I saw my good friend, Oates, at a Super Bowl party. It had been a long time since I had seen him. He is that guy who gets a girlfriend and then completely disappears, and he has demonstrated that it is a consistent pattern in all three of the committed relationships I have seen him in. Also, he typically likes mean and nasty princess bitch types. You see, Oates can be a little vain. He dresses very nicely, his hair is always styled perfectly with every hair right in place, and he expects the same from the women he chooses. Oates is a great guy, but the problem is, those types of women are sometimes terrible people. When he has one of those girlfriends in his life, he never brings them out around us, and in the rare cases when he does, he acts completely different - not himself.

But on Super Bowl Sunday the one he has been seeing is there, she is a great-looking gal, and she could not be nicer. And Oates was completely acting like good-old-Oates, being himself. There were a lot of babies crawling around the joint, and one of his former ladies would not agree to commit to a baby party. Probably partly out of fear of getting spit-up on her posh clothing (I wanted to use a name brand here, but I have no idea what is nice these days). Oates' lady could not get enough babies, as a matter of fact. She must have held four or five babies through the course of the four quarters, Lady Gaga's bungee jumping halftime performance, and the overtime.

The party was over at my buddy Haircut's place, and Haircut's son who just turned three was examining his foxy patient (Oates' Lady), checking her heart beat (but maybe more to check her boobies?), giving her shots and laughing hysterically, and trying to amputate her toes with a pair of scissors. Haircut said that his boy actually likes the company of pretty ladies. He is no dummy.

At one point I am walking around holding my guy, Baby Erik, sipping my Zombie Dust (that's a beer) and dipping things into crab dip with my spare hand, and I notice Oates' female companion smiling and staring at me. I walked over to the fridge to get a fresh beer, popped it open, looked up, and there she was again gawking at me with that smile. "Dang, Dr. Ken," I thought, "You still got it, you old dog, you." Must have been my new jeans, or maybe those long jogs or all those laps I swam had really payed off. Then it dawned on me that it was what I was holding that was the object of her affection. Baby Erik had charmed another one. I asked Oates' lady if she wanted to hold him, and she jumped off the couch as if she had been waiting forever for me to ask. Waiting for me to catch on that Erik is the cute one.

"Hey, girl. You staring at that line in my fat wrist?"

This kid is quite the charmer, I must say. And Doctor Kenneth and Doctor Haircut's Son both say so.

Anyone ever hear "'Da Butt" by E.U.?  I heard it on my bike ride home from work today and started laughing my ass off at this line: "If you get that notion get your backfield in motion."

I'm going to say something right now: That is singlehandedly the best line ever about American football, booty shaking, or combinations thereof.

The minute I got home I added it to our wedding playlist.  This was a point of contention, but to compromise I'm going to give the d.j. a time to fade it out midway through the song, likely just after that backfield line . . .

Top Secret Coaches For the Flying Fire-Breathing Shark Riding Knights

The fantasy football league that I'm in is 10% so that I can get excited about meaningless plays by random players in insignificant games and 90% to stay in touch with high school friends who all have kids and live in the suburbs.  I rarely hear from some of them, if at all, outside of the emails and message board from the league.  So that's why I do it.

Sometimes people get mad when I won't join their leagues, and I have to explain to them that I hate running the one team, so why on earth would I want to run another?  If this were a bunch of guys from the office and not my good buddies from high school, I would have bowed out a long time ago.

But today I had a stroke of genius: I will make my nephews run my team this season!  This makes perfect sense because . . .

A) During football season it's all I hear these two guys talk about, so they obviously enjoy it more than me.

B) It's a good way to text my nephews and stay in touch with them because sometimes two months or more will go by without me hearing from them.  If we win the whole thing, I'll split the money with them.  And win or lose I'll take them out to some cool arcade place out by where they live that they have been asking me to take them to.  

C) I'm 100% sure they will do a better job at it than me.

(It's finally the year for the Flying Fire-Breathing Shark Riding Knights!)

I told the two of them that they have to switch off weeks managing the team, so when Monday comes around the new manager steps in, and the previous manager can't say anything about any moves being made while he is out - he just has to wait to the following week to see what kind of team he has left after trades and add/drops have been made.  I decided this would be better than a simultaneous managing deal because that would undoubtably lead to the two of them calling each other idiots, getting each other in headlocks, and holding each other down and farting on one another.  And if I'm causing more headaches for my sister who is already working full time as a lawyer, raising three boys, and dealing with a shit-heal ex-husband, then the whole project will be a disaster in my eyes.

Another rule is they can't read the message boards with my friends in the league saying disgusting things.  Okay, so they will end up reading once I've told them not to because they will know some profane stuff will be on there, but they can't under any circumstances tell their mother about any of the jokes they've read.

Keeping it a secret is another trick all together.  There is only one person I can think of who might still check in on this blog on occasion who might come in contact with people in the league, so James Douglas Morrison (JDM), if you're reading this, please keep my Boy Genius plot top secret.

