Thursday, September 30, 2004
Fun And Loving In Las Vegas (Ok, St. George Too) - Part I
As many of you know, I spent last weekend in St. George, Utah playing softball. I had been looking forward to this trip for nearly three months, and I was very jacked up when last Thursday rolled around. The plane flight to Vegas was uneventful. We arrived there around 8:15 p.m. By the time all 13 of us got our luggage and rental car, it was 10:00 p.m. Nobody had eaten dinner. So, we all decide to head to Hooters, mainly because half of the team had never been there before.
After driving past the Strip (my first Vegas interaction - it looks like a fucking cartoon at night from I-15), we get off the highway at Sahara and proceed, well, I’m not sure which way we proceed because I was all fucking turned around the whole time I was there. I mean, when I’m here in Portland, I know which direction I’m going at all times. All I have to do is figure out where the river is and I can tell. For some reason, Vegas was like some weird black hole that rendered my internal manly compass inoperable. Musta been all the free porn that was available. Fuck, I love porn (not necessarily in that order). Anyhoo, we get off of I-15 and turn left on Sahara and drive. And drive. And drive. Now when I talked to the ass hat of a manager they had, he said that you get onto Sahara and you drive about a mile and they’re on the left hand side. Well, three miles later we still don’t see it. Finally at mile 3.8, there it is, Hooters Las Vegas. I’m so looking forward to this because all I’ve heard from everyone I’ve talked with about Vegas is how many hot women there are. They made it sound like wherever you turn, you’re going to bump into a pair of silicone boobies, or a Pamela Anderson lookalike, or a Chicken Ranch extra (all of the above being my ultimate goal), or....where was I again? Oh right, Hooters. Well, let’s just say I’m expecting some of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen to be running around, breasts heaving, boooo-tay bouncing up and down whilst they’re catering to my chicken wing and beer needs. Mmmmm, wings and beer. Let’s just say that I was disappointed and leave it at that. I really think I need to go to therapy because of this. It’s so bad that I find it hard to write about it. Besides the fact that I was so hungry that I was nauseous, besides the fact that I had a migraine headache by the time we got there, besides the fact that I couldn’t even fathom drinking a beer because of said nausea and headache, the waitresses there weren’t that hot and not that bright. This was a real shock to me because every Hooters I’ve ever been to (and I’ve been to a lot of them, hell, I used to play for Hooters in Florida), the women were beautiful, intelligent and friendly. Hooters Las Vegas was the equivalent of whatever second or third tier strip club you have in your neighborhood. Needless to say, this was not a good start.
We finally get done at Hooters around 11:30 and we all pile in our respective vehicles to head 130 miles down the road to St. George, UT. First of all, it’s an hour ahead in St. George, so it’s really 12:30 a.m. Second of all, my disappointing experience at Hooters did nothing to dull my headache or satiate my appetite, since I could only manage to choke down five wings and a glass of water.
We migrate back up Sahara to I-15 and head north (although it really seemed like we were going east to me). Once out of Vegas, the speed limit jumps from 55 to 75, so like any intelligent, exhausted, headache-ridden, overly hungry man will do, I set the cruise on 90, while the four teammates (whose lives I had in my hands) proceeded to fall asleep.
