Articles Archive for October 2006
2) My friends and I "celebrated" Halloween on Saturday night. I wore a costume. But I won’t tell you what this costume is because, schedule permitting, I may be going out again on Tuesday and will wear the same costume. The costume turned out pretty well, but the night…not so much. Also, I did not take any pictures, of course, because I am a retard.
(PS – thank you for all the suggestions. But we will cover this later.)
3) My penis and I are no longer on speaking terms. Too often recently I have woken up filled with regret about the previous night’s behavior, all because my penis is putting me in awkward positions with members of the opposite sex (and by "awkward positions" I don’t mean trying to fit myself, two women, a bottle of champagne, a dozen toy cars, and a Native American into my bathtub). Without getting too into it, after the terrible Eagles loss he and I had a major blow-up precipitated by his unconscionable behavior this weekend (and the past few weekends) and we are finished. I don’t want to even look at or touch him, which means I’m going to have to start wearing diapers or something (and if I can’t touch him I will not be able to wash him, which is bad news for everyone, especially my poor co-workers – guess we won’t be having any meetings in my office this week).
This is not how I was hoping to start the week. Not at all.
(And I hate it when dudes refer to the birds as a person or "him," but I kinda had to here. So forgive me. At least I realize I sound like a douche.)
There are several benefits of living in an apartment older than most U.S. states. The first is probably the history; I often think of the immigrants who lived in my Little Italy apartment generations ago, who sweat and toiled so that one day, many years later, their descendants could pound jagerbombs and look like this (nice straws, fellas).
[I have to say right off the bat - I'm very prejudiced against Italians ("Can you imagine, in this day and age, a Jew broad prejudiced against Italians?"). One of my ex-girlfriends had a dream of going to Italy, and, though my sugar daddy instinct kicked in almost immediately and I began saving for a surprise trip, I tried to explain to her that if we were to go to Italy, only she would come back. This is because Italians are so sexually aggressive that it's almost criminal - and none of them fight. They are relentless when hitting on women, even if a guy is present. And though I'd be able to put up with it for a while, trying to do my best to represent my country, eventually all that body hair that I have would take over and there'd be some major problems and I'd end up in jail, known in the Italian press as "l'orso americano della morte." Because like I said, Italians don't fight. Throwing a punch in the middle of a group of Italians is like throwing a rock in the middle of a group of pigeons - they freak out, make a bunch of noise, and get the hell out of there as quickly as possible (I've seen this first-hand). This behavior, which was confirmed by other friends I know who have lived in Italy, was shocking to me because Italian-Americans are all about machismo. What happened during the transition from real Italians, who don't fight, to Italian-Americans, who will fight you for breathing on their leather jacket? Italian-Americans are like the kids who got bullied in grade school, then transferred to another grade school and immediately started bullying everyone in the new school so that they wouldn't get picked on anymore. Well, I know your secret my Eyetal-American friends. So watch it. And by the way, you look ridiculous.]
[And the girl and I never made it to Italy. Like everything else in my life, she and I had a great start, and then a meager, awkward finish. I think I spent the Italy trip money on cocaine and harmonicas. So it worked out for everyone.]
Another benefit of older apartments is that they are typically large. I know this might sound counter-intuitive. You may be thinking, “But I thought the average person was like 4′11 in 1875, so wouldn’t the apartments be smaller?” This is certainly true – studies have shown that the average height of a male in 1875 was exactly 4′11″ – but you’re missing the bigger picture. Because literally dozens of immigrants lived per apartment in Manhattan, a lot of the older buildings have apartments that are quite large for a modern one or two bedroom. For example, in my two bedroom apartment, there lived a family of twelve people in the 1930’s. And yes, I completely made that up. But if it were true, it wouldn’t surprise me. Well, maybe a little bit. But anyway…
But even though I love its history and its size, I hate a few other features of my apartment. One in particular is unbearable: the heat.
I love to sleep in the cold. This is not surprising, I guess, since when I go swimming it looks as though I’m looking for salmon. In the summer, I blast the AC, keep the windows open in the spring and fall, and like the heat low in the winter time.
The past few weeks have been great sleeping weather in my apartment, as temperatures had begun to dip into the low 50’s about three weeks ago. This is perfect. I can sleep with the windows slightly open, just so I can bury myself in my two blankets among my four fluffy in my spectacular either 600 or 800 (I can’t remember) thread count sheets. Glorious.
But that all can to a swift end of Sunday night. Because now it is heat week in my apartment.
At the end of last week, it was cold at night. Very cold. “It’s 40° and I can see my breath” cold. And while I like the cold, contrary to what I might look like in the shower, I am not actually a bear. So sleeping last week was tough as I tried to stay bundled up to stave off hypothermia.
(And if you’re keeping count at home, that’s three bear references, including one in Italian.)
I was getting frustrated with my shitty old building and began hoping for the heat to be turned on. Sunday night I got into bed, braving the cold temperatures in my room, closed the windows and bundled up. It was going to be a long, cold night.
Four hours later, I woke up nearly drowning. Sometime after I had fallen asleep, the heat – the first heat of the season – kicked on. And when it comes to heat in my apartment, there is no in-between. It’s all or nothing (singed eyebrows when walking into my room be damned!). I was covered in sweat. I mean this in the most literal sense – sweat was over 100% of my body, staining my clothes and sheets. My hair was matted to my forehead and my balls – my poor, poor balls – felt like sponge cake when I gave them a lil’ squeeze.
This extreme, out-of-nowhere heat phenomenon happened last year, so I at least knew what to expect. My old roommate Brian and I called it “heat week”, because it took our bodies about a week to get used to the major temperature change in the apartment. Each night this week has been a physical struggle, a test of endurance, to see how I can make sleeping work. I’ve been experimenting with opening the windows at different angles, sleeping with different clothes on and with different blankets, even trying new positions on the bed – all in an attempt to reduce my body temperature without leaving the windows open enough to give me frostbite.
Especially challenging is how the heat only comes on at night, after I’m asleep. When I get home from work and when I go to bed, my apartment is freezing. It is only when I’ve fallen asleep and am blissfully dreaming about boobies made of pudding does the heat kick on, leaving me with something like sunstroke.
(Also, it seems to gain momentum during the night. When I lay down, let’s say it’s 58 in my bedroom. At about 2am, it’ll be up to 70. At 4am, maybe 77. By the time I wake up, it’s gotta be around 85 in there. Horrible, just horrible.)
So this week has not been a good one. To all those I’ve been a dick to this week, please accept my apologies. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in a week and what sleep I have gotten has been most unpleasant, like taking your mattress into a sauna. The good news is that heat week is almost over; my body is very weak and soon I will resign myself to the temperature extremes and be able to sleep through the night. But until that happens, thank god for wine. I don’t know if I would have made it through the week without breaking my hands while trying to murder my radiator without it.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to zone out at my desk and catch up some rest. Thank you for understanding and please, let’s keep the loud noises to a minimum, ok?
I am completely stumped about what to do for a Halloween costume this year. I typically don’t get very into Halloween, but I’ve come up with some pretty decent last minute costumes over the years:
- In 2004, I put on a leisure suit (which a friend bought for me at a garage sale in 1996 for 50¢) and shaved my beard, leaving the moustache. I was my dad in 1977.
- In 2003, Brian and I (and our old roommate Ben) got all dolled up and went out as Siegfried, Roy, and Montecore the Tiger, thanks in large part to my friend Annie, who pretty much pulled the whole costume together for us while we drank her beer and yelled.
- In 2001, four of my college roommates and I put on the same type outfit (khaki pants, blue shirts) and went out as the Backstreet Boys (I shaved my beard like a Rican to match the dude on the right).
- In 2000, I shaved the beard and left the moustache again, and put on some Chicago Bears paraphernalia that my roommate had hanging on his walls (including a jersey from when he was 12). I was one of the guys who says, "Da Bears!"
- In 1999, clean shaven, I put on a suit with an open, butterfly-collared lime green shirt, wore my glasses, and took out one of my shitty guitars. I was the guy from the Barenaked Ladies.
Not great, but certainly not shitty, either. But you’ll notice one obstacle in most all of the costumes: my fucking beard.
I found some gray hairs in my beard a few weeks ago and was planning to shave it, but then realized that I should not wilt to vanity. Also, a girl emailed me imploring me not to shave the beard, saying she’s had a thing for guys with beards since she was 15, which kinda creeped me out but also inspired me.
(Quick horrible beard story: in college, I was courting a girl for a while before she finally relented and let me make out with her. So we’re in my room making out, just getting into it, when she stops, pulls away, and says, "I’m sorry, but your beard reminds me of something very bad that happened to me." Wow. Talk about your all time buzzkill. She might as well have just said, "You taste like my uncle." You might not be surprised to learn that that was the last time we made out.)
So now I’ve gone the other way with my beard and it’s probably the longest and thickest it’s ever been. And I kinda dig it. Sure, two weekends ago I had to listen to one female friend tell me it looked like "a beard of pubes" all night, and then the next afternoon another female friend actually said "Eww" while looking at me, but to hell with them. I do not use or need my beard to get chicks. As long as I have a high credit limit and the ability to dial a phone and/or use Craigslist, I’ll be fine in the ladies department. Just fine.
But come Halloween, the beard is limiting. There are only so many costumes one can rock with a beard. The old standard is Jesus, and though I’m certainly not the best Catholic in the world, I’m still not comfortable dressing like Jesus and doing what I do on most weekend nights (I don’t know how female bar bathrooms that Jesus "accidentally" walked into in His lifetime, but I’m sure I have Him beat).
Aside from that, there are lame costumes for guys with beards, like a pirate or a monster or a guy in a toga or some shit. And those costumes are shitty, except if you put a spin on them. For example, being a pirate sucks, but being a racist pirate, well, that’s fucking hilarious. However, the humor of the racist pirate may be lost on some fellow partygoers, who, for whatever reason, might take offense to that. So maybe you could be a pirate with cancer or a pirate whose parents died in Hurricane Katrina.
(Ok, now we’re just getting stupid.)
(Well, more stupid than normal.)
My old roommate Brian and I have been planning on doing a joint costume for some time, but it would require a beard shave, so I’m backing off it. I don’t feel too bad about this, since by "have been planning" I mean that we talked about six months ago, did nothing, talked about it again two days ago, and did more nothing. So it’s not like Brian’s been slaving away on the costume or anything.
And I still hold out hope that one day I will be able to pull off my dream costume: Roxette. The problem with that is that I’d need a girl to play the Girl Roxette. That doesn’t sound like that big a deal – couldn’t I just get a female friend to do the costume with me? – but the thing is that I get really aroused on Halloween, what with all the dressing up going on and all, and I’d probably get very nasty and/or inappropriate with my co-Roxette. So until I get married, no Roxette.
Which is fine for me right now, because I don’t want to get rid of the beard. So…this whole post is a roundabout way of seeking help from you all. What can I be that is easy and allows me to keep my beard? I have two ideas that I don’t want to share now (I’d like to keep them a secret in case I have to use them), but I’m not too proud to seek out ideas from y’all. If you have a suggestion, please email me with "halloween costume" or something in the title. I’m interested to see what you jagoffs have to suggest.
In the meantime, I’m going to sit back and play with my pube-beard. I think it’s more like steel wool, but that’s probably because my pubes are as soft as a down comforter. Well, a down comforter covered in saran wrap. That’s about right.
On Friday night, I got into Philly late. I had a major attack of insomnia on Thursday night and was a mess all day. It’s almost like clockwork; once every two months, seemingly out of nowhere, I’ll get walloped with a horrible night of lying awake in bed, stressing about all sorts of things that seemingly don’t matter much to me, in this case cats and mental institutions.
(I at least realize the source of these most recent nightmares – a book I’m reading called The Master and Margarita. Still, it would have been nice to have an appearance by my favorite nightmare character, a lady vampire who sexes me up and then strangles me, after which I wake up amidst a sea of pulled out chest hair. Can someone – preferably a psychologist or a drug addict – explain to me what this means?).
When I arrived in Philly at 9pm on Friday, I went out, stayed out late, and slept fitfully. I woke up early on Saturday because a dog was stepping on my face and was not able to fall back asleep after that (after having nightmares about cats, being woken up suddenly from a drunken slumber by a dog walking all over me was pretty fucking terrifying). I gorged myself on some creamed chipped beef, my favorite food ever, returned home from my local diner, and took a nap. From noon until 4:30pm.
