Where There's Smoke, There's Fire

A wisp of smoke rose lazily from the end of a cigarette. Detached from ember and ash, it twists and swirls on its ascent. A fox tail swishing back and forth to some unheard rhythm. As the smoke neared the ceiling, it paused, frozen in time, then disappeared like a magician whose timing is a half a second late. The business class woman sitting at the corner of the bar takes a final drag, holding it in to savor the moment, then exhales it slowly. A gray cloud slipped from her lips and floated its way across the sparsely populated pub. Regretfully, she extinguished the glowing butt in the ashtray while lamenting her predicament. Could this be my last cigarette here?, she thought. The ice cubes rattle in the glass as she swallowed the last of her gin and tonic. It tasted different already. It would never be the same again, at least for her. Everyone would feel the effect. Her pocketbook latch slipped silently undone and she reached for the clip of money laying next to her pack of Newports. Removing a twenty, she placed it on the bar and thanked the bartender saying that she didn't need any change. With a lackadaisical thrust, she shifted her weight off the stool, stood and gathered her things. As she left through the large front door she paused and turned, thinking of all the good times she'd had in this place. How it was the one place that had always welcomed her with open arms. Always accepted her. Always made her feel safe and loved and valued. She hid the memories safely in her mind, a vain attempt to remember what it used to be like.

Unlike the woman, I couldn't be happier because Baltimore passed a law yesterday banning smoking in all public restaurants and bars. We join the noble ranks of more advanced and enlightened cities such as New York and LA, though a little late. If this doesn't get us the national recognition we so desire, I don't know what will. Welcome to the new age Baltimorons. This is your time in the sun. We can finally call ourselves faux hip and with it. Walking down the street I'll no longer hang my head in shame when I see someone wearing a Yankees baseball cap but instead carry it proudly. I can make eye contact with people again. This is going to be great.

All kidding aside, I do think the new law is a good thing. I smoke on occasion and I'm especially apt to do so when drinking out. I don't think I'll miss the privileged, though. I've never randomly craved a cigarette and since no one is doing it, it shouldn't be hard to abstain. For someone that smokes two packs a day, this law must be a killer. Grabbing a beer on the way home will seem like a trial by fire. They don't want to get a drink, chug it and go outside to take a smoke. Even more so in the cold weather we've had lately. All they wanted to do was sit down, relax with a drink and a smoke and maybe talk to a couple patrons or the bartender about unimportant things. Things that help take the mind off the hassles of a long work day. They won't be able to do that anymore and it's going to take some scratching and clawing and getting used to. I really do feel bad for those people. The old timers, especially. Some of those people, all they have is routine. Anything that doesn't register a ten on the familiarity scale might throw them off kilter.

As much as it's going to suck for some, it's going to be great for me. No more clothes that smell like an ashtray or bed that seems like it must have played host to California sized brush fire. No more damage to lungs that already had to endure multiple bouts of pneumonia and a eight month busboy/barback stint in the smokiest bar in all of Maryland. No more having to hear people complain about not wanting to go to a particular bar or restaurant because of how smoky it is - I'm sure people with friends who smoke will start getting complaints about bars with too much fresh air. I'll finally be able to take my jacket off when I get home from a late night out and hang it back up in closet instead of throwing it in the hamper.

The local bars and restaurants put up a good fight. Their primary complaint being that they would lose business. But I don't see how that's possible. People still need their liquor and beer. They won't sit at home and drink in solitude. They need the camaraderie the bar offers. They'll come to the bar to feel connected to something outside themselves. It's the same reason they came before. Nothing has really changed. The need for companionship will override the addictive beckonings of nicotine, at least in the short term. Maybe the bars made a sizable revenue from the sale of cigarettes. I couldn't tell you. Though, I do know that buying a pack from the bar can require proof of employment and a co-signer at some places. The mark up is incredible but that's what you get when the number of convenient distributors is reduced to one. Each bar a miniature monopoly. Point is, business isn't going to be hurt by this. In fact, it might improve things by pulling in people that, before now, would have avoided smoke filled bars.

