My neighbor hates dogs or POC, maybe both

A few weeks ago I was walking my dog early in the morning. He gets into his squatting position and I pull out a poop back from my pocket. Nothing unusual.

My dog decides not to poop there, so we carry on our way. Some dude down the block is warming up car and yelling (at me, apparently).


“My dog didn’t shit. I have an empty poop bag in my hand.”


“My dog didn’t shit. Why would I be carrying this poop bag if I didn’t intend to clean it?”


I continue on down the block past my house because my dog still needs to shit. My neighbor gets in his truck (complete with NASCAR bumper sticker) and pulls up alongside me.

“I owe you an apology.”

“Yes you do.”

“I’m sorry. I hate people not picking up their dogs shit.”

“Trust me buddy, I know, I live across the street.” *points at apartment* “I want a clean neighborhood as badly as you do.”

~~2 weeks later, this morning, where it’s steadily raining in Philadelphia~~

My dog and I are coming around the block and he’s sniffing signs, stoops, everything. He happens to sniff at that same asshole’s stoop and he steps out.

“Do you mind?”

My dog had already shit so I waved a full poop bag right at him.

“Don’t let your dog piss on my step.”

“Dude, it’s raining outside.”

“Yeah well I’m the one that has to smell it!”

Shrugged and walked away.


There are dozens of dogs on my block. Potentially hundreds in my neighborhood. What makes this dude call me and my 10 pound out?

Screen Shot 2015-12-01 at 7.22.05 AM
Look at this face.

Considering that I live on a block of older, mostly retired, blue collar Irish-Americans who don’t approve of “the blacks” or “fuckin’ muslims” I gotta believe the worst crime I committed is having brown skin tone and a beard.


Here comes Rover, sniffin at your ass
But pardon me bitch, as I shit on your grass
That means hoe, you been shit-ted on!
I’m not the first dog that’s shitted on your lawn


Am I Cornelius Peterson Reincarnated?

I’ve been using this same laptop since about 2010, and it’s on its last legs.   Recently I’ve been going through old files and sure enough – I found #content that I can #blog about.

I found this screenshot (from a map) in my pictures folder.

died when i was born

Why is this significant? For one,  my nameday is August 28, 1990.  Sure, lots of people have been born and died on that very same day, same as Cornelius Peterson and I.  But look more closely.  My mans got gunned down at 18th and Diamond.  I lived at 18th and Diamond my junior year of college; I lived just one side street down at 18th and Fontain my senior year.  That’s where I was when this map came out.  Safe to admit I was rattled.

Update: I continued looking through my computer and found this picture.  This is the church that took up the 1800 block of Diamond Street.


What does it mean though? Coincidence? Illuminati? The religious tradition I was born into was actually right? Who knows.  If you’re hanging out with me on my next birthday, remind us to pour some out for our lost homie Cornelius Peterson.  How many brothers fell victim to the streets? RIP there’s a heaven for a G


Following the quarter-life crisis of last week’s blog, I got a dog.  It’s helped innumerably.

Meet Reds!!


He’s a 2 year-old mini pinscher from Morris Animal Refuge, and 10 lbs of handsome.  He doesn’t really bark, or even use his mouth much. He just likes to cuddle up and chill out.  And no accidents yet so I have no complaints.

You’ve probably seen tweets or snapchats or whatever but take some time and check out how awesome this guy is.


So snuggly
So snuggly
Still sleepy
Still sleepy

We have a lot in common too:

  • When we eat too fast we get gassy and burp
  • Our farts smell terrible
  • Neither of us can stand the cold (but we do have purple jackets to stay warm)
  • We’re not huge fans of vegetables.

Apologies in advance if I become an insufferable dog person!

My neighbor Richie has cancer, gives no fucks

If you’ve been to our spot on S. Jessup street you’d know that our neighbors are a couple of characters.  Real goonies.  Sonny, the 50-something, usually fucked up on xanax, barely literate, trusted ally across the street (try his broccoli rabe). Walt from down the block, 70+ years old, doesn’t drink, smokes  a pack a day, tells us perverted dad jokes, and has an incredible mustache.  Of course, Dot (and Pete) our nagging neighbors.  Our reputation on the block lives and dies with their opinion of our house.  Thankfully, they mostly like me.
And then there’s Richie, he’s at least 60.  He lives with his mother, Minnie, who’s now 92 years old.  Richie’s got entirely white hair, a white Cadillac, and red, leathery skin not unlike that of a baseball glove.  He’s a man who has spent a lot of time down the shore.  He’s got the beach bod to go with it too – he’s cut up as hell.  Probably served him well when he was breaking knee caps for the mob.  Don’t believe me?


Flash back to almost 2 years ago, my roommate is on the porch with a laptop and Richie asks “you know how to use that thing?”

Alex: Uh, yeah, what do you need?

