Ah, my faithful readers! You thought I had forsaken you. Nah, just got lazy. Too much stuff going on to sit down and type it all out. However, I realized that I should be sending your more good juju. So, we are going to take a look at some more morons in the world. These, however, were on television! You couldn't miss them!
So, if you don't know, the Bears and Packers are two NFL teams that are, shall we say, bitter rivals. Thats putting it lightly. They don't like each other. The fan bases are rabid against each other. It gets ugly. Anywhosits, Green Bay (Packers) visited Chicago to face the Bears on Monday Night Football.
The game was, in a word, ugly. In fact, ugly doesn't begin to describe it. It was a debacle of a game, that showed careless mistake after careless mistake. Most of these mistakes can be aimed at Lovie Smith and Mike McCarthy, head coaches of the Bears and the Packers respectively.
I will start with Lovie, since his team won. First, it should be noted, that the Bears are, and always have been, a "Defense first" type of franchise. They would gladly win 3-0 if that meant you didn't score. They don't care. They want to pound you into the grass. This year's club, while still defensive, has at least attempted to assemble an offense. For this, I applaud them. However, two changes have to occur.
The first is that Offensive Line. It needs to go. Bad. Cutler (Quarterback) isn't going to survive the year if he keeps getting beaten down like he stole something. That poor bastard took so many hits and cheap shots tonight, it made my head hurt, and I was watching from my couch! Needless to say, when your offensive line struggles, your offense as a whole struggles.
Keeping that in mind, we get to change number two. Lovie Smith, you need to join your offensive line and leave. Sweet bajeezus. You made so many coaching errors, that even the announcers were dogging you more than normal. Lets start with the first obvious one.
In a close game, you have a chance to kick a field goal, or to try and punch it in. Its fourth down. Your offense, which really hasn't moved the ball much all game, has a chance to put points on the board that you desperately need by kicking a field goal. Robbie Gould, your kicker, has already missed one tonight, and is the 3rd most accurate kicker in NFL history. Let me repeat that. NFL HISTORY. Not on the team. Not this year. HISTORY. The guy is incredibly accurate. This for him, is a chip shot. He could probably fart hard enough to boot that thing over the crossbar.
Your other option is to take your meager offense and try to jam the ball a few more yards to score a touchdown. Even I, who am not a football guru, know, that when you have a struggling offense, putting points on the board is imperative to having a shot to win. Its what you do. Duh. So, Lovie, obviously, decides to go for it on fourth down. The result? The play misfires, and the Bears walk away with zero points. Fortune favors the bold, but there is a fine line between boldness and stupidity.
Lovie manages to escape this horrible tactical decision thanks to his defense (duh) and Devin Hester, who returns a punt 60 yards for a touchdown. Thank god your special teams are special. Well, that and you are facing an idiot on the other sideline, but thats to come later.
The second mistake came when Green Bay was threatening to score what would end up being their final touchdown of the game. Third and goal from inside your ten. Rodgers has been dodging your blitzes all night thanks to his high mobility and amazing pocket presence. However, during the drive, right before this play, he hurts his foot. He is hobbling around like a kid in a potato sack race with his retarded brother. Its almost comical. He has no mobility, and no real ability to run the ball right now.
Consider this, along with the fact, that Green Bay hasn't rushed at all all night. Their running game has been stuffed time and again. They have all but abandoned the run. Rodgers is running the offense with an empty back set. (That means no one is back to receive a hand off to run the ball. Therefore, an OBVIOUS throwing formation).
So, lets piece this mystery together, shall we Lovie? Cramped quarterback with no mobility (can't run) running an offense with an empty back set (won't run). Hrm, you think maybe he isn't going to run? The option to run is all but gone now. He is going to pass. There is no way he risks hobbling around or trusting his running backs at this point. You got him RIGHT where you want him. You are going to hold them to a field goal try. Its easy really.
Send a three man rush, and drop the other eight back to defend the pass. I mean, its going to be a pass. It has to be. The man can't run!
Timeout Chicago.
What the FUCK?!?!?! Are you shitting me? How can you not be ready for this?! Rodgers is limping for Christ's sake. Everyone sees it. Its on the goddamned jumbotron! Blood in the water. Fish in a barrel. Shoot the bastard. Instead, you call a timeout, and give him a chance to work out the cramp.
Third and Goal. Rodgers rushes in for a touchdown.
Imagine that. Dumbass. If you were going to let him do that, at least make THEM call the timeout.
Mistake number three of Lovie's numerous is the last one I will talk about for now. There are far too many to bring up, and I have other things to do. But the other major mistake was at the end of the game.
The game is tied. Your opponent has foolishly burned his timeouts with retarded challenges, and some futile attempt at stopping the clock. Whatever. With just under two minutes to go, you have the ball at the Packer 9 yard line. The Packers have a total of 1 timeout. This means they can stop the clock once. ONCE. You have FOUR downs. Do the math!
The smart thing to do here, is to take a knee. Don't try some fancy play that might stop the clock. Don't try risking handoffs to your running back so your meager offensive line can be humiliated, and possibly cause a fumble. Don't do anything to risk your premium field position. You want to burn as much clock as possible and boot a field goal through to win the game.
First and Goal. Hand off.
Ugh. Well, maybe he did that to force Green Bay to burn that time out. Hand offs take longer to run than kneel downs. That makes sense.
Second and Goal. Hand off.
Ugh. You aren't getting this are you? Even scoring a touchdown with a minute to go isn't as good as scoring a field goal with 2 seconds to go.
Third and Goal. Hand off.
Are you insane?! Why would you risk such a thing? Your opponent can't stop the clock! You don't need to move the ball any further! You have the most accurate field goal kicker in the league. Take a fuckin' knee for the love of all that is Holy!!!
And yet, despite this complete idiocy that Lovie put on for us, it is nothing compared to our man Mike McCarthy.
This man wins douche of the week. First of all, lets start with what went right. Aaron Rodgers was a stud. Flat out. The dude earned his check. Even injured, the man played like he was fuckin' Joe Montana reincarnated into a younger body. (I am not taking ANYTHING from Cutler, who did a relatively good job as well, and certainly took some hits and kept fighting, but Rodgers numbers were so amazing). So, with that said...
McCarthy. You suck. Period. I mean, really. You suck. Since I gave Lovie three strikes, I shall give you four strikes. I mean, you lost, so you obviously screwed up more right?
Strike 1. 18 penalties. This is the coach's fault for not instilling discipline. Some of these, like the false starts, have to do with crowd noise, or over anxiousness, but seriously. Helmet to helmet on the quarterback? Throwing the guy down AFTER the whistle? Late hits. Cheap shots. Horrible horrible discipline. Packers fans will bitch and moan that the refs screwed them. Far from the truth. When the Bears did stupid shit like that, they got penalized too. The difference is, Lovie smacked a few of them in the head a couple times, and they stopped making those mistakes.
No discipline at all from the Packers. They shot themselves in the foot. They deserved to lose.
Strike 2. The Bears didn't convert on their ill attempt at a touchdown. They should have kicked the field goal. Alas, Lovie is dumb, and so you are left with the lead, and crappy field position. I mean, horrible. Inside your own 10? Fuck that. It looks like you are going to get out of it and start one of those eight or nine minute drives down the field like you have done SEVERAL times this game. But, your lack of discipline causes a penalty which you can't recover from, and you are forced to punt.
Now, earlier in the game, you punted to Devin Hester, and he burned you for like a 40 yard return. Jesus. That's a lot of field position to give up on special teams. I know this may sound crazy, but if you bothered to scout the Bears, you would have heard of this guy. He has 7 punt returns for touchdowns. A shitload of kickoff returns as well. The guy is just lightning fast, and has a way of bouncing out of tackles. His downfield vision is unparalled. I would recommend one of two things.
One. Don't kick to him. Kick it to someone else. Kick it out of bounds. Hell, kick it into Lake Michigan. Just don't kick it to HIM. Two. If you MUST kick it to him, make it high and preferably not too deep. This will cause a fair catch and neutralize the problem. You might give up 10 or 20 yards in distance, but you keep him from burning you for even more.
Here comes the kick. High and very deep. Uh oh. 60 yards later, Hester scores his 8th punt return for a touchdown, and the Bears have the lead. Imagine that Fuckface?! Hester scorched your ass again! AGAIN! Once, I can see. I can picture the "He won't do that to us" mentality. But after he does it to you once, you let him do it a second time. Hester had over 100 yards in punt returns in one game! What in the hell would possess you to kick to Hester a second time? Why? What good could possibly come from that? I will never understand that.
Strike 3. Know when to hold and when to fold. Your offense commits a mistake. A BIG mistake. They fumble the ball. Bears recover. Its late in the game. You still have all three timeouts. So a defensive stand and you can get the ball back with some time and work your way for that game winning field goal.