Why do I tell you all this? Because, jerk, I’m trying to set the stage for Saturday night, the reason I was home in Philly. That night was my buddy Jimmy the Muppet’s bachelor party. Because if I did anything regrettable, I blame it entirely on my messed up sleep cycle.
*******
I realize that there is an unwritten rule about bachelor parties, something like “What happens at a bachelor party should not be disseminated via the internet to thousands of strangers, forever recorded in the annals of the web to be googled at any point in time in the future.” But I’m kind of hard up for material, so fuck it.
And aside from that, everyone was (reasonably) well-behaved at this bachelor party. The groom-to-be, Jimmy, is normally a pretty timid guy whose behavior was stellar (and no, I’m not just saying that because he gave me $200 to do so). Also, the rest of the guys on the party were well-behaved too. If anything, my behavior was (arguably) the most not good.
The bachelor party started at a buddy’s house, where we had hired two strippers to do all sorts of horrible things to each other, things that make you blush, laugh, yell, and vomit all at the same time. But only one stripper showed up. The other, presumably, had gotten murdered and couldn’t make it. But our stripper, Destiny, who (I’d guess) was 25 but looked 35 with ginormous fake breasts, tried to allay our fears about her coming alone, saying that this would allow for “more interaction” with the partygoers.
Well.
I’ve written before that I’m damn near terrified of strippers. Something about them – possibly the amount of dicks they’ve been through or the variety of household items they’ve stuck in their sexy place for $15 or the herpes that is just running roughshod on their upper lip there – just kinda turns me off. I know – I’m crazy and less of a man. Throw in that I’m a sappy drunk and I turn into the guy at the strip club saying things like, “Move to New York, come live with me, and we’ll make a family. I promise I’ll be a good husband and moderately capable lover.” and “Destiny – why do you do this? I can take you away from it all. And no, I will not pay you $8 to watch you stick my wallet in your ass.” and “Baby, let’s go right now. A train will take us to Penn Station in under two hours. Wait, the whole wallet or just a corner of it? With or without my credit cards in there?”
So when Destiny said the thing about more interaction with the guys, I made sure to stay on the fringes of the group and make a b-line for the yard (where the beer was) if she was looking for volunteers. The good news is that I was able to do this fairly easily.
The good news is also that over the next hour, I and the rest of my buddies learned many things from Destiny. Chief among them: paying $60 for a handjob from a stripper – who minutes before you watched spit in your friend’s ass crack – sounds like a great idea in theory, but in actuality…not so much. At least that’s what I heard. From someone else. Not from myself.
And that’s really all I’ll say about that. I’m just glad this whole blog’s fictional or else I’d have some explaining to do to my wife.
(But for the record, we all know that paying for handjobs is not a big deal, since it the only sex act that you can close your eyes during and easily pretend it’s yourself. Except you don’t smell like vanilla candles and pain pills. And you don’t sound like a garbage disposal when you breathe. And you probably wouldn’t stick two of your fingers in your ass while masturbating. But the point: handjobs are totally not a big deal. Now no more talk of this part of the evening.)
(Well, I’ll say one more thing, because I haven’t been writing much and would do you a disservice if I left it out: a buddy of mine was stripped down to his boxers and laid on the floor on a few towels. Destiny then placed a bottle of beer on his bird, which was not exposed but under the boxers. Destiny then squatted down and – bless her skanky lil’ heart – started making love to the bottle of beer. At this point, every guy in the room was on the floor screaming, laughing, and retching. I, of course, was eating Doritos. But then, just when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, Destiny stood up and removed the beer bottle from her secret place and beer streamed everywhere, like champagne in a post-game celebration. Screaming, laughing, retching, times ten. Then, just when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, Destiny, um, opened herself and shot leftover beer from her privates onto my buddy, lying below her. Several times. Opening and closing. Over and over again. Words. None. When it was all over, I felt like I had just been in a fight: sweaty, agitated, pissed off, and sore. So yeah, it was pretty fucking sweet.)
(Also, the name for my fifth book: Sweaty, Agitated, Pissed Off and Sore: How Jason Mulgrew and a Band of Misfits took Down the World’s Greatest Porno Empire (With a Foreword by Elvis Costello). It has a nice ring to it, right? I could sell it on the title alone!)
(God, I’m going to be the worst writer in the history of the world.)
After the “show,” we headed in a bus to a local strip club for more “entertainment.” We went to a strip club I’ve been to several times before and had a private room, so I felt comfortable. However, my comfortableness did not prevent me from drinking whiskey sodas like, um, something easily drinkable and spending enough money in two hours for a nice vacation on the coast of Italy.
I had been laying off the whiskey because Larry was beginning to take over my life. But tonight, with the help of said whiskeys, he was unleashed. And he had some business to take care of.
For some reason, Larry thought it would be a good idea to give strippers $5 bills instead of $1 bills, because that’s just how he rolls. And there were a lot strippers in the private room. And a lot of bill giving. I won’t say how much I spent, because I’ll only wind up throwing up again, but one of my buddies, who I was hanging out at the strip club with the most, had $200 in $1 bills on him. He spent them all. And we were similar in our spending habits. So do the math on that one and get back to me. God damn you, Larry. God damn you straight to hell.
As if I wasn’t disgracing myself and my family’s good name enough, I decided to fall in love with a stripper at the club. I’ve gone on at length at my type of woman: big busted, tan, good dancer, hoop earrings, messy ponytail, sass mouth. So since my type of woman sounds like a stripper anyway, it follows that I’d at least fall in love with a decent-looking stripper, yes? Again, in theory perhaps this would be true. Not in real life.
The objection of my affection (read: the girl I was giving so much money to that she was essentially robbing me) was probably the most unattractive stripper at the club. Now, the club was kinda high end so it’s not like this girl was picking at her scabs or anything, but on the whole, she wasn’t attractive compared to the other girls. For one, she had no boobies, which is not a dealbreaker in and of itself, but she just wasn’t good-looking. She was plain, very plain.
BUT – she did have one thing that got me: sexy librarian glasses. Every one of my ex-wives (which is how I refer to my ex-girlfriends now, which I’m sure wouldn’t creep them out at all if they knew this) had these glasses and though I don’t recall being especially into them at the time, I guess subconsciously I’m attracted to the sexy nerd look (hell, one of my ex-wives was actually a real life librarian).
And I’ve always liked smart girls. I’m not talking smarter than me or anything, because that’s no good. The perfect girl is always just a little less intelligent than I am, so that we can converse but if she starts running her sass mouth off I can drop a little knowledge to shut her up, like, “Oh yeah? Aristotle died in 322 BC. So there’s that.” or “1812 – remember that year? Well, former Massachusetts governor Elbridge Gerry does, because that’s when he invented gerrymandering. But you probably knew that.” This is how you win an argument with a girl who thinks she’s smart.
Whereas my darling stripper, whose name I can’t recall but who we shall call Stacey, was probably not nearly as smart as I am, sexy librarian glasses notwithstanding. And I’m not saying this because I’m smart or anything, but because I watched her put her shirt on backwards three times and once I saw her trying to eat her shoes. But I’m the moron because I spend all week studying trends in M&A so I can give Stacey my money so that she and her boyfriend can go to Greece next summer. God damn you, Larry. God damn you straight to hell.
(And I would have given her more if it had not been for my buddy Chris, who in front of Stacey said, “Mulgrew’s got a girlfriend.” I made a joke about how she and I were going to get married soon, which I’m sure at the time was only a half joke, maybe even a third of a joke, and then I never saw her again. Methinks the fire in my eyes and the passion in my loins was enough to keep her hiding in the kitchen for the rest of the night. But hey, she had already made enough money that evening, so good play on her part.)
After the strip club, it was back to the local bar, the last stop on the bachelor party. Fortunately, I don’t remember much of this part of the evening, as my belly was full with whiskey and my testes swollen with semen. At that point, I just wanted to do and eat. I’ll give one guess as to which one worked out.
*******
In conclusion, yes, I had a good time. And yes, I’ve spent most of my free time since in the shower, scrubbing myself and weeping. But again, I can take solace in the knowledge that if I had only been sleeping normally, none of this would have happened and I wouldn’t have to eat fingernails for dinner for the next month to make up the difference in my bank account. So let this be a lesson: get a good night’s sleep before a bachelor party. And stay away from whiskey. And don’t be a lonely drunk with a big (but fake) ego and a tiny penis. Because that is a lethal combination.
(At least that’s what I heard. From someone else. Not from myself.)
This idea intrigued me. Not because I’ve ever fashioned myself an assassin, but because I like murder shows and I’m generally considered a creepy guy. Being able to legally stalk someone – even "kill" them – kinda turned me on (and I mean that in the most sexual way possible). As I am internet savvy, I went to the StreetWars website and signed up to be reminded when the game came to NYC (the CNN report showed people playing in Los Angeles). And then I completely forgot about it.
Fast forward to a little under two months ago and a reminder popped up in my email inbox telling me StreetWars was coming to NYC. My interest was repiqued, but then my laziness set in – hunting someone seemed like a lot of work. That night, I went out for my buddy Jeremy’s birthday and got drunk, as all my friends did. Since my group of friends spends so much time together we’re quickly and quietly morphing into the characters from friends (I’m Monica), during one of the many lulls in the conversation I brought up StreetWars. My friends were intrigued. Then we did some shots. And then next thing I knew, Brian, Corinne, Jeremy and I had signed up for StreetWars as a team. The hunt would soon be on. We were the Hashish Assassins. Don’t fuck with us.
[It should be more widely known that the words "hash" and "assassination" are related. Marco Polo wrote about a Muslim leader who used hash to dupe young men into joining his personal army. Basically this leader would throw a big party and get these young men fucked up on hash, then he'd throw all sorts of food and women at them and show them a grand old time. The young men would then pass out and when they awoke, the leader would say that he took them to heaven. If they wanted to get back to heaven to enjoy the women and food, they had to do his bidding, namely kill mother fuckers. So they became assassins. Because of hashish. I know I'm butchering this legend a little bit, but I can assure you it's at least 75% true. So there.]
I, like the rest of my friends, grew excited about StreetWars. I knew that there was something inherently nerdy about it, but hey – sometimes nerdiness isn’t all bad (I can’t believe…I just…wrote that). Besides – stalking! Fake shooting! Kinda murder! C’mon people – what’s not to love here!
In order to get the information about our target, our team, like all the other players, had to head to a random place in Queens to meet the organizers of the game. I could not attend, as I was getting bombed after watching an Eagles game. Nor could Corinne, so Jeremy and Brian made the trek out to Queens to pick up our shit. I wrote about this before, so I’ll just cut and paste:
[In Queens to pick up our target's dossier, Jeremy and Brian] were treated to a very lame scene: the head guys dressed up like pimps drinking cognac in a back of a rented U-Haul, complete with a "harem" and fake bodyguard (I know – I also had to swallow deeply to hold back my pity vomit). This thing is run by people who I have very little doubt were very into theatre in high school and routinely got wedgies. And, upon Jeremy’s estimation after seeing other people present to pick up dossiers, a solid 75% of the people playing in the game are probably virgins, many of whom were in disguise so as not to be seen my their fellow assassins. Yeah. So there’s that.
This is when we first realized that StreetWars might be even nerdier than we anticipated.
But at the time, we were still into it. Since the four of us were in a team, we all shared the same target, a guy who was a lawyer at the courts here in NYC. In a way, it was unfair, since all four of us were going after him.
But there was a negative to being part of a team. For whatever reason, Jeremy was chosen as leader of our team. This meant that if Jeremy were to be assassinated, the entire team would be eliminated (whereas if I were shot, I’d be the only one out). So while we could work as a team to go after our target, we also had to essentially act as bodyguards for Jeremy.
As the game started, I put the over/under for our survival at three days. I had seen the CNN report and knew that people got very into this – taking vacation days from work to sit outside a target’s home for hours and the like. And after Jeremy and Brian went to Queens and told Corinne and I about all the Star Wars-lovin’ geeks that were involved, I figured that slackers like us wouldn’t stand a chance.
And I was kinda right. But at least we made a kill.
