"Retarded Sex"

"Dude. Cops at Drive Thru?"

So I heard on the radio this morning on the way to work that police in Arizona have begun posing as fast food restaurant employees at 24-hour restaurants. Their goal is to catch wasted souls pursuing the slider golden treasure or whatever their late night munchies may be. One cop dresses and acts as an employee working the drive-thru, while a normal cop waits outside in the parking lot for the arrest. On one hand, I am perfectly fine with deterring drunken drivers from the roads, but on the other hand I can't imagine how many innocent hippies (regardless of how much they stink like burning incense and unshaven feminine armpits), influenced by herbal remedies, will be harrassed.

"Why Can't Papa Johns Come To My House?"

Has anyone seen the latest commercial from Papa John's where Papa John just shows up randomly at somebody's house with a shitload of pizzas? I still can't figure out how he happened to "randomly" choose the house that also happened to be having some kind of family get-together or birthday party. That got me thinking about how funny it'd be if he really did just randomly pick out a house and show up way too excited with way too many pizzas. Can you imagine if he showed up at some asshole redneck's house or an old senile man without pants? Or better yet, can you imagine how much you'd be cheesing your underwear with excitement if you happened to be sitting on your couch, drunk off your ass, at 2 in the morning and suddenly Papa John showed up at your door with a bunch of people carrying pizzas?

I bet that is what it feels like to win the lottery.

"A Strange Conversation With An Older Lady"

I have a student loan through Nelnet and every damn time I go online to make my monthly payment, I am always getting my passwords mixed up or my username. When I change my password back to something i'll remember they wont let you use a previous username or password, so i am forced to change it to something new. Last time, for no apparent reason, I decided to change my username to MrButtface and PoopRules as my password.

To make a long story short, today I misspelled my username or password more than three times, the computer locked me out, and I was forced to call Nelnet to make a payment over the phone. After providing the women with my name and social security number she also asked me to provide my username and password for online verification.

Typing Mr. Butt Face and Poop Rules into your computer is one thing, but saying it out loud without laughing to a customer service lady was totally different.

"Where I Have Been For the Last Two Months"

I truly apologize to all the millions of my fans and readers of this Pulitzer Prize nominated blog for my absence over the past 50 or 60 days while I learned more about having AIDS and recieved treatment. I really appreciate all of the letters of support and gifts of flowers, cards, and balloons. I especially appreciated the Mexican midget stripper blow-up doll that some crazy fan from Iowa sent me. Sadly and shamefully though, I have a confession. I don't have AIDS. In fact, I've never even had an STD and I am so afraid of accidentally procreating a miniature me, that I possibly have Obsessive-Condom-Compulsive-Disorder or OCCD.

The real reason for my long absence from babbling on about unimportant and insensitive ideas and thoughts on the blog is that I have just been lazy. That is it. I've just been a piece of shit for the last couple of months. However, I have quite a bit of shit stuck up in the ol' memory bank to last me for awhile.

To recap the last couple months, here is a list of the top 10 things that occured during my absence.

10.) That crazy, rambling midget that rode that cheap horse to a Kentucky Derby win. I still have no idea what he was saying during the post-race interview, but the race was awesome.

9.) That old bag on America's Got Talent finally got kicked off. Speaking of Susan Boyle, a guy on the radio the other day was asking which would be worse to be forced to have sex with, Susan Boyle or Amy Winehouse? uhhhhh.....yikes. Susan Boyle probably tastes like moth balls and old, sweaty underwear, while Winehouse obviously tastes like a puke-filled ashtray.

8.) We adopted a cow. There was this cow that needed a home because its owner at the farm had died. Even though I live in a normal suburban neighborhood, we at least have a fenced in yard. We have even started letting him come inside occasionally to sleep if it is too hot outside.

O.K. We really didn't adopt a cow, but I still think it would be pretty cool if we did.

7.) The NFL draft and Donald Brown. This little guy is the perfect fit for our Colts. Next year's version of Matt Forte.

6.) I saw this fat guy split his sweatpants wide open at the grocery store bending over for some Mentos at the checkout line. I had to act like I forgot something and left the line, because I could tell everyone was sensing I was a jackass for laughing so hard.

5.) Football became 2 months closer to starting. Just thinking about waking up on that first Sunday of the season and running downstairs to the television like a child on Christmas gives me goosebumps. Or makes me crap my pants with excitement. One of the two.

4.) The planning of my bachelor party in Vegas has begun......Giggity! Giggity! Giggity!

3.) Warm weather has returned and I have a huge, white trash, above-ground pool now in my backyard to prove it.

2.) I saw this dancing cockatoo on YouTube. It was fucking awesome.

1.) I didn't finish the movie "Marley and Me". I got in a few cheap laughs, but cut out as soon as I noticed the movie was taking its inevitable turn for the worst. There is just no reason to voluntarily make yourself depressed by watching some beloved dog kick the bucket.

"Dr. H's Views on Religion" (Dear Church People: Sue Me!)

Before I begin my rant on the problem with religion and society, please remember that these are simply my viewpoints and obviously you all are free to believe in whatever you want.

First of all, I 100% believe that humans evolved from apes. In fact, it almost seems impossible that we didn’t. I mean the world was at one point completely submerged in water and every organism and animal that exists today is a direct result of adaptation. Fish grew legs to adapt to the increasing amounts of land and were forced to do so in order to survive the rapid changes surrounding them. Why would this be any different for us? Most church-goers frown upon the idea of evolution and view those that believe in this theory as atheists. Now although I do not completely buy into the whole happy Bible story version of God, I do believe that some form of a God does exist. Couldn’t God have simply created apes and we have evolved from those original ancestors? Religious advocates argue of course not. Because ever since we were little, we have been told the story of how God created a man and a women that ate a piece of damn fruit from a tree guarded by a talking snake and ended up procreating together and now we have over 6 billion people on this Earth. Sorry, but I am not buying it. For those of you that do, let me guess, you also believe that some guy named Noah built a boat large enough to hold two of every animal on Earth and managed to not only get all of these animals onto the boat at the same time, but successfully kept them afloat without the tigers trying to kill the gazzelles or the snakes trying to eat the rats? Yeh, and I still have a shot at becoming a major league baseball player and marrying Eva Longoria.

