The entry you are about to digest is perhaps my most provocative to date and may place me and my make believe world in great peril. With my penchant for offending people from all walks of life, I have officially entered the global arena with some premeditated antagonizing of roughly two thirds of the world’s citizenry who live in what is confusingly called the third world (even with my crude arithmetic ability I know that they actually live in the two-thirds world); factor in the demographic reality that most of this population is alienated, poor, hungry, angry and actively looking to scapegoat any second rate blogger for their lowly status on the world stage, and you have a recipe for disaster. But as my Myrmidons know, I am a truth teller, and the truth is that Soccer is Un-American. Never let it be said of The Captain that he didn’t courageously stand up and shout the naked truth from the safe anonymity of the internet. Notice I have waited until the eyes of the world are on the silly tournament called the World Cup of Soccer. I could have written this when no one was watching, like during the Olympics. But yours truly has never seen a fight he can’t pick, so here we go!
We in America unapologetically play sports with our hands and we play games that end with a winner and a loser. I have to laugh whenever I hear some ignorant “futball” fan criticizing the USA for playing the truly great game of American football mostly with our hands. We only call it “football” to mock the lame game the rest of the world plays. So am I supposed to feel inadequate because some poor farmer from Uruguay can bounce a ball on his foot? Maybe if he tried planting seeds with his hands instead of with his feet he’d be able to grow enough food to feed his country. Maybe if he practiced composing the alphabet by holding a pen between his thumb and forefinger rather than between his toes he’d be literate. Maybe if he cupped his hands together to scoop up and drink some life giving water instead trying to splash kick a few drops into his mug he wouldn’t be so parched and dehydrated. And maybe, just maybe, if he learned to use his hands to pleasure himself, he wouldn’t overpopulate the world with all those children he can’t afford to feed. Yes, with an active imagination and an abundance of vodka, it’s not difficult to hypothesize that the majority of the world’s problems can be traced to the popularity of soccer, a sport which insists that its players use their feet instead of their hands.
And let’s talk about the most idiotic result for a sporting event ever invented – a 0-0 tie. WTF?! Let’s take some real life examples from the ongoing World Cup and see how this is working. Take the American Soccer team, you know, the team with players whose hands weren’t good enough for them to play real sports like Football, Baseball, and Basketball. The Yanks are placed in Group A for the preliminary round of the tournament along with England, Algeria and some country whose name escapes me. There are three other Groups of four teams. Each team plays one game against the other three teams in its group with the top two teams from each group advancing to the final round of sixteen. In its first game the USA played England, a supposed Soccer juggernaut heavily favored to kick our butts. Well, they scored one whole goal (woohoo) and were on their way to victory when their goal keeper, the one player allowed to actually use his hands, bobbled a routine kick from an American player, allowing the ball to wriggle out of his hands of stone and barely over the goal line for the tying goal, or what they quaintly refer to in the two-thirds world as the “equalizer,” which is appropriate because the game ended with both sides with an equal number of goals; one each for a whopping total of two. Maybe if your spastic goalie had spent some time as a lad fielding ground balls back home he would have handled that shot and saved his country from embarrassment on the world stage. Oh well.
So England and America tie 1-1, which seems like a tidal wave of scoring when compared to England’s next match, the ever-present 0-0 result with Algeria. Meanwhile, the USA plays some Slavic country nobody’s ever heard of (is there a way to check to see if a nation is legitimate like you can check a Little Leaguer’s age by requesting to see his birth certificate – maybe ask for a copy of its Constitution or a note from its Dictator?) and falls behind 2-0 at the half; to add insult to injury, after each goal, the Slavs, who were all sporting haircuts from the eighties, did some group fairy dance straight out of A Mid Summer Night’s Dream. Well, being Americans, we fight back and tie the game and appear to take the lead late with a third goal, only some Referee from the minor leagues of the African subcontinent decides that the goal doesn’t count because the goal scorer committed a foul that is nowhere to be found in the silly soccer rule book. And that reminds me of another reason American sports rule – INSTANT REPLAY! But guess what? The World Cup governing board (I think it’s Foccer or Fifedom or something like that) doesn’t employ this modern technology, probably because the cameras needed for it require the use of hands. So this ancient Referee from the Two Thirds world doesn’t even have to explain what the infraction was – ever! The match ends in a 2-2 draw instead of a 3-2 American victory. No big deal you say; except that this is soccer, which necessitates the use of arcane tie breaker rules because they play games where NO ONE WINS.
