I must own this book and pass on its wisdom to the boy. Here are some of my favorites maxims with comments directed at my infant son as if he were an adult with the ability to reason:
Surround Yourself With Smart People. You are who you hang out with. Your friends will expect you to do what they are doing alongside them. Smart people expect you to be intelligent and well read. Drug addicts expect you to pass the Guns N’ Roses coke mirror you won at the carnival balloon-dart game after snorting a line.
It Is Not A Gang Without The Cool Girl. Be sure to always have at least one cool girl in your inner-circle of friends (bonus if she is hot). She can provide invaluable feminine perspective and is bound to bring around other cool girls. You may even marry her someday.
Ask Your Mother To Dance. There is no better way to make your mother’s night then taking her for a spin around the dance floor and acting like it is fun and not a chore. You will do this and you will like it.
Do Not Get All Fancy About Your Beer Or Coffee. Coffee? Black. Beer? Yes, please. It is as simple as that.
Do Not Have A Girlfriend In College. Think of all the awesome shenanigans you can get into while attending college. Now think about doing them while maintaining a steady relationship with an average looking girl that you met in the first week of your freshman year.
Never Sit Down On A Ball Field. Take A Knee. You do not sit down on a sports field unless you are severed at the torso and have no legs. Even then, you still take a stump.
Always Meet Your Date At The Door. Do not be the dickhead honking the horn in the driveway. Go up to the door and ring the bell. Doing this affords you the opportunity to open the car door for her as well. Double the points, my son.
Yes Ma’am. No Sir. No Exceptions. People that are older than you are always sir or ma’am. Even if your friends parents tell you to call them by name you still call them sir or ma’am.
Try To Lose The Adverbs. Nothing illustrates how weak your vocabulary is more than an adverb. You are not very tired. You are exhausted. You are not extremely happy. You are ecstatic.
Keep Your Word. Even the over-consumption of liquor does not excuse you from this one. If you tell someone you will do something, you do it.
If You Are Good At Something, Never Do It For Free. Excluding sex, masturbating and murder.
Walk It Off. This philosophy that can be applied to many situations including electrocution, being on fire and venereal diseases.
Never Be Afraid To Ask Out The Best Looking Girl In The Room. Be fearless. What is the worst that can happen? She says no and you call her a lesbian? You are still in the same position you were in when you walked into the room.
You Do Not Get To Choose Your Own Nickname. You are luckier than most as you have a sweet last name that can be shortened to “Broz” or “Brozo.” Even so, you do not ask anyone to call you this. They must do it of their own accord.
Ed McMahon is sleeping with Jesus. Ed was most famous for being the Lancelot to Johnny Carson’s King Arthur, hosting Star Search and giving old ladies heart attacks via Publisher’s Clearinghouse. I was unaware that Ed was a retired Colonel and accomplished pilot in WWII and Korea.
Buck Fifty has fast become my favorite site for Denver and Colorado history. Today’s installment: The Ku Klux Klan in Colorado. In the 1920s; the Klan boasted nationwide membership in the millions and was not the backwoods, hillbilly joke that it is today. Regis University (my collegiate Alma mater) has a stone wall on the southwestern edge of campus declared a historical landmark (or so I was told) where students of the 1920s and 1930s fought off the Silent Empire on numerous occasions. In my day, said stone wall was used by students to park the pricey SUVs their parents bought them next to or to smoke cigarettes against on a warm autumn day. I was also unaware that the old Denver airport (Stapleton) bore the name of noted klansmen Ben Stapleton.
If I could go back to college with the skills I acquired over my professional career, I would be making quality fake IDs and charging desperate underage drinkers $200 a smash for them (I would also be convincing more women to pose nude for me and explain that it was all for artistic purposes). In the mid to late 90s the internet was not as magical as it is today. You couldn’t just buy a fake ID with your parent’s credit card and have it over-nighted to you in time for weekend tavern revelries. No. Instead you had to pay some asshole stranger that smelled of cigarettes and claimed she was a born again Christian $40 to alter the dates on a good ID with improper fonts and colors and wait two months for it.
