, I posit that Favre is, like South African sprinter Caster Semenya, lying about his gender.  Now I know many of you “doctors” out there will argue that being female would actually prove to be disadvantageous; a woman would not be physically able to compete with highly athletic, three-hundred pound men.  However, the emotional sensitivity and competitive compassion that comes with the second x-chromosome is what allows Brett to heave the pigskin for more than 300 yards in a game.
2. Second, I have gleaned all the facts and I have found that Brett, along with the Minnesota Vikings, cut into the live broadcasts of NFL games and splice pre-recorded computer-generated images of completed passes and touchdown runs by “All-Day” Adrian Peterson.  Hey, it worked for the Chinese at the Olympic ceremony; it can work for the Vikings.  Also, this would explain the 49ers inability to accept the defeat.
3. I really don’t have a third explanation.  Brett is probably just cheating.  Flat, unimaginative, dirty cheating.

Her gender ambiguity was a no-brainer. Come on, she has semen in her name.

Perhaps the real reason for Favre’s greatness this late in his career is simply because it is this late in his career.  Many professional football players have experienced constant and sometimes even heightened success late in their careers.  Kurt Warner led his Arizona Cardinals to the Super Bowl last year at the ripe age of 38, 15 years into his illustrious career.  Michael Strahan experienced one of his best years ever, winning the Super Bowl in 2007, his last year as a New York Giant.

So rock on, Brett.  Rock on well into your 70s.

Every man reading this (I suppose that’s just about every man in North America) and every woman who has seen the 2005 RomCom (short for romantic comedy) “Just Friends” knows what I’m talking about when I say that I hate “the friend zone”.  Every male teen has thought to himself at least once, Damn, I’m slipping into her friend zone. This is a scary realization, too.  The friend zone is similar to volcanoes in that if you get too close to it, you’re done; if you’re good friends with a cute girl, hoping that she will soon see you as something more, make damn sure she doesn’t want you to go shopping with her, feed her sensitive side or ask for your opinion on anyone else’s clothing choices.  These are all red flags that you, my friend, are slipping into the friend zone.

As evidenced by his man boobs, this dude is all up in the friend zone.

I’d like to ask everyone to observe a moment of silence as we drink in the amazing beauty that is Amy Smart (right).

I suppose that’s done, now.  So, being in the friend zone must be the worst thing ever, right?  Actually, although being in the friend zone is awful there is one girl-related issue that is worse, far worse.  The horrid situation that is worse than being Ryan Reynolds (that’s a sentence beginning I never thought I’d write) is when you have a girlfriend and realize that in order to keep her happy, you have to take on the role of girlfriend.

The reason this is so awful is two-fold.  First, it should be pretty clear that we are not equipped for this job.  I have my sensitive side just like every other guy, but that just means that I cry at the end of Rocky III and Rudy.  We aren’t going to fall apart watching The Notebook or when the family hamster dies.  Second, it hurts.  It just hurts.  We want to protect you from the big, bad things in the world and we want to have you to ourselves on occasion.  One thing we don’t want is to feel like your happiness hinges upon our willingness to sacrifice our Y-chromosome — we love that chromosome; it’s our favorite one, always has been.

So girls, it is your responsibility to your man and to your relationship to bring out his masculine side.  Sure, you can try to coax out some sensitivity and compassion from time to time, that’s healthy.  But it’s healthy in the way that lemon grass shots are healthy (one a week or month) not in the way that carbohydrates are healthy (hundreds a day).  Assuming our roles in the relationship is one of the most important features of a lasting relationship.

Raymond and Deborah. A couple that will last through the TV seasons and reruns.