Let me tell you, not only is there abso-fucking-lutely nothing in between Vegas and Mesquite, Nevada, it is daaaaaaarrrrrrkkkkkk. I don’t mean a little dim. I don’t mean it’s semi-dark. I mean it’s pitch fucking black. You can only see what your headlights illuminate. You can’t see anything to your right or left (there's nothing like doing 90 when you're nauseous, have a headache, are ready to fall asleep and you can only see sights about 100' in front of you). Nothing. It’s also very straight. And boring. You really can’t tell how fast you’re going. About an hour into the trip one of the female passengers wakes up from a dead-assed sleep to announce that she has to go to the bathroom. Yes, a pitcher of beer will make you have to pee. There’s nowhere to go. I haven’t seen a rest area or an exit since leaving Vegas. I ask her if she can hold it. Note to self, never again ask a female if they can hold it. Further, don’t ask if they need a cork or something to plug it up. Bottom line was that she had to go NOW! Ok, as luck would have it, there was an exit about ten miles down the road. I wasn’t pulling off to the side on an interstate where you can’t see anything and people attempt to set land-speed records. After bitching and yelling at me (in which she insulted my intelligence, driving ability and penis size) for ten miles, we finally reach the exit in question. We pull off and we may not be in the middle of nowhere, but we can probably see it from where we’re sitting. There’s nothing, just a road. I pull over onto the shoulder while all four of my passengers dart out of the van, heading for the sagebrush. I found it very fun to yell things like, "watch out for rattlesnakes, they love the smell of urine" and "I think I saw that bush behind you move" while three or four women were attempting to squat and pee. I was glad that I was in the safety of my van. Seems that not being able to drink had paid off at last. I hope never to find another circumstance where that is true.
As my relieved teammates pile back into the van, they once again hurl a bunch of derogatory comments in my direction. If I weren’t so confident in Thor, I would have developed a penis complex by now. Once back on the freeway, my teammates are out once again, leaving me to the dark, lonely road all by myself. I kept myself awake (barely) by blasting Metallica, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Godsmack for the rest of the trip. How everyone slept through it, I’ll never know.
We arrived at the hotel in St. George at 2:30 a.m. Thus ending the day which started for me at 4:30 a.m. the previous morning because I was so excited to get the fuck out of town for the weekend. Once we got checked in, we went to our rooms and I passed out while my roommates drank and blasted Metallica, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Godsmack. We haven’t even played ball yet and I’m completely exhausted.
Stay tuned.
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After driving past the Strip (my first Vegas interaction - it looks like a fucking cartoon at night from I-15), we get off the highway at Sahara and proceed, well, I’m not sure which way we proceed because I was all fucking turned around the whole time I was there. I mean, when I’m here in Portland, I know which direction I’m going at all times. All I have to do is figure out where the river is and I can tell. For some reason, Vegas was like some weird black hole that rendered my internal manly compass inoperable. Musta been all the free porn that was available. Fuck, I love porn (not necessarily in that order). Anyhoo, we get off of I-15 and turn left on Sahara and drive. And drive. And drive. Now when I talked to the ass hat of a manager they had, he said that you get onto Sahara and you drive about a mile and they’re on the left hand side. Well, three miles later we still don’t see it. Finally at mile 3.8, there it is, Hooters Las Vegas. I’m so looking forward to this because all I’ve heard from everyone I’ve talked with about Vegas is how many hot women there are. They made it sound like wherever you turn, you’re going to bump into a pair of silicone boobies, or a Pamela Anderson lookalike, or a Chicken Ranch extra (all of the above being my ultimate goal), or....where was I again? Oh right, Hooters. Well, let’s just say I’m expecting some of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen to be running around, breasts heaving, boooo-tay bouncing up and down whilst they’re catering to my chicken wing and beer needs. Mmmmm, wings and beer. Let’s just say that I was disappointed and leave it at that. I really think I need to go to therapy because of this. It’s so bad that I find it hard to write about it. Besides the fact that I was so hungry that I was nauseous, besides the fact that I had a migraine headache by the time we got there, besides the fact that I couldn’t even fathom drinking a beer because of said nausea and headache, the waitresses there weren’t that hot and not that bright. This was a real shock to me because every Hooters I’ve ever been to (and I’ve been to a lot of them, hell, I used to play for Hooters in Florida), the women were beautiful, intelligent and friendly. Hooters Las Vegas was the equivalent of whatever second or third tier strip club you have in your neighborhood. Needless to say, this was not a good start.
We finally get done at Hooters around 11:30 and we all pile in our respective vehicles to head 130 miles down the road to St. George, UT. First of all, it’s an hour ahead in St. George, so it’s really 12:30 a.m. Second of all, my disappointing experience at Hooters did nothing to dull my headache or satiate my appetite, since I could only manage to choke down five wings and a glass of water.
