Villains Of The Week!


Our weekly Heroes post has gone missing in a diabolical plan by the League of Zeroes to take over the free world!

Too much? Okay, here’s the deal. Y’all make these weekly posts worth the price of admission. I’m just the scribe whose crib gets the props. Seriously, Dale is always shaking loose a great story for these posts, and Frank is grabbing good stuff on the regular as well. And now Susannah has joined in on the fun, with a calamitously criminal crush of an idea: An All Villains of the Week post.


This week, it’s zeroes across the board. Some are sub-zero degenerates, some are just annoying, and then you have those who are simply misunderstood. Okay . . I’m talking about that lady bandit, but I’m sorry . . I think she’s awesome. So let’s begin with her, coo?

America’s Most (Definitely) Wanted- First there was Smokey and the Bandit. Then you had the Wet Bandits. And now the newest member of the club, the Pink Lady Bandit, who was taken into custody, along with an accomplice on Sunday. They robbed at least four banks, and I gotta say . . I am super impressed. Who robs banks anymore? I mean, without an executive order? And doesn’t the FBI have anything better to do than go after independent contractors who are simply looking to bring some nostalgia back to the world of crime?

Knotted Knickers- James Dolan is proof that money doesn’t buy brains. The New York Knicks owner has turned the once proud franchise into a dumpster fire. The only thing this chump is good at is kicking people out of his yard. He had franchise icon Charles Oakley forcibly removed from the Garden. He’s also had a Knicks fan removed for telling him the truth; that he should sell the team. And last weekend, Dolan had a reporter from Businessweek removed from The Paramount Theater when he got wind she was there as part of a story she was doing on Dolan. Even though he doesn’t own the venue, he was able to have her removed since he was performing with his band, JD & The Straight Shot. Come to think of it, maybe he did her a favor.

Only three things in life are certain- Death, taxes, and a Facebook mom-rant. In the latest Mama-geddon, a mom is blaming childless peeps who go to Disney for ruining her toddler’s magical visit. Yep, she got pissed at the fact that her three year old son had a tantrum when he couldn’t get a pretzel because the line was too long. Never mind that the line is always too long because . . it’s Disney. And never mind the fact that he’s three years old and is not going to remember a single thing about their trip. This unhinged individual went on to call childless Disney goers “cunts”, “tramps” and “bitches”. So she rails on childless peeps while showing herself to be a poor example of how a parent should behave. Makes perfect sense.

Author Ponzirelli- Bernie Madoff is asking for clemency from President Trump, and it’ll be interesting (frightening) to see if he gets it. Madoff shook loose almost sixty five billion dollars from the pockets of 4,800 clients in the largest financial fraud case in American history. That number exceeds the annual budgets of all but five states, if you’re keeping score at home. He’s currently serving a 150 year sentence in a federal prison, which is too lenient if you ask me. He is a fucking vampire after all.

A Titanic Rumble- A couple was arrested last Friday for their part in a chaise clearing brawl on a British owned cruise ship. The shenanigans ensued after an afternoon of partying on deck, with one of the revelers taking offense to a passenger who was dressed like a clown. Where’s an iceberg when you really need one?

The NFL’s Domestic Abuse Problem- The league and its commissioner just can’t seem to get domestic abuse right.

Take Tyreek Hill, for instance. In 2014, Hill was dismissed from Oklahoma State after choking and punching his pregnant girlfriend in the face and stomach. And in March of this year, Hill was under investigation for alleged battery after his three year old son suffered a broken arm. In a subsequent audiotape in which Hill and his fiancee are discussing the investigation, she tells him their son is terrified of him to which Hill responds “. . you should be terrified of me too, bitch,”. Nonetheless, Hill received no punishment.

There are three zeroes here. Hill being the most obvious of course. But we can’t forget the Kansas City Chiefs, who are really good at taking on bad guys. To show how contrite they were about the Hill investigation, the Chiefs traded for Frank Clark this off-season. Clark was arrested and prosecuted on domestic violence charges in 2014. In 2017, he went after a female reporter on Twitter after she had the audacity to write about his past. Oh yeah . . and this is the same team that drafted Kareem Hunt, who likely would still be playing in KC if not for the videotape that surfaced of of him assaulting a woman in a Cleveland nightclub.

