Decision Making Can Be Hard

It was around noon that my wife texted today.

“I think I mentioned last night that I will be spending the evening at the library working on a term paper. You are on your own for dinner.”

I read it twice just to make sure I knew exactly what text had been messaged to me. I would be on my own for dinner. That meant that tonight was a wild card night. Anything could happen and there would be no wiser half there telling me not to do this or eat that.

Of course, I have no idea why this made me excited. If I were to tell my wife that I wanted to eat a large pile of garbage smothered in cheese sauce, not only would she say she didn’t care, but she would likely encourage me. “You have eaten very healthy lately. If you want cheese garbage, go right ahead.” In fact, most of the time I am the one saying that we should be eating something healthy and then reiterating my stance that just because a doctor said chocolate can be healthy does not mean we should shove whole bars of it in our faces.

For some reason, though, being on my own for dinner gave me such a thrill of control. Maybe I would eat a whole pizza. Or I could just get a bag of cheeseburgers and sit there shovel burger after burger into my facehole until my jaw was tired of chewing. I could finally live out my childhood dream of eating only cookies for dinner if I wanted.

Then the implications of my decision-making set in. Sure, I could do all of those things. I could do them all at one time. Then, though, that one night of sheer gluttonous desire could be the night that pushes my body over the edge. My internal organs would all stop working as I slipped into a coma brought on by trans fats and carbs. I’m not 100% certain I know what either of those things are, but by all accounts they are not great.

My inner dialogue was out of control.

“Maybe I should just have a salad,” My reasonable half thought. “Salad sounds good and if I put some spinach in it… I mean spinach is a superfood…”

“No!” My gluttonous side screamed. “You can eat anything you want! Anything! Whatever it is, it should not involve superfoods.”

“Not even blueberries? I like blueberries.”

“Fine!” I sighed back at my more reasonable half. “Blueberries are fine. You could also have sweet potatoes, but only if they’re in French fry form.”

My reasonable and my gluttonous halves went back and forth for what seemed like hours. It was an epic battle of wills, two evenly pitted sides making equally nonsensical points. The debate could have gone on for hours, maybe even days. By then, of course, my free dinner would have passed and I would have eaten nothing at all. I had no idea what I was going to do.

That’s why I decided to buy and eat a sandwich. A normal sandwich that I have ordered and eaten many times. And it was very good, but not too good. Just the right amount of good.

I should ask my wife to never skip dinner again. It’s just too stressful.

My Home, The Zoo

Photo from Dachshundlove.blogspot.com

Ever since I was a kid, I have been a big fan of pets. If there wasn’t some sort of four-legged critter following me around or trying to climb onto my lap, something just didn’t seem right. I wanted as any animals around me as possible. Someday, I thought, I would live in a place full of dogs, a home loaded with pets to share their love and affection with me.

That is why one of the first things my wife and I did when we got married was to find a dog. After looking long and hard for the perfect animal, we chose an animal for the same reason anyone does: it was cheap. A woman had a litter of miniature dachshunds that she was attempting to find homes for on Craigslist. A couple of emails later and we found ourselves in a nearly abandoned parking lot pulling up next to a mysterious car. We handed over the very reasonable sum of money and she, in turn, pulled a very tiny dog out of the car. In retrospect, it would have looked much like any drug deal I have ever seen on TV, the main difference being the adorable puppy that sat in place of a large bag of heroin.

For years, Charlie was our dog. After the death of my wife’s cat, we found ourselves with a single animal.

This, of course, did not last long.

A few months ago, my friend was talking about a tiny white kitten that he had rescued. The cat had been left in a lot nearby his house. It was a very good kitten and he was happy to take care of her except for one single fact: he is allergic to cats. When he said this, I did not press him on the details. I imagine that if he were to keep the cat, his entire body would have swelled up to double its original size. He probably would have just turned into a giant red blotch of hives. The point is that I had no choice but to take this cat and, in turn, save my friend’s life. I’m very selfless that way.