I actually think the Bible is a collection of great stories to live by, but hardly a collection of factual evidence and true events. The basic philosophies of living as a good person and doing the right thing is true, but the stories are mostly just that. Stories. Remember playing the game “telephone” when you were a kid in kindergarten and by the time the sentence got to the last kid in the class, “the dog went to the grocery store to buy eggs” became “The cat went to the movies to collect eggs”? Well, if these stories in the Bible are factual and an exact reenactment of true historical events, then I have a hard time believing that thousands of years later nothing has been exaggerated or embellished with time. Just like how every grandparent had to walk 5 miles uphill, both ways, to school every day or how every ex-athlete remembers himself as twice the high school all-star as he actually was. I think most of the messages in the Bible are great and serve as some pretty good rules to live by, but it is hardly a collection of factual stories.

My next point about religion is that people have always naturally wanted to have something to believe in. It makes them feel more secure and comfortable and gives them a sense of purpose in their life. Since the beginning of time, humans wanted to have reasons for all of the world’s natural mysteries and began creating Gods for about every natural phenomenon. The Sun God, Water God, etc., etc. Eventually, the various development of societies all around the world began forming their own hypothesis of how religion works and several forms of religion were established and developed. Now a days, with all of the hate, war, and argument about religion, I have a hard time believing that only ONE of these religions is correct and that the rest of them have just been wasting their time. The truth is that nobody really knows for sure who is right, but whatever or whoever created this amazing Earth is probably somewhere staring down at us, just ashamed of what we are arguing over. My theory on the whole Jesus and God thing is that I believe in the former and not the latter. Oh no. I said it. I don’t believe in Jesus, but please don’t call me an atheist. I do believe that there is a higher being, an ultimate creator, because there is no way that something as intricate, complex, and amazing as this earth could have started without one. However, I think the stories of Jesus Christ are just that. Stories. Yes, they are nice examples of morals and ethics, but just like the rest of the stories in the Bible, I certainly don’t believe he was as exactly as the Bible tells us. He could have been a great man, but that is where I would leave it.

Lastly, If God is supposed to be so almighty and powerful, so gracious and holy, then why do we think he wants us to gather every Sunday and worship and praise him. If he is so wonderful and divine he most likely doesn’t need anyone telling him how great he is. He created the Earth for God’s sake, so I think he already knows he’s a pretty big deal. It seems to me that he would rather have us go hand out some canned goods to the poor or plant a garden in our community, or do something good for society. He’d rather have us walking along a trail in the park, admiring his work, then crowding into a stuffy church and singing songs about how wonderful he is and collecting money so the church can build a big cross in the lobby or expand the church. My point here is that if the basis of the Bible is to live your life as a humble, helpful, and good citizen and human being, then going out into the world and acting upon that assumption is far better than crowding into a church to sing about how wonderful God is. Maybe I’ll just start my own religion. I’ll call it “Realism” or “Dr. H’s Magical World of Subway Sandwiches in The Park”. One of the two. Anyone that wants to meet me each Sunday in the park to eat sandwiches can be part of my congregation. Trust me. If there is a God, he’ll be much happier for it.

g

Fantasy Baseball's Nerd Avenue: "Steroid Andy Gets No Love"

Andrew Eugene Pettitte.
Born June 15th, 1972 in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

The other day, I was scouring the waiver wire in my most competitive fantasy baseball league. With all the crazy waiver wire addicts in this particular league, decent pitching is thinner than Tori Spelling before she got fat again. As I perused over the various wastes of year's pasts, Andy Pettitte's name caught my eye. Although I had actually rode him like a porn star on ecstasy two summers ago to a playoff birth, I was still skeptical. After admitting to using steroids in the past to overcome an injury, most people were pretty leery about drafting a 37 year old man, recently busted for performance enhancing drugs, while coming off his second worst ERA of his career. However, there is still plenty to like here. In fact, I could actually see Mr. Pettitte being a serviceable 4th and strong 5th pitcher, in any fantasy format, the rest of the season.

The steroid allegations and confessions were giant, bright red, "WARNING" lights flashing in our eyes on draft day. However, those troublesome thoughts were put to bed like a drunk sorority chick after Penny Pitchers at Ball State when he reported to training camp in excellent shape and hadn't lost a drop off his velocity. So, just like Hellen Keller actually being blind, I am actually going to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that the few times he used steroids were actually to recover faster from injury, and actually wasn't much of a factor of his entire career's statistics. I mean his head never grew to the size of Placido Polanco's like Barry Bonds and I can't recall him ever having sex with a 14 year old country singer.

With that said, he is though coming off his highest ERA since 1999, right?

Well, yes, but he also had arguably the best season of his career in 2000, the year after his highest ERA total of his career. He also won nineteen games that year.

Regardless of age, the man still plays for the unlikeable and old, yet forceful Yankees. As much as I hate the roster from top to bottom, they still can put runs on the board with best of them. Also, maybe it was because of steroids, but he has served as a trusty horse over the majority of his career, taking the mound at least 30 times per season. He has thrown at least 190 innings 11 of the last 13 years and over 200 innings 10 of the last 13. Hell, he is only four years removed from a fucking 2.37 ERA to go along with 17 wins. And yes, he is older, but the tank is far from empty and think about all of the great years Mussina, Randy Johnson, Glavine, and Smoltz managed to put together far after their prime. Pettitte currently ranks 10 among active pitchers in Win/Loss percentage, 8th in wins, and an astonishing 10th in strikeouts. He even has a career WHIP of just over 1.30.

The proof is in the poop, folks.

And by the way, here is how he has fared through his first two starts.

2 starts: 14.1 innings, 9 hits, 10 strikeouts, 4 earned runs, 2 walks. WHIP of 0.77.

Yes, you read that correctly. He's had more strikeouts than hits.

It will definitely feel like sucking Tom Selleck's balls after he runs a marathon to root for the Yankees once every five games, but this is fantasy baseball and I'll be hammered by the 3rd inning.

"Yes, I Am Gullible, But This Is Just Cruel."

So most everybody that knows me is aware of how easily I am drawn into stories and also my history of being a self-proclaimed hypochondriac. My fiancee has enjoyed taking advantage of this aspect of our relationship over the seven years we've been together, but she at least holds herself to only a few times a year. However, the last two weeks have been especially hard.

More like Cruel.

Very Cruel.

The first emotional breakdown occurred on April 1st, which also happens to be the stupidest holiday of the year. April Fool's Day is actually worse than getting pinched all day at work because you refuse to wear green on St. Patty's Day. At least on St. Patty's Day you get to drink green beer after work to wash the memories of the pinches away.

