Gotta Work Everyday. Gotta Not Be Cliche.

If all I had to do was write a blog, I could generate original material every day. But that's not the case. I have a shitty job that crushes my soul. I have an hour commute that sucks the life out of me. I have a dog that is not house-trained. I have a girlfriend who wants to watch the Sex and the City movie at a volume of about 96 that makes it hard for me to even follow my own thoughts much less complete this sentence coherently. I have a shitty blog with even shittier readers who insist on keeping this very blog on a check rarely-to-never basis.

That, my friends, means that I don't have any absurd dialogues for you to not appreciate today. You'll just have to settle for a quick recap of my trip to Giants stadium this Sunday. If you're still in dire need of absurd dialogue, I suggest you pick up the Sex and the City movie. I'm almost positive that the writers of this movie are intentionally trying to misinform women about men. That way the show's faulty advice and morals will continually ruin women's relationships in order to keep them coming back for more counsel, enabling them to sell more DVDs.

So about that game. I haven't been to the stadium in five years, and I don't know if I have changed or the tailgating has but HOLY SHIT WHAT A FUCKING ZOO. In college I would start tailgating at 7 AM and drink straight through the day, so the drunkenness isn't shocking to me. I, myself, was quite drunk this Sunday. But the characters at this place were out of their fucking minds. They were screaming nonsensically, randomly assaulting each other, and generally threatening anyone who did or did not step in their path. Did I mention that my girlfriend came with us?

By the way, she's still watching that god awful movie next to me. I have to tell you I think it has lowered my IQ 10 points just from having the inane chatter of those four retarded broads blaring in the background.

As we walked up the many, many steps to our seats, we had several gentlemen attempt to engage us in some form of discourse. While most chose to cat call, others seemed to prefer the wolf whistle. Some of the more clever types chose to look at my girlfriend and come up with an inventive chant. Ordinarily, this would bother me, but I took it in stride on Sunday. Am I really to be concerned that my girlfriend might leave me for a guy in a fireman helmet, shorts above the knee, and work boots like THIS? Hopefully not, but it would make for a funny blog.

Oh, so apparently this entire movie is about the fights that girls have with each other. Didn't you think it was about sex? Wasn't that somewhere in the title? No. The movie is just watching one giant bitch fit.

The game itself ended up being pretty exciting. The Giants defense came through at just the right time to sweep Carrie off her feet. As the game went into overtime, some brunette had a baby on the street with a bald guy. The game was capped off by a field goal from John Carney that won Carrie's heart with a contrived proposal and a lame post-wedding reception at some diner.

Okay, I can't even follow this movie anymore. Are they supposed to be 50 and having sex? And they're proud of the way they act? People pay to see this? Girls emulate these hogs? Thank god my girlfriend is not like that.

Now they just toasted to "the next 50 years" as the movie wraps up. Nice try, ladies. Your show is cancelled. Fuck the next 50 years, I don't have to watch your flapping plastic faces for one more second.

Christ, what was I saying? I don't know, the Giants won or something. It was a good time I think. I don't know. All I can think about is these fucking beasts ruining an entire generation of women. This is why I can't blog. I blame women. In all forms. But I promise I'll try to post more often. I got more in the can. I just need to talk to my girlfriend about setting aside some free time where I can pursue my writing with a little less distraction.

The movie finally ended. My girlfriend just stood up and said, "I can't wait to watch it a million more times!"

With Tim Meadows as Mark Ingram

Mark Ingram is going to prison.


If ever there was a picture that was made for The Sports Hernia.

Have you ever seen one of those old movies where a guy would escape from prison, and a guard in a tower would shine a giant spotlight on him, and he would freeze, and his eyes would fixate like a deer in headlights? Well if you have, Mr. Ingram would love for you to show him that movie, because he is surely going to be trying to escape from prison soon.

From the article:

His sentencing was delayed as he tried to revoke the plea, fired several court-appointed attorneys and made what prosecutors termed “outlandish” legal arguments, including a claim that he was immune from prosecution because he enjoyed diplomatic status as a head of state.

In his most notable game - the 20-19 victory over the Buffalo Bills in the 1991 Super Bowl - Ingram caught five passes, after one of which he fended off tackles and hopped on one leg for a crucial first down.

For Mark's sake, let's hope those skills don't fail him once he's in prison.

Eventually, Mark decided to defend himself. Luckily, I was able to obtain the court transcript:

Judge Denis Hurley: Mark, I want to thank you for finally showing up to my courtroom. I've heard you haven't been feeling too well.

Mark Ingram: That's right, Judge, sir. In fact, I'm still not feeling too well.

Judge: We'll I'm sorry to hear that.

Mark: Ya know, in the ass area... May I go to the "bathroom" please?

Mark makes air quotes with his hands.

Judge: See if you can hold it. Today we will complete this trial once and for all.

Mark: Ya'hona', what we really doin here, hmm? What we doin in this courtroom today? This room of court. This place of justice and truth. Conviction and eviction. Attorneys and prosecutors-

Judge: Mr. Ingram? We know where we are.

Mark: Of course, ya'hona'. Now where was I? Oh yes. The wrongful persecution of Mr. Mark Luther Ingram, Jr. Now, have I done wrong? Of course. I have committed many, many crimes in my lifetime.

Mark Ingram slowly walks down the aisle of the courtroom.

Mark: But I ask you. Are you not just as wrong for accusing me of these crimes? Does not the good book say that man "judge not best, when he be a judge?" And we are to turn to Mr. Judge to tell us what is right and wrong? I think not. I rest my case.

Judge: Mr. Ingram, stop.

Mark: Oh I think I've made my point, Judge.

Judge: I mean stop moving.

A bailiff steps in front of Mark just as he is reaching for the courtroom's exit door. Mr. Ingram turns around smiling.

Mark: Yes, ya'hona'? Are we just about done here? Do you need me to sign something before I leave?

Judge: You're not going anywhere, Mr. Ingram. Bailiff, please show him to his seat. You have elected to represent yourself, Mr. Ingram, so I am obliged to ask you if you have anything else to say before I read your sentence.

Mark: Okay, fine. So what's the big deal with a little marijuana? Who here hasn't smoked some weed in their lives, huh? Who here has never just ever-so-slightly blazed a little of the bubonic chronic?

Mark Ingram smells his fingers, inhaling deeply.

Judge: Mr. Ingram, I'm not sure-

Mark: And who among us, has not sold a little of the sticky icky to get by? Just to pay the bills? Or, perhaps, to turn a small profit?

Judge: Mr. Ingram-

Mark: Or a large profit.

Judge Hurley bangs his gavel.

Judge: MR. INGRAM! We are not here for a drug charge.

Mark: Really? I knew you had nothin' on me! I'm free! Oh lord, oh lord, I can't believe I'm free! I'm gonna party tonight!!

Judge: Mr. Ingram, you're being charged with money laundering. It's a federal offense. Kindly proceed with any final statements before I announce your sentence.

Mark: Umm...final statements, final statements. Umm......please?

Judge: Please what?

Mark: Please don't?

Judge: Mr. Ingram, I have to sentence you.

Mark: But why?

Judge: Mr. Ingram, clearly you have no remorse, explanation or excuse for your crimes. Seeing as how this is by no means your first offense, I sentence you to ninety-two months in a federal prison.

Mark: Really ya'hona'? Damn. Alright. If that's what it has to be, then that's what it has to be. I'll take the two.

Judge: Excuse me?

Mark: I'll take two months.

Judge: No, Mr. Ingram. You are to serve ninety-two months.

Mark: You said, "Nine to two months." I choose two.

Judge: I most certainly did no-

Mark: You goin back on your word, ya'hona'? Oh so you can change the rules of the game? Who's really on trial here?

Judge: MR. INGRAM. You are to serve 7 years, and 8 months.

Mark: Oh I see. I see how it is.

Judge: Good.

Mark: Now you gonna add years to my sentence just because you got your numbers miscalculated? How you gonna keep increasin shit, Judge?

Judge Hurley bangs his gavel several times.

Judge: Bailiff, get him out of my sight! Take Mr. Ingram to prison!

Mark: Wait, wait, ya'hona' please! I just have one more question.

Judge Hurley sighs.

Judge: Go ahead.

Mark: Thank you.

The bailiff unhands Mark as he straightens his suit and tie.

Mark: Ahem. So ya'hona.' Exactly when does my trial start?

And They Road Off Into The Sunset Together...

Carson Palmer and Carl Pavano talk on the phone while they watch Monday Night Football.



Carl: See, Carson? We could have hurt ourselves if we attempted that high five. A handshake is always your best bet.

Carson: You're right, Carl. You're always right. You're the best...


via Deadspin:



video link

Self-Delusional Sports Rehab

Self-Delusional Sports Rehab: Where Athletes Go to Pretend They Can Become the Athletes They Once Were

Carl Pavano: Hey, Carson! How you been, man? Great to see you.

Carson Palmer enters carrying a large gym bag.



Carson Palmer: Not so good, Carl. What are you doin here?

Carl: Oh, I'm always here, man.

Carson: But didn't the Yankees call you up?

Carl: Ehh. Yes. But I prefer it here. But what's up with you, man. Why so glum?

Carson: Have you seen us this year? Week one we got our asses kicked, and I SUCKED. Week two we got our asses kicked, and I SUCKED. Someone recommended I come here for some rehab assignments. (looks around) What is this place anyway?

Carl: It's just a gym for elite athletes like us, but without the pressures of a normal gym. No crowds. No coaches looking over your shoulder. No teammates calling your desire into question.