When Serena Williams verbally assaulted the baseline umpire in her semifinal match in the U.S. Open, she did more than just lose her temper. For those of you who did not have the esteemed privilege to watch or hear about the threats caught on a well-aimed microphone, Serena told the umpire after being called for a foot fault, “I swear to God, I feel like shoving this ball down your fucking throat. I swear, I’m not…” but then she digressed. A moment later, Serena was adamant that she had not threatened the life of the woman when an official came out onto the court. In fact, Serena tried her hand at diplomatic pseudo-lying. As the officials informed Serena that she had promised to “shove the tennis ball down the official’s throat”, Serena replied, “I didn’t say I was going to kill you”. Clever. But not nearly clever enough to fool the likes of me. Athletes don’t have the verbal argumentative skills necessary to tiptoe through that sort of disaster. The reason they get to be world-class athletes is by just doing their shit, not by finding circumlocutory ways out of facing their mistakes – that skill still belongs exclusively to us online writers. I’m going to knock Serena around a bit, prove that she is a liar, poor sport and all around bitch.

First, let it be known that she will not get off easier by just saying, “I didn’t say I would kill you”. In all honesty, she did. Shoving a tennis ball down a woman’s throat (regardless of the size of the woman) will result in that woman’s speedy death. She will neither pass go nor collect $200. So, if I describe to you how I am going to kill you, I have effectively said that I will kill you (though tactfully excluding the word “kill”). That is, “I’m going to stick an ice pick through your chest and leave you in a commercial freezer for two weeks” sends essentially the same message as “I’m going to kill you with methods that have a common winter theme.”

Next, Serena loses more points for not womanning up in the press conference following the game. Raw emotion is great. I love all sports and nothing enhances the viewer’s experience like getting a glimpse of the fiery drive within the athlete but there are limits to this. Serena made it clear with her unforgettable diction and body language that had there not been hundreds of cameras and thousands of people in her immediate surroundings, she would break her second racket across the judge’s skull. Serena insisted afterward that she had never been in a fight before and that the woman was overreacting for having expected some sort of physical encounter. The woman was right to expect a fight and to fear for her life. Serena is built like a Mack truck. The lines judge was built like my Aunt Betsy. I love my Aunt Betsy but she would not have put up a good fight against Williams.

To make a long story short, Serena Williams is a talented, if stupid woman who let her emotions get the best of her and the way America will see her for the rest of her life. Her outbreak did not compare to Federer’s meager profanity in opposition to what was a horrendous decision by the chair umpire. Had Williams been present she surely would have screamed, “Sack up Roger! Why don’t you just grow a pair and threaten to beat up the nearest seated woman?!”. I hope Ms. Williams is regretful of what she did but there is really no use in trying to fix the damage she has done. She must turn inward for a while and hope that the public glazes over her indiscretion until she can reemerge as a competitive female athlete and not a blood-hungry werewolf seeking small, defenseless Aunt Betsys.

There’s nothing quite like a fresh, new beginning that comes to you in the prime of your life.  I’m talking about college.  College is an amazing idea; allow late teens to continue their education in a more intellectually charged, independent atmosphere but more importantly, give these kids a clean slate to start with (that is, give them this one chance to be whomever they wish to be).  I attended my orientation at the University of Texas today.  I chose to be a farmer-turned-model working to get his pilot’s license.

If there is nothing quite like a fresh, new beginning in one’s peak years then it would also be true that there is nothing quite like a girl behind you in line who doesn’t not talk for 35 minutes.  The double-negative was necessary there because it does not describe the heinous act to say that she was talking the entire time.  Lots of people word it that way; “He literally talked through the entire date”.  Wrong, you had dinner, he must have eaten. I don’t believe you.  Thus, I must phrase this girl’s activity as not not talking for more than a half hour.

She had this thick west Texas accent.  I have lived in Texas my entire life and this still bugged me.  She would comment to her South-will-rise-again boyfriend on really any subject.  The fly which had invaded the academic center, the people in front of us in line who spent too much time walking to the registrar’s counter and the “lady-bag” the guy immediately in front of her was wearing.  I was immediately in front of her.  It’s a stylish messenger bag.  I live near a large city, I have to be stylish.

I thought about explaining that to her but refrained from doing so.

