Thursday, May 18, 2017

Meddling Kids

I was talking with Biscuits the other day and the conversation kind of went something like this:

You ever notice how time just seems to get away from you?  It's kind of scary of how quick it goes by, you know, because it's not like we can get more of it.  (That was me, by the way)

Yeah, time, one of life's ancient mysteries, just like Scooby Doo. (That was Biscuits)

Wait, what?

You know, Scooby Doo, he's one of the documentaries I watch.

Okay, first off, Scooby Doo is an animated character on a show meant for children and it itself is not an actual mystery--they solve mysteries that usually follow the same dynamic.


You didn't understand any of that, did you?


The dog and his team of weird teenagers solve mysteries that the police could solve in about two seconds because it's always some psycho adult dressed up as a monster.  It's not one of life's ancient mysteries--you know exactly what's going to happen each and every episode!  The only great mystery of it all is how it's managed to stay relevant for this long.

There you go. you think you just Jedi mind-tricked me into believing that Scooby Doo is one of life's ancient mysteries?


Damn it, Biscuits, I was trying to actually talk to you for once and yet again we ended up talking about nonsense!  Go back to the stable before I lose it!

Fine! And I'll watch all the Scooby Doo I want while I'm there!

There you have it.  That's the extent of our weird existential crisis/children's show conversation.  Granted I was having it with a unicorn who thinks that cartoons are documentaries that he watches in a stable but he had a good point about where I was going with my thought on time.  I mean, he probably just wanted me to watch Scooby Doo with him, but I took it as that time isn't some great mysterious force but as something that we can control, just like those grown ass people pretending to be ghosts in Scooby Doo.  Time is our creation and this is my time.

 Speaking of which, not much has changed during our last talk.  The NBA is still irrelevant because of no parity whatsoever that it's more fiscally sound for Las Vegas to post odds on Australian football.  I'm not even sure if Australian football is a thing, and if it is, then I'm not sure if it's rugby, football, or soccer, but anyways it's a better payout these days than the NBA.  The two guys all year long fighting for MVP and one averaging a triple double, James Harden and Russell Westbrook, are out.  The San Antonio Spurs, a perennial great team that looked great all this year, looks like junior varsity next to the Golden State Warriors.  Lebron James has to hear all year about how he's not Jordan and how shitty his team looks and that they're not cohesive together.  Yet the Warriors and the Cavaliers are undefeated in the playoffs and in their respective conference finals looking forward to Cavs v. Warriors III: This time it's...personal.

But it's really not.  The sports media did a really good job of telling us that the regular season mattered and here's some teams that we should really watch to make a move in the playoffs and I just threw up in my mouth.  If this is how the NBA is going to roll then we'll just have the Warriors and Cavaliers play 82 games against each other and if they end up going 41-41 then the tiebreaker will be all the players have to become insurance brokers for the rest of their lives.

Speaking of sports media, did you all see the purge at ESPN recently?  ESPN is reportedly hemorrhaging money and has decided that the best course of action is to get rid of anybody that viewers and readers follow at ESPN.  This is concurrent to a sinking ship and the captain yelling, "Quick, throw off all the life-jackets and signal flares!  We're sinking and need to save weight!"  Then the captain yelled, "Quick, throw the network to a live feed that we've been advertising for days for to Derek Jeter receiving a plaque in New York!"  None of these are good decisions.  I've always liked Derek Jeter...okay, I've always respected Derek Jeter but I thought it was a little ridiculous that a world-wide broadcasting network decided that during prime-time they would show the number retiring ceremony of one guy that played for one team.  I get what Jeter means to baseball, and he's a New York Yankee, and was always a good guy, and all this carries weight.  I get that.  But what does ESPN have to do with it?  There's lots of Yankees fans all over the world but there's mostly Yankees 'fans' all over the world.  They like the logo.  They like the pinstripes.  It's the only baseball team they ever heard of.  The numbers are skewed on the number of Yankees fans because of these reasons.  It's kind of like someone wearing Jordan's and not knowing who Michael Jordan is.  I know this.  Why doesn't the 'world-wide leader in sports'?

Well kids, it's good to chat again.  See you soon.  Float on, graceful swans.

