I’m Such A Baby Cause The Dolphins Make Me Cry

Dolphins fumble away opportunity to make statement, fall to Bills 35-7

They say that breaking up is hard to do.

Check that . . Neil Sedaka sang that song, because it had a catchy tune and nobody really cared to verify the authenticity of his claim. And while I’m not going to call old Neil a liar, he really was. No one called him out at the time because the song went to #1, but it was a lie. Breaking up is easy. Staying broken up? Not so much.

Take the Miami Dolphins. Please. I’ve broken up with this team more times than I care to admit (Twenty-eight), from the Reagan administration to present day. As with any relationship, I’ve experienced my share of ups and downs. Problem is, I can count the ups on one hand. Don’t believe me? N’kay . . .

  • The Dolphins top rated defense reigned supreme in Super Bowl 17, holding to a 17-13 lead over Washington after three quarters. Problem is, they play four quarters in the NFL and Washington took advantage of this fact by scoring 14 unanswered to win it.
  • Wunderkid Dan Marino hit Joe Rose for the go ahead touchdown against Joe Montana’s vaunted San Francisco 49ers in Super Bowl 19, giving the Dolphins a 10-7 lead in the second quarter. And just when it looked like nothing could stop Miami’s top rated offense, well . . Final Score: 49ers 38- Dolphins 16.

That’s all I got for ups. And do you happen to notice a grotesquely asymmetrical pattern in the two events I listed? In the span of three short years, Miami owned the best defense and then the best offense. Just not at the same time. And when they flipped, they flopped. A solid offense would’ve won them Super Bowl 17 and conversely, a solid defense would’ve at the very least given Joe Montana’s boys a game. But it didn’t happen that way because with the Dolphins, it never does.

When it comes to timing, the Dolphins and their fans are the sporting equivalent of Mia and Sebastian in La La Land. We want to believe in happy endings, but then the season starts. For Dolphins fans who go back even farther than me (All six of them) Miami’s championship bagel currently stands at forty-seven years (I included this season in order to save time).

The team formerly known as the Indians owns the longest drought in North American sports, but whereas their heartbreak reads like Longfellow, ours is more Mapplethorpe. The Lions never win, but at least they don’t pretend to actually . . yanno, want to. The Maple Leafs haven’t won since the Beatles were still together, but they can blame their Montreal neighbors for hoarding all those Cups. What’s worse, we don’t even have a curse to fall back on. Unless you think bad art and fans who leave early to beat the traffic counts.

The current iteration of professional (sic) football in Miami was going to be different, and I believed it completely. Okay, I believed it pretty much. Alright, I wrote a post about it . . so, there’s that. In the post, I imagined Miami making it all the way to the Super Bowl in New Orleans next season with third year quarterback Justin Herbert at the helm.

Problem is, Miami didn’t select Herbert in last year’s draft in spite of his height, his cannon arm and his big numbers. Nope, they went with the shorter, slighter and more injury prone Tua. So while Herbert is going all supernova for the first place Chargers, Tua has underperformed to this point in his young career and is currently on the (shocker!) injured list.

The Dolphins have made picking the wrong guy an art form. They chose Daunte Culpepper over Drew Brees in free agency and then watched as Culpepper crashed and burned before retiring while Brees went on to have a Hall of Fame career which included a Super Bowl win with the New Orleans Saints. They chose Jake Long over Matt Ryan, Ronnie Brown over Aaron Rodgers and most recently, Ryan Fitzpatrick over a guy named Tom Brady.

So at 1-4, I am once again breaking up with the Miami Dolphins. Call me a fair weather fan if you will, but I have better things to do with my time. Like stand in line at the grocery store and watch Season 2 of Mr. Mercedes. And I’ll also be rooting for the Georgia Bulldogs to win it all this year, but not too intimately, since I don’t want to transfer any of that Miami juju to those guys.

I’m getting out while the getting is gravy, since next week the Dolphins play the winless Jacksonville Jaguars. Who happen to be coached by Urban “Magic Lap” Meyer. I’ll be damned if I’m going to watch the Dolphins gift that fuckhead his first NFL win. I mean, getting our asses handed to us by the Bills and Bucs is one thing, but next week would be a bridge too far for yours truly. So I’m out.