After Returning home from work that evening, I did my usual routine. I picked up the house, walked the dogs, grabbed a beer out of the fridge, and flipped on the television. My fiancee works late three days a week as a R.N. in the surgery center. I left around 8:00 p.m. to run to the grocery store and when I returned home, my women was waiting for me with a particularly half creepy/half happily excited look on her face. She is holding something behind her back and tells me she has a surprise. Instantly, as usual, I try to think of the worst scenario I can think of so that whatever it is it will seem that much better than the alternative in my head. After asking if it is a good or bad surprise, she giggles, and hands me a fucking pregnancy test.

She's pregnant.

Holy Shit.

I know I am getting older and will eventually decide to procreate little versions of myself, but now?

Really?

No more late nights drinking beers with hot sauce all over my face or 3 a.m. drunk intercourse?

No more pointless late night drunk Ebay purchases of various sports jerseys, because all of my money will be going to diapers and Pedialite?

No more leaving my car at a friends house because I'm too intoxicated to drive and catching a ride home with someone else and waking up for work the next morning and finding out that your fiancee has already left for work and you need to run the 3 and a half mile journey to your friend's house, hungover, while dry heaving the entire way?

Ohhhh God.

I sat on the couch and tried to sort through the information that I had just been given and soak it all in, when I noticed a peculiar smile on my fiancee's face. Not a "I'm so happy that we're having a baby" face, but a "I can't believe you fucking believed me and I seriously just watched your testicles shrink and am quite sure you pooped your pants" look.

April Fools.

How cruel.

The second emotional disaster occurred earlier this afternoon. On the way home from work, I was sitting at a stop light and sneezed violently. After grabbing a tissue and wiping my nose, I noticed that my nose was bleeding. I hadn't had a bloody nose in a long time and I quickly began flipping out. Although it only lasted for a few seconds, I instantly text my fiancee at the hospital and asked her if I should be concerned. Her response?

"Holy Shit. You definitely need to come in right away. My boss said that we can squeeze you in and we have to run some tests right away. The blood that is clotting between your nose and your brain is possibly clogged and is need of help right away.

Once again, my balls recede into my abdomen and I nearly vomit with worrisome and after Googling "Nose Bleeds Brain Tumors Death" for a few minutes, I tell her that I'm on my way to the hospital and quickly head for the door.

But just like April Fool's Day, I was just another gullible victim. Apparently her coworkers were enjoying my text messages and phone conversations more than American Idol.

Once again, myself gets the best of me.

"My Dog"

This is one of my dogs.

She is neat.

She is big.

She barks sometimes.

She likes walks.

She prefers burritos to chimichangas.

Her favorite country is Ecuador.

Her favorite music group is Hootie and the Blowfish.

Her favorite hobby is stealing the neighbor's mail.

Her favorite curse word is "son of a cunt".

Her favorite song is "Who Let The Dogs Out".

She used to date one of the Baja Men.

She broke up with him when he refused to take her to see Monsters and Aliens in 3-D.

Her name is Madison.

She is neat.

I might be drunk.

"Doc Gooden's Locker Room Gang Bang" Boneless Wings"

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"The Johan Meter"

An Excerpt from last Tuesday's JSA (Johan Santana Annonymous) meeting.

me: "Hello. My name is Dr. H and I am a Johan Santana addict."

room: "Hello. Dr. H."

It all began four years ago in my second year competing in the extremely nerdy game known as fantasy baseball. Although I had only been exposed to fantasy football in previous years, I instantly became hooked to baseball. In our league, you are allowed to keep one batter and one pitcher at the end of each year and ever since I drafted Johan in my inaugural draft, we've been together like Darryl Strawberry and cocaine.

By the same time the next year, I was already sporting a Minnesota Twins Johan jersey wherever I went. And Last year, upon learning of Johan's trade to the Mets, I instantly ordered a new jersey on Ebay (completely shit-faced at 3 in the morning I might add) and was rocking the thing on Opening Day.

Sadly, I actually live vicariously through the Venezuelan arm of this 5'11 1/2'', 198 pound man. If Johan is up on the hill three hours behind in Anahiem and I need to be at work early the next morning, I won't be able to sleep until he is taken out of the game. It is actually kind of pathetic how much my everyday mood is dependent upon Santana's pitching performances. Trust me, it isn't a coincidence that my arguments with my fiance tend to be more frequent during the days following a rough outing. On the other hand, it is sweet marital bliss when Johan is on a nice win streak.

Anyways, after I returned from a recent camping trip, I got ready to shave the scruff that had grown on my face over the weekend. However, for some reason I decided to create a goatee. Ironically, I am seriously OCD about shaving my face and can't even remember the last time I went more than a day without my mug feeling like a baby's ass. (No, I'm not a pedophile. No, I have never touched a baby's ass) Although the thing is hideous and makes me look 10 years older, I am keeping it. You want to know why? Because from now on this patch of pubic hair around my mouth will be known as "The Johan Meter". I will only be shaving this damn thing after a Santana loss, so basically, the longer my goatee is, the better Johan Santana is pitching. However, I actually hope he loses his last start of the season, because I can't imagine how disgusting this thing would be after a 4 month long offseason

Further updates of The Johan Meter will find their way here.

"You Ate My Cheeseburger!"

"Will You Smell My Butt?"

"The Green Semen Shirt"

"The Mysterious Weiner Picture"

Introduction to "Bloobing"

Bloobing (def.) blue-bing (noun): Blogging about boobs.

ex. Jimmy asked his mommy for internet so he could bloob about his sister's large rack.

Boobs. I love them. Every guy loves them. Bill Clinton loves them. Peyton Manning loves them. Maury Povich loves them. Lesbians love them. The point is that it doesn't matter what kind of a guy you are, but as long as you are straight, you probably love boobs.

So I was thinking about boobs today at work and began to wonder what they really are. I mean, basically they are just two large lumps of fatty tissue attached to a woman's chest. Every other time you find a lump on your body you go see your doctor. Is it just the boobs or is it the lady they are attached to. Obviously, a nice set of jugs won't suddenly make Mother Theresa hot, but I'd probably still sneak a peak if she happened to be wearing a loose fitting shirt. The more I think about boobs now the more I wonder what the most appealing aspect of them is. Anyways, they may just be two large growths protruding out of the chest of a lady, but I still love em'. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs.

