Fried-Ay: Tiger’s Back, Michelob Ultra, and Breakfast Places…

Guys, guys, guys!!! It’s officially Friday, which means it’s Fried-ay, which means it’s time for me to bend over my keyboard and Johnny Sins’ it into submission. For those of you unfamiliar, Fried-ay is a blog I post every Friday (or Saturday, Sunday, Monday, or Tuesday) where I just dump a bunch of disconnected thoughts into a WordPress box and publish it for the world to read. In other words, it will eventually be the reason I get fired from a job someday. Let’s get into it…

For those keeping score at home, Tiger is BACK, and if there’s anyone who’s been riding the Tiger’s Back bandwagon, it’s me. Over the past two years, nearly half of my Fried-ay blogs have featured “Tiger’s Back” in the title and with good reason. Yesterday, he dropped to his knees, lined up left-handed and plopped a chip from underneath a bush onto the green within 5 feet of the pin; today, he holed an 82-yarder from the fairway to beat Patrick Cantlay and advance to the weekend of the WGC-Dell Technologies Match Play. Given where we stand right now, Tiger will likely match up against Rory tomorrow morning and word on the range is that Rory’s on suicide watch….

There are tons of running arguments I get in with my friends, which means there are tons of arguments I win. I always contend I should’ve been a lawyer because I just dish out bodybags in my group chat but there’s one particular argument that I can’t seem to shake.

Seemingly whenever I head to a foreign house party or pregame, there’s always some asshole who calls me out for drinking Michelob Ultra. For the record, I’m a God damn athlete, which often requires me to make sacrifices that never cross the minds of other, weak-minded beta slobs. One of these things is caloric intake.

While others recklessly shove logs of cookie dough down their gullet as if they’re in a race to see who gets diabetes first, I’m the guy at the table who has to muster up the courage to order a salad on occasion. This plight often extends to my drinking habits.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “But Joe, if you’re so concerned with athletic achievement, why not just quit drinking altogether?”

Well, I don’t know, because I’m not some inbred psycho? Moving on…

So yeah, whenever I bring Michelob Ultra around, I have to deal with some douchebag—most likely wearing a Hartford Whalers hat and ranting about the latest Vin Diesel movie—who says something like “Nice chick-elobs bro” or “Why don’t you drink like a man?”

Given the temperament through which he expresses such sentiments, it’s pretty clear that he’s attempting to nullify my masculinity, which makes ABSOLUTELY NO sense. For the record, Michelob Ultra has the exact same amount of alcohol as Bud/Coors/Miller Light. Literally the only difference between these brands is the amount of calories each can contains.

With that said, what’s the difference? I’ll answer that: the fact “that guy” is an insecure clown…

One of my pipe dreams in life has always been to open a local breakfast place. Why? Well, there are a lot of reasons. First and foremost, breakfast is awesome and pretty easy to make. I mean, it’s really difficult to fuck up eggs and bacon; it’s like pizza in that some slices are better than others but in the end, it’s still pizza. You need to have an incredibly pretentious culinary palette to hate on a particular breakfast order.

Furthermore, local breakfast places crush because they provide an ambiance that a chain can’t replicate. Breakfast was intended to be consumed in a closet-sized diner that’s open 6 hours a week while some 72-year-old woman named Betty or something comes around with a pot of coffee and asks “whattayahavingsweetheart?” Either that, or at 4am in the morning to dilute an eventual hangover.

That’s what breakfast was meant to be and places like IHOP or—for people in MA at least—Bickford’s just can’t do it. Side Note: I used to go to Bickford’s all the time and order silver dollar pancakes because why would you want 2 appropriately-sized pancakes when you could have 16 smaller ones?

– Joey Boats (@joey_boats)

I’m ALL IN On Bread Sliced Bagels…

Alright, so today is Friday and there isn’t much going on in my world of sports aside from Chris Sale imploding for 7 over 3 and my March Madness bracket looking like it developed a severe case of syphilis. That said, as I always say, these are times where your true colors show. These are the times where you need to bear down, dig your cleats in, and muscle out content, which is why I’m about to talk about breakfast for a second.

Disclaimer: This blog will be ALL over the place so forgive me in advance…

A few days ago on Twitter, someone posted the following and the Internet split in half…

As with everything that goes viral, it became divisive in a matter of hours, with the significant majority of people questioning the integrity of St. Louis, as well as acknowledging this dude as a sociopath/psycho/lunatic.