Instead, you opt to challenge the ruling on the field.
Wow. Just wow. Its one thing if you think something got lost in the shuffle. Heck, the coaches upstairs may think they saw something, and tell you to challenge it. It happens. You listen to your coaches and you are wrong. Oh well. You tried. But, what makes this so amazing, is that the play happened RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM. He was right there on the sidelines when the ball came loose. Hell, had he had a helmet on, he could have recovered the damned fumble.
Instead of looking at the play that happened right there, McCarthy decided to challenge the ruling. His efforts burned him a very much needed timeout. The Packers weren't able to freeze the clock enough. If they get the ball back with 40 seconds instead of 4, who knows what might have happened.
Strike 4. Lets call 3 a foul tip. That way, this is a Strike Out. Its late. Very late. Under a minute to go. You are out of timeouts. The Bears are five yards away from scoring a touchdown. You guys are tied. Remember, you have no control over the clock any more. None. You have an extremely accurate kicker on the other side who will make this chip shot. You can't even freeze him. You are out of timeouts. At this point, you need to get the ball back with more than a fartfull of seconds to attempt a miracle drive.
Why not let them score? Let them have their touchdown. Put the ball back into your stud quarterback's hands, and let him try to win you the game. You would at least give yourself a shot. Instead, McCarthy shoves his hand up his ass and watches his Packers' futile attempts at trying to win.
Perhaps you could have blocked the field goal? Yea. Maybe. But your special teams has been getting raped all night. Blocked Field Goal. Punt Return for a Touchdown. Punt Return for 40+ yards. Not to mention the numerous penalties. Your special teams are more like special eds at this point. You honestly would rather bank the game off of THEM making a play over your offense?!
You, Mike McCarthy, are a fucking idiot.
-Deimos
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Monday, January 4, 2010
My New Year's Resolution
So, due to the fact that my postings have been sporatic over the last several months, I think it is only fair that I give You, my Loyal Readers, a double dosing of stupidity to calm your nerves. It is important to note that I, Deimos, have no intention of continuously showering my readers with bonuses such as this, because in reality, I owe you nothing. However, since the "festivities" of the Holidays are over, I should pass out some of these leftovers. I mean, they are clogging up my fridge pretty bad.
The first serving of stupidity comes from, get this, myself. Now, I know what you are thinking. Is he really going to put himself on his own blog of infamy? Yes. Yes I am. Remember, if you can't make fun of yourself, you have no right making fun of other people. Since we have the later in spades, we need to at least play a hand of the former and make fun of the author. I am ok with it, so you should be too.
I was leaving my parents' house. Their driveway is rather steep. Not like 89 degree incline steep, but perhaps like a 30-40 degree slant. Either way, if you roll something down it, it keeps moving, and usually gains speed in doing so. It was a pain in the ass when you tried to do things that required you not falling down, like playing basketball and shovelling snow. I move speedily to my car, because, lets face it, I have things to do before the Holidays hit, and I drank one too many cups of coffee at my folk's house, prompting tardiness.
I start the car and kick it into reverse. As I am backing down the mini-mountain, I realize my seatbelt isn't on. Being a safe and cautious driver (/sarcasm) I reach for my seat belt and give it a quick pull. So, just because you are in a hurry, doesn't mean that you should rush things that don't need to be rushed. As I yank on the seatbelt strap, I suddenly fly back in my car. The windshield yields to the ceiling in my car, and I am now driving while laying down. This, of course, causes problems because I am going backwards down my parents' driveway.
It had to have looked like one of those scenes from a movie where the moron gets his seatbelt stuck on the lever on the side of the seat. The type of scene where someone watching it would laugh, but in the back of their mind would think: Nah, thats a little far fetched. There is no way that happens in real life.
Ah, but it does. Me, trying to tap the break with my outstretched foot while trying to shift into park must have been a sight to behold. After I sat up and regained control of the situation, I laughed at my awkwardness for several seconds before fixing the seat and continuing on my way. Of course, I put on my seatbelt as well.
So, dammit, why does the chair go all the way back like that for the driver? I mean, if you are going to have sex in a car, do it in the back seat. Otherwise, someone's ass could hit the horn. If you are that large of a person, you shouldn't be driving that car, or possibly at all. Poor design with a poor result. Fix your damn seats!
So, you may not be able to relate to my car troubles, but I bet you can relate to how stupid people can be...on New Year's Eve. So, the wife books our plans in most cases, especially when it involves our family. So, when New Year's rolled around, we were headed off to another couple's house for some frivolity. Nothing major, mind you, we were going to have some pulled pork sandwiches and play the Wii. (The Super Mario Bros Wii game is awesome, and I highly recommend it).
Our friends asked us if we could bring some snacks and the buns for the pork. We obliged, but we had neither in the house. This meant...you guessed it. A trip to the grocery store seven hours before the end of the year. Now, Friday night brings out the weirdos anyways. Believe me, I know, I have worked retail. And New Year's brings out even more of these wackjobs. So when you combine the two at a place that sells alcohol, things tend to get stupid.
We pull up to the store, and it is a mad house. My very pregnant wife smiles at me, and I know what that smile means. I am getting out of the car and braving this storm alone. Her, my son, and child to be, are waiting in the car. So my wife turns the corner in the parking lot to drop me off by the door, and here is where things go horribly wrong.
You see, I have a problem with traffic laws. I think they are done poorly. According to the laws here, Pedestrians have the right of way. This is a severe mistake. The rules of the road should be: If you are larger, you have the right of way. People wandering out in front of a car gets dangerous. The response usually is: "Well, if you hit me, I will sue." My response? "If I hit you, you are dead."
Unfortunately, in this crazy world, the Pedestrians have the right of way. So, we have to wait and countless amounts of inconsiderates stumble in front of our car with no concern that we may not give a damn and plow them under our muffler. Lucky for them, my wife drove. I finally, and I mean finally get out of the car. I have a few items to get. Buns, chips, and drinks. How bad can it be?
Ha. Grocery stores can't all be cool. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hVrIyEu6h_E
Well, the traffic laws apparently are also in affect while in the grocery store. I have never seen so many fat asses take up a whole aisle. Its either their ass, their cart, or both. After several close calls and a couple minutes of biting my tongue, I started ramming people with my cart. I didn't care if it was their cart or their ass, they were getting rammed.
I mean, really, how can you think you are the only person who exists in the grocery store? Jesus people, have some decency and stand to the side while you are looking so the rest of us can get by. The only people who are exempt from my yelling were the couple in the drink aisle. You see, I wanted some two liters, and they were in my way. But, get this, they noticed it. So they moved a little so I could reach over them and get my drink. At first, I thought, why not move more, but then I realized that they were, in fact, in line to check out. Its just that the line extended that far.
Checking out, of course, provides a whole slew of new challenges. For example, the man with the mullet in front of me who didn't have a cart, but had so much crap in his arms he couldn't see where he was going. He was also kicking his case of beer because he didn't have any room. Now, how are you going to get that out to your car Mr. Hilljack? Moron. Thank god you got shuffled to another line.
Of course, I was a glutton for punishment, and opted to go through self checkout. Now, anyone who has kept up on this blog knows how painful this can truly be. Sure enough, it took forever. Why? Well, when I finally got to check out, of the four self check out lanes, two were tied up by...you guessed it...the flashing red lights of idiocy. Felt bad for the dude having to monitor the self check out. I really felt his pain.
One lane was clogged because someone was trying to use a coupon that expired a month ago. And the coupon was for...get this... fifty cents. Nice. Brains God gave a goose, I swear. If you are going to try and use expired coupons, do it in a full service lane, so you can at least bullshit the person scanning your items. Its hard to bullshit software at a grocery store.
The other imbecile who was holding up the process was the "I don't give a shit if I have 67 items, I am going through self checkout" person. I believed it looked something like this:
The "Not Drawn to Scale": This subspecies is similar to the Weightless, except they understand the concept of what a scale is, they just don't understand that it measures weight properly, and that a 1'x4'x16' piece of lumber isn't going to fit on a scale designed for a bag of fertilizer. Just isn't going to happen. They lean it up on the edge of the scale, so that it damn near smacks the camera dangling from our 40' ceiling. Then, when the red light goes off, they throw up their hands in disgust, claiming that they put the piece of "OMGTOOBIG" on the scale. No dickstump, you didn't. You leaned it up against the edge of the scale. Have you ever only put your toe on the scale in your bathroom? Its not an accurate reflection of your weight, regardless of how big your big toe actually is. Then, after I give them the green light, they complicate the matters by...you guessed it, trying to move the lumber so that it fits on the scale...thus setting off the red light.
And...
Dis "Count:" An offshoot of the Faux Independent, the Count likes to have coupons that have to be redeemed up at the register. Or, even worse, they purchase items at are on sale, and must manually be altered by the supervising person, hence defeating the point of self checkout.
