When one tatted up dreamboat decides to eject the wrong guy from a baseball game due to too much Pine Tar on his bat, world’s collide, lives crumble, and Ryan Gosling moodily smokes a bunch of cigarettes.
And if you don’t know what I’m talking about, check out this little gem.
FIN
(*Author’s note: this is not an advice column. If one more person offers me unsolicited parenting advice that is not directly related to me, I’m probably going to kiss my son on the head, apologize to my wife, and commit some kind of felonious crime in a misguided act of retaliation. I don’t know what I’m doing any better than anyone else does. However, the “you” I’m talking to here, is anyone that is a parent, has a strange sense of humor, and can identify with any of the skewed views that I have. I last checked in with readers in this post at the 9 month mark.)
- That tired thing? It’ll keep happening. Even when he “sleeps in” until 6. Even when your wife lets you sleep in until 9 on the weekends. Sometimes you’ll sleep so hard that your dreams have dreams of dreaming. You’ll crash land into bed, with landing gear not fully extended, and end up in a pile of human rubble. Limbs, arms, sheets, all tangled up together like some mutant boa constrictor. It will feel immensely gratifying to finally be laying down with the one that you love for a few minutes of complete, languid, relaxation.
You’ll turn on the second half of the West Coast NBA Playoffs game, vowing that this time you’ll make it all the way to the end. Then from within the tiny speakers of the baby monitor you’ll hear the chilling noise of stirring; a soft whimpering that reminds you, maybe you better get the hell to sleep while you still can, Daddy. After saying a quick apology to Steph Curry and the Golden State Warriors, you close your eyes and are asleep before the 3rd Buick ad featuring Shaq. (*Author’s note: they average about one Shaq-Buick commercial per 30 seconds, as a reference point.)
- I’ve learned to be careful around my baby’s teeth. My son has two adorable mini-teeth that have come up on the bottom. Poking out like two tiny white monuments to his growing-up, they sprouted fully a month or two ago from his bottom gum. Since my son joyfully puts everything he can grasp into his mouth, he used to happily toss Daddy’s fingers into the mix. Being the fool that I am I assumed that those mini-teeth were probably just for show and had not real functionality. Why not, I thought, let the little guy have his fun. He latched onto my finger like a reverse Dracula, digging his bottom teeth into my finger and latching on like a grinning, cute, viper. Baby teeth aren’t just for show, apparently. (*Author’s note: I can’t believe it took me 10 months to learn that, either.)
- I’ve learned that few things can prepare you for how excited you get watching your child learn how to walk. Watching his tiny legs instinctually drive him forward while you guide him by his tight-gripping hands, laughing hysterically as he figures out how far to stride and how high to lift his little knees. It will remind you a good deal of “The Ministry of Silly Walks” skit from Monty Python.
- I’ve learned that few things can be as terrifying as watching your child learn to walk. Suddenly here they are, this once safely immobile/slow-moving bundle of happiness, recklessly hauling their miniature frames around the house, heedless of edges and corners and bad footing. Wildly happy to be breaking free from their hands and knees and carpet-scenery they fearlessly launch into gigantic strides and too-fast pacing.
- I’ve learned that your child’s impeding mobility will have a profound effect on your feelings of safety. Suddenly the safety precautions of your home don’t seem like enough. We’ve purchased two baby gates. I feel like we need roughly 47 more. I want baby gates inside of baby gates inside of padding inside of bubble wrap. And that’s just for the kitchen.
My Ideal kitchen set up. . .
- I’ve learned that my child needs a bath after nearly every meal. Eschewing the spoon-fed days of his youth, my independent-minded child wants it to be known that he is calling the plastic –dinner-table shots. Two-fisting peas, inhaling bananas, attempting to lay claim to the world-speed-eating record for peaches (*Author’s note: in the under 10-month-old division, of course) it sometimes seems as though he has 3 hands and they’re all improbably full of food. So is his mouth. So is his chair. So is his hair. Twisting joyfully, babbling a tune that only he knows, he smashes beans across his face and gleefully squishes the juice from a pear chunk; painting a masterpiece with hot dogs, spilled juice, and little hands.
- I’ve learned that expanding your bath-night repertoire to include some other B’s besides just the Beastie Boys is a good thing. Say hello to Bob Marley, the Bee Gees and “Big Willy Style”, my son.
- I’ve learned that teaching my son to play a scaled back version of catch is my new favorite thing. Each time I bounce him the ball and he dives onto it, gripping it between his tiny hands and pulling it up to proudly display for me to see, I can’t help but feel a flood of fierce fatherly pride and a spinning dizziness at how far we’ve come in 10 months.
- I’ve learned that going a month between doctor’s appointments after a winter of spending far too much time in waiting rooms and under white examination lights is worthy of a nearly-arm-shattering fist pump.
- I’ve learned that if there is anything on the carpet my son will find it. He will put it in his mouth. And he will chew on it.
- I’ve learned that, when pushed to it, I have the reflexes of a mongoose; leaping from my couch-bound lethargy with puma-like speed and laying out into a Sportscenter Top 10 dive onto the carpet. . .and I still don’t move fast enough to keep all the crud that he finds so appealing out of his mouth.
I’ll risk another bite-wound, probing his mouth in the hopes of pulling out whatever snack he’s decided to latch onto. Sometimes I find it. Sometimes he keeps chewing.
