Catching Tiger by His Tale

Thanksgiving is football.  It's as plain and simple as that.  It's the time of year that we can escape from the wuss sports - namely baseball and golf. 

Except this weekend, this year.

Across every TV in the bar, non-stop, scrolls the sound bite-sized story of Tiger Woods' "serious" car accident.  C'mon, give me a break.  He gets in a car accident and has some cuts to his lips?  Let's all take a deep breath, gather our composure, and cancel the planned candle-light vigil. 

Toward the end of yesterday, news broke that Tiger and his wife/"rescuer," Elin, declined a police interview investigating the accident.  Saturday, they played the same card, asking the police to please return on Sunday.

WTF?

I'm just imagining me getting in a car accident at 2:30 am, being found laying in the street "slipping into and out of consciousness," and trying to tell the police to please come back in a couple of days to ask me what happened.  Its says right here, if you're not a celebrity in our celebrity-crazed society, you're quickly two fingers into a full body cavity search down at the precinct before you can utter the words, "Miranda rights."

I'm interested in Tiger's tale, whenever he chooses to tell it.  First, how the hell do you get in an accident pulling out of your driveway?  How fast do you have to be peeling out of your driveway to lose control, bounce off a fire hydrant, and slam into a tree hard enough to 1) knock yourself "in and out of conciousness," 2) make a sound loud enough to alert your wife inside your mansion, and 3) require said wife to break the rear window with a golf club in order to rescue you? 

That tale outlined above?  Iimpossible, of course.  Rather, I will suggest the story will undoubtedly be the age-old story, told many times over the history of mankind.  It goes something like this:  Rich man meets hot nanny who works for a competitor.  Rich man marries beautiful woman, and has a rich, beautiful kid.  Rich man goes on a trip and end ups meeting another hot woman (or two).  Somehow the wife finds out, and confronts him.  Rich man tries to escape in his car.  Beautiful wife chases him with golf club.  Rich man wrecks car.  Beautiful wife clocks him with golf club. 

All I'm saying is that this Tiger Tale is building toward one huge divorce settlement, and should keep the tabloids busy long enough for them to forget how to spell "Lindsay Lohan."

Now, if you'll please pardon me - I need to get back to this one last gimlet before me and the boys head out to re-enact "the accident."  First stop, Las Vegas and the other women.

Backfiring the Fox News Boycott

A great thing about modern bars is the ubiquitous nature of WIFI connections.  Like a double tall, non-fat latte, you can get one on every corner.

Just now "stumbled upon" an interesting web page.  It's from the MoveOn Organization - "Democracy in Action."  Yeah, yeah, blah, blah.  Anyway, it's an online petition to sign that encourages President Obama to continue his boycott of Fox News.

Dudes, I think they're on to something.  Let's start a petition that asks every politician to boycott ALL networks.  We'd never have to see the lying bastards again!

Brilliant!

By the way, I signed the petition and left a comment asking them to keep Obama off all the networks.  Something tells me not to answer any knocks on the door at home.

Putting the Fun Back Into "Fun Sized"

October brings two things of cultural significance. One, is Octoberfest, and a great reason to get together and eat, drink, and be obnoxious. The other, of course, is Halloween, a great reason to get together and eat, drink, and be obnoxious, only this time wearing a goofy costume.

Remember trick or treating and stumbling across the "holy grail" - full-sized candy bars? It was paradise found, and you quickly circled to see if you could get to the house for a repeat visit before the bucket was empty and the front porch light turned off.

All too familiar were the little "fun size" bars. You know, the little bitty candy bars. I hated those damn things. Who said they were "fun" anyway? Fun, we all know, was full-sized. It's like that for everything, including candy. Especially candy.

But, now there's an option even smaller than "fun size." I don't think there's a name for it. It's just these little, tiny mini-bites. Not even a single serving. Taking a blind taste test, you might not even have a big enough bite to discern exactly what candy bar you're almost tasting. The only good thing about the little bites is that it makes the crappy little "fun size" way more palatable in comparison.