So the Slav country had defeated Algeria and tied England 0-0 for a record of 1-0-1. Algeria, losers to the Country-who-cannot-be-named, were sitting at 0-1-1. England, with a single, solitary goal, were 0-0-2. America had an identical record. With one game left for each team, I had no fucking clue which two teams would likely advance. There were more mathematical possibilities remaining than my schooling left me equipped to analyze, so I simply paid attention to the scores of the final two matches to see if any clarity could be reached. England was playing the Slavic Pucks (my name for them) and the Americans the Algerians. If England tied the Slavs 0-0 or 1-1 and America tied the Algerians, they would have identical records and America would advance to the next round without having won a single match because they would win the tie breaker. First, they look at goal differential; but since both teams would have played three ties, they would both have identical goal differentials, which would be ZERO. So on to the next tie breaker, which is number of goals scored. Since we scored two (but really three) against Slovenia (I just remembered their name!), we would advance. OR…if England managed to defeat Slovenia 1-0, then we would need to defeat Algeria to make it to round two. We again would have the same record as England but win the same tie breaker. If you want to know what tie-breaking scenarios applied to Slovenia and Algeria, then you’ll have to do it yourself; I had a hard enough time figuring out England and America and I’m exhausted. Besides, I already knew the results before I wrote this. England did indeed defeat Slovenia 1-Nil (pretentious way soccer fans say one to nothing) which meant that the USA needed to defeat Algeria outright to advance, which they did in the nick of time by scoring the game’s only goal in extra time (which is the stupid rule which allows the referee to add “injury” time for all those times the players take a dive and roll around on the ground pretending to be hurt when they’re simply just embarrassed because they tripped over a daisy or whiffed on a kick) because they haven’t figured out like we Americans that there is such a thing as a TIME OUT! All in all, an abject failure of a sport. No clear winners. No instant replay, and no hands. No mas!
So The Captain sits hear typing with his hands, a proud American sports fan. The only time you’ll catch me using my feet is when one of my legitimates requires a swift kick in the ass for doing stupid shit – you know, like playing youth soccer!
Believe The Captain when he says: I may regularly put my foot in my mouth but you’ll never catch it near one of those soccer balls!
Yours shagging balls with one hand and practicing birth control with the other,
The Captain
Post Script: Before I had the opportunity to post this on the world wide interweb, Team USA played a team from Ghana, a country with a geographic location unknown to 99% of Americans and a good 40% of Ghanans or Ghahanaians or whatever they’re called. There’s good news and bad news. I’ll start with the bad news. Ghana beat America. The good news? It’s only soccer, the one game on the planet that Ghana can beat us at.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Corporate Dress Code / Summer Safety Guide
It’s that time of year again! Summer – when the paucity of Fire Safety and women’s clothing make The Captain smile. This year I’m going to try something different; The Captain will combine his annual Summer Fire Safety and Corporate Dress Code missives into one intricately woven article of inappropriate fictional clothing, a literary thong, if you will.
I’ll admit, like most of you I suspect, I find the Summer Dress Code rules to be inconsistent and vague. Really, isn’t it all just a matter of perspective? Give me Fire Safety rules any time of the year. How do I know if I have started a fire I shouldn’t have? Two simple clues:
1. I’m on fire
2. The Fire Department shows up
All other fire play is deemed by yours truly to be “recreational.”
The commentary that follows may not be particularly enlightening or bring any clarity to the fuzzy dress code guidelines, but it will follow nonetheless, because I decide what to write.
Simple Fire Safety Rule # 1: Never play with matches when mixing your homemade accelerants.
Vague Dress Code Rule Open to Interpretation # 1: Don’t wear revealing clothing. What exactly can or can’t be revealed? Is cleavage offensive? If so, which kind? The cleft created by two firm but ample female breasts squeezing close to one another? Or the one between the layers of fat squished together on the back of the overweight bald guy’s neck? What about open toe footwear? I really don’t want to see peoples’ toes, let alone what’s in between them.
