Jack and Red Wine are Like Brain Laxatives

Dudes, bitches - I'm sorry. I've been busy. But just because I haven't written anything of substantial length doesn't mean I haven't been devoting substantial thought to some important shit. And yes, by "important shit" I indeed mean "fun things that don't really matter at all."

In fact, it's been quite the opposite. Over the past few months I've actually been making quite sufficient use of my Blackberry's "Memo Pad" feature - jotting down and amending different thoughts at the moment they enter what I typically refer to as "saracastic whirwind" - my mind. Unfortuantely, this often seems to happen as I'm driving, and so I've tended to endanger the lives of innocent automobile travelers by typing on my smartphone as I drive 90 in the left lane. But hey, if ultimately two or three people get a laugh because of it, then I say it's worth a little harmless vehicular manslaughter, don't you? ('Did you say harmless vehicular mans...' Yes, I did, and I realize the contradiction of terms. Leave me alone)....Alright, nice to see that my internal demon critic remembered to show up today too. And with that said, seems like we're ready to conclude the intro and get rolling. This is going to be a long one folks, so either strap in (strap on too if you're into that and my blog makes you horny) and grab the beverage (or lubricant) of your choice and settle in for a while, or make up your mind now to break it up into pieces and read in intervals. Either way, don't bother telling me it's too long. I don't care. Ok off we go:

I. THE TECHNOLOGICAL HYPOCRISY OF WORKING-CLASS, MIDDLE-AGED AMERICANS

When I look at work e-mails, I am regularly bombarded with what looks the result of my Microsoft Outlook vomiting up it's Alpha-Bits. In other words, I'm witness to a virtual cornucopia of business acronyms like NDA, RFQ, TPA, DUI (kidding), PDF, and the like on a daily basis, all of which are requested, of course, ASAP. And if they're not, then that means the email was just sent to me FYI.

What's funny to me is that the folks who use these abbreviations as elements of their typical communication are the same people who claim that teenagers communicating via text messages with acronyms like "ttyl," "tmi," "lol," "brb," "lmao," and the lesser-known "omgiltisote" ("Oh my God I love Twilight I'm soooo on team Edward") are directly responsible for the deterioration of the English language. To that I say fooey and p'shaw! While I agree that these modern pop-culture abbreviations are exceedingly lame, they're essentially used - at least theoretically - for the same purposes as the professional ones: to save time and space. And there's nothing wrong with that. With that in mind, parents, baby-boomers, old fogeys (couldn't wait to use that word!) who don't understand it - stop complaining. You do it too, just in a far different context. Plus, without unnecessary abbreviations, we would be left without some fantastic one-liner movie jokes like this one from "Forgetting Sarah Marshall":

- "You need to get over her. You need to put your P in someon's V."

- "No. I need to B my L on someone's T's."

See what I mean? Case closed. So text and abbreviate away, ye juvenile gay-vampire-loving children!

II. NEW YORK SPORTS TALK RADIO - HILARIOUS

I enjoy listening to the local sports pundits from different cities offer their "objective" thoughts on their teams and such as I'm driving for work through their domain. And while I must painfully admit that Boston seems to have the best, most articulate, and most intellectual talk-show hosts I've been fortunate enough to experience, I have to say that the New York guys are the funniest. I can't remember the exact number on the dial or the call letters right now, so I can't tell you to tune in, but they're not hard to find...

