There are very few things that I am unequivocally opposed to: cats, interracial relationships, the band Kiss, people who give attitude to waiters and/or tip poorly, and kissing women after blowjobs.  But there is something that I hate more than even these odious things: working hard.

(On second thought, I actually don’t mind kissing women after they give blowjobs, since at least that means I’ve gotten a blowjob.  Unless, of course, said woman – well, girl, really – gave my old roommate Brian a blowjob and then in her drunken state mistakenly wandered into my bedroom looking for a make out session.  But that only happened, like, four times.  And it cost me $27.  So it’s not like I didn’t do the right thing.)

Just as I got back from vacation last week, my manager went on vacation.  Since then, my life has fallen into a downward spiral of deceit, manipulation, dangerous sexual activity, and hard work.  This is why I’ve been MIA lately.  Not because I write this at work (how foolish would that be!), because when I get home from work at 10pm, I barely have the strength to undress myself, fill up the tub, and stick the bar of soap in my ass, let alone write a post. 

All this hard work is because my manager and I specialize in the same area, so when he goes away, the work of that specialization – and by default much of his managerial work – slides to me. 

(Think of is this way: my co-workers and I are like the superheroes in the League of Justice with our different areas of specialization.  There’s a Green Lantern, there’s a Batman, Wonder Woman, etc.  My manager is like Superman.  I’m kinda like Superboy.  So I have similar powers as my manager/Superman, but am far less effective and much less intimidating.  Did Superboy ever get a hold of the reins in the League of Justice?  No, because he would run that shit into the ground – which is precisely what is happening in my department right now.  I would not be surprised if when my manager returns to work, the whole building is on fire and I’m standing outside eating a cup of soup, wearing a blanket and watching fireman and people rush by, saying things like, “Man, that got out of control pretty fast!” and “I thought everything was going fine!” and “This chowder is delicious! It’s so rich!”)

What’s worse is that the hard work has been stressful.  Normally, I’m not phased by a couple of thirteen hour days.  But, despite the fact that it’s the holiday season, there’s been an unexplainable tension in the air, which I attribute to the fact that it is the holiday season.  Last week was a long, shitty week and this week hasn’t proved any better. 

But at least I had an awesome Sunday. 

On that glorious day, I woke up with a sexy broad in my bed, won $1400, watched a great football game, and finally conquered my nemesis: the Famous Bowl.  Now, let’s focus on the three of those facts that are true.

Woke up with a sexy broad
(Just checking to see if you’re paying attention – she wasn’t that sexy.)

Won $1400
I’ve mentioned before that this season I took part in the annual survivor pool run by my buddy Hal (who asked that I mention on here how awesome his pool is and tell the ladies that yes, he is single), along with 70 or so other people.  All one had to do is pick one team to win each week, no spreads.  If they lost, you were out of the pool.  If they won, you advanced to the next week.

The catch: you couldn’t pick the same team twice.  So that means that theoretically, as the season progresses, you will have picked the good teams first, so that by Week Ten or so you’re picking middle of the road teams to beat teams that are toward the crappy end of the road.

This past week, I was one of only three of the original seventy people left.  I analyzed which teams my opponents had yet to pick and guessed that this week they would both pick the Seattle Seahawks over the San Francisco 49ers.  This was the game with the largest spread that they had left.

(However, you don’t know who the other participants have picked until after the games have started.  Otherwise, it wouldn’t be fair.)  

So my choice was simple: on my assumption, I could go with my opponents and take the Seahawks, who I also hadn’t picked.  This would guarantee that I’d at least pass to the next week: if the Seahawks lost and all three of us had picked them, we’d all move on; if they won, same thing.  However, while taking the Seahawks would guarantee that I wouldn’t lose, it would also guarantee I wouldn’t win.

Enter option two: I could take a different team, hope for an upset by the 49ers, and hope even more my team won.  Since my balls, though closer to peas than to grapes, are hairy and full of life and danger, I decided to man up and take the Baltimore Ravens over the Cleveland Browns, as they were the best team I had left.  Fuck the Seahawks and playing to advance –  I was going all or nothing, baby!

Since I’m not a good storyteller and kinda gave it away, you can probably guess what happened.  I was correct in assuming my opponents took the Seahawks.  I took the Ravens.  The Seahawks were stunned at home by the 49ers, who scored 21 points in the fourth quarter to take the victory.  I spent half the Ravens-Browns game, which was not televised nationally, checking the scores on my computer, then the other half glued to a TV at the bar my friends and I went to to catch the late Eagles-Giants game.  Though it was closer than I would have liked, Baltimore won 27-17.  And I won $1400.

Fuck, yeah.  

While I can’t say I’m surprised, since I’ve been having a MONSTER gambling season and know pretty much everything about football (did I mention I’m in the championship game in my main fantasy league next week?), $1400 – cash – is a lot of fucking money (and yes, I realize that I shouldn’t be writing this because of tax considerations, but no, there’s no way I’m reporting it).

