My brain. Let me introduce you.

You know what I’ve been thinking about lately? Let me tell you since you never asked that question in the first place.

The inclusivity of heaven vs. the exclusivity of its “designers” 

Whether you’re or religious or not, the idea of “heaven” is definitely a “thing.” For you, maybe it’s tickets on the 50-yard line on a crisp autumn day in Ann Arbor (this is one version of “heaven” for me — if I inserted “Lansing” instead of Ann Arbor, it would be considered “hell”). Or maybe it’s tickets to the Stanley Cup Playoffs (another idea of “heaven” for me). Or maybe it’s just hanging out on the beach surrounded by recreational vices while casually positioning yourself next to a young woman that tickles your fancy (the feeling better be mutual! another convenient version of “heaven” for me).

In other news, my versions of heaven are totally awesome. There are at least a dozen different versions. Twelve amazing afterlife’s that are available to me in my current life….HOW FUCKING CONVENIENT.  I suggest you lose your religion and join my religion of leisure and triumph.

Anyway, this got me to thinking about the conceptual afterlife and how amazing it supposed to be.

Heaven – A place everyone wants to be. A place nobody can get in. 

If you look at the different denominations of Christianity alone, it seems like heaven is a secretive clubhouse and only one of those sects is going to have a golden ticket to get in.

I was on a run a weeks ago (I run every single day, it’s hard to differentiate between sessions sometimes). I’m kind of weird because the more my body is in motion, the slower my thought process is. Meaning, I do my best thinking while traveling at my highest rates of speed. It doesn’t make any sense but neither do many details of my life. Anyway, I imagined that heaven was a building designed by eight different architects (arbitrary number that I’ve been choosing for examples since I was a child). Each architect designed a special wing or section of the building, complete personalized minutiae and aesthetic, individualized preferences in terms of spacing/lighting, customized allurements and fringe benefits.

“Only I am able to enjoy the spoils my existence has created!” – Everyone, ever. 

Sounds lovely doesn’t it? However, the architects didn’t trust each other. Each architect had a special lock made for their individual sections so that they were only folks who’d be able to enjoy the fruits of their “goodwill” and “lifelong dedication to betterment.” All their thoughts as it related to eternal paradise were fixated on self-obsession. An unsaid groupthink of unsaid banishment.

In 2013, this is what “heaven” has become. This isn’t an internet homily, just a casual observation. In fact, back in May, I saw guy tell his own girlfriend that she wasn’t getting into heaven. That’s when you know shit is about to get real.

Naked men are terrible. 

I’ve hated the men’s locker room my whole life. You will never catch me showering in one. You’ll definitely never catch me walking around with my business hanging out for everyone to see. Really, no man should be completely nude in a men’s locker room for more than a matter of seconds. There’s no reason for it. Do you know why?

Naked men are terrible. 

Our bodies are awful looking. Even those who look statuesque (the few and far in-between) don’t strike me as aesthetically pleasing (spoiler alert: I’m a straight dude). What is it about dudes? We possess the utmost confidence in all the wrong areas. *dramatic sigh* I’m guilty too.  I think I’d enjoy looking at naked men more if we could somehow replaced their penises with gargoyle monuments. You know what I mean? Cool looking shit like this. Then if a naked man walked in front of my line of vision in a locker room, instead of wanting to hit him with the Lex Luger “Narcissist Elbow,” I’d be resigned to gasp and marvel. Maybe I’d utter something like the following:

“Man, check out that dude’s rad gargoyle cock! Fucking sick!”

But for now, every time I see a naked man, I bit my lip and wish for temporary amnesia and lower blood pressure. Naked men are terrible. 

I know a lot of rad couples.

It’s true, especially out here in Seattle, I know a lot of rad couples. I don’t want to start listing them all because I’m afraid that folks will think I am playing favorites. Me? Play favorites? You bet your sweet ass I would.

Lovebirds, I see you shining. I congratulate you for living out the lyrics to a certain song by Heavy D. I’m fortunate to have you in my life. Tell all your hot single friends about my blog. In fact, don’t even call it a blog, say I’m a published author with lots of important opinions. Cool? Rad.

What are the worst songs by the best bands?

My earliest nomination is “Paperbag Writer” by The Beatles. What a terrible fucking song. I also nominate the entirety of Fugazi’s Steady Diet of Nothing and Mudhoney’s My Brother the Cow.

Ultimate Movie Dad Death Match Results

I’m watching “The History of Gluttony” on H2 (The critically acclaimed sequel to the History Channel — which sucks balls now).I don’t feel good about it. I feel great about it. In my opinion, I should be featured in this program. I eat myself to sleep every night and I’ve been doing it for three decades. Let me break it down for you in terms of professional sports related consistency.

Lou “Iron Horse” Gehrig + Cal “Iron Man” Ripken Jr. + Brett “Real Comfortable Jeans” Favre = Philip Bouie (gluttony not sports).

Let’s get down to the nitty gritty. Shall we?