It took months for the cat and Charlie to become accustomed to each other. At first, the cat would gradually sneak up on Charlie just long enough to touch her with her paw. Then she would run away. After a while, she became braver. She would try to play with Charlie and, more than once, even attempted to sit directly on top of her. Charlie did not take kindly to this. Eventually, though, she just let it happen. They played together and a couple of times they even curled up on the couch together. And all was peaceful.

Then my wife offered to dog sit two standard dachshunds for a week. The two are good dogs as well. They, however, do not care for the cat. In turn, the cat does not care for them. Charlie is indifferent to all of it. That is why I have spent the last two days with a rotating carousel of three dogs attempting to sit directly on my lap and a cat hiding in the bedroom afraid that the hoard of dachshunds will come after her turn her into kitten cacciatore. There has been snarling and running and hissing and jumping and whimpering. We have kept the dog out of the cat food, the cat out of the dog food, Charlie out of the cat’s food and the other dog’s food, and all of them out of our food.

I’ve learned a very important lesson the last few days. There is such a thing as too many animals. In case you were curious, that would be four animals. Four animals is exactly too many animals.

As it turns out, some of your childhood dreams are very stupid even if they revolve around love and affection.

The Best Last Minute Halloween Costumes A Person Can Get

Uh oh! It’s Halloween and you still have not gotten a costume! Now your significant other will be so upset that you ruined one of his or her favorite holidays again! This is just like that St. Patrick’s Day disaster all over again.

Fret not my procrastinating comrades. I am here, as always, to offer up my services to you. The last thing I want is for you to be in the proverbial (or in some much stricter and weirder relationships, literal) dog house. We here at the blog have put together our collective minds and dreamed up some great last-minute costume ideas for you. (Editor’s note: Nathan is acting like his blog is a major website with many people at the ready. When he says “collective minds,” what he really means is his singular, for the most part adequate, mind.)

Open up your brain and prepare for the Halloween brilliance to fill it.

 

Costume Idea #1: Classic Ghost

Nothing says Halloween more than ghosts. Impress your friends with a timeless costume. Your friends will surely be startled until they realize it is not truly the soul of a deceased person, but just you in a great costume!

The steps are simple. Step one: find a sheet. Step two: cut eyeholes in the sheet. Step three: wear the sheet on your head. It cannot be simpler than that. Just be sure not to mix up step two and three as the results can and will be disastrous.

You may be thinking, “How can I impress that hottie at my Halloween party wearing a sheet?” The answer is all in the sheet. By using a nicer sheet for your costume, you are telling everyone at the party how classy and successful you are. No one can resist a ghost made with an 1800-thread count Egyptian cotton sheet!

 

Costume Idea #2: Geoff

Who’s that cool guy over there at the party? Why, that’s Geoff! Geoff is a fun-loving individual. Everyone loves Geoff. He’s the life of the party!

This costume could not be simpler. Step one: Get dressed. Theoretically, I shouldn’t have to tell you that step, but better safe than sorry I always say. Step two: place a name tag on your person that reads “Geoff.” Done! You have morphed from your own boring self into the baddest dude to ever walk into any party.

Note: this costume is meant for men. If you are a woman, you will want to bypass this and head to costume idea #3.

 

Costume Idea #3: Geoffina

Who’s that cool girl over there at the party? Why, that’s Geoffina!

Note: this costume is meant for women. If you are a man, you will want to bypass this and head to back to costume idea #2.

 

Description English: A jawless zombie, as done by students in Tom Savini's Special Make-Up Effects Program at the 2008 Pittsburgh Comicon. Date	27 April 2008, 12:15 Source	Jawless Zombie Uploaded by GrapedApe Author	Jim Reynolds from Cleveland, USA

This person did not wait until the last second to get a costume.

Costume Idea #4: Zombie

Thanks to The Walking Dead, zombies are so in right now. Take advantage of it. Head to your party as an undead corpse!

Now, some people are going to tell you that you need makeup and fake blood for this costume. Those people are hacks. To be a convincing zombie, it’s all in the body language. All you need to do is pretend you are in a great deal of pain every second of the party. Walk with your legs stiff, your arms dangling, and a grimace across your face. If you are having a hard time looking convincing, ask a friend to kick you right in the shin several times. That is sure to give you that “fresh out of the grave” zombie look.