Richie: Can you look up Louie Dagotelli [fake very Italian mobster name] on that thing?

Alex: *googling furiously* Oh yeah, he’s on trial for…racketeering charges in November.

Richie: November? They must have moved the trial up some. Used to work with that guy.

Richie’s in the mob. I could cite a dozen other examples but if you don’t believe me I’ll have him break your knees.


The otha’ day we were sitting on our porch and Richie comes home, wearing gym shorts and a wife beater. “Gentlemen!” his usual greeting.

“Aww yeah what’s up Rich? How you doing?”

“I’m good fellas I’m good.” He then fumbles with his keys, “I got a doctor’s appointment Thursday.”

“Oh yeah? What for?”

“I got cancer. Right in my kidney.”

We’re a bit alarmed and certainly concerned. “Oh shit man, are you ok?”

“Oh yeah kidney’s the best place to get cancer.  Doc says we can just scoop the cancer outta there.  90% chance he just has to take out a little.  He couldn’t see the rest of the thing because of my hip.” He slaps his metal hip, for emphasis. “10% chance the whole thing’s gotta come out.  But then I got another one.  And no chemo, no radiation, no nothing. Best place to get cancer, right here.” Pointing once again at his hip. “I just hope I come back quickly. They said 6-8 weeks? I can’t wait that long.  I was running 2 days after they replaced my knees.”

We nervously smile along.  He was making a pretty good point.  And if anyone’s bouncing back from cancer, it’s our boy Richie.   When he gets it scooped out, I’m saying it’s 2 weeks tops until he’s back to normal.

“I got this pamphlet here too.  Explains the whole thing.  90% chance they only have to take out this little bit.  I almost gave the thing to my mudda.  But if I did, she’d be in the hospital before me.”

Ann Coulter, World Cup, and the increasingly insane right wing.

To be honest I’d meant to post my response to the now-infamous Ann Coulter op-ed piece, “Any growing interest in soccer a sign of nation’s moral decay” a few days ago.  One, because it’s goddamn absurd, and two, because run off from google searches may direct some curious eyes towards my blog.  Never opposed to the pageviews.

Italicized text is that crazy dumb cunt’s.  I’ll respond paragraph-by-paragraph.


I’ve held off on writing about soccer for a decade — or about the length of the average soccer game — so as not to offend anyone. But enough is enough. Any growing interest in soccer can only be a sign of the nation’s moral decay.

Holy fucking dad jokes, Batman!  You should hold off for another few decades because you don’t know what they fuck you’re talking about.  Two rich old white dudes buying American politics is a more salient example of the nation’s moral decay.

• Individual achievement is not a big factor in soccer. In a real sport, players fumble passes, throw bricks and drop fly balls — all in front of a crowd. When baseball players strike out, they’re standing alone at the plate. But there’s also individual glory in home runs, touchdowns and slam-dunks.

If I’m being nitpicky: soccer matches are, in fact, played in front of a crowd. There’s a catcher and umpire behind the plate. Doesn’t somebody throw the touchdowns to Calvin Johnson?  Doesn’t someone lob the ball up for a Blake Griffin slam dunk? PS I love that she hyphenated slam dunk.

In soccer, the blame is dispersed and almost no one scores anyway. There are no heroes, no losers, no accountability, and no child’s fragile self-esteem is bruised. There’s a reason perpetually alarmed women are called “soccer moms,” not “football moms.”

Remember that time a guy got killed in his home country for scoring an own-goal in the world cup?  Why didn’t they just chop the foot off of everyone that was on the team?

That’s also not why they’re called soccer moms.  They’re called soccer moms because their kids play soccer (and likely won’t have long-term damage from concussions).

Do they even have MVPs in soccer? Everyone just runs up and down the field and, every once in a while, a ball accidentally goes in. That’s when we’re supposed to go wild. I’m already asleep.

Yes, they do have MVPs.  Thanks for laying out your ignorance in such conveniently bite-sized portions.  Football, basketball, and hockey all involve going up and down a field waiting for a ball (puck) to go in. Hockey scores specifically used to be a lot like soccer scores before some rule changes to increase scoring were implemented.

• Liberal moms like soccer because it’s a sport in which athletic talent finds so little expression that girls can play with boys. No serious sport is co-ed, even at the kindergarten level.

I don’t think that’s why liberal moms prefer soccer.  I do think that’s why liberal moms won’t vote for a party that’s actively sexist.

• No other “sport” ends in as many scoreless ties as soccer. This was an actual marquee sign by the freeway in Long Beach, California, about a World Cup game last week: “2nd period, 11 minutes left, score: 0:0.” Two hours later, another World Cup game was on the same screen: “1st period, 8 minutes left, score: 0:0.” If Michael Jackson had treated his chronic insomnia with a tape of Argentina vs. Brazil instead of Propofol, he’d still be alive, although bored.

