The World Cup of Ref Blaming

This Sunday is the World Cup Final; the last game in a month long tournament that has captivated nations around the globe and even, to the surprise of some, the United States. In hindsight, the domestic appeal of this year’s tournament shouldn’t be that shocking. After all, Americans love a good excuse to don the red, white, and blue and chant in the direction of other, inferior countries. More importantly, millions and millions of us fell in love with the tantalizing idea of taking afternoons off from work to watch sporting events on weekdays.

As an avid soccer fan, I’ve been slowly coming down off of my World Cup high. The first thing that killed my buzz was the elimination of the U.S. team at the hands of the Belgians. (Damn you, Belgium, and your delicious beer!) Then there was the slow transition from three matches a day to one every couple of days. This reduction of games led to me spending less time standing around the office TV and more time sitting at my desk. Lame.

But once this Sunday’s Final match between Germany and Argentina passes, I will lose the most enjoyable part of this 2014 World Cup: listening to my son berate the referees.

This year Jack (who’s 7 going on 17) has really gotten into soccer. After a couple of years of playing and watching matches with his old man on TV, he’s become quite fond of the Beautiful Game. He seems to grasp the rules of “football” and has even managed to pick up some its colorful vocabulary. (His mastery of the term “Own Goal” is outstanding.) But most of all, he’s learning that match officials are always wrong, every day, all the time, always.

Father and son… waiting for the refs to make a costly error in judgment.

Jack’s colors didn’t run during the World Cup and he was Team America through and through. But to keep himself interested during non-U.S.A matches (and he watched plenty of those as well) he would choose a side to route for. I wasn’t always sure why he threw his allegiance behind any given nation, but whoever he graced with his fandom always seemed to get the short end of the stick from the refs.

“How is that a foul?!” Jack bellowed with great conviction toward our television.

“What are you, blind?! How could you not see that?!” Jack yelled when a call was shamefully overlooked.

“Come on! That’s a penalty!” Jack exclaimed anytime someone fell down near the box.

“These referees should be beaten with a tire iron in a dark alley until every bone in their body is ground into dust!!!” Jack shouted vengefully when the officiating mistakes were too much to bare.

Okay. I made that last one up. But you get the idea.

While the blame game my son played could sometimes be a little much, it was ultimately great fun to see him so passionately immersed in the games. As a lifelong sports fan, it did my heart proud watching him verbally abuse the lackluster performance of match officials whose one simple job is the see every errant tackle and handball made by twenty-two of the best players in the world who happen to be also be running up and down a 110-yard field. I mean, who messes that up?

I can only hope he transfers this irrational hatred of refereeing to other sports. This fall I look forward to Sundays filled with animated pleas for refs to “open their eyes” and see the obvious pass interference calls they’ll miss. Followed by a winter where he excoriates “zebras” for unquestionably costing basketball teams game after game. Baseball umpires will probably be spared because he understands very little about our National Pastime.

I believe that we will… get screwed by the refs!

Some people will remember the 2014 World Cup in Brazil for the plucky Costa Rican team that defied the odds and made it out of the group stage, or Tim Howard’s record-setting performance in goal against Belgium, or Germany’s efficient annihilation of the Brazilian hosts in the semifinals. I’ll remember it for the passion my son displayed for the sport of soccer and the way he channeled that excitement into blaming the referees for everything.

Yelling at referees is the sound of my future. And my future sounds glorious.

Boston Bombings: Beware the Assholes

Nothing inspires me to write quite like anger. And nothing makes me angrier than assholes.

As we all know, assholes are a particular breed of human being that lack empathy, decency, and any semblance of social consciousness. The narcissistic, self-centered nature of an asshole allows him to make decisions based solely on how the outcome will affect him, other people be damned.

There is a broad spectrum of assholes that populate the planet, ranging from the least harmful (but still annoying) to the genuinely heartless. Unfortunately, the latter were on full display this past Monday. And in the wake of the tragic terrorist bombing that took place at the Boston Marathon, American citizens are searching for answers. They want to know how someone could carry out such unspeakable acts. How can things like this happen?

Things like this happen because of assholes.

Another tragedy caused by another asshole.