We migrate back up Sahara to I-15 and head north (although it really seemed like we were going east to me). Once out of Vegas, the speed limit jumps from 55 to 75, so like any intelligent, exhausted, headache-ridden, overly hungry man will do, I set the cruise on 90, while the four teammates (whose lives I had in my hands) proceeded to fall asleep.
Let me tell you, not only is there abso-fucking-lutely nothing in between Vegas and Mesquite, Nevada, it is daaaaaaarrrrrrkkkkkk. I don’t mean a little dim. I don’t mean it’s semi-dark. I mean it’s pitch fucking black. You can only see what your headlights illuminate. You can’t see anything to your right or left (there's nothing like doing 90 when you're nauseous, have a headache, are ready to fall asleep and you can only see sights about 100' in front of you). Nothing. It’s also very straight. And boring. You really can’t tell how fast you’re going. About an hour into the trip one of the female passengers wakes up from a dead-assed sleep to announce that she has to go to the bathroom. Yes, a pitcher of beer will make you have to pee. There’s nowhere to go. I haven’t seen a rest area or an exit since leaving Vegas. I ask her if she can hold it. Note to self, never again ask a female if they can hold it. Further, don’t ask if they need a cork or something to plug it up. Bottom line was that she had to go NOW! Ok, as luck would have it, there was an exit about ten miles down the road. I wasn’t pulling off to the side on an interstate where you can’t see anything and people attempt to set land-speed records. After bitching and yelling at me (in which she insulted my intelligence, driving ability and penis size) for ten miles, we finally reach the exit in question. We pull off and we may not be in the middle of nowhere, but we can probably see it from where we’re sitting. There’s nothing, just a road. I pull over onto the shoulder while all four of my passengers dart out of the van, heading for the sagebrush. I found it very fun to yell things like, "watch out for rattlesnakes, they love the smell of urine" and "I think I saw that bush behind you move" while three or four women were attempting to squat and pee. I was glad that I was in the safety of my van. Seems that not being able to drink had paid off at last. I hope never to find another circumstance where that is true.
As my relieved teammates pile back into the van, they once again hurl a bunch of derogatory comments in my direction. If I weren’t so confident in Thor, I would have developed a penis complex by now. Once back on the freeway, my teammates are out once again, leaving me to the dark, lonely road all by myself. I kept myself awake (barely) by blasting Metallica, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Godsmack for the rest of the trip. How everyone slept through it, I’ll never know.
We arrived at the hotel in St. George at 2:30 a.m. Thus ending the day which started for me at 4:30 a.m. the previous morning because I was so excited to get the fuck out of town for the weekend. Once we got checked in, we went to our rooms and I passed out while my roommates drank and blasted Metallica, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Godsmack. We haven’t even played ball yet and I’m completely exhausted.
Stay tuned.
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Monday, September 20, 2004
Hy-8-Us
Well, we got a trial coming up in two weeks and I'm going to St. George, Utah on Thursday to play in a national softball tournament. Unfortunately, something has to be put on hold. That something is my blog. I'll be back next Tuesday, hopefully with the tale of how I played on a(nother) team that won a national championship.
Until then, miss me much!!
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Until then, miss me much!!
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Wednesday, September 15, 2004
And The Bunghole Of The Week Award Goes To...
Frank Francisco, Pitcher, Texas Rangers
Mr. Francisco hurled a chair into the stands in Oakland on Monday night breaking a woman's nose and cutting up her face. I guess his wittle ego couldn’t take a few mean words from some drunken fans. There are reports that nobody cussed at this dolt. Nobody spit on him or threw things either. Hell, he wasn’t even the one being heckled when he flipped out.
When asked to comment on the subject, he said, "No puede," which means "I can’t" in Spanish. I fucking looooove when people use their ‘selective language’ abilities. He must be able to understand and speak English because he wouldn’t have gotten upset at the heckling (that wasn’t directed at him), so he can’t fucking say "I can’t" in English when asked for a comment? Dickhead.
