I have a name.

Sometimes you just need an image and Curt Hennig is available.

[Scene opens with a fully formed human that is approximately nine months in age hanging out in the womb of the fleshly vessel known as his/her mother. The almost newborn baby is consulting with a “Pre-Birth Coach.” Yes, these kind of things exist. The pre-birth  coach is an entity made entirely of uterine fibroids. What are “uterine fibroids” you ask? I have no idea but I just did some internet research and behold the glory. The unisex motivator has a whistle around its unformed, unisex neck.  “Bright Lights, Big City” by Sonny James is being played in the background. Timothy Cook sneaks iPad’s anywhere he damn pleases.  A conversation is taking place, in English because…’Murrrica.]

Uterine Fibroid Pre-Birth Coach: Listen to me. You’re coming out crying. Why? They think it’s because your a baby and that’s what babies do. Little do they know the education system that exists here in the womb is infinitely better than the learning you’re going to do out there. You’re coming out crying because life is fucking hard, kid. You’re crying because you’re already aware of all the hardships, heartaches, complications, unforeseen mistakes, tribulations, possible triumphs, mundane Wednesdays, when-is-my-paycheck-coming, fuck this credit card debt shit, road-trip!, stuff that is going to happen. You got me?

[Uterine Fibroid Pre-Birth Coach squirts embryonic fluid into the mouth of baby, as if it was between the rounds of a heavyweight fight. Isn’t this normal? What do babies drink on their own accord? What the hell are babies? I suppose it could be water disseminated from a nalgene…]

Uterine Fibroid Pre-Birth Coach: No matter what anyone tells you, you play it cool. You don’t talk for a while. You make incoherent noises and let them think that your IQ isn’t a triple digit prime number. Chances are your parents can’t name a triple digit prime number within a ten seconds. Don’t judge them, they gave you life.

the Baby:  What’s the median income of the city I am being born into? Or am I being born into a rural area? What’s the tax rate like? Am I going to end up in an apartment or a house? Is there a dog? I’m allergic to cats…

[Uterine Fibroid Pre-Birth Coach slaps the baby upside the head.]

Uterine Fibroid Pre-Birth Coach: You don’t make the rules. You are the pawn, my friend. Remember when I taught you how to play Chess? That was 1st Trimester material. Where is your mind right now?

the Baby: Sorry, I lost focus.

Uterine Fibroid Pre-Birth Coach: Before I send you out into the world to begin the excruciating process of slow decay that we call life, I must warn you that your parents plan on naming you “Exegesis” because they are extremely pious, religious people. Get ready to explain your name every single day for the rest of your life…

[Cue record stopping scratching sound that was made famous by ’80s sitcoms or maybe it was ’70s sitcoms…]

the Baby soon-to-be-named Exegesis: Fuck.

[End scene….]

It wasn’t too long ago that I finally figured out the origins of my name. Well, not my entire government name but my middle name specifically. I don’t know why it took 30.5 years to finally have the conversation. There’s something about attending two Christmas parties of families that you’ve known since you were a child and all the margaritas/whiskey gingers that have been rendered “mandatory” by the occasion. The proverbial capote of my being, razed to the ground by the juggernaut forces of blood alcohol content and tasty oeur d’oeuvres.

My dad told me a story of how I got the name “Douglas.” The entire time I have functioned as a human being on this planet, I have always assumed that I got the middle name “Douglas” because it made me sound like a judge. Someone of the utmost importance. A name that commands respect even if its torch-bearer carries himself in a fashion that does not.

My dad told me a story about how he was in kindergarten, and one day the teacher told him he would not be allowed to go to recess until he learned how to tie his shoes. This made my father incredibly sad and broke his tiny boy heart. However, one of his classmates, a young Irish kid by the name of DOUGLAS KELLY, came to his rescue.

“What’s wrong big fella?,” asked Douglas as he wrapped his arm around my dough-y boy father’s shoulder.

My father aired his grievances.

“Don’t worry big fella. I’ll teach you how to tie your shoes,” responded Douglas Kelly (the equivalence of human sunshine).

So, for the next three days Douglas Kelly taught my father how to tie his shoes. It’s an act of kindness that he has never forgotten. So he bestowed the name of “Douglas” to me upon my first breath on this Earth.

The end.

So what does this all mean? Does it mean my father was incredibly stupid as a child? Perhaps the slowest learner of tying shoes in the history of the activity? Or does it mean my father is an incredibly gracious and thoughtful human being?