When the cowards responsible for the bloodshed and loss of life in Boston are eventually apprehended, I’m quite sure they will justify their actions by associating themselves with some righteous cause. They will probably reveal their inspiration to be a religious text or some badly written manifesto. But make no mistake about it: no matter what world view they subscribe to, these people are not soldiers or martyrs or prophets. They are not revolutionaries or agents of socio-political change. They are simply assholes.

People have used the term “evil” to describe the douchebags responsible for this crime. I don’t particularly care for this adjective because it comes across as otherworldly. It calls to mind some powerfully disturbed genius, manically twisting his mustache like a villain in a Disney movie. It implies, in some mythical sense, that the souls of these dickwads were preordained at birth to bestow death and misery upon the innocent masses. But we know in our heart of hearts that this is not the case. These jackasses were not born with a singular, wicked destiny. They had choices just like the rest of us. And at some point, they made a conscious choice to be an asshole. And not just any asshole, but that very special variety of asshole that thinks it’s okay to kill people.

At least the world has non-assholes, like NFL lineman Joe Andruzzi.

Unfortunately, we cannot rid the world of assholes, no matter how hard we try. Assholes have been screwing things up since the dawn of human history and they will continue to wreak havoc until the end of time. This is what they do. And they will never stop.

The best we can hope for is to outshine them whenever we can. This goodness was on full display in the immediate aftermath of the Boston Marathon bombing; decent human beings instinctively acting in ways that were the polar opposite of the radical douchebaggery that led to the tragedy. People aided the wounded, sheltered those with no place to go, and volunteered to give blood. Those not in the immediate vicinity sent their thoughts and prayers from hundreds of miles away and continue to show their love and support in any way they can.

We will never win a decisive victory in the global war on assholes, but we can continue to be better than them. And in the end, I suppose that’s pretty damn good.

The PTC is Not F*@king Awesome

Americans love the Super Bowl. And why wouldn’t we? It’s a chance for us to come together, eat like pigs, drink like fish, and watch grown men beat the shit out of each other for our amusement.

However, this year’s gluttonously glorious Super Bowl left some people crying foul. I’m not talking about the Niners fans who wanted to see a pass interference penalty called on a late fourth down pass, but rather the killjoys at the Parents Television Council.

The PTC is the same watchdog group that crapped themselves when the world was introduced to Janet Jackson’s nipple during the Halftime Show of Super Bowl XXXVIII. This time around they’re whining to the FCC because Ravens quarterback Joe Flacco dropped an expletive as players celebrated at the end of the game. The cameras just happened to pick up his “fucking awesome” comment and now they’ve got their panties in a bunch and would like to see CBS fined heavily.

For the record, I’d love to see CBS fined heavily, not for accidental profanity, but rather for forcing the nation to endure ten seasons of “Two and Half Men.” But come on, PTC. It was one little four-letter word uttered in the heat of the moment on a live broadcast. It’s not like Americas #1 Network slipped up and broadcast this infamous scene from The Wire:

Look, not everything the PTC does is annoying. Their website seems to be a good tool for parents who want some heavy-handed advice on what movies and TV shows their kids should be watching. And that’s good. But these outcries over minor incidents of profanity and nudity are ridiculous. Do I want my six-year-old talking like McNulty and Bunk on the playground after school? No. Do I let him listen to NWA’s greatest hits while we’re in the car? No. Would I care is he overheard Flacco’s quick, barely audible “fucking awesome” after the game? No.

Why? Because I’m a real parent, not a reactionary boob. If my son heard an inadvertent “fuck” on TV, I’d simply sit him down and explain that sometimes adults use words that aren’t very nice. And that he’s not allowed to use such words because he’s not an adult. Shouldn’t be a hard concept for him to grasp since he lives in a world where adults get to do lots of stuff he can’t do. Like vote. Or drink beer. Or drive a car. Or write blogs complaining about the PTC.

Besides, is what Joe Flacco said really the worst thing children were exposed to during that broadcast? Any kids who sat through the Super Bowl watched a sport so violent that some of their ex-players are suffering traumatic brain issues and some of those guys are killing themselves. They also endured countless commercials that featured beer, violence, and Tracy Morgan. To say nothing of the GoDaddy.com ad that showed a nerd making out with a super model. I mean, what am I supposed to tell my boy about that completely unrealistic portrayal of societal norms?