This got me to thinking about first impressions.  I mean, at a school of sixty-thousand, her single offensive remark doesn’t really matter.  But if she and I were to have a class or two together, she has already given herself a slight handicap. (I say “slight” because I’m so modest.  Not befriending me is a social and academic kiss of death — the handicap would be unbearable, she would have to transfer.)  So she was wrong to have blown her first chance to impress me, right?  But what if that meant putting a restraint on her personality and natural loquaciousness?

If the back-t0-back rhetorical questions weren’t clear enough, the conflict is this: blowing a first impression while being yourself or try to impress at the cost of your personality and identity.

I suppose I’ve already made my decision.  I feel like I need say very little.

 

 

Liar, Liar.

I should preface this article with the following disclaimer.

I love the new style in male fashion being ushered in by modern stars.  Naturally, there are some people whose styles I abhor (Ryan Sheckler) but by and large I think this new colorful and playful style is very becoming.

This post is going to be quite brief.  Simply put, I believe T-Pain is giving Will.I.Am (the cool member of the Black Eyed Peas with dreadlocks) a run for his money when it comes to looking like Will.I.Am.

 

Will.He.Is or T-Pain?

I can't tell the difference. I...I just don't know which one to shoot.

In my innumerable travels about the globe, I have gleaned a great deal of cultural information from interesting societies.  Perhaps the reason I do this so much is because the culture that I am forced to experience every day is less than satisfying.  The concrete floors of a public high school and the occasional “get-away” to a fast food mega-franchise leaves a little something left to be desired.  Needless to say, the time-tested and tradition-rich cultures of Europe and Latin America fill the gaping hole left by the American education system and McDonald’s.

Most recently, I visited Spain for a trip with a large group of friends.  We stopped for varying amounts of time in four different Spanish cities (i.e. Seville, Granada, Malaga, and Madrid).  The trip as a whole was excellent, truly unforgettable.  I was lucky enough to see some of the most awe-inspiring cathedrals in the world.  They inspired much awe.  And I had ample time to enjoy great company in another country.  The trip was just perfect.  The Spanish are very accommodating and sympathetic toward American language challenges.  On more than one occasion, I would prepare a sentence in Spanish, recite it once over, then speak it to the cashier in my infallible accent.  About half-way through my recitation, the cashier would interrupt to comfort me, “You are American, you order in English.  I cannot understand your try Spanish.”  I didn’t say the Spanish were at all sensitive, just accommodating.

As the trip went on and we found ourselves walking the grounds of El Escorial in Madrid, I realized something was missing.  A certain element of comfort.  Something intrinsically American.  First I thought it was fast food, but then I remembered the Burger King we had eaten inside the night before.  Then I thought it was the American cars that were missing, but as I thought that a Chevy Aveo drove by (the two-door hatchback is the Hummer of Spain — it could easily store most other vehicles in its trunk).  Finally I realized, while gawking at a pair of gypsies performing on a mosaic bench that it was the fat Americans that I had been missing.  The male-female duo were overweight by European standards but would have made Barack Obama look chubby.  Those benches are intended to be a place for diabetic citizens of the U.S. of A. to give their horribly overused knees a much needed breather from the agony of walking back to the car.  In Spain they use it to showcase traditional culture and musical talent?!  Commies, I tell you.  Thin, walk-everywhere-you-go, treat-Earth-responsibly commies!

I was thrown yet again when I saw a very fat, Spanish man sitting on a park bench.  Somehow this did not comfort me.  His midsection forced his poor belt to do the work of fifty Malaysian laborers.  His shirt was tucked into his pants so as to better define his breasts through the pressed polo.  By some act of God, a watch fit on his wrist though I don’t think I have ever seen that many chain links attached to one another.  If the visualization has failed in conveying the central idea, this man was fat.  But his obesity gave me no comfort.  I thought perhaps I needed to be closer to it so I walked over and sat down on the other end of the bench which seemed to be, quite literally, at the tipping point.  This did not work.  I found myself in a quagmire.  Using only my All-American instinct and my fellow tourists as models, I realized my problem:  I saw no Americans on benches.  Only Spaniards seemed to want to take breaks.  American tourists were either walking around cathedrals or sleeping on the beaches (there was no action in between the two — we would teleport to the beach, not walk, ride, or fly).  In a last ditch effort to soothe my aching soul which hadn’t had a proper cheeseburger in weeks, I asked a friend to post up on a bench for me.  Because of him, I am sitting here cyber-telling you this story now.