Carson: Well, I guess that's good. This place could be just what I need. Man, I'll do anything to get back to the playoffs. I guess it's going to take a lot of hard work. (exhales) Alright, let's get started.

Carl: Whoa, whoa. What's your rush, buddy? You just got here.

Carson: But coach said-

Carl walks behind Carson and sits him on a workout bench.

Carl: Shh, shh.

Carl rubs Carson's shoulders.

Carl: Now, who knows your body better: you or your coach?

Carson: Well, me, but-

Carl: And how does your knee feel?

Carson: My knee? Why does everyone keep asking me that? It feels fine. That was like 3 years ago.

Carl: See? You're fine, pal. Let's just relax a bit so you're nice and fresh for next season.

Carson: Next season?

Carl: Or the year after. Whatever you're comfortable with. But the important thing is not to rush it. Look at me. I could have rushed it to get back to the team, but what if I got hurt again? Who's going to pay my bills then?

Carson: Don't you have 40 million dollars from your contract?

Carl: Exactly! How am I going to live off of 40 million dollars? Thankfully, I'm only 32 years old, and because I didn't rush back and hurt myself, some other team will pay me another 40 million this off-season.

Carson: I never thought of it like that.

Carl: Well you better start. Don't push that knee, Carson. I know it's been 3 years, but better safe than sorry.

Carson: Maybe you're right, Carl.

Carl leans in close to Carson's ear.

Carl: (whispers) And you know what? When you come back? You're going to have the best season EVER.

Carson leans his cheek on Carl's hand.

Carson: Thanks, Carl.

Allan Houston jogs into the room.



Allan Houston: Hey, guys!

Allan jogs in place.

Allan: Who's ready to have their best season ever?!

Carson: Me!

Carl: You guys!

Allan: I'm so pumped!

Allan shadowboxes in the mirror.

Allan: I'm trying out for the Knicks!

Carson: But, Allan, didn't you like, retire...like, three years ago?

Allan continues shadowboxing.

Allan: Yes but now I'm back, and I'm in the best shape of my life!

Carl: That's great, Al.

Allan: Take that, Barkley! In your face, Jordan! What do you think of THIS, Mourning?!

Allan sits down clutching his chest.

Carson: But, Allan, all those guys are retired now.

Carl: Not Alonzo.

Carson: Seriously? How come I don't see him in here?

Carl: He comes on weekends.

Carson: Ah.

Carl: Allan, you okay? Need a drink?

Allan: (gasps) Ohgodyesplease. Toss it.

Carl throws a gatorade; it lands five feet short of Allan.

Allan: Don't worry I got it.

Allan bends over to pick it up.

Carson: BE CAREFUL!!! MY KNEE!!!!!

Allan: Carson. I'm across the room from you.

Carson: But still...

Allan: That's okay. Keep the drink. I think I'm just gonna lay down.

Carson: You really think you can make an NBA roster, Allan?

Allan: It's just the Knicks.

Carl: Listen, we all need to take it easy so we can all make our successful comebacks. And when you're back out there in two or three years, having a huge season and signing a mega contract, you'll look back and see that all the long hours we spent resting were worth it!

They all stand up for a group high-five, but instead just shake hands.

Tom Brady walks in with his head down, reading his blackberry.

Tom Brady: Uhh, coach said I was supposed to report here to work out. (looks up) What the-

Tom looks at Carl, then Carson, then Allan.

Tom: Awwwww, FUCK.

Adam Jones' Innard Monologue

Adam Pacman Jones' organs have a conversation.

Adam Jones' Brain: That was amazing. What a game! I can't believe we went a year without playing football!

Adam Jones' Legs: Hell yeah, man. I'm tired as shit but it was worth it. So much fun gettin back out there.

Adam Jones' Hands: Word, son. I'm gonna have a hun'id innaceptions.

Brain: Okay, okay I'm excited too. But we still have work to do, boys. Their only touchdown was a result of your pass interference penalty, Hands.

Hands: Say what?! Yo that was Legs' fault. All Legs, boy.

Legs: Fuck that, I was in position. You got lazy, Hands.

Brain: No matter, no matter. The most important thing is that the team won. But we still have a lot of work to do. Let's get back in the gym and prepare for the Philadelphia Eagles!

Legs: Nah, man. I'm too tired.

Brain: But what about next week?

Legs: I got nothin in the tank. I need a break. I can barely move.

Hands: Cmon, Brain. We got til Monday. Free day, yo!

Brain: I suppose you're right about that.

Legs: Let's just cool out.

Brain: Okay then. So what do you want to do tonight?

Legs: I dunno dude.

Hands: Whatever's clever.

Adam Jones' Dick: Wanna go to the strip club?

Brain: I'm sorry? Did you say something, Dick?

Dick: I said.....wanna go to the strip club.

Brain: What the fuck?! Are you kidding me, Dick? Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!

Hands: Whoa, whoa, easy playboy.

Dick: Why would you talk to me like that?

Brain: Wha...wha...what are you saying. I don't know what you're saying. I didn't hear that.

Dick: Listen-

Brain: No!

Dick: Just hear me out!

Legs: Brain, listen to him, man. We all in this together.

Brain: Ugh. You're right, Legs. Fine. Go ahead, Dick. I apologize for my language.

Dick: Look, all I'm sayin is. We back in the league, right? We 1-0, right? We been good, right? Why can't we just relax in the club?

Brain: I listened. The answer is no.

Dick: It won't be like the old days. I've changed. We've all changed. Have we even gotten in trouble in the past 12 months?

Brain: Yes! Hands punched a stripper in the eye in January!

Hands: ...Why you gotta bring up old shit...

Dick: But! We didn't get arrested.

Brain: Because I paid her off!

Dick: Look we can go back and forth all night. I think we all know that our rightful place is in that strip club. We need that strip club. We make the strip club. We are the strip club.

Brain: What the fuck does that mean?

Legs: I'm in.

Brain: WHAT?! You said you couldn't even move.

Legs: Fuck it.

Brain: Umm, "Fuck it?"

Hands: You heard him, you fuckin nerd. (sings) We goin striiiiip cluuuub. We goin striiiip cluuub.

Brain: Gentlemen, please. Let's just discuss this like civilized-

Dick: What's up, Balls. You in?

Adam Jones' Balls: Ehh, I don't know. I'm partial to Hooters, personally.

Hands: Shiiit we went to Hooters for your ass last time.

Dick: Why would you take Hooters over a strip club?

Balls: I like to have a bit of mystery.

Dick: That is retarded.

Balls: Ya know what? You're a DICK.

Dick: Wow, that's really fresh. Never heard that one. Original.

Legs: Fuck this noise. I'm walkin.

Brain: Legs, stop. Look we don't have to-

Hands: Can I slap a bitch?

Brain: No!

Dick: Yes.

Brain: NO! What the fuck, Dick?!

Dick: We're goin, Brain. You know it and I know it. You may as well come with.

Brain: I will NOT.

Dick: Suit yourself. But you know what happens when you don't come. Things get....unfortunate...

Brain: Fine. Look we'll just go for an hour. JUST AN HOUR. Then we come home.

Hands: (sings) I'ma grab some tittays in da strip cluuuub.

Brain: No, Hands. No grabbing. No drinking. No shooting. Everyone got that?

Dick: Of course, of course. There's just one problem. Jerry Jones ordered all the strip clubs in Dallas to bar Pacman Jones from entering.

Brain: That's why I changed it to Adam last month.

Legs: Wow.

Dick: I am impressed.

Hands: Yo Brain, you's a genius!

Brain: You know it. So should we call Tank?

Adam Jones' Stomach: Nah, fuck that. That fat bitch eat all my wings.

Brain: Good call. Alright let's go. Hands, get the weed.

Calling Out Names

After a three year hiatus, I am returning to blogspot. It seems that in my absence, there have been a lot of pretenders to the throne vying for my spot. I'm sorry that you all had to put up with such worthless posers in my wake, but no longer. I am the Marlo Stanfield of the internet, and I plan on doing some housekeeping around here. I will eliminate all my competition and reclaim my rightful position as the brownest and blackest blogger on the internet. In addition, I will also have a lot of other references to black culture.

Oh, like this one!



Let's get started and go through the perpetrators:

chez pim



I don't know who this Chez Pim is, but I don't like the look of her. Look at that face. You can just tell she's up to something. And when you click on her link, you find out what it is. She's selling shitballs under the title Brown is the New Black.


Flickr

Speaking of shitballs, I have a special message for the baby-loving populace out there: small does not equal cute. Apparently, all of Flickr disagrees.


Townhall

The reason women shouldn't be allowed to vote.



Ann, I know you read my blog and were inspired to do something edgy and provocative, but please, you're just embarrassing yourself. There's a difference between provocative and provocative for the sake of being provocative. Have I made myself clear while saying provocative enough times? Good. Provocative.


bnet

More like Brown is the New BORING. *flick-starts spinning bow tie*


MySpace

You are the reason I hate Myspace. One of the many, many reasons I hate MySpace.


blueoregon

I get it. Attention everyone: IMMIGRANTS ARE BROWN.


Business Week



NERD!


cnewmark

What. IN THE FUCK. Is this?

The Real Paul Jones

Perry Farrell is on board. Nothing weird about that.

Twitter

What. IN THE FUCK. Is Twitter?

The Champagne Diamonds Blog

Wait, hold on. Go back. Did Bill Gates just copy me? God damnit. Why did I use my "NERD!" line already? That would have killed him!

