Comparing Soccer to Other Sports

"I am not the hero that Gotham deserves"

It appears a soccer stadium could be in our future.
This of course is perfectly fine with everyone despite the fact that talk of building a football stadium caused waves of outrage and rivers of tears that threatened to drown us all in righteous indignation, you great lot of hypocrites.
Anyway, to better educate everyone on the sport that may soon be coming to our fine city, today I'd like to talk about one of the most maligned aspects of soccer.
Call it "diving," "flopping," or "being an obnoxious little pansy," but whatever you choose to call it, players taking hyperbolic falls to try and draw fouls against the other team have given soccer a bad name. To put everything in perspective and restore a more realistic view of soccer, let's compare players' acting habits in other sports to those of soccer. 

Baseball:
A pitch whizzes by the arm of the batter. It is unclear whether or not the ball hit him.
The player clutches his elbow and exclaims "I say! I've just been struck by a baseball! I had better go to first base now, hadn't I?"
The umpire agrees that he was in fact hit and sends him off to first base.

Football:
A wide receiver is bumped slightly by the opposing cornerback while running his route. He throws his hands into the air and falls to the ground, shouting "Egad! I do believe my opponent has committed the illegal act of pass interference! Certainly the officials will assess a penalty for this infraction!"
The referee does so.

Hockey:
A player is bumped slightly by his opponent. He throws himself to the ice, perhaps bouncing his head lightly off the boards for effect and exclaims "Oh, hey! That must've been a cross-check there, eh? Aboot time you sent that hoser off to the penalty box, eh, ref?"
The referee does so.

Soccer:
A player is bumped slightly by his opponent. He flings himself to the ground, clutching his eye with one hand and his ankle with the other while conjecturing that he has likely sustained a lacerated spleen as well, not to mention he's just caught a nasty cold.
He writhes in agony on the ground while one of his teammates insists that the medical staff be summoned to examine him. The medics diligently inspect his various maladies and determine that a stretcher is needed. They gingerly place him upon it, being extra careful to immobilize his head and neck due to the potential spinal trauma he may have sustained.
The player is rushed to the hospital, the ambulance weaving in and out of rush hour traffic and causing three fender-benders along the way. The roadways are jammed for hours thereafter.
Upon arrival, the player informs the doctors that they need not bother treating him as he has in fact just died.
He is taken back to the stadium and all present are informed that it was his dying wish to be buried on the sidelines by his mates so that he may forever remain a part of the game he loved so dearly.
As the casket is being lowered, the referee delivers the eulogy, says a brief prayer, gives a final blessing, and assesses a yellow card to the opposing team's player.
Next of kin are notified, lawyers are summoned to read the player's will, and obituaries are typed up for tomorrow's papers. 
The television cameras show his widow grieving silently in the stands, consoling herself in the knowledge that at least her dear husband died doing what he enjoyed most. She gently dabs at her tears to prevent her mascara running and tries not to think of the years of loneliness and solitude that lay in front of her now that the love of her life has perished so tragically and at such a young age.
A few minutes later the player decides that he feels all right after all, digs himself up, and rejoins the game no worse for wear and having missed only three minutes of playing time.
This happens eleven more times before the half ends.

Soccer is stupid.

Images:
Diver stolen from arsenalarsenal.net, finger kid poached from knowyourmeme.com.

What Instrument Should I Play?

Being the altruistic person I am, I've decided to put my years of having slogged my way through various bands to good use.
The following is a guide to selecting what instrument you should play if you've decided you want to be in a band (and let's face it, who doesn't want to be in a band?).

Bass Guitar:

Kotoyuki doesn't like the bass, but the bass likes him.

The vast majority of bassists are fat guys or hot chicks, so if you fit either of those descriptions you've found your calling right here.
Bass is also a good place to hide whichever member of your band is least musically competent. While no instrument is easily mastered, anyone with the proper number of phalanges can semi-coherently bang out a tune on bass after a week or two of practice. Besides, the sound guy will have you so buried in the mix that no one will be able to hear how badly you're fucking up the songs.

