Month: August 2012

Ah, Fantasy Football.  The last vestige of any athleticism connection I have left resides now purely in sports knowledge.  Thus, this sports related (actually a closet excuse to gamble) hobby, where men get together, pick down the line according to a magazine or ESPN’s website, pray for healthy players and lucky waiver spots, then talk shit if and when they win.  Just like they are GM’s for a Super Bowl winning team.

What the game is, for those unaware, is a draft of NFL players.  If they have good statisitics the week you start them, you get points.  If your group of random players scores more than another team’s group of random players that week, you “win” even if in real life every one of your players loses the real NFL game.  The NFL loves fantasy football, because it makes people like me go to BW3’s all day to watch Arizona vs. Seattle, a game I wouldn’t normally watch with a gun to my head.  Why?  Because I have the backup tight end for Seattle and my oppenent has the Cardinals’ kicker – I’m up by two and by God, please let the Cardinals get no field goals, or my $50 entry fee is gone.  BW3’s loves it, because I generally hate strangers and will refuse to talk to anyone, meaning I get bored, leading to me drinking and eating more to get through the crushing stagnation of watching the NFC West in a 10-6 shootout.

What kind of person does this to themselves?  Degenerate football fans with gambling problems.  In case you are wondering, I’m in five leagues this year.

During the rather enjoyable paintball experience last weekend, there was one idiot attempting to ruin it with her trashy skills – the mouthy blonde hilljack.  She was a problem from minute one, immediately complaining that her mask was fogging up and she couldn’t “get no goddurn towel” to wipe it off with.  I looked at the source of this shrill squawking – she was wearing a tank top, which other no than no shirt at all, is the worst possible article of clothing to wear paintballing.  She also apparently liked birds, because I was able to see at least three bird tattoos from the limited skin exposed.  I have a bald eagle tattoo that I rather like, but it’s kind of diminshed if I get a chicken hawk, emu, and red-crested warbler on my person.  Calm down with the birds, lady.

Well, she was just getting warmed up.  She proceeded to henpeck the referee into getting her a free popsicle (they were three for a buck…yes, three for a buck) because she “didn’t have no cash.”  She then yelled at someone for shooting her in the foot.  This would be a legit complaint…if she WASN’T ON A GODDAMN PAINTBALL COURSE TEN FEET FROM THE BOUNDARY LINE!  “Maybe you should take some shootin’ lessons!”  Maybe you shouldn’t stand ten feet from the edge of a paintball course, stupid!  Ever thought…never mind, I said thought…my bad.

She also yelled at the group because a smoke grenade got in her zone and she “couldn’t breathe or see or nothing and that ain’t good!”  No, actually, it’s great.  In fact, I’m taking out a small loan to buy enough to shut you up at the cost of my personal credit score.  Finally, she yelled at the ref to hurry up the game every single time she got out.  After all, it’s only about her.  I’m also pretty sure she’s the one that shot me in the back of the head.  I was going to turn on her and gun her down next game, but the course shut down.  If a guy acts like this, I can punch him, but I’m powerless against this harpy.  I need to enroll my girlfriend in boxing classes.  Then again, that’s a horrible idea.  Oh well, at least I have it better than bird lady’s husband.  That henpecked eunuch is probably fashioning a noose in his shed as I type this blog.  “It’s finally quiet now!  It’s finally quiet!”

Me and my lady finally played paintball Saturday thanks to a groupon/eversave/living social (She is on those like stink on shit – I think we will be discount yodeling next week) and there was much to learn.  I learned first off that by not having camo and combat boots on, I was in the minority.  This place looked like a militia training center, mixed in with ugly teenage boys taking a weird coming of age ritual.  At least I wasn’t dressed up in sweatpants and a sleeveless brown leather jacket (no shirt underneath) like this one kid.  I surmised he lived in a broken down bus.

The first game started and I realized how woefully inaccurate my gun was as the paintballs drifted off to the left, then straight, then left.  At that moment, a ball smashed into my side fat.  Well, that was a fun 20 seconds.  After walking off, I discovered it never broke, so I took myself out of the game for no reason.  This happened three times that day.  It worked out though, because some assassin ended up flanking what would’ve been my position and peppering the remnants of my team from 15 feet away.  I can still hear the screams…

It got a lot better when I figured out what was going on and proceeded to exploit sniper’s nests (aka hide like a bitch).  All was good and my team won three in row.  Then we went to “Ambush Alley” and it all fell apart.  While advancing, someone skipped one off my shoulder.  I looked to check – all good.  Then a burning hot pain overcame my neck as Lee Harvey Oswald shot me in the back of the skull.  I managed to throw my hands up and get out of the crossfire.  Alas, the warm, wetness was not paint, but the rush of blood internally and I had taken myself out for no reason.  Then I realized that it was not possible to get shot in the back of the head four minutes into the game and I was the victim of a Benedict Arnold, shooting their own teammate!  What traitor had turned their back on our cause, the cause of “no armbands” in our epic struggle against the oppression of “armbands”?  There could be only one suspect – the bleach blonde mouthy white trash lady that had sought to ruin our day from minute one…”Et tu, Brute?”  She was so loathsome, she gets her own blog tomorrow…fight on, no armbands!  Freedom is our cry!