Hey, PTC, how do I explain this to my kid?

And maybe it’s just me, but aren’t there far bigger fish to fry when it comes to protecting kids? Why don’t these people throw their weight behind some meatier issues that might actually make the world better for children? You know, things like strengthening public education or keeping guns out of the hands of lunatics or not allowing the Catholic Church anywhere near young boys. These issues are far more damaging than overhearing a muddled version of a curse word they probably hear Daddy yell every time he tries to fix something around the house.

Look, you PTC people seem to have your heart in the right place. But these self-righteous profanity crusades make you look like fools that have no real concept of what is actually destroying the lives of American children. There are kids out there that need real help, not sternly worded press releases.

So what do you say? Think you can start lobbying for things that might make a difference? Because if you could, I think that would be fucking awesome.

What’s Wrong with America: Black Friday Edition

It’s official. The Christmas season is upon us. I know this, of course, because homes and storefronts are decked out in shiny lights and plastic garland, advertisers are imploring me to buy expensive jewelry and cars for my loved ones, and this past Friday the national blood sport known as Black Friday took place.

Class and dignity are overrated. But cheap crap? That stuff’s priceless.

Oh, Black Friday how you simultaneously amuse and sicken me. Each year millions of people lineup at ungodly hours outside of box stores for the privilege of purchasing shit they don’t need at rock bottom prices. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m all for buying shit I don’t need, I just refuse to stand in line at 10pm on a holiday to do it. Call me an elitist, but I’d much rather stroll leisurely into my corporate chain of choice at a reasonable hour and pay a little extra for my sweat shop produced goods. That’s just how I roll.

In addition to the moral superiority I feel by not taking part in this annual commercial clusterfuck, I also get the added pleasure of remaining somewhat human while millions of lesser people turn into Darwinian savages in order to get their hands on a $38 blu-ray player.

Think I’m being hyperbolic?

Compare the feasting vultures…

…with the Walmart shoppers at the 1:25 mark.

The only difference between Black Friday shoppers and these avian scavengers is that the vultures clearly have a more dignity. After all, they need to fight each other off and ravage that downed beast to survive. It’s what they do. It’s what they’ve always done. Human beings, on the other hand, don’t need IPads and Xbox games to continue on. Not to mention we live in an abundantly glorious age in which hand-to-hand combat is not required in order to procure goods and services.

So this year I once again chose not to take part in Black Friday. Instead I watched the carnage unfold via news reports and YouTube posts, sat on high and piously judged the throngs of people who marched into stores for underpriced merchandise. I accept that my point of view might make me a self-righteous asshole. But on the bright side, this self-righteous asshole will never have his ribs broken while fighting off a horde of blood thirsty bargain shoppers for a 50-inch TV.

Half Marathon Man

This past weekend something truly amazing took place. Something most people said could never be done. It was a feat so incredible it required months of intense physical and mental preparation. This achievement was so beyond the limits of human comprehension that its importance will be debated and deconstructed for years to come.

On Sunday, October 14^th, 2012… I ran a half marathon.

Okay, Sunday also marked the day that Austrian daredevil guy jumped to earth from the edge of space, falling 128,010 feet and breaking the world record (and the sound barrier) in the process. But while Felix Baumgartner’s stunt was certainly noteworthy, his accomplishment simply cannot compare to the cramp-defying tour de force that was my sorry ass running 13.1 miles… in two hours and twenty-four minutes… in the wind and drizzle… on a very hilly course.

Gutsy jump. But as great as my half marathon?

Fine. I admit it. It really wasn’t that big a deal. But you have to understand, I never thought I’d run a half marathon. Ever. Not because I believed myself to be physically incapable of running that far, I just didn’t see the point. Jog a few miles every week to burn calories and maintain the illusion I’m in decent shape? Sure. Run miles and miles and miles over the course of a few months for the privilege of enduring two plus hours of exhausting physical pain and soul-crushing self-doubt? No, thank you.