The NFL is complicit as well, what with all the chances they give these creeps. Roger Goodell and Company insist they care about women, but really . . who could tell? (And here’s an excellent piece about the league’s not so benevolent side,)

Welp, that’ll do it for the first ever Villains post. At some future point in time, Imma put on my rose colored glasses and write up an All Heroes post. But umm . . . don’t hold your breath.

First Draft Horoscopes


The line between family and work life is doing more zigs and zags than David Cassidy on a traffic stop. If you ain’t down with metaphorical formulas, it means your business has a drinking problem. But hey, since you can’t seem to control yourself, maybe it’s high time you tried on your entrepreneurial hat! And you can use your family members to help you in your new venture. This clean slate will allow you to show off your remarkable skill set and your brilliant people skills as you shine in your new career!

Okay, who’re we kidding? You can filch their skills and personalities . . with the added bonus that you don’t have to pay ’em, cause they’re family!

This new lease on life might be just the tonic for your flagging spirit (Add gin for maximum entertainment value). You’ll find your ideas (theirs) will flow and your emotions will be very much available. Because there’s nothing like mixing business with family to bring out every last ounce of hostility. Seriously, you thought wine was a truth serum? Just you wait chappy, this shit is about to get realer than a Carly Simon love song.  Just be yourself, as shitty as the prospect might be. The rest will take care of itself, unfortunately.

Questions or concerns regarding your horoscope? Call 1-877-OHH-WELL. 


Matters Of Little Consequence

The world isn’t one size fits all. It’s seven billion sizes, each one possessing the remarkable ability to tell the world to fuck off,

There was a cinematic quality to the summer of Dame, the days brimming with melodies I’d long since forgotten and the nights a cascade of well spun fascinations. We felt a damn sight smarter than Bogey and Bacall, depending on the moment. It was far from perfect, which is how you expect it to be when you arrive at a certain age.

It would be almost two months from the night of our initial phone conversation until I would fly out to Chicago, and it passed like wildfire. I was busier than a paper shredder in a law firm. My ex was getting serious with her new guy, a fact that I toasted every chance I could. I wasn’t nearly as celebratory about moving back into the old house in the event she moved out, however.

The house had been a point of contention throughout my marriage. Truth be told, I never warmed to the place. It wasn’t her fault, seeing as how I was a royal pain in the ass when it came to particulars during our house search. We went through several agents and scores of homes before she took matters into her own hands and signed off on one. I would never have admitted it back then, but she was right to do so. I was never going to fall in love with a house. I was always more Shaolin monk than homeowner, and I’m not gonna blame David Carradine for my cosmic cow.

As fate would have it, Dame was moving too. So the time was a blur of constant motion on both ends of a telephone line in the lead up. Writing was the funk to our sweetly sewn strokes back into the shore and away from the mighty of a storm that was changing our lives in scoundrel form. The Dame filled in the gaps quite nicely, and before long she became the voice that tucked me in at night.

The only reason the blog didn’t become an afterthought is because it was crunching numbers the way a bar crunches tacos at happy hour. A local radio station started stealing our shit, so when I pitched a fit about it, they invited us on the show. I had Dan do the honors, seeing as how I didn’t want anything to do with talentless jerkoffs who did the puff pastry work of morning radio.

To my way of thinking, if all the world truly is a stage, then you have to play yourself. Because the minute you start playing a character other than yourself, you’re shish-kebab. Granted, I’m a scrum of oddities, but I will always stay true to the things I feel, even if they make no fucking sense to anybody else. Because in the end I realize that we are all grains of sand. Be true to the particulates is what I’m saying.