I believe this idiot falls under that classification. After I wade through the Sea of Stupid and wind up with our groceries, I call my wife and let her know I am on my way out the door. After parading through the pedestrians, we are finally able to leave. My son, little bugger, asks me what took so long. My response? It was busy in there son.
I just don't have the heart to break it to him yet.
-Deimos
The first serving of stupidity comes from, get this, myself. Now, I know what you are thinking. Is he really going to put himself on his own blog of infamy? Yes. Yes I am. Remember, if you can't make fun of yourself, you have no right making fun of other people. Since we have the later in spades, we need to at least play a hand of the former and make fun of the author. I am ok with it, so you should be too.
I was leaving my parents' house. Their driveway is rather steep. Not like 89 degree incline steep, but perhaps like a 30-40 degree slant. Either way, if you roll something down it, it keeps moving, and usually gains speed in doing so. It was a pain in the ass when you tried to do things that required you not falling down, like playing basketball and shovelling snow. I move speedily to my car, because, lets face it, I have things to do before the Holidays hit, and I drank one too many cups of coffee at my folk's house, prompting tardiness.
I start the car and kick it into reverse. As I am backing down the mini-mountain, I realize my seatbelt isn't on. Being a safe and cautious driver (/sarcasm) I reach for my seat belt and give it a quick pull. So, just because you are in a hurry, doesn't mean that you should rush things that don't need to be rushed. As I yank on the seatbelt strap, I suddenly fly back in my car. The windshield yields to the ceiling in my car, and I am now driving while laying down. This, of course, causes problems because I am going backwards down my parents' driveway.
It had to have looked like one of those scenes from a movie where the moron gets his seatbelt stuck on the lever on the side of the seat. The type of scene where someone watching it would laugh, but in the back of their mind would think: Nah, thats a little far fetched. There is no way that happens in real life.
Ah, but it does. Me, trying to tap the break with my outstretched foot while trying to shift into park must have been a sight to behold. After I sat up and regained control of the situation, I laughed at my awkwardness for several seconds before fixing the seat and continuing on my way. Of course, I put on my seatbelt as well.
So, dammit, why does the chair go all the way back like that for the driver? I mean, if you are going to have sex in a car, do it in the back seat. Otherwise, someone's ass could hit the horn. If you are that large of a person, you shouldn't be driving that car, or possibly at all. Poor design with a poor result. Fix your damn seats!
So, you may not be able to relate to my car troubles, but I bet you can relate to how stupid people can be...on New Year's Eve. So, the wife books our plans in most cases, especially when it involves our family. So, when New Year's rolled around, we were headed off to another couple's house for some frivolity. Nothing major, mind you, we were going to have some pulled pork sandwiches and play the Wii. (The Super Mario Bros Wii game is awesome, and I highly recommend it).
Our friends asked us if we could bring some snacks and the buns for the pork. We obliged, but we had neither in the house. This meant...you guessed it. A trip to the grocery store seven hours before the end of the year. Now, Friday night brings out the weirdos anyways. Believe me, I know, I have worked retail. And New Year's brings out even more of these wackjobs. So when you combine the two at a place that sells alcohol, things tend to get stupid.
We pull up to the store, and it is a mad house. My very pregnant wife smiles at me, and I know what that smile means. I am getting out of the car and braving this storm alone. Her, my son, and child to be, are waiting in the car. So my wife turns the corner in the parking lot to drop me off by the door, and here is where things go horribly wrong.
You see, I have a problem with traffic laws. I think they are done poorly. According to the laws here, Pedestrians have the right of way. This is a severe mistake. The rules of the road should be: If you are larger, you have the right of way. People wandering out in front of a car gets dangerous. The response usually is: "Well, if you hit me, I will sue." My response? "If I hit you, you are dead."
Unfortunately, in this crazy world, the Pedestrians have the right of way. So, we have to wait and countless amounts of inconsiderates stumble in front of our car with no concern that we may not give a damn and plow them under our muffler. Lucky for them, my wife drove. I finally, and I mean finally get out of the car. I have a few items to get. Buns, chips, and drinks. How bad can it be?
Ha. Grocery stores can't all be cool. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hVrIyEu6h_E
Well, the traffic laws apparently are also in affect while in the grocery store. I have never seen so many fat asses take up a whole aisle. Its either their ass, their cart, or both. After several close calls and a couple minutes of biting my tongue, I started ramming people with my cart. I didn't care if it was their cart or their ass, they were getting rammed.
I mean, really, how can you think you are the only person who exists in the grocery store? Jesus people, have some decency and stand to the side while you are looking so the rest of us can get by. The only people who are exempt from my yelling were the couple in the drink aisle. You see, I wanted some two liters, and they were in my way. But, get this, they noticed it. So they moved a little so I could reach over them and get my drink. At first, I thought, why not move more, but then I realized that they were, in fact, in line to check out. Its just that the line extended that far.
Checking out, of course, provides a whole slew of new challenges. For example, the man with the mullet in front of me who didn't have a cart, but had so much crap in his arms he couldn't see where he was going. He was also kicking his case of beer because he didn't have any room. Now, how are you going to get that out to your car Mr. Hilljack? Moron. Thank god you got shuffled to another line.
Of course, I was a glutton for punishment, and opted to go through self checkout. Now, anyone who has kept up on this blog knows how painful this can truly be. Sure enough, it took forever. Why? Well, when I finally got to check out, of the four self check out lanes, two were tied up by...you guessed it...the flashing red lights of idiocy. Felt bad for the dude having to monitor the self check out. I really felt his pain.
One lane was clogged because someone was trying to use a coupon that expired a month ago. And the coupon was for...get this... fifty cents. Nice. Brains God gave a goose, I swear. If you are going to try and use expired coupons, do it in a full service lane, so you can at least bullshit the person scanning your items. Its hard to bullshit software at a grocery store.
The other imbecile who was holding up the process was the "I don't give a shit if I have 67 items, I am going through self checkout" person. I believed it looked something like this:
The "Not Drawn to Scale": This subspecies is similar to the Weightless, except they understand the concept of what a scale is, they just don't understand that it measures weight properly, and that a 1'x4'x16' piece of lumber isn't going to fit on a scale designed for a bag of fertilizer. Just isn't going to happen. They lean it up on the edge of the scale, so that it damn near smacks the camera dangling from our 40' ceiling. Then, when the red light goes off, they throw up their hands in disgust, claiming that they put the piece of "OMGTOOBIG" on the scale. No dickstump, you didn't. You leaned it up against the edge of the scale. Have you ever only put your toe on the scale in your bathroom? Its not an accurate reflection of your weight, regardless of how big your big toe actually is. Then, after I give them the green light, they complicate the matters by...you guessed it, trying to move the lumber so that it fits on the scale...thus setting off the red light.
And...
Dis "Count:" An offshoot of the Faux Independent, the Count likes to have coupons that have to be redeemed up at the register. Or, even worse, they purchase items at are on sale, and must manually be altered by the supervising person, hence defeating the point of self checkout.
I believe this idiot falls under that classification. After I wade through the Sea of Stupid and wind up with our groceries, I call my wife and let her know I am on my way out the door. After parading through the pedestrians, we are finally able to leave. My son, little bugger, asks me what took so long. My response? It was busy in there son.
I just don't have the heart to break it to him yet.
-Deimos
Monday, December 7, 2009
Shut Up and Drink Your Beer
My oldest brother's birthday was Sunday. In celebration, we opted to take a family outing of sorts and go to a football game. The Indianapolis Colts to be exact. Now, the stage has to be set, and the characters described to fully appreciate my family going to a sporting event.
Dad, Mom, and the 4 sons. 6 people. Dad looks like a larger version of Old Man Winter, but jollier. Kinda like Santa Claus without the full beard. Not as round though. Loves football. Mom appreciates football, but not fanatical like most of us. Likes to play the pools to try and earn some extra money. Son 1, the eldest, whose birthday it is, is a big sports nut. Plays fantasy football, and drives big trucks. Like, the kind you can't fit into one parking spot. Brother 2 loves football and hockey. Can't get enough of either. He is also an extreme pessimist, or realist, whichever you prefer. Son 3 is Deimos, the writer of the blog you are currently reading. I love football too, and although a gamer at heart, football is a special time of year. Then my youngest brother, Son 4, who would probably ask what inning we were in. Would probably rather be networking or studying, but its a family function, so he came along. Possibility of free food was there. The four sons could not be totally different than the four of us are. And yet, we get along just fine. Its quirky, weird, and works astonishingly well.