But what about the costume? Well, I think we can all agree that zombies were once normal people just like you and me. That means they wore normal people clothing. As it turns out, you have been dressed just like a zombie every day for your whole life. You just didn’t know it!

 

Description	 The nachos with some guacamole. At Bodean's, Byward Street. Date	26 June 2010, 19:30 Source	Bodean's, Tower Hill, London Uploaded by tm Author	Ewan Munro from London, UK

Costume Idea #5: Guacamole Bandit

Head to your party in whatever you currently have on. People will be very confused and frequently asking what you are dressed as. Well, obviously you are the guacamole bandit!

That is why you are going to wait until no one is looking. Then you will steal the guacamole and go home. Sure, you are missing out on the party, but really so is everyone.

It’s not a party if there’s no guacamole.

There’s Always Next Year, Royals Fans

Picture via the Washington Post

I was six the first time I became aware of sports. I mean, I’m sure I knew about sports before that. I was not completely unaware of the world. It’s just that the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles had a lot more to offer, namely ninja weaponry and a love of pizza, than any sport I had ever seen.

It was a vacation to Kansas City with my family. We came to Kauffman Stadium and watched the Kansas City Royals play. I don’t remember who they played or the outcome of the game. What I remember was the crowd united in a cause, cheering on a team. It was the final season that one of the greatest third basemen of all-time, George Brett, would play. There was so much hope in the air as people watched the team feverishly in a season that would see them again falling short of the playoffs. Eight years before, George Brett had finally gotten the long elusive championship, the baseball holy grail. Since that day, the Royals had never again come close.

I remember sitting in the hotel the next day. I was so taken by the Royals that instead of watching the Cartoon Network, I had chosen to watch another game. The vacation ended and we would find ourselves moving to Kansas City shortly thereafter.

Thus my futile fandom was born.

Being a Kansas City sports fan is hard. There have been only two major sports championships in the city’s history. Yet there I was, every spring convinced that this was, in fact, the year for the Royals. Second grade had me going to school on Halloween as first baseman Wally Joyner in a jersey hand-made by my mother. (I believe any statute of limitations involving copyright infringement has past, so hopefully the lack of approval from Major League Baseball and the Major League Baseball Players Association will not lead to a weird and awkward lawsuit.) I rooted for Bob “Hammerin’” Hamelin, a player who could hit a ball harder than I could imagine, but also had the ability to strike out just as hard.

I watched as the Royals developed future stars. Johnny Damon, Jermaine Dye, Carlos Beltran, Zach Greinke all came through the system, followed by them all leaving town due to a significant lack of money for a team that had not been competitive in years. Yet there I was, still convinced it would someday happen.

As a Royals fan, I grew up, graduated high school, met and married my wife, graduated college, got a job, and moved to Nashville. Meanwhile, the Royals continued the same incredible streak of suckitude. Despite this, I would still tell my wife that it was finally their year. Then she would say, “You always say that and it never is.” Then she would change the subject because there is very little in life my wife would like to talk about less than baseball.

Then, finally I was right. This was the year. After 29 years, the Royals made the playoffs. Suddenly, the crowds that had been absent for years were there. Then the craziest thing started to happen.

They won. They beat the Oakland Athletics in dramatic fashion. They handled the team with best record in baseball easily. They destroyed the Baltimore Orioles. Suddenly, they were in the World Series. They battled the San Francisco Giants. I watched every second, cheering and yelling. My cat spent the better part of the last week scurrying out of the room as quickly as possible. Apparently she does not care for me arguing with the umpires or shouting directions at the players on TV.

Not every story has a happy ending, though. After a tough battle, the Royals lost, unable to score that final run that was needed. The championship drought continues.

I won’t lie. It’s disappointing. The team I root for, the team I have always considered my own, the team that has not had a shot at championship in my entire lifetime, came as close as a team can to winning a championship only to fall short with a runner on third in a one-run ballgame.