Simple Fire Safety Rule # 2: Flame Throwers are not weed killers.
Vague Dress Code Rule Open to Interpretation # 2: Don’t wear offensive clothing. I think the answers to all my questions on this topic should be prefaced by the word “Depends.” Let’s try it with the following questions.
· Q - Is a micro mini skirt offensive? A – Depends on who’s wearing it.
· Q – Are tattoos OK? A - Depends on:
o Location. Is it located on the ass of a middle aged middle manager or on the backside of an intern?
o What is illustrated. For men, images of anchors and barbed wire are OK; images of Liberace? Not so much. For women, images of The Captain are not only OK but encouraged; pretty much everything else is fine so long as it’s in the right location.
o What is written. Watch out for profanity and Satanic verses and trying to be clever when you are not (remember, your kids and your divorce judge may see your tats some day); otherwise, pretty much everything goes. Just be sure to proofread for typos as whiteout washes away.
· Q – Will getting a tattoo make me cool? A - Depends on whether you are cool to begin with; if not, people will know you got yours when you were passed out.
· Q – If I get a tattoo with the word “Mother” written over a Valentine’s heart, will my Mom really love me? A - Depends on whether Mom takes her meds; but honestly, NO. Mom will still be a cold, detached, meth addicted Ho who will sooner trade you for drugs than give you a hug. You should find yourself a Ho, just not Ma, because that could create emotional confusion.
Dress Code Non Sequitur
Capri Pants: I’m convinced the inventor of these is a twisted genius whose motivation was to wreak havoc on corporate dress codes; that, and an urgent order for pants combined with a fabric shortage. I defy any of you to put Capris into a clothing category. Are they long shorts or flood pants? How does the length compare with Hip Hop shorts, which can reach the ankles? Should men be allowed to wear these to work? If not, is that discriminatory? Racism? Sexism? Fashionistaism? I don’t have the answer, just a particular preference for Daisy Dukes for the Summer Interns
Vague Dress Code Rule Open to Interpretation # 3: Don’t wear “distracting” clothing. The only comment I have is this: one man’s distraction is another man’s motivation.
Simple Fire Safety Rule # 3: “Stop, drop & roll” refers neither to a freestyle wrestling move nor a drinking game but to a deadly serious fire safety maneuver to employ in the event you begin to combust, perhaps after trying to do flaming shots by forgoing the shot glass and pouring Bacardi 151 directly into your mouth and lighting it on fire.
Exceptions
There are exceptions to every rule, and in the case of Summer Interns, the rules are meant to be broken. Below is my attempt to improve corporate morale and break down the old corporate stereotypes about large financial institutions; when it comes to Summer Interns, we need to be less “buttoned down” and more “unbuttoned.”
BONUS Guide to Spotting and Handling Summer Interns
Females:
· Look for short hemlines, rosy cheeks (including the ones on the face), colorful but impractical open-toed shoes, and open cleavage. That’s a Summer Intern!
· There are three types of female interns:
1. Attractive ones who are given the important job of showing up, along with occasional faux work tasks. This type is easily identified by their multiple corporate dress code violations; they are also routinely surrounded by fawning suits with white hair and paunches.
2. Plain ones who are given meaningful and menial work because they need to pad their resumes and pay their tuition.
3. Attractive ones whose Daddies are company executives; these are tricky to identify; though they still get extra attention from Dad’s gray beard golf buddies, there are some that can also be seen performing actual work; this all depends on Daddy’s expectations. If you see an attractive female intern working hard at her desk, approach with caution and measure your words; what you say to her could get back to your boss or, worse, your spouse or girlfriend.
Males:
· Look for fruity colored dress shirts, Ties with images of cartoon characters, ill-fitting pants, a brief case, and bed head. That’s a male Summer Intern.
· A female colleague of mine was recently lamenting the dearth of attractive young meat, er…male interns; beyond the obvious signs listed above, I really have little in the way of advice to give on this group as all of my time is consumed trying to spot and handle female interns.