I wake up at 8:30 am. Normally, for most people, this is ok. When you go to bed at 3:00 am because you were up late working the night before, 8:30 is a bit harsh. Dad calls a minute after my wife wakes me up. Reminds me to bring a jersey for Mom. Yep, we are on it. The Wife had them all cleaned the day before. I am not one to openly brag about my wife all the time, but she is awesome. Keep that in mind. I hang up the phone and try to not go back to sleep. My son jumps on me to wake me up. That will do it. I stumble around, my lovely wife makes me coffee. Bless her heart, I told you she was awesome. I shower, put on my "ADDAI" jersey, and start pouring my coffee into my little thermos. I grab my wife's "MANNING" jersey and head out to the car.
I get to my parent's house, where we are all meeting, except Son 2, who will meet us for tailgating possibly. We were scheduled to leave at 9:30. Yea right. C'mon now. I got there at 9:30 knowing full well we were not leaving at 9:30. I couldn't have been more right. Mom put on her Manning jersey and we drank coffee for a bit. Son 4 had to run downtown for something. He told us we can pick him up at the campus parking lot. Seemed logical. It was downtown, and not too far from where we were going to be. So, Son 1 came from out of state, and his massive tank was in the driveway.
The truck/tank is an important part of this endeavor. It gets somewhere around 4 miles to the gallon. Its a flat bed, but surprisingly, the cabin is rather spacious for four of us to sit in. Son 1 has GPS, satelite radio, the works. Son 1 bought a portable grill to tailgate out of as well. For his birthday, the Parental Units got him his own Addai jersey.
I also had to jab at Son 1, because he plays Fantasy Football. Fantasy Football is Dungeons and Dragons for jocks who used to make fun of people who played Dungeons and Dragons. Except it doesn't have the cool dice. Fantasy players. Fantasy Teams. Fantasy Games. Fantasy League. Needs more Dragons. I had to whip out my Comic Guy Voice.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lzyd91NFx-Y
We are finally getting ready to leave around 10 or so. Mom has a bad ankle. It practically takes a running start to get into the cabin of the truck because it is so high off the ground. A family effort was required to get Mom into the cabin. We got her in though without using a shepherd's hook. We all get buckled in and Son 1 starts the car. Then, a little black car whips around the corner and stops in front of our driveway. Son 4 has returned. Pansy didn't want to wait in the parking lot alone, so he hurried back home.
I call him a pansy because Son 4 is like, 6'4" and is no longer "scrawny." Thin somewhat, but not scrawny. Most people on that campus would have been scared of him. Not only that, but campus isn't exactly a "ghetto" or anything, so he would have been fine. Pansy.
So Son 4 goes back in and grabs his newly bought Colts jacket. He jumps in his car and leads the way downtown. I call him. The NFL sticker was still on the shoulder of the jacket. Pansy forgot to take off all the stickers. He bought it yesterday. Dork.
We get downtown, which was an adventure because Mom is in the backseat with me, and is generally a nervous passenger. I had to remind her that if anything hit us, it wouldn't survive. We would probably be alright. I mean, I had seen one of these trucks once before, but I think it was at a monster truck rally. The truck was king of the road.
Son 4 drops his car off on campus and jumps into the tank with us. Now, the tank sat 4 comfortably. Not 5. We got a bit cramped back there. Still, better than sardines I guess. We drive over to the stadium, and our day of hilarity begins.
Son 1 is perfectly comfortable paying 40 bucks to tailgate in the parking lot that is right across the street from the stadium. The rest of us are a bit stunned, but he doesn't care, its his birthday dammit. So, the guy taking the money says to follow the dude in the bright green vest.
What needs to be understood about this guy is that he is a total Cletus. I mean, this guy is the stereotypical country bumpkin that you would see at a truckstop. Looks like he would hit on your daughter too. Large, with a southern twang, and had about as much logic in him as a woodpecker. He parks us, and tells Son 1 to back his truck in. Son 1 explains we want to tailgate. Cletus responds with everyone needs to back in.
Say what?
Then he says we can tailgate at the front of the car. Well dumbass, that defeats the purpose of a TAILgate. Using the flatbed of the truck is the whole point of its trip down here. We jump out of the car, and I mean that, because you practically needed a parachute to do so. Son 4 practically wiped out trying to get out of the truck. We start unloading a bit and Cletus comes over and says we can't tailgate there. When we asked why, he said that the part of the parking lot that was coned off was in fact, another parking lot. We said that this arrangement wouldn't do. So then Cletus has us park in another spot, again telling Son 1 to back in.
Fuck that.
Son 1 pulls in so we can actually tailgate. Totally destroys one of the cones in the process. Watching Cletus try to get that unstuck out of the wheel well was priceless. What was also awesome was that Son 1 had no idea he hit it, because he was in another zip code up in the cabin of the truck. So he kept lurching forward while Cletus tried to pull the cone out of the moving wheel well. Awesome.
So, after all this hubbub, Cletus then has the audacity to tell us that he works for tips. Really? What, charging us $40 for the spot isn't payment enough? Fuck you. You are lucky we don't throw our leftover brats at your face. Son 1 told him he could have a hot dog. Thats right bitch. Your tip is you get to wolf down our weiner. Eat it.
We tailgate. We eat burgers, brats, hot dogs. Son 4 and I throw a nerf football around. Dad asks why a nerf? 2 minutes later, Son 4 beans a car with his horribly inaccurate throw. Thats why Son 1 brought a nerf. Son 4 has the athletic ability of a quadriplegic on a horse. Son 2 shows up about 10 minutes before we were going to pack up. Apparently, some dumbass gave him the wrong directions, and he ended up parking on the other side of the stadium. Hiking several city blocks in the wind sucks. He threw on his Addai jersey that his wife told him to bring, and we packed up the tailgate to go inside.
Lucas Oil stadium is pretty nice. After we got padded down we were allowed to enter. That security was a joke. I could have hid a gun in my crotch or anywhere from the waist down for that matter. Apparently, we had seats on the 50 yard line, which was awesome. The bad part? We were four rows from the top. I mean, we were like six stories up. There wasn't a bad seat in the house, but dammit, I almost suffered vertigo getting up that high.
So the game starts. I am sitting by Son 4. Son 2 is next to him. Here is where things go horribly wrong. Son 2 has a curse of sorts. Whenever they go to a sporting event, they sit near "those guys." You know, the annoying ones. The ones that get too loud, or do stupid shit. Now, there are 50-65 thousand people here. There are bound to be some morons. But they always sit by Son 2. This experience was no exception. It seems unfortunate as well, because outside of these two groups of people, everyone else around us seemed cool.
I will start with the guys behind us, who we laughed at the whole game, and I don't think they even knew it. They were the loud and/or obnoxious ones at all times. The main problem was that Son 1, 2 and myself were all wearing Addai jerseys. Addai is pronounced "Ah-die." These fucksticks behind us kept yelling "Ahh-dooooooy" everytime the guy did something, which was often, since he was the running back. Addai for a 2 yard gain. Ahh-dooooooy. Addai for a touchdown. Ahh-doooooooy. Addai is being substituted for the back up runner for this series. Ahh-doooooooy. Pass complete to Addai for a six yard gain. Ahh-doooooooy.
I think they were trying to sound black. They ended up sounding like a chorus of retarded seals with a broken flipper. At least clap like a seal if you are going to sound like one dammit. Then, they tried to get us to join in. "Hey look, a bunch of Ahh-doooooy fans in front of us!" Not one member of our family looked back. I think we each took turns rolling our eyes at each other. I know Dad and I took glances at the other 3 sons sitting between us. Not one of us moved. The general silent concensus from our family was: Shut the Fuck up. I know Son 2 was gritting his teeth and wanted nothing more than to punch those bastards in the face. He showed tremendous restraint though.
Then there were the two ignorant bastards in front of us. They were presumably married, and if they ever have kids, that child would probably be shot just on principle of trying to preserve what is left of the gene pool. The wife at like horse at a trough, and never stood up once, even for the big plays. She probably missed over half the game. Her douchebag husband was that guy on the phone the entire game. He also brought binoculars. Cute. He then loudly shouted into his phone trying to find a couple of his "friends" who were located at various points all over the stadium. He spend a vast majority of the game looking at the stands! Who gives a shit?! Watch the damn game. You paid over $100.00 a shot for these tickets, watch the game! If you wanted to be with your friends to watch the game, stay at home! At least then your wife won't overpay for the food! The worst was in the 4th quarter. The visitors are lined up for a fourth down deep in our territory. The hopes of them winning rest on this play, and Fuckhead in front of us is looking for his buddy. Jesus Christ! That is almost as bad as you standing your fat ass up early in the third quarter while we are trying to watch the game just so you could locate your buddy 5 rows behind you. Sit your fat ass down!