Drums:

Do you hate money? Do you speak mostly in grunts and smell like a yak? If so, drums are for you.
Your instrument is the most expensive of the lot and you'll consistently smash it to bits and have to replace parts of it. It's an endless loop of poverty.
You will, however, have the shortest commute to band practice as it'll most likely be held at your place by virtue of your instrument being a pain in the ass to move. Of course, you're so broke that "your place" is more accurately described as "your parents' basement" so it really isn't worth it.

Guitar:

Guitar's upside down, dude.

Second in prestige to the singer, you're playing a "cool" instrument. Despite this, no one gives a shit that you play guitar because they all play guitar too and think they're better at it than you are.
Guitarists are a dime a dozen, even though 11 of that dozen can't play worth a damn. Most of your time will be spent listening to people tell you that their cousin Frank plays guitar too and he's really good and you should let him in your band. In the rare case that you choose to act on this information, you'll find that the only instrument Frank owns is a kid-sized acoustic guitar in his closet that's missing two strings. He hasn't played it in three years, and only got as far as learning how to play a clumsy rendition of "Smells Like Teen Spirit."
He would, however, be interested in joining your band if there's still a spot open.

Vocals:

Bobcat Goldthwait?

The holy grail of band membership.
90% of the audience will notice you and only you. Your fans will tell you how much they love those songs you wrote while your guitarist (who is actually the one who wrote them) gnashes his teeth in rage.
As long as you're moderately attractive you can have pretty much any man or woman you want, regardless of your gender or sexual orientation. Dodging thrown panties while on stage will quickly become one of your many talents.
Your instrument is part of your body and thus doesn't cost you a cent unless you buy your own microphone, and even that costs a pittance compared to what the rest of your band spends. Be sure to complain about it anyway.
Your greatest struggle will be coming up with excuses not to help your bandmates load their equipment into the club.

Keyboards:

No one knows why you exist. All of their favorite bands use keyboards in the music, but they can't be bothered to pay a live keyboardist and just play with the keys on a backing tape. Thus, you are considered by the masses to be odd and superfluous. You'll be known as "the weird one" and on the rare occasion someone notices you they'll expect you to do something eccentric. Might as well embrace it and paint yourself green or something.

Any Other Instrument:

Don't bother. You'll join the keyboardist as "the weird one" unless you're a good-looking female, in which case it really doesn't matter what you're playing. You could stand on the stage hitting a trash can with a sledgehammer (Warning: this technically qualifies you as a drummer) and you'd still have people telling you how great you are.



Hope this was helpful to everyone. By now, you should have your instrument picked out. The next step is to commit yourself to a lifetime of disappointment and a yearly salary of $20. Enjoy.


Photo thievery sources:
Caveman: leanandmuscular.org 
Singer: 123rf.com
Kotoyuki: Getty Images
Jimi: outsidethebeltway.com
Xylophonist: leftlion.co.uk
Alien keyboardist: popartdecoration.com

What Brock Lesnar's Official Statement Should Be

Weellllll, Brock Lesnar got popped for PEDs. 
As tends to be the case with athletes who fail drug tests, he's not admitting anything. He hasn't said much yet, but he'll probably release a statement blaming tainted supplements or bad walrus meat or some crap. For once, I'd like an athlete to just be honest. Here's what his official statement should be:

"Yeah, this is all natural."

[arrives at podium]

Thank you everyone for being here today. Before we begin, I'd like you all to look at me. As you can see, I've arrived shirtless to make this demonstration a little easier.

Just look at me for a second, ok? I'm big. No, let's not use that word. Big doesn't even begin to cut it. I'm huge. Enormous. I'm an absolute fucking monster. A freakishly large massive leviathan of a human being, agreed?

Now let's consider a few facts.

I've barely got a scrap of fat on my body and I had to cut water weight to make 265 lbs for my fight against Mark Hunt. Two hundred and sixty five pounds. Hunt made that weight with a cheeseburger in his hand, not to mention sixty more hanging down over his belt. I had to sweat it out in a sauna for a week to make heavyweight. Think of that for a second. When guys struggle to make the heavyweight limit, they're usually fat as shit, right? Not me. I'm freaking beefy.

I'm bigger than most of your cars and probably about half of your houses.

I'm a professional wrestler in the WWE, which is known for being a bunch of dudes who are--like me--huge as fuck. Nobody's pretending they didn't all get that way by using steroids.

My head measures five feet in circumference.