 

Can you see the difference?

 

Couple performing on a mosaic bench.

 

Essentially the same bench. Does he scream American comfort or what?

 

For a long time I have tried to classify the people of this world into two audaciously simple strata.  Sometimes the people are split evenly like in the case of the ‘good’ and the ‘bad’.  Other times, one group could swallow the other whole; an example of this might be ‘those I hate’ and ‘those I don’t hate’ (Shockingly, I hate almost everyone – you’re probably included).

But I think I have found a new line to draw.  This line will truthfully show me all I need to know about people.  I will flag everyone with the title ‘lies and knows’ or ‘lies and knows not’.  My thoughts on each follow…

Someone who lies and knows can be likened to a politician, an airport security officer (it is by chance that the Arab men are the only ones strip-searched) and, most importantly, me.  We are the majority, but only slightly.  I like to think we are the smarter clan.  We will feign ignorance to the fact that the vehicles in Iraq are inexcusably under-protected.  We will spend hours polishing our army boots which we insist on wearing inside the airport while an incalculable number of weapons are smuggled on board.  We will even be so sly as to lie to our mothers and tell them that we have eaten all our vegetables when, in fact, we have fed all the broccoli to Bruno under the table.

 

I willingly grouped myself with this douche?

 

 

With all those unsightly lies, one would be hard pressed to find something positive to say about us.  Unless, of course, that one could spin like a dreidel.  You see, there is much that comes from these liars that is useful.  These are the people who are able to play the system with this set of lying skills and make great gains.  These people are Joan Rivers, Simon Cowell, Dick Cheney, Michael Jackson and Patrick St. Pierre (Why am I doing this to myself?).  Popular names.  Household names.

The other type of liar is one that is a world away from the likes of douche bag cops and snarky teenage bloggers.  These liars have no idea that they are lying.  They lie because they do not know.  This is weak sauce.  This is Nana-tried-to-make-a-spicy-salsa weak sauce.  These people include Paula Abdul, George W. Bush (I’ll expand upon this in a moment), and most of the girls I have had romantic affiliations with.

Now, you may have noticed that the duo that dominated world politics for the last eight years are different kinds of liars (according to this highly reputable stratification).  This is not to say they did not work well together, it just means each brought a different “something” to the table.  Cheney brought the Machiavellian ruling style – all lies, no blinking – whereas Bush brought his wide-eyed innocence and periodic smirks and casual shrugs when he could not answer a question.  Cheney could lie because he knew the truth.  Bush could lie because he couldn’t spell truth.  But that’s enough of that.

 

I think this says everything I couldn't say.

Essentially, my point is this; you will never meet someone who has not lied.  Therefore, you will only ever know liars – yes, some lie more than others but that’s splitting hairs.  Knowing now that everyone knows you’re a liar and also knowing that everyone refers to my definitions of liars, would you like to be someone who lies and knows or someone who lies because he does not know?

Through my extensive travels across big- and small-town America, I have noticed a number of trends in the American exercising world.  I was able to do this only because I am selfless enough to sacrifice my own workout time to sit around and observe others as they exercise.  Unsuspecting teens, adults and senior (a.k.a. “seasoned”) citizens were unknowingly put to the test against my watchful eye and extraordinarily critical mind.  Learning from the sorry individuals described above, I compiled this list; the five best ways to embarrass yourself at the gym.

Way #1

Wear improper equipment for the exercise being performed.

There are few things funnier than seeing a young boy emerge from the locker room with his thick, leather lifting belt fastened around his waist and Harbinger weight lifting gloves tightened and proceed to hop on the elliptical machine for a half-hour jog.  

Way #2

Try to start a conversation with the person exercising next to you.