But wait, there is more. When we finally sealed the game with about four minutes to go, in front of these bastards sat 3 of the visitor's fans. They calmly got up, and began walking out, as the outcome had been all but foretold. These three guys were rooting for the other team to be sure, but they were at least cool about it. They didn't jab or mock. They didn't scream at the home team's fans, or start fights, or drink too much. They watched the game, they rooted for their team in a respectable fashion. Then, these two bastards who haven't been watcing the game practically flog them as they are leaving. What the hell? If you can tell me who has scored any of our three touchdowns, I will buy you bastards the next jumbo popcorn you inhale. I am glad I didn't offer that bet. Everyone on our side of the stadium knew that Ahh-dooooooy had scored at least once, possibly even eight times at that point.
Of course, there are other morons at the stadium that you don't sit next to. You know the ones. They appear on the jumbo tron. Perfectly normal people sitting there watching a game. Then, they see themselves on the jumbo tron and go crazy, hooting, hollering, and waving their arms like anyone gives a shit. The worst is when they are in the middle of a conversation, and the guy next to them taps them on the shoulder to tell them they are on TV, and then they go crazy anyways. The person they are having the conversation with is probably less than thrilled.
And then the flood of advertisements throughout the game. Jesus Christ its horrible. At least at home you have the mute button. You can get up and grab a drink while the ads are on. There is no escape from them. And, just for the record, unless you are the people involved with the little advertising promo, not one damn person in that stadium gives a rat's ass about the "High Five Crew" or the "Edy's Ice Cream Fan of the Game." They don't give a shit about the "State Farm Luxury Box" or the "I got these seats at a Speedway section." Except for the dipshit in front of us, we came here to watch the damned game.
Also, being at the game is different than at TV. During those ads, you get a drink, come back, game on. At the stadium, you have players standing around waiting for the cue to go. Its a total break in momentum. You also don't have the play clock in the lower corner, the scores of other games up top, and most importantly, you don't have the "yellow line" to see where the first down is at. You have to eyeball it, which is difficult six stories up.
One more thing about the stadium. The guy running the jumbo tron sucks. There were about 10 plays that we wanted to see on the jumbo tron. Close calls, good hits, or not called penalites. We saw about 30% of what we wanted to from the replay. That is a very low percentage given the lack of hurry up offense in the game.
The game was fun, and the Colts won. For the people sitting in front and behind us though, you fuckers need to...Shut Up and Drink Your Beer!
-Deimos
Dad, Mom, and the 4 sons. 6 people. Dad looks like a larger version of Old Man Winter, but jollier. Kinda like Santa Claus without the full beard. Not as round though. Loves football. Mom appreciates football, but not fanatical like most of us. Likes to play the pools to try and earn some extra money. Son 1, the eldest, whose birthday it is, is a big sports nut. Plays fantasy football, and drives big trucks. Like, the kind you can't fit into one parking spot. Brother 2 loves football and hockey. Can't get enough of either. He is also an extreme pessimist, or realist, whichever you prefer. Son 3 is Deimos, the writer of the blog you are currently reading. I love football too, and although a gamer at heart, football is a special time of year. Then my youngest brother, Son 4, who would probably ask what inning we were in. Would probably rather be networking or studying, but its a family function, so he came along. Possibility of free food was there. The four sons could not be totally different than the four of us are. And yet, we get along just fine. Its quirky, weird, and works astonishingly well.
I wake up at 8:30 am. Normally, for most people, this is ok. When you go to bed at 3:00 am because you were up late working the night before, 8:30 is a bit harsh. Dad calls a minute after my wife wakes me up. Reminds me to bring a jersey for Mom. Yep, we are on it. The Wife had them all cleaned the day before. I am not one to openly brag about my wife all the time, but she is awesome. Keep that in mind. I hang up the phone and try to not go back to sleep. My son jumps on me to wake me up. That will do it. I stumble around, my lovely wife makes me coffee. Bless her heart, I told you she was awesome. I shower, put on my "ADDAI" jersey, and start pouring my coffee into my little thermos. I grab my wife's "MANNING" jersey and head out to the car.
I get to my parent's house, where we are all meeting, except Son 2, who will meet us for tailgating possibly. We were scheduled to leave at 9:30. Yea right. C'mon now. I got there at 9:30 knowing full well we were not leaving at 9:30. I couldn't have been more right. Mom put on her Manning jersey and we drank coffee for a bit. Son 4 had to run downtown for something. He told us we can pick him up at the campus parking lot. Seemed logical. It was downtown, and not too far from where we were going to be. So, Son 1 came from out of state, and his massive tank was in the driveway.
The truck/tank is an important part of this endeavor. It gets somewhere around 4 miles to the gallon. Its a flat bed, but surprisingly, the cabin is rather spacious for four of us to sit in. Son 1 has GPS, satelite radio, the works. Son 1 bought a portable grill to tailgate out of as well. For his birthday, the Parental Units got him his own Addai jersey.
I also had to jab at Son 1, because he plays Fantasy Football. Fantasy Football is Dungeons and Dragons for jocks who used to make fun of people who played Dungeons and Dragons. Except it doesn't have the cool dice. Fantasy players. Fantasy Teams. Fantasy Games. Fantasy League. Needs more Dragons. I had to whip out my Comic Guy Voice.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lzyd91NFx-Y
We are finally getting ready to leave around 10 or so. Mom has a bad ankle. It practically takes a running start to get into the cabin of the truck because it is so high off the ground. A family effort was required to get Mom into the cabin. We got her in though without using a shepherd's hook. We all get buckled in and Son 1 starts the car. Then, a little black car whips around the corner and stops in front of our driveway. Son 4 has returned. Pansy didn't want to wait in the parking lot alone, so he hurried back home.
I call him a pansy because Son 4 is like, 6'4" and is no longer "scrawny." Thin somewhat, but not scrawny. Most people on that campus would have been scared of him. Not only that, but campus isn't exactly a "ghetto" or anything, so he would have been fine. Pansy.
So Son 4 goes back in and grabs his newly bought Colts jacket. He jumps in his car and leads the way downtown. I call him. The NFL sticker was still on the shoulder of the jacket. Pansy forgot to take off all the stickers. He bought it yesterday. Dork.
We get downtown, which was an adventure because Mom is in the backseat with me, and is generally a nervous passenger. I had to remind her that if anything hit us, it wouldn't survive. We would probably be alright. I mean, I had seen one of these trucks once before, but I think it was at a monster truck rally. The truck was king of the road.
Son 4 drops his car off on campus and jumps into the tank with us. Now, the tank sat 4 comfortably. Not 5. We got a bit cramped back there. Still, better than sardines I guess. We drive over to the stadium, and our day of hilarity begins.
Son 1 is perfectly comfortable paying 40 bucks to tailgate in the parking lot that is right across the street from the stadium. The rest of us are a bit stunned, but he doesn't care, its his birthday dammit. So, the guy taking the money says to follow the dude in the bright green vest.
What needs to be understood about this guy is that he is a total Cletus. I mean, this guy is the stereotypical country bumpkin that you would see at a truckstop. Looks like he would hit on your daughter too. Large, with a southern twang, and had about as much logic in him as a woodpecker. He parks us, and tells Son 1 to back his truck in. Son 1 explains we want to tailgate. Cletus responds with everyone needs to back in.
Say what?
Then he says we can tailgate at the front of the car. Well dumbass, that defeats the purpose of a TAILgate. Using the flatbed of the truck is the whole point of its trip down here. We jump out of the car, and I mean that, because you practically needed a parachute to do so. Son 4 practically wiped out trying to get out of the truck. We start unloading a bit and Cletus comes over and says we can't tailgate there. When we asked why, he said that the part of the parking lot that was coned off was in fact, another parking lot. We said that this arrangement wouldn't do. So then Cletus has us park in another spot, again telling Son 1 to back in.
Fuck that.
Son 1 pulls in so we can actually tailgate. Totally destroys one of the cones in the process. Watching Cletus try to get that unstuck out of the wheel well was priceless. What was also awesome was that Son 1 had no idea he hit it, because he was in another zip code up in the cabin of the truck. So he kept lurching forward while Cletus tried to pull the cone out of the moving wheel well. Awesome.
So, after all this hubbub, Cletus then has the audacity to tell us that he works for tips. Really? What, charging us $40 for the spot isn't payment enough? Fuck you. You are lucky we don't throw our leftover brats at your face. Son 1 told him he could have a hot dog. Thats right bitch. Your tip is you get to wolf down our weiner. Eat it.
We tailgate. We eat burgers, brats, hot dogs. Son 4 and I throw a nerf football around. Dad asks why a nerf? 2 minutes later, Son 4 beans a car with his horribly inaccurate throw. Thats why Son 1 brought a nerf. Son 4 has the athletic ability of a quadriplegic on a horse. Son 2 shows up about 10 minutes before we were going to pack up. Apparently, some dumbass gave him the wrong directions, and he ended up parking on the other side of the stadium. Hiking several city blocks in the wind sucks. He threw on his Addai jersey that his wife told him to bring, and we packed up the tailgate to go inside.