- I’ve learned that watching our child bring happiness to those around him is indescribably joyful. Redundant? Perhaps, but I simply have no other words for it. There is a kind of glow that a 10-month-old baby projects, a light. It comes from their smile, from their uncontrollable belly laughs that shake their whole tiny frame. It comes from their little limbs and little hearts and turns into something that’s really quite large. It mirrors the joys of the world that you love so much and it encapsulates the love that created such a wonderful being. That light isn’t just yours for the basking, either. It touches anyone around them, be it Grandparents or cousins or aunts or neighbors or a cashier checking your groceries who just wants to see a shy little smile from within the folds of a car-seated blanket.
- I’ve learned that watching your child interact with relatives can bring about a feeling of fullness. Contentedness. It can bring warmth to a place that certainly wasn’t cold to begin with but that, suddenly, is packed to the brim. Seeing him laugh and play, kiss and hug, brings on an unheeded upswell in euphoria that now makes you realize just what, for all those years, your parents were talking about.
- I’ve learned that 10 months comes and goes. Carried away in the ticking of the clock and the swinging of the pendulum. But I’ve learned that nothing is more important than the here and now. A moment with your child is truly the moment. That each new step, literal and figurative, opens another part of your heart that you didn’t even know was there. That each day of each month adds up, brick by glorious brick, mortared together with tickled bellies and snatch-kissing toes, and games of family peek-a-boo that stretch dusk into evening and evening into starry spring nights.
- I’ve learned so much in 10 months. And I’ve learned so much in 10 months and two days. And so my education will continue. An unwritten sonnet or adventurer’s tale.
- I’ve learned to be thankful for the beauty of a frozen moment, oh yes. But I’ve also learned to be excited about those blank pages of the future that stare back at my family and I, practically begging for some ink. . .
FIN
(*Author’s note: this is not an advice column. If one more person offers me unsolicited parenting advice that is not directly related to me, I’m probably going to kiss my son on the head, apologize to my wife, and commit some kind of felonious crime in a misguided act of retaliation. I don’t know what I’m doing any better than anyone else does. However, the “you” I’m talking to here, is anyone that is a parent, has a strange sense of humor, and can identify with any of the skewed views that I have. I last checked in with readers in this post at the 8 month mark.)
- That tired thing? Still happening. At this point, you’re beginning to realize that you might never feel well rested again. Even though somehow you already know that it will always be worth the exhaustion, you might find the half-moon circles under your eyes are waxing towards a full harvest moon. When you’re taking an emergency turn sitting up with him at 2 in the morning and you suddenly realize that you might be sitting up with your child for the rest of your life it will make you feel both incredibly important and incredibly insignificant.
- At 9 months you learn to not overanalyze the strange juxtapositions that have beset you on all parental sides. They’re beautiful. They’re terrifying. Their like nothing you’ve ever known and are as exhilarating as they are breathtaking.
- You’ll get Backyardigans songs stuck in your head. Actually, that’s not quite right. You’ll get them surgically implanted into your brain. Sledgehammered into your consciousness like John Henry himself was doing the pounding. You’ll find yourself humming tunes from the show, paying more attention than your child, and even rewinding to catch your favorite numbers when they pop up. You’ll look up one day and realize that you have 25 episodes recorded onto your DVR and that you know each of the characters by name and by dance-move. One day you’ll be alone in the house, flipping through the DVR and you’ll stop for a second, checking over your shoulder, as your remote hovers over an unwatched episode. You’ll almost watch a show for 2-year-olds. By yourself. Shaking your head you’ll decide to watch reality TV. Thank goodness for trash TV.
- I’ve learned that even though my son can just army-crawl, he can get from one side of the room faster than if he was teleporting. If I turn my back for 10 seconds he’ll have gone coast to coast like a March Madness buzzer-beater. Bags. Cups. Pieces of fuzz. He will find them. He will attempt to taste them. He will worm his way through any defenses you have set up like a miniature Chuck Norris escaping a Vietcong prison camp in a corny late night movie.
- Seeing your son/daughter crawl will be one of the most mesmerizing things you have ever witnessed. The full-body struggle as he inches along. The undeniable heart and effort he puts forth as he pushes and pulls and heaves his tiny body forward. There’s no need for ESPN. No need for a sporting event. You have the entire gamut of the human struggle before you.
- I’ve learned that it’s hard not to jump in and help your child. Seeing him push and strain and fight for movement, I’ve had trouble not getting down in there and giving him a boost. Each time I try to tell myself, look. . .you don’t want to be that guy. You know, the creepy, vicariously-living Dad who is always up in his son’s business. (*Author’s note: see: the US Men’s Gymnastics Dads.) I try not to micro-manage or Debbie Phelps my son at 9 months, but it’s turned out to be tougher than I thought. I’m doing my best not to lurk, though.
- I’ve learned that you can still hold onto a tiny, minute sliver of hope that your child will end up being taller than you. When I found out my projected height was 5’9” my dreams of NBA superstardom were immediately dead in the water. But when it was revealed to me that my son has some tall family members somewhere buried deep within the family tree (*Author’s note: so deep, in fact that they’re technically somewhere in the trunk) my dreams of a son who is 6’4” with a silky smooth jumper were revitalized. I found myself rooting for a freakish DNA gene that somehow managed to skip 5 generations but will reemerge with a vengeance. And a three-point stroke that would make Reggie Miller jealous.
- I’ve learned that my son may have a better future in soccer or running since he’ll probably be about as tall as I am. Damn it.
- I’ve learned that Puffs, the cereal-like, quick-dissolving little munchables are one of the single greatest inventions in the history of mankind. They need to get their own piece of Mount Rushmore. Just carve ‘em off a piece and I don’t think any parent of a 9-month old would complain.