"Eventually The World Will Be One Giant Walmart Customer's FUPA"

Most people that know me already understand my hatred towards Sam Walton's white trash-food-providing company. However, as I was driving home from work today, I had a revelation. It all started when I watched a documentary on how Walmart ruins small towns' economies by making most grocery and specialty stores lose their business. I can't remember the name of it, but if you are unfortunately a Comcast customer like I am, it is available right now on demand. When a Walmart Supercenter is placed in a small town's economy, most of the businesses within the community (with MUCH smaller budgets and buying power) simply cannot compete with Walmart's system of purchasing cheap supplies in bulk. Customers inevitably begin using Walmart for the sake of saving a little cash and the chance to get all of the things you need in one stop, rather than making multiple errands. However, my theory goes one step farther.

As local businesses lose loyal customers and eventually close, it definitely creates a shortage of jobs in the community. And obviously while the town's economy plummits, families are forced to cut corners in order to survive. Sadly, they end up going to Walmart to save money. So not only does Walmart swipe the town's economy out from under its feet, they also benefit even more when these poor members of society are forced to shamefully walk thru its doors in order to save 20 cents on a bag of potato chips or a dollar on dog food. Sadly, if this Walmart Phenomenon doesn't halt (which it won't) America will eventually become a giant nation of slaves, run by Sam Walton.

I know times are tough, but PLEASE, spend the extra 12 cents on that Digiorno's Pizza (And it's not delivery!) or the 2 dollars on a fishing pole and attempt to support your local grocery stores and businesses. Our nation's "White Trash-Level" depends on it.

March Madness: Saturday March 21, 2009

Just to set the stage.

So it is the first day's coverage of the second round of the greatest sports tournament ever and I can't smudge this glorious happy-asshole smirk off my unshaven, unbathed face. My fiance has decided to spend the day at the gym with her mother and afterwards are planning on going out to eat and to look at "wedding crap".

This house's ass is mine.
So where does that put me?

Well, I'm laying upstairs in my office, doors closed, in the recliner 3 feet from the television, right next to the open window pouring in the first warm breeze of Spiring, resting my ice cold beer on the window sill, while taking occasional looks across the fence next door to watch the creepy old lady mess with her garden and attempt to keep her massive wedgie from literally splitting her butt into two pieces.

Basically, here is a completely useless, non-breaking news, synsposis of how today's activites settled in with the good doctor.

1:48 p.m.
Tyreke Evans is a bad mother something. Lost in the shuffle of D. Rose going to the NBA was a very special player. He almost reminds me of a point guard-oriented Eric Gordon, because of his amazing ability to always get to the basket.

2:03 p.m.
Holy Shit. I swear to god that my mom's boyfriend looks exactly like Arizona's head coach, Russ Pennel. The only difference is that Russ probably doesn't insist on wearing Hawaiin tropical shirts that are two sizes too big all the time.

2:08 p.m.
Villanova just went up 51-32 with 17 minutes left. I was skeptical penciling them in my Final Four, but they are making me feel better and better each trip down the court. Watching the Wildcats play today is alot like watching Cops at 2 in the morning. You can't help but feel that much better about yourself as the show goes on.

2:13 p.m.
That E-Trade commercial with the white and black babies makes me giggle.

2:18 p.m.
So does that damn midget on the Burger King commercials for those miniature burger things. I would actually pay money to hang out with that little guy, but only if he wore that farmer gear everywhere we went. That and he had to say his line about how "he should know, because he's a farmer" line once an hour.

2:29 p.m.
Whhhhooooo. If it was illegal to trap hot and steamy farts in your recliner, I'd be on "Cops".

2:33 p.m. That girl in the Burger Kind miniature burger commercial sounds like she is getting off when that dude unwraps the little burgers. I wish that trick really worked. Suddenly I'd have a use for those Burger King gift certificates my Grandma is always stuffing in my stocking at Christmas. I am not sure who the hell gave her the idea that I love Whoppers so much.

2:40 p.m.
Dude. If that bitch next door bends over one more damn time she's seriously gonna hurt herself.

2:48 p.m. To make this day officially the best day ever, I will be taking a break (i'm sure you are just crushed) to take a trip to the grocery store. I'm going to pick out the biggest, juiciest New York strip I can find. But get this. I already moved the grill on the back deck within reach of the back door of the sun room. This way, I can literally watch the games in the sun room, while reaching my arm out the sliding door and flipping over my steak.

Now supposedly, watching your first child being born is the greatest thing ever, but I now think I have a good idea of what they're talking about. Besides, watching your favorite orphice expand to the size of a grapefruit just doesn't seem that great to me.

6:10 p.m.
Sorry for the delay, but I have felt pregnant for the last two hours. After taking my dogs to the lake to let them swim, I picked up that ridiculously large piece of meat I referred to earlier. Anyways, now things are in full gear. Not only did I go to Comcast and pick up a long enough cable cord to stretch all the way out to my back deck, I have gone a step further and drug my big screen out onto the deck and have created a tent by stapling bed sheets and tying them around posts on the deck. Basically, I am watching these evening games inside a magical tent of bed sheets and Michelob Light. Daylight savings time is good, but if it wasn't for the sun still being high in the sky, I wouldn't have had to go to such extremes in order to watch the television outside without the glare. But then again, I also wouldn't have been sitting in my magical basketball tent.

6:33 p.m.
Purdue is completely dispanting Washington. I'm no Boilermaker fan, but I can't help from pull for the last team left from our fine state.

6:40 p.m.
Who would've guessed. Michigan is only down one at halftime to Oklahoma. Well, besides the annoying "bracket guy" at the bar that has "called" all of the upsets and any game that he is currently watching. Seriously, is there anything worse than "bracket guy"? Now I even think it is acceptable to bring your bracket sheet (ONE only though) to a bar to check your sheet periodically, but if you have two different colored highlighters and leave the sheet out on the bar in front of you, a tool prevention program might be necessary. However, that is coming from a guy that totes his laptop computer with him to the bar to check fantasy sports stats.

7:01 p.m.

I love the commercial for Axe deodorant where the guy has water literally shooting out of his armpits. chuckle. chuckle. chuckle.

7:09 p.m.
My Saint Bernard is currently rolling around in the mulch. She looks so excited and happy. If only I could have that much fun rolling around in mulch. Then again though, I've never tried it. Maybe after another six pack I'll give it a shot.

7:15 p.m.
Washington is playing smellier than the dingleberry I pulled out of my dog's fur this morning.

7:33 p.m.
I am hearing sirens in the near distance. Maybe I should check in on my neighbor. Perhaps her "super wedgie" has finally injured her rectum.