Let me first clarify that being friendly at a public gym is not a bad thing.  Not at all.  However, the term “friendly” must be situation-specific.  For example, if Randy next door walks out at 5:30 AM in his pajamas to grab the paper and you happen to be outside as well, you do not confront Randy to ask him what he thought about the Celtics game the night before.  Instead, you offer a casual “G’morning” and raise your coffee mug slightly.  Similarly, while I am pumping away on the bench press, do not try to start small talk just because you happen to be on the bench next to me.  When someone is at the gym, he or she is at work, hard at work.  You do not interrupt work.  

Somehow there are still a number of gym-goers who don’t understand that concept.  Hopefully they will find each other and talk endlessly while they hit the stationary bikes.

Way #3

Flex into the mirror.

This is the most sure-fire way to make zero friends each trip to the gym.  There’s just something about PDN (public displays of narcissism) that turns everyone off.  To the average gym-goer, a nice, fit body is not hard to spot out.  Therefore, there is absolutely no reason for muscular people to flex into the mirror.  Since I can safely assume that the given person owns a mirror, he or she can check his or her body at his or her own home.  The rest of the gym is truly uninterested in the form of your triceps.  The other scenario involves a non-fit person flexing into the mirror which is embarrassing in two ways: (1) the rest of the gym gets to see how not fit you are and (2) the only thing more detestable than narcissism is feigned narcissism.

Way #4

Be noisy.

In a sense, the obnoxious behavior described here ties into Way #3 above.  Anyone willing to scream like a tennis player while finishing a set on the bench press might as well be yelling, “One-thousand-one, one-thousand-two.  Ugh, I’m almost there!  Everyone stop what you’re doing and spot me.  I can’t believe this!”  I think the guys who bench press over 250 pounds can avoid the screaming.  The other common occurrence  of noisy exercising is when someone who naturally groans loudly attempts a challenging workout.  This happens most commonly with women (not to be sexist, men can just keep their mouths shut while they pump iron) who try some kind of anaerobic exercise like a shoulder press.  It would seem that so long as the said person is supporting the weight, she will be making as much noise as she possibly can.  I need not explain how this is embarrassing but I will warn you all against the ultimate mistake here – self-talk.  Do not give yourself encouragement or positive self-talk that others can hear.  I equate this to offering an impromptu reading from your personal diary at a fine Italian restaurant.  You shouldn’t ever do it.

Way #5  -  The last way!

Misunderstand the machine on which you are exercising.

Naturally this error occurs more on some machines than others.  I will demystify the biggest culprit for you my reader(s).  It is called the dip assist.  It’s purpose as you unbelievably clever reader(s) may have decoded is to assist the said person with a triceps dip (your body is held up by your arms which are straightened down holding onto two parallel bars, then you lower yourself via the elbow joint and push back up via the triceps).  This might sound a little challenging to the average American.  And it should, you’re all out of shape.  Just kidding, the dip ASSIST has you in mind.  There is a pad between the two bars on which your knees rest.  The pad is connected to the weight system which pushes up as you push up thus acting as ASSISTance, not resistance.  Somehow, no one figures this out for themselves.  At my gym, I know of three non-employees who understand this machine.  I am one of them.  On about every other trip to the gym, I help some fellow gym member use the dip assist.  The most common mistake on this machine is that the exerciser does not grasp the concept of weight assistance (body weight – selected weight = weight you are pushing up).  This happens most commonly to men over 275 pounds and women under 140 pounds.  The men have a macho complex when they enter the gym.  They are all aware of their size and they therefore convince themselves that they must outperform all the smaller people (the exception being cardio work).  So, when they find themselves facing the daunting task of working the dip assist, they naturally select about 250 lbs. of what they think is resistance.  Then they end up performing sets of near 100 repetitions and are forced to feign fatigue (the bigger ones are horrible actors).  Now the women, their issue is the exact opposite.  My mother defines this category so I have this idiosyncrasy completely figured out.  Because women this size are always timid when in the gym, they select 10 lbs. on every machine, regardless of all other factors.  So when a 140-pound woman hops on the dip assist with 10 lbs. of assistance she is working with 130 lbs., much more weight than the heretofore-mentioned ogre was working with.  Most of the time the woman will quickly notice that she cannot perform the exercise, get off expediently (the weight then clangs loudly, marking her failure), and never again attempt that machine.