Until next year. Of course. Because between now and then they’ll fire a bunch of coaches, hire a bunch of new coaches, draft a couple players with high ceilings and sign a couple of promising free agents. And then they’ll be like Hey baby! And I’ll be like No boo, you can’t keep doing this to me! But they’ll promise me that this time, things really are gonna be different and I’ll believe them. Again.

Love bites.

 

 

 

Tonight We’re Gonna Party Like It’s $19.99

I never quite understood what “if memory serves me right” meant, until now.

When I borrow the term, it means I’m applying a hedge to my guess. I’m slapping a plus/minus to a given year since my memory ain’t what it used to be. I guess it’s true that the more time you blow through, the more expensive it becomes.

October of 2014 was (probably) the last time I considered Halloween parties a good idea. Which makes me an insufferable bore, thereby ensuring my omission from future entanglements. That’s how win marries win without anybody getting hurt in the process. I’m nothing if not a simple Samurai.

Parties have become a perilous excursion for me as it is. Outside of family or close friends, I no longer attend get togethers that require an RSVP. And I’m less inclined to consider one that involves costumes, alcohol and strangers. Except that I am. Considering it. Only because the hostess is fun and not an ex and . . well did I mention she wasn’t an ex?

Of course, this means I have to dust off “Marco’s Party Rules”, to which I’ll employ my power five. . .

The 3 Person Rule- If you can wrangle up three people you would spend a couple hours with, no problemo. This list cannot include the host/hostess since they will be preoccupied. And it cannot include someone who does not drink or someone who drinks too much. And no Scientologists.

Don’t Get High On Your Own Supply- Don’t partake of the bottle you gift. You’re not a Scientologist!

Tunnel Vision- Make certain to focus on the familiar. Dwelling on strange faces will make the evening feel like a Dario Argento flick.

Lie, Humorously- A great way to break the ice is to introduce yourself with a lie. I’m talking devil-may-care shit like “Nah, I don’t know the hosts, I was passing through and saw all the commotion and decided to grab a quick bite!”.

Be Unapproachable- Fuck breaking the ice, it’s better not to engage in the first place. A helpful yardstick is for your personality to reside somewhere between a member of the Taliban and a Sandinista on holiday.

So I’m trying to build a posse for this party, and my recruitment began with Nicole. She’s a farmer’s wife whose hobby is harvesting pollen from honeybees. She clearly lives a dangerous life and I need that kind of firepower for this operation.

“Barry’s definitely going,” She assured me, as if she was selling me a baby blue Cadillac Eldorado, which he most certainly is not.

“He doesn’t drink, he loves Jesus and he’s got a new girlfriend, so . . nope,”

“Is Brandon going?”

“Too young,”

“Jane?”

“Too Catholic,”

“Did you ever think maybe you’re too particular?”

“All the time, but that’s beside the point. What I want to know is, are you going?”

“Halloween parties always feel like a good idea,” She began.

But . . .

“. . but it never works out that way . .”

She’s right of course. Halloween parties are like that summer blockbuster (all of them) that you can’t wait to see, after which you curse yourself for having been born in a country that encourages such atrocities.

So if my memory serves me right, I think I’m busy that weekend.

If I had the bread, this would be my circus

Roman colosseum 3d model

After having given this some thought . . (Nineteen seconds worth), I have decided that my fandom is more middle of the road than Josh Duhamel at the Academy Awards. I care, but not enough to invest any kind of serious time or money to the situation. Which would make me the perfect owner, according to me.

And if Imma represent, I’d choose the NFL, only because I want to see the inside of Jerry Jones’s secret bunker. Outside of family and college pals, the only peeps who have clearance to this end of the world jungle room are NFL owners, Tony Romo and interns.

My team would hail from Montana, because while I want to see the inside of JJ’s bunker, I ain’t planning on shacking up there in the event of a real emergency. Hell no, I’ll have my own bunker. In Montana. Several stories beneath my compound, which will be an exact replica of the Corleone’s old place.

Team name? That’s easy, the Sentiments. It’s got a rhythm and blues coolness to it, and hey, I take care of my guys. Being a big league athlete who plays in Big Sky Country for a team with a cool ass name like the Sentiments? They’re going to score more dishes than a busboy on Mother’s Day. And as a result, I’ll never have to buy liquor again.

