Fried-Ay: Twitter Unfollows, Eminem Stinks, and Tiger’s Back

gross

So it’s officially Fried-ay and I’m going back to the well. Since my last Fried-ay post, the blog’s gained quite some notoriety through the platform of a company (Barstool Sports) that will remain nameless until they agree to sponsor my alcoholic tendencies through the vehicle of payroll; therefore, I’ll explain…

Basically, by Friday, my brain is fried so I expertly manipulated the word to read “Fried-ay.” Incredible, I know. Anyway, these posts are essentially reserved for me to just rant on anything. There’s no theme, no rules, no nothing. In fact, the only rule is that there is one rule, and that rule is that the only rule is that there are no rules. Got it?

Since my last Fried-ay post, I officially gained a Twitter, as well as a decent Twitter following. For those keeping score at home, I’ve always despised Twitter. A lot of this reason has to do with the fact that social media has exposed our society for the toothless mongoloids we are; the other part has to do with the fact I suck at it.

Evidently, there’s this trend on Twitter where people will not only tell you that you suck, but they will also announce when they’re “unfollowing” you. I had two people say this to me on Monday and I wasn’t sure how to respond. Like, how narcissistic do you have to be to think your allegiance to a particular social media account I run is affecting my day? That said, I really hope they follow back…

Eminem randomly released an album last night and I think I’m done. I’ve always been a huge Eminem guy. He’s my favorite artist of all time but this new garbage has to go. The last one he put out was dumpster fuel and, aside from a few decent tracks, this new one isn’t far behind. It’s not even like he can’t rap anymore—his lyricism is still elite—as much as he just doesn’t know what sounds good anymore. There are some tracks on the new album that are genuinely difficult to listen to. Just Cringe-worthy, nails on a chalkboard type stuff.

The Dell Technologies Championship in Norton, MA—a labor day staple in New England—kicked off a little less than a half hour ago and Tiger’s back. I’m roughly 250 pages into the most recent book published about him entitled Tiger Woods and if I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again: Tiger Woods is the most captivating case study in the history of professional sports. I’m sure I’ll get into this more on a later blog that isn’t just a complete shitshow of sporadic thoughts but expect him to win this upcoming tournament because, well, he’s fucking back…

The Pats played their fourth preseason game and there wasn’t much to watch unless you like to see a bunch of 5th stringers wheeze their last gasps of breath before the grocery stick is lifted. On a positive note, Danny Etling (the Pats third-string rookie QB) caught the Giants’ secondary sleeping to the tune of an 86-yard touchdown run. He’ll be traded for a couple 6th rounders and a pack of Big League Chew by sundown…

I Watched Her And That’s About It For Today…

her

Full Transparency: This blog sucks. I’m running on limited sleep and it’s tough to manufacture quality content everyday during a 9-hour workday capped off on both ends with an hour and a half commute. Thank me for my service. Tomorrow’s Fried-ay and we’ll be rolling…

Here’s the deal: Today is one of those days where you just have to grind. It’s Thursday and I have absolutely NOTHING to blog about. I could talk about a variety of pop culture/sports news but I’m won’t because this blog isn’t built for that. It’s built to inspire and rejuvenate the resiliency of the human spirit, but not really at all…

Anyway, I bought a MoviePass account roughly two months ago. Essentially, it’s an app that allows you to see unlimited movies at virtually any time, in virtually any theater for roughly $10/month. When I first heard about it, I thought “there’s no way that’s a sustainable business model. Turns out, they were going bankrupt (whoops) and have since risen the price and altered their restrictions.

Now there are limited theaters where you can use the app, and even at the select theaters, there are these “surge prices” for popular showtimes and some of the more widely distributed, mass releases like The Meg (which looks like complete and utter dog shit, by the way) aren’t available until 2 weeks following their premiere.

Long story short, I’ve held onto the account because—like with everything I’ve subscribed to in the history of the Internet—I’m too lazy to put forth the 3 minutes of effort to cancel. I’d rather just check my Citizens Bank account once day a week/throw up my hands in disgust than engage in the proper channels to eradicate the fee. Not to mention, it’s tough to complain when you still have Netflix.