 

So dear reader(s), heed my warnings.  Following these steps will prevent injury to the spirit lest that spirit be already damaged.  If you are like me, you want to be the best, you want to excel in every situation and circumstance.  Furthermore, if you are like me, the gym is one place you will not excel.  

Hopefully you are not totally like me.

If you are reading my blog and you have yet to read something written by Tucker Max, you must be my mother.  I think everyone else has at very least heard of him.  I have a close friend who has been trying to turn everyone onto Max’s writing for a year now.  I’m an open-minded person (and really attractive, funny and interesting – girls, call me) so I checked out his wildly successful blog.  I suppose it was funny.  His book is a New York Times best-seller so he must be doing a lot of things right.

(By the way, Tucker, you’re welcome for the free endorsement.  Because this is the best damn advertising you could possibly ask for.  You’re welcome, sir.)

The other day, I decided to go back and look over some of the many columnists, bloggers and writers that I read about a year ago.  It’s a cleansing, cathartic experience for a reader – read what you once read, see where you were, laugh, cry, inevitably you will vomit.  And then I ran into this entry on Max’s site.  

Again, dude you’re so welcome for the publicity.  By the way, I live in Austin, come visit me, we’ll have a few (hundred) beers and make up completely fake sex stories together.  Or maybe we’ll just embellish and exaggerate our own personal sexperiences until they are appealing to 18-year-old boys who feel better about not getting any when they read our awful stories.  That’s right, I said what every other sane person who has read your blog thinks but does not voice.

Max’s retaliatory post is in response to Michael Ian Black’s joke about rigging a fight between him and Max.

When I see this happen, I have to decide between two equally logical conclusions.  First, I can conclude that scrawny, effeminate Black was truly calling Tucker Max out with the intention of fighting him.  Or I can believe that Max, in his take-every-personal-dig-way-too-seriously-because-I-don’t-have-the-wit-to-combat-it-with-words-by-the-way-I’m-badass mindset, salivated at the chance to prove to (probably himself) everyone that he was hard, willing to fight, and a big enough man to make a vow so selfless as, “I promise when I kick your ass, I’ll do my best not to leave any permanent damage.”

Now normally the former sounds like the logical conclusion.  But I, like Max in all of his stories, am lying.

So I snooped around Black’s page a little more to see if I might find a response to Tucker’s over-eager proclamation of an impending fight.  Here, Black posted all of the more entertaining responses to his post on Max.  What I found peculiar, but not surprising was how so many of the people who seemed so in favor of Max had no mastery of the English language.  As word men, (that’s what I call us), Tucker, Michael and I should have only one thing in common, respect for our language.  I hope to God I bear no other similarities to Tucker Max – fortunately I’ll never know because he’ll never post anything truthful about himself.

(Let me clarify that I don’t particularly like Michael Ian Black.  I think he is a comedian who rode a very simple and undeveloped comedic strategy to fame.  I don’t like oversimplification.  I already wrote about that.  Don’t make me write it again.  Okay, I’ll write it again sometime.)

Anyway, of Black’s favorite comments, two of the 20 were grammatically sound.  In only 20 comments, ardent max fans managed to spell “your” when intending “you’re” six different times (they were really cramming) and made some of the most embarrassing arguments for their leader.  One guy claimed Tucker to be the “fucken man”, another fan said that Black would look like a “punk bitch” because he would never fight Max but continued to say of Max, “He’ll kick the shit out of you.”, which I found amazing since they wouldn’t even fight.  I especially enjoyed the horribly personal insult one intellectual used, “douchetard”.  I hope Michael Ian Black is an emotional rock because the last time someone called me a “douchetard” (it was Billy McKenzie in the third grade) I bawled uncontrollably.