Next time, Bill. I'll do you like you did Netscape. You're all on notice. This is my internet now.

Hurry Up And Die -- McSweeney's

I consider myself a man of principle. A man of integrity. A man of class.

I have a strong sense of right and wrong, and I act accordingly.

I treat people how I would like to be treated.

I am a man of my word. A man of loyalty. A man of standards.

Other people may dime on their co-workers, throw others under the bus, and look out for number one in every circumstance. I, however, refuse to lower my standards and sink to their level.


BUT FUCK THOSE PEOPLE*


Today we will commence a new series called Hurry Up And Die. In Hurry Up And Die I will be dishing out large helpings of comeuppance. I will attack those that I have previously spared out of my good will. I will destroy those who have been violated the tenets of a decency. I will obliterate every douchebag on this planet in the name of all that is good and holy.

And I will curse a lot.

Some of you may be saying to yourselves, "But Brown, you're an asshole all the time. This is in no way a departure from your usual behavior. Fuck, I can even look through the archives where you've been an absolutely horrible person to innocent people. What's with the act?"

To that I simply say -- Shut up. Stop ruining it for the new readers.

Before I proceed with the inaugural edition of Hurry Up And Die, I felt I should let you know that I am looking for a domain name to launch this blog on my own. I know that my current URL is quite catchy and easy to remember, but I have decided to branch out. One of my ideas was to launch my own site as hurryupanddie.com. Unfortunately, GoDaddy informs me that it is already taken, but they offered me some fantastic substitutes:

freehurryupanddie.com

hurryupanddiestore.com

hurryupanddienow.com

And my favorite:

besthurryupanddie.com

As perfect as all of those are, I decided to go in a different direction. You can feel free to use them.

On to today's subject: McSweeney's. McSweeney's is a website that compiles literary works from all over, including amateurs and professionals. The pieces are generally light and comedic in nature. In January, I submitted the first of the Brit's Kids series for publication. (I know that seems really lame and hackneyed now, but at the time it wasn't just topical, it was prophetic.)

I received the following reply from one of the editors:

Hi Bryan -

Yeah, I pretty much consider anything about Brittney, Paris, or Lohan low-hanging fruit. This has a clever angle, but not enough to win me over completely, I’m afraid. Thanks for the look, nonetheless.

Best,
[redacted] [dickhole]
Acting Web Site Editor

I forwarded this email to a friend, and added the following as a preface:

It's not that I'd really argue, but it's kinda hard to take the holier-than-thou air of sophistication from McSweeney's when he spells "Britney" wrong. And I thought I made a preemptive strike against the 'another tired Britney piece' criticism with the title of my email, but I suppose to no avail.

Part of me wants to submit another type of piece and part of me wants to just submit elsewhere, even if not this particular bit. I mean I get that Britney isn't the freshest subject, but I guess I just figured good writing is good writing. The cleverness, hopefully, wasn't just the angle but the repartee. I think I'd take my stuff up against 90% of that site, but maybe I'm biased.

Are sour grapes a low-hanging fruit?

At first I wanted to post his email for public opinion, but I thought it may be unprofessional. But now it's Hurry Up And Die day, so he can fucking suck a dick.

So fuck your fag mag and all you homos that run it. You are all the same pathetic pussies from the high school drama club that wore capes and carried lunchboxes. I could easily take every one of your girlfriends, and I would, if fucking a dog wasn't illegal. You have never done anything novel or original. You are fucking worthless to me. I COULD BUY AND SELL YOU.

Okay, I couldn't buy you. But you're still gay.

And what the fuck is this "acting web site editor" bullshit? What are you a fucking intern? Do you even really work there? I guess it's all the same since you don't get paid. And YOUR writing, sir, is terrible.

First of all you start a sentence with "yeah." I would never do that.

Secondly, it's "Britney." I know, I'm not much of a starfucker either. But she's only about the second most famous person on the planet, you should probably know how to spell her name. You know the most famous is Bush, right? I'm hoping you know how to spell that one, but something tells me you're not too familiar with it.

Third...low-hanging fruit? Seriously? What the fuck do you write, Tolstoy? You working on the great American novel over there at McSweeney's? I'd love to have a read one time, if you aren't too busy "acting" like a website editor.

Fourthly, the angle wasn't really the most clever part, it was the banter. Of course it's debatable exactly just how funny the dialogue is, but something tells me you saw Brittney Britney in type and scrambled to get up on your soap box and write a dismissive patronizing email. And I assume you literally have to get on a box to use your computer because only a short person would write in such non-committal pussified language.

Finally, you close your email with "best." "Best?" Don't be that guy, [redacted] [dickhole]. Don't be that guy.

In summation, you wouldn't know a good writer if it took a dump on your chest, WHICH IT JUST DID.

Hurry up and die, McSweeney's.



*Sorry, that was a typo. I'm missing a "T" there.

24 Hour Vacation -- The Family Night

The titles haven't made sense to this point. Why start now?

The dinner and subsequent night out weren't as eventful. I think we were definitely on the backside of the mountain. I'm pretty sure we peaked when John rolled in the house with coke and pizza, yet no soda. I'm still thinking about that guy, actually. He was like this Dickensian character, if they did mountains of blow. Did I mention this guy does drugs?

We leave the hotel and get back in the car to pick up Grandma. She walks out of the house with John on her arm, shuffling slowly towards the car. It appears that Gram has decided to sport an outrageous old lady hat, complete with a scarf tied around it that hangs to the side. John, on the other hand is a more simple man. He decided to wear an oversized long white shirt--no shoes, no socks, presumably no underwear. Ever a contrast in styles, they approach the car together as he lovingly hands off his treasured little elf to us. He then stands at the top of the driveway waving goodbye to us as we pray that it is not a windy night.

Then we drive over to Aunt Lynn's to meet up with the rest of the group, and they come filing into the second car. Aunt Lynn is first out, and she looks like she has more left to say. I can't wait to hear it. Lauren's earrings state her Staten Island heritage proudly. Oh, look, Ralph is up. Glad to see he woke up for the occasion. And of course he carries the little old man baby with him, who looks like he could be Ed Koch's father. Okay everyone is in the car, but it looks like they forgot that someone has to drive. Cmon, dummies, one of you get in the front seat now.

Out walks a man with a cocksure first step. A man who is distinctly out of place in South Carolina. A man who has never doubted himself. A man whose only weakness in life is a spaghetti strap tank top that allows his musk to flow freely from his masculine pits to your undeserving nose.

Uncle Joey saunters out of the garage and into the car.

Grandma watches keenly as he gets into the driver's seat. She was only going on the condition that he would not go, since Lynn deemed that neither John nor Joey would go, lest there be a very old yet very juvenile fight. Grandma groans and then speaks slowly, gravely, and deliberately. Like Clint Eastwood.

"I thought he wasn't coming. I don't like liars..."

Jesus Christ, that was the most menacing thing I've ever heard. Just how deep does this family beef go? Is one of us going to get shot?

The adults decide on a seemingly harmless steakhouse to go to. The baby makes a face as if to say, "Why aren't we going to Olive Garden? Just kiddin, they don't make gravy like my ma!" Shut up, baby. You want Grandma to shoot you?

The drink order starts with me, and I commit a social faux paus by ordering a pitcher, when no one else at the table was drinking beer. Little do they know, I wasn't planning on sharing. Grandma quickly takes the attention off of me by ordering a daquiri with a scoop of ice cream...in it. Who is this woman?

As soon as the drink order is in, the baby starts yelping. Now listen closely, this baby was not crying, but actually squealing and YELPING every two seconds.. Imagine the most high-pitch "AYP! ACHP! AAGT!" sounds over and over again, and you will know what it's like to want to murder a child. I can only assume it was food he wanted, and not a gold chain or a track suit, but no one seemed to do anything about it. It continues while the parents carry on their conversation about that commune. ...Holy fuck it's still going. If you're reading this and you have kids, how the fuck do you deal with that noise? Oh my god, I'm actually going to stab a baby. SOMEONE GIVE ED KOCH A FUCKING KNISH.

The dinner passes with relatively few incidents, and we say goodnight to our hosts. The four of us with Lauren and Ralph hit a bar in town to have a few drinks. Everyone in the bar was wearing a white visor with a short sleeve button down from Old Navy. It was clear that we had time-traveled back to 1998. I was very surprised I didn't see a South Carolina "COCKS" hat in the crowd.

After a few fun hours of darts and drinks, Zolak drives Ally, Xmas Girl, and myself back to the hotel. As we drive past the large expanse of shopping centers, we notice a similarity in the buildings. They are all named quite literally, and we realize that they have to be to accomodate these simple folk.

Shoe Store

GUNS

Food Store

MEXICANS

The Room Store

CVS

CVS? You think these backwoods retards are going to understand what a CVS is? Yeah, good luck with that store name down here. I guarantee they have a hundred people a day walk in and ask for covers.

We all enjoy a good laugh at the poor hicks of South Carolina, and I slump back in my seat in the car and exhale. At that moment I think we all realized that the worst was behind us. We weathered John's drug temptations, a baby's absolute screeching, and Uncle Joey's overbearing body odor. We stuck it out together, and it was clear that we developed a bond from it. Though it may have been hard, we could be sure that some young man would make a mediocre blog out of the whole thing, and that going forward the best was yet to come.

Then a crazy Asian psychopath tried to drive 100 miles per hour into the back of our car.