Simple Fire Safety Rule # 4: I am recycling this from a very old Summer Fire Safety bulletin that a few of you might remember. It’s one of my favorites. Never use your hand as a launching pad for bottle rockets!
Epilogue
There’s a famous “homespun” radio personality from the upper Midwest by the name of Garrison Keillor. He’s famous for his stories about the fictional town of Lake Wobegone, where all the women are strong, all the men are good looking, and all the children are above average. It’s the kind of idyllic world that makes you want to vomit. But like Mr. Keillor, The Captain tells stories about fantastic places; in my fantasy world, the women are all summer interns, the men all manage teams of summer interns, and the children are all able to fend for themselves socially, emotionally and financially within minutes of being born!
Believe The Captain when he says: Shot glasses are practical!
Yours wearing a T Shirt that says “Bloggers Do It Every Day.”
The Captain
I’ll admit, like most of you I suspect, I find the Summer Dress Code rules to be inconsistent and vague. Really, isn’t it all just a matter of perspective? Give me Fire Safety rules any time of the year. How do I know if I have started a fire I shouldn’t have? Two simple clues:
1. I’m on fire
2. The Fire Department shows up
All other fire play is deemed by yours truly to be “recreational.”
The commentary that follows may not be particularly enlightening or bring any clarity to the fuzzy dress code guidelines, but it will follow nonetheless, because I decide what to write.
Simple Fire Safety Rule # 1: Never play with matches when mixing your homemade accelerants.
Vague Dress Code Rule Open to Interpretation # 1: Don’t wear revealing clothing. What exactly can or can’t be revealed? Is cleavage offensive? If so, which kind? The cleft created by two firm but ample female breasts squeezing close to one another? Or the one between the layers of fat squished together on the back of the overweight bald guy’s neck? What about open toe footwear? I really don’t want to see peoples’ toes, let alone what’s in between them.
Simple Fire Safety Rule # 2: Flame Throwers are not weed killers.
Vague Dress Code Rule Open to Interpretation # 2: Don’t wear offensive clothing. I think the answers to all my questions on this topic should be prefaced by the word “Depends.” Let’s try it with the following questions.
· Q - Is a micro mini skirt offensive? A – Depends on who’s wearing it.
· Q – Are tattoos OK? A - Depends on:
o Location. Is it located on the ass of a middle aged middle manager or on the backside of an intern?
o What is illustrated. For men, images of anchors and barbed wire are OK; images of Liberace? Not so much. For women, images of The Captain are not only OK but encouraged; pretty much everything else is fine so long as it’s in the right location.
o What is written. Watch out for profanity and Satanic verses and trying to be clever when you are not (remember, your kids and your divorce judge may see your tats some day); otherwise, pretty much everything goes. Just be sure to proofread for typos as whiteout washes away.
· Q – Will getting a tattoo make me cool? A - Depends on whether you are cool to begin with; if not, people will know you got yours when you were passed out.
· Q – If I get a tattoo with the word “Mother” written over a Valentine’s heart, will my Mom really love me? A - Depends on whether Mom takes her meds; but honestly, NO. Mom will still be a cold, detached, meth addicted Ho who will sooner trade you for drugs than give you a hug. You should find yourself a Ho, just not Ma, because that could create emotional confusion.
Dress Code Non Sequitur
Capri Pants: I’m convinced the inventor of these is a twisted genius whose motivation was to wreak havoc on corporate dress codes; that, and an urgent order for pants combined with a fabric shortage. I defy any of you to put Capris into a clothing category. Are they long shorts or flood pants? How does the length compare with Hip Hop shorts, which can reach the ankles? Should men be allowed to wear these to work? If not, is that discriminatory? Racism? Sexism? Fashionistaism? I don’t have the answer, just a particular preference for Daisy Dukes for the Summer Interns
Vague Dress Code Rule Open to Interpretation # 3: Don’t wear “distracting” clothing. The only comment I have is this: one man’s distraction is another man’s motivation.
Simple Fire Safety Rule # 3: “Stop, drop & roll” refers neither to a freestyle wrestling move nor a drinking game but to a deadly serious fire safety maneuver to employ in the event you begin to combust, perhaps after trying to do flaming shots by forgoing the shot glass and pouring Bacardi 151 directly into your mouth and lighting it on fire.