I would call my joint “The Boneyard”, flouting any commercial leashes in favor of the esprit de corps that will provide the requisite connection between fan and player. Because I find the best stadiums and arenas have a dialect known only to the regulars, which is why home cooking is most advantageous.

Also, never utter the word ‘stadium’ around me. If you must reference the locale in which we do business, call it an arena. The term has been bought by winter sports but it will always be the province of gladiators; These palaces are the progeny of a once mighty Europe, where the games people played were far from neat affairs. We ain’t that, but we’re looking to greenlight the production to make it appear as if war is being waged, hell is being unleashed and all that other macho bullshit. Hey, it’s theater in cleats, yanno?

That said, I’m not going to be in the business of hiring actors. So if a player has a social media account of any kind, he best keep it civil and smart. Putting dumb shit out there will result in a one game suspension. Conversely, putting good shit out there will result in fun little bonuses, just because. So . . . keep it coo.

As for the pie I’m slicing? While it’s easy to shake our collective heads at the exorbitant wages granted to those who play the game, well . . it’s a little late to be writing country songs about it. As an owner I must abide by the updated manual or wither on the vine. However . . .players who want a restructured contract a year after signing a new deal will be asked to find trade partners and/or a new agent. I don’t have time for divas or dummies on my roster. Want a little more of the what’s what? K . . .

  • Odell Beckham Jr., who has made a lot of coin off a single one-handed catch . . will never play for my team.
  • Urban Meyer, who is the biggest phony in an industry full of them . . will never coach for my team.
  • There will be no “free concerts” before our home games, even if our TV daddies insist upon it. We’re in the business of football, not music.
  • Safe and affordable parking. Fans shouldn’t be afraid of getting beat up or going broke when they come to our place.
  • Alcohol sales cut off at half-time. Because this ain’t a frat party and “fans” don’t get to escape their miserable lives by wrecking my house.
  • Any “fans” caught throwing shit on the field will be arrested and their name will be posted on our website.
  • So basically . . you best be an actual fan or you will be sorry you came to my place.
  • We have a home uniform and an away uniform . . we don’t have a million different alternate jerseys meant to soak our fanbase out of more of their hard earned dough.
  • When we ain’t playing games, we will rent out the joint to other events . . as per. But we will also loan the place out to schools and charitable organizations, free of charge. If a team is part of the community, it only stands to reason they do community things.
  • Concessions will feature small businesses on a rotating basis. Give the fans local flavor, give local business owners a chance to grow.

My team will be more entertaining than Kung Fu disco, mightier than a Chuck Norris handshake and cooler than Paul Newman. And when Roger Goodell decides to pay a visit, he can buy a ticket like everyone else.

I think Jerry Jones would dig that just fine.

The Annoyances Post (Volume . . Mucho)

You Want Me To Turn Where? On The Annoyances–And Dangers–Of Bad Street Signs – WAMU

Back in the day, I used to pen my annoyances on an almost monthly basis. The hope was that in expelling these inner turmoil ridden snake bites from my system, perhaps I would lighten up. Needless to say, Vietnam was a romantic comedy in comparison. I would love to blame this epic failure of a stratagem on my therapist but we broke up during the second Obama administration, long before I started writing these fuckers up.

Hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time. These posts . . not the relationship.

Anyways, with the goal of self-improvement no longer serving as a hindrance, Imma dish up another edition of “Shit that annoyed me this week!”. If you find yourself playing along at home . . well, I’d seek help immejiately.

Aaron Rodgers- He spent the summer singing songs of woe is me, making State Farm commercials and wondering if his career was in . . wait for it . . Jeopardy. Okay, so his bosses are disingenuous schmucks who made it clear he is replaceable. Wow, like . . that never happened to anyone before.

Vladimir Putin- More insufferable than Chevy Chase, colder than Chrissy Teigen (too soon?) and smugger than a gossip scribe’s twitter page. All that and he rides horseback without a shirt. Who does that? This fucking guy, that’s who.

