Posts Tagged ‘Pop Culture’

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.

Gosling V. Brett

 

And if you don’t know what I’m talking about, check out this little gem.

FIN

You might just fade there. . .

Anyone else think this would be a much better movie?  Don’t know what I’m talking about?  Check out this gem.

FIN

Today Adidas announced they would be issuing some special new uniforms for a select few teams starting with their conference tournament play.  Here’s what they look like:

738233573

 

Here’s what I think of them:

 

- I knew that Four Loko was getting re-released to the public, but this. . .this is a brilliant promotional move.

- Adidas is probably just trying to make it a little more safe for these young players to go hunting with Bob Knight.

-  If one good things comes from these terrible outfits, it’s definitely that I somehow found this picture of Dan Marino on the internet.  Turns out, the whole “laces out” incident may not have been the most embarrassing moment of Marino’s career.

-  Kansas’ shorts are definitely going to be reminding old timers of “The Great Crotch Blizzard of ’53″ that swept through the midwest, decimating dignity and cropland alike.

-  Adidas seem hell-bent on re-sleeving basketball jerseys.  I’m guessing the key reason behind this change is in an effort to stop basketball players from displaying tattoos that look like this:

(*Author’s note: that would be NBA player Richard Jefferson.  Although you have to be 18 to get a tattoo in most places, this tattoo confirms that you can, in fact, get a tattoo from an 11-year-old aspiring cartoon writer.)

-  Notre Dame student section: I will be fully expecting you to crank out a Harlem Shake video sporting your team’s new colors called, “The Shamrock Shake.”  This psuedo-dance craze will sweep through your school with unhaltable momentum.  Until Manti Te’o is drafted by the Cleveland Browns, the skidmark on the undies of the NFL.

-  While sporting Zubaz shorts hasn’t tested well in the market place, they have still outsold the failed Nike product the “Air Hammerpants.”

Hammertime!

-  A quick skit about the most plausible reasoning behind these uniforms:

Designer 1: “Quick, the deadline’s almost here for those Conference Tourney uniforms!  What’re we gonna do?  What’re we gonna do!?!?”

Designer 2: “I know just the guys to solve this problem.”

-  Did I mention that these shorts look exactly like a bunch of cans of Four F-ing Loko?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

Conspiracy theorists unite!

Conspiracy theorists unite!

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. . .

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. . .

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. . .

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

Today marks the first day of the X-Games on ESPN.  There will be a good deal of “bro”ing.  An undue amount of hipster glasses.  Someone will climb the medal stand wearing skinny jean snowpants and those God awful monstrosities will be stripper tight and rapper saggy in the bag all at once.  I will probably watch, only if I can’t find a good NBA game and since football is canceled, and I will probably wonder why I’m watching.  Some of the winners will have more Pot and Doritos and Redbull and Mountain Dew in their bloodstreams than red blood cells.

It will all be a synthesized adrenaline thrill ride that I will watch and forget as quickly as if it was directed by Michael Bay.

That got me thinking.  What could the X-Games do that would make me clamor for it.  What could they do to make this even must-watch in every home in America?

They could change the spelling.

That’s right.  With one simple added letter to the name of the event they could revolutionize the watching experience and completely explode our idea of what “extreme sports” really are.

Ex-Games.

1st Annual Ex-Games

1st Annual Ex-Games

Now there’s something I could get behind.  There’s something edgy, fascinating, and that would draw in a diverse crowd of gawking onlookers who would be forced to socially media their asses off to let every one of their 720 Facebook friends know just what they’re missing.  What exactly am I talking about, here?

I’m talking about celebrity meeting sports meeting uncomfortable reunions.  I am, of course, talking about Ex Girlfriends and Ex Wives being brought back into the fold for a series of competitive games involving their athlete Exs.

Here’s a few of the key events that I have envisioned for this television goldmine.

Tony Romo and Jessica Simpson in a Battle of Wits

Jessica Simpson, long known for her insatiable hunger for knowledge and her keen intellect, used to date renowned crunch-time performer and undisputed King of the Postseason, Cowboys quarterback Tony Romo.  So why not bring them back together.