The Founding Fathers and their plus one. . .
My son loves them. He crams them into his tiny, two-toothed mouth with astonishing fervor and surprising dexterity. He’s learning how to chew, we’re getting a chance to sit, and everyone’s happy. The only problem is that he’s so baby-crunk that he wants to jam all of them into his tiny mouth at once.
- I’ve learned that there is a math equation for the above-mentioned scenario for those statisticians reading this.: 2 teeth + 5 Puffs + 9 Months of living = chaos.
- I’ve learned that you can be surgically precise when pulling a puff out of your son’s throat if he gets a little too ambitious and decides, “you know what? I’m just gonna swallow this bad boy. As is. No need for all that chewing junk.”
- I’ve learned that watching our little man jam 5 puffs into his tiny mouth at once is a little too close to someone putting a mirror in front of me while I’m pounding my way through a bag of popcorn. Or chips. Or really any—you know what? I’m just going to stop there for now. Moral of the story? Judge not, lest ye be judged. Or something like that.
- I’ve learned that adding in another “B” to our “Boys, Bath Night, Beastie Boys” isn’t too bad. Welcome aboard, Bob Marley. As long as he can’t see what you were doing when you were singing this song, than I’m okay with me and my boy jamming out to it.
- I’ve learned that 9-months can fly by. It can surge past in a tidal wave of seated-in-a-rocker adrenaline rushes and breathtaking moments of baby triumph. It can zoom past at an astounding rate that leaves you in a full on sprint to keep up. When you’ve made it nine months you’re still at the foot of the mountain, but you’re high up enough to look back and see where you’ve come from; to page through pictures of your child when they’re still forearm small and to flip through that book until you see them turning, page by page, into a little boy or a little girl.
- I’ve learned that 9-months can feel like forever. That your child can seem so ingrained in you, such an integral part of who you are and what your relationship with your spouse has become that it’s strange to think back to 10 months ago and realize that they weren’t physically here, yet. It can drag by agonizingly slow when you’re holding a crying baby and hoping that this time he’ll finally be able to fall back asleep so he can mercifully get a little more rested.
- You’ll learn that 9 months is here and gone. Heart-beating minutes slip to love-whispered hours in a beautiful maelstrom of moments. Of images. Of tickling kisses on soft rosy cheeks and family dance breaks to old school hip hop. Of hands holding hands holding young life aloft. You’ll learn to drink deeply of the moment. Drink deeply of the here. The now.
- I’ve learned that, the moment you get cocky, smirking as you attempt to one-hand your son’s diaper, you will get peed on. You’ll stand there, shirt adorned with the latest in urine chic and he’ll giggle and you’ll call to mind all the times you thought it was hilarious to pee on stuff as a little boy. You’ll tip your cap to karma and get a fresh diaper, this time using two hands.
- I’ve learned that 9 months is not nearly enough time to give me words to describe the love that has grown, inch by inch, smile by smile, right along with our little son.
- I’ve learned that I’m speechlessly, wordlessly, fiercely grateful for the past 9 months.
- I’ve learned that it has been such an incredible journey, thus far. And I’ve learned that, with shining eyes and drum-hammering hearts as we look to the horizon as a brand new family, the best is yet to come. . .
FIN
Damn you Autocorrect!
FIN
(*Author’s note: this is not an advice column. If one more person offers me unsolicited parenting advice that is not directly related to me, I’m probably going to kiss my son on the head, apologize to my wife, and commit some kind of felonious crime in a misguided act of retaliation. I don’t know what I’m doing any better than anyone else does. However, the “you” I’m talking to here, is anyone that is a parent, has a strange sense of humor, and can identify with any of the skewed views that I have. I last checked in with readers in this post at the 7-Month Mark)
- You’ll still be tired. I make a point to touch on this in every installment of this post so far, not for sympathy, but just to let anyone that has seen me staring vacantly out a window with my mouth hanging slackly open and appearing for all the world to be going completely, 100%, Jack-Nicholson-in-The-Shining-crazy, know that I’m not going to grab an axe and murder Scatman Crothers. I’m just tired.
- You’ll figure out your own ways to beat the fatigue. Whether it’s with a gigantic caffeine kickstand, propping your wakefulness up with more coffee than a Barista could Barist in a week, or all the un-natural goodness that is potassium benzoate, acesulfame potassium, and any other Sci-Fi sounding ingredients that permeate the deliciousness of Diet Mountain Dew. You’ll make it through the days and find that, once you’re headed home to lay on the carpet and roll around as partners in block-knocking crime with your little one, you’ll be filled with a kind of adrenaline that couldn’t be captured in any drink or mixture on the planet.
- Your child will get sick – and if you’ve made it this long without any issues, consider yourself lucky – and it will cause an onslaught of surging emotions. You’ll feel sad and small and helpless. Your already re-defining definitions of masculinity (if you’re a dude) will get tested as you’ll have to do your best to dam up the tears that threaten when your son coughs himself awake.
- You’ll take him to the doctor more than you should. You’ll rack up exorbitant co-pays. You’ll feel like a hypochondriac during a flu epidemic and anytime anyone coughs around your child you’ll feel like leaping from your chair and forcing the cougher to put on a surgeon’s mask while shouting, “Not in here, Typhoid Mary!!!”
- You’ll scrub your hands until the only way to get them cleaner is by rinsing them in napalm. Then you’ll clean them again, looking conspiratorially around your office and trying to pick out who might have smuggled an Ebola-possessing monkey into America. No shaking that guy’s hand.