First off, the callers are hysterical. It's like the radio station seeks out everyone who didn't quite make the "Jersey Shore" final cut and asks them their thoughts on the Yankees. You know how when you hear someone on the radio, you think you can tell from their voice what they generally look like? Yeah, I like to think I'm pretty good at that. Therefore, I believe I can somewhat adequately deduce that everyone who participates in sports talk radio in New York currently has a wife beater adorning their woefully unchiseled body, and they're cradling their Boost Mobile phone while they apply an extra half bottle of gel to their stalactite-like hair that's just going to have a backwards Yankee hat (the kind where the emblem is made up of sequins) applied to it anyway. And when they finish their call in to the station, they're not even going to listen to the broadcasters' responses. Instead they'll run to the nearest mirror to make sure their skin is orange enough today... Now, I realize they can't all actually look like this, but that's what they sound like - "Ayy, how come the Yanks haven't re-signed Jet-ah yet? I figyah he's good for anoth-ah 15 yea-ahs and will bat at least .600 until he's fifty-fou-ah, so why not re-sign the guyyyyyeeee? Tell ya what, if they don't, me and my guys are gonna staaum the Yankee front office." That's right folks. You heard it here. ('Why do you always have to rip the Yankees? Is it cuz they beat you last year?' No, fucker. This has not been an indictment of the team. Pay attention).

But perhaps what's funnier than anything else is that they'll spend a good several segments - say, two and a half hours, talking about everything from Rivera's 9th inning ERA and Nick Swisher's OBP to A-Rod's magazine covers and Derek Jeter's favorite restaurants, but just as the show is minutes from going off the air, they'll say "We'll come back with some closing remarks after this....Oh, and the Mets stuff too." Ha! They give the poor little old Mets approximately three minutes of their time. And, to this Phillies fan, there's not many things more satisfying than that.

III. A QUICK NOTE FROM THE HIGHWAY

I drove past a Buick LeSabre. Then I laughed because it made me wonder if once there was a car model invented by a normal, dorky white dude called the "Sabre," then DeCharles Stevenson's parents got a job at Buick and were charged with inventing new model names...or LaMarcus Aldridge's parents, or DeJuan Blair's, or DeMarcus Ware's.... Haha. Come on, that's funny.

Side note: I was gonna put Delroy Lindo in there - ya know, the black detective from every movie ever? - but he gets a pass because it doesn't quite fit the scheme, and because he's Delroy Lindo (which is to say, awesome).

IV. A FEW MORE QUICK HITTERS BEFORE I MOVE ON

- I absolutely hate the phrase "come with" as in "We're gonna go grab a banana smoothie. Ya wanna come with?" First off, ending sentences with prepositions annoys me in... (Stole that joke idea from "30 Rock" and I'm proud of it!). But seriously, that phrase needs to be banished. Is it THAT much of an inconvenience to tack on "us" or "me" or "we" - whichever is appropriate - to the end of that sentence? "We're gonna go grab a banana smoothie. Ya wanna come with us?" See how easy that was? Is that too much to fucking ask?

- I was watching something with Spanish subtitles for a while. Then, after it ended and I went about my business, I didn't realize that my brain was still in "try to really understand Spanish" mode. Thus, when one of the first words I heard in conversation a few minutes later was "mosquito," I legitimately thought that meant a very small place designed for Muslim worship.

- When flying into a major city, during the initial descent as I look out the window, it ALWAYS seems like SO many people own swimming pools.

V. FEAR OF LOUD AND SMELLY PUBLIC POOPING = WARM, DIRTY SEATS

Let's face it guys (and probably girls), nobody really likes to poop in a public restroom. Not really. But as we all know, sometimes, when ya gotta go, ya gotta go, and you just have to deal with it.

When said situations arise, I'm willing to bet that most guys do the same thing - when they enter the bathroom, especially if there's a handful of people walking around in there, you walk allllll the way down to the last possible stall against the wall, don't you? Don't lie to me, yes you do. Why? That's easy - because you feel this most adequately removes you from the rest of the crowd. You feel that if you fart really loud or something, there's a chance nobody else will hear it or know that it was you if you're down at the end. Also, you just convince yourself that being all the way at the end is the closest thing to matching the comforts of pooping alone and in private. Finally, you convince yourself that all of these toilets are probably dirty, and your best chances of finding a clean atmosphere reside in the lonely stall all the way at the end; at a far enough distance that nobody would dare think to venture such a distance just to poop....