I, however, cannot be upset. There is no reason to be sad, upset, depressed, or any other synonym that your thesaurus can dream up. I finally got to see what I had wanted to see for most of my life. I got to see my team win. Sure, they may have lost in the end, but after all of these years, people suddenly felt the same optimism that I have forever. They, again, loved the Royals, championship or not.

Besides, there’s always next year. I have a good feeling about it.

Wallpaper: Satan’s Favorite Interior Decoration

This image was originally posted to Flickr by Hotel Domspitzen Köln at http://flickr.com/photos/42803266@N04/5832033942. It was reviewed on 25 October 2012 by the FlickreviewR robot and was confirmed to be licensed under the terms of the cc-by-sa-2.0.

In cartoons, Hell is always depicted in a specific way. Inside of a very red cave, deep in the center of the earth, is some sort of creature dressed in all red with matching pitchfork. Flames lick up in every direction from deep holes in the ground. Apparently fixing giant fiery holes in the ground is not a line-item in the Hell budget.

There are two issues I have with this. First and foremost, why are cartoon characters going to Hell? I specifically remember seeing Sylvester bargaining with Satan in an effort to catch Tweety Bird. It’s really a miracle that every child that was raised since that cartoon came out is not in therapy prattling on about devil dogs and how cats have nine lives.

My second issue, though, is a question of precision. See, I feel that this is not an exact portrayal of Hell. In Hell, there are no flames or giant red creatures. I have a very specific theory as to what Hell would look like.

This last weekend, my wife and I had some work to get done. Walking into the kitchen of the home we are moving into, one would find beige walls with stripes. I am unsure of the exact age of the peeling paper, though I am sure that you could date it by counting the layers of gunk that had accumulated from years of ghastly people and their nauseating habits.

Naturally, we did not care for this wallpaper. We rented a steamer and headed over to the house. Our attitudes were very gung-ho. We would get in there, steam the crap out of the wallpaper, and scrape the hideous stripes off. We filled the steamer and got to work. That is when we found a surprise.

Behind the hideous stripes, we found our walls covered with vines and brown flowers. So we continued, steaming and scraping, steaming and scraping. Having even older and uglier wallpaper would not do, after all. The whole point was to have bare walls, not walls covered with some long-forgotten pattern that seems to be depicting dead flowers. After a great deal more steaming and scraping is when we found the paper with orange flowers. It turns out that this room had been wallpapered three times and not once had anyone removed wallpaper.

This is what I would imagine Hell is like. Instead of flames, every person is confined to a single room. Once there, they will scrape layer after layer of wallpaper for eternity. Just you, a scraper, a steamer making the room unbearably humid, and infinite layers of devil’s favorite wall decoration.

See, there is no way you can convince me after this experience that wallpaper is not pure evil incarnate. It could be the happiest wallpaper in history, a lovely motif involving a herd of majestic unicorns flying through a rainbow filled sky, and all I would see is malevolence. I would imagine that sometime many years ago, some particularly evil minion of Satan designed this idea.

“Honey,” the minion’s wife would ask. “What are we going to do about these walls? I suppose we should get some paint.”

“No, I have a better idea. I think we should get some giant sheets of paper, then glue them directly to the wall!”

“But… that seems like a lot more work than just painting. Besides, if we glue it to the wall, won’t that be hard to take down later? What if we want to change what our walls look like?”

“Why, we’ll just glue more paper over that.”

The minion’s wife looked confused. “But at some point, someone will probably have to take that down, right?”

Satan’s minion began to grin the grin that only the most evil beings can muster. “Yes they will.” He then laughed diabolically for the next twenty minutes.

In the end, we were able to get all of the paper off. Sure, it would have taken less time to burn the entire house down and rebuild it. It was taken care of, though not without destroying every animated version of afterlife punishments I had in my head.

Wallpaper ruins everything.

The Mystery Of The Palm Bruise

hand

Sleep is meant to be a tranquil activity. There may be tossing and turning and, in the case of my wife, an occasional flailing arm that lands directly atop me, but for the most part sleeping people are meant to lie still for several hours of undisturbed silence.

I have always liked this part about sleep. Life can be difficult, but at the end of the day I can always count on sleep to be there for me, cradling me in its soft embrace for hours of quiet, peaceful unconscious bliss.