He took one attempt, which shook us all up, but we all figured he had just lost control. Then he backed up and floored it again towards the back of our car, flashing his brights. We tried to slow down, he slowed down in front of us and tried to box us in. We tried to speed up, and Cho accelerated and made it even more dangerous. What the fuck was this guy's problem? Did he hear the "backwoods retard" comment? Then I'm sorry! Myrtle Beach isn't backwoods at all!

Quickly Zolak realized that we needed help, and Ally called 911. We tried to give landmarks to the operator, but ironically, no plainly named stores surrounded us. Where was The Room Store when you need it? Fuck that. Where was GUNS?!

Zolak channelled the spirit of the South and got his Gordon on by flying through a red light and whipping the car around to the other side of the road. We all thought the kamikaze would continue to follow us, but he just proceeded past us on his way as if it never happened. We breathed a sigh of relief and were thankful that Zolak didn't get his Earnhardt on.

A minute too late, we found a cop at the next light. Zolak pulled up next to him and explained the incident.

"Sir! Sir, thank god you're here. We were just getting chased by some maniac. I think he was Asian. He was gunning it towards us and flashing his lights, driving wildly like an Asian. I heard him yelling at us in another language. It sounded Asian. It was a blue pontiac, maybe a grand prix, and his face looks Asian. I'd say he was definitely Asian. Or Mexican."

The cop nodded, then looked forward towards the light. He couldn't have given a fuck, and at that point, neither did I. I just wanted to go home.

The next day we got to the airport and suffered delay after delay as the backwoods retards highly competent southerners attempted to efficiently run an airport. XG and I went to Friday's to pass the time, and one drink turned into ten. Our flight was so delayed that we actually saw Ally and Zolak again, even though their flight was three hours later than ours. They sat with us at our table, until our flight abruptly called for final boarding. We hurriedly grabbed our bags and went to dart for the plane. But what about the check?

"Don't worry about the check," Zolak said. "We got it. Don't miss your flight."

I ran away before he even said "check." My plan was complete. A 24 hour trip to South Carolina all for a free meal and drinks. It was so worth it!

Haha, so long suckers! I'm never paying you back! Ever! What are you gonna do about it? Sue me!

Oh.

You know my name?

You know where I live?

And you're both lawyers?

Fuck.

Okay, look. I have about eighty dollars worth of cold cuts, that should cover it.

I just have to make a quick stop to Myrtle Beach first.

24 Hour Vacation -- The Family Day

If you haven't read Travel Day, go back and read it.

I know what you're thinking. "Brown, if it's a 24 Hour Vacation, how is one day a Travel Day?" Well the answer is that since the vacation was so short, it was like we were basically traveling the entire time, thus making it a "travel day."

The real answer is that I'm an idiot and I fucked up. Are you happy now? I shit the bed, okay? Jesus what is the matter with you? You think this blog is up for a Pulitzer? Does it make you feel like a big man to brow-beat a poor young man just trying to get by on a simple blogger's wages? Do you know how much a blogger makes? Nothing! Since 2005 the total compensation I've gotten for this blog amounts to a wooden nickel, three buttons and used dental floss. So guess what. You get what you pay for, fucker.

Ahem.

So there we were, in the car on the way to Aunt Lynn's house. The conversation went like this:


Brown: So what do I need to know before I meet everyone?

Ally: Well, Aunt Lynn is really nice.

Xmas Girl: Nicest woman you'll ever meet.

Zolak: She's cool; you'll like her.

Brown: Aww that's cool. I love meeting the family. I can't wait!

Xmas Girl: Grandma is the best. She is only about 5'1", maybe 4'11", but she's a straight shooter.

Ally: She doesn't pull punches.

Zolak: It's funny to hear such awful language coming out of someone who's only 4'7".

Brown: Heh, that's fine. My family is rough-and-tumble. We all go at each other. I can handle it.

Ally: And then there's our cousin Lauren. She is very, very Staten Island.

Brown: Uhhh, coooolll...

Zolak: And her husband Ralph is even worse.

Brown: God, really?

Xmas Girl: And then there's the baby. He may be the most Italian one.

Brown: How is a baby that Italian already? He's a fucking baby!

Ally: Uncle Joey hates John.

Brown: Why?

Zolak: John is a cokehead.

Brown: Who is John??

Xmas Girl: Grandma's husband.

Brown: Jesus Christ! How is a grandfather a cokehead? What is he 80 years old? Does coke make old people move at normal speed? Where does an 80 year old even find blow? Does he page a 17 year old and then blow rails off a poster of the Rat Pack? Hold on, my head is spinning.

Ally: Well there was an issue of money, and cars, and stealing...you know, coke stuff.

Brown: Stealing off your four foot grandma??

Xmas Girl: Oh and also? Everyone is pretty much racist.

Brown: Right. Can we pull over? I'm gonna throw up.


I guess they thought I was kidding because they did not pull over. We did, however, take several U-turns due to Uncle Joey's explicit directions. "Once you pass the billboard with the sign for the Magic Show on the back, then you know you've passed it."

WHAT.

I guess Uncle Joey doesn't read the blog, because if he did, he'd know that "then you know you've past it" is never a part of directions. And have you ever tried to look at the back of a billboard while driving? That shit is fucking impossible. But thanks Uncle Joey. You turned a ten minute drive into just a shade under an hour. Well done. I haven't even met you and I like you already.

We get to the house and Uncle Joey is sitting in the garage on a stool, which I found an odd place to wait for someone, since it was 107 degrees out. But he did have a tank top with gaping arm holes, so I guess he was good to go. We make small talk as we walk in the house when Aunt Lynn pops up with a giant "SHHH!"

We whisper, "Oh my god, I'm sorry. Is the baby sleeping?"

"No. Ralph is."

Ralph? The baby's father? An adult? Great. Since when do I have to tiptoe around a grown man sleeping? He's not my father. I'm pretty sure I'll talk in normal tones and if he wakes up, then I guess he'll just have to deal with a short nap today. Poor baby adult male parent.

I sit down on the couch and nervously pick up one of the baby's toys to occupy myself, when what looks like a one foot tall Italian stereotype enters the room. This baby gangster turns the corner like he's going to shoot me for touching his toy, or more accurately, like he's going to posture that he will shoot me for touching his toy, then go home and watch his Sopranos DVD box set. Either way, I quickly dropped his oily rattle as I was approached by the ugliest baby ever.

Now when I say that this baby is the ugliest baby ever, I am exaggerating. This baby was merely the ugliest baby I've ever seen. I'm sure there are some uglier babies in Uganda or something, but this was definitely the ugliest baby in America. This baby is First World ugly. Luckily, XG and the gang quickly get us out and on our way to Grandma's, who lives half a block away. Aunt Lynn calls Grandma a "bitch" then insists that she is coming with us. I see no way that this can end badly.

As the door to the house opens, I am greeted by Grandma, who stands at just about 3'5". She is a bit banged up from a recent fall and walks around gingerly, but you can tell her mind is sharp by her impressive array of curses. We sit down on the couch and go through the usual small talk until Aunt Lynn interrupts the conversation to announce her disgust with a loud "UGH." It appears John has arrived.

John is a large, jovial, red-faced old man. I know what you're thinking, and you are absolutely correct. John is exactly like Santa Claus...except John is jovial because he is coked up, red-faced because he's drunk, and looks about two days older than Saint Nick. Also, John smokes a cigar and is racist. Besides that they are exactly alike. But hey, they both love to play with elves.

In talking to John I see that he is a very charming and sociable man. He clearly loves their Grandma and he takes care of her constantly. This doesn't mean much to Aunt Lynn, however, who is treating everyone to an icy stare and silence combo. Apparently, she prefers to focus on the fact that he does copious amounts of blow, has lost and/or stolen the car, and engages in unholy acts with other women.

Now I can't attest to the validity of these claims. I do not know how an 80 year old man gets coke, but I certainly saw him in some sort of altered state. I do not know the car situation, though the grandkids confirm there are police records to prove it. And hey, maybe that makes him a bad husband, I don't know. But one thing is for sure: this guy is absolutely NOT out crushing the singles scene getting pussy thrown to him like frisbees.

He has a giant coke problem. He froths at the mouth. You can't understand him. He is older than dirt. If this guy is out getting ass, then I'm going to kill myself. Because my single sexual life consisted of...well, it was horrible. I don't feel like talking about it. Read the archives. So I'm sure Johnny Boy is out getting fucked up. I'm sure he's even leering at other women, or whatever old men do. But trust me, Lynn, this guy is not getting laid.

We tapdance around the elephant in the room for about an hour or five, until he would be ignored no more. John lights the fuse by asking us if we all want some pizza, that fucking dick. Aunt Lynn flips out, yelling through her teeth at Grandma. "I bought eighty dollars worth of cold cuts, and you're gonna get pizza? Fine, get your fuckin pizza, waste eighty dollars. But you know what, next time tell me you're gonna get pizza so I don't waste eighty dollars on fucking cold cuts!" Hey Aunt Lynn, how much were the cold cuts?

We politely agree to some pizza, and John obliges to pick it up. Aunt Lynn thinks an appropriate reaction is to dart out of the house and storm down the block. Ally sends Zolak to go talk to her. FUCK. That is going to be me in two years, walking with a frantically pacing relative, talking about expensive lunch meats.

Zolak calms her down with a pro bono therapy session, and she returns to exchange a fake pleasantry and goodbye. We wait another hour until John returns with the pizza, considerably more red in the face. The girls surmise that he went out to bang out a few quick shots/rails/hookers before he got the pizza. I don't know why they're so skeptical, I think he just really wanted the best pizza he could find. And his face was red from all that Myrtle Beach heat! No? Are those no good? See. This is why I couldn't be a player like John. I have no game.