You keep the King of Pop out of this.  No knockout/championship games end in ties.  Like an NHL regular season game there’s an extra time period and a shootout.

Even in football, by which I mean football, there are very few scoreless ties — and it’s a lot harder to score when a half-dozen 300-pound bruisers are trying to crush you.

It’s still pretty damn hard to score sometimes.
• The prospect of either personal humiliation or major injury is required to count as a sport. Most sports are sublimated warfare. As Lady Thatcher reportedly said after Germany had beaten England in some major soccer game: Don’t worry. After all, twice in this century we beat them at their national game.

Using soccer commentary to explain that soccer is a lesser sport is one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever read.  How many people get major injuries playing golf? Or dressage?

Baseball and basketball present a constant threat of personal disgrace.

Only if you’re an asshole.

In hockey, there are three or four fights a game — and it’s not a stroll on beach to be on ice with a puck flying around at 100 miles per hour.

This stat is entirely made up. 


And playing hockey is nothing like taking a stroll on the beach.  Neither is soccer, baseball, baking cupcakes, getting a root canal, buying car insurance, or getting a prostate exam.

After a football game, ambulances carry off the wounded. After a soccer game, every player gets a ribbon and a juice box.

Wait, really?  What football games are you watching? That sounds dangerous. Also, I got snacks AND a juicebox after teeball games.

• You can’t use your hands in soccer. (Thus eliminating the danger of having to catch a fly ball.) What sets man apart from the lesser beasts, besides a soul, is that we have opposable thumbs. Our hands can hold things. Here’s a great idea: Let’s create a game where you’re not allowed to use them!

Catching a fly ball isn’t all that dangerous.  To proclaim that other beasts are lesser, regardless of criteria (thumbs, non-existent souls, the ability to survive outdoors for a winter, naked, and not succumb to hypothermia) is a pretty flawed, anthropocentric worldview.

I could hit/catch a baseball thrown at me with my hand. It would break my bones, ergo a bat and glove.  It’s how the game has been designed, it’s not an attack on your evolutionary advantageous appendages (though you’re probably of the belief that god created man as they are).  If you’re looking for soccer with hands, watch handball.

• I resent the force-fed aspect of soccer. The same people trying to push soccer on Americans are the ones demanding that we love HBO’s “Girls,” light-rail, Beyonce and Hillary Clinton. The number of New York Times articles claiming soccer is “catching on” is exceeded only by the ones pretending women’s basketball is fascinating.

Who’s force feeding us soccer?  It’s the largest international event outside of the Olympics, it’ll have comprehensive coverage on television.  HBO’s Girls?  A pretty accurate representation of 20something white girls in Brooklyn, which is why it’s so goddamn insufferable to watch.  Light-rail? Because your dependence on cars is causing endless traffic and the inevitable melting of our planet.  Beyonce? I can’t. Hillary Clinton? 2016!

Soccer is catching on.  It’s because the US’s domestic league is steadily increasing in talent level, there’s increased broadcasts of high level European soccer, and social media creates a truly interactive fan experience.  Particularly the younger generation that’s not going to vote for the candidates your’e supporting.

I note that we don’t have to be endlessly told how exciting football is.

Except we are.  There’s year-long coverage of such mundane aspects as training camp, preseason games, players’ offseason behavior, etc.  We’re being forcefed football throughout the year, we’ll pay attention and hyperanalyze the sport during the 5 months it’s actually on TV.

• It’s foreign. In fact, that’s the precise reason the Times is constantly hectoring Americans to love soccer. One group of sports fans with whom soccer is not “catching on” at all, is African-Americans. They remain distinctly unimpressed by the fact that the French like it.

Xenophobia at its finest!  Please Ms. Coulter, speak more to the opinions of African-Americans.  You’d definitely make a great spokesperson for the people who you’d prefer to deny voting rights.

• Soccer is like the metric system, which liberals also adore because it’s European. Naturally, the metric system emerged from the French Revolution, during the brief intervals when they weren’t committing mass murder by guillotine.

We adore it because it’s rational and makes calculation/measurement infinitely more user-friendly.  The fact that it goes into “science” and “technology” which you actively don’t believe in could ruffle some feathers in your camp.

Despite being subjected to Chinese-style brainwashing in the public schools to use centimeters and Celsius, ask any American for the temperature, and he’ll say something like “70 degrees.” Ask how far Boston is from New York City, he’ll say it’s about 200 miles.

Familiarity with the metric system is taught, functional use of it is not.  It’s not, like “70 degrees”, because the planet is heating up at an alarming rate.

Liberals get angry and tell us that the metric system is more “rational” than the measurements everyone understands. This is ridiculous.

Totally said it was rational a few sentences ago by complete coincidence.

An inch is the width of a man’s thumb,


This isn’t true

a foot the length of his foot,

Neither is this

a yard the length of his belt.

The people you hang out with are much fatter than this.