Thoughts like this are why waking up with a mysterious bruise across my palm is very disconcerting.

In my life, I cannot think of a single time I have ever bruised the palm of my hand while awake. I have hurt my hand in many ways, from cutting my finger on a potato peeler to breaking a finger while playing flag football in high school. I have burnt my hand, scratched it, scraped it. I have even bruised the top of my hand. Never, though, have I ever bruised my palm.

As I got ready for work today, I could not help but look at my hand. In the midst of sleep, something with a great deal of force had struck my palm, somehow not awoken me, and left this mark of its visit. I began to have Sherlockesque visions of what could have cause this.

My first instinct was to blame my wife. I am not sure why. I should probably ask a therapist about that sometime. For a moment, I wondered if she had somehow accidentally punched my palm in her sleep. Or worse, what if it wasn’t an accident? Perhaps she had waited in bed until I fell asleep, then for some bizarre spiteful reason she had wound up and punched the palm of my hand.

What had I done to make her that mad? Maybe she has an irrational hatred of palms. Even if this were the case, I reasoned, it could not be her. While my wife may be many things, she certainly does not have the upper body strength to bruise the palm of my hand with a single punch. Plus, she bruises very easily so I am pretty sure she would have a bruised fist to match my palm.

Maybe this was the result of some exciting dreams. While some people sleepwalk or sleep eat, maybe I get up and sleep high-five. I could have been sleep running through our apartment complex sleep high-fiving everyone from the skateboarding youths that should not be up that late on a school night to the gentleman who likes to sit on a bench in the middle of the night and call someone while on speakerphone. I probably would have thrown some sleep fist pumps in there for good measure.

This too was out, though. On my way to my car, I ran across one of those skateboarding youths. He did not give me a weird “you were running about high-fiving everyone” look, but the same old “old men like you just do not get my generation” look. Then, I imagine, he went to go do something very rebellious.

For a brief second, I entertained the idea that perhaps I had sung “If You’re Happy and You Know It” while asleep and, due to my love of sleeping, had been way too happy. While clapping, I had ended up bruising my hand expressing this joy. This, however, was ludicrous. I would never sing while I sleep, but if I did, I am fairly certain it would be something awesome like Pink Floyd or The Clash. Definitely not a children’s song.

I may never know how this mysterious bruise appeared. I may need to start wearing protective hand gear to bed in case whatever cause this was to appear again. I just hope that the serenity of sleep has not been ruined for me forever.

Who am I kidding? You can’t ruin sleep.

Dear Nathan: Penmanship Is Officially Dead

DEAR NATHAN: What’s up with penmanship these days? A few years ago, my mother gave me some old letters written by my grandfather to my grandmother. Some of them are treasures because the written words are not only loving and endearing, but the penmanship is beautiful. The script writings are actually examples of “art” in this modern age.

I work at a bank, Nathan, and many of the signatures I see every day are illegible. Is written communication becoming obsolete? With the electronic age and schools going paperless, will penmanship become unnecessary? — MARY IN HUNTSVILLE, ALA.

DEAR MARY: What is up with penmanship indeed! I myself have noticed the same thing you have mentioned in my life. In fact, I cannot remember the last time I wrote an entire paragraph by hand. I thought about writing my response to this by hand but I was pretty sure there would be a great deal of cramping by the time I finished writing. Besides, this is a blog so handwriting is not exactly welcome.

I do believe written communication is becoming obsolete. I was speaking with my coworker about this today and his reaction to the thought of writing something by hand was the following: “That’s why we have computers! What, are we Amish?” Granted, this is the same individual who had a twenty-minute rant the other day revolving around our vending machine’s inability to accept debit cards, but I think it still says something about our generation.

Maybe we should do something to keep the art of the hand written word alive. We could find pen pals and invest in a calligraphy set. Of course, there is no spell-check for handwritten notes. I do not think the world is ready for people to start writing things without spell-check.

Condolences on the death of the written word,

Nathan

 

DEAR NATHAN: At a wedding, while shaking hands with a friend, I accidentally bumped another friend’s wine glass, staining his $180 shirt. The stain is a small one, on the lower portion and not very noticeable. Now the man insists I pay for the shirt.