Did I mention I came from the WWE, whose anti-steroid policy consists of the bosses saying "don't use steroids" while winking and handing me a great big box full of steroids with the words "DEFINITELY NOT STEROIDS" scrawled on the outside with a Sharpie?

Seriously people, why are we even discussing this? Yes, obviously I'm on steroids. I'm more roided-out than an unregulated South American Angus steer! My body is a goddamned pharmaceutical experiment of the most conspicuous kind.

What's that? I'm supposed to apologize? Fuck you. I'm sorry they tested me and I got caught I guess. Whatever. I'd have to be an idiot to think that I could go into this fight looking like goddamn Hercules' older brother and not get popped for something. What do I care? I made 2.5 million for that fight. The fine will be maybe 50k.

And oh yeah, I'm supposed to say what a mistake this was and I'll never do it again. Sorry folks, but as soon as I'm done with this round of estrogen blockers it's back to the ol' needle for me. I'm pushing 40 years old. No one wants to see a bunch of saggy-gut, droopy-man-boob sons-o-bitches parading around in the ring. Wrestling's fake. It's all about appearances.

Oh, I'm suspended from the UFC now? Psh. Again, 2.5 million bucks. Put that on top of what WWE pays me and I think I'll manage to get by, thanks.

Jesus. I can't believe I had to leave the gym for this.

[eats microphone, tears Dana White in half, storms off stage]

Things That Make Me Happy Vol II: Bears

Some animals just aren't naturally funny.  
Toads, lobsters, goats, prawns, eagles--they can be made funny (example) but they just aren't naturally funny.
Other animals are hilarious. Cows. Hippos. Those lizards that run on water. 
And, of course, bears.
Here for your enjoyment are some of my favorites, stolen from various places on the Internet.

Ok, so this one's kind of a cheat...

Looks fake, but isn't.

Bear is happy.

Damn, it feels good to be a bear.

Hello. I am a bear.

Awesome Thing of the Day/Month/Whatever: Bandcamp.com

"This band was better when I was younger."

As you may have noticed by now, I don't like much of anything. Thus, on the rare occasions that I do, I feel it's my duty to share it with the world.

Today, that thing is bandcamp.com.

I'm not being paid for this endorsement, nor was I encouraged by anyone but myself to make it (though I'm totally willing to sell out if Bandcamp wants to throw me a few bucks). 
I've absolutely no personal investment (well, maybe a little) in this.

Let's start with some background.
I have some slight conundrums with how I buy my music. Yes, BUY, not download from The Pirate Bay. Jerks.
I want to listen at home via CD/Vinyl/streaming, in my car which only has a CD player, and in the gym on my phone which doesn't have enough storage to hold more than 13 seconds of music. 
I also am old-fashioned and want to have a physical object when I buy albums. I like to look at the album art, read the booklets, etc. The physical part of the music makes my connection to it stronger than just listening; I could (and maybe will eventually) go on about this at great length.

There just aren't many ways to meet all these needs without buying multiple copies of the same album, which simply isn't going to happen because that's stupid.

Bandcamp is (so far) the only place I've found that covers all my bases. By way of example, let's take the latest Myrkur album.
I bought it on vinyl (the CD was sold out at the time).
With all physical album purchases also comes the digital download, allowing me to burn a CD to play in my car. Downloads are available in MP3 or lossless audiophile-friendly FLAC or WAV.
Furthermore, there's an Android app (I assume there's one for you iPhone dorks too) that allows unlimited streaming of any albums you purchase, regardless of the format in which you purchased them.

So basically I get the album in three formats while only having to buy it once.

Amazon's digital download service has a similar streaming app, but it's only packaged with digital downloads. Buying physical copies won't allow you to stream them.

A further benefit is that the artists (probably) get more financial support.
Though I can't say how the money works out when record labels are involved, I can say firsthand that of all the middlemen (Amazon, iTunes, CDBaby, etc.) that handle music sales, Bandcamp skims way less off than any others. Streaming services like Google Play, Pandora, and whatnot pay artists absolutely bugger all, so by actually buying the album you're providing way more support.

Next time you buy an album, check to see if it's on Bandcamp first. There's a good chance it is.

Image stolen from gettyimages.com

So now that the Rams are gone...

The defeat in their eyes...