Jersey Mike’s Subs- No one, and I mean no one in the history of ever has exclaimed “Mmmm, New Jersey makes the best bread!”. It’s not a thing!

Pumpkin Spice- Their attempts to colonize every single food- from Cheerios to Chobani yogurt to Peeps and pancakes and pretzels is bad enough. But their attack on Milano cookies is an act of war.

Cracking my phone screen- Two decades, many phones . . and so 2021 became the year when I went broken china on my screen, and what’s worse? Tupac ain’t around to rhyme it back to life. Jesus, Mary and Martin Cooper . . . why???

Pants with drawstrings- The physics of this seemingly harmless invention is destined for tragedy, and still I return to the scene of this fashion crime. Shame on me.

People who say “What’s on your plate today?”- In a world where most phrases have the shelf life of a mayfly, why won’t this one just die?

Applebee’s commercials- To borrow from Tessio in The Godfather. . for old time’s sake.

The Miami Dolphins- If this sad excuse for a football team that should really be sold for parts were a person . . it would write a screenplay that feels very much like Capra in the magical first act . . and then turns into a Family Guy episode. After which, it punches you in the face . . and then steals your car and your house and your girl and your cats and your dog . . and then takes your identity, leaving you penniless, forcing you to rob a bank which leads to your arrest and conviction and the next thing you know, your cellmate is a three-hundred and fifty pound guy named Stumpy who’s serving two life terms and thinks you have a perty mouth. And then Miami comes to visit you every Sunday . . and he brings you a Jersey Mike’s sub.

 

 

 

The Big Business Of Name Calling

NFL Fines Washington Football Team $10 Mil After Sexual Misconduct Probe

Remember when winning made headlines? Yeah, that shit’s over.

Take the Washington Football Team (I’m thinking they stole this moniker from the classic video game, Tecmo Football), which has announced they will have a new name in 2022. Last year it retired the nickname Redskins; a name it carried since 1933 when they were still based in Boston. After years of refusing to do the right thing, team owner Dan Snyder finally came to his senses. Or maybe it was because his reign as King of the Iron Deficient Throne was being threatened and he needed him a positive news day . . either or.

Washington Football Team vs Eagles - Week 1 | Tecmo Super Bowl 2021 - YouTube

The once perennial contenders have won a single playoff game since the turn of the millennium. Which is one more playoff win than the Washington Sentinels. Seeing as how the Sentinels are a fictional team from the Keanu Reeves movie The Replacements, that’s no bueno.

None of this matters because the football team in Washington (the realish one) is as relevant now as it was back in the time of Gibbs and Theismann and Lombardi trophies. Don’t get me wrong, they’re a decent football team as things currently stand. But for most of the past two decades they’ve been winning headlines without winning much of anything else, which, come to think of it, makes them a perfect fit for that town.

Game of Thrones' 101: Who's Left from House Bolton?

We’re talking about an organization whose work environment was on par with anything the Fox News skirt hounds had going on. Washington was fined $10 million in January of this year for its “highly unprofessional” treatment of women. Which makes all the talk about banishing the derogatory nickname Redskins quaint in comparison. But since this post is about a more positive form of name calling, I will stay on message. For once.

A few ideas? On it . . .

Filibusters- Because the games will feel as if they’re never going to end, and yet . . nothing gets accomplished.

Vetos- For the team that has delivered rejection to its fan base for more than a quarter century. It’s perfect, really.

Scandals- I’m sorry, but it’s a slow news week without a good scandal in our national’s capitol.

Pork Barrels- It’s more dramatic than “The Hogs”, which was under consideration.

Motions- I really dig this one. It merges Congress with Motown.

Parliamentarians- Okay, maybe it’s a tad long, but it can always be abbreviated. Call them “The Parliars”.

Presidents- When they lose, they’ll make a federal case out of it. Never mind.

Luncheons- If you want to pack the stadium, this name will get ‘er done.

Monte Cristos- Can you imagine the concessions? It would be the best part of the game!

Hashtags- It merges a contemporary term used on social media with the term for lines on a football field. As an added bonus, slap a hashtag on the helmet and you’re trending, just like that.

Buckaneers- Add the k so as to avoid any legal hassles, and maybe . . just maybe, someone will confuse them with a Super Bowl champion this year.