His manager, Buck Showalter, is standing behind his actions by spouting off that "[we] told Oakland officials that we need more security down near our bullpen area and they did nothing about it." Oakland officials say they never received a request. Regardless, there is NO excuse for throwing a chair into the crowd. Ever. What if it would have hit a little kid or a baby? If it would have hit me or MY kid, I’d fucking own the Texas Rangers when all was said and done. They’d have to change the name of The Ballpark at Arlington to JP’s Big Ol’ Fuckin’ Baseball Yard.
Texas is also saying stuff like "something needs to be done about unruly fans. They think that they can come out to the park and say whatever they want with no repercussions." Is the beef getting to their brains? Did the steer in Texas contract mad cow disease or something? I got news for the Rangers’ organization, the fans pay your players' fucking salaries. They’ve earned the right to heckle. Try teaching your players to act PROFESSIONALLY and let it roll off their backs. If they’re physically attacked, that’s a different story, but verbally? Puhleeze. These guys are making MILLIONS to play a GAME. If it were me, talk all the shit you want. Go ahead, I dare you to try to upset me. I’ll just take comfort in the fact that when the game has ended, you’re going home to your double-wide to bang your triple-wide while I’m going home to my mansion in the suburbs to bang my golddigging hottie model girlfriend that can suck a golf ball through a garden hose.
Senor Francisco, I hope you’re suspended for the rest of this year and all of next year without pay. Go back to the Dominican Republic and get a job making 35 cents a week sewing shit together for Nike and then see if your little tryout for the WWE on Monday night was worth it.
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Mr. Francisco hurled a chair into the stands in Oakland on Monday night breaking a woman's nose and cutting up her face. I guess his wittle ego couldn’t take a few mean words from some drunken fans. There are reports that nobody cussed at this dolt. Nobody spit on him or threw things either. Hell, he wasn’t even the one being heckled when he flipped out.
When asked to comment on the subject, he said, "No puede," which means "I can’t" in Spanish. I fucking looooove when people use their ‘selective language’ abilities. He must be able to understand and speak English because he wouldn’t have gotten upset at the heckling (that wasn’t directed at him), so he can’t fucking say "I can’t" in English when asked for a comment? Dickhead.
His manager, Buck Showalter, is standing behind his actions by spouting off that "[we] told Oakland officials that we need more security down near our bullpen area and they did nothing about it." Oakland officials say they never received a request. Regardless, there is NO excuse for throwing a chair into the crowd. Ever. What if it would have hit a little kid or a baby? If it would have hit me or MY kid, I’d fucking own the Texas Rangers when all was said and done. They’d have to change the name of The Ballpark at Arlington to JP’s Big Ol’ Fuckin’ Baseball Yard.
Texas is also saying stuff like "something needs to be done about unruly fans. They think that they can come out to the park and say whatever they want with no repercussions." Is the beef getting to their brains? Did the steer in Texas contract mad cow disease or something? I got news for the Rangers’ organization, the fans pay your players' fucking salaries. They’ve earned the right to heckle. Try teaching your players to act PROFESSIONALLY and let it roll off their backs. If they’re physically attacked, that’s a different story, but verbally? Puhleeze. These guys are making MILLIONS to play a GAME. If it were me, talk all the shit you want. Go ahead, I dare you to try to upset me. I’ll just take comfort in the fact that when the game has ended, you’re going home to your double-wide to bang your triple-wide while I’m going home to my mansion in the suburbs to bang my golddigging hottie model girlfriend that can suck a golf ball through a garden hose.
Senor Francisco, I hope you’re suspended for the rest of this year and all of next year without pay. Go back to the Dominican Republic and get a job making 35 cents a week sewing shit together for Nike and then see if your little tryout for the WWE on Monday night was worth it.
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Tuesday, September 14, 2004
I'm In Love!!