On Monday night, the first night of the game, I actually picked up Jeremy from work, water pistol drawn, and escorted him to a bar next door to his apartment (StreetWars rules stipulate that you are safe inside bars, but not restaurants – this place was somewhere in the middle). There, we were eating wings with our friend Meredith when a guy walked up to Jeremy with his water pistol out and said, "Are you stalking me?" It turns out that this guy was in line with Jeremy and Brian picking up the dossiers in Queens. As he was one of the few normal people there, the three struck up a conversation. But now, he was standing in front of my leader with his gun in his side, looking threatening, as I, Jeremy’s protector, had wing sauce on my face, beard, hands, hair, and feet (don’t ask). Awesome fucking bodyguard, am I.
Jeremy said "No" and asked the guy if he was stalking him, expecting to be shot. Instead, the guy said that he wasn’t stalking Jeremy either, but was in the bar watching the Monday Night Football game with his buddies. The two immediately relaxed and I breathed a sigh of relief and resumed eating wings (ok, I never stopped). Jeremy added, "We’re in a bar anyway", but the guy countered "This is more of a restaurant, isn’t it?" and the two went back and forth arguing whether or not this was a safe zone. The guy said that his target lived around the area but he was there, again, just to hang out with his buddies. They talked for a bit more and then the guy left to go to the bathroom.
After he left, Meredith was the first to say, "You know – he kinda looks like your target." Jeremy pulled out the picture of our target and wouldn’t you know it – the guy who was just speaking to Jeremy, who we will call Sam, was our fucking target. I could see why this wasn’t instantly recognized: Sam was thugged out in the picture we had of him, with a Knicks jersey and spiked hair, while the guy we were just talking to was very corporate and conservative. But the fact remained – he was our guy. All we had to do was shoot him.
But we didn’t, mostly because we were eating wings. By the time we decided to act, Sam had left the bar. This made us mad at ourselves, but also raised a few red flags. Why, if he was at the bar to watch the game with his friends, did he leave when it had just started? Was he onto us? Or was he really Jeremy’s assassin but unable to shoot him because he was in a safe zone? Hmm…
The result was four days of paranoia – including Jeremy staying over at my apartment for two nights – that ended only when Jeremy walked outside his place to find Sam, our target, his possible assassin, standing there. Playing it cool, Jeremy struck up a conversation with Sam, who allowed that his target lived only two doors away from Jeremy. As Jeremy tells it, he then said, "Oh yeah? Well how about this!" and then shot Sam, but I imagine he let out more of a "moo"-type sound and awkwardly sprayed Sam with his water gun, possibly dropping it and also prematurely ejaculating when doing so. Either way, we had our first kill. Victors.
The rules of StreetWars stipulate that once you "kill" someone, you take his or her target and hunt that person. Sam handed his target’s info to Jeremy and clued him in on some intelligence he had gathered: Sam’s target, our new target, was a lawyer at a big-time law firm in midtown and worked long and erratic hours. Sam, however, had a buddy on the inside of his target’s firm who checked the log book to see what time the target arrived at work each day. Armed with his information, Sam was convinced that his target was not staying at his place – possibly staying at his lover’s – because Sam had been outside his apartment for hours each morning, each time in the range that his target signed into work. Something was fishy…
And this is the point when we pretty much gave up. The thrill of our first kill proved fleeting and was replaced by apathy. No member of the team had any interest in staking out a guy who was clearly not staying at his apartment (a violation of the rules, by the way). And also, it was apparent that no one was coming after Jeremy. After a few first jitters on the first few days, Jeremy felt completely safe – he didn’t see any suspicious people, never felt like he was being followed – nothing. It appeared that the only people more lazy than us - killers by accident because our target was practically delivered to Jeremy – were the people hunting Jeremy.
(Brian and I had long resigned ourselves to the fact that no one was hunting us. I was pretty much the easiest target in the world, since I work regular hours, walk everywhere, and a simple google search would bring my assassin to this website, where he could learn all kinda shit about me. Corinne thought she was being targeted, but Brian and I chalked up her fears to being a crazy girl. She did not like that and went so far to point out that I’m more of a crazy girl than she is. And she’s right.)
So for the next few days after our kill, which took place on Day 4, we did nothing. We still carried around our water pistols, but I was no longer escorting Jeremy out of work, none of us were taking alternative routes home, we were barely talking about it. The thrill was gone and our emails turned from discussions about StreetWars to "Have you ever gotten high at work? Highly recommended."
Then, on Day 11, the end finally came. Jeremy was buzzed walking back to his apartment and someone approached him at his door, asked if he was Jeremy, then shot him. Elimination, at long last. Jeremy’s assassin turned out to be a cool guy who even bought Jeremy a drink at the bar next door and appeared extremely high. I pointed out that it would probably be more acceptable to be killed by the nerd who’s been plotting for days than the guy who gets high in his apartment all day long, but no one listened to me. They never do. Which they will regret one day.
(I hope.)
**********
In the end, StreetWars was another typical chapter of my life: a lot of promise and enthusiasm at the start, but ending with a whimper and an awkward goodbye. This can be said for pretty much every endeavor, job, and relationship I’ve ever had in my life. But at least I’m consistent. I kinda smell pretty good, too. But that’s about it.
(Let’s just end this before I get too depressed. And yes, I am getting some ice cream tonight – thank you for asking.)
I’m not exactly sure why I don’t go to concerts more often. I’d like to give an understandable explanation like, "When I was little, my uncle took me to a Bon Jovi concert because I loved Bon Jovi and then, long story short, Bon Jovi killed my uncle. Twice. So I don’t like to go to concerts."
But unfortunately (or rather, fortunately), this did not happen. Instead, I think the main reasons why I don’t like to go to concerts are because a) I am lazy and b) rarely does the musician/band live up to my expectations.
Concerts are a lot of work – you have to find someone to go with, buy the tickets, travel to wherever the hell the show is, find your seats or stand the whole time, pay $7 per beer which makes you have to piss, then halfway through you’re checking your watch and sending text messages to your buddies about your date, like "I think she has hairier balls than I do" and "She smells like a little like cat piss and a lot like old sex" – it’s just unpleasant for everyone.
But all this doesn’t mean that I never attend concerts. My first concert was Paula Abdul with Color Me Badd opening. My second was the Grateful Dead (how’s that for progress?). I’ve seen Elvis Costello almost a dozen times, Glenn Tilbrook a bunch, then a variety of different acts, from Phish and Page/Plant to Wilco and the Who.
(Pretty smooth with the P’s and W’s, right? That’s why they pay me the big bucks. Real writer-shit, right there.)
So I occasionally go out to venues to see some live music. But it is rare that a perfect storm develops, providing the fan (or, as in my case, the jerk with nothing better to do on a Friday night) with the opportunity to see some great live music, in an incredible location, among at once some of the nerdiest and most frightening people in North America.
Last Friday, the 13th of October, was such a perfect storm. My friends and I saw Iron Maiden at the Continental Airlines Arena in East Rutherford, New Jersey. And no, I’m not joking.
Nor am I an Iron Maiden fan. I was aware of Iron Maiden just as I am aware of white women who only date black men – I know they’re out there, and I know they’re not to be taken seriously. And like white women who only date black men, everything I need to know about Iron Maiden I learned from VH1 Classic. I knew that they’re death metal, or at least heavy, heavy metal (I’ve seen them also described as "doom metal"). I knew about Eddie, the band’s mascot, a giant monster who appears on stage and randomly hangs out for a song or two, much to the delight of the crowd. And I knew they were loud. And that’s about all I knew.
The idea of going to see Maiden was suggested by my old roommate Brian. His college buddy, Jeff, who can only (but accurately) be described as a Southern metalhead, was driving up from Virginia to see the show. This so humored Brian that he suggested a bunch of us go, just to check it out. The prospect of some serious comedy at an Iron Maiden show on Friday the 13th in October – in New Jersey, no less – was too much to pass up and so after work on Friday afternoon, my friends Brian, Jeremy, Corinne and I met in midtown and soon were in Corinne’s car driving to Jersey. Ten miles and two hours later, we had arrived. It was time to rock our balls off.
Research, Metal-Style
Before I got to the concert, I did a little research, downloading two dozen or so of Iron Maiden’s songs from LimeWire. I figured I should have at least some idea of what kind of music I’d be listening to when some guy with tattoos was punching me in the face.
And to be honest, I kind of dug Maiden’s music. Sure, it’s not my typical cup of tea, but it has its place. The song titles alone are worth it. Maiden is responsible for such masterpieces as "Hallowed Be Thy Name", "The Number of the Beast", "Sea of Madness" (not to be confused with "Can I Play With Madness"), and my personal favorite, "Bring Your Daughter to the Slaughter" (I’m such a sucker for internal rhyme). Another one of their songs is called "Alexander the Great" and I remember when listening to it for the first time being surprised that the song was about…Alexander the Great. Literally, the lyrics talk about Philip of Macedon and Asia Minor and the Tigris River and all kinds of crazy shit. This, for whatever reason, shocked me.
(I mean, am I a moron for not expecting the song to be about Alexander the Great? Perhaps I thought it was a metaphor or something. I brought this up to my buddy Brian and he said, "It’s like they want to teach you before they blow your brains out." Sometimes Brian can be really wise.)
Bonus points for the band because their lead singer is named Bruce Dickinson. No, not THE Bruce Dickinson.
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Iron Maiden’s Bruce Dickinson, according to his website, enjoys fencing and flying planes and has written two books about a character named Lord Iffy Boatrace. Not surprisingly, Bruce is also interested in Aleister Crowley and even wrote a movie script about him. And it goes without saying that he too, when he puts his pants on, makes gold records. I don’t know about you guys, but I kinda want to fuck him.
Pre-Game, Maiden-Style
Because traffic out of Manhattan on a Friday evening is deplorable, we got to the concert at 8pm, just as doors were opening. This made us kinda sad, because we were hoping to take in the hoi poloi at your typical Iron Maiden tailgate in Jersey. It wasn’t a total loss, since it didn’t take long to locate a lot of bad hair, a lot of drinking, and a lot of people who still live with their parents.
Maiden fans on the whole were not that scary. I was expecting deviants and devil worshippers. I made a point to change out of my work clothes and into something more casual before going into the show, fearing that wearing my Banana Republic slacks and Brooks Brothers shirt would be the equivalent of putting a "Rape Me" sign on my chest. Instead, the crowd was not scary but rather stuck in 1983. I’m not saying there weren’t some people there who have spent significant time in prison, but for the most part, I felt safe. I even put the "Rape Me" sign on anyway and wasn’t even approached. Which sucked.
Another downside about arriving so late to the concert was that I didn’t get messed up enough. I do not like to drink at concerts, as I have a bladder the size of a three year old girl’s. So I forego beer because I don’t like to go take a piss every other song. However, before shows I do greatly enjoy those funny cigarettes that make you hungry and happy. But my friend Corinne has some ridiculous rule about not smoking pot in her car (fucking narc), so I and a few others were only able to enjoy after our arrival. The point: I didn’t get high enough. I was not thrilled about this but would soon forgot about it. Because I was about to get my cock rocked off.
Iron Maiden = Spinal Tap?
I don’t really have a joke about this but I’m not ashamed to say that Iron Maiden totally fucking rocked. They were pretty much what I expected from listening to their stuff: a singer, three (!) guitarists, a bass player, and a drummer on a set made to look like a cave, rocking the fuck out. Hard, heavy, loud. So, awesome.
I am also pretty sure that Iron Maiden was the inspiration for mockumentary band Spinal Tap. I’m sure that Christopher Guest and Co. took elements from other rock bands of the genre and era, but Maiden had to be tops on the list.
Specifically, this guy, guitarist Janick Gers, is the real life David St. Hubbins. And not just because they look the same, but because Janick was acting like quite like David does in Spinal Tap, throwing his guitar in the air, swinging it around, pointing it at the crowd with his tongue out, sticking it between his legs – pretty much every ridiculous on-stage move you can imagine. My buddy Jeremy and I decided that there was no way he was actually playing guitar, because when he wasn’t carrying on, he was strumming out of time and he was barely doing so anyway. It’s like they turned off the volume on his guitar and said, "Go and have some fun out there."
(Worth noting is that minutes after Jeremy and I finished having this discussion, Brian tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Corinne and I were just talking and there’s no way that blonde guitarist on the right is actually playing." So it wasn’t just us. Good job, Janick. Way to sell it, way to sell it.)
