No Cheese, Please…

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For those of you keeping score at home, I had this running blog on Friday called “Fried-Day” where I just spew thoughts in a blog with no particular rhyme or reason. Long story short, posting one blog per day is more difficult than reading them so I might just axe the idea and make that style of writing a reoccurring theme. In other words, here’s your Fried-Day: Tuesday Edition.

For perspective, I didn’t sleep well last night and everyone knows for an athlete such as myself to compete at the world class level that I do, I need proper rest. I told myself I wouldn’t drink until the Barstool audition. It’s been a full seven days so far and I’ve successfully managed to only put down 2 beers since. It’s a fucking start I guess.

The first thing I noticed when you don’t drink is that you start spending more time on stupid shit like your health and career. It’s a wild thing. Out of nowhere, I’ve started to care about how I look so I’ve started this whole “no cheese” diet lately, which sucks because a “no cheese” diet eliminates roughly 85% of the stuff I currently eat, most importantly being cheese.

I ordered a hamburger with a lettuce bun yesterday and it rolled off my tongue in the weirdest way possible. I might as well have ripped my dick off and threw it on the table. It’s only a matter of time before I start ordering salads and preaching the benefits of yoga and wheat grass at social outings. I’m considering funneling one Natty Ice before bed every night to keep me on the sane side of the spectrum. The last thing I want is to flood everyone’s news feeds with me “setting my personal best on the squat rack.” Nobody gives a fuck that you set a personal best on the squat rack. The reason I go on Facebook is to shamelessly post my narcissistic thoughts/achievements, not watch yours…

So yeah, I finish eating this hamburger w/lettuce bun like some undergrad cuck and retire myself to the restroom. While I’m in the stall, some guy attempts to open the door, only to fail due to the fact I locked it (because, you know, I’m using it). After 4-5 attempts to breach the door, I finally realized I needed to vocally confirm that the stall was occupied with a “Hey man, I’m in here.” The guy apologized and went to the next stall, which conveniently was open the entire time.

For the record, this happens way too often. In all honestly, if you’re looking for a stall in the bathroom, there’s no excuse as to why you need to jiggle the door handle more than once. If someone’s in there, they’re in there. Locks are made for a reason and when a door is locked, it means the person on the other side doesn’t want you to enter. What’s the over/under on how many jiggles required to identify if a door is locked? If you’re someone who thinks more than 2, then you might as well die of bird flu.

Training Camp Was Lit but I Didn’t Get My Shot…

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So yesterday was an eventful day. First things first, I tried quiche. When I asked the waitress what it was, she described it as an “open flan.” Long story short, I had to Google it and, for those uncultured hacks out there, quiche is essentially a Reese’s Cup, but instead of chocolate and peanut butter, it’s fucking egg. Probably the most pretentious thing I’ve ever eaten. Then I found out it was French and life made sense for a brief moment.

Shortly after, I migrated down to Gillette because, well, football’s back. The Patriots open up their training camp to the fans a few times a year and I decided to attend. I went alone. Partly because I have very few friends who would be willing to wake up at 6:30 AM on a Sunday but mostly because I don’t have friends at all.

One of my buddies (I won’t reveal his name for fear he may be associated with this blog) works for the shield and mentioned last year that he could get me into the VIP section. I didn’t blink. Of course I’m going to embrace the VIP treatment. I basically came out the womb with a VIP badge hung around my neck. You can set your watch to me jet streaming my way to places I most likely don’t belong.

For example, my college held a “Senior Week” and charged a bunch of my idiot classmates $500 to attend for the week. Instead of just eating the $500 like every other cuck graduate in my class, I grabbed God by the balls, made my own wristband out of electrical tape and stormed in. Got kicked out on the 4th day but it was worth every penny I didn’t spend.

Anyway, I show up to training camp early and grab a seat in the grass. One thing that bothers me about people is how stupid people are. I reserved my grass seat around 8 AM for a 9:15 AM start as a bunch of toothless jackasses kicked me in the back on their way to the rope that separates the athletes from the fans (or in my case, the athletes from the athletes).

I was seated on the top of the hill because the people at the top of the hill can see just as well as the people close to rope; that is, unless the people in front decide to stand, which they all decided to do. There was this fucking idiot in front of me who would stand up every time Tom would run drills near us so he could take a 3-minute video of it, blocking the view of 12 people behind him in the process. We need a plague.

I can’t lie, I wanted this guy dead. I wanted to see both of his Achilles heels suddenly snap and give out as he rolled on the hill in agony. Fortunately, level heads prevailed as my buddy texted that he was there.