Now we are forced to fake smile and eat fake pizza. As I'm looking around for cues, I see XG motion me to keep eating more pizza. Being a skinny guy, you can never make the mistake of not eating a lot around family friends anyone. If I eat anything less than a five-course meal, I always get the requisite, "Pff, no wonder you're so skinny!" When do I get to play the No Wonder You're So Fat game? Huh? When is that gonna happen, God? Still waiting on that one.

So I eat slice after slice of this cardboard until XG tells me it's time to go. Finally, we can leave! Finally, we can go to the hotel! Finally, I can change out of the clothes I wore through the flight!

What? No? I didn't quite catch that. I thought you said we weren't going back to the hotel. Oh. We aren't. Umm, why not? Because we're going BACK TO AUNT LYNN'S??? WHY IN THE FUCK WOULD WE DO THAT?!? WE HAVE TO EAT MORE FOOD NOW??? THEN WHY WOULD YOU MAKE ME EAT ALL THAT PIZZA?!!? IS THIS SOME SORT OF BIZARRE FAMILY GAUNTLET I HAVE TO RUN WHERE I MEET AND GREET FIGHTING RELATIVES AND EAT MY WAY THROUGH CHALLENGES?? HOW LONG CAN ONE FUCKING DAY BE??????

As I walk back into Aunt Lynn's, I see Uncle Joey at his usual post-up in the garage, and he offers me a greeting in his usual candor.

"Hey. So how's Dickface?"

I don't know, Fart Pants. Is that an actual question? You were here, by yourself, for hours and the best you could come up with was "Dickface?" Are you sure you don't want to just leave that on his MySpace page? I don't care if you guys hate each other, but can you please not turn this into an episode of Saved By The Bell where I'm playing Mr. Belding?

At Aunt Lynn's we are presented with a mountain of meat. I try to make a giant sandwich to appease the family, and end up choking down a horrendous meal. I stare at a spot on the wall as Aunt Lynn bombards me with questions that frankly, I don't think anyone has the answer to. "It's okay if he wants to get coked up and lose the car, but it's also okay for him to call me a fat fuck?" Umm, Lynn, my dear? I really don't know what to tell you about that.

After about 67 hours of family time, we retreat to the hotel for the first time. I stare at the pool from the window, but I don't even feel like moving an inch to go down there. Plus, a lot of the people down there look fat. Instead I lay on the bed and try to regulate my breathing.

It's only 5 PM.

You still have to go to dinner.

And everyone is going to be there...

24 Hour Vacation -- The Travel Day

The Good News I Don't Have Arm Cancer series is on hold until further notice.

That notice is now.

It is no longer on hold. It is permanently discontinued.

I have to bump those entries because this past weekend needs addressing. I went down to Myrtle Beach, SC to meet Xmas Girl's grandma and some extended family. Obviously this went off without a hitch, and there's virtually nothing to write about. But I told some people that I would TRY to find something to say about it, so I will make good on that promise.

Oh but if you really care about my arm, here's a quick recap: Day 2 -- repacking. Day 3 -- repacking. Day 4 -- self-surgery to remove packing. Day 5 -- wounds close. Day 6 -- abscess returns. Day 7 -- I ignore it. The circle of life.

On to South Carolina we go.

Our trip begins 15 minutes into our ride to the airport, where Xmas Girl turns to me and says, "Oh my god, I forgot to pack any underwear or bathing suits." WHAT. "Well I don't wear underwear so I forgot to pack them." Oh! Lovely. She says, "We'll just go shopping when I get there." Great. We are there for 24 hours and already 3 of it is going to be spent shopping. This is quickly turning into the most expensive trip to Wal-Mart ever.

At the airport I'm walking through the metal detector, when my belt sets it off. I walk back to quickly toss it in a bin, and some other fat fuck walks past me and through the detector. What are you a fucking diplomat? You think you can just cut the line? Then his frog-faced wife does the same thing! Now suddenly I'm way back in line holding my pants up like a mope as these idiots bumble through security causing massive delays.

I finally come through to the other side and see that we were held up because the wife's bag was flagged by security. I dress myself and look on as a guard opens her bag. She blurts out, "I put all of it right on top so you don't have to go through my bag." He unzips and a couple of tiny bottles sit on top of the clothes. "See? That's it, all under 3 ounces." The guard reaches under the clothes and pulls out a couple huge bottles of lotion, holding them up proudly like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. "Aaahhh, what do we have here? 'It's all right on top,' huh?" She throws her hands up in a tizzy.


"Awww come on! Don't throw it out, at least let someone use it. It's good stuff!!"

"What do you want me to do with women's lotion?"

"But it cost 80 dollars!!"

"Well you can check your bag if you want."

"...No, I can't do that."

"Then go to hell, terrorist."


Well, no, he didn't say that last part, but he did throw out the lotion. That's right. Right in your frog face. You thought you were above the law, what with your line-cutting and all, taking advantage of a poor simple boy trying to get home to grandma. Then you got served with instant karma. I finished getting dressed, XG and I high-fived, and then we proceeded to our gate. That actually happened. We must have been auditioning for that Say Anything remake.

We flew "Spirit Airlines." I put that in quotation marks because I am not sure it's a real airline. You may remember them from their wildly unpopular advertising campaign, "Spirit Air: Now with less leg room!" As we got on the plane, a chipper flight attendant greets us. I point out the kneecap-destroying lack of leg room, to which he tap dances,


Flight Attendant Guy: Well hey, what we lack in leg room, we make up in HEAD room! No more pesky overhead bins!

The New Black: How is that an asset?

FAG: And you hear that sound? What you're not hearing is the nasty blaring of a jet engine. Mmmm, the sounds of silence. That's right, who needs two noisy jet engines on the wing when one will do!

TNB: I hardly think that's sa-

FAG: We here at Spirit also provide free travel to all babies. Any babies at all! No need to even have a parent on board, just toss on a crying baby and we'll ship 'em across the country in our other passengers' laps!

TNB: Now you're just getting ri-

FAG: Boy, oh boy. All this conversation is making me thirsty. I think I'm going to help myself to one of our courtesy bottles of water.

TNB: Well, alright. That's more like-

FAG: Only three dollars each!

TNB: ...Do you really even work here?

FAG: Yes! But we haven't been paid in 6 weeks!


So somehow Spirit and their volunteer pilot-of-the-day navigate the skies down to Myrtle Beach and we land safely where we are picked up by Xmas Girl's sister and her husband. Now Xmas Girl has that moniker because I seriously had no idea what her name was when I met her. In retrospect, I wish I would have thought of something more clever, but here we are. Now I have the chance for vindication by bestowing two awesomely perfect nicknames to the sister and brother-in-law.

Drumroll please.


And here we go....

.......

.......

.............

..............................................................................


Fuck. I got nothin.

He had requested the name "Myrtle Waves" and she requested "Burro Loco," to both of which I respectfully decline. Both are funny in their own right, but Myrtle sounds like an old woman and Burro Loco, well, for some reason that only reminds me of this mess. For the sake of simplicity, he will be known as Zolak, after the greatest Patriots quarterback of all-time. And she will be known as Pink Hat Hannakuh Girl Ally, after everyone's favorite plucky female Boston-based lawyer.

That's it. Those are your names. Congratulations.

You don't like it? Suck it. Welcome to the blog.

Good News: I Don't Have Arm Cancer - Day One

I never go to hospitals. I don't know if it's a male thing or I'm just scared to find out what all these curious ailments and disconcerting pains are, but I never go. But recently I forgot to bring deodorant to Xmas Girl's place, so I borrowed her Lady SpeedStick. I'd be lying if I said this was the first time I've worn women's deodorant, so I didn't really think it would be a problem. After a week or so, though, I developed some redness under my arm. That redness then turned into a bump. That bump grew to the size of a baby's fist. So yeah. You're caught up.

Day 1 - Friday - 4:30 AM

I woke up at XG's early in the morning and felt fairly nauseous. I rolled out of bed to check myself out in the bathroom mirror. Hair? Greasy. Face? Busted. Body? None. Everything is in place so far. I check under my arm and see a bleeding red mountain. Suddenly my stomach flips, and I swallow it back like the usual warm tequila routine. It feels powerful, though, and I bow to the porcelain god, ready to bestow my sacrifice.

The vomiting is lengthy and loud. I'm sure XG appreciated it. I stand up and try to rinse the grit from my teeth before I remember something. Hmm. Perhaps when I showered Thursday and it started oozing puss and blood, that should have been a concern. Perhaps blood and puss should always mean medical attention. Perhaps if this all started on Thursday then I should have started this blog on Thursday. Too late!

Day 1 - Friday - 5:50 AM

After much debate, surrounding the fact that I don't know what my medical insurance is, we decide to go to the hospital. I meander aimlessly around the corridors of this hospital until Xmas Girl finds the registration. We sit in a sparsely populated waiting room as we wait for a doctor. The tv blares a Mexican talk show. At least I think it's a talk show. Who can understand what in the hell those Mexicans are so excited about? A dark-skinned matronly lady sits staring at the television. I presume she can relate to this program.

Day 1 - Friday - 6:20 AM

My name is called and I excitedly hop up. Aww, it's just Triage. Whatever that is. I thought I was cured. I sit in a small room with what looks like a med school student as she asks me common questions. I'm guessing they are "common." This is all a bit new to me. I thought height and weight was a bit personal.