Hollabacks- It’s a song from back in the aughts of 2000, fashioned in brass knuckle pearls by the great Gwen Stefani. I’m not gonna lie, I always thought this would be a cool team name. If I ever play Fantasy Football again, Imma go with it. And as the Pina to this Colada milkshake, an homage to girls wouldn’t be the worst idea for this franchise.

Of course, this entire exercise is a moot point since the new nickname for the team formerly known as the Redskins has already been chosen, probably. In the event there is still time and someone from the Washington front office is reading this and sees something they really, really dig? Have at it. All I ask in return is that you don’t offer me season tickets in return. I’m good.

Washington has some company when it comes to name changes, as the Cleveland Indians will also roll out a new nickname in 2022. Unlike their gridiron counterparts, however, the Tribe didn’t wait to unveil theirs. They will be going with the Guardians, and I cannot wait until they play the Angels for the first time. Think about it . . .

If you’re wondering what happened to all the Redskins merch, check Trump’s website.

 

 

 

 

The Death of Swagger

Mets players let their booing fans 'know how it feels' with strange thumbs down celebration - CBSSports.com

There was a time when people showed their lack of hip by spewing antiquated proclamations meant to denounce the impetuous qualities of progress. Old timers castigated the kids of my generation for not schlepping through five feet of snow for miles just to get to school. We didn’t dare complain during a heatwave, because to do so meant we had to endure stories about a time when houses were nothing more than giant microwave ovens. Our parents took every opportunity to tell us how lucky we were to have playtime, since their lives consisted of chores, working odd jobs and avoiding polio.

Us kids didn’t get it, probably because we were too cool for old school. As Generation Xers, we got high on Tang, we got educated by Schoolhouse Rock and we got religion via 8-track players that ushered in an audacious expansion of music delivery systems. We were iconoclasts, leading a rebellion against an establishment yearning for a return to the days of Ike and Holy Hours and the Jitterbug.

We dreamed of third-parties, we gloried in the solidarity of the pet rock and we became soul proprietors of the Hustle. Not only did we make nerds relevant, we made them giants of industry. And it was during this glorious time that spanned the Beatles to Bon Jovi, where swagger was redefined. From the protagonist hegemony of John Wayne to the proletarian movement of Charles Bronson to Clint Eastwood, who obtained the patent.

Swagger wasn’t something you stuck a hashtag on. Simply put, if you had swagger it meant you walked your talk. You got shit done. You didn’t brag about having swagger, because to do so meant you most certainly didn’t have any. And so here I am, wondering what the hell the current generation has done to a venerated principle? Shit. these days all you need is some provocatively placed body art and an Instagram page to rate.

Which brings me to the present day New York Mets. As things stand, they are the baseball equivalent of the pet rock; a 200 million dollar paperweight with no definable purpose. They head into today’s action with a record of 63-67, 7.5 games out of first place and 7 games out of the wild card.

In all fairness, they have dealt with the injury bug in 2021. In more fairness, so have the San Francisco Giants and Chicago White Sox; and that hasn’t prevented them from staying atop their respective divisions. Injuries and bad luck happen to every club . . every season. Nobody gets a mulligan just because the baseball gods decided to piss on their chances. You either overcome or you get to stepping on your Christmas shopping.

Now, the Mets are a team I have a soft spot for thanks to my grandfather, who loved his whiskey and his baseball with the very same passion. I predicted the Mets would win their division this season because they had a roster I happened to dig on. They’ve got some swagger to them, sure, but up till a couple weeks ago it wasn’t getting in the way of the results on the field.

In early July, Pete Alonzo was defending his Home Run Derby crown, the team was talking up moves to bolster their playoff lineup and they were in first place, hell bent on stealing back the town from the Yankees. Today? They’re buried under two also ran football teams on the sports page depth chart.

In no uncertain terms, they have shit the bed, going 8-19 in August as they fight for their playoff lives. And hey . . whatever, that’s why the baseball season is an unforgiving crucible. I have zero problem with a club that falls short of expectations, seeing as how it happens to more than half the league.