That’s easy to visualize. How do you visualize 147.2 centimeters?

That’s about one and a half meters.  How do you visualize 147.2 inches?  Divide by 12? Again by 3?

• Soccer is not “catching on.” Headlines this week proclaimed “Record U.S. ratings for World Cup,” and we had to hear — again about the “growing popularity of soccer in the United States.”

If records are being set, how can you say that it’s not catching on?  Oh, right, you’ve made a career out of denying facts.

The USA-Portugal game was the blockbuster match, garnering 18.2 million viewers on ESPN. This beat the second-most watched soccer game ever: The 1999 Women’s World Cup final (USA vs. China) on ABC. (In soccer, the women’s games are as thrilling as the men’s.)

This has more to do with nationalism than the sport or the gender of the people playing them.  What were the ratings like for USA’s Olympic hockey matches?  Probably more than any given game of the Stanley Cup Finals.

Run-of-the-mill, regular-season Sunday Night Football games average more than 20 million viewers; NFL playoff games get 30 to 40 million viewers; and this year’s Super Bowl had 111.5 million viewers.

Like I said, this has to do with the pervasive coverage of American football and the fact that these games are almost always held on the weekend – we’re free to watch them.

Remember when the media tried to foist British soccer star David Beckham and his permanently camera-ready wife on us a few years ago? Their arrival in America was heralded with 24-7 news coverage. That lasted about two days. Ratings tanked. No one cared.

This just makes it weirder that people are still watching the Kardashians.

If more “Americans” are watching soccer today, it’s only because of the demographic switch effected by Teddy Kennedy’s 1965 immigration law. I promise you: No American whose great-grandfather was born here is watching soccer. One can only hope that, in addition to learning English, these new Americans will drop their soccer fetish with time.

The perfect kicker.  You’re a blue-blooded, white American.  Maybe your great-great-grandfather was an immigrant (we all were at one point).  Maybe he had kids with his cousin.  Maybe he had illegitimate children with one of his slaves.   But damn these people moving to AMERICA who can’t speak AMERICAN who don’t watch AMERICAN football.  Get a fucking grip, lady.

I get it.  You’re a real life, actual troll.  You’re racist, sexist, xenophobic, and actively anti-intellectual.  Don’t try to throw the world cup under the bus.


For a few weeks, the rest of us reach across the aisle, and embrace our brothers and sisters and root for the U S of A to kick in some dicks.  If you’re not rooting for the USMNT, you  may as well be a terrorist.  As far as I’m concerned, you are.

Observations from an Acme trip

My life is pretty goddamn boring, all things considered.  Actually getting up and going to the Acme for groceries today was the most I’ve done after work in a long time (outside of drinking, whoops).  That Acme at 20th and Oregon was a godsend.

We were just shopping for the basics. As 3 bachelors we don’t grocery shop nearly enough, sustaining ourselves mostly with grubhub and food our mothers’ pack us because they know we don’t grocery shop nearly enough.  Leftovers/care packages aside, we have had literally no food in our fridge since June 13th.  No milk, no eggs, no nothing.  Eggs make up about 60% of a bachelor’s diet, and when we’ve run out of those you know we’re in rough shape.

First, the deli meats.  I take a number.  Unsurprisingly, a person hired to slice cold cuts and cheese manages to fuck this up, skipping ticket number 9 and 11 (me).  After some minor chirping, he took my order (1 lb store turkey, 1/2 lb sandwich pepperoni, 1 lb provolone).  Pro-tip: Pepperoni on cold cut sandwiches is an absolute gamechanger.  After he cut the meats with glacial pace he went to the cheese (and I ate half the bag of pepperoni while I was waiting).  He ran out of provolone at .80 lbs, devastating.  But this is where things got interesting – he walked out to the front of the counter and lifted up the glass that covers the display meat/cheeses.  I was completely flabbergasted, how long have I been living in ignorance?

While waiting for the deli, I also saw the cart pushing kid.  He had to wear an obnoxiously bright yellow vest that said “no tips”.  Not only does this kid have the worst possible summer job (previous cart guy here), but his uniform explicitly states that he can’t accept tips.  Diabolical.

This process takes no less than 20 minutes.  Within this time Alex buys our other bachelor staples: 1 1/2 dozen eggs, 1 gallon of whole milk, 1 jar mayonnaise, 6 Amoroso’s rolls and a steak.  We’ve been in the grocery store for nearly 30 minutes and there’s not a single fruit or vegetable in our cart.  Fuck yeah.

But I do love me some smoothies, so I went for the following fruits – blueberries (BOGO, YOLO), bananas, and then [clueless].  I asked Alex what third fruit to go for (the naners weren’t nearly ripe).  He suggested peaches, as they’d bridge the gap perfectly between blueberries and bananas, which oddly makes perfect sense.  The peaches weren’t ripe so I opted for nectarines, which would turn out to be a fateful decision.  We got some tomatoes too, because you’re required to buy some when you grocery shop in south philadelphia. On the way out of the produce section we grabbed one white onion, to caramelize and put on the steak, and because it’s the least green vegetable there is.