I had my 15 year reunion last weekend.  This was the first one I involved with planning, so needless to say I wanted to get a time machine and punch 15 year old Chris Coen for running for class president.  There is a level of annoyance supreme to all others when people complain about something you’re doing free for their behalf.  The venue wasn’t well known, it was too hot (luckily I have Superman’s ice breath for that one…oh wait, no I don’t), the music wasn’t loud enough, the music sucked.  I realized after 20 minutes however, they had bottled Busch Light and all of the sudden I didn’t give a damn!  Amazing!

In all seriousness, though, nothing crazy happened.  My mom told me some chick did a couple guys under some bleachers at one of her reunions.  I can’t make fun of her school, unfortunately – we both graduated from the same school.  We did have a quiz/survey thing with questions like who has the most kids and who traveled the farthest.  The most competitive competition though?  Most days in jail.  That’s right – heated and razor thin margin for error, our winner was a grand 191 days in jail since high school.  In fairness, I think some others might have higher totals, but alas, they’re currently in prison.

I had a good time once the actual money collecting and whatnot was done because I got to catch up old pals.  Here’s how about every conversation went.  “What are you doing now?”  “Oh I’m working at ____.  You?”  “I’ve been at ____ since 2009.  Married?”  “Yes/no.  You?”  “Yes/no.  Hey, I almost came to one of your shows, but I couldn’t get a babysitter.”  “Cool, you’ll have to check one out.  Well, I’m gonna grab a beer.”  “See you.”  Repeat.  Oh, except my buddy who said my shirt was too small, so I made fun of his hairline and white socks.  Friends are friends forever…but if you went to Maysville, your friends are probably sarcastic dickheads.

Another open mike, more lessons of comedy.  My pal Anthony emceed last night and there were a few newbs, so you never know what to expect.  One guy, a white stonerish looking fellow, with a bleached blonde hair I can only describe as cotton-like walked up to take the stage for the first time ever.  He turned towards Ant and said, “Let’s give it up for the Pillsbury Doughboy!”  Oh no he didn’t!!!

What happened next was sweet justice.  He bombed so hard, he actually quit early AND apologized to the crowd for not being funny.  Then Anthony took the mike and dripping with venom, proceeded to fake laud his hilarious set.  “Good thing he opened with that great joke!  Too bad he forgot I’m up here 20 more times tonight!”  It warmed my heart, or at least that hole where my heart should be.  I hope the newbie tries that on me.  I’ll probably say something snappy like “Go fly a kite, sir!” or “Take a long walk off a short pier, my good man!”  BURN!

The Olympics suck me in every year, but yet one consistent boo goes out to the media.  I’ve expressed my annoyance with Bob Costas’s over the top human interest BS.  What really gets to me, though, is the up and down.  Let me explain.

Jordyn Wieber was “supposed” to the win the overall gold.  She didn’t qualify, so the sports media went nuts about how heartbreaking it was when two of her teammates made it in.  Oh God, the travesty.  Then the USA won the overall gold.  “Redemption!” was the headline.  It was all better.  Then she lost the floor exercise.  “Disappointment!” was the next one.  From the sound of it, this poor chick was manic depressive.  How about the USA won, she lost individuals…then, hold it…ask her what she thinks?  Of COURSE she’s dissapointed, then move to the next one instead of projecting emotions on to a 15 year old.  (I honestly have no idea and who cares).

The recent hubbub was when Ms. Maroney didn’t win the gold in the vault.  Well, after four days, I was convinced, by the announcers, that she was Wonder Woman and couldn’t lose unless someone shot her in the leg with an AR-15 pre-jump.  Then she lost, after being in the lead, because she fell down.  No shit, she’s pissed, but when she made a face on the podium, the internet exploded with criticism…from the same people that said if she didn’t win, every newborn this year would be taken by the avenging angel of the Passover.  Fuck you, overly dramatic sports reporters – in one more week when the Olympics are over, you are as useless as the dingleberry on my dog’s ass hair.  Someone get me scissors, that thing is horrible.  Let’s face it, USA medal = kiss my ass China.  That’s what really matters.