Exceptions
There are exceptions to every rule, and in the case of Summer Interns, the rules are meant to be broken. Below is my attempt to improve corporate morale and break down the old corporate stereotypes about large financial institutions; when it comes to Summer Interns, we need to be less “buttoned down” and more “unbuttoned.”
BONUS Guide to Spotting and Handling Summer Interns
Females:
· Look for short hemlines, rosy cheeks (including the ones on the face), colorful but impractical open-toed shoes, and open cleavage. That’s a Summer Intern!
· There are three types of female interns:
1. Attractive ones who are given the important job of showing up, along with occasional faux work tasks. This type is easily identified by their multiple corporate dress code violations; they are also routinely surrounded by fawning suits with white hair and paunches.
2. Plain ones who are given meaningful and menial work because they need to pad their resumes and pay their tuition.
3. Attractive ones whose Daddies are company executives; these are tricky to identify; though they still get extra attention from Dad’s gray beard golf buddies, there are some that can also be seen performing actual work; this all depends on Daddy’s expectations. If you see an attractive female intern working hard at her desk, approach with caution and measure your words; what you say to her could get back to your boss or, worse, your spouse or girlfriend.
Males:
· Look for fruity colored dress shirts, Ties with images of cartoon characters, ill-fitting pants, a brief case, and bed head. That’s a male Summer Intern.
· A female colleague of mine was recently lamenting the dearth of attractive young meat, er…male interns; beyond the obvious signs listed above, I really have little in the way of advice to give on this group as all of my time is consumed trying to spot and handle female interns.
Simple Fire Safety Rule # 4: I am recycling this from a very old Summer Fire Safety bulletin that a few of you might remember. It’s one of my favorites. Never use your hand as a launching pad for bottle rockets!
Epilogue
There’s a famous “homespun” radio personality from the upper Midwest by the name of Garrison Keillor. He’s famous for his stories about the fictional town of Lake Wobegone, where all the women are strong, all the men are good looking, and all the children are above average. It’s the kind of idyllic world that makes you want to vomit. But like Mr. Keillor, The Captain tells stories about fantastic places; in my fantasy world, the women are all summer interns, the men all manage teams of summer interns, and the children are all able to fend for themselves socially, emotionally and financially within minutes of being born!
Believe The Captain when he says: Shot glasses are practical!
Yours wearing a T Shirt that says “Bloggers Do It Every Day.”
The Captain
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
The Captain's Bucket List
Yours truly, Mayor of the Myrmidons, Oracle of the Unusual, Fabricator of the Fantastic, or, as my mother now calls me, Captain Dumbass, lied. He who writes pretentiously of himself in the third person like some overpaid and ethically challenged CEO fibbed when he wrote that he would never compile a Bucket List. It’s in my psychological make up to fantasize, so I am neurologically compelled to put one together (I believe that is Excuse # 37 for writing my drivel – I can’t help it; just the way I’m made – an excuse, I might add, that’s popular with robots and serial killers).
The items on my bucket list fall into one of three categories:
1. Likely to Be Accomplished
2. Don’t Bet On It Happening
3. Only in My Dreams
So before I keel over, here it is: The Captain’s Categorized Bucket List!
· Learn the difference between Muting and Unmuting my phone, especially during important business meetings when I am doing a loud and unflattering impersonation of the Project Manager hosting the teleconference. “Er, no ma’am, I was just having a light moment with my cube monkey.” Category: Don’t Bet On It
· Floss. Category: Likely to Be Accomplished, if only because I still have the 40 containers of Floss from the past 20 years of teeth cleanings.
· Make it to full VP of Large Impersonal Insurance Company. Category: Only in My Dreams, but not even there as my dreams mostly involve fireable offenses.
· Write a Poem. Category: HA, just kidding!!!!!
· Write the Great American Novel about con-artist preacher who lures all the flatearthers into a cave in anticipation of the second coming, where they wait patiently until they starve to death or come to their senses, which ever comes first. Category: Likely to Be Accomplished – if you take out the “great” part.