Well, the Rams moved to Los Angeles.

This is old news, but for anyone who missed out on any of the details I'll recap:

Before the move was officially announced and was still assumed to be in the "rumor/preventable occurrence" stage, a group of people got together to prepare a plan for a new stadium to keep the Rams in St. Louis. They had an architectural plan, a plan to secure funding, the property (mostly) acquired, etc. There were some details still needing to be ironed out but that's irrelevant for purposes of this discussion.

When this was all announced there were people who were vehemently opposed to the idea, saying "I DON'T WANT MY TAX MONEY GOING TO A FOOTBALL STADIUM! THEY COULD SPEND THAT MONEY ON FEEDING THE HOMELESS INSTEAD OR BUILD A NEW AARDVARK SHELTER OR WHATEVER!"

My response to that was "But they won't."

"It's not like there's a bucket with a billion dollars sitting in it waiting for someone to decide which project it'll be thrown at," I said. "Almost all of the funding is coming from new hotel taxes, stadium naming rights, and other new taxes that are related to the stadium. Either this money is used for the stadium or it's not used at all. Even the revenue streams that aren't related are only going to be created if this stadium is built. If there isn't a new stadium, they aren't going to feed the homeless or build a park or bring back Firefly. NOTHING will happen except people staying in St. Louis hotels will save a buck or two."

Well, now that all has been said and done, stadium-opposers, I'd love to know what altruistic ends that money has gone to.

Now that we don't have a stadium to build, I'm sure the homeless of St. Louis are feasting gleefully upon the lambs and sloths and marmalade and orangutans and breakfast cereals that have been purchased for them with the money that would have been wasted--WASTED I tell you!--on a football stadium.

I'm only being partially snarky here--it's possible that something actually has been done, in which case I'd love to hear about it. I truly do hope I'm proven wrong. 

I'm asking the stadium opposition to come forward with the information because since they were so fervent about not wanting their money to go to a stadium I'm certain they've been monitoring where else it might be going and are keeping very well-informed about municipal fiscal matters.

So I ask you again--where did this money go instead of being WASTED on a stadium?
Was it put to good use, making everyone's arguments against building a stadium valid or was I [gasp!] right again?

I'm disappointed that the Rams left, but as Christina Aguilera sang in the theme from Pearl Harbor, my heart will go on.

The problem is that they didn't take all the assholes with them.


Image stolen from stltoday.com

"Adulting" Isn't Hard.

Inspirational quotes seem to have gone the way of the dodo and have been replaced by complaints about how hard "adulting" is. If you were watching me type this you'd see the squiggly red lines under "adulting" because it's not a goddamned word.

Ignoring my desire to rant about how annoying it is when people turn nouns into verbs, I can't help but wonder how being an adult is so hard for all of you.

The complaints aren't about legitimate things like "omg the coal mine was so hot today" or "today was the fifth day in a row that rabid okapis savaged my village" or even "my dog ate my cat."

It's "I have a kid to take care of?!? When did this happen?!? I'm still a kid and I'm supposed to take care of ANOTHER kid? And I have to PAY BILLS? OMG mailing envelopes is hard AF!!!"

Shut up. You don't even have to mail envelopes anymore. 

The actual process of being an adult is easier now than it's ever been. You can do the vast majority of your paperwork online and likewise find pretty much any information you could ever want in five seconds' time.

When I first became a parent I had my moments of "what the hell do I do with this thing?" Everyone does. In days gone by you'd guess and end up giving your kid malaria or whatever. Oops.
Now you can just do a quick Google search for whatever color fluids are spewing from your kid's body and you don't even have to go to a doctor.

"BUT I HAVE TO GET UP AND GO TO WORK EVERY DAY AND DO STUFF!"

Did you not have a job before you got out of college? Even if you didn't, grades K-12 are basically your job until you graduate high school. You've had to get up on time Monday through Friday every day since you were five. Why's it a challenge now?

You can try arguing that it's for humor's sake but I don't believe that people are posting this crap without on some level believing it.

What happened? Are we a generation raised by overbearing helicopter parents and now we can't handle simple stuff like getting up on time in the morning and paying an electric bill without them standing over us telling us how to do it?

