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.

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?!

DROP THOSE MOTHERFUCKING BALLOONS, KIDS!  A-ROD HAS BEEN DEFEATED!

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 at...my 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.