Link Goodness

  • Tips on managing Millennials (or as I like to call them “The Participation Ribbon Generation“). Not willing to make routine sacrifices, cannot handle criticism well and take things too seriously, you say? I am guessing it had something to do with an entire generation being raised with a sense of entitlement, hyper-sensitivity and not being allowed to fail. Guess we should have kept score at their Little League games after all.
  • The perfect Valentine’s Day gift: Afghani War Rugs! Now available in the new, delicious 9/11 Flavor!
  • Roger Clemens throws his wife under the bus to protect what is left of his sterling professional baseball reputation. Well played, Mr. I Did Not Use HGH But My Bitch Wife Did.
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Bikini For Sport

The always timeless Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue hits newsstands this week and SI has posted a complimentary web directory so comprehensive that it nullifies the need for a printed magazine. The Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue is responsible for me spending the better half of my formidable years tacking Kathy Ireland covers to my wall, enduring repeated viewings of Necessary Roughness and making Pee-Chee folder collages with shots of Elle McPherson and her snorkeling equipment. Back then, you could not find a sport associated with bikinis so it was nigh impossible to justify a pubescent grocery store checkout line purchase to your mother. But than this happened. And it was good.

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Useful Thinking

Me: Interesting.
Jake: Meh. She does not stun me. Who cares if she can play some golf?
Me: I guess it is nice to know that she is not just a useless hot bitch. She can hit the shit out of a golf ball, too.
Jake: Give me Heidi Klum playing with her tits any day.
Me: Well, duh. Her tits are fantastic.
Jake: “Great knockers!”
Me: The Seal thing baffles me. I bet she is a size queen. It is the only explanation.
Jake: Never thought of that.
Me: Him and Edward James Olmos could be brothers with all that shit on their faces.
Jake: Ha! Seal had lupus. Cut the guy a break. He is just trying to get by.
Me: I do not call banging Heidi Klum “Getting By.” I call that “Out Punting Your Coverage.” “Getting By” is laying wood to someone like Britney Spears.
Jake: That is not “Getting By” that is “Giving Up.”
Me: Nice.

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World Series Tickets Or My Soul?

In just a few short hours World Series tickets will be going on sale. I will be attempting to score seats for games three, four and/or five. Being as tickets are only being sold online, season ticket holders get first dibs and only 18,000 seats will be available to the general public per game, chances are slim that I will be drunkenly heckling Coco Crisp for being benched from the nosebleeds. If no tickets are procured, I will officially renounce the Christian messiah and go the god-hating way of Perez.

Update: The risen infant Christ has forsaken me. Ticket purchasing attempts were made on a Mac via Firefox, Safari and Netscape while simultaneously rolling the office PC test computer on IE, Firefox and Netscape. All to no avail. (Shaking fist at sky and screaming, “Evolution rules!”)

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Professional Golf Yields Narcolepsy

Yesterday the wife and I took in a Father’s Day barbecue and a 100-degree scorcher at my sister’s house out on the plains. I stayed inside with the air conditioning most of the day and had a glorious nap as the final round of the US Open played out before me. The male contingent of the barbecue were emotionally invested in the tournament, getting excited at good shots, sizing up the leader board and making the standard comments that professional golf fans make (“He can hit a (insert club here) that far?” or “They all make it look so effortless.”) Although I play golf a handful of times each year, I have no desire to watch it played professionally nor do I care if a nobody from Argentina wins the thing. I did discover that professional golf woos me to sleep as if I were an infant wrapped tightly to her warm, bare bosom. Sit me in your rocking chair and sing me a lullaby, professional golf. Your sweet baby boy has a stomach full of bratwurst and needs the sleepy.