The blog was kicking thanks to my unsolved self. I wasn’t economical in my opinions, and I sure as hell wasn’t convenient in my dearth of membership cards. But I wrote the hell out of sunsets and sunrises and produced shit that churned an engine that was happening. I found writers, not because I gave a blessed fuck for community, but because they wrote good shit. And they brought friends. I had no agenda and no blessed desire to carry such a thing. And it worked, so fuck Sam Houston and his consternation.

Dame was simpatico. She strummed because it meant something to her, and for no reason beyond that. She’d worked for a newspaper and now she toiled in relative obscurity on a blog with a great sounding name. You could say she had a few million reasons to be that nonchalant but I knew better than that. She’d simply arrived at a point of hurt and hopelessness, after which nothing mattered as much as the writing. Which became the thing, the only thing, and nothing but the thing. She was the kind of smart that attracted more of the same. People loved her because of her bared boned truth telling. She was a Carly Simon song- whichever one she damn well pleased.

It was mid July when I called up Dame one afternoon. I was covering a news conference at Armstrong Headquarters, heralding their LEED Platinum certification. I was jittery on account of it being uncharted territory for me. But trade mags paid well and the spread was sweet. I’d written a few things for Sporting News, and hated it. Fact is, I wasn’t crazy about writing for any publication. I didn’t feel the thrill in seeing my name on a byline, which probably has something to do with that whole Shaolin monk malady I suffer from.

Dame told me to eat up, write up and to call her later and then she smooched me goodbye. After which I headed inside to meet my contact: a thirty something beauty who had tats that spoke to regret and a born again spirit. She was bored in her marriage and kept a love platter on the side. So what if I wasn’t launch code sharp as far as trade mags were concerned. I knew women just fine.

“Do you have a business card?” She asked sweetly.

“I don’t have a business card or a resume, but if you want me back again just read the piece I’m gonna write. That’ll work better,” I snorted whilst staring down the asshole seated next to me who had been reciting his resume to anyone who cared to listen during chow time. 

Dale Carnegie was hating me from the ever after, and I was plenty fine with that.

Heroes Of The Week!


I would like to say a great big WTF? to all those climate skeptics out there who insist that Davey killed Heat Miser with a slingshot from Bass Pro Shops. But if the hottest June in the history of the world didn’t get their attention, I’m sure the intra-Venus July bake sale ain’t gonna change their opinion either. All I know is that if we’re subjected to another oven roasted episode like the last, Imma be rooting for the return of the T-Rex. And Noah’s Ark. Both.

As my spirit animal, Keanu Reeves, would say. The simple act of paying attention can take you a long way.

Senate Intelligence Committee warns of vulnerabilities in U.S. elections systems- I’m sorry, but anything Snooki Pollizi could tell you . . isn’t a revelation. 

Rico and not so suave- Embattled Puerto Rico Governor Ricardo Rosello is the kind of big league fat cat the Caribbean island has come to know all too well. He’s a privileged crook who can’t get much of anything right unless it benefits him. He mismanaged aid to the island after Hurricane Maria, leading to scores of relief containers being left to rot. There have also been allegations of embezzlement of federal funding over a two year period. And now Rickyleaks- a chat involving the Gov and his boy band, in which they engaged in homophobic slurs and trashed women for having the audacity to think they could ever hold power. Rosello leaves next week, and let’s hope the island finds someone with their best interests in mind because they sure as hell need it.

Joe Biden entertains more aggressive approach ahead of next debate- Unfortunately, unless it involves letting Obama fill in for him, I’m dubious.

A Dog Days Beisbol Double-Feature? Sure . . why not. 

Cameras ain’t context- By now you’ve probably seen video of the asshole Cubs fan who snatched a ball from the clutches of a little kid. And if you ain’t seen it, here’s the video of that asshole doing government business on a child. But wait . . there’s more! That Cubs fan really isn’t an asshole after all. He actually had already given a foul ball to the kid earlier in the game. Oh, and after grabbing that ball and letting his wife take a pic of it, he gave it to a kid seated next to him. The moral of the story is that the camera can lie and social media will war before knowing the whole story.