With apologies to Jamie and Bunsen (and all the other females that read this blog), I’m here to tell everyone that I have fallen head-over-heels, ass-over-teakettle in love. The object of my affection, you ask? This would be her
Jennifer, because I know you’re reading this, I love you. If you give me a chance, you’ll see that I’m a normal, semi-good looking, funny guy that will make you happier than any boy toy you’ll ever find. I’ll be true to you forever. Always. You’ll never have to worry about where I am, as I’ll be right beside you every step of the way. (Guy talk translation: you're a super hot chick and I fantasize about doing you about 10,000 times a day, I don't care if you're smart, I don't care if you're a nice person, I just want to fuck your brains out for the next 10 years - or until you get fat, whichever comes first).
Then again, if you just want to throw me a pity fuck, I’d be up for that too.
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Jennifer, because I know you’re reading this, I love you. If you give me a chance, you’ll see that I’m a normal, semi-good looking, funny guy that will make you happier than any boy toy you’ll ever find. I’ll be true to you forever. Always. You’ll never have to worry about where I am, as I’ll be right beside you every step of the way. (Guy talk translation: you're a super hot chick and I fantasize about doing you about 10,000 times a day, I don't care if you're smart, I don't care if you're a nice person, I just want to fuck your brains out for the next 10 years - or until you get fat, whichever comes first).
Then again, if you just want to throw me a pity fuck, I’d be up for that too.
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Thursday, September 09, 2004
An Axe To Grind
RIDGEFIELD, WASH. - A Ridgefield, Washington, man faces assault charges after trying to circumcise his eight-year-old son with a kitchen knife.
The boy had to get several stitches, after his father called 911 because the child was bleeding so much.
Thirty-three-year-old Edwin Baxter appeared in Clark County Court yesterday. Baxter could get ten years in prison.
Baxter says he was inspired to do the circumcision after reading the Bible.
Baxter lives with his wife and nine children in a two bedroom rental home. Baxter was once convicted of domestic violence in 1993.
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I’m having trouble comprehending this news story. Seriously, I need help here.
What the fuck?! Dude wanted to perform a circumcision on his son with a kitchen knife after reading the Bible? Wow. After reading this news story, I want to perform a vasectomy on this son of a bitch with a dull axe.
Then there's the fact that this chromosome deficient motherfucker is 33, has 9 kids and lives in a 2 bedroom rental house. How do 11 people live in a fucking 2 bedroom house?
I wonder where the other kids were when this was going on. I mean, the 8 year old has to be one of the oldest he has, if he's 33. Maybe they were still trying to untangle themselves from the previous night's sleep.
What about the mom, you ask? Well, my guess is that the domestic violence conviction in 1993 has something to do with it. Call me crazy.
Seriously, 10 years is not enough. If we were talking 10 years, a total dick removal and him having to give his 8 year old son every cent of his income from now until the end of time, which should buy him a dinner at Subway, then we'd have a good place to start.
I'm telling you, licenses to have a kid. Would weed all the dumbasses out. Why has nobody thought of this? Seriously, let's line up all these dumbass trailer trash fucks and get the job done - just post a sign saying "Free Booze Giveaway Today" and you're bound to attract all of em and then some.
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The boy had to get several stitches, after his father called 911 because the child was bleeding so much.
Thirty-three-year-old Edwin Baxter appeared in Clark County Court yesterday. Baxter could get ten years in prison.
Baxter says he was inspired to do the circumcision after reading the Bible.
Baxter lives with his wife and nine children in a two bedroom rental home. Baxter was once convicted of domestic violence in 1993.
________
I’m having trouble comprehending this news story. Seriously, I need help here.
What the fuck?! Dude wanted to perform a circumcision on his son with a kitchen knife after reading the Bible? Wow. After reading this news story, I want to perform a vasectomy on this son of a bitch with a dull axe.
Then there's the fact that this chromosome deficient motherfucker is 33, has 9 kids and lives in a 2 bedroom rental house. How do 11 people live in a fucking 2 bedroom house?