I Love Metal Chicks
The Metal Chick is a type of woman I had been previously unfamiliar with. She’s the oldest, lamest sister of the Heroine Chic Girl and the Hipster Fucker. She’s got some tats like her youngest sister the Hipster Fucker and loves drugs as much as her middle sister the Heroine Chic Girl, but she’s drastically different in other ways. Her hair is out of style, but not in an ironic way like her baby sister’s. She’s crazy, but not in the "I’ll kill myself" way of her middle sister (indeed, her type of craziness is more "I’ll kill you" than anything else).
But the Metal Chick is not without her charms, and first and foremost of these is her sexy-ass body. I know, you may be shocked to read this, but I was surprised at how many mid-30’s Metal Chicks at this concert had very good bodies, nice boobies and heinies built from years of being angry and rocking. That doesn’t mean there wasn’t a fair share of 200-pounders sucking on bongs with vast stretches of inked-up pale flesh exposed from their ill-fitting Maiden shirts, but on the whole, I was surprised. And happy. Because I like good bodies, you know, since I have one now.
(By the way, I’m down 40 pounds, so suck on that.)
My friends and I sat in front of one of these good-bodied Metal Chicks and by the end of the concert – between her gyrating and rocking the fuck out and the speed and intensity of the music - I was planning on committing a sex crime. The thought of going back to that Metal Chick’s dingy apartment in Westfield, New Jersey to fuck her on her kitchen floor while listening to "Run to the Hills" was too much to bear and I asked my buddy Jeremy to start making out with me to turn me off. He complied. Without getting too into it, talk about your all-time backfires. Let’s just move on.
Family o’ Mexicans
Another group of fans near us was a family of Mexicans, maybe a dozen of them. What’s so interesting about this was that they were all exactly the same. I don’t mean that they all looked the same, but that they were the same. It was impossible to differentiate not only their ages, but also their sexes. It was thirteen of the same exact person. The only reason I know that some of them were women was because couples were paired off and cuddling. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known. There were all the same height (maybe 5′0") with the same hairstyle and all wearing similar clothes. It was both fascinating and nightmarish. And when the lights came off, after Maiden had the crowd on its feet through its raging encore, I couldn’t get away from those little Mexicans fast enough. Scary little mother fuckers, they were.
After the Concert
While it took us two hours to travel ten miles on our way to the arena, it took us only about fifteen minutes to make it back to the city. We were all pretty pumped up and so decided to go out that night. We split up, each of us retreating to drop our shit at our homes, shower, change, and then head out.
It was your typical Friday night for the most part. I started drinking after the concert and fixed myself a way-too-potent vodka red bull while showering and singing "Fear of the Dark" and soon was at the bar with the rest of the crew and some additional friends. Brian’s buddy, Jeff, the Southern metalhead whose idea it was to see Iron Maiden in the first place, was so happy that I actually enjoyed the concert that he kept buying me drinks all night. I thought, based on their color and taste, that these were vodka tonics. In my inebriated state, I was confused. They were vodka red bulls.
Remember, I am a pussy with caffeine – one diet coke will keep me going all day long. I had already had a red bull that night. Then I had at least four between the hours of 2am and 4am. Not good.
The result? After getting home, I was up until 7am. I sat in the shower for an hour reading (or rather, trying to read), then, as I am wont to do when drunk, decided to cut my own hair. As you might guess, I did not do a very good job and so had to get a haircut yesterday to fix my mistakes. Of which there were several.
When I finally fell asleep, I slept for only three hours before waking up, feeling like I could run a marathon. This feeling lasted only a few hours on Saturday, and when it went away, I crashed hard – so hard that I didn’t even make it out Saturday night. Ugh.
(Though I made up for it by drinking from 1pm until 11pm on Sunday. It was the only way I could deal with that terrible Eagles’ loss. But let’s not get into that…)
***********
All in all, Iron Maiden was a great experience. So much so that while I don’t think I’d follow them around the country, I would probably go see them again. Next time, I’d get there earlier, bring a lot more weed, and study up on what turns Metal Chicks on. Because I want me one of those.
(Except if those Mexicans are there again. I’m not going near those sons of bitches. Because that shit was messed up.)
Also, I will be making many travels (which is far superior and much more romantic than saying "I’ll be traveling"). I’m in Philly next weekend for my friend Jimmy the Muppet’s bachelor party and will be in Boston in mid-November for another BC football game (read: drunkfest) either on 11/11 or 11/18. I will also be going west, with my triumphant return to Seattle planned tentatively for early December – though this is very much up in the air as it involves three of my buddies and I organizing a trip (wish us luck). And of course, I will be in LA at least once between now and Christmas, but have no idea when. I’ll probably get a call on a Monday asking me to be out there for a Wednesday meeting, which will be fun.
So I ask for your patience and understanding over the next two months. That doesn’t mean I’m going to post any less – I have no idea how this will affect posting – but the angry "post more!" emails have started to trickle in and they always hurt my feelings. Also, one dude from Bangkok emailed me saying that when I recently lost weight I also lost some brain and funniness, although he did admit that he was drunk at the time he was writing (true story). So that softened the blow a little bit.
*************
Speaking of angry emails, the recent sports posts have caused a torrent of emails. And they were pretty much completely divided in half. Half came from guys (and sports-interested ladies) either asking questions or refuting some of the points I made. And of course, I responded to 90% of these emails because, well, I fucking love sports.
But the other half…[sigh]
The other half came from ladies or foreigners who were not happy with my sports posts. They basically went like this:
Jason,
What the hell? Your sports posts are BORING. Go back to being funny! I’m bored
Sara/Christine/Molly/Heather/Tricia/Someone from Germany or Australia
Ladies (and Germans and Australians), there is a rule here that we have at jasonmulgrew.com that I apparently need to remind you about. I won’t get too into it, for fear I lose you with all the complicated legalese, but the gist of the rule is that you can not complain about the content of the site unless i) you have donated or ii) my bird has – at the very least – been in your hand. Otherwise, it’s not exactly right to complain about a free service, is it?
I don’t want to start saying things that we might not mean, but you know that Uncle Jason tries very hard to bring you quality entertainment almost every day, often at the risk of his employment status, his romantic prospects, and his general health. But sometimes both Jason and Larry get a little tired and need a break. Remember, it’s a miracle that we’ve gotten 2.5 years out of this blog, since it only has so few themes:
- I’m fat
- Women don’t like me
- I like getting messed up
- I have really, really low self-esteem
That’s not very much to work with, is it? Jason and Larry both like sports and sometimes they want to talk about them, especially because it’s easy.
So in the future, I ask for a little more understanding. I promise you that this will not turn into a sports blog. But it’s decidedly not awesome to log on to read 20 emails at a time from women (and Germans and Australians) yelling at you to entertain them. Unless you’re paying me or providing me with hand-relief, that doesn’t seem fair, does it?
(And re: sports – I know that I went 0-4 in my baseball playoff predictions, even after saying that I was picking perfectly this year. I don’t think there’s any need for me to pick for the rest of the playoffs, since I’m obviously not very good at it. So let me just stick to my strengths, which lately have been eating lots of oatmeal and feeling lonely at night.)
*************
Switching gears a little bit, Wednesday’s post about what my friend Laura said to her pseudo-ex inspired a shit load of emails, and, if I’m being totally honest here, 99% of them sucked. Not to pick on the ladies again (we’ll leave the Germans and Australians out of this one), but many girls wrote in to tell me about some "crazy" shit that she had said or did to her ex-boyfriend and nothing came close to Laura’s original comment.
Instead, most of these women wrote in something like one of the following:
- "So I learned my boyfriend was cheating on me and I said – in front of all his friends – ‘Fuck you, jerk!’ He laughed, but I knew it hurt him really bad."
- "My boyfriend and I kinda broke up but then had this big fight to end the relationship and I told him that he had a little dick! Crazy, right?"
- "My ex started seeing another girl and I saw him out with his buddies one night. So I ignored him. Then I left him a voicemail saying he was bad in bed! I know – I’m a total crazy girl."
No, sister, you are not.
Anyway, I did got some emails that made me laugh. The first was from Carlos in NYC:
My buddy and his girlfriend were in a couple’s fight similar to the one you wrote about. In the middle, she pauses, looks him dead in the eye and says "Everything that makes you sad, makes me happy." Ouch. There’s really…i mean…who would…just ouch.
They’re getting married in April and that little nugget will find itself in the best man’s speech if I get 3 too many Kettle One and tonics.
I think that’s totally acceptable material for a best man’s speech, especially when it’s a loving statement like that. And of course, I’m kidding. I recently helped a buddy of mine craft his best man speech for a friend and he was seriously considering including a line about the bride’s "cans" and seem genuinely surprised when I told him that probably wasn’t a good idea. When I have to teach you about tact, well, that’s not a good sign.
John from Long Island had a doozy:
I’m not normally one to e-mail bloggers, but I read your shit every day, and your most recent post on ex-girlfriends and their demonic, whorish ways has inspired me, to say the least.
I dated a girl for about three years; lost my virginity to her, the whole nine yards. Now, the relationship ended on somewhat of a sour note- I was with another girl, etc. Standard fare for an 19 year old kid. Well, let me tell you, that was a big fucking mistake, to say the least. I had seen my cheating as more of a "staggering drunk, looking-for-any-moist-hole-I-could-find" kind of thing, while she saw it as more of a "personal attack, self esteem decimating, invalidating her very existence as a female" kind of thing. Rational, I know.
So, as these things tend to go, we ended up hooking up for most of the summer, with me thinking I had won her back with my stunning charm and guile (I was certainly still in love with her, and was absolutely positive she was with me.) Ho ho. So late one evening, she calls me up, seemingly a little intoxicated, and as we were talking and flirting, I was trying to plan out the best route to buy condoms and get to her house in the least amount of time. She’s laughing and giggling, being cute and reminding me while I was still in love with her, and I tell her I am leaving in a few minutes and should be over there in ten minutes or so. As I am saying this, I hear the door to her house open, and a male voice say something to her. Pause. She laughs again, with me in mid-sentence, just kind of hanging on the last word of "I’ll be overrr……".
Thoroughly confused, although completely unaware that I am about to be absolutely eviscerated, I ask her "who the fuck is that?" She replies with: "Oh, that’s Mark (my friend who lived four doors down from me since elementary school). I’m going to fuck him now… I gotta go." ::silence:: Me: "you fucking whore." Her: (laughs) "and his penis is MUCH bigger than yours." *click*
Awesome right? So I don’t know how it stacks up in real life, but it seemed like it should be able to hang with your story, and it certainly was the worst female-related moment of my life.
In a follow-up email, he added:
The worst part about the whole ordeal, and part I neglected to actually spell out (I was way too fucking fired up when I was typing it out) was that she actually made the conscious decision to call him, set up the late-night booty call, then call me, knowing that I was ready to stop over. Fucking mind-boggling right?
Yikes. We all know that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but that is a real stinger right there. But John, I don’t think it’s your fault. Just because your girl misconstrued the point or intention of your cheating doesn’t make you a bad guy - it just makes her crazy.
But Vernon from Chevy Chase, MD takes the cake:
I was having a meal with an ex of mine whom i had dated for 4 years…i broke up with her and was really pretty over her
now before i go further i should mention she NEVER let me have anal sex with her…ever
during lunch she comments she’s seeing a new guy and i’m happy for her and whatnot…she then goes on to mention "and we had anal sex last weekend…i can’t tell you how much i loved it…i never knew how good it could feel to have a dick inside me like that"
Wow. Ok, that stings a little bit. I don’t really know what to say about that, and Vernon end his email "…", so let’s just leave it at that.
(Besides, I’m a little tired today and don’t feel like getting into a big discussion about anal sex. Maybe later, and definitely tonight after a few Red Bull vodka and hours of porno, but not now.)
*************
I had the following conversation with my mom this morning, which I now reproduce verbatim for your reading pleasure.
Mom: "Oh, I forgot to tell you, Aunt Monica almost came up to New York last month for some thing – I think it was near you."
Me: "What thing?"
Mom: "I don’t know…it’s got an Italian-sounding name."
Me: "The San Gennaro Festival?"
Mom: "No, no…I don’t think so. It’s like a street fair or something."
Me: "Are you sure it’s not the San Gennaro Festival? It’s in my neighborhood and it’s a street fair."