Well, you know what? I’m not one of those candy coated cucks who fall in line. I’m not someone who accepts things on face value or piles on when the going gets easy. I’m an innovator, and to be honest, I’m actually ALL IN on “bread sliced” bagels.

Simply put, I’m an athlete; and as an athlete, I have to watch what I eat to an extent, with breakfast being a constant focal point. People often say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day and I tend to agree, which is why I’ve always condemned people who rip donuts and stuff at 7 am in the morning.

I mean, what kind of deplorable hack wakes up at 6:30 AM on a Monday following a weekend of cheap vodka/pizza and thinks, “You know what I could go for right now? A hollowed out circle of deep-fried sweetened dough lathered in vanilla frosting and sprinkles.” That’s just reprehensible behavior…

So yeah, although eating a bagel isn’t necessarily the equivalent of burying a box of munchkins, it’s still horrible for you. That said, anything’s fine in moderation and that’s EXACTLY what “bread sliced” bagels offer.

Sure, it’s fun to call this dude a sociopath but you know what’s even funner? Being right…

Life is all about options, and while conventional sliced bagels only give you two, bread sliced bagels offer an infinite amount. If you want 1/7th of a bagel, go for it. If you want a full bagel, go for it. If you want 1/7th of a bagel, go for it. If you want a full bagel, go for it…

In other words, when it’s all said and done, the ONLY difference between conventionally sliced bagels and bread sliced bagels is that, with bread sliced bagels, you aren’t backed into a corner; you have complete and utter control of your intake, which also allows you to go à la carte and snag various different kinds of bagels for your plate.

Checkmate, everyone outside St. Louis…

– Joey Boats (@joey_boats)

Us: Heavily Flawed But Worth Every Penny…

So, two nights ago I saw Us in theaters. I wanted to blog it yesterday but I needed to address a few other time sensitive issues, the most prominent being National Joe Day. Today, however, I have some time on my hands, which is exactly what I need to appropriately address this film because, well, there’s a lot to dissect here.

For those unfamiliar with Us, I suggest you navigate from the confines of your bomb shelter because if you haven’t heard of this movie yet, there’s a solid chance you haven’t seen the sun over the past year either. According to various movie websites, I guess this film holds the second-highest box office revenue numbers for an original live-action movie (so not based on any preexisting intellectual properties) behind Avatar which, for those keeping score at home, made a few bucks.

As always, there will be no plot spoilers below…

Essentially, Us follows the story of Adelaide Wilson (Lupita Nyong’o), a wife and mother of two, as her family returns to the beachfront property where she used to live as a child. Haunted by an unexplainable trauma, chaos ensues when a group of doppelgängers mysteriously appear in their driveway to pursue them.

Following the massive success of Get Out last year, this is Jordan Peele’s second directorial adventure and, obviously, it comes with a great deal of pressure and expectation. Get Out was 2017’s pleasant surprise of the year and it’s nearly impossible to review this movie without bringing it up; however, I’m not here to compare the two. When it comes down to it, these are two completely different movies. I’m not going to hold someone’s past successes against them so don’t expect any parallels.

For the record, I often give a lot of disclaimers before my reviews and this one’s no different. As I already stated, I don’t do spoilers, which is normally a pretty easy tight rope to walk, but with Us, it’s nearly impossible. Why? Well, because nearly all of my criticism with this movie deals with the laundry list of plot holes that are left unfilled.

One on hand, I understand that certain genres permit more than others. With dramas, you basically need to hammer believability; with sci-fi, super hero, and horror films, you get a pretty good leash when it comes to the audience’s suspension of disbelief. For example, to put it simply, you don’t need to explain much as long as it’s cool. Considering Us falls in the suspense/horror genre, it gets that leash, but at times it’s abused. It’s a give an inch, take a mile type deal throughout, but if you can just say “fuck it,” sit back, and watch, then it’s tough to leave the theater unsatisfied.

And this is why I’m not a gigantic fan of Rotten Tomatoes. For the most part, water finds its level and the percentage a movie yields is essentially what you’re getting; however, Us will undoubtably receive an inflated rating based on what I just said.

With Rotten Tomatoes, the “Tomatometer” corresponds to the percentage of critics who gave the film an overall favorable review, meaning they liked the film more than they didn’t. What the “Tomatometer” doesn’t take into account is how much the critics liked each movie. For example, if I gave a film an 8, I would get dumped into the Rotten Tomatoes database as the equivalent of a “green light” or a “thumbs up,” rather than the 80% I technically gave it.

So yeah, I can assure you that most people (Rotten Tomatoes currently has Us at a 95% approval rating) will leave the theater satisfied, but I can also assure you most of those people would agree that, although they liked it, it’s not a 95.