I contacted the two boys this afternoon via text, and the 16-year-old said yes right away.  The seventh grader sent a text back saying, "Sure.  Sounds fun."  Then another text moments later saying "Wait, who is this?"  It's all the more encouraging that he likes this fantasy crap so much that he agreed to do it without even knowing who it is!

This is going to be a fantastic season.  While I'm drinking a cold one on a Sunday game day, I'll be able to text the boys about our players that are kicking butt - and never sending negative stuff because as the prudent team owner, I know that would be bad for my coaches' morale.

Also, for no good tricking reason, here's a picture of Alien playing Predator in a friendly game of pool.

(Pretty sure Alien is drunk because he is drooling.  And the drool is probably acid.  Which will burn its way into the apartment below the bar.)

First Dirty Movie Podcast: Part 1 of 3

In the latest podcast here at The Gancer, Dr. Kenneth Noisewater and his good friends Southie and Dangerous tell the stories about the first pornographic film they ever saw.  It is our contention that right or wrong, no man will forget their first.

In part one of the three part series, Dr. Ken discusses the film he saw as a youngster - a film with a surprisingly decent plot, a dirty scene with a football as a prop, and a break in that leads to a three way as punishment for the would be burglar.

Ken was rather horrified by his first adult film viewing, and you will surprised at how he exacted his revenge upon that lascivious VHS.

Hit play, enjoy, and please share in the comments what you think about it - or share your first experience.

If you were a Bear fan in 1991, then you no doubt still have fond memories of Bears' receiver, Tom Waddle, and his series of unbelievable catches in a playoff game against the Cowboys, catching a series of passes thrown across the middle and getting absolutely creamed over-and-over.   I just watched his highlights again, and the poor guy was slow to get up after some of those hits, looked really woozy and disoriented, and was given smelling salts and sent back out on the field.  He caught what was then a Bear record for receptions with a late fourth quarter touchdown, but he just didn't look excited about it.  In fact, something looked very wrong with him.  As it turns out, he doesn't remember getting that touchdown or anything else that happened in the fourth quarter.

Waddle is a sports radio host here in Chicago, and when the often talked about NFL head injury issue came up, Tom's co host, Mark Silvernman, asked him about the concussions he had during that famous game.  Tom said that he not only forgot that quarter, he scared the hell out of his wife when they were driving to the hospital for tests together and he had no idea who she was.  Despite the fact that Waddle and "Silvy" have worked together for a number of years, seem to be friends, and have no doubt talked about this very game on and off the air numerous times, Silvy admitted on the air today that it's the first time he ever heard that story about him not knowing who his wife was.

Waddle was then asked if knowing what he knows now about traumatic brain injuries and their lifelong effects, if he would take that game back.  He seemed unsure, admitting that it didn't matter that much because they lost the game anyway.  But he did say that at 46-years-old, he can now put his ego aside and admit that the right call is for a doctor to make the call that a player can't return to the field in times like those because now what is important to him is spending time with his wife and kids and being able to have the brain capacity to have the memories of his family's life events.

Today was one of those days where I parked my car but stayed inside to listen to the end of this piece because I was so moved.  Waddle was a hero of mine as a kid.  He was a slow, blond, white guy around 6'1" and 185 pounds.  About the same description as me when I watched him play that game as a kid on my television in Chicago's suburbs, only now I'm an inch taller and afraid to say that I'm a little on the wrong side of 200.  I still idolize his gutsy performance from that playoff game, but like Waddle, now that I'm a little older and wiser, I now see the importance of protecting the players.  The game wasn't that long ago, and just give it a look.  Is there any way in hell in today's game that he would have been allowed to keep getting back onto the field taking those licks and looking the way he did?  I sure hope not.  Yes, I consider him a hero, but I'm also very thankful his brain weren't more damaged, and he still has that wit to make me laugh on my ride home from work in the afternoon.

Terrible Blog Topics Jotted Down at the Bar the Other Night . . .

. . . in no particular order

1. My buddy Night Train was wondering why we have v-necks for better boob viewing when there are clearly two boobs to be seen.  Hence, why not w-neck shirts?  Be looking for that at Banana Republic very soon.

2. My other buddy Southie was talking about the plain-Jane-looking girl on 90210 that worked at the school paper with Brandon, the one that was really like 35-years-old when they started filming, and I thought for sure I heard Southie say "rape through it."  He didn't, but then we said rape through it 19 times through out the evening.  No, rape isn't funny, but the phrase was cracking us up because, well, we know each other well enough to know none of us are rapists.

"Ooh!  I know the phrase for that!"

 3. Well, if you're still reading and not crafting your angry comment lambasting me for the last topic, let me know what you think about the next one: Why is it that Matt or Matthew is such a common name, yet so few Black people are named it?  The Chicago Bears have Matt Forte, but then we were stumped.  Little help?