We sit back in the waiting room and wait to get called again. A cute young blonde and a skinny guy walk in gingerly and sit down to wait. Hey, your girlfriend is near-blind too? We should start a club, dude! A look up at the television shows that this talk show has apparently turned into a full-on Carnivale. The white couple looks over; we exchange glances and roll our eyes. Facial gesture racism. Cool.

Day 1 - Friday - 6:40 AM

"Brown." Huh? Yes? What? Me? That's a bit of a common name to be calling out to a waiting room. A nurse walks us to a room where she hands me a robe to put on. She leaves and I panically yell to XG, "What do I do??" She says just put it on, Stoop. I start taking my shoes off. "What are you doing?" she says. I don't know! I thought I had to get naked and have my butt hanging out like those cartoons from the 40's. That's the only part of this visit I was looking forward to.

XG hasn't seen this monstrosity since it's onset, so she finally asks to see it. I warn her and then lift my arm. She gasps, screeches out loud, and then faints to the floor. Okay, okay that's not true. She didn't faint.

Day 1 - Friday - 6:55 AM

The Asian doctor comes in with a male Mexican nurse and a loving grandma nurse. They ask me why I took my shoes off. The doctor takes a look under my arm. His face looks grim. Grandma's looks pained. Mexican's looks at XG. For a moment I wondered if I had arm cancer, but the doctor said that the swelling was all due to an abscess. He plainly states that he will have to open and drain it.

"Open" makes it sound easy right? Like a twist-off. Like a Coke! Coke is delicious! But, unfortunately, in this case "open" is short for "cut open." Something tells me if I had to surgically open a fleshy top to get to a Coke, I'd be drinking Jack on the rocks. I ask him if it is going to hurt. He responds by telling me what he is going to do to it, which doesn't really answer my question. So I try to rephrase, "Okay, but what kinda pain are we talking here." XG laughs in the background. Aww she loves me. I lean up and see she is sitting in a chair facing the wall. Aww she really loves me.

Day 1 - Friday - 7:05 AM

I lay back with my arm swung open and my hand behind my head. First comes the numbing agent. He says I will feel a pinch and then some burning. Yep, pinch. ....Yyyyep burninggg. Hmm, fuck. Okay well points for accuracy. His answer to the pain follow-up question was "This area is really hard to get numb." That's a big fuck me. After a few minutes I see him get in close and focus like a billiards player, he stops and gets upright to tell Grandma Nurse not to stand by my foot. Shit, is this going to spray six feet across the room? Are my legs going to involuntarily kick? Am I going out like Nicholson in Cuckoo's Nest? I KNEW I SHOULDN'T GO TO THE HOSPITAL GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.

He starts cutting and it feels like someone taking a knife and cutting it over a very senstive, bulbous, infected part of your body. How's that for an analogy? The cuts drag across the abcess. It hurts like a bitch. I try to remain stoic and still as I grip the railing of the bed and focus on the ceiling. Up, he turned it up a notch. I think he's finding his groove because these fucking HURT. I breathe it out and clutch the bedside rail, squinting my eyes at the fluorescent ceiling. There is a short reprieve as he tinkers with his tools and they ask if I'm okay. "Mm-hmm." He leans back in, and he cuts at a new place. Holy horse balls that is much more sensitive. Fuck me hard why are you doing this. This sadist makes my denist Dr. Knuckle Hair look like a massage therapist. Thank god I am earning some good painkillers.

Day 1 - Friday - 7:30 AM

I give a few strong exhales as he arranges items on his tray. I have a good feeling that the cutting is done. It was bad, but I'm cool. XG yells over her shoulder to see if I need anything. I do not, but that is sweet. The doctor now tells me that he has to do the packing. What the fuck is packing? I'm guessing he means packing, like, my wound in ice? He says this is to soak up the infection. Huh? He draws a long shoelace-like material from a jar, accompanied with a long metal pokey dealie. The nurses grimace. Fuck. FUCK. That is going in my arm holes?? Aww fuck guy, well does it hurt because-OH MY GOD THAT IS SIGNIFICANTLY WORSE THAN THE CUTTING. YOU ARE STRAIGHT UP STABBING MY OPEN WOUND WITH A BLADE. HOLY SHIT YOU KEEP DOING IT. AND DEEPER. AND HARDER. JESUS BUTTFUCKING CHRIST ON THE CROSS. THAT IS WORTHY OF BLASPHEMY.

But I keep silent, resorting to closing my eyes. I try to apply others' brave moments to my life, and conjure images of Fight Club where Ed Norton tries to meditate away the chemical burn. This does not work for a few reasons: 1) I do not know how to meditate, 2) This is nowhere near as bad as a chemical burn, 3) Brad Pitt's calming eyes are not here to coax me through the ordeal. Instead, I try to take the pain, reasoning that many have endured more. Whether this makes me a man or a masochist, I do not know. They remind me to breathe as my hand grows to be a part of the railing.

Day 1 - Friday - 7:45 AM

They seem to be done with the fuck-you portion of the procedure, and I finally look down. The rag was on the business end of a Jackson Pollock style smattering of blood and puss. Judging by the frantic cutting, I wouldn't be surprised if it was him. I look in my armpit and see two shoelaces sticking out of open holes in my arm. Great. I'm a babywipe dispenser.

I exhale through my nose a few times and lower my heartrate as XG approaches the bed with eyes full of pride. She attempts to hold my hand, but it may be permanently wrenched to the railing. The Mexi-nurse bandages me up and we ask him how this might have happened. He replies, "It happens to black people a lot." ...Wh-....Is he implying that I'm black? "They get it a lot in their butt." ....(!) "It's their pores they have a lot of problems with it, I mean they get it a lot." Okay, so the reason I got it is because you have an unhealthy obsession with black people's assholes? Informative. Thank you.

Day 1 - Friday - 8:00 AM

I read over the discharge papers eagerly. Keep it dry yeah, yeah. Come back in 24 hours right, right. Take Augmentin for an antibiotic aaaaannnnd....Aleve for pain.

...You motherfuckers. Oh I'll be back tomorrow. This isn't over.

It seems I certainly made that last post up, but you're only one link away from the real:

Brown is the New Black






_

Oh herro brogspot

Yeah like 2 years ago blogspot sucked so I dipped out and went to livejournal, which I still update here:

http://bbrown0707.livejournal.com

I mirrored the posts here for a while but it got to be too much work. I think there's an autofeeder for these "blogs" now, so if anyone wants to show me how do it for me, that would be great to have both operational and updated.

If not, it's cool. There's a pretty good chance I made the whole autofeeder thing up anyway.

A job aint nothin but work

So recently I was looking for a job and I saw an ad in the paper. It said something about clerical work ideal for history majors or something. To most of you that probably sounds boring, but when I read it I thought I'd be like Indiana Jones' assistant, translating ancient texts and exploring temples. No don't worry I know I'd probably be doing gay office work but that's fine I was ready to bite the bullet. So I call about the job and they say, "How about you come in Friday at 10 (I've found that this automatically means AM to working people) and we'll get you situated." I'm trying be conciliatory so I just say sure. The woman goes, "Okay great, it's casual dress, and we're on the corner of 520 and 34." Good, cause I know where that is exactly, can I get someone on the phone to give me an even less specific address, because the "corner" of two highways is too much information. "Okay fine, so what is casual dress exactly?" "It's casual Friday so you can just dress casual." Well what the fuck is that lady? Don't just repeat the word casual to me. I'm not deaf I wanna know if I can roll up in sandals and a hoody. So I basically know nothing. I don't know where I'm going or if I'm starting work or if they're gonna send me somewhere but whatever, it can't be that bad.

I get up early on Friday and head out to whatever this thing is. I can't find the place, naturally, but I manage to get there after checking each of the 4 plazas they had on the 4 corners. Turns out it wasn't on the corner at all but a mile down the road; I think the woman gave me Brach directions. When I get there I realize that its like some staffing service, as I sign in I see that the names are alllll women. I start getting nervous that they're going to make me a secretary or something because if its one thing I cannot do its the phones. Then a girl hands me some paperwork to do. Work information, personal information, tax information...it fuckin sucked. I tell them I have a resume but she smiled and shook her head no. There's something very funny about that "no." Only certain women do it. So it's back to the paperwork. After about 45 minutes (yep, try to imagine how long that would be, I had to dredge up every bit of information including my manager from MetroMarketing, Bill Sherman, and his whereabouts) I hand in my "homework."

Next I sit down and interview (in a transparent room where all employees could and did watch) with some old lady. She makes a remark about the telemarketing gig and for some reason I jumped to defend it. I think I was just so ready for the sales pitch that I defended it by explaining, "No, no, thankfully we weren't selling anything. We were merely offering people the free service of a chiropractic examination if they wanted it. No pressure." Why was I defending a job I didn't care about that I did 6 years ago? Luckily I think this old lady was day-dreaming about her cats. So she asks more questions and then says sit tight (you always have to sit tight) and that Linda would be in to see me in a minute.

Linda walks in and I quickly realize shes the woman running this place. She's a middle-aged woman typical of Marlboro (yea you know what I mean) and she's loving my resume. I start wondering what other people they must get in this joint since my resume includes things like: "able to walk dogs" and "cleans up nice." Then she informs me that I have to take some tests. Great! That homework just didn't do it for me. She lines up some data entry tests followed by one for MS Word and Excel. I start clippin through these idiotic tests but they are way longer than they need to be. No one uses macros, cmon. By the 20th question I was just guessing cause I was so sick of being in this place. She comes in to interrupt and say she might have a job lined up for me (whaaaa?). By the time I'm taking the Excel test I'm tired, I'm starving, and I can't remember one thing from Mrs. Toombs class. I just fill in answers and brace myself for the awkwardness of her seeing me fail this remedial exam.