Sunday, August 21, 2016

The Studly Seven

I usually reserve the nostalgic 'talk about life' posts for July but I skipped this year because as Biscuits told you, I've been on radio silence.

The unicorns have been displeased, to say the least, at my attitude lately.  They said, and they looked it up and everything, that I have been a "cantankerous old blowhard that has disconnected himself with the rest of society and is content to live a life in solitude."  As proud as I was that they were able to so eloquently deliver that speech I was also infuriated that they used the internet outside of the allotted fifteen minutes I give them each week.  If I don't set a strict limit they'll just keep facetiming randoms from Scotland because they think it's absolutely hilarious that they're the national animal of Scotland.  I'm not kidding.  That's real.

But they're also right.  I have been cantankerous.  As far as disconnect goes...well...they wouldn't be the first to accuse me of that.  All of that aside though, they do deserve better.  Especially Biscuits...

When Biscuits was born, a rainbow formed in the sky, per usual with every unicorn birth.  Unfortunately his mother passed away soon after giving birth and his biological father was never in the picture and that left the little unicolt in my vastly unprepared hands.  I mean that literally.  I should have worn gloves because he was covered in this weird goo.  When he opened his eyes the first living being he saw was me and thus began a daily struggle to become a single parent to a mythical horse with a horn in it's head.

It wasn't pretty in the beginning.  Biscuits had a depth perception problem for the first few months or so and basically every wall in the house had a hole in it.  He also had a big proclivity for crapping.  He crapped so much that I should have opened my own bakery.  I should probably explain that unicorns crap cupcakes.  They still smell like shit though.

When it came time to mold Biscuits into the image that I wished for myself by pushing him into contact sports he looked me dead in the eye and said, "No, Dad, I want to be a writer."  My heart sank.  A writer?!  Nobody has ever accomplished anything by writing.  Writing sucks because it requires a partner.  You need somebody to read it.  Without anybody reading it, it just becomes words in the air...or the internet, lodged between weird tentacle porn and cheap hotel fares.  As much as I tried to deflect Biscuits on his fruitless life path...the boy continued on.  Despite the hooves he's somehow managed to overcome and be able to use keyboards quite effectively.  It probably has something to do with the magic powers that they're born with.

He's entered several writing competitions over the years and has never come close to winning.  Most of his entries are ramblings on rainbows and where to eat the best grass and how to accessorize head wear with a large spiral growth coming out of your head and the people don't seem to really connect with that.  But there he sits at the computer, mashing away with his hooves, and smiling the whole time.  People can be quite rude and I feel the need to protect him but he won't let me stop him.  I guess...I'm proud.  His resilience against such odds is inspiring.  He makes me want to be a better person.

Like the unicorns said, I've been cantankerous.  I really don't have a reason other than...I'm over it.  It.  Everything.  And then I look at Biscuits and see him just devastating the keyboard on the computer with his hooves, writing complete nonsense about stuff no real person cares about, and yet he just keeps mashing away.  It's inspiring.

Tomorrow is Biscuits' seventh birthday.  I think I'm going to take him to Key West to let him piss on the tree that Hemingway used to piss on.  He deserves it.  What better way to celebrate a birthday than honoring a piss monument from one of the greatest cantankerous writer's of all-time?

Happy seven years, Biscuits, happy seven years Studly Pastures, and happy seven years kids for still reading this nonsense that I just mash away at the keyboard.

Tuesday, August 9, 2016

Is Arby's Hiring?

This year has been marred with a lot of tragedies and I for one could use some good news for a change.

What's that?

The New York Yankees are telling Alex Rodriguez that his last baseball game will be Friday?!  And he's accepting this as the end?!

Look, if this is some sort of sick joke I need to know right now because I have been saving these balloons and confetti for a long, long time and I don't want to waste them on a ruse.

So it's real?  It's really real?!


The Yankees are going to release him into a 'supervisor' position but that's just fancy talk for how they would rather pay him $21 million dollars to still have to wake up early every morning and fight the traffic just like the rest of us.  Baseball contracts are guaranteed, no matter what, so of course the Yankees are going to give A-Rod one last 'go fuck yourself.'