Darth Vader defeats Fletcher Reede – It was a relatively uninspired bloodbath. Darth “I am your father” Vader had too many radical components of “dadness” to be defeated by a lawyer that was “magically” forced to tell the truth. At the apex of his power, one could argue that Darth Vader was the most powerful man “in a galaxy far, far away.”  He commanded a ship known as The Death Star. He was in full control of a fleet of thousands. Hell, he even had his own souped up Tie-Fighter! Are there any other pilot dads in this tournament? I don’t think so. Fletcher Reede, forgot his son’s birthday party because (if memory serves me correctly) he was banging a hot lawyer co-worker. If I were Fletcher Reede, I would have done the same thing. Fornication for the win! However, I am a bachelor that lives in deplorable squalor. I would have sex on food crates behind a Hardees if presented with a proposition by another living, breathing human being. I don’t have a son. I especially don’t have a son that has a crappy Jonathan Taylor Thomas haircut (dad fail!) and is forced to beg the cosmos for an end to my selfish ways. Sure, Fletcher didn’t cut off his own son’s hand. I’ll give you that. However, Vader was merely trying to groom Luke into becoming the eventual ruler of The Empire. All good fathers try to put their offspring in a position to succeed. It’s not Darth’s fault that Luke was so unwilling and had plans of his own. (Vader also saved his son’s life…the Emperor was making popcorn chicken out of him!)

I also want to note that Fletcher Reede’s “The Claw” is a definite ripoff of the finishing move by WWF wrestler Mankind. Thus, it can not be used as a positive on behalf of Fletcher Reede in this argument. Mr. Reede should know that there are copyright laws in place to prevent this sort of thing, he is a lawyer after all.

Quote of the match: ” Why didn’t he just call off the attacks and go have a beer at the Death Bar?” – Charles Hanson

Because Chuck. Because.

Clark Griswald runs amok over President Whitmore – Besides hugging his daughter during a scene or two of Independence Day, what the hell did President Whitmore do? Okay, he was a brave window in the face of an alien invasion. However, it can be argued that any one of us would have ice water running thru their veins, if the crafty duo of Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum were on the front lines fucking shit up. Welcome to Eerf!

So, what did President Whitmore really do in comparison to Clark Griswald? Not a god damn thing. In fact, Clark Griswald is considered to be the overwhelming favorite of the tournament by many for the malleability of his fatherhood. Let it be known that Whitmore did not receive a single vote in comparison to Griswald. Whitmore might have helped save the world, but he could not save himself.

Quote of the match: “Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where’s the Tylenol!?” – Clark Griswald

Vito Corleone makes Chief Brody an offer he can’t refuse – If Chief Brody were on Twitter, he’d be verified. Any man that goes from police chief to amateur monstrous great white shark killer is deserving of “officially recognized” social networking status. On the other hand, it doesn’t matter how big or how many sharks you kill, Vito Corleone is The Godfather. He will kill families for his family. Sometimes fatherly dedication comes in the form of gifting a brand new bike. Then there are times when a dad has to do what’s best for his family, by tactically dispatching people he used to break bread with.

How did Chief Brody deal with losing his oldest son? Oh, what’s that you say? It never happened? Oh-fucking-hell. Go watch The Godfather and take notes on how a dad gets real dad on someone who made his eldest son look like a slice of swiss cheese (insert joke of neutrality here). We don’t have enough time to go into all the details of how Vito Corleone is in a league of his own. This is only the first round people.

Quote of the match: “Whitey Bulger should have watched the film (The Godfather)” – Theo Simendinger

Mufasa out-sympathizes Ghost Dad – In a match nobody really paid attention to (I’m shocked! These are two dearly departed dads with heightened pop culture status.), Mufasa pulled those apathetic heartstrings just a tad bit more aggressively than Ghost Dad. Can this be considered a monumental upset? Was Mufasa criminally under-ranked as a 15 seed? Did Ghost Dad properly prepare for this match or did he rest on his laurels?

It can be said that Ghost Dad wasn’t a good father until he had already “passed.” On the other hand, Mufasa had a few “father of the year” moments right before his brother (Scar) “failed to save him” from the edge of a cliff. Oh, the woes of mortal futility. Does being saved by your own offspring make you an exemplary father or a false idol? Ghost Dad might be the only dad in this tournament faced with such a profound question? Unfortunately, he has just been eliminated.

Do you think Mufasa would have made a better college professor than “king of the jungle”? I guess we’ll find out in later rounds.

Quote of the match: “All Mufasa and Ghost Dad did was suck and die, but Ghost Dad at least came back.” – Mark Jones

Ultimate Movie Dad Death Match

 
“When I fight someone, I want to break his will. I want to take his manhood. I want to rip his heart out and show it to him.” – Mike Tyson 

“Manhood coerced into sensitivity isn’t manhood at all.”  – Camila Paglia 

Last year, I did my first ever “Ultimate Television Dad Death Match” on Facebook. I think it was a moderate success considering that I had zero expectations to begin with. I was expecting the following:

Me: Hey guys, in honor of Father’s Day, I created this awesome television-based tournament in which combatants are judged by the societal perceptions of “fatherhood.” Would you care to join in the amusement by helping me decide the winners/losers of each contest?