Things are looking up for the health of Baltimore. Now, if we could only get McDonalds banned to address the real health problem around here.

The Thousand Yard Affair

Well, it had to happen sometime and now seems as good a time as any. The stat counter on the blog lethargically rolled over the 1k mark today. Quite an accomplishment considering about half of those hits are me making sure that the post I wrote looks right. Yes, it is pretty pathetic that it took me almost a full year to get to this point, though I must remind you i didn't install the counter until six months ago. That makes things a little better I guess.

Thanks to all five four of my regular readers. Although you don't comment, I still consider you Kings and Queens among men. And I pledge to continue the mediocre writing until God or this world strikes me down. I'll try to do better the next thousand hits.

Cam-pain-ing

After watching the video of Anna stumbling around with her face painted like a five dollar clown whore, I'm withdrawing my name from the fatherhood race. My dick would never let me within a mile radius of that thing. In fact, it almost stabbed me in the eye with a soldering iron just for writing that entry. Plus, I don't think the kid is going to see a dime of the money, so she's pretty much useless to me. God do I feel sorry for that child. To have those genes swimming around inside you. Wow. Suck doesn't even begin to describe it. If I were her, I'd spend my life trying to separate the genes I got from my father - who that is has no bearing - from those I got from my mother, killing the mother genes as I went. Unfortunately, she'll have the mental capacity of a infant when she's eighteen. So it looks like any great scientific discoveries in the field of the human genome are out of the question. Personally, it's amazing that she can breathe on her own at this point. She has a negative brain power score right now. We should all have a party when she reaches zero.

And speaking of parties, I have another race to enter and this one is dick approved, at least for the moment. We can celebrate Britney style - you know, shaving our heads and checking in to rehab - when I win. I'm officially announcing my candidacy for President of the United States. I really think I have a shot because I've come up with best idea I've ever had on how to improve and revitalize this country. An idea so perfect, so easily implemented and so non-controversial that Lincoln himself wept like a baby when I told him my plan in a dream last night.

As to not get too far ahead of myself, I'll tell you now that I'll be running as a moderate democrat because I need their money and I think I would gain the most support for my movement from that kind of crowd. It would be ideal to run independent but I'm horribly poor and not particularly great with money. Assuming I could raise enough, I'd probably spend the campaign funds on tooties rolls, playboys and a monkey with a colt 45 in his hand riding a tricycle. No, I need campaign managers, big business money (soft or hard), lobbyists, greasers, liars and no less than a hundred personal assistants to tell me how great a politician and what an amazing lover I am. Did I mention all the assistants are female? Because they are, so don't get any ideas. I'm all man. Who else besides the democratic party can give me all that?

As far as my platform goes, it's based on one simple principal. I'd pass one law and it would solve everyone's problems. You wanted world peace, so I'm going to give it to you and this is how we do it:

I'll amend the constitution with a bill to outlaw junk mail.

Isn't that kick your shoes off and jello wrestle brilliant? The effects would be felt immediately and would be far reaching. Here, let me show you.

First, people would instantly be happier. Wouldn't you be happier if you went to the mailbox and the only thing that was in there was mail that actually related to you. Think of the time you'd save sorting and sifting through the junk. Sometimes locating the water bill is like finding a needle in a hay stack. I know there have been times I've missed a bill and thrown it out on accident. Then the next time the bill comes I have to pay double plus a late fee just because some phone book sized stack of crappy coupons I'll never use decided to swallow aforementioned bill and doom it to a slow death in the landfill having never crossed my eye. Instantly, this problem would be solved, strengthening the national economy by keeping that little fee in the pockets of the general public to spend on goods and services rendered. Not to mention the time savings would allow people get vital tasks they would otherwise have no time for completed. Who knows what people would do with their extra fifteen minutes a day. Even if it affords the single mom a moment to ask her bastard son how his day in school went, we've done our jobs. Finally, happy people don't need medication to make it though their day, forcing the major pharmaceutical companies to abandon research and production of antidepressants and concentrate on making medical breakthroughs involving real drugs, like curing cancer and herpes.