· Solve the riddle of the Sphinx. Seems like the product of the bestial encounter between a desert Nomad and a Lioness after a wild night of partying down by the sand pit. Category: Ha, I just figured it out – cross that one off the list!
· Finish the New York Times Crossword Puzzle…while sober…without cheating. Category: Only in my dreams, where I am occasionally smart, sober and honest.
· Raise a champion Rhode Island Red Rooster; the explanation for this one goes way back in my childhood, when my best friend’s Dad raised chickens to show at local country fairs. Mr. K spent more time with his chickens than with his wife and children and when his wife made him choose between her and the chickens, he chose the chickens, which should be a lesson to any spouse who issues an ultimatum. Never put forth an ultimatum unless it’s designed to be to your advantage no matter the answer. The option of being less appealing than show chickens does not fall into this category. You will not be surprised to learn that this story is unrelated to my point, but I just love telling people that my best friend’s Dad left his mother for a show chicken. But there is a hook. I used to feed the chickens when my friend went away on vacation and there was one Rhode Island Red Rooster who was a mean, nasty sonuvabitch. He would see me coming and begin to foam at the beak as I opened his cage to toss in his feed; without fail, he’d race over and peck me repeatedly, leaving my hands battered and bloodied. I vowed revenge on his offspring. So before I pass, I will find a master chicken breeder and I will buy his best Rooster and will take it to the local fair to win the blue ribbon and listen to strange people talk about the bird as if it was some kind of poultry Pamela Anderson, and then, as the admiring crowd looks on, I will take out my butcher’s knife and lop off his head in plain site in preparation of the bird’s funeral meal, for which he was voluntold by yours truly to be the main course as expiation for the sins of his fathers. My God, I have finally lost it. Category: Don’t bet on it. As much as the thought of revenge appeals to my vulgar side, I’m still scared shitless of chickens. I’ll have to resort to plan B, which is to hire a neglected teenage child of an obsessed show chicken breeder to sneak into the country fair chicken barn in the middle of the night, open all the cages, and release half a dozen foxes for the midnight snack of their lives.
· Buy another pet Tarantula. When I was in college, I had a pet Mexican Tarantula named Boris (fans of The Who are sporting a knowing smile right now); my dorm mates did not appreciate the beauty of large, hairy arachnids the way I did and while I was away for Thanksgiving break, I am convinced the cowards kidnapped, tortured and killed Boris. I still tear up everything Thanksgiving. Due to Boris’s premature demise, I was never able to realize my dream of training a Tarantula to engage in mortal combat with a giant Dragon Fly (Boris, bless his gentle soul, would always run away from the Dragon Fly. Spiders are such misunderstood creatures). Category: Don’t bet on it. Daughter of The Captain said she would disown me if I brought a giant, hairy spider into the house; besides, Tarantulas are pussies.
· Visit Slovakia. This is where my late father was born and also the setting for the Hostel horror movies where young and ridiculously stupid American backpackers are lured by hot, drug addicted Slovak women into the clutches of sadistic bastards who pay for the privilege of horrifically torturing and killing them for fun. Ancestry and B Horror Movie trivia, the perfect trip for The Captain. Category: Likely to Be Accomplished: Great exchange rate makes this very doable just like those slutty Slovak junkies!
· Attend Oktoberfest. 3 weeks of drinking beer with an entire nation. Category: Likely to Be Accomplished. C’mon, does a Muslim Pilgrim go to Mecca??
Believe The Captain when he says: Project Managers cock-a-doodle-doo like Roosters!
Yours on mute…er, I think…F*ck, I can never get that right!
The Captain
The items on my bucket list fall into one of three categories:
1. Likely to Be Accomplished
2. Don’t Bet On It Happening
3. Only in My Dreams
So before I keel over, here it is: The Captain’s Categorized Bucket List!
· Learn the difference between Muting and Unmuting my phone, especially during important business meetings when I am doing a loud and unflattering impersonation of the Project Manager hosting the teleconference. “Er, no ma’am, I was just having a light moment with my cube monkey.” Category: Don’t Bet On It
· Floss. Category: Likely to Be Accomplished, if only because I still have the 40 containers of Floss from the past 20 years of teeth cleanings.