- In the end you’ll try to rationalize with yourself. You’ll try to hostage negotiate some sensibility into your life and pump your brakes. Yes, the poor little guy seems to have a cough and, yes, his nose is running like an un-plummered faucet. But he’s okay. He’s happy. The doctor says he’s alright and, in the end, things could be much, much worse. You’ll take a deep breath and, finally getting a handle on your emotions, you’ll drop your guard for a moment.
- You’ll hear him cough again and you’ll immediately purchase two tickets on the night train to medical insanity and start the whole process over again.
-You’ll learn not to fight this feeling so much, but to try to minimize the damage on your sleep-deprived psyche. Good luck. I still struggle with this one.
- I’ve learned that the wait for your child to crawl is agonizing. I’ve been rooting for his first forward motion for a few months now and watching him push himself up to hands and knees, his tiny body firmly resolved to break gravitation’s pull, and seeing him rock back and forth as he tries to figure out how to head in a forward trajectory is both stunningly adorable and tough to stay out of. I always find myself up in my son’s business, trying to coach him along. My wife, the perennial voice of reason in our household, usually talks me down from being a Dadager in training. It’s tough to let them do that on their own. (*Author’s note: If your child is crawling, I’m sure you’re saying, “Oh, really, moron? You want your child to be able to get around to all the places you don’t want them to? Brilliant idea, Stephen Hawking.” But, still. I’m ready for my boy to crawl to glory.)
- I’ve learned the four “B”s: boys, bath night, Beastie Boys. Yes. My son and I occasionally find ourselves getting ready to head to the tub for his routine bathing. What better way for two dudes to bond than by cranking up the Beastie Boys on Pandora and doing our best to rap along to “No Sleep ‘Til Brooklyn”? I know enough of the words to keep my son entertained. He knows enough of his Daddy to not expect too much lyrical mastery. Forget candles, and rose petals and sissy notions of what a bath can be. This is crunk. This is “Sabotage” and “Fight For Your Right to Party” mixed with Johnson and Johnson baby soap. As you can tell, I enjoy a good bath night.
No. . .sleep. . .’til Bathnight!!!!!
- I’ve learned that nothing is so gloriously beautiful as your child learning how to sit up and play. You think your kid laying down and playing with toys is cute? Or sitting on your lap and playing with toys is cute? It’s exponentially cuter when they’re sitting up themselves and really focused in on how to best knock over the stack of blocks you’ve just built up in front of them or their intently watching their handiwork after pushing a musical light-up button on their rolling music toys.
- I’ve learned that getting your child clothed can be a gentler version of a WWE wrestling match. Our son, passionately if not verbally identifies himself as a nudist. If it was up to him, he’d roll right out into the snow wearing nothing but his birthday suit and his favorite pacifier. Once he has clothing on, he’s fine. But getting those clothes onto his tiny little body is a whole different ball game. He twists, he turns. He Harry Houdinis like his sweatshirt is a strait jacket and he’s in a chained-shut coffin under the water. I’m too gentle. He’s too strong. For a brief moment, he’s calling all the shots. He’s the strong one and I’m the timid, fragile one. I am so desperate to avoid injuring him that often times I end up trying to clothe him fully standing up. This goes about as well as you can imagine.
- I’ve learned that hearing my child coo and giggle and find his voice cannot be put into words.
- I’ve learned that hearing your child say “Dada” pulls at you, from some unknown depths, some primal drum-beating part of my heart that courses a surging joy, ricocheting from limb to limb, synapse to synapse and that hearing two syllables floating there, hovering thickly in the air, as clear as if you were reading a speech bubble in a Sunday morning cartoon can alter an already altered course. It gives a kind of power. A king of courage that defies description.
- I’ve learned that hearing my child say “Mama” and listening as he coos my wife’s name can shrink the universe down. It can reduce the unquantifiable vastness of everything and everywhere – of infinity – down to a place. Down to a moment. Down to three people and two words and a tiny little smile that’s virally contagious.
FIN
Sure, the Super Bowl was fun and all. But what was the highlight of the night? What breathlessly beautiful, majestic display of sport will forever live on in the collective hearts and minds of the American public? Will it be our deer friend Ray Lewis playing for his legacy until the final horn of the game? Will it be Joseph Vincent Elite Dragon Flacco finally stepping out from the shadow of his almost-same-named counterpart of the silver screen, Shane Falco?
Well, those were nice, too. But how about a washed-up former hot dog eating champion renting himself out to what appears to be a frat keggar and then crushing an entire pizza in under a minute? Enjoy.
This footage started making the internet rounds shortly after the big game. The actual details behind the incident are a little fuzzy. But, yes, that is former competitive eating sensation Takeru Kobayashi. It appears he was rented out for the evening for some $3,250.
What does $3,250 get you?
- A new unofficial world record.
- A chance to tauntingly call Kobayashi “Bro” from the wings.
- A brief moment of internet stardom that immediately goes haywire as people start realizing that there is one girl at your entire party and that you had the cash for a $3,250 guest of honor but that you charged $5 a cup at your keg?
I love how, in the beginning of the video, everyone’s hyper-crunk to watch Kobayashi smash the whole pizza. But, as he gets going the crowd falls mostly silent. (*Author’s note: except for the negative Bro-caller from off camera. I bet that the one girl I saw wasn’t there with him. Just call it a hunch.)