Second, we would save the rain forest, stop global warming and turn the planet's environment back to the paradise we remember. Think about it. All those quarters and dollars you sent to save the rain forest environmental groups as a kid. Crap. This is the one and only true way to save them. Every piece of junk mail you get in you mailbox is made from a tree or many different trees. Some of those trees may have come from as far away as Brazil, Indonesia and Kentucky. If we reduce the need for paper to print ridiculous once in a lifetime mortgage offers and credit card pre-approval letters, we reduce the number of trees required to fill the need. Therefore, the rain forests live, the animals rejoice and clear cutting becomes a term for the history books. Mills reform their procedures to make a better product as competition is reintroduced into the world market. It'd be like an environmentalist's wet dream come true. I'm still researching whether outlawing junk mail will save baby seals but the initial findings are very encouraging.

Lastly, outlawing junk mail will improve international relations. With our new wealth of sustainable forests and improved logging practices, the world can begin producing high quality toilet paper for everyone, not just us Americans. Men, women and children from England to Micronesia would praise our eco-friendly policies and concern for the wellbeing of their assholes. The youth of Asia could experience their first wipe with proper TP, fulfilling countless dreams and wishes. We wouldn't even have to send foreign aid they'd be so grateful, further strengthening our economic situation and increasing our power. Terrorism? Forget about it. Whose going to attack the country that rid the world of swamp ass?

There's still time to turn this country around. Bush hasn't put us so far in the hole that we'll never find our way out. All we need is a light and a ladder to help us out of the pit. I want to be that light and my policies the ladder. Just give me a chance. Together, I know we can rid this country of junk mail and save the world. Vote Calitri in '08.

Tony Robbins

Some melodic flowery prose for your Friday afternoon.

Oh, Monty. How I've missed your scent, your musk, your essence. You truly are the Salton of the sand lot. Exalted above all others, our chance meeting today was like a ray of sweet sunshine in an otherwise cloudy day. You are the powdered sugar of life, the raspberry of elation, the American cheese of sweetness. You're depth is unfathomable, a dark warm cave for just you and I. So many layers yet each put so perfectly together, the mesh so tight, that I can't help but think you were put here by the hand of God himself. Always willing to open up, you shed your hard shell and reveal your soft inners to me. Your honesty and forthcomingness is a welcome change in this world of hidden feeling and deceiving faces. The light reflects off your golden bronzed skin conjuring images of the ancient Roman god Apollo in all his glory and splendor. Your power could defeat Medusa, the Cracken and Tony Robbins all at the same time. To touch you is to touch perfection and to bask in your presence makes me fulfilled once again. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. No one I wouldn't kill for you. No kitten I wouldn't eat for you. Your greatness is so incomprehensible even God is jealous. I kneel to you and pledge, once again, my everlasting devotion, which no man will tear asunder. Guide me to inner peace and quench the unyielding hunger that burns within me like a spider monkey on fire. Sooth my worried mind, grease my guts and stuff me with your love. Calm my bowels as I make you my own.

I promise I'll finish you tomorrow. Thank you Bennagin's.

A Game of Suits

There are some things you do in everyday life that under certain circumstances just don't seem right. Everyday activities that, for reasons of surroundings or situation, don't feel right. And that's the conundrum I find myself in today.

Right now, I'm wearing a suit. It's a fairly nice suit. A black pin-striped Perry Ellis three button notch with a deep red Van Heusen button-down shirt and silver tie topped off with black leather shoes - not patent - and a black leather belt. I feel like I look pretty damn good too. People say I clean up nice. I don't know what that means but I'm assuming it's a good thing. The problem is I have to take a shit and I'm not sure I can do something so dirty when I'm looking so nice. I can't think of the last time I dropped a load while wearing a suit and it may have never happened before. Do I want to break that streak now? I don't think I'll be able to hold it all day.