So, that's what it took to position "fun size" in a more favorable light.

There's a lot of things that makes being a kid better today than in years past - PlayStation 3, mobile phones, ubiquitous pizza delivery, etc. Little tiny packages of candy ain't one of 'em.

The Week's Sign of the Apocalypse

Turning the pages of the "news" paper this morning, I saw the following:

Kim Kardashian will receive $50,000 for celebrating her 29th birthday in Las Vegas.

Are you shitting me?

Now, a disclaimer: the source article is a scoop from the New York Post, which isn't exactly the bedrock of journalistic integrity. I wouldn't be sruprised if it was nothing more than an "ad" placed by some scum bag publicist to garner more attention for a person who seems to be a professional at garnering attention for no reason of any social significance.

Of course, it's true. You can feel it in the fiber of your soul, can't you?

Kim gets her ridiculous bounty for placing her also ridiculous booty in theoft-too trendy Tao nighclub in the Venetian Hotel. We, as civilized members of society, are called upon to rise up and do something about this nonsense. Dr. Ray's Rx for the cultural revolution includes:

• Join me in boycotting the Venetian and Tao. I frequent Vegas on occasion, and while they won't miss my hundreds on the gaming tables, collectively, they might miss our thousands. Who am I kidding? they won't miss us. But, the Venetian, as pretty as it is, sucks anyways. If you want to go to Venice, go to the real Venice - it might even be less expensive. As for Vegas, all the fun is on the other side, and other end, of the street. As for Tao, my shoes are never nice enought to get in, so it's not like I have to change my behavior. If you're reading this, my guess is you won'thave to either.
• Now for the more, er, delicate step. Everyone in attendance - particularly the nobodies who paid a huge cover just to get in the same party with pooper princess Kim - needs to be "fixed." No, not rehabilitated, as there is no effective manner of rehabilitation for celebutard ass kissing or jock sniffing (the two are often interlocked as one debilitating illness). By fixed, I mean sterilized. It's not eugenics, it's common sense. We don't need more ignorance and vanity in the gene pool.

There you have it, a quick two-step fix to begin to get our society back on the fast track to the right track. The next step is one I take alone - kicking Spencer Pratt's ass in a cage fight.

Join me brothers and sisters - the cultural revolution continues!

Sound the battle cry on Twitter @RayHartjen

Hungry for More

The other day, I was hungry, and, it sucked. Bad. I mean, I was starving. To the point it felt like my stomach was trying to eat itself.

Mind you, it was 5:00 pm, less than a handful of hours after I had eaten lunch. I don't know, maybe I ate a slightly smaller lunch. Or, maybe I napped less and burned more energy in the afternoon. Regardless, I was hungry and unhappy.

Of course, I wasn't really hungry at all. Four hours removed from a meal doesn't exactly qualify as hunger. There would be no telethon in my honor.

How much would it suck to really be hungry? I'm talking haven't-eaten-anything-in-days type of hunger. You know, like hundreds of millions of people on our planet.

This afternoon, I heard a talking head on NPR talk about the suffering we've been doing during this global recession. I took a quick glance around. Road clogged with luxury imports? Check. Starbucks on the corner full of people getting $3 coffees? Check. Every person in site tweeting on a smart phone? Check. Going home to a house not made of mud and hay? Check.

I guess suffering means having to cut back your Starbucks intake from 18 a week to 15. Hey, bring your own mug, you can even save a dime!

"They" say the economy is improving. I don't know. Just in case, I'm going to hedge my bets. Less food, more drinking. That way, if it doesn't turn around, I won't really give a shit.

Plus, I think I wear that long-hair, unshaven, drunken, broken, tortured-artist-soul look well too. With any luck, the chicks will dig it.

Look what it did for Kurt Cobain. Except for the whole suicide part, that is.