Personally?  I would line a room with unmarked checks and release a squad of golden retriever puppies into that room and I would sleep well at night knowing that every cent of that twenty-one million had some sort of dog doo on it.  That's what he deserves.  Dog doo money.

The weird thing about the whole situation is that the Yankees called the press conference and he agreed to go, knowing full well what the conference was about, and delivered his own eulogy, and he's still going to play on Friday for his last game.

What's the point?  I am so confused.

The only legitimate box score he should have for that game is HBP (3).  I say that because old boy's last game will be house!  The Tampa Bay Rays host the New York Yankees for Alex Rodriguez's last game and I hope we hit him with the ball every...SINGLE...TIME.  It's the perfect retirement gift.  No moment in the sun for him.  Not even a Ray.  (That was pretty clever, right?)

If you've read this blog for a while you've known for quite some time that I hate Alex Rodriguez and Cole Hamels aside he's my least favorite baseball player.  It's because he's the anti-Griffey Jr.  You were so gifted that you could have landed in the stars but you were friends, or "cousins", with the wrong people and your own ego got the best of you and you cheated.  You cheated, lied about cheating, felt the noose tightening, gave an interview about how you were cheating, got suspended for the most amount of time that any baseball player had been suspended for, got that lengthy suspension reduced to just a year, and then came back after that year.  Alex Rodriguez is so illegitimate when it comes to just about anything that I don't doubt that he's absolutely lost right now.  What the Hell is he supposed to do when everything he's ever done is a lie?

Everybody knew it too.  New York threw a year long celebration for Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez gets a day in Tampa.  The best part is that Jeter got a kayak from Tampa for retiring and A-Rod will probably get gonorrhea from Ybor city as his parting gift.  And this God is cruel and unforgiving and I couldn't agree with Him more.

I went Old Testament for Alex Rodriguez but that's all he gets.  Look, if all your life you were told you were going to be the greatest baseball of all time and you went out and played baseball and said to yourself, "Holy shit, they're right!" and then worked your ass off for years and years and your self-esteem was so low that when people said "Yep, you're great, but what if you could be better with this illegal drug?!" and you said "Sign me up!"  Then I just don't know...

There's a very good possibility that Alex Rodriguez is just an idiot.  But he's not an idiot.  He thinks we're the idiots, so much so that he's convinced of it enough to jointly give a press conference that wasn't his cutting from the team but it really was at the same time and embrace his last game that takes place more than a week later.  And sometimes sociopaths play sports instead of taking up weapons.

By the way, I'm kidding.  Alex Rodriguez definitely has gonorrhea already and won't have to rubber up when he's in Ybor.

Saturday, July 23, 2016

The Future

The Future is dying, my friends, and that's not a euphemism.

The Future in this instance is the Central Florida Future and it's where I got my start...and seeing as how this is where I will end I doubt I will be asked to give any formal eulogies but hey, maybe some people better than me are double booked!

You see kids, the first newspaper I ever wrote for, my college paper, is being shut down by the man, and man, am I really starting to hate that guy!  This August the fourth shall be the last publication of the means to my voice and that really sucks for a whole huge amount of reasons but because I'm self-centered I'll only talk about why it affects me.

This newspaper spring-boarded me to other newspapers which in turn spring-boarded me to other newspapers and they in turn spring-boarded me into jobs I was clearly not ready for but I can bullshit with the best of them and this in turn led to my existential crisis and I freaked out and landed on a unicorn stud farm.  All of that is true except for the very last part.

I was a God with this paper if only for the fact that when I showed up to an event and someone would ask, "Who are you?" I got to answer, "I'm from the Future."  I would then wait for them to tremble in fear and then say something along the lines of, "You know, the newspaper, that's how I got down here."

And now for some qualifiers...

Okay, first off, this was about twelve years ago, secondly I was a sports reporter, and thirdish, the landscape of UCF athletics a decade ago was VASTLY different.  When I went to UCF they were national cheer-leading.  That's not a joke, stop laughing, you're the ones making this awkward!

My first beats were track and women's tennis.  Track...and women's tennis.  I didn't exactly leap into Pulitzer territory with those two but it did teach me to be creative.  Then came women's soccer and women's basketball.  If you're starting to think I went to an all girls' school, sadly I did not.  It just so happened that I got all the girl sports and I really didn't mind.  Wink, wink, of course I didn't mind...