Lucas Oil stadium is pretty nice. After we got padded down we were allowed to enter. That security was a joke. I could have hid a gun in my crotch or anywhere from the waist down for that matter. Apparently, we had seats on the 50 yard line, which was awesome. The bad part? We were four rows from the top. I mean, we were like six stories up. There wasn't a bad seat in the house, but dammit, I almost suffered vertigo getting up that high.
So the game starts. I am sitting by Son 4. Son 2 is next to him. Here is where things go horribly wrong. Son 2 has a curse of sorts. Whenever they go to a sporting event, they sit near "those guys." You know, the annoying ones. The ones that get too loud, or do stupid shit. Now, there are 50-65 thousand people here. There are bound to be some morons. But they always sit by Son 2. This experience was no exception. It seems unfortunate as well, because outside of these two groups of people, everyone else around us seemed cool.
I will start with the guys behind us, who we laughed at the whole game, and I don't think they even knew it. They were the loud and/or obnoxious ones at all times. The main problem was that Son 1, 2 and myself were all wearing Addai jerseys. Addai is pronounced "Ah-die." These fucksticks behind us kept yelling "Ahh-dooooooy" everytime the guy did something, which was often, since he was the running back. Addai for a 2 yard gain. Ahh-dooooooy. Addai for a touchdown. Ahh-doooooooy. Addai is being substituted for the back up runner for this series. Ahh-doooooooy. Pass complete to Addai for a six yard gain. Ahh-doooooooy.
I think they were trying to sound black. They ended up sounding like a chorus of retarded seals with a broken flipper. At least clap like a seal if you are going to sound like one dammit. Then, they tried to get us to join in. "Hey look, a bunch of Ahh-doooooy fans in front of us!" Not one member of our family looked back. I think we each took turns rolling our eyes at each other. I know Dad and I took glances at the other 3 sons sitting between us. Not one of us moved. The general silent concensus from our family was: Shut the Fuck up. I know Son 2 was gritting his teeth and wanted nothing more than to punch those bastards in the face. He showed tremendous restraint though.
Then there were the two ignorant bastards in front of us. They were presumably married, and if they ever have kids, that child would probably be shot just on principle of trying to preserve what is left of the gene pool. The wife at like horse at a trough, and never stood up once, even for the big plays. She probably missed over half the game. Her douchebag husband was that guy on the phone the entire game. He also brought binoculars. Cute. He then loudly shouted into his phone trying to find a couple of his "friends" who were located at various points all over the stadium. He spend a vast majority of the game looking at the stands! Who gives a shit?! Watch the damn game. You paid over $100.00 a shot for these tickets, watch the game! If you wanted to be with your friends to watch the game, stay at home! At least then your wife won't overpay for the food! The worst was in the 4th quarter. The visitors are lined up for a fourth down deep in our territory. The hopes of them winning rest on this play, and Fuckhead in front of us is looking for his buddy. Jesus Christ! That is almost as bad as you standing your fat ass up early in the third quarter while we are trying to watch the game just so you could locate your buddy 5 rows behind you. Sit your fat ass down!
But wait, there is more. When we finally sealed the game with about four minutes to go, in front of these bastards sat 3 of the visitor's fans. They calmly got up, and began walking out, as the outcome had been all but foretold. These three guys were rooting for the other team to be sure, but they were at least cool about it. They didn't jab or mock. They didn't scream at the home team's fans, or start fights, or drink too much. They watched the game, they rooted for their team in a respectable fashion. Then, these two bastards who haven't been watcing the game practically flog them as they are leaving. What the hell? If you can tell me who has scored any of our three touchdowns, I will buy you bastards the next jumbo popcorn you inhale. I am glad I didn't offer that bet. Everyone on our side of the stadium knew that Ahh-dooooooy had scored at least once, possibly even eight times at that point.
Of course, there are other morons at the stadium that you don't sit next to. You know the ones. They appear on the jumbo tron. Perfectly normal people sitting there watching a game. Then, they see themselves on the jumbo tron and go crazy, hooting, hollering, and waving their arms like anyone gives a shit. The worst is when they are in the middle of a conversation, and the guy next to them taps them on the shoulder to tell them they are on TV, and then they go crazy anyways. The person they are having the conversation with is probably less than thrilled.
And then the flood of advertisements throughout the game. Jesus Christ its horrible. At least at home you have the mute button. You can get up and grab a drink while the ads are on. There is no escape from them. And, just for the record, unless you are the people involved with the little advertising promo, not one damn person in that stadium gives a rat's ass about the "High Five Crew" or the "Edy's Ice Cream Fan of the Game." They don't give a shit about the "State Farm Luxury Box" or the "I got these seats at a Speedway section." Except for the dipshit in front of us, we came here to watch the damned game.
Also, being at the game is different than at TV. During those ads, you get a drink, come back, game on. At the stadium, you have players standing around waiting for the cue to go. Its a total break in momentum. You also don't have the play clock in the lower corner, the scores of other games up top, and most importantly, you don't have the "yellow line" to see where the first down is at. You have to eyeball it, which is difficult six stories up.
One more thing about the stadium. The guy running the jumbo tron sucks. There were about 10 plays that we wanted to see on the jumbo tron. Close calls, good hits, or not called penalites. We saw about 30% of what we wanted to from the replay. That is a very low percentage given the lack of hurry up offense in the game.
The game was fun, and the Colts won. For the people sitting in front and behind us though, you fuckers need to...Shut Up and Drink Your Beer!
-Deimos
Thursday, November 19, 2009
TPS Report 11/13/09
Sometimes, you wonder what people are thinking when they come into a store. I am sitting there around midnight at the LGS (Local Game Store). We are open until 1, so this is not unusual. The gaming for the night has all but ended, and only a few people are left in the store.
We are just hanging out making small talk when we hear some commotion coming from the parking lot. And by commotion, I mean a jackhammer sound as it is wailing on paved road, like a parking lot. It sounds close, and I am wondering for a brief second if the end is neigh. Then the door opens, which of course, makes the sound louder. Turns out it was coming from a truck that has parked in the fire lane outside.
Now, it should be noted that I am a firm believer in walking. Especially when it involves fire lanes. I think people who park in fire lanes need to be hooked to the back of their car and dragged for five miles. I have seen the reports of people dying in fires because fire lanes were blocked. Therefore, the guy that gets out of his truck, and ultimately comes into the store is already NOT on my good list. For sake of argument, I am going to call the guy Hobo.
Hobo looks like he came right out of the alley. Matted hair, and clothes that can best be described as "unkempt." He wreaks of cigarette smoke, which is just flat out nasty, and after about 2 seconds, I realized he had the brains of the door he just came in. He doesn't say hi. He doesn't look around. He finds me and looks me dead in the eye with all seriousness and says...
"How do ya get in da liquor store next door?"
Really. I mean really. I even got the accent down on that one. I wish I was creative enough to make this shit up, but I am not. So, remembering that it is Friday at Midnight, I answer about as straight as I can. "Through the door."
The couple guys in the store with me smirk a bit. I mean, what else can they do? Its the right answer, but apparently I was missing something. So the conversation does not end, much to my chagrin.
"Ya, but da door out der is locked, un' it says don't enter."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HY-03vYYAjA
Good lord. Even when he is telling me what he read he still uses contractions. It says DO NOT ENTER. Speak normal English you moron. At this point, I don't want him to get more alcohol. Sounds like he has had enough already. But who am I to keep the hilljack from his Pabst. The rest of the conversation was:
Deimos: Yea. That would be the exit door...
Hobo: Uh...
Deimos: ...and the entrance door is the one to the right of that that says "open" on it.
Hobo: I ain't see anudder door.
Deimos: Oh, its there. You just have to keep going past the first door.
Hobo: I's tellin' ya, I ain't seein' anudder door out there.
Deimos: Trust me, its out there. If you can't find it, I will point it out, but its there.
What needs to be appreciated is that this whole time, I kept a serious and interested look. The Hobo walks out, and is never seen again. But his truck was rattling for over five minutes, so its safe to say he found the "enter" door.
It stuns me that people like this are not only allowed to come out in public, but haven't been fumigated yet. And for Christ's sake, fix your damn truck...
-Deimos
We are just hanging out making small talk when we hear some commotion coming from the parking lot. And by commotion, I mean a jackhammer sound as it is wailing on paved road, like a parking lot. It sounds close, and I am wondering for a brief second if the end is neigh. Then the door opens, which of course, makes the sound louder. Turns out it was coming from a truck that has parked in the fire lane outside.
Now, it should be noted that I am a firm believer in walking. Especially when it involves fire lanes. I think people who park in fire lanes need to be hooked to the back of their car and dragged for five miles. I have seen the reports of people dying in fires because fire lanes were blocked. Therefore, the guy that gets out of his truck, and ultimately comes into the store is already NOT on my good list. For sake of argument, I am going to call the guy Hobo.