So why did the aforementioned crunkness vanish so quickly to whence it came? Here are my best guesses:
1. It’s probably pretty nasty watching a dude smash a full pizza in 60 seconds. I’ve watched many an eating contest in my day and they’re somehow less glamorous than you’d think. And no one thinks they’re glamorous. Don’t believe me? Pause-face Joey Chestnut at next year’s 4th of July hot dog eating contest. He looks like he’s in almost as much pain as our deerly beloved Ray Lewis was when he was trying to sing along to Alicia Keys’ National Anthem.
2. They were silently hopeful that he was going to turn into Michelangelo, the Ninja Turtle, midway through eating.
3. “Dude, that was totally the last pepperoni pizza, bro. So not cool!”
4. They realized, with a burgeoning terror, ringing in the depths of their tremulous souls like a vile gong-blast, that they may have just opened the Pandora’s box of competitive eating, giving Kobayashi the confidence to rise from the ashes of obscurity like a miniature Japanese Phoenix and once again challenge American eaters with relentless fervor. What have you done, bros? What have you done, all-dude-party? Nooooooooooooooo!
5. They were all too busy getting their Screen Actor’s Guild cards for the ensuing Domino’s Pizza commercial spinoff that will inevitably happen.
FIN
The Super Bowl is almost here. Which, for most of America, is pretty much a huge national party. There will be feasting. There will be cheering. And there will be beering. So what do you need to spice up your Super Bowl party? How about Burnpoetry’s official Super Bowl XLVII Drinking Game? Get to a printer, get to the liquor store, and get ready.
Take One Drink:
- Every time someone makes a devastatingly hilarious “Super-Baugh” reference.
- Any time someone makes the hysterically witty “Har-Bowl” crack.
- Any time you hear the words “Sibling Rivalry.”
- Any time you see a closeup of Ray Lewis sobbing like a tween during an un-asked slow dance at the school formal.
(*Author’s note: bonus drink if he does so while “I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing” by Aerosmith is somehow playing in the background)
I could stay awake, just to hear you breathing. . .
- If you find yourself mesmerized by the freshest, most chic accessory in the game today: Jim Harbaugh’s marker necklace.
- Anytime CBS mentions Hurricane Katrina. They will, too. If history is any indicator of things to come, make sure you have at least 4 beers devoted to this one challenge alone.
- **CLOSEUP OF CAJUN FOOD ALERT**
- Anytime CBS cuts to the booth and you realize that Phil Simms and Jim Nantz might be the two whitest dudes in America. Seriously. They make Brent Musburger look like B-Rabbit from 8 Mile.
- When Jennifer Hudson comes out and destroys “God Bless America”, leaving it in a flaming pile of scorched, musically-awesome, rubble.
- When someone inevitably makes a lip-synching joke during her performance.
- If someone makes a Weight Watchers joke while she’s singing.
(*Author’s note: if you’re watching the game with me, just take two drinks and get them out of the way.)
- Someone mentions Colin Kaepernick’s tattoos.
- Someone brings up the “Is Joe Flacco an Elite Quarterback” topic that, at this point, is more tired than a narcoleptic watching C-Span after chugging Nyquil.
- **TORREY SMITH”S BROTHER, NAME-DROP ALERT**
Take Two Drinks:
- When Vernon Davis makes a catch and someone joyously shouts out “VD!” thereby becoming the first person to ever shout that out with glee.
- If the announcers mention Joe Flacco’s height.
- When the announcers show that Joe Flacco has been killing it this postseason, compare his stats to some of the all-time great post-season runs, and he comes out on top.
- When the announcers mention how he beat both Tom Brady and Peyton Manning. On the road.
- When you realize that you’re still not really convinced that you’d want Flacco on your team over any of the other QB’s he’s beaten this year. Welcome to Eli Manning territory, Flacco.
- If someone you’re watching the game with claims they “only watch for the commercials.”
- If someone you’re watching the game claims they’re “only here for Beyonce.”
(*Author’s note: 5 bonus drinks if that person is you. Pervert.)
- Anytime you hear the term “pistol offense.”
(*Author’s note: Please designate a driver.)
- **SUPER-SKANKY GODADDY.COM COMMERCIAL ALERT**
- The announcers refer to the Aldon Smith/Justin Smith duo as “The Smith Brothers” and a non-football fan watching the game asks, “Are they really brothers?”
- If Kaepernick keeps the ball on a zone-read, doesn’t look like he’s running that fast, but suddenly is doing 22 MPH down the sidelines for a big gainer.
- If Anquan Boldin goes over the middle for a nice catch and the announcers fall over themselves talking about his willingness to go over the middle.
Take Three Drinks:
- Anytime you hear New Orleans-style jazz music, like we’ve stumbled into the credits of Treme.
- If Flacco throws a cannon-armed deep ball that makes you think he’s worthy of this fake Wikipedia nickname I discovered before they took it down:
- If Joseph Vincent “Elite Dragon” Flacco throws a pick that is neither elite nor dragon-esque.
- If Kaepernick hits Randy Moss on a pass.
(*Author’s note: bonus 3 drinks if Moss proceeds to act like he’s mooning the crowd and/or runs over a parking attendant after the game.)
- If they show any of this interview for your enjoyment:
- If Jay-Z steps onto the stage with Beyonce during halftime and shuts the whole Super Bowl down for an ill rap break.
- If you can hear me getting hyper-crunk and screaming, “Awwwwwww, yeaaaaahhhhh.” Like a crappy hype-man when Jay-Z steps onto the stage.
- When Beyonce gyrates all over the stage and you realize you might, in fact, not be ready for that jelly.
- If you try to decipher the Roman Numerals of Super Bowl XLVII and just end up Googling it.
- Anytime anyone mentions Ray Lewis’ impending retirement/”riding off into the sunset”/emotional leadership/last hurrah.