*cyber crickets* (this phrase is copyrighted)

 Thank god most of my friends are young professionals that hate their day jobs. Summer is the season of all-time low productivity at the sausage factory. 

My friends like to indulge in my silly internet games. They know behind online my avatar sits an extremely intelligent, handsome, winsome, awesome, funny, photogenic mercurial man, who is about five minutes of boredom away from crashing his car into his own place of residence.

Who won the “Ultimate Television Dad Death Match”? Al Bundy bested Cliff Huxtable in the final. After all, Mr. Bundy did score four touchdowns in a single game at Polk High School. Who else in the history of television dad-ness has done such a thing? Probably ever other fictional male character that attended a fictional high school and starred on the football team on a popular sitcom.

No matter. We’ve got some incredible match-ups this time around and the tournament has a field of 32. I’m going to highlight a few of the more intriguing ones:

Atticus Finch (To Kill A Mockingbird) vs. Willie Jones (Friday) – This is a certified “Clash of the Titans” if I do say so myself. You have Willie Jones, a dog catcher from the (over-rated or underrated, depending on your age and perspective) Friday movie franchise. Mr. Jones is known for his timely humor and his ability to Febreeze the hell out of a bathroom he has just defecated in. Atticus Finch, a longstanding pillar of morality in American literature. He’s so revered for his compassion that he’s a folklore hero. It can also be argued that Atticus Finch might be the first, “Hot Dad by Accident.”  Being the first at anything is a total aphrodisiac. Aphrodisiacs lead to “fatherhood,” if you know what I mean…

Jack Torrence (The Shining) vs. Royal Tenenbaum (The Royal Tenenbaums) – Jack Torrence, loved his family. Royal Tenenbaum, also loved his family. It was just different.

Lincoln Hawk (Over the Top) vs. Mr. Incredible (The Incredibles) – If I had to give this bout a title, I’d call it “Brute Strength.” Actually, fuck it. I wouldn’t merely call it that, I’d get a neck tattoo of it. I’d get a fucking neck tattoo of Mr. Incredible arm-wrestling Lincoln Hawk with the emboldened headline BRUTE STRENGTH written under the image. Nobody is messing with a guy like that….and I mean that on all levels.  

Ghost Dad (Ghost Dad) vs. Mufasa (The Lion King) – The battle of the dearly departed dads. Mufasa might get the sentimental vote, even though he is a fledgling 15 seed. (Look, if Mufasa spent more time in the gym, he would have been able to bring himself from the edge of the cliff. Besides, maybe he was a total bastard growing up? It’s not often that you hear about a brother killing a brother. Check history, not drunk history.)

Tom Mullen (Ransom) vs. Christopher Gardiner (Pursuit of Happyness) – Don’t mind us. We’re just two dads willing to do anything for our sons. Some more than others….

Wayne Szalinski (Honey, I Shrunk/Blew Up/Ate/Destroyed/Fucked, The Kids..) vs. Henry Jones Sr. (Indiana Jones) – Nerdy dad alert. I also apologize to the fictional Henry Jones by writing his name as “Harry” in my bracket. Whoopsies.

This should be a battle for the dad ages.

welcome

You know, I use to have a blog about five years ago. I deleted it because it was the worst thing that has ever happened to humanity. If any of you could find any of those, “I just moved to the west coast. I have no idea who I am!?! I need to go back to college!” posts….

Then I will hunt you down and kill you. Yes, I am fully aware this text will be admissible in a court of law.

Yes, you are correct. My blog name doesn’t properly correlate with the html address. That might be because I don’t pay attention to detail and hate my own thoughts.

Have you ever taken a bite of salad thinking it was ranch dressing only to discover it was blue cheese? Pretty weird feeling. It’s even weirder when you realize that you haven’t bought Ranch Dressing since..well….ever…and should know fully well that you only buy blue cheese dressing.

I guess I’m not that into me. ;-/

On the other hand, that’s how you wake up in the morning. Tully’s Coffee in my french press? No way. A “mystery” salad dressing taste-bud bath? Sure, shock therapy for the senses. It’s like going to your local swimming pool and instead of them using chlorine they use bleach instead. That’s greatness.

Also, never question the manhood of a man who starts his day off with a salad. I’m not afraid to put down my salad fork and go grab a dinner fork..and then stab you in your retina.

Nothing interesting is going to be said here. My intellect has often been likened to a star, it’s dead by the it gets to you.

I have no idea how I’m going to get my sense of humor across without the usage of strike-thru text. This could be a disaster.

There are three things that Americans love:

1) Space (not just the Star Wars kind, but space between words).

2) Lists.

3) Things that come in threes (in text and various other manifestations).

Take a deep breath. That was a great joke.

I hate when people call me, “brother.” I also hate when people call me “boss.” Being a black male that doesn’t own a business and only has a little sister has never cut so deep.

When I was a kid and I was nervous, I’d often fake yawn to hide my anxiety. Especially if I were trying to talk to a cute girl – which I promise you wasn’t very often. If that isn’t the most inefficient way of dealing with a social situation, I don’t know what is.

I love you all.