The only additional dairy items we’d need were Greek yogurt (for smoothies) and shredded cheese (for the billion eggs in our future).  Bizarrely, there were individually wrapped, plastic spoons available by the yogurt.  Like, were we supposed to just hunker down and eat the yogurt there?  Doesn’t make any sort of sense.

We get in line.  This is where shit went haywire.  The cashier, named Nick, maybe 19-20, couldn’t tell what fruit the nectarines are.

“Yo whats youse call this?”


“Whats letter’s that start with?”

Audible gasp. Do you, philly public schools.  Do you.

“N” – as I eyeball his nametag.

“Auugh”.  Nick struggles mightily.  I see ‘white cheddar’ appear briefly on the monitor which is about as far from nectarine as you can get.

“Hey man if you can’t find it I’ll take them for free.” My humor predictably goes well over his head. I finally, mercifully, pay while Alex takes the groceries from the bagger into the cart and things somehow get worse.

In one bag: steak on top of blueberries on top of our carton of eggs.

In another: A single tub of greek yogurt.  In yet another: our single jar of mayonnaise.

Another: Firm, unripe bananas on top of soft hoagie rolls.

As someone who packed boxes at Costco to be maximally efficient and squish-worthy, this caused visceral agony for me.  All the idiots at the Acme are forgiven if I just find out they were stoned the whole time.

538’s burrito bracket is dumb as fuck

So you may remember Nate Silver of FiveThirtyEight fame, who used polling data and statistical modeling to predict the 2012 election with startling accuracy.  Those with knowledge of data science probably weren’t too surprised with the accuracy of predictions but that’s not what I’m here to talk about.

I like 538.  Or at least, I want to.  I’m a believer in sabermetrics (and advanced statistics beyond those found in the box score) and data science in general, as it’s possible to glean insight and compose stories from large datasets.  Life makes more sense to me in chart form.

But there’s some things you can’t quantify.  One of those is the best burrito in the country determined via  a Burrito Bracket.  It’s absolutely preposterous.  Mr. Silver has the gumption to coin “VORB” – value over replacement burrito.  Give me a break dude. I want to give you the benefit of the doubt and believe that you have some self-awareness and this is just a goofy wink towards stupid long acronyms that run rampant in the sabermetric world.  But that’s not the case.  You can read the methodology here.  Hat’s off to him for sound reasoning and transparency.  What he doesn’t account for in his crowd-sourced data is that most people are fucking idiots and I hate most of them.  And none of them would know a good burrito if it entered through their bunghole.  But this is all completely unnecessary.  I already had the best burrito in the country.

I know a good burrito.  I am right and you are wrong.  Sure, this is where I realize I’m being hypocritical (like the GOP), ignoring science (like the GOP), and all around an asshole (like the GOP).  Here’s a live look at govinbhai:

grandpa_simpson_yelling_at_cloudHere’s where things come to a head.  538’s burrito correspondent lists Frontier Restaurant as the top seeded burrito in the west region.  Let’s parse this out.

There’s someone who’s real, actual title is burrito correspondent.  What a useless fucking existence this person lives.*

(*Unless I get a job as a burrito correspondent.  Then it’s arguably the most important duty that can be bestowed on a person.)

Despite a lower VORB than other burritos, Frontier Restaurant was still ranked #1 by the voters.  This whole bracket has a BCS-esque vibe to it, in that there’s unnecessarily complicated statistics that end up meaning dink because of some voters and arbitrary intangibles.  Though this lends some credence to the next point:

You know who decided almost 8 months ago that Frontier Restaurant’s burritos were a 10/10 and essentially perfect, tantamount to boner jams and panty slushies?  None other than govinbhai.  I didn’t blog it until February, but I knew mid-October when I was eating there that it was some legendary shit.

Boom, roasted

Afterwards I definitely took a legendary shit

There’s a time and place for statistics, data analysis, and being palpably smug.  Burritos are not that time nor place.  Burrito is a lifestyle.  I’m team burrito ’til I die.Some things you just don’t fuck with and burritos are exactly that.

So sorry, FiveThirtyEight.  I beat you to the punch.  I am a burrito expert and I already had the best burrito in the country.  Call off the bracket and give me your lunch money so I can quit my job and eat burritos.  Nerds.

If there’s hate in your heart, let it out!