Don’t ever change, kid- Yanno, not every Phillies game is a complete waste of time. They played a keeper recently, thanks to this young chap’s random act of baseball kindness that has me feeling sappier than a Maple tree. This video was too good to tuck into a link, so do yourself a solid and watch the moment unfold. It’s how the brotherly are supposed to love.

The Cheez-It/House Wine Box is now a thing- The mashup is half crackers and half wine box and it’s here for a limited time. Finally . . .proof that heaven exists!  

There is no why in team- Nampa High School football coach Dan Holtry is coaching up one hell of a football team out in Idaho. Don’t ask me what their record was last year, because I don’t care. Holtry’s boys are champions for what they did to make a nine year old boy’s birthday one he will never forget.

Christian Larsen wanted to invite all his friends to his party, but when mom Lindsay only received a single RSVP, she took to Facebook to wonder why that was. She had her suspicions, and they had everything to do with the fact that Christian has autism. Lindsay’s posting got the attention of Blythe David, who called up her friend Coach Holtry, who then shot off texts to his team asking who wanted to attend Christian’s party. You know how teenagers are when it comes to getting back to you? Well, not these guys. They all responded within minutes, in unanimity. That is what winning looks like.

I’ve come to love the Friday Heroes posts, because it’s a chance to cull the good and the bad from all of the crazy, ugly mess of an everyday world where heroes and zeros don’t tote around name tags. This week’s story is just a little different, for yours truly.

On March 2nd, 1982 I found myself in a Cadillac going to watch an unknown welterweight by the name of Buddy McGirt. It was his first match as a professional and he wasn’t feeling the least bit nervous, as evidenced by the fact that he fell asleep on his girlfriend’s shoulder. I was riding shotgun in the front seat as his manager drove us to an arena in North Bergen, New Jersey.

I was a huge boxing fan at the time so when my old man asked me if I wanted to hitch a ride with a friend of his who managed a boxer, I was interested. When he told me I’d be riding in the same car with said boxer, I was in. And while we only met that one time, I’ll never forget it. McGirt fought this tree trunk of a fighter named Lamont Haithcoach to a draw. I thought Buddy got screwed, because he was winning all the biggest scrums over the three rounds. But it was his first fight and it was Jersey and boxing is never going to be confused with the All England Club.

Buddy McGirt would go on to be Welterweight Champion of the world. He would retire with a record of 73 wins, 6 losses and that one draw.

Last Friday night, McGirt- now a trainer- was in the corner of junior welterweight Maxim Dadashev when he told him he was going to throw in the towel once the bell rang to end the 11th round. The kid was getting pummeled and was clearly behind on all the cards, but he was having none of it. He dismissed McGirt’s pleas, knowing he still had a puncher’s chance and three minutes to turn it all around. Dadashev had his eyes on a title shot, while McGirt wanted him to make it home alive.

Once it became clear Dadashev was going to get up for the bell once again, McGirt threw in the towel. “I’d rather have them be mad at me for a day or two then to be mad at me for the rest of their life,” McGirt explained after the fight.

Maxim Dadashev died from his injuries on Tuesday morning, leaving behind a wife and child and the rest of his life. And now Buddy McGirt is going to have to carry around this reminder for the rest of his days, and all the questions that come with it. If you don’t know the sport, you don’t get how impossible a situation this man found himself in. You do not call a fight without repercussions, but you can’t let it go on when you know your guy is in that kind of trouble either. Sometimes there is no good guy or bad guy.

Only pain.





When actions speak louder than words

There used to be a charm to how we messed with words. If you’re of a certain age that didn’t involve Google, then you can relate to that musical rite of passage in which you reworded the lyrics to a favorite song. To think, there was a time when people used to believe the Beatles were singing I wanna hold your ham. And Jimi Hendrix was saying Excuse me while I kiss this guy. And Elton John was singing to his man-crush with Hold me closer Tony Danza. 