7:42 p.m.
I wonder if Washington's Issah Thomas is a big queer as well.

7:46 p.m.
I am not going to be able to handle seeing many more of the 79, 89, and 99 cent nacho deals without giving into the temptation. However, think about it. Why the hell would you pay 79 cents for a 3 layer nacho when you can get a 7 layer nacho for only 20 cents more. Everyone knows that more is ALWAYS better. Well, except for adolescent acne, crack, and the amount of C-Section scars at a certain podunk strip club in Covington, Kentucky.

8:01 p.m.
That will conclude today's blogging session. The sun is beginning to set, so soon I will be taking down my magical tent of basketball and filling my stomach with ice cold beer and a plethora of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, with the occasional bowl of Fruity Pebbles mixed in.

March 19, 2009 "Right There In The Damn Sand"

I got to leave work for a little while today, which is always nice. I had to take a trip to Menards to pick up some replacement supplies for our MRI machine. As I was pulling into the parking lot, I was thinking to myself about perception. It might be kind of out there. And NO, I am not currently tripping on acid. However, have you ever thought about everything that you know about this world is what you have viewed through your own two eyes? I was thinking about how different my life would seem if I was able to watch it from a different angle time to time. Jesus. Just imagine what it would be like to be blind. I actually have a theory about how blind people know when to stop wiping their butts after taking a poop, but that is a whole other story. I analyze people so much, that I definitely lose focus of what other people must think of me. Part of it is that I just truly don't give a pig's twat what people think and the other part is that I have such a disastrous case of ADHD that I have enough other things on my mind that I find it difficult to focus in on the world around me.

Take today's trip to Menards, for instance. First, as I was pulling out onto 96th street, I was trying to text a friend with an obscene message about Johan Santana and pulled out in front of a guy. The man driving the Mercedes, wearing the 3 piece suit, with a bluetooth hanging out his ear instantly began screaming at me with his head out the window. I simply smiled and waved. When I pulled up next to him at the next stop light, I rolled down my window. He called me a "jerkoff" and asked me "what the fuck are you doing!?" I generally like to give "road -ragers" a reaction that they cannot understand. I don't give them anything that is technically rude, nor do I do anything that is likely to provoke them any further. Basically, I just do something really weird that they are not expecting. So, in this case of the angry C.E.O, I tried out a new one.

I decided to start singing the National Anthem to him.

Seriously, I turned to him and sang at least 1/3 of our National Anthem before he pulled away with a horridly confused look on his face. He seriously looked like a dolphin with Downs Syndrome.

I wonder if out of all the 5 billion plus people in this world if I was the only one that sang the National Anthem to somebody after they bitched at you with extreme road rage today? Holy Shit. Can you imagine how wigged out you would be if this happened to you on two separate occasions with two different people in the same day?

Once I finally made it into Menards I began speaking to Will in the Lighting section about what fluorescent bulb would fit in the MRI machine scanner. I happen to love listening to strangers talk to me. I think it goes back to the whole idea of wondering what the hell other people's views are on their vision of the world. We might have started talking about light bulbs, but within 7 minutes I was trying to find a break in one of his sentences so I could make up an excuse in order to leave the conversation. He honestly talked to me about his family's recent trip to Daytona Beach and how it was amazing that they could just drive their truck down the beach and park. "Right there in the damn sand", Will told me. I acted like I had a phone call, but as I was walking away, my phone actually did start ringing. I'm not sure if Will noticed, but I'll bet you he is telling another customer right now about driving his truck down the beach.

Lastly, take the bitch off "Around the Horn". It is bullshit how many times they let her win just because ESPN is a bunch of corporate pussies afraid of getting shit from women's groups about discrimination in the media.

Oh yeh. One more thing. How many damn times can they show the new President's NCAA tournament bracket?

"A Random Boring Day": St' Patrick's Day Edition (CAUTION: THERE IS NO USEFUL INFORMATION)

Not much going on today, but here is a recap of today’s events.

I started the day by going into the company’s kitchen and whipping up some sausage, egg, and cheese bagel sandwiches. I usually do this once a week, because I work with almost all women, and everybody knows that women are generally more pleasant when they aren’t hungry. It is a great idea on my part. I get to cook breakfast and enjoy it as well, while the rest of the week, the ladies aren’t on my back as much, because they think I worked so hard on the breakfast sandwiches.

I hopped online around 9:00 and scanned the web for some good articles to print out and stuff in the back pocket for future bathroom reading material. I can’t wait to check this article out about the pictures of Gay-Rod in Details Magazine. He seems to be making out with a mirror in one of the pictures.

Around 10 o’clock, a direct result of the mass movement from the digestion of the egg sandwich, I headed to the bathroom for an important “business” meeting. Strange today. It was literally the perfect dump. No Dairy Queen soft-serve. No 7-11 Slushy. No rock solid pine cones. It seriously was two symmetrically and texturally perfect logs. It was so clean and perfect that I truly didn’t even need to wipe, but I went ahead and at least did a “courtesy wipe”. The pictures of Alex Rodriguez were ridiculous. I just don’t think he’ll ever get it. I actually used to have a small amount of sympathy for the guy (I know. I'm ashamed), since he was ridiculed for nearly everything he did. However, after seeing these homo pics, I have no more sympathy. He just does this bullshit to himself. I mean think about it. He rocked frosted tipped highlights in his hair deep into 2008.

I hear some mysterious bass music coming from somewhere outside and I step outside to check it out. Apparently the Irish pub and restaurant across the street is already firing up the band and serving cold beverages for St. Patrick’s Day. Mmmmmm…..an ice cold Guinness sure sounds fine.

Speaking of St. Patrick’s Day. What a fucking stupid holiday. Sure it is fun to have another excuse to get plastered, but other than the excitement of seeing green poop in the toilet the next morning from digesting obscene amounts of green food coloring, the rest of the day is quite pathetic. I actually got pinched for not wearing green today at work within 15 minutes of arriving. I’m 26 years old, still find farts and wedgies amusing, and even I am too mature to be pinching grown adults for not wearing some stupid color. Lets’s face it; green is just a dumb color. Nobody ever says their favorite color is green and if they do they are lying. To top it off, every damn commercial on AM sports radio for the past week has some creepy guy doing his best Irish/Leprechaun impersonation, yelling at me to come to their bar or restaurant for their St. Patty’s Day. Shit I mean St. PATRICK’S Day events. Personal Enemy numero uno is when people call it St. Patty’s Day. Not only do they sound gay saying it, but “patty” is just an awful word. Period.