Is there an etiquette rule on this issue? I feel bad, but not bad enough that I think I should pay for such an expensive shirt. If you have the means to pay for a shirt that expensive, I don’t believe you should expect others to replace it. — CHRIS IN DENVER

DEAR CHRIS: $180 for a shirt?! What, is the shirt made of platinum?! Does this shirt cure diseases?!  And if this person is spending a small fortune on a dress shirt, what is he doing spending time near any sort of staining beverage? A shirt that expensive is meant to only be worn inside of a temperature and moisture controlled environment void of any food and or drink.

As far as I am concerned, there is an etiquette rule here. If it is your fault, you are responsible for the shirt. Maybe not replacing it, but at least getting the stain out.

That is why I would recommend you blame your wine-swilling friend.

Everyone knows that this friend cannot handle their alcohol! First it’s a single drink, the next thing you know they are stumbling around spilling wine all over priceless shirts! There might be a call for an intervention. The first thing you should bring up is how their behavior is hurting their friend’s shirts.

Good luck making everyone view your friend as an uncontrollable lush,

Nathan

P.S. Seriously?! $180 for a shirt?! $180!

 

DEAR NATHAN: My girlfriend watches the 24-hour news channels and seems to be obsessed with them. It is hurting our relationship and affecting her happiness. She’s constantly worried about national and international politics, global warming, the economy, health care, crime, etc. She neglects herself and her family. She seems agitated, anxious and depressed by all the news.

Is this a disease? How can I help her get off this habit? What should I do? — MISERABLE IN MINNESOTA

DEAR MISERABLE IN MINNESOTA: The 24-hour news channels can be depressing. In fact, these are some of the trending subjects now on CNN’s website: Neo-Nazi killers, Abducted girls, bear attack, Flight 370, Gold heist. These all seem like subjects that could cause a person to feel a bit down.

The worst part is once you start watching the news, you cannot stop. You are waiting for something good to happen, so you keep watching. Every so often, a feel-good story will come on. This is, though, immediately followed by another story about an impending financial disaster or a terrible car wreck.

For your sake, though, I devised a way to wean her off of the deadly drug we call “news.”

First, you will need several dozen kittens. You will need to record these kittens reenacting the terrible news stories. Soon she will stop being worried about serial killers and instead look forward to the kitten that plays the serial killer on your adorable news reenactments.

From there, slowly slip less and less news in. Pretty soon, she is just watching a pile of adorable kittens. Nothing stops agitation, anxiousness, or nervousness like kittens.

You will want to move this plan along quickly, though. Several dozen kittens will, soon enough, become several dozen cats. No one wants to deal with that nightmare.

Best of luck with your adorable kitten news,

Nathan

How To Build A Fire

Step 1: Find some wood. Neatly pile that wood in a way that seems to resemble fires that you have previously seen in your life. Once the wood is piled, remember that you need something to start the fire, also known as “kindling.”

Step 2: Find some kindling. This can be pine needles or small pieces of dried bark. Odds are it will be paper, though. It can be any paper, from sensitive incriminating documents to leftover napkins from that Taco Bell by your home that thinks one Grilled Stuft Burrito will somehow cause a mess that requires 70 napkins.

Step 3: Place that kindling under the wood that you already stacked. Begin lighting the kindling with some sort of fire producing device.

Step 4: Your kindling all burned up but the wood did not start to burn. Add more kindling and try again.

Step 5: It has now been 20 minutes and your pile of wood is still just a pile of wood. The kindling is doing nothing but creating smoke and sending tiny pieces of flaming paper into the air. You would take the time to worry that these pieces of paper will land on something or someone and set that thing or person on fire, but you are far too busy lighting more kindling. Find a bottle of lighter fluid and squirt a generous amount directly on top of the pile of wood. Light the wood again.

Step 6: Add more lighter fluid and relight.

Step 7: Add a lot more lighter fluid and relight.