Nowadays, we have the dictionary police repossessing words that weren’t really in need of a reboot in the first place. These efforts in bougey bombast are meant to bring harmony and fair play to words that might be considered impish or downright ignorant.

Case in point, the Berkeley City Council. These peeps decided to go on an ordinance orgy, with words acting as the scapegoat in the latest episode of Ray Bradbury Theater. If their measure on gender-specific pronouns gets the green light, “Manhole” will become “Maintenance Hole” and “Police Man” will become “Police Officer”. Changing the latter is redundancy at its finest, since most adults already refer to the Po Po as officers. But was there really a burning need for maintenance holes? As a man, I took no offense to being named after a cast iron plate that gets driven over and spit on daily.

Council members also want to make sure nobody uses he or she when they should be using they or them. And I think that’s neither here nor there. Human interaction is the broker of ignorance or understanding, and if we start using a government handbook as if we’re American tourists lost in Paris? Well, there is a dystopian punchline to such a conclusion and it ain’t the least bit funny.

Maybe it’s just that the city council people of Berkeley have spit and polished every last genuine concern into memory and now all that’s left to vote on is stuff that ain’t worth the ginger ale in a Mary Poppins Martini. As such, they explained their decision thusly.

“Amending the municipal code to include gender-neutral pronouns by eliminating any gender preference language within the municipal code will promote equality,”

N’kay. But really, how’s about legislating that every homeowner have an emergency chopper in their driveway in the event an earthquake provides the Pacific Ocean with the world’s largest Big Gulp? Or hey, why not make it illegal for citizens of Berkeley not to own a Panda? Or maybe just this. What if they tried to come up with some long term solutions for the homeless, seeing as how Berkeley is currently sitting at twice the national average. I mean, unless the city council is hell bent on handing out demerits to all those five year old kids who will continue using the term “Police Man”.

I know you’re probably saying, But Marc . . .governmental bodies have a pristine track record of never fucking shit up. If they perceive an inherent flaw in our language, then it’s a good bet they’ll fix the problem quickly and efficiently.

Of course, what was I thinking?


Matters Of Little Consequence

One of the most magical events in a person’s life is when you bring a puppy home for the first time. The moments brimming with hope and joy and a feeling that centers you as if a marigold on spring’s first day. You paint countless scenarios in your brain, each one more optimistic than the last. And nowhere inside all those many scenarios do you even remotely imagine the reality of the situation.

You never think about the fact that your little puppy is gonna die one day.

Of course you don’t, because who in their right mind would take into consideration such a tragic circumstance? I mean, those kinds of thought processes are reserved for flaming anarchists, Scientologists and actuaries. Heartless actuaries.

Love is the very same thing.

When you lock eyes with a stranger across a crowded floor, or go out on a first date or have a three and a half hour phone conversation with a perfect stranger. And know. You just know. As if the universe went through all the trouble of being born, coming of age and growing old . . . for you.  So that you could arrive at that moment when you figured out the ending you didn’t even know you were looking for.

You never once think about forever having an end.

I woke up on Friday, June 8th 2007 and felt more charmed than the lovechild of Brad Pitt and Vera Farmiga. It didn’t matter in the least that it was too early to be wearing a smile. I woke up thinking it had to be the middle of the afternoon before my alarm clock corrected me with half past six. Less than six hours prior, I’d been pinballing through the witching hours with a voice that left me wanting more of that good thing.

The Dame was every bit of that beautiful storm that I’d been keeping track of for most of the last couple months. Hers was a mystic thrown down from that fateful moment when Eve told Adam that she might want to marry him one day if he watched his weight and kept that firm body.

The Dame was crazy, but a crazy borne of hard wrought places that belied her silver spoon existence. She was a rich man’s daughter but she wasn’t spoiled. She was a looker but she wasn’t conceited in the least. She possessed as brilliant a pen as I’d ever had the privilege of knowing on a first name basis. And she never once talked about it inside the three and a half hours that catapulted us from strangers into something more than friends.