I ventured past the VIP rope casually and joined the players’ friends and family on the other side. We were dangerously close to the action. So close that I started envisioning a scenario that I’ve been internally concocting since I sprained my ankle and ruined my football career forever back in 8th grade football. It goes as so…

Tom overthrows some no-name receiver on a 40-60-yard fade route. The ball bounces violently into the fan section and comes to a halt at my feet. The entire coaching staff, 90-man training camp roster, and fan section rotates their attention to me. The wideout who Brady overthrew looks at me and gestures for the ball. I utter “fuck that” and launch the ball 75+ yards back to the huddle. Brady catches it in a daze and looks up. Belichick then takes off his metaphorical glasses and says something to the tune of “get that kid a red jersey.” I head under center for the rest of practice, win the Super Bowl, and propose to some cheerleader I’ve never met in the end zone after the game.

It didn’t happen…

Fried-Ay: Nickelback, Kabuto, and Scally Caps

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Welcome back to the third (THIRD!) installment of Fried-ay: the only place place on the Internet where you can read Plymouth County’s 3rd most locally renowned satirical White rapper rant about life, liberty, and why people who hate Nickelback are cowards.

So we had a family party a few weeks back and I got to see all of my little cousins in all their glory. Capri Suns everywhere. During wiffleball, I taught my youngest cousin how to correctly wait on an outside slider and take it off the wall in right. He failed because he’s like 5 or something and sucks but we eventually moved onto his Pokémon collection, which sucked as well.

One card, in particular, caught my eye though: The Great Kabuto…

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For anyone who played Pokémon Yellow, Kabuto was an all-time locker room guy. Sixth man like you read about. I’d pick one up at the cave in the second town and beerfunnel that son of a bitch xp points/rare candies until he evolved into Kabutops. He was luggage for basically 99% of the game but since he was a water/rock Pokémon, you could literally just send him to the top of the rotation and single-handedly walk through the fire gym. I get laid all the time, by the way…

I’m officially bringing back the scally cap. It’s sort of my thing now. I’m 50% Italian, 50% Irish/Scottish and 100% douche so I feel like the shoe fits. Plus, I’m just a man of style, as well as a man of loyalty. You go with your guns. You stick with your fastball. You allow what works to take precedent, and the scally cap adds a unique sense of culture to my wardrobe.

Once the summer subsides and the weather cools down, it’s all over. I got one of those black NorthFace vests for Christmas last year and, let me tell you, it’s an absolute luxury. I essentially had Level 2 Gamebreaker from September though April.

It’s by far the easiest way to diversify your wardrobe because you can throw it over any flannel and you have yourself an entirely new outfit. It’s like a knuckleball—you know when it’s coming but you never know how it’s coming and that’s why it’s so hard to hit. Add a couple scally caps to that mixer and I may need to order a few wet floor signs for my office at work. Mix in a water, ladies…

Also, my alma mater keeps sending me email requests for donations. Like, you gotta have some real balls to beg a 26-year-old for donations when he’s already pumping $650/month into your Bursar’s office. Waive my tuition and I’ll chip in for a few cafeteria chairs.

We Have Ourselves A New Motivator!!!

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So, I haven’t been blogging lately and I really don’t have an excuse but the time to kick up some dust has arrived. I finally received an email from Barstool regarding when the final week of their Idol competition is and, since I’m sure they want to formally announce it on their site, I’ll just say it’s sometime in the future and I need some reps under center before I eventually make a fool out of myself in New York.

Anyway, I talk about a vast array of things on this blog but there are some things that continuously come up in dialogue. One of those things is my job which, contrary to what you read on this site, I don’t actually hate. Everyone’s nice but since I don’t have friends, I need an outlet to vent so I just pour my frustrations into WordPress.

We do these award meetings every month (which I’ve, umm, commented on in the past) and a large reason for this is the “motivation” element. I’m in charge of setting up everything outside of the content because, if I was in charge of the content, the content would be “cheap vodka and Italian food.”

Recently, however, we’ve decided to ramp things up a notch. I guess management feels we need more motivation. And not monetary motivation, but that kind of motivation found in the halls of a fucking Tony Robbins seminar. So basically, I’m in charge of compiling a bunch of PowerPoints and video content where words like “believe,” “achieve,” and “succeed” are thrown around like a cheap hooker in Cabo.

One thing we’ve done is bring in a ringer from the outside. As I said, we needed more motivation so we went out and acquired a hired gun at the trade deadline. This guy has been around the office for a week. I have no idea what his name is but he’s basically just some 6’3” black dude who’s blind.

So yeah, I’m not sure what he does, but I know he’s getting paid for it (most likely more than me). For the last 6-7 days, seemingly all he has done is clap really loud, declare ‘I’m really excited about where this company is going” after any employee says anything, and bump into random shit like chairs or small females.

Not to mention, the first day he was here, he immediately pinballed his way to our office bathroom and proceeded to dial one up that would’ve woke Sleeping Beauty. He walked out like Vince McMahon at SummerSlam as the fumes infiltrated my office. I swear that smell is the culprit behind the dead hydrangeas we planted in front of the building about a month ago.