Gonna to have to get more used to those hunger pains.

Follow the party on Twitter @RayHartjen

A Fish Story of a Different Sort

One night, a couple of decades ago, I'm sitting in a bar in Media, PA, a suburb or Philadelphia, drinking a bunch of cold ones with my friends Lisa, Bill, and Bobby. The door opens, and a guy walks in carrying a 4-5 foot long alligator.

The bartender says, "Yo, you can't have that reptile in here. You twos got to leave."

The guy says, "This animal is completely domesticated. He's as tame as a guide dog, for chrissakes. If I can prove to you he's safe, can he stay?"

Bartender shrugs and says, "What do you have in mind?"

The guy orders a pint of Guinness and places his alligator on the bar, directly across from us on the other side. As the bartender slides over his draft, the guy drops his pants and barks to his alligator, "Open!"

The alligator then opens his mouth wide. This guy proceeds to put his balls in the alligator's mouth, resting right on his tongue - an honest to goodness teabag. He then casually drinks his Guinness, like nothing's going on.

We're staring, absolutely speechless.

After about ten minutes, after he's finished his pint, he pulls his junk out of the gator's mouth, pulls up his pants, then orders the gator, "Close," to which the alligator promptly closes his jaws.

"See that? Perfectly trained, perfectly safe," says the guy. The bartender nods and says, "You're right - you both can stay."

With that, the guy looks over at us four and days, "I noticed you all watching. Any of you want to give it a try."

My drunken friend Bill starts to speak, but Bobby puts his hand up and interrupts him.

Bobby takes one more sip of beer and says, "I'm willing to give it a try, but I'm so drunk I might not be able to keep my mouth open that long."

Not all types, but both types

Overheard regarding a break up – “Hey, there’re all types of girls.”

Whoa. Back up.

Philosophically and ideologically, yes, there are all sorts of girls. But, women, there’s a bit of a secret here, and I think I’m safely in the brotherhood by sharing it – it’s not like it’s a classified secret or anything: For heterosexual men, there are really only two types of women.
1. Those you would
2. Those you wouldn’t

Of course, every so often a non-thinking Neanderthal will propose a third – Those you did. Un uh. Not here. This guy will argue that “Those you did” are, in fact, a sub-set of “Those you would.” If you dare argue, you’ll have to face the shameful inquisition regarding the drunken night you did someone from the “Those you wouldn’t” list, and that’s one discussion I think you’ll agree is best not begun.

Now, the criteria for making one classification over another is variable by each individual man. It’s also variable within a single man – it changes over time. Sometimes the list slowly evolves over years or decades. Other times, a girl leaps from #2 to #1 over a single, solitary beer.

Who am I kidding? Opportunity alone often shuffles the deck.

Not exactly a groundbreaking discovery for women, you say? Au contraire, my friends of the fairer sex, for if you know what category you fall into, absolute power is yours.

Uh oh, now that was a classified secret! Oops. Now, where’s that f’ing backspace key?

Fighting Speidi

So, I’m listening to Ryan Seacrest today – yeah, I know; an entirely different blog post, I’m afraid – and he has a “news” item on Speidi. Giving the blonde bimbo – the woman of the pair, in this case – a bit of a break, the story dealt with the douche husband, Mr. Heidi, some Spencer some-thing-or-another. Seems senor douche is quoted in the New York Post (which, admittedly, means there is a chance he didn't really say it at all) as saying, “Speidi is Barack and Michelle famous, not Kardashian famous!” Of course, stating Speidi is more famous than the ever-present, bubble-butted Kardashians, is a lot like saying a hemorrhoid is more annoying than a cold sore.

I have a few questions. First, who are the Kardashians, and why does anyone care - so much so there's a TV show about them? Second, who the hell is Mr. Heidi and why is s/he even remotely famous? The fact this moron has a modicum of fame suggests our society has devolved to levels that make the fiction of Idiocracy seem more like a L. Ron Hubbard-like foreshadowing of future civilization.