I wonder where the other kids were when this was going on. I mean, the 8 year old has to be one of the oldest he has, if he's 33. Maybe they were still trying to untangle themselves from the previous night's sleep.
What about the mom, you ask? Well, my guess is that the domestic violence conviction in 1993 has something to do with it. Call me crazy.
Seriously, 10 years is not enough. If we were talking 10 years, a total dick removal and him having to give his 8 year old son every cent of his income from now until the end of time, which should buy him a dinner at Subway, then we'd have a good place to start.
I'm telling you, licenses to have a kid. Would weed all the dumbasses out. Why has nobody thought of this? Seriously, let's line up all these dumbass trailer trash fucks and get the job done - just post a sign saying "Free Booze Giveaway Today" and you're bound to attract all of em and then some.
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Wednesday, September 01, 2004
When Does It Happen?
Seriously. When?
Let me explain. I’ve been watching the Little League World Series. Absolutely love this event. I wait for it every year. Those little dudes are amazing. Anyhow, before the first inning of each game, the announcers introduce the players and then tell a little something about them. For example, the announcer will say something like, "Here’s Benjamin Stevens playing Left Field. His favorite food is pizza and he wants to be a professional football player when he grows up." I love that shit. Absolutely eat that shit up. They go through each of the players, one by one, and they name off what they want to be when they grow up - policeman, baseball player, doctor, vet, fireman, etc. It’s the same with most every kid you ask. They all have a dream to be something great. They want to DO something with their lives. So my question is this - When does the fucking dream die? When? I never wanted to be a paralegal when I was growing up. I never wanted to be stuck behind a desk 45 hours a week. I was the one that wanted to be a baseball player growing up. Or a policeman. Or a fireman. Or something COOL! Not a paralegal. Hell, when I was growing up, there were no paralegals (even if there were, who the fuck would WANT to be that, like that was the best they could do? Shit, why not just be a proctologist? - you're up to your eyeballs in it either way).
I can’t put my finger on when it happened. When the dream died. I do know that it had to have been in high school sometime. Not enough parental guidance and nary a lick of drive to make it happen. Maybe I just wasn’t "man" enough to live my dream. I dunno. I do know that this is NOT my dream job and I only get one chance to do something with my life.
What did YOU want to be when you were little? What happened? If you are one of the few that are living their dream, congrats! I applaud you. As a matter of fact, I’m in absolute awe of you.
Lucky motherfucker!
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Let me explain. I’ve been watching the Little League World Series. Absolutely love this event. I wait for it every year. Those little dudes are amazing. Anyhow, before the first inning of each game, the announcers introduce the players and then tell a little something about them. For example, the announcer will say something like, "Here’s Benjamin Stevens playing Left Field. His favorite food is pizza and he wants to be a professional football player when he grows up." I love that shit. Absolutely eat that shit up. They go through each of the players, one by one, and they name off what they want to be when they grow up - policeman, baseball player, doctor, vet, fireman, etc. It’s the same with most every kid you ask. They all have a dream to be something great. They want to DO something with their lives. So my question is this - When does the fucking dream die? When? I never wanted to be a paralegal when I was growing up. I never wanted to be stuck behind a desk 45 hours a week. I was the one that wanted to be a baseball player growing up. Or a policeman. Or a fireman. Or something COOL! Not a paralegal. Hell, when I was growing up, there were no paralegals (even if there were, who the fuck would WANT to be that, like that was the best they could do? Shit, why not just be a proctologist? - you're up to your eyeballs in it either way).
I can’t put my finger on when it happened. When the dream died. I do know that it had to have been in high school sometime. Not enough parental guidance and nary a lick of drive to make it happen. Maybe I just wasn’t "man" enough to live my dream. I dunno. I do know that this is NOT my dream job and I only get one chance to do something with my life.
What did YOU want to be when you were little? What happened? If you are one of the few that are living their dream, congrats! I applaud you. As a matter of fact, I’m in absolute awe of you.
Lucky motherfucker!
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