Step 8: Stand back staring at the pile of wood and burnt up paper wondering where you went wrong. Perhaps the wood was not stacked properly. Maybe the logs are wet so the moisture in the wood is preventing you from building a large inferno that is visible from space. Maybe the Taco Bell gave you faulty fireproof napkins. Mutter your doubts about the likelihood of this fire ever taking off, then feel a small amount of hope when you see that a tiny plume of smoke is coming out of the far side of your wood pile.

Step 9: Use the rest of the lighter fluid. Light the wood again.

Step 10: Pray to your respective deity that this time the fire will start. You do not know how much more fire building fun you can possibly stand, so you desperately need it to work this time.

Step 11: Notice a corner of one log has begun to smolder just a bit. Take care of that tiny flickering flame like it is the child you never had. Coddle it and say sweet things to it. Blow on it gently so the flame will begin to grow. Begin to add the last of your Taco Bell napkins nearby the flame.

Step 12: Tell all of your friends and family nearby that you “think it’s going to take off this time.”

Step 13: The fire has spread and the wood is now putting off a bit of heat. Relish in your success.

Step 14: It turns out the amount of time it takes to build a fire was far greater than expected. Now that it is finally going, everyone has to leave. Sit there for a second staring at your handiwork then begin sulking.

Your Guide To The 2014 Kentucky Derby

This image was originally posted to Flickr by Velo Steve at http://flickr.com/photos/29145750@N00/485792814. It was reviewed on 21 March 2008 by the FlickreviewR robot and was confirmed to be licensed under the terms of the cc-by-sa-2.0.

Today is the 140th running of the Kentucky Derby. It is time yet again to bask in the glory that is the gentleman’s sport of watching wild animals carry tiny people around on their backs for a while. Outside of the race, though, there is a whole culture. Ladies in ridiculous hats drink weird minty beverages.

The weirdest thing to me has always been the fact that gambling is okay in this scenario. Any other day of the week, if you mention a person betting on horses down at the track, it would have an incredibly negative connotation to it. One day a year, though, people are allowed to gamble and not only is it socially acceptable, but it is actually considered the classy thing to do.

It can be hard to pick the correct horse, though. Most people have no idea what to look for when betting all of their hard-earned money on livestock. That is where I come in. I have figured out the trick. See, it does not matter how well they have run in the past or how healthy they are. The only thing that matters is their name.

To help you out, I have come up with a bit of a guide to the names of the Kentucky Derby horses. Just remember: when you win a fortune because of my gambling advice, I do get 10%

 

Horses That Are Definitely Not Going To Win:

Vicar’s In Trouble: Nothing says a lack of confidence in your horse’s ability more than placing the phrase “In Trouble” in its name. You might as well name your horse “Not Going To End Well.” Actually, I would not be surprised to find out that someone has used that as a horse’s name.

Candy Boy: I feel like Candy Boy is something you would hear a bully call someone in a bad 80’s movie. Then they would give them a wedgie. At the end of the movie, the bully would be beaten by this candy boy, but I highly doubt it would be in a 1.25 mile race.

Intense Holiday: We have all had those holidays that go from relaxing into a full-blown train wreck full of stress. By the end of them, all you really want is a vacation to relax from your previous vacation. With a name like this, I would imagine this horse must be very tired.

Side note: What would the most intense holiday on the calendar be? I would vote Arbor Day. Those trees can be pretty extreme.

Uncle Sigh: This horse was named after a character on a reality show. The only alteration is they changed “Si” to “Sigh.” It’s like they got half way through naming the horse than got bored with the name.

California Chrome: I know that this is the horse that is predicted to win, but I have an issue with that. This horse has been named after a technique of plating metal or plastic with chromium. For some reason, that does not sound like a recipe for speed to me. A chrome plated horse would have the shiniest coat out of any of them there, though, so I guess that’s something.

We Miss Artie: I do not know who Artie is, but if a horse is sulking because of the absence of a friend, it will likely affect the horse’s racing abilities.