But what was so much more embarrassing than the grammar – trust me, in my mind, few things are more embarrassing than poor grammar – was the fact that every single person took the idea of the fight seriously.  Every single person in Max’s corner of the ring was adamant that Tucker would win the fight (as if Black had actually intended to physically fight him) and some of them exhibited a bit of sexual excitement at the prospect of blood, permanent scars and disfigurations.

Tucker Max’s core audience is a stupid one.  They write stupid things.  They think stupid things.  And I will put money on the fact that they, like Max, do stupid things.  These are people who think a guy who “sleeps with more women than is safe or reasonable” is awesome.  Just examine that.  Who would confess that he sleeps with more women than is safe on a platform which can be accessed by 6 billion people?  The not-so-discreet implication in that sentence is that he bangs so many women, he compromises his own health which to me means that he is a cache of STDs.  He takes the idea of sleeping with lots of women too far.  The same way Greg Valentino took ‘roiding too far (I mean, you know I’m down with a little bit of anabolic steroids from time to time, but dear God!)

 

 

Just like screwing five girls a week, constant steroid use is really appealing.

 

 

 

I hope that you, my dear, dear reader(s) – not sure if it is indeed plural – would use English when defending me.  Of course, I’d probably prefer to not get into a childish squabble via blogs to begin with – because I like acting my age, albeit 10 years less than Max’s.

 

I know Tucker Max has read that post.  And I hope he saw the defense he got and started to question the direction his literary career was going.  As a writer, it stands to reason that he would want to appeal to a literate audience.  But hey, he makes the money, right?

Christmas gets me down.  I think a lot of people suffer from the winter bug, euphoric allergies, yuletide flu but the hypochondriac in me tells me that my case must be the worse.

“So why does something so splendid and swell as the holiday season put you in a foul mood, Patrick?”

It’s just that.  It’s the fact that other people would pose questions like that.  Everyone reverts to this obsequious behavior as if the cosmos are more potent during the American holidays and any good deeds will immediately be rewarded by a karmic power that is only seasonally hyperactive.  And so the comment, “Quit bitchin’”, turns into the suspiciously empathetic question posed above.  And, if you know anything about me you know that this kind of change in people upsets me more than the Eva Mendes’ anti-fur poster for PETA.

 

Believe me, I'm all about Eva going naked but did she have to dis fur that way?

Eva’s and my relationship hasn’t been the same since.

The next reason Christmas gets me down is that couples are happy.  That’s not to say that they’re unhappy in every other season, they’re just especially happy during the holidays.  Unfortunately, I am always single during Christmas.  That’s not to say that I’m not single every other season, I’m just especially single around the holidays.

Finally, Christmas is oppressive.  Christmas, by default, forces each and every person to spend ungodly amounts of time with his or her family.  And then, as if by divine coercion, you end up enjoying your family.  See?!  Christmas is like a a benevolent dictator.  And we don’t need Bill O’Reilly’s fine geopolitical wisdom to remind us that dictators favor socialism.  And now that Sarah Palin has become well-versed in economic ideologies, even she could tell us that our free-market system is the exact opposite of socialism.  And we could all take a few words of advice from our dear friend Larry Kudlow, “It is our charge to lead the world toward free-market prosperity.”  Because our way is the right way, dammit!

This conservative name-dropping has made my blood-pressure rise.  So, Barack Obama.

Speaking of our President-elect, my last – and almost overlooked – complaint with the holiday season (this holiday season, rather), is my concern for George W. Bush.  I can imagine him in his office (Crawford, TX, that is) pondering – as only he can – about what his legacy will be.  I mean, sure there’s this fundamentally healthy economy that we’re all so fortunate to have a stake in, this war in which we are simply dominating – takin’ names and kickin’ ass.  And yeah, there’s all the foreign relations progress that W. can really take all the credit for.  But the man needs a legacy, something that will actually be remembered.  If I had the privilege of talking to him, I would propose we bring a family-friendly theme park to Crawford – I hear he is a pro at Roller Coaster Tycoon 3.

 

He calls it "Dubya". He spent much of his first term designing it.