There's just one problem, and I've already mentioned it.... EVERYONE ELSE THINKS LIKE YOU. When you go to the last stall, guess what - you're in the most popular one, motherfucker! Ha! Be honest, when you get there, you're routinely disappointed by the wet toilet paper clinging to the inside of the bowl, or the inexplicably large quantity of shredded toilet paper strewn about the floor right where your feet will have to go, or the dingleberries resting just behind the back of the seat, or the unflushed poop, or the overall stench, or something like that, right? Right. We all know I'm right. And again, that's because nobody likes to poop to the audible and olfactory displeasure of strangers, so everyone goes way to the end, thinking they're outsmarting the other, pooping masses.

You think the seat is that warm because it's hot in there? Think again. It's because there's been a consistent barrage of bursting fat assholes on that very same seat throughout the day.

There IS, however, an easy solution to this, and it's a simple one....Are you ready?.....SHIT IN THE FIRST STALL! That's right, the one right next to the urinals, the one that makes you feel almost like you're on top of the guys who just need to take a quick, innocent, odor-less little pee. Trust me on this. Nobody ever thinks to go in the first stall unless its an emergency and is the only one left available. I'll personally guarantee you it's the cleanest one, too. Because nobody wants to be loud. Nobody wants to think that all the other guys in the bathroom are standing around washing their hands saying to each other, "Hey, nice to meet you. Say, how about the guy in the first stall shitting his brains out! God, that's gross! He's gross! Let's make fun of him and laugh together!" and then they slap hands. Because that's what you think everyone else is doing... Relax; they're not. Just reconcile with yourself the fact that bathrooms are gross to begin with, and if you're lucky enough to get a clean stall, you should consider yourself just that - lucky. It results in a far better overall experience, trust me.

Plus, this way you never have to run into the conundrum that presents itself when you walk all the way to the end, then suddenly stop and think "Uuuuuuuh-oh, the handicapped stall looks clean and relatively unused, but I'm not handicapped. Is this okay? Is anyone gonna get mad?" You don't want that. You just wanna sit, split (your butt-cheeks, that is), wipe, and go. Take the first stall. You'll think of me fondly while you're wiping your butt-hole.

Finally, as a quite side note to the subject - why, exactly, are handicapped stalls THAT big? I understand that there needs to be room for either a wheelchair or an accompanying person to help, etc., but are all these handicapped people and their potential aides planning on parking their car next to the toilet? Do handicapped poopers prefer to celebrate a successful bowel movement with a game of twister on the floor? Seriously, there's WAY too much room in there. You could live in that thing.

VI. DR. DAGO'S "IF YOU THINK YOU'RE TOO FAT, YOU DEFINITELY ARE" TIP OF THE WEEK

If you're fat, you probably like to snack. For some of you this means pretzels, for others Doritos or Fritos or the like, and for the saddest among you this means multiple, multi-decker sandwiches. For the latter group, I'm sorry, you're fucking helpless. But for the rest of you, a tip:

Buy some fuckin' grapes. They come in enormous quantities, they're juicy and delicious, and you can satisfy your oral fixation and need to constantly put something in your face by eating a million of them with minimal detriment to your shape. Other fruits are good too, but grapes afford you the ability to eat for a long period of time. Apples, oranges, etc., in addition to being too much work, offer you a handful of large bites and then it's over and you're still hungry. With grapes, you can go on and on and on. So go buy like four bags' worth. I prefer the red, seedless kind. You'll thank me for this, too.

VII. A NOT TOO DISTANT TIME AGO IN A CITY NOT SO FAR AWAY...

Allow me to be crystal clear - LeBron James is a fucking loser. Period. And his first name sounds like it could be a Buick model... (LeBron? LeSabre? No? 'Eeeeeh, not your best effort.' Agreed, let's move on).

First, let me get the nickname stuff out of the way. The newfound "super-trio" of Miami Heat players Chris Bosh, Dwyane Wade (Oh yes, that IS how he spells his first name), and LeBron James has already been assigned with a host of potential nicknames, chief among them "Miami Thrice," "Three Kings," and just the aforementioned plain-old "Super-trio." These are all stupid. First, "Miami Thrice" I think just sounds too cheesy. I don't have much else to offer there, I just hate it. Second, you can't go with "Three Kings" because Chris Bosh is a gangly pussy. "Two Kings and a Fucking Doofus" would work better.