And her timing was madly provocative, as if her words danced inside the language of honeybees. Her smoking gun was left on my doorstep with a Pinot fueled come hither that left me stranded in the middle of dry land. She stapled three little words to every lonely part of me before hanging up.

“Just get here,” 

It wasn’t fair, which had been her intention. The merry bachelor who played single dad with french toast and long hikes and playboy chef when I had the weekends to myself, had been harpooned like a fucking Marlin. I just didn’t know it yet.

I put a second pot of coffee on before settling down to check my comments on the Gorilla when Dan finally decided to return my call.

“Yo!” Dan bellowed, his voice thick with exhaustion and nicotine.

“About time man, I called you after hanging up with the Dame last night,” I said with mock exasperation.

“Sorry honey, but I was busy working while you were drinking martinis and talking to a hot chick from Chicago,” Dan laughed.

“Don’t be jealous,”

“Hey dude, I’m married, jealousy’s all I got left. So how did it go?”

“Without sounding too excitable . . . fucking amazing! She’s smarter than she writes, she’s funnier than she writes and if her voice could get me pregnant, I’d be shopping for cribs right about now,”

“So . . that’s good, right?” Dan laughed whilst scarfing down a breakfast sandwich and chasing it with a couple smokes on his back porch.

“That’s great, except for the fact that she’s got three kids, and she’s having issues with them because of her neanderthal husband who won’t cut her any slack, and she lives in Chicago, and she’s given up on dating or ever being happy again,”

Granted, there were more exemptions inside that statement than you’ll find on a billionaire’s tax returns, but I was smitten. Me . . smitten. What in the blessed fuck was the world coming to?

“But you guys hit it off?”

“We hit it out of the fucking park is what we did, Tonto. And now I have to slow things down because my mind is gonna jump out of my skull if I don’t,”

“There’s time. And oh hey! I read that Rabbit Hole chick, fantastic shit man!”

“I told you! Now see . . she is crazy. But I mean, how can you not be crazy when you write stuff like that. I’m glad you liked,”

“Loved it. Hey, I’m gonna crash but I’ll call you on my way into work tonight. You gonna be around?”

“I’ll be here,” I said.

“Whoa, this girl really did a number on you,” Dan laughed before hanging up.

I thought about what Dan had said before the gurgling noise snapped me back. I ran into the kitchen to find my dime on the dollar coffee maker dying. I’d been separated for almost two years and had already gone through half a dozen coffee makers since I couldn’t bring myself to buy another Bunn. Never mind that I had the thing for ten years without a hitch, I wasn’t shelling out a couple hundred dollars without a mortgage and joint back accounts to hide it inside of.

I was able to rescue a cup of Joe from the devastation, after which I placed the carafe on the counter and escorted the scrapheap out. I’d scored a writers pad rental less than two miles from my old house and I loved the quirks included at no extra charge. Like the fire escape stairwell that was the only way up or down. It hadn’t affected my business, as evidenced by the many high heeled visitors I’d entertained, so that was good enough for me. And besides, it was the perfect way to bury my hard luck coffee makers. It had become sort of a tradition that I toss the latest coffee machine done wrong down the long set of stairs to commemorate it’s untimely demise.

I went in to grab my smokes and the cup of Joe and I turned on some Talking Heads before returning to the proceedings. I sipped and tugged and then I let go of the piece of shit coffee maker, watching it tumble to its death for a second time inside the early morning.

There was symbolism happening loudly inside that moment, but I was too high to notice.




Heroes Of The Week!

Bat Woman

The march of the bubble heads- The internet is a quagmire of crumb scavengers looking for toast to burn. And every minute of every day gives us the latest example. The old saying “Nothing good happens after 2 am,” finds a refurbished home in 2019, where nothing good happens on Twitter. Case File #toomanytocount involves the twits who bashed Ayesha Curry for having the audacity to dance during the opening of her restaurant. Ayesha happens to be married to three time NBA champion and all around great dude Steph Curry, who gets lots of hate on the internet; probably because he’s got a great life going. Social media is where envy is transformed into hate and being hurtful to others for no good reason says everything about a person’s soul. Or lack thereof. So here’s hoping Ayesha opens her doors every day with a dance.