So yeah, I haven’t been to the theater in a while but I’ve been tearing through recent Netflix releases and there’s a hell of a lot of shit on there to choose from. Normally, I just scroll through the “trending” and “documentaries” categories three times before eventually resolving to re-watch The Office for seemingly the 5th time but this week has been different. I watched The Room on Monday and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind on Tuesday and last night I took a risk with Her.

For the record, I’m a gigantic film hipster nerd cuck. I’m not a fan of that big budget shit. There’s just some part of me that doesn’t feel the need to watch The Rock or Vin Diesel misdirect a torpedo with their bare hands so I stick with these kinds of films.

For those unfamiliar, Her is a movie about some dude (Joaquin Phoenix) in the future who falls in love with an operating system played by Scarlett Johansson, I think. I’m pretty sure it won an Oscar for Best Screenplay and, at the the time of its’ release, it was the ass of a lot of jokes but I don’t think it’s too far fetched of a concept.

People act like falling in love with a computer is a strange move but I know hundreds of people who literally couldn’t live without technology. All it takes is one subway commute to catch a glimpse of 50+ jackasses who will eventually develop herniated disks before the age of 30 due to the fact their necks are permanently wrenched downward at their iPhone.

Overall, I thought the first hour was good. The reason I won’t comment on the rest is because I didn’t watch it and I probably won’t because I still haven’t completed The Office for the 5th time yet. Need to see how Jim and Pam turn out.

We’ve Hit The Divorce Stage of Summer and I’m Petty AF

sun

Today has been rough because we’ve officially transitioned into the divorce stage of Summer. The minute the temperature breaks 70 and the sundresses start to sprout about town, you begin to romanticize how great everything will be once the sun takes the governor off. You visualize all the late night beach parties and trips to downtown bars you’ll attend, while conjuring up a cornucopia of “fun” summer ideas you’ll definitely check off the bucket list.

Then mid-August arrives and you realize you’re still just sitting in an office with a cheap tan, scrolling through Instagram feeds of people you haven’t talked to since Thanksgiving Eve who all seemingly spent the last three months riding elephants in Thailand, rubbing elbows with street shop owners in Cancun, or hiking through the volcanic terrain of Hawaii’s National Park.

Then the question arises: “how?”

I understand I’m not in the most lucrative career field, nor am I in the most comfortable financial situation but how the hell are people affording this? I work nearly 60 hours a week to drive a 2014 Ford Fiesta that periodically affords me the ability to drive down to a buddies house in Boston where I drop a sliver of my paycheck on Michelob Ultra and the occasional 3 AM course of Domino’s.

I remember the millisecond I graduated from college, hoards of my fellow graduates took trips across Europe and shit because they “just needed a break.” Like, what dude? College wasn’t a break? You just spent four years sleeping in until 11, and playing Mario Kart on N64, and inheriting six figures of debt. What the fuck do you need a break from?

Side Note: the above paragraph doesn’t apply to nursing majors, who spent every waking minute sweating over a textbook to achieve something us common folk wouldn’t be able to conceive unless we, well, enrolled in the program as well. They save lives, just ask their social media page. Remember to thank them for their service…

Anyway, I’m calling bullshit. There’s no fucking way these people are covering their own ass on this one. I’m on the back end of my twenties and my only “escape” to the tropics is the Yacht Rock Radio station on my Sirius App (I recently transitioned from Alanis Morissette/Spin Doctors Radio, which is cleverly disguised as “90s on 9”).

Long story short, if my university reaches out with another friendly reminder to donate money to their recent expansion project, I might head down there and dump a burlap sack of expired bologna on the dean’s desk. I mean, 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.

P.S.  I realize this blog has transitioned from a cheerful place where I would provide commentary on current, sociopolitical issues to a vacant wasteland of misery and self analysis but guess what? There are thousands of places where you can find the former, there’s only one place on the Internet where you can hear me pour insufferable, narcissistic grievances into a pseudo word document.