But then I started dating this super awesome woman who happened to be a runner. And then I started running with her. And then she started telling me about her half marathons. And then I felt like a pansy for not being able to run that far. And then I started to realize I was a halfway decent runner who could probably do it. And then I recognized that at 38 years of age, pushing myself outside of my comfort zone and attempting something I’d previously thought impossible (and a bit ridiculous) had a really alluring quality to it. And then I learned I’d get a shiny medal for completing the race. And then I was in.

As the race got underway, I felt great confidence. That lasted about two miles. From there it was more about mental strength. During the race, my legs burned like Lindsey Lohan’s eyes after an all-night bender. But I pushed on. As I shuffled along the course, I questioned my decision. What the hell was I doing out in the cold running a race against no one in particular? What was I trying to prove? Why couldn’t I have met a woman who had an intense passion for billiards?

The author blazing across the finish line… to the indifference of those in attendance.

When I finished the half marathon, my legs hurt like hell and felt as weak as a campaign promise. Yet I felt great despite the pain. I’d completed the course six minutes quicker than my goal (did I mention it was windy, drizzly and hilly?), I had my shiny medal, and I knew my next meal would taste much better than energy gel.

Did I drop to the earth from the edge of the atmosphere? No. But I did something I never thought I’d do. And that’s something.

So suck it, Felix Baumgartner! Sunday was my day.

The Un-American NFL

While most people mark Labor Day as the official end of summertime, we all know that it’s the first weekend of NFL football that truly indicates that autumn is upon us. This past Sunday red-blooded American men suddenly went into a zombie-like state the rendered them unable to process any information that wasn’t pigskin related. Women and children from sea to shining sea found themselves as alone as a vegetarian at a Texas BBQ.

While people still nostalgically refer to baseball as “America’s Pastime,” you don’t have to be a SportsCenter anchor to know that the NFL surpassed MLB in popularity years ago. Thanks to the League’s enormous TV presence, the popularity of fantasy football and office pools, and our nation’s thirst for all things violent, it’s not even a contest. Football is king. Or should I say Czar? How can the NFL maintain such overwhelming popularity when it clearly goes against everything we stand for?

If Republican politicians are correct (and really, when are they ever wrong?), we live in a center-right country that loves free markets, deregulation, and apple pie. If that’s truly the case, shouldn’t we collectively hate the NFL? After all, this is a league that’s all about revenue sharing, collective bargaining, and market choking regulation. To say nothing of the fact that most NFL stadiums DO NOT serve apple pie.

These people may love football, but they hate America.

NFL franchises are billion dollar businesses run, in many cases, by captains of industry. And yet these teams are NOT allowed to go into the free market and spend wantonly on players. The amount of money they’re allowed to dole out on their most important employees is strictly regulated. Keeping salaries under the League imposed cap is so important that every off-season hardworking players are shown the door simply to remove their contracts from the books.

Speaking of contracts… Did you know that NFL players belong to a union? It’s true. Last summer when this pinko coalition’s contract had expired, there was almost a work stoppage. To make matters worse, the NFLPA has a pension fund for retired players. Can you imagine anything as unpatriotic as collective bargaining and providing money to people who no longer perform a service?

The NFL also has a strict policy of revenue sharing. They take the truckloads of money earned through national television contracts and redistribute it evenly amongst the 32 teams. How is this allowed to happen? There are several franchises whose nationwide popularity is worth far more to NFL ratings than the smaller market teams. Giving the Jacksonville Jaguars the same amount of TV revenue as the Dallas Cowboys isn’t just absurd, it’s downright un-American!

Well, at least the League doesn’t reward failure. Unless you count the NFL Draft. When an organization does a poor job of putting a quality product on the field, their team is unfairly rewarded with a higher pick. Why reward ineptitude? Just to maintain competitive balance? That’s B.S.! Winners should reap the benefits of their hard work and intelligence, while losers should be cast into the wasteland of the lazy and unmotivated. That’s the American way. That’s how things should be done. And damn it, that’s what should happen to the Cleveland Browns!

And don’t get me started on the multimillion dollar palaces NFL teams play their games in. The tab for these stadiums should be picked up by the ultra-rich franchise owners whose personal fortunes exceed the working man’s wildest dreams. Instead, tax payers foot the bill time and time again. Why don’t the politicians who pass these stadium bills just go ahead and wipe their asses with Old Glory while they’re at it.