Hobo looks like he came right out of the alley. Matted hair, and clothes that can best be described as "unkempt." He wreaks of cigarette smoke, which is just flat out nasty, and after about 2 seconds, I realized he had the brains of the door he just came in. He doesn't say hi. He doesn't look around. He finds me and looks me dead in the eye with all seriousness and says...
"How do ya get in da liquor store next door?"
Really. I mean really. I even got the accent down on that one. I wish I was creative enough to make this shit up, but I am not. So, remembering that it is Friday at Midnight, I answer about as straight as I can. "Through the door."
The couple guys in the store with me smirk a bit. I mean, what else can they do? Its the right answer, but apparently I was missing something. So the conversation does not end, much to my chagrin.
"Ya, but da door out der is locked, un' it says don't enter."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HY-03vYYAjA
Good lord. Even when he is telling me what he read he still uses contractions. It says DO NOT ENTER. Speak normal English you moron. At this point, I don't want him to get more alcohol. Sounds like he has had enough already. But who am I to keep the hilljack from his Pabst. The rest of the conversation was:
Deimos: Yea. That would be the exit door...
Hobo: Uh...
Deimos: ...and the entrance door is the one to the right of that that says "open" on it.
Hobo: I ain't see anudder door.
Deimos: Oh, its there. You just have to keep going past the first door.
Hobo: I's tellin' ya, I ain't seein' anudder door out there.
Deimos: Trust me, its out there. If you can't find it, I will point it out, but its there.
What needs to be appreciated is that this whole time, I kept a serious and interested look. The Hobo walks out, and is never seen again. But his truck was rattling for over five minutes, so its safe to say he found the "enter" door.
It stuns me that people like this are not only allowed to come out in public, but haven't been fumigated yet. And for Christ's sake, fix your damn truck...
-Deimos
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
TPS Report 09/18/09
You know you must be a punk when you are such scum that I actually have to kick you out of a game store. So, its a sort of typical Friday night. Magic players (god help me) are in the store throwing down their tournament thingy. I, much to my chagrin, am running the tournament because my boss decided he deserved a day off. (Mother fucker worked a few months straight without one apparently. Wuss.)
So, all is going alright, because the Magic players are actually behaving themselves and not completely annoying me. However, that just can't be par for the course on FNM (Friday Night Magic). Something just has to grate on my nerves.
Enter the little tweener skateboarder punks.
I am talking about 4 or 5 kids who look like they are 12 year old Tony Hawk wannabes. They got the grunge clothes on and the spiky blond hair to match. And by grunge clothes, I mean Abercrombie shirts that have seen better days because these guys suck so bad, they wear out their clothes as they wipe out on the pavement. I swear, Ken from Streetfighter II didn't eat this much gravel on easy mode compared to these losers.
So these Boarders come in and are mouthin' off and trying to pretend they are cool by making fun of the Magic players. Now see, normally, I would join them, because most Magic players leave off an aroma of something awful. But these Magic players, for the most part, are pretty decent. Plus, they outnumber the Boarders 3:1.
But, because they are a bunch of whiny bitches who mumble the insults instead of slinging them right at the Magic Players, I feel it is my duty to defend not only the gaming industry, but my store dammit. You aren't just going to walk all up in here and start harassing my customers. Fuck no.
So, I pick out the most annoying one. Kid is about 4 foot nothing and 100 lbs wet. He looks like that sixth grader from your middle school that thought he was better than anyone else because he had blue boxers. I figured in a dysfunctional group, the kid that looks like he could most easily get the shit beat out of him was the ringleader. So, I start mocking the kid by calling him "Squirt."
Its an appropriate name really. It designates small, annoying, and high pitched. Insults begin flying between him and I, and he keeps trying to jab back, and then laughing loudly, trying to get his little groupies to join in. What he didn't understand was that while the groupies smiled, they didn't laugh. Why? Because I could beat the cream cheese out of any of them with one arm. You generally try not to laugh at people who could crush your skull like a melon.
Now, I am not Mr. Built or anything, but dammit all, I have some muscles. When I flex, I can definitely outgun anyone in that store. (I know its a game store, so thats not saying much, but considering my options at the moment, I would say I have the upper hand.)
Well, eventually, Squirt decides that he was going to make fun of my mad painting skills.
Oh no you didn't.
So I calmly put down my paintbrush and the conversation ensues to this nature:
Me: Hey Squirt.
He looks.
Me: I knew you would look. What's your name?
Squirt: Bob.
Me: Bob? (I don't believe him). Well Bob. Get the hell out of my store.
Now, it should be noted that I told "Bob" to get the hell out of the store. No one else. So when they all left, I realized that I had indeed picked out the ringleader.
So, with the circus back outside, you would think the night would be over with these clowns. But oh no. The Boarders decide to start loitering outside the store. Jumping over little lines of water that they marked on the sidewalk. I mean really. Little lines of water. They cleared the line about half the time. Sad.
Then one of their little girlfriends comes up and starts chatting with them. After a few minutes, they realize that they might get the cops called on them. So one of them dares to come back inside and ask our owner if the cops were called.
What needs to be understood about the owner is that he is first and foremost a country boy. Tall, slanky, and is quite direct. So, from my angle I see the Owner standing 6'3" + or so, and the little kid at about 4'6". Between the rural draw of the Owner and this little city kid, it looked and sounded like an episode with Foghorn Leghorn and Chicken Little.
Chicken Little: Um, did you call the police on us?
Foghorn: Boy, did I say you could come back in my store?
Chicken Little: Um...no...
Foghorn: Get out then.
More hilarity ensued when one of the Magic players called his grandfather, who was a cop. A few minutes later, he pulled up in his Crown Vic and followed the kids into the Dollar General. He didn't wait for them to come out. Oh no. He went right in after them. They promptly left the area, and we never saw them the rest of the night.
-Deimos
So, all is going alright, because the Magic players are actually behaving themselves and not completely annoying me. However, that just can't be par for the course on FNM (Friday Night Magic). Something just has to grate on my nerves.
Enter the little tweener skateboarder punks.
I am talking about 4 or 5 kids who look like they are 12 year old Tony Hawk wannabes. They got the grunge clothes on and the spiky blond hair to match. And by grunge clothes, I mean Abercrombie shirts that have seen better days because these guys suck so bad, they wear out their clothes as they wipe out on the pavement. I swear, Ken from Streetfighter II didn't eat this much gravel on easy mode compared to these losers.
So these Boarders come in and are mouthin' off and trying to pretend they are cool by making fun of the Magic players. Now see, normally, I would join them, because most Magic players leave off an aroma of something awful. But these Magic players, for the most part, are pretty decent. Plus, they outnumber the Boarders 3:1.
But, because they are a bunch of whiny bitches who mumble the insults instead of slinging them right at the Magic Players, I feel it is my duty to defend not only the gaming industry, but my store dammit. You aren't just going to walk all up in here and start harassing my customers. Fuck no.
So, I pick out the most annoying one. Kid is about 4 foot nothing and 100 lbs wet. He looks like that sixth grader from your middle school that thought he was better than anyone else because he had blue boxers. I figured in a dysfunctional group, the kid that looks like he could most easily get the shit beat out of him was the ringleader. So, I start mocking the kid by calling him "Squirt."
Its an appropriate name really. It designates small, annoying, and high pitched. Insults begin flying between him and I, and he keeps trying to jab back, and then laughing loudly, trying to get his little groupies to join in. What he didn't understand was that while the groupies smiled, they didn't laugh. Why? Because I could beat the cream cheese out of any of them with one arm. You generally try not to laugh at people who could crush your skull like a melon.
Now, I am not Mr. Built or anything, but dammit all, I have some muscles. When I flex, I can definitely outgun anyone in that store. (I know its a game store, so thats not saying much, but considering my options at the moment, I would say I have the upper hand.)
Well, eventually, Squirt decides that he was going to make fun of my mad painting skills.
Oh no you didn't.
So I calmly put down my paintbrush and the conversation ensues to this nature:
Me: Hey Squirt.
He looks.
Me: I knew you would look. What's your name?
Squirt: Bob.
Me: Bob? (I don't believe him). Well Bob. Get the hell out of my store.
Now, it should be noted that I told "Bob" to get the hell out of the store. No one else. So when they all left, I realized that I had indeed picked out the ringleader.
So, with the circus back outside, you would think the night would be over with these clowns. But oh no. The Boarders decide to start loitering outside the store. Jumping over little lines of water that they marked on the sidewalk. I mean really. Little lines of water. They cleared the line about half the time. Sad.
Then one of their little girlfriends comes up and starts chatting with them. After a few minutes, they realize that they might get the cops called on them. So one of them dares to come back inside and ask our owner if the cops were called.