It's not like that though.  At the time I was there the girls' teams were the ones you wanted to cover if you wanted to cover a winner.  I told you I wasn't joking about the cheer-leading thing.  And also, and this is entirely my personal opinion from my experience so please don't picket my house, but the female athletes I encountered were more willing to actually talk about the game/match/meet instead of most of the male athletes I encountered.

The better story in sports has and always will be what was accomplished by all and not by one and I think women get this a Hell of a lot better than men do.

My writing career, and everything ever after, including this blog, owes a great deal to the Central Florida Future and the fact that it won't be around to see me turn 31 means that I'll just have to go a present short this year.  DO YOU SEE HOW I COPE WITH PAIN?!  

It was fun to reminisce with you kids about the old days one last time...I guess I'll get back to shoveling unicorn poop into a large mound unto a vastly smaller wheelbarrow that's just begging for trouble...sigh...

Friday, July 15, 2016


Greetings and salutations, this is, sorry, Dad has called me Biscuits enough to make it stick.

I wanted to reach out to the fans of the Studly Pastures and explain that Dad has gone into what he likes to call 'radio silence.'  I don't get it either but it's not because of my smaller unicorn-sized brain but because this isn't the radio.

Normally this time of year is awesome around here and we're partying like it's nobody's business and I've never understood that human phrase because what happens at a party that people aren't supposed to know about?  Anyways, it's normally our anniversary around here and we should be celebrating the start of our seventh year as a unicorn stud farm but instead Dad is being a jerk and just sulking around the place.

He hasn't been writing since some guy named Patton Merning decided to be a 'nutsack-dropping, Oreo-loving, human excuse for a forehead' somewhere else instead of the NFL.  At least that's what Dad says, but I don't know that guy.  And before that...well...we were really upset about some bad stuff that happened in the Motherland.

But we're better now because we understand things a little better now.  You see, as unicorns, we are really good at understanding things about life and love and pretty colors and cool things like grass and rainbows.  It was hard for us before because we did not understand why anybody would want to hurt anybody else.  We're not very smart, mostly due to this large, spiraled growth coming out of our heads, but we try to learn as best we can and Dad helps us.  He says that people hurt other people because they're 'dumb dumbs and not very nice at all.'  He also taught me how to use this 'quote thingy'.

Anyways, Dad is pretty upset, and he has been for a while and we've all been trying to cheer him up.  We asked him if he wanted to go see the Miami Dolphins play where we live next month and he said, "Why the Hell would I pay money to sit in the hot sun and watch 53 jerks be terrible at their job?"  So then we said we would take him to a baseball game and he said, "Hello?  Do you guys even listen to the news at all?  The Rays are terrible again.  Welcome to every year before 2008!"

Dad yells a lot...not at us...but around us.  He's been carrying on a lot lately about the 'NBA has effectively made itself as irrelevant as the NHL due in large part to how the collective bargaining agreement was wool pulled over the commissioner's eyes.'  He's also been really big on some guy named Dave or Tease?  I'm not sure but he said that, "Dave or Tease's retiring year campaign is completely superficial because we all know he's a cheater but he hit those home runs that sparked the comeback for Boston in that ALCS that brought in huge ratings already and Big Baseball was freaking out because New York was up 3-0 and if they swept they wouldn't have been able to rake in the millions, and millions, and muellllliioooonnns they raked in because Boston came back and...gasp...gasp...I'm sorry for yelling but it makes me angry that we glorify someone simply because they say I can't play baseball next year."  I think I nailed that.  It's a long paragraph for someone with hooves.

He's getting better though I think.  Yesterday was our holiday and he said we would go to the park but when he came home from work he just went right into his room.  I hope he's okay.

I guess I liked all the stories and I was sad that they weren't coming anymore so I wanted to jump in here and see who was still around.  I hope they come back.

I hope you're okay.


Monday, March 7, 2016


Hello, kids, and thank you for all your letters of support.  It's been a rough few decades for me, and the unicorns, and without your unconditional support I don't think we would have made it through to the other side.  But today, I can say for the first time in a long time, is a great day.