She comes in when I'm done and says she might be able to get me a job at an engineering office. And the best part is, the interview might be today! Super. I kinda wanted to go home and have a last weekend but fine I was already moving so I figured I'd just keep going. She gets my scores and says, "Oh you did excellent on your tests, you know Excel very well." What, I left half of them blank. The average grade must be like 17% competency. So then she asks, "But do you know how to pivot on Excel?" Of course, who doesn't!? I hem and haw explaining that it's been a while but I probably just need to brush-up. Then I ask, "So what is it exactly..?" She goes, "Oh I don't know, thats just what they need." Ha, fair enough. We wrap up the paperwork and I'm out the door, absolutely starving, and in need of a nap.

Getting my keys out at my car I hear, "Bryan!" Good lord who is screeching my name? Old lady number 1 stands in the doorway to the building waving me in. Fuck what is it now, a powerpoint test? I come back in and Linda sits me down with sheets of paper. She points to the paper, "Here's where you are going tomorrow. 902 Main Street in Belmar, from 12-4. You'll be doing mostly filing, paperwork, faxes, ya know." Alarm bells are going off in my head. Astute readers will remember that this debacle was taking place on a friday. Therefore tomorrow=saturday. What the fuck!? She's telling me I'm working Saturdays for 4 hours in Belmar? Whatever happened to asking. "And then here's the address of the engineering place, I got you an interview right now. It's only about a mile away. You can just get in your car and head over!" Oh can I? Thanks! Can I pick up your dry cleaning while I'm out?

Now I'm starving and all ornery driving over to this place but I still figure I'll check this place out and bang out a good interview. As I pull up I notice it is not a very big office. Not quite the "engineering firm" I had imagined. Instead its some hole-in-the-wall operation in Marlboro. Okay, stay calm, maybe the guys are cool. I walk in and am greeted by a 50something former hippie who is balding with a gray ponytail. "You must be Bryan. How are you? Go ahead and have a seat in his office, he'll be with you in a moment." Weird at first glance but cordial, take a deep breath, it could be okay... I walk into his "office" and sit on the loveseat that is across from his desk.

Fifteen minutes later a short burly italian-acting man walks in, "Hey how ya doin," he says before he even sees me. He turns towards me and as we shake hands he looks at me as if we've never met. Which is true, so I don't know what he was expecting, but he is clearly confused by something. "You from the area?" he says. Not sure what this has to do with anything, but he asks it in a tone that suggests that I'm not. I go, "Oh yea, I'm close by down in Freehold." "Oh," he says, still beside himself, "you look kinda young.." Hahaha. Of course, what else. Faithful readers probably weren't surprised and won't be by my response either. [Big smile] "Oh, yeah I've heard that before, sure, I look young." Fuckin tapdanced for this douchebag. If I knew it would have gotten worse then I would have been a dick to this guy but I still thought I might need a job.

His interview essentially consisted of asking me random questions off the top of his head. We spent 10 minutes talking about Lehigh, and not in the typical reminiscing alumni sense, just random questions: did you graduate in four years, what was it like there, how was the food. And of course, the do-you-know-my-random-friend-of-a-friend-w

ho-went-there game, but that game is a headache for another entry. After his engaging Q&A went on for about 15 minutes, he proceeded to take a phone call...ON SPEAKER PHONE. Sure buddy don't let me stop ya, I'll just stretch out on your creepy loveseat here. You know its bad when I'm thinking someone is too unprofessional. And this wasn't some Gordon Gecko call on speaker phone, it wasn't concise and effective. He was having some innane conversation with some female trucker about the shipments not being picked up or something. This went on for 15 minutes. He gave me the "one minute" finger once. I pretended to look around the room while I wondered if he would notice if I took out my cell phone and texted someone about this.

After he hangs up with this lady, he abruptly launches into the "core" of his interview I suppose. He goes, "Sorry. So can you pivot on Excel?" Oh boy, pivoting again. I give him the same answer as Linda: been a while...I'm smart...brush-up. So then I ask him, "So what exactly is pivoting again?" He says, "Oh I dunno." Ha, well why would ya. What the fuck is going on here. I'm not some computer consultant. How are you gonna ask me to do a job that you don't even know how to do? We're at a stalemate here buddy. Is pivoting even a real thing? That was the last straw for me. I mentally checked out and started selling myself short intentionally so that he wouldn't offer me the job right there and corner me into taking it.

When I got home I realized that she was just shoving me anywhere she had a space. Her job is to put people in jobs and one came in so she thought she was doing me a favor by setting me up there. Even when I called her after the "interview" (since she insisted) she was trying to fix things so that I would still work there. The next morning I got up to go to this Belmar job and realized that I didn't even have gas in my car. Ten bucks an hour minus taxes gas and travel and I think I'd just be breaking even to kill my Saturday for five hours. I decided to call the employment agency and let them know that this wasn't the right fit for me. In a rare moment of good fortune, I got their answering machine and got to leave them a message. I didn't get a call back until Monday, but I screened it obviously. She left a message saying, "I'm just wondering what happened on Saturday." I didn't call back. She called again Monday afternoon, I ignored it, and that was the end of that.

So in the spirit Will Hunting, "So what did I think?? I'm holdin out for somethin betta."

Bart rides up in the front seat today because he's a good guy at sports.

Congratulations Yankee-hating America.
You got just what you wanted: a World Series no one will ever want to watch. What provocative rivalry will we see next week? Astros vs. Angels? Cardinals vs. White Sox? Can't you feel yourself wondering what else is on already? No one cares about these four teams, and don't try to convince yourself that you do. I went through that experience last night when I tried to watch "My Name is Earl" based on the good reviews it was getting. HUGE let-down. It reminds me of an old Conan joke, "should have stopped at the premise on that one." It goes to show you, don't try to like something you know you won't, trust your instincts. These four teams are just as gay and boring.

1) Houston Astros.
No one cares about them. Outside of the players' families, no one is a real Astros fan. Ever met one? Ever even heard of one? That's because Texas doesn't care about baseball. The owners pay seat-fillers to go to the games.

2) Chicago White Sox.
Chicago is Cubbie town. You will find people on every corner and in every store talking about the Cubs in the summer and the Bears in the winter. Hardly anyone even acknowledges the White Sox existence. It's not even like the Mets compared to the Yankees. It's more like the Nets compared to the Knicks. If you're a Yankee fan and someone mistakes you for a Met fan, you will animately proclaim that you're a Yankee fan. If you're a Knick fan and someone mistakes you for a Nets fan, you will look at them confused and wonder what is this "Net" they speak of. I speak from personal experience as I have been to both Cubs and White Sox games. The Cub game was a beautiful July day with hot dogs and "pop" and lovable fans cheering on the Cubs even as they were handily beat 9-2. The White Sox game was a dreary day where I sat behind a pole next to a guy who was chewing tobacco and apparently had made the floor his personal dip cup. But yeah, go White Sox...

3) Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim
Can anyone explain the etymology of this team name? I stopped paying attention to the AL West in the late 90's because the Yankees would routinely spank the Rangers on their way to the ALCS. So what happened to the good old California Angels of Wally Joyner and Naked Gun? Is the new name like some liberal thing to appeal to the Spanish population of LA with those extra long names? I'm lost. I thought LA already had a team that they didn't care about. So who goes to these games to follow a bunch of grown men who call themselves "Angels?" I'm not sure, but I am sure that every red-blooded American is eagerly anticipating a World Series between the Angels and the Tinkerbells.

4) St. Louis Cardinals
The only team that might have a legitimate fan base. Cardinals fans are notoriously loud and supportive. But what does that really mean to people on the east coast? Does anyone in their right mind think they compare to new york or even philly and boston fans? Call it east coast bias if you want but I don't buy it. Their fans and stadium look gay all red and yellow. It looks like a McDonald's playland.

I guess his career as a producer never took off.
"I'm still going to continue playing hard and out of control, like a wild animal that needs to be caged. I'll let the referees handle it." Lovely. Thanks Ronald. Can we get this guy out of the NBA? He doesn't even entertain me. Rodman was a nutjob but he was fun to watch. Artest is just like watching Mike Tyson come apart at the seams in a tailspin. He's not as cool as my boy Iverson. I know you're reading this man, whats up AI!? Meet me back at the Trop!

Terrell Owens is the devil.
After getting dismantled by the Cowboys, he puts on a Michael Irvin jersey. What else can this guy do wrong? I hope he puts on a Red Sox hat and drives off a cliff.

I wanna hang out with the Minnesota Vikings.
At first glance I thought this story was going to involved some Kobe-esque sexcapades. Turns out it was just the average Rutgers-style freakout. Who hasn't had naked girls dancing in front of them and then eventually ended up having sexual relations with them? Get with the times, kids. It is no longer acceptable to be sexually repressed. At this age everyone better be all growns up. No more "Ew I don't do that," "But I just met you," or "Not in my mouth!" ever again.

Don't Call It a Comeback.

As some of you may know from an earlier entry, I haven't played online poker since I quit in March. The only exception to that being when they credited me 50 bucks as an incentive to start playing again. Woo-hoo. What they didn't tell me about that 50 bucks, though, was that they were taking it back in 4 days. Boo-hoo. Nice to see that loan sharking is still a part of legitimate gambling today. All I have left in there from when I cashed out all that time ago is about 3 bucks. But its Thursday night and the Yankees are up 8-0, so I decided to see if danny was at a table, since he caught the poker bug when we took a few trips down to AC last month. The protege has now made over 800 dollars through playing online poker in his spare time this month, and he is mentoring his own student down in Virginia.