Maybe both.

I’ve always tried to serve as an extension of where I come from. “Bouie” is a brand. It’s not Coke or Pepsi but I’d like it to be synonymous with refreshing enjoyment (to the point where it makes me billions of dollars and I can build pyramids consisting of human skulls).

Will I ever be the foundation of my neighborhood Catholic church like my grandfather? It’s not impossible but I wouldn’t hold your breath. Will I ever be considered “The Mayor” of a thriving suburban community that is located just outside the most powerful city in the free world? That’s not really my style (as of March 3rd, 2014). I am of the belief that I have a different calling than my father or my father’s father. Will I win a Grammy Lifetime Achievement award, be sampled by Wu Tang and be total a drunken prick otherwise like my grand-uncle? I’m not much of a drinker. Will I ever be the angel-faced competitive assassin that my mother is? A boy can dream.

The story of my middle name further reiterated the point that I have a lot to live up to. I’ve got a long way to go, but so far I’m not doing that bad. It could be worse. I could be Darren Sharper or something….

Patient Zero

“Sometimes you forget that you have your own blog. It happens. I’ve just been busy doing stuff, you know? Like eh, hanging out in Bimini for a couple of days.  I’m about to go to a trillion weddings. I have to finish my “Best Man’s” speech. Hockey is back. Before I go any further… Ultimate Movie Dad Death-Match is not Dead Drum is dead. Indie Rock jokes, for the wi…ehhh nobody gets this shit. It was on a brief hiatus. I got lazy about posting results and asking the tough questions. I am the CNN of fantasy brackets. Anyone check out this witty jam?”

Yeah, I wrote the aforementioned paragraph back in October. Without question, this has been my worst year for blogging ever. Once upon a time, I had music blogger diarrhea of the mouth. My average Sound on the Sound post was at least 1000 words. I wrote a lot but I still sucked at it. Now, I don’t write at all and my “skills” have diminished beyond my worst nightmares.

These days, I don’t even know what to talk about. My writing life feels like a ham sandwich, without mustard or cheese. It’s just bread and really shitty deli meat. No Virginia, I’m not putting any mayo on my sandwich, not even if it would sex up my thinking process…even a little bit. Not even a school-age kid who forgot their lunch at home would  fuck with my free lunch. I kind of feel like a 24-hour news outlet. I don’t have much to say currently, so I’m just going to say a bunch of stuff and see what sticks. May Nielsen Google have mercy on my soul.

Lately, I’ve been discussing the universality of Beyonce. Queen Bey (Do fans even call her that? They do now.) has reached a level in her career in which she has no equals, man or women. Plebeians try to explain to me that Jay-Z is her equal. I usually laugh off their popularity assessment with the zeal and contempt of a super-villain.  If Beyonce married Jay-Z in 1998 then you might have an argument. 2013 Jay-Z is several steps below Beyonce as a music artist (we’re not talking as a brand or businessman). Beyonce seems to attract women from all spectrums of the universe. There is no male artist equivalent to that. Come to think of it, has there been a male artist in my lifetime that a majority of my dude friends like? Even when the airwaves were trying to make the general public sick of “Hard Knock Life” and the like, not all my male friends liked Jay-Z. One could argue on behalf of Michael Jackson, but when the King of Pop was the biggest act on Earth, I wasn’t even in Kindergarten yet. Jacko of the 1990s was marred by scandal and weirdness.

Nirvana wasn’t it. Pearl Jam definitely wasn’t it. Bush wasn’t it. Brittany Spears wasn’t it.

So besides Beyonce, who is it? You tell me, seriously.

Have you ever thought about Coffee in an imperialistic fashion? Alcohol and tobacco (besides cotton, sugar and some other “raw” materials) are traditionally thought of when it comes to European powers launching ships to foreign lands in the name of colonialism/imperialism. People (such as myself) forget the role coffee played in all of this as well. Can you imagine being in London during the 18th century and having coffee for the first time? Holy cow, that must’ve been a crazy experience!

[Scene opens in a “happening” British tea spot in London. My “name” for this bloggish skit will be Edwin, just imagine me in a powdered white wig with wooden teeth. “Eldrige” will be played by Method Man, the perfect time period actor. Yes, we’re two brothers hanging out in a British tea spot…like totes enjoying our freedom and not being enslaved!]