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My Own Private Idaho

The wife and I spent the weekend gallivanting around Boise, Idaho and visiting with family. Some highlights:

  • Taking your intermediate level skiing wife down a run called Widowmaker first thing in the morning does not help her psychologically for the rest of the day. It just scares the bejesus out of her.
  • My wife’s grandfather, aged 97, to me regarding the Boise State Fiesta Bowl victory: “It was the best thing to ever happen to this town.”
  • A hotel room sink packed with ice can hold a twelve pack of Alaskan Amber nicely.
  • My wife’s grandfather, aged 97, to the jabbering ladies on stage during Robbie Burns Night: “Get on with it!”
  • Haggis and Scottish shortbread cookies make for a fine meal.
  • If the United Nations would only listen to heavily intoxicated, foul-mouthed artists and German citizens working towards Ph.D.’s in brain cancer research than this world would be a much better place.
  • I was recognized as “That guy from the Boise State parade” twice in the same night. Once next to the urinal in the men’s bathroom at the Bittercreek Alehouse and once outside the Bittercreek Alehouse by a throng of intoxicated college girls.
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New Years Hangover

The wife and I spent the Christian New Year within stumbling distance from the house by slogging it to a party in a foot and half of ice, slush and snow with a backpack full of booze. We welcomed in 2007 with burnt pizza, shots of Jack Daniels, warm Squirt chasers and countless games of Guitar Hero (Kaye and I rocked in 2007 with a head-to-head ax battle of Cheap Trick’s “Surrender” neither of us caring that it was past midnight). On New Year’s Day we invited the in-laws over to watch the Fiesta Bowl in High Definition and eat sweetened swine. Three native Idahoans were in the house as Boise State upset Oklahoma in overtime to go undefeated on the season and wreak havoc on BCS voting. Swept up in the heat of the win, famed running back and crochet master knitter Ian Johnson proposed to his girlfriend. In other news, Jessica Alba throws a football in a bikini.

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An Unemployed Artist’s Browser History

  • Paparazzi shots of Britney’s cash and prizes (very un-work safe). Five years ago this link might have melted my face, but now her nether regions are about as interesting to me as an introductory to statistics college course. Bonus: C-Section scars!
  • Wikipedia for Encierro.
  • Snow reports for local ski areas. With an intense Arctic storm moving in, ski areas could be getting upwards of two feet of snow and I could be spending the next couple of days on the slopes reveling in soft, champagne powder while you jerks are stuck in a cubicle at work.
  • Selections from the notebooks of Max Roosevelt, 15-year-old socialist.
  • Big local news (so big in fact, they interrupted an episode of Judge Joe Brown for the press conference yesterday): Jake Plummer gets benched and Jay Cutler will start as the Broncos quarterback on Sunday. I am officially nicknaming Cutler “The Paperboy” because he bears striking resemblance to a chubby neighborhood kid that slings the daily news and not because he looks like the one-hit rap wonder of the early 90s.
  • Wikipedia for GG Allin. Specifically, the “Death” heading.
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Running Off The Bird

The wife and I celebrated our annual Thanksgiving tradition and ran in the Denver Turkey Trot this morning. The weather was beautiful and my legs and lungs felt good. My iPod crapped out on me during mile 3 and after numerous attempts to reboot the device, I am now faced with retiring the old girl for one of those new fangled jimmys. Soon we will be off to gorge on basted fowl and curse Jake Plummer as he fumble fucks around on the gridiron and causes our beloved Broncos lose two in a row to division rivals. Happy Thanksgiving.

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In The Lap Of Luxury Boxes

Last night I watched the Avs home opener from a luxury suite at the Pepsi Center (the boys lost to the Stars 2-3 in OT). The old man, Jake, Nels and Aaron were also in attendance. My pops was responsible for the hook up as he procured the tickets through assorted work connections. The suite came equipped with a private bathroom, assorted domestic beers, food platters, period-by-period stat sheets and a computer with internet connection. Our luxurious time was surrounded by famous radio personalities with fake cans (Clear Channel suite next door), one drunk fan trying to start an “AVS RULE!” cheer (seats below us) and silver bucket of ice, Coors products and sunshine. The life of an unemployed artist is glamorous and fulfilling.

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