Saving grace- The Seattle Sounders football club played more than just a game the other night when they started Bheem Goyal in goal. The eight year old is battling Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia, and so the Sounders- in conjunction with the Make-A-Wish Foundation- made Goyal’s dream of being a goalkeeper come true. They signed him to a contract, after which he opened things up by standing in goal for Seattle and gobbling up a shot on goal. He then exited the game between the Sounders and Dortmund to a standing ovation, receiving high fives from both sides. They don’t call it the beautiful game for nothing.

The truth is out there, and it’s ridiculous- Area 51 is the most highly classified area this side of the New England Patriots locker room. So when close to half a million people start chattering about breaking in, the government is gonna be paying attention. And thanks to a Facebook army of clueless warriors, September 20 will either be featured on an episode of “Dumbest Criminals” or it will be the latest example of the frightening precision of cruise missiles.

“Storm Area 51, They Can’t Stop All of Us.” is comprised of a bunch of overly hyped X-Files junkies who are out to prove that ” . . if we run, we can move faster than their bullets,”. I mean, physics is a deal breaker as far as that original thought is concerned, but you gotta admire their spunk. And sure, two months is a lifetime inside of which that army will dwindle into a precious few on account of the fact that ninety percent of them won’t be able to get a ride to the site. And half of those who do make it to the gala will probably get tied up at the brothel on the premises. But there’s no doubt the couple dozen people who do follow through could make things . . interesting.

Jackson Barnes is the mastermind of this brilliant idea, which he says was all just a practical joke to get ‘liked’. He attempted to explain himself, since he probably can’t afford a lawyer and his desert RV.

“Hello US government, this is a joke, and I do not actually intend to go ahead with this plan”  . . . “I just thought it would be funny and get me some thumbsy uppies on the internet. I’m not responsible if people decide to actually storm area 51.”

I don’t think my man understands the way it works. But on the bright side, in the event these imbeciles who signed up do actually end up storming the gates? He’ll have plenty of time to write that book on alien life while in prison.

Stupidity is the mother of this invention- Bad ideas are timeless. From the Edsel, New Coke and Ishtar to the Ford Pinto, Euro Disney and Jackson Barnes’ Facebook page.

Add Jennifer Yeager of Dixon, Illinois to the list for her ideas on inflatable pool transport. It began by her strapping the pool to the roof of the family SUV. Okay cool. Next, Yeager piled her two daughters into the car. Okay fine. And then, she hit the road. Okay well, everything seems peach . . oh shit, wait. Mom left the girls on the roof to keep it from flying away! After which she was arrested and charged with two counts of endangering the life of a child and two counts of reckless conduct. Welp, at least she didn’t fill the pool with water first. That would have been carazy.

The Angels among us- On July 1st, Tyler Skaggs was found unresponsive in his South Lake, Texas hotel room. The California Angels pitcher was pronounced dead once authorities arrived on the scene, which would lead to the Angels and Rangers cancelling their game that evening.

Last Friday night marked the Angels first home game since the death of the twenty eight year old Skaggs. The team honored his memory with a moment of silence, as all Angels players wore his number 45. And then his mother Debbie threw out the ceremonial first pitch, a perfect strike.

When the game began, it was as if the heavens were writing the script. The Angels scored seven runs in the first inning while Taylor Cole and Felix Pena combined to throw a no hitter and the Angels won the game 13-0. Cole and Pena pitched their hearts out, but the vibe that was flowing through that stadium had everyone believing their performance on the mound was a holy trinity. After the game, Skaggs’ teammates laid their number forty five jerseys on the mound.

In a press conference later on, Mike Trout remarked on the significance of the box-score: Seven runs in the first inning, thirteen runs total. 7/13. Tyler Skaggs’ birthday. “You can’t make this stuff up,” Mike Trout said.

The greatest baseball player in the world was onto something.