- Anytime the the broadcast team mentions the fact that Ray Lewis may or may not be hopped up on more deer antlers than a game of Big Buck Hunter.
- If, during the course of the game you suddenly realize that Jim Harbaugh’s most famous relative isn’t actually John Harbaugh. It’s Screech from Saved by the Bell!
Chug It. . .Chug It. . .:
- If Jim Harbaugh throws his marker necklace into a crowd and a confused New Orleans-ian (*Author’s note: Oreleansite? Orleanser? Orlander?) flashes him out of habit.
- When you realize that you’ve been forever mentally scarred by your 2 month stint as a dishwasher/un-licensed cook/cigarette-and-energy-drink Gofer for a place called Da Cajun Shak and that any images of Cajun food and/or life make you scathingly bitter and furious about all things Louisianan. Oh, is that just me? Damn. . .I better get a 30 pack.
- Anytime they show the 49ers’ top secret, game-changing weapon on the sidelines: this guy.
FIN
(*Author’s note: this is not an advice column. If one more person offers me unsolicited parenting advice that is not directly related to me, I’m probably going to kiss my son on the head, apologize to my wife, and commit some kind of felonious crime in a misguided act of retaliation. I don’t know what I’m doing any better than anyone else does. However, the “you” I’m talking to here, is anyone that is a parent, has a strange sense of humor, and can identify with any of the skewed views that I have. I last checked in with readers in this post at the 6 month mark.)
- You’ll learn to love watching your child try to sit up, watching their tiny bodies firing into multiple gut-busting crunches as they get so, so close. It will remind you that you were once so small and determined. It will remind you that, maybe, you should do a few crunches of your own.
- Your child will gleefully smash through a blended up baby-cocktail of pureed meat and veggies and it will vaguely remind you of the gravy from the Salisbury steak that your elementary used to serve. You will wonder why that is and then realize that you have zero desire to delve any deeper into that dark childhood memory.
- Your baby will begin to really have a handle on that whole “sitting up thing.” But the moment you turn your back, suddenly defying fate in an attempt to grab a camera/video recording device/some heavily caffeinated sleep-destroying drink your child will pitch off to one side like a drunkard trying to walk their way across a tight rope on the fishing boat from The Perfect Storm. They may fully wipe out, they may softly slide over and be fine. Either way, your snare-drum-rolling heart will crash-land right along with them. You’ll dive for them, laying out into a Sportscenter-highlight dive.
You’ll inevitably come up just short and end up scooping them off the floor with kisses and apologies. They’ll smile at you within 15 seconds and your rug burned elbows won’t even matter.
- Your baby will begin to have a handle on that whole “sitting up thing.” But the moment you turn your back, suddenly required to tempt fate yet again, they will continue to sit up perfectly balanced; a miniature acrobat, their lithe little body swaying side to side with no worry of falling, showing all the equilibrium of a seasoned jungle cat hunting its prey.
- You’ll still be exhausted. Some mornings you’ll stumble to work like an extra from The Walking Dead. You’ll faceplant into 8:45 AM and have to pull yourself out from the shallow grave of sleep deprivation with one bony, Diet Mountain Dew clutching hand at a time.
- I’ve learned that there is a devil. And his name is Thrush. Thrush is a mouth infection that, essentially, makes it painful to eat. While that sounds like a fad diet that would be a smash hit in Beverly Hills it really, really sucks to watch a hungry baby cry when he tries to eat solid foods. Fortunately for us, he is still able to eat certain types of food and drink bottles. Unfortunately for us, we can’t seem to get rid of it. As I write this today, my wife’s taking him in to see the doctor for the 3rd time about it.
- I’ve learned that trying to teach your child to crawl can be the highlight of your day. Watching him push himself up, proudly arching his back and using his sturdy little arms to heave himself upward catches my eye every time. As he struggles and squirms and kicks and pushes I edge towards cheering wildly. As he flops down, exhausted, onto his tummy to recover, I feel like I should rush in and try to give him a Mick-From-Rocky style pep talk.
I hold back, waiting. Watching. I’ve learned that seeing him kick his legs, pushing and reaching and straining, as he seeks a foothold, is far more exciting to watch then I believed it could be. His arms are good. His legs are ready. But they don’t want to work together. Sound familiar, the Lakers?
- I’ve learned that one day very soon he’ll crawl. And I’ll be right there on the carpet, cheering him on like it’s the homestretch of the Olympic Marathon.
- I’ve learned that he might be starting to take an interest in what’s on the T.V. Which is good and bad. I watched my first 30 minutes of The Backyardigans and found it to be, shockingly, enjoyable. He stared in rapt attention, even squealing with delight in parts. I, in turn, found myself inexplicably out of snide remarks. No inappropriate comments, no beefs with the editing or storyline. I just. . .let go. It was refreshing. (*Author’s note: full disclosure, I had seen bits and pieces of The Backyardigans before while babysitting and found it to be one of the less grating Children’s shows, so it wasn’t a total surprise I enjoyed it.) I was, unsurprisingly, proud of myself.
- I’ve learned that my child might be paying attention to what’s on T.V. Which means that the 4 Friday the 13th movies I just DVR’d might need to wait until after he’s asleep. Sorry, Jason Vorhees. No murdering of drugged up, boozed down, horndog campers until at least 8 P.M.
My new watching schedule. . .
- I’ve learned that my son likes to sing along to some of the music on the radio.
- I’ve learned that my son is a better singer than Taylor Swift. And that I like his lyrics better, too.