In keeping with my #InflammatoryTweetsFriday and drawing inspiration from KFC Radio’s pet peeves episode I want to blog out the number of things that I hate.  I could spam your Twitter feed, but decided to blog instead:


You are shitty people

Fuck you.  Fuck you so much.  I fucking hate you.  Running to develop cardiovasuclar endurance for some tangible application (e.g. soccer, police academy, overall physical fitness) is fine.  But if you ever say to my face,”I’m a runner!” I want to shove your torso into a wood chipper.  You run a few miles in the morning, neglect any sort of training for your other muscle groups, and you’re still a fatass because you ordered a venti caramel machiatto, you are a shit person and I hate you.  You have a boring fucking hobby to go along with your boring fucking personality.

Maybe you run because you want to lose weight (you vain fuck).  Maybe you want to make friends in a running club (boring people like boring people I guess). But more than likely, you’re not coordinated enough for any other physical activity, but you are patient enough to put one foot in front of another for 30 minutes.  You know what really drives me fucking nuts?  Tracking how long you’ve run and posting it to social media.  “I RAN 3 MILES THIS MORNING GIVE ME FACEBOOK LIKES I NEED ATTENTION”.  Go to hell.

Also worthy of spite: doing a 5k race and feeling proud of yourself.  Anybody adult with a modicum of healthy living can run 5k.  Oh, and that 13.1 or 26.2 sticker on your car.  You were able to run X distance and want the person behind you to know it.  Not only that, you run for whatever stupid reason, but still depend on an automobile for a form of pragmatic transportation.


I only use Facebook at this point if I want to get angry.  I get on, scroll past pictures of babies, wedding countdowns (UGH), your terrible political beliefs, contrived memes, HOW MUCH YOU JUST FUCKING RAN, and your concerned aunt commenting on your “oh man so hungover” status.  Get a grip people.

Let me document everything I do “I’m taking a shit, let me check in to ‘my bathroom'” because you are an attention whore who is trying to feel better about your shitty life.  Keep curating the 1% of your day that isn’t boring, or post enigmatic statuses about “This has been the worst day ever” hoping for probing questions and maybe, just maybe, feeling like you aren’t a boring, ordinary fucking person.

PS if you aren’t using twitter yet you are a dinosaur and I hope you are killed by meteor impact.

White chicks and weddings:

OH MY GOD. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.  From the day chicks graduate college it is a fucking race to the altar.  I do not understand this even the littlest bit.  If you’re not getting married yourself, you’re going to bachelorette parties, other friends weddings, whatever the fuck else at an alarming rate.  This is the social function your life revolves around.  You love going to them with your own husband or fiancé.  You get to dress up and wear uncomfortable shoes.  You get to pretend like you don’t have a boring fucking life for a few hours.  And if you’re there single, or just with a +1?  You are fucking shattered behind your disingenuous smile.  Your clock is ticking, every guy you’re trying to tie down realizes you’re a clone of every other sorority girl, and you can’t bear the thought of being unable to post engagement photos on Facebook. You just want to get married because all of your sorority sisters have.

The “100 days until my wedding!” facebook posts are particularly egregious. Oh yeah toots?  800 days until you get divorced.  I am waiting for the day.

I saw a stand up comedian (forget the name at the moment) who said something along these lines: “Sometimes it’s late on Friday night and I’m drunk, alone.  I get on facebook, and see a couple that has gotten divorced.  I go through their wedding photos and…’like’, ‘like’, ‘like’, oh your first dance? ‘share’, ‘like’, ‘like’….”. Can’t wait to be that guy.

Your life isn’t a fucking Disney movie, in fact, I hope it is generally horrible.  You’re fetishizing a lifelong, commitment to love so that you can have one day where you’re the center of attention (to a bunch of people who are judging you on your cutlery and reception meal).


Well, let’s gloss over with how your reliance on automobiles and fossil fuels (due to poor urban planning and the oil/auto industry lobbyists buying Washington) are causing the destruction of our planet.  I’m not trying to put a fist through my monitor.

Let’s talk about this asshole who doesn’t use turn signals.  You are such a shit eater. It takes all of 500 milliseconds but you can’t be bothered. Just going to give all the traffic around you no indication of where you’re steering your 2000 pound metal cage.

Or, the person who has to look down at their phone at every stop sign, red light, or straight stretch of road.  You are going to kill someone.  You can’t wait to check in on facebook or send a text that you are going to fucking kill somebody.  I kind of hope you accidentally run over your own grandparents and have to go to jail for the rest of your life for vehicular manslaughter.

You’re driving down a narrow city street.  In a GMC Suburban. Think about the name of the model (suburban), and your environment (urban).  You are driving  a gigantic fucking vehicle down a road designed for something half its size.  Because you have a tiny penis and feel like a big car will convince people otherwise.

And how about this fucker parked in a bike lane.  You are a real piece of shit.  I saw a convertible with its top down  parked in a bike lane on my way home from work last week.  I spit directly onto the driver’s seat.  What a fucking asshole.

How about opening your car door without looking out your mirror?  Oh, you just destroyed your door, and a cyclist who biked directly into it?  Because you were looking down at facebook on your phone?  Eat shit.