At best it's inaccurate. Raising kids isn't hard at all. It's pretty simple to make sure they don't die. Raising them well is a bit harder, but honestly everyone blows that out of proportion too. 

Similarly, going through the grind of being an adult isn't hard, it just sucks. It's like saying "Walking 1000 miles is hard." Well, no, it really isn't because you're doing it a bit at a time. It just takes a long time and your feet are going to hurt.

At this point you're probably wondering why this bugs me so much.
The problem isn't that people are complaining, it's the implication that this isn't fair. It isn't fair that life has been thrust upon them and they have to do stuff. It isn't fair that they have student loans to pay. It isn't fair that they have to raise kids who are so poorly behaved. It isn't fair that they're fat.

Who forced you to go to college?
Who applied for that job you hate so much?
Who forced you to have kids? 
Who raised your kids to be such shitheads?
Who bought that car that you're lamenting having to make payments on?
Who keeps jamming donuts into your mouth?

All of the "adulting is hard" memes are rooted in our unwillingness to take responsibility for how our lives have turned out.
Yeah, sometimes you get dealt a shitty hand, but for the most part if your life sucks it's because of the choices you've made.
You did this. You raised your kids to be assholes. You made yourself fat. You ran up a huge credit card debt.
"Adulting" isn't hard, but you've failed anyway. It's no one's fault but your own.

So stop saying that being an adult is hard, and practice the following phrase: 

"I regret everything."

It's a start, at least.




Images stolen from wherever. Who cares. Sue me, you idiots.

Eeyore Is Not Depressed

Every now and then, I'll run across a joke based on Eeyore's unhappy nature, something like this:

This doesn't bug me because it's clearly a joke and a murderous, blood-soaked Pooh is something anyone can get behind.

What bugs me is this one that's been making the rounds lately:

It bugs me because of the implication that the only possible reason that someone could be unhappy like Eeyore is if they're clinically depressed. In our overmedicated, post-ADHD-craze world, everyone seems to assume that if we were to stuff a few Zoloft down his gullet, Eeyore would be perfectly happy. I disagree.

Therefore, I submit for your consideration the theory that Eeyore is not depressed, he's just unhappy because his life sucks. Here's why:

His friends are all basket cases

As I mentioned in my last post, all of Eeyore's Hundred Acre Wood companions are all mentally unstable or on drugs. They wreck his house, nail random shit to his ass when they can't find his tail, and drag him along on "adventures" that nearly get him killed when he'd clearly rather just stay home.

He's lonely

Eeyore is the only donkey in the Hundred Acre Wood. Not only does this mean that he is forced to associate with other species for friendship, but he's never getting laid. Eeyore will die a lonely, unmarried virgin.

He's basically homeless

So... what's the monthly rent on this place?

Eeyore's "house" is A PILE OF STICKS. Not only is this a pretty crappy dwelling, but it's constantly getting knocked over by that cokehead Tigger or a wind storm or whatever. This leaves poor Eeyore (who doesn't have thumbs, mind you) to reconstruct his home over and over again, usually by himself because his friends are too high to be of any assistance.

He's constantly losing his tail

Your first reaction to this might be "Well, the stupid donkey should keep track of that thing. It's his own damned fault."

While this is true, consider what effect this has on him. He's losing a part of his body. King Missile (link probably NSFW) notwithstanding, we can't imagine what it's like to have a part of our body separated from us. It's got to be awful.

Worse yet is what happens when he finds it.

Whenever Eeyore's tail is recovered, his friends NAIL IT ONTO HIS ASS. No stitches, no surgeon, no anesthetic--hell, even Velcro would be an improvement. But instead his neurotic junkie friends get a hammer and a nail and literally pin the tail on the donkey.

Despite his shitty life, Eeyore rarely complains

It can also be postulated that Eeyore isn't actually as sad as everyone thinks he is. When his tail goes missing, he often tells his friends it's not a big deal and not to bother looking for it. Of course, whether this is because he's not bothered by losing it or is just more afraid of another ass-nailing remains uncertain.

He also is surprisingly calm about his house getting knocked over, saying "It's ok, it wasn't much of a house anyway" (an extremely valid assessment) when Tigger comes blundering through and wrecks it.

Conclusion

Just because someone is unhappy doesn't mean they're clinically depressed. Sometimes their unhappiness is a completely valid reflection of their circumstances.