One of our clients today was the dog of one of the Simons Brothers. I guess I would assume that a super-millionaire’s dog would be some elegant, perfectly groomed poodle or something. Not this one. He was the coolest Yellow Lab I’ve ever met. He had to of been at least 10 years old, a full goatee of grey and white, and probably the most laid back and pleasant attitude a canine could have. The funny thing is that he reminded me of one of my high school buddies' dogs, "Hoosier". Hoosier is the epitome of living life to the fullest. Ironic how the buddy I know is fucking awesome and the inventor of the"doing what you want, not what they want you to do" plan, while the other owner is a super-rich man that also happens to own the Pacers. If dogs are truly a lot like their owners, then the Simon Brothers must actually be some pretty cool dudes.

We had to take a leg off of a dog today that had osteosarcoma, or bone cancer. It is pretty sad watching a dog wake up from anesthesia, having no idea why he suddenly is missing his back right leg. However, it always amazes me how much better dogs are than their human counterparts at handling adversity. Any human that lost a leg would mope around and pout, feeling sorry for themselves for a long while. Not dogs. Literally, within hours of waking up, they are already trying to learn to use only three legs and their tails are still wagging with contentment. A few months later and they are back to pooping in the flower garden and chasing squirrels around the yard. If only people were built this way.

Not to get too sentimental, but other than children younger than 4, dogs are probably the closest thing in the world to an absolute “purely good” creature. No matter how wonderful and honest a person is, everybody from time to time makes a sinful mistake or does something against their conscience. Not dogs. All they want is for their owners to be happy. They don't know lying. They don't know resentment. And they certainly don't understand how to be anything other than loyal. They don’t care if you just lost your job, won the lottery, got dumped by your girlfriend, starred in a blockbuster movie, or got sent home early from work for sharting in your pants. To them, no matter what, all they care is that you come home. Well, that is about as emotional as this blog will ever get, so let’s quickly move on.

Sometime late in the day, I was for some reason thinking back to my elementary school days. It was something that I saw on my fantasy basketball message board that got me on the issue at hand. Yeh, I know, fantasy basketball. You can imagine what a hard-core group of nerds the league is composed of. There are a couple of dudes in the league that are twin brothers. I don’t know if it is just me, but I find twins that hang out together kind of gay. I don’t know, it is probably because I grew up without a brother, but all I can picture is the two brothers high-fiving and saying, “Good one, Bro!” Anyways, while one of them is a perfect combination of sarcasm and depression, while the other is a testosterone-fueled meathead that is completely white, but insists on posing in pictures, while flashing the N.E.R.D rap group symbol. I didn't even know their was such a thing until someone pointed out to me what he was doing. At least it is better than throwing u0p a "westside" sign. One of them has probably never found amusement or enjoyment in anything and refers to everything as dumb, while the other one’s idea of a good time is getting in a bar fight. Anyways, although it is a FANTASY basketball league, it is quite humorous how serious they take everything. I mean, I am a fantasy sports addict that does everything in my power to win, but I'm probably not going to be picking up players off the waiver wire and questioning other league members‘ allotted amount of weekly lineup moves when I am 43 games out of 1st place with a week to go in the season. I used to get into it with the two of them in message board battles, but have since retired and now I find more enjoyment ignoring them while they continually try to bring me down. Between analyzing my life, trying to make jokes about my soon-to-be wife, and attempting to be witty, insightful sports fans, I am not sure what else they have time for. I guess that is probably why their team always suck sweaty Oprah twat in every league in every sport. They also seem so concerned about having everyone else think they were the one that discovered the unknown, young prospect that they forget to actually form a competitive squad. Best part is, if one of the turds is reading this right now it is completely pathetic and hypocritical, since they both have proclaimed how much they hate this blog. Actually, after rambling on about the Twin Tool Phenomenon, I completely forgot how I was going to compare these two Internet hooligans to my elementary school days. But I did think back to my Head Cafeteria Lady in elementary school and how she had a giant wart on her forehead that looked exactly like the sausage pieces on our school pizza. Every time we would have sausage pizza for lunch, I double-checked each bite to make sure that it wasn’t a cafeteria worker’s dislodged wart.

The rest of the day, like the beginning of it, was not very eventful. The highlight of the evening was when I was turning into Marsh’s parking lot to grab some groceries. Some rich, trophy wife type, in a red convertible was slowly backing up from her parking spot. However, there was a 20-something chick in a late 1990-something Honda Accord behind her, blocked in by another car. The dumb trophy wife, most likely suppressed on wine and Xanax, backed into the Accord and slightly dented the front right hand corner of the car. But here is the strange part. As soon as the cars connected, the girl in the Accord immediately got out of her car, screamed at the top of her lungs and then began balling her freaking eyes out. Seriously. She was crying as if she had just lost her child in a horrible house fire. Maybe she was having a really bad day already, but I was completely baffled.

Well, it is now time to throw a couple steaks on the grill, ice down some delicious Guinness pints and soak up the early sun on this awesome Irish holiday.

P.S. No, I will not be grilling any hamburger PATTIES or PATTY melts on St. PATTY’s Day.

"Super Big Tool: The White Gangsta Phenomenon"

There's more than corn in Indiana. Especially bad ass, hard core white suburban gangstas driving around in pimped out Honda Civics.

"Larry Coker: Head Coach at UTSA?....Holy Shit."

University of Texas San Antonio.

I didn't even know this was a real school.

Hell, when I heard the word "UTSA" I tried to figure out what minor professional or Canadian football league the letters stood for.

Larry Coker, the same Larry Coker that guided the Miami Hurricanes to a bowl game in each of his 6 seasons with the Miami Hurricanes. The same Larry Coker that led Miami to an undefeated season and a national championship in 2001 and the championship game in 2002 will now be the field general for the University of Texas San Antonio Roadrunners.

I bet his wife is cheating on him too.

"The Mom Holiday Sweater Phenomenon"

Women are absolutely wonderful. Their walk is graceful, their bosoms pressed together passes as art, and the bounce of their hair on their shoulders as they grind up and down the stripper pole is a thing of beauty. However, these incredible, sexy creatures eventually turn into older, less lustful entities somewhere in their early 40's. Now I'm perfectly fine with this, because male stomachs begin to look pregnant, my bald spot will make me look Jewish, and my ear hairs will require daily grooming. But their is one aspect of women getting older that I simply cannot understand.