Mom: "No, no - it’s more Italian-sounding. What was it…"
Me: [three seconds] "The Festival of San Gennaro?"
Mom: "Yes! That’s it!"
I love my moms.
*************
Yesterday, a buddy from Philly was in NYC for a meeting, so we had lunch. I met him on the corner of my office building, and saw him first walking across the street toward me, decked out in a nice suit, looking all professional. As he got closer, I noticed something else: he had a giant black eye.
Businessman/fighter.
I love my Philly friends.
*************
Six Songs
"Let Me Serenade You" Three Dog Night
Quite simply, this has been my favorite song over the past two weeks. A great piano opening, stellar vocal performance, and a general sappy sweet theme that’s impossible to resist. And of course, since I’m sappy sweet, I’ve been fantasizing about singing this song with my cover band, which I have not started yet but will soon, to my future girlfriend, who I know nothing about now other than she is a) hot, b) Hispanic, c) 23 and d) likes me (I don’t even think I have to write that she has great boobies, as that should be understood). Also she’s (close to) a virgin with no baggage, including but not limited to "my daddy didn’t love me" issues; had cheating/unappreciative/abusive past boyfriend(s); was previously engaged or lived with boyfriend; or was once or is on anti-depressants. And lastly, she does not want to get married any time soon and going into the relationship understands that should I get actually famous, an occasional slip-up in the fidelity department is really not that big of a deal, as it’s hard to resist advances when you’re drunk and in a strange city or at work on a Wednesday morning and you get a naughty IM.
Yes, she and I will be very happy together. Whatever her name is. And all because of a Three Dog Night song. Love is funny, right?
"No One Teaches Life Anything" Dogs Die In Hot Cars
This song makes me think – and it doesn’t even have any words! I don’t know…maybe it’s because it has that baby crying at the end and I have several children of my own who are probably crying right now (fucked if I know for sure, though), but it gets my wheels turning. Not in a bad way, but in a "Let’s appreciate life" type of way. And yes, I realize that this doesn’t make much sense but it’s very hard to write something about a song with no words. So just fucking listen to it yourselves, assholes.
"Do Right Woman, Do Right Man" Aretha Franklin
This may be the most incredible vocal performance I’ve ever heard. So, so smooth. What an amazing set of pipes Ms. Aretha has – and she doesn’t even go crazy in the song, remaining even-keeled throughout. This song randomly came on my iPod a few days ago between some hipster-ass rock songs and it blew me away. Forget those Lower East Side poseurs with their unwashed hair and fuzz boxes – this is music, mother fucker.
"Love Love Love" The Mountain Goats
It’s been awhile since I’ve recommended a Mountain Goats song, so let’s go with this one. What is both so frustrating and so glorious about the Mountain Goats is that they’re songs as so simple (both lyrically and musically) and yet so fucking good. How the fuck do they do that? I write simple songs all the time, keeping my rhymes basic (like you/true, me/be, semen/dreamin’) and my music basicer, but my songs suck.
(Actually, the lyrics of this song are rather unsimple. But I’ve already written the stuff above, so I’m sticking with it.)
"Keep On Running" Spencer Davis Group
Steve Winwood is underappreciated as a rock legend. And I don’t say this in the ironic way because I love his 80’s catalogue (though I do). The guy was in the Spencer Davis Group, Traffic, and Blind Faith (with Eric Clapton); played with Jimi Hendrix on "Electric Ladyland" (including "All Along the Watchtower" and the organ on the live cut of "Voodoo Chile"); and even played organ on Joe Cocker’s "With a Little Help From My Friends." Then he has a half dozen hits in the 80’s, which still hold up and are listenable to today. Great stuff.
Anyway, this song gets my fist pumping. Good shit.
"Us" Regina Spektor
Man, I’d like to marry Regina Spektor. Not only is she hot (the blue eyes/dark hair combination kills me), young, and extremely fucking talented (this song makes me feel so warm and loved inside), but she’s Russian! I took Russian partly out of my love for two things: vodka and Russian woman! And here’s a real-live Russian(-born) woman for me, right in NYC! What are the odds? I’ll finally be able to practice my Russian with someone!
Боже мой, как Ñ Ñ‚ÐµÐ±Ñ Ñ…Ð¾Ñ‡Ñƒ, Regina! СоÑок!
(Bozhe moi, kak ya tibya hochu, Regina! Sosok!)
(My god, how I want you, Regina! Nipple!)
I feel like if I just had the chance, I could charm her in no time with my knowledge of her native tongue. And after seeing my skills, I’m sure you all agree.
[Also, it took me like ten minutes to type out that Russian. I mean, fuck.]
[And of course, we know that regina is the Latin word for "queen," not to be confused with vagina, the Latin word for "sheath". So if you learn anything from me, let it be that vagina means "sheath" in Latin. It's quite a conversation starter at bars and parties.]
[Maybe I could practice my Russian by writing weekly Russian lessons on here. Would you all like to learn incorrect Russian that you only feel comfortable using when very drunk? Not only will you be killing time at work, but you'll slowly (and improperly) be learning one of the most difficult languages on the planet. You're probably thinking, "Jason, are you qualified to teach a few thousand people Russian?" Well, if one semester of Russian two years ago and a few cds and books that I've listened to/read since then doesn't make me qualified, what does? Would you like me to go and live in Russia? Well, I can't. I kinda have some stuff going on here. So we're just going to have to work with what we have, ok?]
*************
Today is Friday, the 13th. It is October. And tonight, my friends and I are going to New Jersey to see Iron Maiden.
(No, I’m not kidding.)
Wish me luck and above all, pray for me. This sound be…interesting.
[Have a good weekend.]
And guess what? The Indian "food" was fucking delicious. I have no idea what it was or what it was made of or whether what it was made of had some sort of disease, but it tasted pretty fucking good. So that’s the first positive.
The second positive was that it was cheap as hell. I don’t mean cheap in the NYC sense, where a turkey sandwich for $9 is considered a good deal. This restaurant served bottles of Amstel Light for $2.50 a pop, and that’s a good deal no matter where you are. There were five us and we ate with abandon and drank seven bottles of wine for $35 a person, including dessert and tip. Wow.
But more than the ugly-looking food or the cheap booze, the dinner was about friends. In particular, it was about getting your female friends drunk so that they can tell you about all the crazy shit they’ve done to guys.
Now I don’t mean this in the sexual sense. For the most part, I have very little interest in what my female friends do with men in the bedroom (or bathroom or stairwell), unless it involves another woman or a picture of me. Because even though I’ll have sex with most tissue boxes, I do have some limits.
The discussion, which took place between myself, Brian, and three girls, revolved around post-relationship jealousy. This is a topic that I am most interested in, since I basically started this blog to make various ex-girlfriends jealous of me. And by "jealous of me" I mean "feel so sorry for me that they take me back so that we can finally make a life together and I promise I’ll be a good husband and if you cheat on me again for the love of God just don’t fucking tell me."
But I don’t really consider myself a jealous person. I’ve written before about this, but to be jealous you have to actually care. And as I get older, I find that I don’t care about a lot of things. I care about sports. And music. And myself. And most of the time my family. And some friends. And I’ve been really into barbeque sauce lately. But crazy ex-girlfriends who probably didn’t like me in the first place? Not so much. Over the past few years I’ve learned about ex-girlfriends getting engaged, getting married, fucking two guys at once – and my response has always been the same: "Eh." And then, "Wait – two guys at once? Kelly? Was one of them my brother? Because I think she’s had something for him for years. The strumpet."
I think there are two main reasons why I am not jealous. The first is (and bear with me) is that I am (or rather, Larry is) pretty fucking awesome. I’ve kinda been on a roll for the past 18 months, transforming myself from "Internet Quasi-Celebrity" to "Internet Quasi-Celebrity Who Talks About Himself All the Time." So when I recently referred to the ex-boyfriend of an ex-girlfriend as a "wigger country bumpkin" and then reminded her that "I’m Jason Fucking Mulgrew," it was not out of jealousy, but rather out of confidence and complete and total security and high self-esteem. It was also this security and high self-esteem that caused me to stab myself in the chest with a lighter after she and I ended our phone conversation. But we’re getting off-topic here…
The second reason why I’m not particularly jealous is that save for very few cases, when my relationship with a woman ends, she is dead to me. I don’t do the whole "Let’s have coffee and catch up" thing, but rather play up the "I guess I’ll see you if any of our mutual friends die" angle. Maybe it stems from my parents divorce or from a lifetime of dealing with a penis the size of a newborn’s, but I have an astounding capacity to hold grudges and completely shut people out of my life for all eternity. Some would say that I should probably talk to a professional about this, but to be honest, I’m kinda proud of this, ranking it just below my ability to sing any Huey Lewis song on my list of favorite things about myself.
So when the girls started talking about what they did to make their ex- or then-current boyfriends jealous, I’d responded to each by saying, "That wouldn’t bother me" or "Whatever" or "Is ‘korma’ the word for ’semen paste’ in Indian? Because it is delicious!"
But then one of my female friends, who we will call Laura, told a story that blew my fucking brains out.
Laura had recently broken up with her boyfriend, "John", but they still hooked up occasionally. Meanwhile, Laura had begun hooking up with a new guy, "Steve." Steve and Laura were not serious, only making out once in a while, but Steve was very into Laura.
Laura’s ex, John, knew about Steve and Laura. But he didn’t care – or didn’t seem to care – because at least he and Laura were hooking up. Though he had never met Steve before, John knew from Laura that Steve was very into her but she wasn’t too into him.
Then one day Laura learned that John, her ex, had been hooking up with a girl, "Sophie", for some time. Though John was ok with Laura with another guy, Laura was not ok with John with another girl.
And so she confronted him about his new girl and the two had a classic blow out – screaming at each other in his apartment, her throwing things, both of them continuing the screaming on the street outside his apartment. Your typical ginormous couple’s fight.
By this point, both John and Laura were arguing and basically trying to inflict as much emotional pain on each other as possible. Laura was pissed off and tired of arguing and decided to end the argument once and for all. So she reached deep down into herself, set her icy gaze upon her ex-love, and said, "Just so you know, I’m going home tonight and I’m going to fuck Steve. And by the way, he would fuck you up."
…
Well. Um, ok.
I felt like I was in the middle of an episode of "Girlfriends" as Brian and I sat at the table, mouths agape, as the girls drunkenly shrieked in delight and high-fived one another. Finally, I meekly said, "Laura, that’s terrible." To which she replied, "Terrible – or AWESOME?!?" More shrieking. More high-fiving.
I don’t really no what else to say about that remark other than it’s one thing to tell your ex-boyfriend that you’re going home to fuck another guy. It is another thing entirely to add that the guy you’re going to fuck would beat his ass. I mean, just, wow. That is quite a zinger if I’ve ever heard one.
As you might imagine, that shut up John pretty quickly and Laura was free to stomp away with a major victory under her belt. Then she went home and fucked Steve. Who could beat up John. In case you didn’t catch that the first time around.
***
There is no moral or ending to this story (aside from that I should carefully reevaluate my friendship with Laura). If I had comments or a messageboard (which Site Guy Brendan is working on), I’d open this up to y’all and say "top that." And not in the fictional sense, but asking if any former lover has said anything worse to you. You can email me, but I doubt it. That’s quite a doozy.
Personally, even though I mentioned that I’m not a jealous person, that line would probably turn me gay. Brian and I have spent the past few days of thinking of something more painful to hear, but have not been able to come up with anything (again, it has to be realistic; it’d probably hurt more to hear "Your brother’s dick is bigger than yours, but not bigger than your dad’s" but the odds of that actually occurring all small).
But love makes you do crazy things. It was William Shakespeare who said, "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind." I’m not sure what this has to do with our discussion – I’m not even really sure what it means at all – but I’ve always liked the way it sounds and wanted to end this post on an erudite note.
…
I don’t think it worked.
That was a pretty complete victory and a true statement game if I ever saw one. That game was about as close to a must-win as they come so early in the season, as 4-1 and a 1.5 game lead in the division is a lot better than 3-2, a half game back, and 0-2 in the division.
Not to mention that is was a good fucking game. After the emotional roller coaster of the last 90 seconds, I just wanted to have sex and then have a big meal (guess which part actually happened?). And yes, the Eagles almost blew it at the end with that pass interference penalty, causing me to have a minor apoplectic seizure and poop myself just a little bit, but when I regained consciousness I realized that we were talking about Drew Bledsoe here (there?). And I was right.