Are you ready for some Corporate Welfare?

If American sports fans really want to celebrate our nation’s values through professional athletics, we should start watching European football (aka soccer). I know Europeans are all foreign and swarthy and in love with socialized medicine, but hear me out. In those leagues, there are no salary caps. Players and can be bought and sold on the open market like the commodities they are. (Sometimes, at a profit to the club owners.) And when a soccer club is mismanaged and performs poorly on the pitch (that’s what those weirdos call a field) that team is not rewarded with high draft picks, they’re castoff into a lower, crappier division. This allows for a more American, free market, win or go home approach to the game. Sure, most leagues only have 3-4 ultra rich teams that can truly compete for a championship, but what’s wrong with that? That’s the American way!

Simply put, the NFL goes against everything this Reagan-loving country holds dear. And yet most Americans can’t get enough of it. Before long, the sport will indoctrinate the whole lot of us. Because if we’re willing to support regulation, fairness, and government spending in the context of professional athletics, it’s only a matter of time until we all embrace Obamacare and an equitable tax policy.

God help us all!

Fifty Shades of Olympiad

After four years of longing, another Olympiad is finally upon us. London is the host to the 2012 Summer Games and you can imagine the Brits will make a jolly good show of it. I for one cannot wait to spend hours lounging on my couch, drinking beer, eating Doritos, and watching the sheer competitive brilliance that is dressage and badminton.

Unfortunately, this year’s Olympics have already been sullied in my mind because of the obscenity that is the official London 2012 mascots. Sure, this cycloptic duo (called Wenlock and Mandeville) may seem like fun-loving characters created to market the Games to children and people with the intelligence of children, but let’s call them out for what they really are… giant walking sex toys.

Ladies… say hello to Wenlock and Mandeville!

Look closely at Wenlock and Mandeville. Observe their shapes. Study their contours. Notice that ridges and wrinkles on the tops of their heads. These mascots were clearly designed with one purpose in mind: giving women unspeakable physical pleasure.

And this isn’t the first time the Olympic hosts have looked to the Hustler Store for mascot inspiration. The 2004 Summer Olympics in Athens introduced the world to Athena and Phevos a pair whose design was as phallic as it was mediocre.

Sex toys? Or future Olympic mascots?

Of course, the real proof will be in the final sales numbers. If my suspicions are correct, Wenlock and Mandeville paraphernalia will sell circles around former Olympic mascots. Middle-aged women fueled by their love of Fifty Shades of Grey will be more than willing to pluck down $20 to bring home these rather suggestive souvenirs. Brace yourself for the inevitable day when you’re visiting that single aunt of yours and notice the cycloptic duo’s beady eyes staring back at you from her bedroom bookshelf. They’re collector’s items, she’ll say. But you’ll know better.

On the bright side, at least the British made an attempt at subtlety. You can almost believe these mascots were created for kids and that a woman’s lady parts were the furthest things from their mind. Something tells me we won’t be so lucky in 2016 when the host city is Rio de Janeiro – the home of Carnival. Com certeza!

A Run For Your Money

America is a funny place. If you listen to the rhetoric on the presidential campaign trail, you’d have to assume we’re one election cycle away from experiencing an economic Armageddon that would mortally cripple our nation and turn the continental U.S. into a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Yet despite all this talk of rampant unemployment and sluggish growth, our citizenry seem to find a lot of frivolous ways to spend our disappearing wealth.

Take me, for instance. This past weekend, I celebrated my girlfriend’s birthday by running with her in the Warrior Dash – an obstacle/adventure race that’s sweeping the nation. The event combines a 3-mile run with lots of mud and obstacles one normally wouldn’t get access too without joining the military or becoming a contestant on a Japanese game show.

Just a leisurely run through the park.

But even in these tough economic times, the Warrior Dash was able to pack ‘em in despite the rather pricey entry fee (roughly $100 per person). The event was packed with people of all ages (and sizes) who were more than content to spend their hard-earned money for the privilege of challenging their bodies to do things they’d normally avoid at all costs.