- I’ve learned that it’s tough not to want to auto-tune his high-pitch squealing, slap some dope bass bumps and a few tough snare-shots behind it and lay down something that could absolutely make Ryan Seacrest’s top-40. It’s easy to see how so many parents end up thinking that their kid is the next Usher. (*Author’s note: I was originally going to go with the ‘Michael Jackson’ here, but at this point I think every parent knows that the talent sure wasn’t worth the baggage. Right, Michael Lohan?
- Your child will start taking what I call, “Grown-Man Poops.” Gone are the days of semi-smelly, “oh, that’s almost cute” style doo-doo. Oh, no. You’ve now entered into the realm of solid foods, meats, veggies, and undeniable baby-stank.
Where before the little man’s poopy diapers kind of gently wafted your way and left you saying things like, “Uh-oh. . .did somebody go number 2?” Now, his diapers Louisville Slugger you right in the nostrils and leave you saying things like, “Gugagugugughhhhhhhh.” No longer are diaper changes leisurely events that you can take your time to execute. Now they’re done at NASCAR pit crew speed and followed up by you hauling the offending diaper out and searching desperately for a flame thrower to light that bad boy up.
I know this photo doesn’t really make sense. . .
(*Author’s note: I know this photo doesn’t technically make any sense. Bear with me.)
- I’ve learned that you can spend 127 words talking about your child’s diapers.
- I’ve learned that moment by moment, piece by piece, my little baby is becoming a little boy. Each piece of his growth, from his silly laugh turning into a legitimately breath-stealing giggle to his fuzzy little head turning into an ever-lightening patch of hair that I can’t stop running my fingers through, is a mesmerizing, orchestral note in the prelude of his symphony.
Each little wiggling toe, jammed deep into the carpet as he attempts to hold himself up, swaying like a rookie surfer on his first big wave, each little finger that probes and grabs and has learned to change the channels on the remote control just like channel-flipping-Daddy is really just a thread in the border of his sublime tapestry.
- I’ve learned to enjoy these pieces. To marvel at the small, brightly lit moments that will inevitably fit together like a stained glass masterpiece. To wonder at what pieces are yet to come and to be thankful that I’ve been there for the building, the weaving, and the construction all the way from the ground floor up.
FIN
I’m not entirely sure what the hell is going on. Yesterday I thought I had a relatively decent, surface-level, idea of who Manti Te’o was. I think a lot of sports maniacs like myself did. Hell, I think a lot of casual sports fans recognized his name, his skill on the football field, and his “story.” Manti’s story, up until yesterday, was inspirational. It was rare. It was about an exceptionally skilled player overcoming exceptional off the field adversity and somehow using the heat of his own anguish to forge himself into something bigger than the game.
Turns out, we didn’t know jack.
(*Author’s note: this feeling isn’t particularly new to me, but some of you may be unaccustomed to realizing that, really, we’re all kind of schmucks.)
For those of you living in a Ted Kaczynski-style shack or dwelling in a secret underground bunker, I’ll catch you up briefly. This fall, senior Notre Dame linebacker Manti Te’o was all over the news. You see, he was playing really well and his “story” had just become something of an inspirational tale of fighting through different layers of personal grief. We were told that Te’o had lost both his Grandmother and his girlfriend within the span of 6 hours. They had both died of diseases — his girlfriend’s, we learned, was leukemia — and, shortly thereafter, he had emerged onto the field to play a heart-wrenchingly emotional game that captivated the country.
The Fighting Irish won in an upset that night and, after riding the emotion and physicality of their star linebacker (*Author’s note: and catching a few insanely lucky breaks) they ended up playing in the BCS National Title Game.
Notre Dame got exposed by Alabama that night. They got de-pantsed, drug kicking into the light. They were revealed to be impostors. The curtain was unceremoniously ripped back and we didn’t much like what we saw.
Yesterday we found out what fraud really is.
You see, Manti Te’o's girlfriend wasn’t actually dead. They hadn’t met at a football game. She wasn’t the “most beautiful person he’d ever met” and he wasn’t “honoring her passing with his play on the field.”
Not only was she not dead. She had never lived. She didn’t exist. She was a figment of someone’s imagination. A puff of smoke. A David Copperfield illusion that, after a few abra-cadabra’s seemed real enough until we watched things back in slow motion.
Yesterday evening the University of Notre Dame Athletic Director claimed that Te’o had been the victim of an elaborate and devious prank that had taken advantage of his innocence and his belief in his, *sniff* *sniff*, fellow man.
But you probably already knew all of this. You probably have heard about Manti’s situation, ad nauseam, for the past 1.5 days. I’ll leave the rest of the digging to the real professionals.
What I want to know more about is Lennay Kekua. That’s the fake-dead fake-girlfriend of Te’o. Who is she really? Who was behind this scam? Was he in on it? What else isn’t Manti telling us? Let’s talk this thing out together.
- So Manti found out about his fake-dead, fake-girlfriend being a hoax only a week and a half before his team gets completely slaughtered by the Alabama Crimson Tide, huh? Weird. I wonder if we know any evil, sociopathic geniuses with enough money and intelligence to perpetrate this kind of crime in an effort to completely disrupt Notre Dame’s best player. . .but who could seamlessly pass themselves off as a beautiful woman while secretly scheming to destroy someone? Who?!?!
Lenick Saban?
- Manti’s girlfriend was fake? What next? We find out his tattoo was actually purchased from a machine at Wal-Mart’s entrance for $.50?