And I could not have asked for a better "homecoming" for TO. Of course, in an ideal world, a Philly fan, probably someone related to me, would have rushed onto the field and punched him in the face. But the media frenzy and Philly-hating that that would have brought down would have been too much. Instead, TO was undisturbed and allowed to do what he does best, which is apparently play football. And the result? Three catches for 45 yards. So good job, TO. You really showed us.
[For the last time, the worst part of the TO saga was that is was entirely unnecessary. People forget that in their first season with TO, the Eagles were 13-1 - including 6-0 in the division and perfect in the conference - before benching everyone in their last two games and losing them. Then they had an easy time in the playoffs before poor clock management and - oh yeah - a dynasty beat them in the Super Bowl by three points. With Donovan McNabb, TO, Brian Westbrook, and that defense, the Eagles had a legitimate shot at becoming a dynasty. Then TO sabotaged just about everything because he's a bitch. So now the Eagles will be just fine with McNabb throwing the best deep ball in the game while TO gets to watch Drew Bledsoe flail around like a goddamn epileptic and throw the football in the air without much rhyme or reason. The good news for TO is the he probably only has one more season of Bledsoe after this one, which means Tony Romo will be throwing to him soon. Of course, by then he'll be 35. You know, if he doesn't kill himself before then. So who knows.]
What I enjoyed most was the incredible disparity between quarterbacks, a difference I can only hope was not lost on Terrell Owens. On the one side, you had Donovan McNabb, looking like a cross between Joe Montana, Jesus, and John Holmes. On the other, Drew Bledsoe. Drew…I mean, wow. I have never seen such a string of poor decisions made by a veteran NFL quarterback in all my years of watching football. I know this is a bold statement, but it is not an overstatement. I give major props to the Birds’ d-line (should I mention now that the Eagles have 23 sacks in five games – first in the league - after having 29 in sixteen games last season?), but some of Drew’s plays, whether holding on to the ball too long and taking bad sacks or making throws ranging from poor to are you fucking serious – were just hard to watch. You know your team whupped the other one when you feel sorry for your opponent’s fans. And I hate the opponent’s fans.
I do have concerns about next week’s Saints game, since I can’t get a read on that team. They’re 4-1 but I don’t know anything about them, aside from Reggie Bush and Reggie Bush and Reggie Bush. And I am concerned that we simply can not run the ball. It’s not a good thing when you’re team can’t get a first down on the ground on 3rd and 3. There is something very unsettling about that, since that means it’s all on your quarterback. McNabb is the MVP of the league right now, but if he has a bad day, the Eagles lose. Plain and simple. And lastly, the Eagles surrendered 146 yards on the ground, but that is forgivable after seven sacks and forcing four turnovers from Bledsoe. The problem has been giving up big pass plays in the secondary, which was obviously fixed in this game. But that doesn’t mean I’m not a little worried about Reggie Bush and Deuce McAllister…
So while we celebrate, let’s not forget: we need these wins. The last six Eagles game are simply not fair: at Indy, Carolina, at Washington, at the Giants, at Dallas, Atlanta. That is incredibly brutal. To go 3-3 in that stretch would be very good. We want this team at no worse than 7-3 going into those games. That means the Birds need to go at least 3-2 at NO, at Tampa, Jacksonville, Washington, Tennessee. So let’s buckle down and take care of business.
So things are alright in Philly this week and I’m much happier than I’ve been in weeks. I had a good weekend, won a little bit of money and generally feel pretty good. My only complaint is that after a rousing session of fingerblasting this weekend I have a cut on the tip of my middle finger that hurts when I type, but all things considered, I’ll take it. Also, I got to work the word "fingerblasting" in this post, which I like, and gave y’all a good excuse for the cut on my finger, which I really got when I was dancing and washing the dishes. Such is life.
The first set of videos come to us from the good people at Cracked. In anticipation of the forthcoming Borat movie, the have assembled a list of the ten best Borat clips. This should take you about an hour to get through and then another fifteen minutes to wash out and let dry your pants after you’ve peed them.
The second video is of a young, driven man, named Aleksay Vayner. Aleksay applied for a job at an i-bank here in NYC and at the end of his resume included a link to a video on his personal website. And it turns out the video…I don’t even have a joke – I’m completely speechless. The bad news is that I don’t think this guy’s going to get that job at UBS. But the good news is that he’ll be the internet’s newest celebrity in the next two days. Enjoy.
If you guys haven’t seen any of these Mark Foley IMs, you’re missing out. While I don’t like to do any real news, as that is for nerds, this is worth it. Below is most of the transcript (it can be found in its entirety here). As I am a cybersex expert, and not so much in the “safety and prevention” way but more in the “hobby and addiction” way, I have provided my comments on Foley’s work.
(Editor’s Note: It might help if you read my commentary in the voice of your favorite sports broadcaster. For some reason, Kirk Herbstreit is in my head, either because he’s fucking gorgeous or because he reminds me of a pederast. But feel free to use whomever you like.)
The teen is in red, Foley is in blue. Remember, this is the actual transcript between Mark Foley and the teen page. And we’re underway…
Xxxxx (7:41:57 PM): ugh tomorrow i have the first day of lacrosse practice
Maf54 (7:42:27 PM): love to watch that
Maf54 (7:42:33 PM): those great legs running
Nice – starting off with something playful and innocuous. Lesser perverts would go right into “cock” or “tell me about your cock” or “take out your cock and rub it on the computer screen” talk, but I like the way Foley starts with the legs, a non-taboo part of the body. And when he does so, notice how it seems to happen organically – all on its own.
Xxxxx (7:42:38 PM): haha…they arent great
Xxxxx (7:42:45 PM): thats why we have conditioning
Xxxxx (7:42:56 PM): 2 days running….3 days lifting
Xxxxx (7:43:11 PM): every week
Xxxxx (7:43:14 PM): until the end of march
Maf54 (7:43:27 PM): well dont ruin my mental picture
Again, notice how Foley stays in control of the conversation, bringing it back home with another playful remark. Foley knows what he wants – teenage boy penis – and he’s going to get it. This is just textbook internet pedophilia.
Xxxxx (7:43:32 PM): oh lol…sorry
Maf54 (7:43:54 PM): nice
Maf54 (7:43:54 PM): youll be way hot then
Xxxxx (7:44:01 PM): haha…hopefully
Maf54 (7:44:22 PM): better be
Maf54 (7:46:01 PM): well I better let you go do oyur thing
Following one of the basic tenets of seduction – that we pursue that which retreats from us - Foley ignores the boner that is no doubt raging in his creepy pants and plays it coy, removing himself from his target. The hope is that the target will only become more interested, but as we’ll see below, this backfires.
Xxxxx (7:46:07 PM): oh ok
Xxxxx (7:46:11 PM): have fun campaigning
Xxxxx (7:46:17 PM): or however you spell it
Xxxxx (7:46:18 PM): lol
Xxxxx (7:46:25 PM): ill see ya in a couple of weeks
Maf54 (7:46:33 PM): did any girl give you a haand job this weekend
Wow – this is a bush league move by Foley. Obviously, the teen did not bite and quickly initiated an end to the conversation. Foley loses his cool and behaves like an amateur, using a shocking remark to get a rise out of his victim (no doubt accidentally typing an extra “a” in “hand” because of the shakes as he’s unable to control his all-consuming need for underage male genitalia in or around his face). This is the ploy of a desperate pederast. Bush league, Foley – bush league.
Xxxxx (7:46:38 PM): lol no
Xxxxx (7:46:40 PM): im single right now
Xxxxx (7:46:57 PM): my last gf and i broke up a few weeks agi
Maf54 (7:47:11 PM): are you
Maf54 (7:47:11 PM): good so your getting horny
Now Foley’s just thinking with his penis and testes. Pressuring this early on the conversation usually only leads to failure. He’s going to get burned. Not a smart call at this juncture of the conversation.
Xxxxx (7:47:29 PM): lol…a bit
Maf54 (7:48:00 PM): did you spank it this weekend yourself
Xxxxx (7:48:04 PM): no
Xxxxx (7:48:16 PM): been too tired and too busy
Maf54 (7:48:33 PM): wow…
Maf54 (7:48:34 PM): i am never to busy haha
Xxxxx (7:48:51 PM): haha
Maf54 (7:50:02 PM): or tired..helps me sleep
Xxxxx (7:50:15 PM): thats true
Xxxxx (7:50:36 PM): havent been having a problem with sleep though.. i just walk in the door and collapse well at least this weekend
Maf54 (7:50:56 PM): i am sure
Xxxxx (7:50:57 PM): i dont do it very often normally though
Maf54 (7:51:11 PM): why not
Maf54 (7:51:22 PM): at your age seems like it would be daily
Xxxxx (7:51:57 PM): not me
Xxxxx (7:52:01 PM): im not a horn dog
Xxxxx (7:52:07 PM): maybe 2 or 3 times a week
Maf54 (7:52:20 PM): thats a good number
Maf54 (7:52:27 PM): in the shower
Xxxxx (7:52:36 PM): actually usually i dont do it in the shower
Xxxxx (7:52:42 PM): just cause i shower in the morning
Xxxxx (7:52:47 PM): and quickly
Maf54 (7:52:50 PM): in the bed
Xxxxx (7:52:59 PM): i get up at 530 and am outta the house by 610
Xxxxx (7:53:03 PM): eh ya
Maf54 (7:53:24 PM): on your back
Xxxxx (7:53:30 PM): no face down
Maf54 (7:53:32 PM): love details
Well, I stand corrected. Obviously, Mark Foley is a cybersex child molester to be reckoned with. His gamble pays off and through a seemingly sincere and yet scientific Q&A session he gets the teen to engage in what feels like an almost normal conversation. Impressive series by the Republican out of Palm Beach Junior College.
Xxxxx (7:53:34 PM): lol
Xxxxx (7:53:36 PM): i see that
Xxxxx (7:53:37 PM): lol
Maf54 (7:53:39 PM): really
Maf54 (7:53:54 PM): do you really do it face down
Xxxxx (7:54:03 PM): ya
Maf54 (7:54:13 PM): kneeling
Xxxxx (7:54:31 PM): well i dont use my hand…i use the bed itself
Maf54 (7:54:31 PM): where do you unload it
Xxxxx (7:54:36 PM): towel
Maf54 (7:54:43 PM): really
Maf54 (7:55:02 PM): completely naked?
Xxxxx (7:55:12 PM): well ya
Maf54 (7:55:21 PM): very nice
Xxxxx (7:55:24 PM): lol
Maf54 (7:55:51 PM): cute butt bouncing in the air
Notice how – watch this – Foley starts turning the conversation a little risqué. Remember, only thirteen minutes ago we were talking about legs – now Foley’s got him talking about his ass flopping around in the midst of an orgasm. You can see that he’s really starting to come on strong and dominating the younger target.
Xxxxx (7:56:00 PM): haha
Xxxxx (7:56:05 PM): well ive never watched myslef
Xxxxx (7:56:08 PM): but ya i guess
Maf54 (7:56:18 PM): i am sure not
Maf54 (7:56:22 PM): hmmm
Maf54 (7:56:30 PM): great visual
Maf54 (7:56:39 PM): i may try that
Xxxxx (7:56:43 PM): it works
Maf54 (7:56:51 PM): hmm
Maf54 (7:56:57 PM): sound inetersting
Maf54 (7:57:05 PM): i always use lotion and the hand
Maf54 (7:57:10 PM): but who knows
This is important: after an entire half of listening to the teen’s masturbatory habits, Foley starts opening up about his own nasty masturbatory habits. He feels like perhaps he’s got the teen riled up and it’s time to introduce him to his own world of illegal, immoral, and forbidden carnal delights.
Xxxxx (7:57:24 PM): i dont use lotion…takes too much time to clean up
Xxxxx (7:57:37 PM): with a towel you can just wipe off….and go
Maf54 (7:57:38 PM): lol
Maf54 (7:57:45 PM): where do you throw the towel
Xxxxx (7:57:48 PM): but you cant work it too hard….or its not good
Xxxxx (7:57:51 PM): in the laundry
Maf54 (7:58:16 PM): just kinda slow rubbing
Xxxxx (7:58:23 PM): ya….