The Barstool Dust Has Settled And Looking Back, What A Tilt…

boats

That look when she asks what you have planned for your dating anniversary
and obviously you didn’t forget about it…

Okay, so it’s August 27th and my brain is processing information at the speed of a middle-aged Galápagos tortoise coming off a career-threatening ACL injury. We’re roughly eight days removed from the most chaotic week of my entire life and if you slapped a stethoscope to my chest right now, you’d be hard-pressed to distinguish a pulse. As my decrepit, nutrient-deprived body wheezes over this keyboard, I feel like Andy Dufresne after crawling through five football field’s worth of diarrhea and puke at the end of Shawshank. Get busy living, get busy blogging…

In other words, I’m not in world-class shape right now. I spent six days smashing Top Ramen, downing Fireball, and losing sleep in various beds across NYC, followed by a 6am flight/3-day shit show in Nashville. I’m sluggish but I’m a man of integrity with a content quota I plan to rattle like a cheap speed bag. It’s been a while since I last blogged and I think it’s time I finally hammer out my two cents on everything that transpired.

First things first, allow me to address the elephant in the room: I blew it. For most people, getting an opportunity to showcase your talents on such a platform would be a source of pride and optimism; however, I haven’t fallen under the classification of “most people” in quite some time…

Since Thursday night, I’ve had droves of people reach out to me with stuff like “Head up, man” or “You should be so proud to have made it that far” or “This is just the beginning” and although I appreciate every last thread of support, sugar coating is as useful as Helen Keller’s alarm clock. Regardless how you want to look at it, I’m right back at the same cluttered desk in the same dimly lit second-floor office I’ve been slaving in for the last year. It’s not the most cheerful outlook to maintain but I’ve never been one to throw powder foundation on a pig.

For the record, I’ve been desperately vying for a job at Barstool for over a decade. Between the incessant social media posts, blogs, skits, music videos, and short films I’ve most likely flooded your news feeds with over the years, I felt like something had to give. In my mind, it just had to, and although I didn’t think it would’ve taken this long, I’m grateful it did because I couldn’t imagine how creatively I would’ve fucked up an opportunity like this if it was thrown on my lap when I was 22 or 23.

Furthermore, I don’t think I would’ve truly appreciated it. I’ve always subscribed to the ideology that, in order to truly embrace the highs, you need to see yourself get dragged through the mud a little. And quite frankly, I haven’t necessarily been the poster boy for success over the past 26 years.

Over the last decade alone, I’ve worked as a drive thru attendant, I’ve worked in retail, I’ve worked as a waiter, I’ve worked on film crews, I’ve worked as a writer, I’ve worked as a telecommunications representative, I’ve worked as an insurance agent, I’ve worked in a municipal aircraft hanger, I’ve worked as a carpenter, I’ve worked in porn, and I’ve worked as a marketer—in no particular order. When push comes to shove, seemingly the only thing that hasn’t “worked” is me, which is fine…

For the record, I can completely understand how someone could look at that track record and think “Jesus, this kid’s a enigma” but at the same time, it keeps life interesting. I have multiple friends who live on the straight and narrow—drink responsibly, have held the same job for the last 5 years, floss consistently, pay their insurance bills in advance—and I envy them to an extent. That said, I would hurl myself in front of a Honda Civic if that were my case.

Maybe I just have a few misplaced chromosomes or something but I just can’t conceptualize how that way of life is even remotely appealing. The whole white picket fence, puffer vest, “just finished up the new patio, you should bring Jennifer by some night and we’ll play Cards Against Humanity with the kids” lifestyle would drive me up a God damn wall. I’d rather waterboard myself with a homeless dude’s piss than lounge around some microbrewery discussing the idiosyncratic, “earthy” texture of some pretentious dark wheat ale while some dickhead “friend of a friend” periodically advocates the psychological benefits of mountain biking and his newly adopted ketogenic diet.

Wait, what was I talking about, again? Oh yeah, Barstool…

Anyway, I guess what I’m trying to say is that although it sucks, winning the competition and getting a job on the spot would’ve been the most conventional route and part of it wouldn’t have felt right. And although I consider the outcome a disaster, there were aspects that didn’t suck.