I, being in charge of this dump and all, realize that I haven't branched out since November when a terrorist attack rocked the cradle of everything romantic in civilized culture, and the reason for that is because...well...sometimes bad guys win.

But victories are ever fleeting and the games are always starting anew and I just got some really cool knee pads and I'm willing to tap in for a little bit more.

Plus, I'd be absolutely beside myself if I didn't jump on the gigantic celebration that's taking place right now in Denver for the retirement party of Peyton Manning.  The entire world is coming together to reflect, reminisce, and re-purpose my lunch over the epic, position re-defining, and potential global warming causing, career of Pey...Ton...Man...Ning.  I wrote it like that because that's how he says his name. 

I always have these grandeur visions of the end of my enemies and how I'll be standing there, victoriously over them, laughing hysterically, and covered in blood and various animal furs.  It's never my first instinct to envision the bullshit propaganda-led media tour of Mount Olympus.  I'm no expert in Greek mythology but I'm no slouch either so correct me if I'm wrong...exactly when did Zeus teabag Hera?

Look, I'm almost positive that Peyton dropped his nut-sack on a female trainer's face in a completely accidental nature because nobody ever specifically pointed out to him that you shouldn't do such a thing.  You have to be very specific when talking to Peyton.  Run the flat route, Peyton.  Do this commercial, Peyton.  Don't eat the paste, Peyton.  Don't drop your balls on people, Peyton.

I almost side with Peyton because I didn't know that Tennessee law was so progressive on sexual assault charges.  I guess I kind of assumed there was one judge in the entire state and he just sat on a bale of hay and made loud decrees of who played the jug the best.  I'm obviously joking.  I have been to Tennessee and the time I've spent there was nothing but a joyous occasion.  I definitely did not spend my entire stay there counting down to the time I left Tennessee.  That did not happen.  Definitely.

What's to come of these allegations?  Absolutely nothing.  This happened back in the late 90's which might as well be the Bronze Age because we're old now in case you didn't get the Bronze Age joke.  Peyton wins the Super Bowl on marionette strings held by Wade Phillips and the rest of his gang of wily, HGH-using defensive players and the most deserving of the bunch gets the MVP.  Von Miller uses player-enhancing drugs, was suspended for it, then gets crowned the most important player in the most important game the sport has, gives awards away at the Grammys, and then goes on Dancing With The Stars.  What.  The.  Fuck.

Kids!  Do you like to try hard and earn your goals the right way?  Well, sucks to be you!  The new American standard, where our idols truly lie, is that it's really important what your end result is.  Forget about all that bullshit beforehand...we want trophies, dammit!  Learn this line and remember it well, "Well they were doing it too!"  It's iron-clad and it's a ticket to fame on ABC.

I don't fault Peyton Manning for the malefaction of his teammates.  That's only something that the leader of the team would fall on the sword for.  Denouncing PED's and the amount that it has infiltrated your own clubhouse and how it has attributed to your late success is not going to be on the speech given at the retirement press conference.  No, in fact, the great Peyton will stand there in Denver and give the best cookie cutter speech in white American sports legend history. 

I just had that thing happen to me where I used the word 'Peyton' so many times that it has lost all meaning to me.  What's that called?  Oh that's right, I'm smart, it's called semantic saturation.  He's going to stop playing football right now but that's just the gateway drug into something more terrible. 

Speaking of saturation, when I started this blog I did it because I had a love for sports and the inspiring stories they told.  Years later, I'm not so much sure as I don't love it anymore but if in fact I actually hate it.

If you turn on the television today it will be one last moment in the sun for Peyton Manning, born of NFL pedigree, former number one pick in the draft, two time Super Bowl winner, and holder of all the major and most minor passing records for a quarterback.  This won't be so bad.  He'll thank a lot of people, he'll cry a little, he'll attempt to say something inspiring and some idiots will buy stock, but at the end of the day we'll sweep up confetti. 

This is the end of Peyton Manning as it was the end of Anakin Skywalker when Obi-Wan left him burning and amputated next to the lava pool.  I'm not as naive as Obi-Wan.

The last month was a coronation for Peyton and the next six will be his celebration...and then?
Well, I guess that's up to Ol' Top Heavy himself, but I guarantee that the commissioner views today as "good publicity" and I just sit here in my bunker and gently rock myself back and forth.