Xxxxx (7:58:32 PM): or youll rub yourslef raw
Maf54 (7:58:37 PM): well I have aa totally stiff wood now
He raises his level of play right here, elevating the stakes by admitting his own erection. He’s hitting on all cylinders now. It’s Foley Time!
Xxxxx (7:58:40 PM): cause the towell isnt very soft
Maf54 (7:58:44 PM): i bet..taht would hurt
Xxxxx (7:58:50 PM): but you cn find something softer than a towell i guess
Maf54 (7:58:59 PM): but it must feel great spirting on the towel
Xxxxx (7:59:06 PM): ya
Maf54 (7:59:29 PM): wow
Maf54 (7:59:48 PM): is your little guy limp…or growing
Foley is moving in for the kill here. You can almost see him sitting at his desk in the Holiday Inn, slumped over his laptop and breathing heavily, one hand rubbing his old balls and the other working the keyboard.
Xxxxx (7:59:54 PM): eh growing
Maf54 (8:00:00 PM): hmm
Maf54 (8:00:12 PM): so you got a stiff one now
Xxxxx (8:00:19 PM): not that fast
Xxxxx (8:00:20 PM): hey
Xxxxx (8:00:32 PM): so you have a fetich
Maf54 (8:00:32 PM): hey what
Xxxxx (8:00:40 PM): fetish**
Maf54 (8:00:43 PM): like
Maf54 (8:00:53 PM): i like steamroom
Maf54 (8:01:04 PM): whats yours
Quickly turning back the conversation to himself, Foley again is trying to engage the teen, inviting into his world of nasty sexual fantasies, mostly involving young boys. Then, in a quid pro quo moment, Foley asks the teen what his fantasy is. Again, textbook pedophilia. This is real a statement seduction for Foley.
Xxxxx (8:01:09 PM): its kinda weird
Xxxxx (8:01:14 PM): lol
Maf54 (8:01:21 PM): i am hard as a rock..so tell me when your reaches rock
Xxxxx (8:01:23 PM): i have a cast fetish
Maf54 (8:01:27 PM): well tell me
Maf54 (8:01:32 PM): cast
Xxxxx (8:01:44 PM): ya like…plaster cast
Maf54 (8:01:49 PM): ok..so what happens
Maf54 (8:01:58 PM): how does that turn you in
Xxxxx (8:02:02 PM): i dont know
Xxxxx (8:02:04 PM): it just does
Xxxxx (8:02:08 PM): ive never had one
Xxxxx (8:02:16 PM): but people that have them turn me on
Xxxxx (8:02:27 PM): and if i had one it would probably turn me on
Xxxxx (8:02:29 PM): beats me
Xxxxx (8:02:32 PM): its kinda weird
Xxxxx (8:02:50 PM): but along with that i like the whole catholic girl look….thats our schools uniform
Maf54 (8:03:02 PM): ha thats wild
Xxxxx (8:03:14 PM): ya but now im hard
Maf54 (8:03:32 PM): me 2
Maf54 (8:03:42 PM): cast got you going
Maf54 (8:03:47 PM): what you wearing
Foley allows the teen to rile himself up with his own fantasy [Editor's Note: a cast? WTF?], but again, stays in control, bringing it back to the here and now. Foley is dominating the possession in this conversation and it’s having great results so far. It seems like this is all but over, and in no time Foley will be wiping the semen from his Dockers.
Xxxxx (8:04:04 PM): normal clothes
Xxxxx (8:04:09 PM): tshirt and shorts
Maf54 (8:04:17 PM): um so a big buldge
Xxxxx (8:04:35 PM): ya
Maf54 (8:04:45 PM): um
Maf54 (8:04:58 PM): love to slip them off of you
Xxxxx (8:05:08 PM): haha
Maf54 (8:05:53 PM): and gram the one eyed snake
Maf54 (8:06:13 PM): grab
Xxxxx (8:06:53 PM): not tonight…dont get to excited
This is where champions separate themselves. The teen is obviously reluctant to masturbate for the 52 year old from Newton, Massachusetts, but Foley, realizing he has momentum, changes tact.
Maf54 (8:07:12 PM): well your hard
Xxxxx (8:07:45 PM): that is true
Maf54 (8:08:03 PM): and a little horny
Xxxxx (8:08:11 PM): and also tru
Maf54 (8:08:31 PM): get a ruler and measure it for me
A nice compromise – Foley is not able to get what he wants right now, so he changes direction but maintains momentum. That’s a veteran play for you right there. This is where Foley’s years as co-chair on the House Caucus of Missing and Exploited Children really come into play.
Xxxxx (8:08:38 PM): ive already told you that
Maf54 (8:08:47 PM): tell me again
Xxxxx (8:08:49 PM): 7 and 1/2
Maf54 (8:09:04 PM): ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Maf54 (8:09:08 PM): beautiful
Xxxxx (8:09:38 PM): lol
Maf54 (8:09:44 PM): thats a great size
Xxxxx (8:10:00 PM): thank you
Maf54 (8:10:22 PM): still stiff
Xxxxx (8:10:28 PM): ya
Maf54 (8:10:40 PM): take it out
Xxxxx (8:10:54 PM): brb…my mom is yelling
OH NO! An appearance by the mom and the drive crashes and burns! It is all over for Foley! It is all over for Foley! What an upset!
**********
You can imagine where it goes from here – the momentum gone, the teen says he has to finish his homework and logs off after his mom acts as a sort of deus ex machina and inadvertently saves her child from the long, greasy tentacles of a pervert.
That being said, Foley is pretty fucking legit. I’ve been around cybersex since almost the beginning – 1996 – and this guy certainly knows what he’s doing. The main thing that impressed me most was the control of the conversation. The whole time we know that Foley is in control, but he manipulates the teen in such a way that he feels comfortable, even offering up information without being asked. The biggest difficulty one faces when trying to get a stranger to have an orgasm over a computer is that reluctance, that shyness. But because Foley was so impressive, there doesn’t seem to be any reluctance on the part of the teen. While I’m not in the “if” business, it seems to me that if the teen’s mom had not intervened, there would have been so mutual masturbation session within the next ten minutes.
That being said, it’s not about “if’s” but about results. Any way you cut it, Foley failed. I can only imagine that after this took place, Foley logged off and took out his frustrations on the hotel staff at the Pensacola Holiday Inn, possibly complaining about the lack of fresh towels or the poor reception on his television and maybe even throwing something at one of the Dominican maids. But again, who knows.
Mark Foley is a legitimate cybersex manipulator and pedophile. Not one of the best, since, you know, he got caught, disgraced himself and his party, and will probably commit suicide in the next week or so, but a contender nonetheless. And personally speaking, while I don’t condone his actions (as I limited my cybersex activity strictly to overweight black women who are of age), I fully support anything that might potentially harm the Republican party. And for this, Mark Foley, I thank you. And I will see you in hell.
Glen in NYC wrote in about my projected Top 25 for fantasy baseball next year, which admittedly probably has some holes. But not this one:
how did you leave roy halladay out of your top 25 roto players for next year???? after santana he’s probably the number 2 pitcher.
Oh Glen, you poor, misguided son of a bitch. While Halladay is a good pitcher, he is certainly not the number two guy. Hell, he might not even crack my top ten of starting pitchers.
There is one simple reason for this: Roy Halladay doesn’t strike anyone out.
Few roto baseball players realize that having a pitcher on your team with a low K/9 rate actually hurts your team. To prove this, let’s take one of my leagues from this year. Each of the eleven teams maxed out their allotted 1400 innings. The person who "won" strikeouts, getting 11 points in that category, finished the year 1242 strikeouts. That’s an eyelash under 8 K/9. The person in the middle (earning a 6) averaged 6.9 K/9 and the person in last (getting a 1) averaged 6 K/9.
Roy Halladay threw 220 innings and struck out only 132. That’s only 5.4 K/9, well under the average for a typical last place finisher in strikeouts in any roto league. So if you draft Halladay, you’re putting yourself in the red for K’s. And as he will likely be your first pitcher taken, you will need to subsequently draft many high K guys, which might be difficult, as these guys typically go off the board faster than other pitchers. And if you pick up another low K guy - Wang (3.13 K/9), Garland (4.77 K/9) and Kenny Rogers (4.36 K/9) all finished in the top three in the major leagues in wins, but were downright embarrassing in the K department – you’re basically submarining your team and guaranteeing a finish in the bottom three in strikeouts.
So while Halladay may have 15+ wins and low peripherals, his low strikeout rate – combined with his potential health issues (pitched only 133 and 144 innings the previous two years) - kept him out of my top 25.
(FYI: Halladay’s career K/9 rate is 6.34. Better than this previous year’s, but still not very good. Also, this can be viewed a bit skeptically. In 2005, Halladay pitched 141 innings and struck out a respectable 108, good for very nice rate of 6.9 K/9. However, Halladay was shut down in the second half of the year due to injury. The second half of the year is typically when pitchers start to lose gas and thus strike less people out. If Halladay continued to pitch the second half, his K/9 rate would have almost certainly come down a bit.)
Nate from Longview, Washington, who I correspond with so much we’re practically dating, wrote in to take umbrage with my comment that Donovan McNabb is the MVP of the league right now.
mcnabb doesn’t = mvp.
Peyton Manning is having a way better season. And to think I could have had him in my fantasy draft but took LJ. WTF?
This one is easier to debunk, because Manning is not only having a "way better" season than McNabb, he’s having a worse season.
Numbers are numbers, folks. Here’s how the two stack up in major statistical categories, with NFL rank in parentheses:
| P. Manning | D. McNabb | |
| QB Rating | 97.7 (6) | 106.0 (3) |
| Yards | 1112 (2) | 1248 (1) |
| Yards/Game | 278 (3) | 312 (1) |
| TD | 6 (t-4) | 9 (1) |
| Int | 1 (t-2) | 1 (t-2) |
| Total TD | 8 (t-2) | 11 (1) |
McNabb trumps Peyton in every category, even if he is 6′5" with a laser rocket for an arm. The only QBs with higher ratings than McNabb are David Carr and Damon Huard and I don’t see those guys winning the MVP anytime soon. A case could be made for Rex Grossman as MVP, but the Bears defense is giving up 7 points per game. Take Rex out of Chicago and they’re still a good team; without any statistical analysis, I’d say Grossman is good for +/- 3 wins. Take McNabb off the Eagles and, well, we know how well that worked out last year.
As it stands right now, Donovan McNabb is my pick for the NFL MVP. Now let’s hope he holds on, for my sake and the sake of Philly fans everywhere. Because, and I think I speak for all of us, we’re just totally fucking sick of it.
(And Nate, I think that LJ pick will work out fine.)
Have a sports or fantasy question? Email me at jason@jasonmulgrew.com and I will dominate you. Be sure to include your name and location.
I am mired in a tremendous creative funk right now. I hesitate to use the word "creative" because there’s not much creative about:
Me: "…and then this is when he shits himself."
Person with whom I am working on projects: "Yeah, yeah – I like the shitting, but I think we can do more with it."
Me: "For example?"
Person: "Like maybe he can shit himself while running?"
Me: "Oh – I like that. But I don’t see him as a character who runs a lot. Maybe he shits himself while sleeping. What do you think?"
Person: "Now we’re getting somewhere. Because it’s like, he shits the bed metaphorically and physically, you know?"
Me: "I didn’t even think of that but it’s fucking brilliant."
[Me and Person high five]
Me: "Shitting is funny."
Person: "Yeah."
[silence for four seconds]
Me: "I’m so lonely."
Person: "Don’t start on that again."
But it’s true – I’m stuck. No posts are coming, the monthly email is stalled at 89% complete (no, it hasn’t gone out yet), my other stuff is suffering. If I were a pitcher, announcers would be wondering why my curveball is suddenly hanging over the plate and why my body language screams "I think I may have knocked up the babysitter." I mean, hey – it happens. And the only thing you can really do is get drunk off cheap white wine and look at every picture of Elisha Cuthbert that Google Images has to offer while listening to Herb Alpert’s "This Guy’s In Love With You" forty times on repeat. Most doctors would agree that this is the best way to get over writer’s block, but it hasn’t helped me yet.
In the meantime, I realize that you jerks (said as lovingly as possible) need to be entertained. But again, I haven’t the faintest idea what to entertain you with, so it’s time we go back to one of my old stand-bys: sports.