Yep, you’re on my shit list too.  Biking without a helmet, with headphones in.  That’s a real smart move you jackass.  A car is going to honk its horn, you won’t hear them, then you’ll get hit by the car and die.  Good riddance.

Salmon cyclists, or, cyclists who bike the opposite direction of a one way street.  If it’s half a block on a side street, that’s not an issue.  But if you’re on a major street going the opposite direction of traffic, you’re a danger to cyclists and cars both.  You should probably hit a semi-truck head on and rid yourself from this world.

Biking on the sidewalk.  This is actually illegal in PA, if never enforced.  You are a piece of shit and if you don’t have the balls to bike on the road, where you’re supposed to be biking, you shouldn’t be allowed on a bicycle, period.

Doing any of the above on a very expensive, carbon-frame bicycle that daddy bought for you.  Jeeesus christ.  Don’t play with your toy until you know how to use it.

Excessive cellphone usage:

You’re at a friend’s house, or at a party.  And you, and everyone else around you, is looking down at your phone.  Hey asshole, if I wanted to sit by myself and play with my phone I wouldn’t have invited people over.   On a date and checking your cellphone?  Asshole.  Missing the entire conversation going on because you just had to swipe through some tinder profiles?  Assssshole. That’s just rude shit.  Get it together.

White people:

Pretty much everything y’all do.  Enjoying Dave Matthews Band, tanning, voting Republican, not eating spicy food, going vegan/”freegan”/gluten-free or whatever dumb fad you can think up.  Fuck you.

Happy memorial day weekend.

Fucking Reptar Bars

Today I’m walking around campus and I see a kid in a Reptar shirt. 

Which in and of itself is pretty cool.  The wave of nostalgia that overcame me did not feel good at all.

When I was a kid I fucking loved Rugrats.  One of the best cartoons out there.  And in one episode Tommy (I think) is trying to get some Reptar bars.  I needed to get some of my own.

Because that shit turned your tongue GREEN

I wanted a Reptar bar so, so badly.  Whenever my mom went shopping I would ask her to buy me Reptar bars.  Being an immigrant who didn’t know any better she would actually ask employees at Festival Foods, K-Mart and Giant if they had any Reptar bars.  They always said “no” and when she came home empty handed I got pissed off at her (because I was a piece of shit).


I never grasped that these weren’t actually real candy bars.  Some kind soul finally enlightened my Mother, who came home livid because she’d spent the better part of a year looking for FAKE CANDY BARS FROM A CARTOON.

This was around the time that my mom decided that TV was rotting my brain and I spent too much time watching cartoons (neither of these is necessarily false).

For a couple weeks I wasn’t allowed to watch Rugrats.


“The baddest little show on Earth!”

Backstory: It was last weekend, maybe the weekend before that an employee at DiNic’s caught sight of the Super Portale Bros and said “You seem like you may be interested in this” before handing over some free tickets to “Extreme Midget Wrestling“.  A big “ha ha” moment, do we really look like the type of guys who would be interested in watching midgets little people* wrestle?  Actually yes.  Pigeonholed as fuck

*I’m not the PC police but I feel a little offensive calling them midgets.  Little people from here on out. 


The day had come.  The Portales bailed out so I was flying solo to this thing.  I blame the couch. I locked up my whip, and proceeded to drink as much as I thought would be acceptable when drinking alone (a special at the dive next door).  Observations:

  • There was already a line a few doors away from the TLA.  Must be all those free tickets, there were plenty of people who had come out for this thing.
  • I saw a guy with a braided rat tail.  Didn’t want to take a picture because I know if he caught me he would destroy me.  His side piece was a woman with a tattoo on her forehead.
  • A taller, chubbier guy tried to make small talk with me.  He had acne and was at least 30.  “So…you going to this event next door?”.  As if he was too ashamed to admit he was watching little people beat up on each other for our entertainment.  That’s what we’re all here for, bro. I nodded and went back to my phone.  He looked around, walked to the empty half of the bar, and just walked around in a circle.  Autism like a motherfucker.
  • The bartender, sweet jesus the bartender.  Pixie cut, thick-frame glasses, petite little thing.  I’m not saying I fell in love, but I did meet my dream woman.

Moderately numbed to the white trash, I went outside and saw the line from the TLA went to the end of the block.

It was that type of crowd.  Once I was in the venue I saw that the ring was about half the size of a normal wrestling ring, it was also surrounded by some deplorable people.  I guess it made sense, the MC liked repeating “Half the size, TWICE THE VIOLENCE!”

I immediately moved to the mezzanine to continue drinking.

As we approached 8:30 the crowd got antsy and started a “MID-GETS! MID-GETS! MID-GETS!” chant.  They didn’t waste any time and started a royal rumble with 6 (maybe 7?) little people.  The MC asked “ARE YOU READY for some midget violence?!” and the raucous crowd got right into it.  These little people beat the shit out of each other.  Totally ruthless.  Suplexes, impalers, and high-flying top rope action!