Float on, graceful swans, as long as you freakin' can.

Saturday, November 14, 2015

The City Of Love

Man, I'm on no sleep.  I was up all night putting each of the unicorns to bed, one by one.

They were very upset.

Their usual regimen of chamomile tea and old episodes of I Love Lucy usually put them right out (they're weirdos, I understand this) but last night they weren't having any of it.  You see, unicorns are mystical creatures and they're very tuned to the state of the world and little things like genocide tend to give them fits.  I had to pull out the whole 'warm washcloth and read portions of the farmer's almanac' routine to finally get them to calm down and get to sleep.  I already told you that they're weirdos.

For me?  A fifth of whiskey usually puts me down for the count but I like to refer to it as 'time-traveling'.  It's more fun to joke about alcoholism than it is to actually confront demons.

I'm kidding.  I don't drink a handle of whiskey every night before bed...that's disgusting.  I drink the handle of whiskey during breakfast because nutritionists say that's the most important meal of the day and who the Hell would I be to argue with a nutritionist?  A jerk, that's whom.  Only jerks argue with nutritionists. 

So I finally get all the horned bastards to sleep, finish off my second handle of whiskey that I just told you I don't do...aaaaaand just stare at the ceiling.  By the way, in the old days, I'm pretty sure that counting sheep would be the most tedious and mind-numbing task that could be given to someone that would also double as a sleep agent but with today's job market I'm too worried about missing a sheep and turning in the wrong numbers to the sheep foreman.  I really need this job and falling asleep is a huge detriment to counting.  The more modern way to help fall asleep is to get elected into congress.  Hah!  Buuuuuurrrrn.  I sure showed those guys.

I couldn't sleep.  Not even a wink.  I blinked a few times but none of those were long enough to be classified into winks.  It was odd, all things considered, because I love sleeping.  It has all the great qualities of life.  You get to relax, recharge, and even pretend that you're doing something completely different from the Hellish facade that you're living.  It's great!

Something kept nagging at me though and wouldn't let me fall asleep and let me escape my life as a unicorn stable master but maybe something exotic like working in a restaurant or the Department of Motor Vehicles.  That's when it occurred to me, dammit, genocide bothers me too!  I guess I spend too much time with the unicorns!

Yesterday, during the friendly match between France and Germany, two very loud and very close explosions were heard on the television broadcast.  By the way, in soccer, a 'friendly' is very much like it sounds.  The match doesn't matter and is used as a way to judge talent, maybe raise money for a cause, or just give the human population entertainment.  It's supposed to be fun.

The explosions were suicide bombers, in a coordinated attack, killing the citizens of Paris.  The bombers didn't make it into the stadium thanks in large part to security but also because if you're a suicide bomber in the first place then your guidance system has already failed you and you probably couldn't find the goddamn entrance.  I'm not going to speculate on what would have happened had they managed to make it inside and instead will just thank the brave security guards for preventing more death and destruction.

At the same time, presumably members of the same terrorist group or the world's biggest coincidence ever, began shooting more citizens of Paris.

They targeted people at restaurants, people at a concert, and people at a sporting event, also known as every regular day people.  I might be a bit off base here but I like to consider myself semi-intelligent.  I know that it's a lot easier to put my pants on before my shoes.  So, tell me, why is it supposed to inflict fear on us because you shot somebody eating a croissant?  Was your message that you can get us at any time and anywhere?  Because you fell waaaaaay, waaaay short of that message.

In the name of whatever it is they were trying to achieve all they managed to do was get a lot of really big powers pissed as all Hell at them.  This isn't even about Obama.  This is about Eisenhower and De Gaulle.  We need to call up Great Britain, tell them we're picking up Canada on the way, ask them to call Germany, tell France we're coming, and we're all going to roll up together and figure out who did this and blast them into a very large crater in the ground.  China?  Japan?  You guys want in on this?  You know the Aussies are coming.'s your chance to get back in the cool club!

Shit, call it World War III for all I care.  The third movie is always one where the former enemies come together and fight the new evil anyways.

And it is evil.  They targeted restaurants, music, and sports.  Fairly obvious what they were trying to achieve there.