Remind to write another post on L. Ron and his peeps.

I can only hope that Speidi is famous because people hate her/him/them. In my nascent campaign for public office (see September 25 post), I might be able to put this (hopeful) public outrage to my advantage. I’ll surely sway the voting public by demolishing Speidi in a cage fight.

Yes, I want to fight Speidi – her, him, or both together; it doesn’t f’ing matter. Bring the bitches on!

Tweet me up @RayHartjen.

Ending Government Constipation

Lots of folks are bitchin’ and moanin’ about government these days – all levels of municipal, state, and, of course, federal – and with good reason too. There’s nothing like an out of touch career politician (or an entire building of them), many of whom have never had a “real” job, to get the emotions roiling.

Trouble is, nothing ever seems to get done. Constructive dialogue seems like a long-forgotten tenet of our free-speech society. Now, it’s all about being bombastic and in-your-face, from political conservatard and liberaltard commentators (O’Reilly and Olbermann, I talking about you douches) to politicians themselves (and, that will include you, Joe “You Lie!” Wilson).

Most everyone is pitching in with complaints. Some are offering up solutions, including the King of the “Wake ‘n Bake” crowd, Joe Rogan. Joe thinks we ditch the system and adopt a Star Trek-like “council of elders,” with no ties to corporations. Now, I’ve had a man-crush on Joe for years now, and I treasure his well-deserved opinion. However, when you start to take your governmental cues from science fiction entertainment, it’s time to push yourself away from the one-hitter pipe, even if temporarily. I’m just saying, Joe …

I figure it’s time for me to offer up my own solutions - time to push myself away from the highball glass and run for office. I’m not sure of what office to run for yet – I’ll have to query the bar. I’m not also sure of the particulars of my platform. But, I do know that it will be centered on getting shit done.

End government constipation. Vote for Ray and get government off the pot.

Follow my campaign on Twitter @RayHartjen

That One Thing

There’s always one buzz kill in the bar; at least one. Brings up something stupid – usually thought provocative and intelligent, but in the wrong context – namely, a bar. Just when you think you might get through one night … damn, some (other) idiot opens his mouth.

Today, it’s “the meaning of life.”

Some guy actually said he viewed his mission on the planet as “to propagate the species.” Yeah, like the gene pool needs further enhancement from a pudgy, balding, barfly.

The conversation got me reminiscing though. I remember seeing City Slickers, with Billy Crystal and Jack Palance. Billy plays a role where he enters a bit of a mid-life crisis, wondering what he’s doing and where he’s going, trying to figure out what he wants. The old-school Cowboy, Curly (played by Jack) seems to have it all figured out. In one scene, Billy asks Jack what the secret is. Jack responds by holding up a single gloved finger. Billy says, “Your finger? The secret is your finger?” Curly, is his brusque growl responds, “No. It’s that one thing that’s most important to your life; that makes it worthwhile; that makes life worth living.”

Give me a break, I’m paraphrasing – it was a long time ago, okay?

So, for Curly, the “thing” was being outdoors, living the simple life, driving cattle – it’s what he lived for.

I saw that movie with my first wife, good ol’ what’s her name. On the way out to the car, she asks, “What’s your one thing?”

To which, I immediately reply, “The Indy 500.”

Yeah.

Never really heard much from what’s her name after that night.

The Race Card in Politics?

Hmmm. Jimmy Carter is on record as saying the growing "animosity" against Barack Obama's presidency is rooted in racism. Jimbo has no facts on this assertion. It's just his opinion, and as an American (as well as a gentleman peanut farmer who proclaimed his worldly lust over the spreads in Playboy), he's entitled to just such. Maybe even moreso than others.

But, I'm a bit put off by his "animosity" quote. Are you kidding? Obama gets treated with kid gloves relative to former Prez George W. My wife, Lori (who's white), routinely called him "ignorant." That seems a little more emotionally fuelled than some of the things going around about Obama right now. Makes me wonder - is she a racist? Do I have to sleep with one eye open?