And this race is hardly unique. There are several themed races touring the country this summer. There’s the Spartan Race, the Muddy Buddy, the Great Urban Race and, my favorite, Run for Your Lives – the Zombie-dodging trek that allows you to experience the fun of running from the undead without the inconvenience of having your skull gnawed into mush.

What are you smiling about, lady? Those are zombies! Run!

Being the enterprising individual that I am, I immediately began thinking of how I could cash in on the obstacle/adventure race trend and came up with some brilliant ideas for new races .

Nerd Herds   
In this race, legions of dateless, Comic-Con loving geeks run a 5K dressed as their favorite comic book, Star Was, Star Trek, or Lord of the Rings character while also avoiding the touch of the opposite sex.Participants have minutes added to their official run time whenever the females pursuing them make contact and give them “cooties.”

The Die Hard Race (or John McClane Classic)
Race participants climb the stairs in a 30+ story skyscraper in bare feet while sporting a wife beater and a salty, NYC cop attitude. Upon reaching the top floor, runners must sprint across a floor of broken glass and scream “Yippee-ki-yay, mother fucker” as they cross the finish line.

The Great Urban Decay Race
Spend a weekend morning running through dilapidated replicas of America’s fallen cities.  Runners make their way through the recreated streets of Cleveland, Buffalo, and Detroit, hurdle giant piles of trash while also dodging homeless Vets and Meth addicts. Once participants reach the finish line, they board a bus and pretend to head for cities with more vibrant economic futures.

Nothing’s more exciting than a run through Detroit!

Perhaps in the end, American’s boredom with simply running against a clock on dry land with no chance of sustaining serious injury will be exactly what we need to pull The U.S. of A. out of economic turmoil. On the other hand, it may just be a good excuse to get really muddy and eat giant turkey legs.

In either case, I’m in!

Betting on the Post Office

Life is short. And because my time on earth is fleeting, I try not to frequent places that depress me and/or remind me of how short life truly is. These places include (but are not limited to) nursing homes, funerals homes, Red Lobster restaurants, homeless shelters, VFW halls, and Post Offices.

Of all of the aforementioned hell holes, the Post Office might actually be the most depressing. The USPS may not be filled with Octogenarians drooling their way through bingo as they stoically wait to die, but it is $9 billion in the red. At least Grandpa will someday be relieved of the torment of mortal life. The Post Office, on the other hand, will simply suffer the indignity of being a broken down shell of its former self and continue to hemorrhage money for the rest of eternity.

Inside today’s Post Office.

There was talk last year of shutting down thousands of branches in order to make ends meet, but last month it was announced that the USPS will simply trim hours in rural facilities to try and save $500 million a year. Not exactly an innovative solution. What the Post Office needs to do is completely reinvent itself. Time Magazine recently explored the topic and had some interesting ideas on how the USPS could get its groove back, but their suggestions were predictably cautious. I want to see a revolution. I want to see the institution truly evolve and become a part of our government that can not only support itself, but maybe even turn a profit and help support other worthy programs.

I want to see the Post Office provide the American people a place to gamble on sports.

I know what you’re thinking. “Hey moron, isn’t sports wagering illegal in the U.S. except in Nevada?” I guess. But why should Nevada have all the fun? Let’s change the laws so those fine people in blue sweaters and dark socks can start accepting our sports wagers. Think of the possibilities. While you’re waiting in line to send your sister a belated birthday card, you could also scan NFL futures odds and try to figure out if the Carolina Panthers are worth a taste at 40-1.

Inside the Post Office of the future!

I’m certain the holier than thou types would cry foul and insist that gambling is a sin that’s corroding our values, and destroying families, and blah, blah, blah. If it’s so unspeakably evil then why are we so tolerant of bingo and the lottery and card rooms and office pools and horse racing and Indian casinos? Hell, the stock market is basically legalized gambling and we’ve built our entire economy around that crap shoot.

Think about this for a minute. Put your prejudices aside. Search your heart. Can you really tell me there’s a better way to recoup a $9 billion loss while also keeping down the cost of a postage stamp? I’m waiting. Well? You’ve got nothing. What I’ve got is a way to ensure the Post Office’s solvency for decades while also keeping millions of degenerate sports fans enthusiastically entertained.

You’re welcome.