Aside from work, which as I mentioned has been a fucking disaster lately, things have been really good for me lately, a trend I thought was culminated in my win in the survivor pool.  So to stay on the good side of karma and to make my friends like me more, I bought all the drinks and food at the bar during the Eagles-Giants game.  I know, I know – you wish you were friends with me.  But be careful what you wish for.  Because I’m pretty lonely.  So if you want to hang out, just email me.  I just want someone to talk to.  Maybe I could sleep over your place.  Whatever. 

Watched a great football game
After the $1400 payday, I was certain that the Eagles would be crushed by the Giants in the 4pm game.  Having been a Philadelphia fan all my life, I thought this even before I won the survivor pool, but my win made me even more certain the Eagles were fucking toast.  

But I’ll be damned – the Eagles played rather not-so-bad and beat the hated Giants!  I can’t really get into much more in-depth analysis than this, since I was pretty well fucked up during most of the game, but it doesn’t matter!  They won!  Fuck yeah, again!

What’s more unbelievable is that now the Eagles – to use one of the most asinine sayings in sports –  “control their own destiny” (how do you control a destiny? isn’t it by nature beyond one’s control?).  If the Eagles beat Dallas and Atlanta, they win the NFC East crown.  Five weeks ago when Donovan McNabb went down, part of me was kind of glad – at least now I didn’t have to stress while watching games.  Yet now the Eagles are two wins away from the NFC East title and a major fucking collapse from missing the playoffs.

(And the way the NFC is this year, all you have to do is get in and take it from there.  What a fucking mess.  I’m fairly sure there are bar teams in major cities that, if properly inspired and soused, could give the any of the NFC teams trouble.  What a fucking disaster.)   

But of course none of this matters.  See, what God likes to do to Philly fans is give them just enough hope to keep them hanging on only to break their heart.  I’ve written before that what Daniel Patrick Moynihan said after the assassination of JFK – “To be Irish is to know that in the end, the world will break your heart” – could easily be applied to Philly fans, especially Eagles fans.  Well, guess what – I’m both Irish(-American) and a Philly fan, so I’m expecting some major bruises over the next two weeks. 

So I’d better enjoy this week while it lasts. 

Conquered my nemesis, the Famous Bowl
For those of you who haven’t turned on an American television in the past nine month, KFC is hawking something called the Famous Bowl.  Never mind the inherent arrogance in debuting something and calling it “famous”, but these bowls appear, depending on how much you weigh, either as an example of everything that’s wrong with America or heaven on earth.  Why?  Four reasons: a pile of mashed potatoes, corn, cheese, gravy, and fried chicken pieces.

(I count only four reasons because no one, at any point in time, can find anything wrong with cheese.  It’s perfect.  So shut up.)

For months, I’ve been both repulsed and intrigued by these bowls.  I’m still fat and celebrate all things fat, but this was pushing it even for me.  All that fatty food in a single bowl?  Why not put chicken fingers in milkshakes or butter on your cheesesteaks?  If I learned anything from that time in November ’99 when I tried to combine my three loves simultaneously – eating, having sex, and shitting – it’s that there is such thing as too much of a good thing.  The KFC Famous Bowl seemed like it crossed that line.

(Actually, that butter cheesesteak idea sounds pretty good.  I’m going to have to remember that.)

But flush with cash and victorious feelings and filled with nine pints of Guinness, the siren song of the Famous Bowl was calling me from 14^th and 2^nd, only one block from where my friends and I had watched the game.  We had been drinking all day and knowing that I had a miserable day/week or work ahead, I wanted to call it an evening.  Entrée KFC.

After consuming part of the Famous Bowl in the cab ride home and the rest from the comfort of my couch, kitchen, and tub, I have this to report: the KFC Famous Bowl deserves whatever fame and fortune it has, because it is totally fucking magnificent.  Sure, it looked like throw up even immediately after the angry woman behind the counter served it to me, but that didn’t stop me.  I was going to eat that Famous Bowl even if I had watched one of the poors in the kitchen scooping the mashed potatoes with his/her bare hands. 

And I was rewarded for my perseverance and daring.  Simply put, the bowl is dynamite.  I was a little scared at first, intimidated by what I was facing, but after a few bites I found myself standing in my kitchen, dancing, listening to “It’s My Life” by No Doubt, mixing the contents of the bowl all together so it looked like gruel, and happily eating away.  Fucking fabulous.  Bravo, Colonel – you’ve done it again. 

But be warned: this is not for the meek or faint of heart.  Just as it took serious balls to go for the win in the survivor pool was I when guaranteed not to lose, so it took real cajones to take on the Famous Bowl.  Lesser men, namely my friend Kyle, who was visiting from Philly, did not dare to attack the Famous Bowl, opting instead for the 10 piece bucket (which, for the record, I ate most of).  But to the victor goes the spoils, and I know I saw a look of jealousy on his face when I was dancing in the kitchen to No Doubt and eating the Bowl.  Jealousy or disgust.  Because I also had my penis out this whole time.  So probably the latter in retrospect.

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The moral of this story is that no matter how difficult life may be, either at work or with your significant other or your family or the government, as long as you womanize, gamble, drink, and overeat, everything will work out for you.  If you learn one lesson from this here blog, I hope this is it.  Because then I can die a happy man. 

(In three months.  Because I’m going to be eating a lot of those Famous Bowls over the next couple of weeks.)