- We here at Burnpoetry have obtained an exclusive, secret photo of the floor of Jack Swarbrick’s office on the day he first was told about Te’o's fake-dead fake-girlfriend. Here it is:
Unusual Suspect?
- I feel like, somehow, this will all get tied back to being LeBron James’ fault. Or do I just wish that? I’m not sure.
- How was it possible for anyone to get less laid than Tim Tebow while being almost as big of a school celebrity?
- Unfazed by this bizarre turn of events, Brent Musburger was overhead claiming that he’d “still be willing” to creepily leer at Lennay Kekua.
- Are we going to find out that Te’o's actually been dating a program from the Matrix? The Internet is taking over, people. Brace yourself for the machine apocalypse.
- Te’o's friends first became suspicious about his new girlfriend they were first introduced at his home:
Te’Ohhellno. . .
- When reached for comment, Oprah’s publicist would only say, “NNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
- I feel like, at any moment, Te’o could come forward and tell us that his name is actually Bryan Smith, he’s not a Mormon and he has just been preternaturally gifted with a sweet, sweet tan.
- The only logical explanation here is that Te’o and Chris Hansen of Dateline NBC are going to have a joint press conference at some point this week where they both announce that, in an elaborate cross-promotional tie-in involving Notre Dame’s contract with NBC, Te’o was involved in a top-secret sting operation and that, indeed, they did catch a predator.
FIN
Sometime today, at a secret multi-billion-dollar underground location, Lance Armstrong sat down with Oprah Winfrey and spilled his heart out during what we have been told was a “no holds barred” 90 minute interview. He might cry, he might claim that all the “one-nut-wonder” jokes are getting pretty stale, or he might defiantly claim that he has, in fact, zero desire to soak up the sun and tell everyone to lighten up. I can’t predict whether or not he’ll touch on his alleged doping. I can’t put words in his mouth, or Oprah’s, nor can I prognosticate what their exchange will look like.
But that doesn’t mean that I won’t try.
Here’s what I’m hoping the Lance Armstrong-Oprah Winfrey collabo will look like.
- I’m hoping that Oprah way overplays her hand. She’s gone from cultural dominatrix to billionaire blip on the influential radar. And now, she’s gotten an exclusive interview from someone who is currently a big news story. Her network is excruciatingly boring and she’s tired of sitting around, watching her slave-labor accountants continue to feverishly add up her millions night and day. She just beat 20/20. She just owned 60 minutes. Sportscenter doesn’t have shit on Winfrey right now. She got Lance. She got a guy who cheated, denied it, and now is ready to cop to his crimes in an hour-long taped special. We know Oprah can do over-the-top. Let’s just hope she does.
What exactly am I hoping for, here? Probably Dr. Phil coming out onto the soundstage like a honkied up version of Flava Flav and doing his best hype-man impression, followed up by Oprah entering from stage right as a crew of roadies unleash a special effects blitzkrieg of dry-ice-fog dense enough to cause ships to crash and an epileptic hell of lazer lights. Or something like that.
- I’m hoping that Lance is super vindictive. Like, he comes out strutting onstage, his chest puffed out like a villain from the WWE and stares defiantly into the cameras. I want Lance to act like he doesn’t give a damn if he is the father, he just wants to tell all you ‘suckas to shut the hell up. I want more Maury Povich and less Barbara Walters. I want him taking shots at “the industry” and “the haters.” I want him putting George Hincapie on blast for having weirdly varicose veins and former winner/outspoken Armstrong critic, Greg Lemond for looking creepily similar to Prince Charles.
- I want Lance to do the entire interview while riding a stationary bike in a yellow jersey.
- I want Oprah to do the entire interview while eating ice cream in her pajama pants.
- I want a liquored up Lance Armstrong to attempt to declare war on France while repeatedly shouting out things like, “I don’t retreat!” And stuffing his mouth with what he will only refer to as “Freedom fries!”
- I am hoping that Lance will accuse the 2012 Tour de France winner, Bradley Wiggins, of using training wheels.
- I want Oprah to keep hijacking the interview at verbal gunpoint by demanding to make references to her “favorite things.”
- ***Barack-Obama-#OPRAH”SBFF4LYFE Appearance!!!!!*** We all know Obama and Oprah are tight. But recently she’s been replaced by Jay-Z/Beyonce/Blue Ivy Tha Roc Is In Tha Buildin’ Carter. She needs this. We need this.
- I hope that, in a reverse Dodgeball, Vince Vaughn shows up and gives Lance a pep talk.
- I want a super-bitter, ground down Lance to mockingly sing the entire song, “All I Wanna Do” by his ex-wife Sheryl Crow, slam down the mic and rush sobbing into the arms of his #BFF4LYFE, Matthew McConaughey. McConaughey will be shirtless.
- I hope that midway through Lance’s guilt-ravaged, sobbing confession of his darkest, personal and professional secrets Oprah decides to have a 50-bike-giveaway by standing and shouting into the empty television studio: “. . .And you get a bike. And you get a bike. . .and you get a bike!”
(*Author’s note: isn’t this a creepy clip? Oprah, giving us her commentary on Oprah? And we’re supposed to find that fascinating? It just kind of makes Oprah seem completely unhinged. And she just keeps shouting, “Excitement risinnnnnnggggg!” Like she’s the voiceover countdown clock to doom in a James Bond movie or something.)
- I hope that after a candid, fascinating, look into the inner workings of one of the great sports icons of the 2000s, that after a sordid tale of cheating, corruption and the failure of human morality in sports, Oprah hops into Lance’s handlebar bike-basket and they ride off into the sunset. Exactly like this:
FIN