"You were expecting maybe LaShawn?"

4. We were all agreed that Beyonce is a super crappy choice for the Super Bowl Halftime Show, and there should be more rock bands doing it.  My prediction right here at the Gancer is that it will be the reunited 3/4 of Led Zeppelin playing it next year.  Them or Huey Lewis and the News (fingers crossed).

"Let me know when it is, once again, hip to be square."

 5. How come no one at the bar is skilled in the art of reading lips, but when we see Tom Belichick, coach of the New England Patriots, say "fucking bullshit," we all know exactly what he said?  Everyone knows how to read potty mouth lips!  I guess the lesson here is that if you're worried about someone far away reading your lips but you want to let someone know what you think of them who is in earshot, do so with unconventional disgusting phrases like "purple headed yogurt slinger" or "hatchet wound." 

Kerry King Went and Knocked Up Our Moms

Southie and I were watching professional football at the bar today, and we had one of those days where we kept finishing each others sentences.  At one point I was planning on making the exact same joke as him, but I was taking a sip of beer so he got it off first.  We decided that we must be related, so some awesome dude like Kerry King from Slayer must have knocked up our moms.  He would have been in his early teens before rock stardom, but I think he may have gotten it done, like maybe he was sent to boarding schools in Boston and Chicago when he was getting in too much trouble growing up in L.A.

Here is our dad with the guitar player from Megadeth in a name that tune competition in Japan.  And why does Marty Friedman speak perfect Japanese? 

Another Damn Bar Tale?

Last night after watching the Chicago Bears lose in terrible touchdown-less fashion, Oates, HLP, Cliff, and myself went to another bar for a few nightcaps.  We started getting friendly with some girls who were in there, and I remember putting on one girls' sweatshirt that was really snug on me and had glitter.  I like that feeling of tight clothes clinging tightly to me, like I'm getting a prolonged hug, so I just left it on for an hour or so like a total jackass.

For some reason, perhaps because a Michael Jackson song came on, another chick in there said she could do the moonwalk perfectly.  I expressed my doubt that she could, so we agreed that if it was good, I would buy her a drink.  She took her shoes off and did a pretty crappy, white moonwalk for a few of us to see.  I told her I was not that impressed because when Michael did it, it was faster and it looked like he was levitating, and when he did it for the first time at the Grammy's, we all lost our minds.  So, she yelled at me, said I was just some idiot in a girls' sweatshirt, and I'm pretty sure she called me a fag.  So, I just laughed my ass off at how angry she got over a stupid moonwalk, and that just made her more mad.

It should have looked a hell of a lot more like this:

 

Grand Dragon Terry

Yesterday while I was at the bar watching American football, my friends with smart phones (mine is dumb) knew the very moment when Terry Bradshaw said that the black Miami running back, Reggie Bush, looked like he was chasing a bucket of chicken.  Terry claims that it was a running joke about his white co-host Jimmy Johnson who loves fried chicken.  The problem is, nobody knows that inside joke, so Terry comes off like a hillbilly racist.

Terry is an idiot.  He isn't funny and he has no tact.  How can you not know that when you make a fried chicken reference about a black guy, you're going to piss people off?  The good news is that his idiocy gave us a lot of laughs at the bar.  And I was laughing through all 3 waitresses that I went through.  Yes.  I closed out 3 tabs - that's how much football and beer I consumed.  Don't think I had any fried chicken, but maybe I did. Long day.

Forever Awesome

I was over at HLP Uncle's place, and he does these them parties on Sundays based on the cuisine of the apposing city of which the Chicago Bears are playing.  For example, if the Bears are playing New England, you got your clam chowder, Boston baked beans, maybe some Sam Adams.  I suggested that we go a whole different direction and have a Forever Lazy party.  You will notice in the commercial below at around 38 seconds where they suggest you "party it up with friends" and the dudes are getting all amped up in their onesie jammies, hollering at the television as if they don't look like dorks or about to have a big man-cuddling festival.  They also have a part at 1:07 where they think it would not be idiotic to go to ballgame in the Lazies where you will be the "talk of the next tailgate."  Oh, they would talk about you . . .



I want to put this to the test and watch the game with some buddies in some fuzzy PJ's.  Another guest on Sunday asked how we would pee in those things.  I'm way ahead of them.  We simply have to make it a Forever Lazy/Stadium Pal Party.  That way we could just pee away without having to unzip our pajamas or miss any snaps.  And, they make Stadium Gal so that we can invite ladies too (as if any would want anything to do with this)!

Getting enough interest in this will probably prove difficult, so I guess my dream of attaching a catheter to my penis and zipping up a furry outfit for a day of NFL football and chips and dips will remain a dream.  A fuzzy pee pee dream . . . 
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It dawned on me midway through this update that I already did a post about Forever Lazy right over here.  Oh well.  This adds a new element, I think.