For the love of God, why the fuck do moms insist on wearing a festive sweater for every damn season. Everybody knows the "mom sweater" I speak of. A plain, solid colored sweatshirt with a ridiculous character or festive scene embroidered on the front. It is also usually accompanied by a matching turtleneck. In fact, CNN.com reported last year that 74.6 percent of all 40 year old plus mothers took part in this ridiculous practice of wearing stupid shirts.

Now obviously, as women age, their bodies might require a little less provocativeness when it comes to clothing. Hell, my 40-something wardrobe will mostly consist of suits and velvet jumpsuits. However, these "mom sweaters" are unnecessary. All I ask of my future wife is that I never catch her wearing a black sweatshirt with a big orange pumpkin embroidered on the front with the words "Happy Halloween" below it.

That would be appropriate terms for divorce.

"Dr. H Interviews Alex Rodriguez"

Apparently Alex Rodriguez was hiding ALOT more about his life than just steroid use........

"Dr. H: The Beginning"

Doctor H. (born October 31, 1981) is one of the most feared gangsta rappers in the entire world. Known for his harsh, jaw-dropping lyrics and super tight beats, Dr. H is quickly moving up the charts and into the baddest of streets across America. Originally a laundry mat attendant, the good doctor was discovered by Vibe Magazine's Russell Simmons. Simmons was drying his favorite pair of sweatpants and heard Dr. H rapping about "socks and titties". Soon, Dr. H was recording top hits with everybody from Nelly and 3-6 Mafia to Dr. Dre and Eminem.

Below are some of the best Dr. H hits of all time.

"Damn it Feels Good to Have Peyton"



"Dear Peyton" (Take a Big Dump On the Bears)


"Turbo Tax Me" (Baby Baby Remix)



"Jaggin' It"



"Just Like a Fart"

"7 Questions with a Ball Player"

Every few days, I will be providing critical information to an assortment of random baseball players. I don't know about the rest of you, but I like to know about my players before drafting them. For instance, I will never draft Jonathan Paplebon, because his favorite movie is Footloose.

Anyways, today's guy is Carl Crawford of the Tampa Bay Rays.


1. Carl was recruited to play Quarterback at Nebraska, Oklahoma, Florida, USC, and Tulsa, as well as point guard for UCLA.

2. His "at bat song" is always either M.I.A's "Paper Planes" or "Certified" by Glasses Malone.

3. He was a member of his high school swim team.

4. His favorite color is orange.

5. He is "allergic" to flannel shirts.

6. He is the cousin of Jamal Crawford of the Golden State Warriors.

7. He set the record for the fastest player to record 200 stolen bases before their 25th birthday. His 200th stolen base was when he stole home for the first time.

"One Small Step For Mankind. One Tan Weiner For Me."

Some people I tell a story to are surprised that I would share the information with them, let alone tell the story like I'm bragging about running into Angelina Jolie at a bar on a Xanax drip and banging her in the nearest Subway restroom, while enjoying a Footlong Black Forest Ham on wheat. My answer is always the same. Stories are what makes your life and what is the point of life if you can't make fun of yourself?

Years ago during my fifth year "victory lap" in college, a troubling situation arose in my genital region......NO. It was not an STD. Late one evening while my live-in girlfriend was staying at her parents for the weekend, I grew particularly bored. So I did what most bored men away from their girlfriend would do. I decided to buy a hooker.

Just kidding. I decided to whack off. Now I don't want to give you all too much creepy personal information, but this particular fact is critical to the story. Point Blank. I can't do the deed with out some kind of form of lubrication. So I went to our bathroom and began sorting through my girlfriend's army of lotions. I carefully made sure not to grab one of the colorful bottles, because the last time that had happened my dick glistened with glitter and smelled like ripe apricots all weekend. Finally, I chose a bottle, pulled out a file from the spank bank and got to work. 30 seconds later (I'm pretty good) I was washing my hands with a stupid smirk on my face. I then ate a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and went to bed.

The next morning I arose from bed and headed to the shower. However, as I pulled off my trousers, my face turned white.

"What the fuck?!!!!"

While the rest of my body remained Caucasian, my shaft looked like it was imported straight from India. It was so tan that it looked like it was covered in mud. I rushed towards the museum of lotion in the bathroom and found last night's troublesome ingredient.

"Oh Dear God........ Fucking Self Tanning Lotion."

Apparently if you wash your hands after using it, they will not become stained, but when left on the skin for a long period of time, especially in highly concentrated amounts, the skin will stain. So after rubbing my cock raw with soap, I decided it wasn't so bad. However, I was worried that once my girlfriend went black, she'd never go back.

"Crazy White Rappers With Congenital Growth-Hormone Conditions Are Sweet"

"Whiter Than Santa Claus's Pubes In December"

Nick and T-Dog's brilliant rap during the ending credits of Still Waiting.

"Mike Golic can't be related to my new favorite athlete."

It wasn't until ESPN's recent commercial that I discovered the sexiest table tennis player in the world. However, it took about 5 seconds for me to fall in love. 20 seconds to rewind the ad on my DVR. 20 seconds to rub my balls. Another 20 seconds to rewind on DVR again. And another 20 seconds spent rubbing my balls. Anyways, Biba Golic is a Siberian table tennis player that makes you wish all hot chicks wore table tennis skirts. They're even better than regular tennis skirts. I'd like to catch the occasional match of ping pong. At least it beats women's tennis. And from the looks of things, you also won't have to worry about one of the giant Williams' asses getting in your way.

"Time To Trim Your Toenails. Baseball Season is Almost Here."

While work thinks I'm in Louisville, visiting my ailing grandfather that doesn't exist, I know where I'll be on Opening Day. Sitting on a wobbly bar stool, cold beer in hand, pizza sauce stained onto my chin, with a stupid smirk on my face that can only be rivaled by the first time I saw breasts not owned by my mother. Opening Day is more than just the official start to the baseball season. It stands for the beginning of Spring. It means late night trips to the grocery store in shorts and sandals, the smell of cooking red meat atop hot burning charcoal. It means having your windows down as you belt out the words to "I Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore" and the right to drunkenly purchase an unneccesarry Russell Martin jersey on Ebay at 2 in the morning. This my friends, is baseball season. So sit back, relax, grab yourself a Fantasy Baseball magazine, and make sure the propane tank on your grill is full.

38 days to go.