Which brings me to my final point: just because you’re blind doesn’t make you inspirational. I sprained my ankle during eighth grade football but you don’t see me telling people how to run Goldman Sachs.

Fried-ay: Double Hook Belts, Sugar-Free Pepsi, and Tiger’s Back,

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This is a new segment I’m going to do on Fridays. I have nothing to write about after a week of intense, sexually-stimulating blogging so I’ll just put fingers to keys and see what happens. Side Note: That picture was taken a couple years ago and probably the grossest thing you’ll ever see…

So yes, it is Fried-ay. In my last Fried-ay blog, I mentioned how this segment—like every other segment or thing I’ve tried to consistently do over the past twenty years—will most likely serve as just another flash in the pan. Just another thing I’ll say I do but don’t. Kinda like flossing or wearing condoms…

Well guess what? I’m right here motherfuckas. I showed up to work with no tie today and an aqua blue button-up with dockers and a double hook belt. I look like a sexually confused substitute teacher. Swing at the crown, I dare you…

So anyway, I only wrote one blog this week. I’ve been crushed with work and my office looks like a bomb went off. If you looked at my desk right now, you’d think I was attempting to defend Casey Anthony in court. Just a bunch of rewrites and papers that mean nothing.

Not to mention, the British Open is on and Tiger’s back. If you don’t think he’s back, you’re an absolute fucking idiot because he so is. Went +1 on the front nine because his neck is basically broken but he just birdied on 11 and roped an iron to split the fairway on 12. Neck looks absolutely fine right know. I just hope those alcoholic, mick cucks in Scotland have enough bars/cocktail waitresses in the area for when he takes the governor off and goes 12 under on moving day.

Anyway, I’m currently planning another incredibly fun award ceremony at my work. As I’ve blogged before, we do these seemingly biweekly award shows for the company and I’m in charge. You guys know how much I love corporate events. So much fun team-building and funny music and fun awards and funny games where people just act so fun and wacky. I’d rather beer-funnel a bottle of laundry detergent and have our 75-year-old Mexican custodian jack me off with sandpaper…

Yesterday, I went for lunch and some dude at my work asked me if I could pick him up a Pepsi with zero sugar. I grabbed him a Diet Pespi. He wasn’t happy. Evidently, he wanted a Pepsi Zero Sugar. I guess that’s the new Pepsi product with zero sugar but that’s not my fucking fault. Pepsi seemingly has roughly 200 variations of Pepsi claiming to have zero sugar.

There’s Diet Pepsi, Diet Pepsi w/o Caffeine, Pepsi Max, Pepsi One (which has one calorie, for those of you who like to live on the wild side), Pepsi Light, and Pepsi Next. Like, get the fuck out of my face, dude. Not to mention, soda’s for hacks. If you drink soda, you’re a disgrace.  You know what else has zero sugar? Water, you fucking pig…

The US Needs to Figure Out This Whole Soccer Thing…

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These are the types of days where I’m just angry as a sports fan. First off, the Celtics got bounced from the Summer League playoffs in Vegas last night and I’m officially a fool. I thought this team had heart, I thought they had grit, and I thought they had a potential shot to dethrone Golden State this year but it is what it is. Cancel the fucking season. Just a bunch of frauds in green…

Secondly, and more importantly I guess, the World Cup final was yesterday and I’ve never felt more disappointed in my life watching (not watching) a sporting event. I haven’t blogged much about soccer because I’m just not a fan of it. My only direct association to soccer exists in the form of a few participation trophies my dad donated to the local recycling center back around 1998. That said, following the World Cup over the last few weeks has been frustrating to say the least.

For those of you keeping score at home, France pounded Croatia and I didn’t watch a second of it. Normally, I try to watch any and every major televised sporting event that comes across the ticker but this one was different. I just can’t genuinely get behind this whole soccer thing if the US isn’t involved.

I mean, it’s an absolute disgrace that we can’t find a way to get into the dance. Croatia made it to the finals. Fucking Croatia. That country is the size of a postage stamp. Hell, we couldn’t beat Trinidad and Tobago. Those people live in huts. Visiting Trinidad and Tobago is like stepping into a low-budget sequel to Apocalypto. Half their midfielders work at Home Depot. That country got Twitter two weeks ago. Okay, that’s enough…

So yeah, we can’t beat them and that’s pathetic. I understand no one gives a shit about soccer here but there are tons of sports the US dominates that no one cares about. Hell, we won Gold in curling at the Olympics earlier this year, and more importantly, we didn’t get bounced by some “feed the children” location.

Not to mention, the women DOMINATE! And you know what? They’re also incredibly enjoyable to watch. Soccer’s one of those sports where there isn’t much of a difference between the women’s/men’s game from a spectator perspective. When they made that run a few years ago, it was awesome. Just an all-around phenomenal product and I can’t imagine the amplification of that comment if the men could figure it out…