Edwin: “Eldrige, what is this? Kauf-eeee? Is that how you say it? By god, this is the most powerful dark elixir that my tongue has ever encountered! I feel….I feel…like I could hold my own during one of Benny Franklin’s dungeon gang-bangs! Surely, this is the Viagra of our age!” [editors note: Viagra was not invited yet]

Eldridge: “Yeah homey, I’ve got a guy…who has a guy…who has a ship…who knows this place…”

Edwin: “Where is it?! How many natives will we have to slay in order for me to feel this powerful on an everyday basis?! When can we start the killing!?!”

Eldrige: “Slow your roll, it takes a few…..”

Edwin: “Listen here you uppity nigger! I WANT ALL THE COFFEE AND I WANT ALL THE NATIVES DEAD! DO WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO! I WANT TO FEEL LIKE THE ULTIMATE WARRIOR EVERY TIME I WAKE UP IN THE MORNING!” [editor’s note: WWF Superstar Ultimate Warrior wasn’t for born until several decades later .]

[/scene]

With my current coffee addiction, I would have turned into Jack the Ripper knowing that I would have to wait what would seem like a lifetime for another fresh shipment of coffee. Caffeine, inciting and quelling violence since….uhh…grab a history book.

Can your non-profit job be an aphrodisiac?!?

Sometimes, I wonder if people start a career in non-profits just so they can get laid out of pity. This is the response I get when I tell people I work with high school dropouts.

“Oh my god, thank you. We need more people like you in the world…”

Me: “Oh, like the world needs more broke and under-appreciated people…..”  That’s not what I say, but that’s what I want to say. That sentiment got me to thinking, there has to be at least one guy out there that’s like, “You know what? I’m going to make a dating existence out of this!”

“Yeah girl, my work is tough. These students need me to be a beacon of light that guides them through some extremely tough times. [Insert student story of hardship here, it doesn’t even have to be real] You see what I mean? I’d love to tell you more over some Boone’s Farm and Target scented candles. I have a $10 gift certificate to Love Zone in case you want to make this into a Jodeci music video….”

The Pains of Being a Non-Gay, Straight Black Guy

I started up a conversation with some random woman who frequents Columbia City Theater on a regular basis. I can’t remember how it came up, but she not so tactfully asked me if I were gay. Ladies, asking if a guy is gay is rarely a good look (unless it’s a reasonable question, like you’re dating the guy you’re asking), especially if you don’t even know the guy. If that’s the case, chances are you’ll look like a moron who jumps to conclusions like CNN jumps on insignificant news stories. Where I come from (the non-politically correct, being abrasive is a badge of masculinity — state of Virginia), those are “fighting words.” It also doesn’t help that one of my biggest pet peeves is when people assume I’m something that I’m not. Obviously, Seattle is a totally different landscape so the intent is different. I remember when I first moved here, a middle-aged woman once said that I was, “built like a dancer.” Initially, I was seeing all different shades of red. I was pretty furious. “How dare this woman come into my place of work and emasculate me because I’m wearing an apron!” Then I remembered I’m in Seattle, this woman is trying to pay me a compliment and buy expensive pasta. She’s not trying to “take this conversation outside.” (In the “Street Fighting Man” kind of way, not the “Brown Sugar” kind of way.)

Anyway, back to the story!

I gave her a polite smile, laughed and asked, “Where did you get that idea?” Keep in mind, this is a woman I’ve never actually spoken to in my entire life. I see her walk in the front door and sit at the bar, that’s literally the extent of our relationship to this point. In so many words, she said it was because I wasn’t checking her out hard enough and  “hollering” at her whenever I see her. In which I replied, “So basically, because I’m not openly objectifying or disrespecting you, I am having sex with men? Interesting logic.”

Let me translate this exchange for you, just in case you don’t understand. Because I don’t act like a “stereotypical” black male, I must prefer the company of men. In the science community, I believe they refer to that as the Scientific Method. Am I the only person who sees the insanity in this? True, I’m a very private person (Facebook is all smokes and mirrors). Rarely do I let people know what I’m feeling or thinking unless it feels like I’m about to burst at my sentimental seams. It’s a sad state of affairs when being a negative stereotype has a direct correlation with your supposed sexual orientation. Ladies, if I described your thought process at all in the preceding paragraphs, you might want to do something about that. You’re cheating yourself out of “eligible” men (if that’s what you’re looking for) and you also look like an asshole.

I know, #straightguyproblems. I hope gay marriage continues to spread like wildfire throughout the United States. Maybe it will help make things less stereotypical confusing for people? Probably not. ‘Murrricaaaaaaaa.

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.