One of my all-time favorite quotes is “It’s a great thing when you realize you still have the ability to surprise yourself” from American Beauty. I actually wrote it on a whiteboard in my buddy’s common room before I left for headquarters on Monday and it’s 1000% true.

During the initial audition, I wholeheartedly didn’t think there was a shot in Pangaea that I’d be walking out of that building with a ticket to Idol Week. As each day passed, I was knocked off my ass in astonishment. Hell of a sensation. Wouldn’t trade it for the world. Maybe a job, but not the world. We’re on to Cincinnati…

 

No More Mr. Nice Guy: Let The Carpet Bombing Begin…

Pitbull Joe

So it’s Day 4 of Idol Week and listen: I’m not a fucking idiot. In fact, I’m a relatively self-aware person (which isn’t a luxury in a competition like this); therefore, I understand my feet are an Asian cock’s length away from the wood chipper right now. Last night, I put my foot in a bear trap and I’ll need to take the governor off today if I want to embarrass myself tomorrow.

For the record, here are my current power rankings for tonight’s chopping block:

  1. Mantis
  2. Marty fucking Mush
  3. Rocky (smoked his standup set last night)
  4. Joey Who Gives a Fuck at This Point
  5. Dylan

So yeah, I’m stressing a little. My phone’s basically overheating from all this Twitter shit. I’ve averaged roughly 3 hours of sleep per night. I’ve drank more Fireball and Jack Daniel’s than water. I almost fought some guy at 7-11 yesterday over a Cliff Bar incident. I want to dig a pitching wedge into the temple of the next homeless dude that gives me shit for not giving him free money (at least offer me a blowjob or something). I’d rather give myself a colonoscopy with a rusty screwdriver than navigate public transit. I’m pretty sure I’m still digesting those hot dogs from Tuesday. My blood stream is most likely 30% Adderall at this point. I haven’t had sex since Gerald Ford took office. And all of my family and friends turned into comedic geniuses overnight and have been gracious enough to pump my Messages app full of suggestions and criticism as if I’m operating with even the slightest degree of competence at this point.

But guess what? I’m still fucking here…

While I was doing prep in the second floor boardroom during the initial auditions, I was informed there were roughly 10,000 people who applied. We had a couple kids from Upright Citizens Brigade, a few guys making the rounds on the late-night talk show circuit, a guy who fought Denzel Washington in The Equalizer, a guy who was 3-0 in video competitions (whatever the fuck that means) and all of them ate the buzzsaw. Meanwhile, some dickhead in cargo shorts who eats balogna from South Shore, MA, is still losing sleep in Brooklyn.

Now, I’ve thought a lot about what I’ll do today. I could’ve published the blog version of Kendrick Lamar’s “Control” verse where I just carpet bomb everyone left in the competition but I’m not going to do that because I’m a man of integrity who refuses to roll in the mud. I could’ve, but I didn’t…

Throughout the competition, I could’ve said that Michigan Man looks like inbred Jeremy Piven. I could’ve said the Make A Wish farm system prospect looks like he got Polio twice. I could’ve said that underdeveloped fetus-looking mothafucka Marty is a neurotic, big-nosed sloth who’s about one inner city little league team away from Keanu Reeves in Hardball. I could’ve said Rocky looks like a poor man’s Jason Segel if a poor man’s Jason Segel was the “hold me back” guy in every bar fight ever. And I could’ve said that Dylan looks like a cottage cheese-eating, country club cuck who took his permit test in a Range Rover. I could’ve, but I didn’t…

While I’m on the topic of avoiding contentious behavior, I want to let all the current employees know that this agenda applies to them as well. Yesterday, someone told me that in order to get this job, you need to impress Kmarko but he’s tougher to get a hold of than Trent’s 5th-grade grammar teacher. Not to mention, I generally don’t condone all the incessant hate that brews in the depths of comment section but the “cyclops” comparisons carry weight. The truth hurts, and I could’ve said Kmarko’s eyes look like they’ve prepared the divorce, but are keeping a close relationship for the sake of the children. Also, I could’ve said that Feitelberg dresses like a sexually confused substitute teacher but nah. I could’ve, but I didn’t…