Hell, it’s not like Simpson is doing a whole lot these days, other than Weight Watchers ads, and Romo has flamed out with another disappointing 8-8 season in Dallas.  So what could we do to bring them back together?

Ex-Games.

We would have Romo try to catch and hold as many long snaps as he could while Jessica Simpson attempted to name as many states as possible in 60 seconds.  At the same time.  If Romo lost, he would have to spend an hour in a glass case sitting and talking with Simpson’s notoriously creepy manager: her dad, Joe.

If Simpson lost she would have to be Jerry Jones’ designated eye-glass shiner for the entire 2013-2014 NFL season.

Tiger Woods and Elin Nordegren. . .and 47 Other Women

For this Ex-Game, Tiger will have to try to leap into an Escalade, weave his car in and out of a pack or wild skanks that used to be in his harem.  When he successfully navigates through the women, he then must avoid an obstacle of light poles.  Moments before he can cross the finish line he will have to start a fire using flint and dry tinder so that he can burn his black book.

Tiger Woods' Cadillac Escalade after the crash

He must complete this entire course before Elin and her team of 12 high-priced, Gucci-clad attorneys can figure out the best way to get half of his earnings from his latest Nike commercial.

If Tiger is able to complete the course before Elin is done with her paperwork, he will win a series of 12 free golf lesson from Rory McIlroy.  Elin will, of course, get 6 of these regardless of the outcome of the event.  If Elin should win the contest, she’ll get a 3-wood and 15 minutes alone with Tiger in a garage to finish what she started a couple of years ago.

A-Rod and Cameron Diaz

Diaz will have to try to stuff as much popcorn into A-Rod’s open mouth as she can within the allotted 10 minute time-frame.

 

Should these two former Orville Redenbacher-loving flames reunite for a common goal each will be awarded a differing set of prizes that will be tiered as such:

The goods. . .

The goods. . .

Kim Kardashian and Reggie Bush

Kim won’t be able to make it and so her attention-addicted mother will show up to compete in her place.  On the way she will be run over by a snowmobile doing a backflip, driven by a stoned-on-extremely-potent-ganja native Coloradan and this event will be canceled.  The driver of the snow mobile will be awarded a ceremonial “Lifetime Achievement” gold medal by the Ex-Games and there will be much rejoicing by all.  Reggie Bush will continue to date the girl who is, essentially, a bootlegged version of Kim Kardashian.

Manti Te’o and Lennay Kekua/That Girl Who Was Wanted by Drug Dealers in Hawaii/Ronaiah Tuiasosopo/A Figment of Manti’s Imagination

This one will be really confusing on who to contact.  Manti Te’o will compete with. . .umm. . .shit.  He’ll compete against that one. . .guy?  Maybe?  Or he’ll compete against the creator of the internet, Al Gore, for creating such a cruel place?  I’m just really confused, here, all of a sudden and I’m not sure who will be competing against who.  Anyway, Te’o will definitely be there.  There’ll be some other dude/chick/dude-pretending-to-be-a-chick-via-cellphone there too.  They’ll have a noodling contest in the dirty, muddy waters of a Missouri lake where each of them is required to stick their hands into underwater holes in an attempt to catch the biggest catfish with their bare hands.

Regardless of who catches the bigger fish, nobody wins.  Except for the sports media, Twitter, and no-talent hacks who constantly blog about un-important sports-related issues (*Author’s note: DING!  DING!  DING!  I win!).

FIN

Lance Armstrong sat, stone-faced, across from Oprah Winfrey a few days a few days ago, buried in the bowels of her secret mountain lair.  He didn’t seem particularly contrite.  He didn’t seem like he was a man bereft with guilt or that he believed he had defiled the very sport that catapulted him to millions of dollars and a spot in the nation’s heart.  He just seemed kind of angry.  Kind of hard.  Like everything he had done — every battle fought and brutal mile pedaling uphill in Texas heat — had honed him into such a lethally fine point that he couldn’t help but stab us.  But, no.  He didn’t seem very sorry.