What I have a problem with is when swagger meets stupid, and it happened this weekend when several players mutinied against booing fans by introducing a “thumbs down celebration” during their 9-4 win against the Nationals. Javy Baez is the ringleader of this clueless rebellion. While supremely talented, he also can’t be bothered to run out ground balls or hit the other way and God forbid his manager ever asked him to bunt. Baez is a feast or famine player who glories in home runs and shrugs off his many strikeouts. The Mets weren’t ignorant to his tone-deaf game when they acquired him from the Cubs at the trade deadline. Maybe they hoped for better, but thus far, Javy has lived down to his one trick pony act. Meanwhile, shortstop Francisco Lindor, who inked a $341 million dollar contract in the spring, probably has Steve Cohen wishing he had bought the Tampa Bay Rays instead.

I realize it’s a thankless game and so I didn’t have an issue with the less than stellar results, until they broke out their inane celebration on Sunday. After which Baez talked about how the booing makes him feel bad, while in the very same breath saying it doesn’t really get to him. Hence, an orchestrated attempt by Baez, Lindor and Kevin Pillar to exact revenge on a fan base that is paying stupid money for even stupider results. But wait, there’s more! (Or less, depending on how you look at it). Hours after Baez and Lindor explained how the thumbs down gesture was their way of booing the fans, Pillar sent out a tweet telling fans not to read anything into it.

You cannot make this shit up.

The good news for Mets fans is that there is a month of baseball left to be played. That also happens to be the bad news. And no, booing the club ain’t making things any better, but it’s not making things worse either, no matter what a few players might think. Because last time I looked, the Hall of Fame is filled with players who heard their fair share of boos and somehow prevailed.

I wish the Mets well but I’m dubious, seeing as how some of their best players are more intent on choreographing rebuttals to all that booing than actually working on the fundamentals. This Shakespearean tragedy of a baseball team is a sad reminder that swagger has become the domain of posers. Hell, in my day we would never have booed these guys.

We would have stayed home instead.

 

Joe Pesci Movie Review: Jolt

DSC02425.ARW

Lemme start by issuing the oh so important spoiler alert before a certain blog owner with a stick up his ass for such things texts me one more fucking time about it. I already threatened to kneecap him but he doesn’t scare easy, which is typical of stupid assholes.

Spoiler alert . . da fuck.

Many people ain’t aware of this, but I think women can do anything us guys can do. Run for President, be an astronaut or a basketball player? Sure, I mean of course. But in this instance I’m talking about every day stuff. Yanno, like hiring an escort on a business trip or murdering their significant other.

Lindy Lewis- played by the lovely Kate Beckinsale- has the kind of temper that will wake you out of a sound sleep just to let you know she’s gonna kill ya. So I was hooked on the chick while the opening credits for the movie Jolt were still getting in the way. That British accent and those titanium high heels work on my last hormone and I mean that literally, since I got one left.

Lindy has the kind of temper that has its own term- intermittent explosive disorder. And just like explosive diarrhea it will make the unlucky bastard who pisses her off shit his pants too. When she gets pissed, she turns into a cross between Chuck Norris and my Aunt Julia.

Stanley Tucci plays her Mr. Miyagi. He’s her psychiatrist and life coach, because with the issues she’s got going, he’s gonna be rich. Get this, he rigs this electrode device that she wears, and whenever she feels like she’s about to lose it, she pushes a button and it shocks her. Don’t ask me why that doesn’t piss her off, but I’m not a writer so what do I know?

Anyway, Lindy meets an accountant (Jai Courtney) who says he works for one guy. That always means there’s some crooked shit going on and sure enough there is, because a day after meeting him, he ends up dead. Now she’s really pissed because they had a great second date that ended with breakfast. So watch the fuck out, bad guys, because the British are coming.

Before you know it, Lindy is killing bosses, because there’s always way more than one boss. Of course, the cops gotta get involved so’s they can take the credit when she cracks the case. Laverne Cox and my pal Bobby Canavale play the cops, and not for nothing, but he plays good cop so well that Lindy’s got breakfast eyes for him before the flick is over.

Oh and get this, the accountant who got knocked off ten minutes in? Turns out he faked it so he could be the boss. What a stupid fuck this guy is, because she’s already killed more bosses than a hitman for the Gambinos. This chick already rearranged the face of a shitty waitress so what do you think she’s gonna do to a guy who doesn’t just kick her to the curb but fakes his death to do it? And then comes back later to torture her with her own device as he laughs at her?