Jimmy, stick to your humanitarian work. You're a good dude (I like looking at naked girls too). I just ask that before you start a fire and then go find a bunch of gas to throw on it, do a little more homework on seeing if there is a spark involved.

Leave all the made up shit to those best qualified to do so - us at the bar.

Cycling and Leg Shaving

Okay, the boys at the bar have a question. Skipping the colorful language and name calling, the question is basically, "Why do bicyclists shave their legs?" Well, simple, my simple friends. Five reasons, as follows:

1. Easier massages. High level cyclists get massages after every difficult effort. In a race like the Tour de France, Lance Armstrong will get a massage after every day, helping him recuperate and prepare him for the next gruelling stage. Hairy legs mean hair pulling during massages - hard to relax when your literally getting your hair pulled out.
2. Road rash. It's not uncommon for a cyclist to hit the deck, leaving with a nice bit of road rash. Having hair increases friction when sliding across asphalt, and your road rash gets bigger, with flesh being torn from your body by leg hair (nice, huh?). Cleaning road rash with hairs all dug in is a real bitch. Finally, healing road rash with hairs getting embedded in scabs - ouch!
3. Winged insects, particularly those with stingers. Wings stick to the hair and the insect flaps around mightedly trying to escape. Panicking, it then stings. It can be a real distraction when riding 25 mph, six inches away from another rider and in a pack of another 100 or so.
4. Community. Particularly if you're a man. Not too many men with shaved legs. Welcome to the club - small and ultra-selective, if not prestigious.
5. Vanity. Don't kid yourself. The biggest single reason, particularly for "weekend warrior" cyclists (read: all non-professionals), shaving is for appearance and appearance only. Cycling typically results in tanned, muscular, well-defined legs. Mine look best when they're shaved.

So, there you have it. Just be careful for those tricky places on the knee and ankle.

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

I remember when CBS’ Survivor hit the airways in the summer of 2000. It was the first “reality” show on TV, and it was different. It wasn’t for everyone, but all in all, it was a fun, shallow, relatively entertaining television. The fact that it wasn’t scripted – very, very heavily edited, mind you, but not scripted – almost made it worth watching. Some of the “characters” that were on the show couldn’t have been created any better by the best of Hollywood writers – Rudy anyone?

Ah, but what seemed like a good idea 9 years ago doesn’t seem like such a good idea anymore. What happened to a good, scripted television show? On a recent trip, I absent-mindedly turned the TV on to see what was on. On came “The King of Queens.” I’m sure there’s not a space reserved in the Smithsonian for a permanent display acknowledging the show’s brilliance, but it sure was good to see something that wasn’t a “talent” show. For the love of God, how many dance-themed shows can possibly be produced?

Survivor and the summer of ’00 also brought us Richard Hatch, the winner of the first edition of Survivor. While well known for winning the show, Hatch might be just as well known for serving time after the show for falling to pay taxes on his $1 million dollar prize. Unbelievably, I saw his ugly mug when I opened the paper this week - it seems a judge ordered him back to the can after he violated the terms of his house arrest early release. Hatch bitched and moaned to the media about prosecutorial misconduct and judge bias due to him being gay. WTF?

Dick – can I call you Dick? Nobody cares if you’re gay. What we do care about is the fact that you didn’t just “fudge” your taxes a little bit, rather your willfully evaded your taxes. Essentially, that’s you giving every tax-paying American, like me, the finger. Here’s a big finger right back to you and your claims of prejudice. Now, shut your pie hole and get back to the big house.

You know, it really did seem like a good idea at the time. But, “reality” won’t go away, at least not any time soon. Thanks CBS and Mark Burnett. Thanks to you, we have “Speidi,” Omarosa, and the rest of these reality assholes.

Argh!