And that’s fine by me.  I’ve made my piece that the athlete I once knew was, indeed, a cheater-cheater.  A pumpkin-eater of the first degree.  That’s fine.  His motivations behind that, his journey that led him down that dark path, those are things for experts and psychologists and Oprahs to debate.  One quote from his interview did stick out to me, however:

“I deserve to be punished. Not sure I deserve a death penalty.”

You see, Lance has been banned from Cycling for life.  Some might think that’s harsh, some might think it’s deserved, and somewhere Pete Rose is drinking heavily in a corner booth and shouting at the T.V. “Welcome to the club!”

But if Lance doesn’t deserve the death penalty, what does he deserve?  Even he thinks he deserves some kind of punishment.  So, if Lance isn’t quite sure what he deserves as penance for his cheating, I think I just might be able to help him out.

Here are a few ideas I have for ways we can punish Lance Armstrong without giving him “The Death Penalty.”

-  Make him ride the entire Tour de France on a tandem bike with Rick Ross on the back seat.

Punishment idea #1.

Punishment idea #1.

-  Make him star in a new reality show on Vh-1 that puts him in a 4 bedroom condo with Barry Bonds, Jose Canseco, Marion Jones, and Ben Johnson.  But, wait, you say. . .that’d be five people.  You’re damn right it would be five people.  Lance would have to sleep in bunkbeds.  With Barry Bonds.

Punishment #3

Punishment #3

-  Force him to ride through all 50 states on a big wheel.

-  He will be required to grow out his hair to look just like Dennis Quaid from the bike-racing movie, Breaking Away.

-  Tell him he can race again, if he can accomplish the impossible: If he can re-shirt his BFF Matthew McConaughey,

-  Make him give a nationally televised apology speech where he’s dressed as a French Mime.  He will be required to mime out his entire apology and then mime out the ways in which he cheated.

Punishment Deux

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 5 Month mark.)

-  You will feel like some combination of Benedict Arnold, Judas, and Dina Lohan when you’re required to hold down your child to either help the Doctor give them shots, or put in eardrops, or do some other gut-wrenching, heart-smashing, healing process that really, really sucks in the short term.

-  You will spend so much money on Christmas gifts that your wallet will literally scream like the girl getting shower-scene-murdered in Psycho each time you giddily whip that bad boy out to purchase more.

-  You won’t care that you spent the aforementioned money.

-  You won’t care that he or she is so little they might not quite get what all the presents under the tree are for.  You won’t care if you get them little trinkets, big gifts, or hardly anything at all.  What will matter is seeing their smiling, toothless grin, illuminated by Christmas lights and Christmas love.  What will matter isn’t what’s under the tree at all.  But what’s gathered around it.

-  You will try desperately to get your child to say his first word, but when he just grins at you as you repeat “Dada” into his face for the 17th time – like a kid stalling for time in the spelling bee who keeps saying his word slowly into the mic – it won’t really matter.

-  At some point, you’re going to be convinced that your child is a genius.  You’ll demand to know when and where they hand out Babynobel Peace Prizes and Babypullitzers and when no one answers your rhetorical insanity, you’ll contemplate starting one yourself, secretly knowing who the first winner will be.

-  You’ll wake up at 6:30 A.M. and realize that your child slept all through the night.  Rocketing out of bed, your brain turning into a Molotov Cocktail of crunkness of a good night’s sleep and worry that something is wrong, you’ll dash to their crib and see that they’re sleeping soundly; angelically peaceful.  You’ll stumble back to bed, lay down, and crashland into a pillow, a smile on your face.  Your child will wake you up 2 minutes later.

-  You will watch with unbridled joy as your child tosses aside your toy and, instead, plays for 10 minutes straight with the wrapping paper.

-  Your child will begin to learn how to sit on their own, although they will at times drunkenly topple over to one side or, miraculously, fold themselves nearly in half like a mini-contortionist or those 12-year-old Chinese Olympians who dominate gymnastics.

-  You will say to yourself, “I’ve gotta hit the weights, damn it.”  27 times in one shopping trip; lugging a 6-month-old car-seat combo as you desperately look for pretzels in the wrong aisle of Super Saver.