She turns him into meatloaf by handing him a bag with a bomb in it, which proves she musta really liked this guy a lot, the lucky bastid. So after he’s gone she goes back to her apartment to find Susan Sarandon waiting for her. She’s pretending to play a creepy doctor but she’s really there to let us know there’s gonna be another movie.

On a scale of 1-10, I give dis movie an absofuckinglutely.

 

Play It Again Spam (Case File # Mucho)

 

Good day,

I am Stephen Li, a project facilitator working and funding projects with numerous investors worldwide. I would like to know if you have any project(s) that requires funding. We are ready to fund Such projects or businesses. We also offer business loan, personal and home loans to finance new projects as well as expansion capital. Kindly get back to me with your project(s) brief so I can share full details with you.

Thank you!

Sincerely,

Stephen Li

Good day back atcha,

I really can’t thank you enough for reaching out to me with this amazing business opportunity. It saved me from having to borrow seed money from my Uncle Sal, who can be a little heavy handed when it comes to loans. He wanted twenty-five percent on a $20,000 loan, in thirty days! The SOB wanted Beverly D’Angelo’s number too, which I haven’t had since she used me for a rebound weekend in 2005.

As far as projects are concerned, I have a few ideas I’m cooking up that could use a generous slice of butter.

M. Night At The Movies Generator: This app utilizes all of Night’s feature-length films in order to create a generator that compares them with a new release. Upon the debut, the script for the new movie is downloaded to our cloud, after which it undergoes a rigorous comparative analysis. This process will remove the guesswork, letting movie goers know in advance whether M. Night’s latest is more “Lady in the Water” or “Sixth Sense”.

Oreo Flavored Chocolate Milk- When you’re on the go and don’t have the time to sit down for milk and cookies.

Weight Loss Supplements- Hey, everybody else is putting one out. And the best part is, it doesn’t even have to work for us to make bank!

Let’s Bring Professional Baseball Back To Baltimore!- I don’t know how much cabbage you’re looking to boil, but if you’ve got the wherewithal and a few wealthy pals, we can make this dream happen for the great fans of Charm City . . . even if that’s a secondary consideration. Hey, it’s not our fault that most young people in the region haven’t a blessed clue that Camden Yards is a baseball stadium. So let’s do what any megalomaniacal rich guy would do in this situation: Let’s bring another team into the equation, thereby convoluting the market with not one, but two teams that can’t compete. And it won’t matter a fig because in five or six years, what with the average return on investment being what it is in the MLB, we’ll be doubling our money at the very least. Then we sell to some other megalomaniacal rich guy who wants to move our team to somewhere the fuck else. It’s the new national pastime!

Two words: Edible Tofu

That’s all I got for now, but I’d be willing to talk jerky if you’re serious about the salt mines you have at your disposal. Until such time, I’m trusting that you won’t bogart any of these ideas for yourself. I was raised to trust the internet and all the many strangers who come courting on the thing, so don’t break my heart unless you really can’t help it.

Sincerely,

Billy Ray Valentine

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clowns To The Left Of Us, Danger To The Right

Is it possible to have too much information at your fingertips?

The question came to me as I was watching two sports analysts go at it on a debate show recently. The topic of conversation had to do with the best NBA player of all time. This isn’t something the vast majority of the population gives a flying Wallenda about, to be honest. But these guys deliberated until they had created a dually believable narrative, whittling it into a potent mash. Of course, well enough wasn’t left alone for very long, and as often happens inside this time of nonsense and instability, the shit went south. Further south than a Lynyrd Skynyrd Key West tour.

The succinct nature of their respective points soon gave way to a volatility whose pitch was a bitch, on wheels. And so the evaporative nature of modern discourse held sway until I stopped trying to figure out whose opinion was most valid and started wondering who was going to break out a “Yo mama!” first.

Of course, I recognize that information doesn’t fool people . . people fool people. But armed with enough information, anyone with half a brain can paint their argument into Van Gogh. And half the room will toast the bold and dramatic brushstrokes while the other half of the room reaches for a carving knife with which to cut off their ears.