The winner of this match took off his shirt, put on a referee’s stripes and became the ref for the rest of the night.  This is a picture of the guy who won the royal rumble:

Seen here wearing a white woman

I guess that’s the reward for winning?  Take the rest of the night off?

Onto the main cards of the night:

The MC first introduced “Skinny Timmy” who wasn’t even a legitimate little person.  He as just a scrawny, extremely short dude.  After he was introduced he was booed immediately (love Philadelphia) and then played the heel like a champ. “I know this is an Obama town, did you buy your tickets with welfare?” “I hope the Flyers lose!””Your girlfriend is a 4 where I come from!” yeah OK bro

The hate was palpable.  Who can we count on to defeat this guy?  None other than 3’8″, pot-bellied, “Baby Jesus”, an instant fan favorite.  “Let’s go JE-SUS!” “I LOVE YOU BABY JESUS!”

He got his ass beat for most of the round. Skinny Timmy was a force off the top rope though, can’t teach that.  At some point, Baby Jesus got thrown out of the ring and this was problematic.  It happened in all of the matches and from our level (and  probably the first level too) it was impossible to see these guys.  Baby Jesus got hit in the head with a steel tray (aka tin chafing dish) because Skinny Timmy is a cheap player.  Through the power of our prayers, however, B. Jesus won by pinfall.

Then they took a 15 minute break to let more people into the arena, allegedly.  The crowd lost a LOT of energy at this point, me included because I was already sobering up.

Next up was a 3-way match.  We had “King Midget”, a guy with corn rows.  We had a guy in an el luchador mask.  We had a particularly beefy one named “Lil’ Show”, naturally.  I remembered Lil Show from the royal rumble, I liked his style a lot, maybe my favorite wrestler at this point.  Just picked up the other wrestlers and threw them.  That was pretty much his only move.  If I remember correctly (I don’t), he pinned el luchador, but then got pinned by King Midget in a controversial ending.

Some fun facts about the people I was standing by:

  • One lady was extremely short, like 4’8″.  Shorter than Skinny Timmy. “I should be out there!”.  
  • When we all realized how understaffed the venue was she lit up a cigarette right next to me.  Gross, but mostly because then I had to wash my hair this morning.
  • The drunkest guy in the whole venue was right behind us.  He spent the latter half of the event leaning on a wall.
  • The posse he was rolling with was incredibly lame.  Picture a guy, 6’6, really fat, gauged ears (but really conservative, tiny ones), Nintendo t-shirt, and a former high school wrestler who complained about how unrealistic this was.  FOH bro

The next card was a Canadian vs. a ‘Murican so I’ll let you figure out who the crowd was rooting for (hint: not the one who bleeds maple syrup).  Bonus points: the American was named “Steve-O” in an example of a trademark that hasn’t caught up with EMW so far.


The Canadian was a pretty cool fighter (also in the RR) with an even cooler mohawk, but as a true patriot I was all behind the American.  Some of the props they pulled out from under the stage got a bit ridiculous in this event: folding chairs, spiked baseball bats  a wiffle ball bat wrapped in aluminum foil, and some shelving.  Pretty sure the American started bleeding at some point.  In the end, the winner was America’s hat, but do not despair….

There was some extracurricular activity going on, particularly the Lil’ show returning to the ring and ganging up on the American with his Canadian buddy.  I was devastated.  America had lost and it’s most charismatic fighter was kicking us while we were down.  Who will be our savior but….Baby Jesus. 

That’s right, Baby Jesus was resurrected and teamed up with our American son.  “How about you two versus you two?” Thanks ref we got it.  Jesus and America, a natural pairing.  Cheering so loud you could probably hear it in heaven.  This is a team any freedom loving patriot can get behind.

The tag team match that ensued was fantastic.  Distracting the ref while your partner beats up your opponent, holding your opponent so your partner can spear him from the top rope, and many near-falls.  Thrilling.  In the end, the good guys won and Baby Jesus was 2-0 on the night.  I wiped a tear of joy from my eye and the crowd began to disperse.



They were selling $20 shirts, $20 luchador masks, and $5 to get a picture with the wrestlers.  That’s the best $5 I almost spent, mostly because they cut the line off.  Some full-sized people were still drunk and tried to climb into the ring.

Security beat his ass, it was fantastic.
Security beat his ass, it was fantastic.

Alas, this was as close I got to my heroes and new best friends.

Clockwise from top: Skinny Timmy, Baby Jesus, Lil Show, Canadian, Steve-O, King Midget, and the ref
Clockwise from top:
Skinny Timmy, Baby Jesus, Lil Show, Canadian, Steve-O, King Midget, and the ref


So if these little people are coming to a venue near you, don’t even hesitate a little bit to go see them!  Pun. Intended.