· Make it to full VP of Large Impersonal Insurance Company. Category: Only in My Dreams, but not even there as my dreams mostly involve fireable offenses.
· Write a Poem. Category: HA, just kidding!!!!!
· Write the Great American Novel about con-artist preacher who lures all the flatearthers into a cave in anticipation of the second coming, where they wait patiently until they starve to death or come to their senses, which ever comes first. Category: Likely to Be Accomplished – if you take out the “great” part.
· Solve the riddle of the Sphinx. Seems like the product of the bestial encounter between a desert Nomad and a Lioness after a wild night of partying down by the sand pit. Category: Ha, I just figured it out – cross that one off the list!
· Finish the New York Times Crossword Puzzle…while sober…without cheating. Category: Only in my dreams, where I am occasionally smart, sober and honest.
· Raise a champion Rhode Island Red Rooster; the explanation for this one goes way back in my childhood, when my best friend’s Dad raised chickens to show at local country fairs. Mr. K spent more time with his chickens than with his wife and children and when his wife made him choose between her and the chickens, he chose the chickens, which should be a lesson to any spouse who issues an ultimatum. Never put forth an ultimatum unless it’s designed to be to your advantage no matter the answer. The option of being less appealing than show chickens does not fall into this category. You will not be surprised to learn that this story is unrelated to my point, but I just love telling people that my best friend’s Dad left his mother for a show chicken. But there is a hook. I used to feed the chickens when my friend went away on vacation and there was one Rhode Island Red Rooster who was a mean, nasty sonuvabitch. He would see me coming and begin to foam at the beak as I opened his cage to toss in his feed; without fail, he’d race over and peck me repeatedly, leaving my hands battered and bloodied. I vowed revenge on his offspring. So before I pass, I will find a master chicken breeder and I will buy his best Rooster and will take it to the local fair to win the blue ribbon and listen to strange people talk about the bird as if it was some kind of poultry Pamela Anderson, and then, as the admiring crowd looks on, I will take out my butcher’s knife and lop off his head in plain site in preparation of the bird’s funeral meal, for which he was voluntold by yours truly to be the main course as expiation for the sins of his fathers. My God, I have finally lost it. Category: Don’t bet on it. As much as the thought of revenge appeals to my vulgar side, I’m still scared shitless of chickens. I’ll have to resort to plan B, which is to hire a neglected teenage child of an obsessed show chicken breeder to sneak into the country fair chicken barn in the middle of the night, open all the cages, and release half a dozen foxes for the midnight snack of their lives.
· Buy another pet Tarantula. When I was in college, I had a pet Mexican Tarantula named Boris (fans of The Who are sporting a knowing smile right now); my dorm mates did not appreciate the beauty of large, hairy arachnids the way I did and while I was away for Thanksgiving break, I am convinced the cowards kidnapped, tortured and killed Boris. I still tear up everything Thanksgiving. Due to Boris’s premature demise, I was never able to realize my dream of training a Tarantula to engage in mortal combat with a giant Dragon Fly (Boris, bless his gentle soul, would always run away from the Dragon Fly. Spiders are such misunderstood creatures). Category: Don’t bet on it. Daughter of The Captain said she would disown me if I brought a giant, hairy spider into the house; besides, Tarantulas are pussies.
· Visit Slovakia. This is where my late father was born and also the setting for the Hostel horror movies where young and ridiculously stupid American backpackers are lured by hot, drug addicted Slovak women into the clutches of sadistic bastards who pay for the privilege of horrifically torturing and killing them for fun. Ancestry and B Horror Movie trivia, the perfect trip for The Captain. Category: Likely to Be Accomplished: Great exchange rate makes this very doable just like those slutty Slovak junkies!
· Attend Oktoberfest. 3 weeks of drinking beer with an entire nation. Category: Likely to Be Accomplished. C’mon, does a Muslim Pilgrim go to Mecca??
Believe The Captain when he says: Project Managers cock-a-doodle-doo like Roosters!
Yours on mute…er, I think…F*ck, I can never get that right!
The Captain
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