Well no one was on but I found a $2 tournament and decided to play anyway. I didn't figure to grind out a cash or anything, since it paid only a few bucks unless you made the final table. Instead I decided to treat it like an infinite sit-n-go. In an article in Cardplayer, Scott Fischman said this is a strategy he uses to cope with the extremely large fields in tournament poker right now. Seeing as how he finished 2nd out of over 2000 players in the WSOP's first event, I think it served him well. This field too was large, about 2500, because the entry fee was so small. Well, friends, I didn't exactly get to test out this strategy, and something tells me I wasn't supposed to be playing in this tournament.

I started out folding everything in the first level, maybe a limp here or there but no further. Then I get dealt 2s2d and call in EP (early position) with about 900 in chips in front of me and the BB at 15. A guy in MP (middle position), lets call him Sideburns, minimum-raises. He gets called by MP2, LP (late position), BB (the big blind), and of course, me. Flop comes 2c 4d 6d. Typically this could be a dangerous flop for several reasons:

1) I've made a big hand that will be hard to get off of if a scare card comes off.
2) I'm in early position.
3) There are about a million and one draws on the board.
4) It's a 5-way pot.
5) I'm facing a min-raise, which could represent a variety of hands, especially at this blind level.

Typically I'd want to lead out here. I hate giving free cards and I'm in bad position. I'm pretty confident I have the best hand but a lot of cards can come on the turn that will make it very difficult to play if I face pressure from a player in position. For instance, any 3, any 5 (because of the BB in play), perhaps a King or Ace (possibly facing AA or KK from the min-raiser, you'd be surprised how often people play that hand this way even at such low blind levels), and of course, any diamond.

But in the last hand Sideburns (the min-raiser) check-called the flop and turn when MP2 bet the pot. On the river he checked and MP2 bet the pot again, which was most of Sideburns chips. Sideburns thought for a while and then folded. I thought he was steaming a bit from this, and if you're going to check-raise (for value, which I was) you want the person immediately to your left to do the betting. On my left was Sideburns (original raiser and possibly on tilt) and MP2 (who fired big 3 times at the last pot, so he has exhibited aggression and might use his new big stack to take a stab at this pot.)

So the BB checked and I checked as well with 3 more players to act. Sideburns thinks for about 10 seconds and checks, MP2 and LP check through as well. Great. Free card... Turn is the 9d putting a possible flush out there. After the BB checked I decided to put in a probe bet to see where I was at, so I bet I think 70 into a 160 pot. Sideburns thinks on it for about 5 seconds and pushes all-in for about 470 more.

The rest of the table folds around and it's back on me. First I figure out the pot odds and I'm not even getting 2:1 on my money, though this doesn't much matter because if I'm beat it's likely 4:1 or worse anyway. I don't love the all-in bet at first because if you're gonna make a probe bet and someone pushes all-in, then usually you've found out just where you stand.

But I tried to figure out what hands he would have that he would min-raise before the flop, check on the flop, and then push on the turn. If he had a suited connector like QdJd would he open with only for a min-raise in middle position? I think you either limp or push the action with a hand like that, not make a value raise. If he had AdKd would he only min-raise and risk getting outflopped by any weak hand that will call a min-raise? Even if these things were true, would he not bet out at the flop when he's favored against any single pair (with overcards and a flushdraw.) Especially considering the way people play flush draws on PartyPoker, I would doubt that he wouldnt have put some chips in on that flop, or even gone all-in as many donkeys on PartyPoker do. Finally, if he did check the flop and turn the flush, would he go all-in clearly representing the flush or make a smaller bet in an attempt to get paid off?

The only conceivable hands he could have is a big pair like KK or AA (possibly with the Ad or Kd) or a hand like 66 or 44 to make a higher set. Despite the fact that set-over-set on the flop is very rare, even if he did hit a hand like that I still have the 2d for 10 re-draw outs (nine diamonds + one 2) on the river. And if I lose the pot, I still have 300 and can wait for a big hand to try to double-up. Despite how long this thought process has taken for you to read, it was all done in my head in about 5 seconds just from having played so many hands in my life. It's not bragging, you just get to a point where all this information is processed and analyzed before you even realize that you're doing it.

So what hand did Mr. Sideburns have? KhKc. Outside of an absolute bluff with no diamond, this is the best possible scenario. With me holding 2s2d and the board reading 2h 4d 6d 9d. He could only win with one card in the deck, the King of spades (since the Kd would give him a higher set but I would have him beat with a flush.) For those who don't bother with poker odds, that means he has roughly a 2% chance to win the hand. The fast-paced nature of the PartyPoker program does not include time for suspense like on TV, so as soon as I call the river card is dealt like a bullet. Thats right. King of Spades. As the program ships over 1000 chips to him, I am instantly moved to a new table. Great, now I can't even complain to the people who saw that horrendous beat nor can I berate the player for being such a lucky douchebag!

Now I'm lookin down at 300+ chips and the BB is comin around, but before I can even gather myself, the power goes out. No that's not a poker euphamism, though maybe it will be one day. The power in my house went out. Good times. Now I'm getting blinded off until I can get back on. I just sit in the darkness waiting as my family rummages around lighting candles or something. Luckily its back on in about 10 minutes and I figure to still have some chips.

I re-join my table with about 295 chips, in the small blind with Kd2s. The big blind is 20 and there are 3 limpers in the pot. Now I haaate playing weak Kings and I haaate playing out of position, but I guess I'm kinda defeated mentally at this point. I rationalize that I'm getting 9:1 on completing my call and that it might be an opportunity to double up, if I hit something, seeing as how you get a lot of weak calls on PartyPoker. The BB checks his option and the flop comes 10h 10d 2d. Something tells me I have the best hand since the board is paired and I caught a piece. Surprisingly, not many hands have me beat with only 3 limpers considering the blind level. I am first to act, though, and decide to check it. If there's a big bet or a bet and a raise then I'll muck. I don't really wanna go broke with K2o out of position, and if I fold I'll still have another round and 285 chips to try to pick up a big hand and double up. It checks around. Free card. Awesome. Did I tell you how much I like giving free cards?

Turn: 8d. Now theres 3 to the flush on the board. At this point I figure I have the best hand. The hand I have to worry about is trip 10s, if someone decided to check the flop and slowplay, which they always do at low limits. Its possible someone got lucky and paired an 8 in their hand, but there is no way for me to put them on whatever hand they might hold with an 8, so I'm not that concerned with that. Or if someone is holding the Ad, they are probably gonna call anything I bet, or anyone bets for that matter, as the nut flush draw can never be folded on PartyPoker, even with only one card to come. Truth to be told this would be a horrible call in this pot because you are getting terrible odds, you're not even sure if you're drawing live (e.g., if you make your flush, that it will be good, meaning someone doesnt have a full house.) Moreover, it's very unlikely that I'm gonna bluff off all my chips through 4 players onto a board that is paired with 3 to the flush for a small pot. But I do expect the call if someone is holding the Ace of diamonds anyway, because thats just how it is on PartyPoker. And even against trip 10s, I have the Kd for 9 flush outs. Plus there's a pretty good chance that I won't even get called, so I push all-in for 285 into the pot of 100.

It folds around to the last player and I think I might take the pot, have 385 in chips, and be a little off life support. But the last player makes a relatively quick call. Ugh. I expect an 8, a 10, or a flush draw? Not really. Jd4s. WOW. Not sure what to say about this call really. Many things perplex me about this. Why even play this hand in the first place, especially just limping in. Its absolute junk, in fact, the nickname for this hand is a "flat tire." And then he calls 285 on the turn with nothing but Jack-high and the 4th nut flush draw with one card to come. If I wanted to give him a justification, I could say that at least he had a big stack (around 2000) that it wouldn't hurt him too much to call. But this call is just throwing money away. Naturally the real reason for this call is that he's a horrible player. So now that the diamonds are locked up by my King of diamonds, he must draw to a pair, 3 Jacks and 2 fours (not the 4 of diamonds) in the deck. With one card to come he has 5 outs making him about 11% to win. I'm sure you can guess what hit. An ugly little 4 of clubs. 670 shipped to him and I'm felted.

Not the best showing of my "career," but I think I still played well. If I had to do it again, I might have bet the flop with the set of 2s. Of course this is since I now know that the guy slowplayed KK on the flop and then jammed it on the turn. In hindsight I'm pretty sure Sideburns checked because he wanted MP2 to bet in order to take back some chips from the previous pot, not because he was scared of the flop. If that were the case then he wouldn't push all-in on the turn when the board only got scarier. I believe my thinking behind my plays was correct, though, which is more important than results. Those unfamiliar with or new to poker might argue something along the lines of "whatever wins the pot is the best play," but that kind of results-oriented thinking doesn't hold water.

For those bored by this entire post, that's just too damn bad. I'm getting a bankroll together again, and I'm gonna be back at the online poker. I have too many bills to pay off by only working a 9-5 job. I need my supplemental income back so I can do nice things like eat, go out to bars, and visit the love of my life in San Diego. Also, the amount of poker players is only growing, and most of them are getting a bit too big for their britches. My competitive side has been kick-started and I miss that feeling of complete satisfaction from consistently breaking the game. Plus it would be really embarrassing for the protege to surpass the mentor.