So, if I'm going to do this, as it appears that I am, I really have to think everything through. Do I wear the suit jacket into the bathroom? This is a big occasion and I want to look nice if it is in fact the first time, but the shit could probably care less. It can't see what I look like. Or can it? If I wear the jacket in, how do I keep it off the toilet seat? It's dry clean only and if it touched I can think of no better reason to get it cleaned. But I'm lazy and don't want to take the time to get it cleaned - not to mention the money it would cost. Also, in the mental image I've conjured, the guy looks like he's wearing a dress with the jacket on. All in all, I think I'm going to veto the jacket and leave it on a chair. That's the right play.

But the jacket's only half the outfit. What about the pants? My main concern here is whether or not shitting in front of them will lower their opinion of me. Will they judge because the action I'm taking is below them? Will they tell the jacket what I've done when we get back? Will they refuse to be seen on me after this, choosing to be eaten by a pack of ravenous moths rather than grace my hairy legs with their presence?

The solution: I have to strip down to my boxers when I get into the bathroom and find a way to hide all my clothes so they can't see what I'm doing. That's the only way to shit in a suit and retain my dignity. Wish me luck.

New Issue

Two things for today.


I understand the need for advertising on web pages. You just wanted to make a little money off the web space you probably got for free. I'm totally fine with that. It's the American dream. It seems there are a couple of groups providing the advertisements to many different websites. Adsense - what blogger uses - is one of these companies. I don't put ads on my site because really, what's the point. I'd get two sense a week for the ten hits I get. Not a whole lot of sense in doing that.

Each of these companies has certain ads that they're paid to run and stream to the websites in their network. Again, a smart idea and it works great. No problems there. However, when one of these companies has a banner ad to run that's made up of half-naked girls bending over with the soundtrack of a woman moaning, we have a problem. Especially since I get this ad on multiple sites. Look, half naked girls bending over for a personal ad which only a loser would fall for is fine. In fact, I applaud the gratuitous use of objectified women to sell a product. But for the love of God, make it a silent ad.

As soon as that clip starts playing over home/work computer speakers or a stereo system every guy with a girlfriend, wife, boss or dignity panics. They thinking they'll surely get in trouble for perceived porn watching. It's like when you sneak onto your roommates computer or send your friend a file in college where the recipient would have to turn up the volume really loud to hear some asinine and random musing before being interrupted by an ungodly loud person screaming, "You like dicks!" I swear, this one ad is going to get ever guy in the country in trouble and we didn't even do anything. It's not our fault some asshole made a banner ad with sound. And it's not like we're going to porn sites and getting this. It's happening on your regular everyday blogs, news sites, ect. Something needs to be done.


A crime has been committed. Something so reprehensible it pains me to bring it up here but the demons must be exorcised. 2007 is not going to be a good year. Hell, the year may already be ruined because of this. I'm going into cave and hibernating like a bear. But instead of staying in for the winter, I'm hiding all year and coming out next spring (not like that).

If you haven't guessed it by now, Beyonce is on the cover of the '07 SI swimsuit issue. I repeat, "that's not even her real hair" Beyonce is on the cover of the swimsuit issue. What the hell is going on here? Have I warped to an alternate universe where annoying diva singers are considered supermodels? While Beyonce is a mildly attractive black woman with a decent body and standable face, she's no Tyra Banks in her prime. Trust me, I think she's very talented. As a singer not an actress. But when is the last time the cover of magazine sang to you? The cover of SI is for the most beautiful women and or woman in the world. Getting the cover is one of the most coveted achievements in modeling. How many of the model shot for this issue are out there crying and puking there guts up right now? I bet it's all of them. Damn you SI! You made a model cry! Now I know why I only have a subscription to ESPN the magazine. Sidenote: If any models out there need some comforting because of this unforeseen and incomprehensible turn of events, send me an email and I'll give you my address. You can live in my basement.

I can name ten women, all models, in five seconds that are better looking and more deserving than Beyo. In fact, why not put all of them on the cover at the same time. It kind of worked last year, although some of the models were a little old - and I know that's what they were going for. I can picture it now - on a beach with the sun setting over the water, a cloud passes lazily by as arms and legs entwine in the sand making a beautifully naked supermodel lesbian knot. Pulsing and contorting the knot would evolve from a square to a half hitch to a full-on carrick bend. It would be sexual and violent and people would call it art.