-  I’ve learned that Mike Krzyzewski might be the coach of Duke, but I’ve touched enough poopy to call myself the first head coach at Duke-y University.

#4?  More like #2. . .

#4? More like #2. . .

-  I’ve learned that no one actually calls it “dukey” anymore.

-  I’ve learned that Doctors can be incredibly kind, gentle, and have an off-kilter sense of humor that makes tough visits like “ear infection #5” a little more bearable.

-  I’ve learned that some Doctors actually have dual PHD’s and that one of them is definitely a Doctorate in being an A-Hole.  They wield their intelligence and their know-how like a weapon.  A good Doctor provides that knowledge and skill as safety net.  With the bad Doctor’s it’s mainly important to make sure that they are good at their job.  Treat them like a really good racehorse.  Use them for their intensely specific, gifted skillset and then put them out to pasture as soon as their tapped out.  If nothing else, it will make you feel slightly more powerful in the interactions.

-  I’ve learned that my son loves him some rice cereal.  He loves it so much, in fact, that he spreads it over his body like a Real Housewife of Wheverthehell at a “spa day” retreat.

-  I’ve learned that my son is in the 83rd percentile of height for his age group (*Author’s note: enjoy it while it lasts, my boy).

-  I’ve learned that my son is in the 86th percentile of weight for his age group (*Author’s note: you are your father’s son).

-  Your child will continue to love rolling from tummy to back and back again.  They will barrel roll like a fighter pilot in Top Gun and if you’re not watching you might find yourself shouting out, “Gooooooooseeeeee!”  (*Author’s note: I’m not really sure what that means, necessarily, but I just wanted to type that in there.)

-  I’ve learned that my son likes listening to the Beastie Boys and Jay-Z and have decided that he’ll probably marry Blue Ivy Carter in the Cayman Islands when he’s old enough.  So I’d just like to give a big “he’ll-never-read-this-blog” shout-out to my future brother-in-law, Hova.

-  You’ll find yourself watching movies with kids in them differently.  On more than one occasion I found myself thinking about how I would choose to discipline Kevin McAllister from Home Alone for being such a naughty child instead of feverishly whooping out my joy about him “sticking it to the grownups” with some snide remark.  (*Author’s note: Also, is there a movie on the planet where Joe Pesci doesn’t cuss, other than Home Alone?  Can you imagine how hard that was for him not to swear?  He should’ve been given an academy award for the effort that must have taken alone.)

-  You’ll find yourself trying to dial back your cussing as best you can.  When you’re angry in traffic or watching the Huskers get beat by 45 points your sentences turn into unfinished games of adult hangman.  “Why you S- – of a b- – - -!”  Or “I can’t believe that mot – e – r f – - – er cut me off.”

Dirty Hangman

Dirty Hangman

-  When your child takes a nap you have two very different paths ahead of you.  1)  You can leap to your feet and desperately try to pick up the house, cleaning like a post-insane-house-party teenager whose parents will be home in 1 hour or 2) You can collapse onto the couch a few feet away and swing your tired feet up onto ottoman, letting lethargy sink its fangs gleefully into your body.

-  Option 2 wins a lot.  Don’t fight it.

-  I’ve learned that having a baby for 6 months can be the most challenging, monumental, beautifully fulfilling challenge that we face during any 6 month time span.

-  I’ve learned that when your wife leans up against your shoulder, resting her beautiful brunette head in that perfect spot on your arm where it seems she was genetically created to fit, and you hold your gently sleeping child up against your clarion-beating heart you know why you were put here.  You know what your purpose is.  For that one, glowing, meteoring, shimmering moment, you know exactly who you are, where you are going, and exactly what you need to be.  And all those wildly passionate, hot, giddily spinning ideas  on past, present, and future, collide in one marrow-resonating, bass-drumb reverb-ing-in-the-canyon-walls-of-your-heart word:  Father.

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FIN

A book from the diggy-diggy dopest Transcendentalist the hip-hop community has ever known:
Ralph Waldo Eminemerson.
Merry Christmas?

Merry Christmas?

FIN