The touchstone, regrettably, has been bastardized. As if Rob Zombie got hold of the Constitution and turned our fundamental principles into a kill count. Educated opinions have given way to a zealotry that seeks to deify even the most corrupt of men. Meaningful dialogue has been relegated to the ash heap thanks to dissociative politics that attempts to guilt us into confessing to crimes we didn’t commit.

What good is having all this information at our fingertips if we’re going to dis- it and mis- it into an interpretation?

During this sports debate, as the decibel levels increased, so to, did the tells; those easy to miss points of entry that had been glossed over initially were now much easier to hear. Both sides, using their information not as a map, but as a boxing glove with which to punch out their opponent. Much the same way a peaceful transfer of power might stage a coup, or a state might flout the concerns of a pandemic, or a city council might consider me the enemy because I’m an aging white dude.

I don’t know how we can possibly achieve a middle ground, because to quote Buffalo Springfield, nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong. And I have not a blessed answer residing under my cap, except for one.

Michael Jordan . . . duh.

 

 

 

I Think, Therefore I’m Medicated

Fidel Castro | Biography, Cause of Death, Brother, & Facts | Britannica

I was reading an article about all the bat-shit crazy conspiracy theories that have loosed themselves upon social media since the winter of last year. Yes it’s true, not even a global pandemic with casualty rates in the millions can keep the crazies from their appointed rounds.

Of course, I’m one to talk. Some of the thoughts that float through my head would have Elwood P. Dowd going Bra, you need to check your shit! And since I’m all about transparency, lemme ‘splain.

There was a period of time in which I would have wagered a year’s worth of pizza money that Fidel Castro died in 2008. This is because I had the strangest dream regarding the (now officially dead) Cuban dictator; it was a dream whose residual effects went all Chernobyl on my brain.

For the sake of shits and giggles, here’s some context . . .

I was visiting Chicago in 2008, which is where the living and the dead merge as a matter of political survival. Add to this, it was a national election year and promises of an ideological sea change were gripping the nation, and I just so happened to be in the epicenter of its wake, with Obama sweeping in and out of town as if he was the starting center for the Bulls. Oh yeah, I was also self medicating with an 80 proof IV drip. Copiously.

As far as that dream about Castro? Welp, in the dream I received an anonymous call informing me that Castro had died in New York City while attending the Letterman show. I was told to keep the news to myself since the US was planning an invasion of the island led by . . get this, Neil Young. Regrettably (or is that thankfully?) I don’t remember anything else.

My problema began when I fused this dream state with reality. I truly came to believe that Fidel Castro was dead. I went so far as to share this belief with other people, and believe me, I paid for it.

Turns out, my republic is fairly bananas, seeing as how this momentary lapse of reason ain’t so momentary when it comes to the thoughts that ride the local through my brain. A few por ejemplos? Como no . . .

  • I never order milk when I go out. The reason being, the idea of spittle making its way into my glass of milk is painfully repulsive to my senses. Somehow, ice cream is spared the same restriction since I deem it to be more robust, and thus, able to withstand stray spittle.
  • When the driver in front of me is going really slow, I wait till the last minute before putting on my turn signal in order to throw them off. Yanno, in the event they are trying to slow me down in perpetuity?
  • Every time I choose a horror movie on Prime, I swear it’s going to be a cult classic and not a high school art film. I am always wrong.
  • When I go near the edge of a building, I have the overwhelming urge to jump. Which is why I don’t go near the edge of a building.
  • Why do I feel like I’ll go to hell if I ever eat a Pepperidge Farm cake? It’s the icing . . it’s gotta be the icing.
  • Applebee’s is always finding new ways to annoy the hell out of me. So much so that I almost wish they could be charged with crimes against humanity.
  • Never keep a butcher knife in the dish rack overnight. It gives an intruder an unfair advantage.

I could go on (and on) but I fear this post would turn into a Castro-esque rendition of attrition by subtraction that would put the space-time continuum to sleep. While it may be physically impossible to do so, I’m sure anyone who witnessed Castro’s four hour and twenty-nine minute speech at the UN in 1960 truly believed time was standing still.

Now that is crazy.