"Big Foot, The Lochness Monster, and Anthony Johnson's Neck"

There are some mysteries of the Earth that will never be solved. Bigfoot, The Lochness Monster, and The Bermuda Triangle to name a few. But none of these mystery creatures is as allusive as an Anthony Johnson neck sighting. Apparently, somewhere below that pumpkin atop a pillow, lies a rarely seen neck. Personally, I have my own doubts, but the evidence below suggests otherwise. You can form your own opinions.

"And here's to you Mrs. Robinson, Good ol' Marvin has gone away"

The saddened beat of Marvin Harrison’s farewell drum echoed down Meridian Street, past Union Station, past the homeless dinner club at White Castle, and out into the rest of the city at approximately 5:34 p.m. yesterday. I’ll admit that I knew the release of Marvin was inevitable. As a Colts fan, I obviously will forever be grateful to Marv. In fact, he rocked the mustache even better than Tom Selleck. But I also understand that this is a business and we had to look at Marvin as a product. Basically, we were an experienced pimp designating an all-star prostitute to “hand jobs only”. Although the bitch had been our best seller for a long time, her nipples had begun to look like melted Hershey Kisses and her 6th illegitimate child had triggered the beginning of a FUPA. We had to do what was best for out business’s future. However, it is the way that Marvin immediately rejected our offer, as if he wanted to be out of town that pisses me off. Quite frankly, I’ll never understand the difference between 13 million dollars and 10 million dollars. Especially when your team has been one of the most successful franchises of the decade and your career’s 15% statistic inflation has been a direct result of your country pimp, pasty white ass quarterback. But there also seems to be more lying beneath Harrison‘s quiet persona. Over the course of last summer’s stories of Marvin starring in his own ghetto version of Dukes of Hazzard, a slow revelation of the mysteriously quiet man beneath the royal blue and white #88 jersey crept out from under his rug. First, the news about the shooting accusations. I found it nearly impossible to imagine Marvin running the streets of Killadelphia like his accusers led us to believe, but nonetheless I dismissed the news as a once-in-a-lifetime thing, let alone probably a complete farce. However, more and more creepy details about the gracefully aging receiver leaked from the internet and media like the hair pie of an octagenarian. Slowly, but a steady flow nonetheless. Prior events that were most likely originally dismissed as a result of Marvin’s peaceful reputation around the league suddenly rose to the future. Personally, the last 8 months have been a churning concoction of bitter Walmart brand Tequilla and sweet Honey Brown lager in my mouth. Although I want to believe that Marvin had his own personal reasons for rejecting our requests to lowering or restructuring his contract, part of me is thinking that it was a complete asshole move on his part that will result in a personal rude awakening next January when he finds himself catching 58 balls for 725 yards on a 5-11, pile of feces, ball club. And like I said, I will always hold Marvin’s contributions and memories dear to my heart. Hell, I’ll still wear his jersey on game days when I’m taking my first dump of the day (a tradition of mine). But I can’t lie. Part of me will smirk when I see his ass sitting on the end of a crappy team’s bench, dreaming about Sir Peyton’s large TD-tossing cock. In a farewell tribute to our own football version of American Psycho, here is a list of my top 5 all-time Marvin Harrison moments.

5. “Autograph Choker”

Apparently during a Pro Bowl trip to Honolulu a group of teenage kids repeatedly asked Marvin for an autograph. The result? Two men, later joined by Harrison, attacked the boys. Is it just me or are the quiet ones always the crazy ones? That is probably why at least once a week I look out my window half expecting to see the creepy, silent kid that sat next to me in Ceramics class in high school holding a knife.

4. “Marvin plays a game of Just the Tip.”

Marvin’s second touchdown catch in Foxboro in 2007 was one of the greatest catches of all time. With the pass nearly 2/3 of the way already there, Marvin turns around and tips the end of the ball, twice, away from his opponent, towards the sideline, and still managed to come down with the ball.

3. “Momma See, Momma Do”

This isn’t an altercation. Too be honest, most of the crap on the internet is probably only one side of the story. However, Marvin’s mother actually picks out his shirts, matches them with a tie, ties the tie around the shirt, and actually UPS ships these shirts overnight to him. He claims he is lazy and a “bad Matcher”.

2. “Greatest Comeback of All-Time”

Colts 38 Bucs 35
October 6, 2003

Trailing by 21 points with only three and a half minutes remaining in the game, the Colts capped off the greatest comeback in Monday Night Football history. Marvin caught 11 balls for 172 yards and two scores, but his best catch was the 52 yard completion to the 5 yard line that set up the tying score.

1. “NY Jets Ball Boy”

Apparently prior to the Colts 0-41 ass slapping at the Meadowlands, a ball boy catching and returning punts for NY tossed a ball back that got a little too close to Harrison. Marvin must have thought that the 5’3’’, 135 pound 14 year old was a danger to his safety and took matters into his own hands. He lifted the boy above the ground by his shirt collar, while demanding that he admit he threw the ball at him on purpose.

Oh Marvin……….I’ll miss you like an ex-pothead misses the taste of Papa Johns.

Dwight Howard Takes A Big Smelly Dump Before Every Game

I wonder if opponents have ever thought about spiking his Gatorade with anti-diarrhea medications.....



Dwight's dirty ritual got me thinking about what other athletes might do before every game. For instance, I once heard that Steve Nash must handle a minimum of 4 sets of pre-pubescent testicles before each home game.



Below is a list of the 3 strangest pre-game rituals?

3. Moises Alou,

Unlike most ball players, never liked to wear batting gloves. He claimed that they took away from his connection to the ball and feel. However, not protecting his hands for a 162 game season began to do some serious damage. Moises combated his callus and blister problem by urinating on his hands before every game. I seriously hope that chewing on his fingernails wasn't another one of his habits.

2. Darryl Strawberry

This ritual isn't strange. It is just fucking awesome. Darryl Strawberry used to use his love stick on a groupie before every game and sometimes during them.

Although he doesn't name names, Strawberry relates how team members picked out girls from the stands for quickies. He once watched a pitcher march a frisky fan to a private room for oral sex: "I was jealous. When I saw her heading back to her seat, I gave her a sign. She smiled, turned right back around, and met me in that same little room . . . I had to be quick and run back out on the field."

Another time, "I was in the clubhouse, having one last quickie with this cute little Florida girl. Charlie Samuels, the equipment manager, came in and caught us. He just stood there shaking his head while I finished up."

Who said equipment managers didn't get perks?

1. Bruce Gardiner, Ottawa Senators

This dude used to dunk his hockey stick in a used toilet before every game.