 

I Have No Idea What This Horse’s Name Means (AKA I was too lazy to research these names):

Samraat

Chitu

Vinceremos

Tapiture

Ride On Curlin

 

Horses That Would Make Great Movie Titles

Harry’s Holiday

Dance With Fate

 

Horses That Need A Drug Test Immediately After The Race

General A Rod

 

Horses Named After Famous Tony’s

Danza

 

Horses That Should Win

Wicked Strong: This name just spells out prodigious horse abilities. Unless the owners were being ironic. Maybe it is actually a sarcastic name. Either way, every single time I read this name I hear it in a thick Boston accent. That makes me very happy and for that they should win.

Medal Count: If you name your horse after the way people keep track of how many times a country has won in the Olympics, you are clearly planning on winning. A successful attitude is very important when attempting a feat like this.

Commanding Curve: Two reasons this horse should win. First, the word commanding is a very strong word. Secondly, it is an excellent use of alliteration. As long as it is alliterative, they could have used any word there. Commanding Candlestick. Commanding Catamaran. Commanding Claymation Coroner’s Candy Cane.

I really like alliteration.

Wildcat Red: This is my top pick for the win. The reason is simple. If I were writing a western and I needed a name to describe my surly yet tough-as-nails vigilante bounty hunter, I would choose the name Wildcat Red. After all of the death he has lived through, the only thing that has remained is his sense of right and wrong and he is quick to enforce that by whatever means necessary. Sure, he has a hard exterior from the years of pain that he has tried to drown with bottle after bottle of bootleg whiskey, but deep down there is a lot more to him, a complex emotional side that we rarely get a glimpse of but know is right there under the surface.

I think we can all agree that is exactly what you want in thoroughbred race horse.

Thanks For Making Feel Like A Slacker, Willie Nelson

This image was originally posted to Flickr by joshbg2k at http://flickr.com/photos/45006005@N00/7252760010. It was reviewed on 28 May 2012 by the FlickreviewR robot and was confirmed to be licensed under the terms of the cc-by-2.0.

There are certain things that make you question your life. I mean, I think I am doing okay thus far. I have not committed any heinous crimes or done anything terrible. Overall, I have been a pretty good person. I, however, have wondered if I am living up to my full potential.

Willie Nelson is not helping things.

For those unfamiliar with Willie Nelson, let me try to explain. Willie Nelson has had 25 number one singles in the United States. He has produced 68 studio albums in his 81 years on this earth. He is also a renowned marijuana user who loves the pot so much that he recorded a song with Snoop Dogg called “Roll Me Up and Smoke Me When I Die.”

Oh, and according to an article I ran across today, Willie Nelson is a 5th-degree black belt in the martial art of Gong Kwon Yu Sul.

I was watching TV while simultaneously perusing news on the internet when I ran across an article about America’s favorite pot loving singer. According to this article, Willie Nelson walked off of his tour bus into the martial arts studio he has studied at for the past twenty years. Once there, he was presented with his fifth degree black belt in front of the parents of other martial arts students and celebrities such as Lance Armstrong.

That’s right. 81-year-old Willie Nelson, a man who has spent roughly 60 straight years stoned, is an accomplished martial artist. Conversely, I was able to do 40 push-ups the other day and felt pretty accomplished. If I were to run into this old country singer in a dark alley, he would easily be able to pound me into oblivion right before he stood over smoking a doobie and singing “Always On My Mind.”

I have never once in my life come close to earning a black belt. The closest I get is when I choose the black side of my reversible belt, but the only sort of physical activity involved in that comes when I bend over to pick it up off of the floor. In fact, I have never done any sort of martial arts at all. I never even pretended to be able to do karate as a kid.

That means that I am being beaten in every single way by a burnt out old hippie country singer. I have no hit singles and my studio album count is seriously lacking. Even the old guy has better hair than me with that sweet, sweet braid.

I guess the good news is Willie Nelson took 20 years to get his 5th-degree black belt.  That means that he did not even start Gong Kwon Yu Sul until he was 61 years old. I still have 34 years before I even have to start learning how to Gong, Kwon, or Sul. That gives me a lot more time to attempt to accomplish something and make a name for myself like Willie.

Now if I can just figure out what Gong Kwon Yu Sul is. Does it involve kicking? It probably involves kicking…