What needs to be understood about the owner is that he is first and foremost a country boy. Tall, slanky, and is quite direct. So, from my angle I see the Owner standing 6'3" + or so, and the little kid at about 4'6". Between the rural draw of the Owner and this little city kid, it looked and sounded like an episode with Foghorn Leghorn and Chicken Little.
Chicken Little: Um, did you call the police on us?
Foghorn: Boy, did I say you could come back in my store?
Chicken Little: Um...no...
Foghorn: Get out then.
More hilarity ensued when one of the Magic players called his grandfather, who was a cop. A few minutes later, he pulled up in his Crown Vic and followed the kids into the Dollar General. He didn't wait for them to come out. Oh no. He went right in after them. They promptly left the area, and we never saw them the rest of the night.
-Deimos
Saturday, August 22, 2009
A Changing of the Guard
So, the blog went cold. I know I know. Shame on me. Lots been going on. Let me explain.
I am no longer at the Hardware Store. Ta-da! I now work at a Game store. Yessss...a game store...good times. Far better than that Hardware store. I get paid to play games. Doesn't get much better. I am back in my own environment. They pay me more and its closer to my house. It was an obvious choice.
However, I still have a few good stories from the Hardware Store. They are just as funny as they were a month ago. One of the ones that sticks out in my mind is the "couple" that came in buying plumbing supplies. I mean, I am talking those huge pvc pipes that you find under city streets. The big white ones that you could stuff small children into.
Now, the fact that they were buying this stuff is not as important as the fact that these two were...unique. The guy looked like he had come right off of a Jerry Springer episode. He had the mullet, and you could smell Pabst Blue Ribbon on him. He wreaked something awful, and he couldn't form a complete sentence without butchering the English language. What made this worse was that the "woman" he was with was so attention grabbing, he almost got away with being normal.
This..."woman" was about 6'6" and had shoulders wider than the Hoover damn. You could probably land stealth bombers on her back. She looked like she could play for the damned Oakland Raiders. She towered over Mr. Redneck, and her voice was about as deep. What made matters worse is that her dress was too small for her, and she had an Adam's Apple.
I mean really. She really did. I thought her knuckles may have had hair on them, but I could have been wrong. I tried not to get too close. Fortunately, I was stationed at Self Checkout, so they bypassed me for the Customer Service desk. Thank God.
So my only real questions are: Did the dude know? I mean...he had to of known. Right? I mean, it was pretty obvious with the throat, hands, and square jaw that this person was a man at some point. He might still be. You would notice that at some point, wouldn't you? I mean, this is the type of crap where the "woman" goes on Jerry to tell her mate that she is a dude, and then he gets grossed out and storms off the stage. Well, duh pal. The chick you have been sleeping with has a penis...what more proof do you want? I mean, I thought this stuff was only on TV. Apparently I was wrong.
One of my fellow cashiers at the Hardware Store said she was in the bathroom when she heard some heavy voice clear his throat. She thought she had gone into the wrong restroom. It was that obvious. I asked her if the person in the next stall was standing to pee. She never responded.
* * *
Now, before you guys start abandoning ship, just remember that I will still be dealing with stupid people. Even if it is not at my job, I will do my best to bring you the adventures of continuing observation and battle with the masses.
-Deimos
I am no longer at the Hardware Store. Ta-da! I now work at a Game store. Yessss...a game store...good times. Far better than that Hardware store. I get paid to play games. Doesn't get much better. I am back in my own environment. They pay me more and its closer to my house. It was an obvious choice.
However, I still have a few good stories from the Hardware Store. They are just as funny as they were a month ago. One of the ones that sticks out in my mind is the "couple" that came in buying plumbing supplies. I mean, I am talking those huge pvc pipes that you find under city streets. The big white ones that you could stuff small children into.
Now, the fact that they were buying this stuff is not as important as the fact that these two were...unique. The guy looked like he had come right off of a Jerry Springer episode. He had the mullet, and you could smell Pabst Blue Ribbon on him. He wreaked something awful, and he couldn't form a complete sentence without butchering the English language. What made this worse was that the "woman" he was with was so attention grabbing, he almost got away with being normal.
This..."woman" was about 6'6" and had shoulders wider than the Hoover damn. You could probably land stealth bombers on her back. She looked like she could play for the damned Oakland Raiders. She towered over Mr. Redneck, and her voice was about as deep. What made matters worse is that her dress was too small for her, and she had an Adam's Apple.
I mean really. She really did. I thought her knuckles may have had hair on them, but I could have been wrong. I tried not to get too close. Fortunately, I was stationed at Self Checkout, so they bypassed me for the Customer Service desk. Thank God.
So my only real questions are: Did the dude know? I mean...he had to of known. Right? I mean, it was pretty obvious with the throat, hands, and square jaw that this person was a man at some point. He might still be. You would notice that at some point, wouldn't you? I mean, this is the type of crap where the "woman" goes on Jerry to tell her mate that she is a dude, and then he gets grossed out and storms off the stage. Well, duh pal. The chick you have been sleeping with has a penis...what more proof do you want? I mean, I thought this stuff was only on TV. Apparently I was wrong.
One of my fellow cashiers at the Hardware Store said she was in the bathroom when she heard some heavy voice clear his throat. She thought she had gone into the wrong restroom. It was that obvious. I asked her if the person in the next stall was standing to pee. She never responded.
* * *
Now, before you guys start abandoning ship, just remember that I will still be dealing with stupid people. Even if it is not at my job, I will do my best to bring you the adventures of continuing observation and battle with the masses.
-Deimos
Friday, July 3, 2009
TPS Report 07/02/09
Today's adventure is a short one, but a sweet one. I am on the front line, minding my own business, and checking people out of the store. Lo and behold, my next pidgeon meanders into my grasp, and before I knew it, I had a TPS Report.
He was not the usual suspect. Older gentleman who was soft spoken for the most part. As it turned out, he was actually quite old. Over 80 even. He was also fairly pleasant, but as we all well know, that does not excuse you for being retarded.
I ring up all two of his items and give him his total. He then swipes his card (on the third try) and after we go through all the motions, it asks him to sign on the line. Now, normally, this wouldn't be too difficult, but Old Man Winter (OMW) is having a hard time understanding how his signature is going to disappear once its put on the monitor.
I hand OMW the electronic pen that comes attached to the machine. (Imagine that, it does serve a purpose!) He then proceeds to write his name normally, and he pushes done.
I honestly should have seen this coming, but I was totally dumbfounded. You see, after he signs his name, he then takes the electronic pen and tries to write the total in his checkbook. After a few frustrating moments, he looks up and asks "Why won't this pen produce ink?"
Really? I mean...really? Did you really just ask me that? I mean, what do you say to that? Sorry dipshit, ink and electronics don't mix? I can't be rude to him, and he was nice enough I don't want to be mean to him, but what do you say? I just mumbled something along the lines of "no" and let it go. I really was at a loss for words.
And while we are on the subject, who talks like that anyways? Since when does a pen produce ink? I mean, the writing utensil doesn't generate its own ink or lead. Its put in there prior to purchase. I mean, does a clock produce time? Sometimes, I think this type of sentence would work. You know, like, I need to go produce urine. But in this case, I think he got it flat wrong. Sorry OMW, looks like you will have to try and produce a brain on your own.
-Deimos
He was not the usual suspect. Older gentleman who was soft spoken for the most part. As it turned out, he was actually quite old. Over 80 even. He was also fairly pleasant, but as we all well know, that does not excuse you for being retarded.
I ring up all two of his items and give him his total. He then swipes his card (on the third try) and after we go through all the motions, it asks him to sign on the line. Now, normally, this wouldn't be too difficult, but Old Man Winter (OMW) is having a hard time understanding how his signature is going to disappear once its put on the monitor.
I hand OMW the electronic pen that comes attached to the machine. (Imagine that, it does serve a purpose!) He then proceeds to write his name normally, and he pushes done.
I honestly should have seen this coming, but I was totally dumbfounded. You see, after he signs his name, he then takes the electronic pen and tries to write the total in his checkbook. After a few frustrating moments, he looks up and asks "Why won't this pen produce ink?"
Really? I mean...really? Did you really just ask me that? I mean, what do you say to that? Sorry dipshit, ink and electronics don't mix? I can't be rude to him, and he was nice enough I don't want to be mean to him, but what do you say? I just mumbled something along the lines of "no" and let it go. I really was at a loss for words.
And while we are on the subject, who talks like that anyways? Since when does a pen produce ink? I mean, the writing utensil doesn't generate its own ink or lead. Its put in there prior to purchase. I mean, does a clock produce time? Sometimes, I think this type of sentence would work. You know, like, I need to go produce urine. But in this case, I think he got it flat wrong. Sorry OMW, looks like you will have to try and produce a brain on your own.
-Deimos
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