Eeyore's life is total crap. He's a lonely, homeless, dismembered bum surrounded by psychopaths. Of course he's unhappy.

Or maybe he's on heroin.

So I'm to go to the East side and buy you these "medical supplies"?

Psychoanalyzing the Hundred Acre Wood

While thinking about a post that will be appearing later (edit: it's now here), I realized that all of the characters in the Winnie the Pooh stories are either on drugs or mentally disturbed.
Here for your information and enjoyment is a rundown of the details.

Winnie the Pooh

Pooh is either a bumbling idiot or a pothead. I'm leaning toward the latter, as evidenced by his occasional moments of philosophical clarity and (most notably) the fact that he constantly has the munchies. He sits around all day dimwittedly contemplating existence and wondering when the Hundred Acre Wood will be getting a Taco Bell. 

Piglet

Suffers from paranoia, delusions, a litany of phobias, and is possibly schizophrenic.
Piglet is a hot mess.

Tigger

Tigger's a cocaine user but doesn't want his friends to know. He shows up happy, excited, energetic--literally bouncing with glee. Usually he quickly buggers off to go do some more coke but sometimes he sticks around for a while. The longer he's around the more confused, irritable, and frustrated he gets. 
This is because Tigger is coming down from his high.
He doesn't want all of his friends to know what he's up to, so he never does it in front of them. This means than anything more than a few hours around his pals leaves him itching for another bump.

Rabbit

Rabbit wears an apron, meticulously tends his garden, and constantly fusses over things like his dinner parties, his silverware and dishes, the cleanliness of his house, and whatever he's currently cooking.
Rabbit is a closeted homosexual.
However, his uncontrollable outbursts when someone gets in the way of his obsessions or puts something out of order suggest that he's not just bitchy, he suffers from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.
The magnitude of its severity is hard to assess though, as he often exaggerates it to cover the fact that he is, as mentioned earlier, a closet-dweller.

Kanga

Like Pooh, Kanga is a major stoner. 
Even more so than Pooh (who will occasionally articulate his frustrations by saying "Oh bother"), she is extremely mellow. As chaos constantly and inevitably erupts around her via the other nutjobs, she calmly asserts that everything will be fine and everyone should just like, keep it cooool maaaan.
We know what's in that pouch, Kanga.

Gopher

Gopher, like Tigger, is constantly hopped up on stimulants. He's always working, always energetic, never stops, and never tires. Unlike Tigger, however, he lives underground and can thus hide his substance abuse better. 
What exactly he's on is uncertain; meth can be ruled out as his teeth are still in good condition. Whatever that old lady in Requiem for a Dream was using... Probably that.

Owl

Owl is actually quite sane, and once you understand his situation you can't help but pity him. The problem is that he's an idiot.
He has to live up to the "wise old owl" stereotype that is projected onto him by his friends, so he constantly spouts gibberish at them, misinterpreting things that he doesn't understand and presenting his word as gospel.
His friends, aware of their own ignorance and seeing him as "wise," believe everything he says.
These BS sessions always backfire, causing problems for himself and everyone else. A notable example of this was the incident where Christopher Robin went to school, which Owl misread as "skull." He then sent everyone on a wild goose chase to rescue Christopher, nearly getting them killed.
The sad part of this is that Owl knows he's full of shit. Even when his attempted highbrow babblings get them into trouble he must carry on the charade lest the others realize what a dolt he is. This is why he's one of the most rarely seen characters. He avoids the others for fear that they'll ask him questions for which he'll need to make up answers.
He's an idiot and a fraud and he hates himself for it.

Christopher Robin

First of all, where the hell are this kid's parents? He'll mention them from time to time but we never see them. Assuming the Hundred Acre Wood is aptly named, that's a pretty big tract of forest for some little kid to be mucking about in unsupervised.
Add to that the obvious fact that he's delusional (talking to toys all day) and it's clear that his parents' neglect has taken its toll on his emotional, social, and mental well-being. 
He likely won't make it to adulthood before he's committed to an asylum.

Eeyore

Everyone is quick to diagnose Eeyore with depression, but I disagree.
This, ladies and gentlemen, will be the topic of my next post.

Until then, good luck watching Winnie the Pooh without thinking about this.