So yeah, I could’ve came in here today with an axe to grind. I could’ve rationalized that my chances of winning are incredibly slim and my best shot at immunity is to just carpet bomb the field and hope no one brings it up at elimination. I could’ve brought up I was under the impression Barstool was founded and perpetuated through blogs and the “common man” mantra, rather than through 12+ dickheads shamelessly clamoring for the most camera time to push their schtick. I could’ve, but I didn’t…

So yeah, I could’ve sacrificed a significant amount of time on a blog that may not even reach Barstool’s actual site in a shameless attempt to generate empathy instead of creating more video content that is guaranteed to get some play later in the night. I could’ve, but I didn’t…

Tell The Truth: Concussions Suck But We Need To Look In The Mirror…

will

So I was scrolling across the Internet today looking for something to pad the blog and came across a link to a particular morning sports debate show featuring Max Kellerman and Stephen A Smith. They were discussing the concussion Ben Roethlisberger sustained during practice and the conversation obviously transitioned into a dialogue concerning NFL’s Laissez-faire concussion policy.

Now, before I go any further, let me just first declare that I’m a fucking idiot with no medical insight whatsoever. I’m the type of guy who wears Sketchers dress shoes and listens to Vanessa Carlton—that behavior has “date rape” written all over it, not “doctor.” That said, I still thought I’d throw my two cents into the ring on this whole NFL/concussion debate.

First of all, it’s interesting how, now that the “research” is out, everyone starts pointing fingers. Once again, it took Will Smith to open our eyes to the potential repercussions of our actions. Like, if you couldn’t presume that suffering repeated blasts to the head—where your brain is literally rattling against your cranium like a speed bag—could potentially lead to future, long-term cognitive complications, than you most likely already had CTE.

And this is the thing: LIFE is about risk and reward. If you’re willing to accept the award, you must be willing to accept the risk, as well as the consequences. Everything in our society from our judicial system to the catch rule has become so convoluted. Common sense seemingly doesn’t apply anymore. If you fuck up, there’s always an out to prevent you from accepting flaw or fault and I think that’s some soft serve, candy-coated bullshit. I don’t want to live in a world where recklessness is rewarded and judiciousness is dismissed entirely.

For instance, I’ve been doing chewing tobacco since high school and I know for a fact it’ll eventually drill a hole in my jaw but I still do it because it’s therapeutic and I’m a douchebag. I’m not throwing wads in my mouth everyday with the expectation that I’ll somehow defy medical theory. The same goes for cigarette smokers. Spoiler alert: if you persistently inhale tar, arsenic, and carbon monoxide for 30+ years, you’ll most likely hit a few speed bumps later down the road.

Furthermore, how far down the line of blame to you have to trek to reach the helmet maker? That’s like electing to be a journalist, eventually developing carpal tunnel due to the constant typing requirements, and then turning around and blaming the keyboard company. It’s a slippery slope. I mean, if you’re fine with blaming the helmet manufacturer, why stop there? Why not refocus your anger on the NFL for hiring Ridell? Or better yet, why not release the Jews on the guy who invented football in the first place?

Let’s be real: Ridell is the authority in football equipment. They’re a fucking HELMET MAKER. They make HELMETS. The safety of their product is literally the cornerstone of their industry. If their product wasn’t safer than their competitors, the NFL would’ve shopped elsewhere. In other words, unless they’re a morally reprehensible company from the top down, I’m sure they did what they could with the knowledge/technology they had to prevent injury.

What this comes down to is the point I made earlier: life is about risks and rewards. I commute an hour to work everyday in the morning and at night. That’s two hours a day where I’m coasting through traffic at high speeds. This being the case, when I bought my car, I wanted it to be safe as humanly possible. That said, there isn’t a 5-Star Safety Rating in the world that can prevent injury if I happen to careen over a guard rail at 60mph; likewise, there isn’t a helmet maker in the world that can promise you won’t suffer the consequences of getting smoked by a 6’3″, 250 lb. linebacker whose job it is to do just that.

Simply put, life doesn’t come with a warning label and neither should football…