Fun with Ninjas

I'm throwing my hat in the ring. That's right, I believe I'm the father of Anna's baby girl. I should be the one to care for her, love her and whittle away her inheritance on drugs and wild sex orgies. She is going to get that money, right? It's a done deal then? Cause I don't want the kid without the money.

How did it happen? you may ask. Well, not that I want to admit to having sex with that fug beast but there are times in my life that I can't account for. For instance, I tend to sleep every day. Do I know what's going on in the world while I'm doing it? Hell, no! Not to mention, on more than one occasion I have gotten wasted at a party, blacked out and then passed out. Whose to say Anna wasn't waiting in the bushes, hopped up on trimspa and meth, ready to pounced with the skill and cunning of a cheetah onto my limp and unconscious body, ravaging me time and again as I dreamed of healthy good looking girls with large natural breasts and great asses. Whose to say she wasn't there every time I blacked out. I've been told I'm better drunk. I could have impregnated her any one of those times.

Personally, my favorite explanation involves no "sex" at all. And I do think this is THE one, since to my knowledge I continue to live crab free. Sometime in the night, approximately fifteen months ago, ninjas broke into my room. They gased me and tied me up, because no one can sneak up on Calitri, not even a ninja. Then they had a girl from an Asian massage parlor extract a sample of my sperm using the happy ending technique - they are clever aren't they? Next, they tracked the breast known only as "Anna" and placed the sample of my sperm somewhere inside "her" where it coupled with an egg of unknown origin to produce this "child". Naturally, I paid the ninja team a hansom sum up front and promised the rest when the inheritance came in. They said it was the easiest job they'd ever done. I came in under five and they didn't even have to sneak around "Anna". They said she just rolled around a lot, smelled a little funny and moaned/breathed once every twenty minutes. According to them the hardest part was finding their way out of the cave.

I know what you're thinking, Why use a highly trained ninja team? Well I'll tell you, plausible deniability. No one ever suspects a highly trained ninja team because most of the time you don't even know that they're there. Plus, the polar bears were too expensive.

Asylum Takes Reservations?

I went into the bathroom today to take a piss and, after a short shake and tickle, decided to spray the air freshener a bit. At this point you may be asking yourself, why did he use the air freshener or what the hell is a shake and tickle?

Well, I'll tell you my friends, the explanation is very simple. I'm hoping that the next person to use that bathroom will enter and smell it. Then, thinking that something truly foul must have happened not long before they got there, continue sniffing for signs of radioactive assmat material. The joy I glean from this whole scheme is the knowledge that their hair filled nostril detective are, in fact, searching for something that isn't there. Thusly, I have fooled them.

Even if my trap produces the opposite of its intended effect and they hold their breathe, I still win. I just made them hold their breathe the whole time they were in the bathroom for nothing. Ha! As you can see, it's a win win either way and I'm very bored.

Small Hands, Smaller Fingers

Work just hired a new guy - I'll name him Willy - and he is the sweetest man alive for one reason and one reason only - He's the smallest fucking dude you've ever seen in your life. He's like mini-me only he's 2/3 the size instead of 1/8 and he's not 2/3 the size of someone, he's just himself. So, maybe he's not like mini-me, but he's small either way. Don't get snowed though, he's no midget, dwarf or little person, though he may qualify by the letter of the law. He's just this tiny little man.

I can't imagine he's an inch over 4'-10". Unfortunately, I haven't worked up the courage to actually measure him. And I can't stop thinking about all the cool places he's been that I'll probably never fit into. All I can hope is that I'm like my grandmother and start to shrink down to a minuscule stature later in life. My dad's been shrinking lately too, so I'd say my chances are pretty good. His world has to be just like Stewart Littles without the whole hiding the tail in public thing. It's all so perfect. He can do anything he wants besides see over a bar. He doesn't have to bend over to see up an attractive woman's skirt, no one will ever get mad if he wants to stand through an entire Raven's game and retrieving something left on the floor is a snap.