Still, if they're looking for a nickname, they should capitalize on the notion that the events leading up this - from their casual agreement to unite while competing in Beijing to their contracts expiring at the same time - was a "perfect" storm of sorts. Combine that with their new jersey numbers ( Bosh -1, Wade -3, LeBron - 6), and you can call them "The Perfect 10." All it requires is simple 'rithmatic to figure that one out. I'm really clever, I know.

Anyway, more on LeBron. To steal a thought or two from ESPN's resident goofball and pop-culture enthusiast Bill Simmons, I've begun to turn the corner on this deal in that I've started to enjoy that it happened; not because I like the players or how they went about making this happen, but because I'm starting to revel in the idea of having a collaborative super-villain in the NBA for whom I can passionately pray for serious physical injury and continual, epic failure. Hating Kobe is just getting too old, and his dig on Shaq ("I got one more than Shaq") followed by his cocky smile after the Lakers won again kinda made me like him a little (That being said, he's still a dirty, deplorable rapist).

On the other hand now, we have LeBron. I used to love this guy. The people's champ. The savior of the poor, championship-less, unappealing little city of Cleveland. There was no doubt, LeBron was the solution. LeBron would come through eventually. LeBron would resurrect that city's collective sports psyche....But, to steal a line from Keyser Soze, just like that (poof)....he's gone.

You know who LeBron is? He's Anakin Skywalker ('You're not really gonna draw an analogy to Star Wars, are you? I mean first Batman, and all this constant Transformers stuff, and now Star Wars?!? That's right, bitch!). Seriously, consider the astounding similarities.... Everyone - EVERYONE - thought that LeBron would eventually get a ring in Cleveland, thus in essence, bringing balance to the force. The dark Lakers and evil Celtics were winning too much, but the chosen one would bring balance, or so it was foretold and prophesied.

Yet, try and try as young James might, he could not elevate himself to the status of champion at his young age, which is to say, become a jedi immediately like the courageous Mace Windu (Kobe) or older, wiser Yoda (Tim Duncan). So what started to happen? LeBron started to complain. I don't have enough players! This isn't fair! Waaaah! Bitterness began to envelop the young King-to-be, and by the time the Olympics came and he tasted the sweet nectar of victory, his dark destiny became frighteningly clear.

From there, all it took was a dinner with Pat Riley (The Emperor...Seriously, look how Pat Riley sits in his chair when they show him - deviously, with his fingers interlocking, kinda like Mr. Burns....Evil) to convince him that all he needs to do is bow down to him and come with him to the Miami Heat alongside Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh (Boba Fett and a Storm Trooper), and his lustful need for a championship (transition to "the daaaaaark side...") would finally come to fruition ("....would be com-PLEEETE.") And so it is, ladies and gentlemen. LeBron James - your real life Darth Vader. I hate him, but I love to do so, as we do with all great villains. That's why this move both sucks and is kinda cool. It gives us a villain, but a villain we can be passionate about ('You just ended that sentence with a preposition...' Fuck, you're right!).

All we gotta do now is find who's going to rise up and assume the role of Luke Skywalker, take the fight to Darth Vader, and eventually force LeBron to throw Pat Riley down into a really long, seemingly bottomless pit while electricity shoots out of his fingers. I suggest Evan Turner of the mighty 76ers, haha.

Either way, Shaq is the Rancor.

Alright, I got lots and lots more actually, but I gotta think that's enough for now. I think I'm satisfied with my return effort here. Let me know your thoughts. Got a better nickname for the Heat? Better method for comfortably pooping in public? Just wanna tell me that you never missed me anyway because my blogs are obnoxious, rambling, and generally unentertaining? It's all good. Hope to hear from you.

'Til next time texters, guidos, poopers, fatties, and basketball/Star Wars aficionados,

Dago out.