It all starts when the Boulder police department is called in to break up a large block party due to rampant underage drinking (a party in which the City of Boulder gave permits for). Party-goers become angry because their Constitutional right to free assembly has been violated. This is not the moment to think rationally. The time is nigh for angry mob justice. Tip over a car and light it on fire. Throw missiles at authority figures and drunken revelers. Get tazed, tear gassed and shot with rubber bullets. The next day, after being bailed out of jail by your parents, read a dissertation on the evening news about excessive police brutality.
Lately it seems like a fraternity in Colorado is more like a funeral home (CU and CSU). I think there should be a class in college called Binge Drinking 101 that teaches kids the subtle nuances of alcohol consumption. Here a few topics that should to be on the syllabus:
When you have lost feeling in your extremities and are blacking out, it is time to put the bottle of schnapps down.
If you are a young, attractive female you should not drink nor hang out at a frat house. These places are havens for date rape, alcohol poisoning and disease. It would be much cleaner and safer to drink in a construction site port-o-potty with a used dildo.
Under no circumstances should you participate in any shenanigans with somebody that has passed out; this especially includes placing your testicles on somebody’s face and taking a picture. It is called karma and she is a cruel bitch.
I was required to take the Myers-Briggs Personality Test for an Organizational Management class in college. Upon completion of said test, the results were lost in the vast abyss that was my alcohol soaked brain. Now that my hardcore binge drinking days are behind me and I have gone respectable, I decided to take the test again. Here are the results. Feel free to call me Erwin Rommel, or Wustenfuchs if you prefer.
During my freshman year of college, you could not go anywhere without hearing the song “Breakfast At Tiffany’s” by Deep Blue Something. For those of you lucky enough to never have heard this scourge upon popular music, let me assure you that if faced with a choice of inserting your genitals into a meat grinder or listening to this song until the end of time, you would gladly drop your pants. I first heard this lyrical cluster fuck late one night on a lonely road near Amarillo, Texas. I was sharing driving duties on the way to helping my good friend Julie move into her dorm room at TCU. As Julie lay asleep in the passenger seat, I was fumbling with the radio on a quest for programming that would keep me awake when I came upon “Breakfast At Tiffany’s.” After listening to one minute of this pussy band wax philosophical about a former relationship where both parties had nothing in common but the enjoyment of a 1961 Audrey Hepburn film, I was on the verge of hurling myself onto the highway in front of an eighteen-wheeler. Here is an insight into why your relationship probably fell apart, Deep Blue Something; while you were busy playing the sensitive card, talking about cotton candy and kittens and watching old chick movies like a middle-age gay man with a personality disorder, your woman was dropping ecstasy at a frat house and getting fucked on a stained couch by a guy who still had his balls intact. I was hoping that would be the only time I would ever hear that song, but unfortunately, for the next year and a half it haunted me everywhere I went. Thankfully, the one-hit wonder that was Deep Blue Something faded back into obscurity and I went on living my college musical life in the zen that was the Wu-Tang Clan. Enter this past Saturday morning. As my lady and I were eating a delicious breakfast, “Breakfast At Tiffany’s” comes on over the Muzak. I began to panic and look around for a loaded gun or stabbing implement to kill something.
At the zenith of my barhopping years, I made some bad decisions. Decisions like exchanging phone numbers with seemingly attractive females before the harsh lighting of last call came on to reveal that they had eye patches and an Adam’s apple. I think the worst decisions I made were purchasing and eating the $2 burritos from the vendors on the street corners of LoDo. The end result was always me passing those intestinal claymores through my whiskey soaked GI tract hours later in a sweaty, hungover heap atop the toilet, questioning the ingredients of said burritos and praying to every deity I could remember from my religious studies class during my sophomore year of college. I never would have guessed those gut bombs had people in them.
On a related burrito note: Taco Bell has just introduced its new shrapnel burrito.
I do not care if any of these bitches got a tattoo last week, have a cold, were pierced recently, use intravenous drugs, are HIV infected or contracted hepatitis from some skeezy frat boy that looked like Dave Matthews. They better LIE! If I screw this sorority girl blood drive up my dad may cut me off and the convertible Cabrio will go back to the dealership and the weekly stipend that keeps this house full of ecstasy tablets and Midori will stop. We cannot have that. Now where is Mary Sue at? Gamma Phi Beta is going have an old-fashioned bloodletting.