Plus, Willy was a freakin' jockey. How cool is that? I'd never met a jockey before and quite honestly I thought they all died on the track or from liver failure. The fact that they can have a life after small-time horse racing boggles the mind. When the oppressive cold releases its grip on the northeast and horse begin to run again, you know where I'll be - at the track, baby! I go not to watch the horses but to see the rest of Willy's former friends and maybe get a couple of autographs. There has to be a way the track owners can get an event together where all the jockeys race sans horses. And they have to skip the whole way. And once a month wear dresses for the race. Oh god, I just had a small orgasm thinking about it.

Willy, you're one hell of an impish guy and I'm pushing for you stick around for a long time. My one request is that you start wearing or producing some kind of audible signal letting people know where you are. I swear, one day I'm going to walk around a cubical wall and accidentally run you over. I don't want that on my conscience.

A Letter to That Guy

Dear "That Guy",

Please, for the love of God, don't wear that corduroy sports jacket out. You already look like a douche bag. You've slicked down your Jew-fro into something that could only be classified as pseudo European. Not to mention, you look like the byproduct of Andre the giant and the hunchback of Notre dame. Honestly, this look is not for you. Let the Jew-fro go, buddy. Don't keep it bottled down with hair products. That thing's got to breathe man.

Only the coolest people can pull off the sport jacket with a tee-shirt underneath. A category which you've never seen before. Hell, I don't even know if I could pull it off. Although the only time you'd catch me in a sport coat is when I have matching pants and that's when we call it a suit. I have no idea who put this idea in your head but kill them before they destroy humanity, even if that person is you.

Look, you suck and everyone knows it, but it's not too late. Just wear something that makes sense for you and you'll be fine. There's someone out there for everyone. It doesn't matter if she can't fully close her mouth. You wore a corduroy jacket once. Who the hell are you to judge?

Bill Me Later

Let me start by say that I'm no political genius. My interest in politics is purely superficial, serving only to give fodder to my arguments when discussing various important issues over a breakfast casserole and bagels with my uncle at easter. As for my political stance, I would consider myself independent due to the simply fact that neither party has things right. I agree with democrats on some issues and republicans on others. Having said that, the moronic Maryland democratic party, which now has a death grip on the state's political landscape, has presented a bill that seems so incomprehensibly idiotic it demands to be commented on.

The bill's key proposal, interlaced with many other more frivolous issues, is to give the states electoral votes to the winner of the popular vote. Primarily, law makers in this God forsaken land feel this will help raise Maryland's importance on a national level. The idea sounds nice in theory, though if all the other states adopted a similar policy we'd be relegated back to political obscurity, and it would solve the problem that cropped up during the Gore vs. Bush election where Gore won the popular vote by 1/2%. If you consider that to be a problem.

However, I think a sane person who looks at this bill for more than a minute would come to realize how dumb of an idea this really is. For one, it would turn the electoral college into a retirement home for rich old white men. They would be left unattended to wander the halls of the capital with nothing to do, stripped of their power and will to live. As much as I'd like to torture rich old white guys, I feel like our forefathers put them in charge of presidential vote casting for a reason. They are the fail-safe. They are the safety factor. As a nation, I do believe we've progressed in education and culture. But to the point where this safety valve is useless? I think not. Just go outside and look around for a day. Make note of all the people in who's hands you'd put the future of our nation. That crazy guy on the corner, the women with all the cats or how about the hundreds of thousands of people in your city you've never met and don't know exist. Do you want them deciding what direction America takes? Sure, they get their say, but they don't have the final say. Personally, I'm not ready to turn that over to the masses. And thus, the old white man retains his job.

Another pit-fall of the proposal is a recount. We all remember the Florida recount. How much of a pain in the ass was that? Didn't it seem like it took forever? That's cause it was and it did. The electoral college serves to break the votes into their respective states, making it easy to narrow down the one or two states that were tight on voting and allow for individual recounts. If every state cast their electoral votes with the popular vote and it was a close race, like Gore vs. Bush, then the entire country would have to be recounted. It would be the first time in US history that we wouldn't have a president because it took so long to recount votes that one presidential term ended before the other began. I'm sure that wouldn't make us look incompetent to the international community.