[50% of readers collectively groan]
The baseball season is over, which means it’s time to recap my fantasy baseball teams’ performances and make predictions for the playoffs. And yes, I will leave out the part about how as soon as I mentioned the Phillies they decided to suck some ass. Nor will I mention that whole thing about how I said Ryan Howard would be a fantasy bust this year. So let’s just move on.
But first, last night’s game.
The Iggles
Look, I’m happy that the Birds are 3-1. Really, I am. Sure, I’d be happier if they were 4-0, but let’s not go there.
And there are many positives to take away from last night’s game. Donovan McNabb is the MVP of the league right now (even though he had the yips early on and was throwing at receivers’ feet again). The defense did not allow a touchdown, including an impressive goal line stand at the end of the game. The offense put up 31 points, even though it lost two fumbles inside the opponent’s 5.
But I have serious concerns about this team.
1) The secondary. I don’t know what kind of game plan the secondary is operating under, but the "Let’s give everyone a five yard cushion" m.o. is probably not going to hold up for very long (like, for example, next week). I know Lito and Rod Hood are out, but they have to tighten the fuck up and stop allowing these lazy 15 yard pass plays that look like I could both throw and catch them. Because one of these days, good receivers are going to bury them (like, for example, next week).
2) The injuries. Westbrook, Stallworth, Reggie Brown, Jevon Kearse, Lito Sheppard, and Rod Hood are all nursing injuries. That’s the starting running back, the top two receivers, the All-Pro defensive end, the starting cornerback, and the nickel back. Here’s to quick healing. If TO can come back from a broken finger AND a suicide attempt and catch five balls for 88 yards, let’s hope the swelling in Westbrook’s knee goes down.
3) The terrible clock management. Hey Andy, good call at the half there. Let the clock go down to one second, fake a 50-something yard field goal, complete a 12 yard pass. That made a lot of sense. Much more than, say, calling a timeout with 12 seconds left, faking the field goal, then having enough time for either a shot at the end zone or a closer field goal. A minor point in a 22 point win, but this team is prone to these types of clock management brain farts (See: Super Bowl XXXIX) and it’s going to catch up with them in the future at some point.
4) Both mine and my father’s main complaint about the Eagles over the past six years is that they have absolutely zero killer instinct. From the QB on down, this has been a team of nice guys. The best thing that TO brought to them was a nastiness, which was unfortunately negated by his own selfishness.
This is a team that doesn’t know how to dominate. One of the main rules of competition is that one should destroy his/her enemy completely. If you allow your adversary even the slightest opening, they may capitalize, rise up, and destroy you.
All season long, the Eagles look like a one-half football team. In each of their four games, they’ve played well in two, maybe three quarters, before getting lazy, being slow, even looking lost.
Remember, the Texans, 49ers, and Packers are three of the worst seven teams in the NFL. So while we Eagles fans should be happy with 3-1, let’s not buy too into our own hype. This Dallas game will tell us what kind of team this is. If the Eagles play against Dallas the way they’ve played against the Texans, Niners, Giants, and Packers, they will lose. Handily.
Now let’s stop talking about this before I punch my fucking computer.
Fantasy Sports
I begrudgingly did four fantasy baseball leagues this year. Now, I usually do four – my Iron Sheik league, which I’m the commissioner of; my buddy Kyle’s league, which I win every year and is basically a free $500; a keeper league with my buddy John, who is so addicted to fantasy sports that he might require an intervention; and a random public league – but this year I wanted to drop the public league and just do three. However at the last minute I picked up a team in a friend’s keeper league, as the previous owner backed out. It was a mistake and I probably won’t do it again (what kind of keeper league doesn’t allow for trades of draft picks?), especially because it’s a strange points league, unlike rotisserie scoring (which I prefer) or head-to-head (which I tolerate). I don’t feel bad about leaving however, since I’m leaving the next owner with four decent keepers (Mauer, Wright, Cabrera, and Tejada). So it could be worse.
I won’t go into too much detail, as it would even bore me and I can talk about this stuff all day long, but I finished all across the board: 8th in my main league (finished 2nd last year), 1st in my buddy Kyle’s league (third year in a row I’ve won), 2nd in the keeper league with my buddy John (finished 1st last year), and 9th in the keeper league that I joined at the last minute. Aside from the embarrassing 8th place finish in my main league – thank you Jake Peavy, Felix "Not Really the King" Hernandez, and Vlad "When Will People Realize I’m Not Worth the Third Overall Pick?" Guerrero - not too shabby and good for a couple of hondos, which Uncle Jason really needs right now.
Instead of reviewing my fantasy preview from before the season or getting too into too many of my teams, I instead will rank the top 25 players for next year. Because, as I mentioned, I got nothing for you right now.
1) Albert Pujols 1B
2) Alfonso Soriano OF
3) Ryan Howard 1B
4) Jose Reyes SS
5) Johan Santana SP
6) Alex Rodriguez 3B
7) David Ortiz 1B
8) Vlad Guerrero OF
9) Francisco Liriano SP
10) Miguel Cabrera 3B
11) Travis Hafner DH
12) David Wright 3B
13) Carlos Beltran OF
14) Lance Berkman 1B/OF
15) Chase Utley 2B
16) Grady Sizemore OF
17) Justin Morneau 1B
18) Manny Ramirez OF
19) Bobby Abreu OF
20) Chris Carpenter SP
21) Brandon Webb SP
22) Carlos Zambrano SP
23) Roy Oswalt SP
24) Derek Jeter SS
25) Derek Lee 1B
[And I want to clear up the Ryan Howard thing: I thought Ryan Howard would be a bust based on where he was being drafted, which was about the 4th round. Knowing that he hit .148 against lefties the previous season, I rationalized that one could take a guy like Jim Thome several rounds later and get similar numbers. Of course, Howard went on to have an MVP-like season, but I never thought he'd be bad. I just thought he was going too high. And I was wrong. But I got Jim Thome and Jason Giambi in rounds 11 and 12 respectively in two of my drafts and turned my 8th round pick Todd Helton into a package for Manny Ramirez (after getting Lance Berkman in a trade) so it all worked out for me.]
Playoff Predictions
I can not accurately express how much I love the fall, even though I have tried several times here. The oppressive heat and humidity of a summer in Chilita is giving way to cool breezes and longer nights; the NFL is in full swing, soon to be joined by the NBA and the NHL; and of course, there are the baseball playoffs.
Just to let you all know up front, I plan on doing something a little different this year and picking the playoffs perfectly. In years past, I’d throw in one or two incorrect predictions just to throw you all off the scent, but this year that is not the case. Every series, perfect. Mark it down.
(I know it’s a little cocky, but this past week I guaranteed a victory for one of my fantasy football teams, which was previously 0-3, and they responded with a 125 point performance that dwarfed the other team’s 80 points. So I’m on a roll.)
NATIONAL LEAGUE
What a fucking mess. Good god. I don’t even feel like writing this preview. The Mets, sans Pedro, are not exactly fear-inducing after going 14-15 in September; I could hit fifth for the Padres and have been asked to do so but have too much on my plate right now; St. Louis had an almost historic collapse (and I could start an NLDS game, probably Game 3, for them) and the Dodgers, well, Larry likes the Dodgers a lil’ bit.
NLDS
St. Louis vs. San Diego
I don’t even want to talk about this series. Calling Jake Peavy and Chris Young a "one-two punch" is like calling the Titan’s Travis Henry, Chris Brown and Lendale White a "three-headed monster." But fortunately, the only offensive player for the Cardinals who could start for a middle of the road AL team, aside from The Non-MVP Albert Pujols, is Scott Rolen – and that really depends on the team. After falling into the playoffs, there’s no way I can pick them, even though I think Peavy gets lit again in Game 1.
Pick: Padres in four
Los Angeles vs. New York
LA has a big pitching advantage; I’ll take Lowe, Penny, and Maddux over El Duque, Glavine, and Trachsel any day of the week in a five game series. While New York has those big boppers in the lineup – Reyes, Wright, Beltran, and Delgado are downright terrifying. But is it inconceivable that guys like Nomar, Furcal, JD Drew, and Jeff Kent can’t pull it together for a bit and do some damage (I can’t believe I am writing this sentence)? I’m an admitted stathead and the fact that LA has one guy with over 100 runs (Furcal – 113) and one guy with 100 RBIs (Drew – 100) and their team lead for home runs is 20 (Drew and Nomar) is not something that you’d want to dwell on as a Dodger fan, but I think LA has some moxie and the momentum. Also, Met fans are rivaling Sox fans with their bragging and it’s really annoying the fuck out of me.
Pick: Dodgers in five
NLCS
Los Angeles vs. San Diego
In a way, I hope I’m incorrect about this, since if this is the NLCS I won’t watch a single game (instead, I’ll be masturbating over a picture of Ryan Howard and crying). But hey, someone from the NL has got to get swept in the World Series. My pick? The Dodgers of Los Angeles.
I know that the Padres went something like 13-5 against the Dodgers in the regular season, but I’m telling you, I have a feeling about this LA team. Aside from a 40-homer threat, they have no discernible weakness. Offensively, they have woken up in September and have been hitting the hell out of the ball. They have three very good starters and depth in the bullpen. Their defense might be a little suspect at times, but I’m willing to let that slide because I’m feeling them.
The Padres, they, how do you say – don’t do anything for me. It’s possible that Peavy, who’s been very good as of late, turns into a force, and Chris Young (freakish physical stat: he’s 6′10") and David Wells (freakish physical stat: he’s 340 pounds) pitch well enough for guys like Adrian Gonzalez and Brian Giles (yikes!) to get it going, but I don’t see it happening. And you can’t enjoy a great bullpen without any lead for it to protect. So I’m going with the Dodgers.
Pick: Dodgers in six
AMERICAN LEAGUE
Now this is more like it. Teams loaded with talent on both sides of the ball doing battle. While I might watch 25% of the NL playoffs, I’m going to try to catch all of the AL games (and I’m an NL guy).
ALDS
Oakland vs. Minnesota
So, let me get this straight: the A’s are going to have a 16 game winner coming out of the bullpen and have a major secret weapon in Rich Harden, while the Twins have the hands-down best pitcher in baseball and all the spunk you could ask for. This is going to be a good one.
This is, in my estimation, the formula for succession in the playoffs: LOSPBPTOMM. Obviously, that stands for Lights Out Starting Pitcher, Bullpen Depth, Tough Outs, and Momentum/Moxie.
The Twins, I think, have all of the above. Johan Santana is by far the best pitcher in the playoffs, the one guy capable of shutting down a team. After him, the dynamite Minnesota bullpen (Rincon, Craine, Reyes, Nathan) can protect any lead after the 6th. The foursome of Mauer, Morneau, Hunter, and Cuddyer (who’s had the quietest 102-24-109 season in recent memory) are all dangerous hitters. And of course, the momentum. The Twins finished the season 71-33. That’s fucking momentum.
How to beat the A’s: Don’t let Frank Thomas do anything. That is all.
Pick: Twins in four
Detroit vs. New York
Do I really need to explain this one? Detroit was in first place from the middle of May until the last day of the season, limping into the playoffs. The starters are completely burnt out, their bats swing at everything, and their closer has a fu manchu. The Yankees have All Stars at every position and the greatest playoff closer - possibly pitcher – of all time.
Pick: Yanks in three
ALCS
Minnesota vs. New York
Remember all that good stuff I said about Minnesota before? Well, it doesn’t matter here. I don’t mean to shy away from critical analysis (although this post has gotten much longer than I anticipated and I’m nursing a small hangover from last night and the playoffs start in less than ten minutes), but I can’t see the Yankees losing under any circumstances. Maybe this is the kiss of death, but that lineup…it just hurts my heart to see it. It just hurts my heart.
Pick: Yanks in five
WORLD SERIES
Los Angeles vs. New York
I like the whole "East Coast-West Coast" dynamic, but this is going to be a bloodletting. Again, no way the Yanks can lose.
Pick: Yanks in four
*************
Even though we now know the outcome, the playoffs are going to be a fun ride. I’m personally rooting for a Mets-Yanks Series, just so I can be in a city that wins a championship for once in my life, but of course, that’s not going to happen. In the meantime, sit back, relax, and let’s enjoy some fall baseball. It’s the most wonderful time of the year. Aside from whenever I make out. Those are generally good times of the year. Generally.