How about this MD. Instead of trying to raise your image nationally through gimmicks and ploys, we concentrate on things within Maryland that need attention. Lets help people go to school and learn, get a job and become self-sufficient, feel safe walking down a city street. Maybe the government could even improve public services, protect the environment and pay down the state debt (something I'm convinced the Maryland democratic party will never accomplish) while they're at it. I bet if they do all those things, they'll improve Maryland enough that the national recognition will come freely. It's a win win that no one wants to be part of. Forget feebleminded bills and do something real for once MD.

The Night of Knights

Lately, I've been hearing a lot of morning radio ads while I drive into work for Medieval Times. Every time one comes on, I can't help but laugh, thinking about my own Medieval Times experience. As group events go, it was one hell of a time and I would highly recommend to anyone remotely considering it. We dressed up in robin hood/middle age costumes, got drunk and spent a good two or three hours yelling and eating. I think we throughly embarrassed every knight out there, including our own. Se manifik, no?

The only detriment was the need to carefully curb the cursing and watch what was said. There were children around who's mothers wouldn't appreciate their son or daughter's first words to be "fucking cunt". So, to help out if you ever decide to go, I felt the need to compile a list of family friendly (kinda) insults to hurl at the opposing knights to rob them of their manhood and generally demoralize them.

"Your lance looks flaccid and unused."

"If Chaucer wrote a book of prose about you it would have to be called 'The Canterbury Turds'"

"Way to go, Sir Lancenot!"

"I flogged your chamber maid."

"I haven't a seen a beating like that since Anne Boleyn."

"You call yourself a knight? You look more like a stable boy to me."

"Put down that sword and go back to playing your lute, page."

"Looks like there's been a barbarian invasion in your pantolunes, and someone's lost his head."

"You must have invented feudalism because you certainly are the master of it."

"I didn't see you on the Crusades, it sure was nice of daddy to get you into the provincential guard."

"I heard they call your sister 'the black death' because she puts so many good men on their backs."

"You're the biggest villager I've ever seen."

"You're lady-in-waiting is no longer waiting. I gave her what she what she was waiting for last night."

"The last time I saw a horse that sickly, it was your sister."

"Your horse smells like a goat."

"I heard the other knights talking outside the castle and they said your horse is small."

Ok, that's it. Enjoy.

Superblah

That, my friends, is what those of us in the business call a let down.

I wasn't that hyped for the superbowl to begin with. Didn't care about either of the teams. In fact, I more or less hated both teams. I was praying for a game where somehow both teams lose. Then, BAM! Hester returns the opening kickoff for a touchdown. First time in NFL history. CRASH! Reggie catches a long bomb from Manning an takes it in for the score. SNAP! A botched extra point attempt. It's Vinatieri! This kind of shit doesn't happen to Vinatieri! POW! T Jones busts free in the secondary and scampers to the five with Rex finding M squared in the end zone to cap the drive.

Wow, this first quarter is going awesome. This could be the best superbowl ever.

Nope. I was wrong.

Did anything happen after the first quarter? I'm not sure. I was either passed out on the couch due to boredom or excessive drinking. Let's assume it's the former.

Honestly, in a game like that one, when things start to slow down to the point where you think watching the Saddam hanging for the fifteenth time might be a good idea, they really need to inject some drama. For example, they could have a sniper positioned in the nose bleeds with his sights set squarely on Peyton's kneecap. It would be the greatest performance in modern football if Peyton finished the game without the use of one leg. Or, maybe a high speed chase somehow makes its way onto the turf with a flaming cop car losing control and careening into one team's bench, leaving half the team pushing up daisies. Or a half lion, half bear has escaped from the zoo and wandered onto the field turning Dolphin's stadium in the Colosseum. I know that's a little violent, but if there's one thing TV has taught me it's that violence is just another word for drama.

All I'm saying is this is supposes to be one of the greatest sporting events in the world. If it ends up being a borefest, what does that say about this country? Think about it America.