As I mentioned, nearly all of my criticism deals with a lack of exposition so, instead of ruining the movie for everyone, I’ll stick to “book cover” commentary.

Lupita Nyong’o is absolutely FANTASTIC in this movie, which should come as no surprise given her track record, which is spearheaded by her Oscar-winning performance in 12 Years A Slave. Long story short, it’s early in the year (which doesn’t help her cause) but you can most likely expect a few nods to come her way during Oscar season, which is rare for those who appeared in a horror/suspense release. On top of that, Elisabeth Moss is just as incredible, but in a much smaller role. I hate to sound dismissive given how small her part was, but this was the most fitting role I’ve seen an actress play in awhile.

All in all, I can’t hammer home how much I liked this movie, as well as how many flaws it had at the same time without giving too much away.

In order to enjoy this movie, you need to take a leap. You need to be able to suspend your disbelief dramatically which, in Peele’s defense, isn’t a lot to ask for in a horror film. Simply put, if you’re someone who doesn’t ask a lot of questions, you’ll love this movie; if you’re someone who does, it’s still certainly worth the price of admission.

Final Score: 8.4 Boats of out 10

2019-2020 Scores

Fighting With My Family: 9.4
Captain Marvel: 6.4
How To Train Your Dragon 3: 8.9

This New PI Rule Will Be An Absolute DISASTER…

Alright, so yesterday the NFL declared a new rule to be implemented next season that would allow NFL head coaches to challenge calls/non-calls as they relate to pass interference and I think I’m missing something here…

Understandably, many coaches/players/fans have been calling for a way to “fix” pass interference in the NFL, but am I the only person who thinks this will most likely result in catastrophe? Just when the NFL managed to sort of “fix” the catch rule—not sure what changed but it seemingly wasn’t a premier issue last year—they decide to go ahead and convolute things further.

And why? Because of one call during the NFC championship? I mean, the Saints got absolutely JOBBED on that play, but after four months of whining and bitching, I’m starting to lose sympathy for these guys. Like, for God’s sake, will somebody get New Orleans a fucking Happy Meal?!? They got the ball in overtime and blew it because they always blow it. That one play didn’t dictate the result of that game; it was a huge moment the refs gagged on, but there were plenty of opportunities throughout that game to recover and, as I said, New Orleans blew all of them because they always do.

Now, since the Saints (who, by the way, used to reward their defense for putting opponents on stretchers) can’t hack it in a big situation in their own dome, we have to watch as the coaches union attempts to strip every last human element from the game that they can. I’m all for getting the call right, but not when it adds another half hour of studio breaks so the zebras can huddle and discuss how they want to rule on a subjective issue, I’m out.

Not to mention, where do you draw the line? Here’s what we’re looking at…

Honest to God, ask yourself this question: Is this really the NFL you want to see?

Maybe I’m wrong, but all I’ve heard over the last 5 years is how “soft” the NFL is now. How you can’t play defense anymore and yadda yadda yadda. Now, everyone on the planet seems to think we should be able to head into the booth and dissect every ticky tack physical touch in order to satisfy Sean Payton and his pack of gutless frauds.

By Week 6 next year, all you’re going to see/hear on social media is about how bad this rule implementation is and how brutal it is to watch. And for those of you thinking: “But Joe, shut the hell up, you’re a Pats fan; the refs have always been in your back pocket…”

Well let me remind you of two years during that Eagles Super Bowl. People often forget, but the last play of that game involved Brady slugging a ball nearly 50 yards into the end zone. The Eagles swatted it down and the game was over—and rightfully so. But for those keeping score at home, Chris Hogan got absolutely bundled roughly 15 yards short of where the ball landed. Given the new rule, that shit would’ve went to a booth review and the Pats would’ve had a 1-yard shot at what, at the time, would’ve been their 6th Super Bowl win.

Now, does that sound right? Give me a break, dude…

– Joey Boats (@joey_boats)

The Story Of “National Joe Day”…

So it’s currently Wednesday, but even more importantly, it’s National Joe Day—the one day a year where Joes can roam free across the rolling pastures and sniff daisies with the less oppressed. For those keeping score at home, I’ve been a Joe since birth so I know the plight well; however, I’m sure there are many non-Joes out there who don’t know the origin of such a holiday.

Well luckily for you, I’m a genius. I’m cultured. I watch VH1…

Anyway, as legend goes, “National Joe Day” can be traced all the way back to pre-Roman times, in the province of Joe, where Joes would frolick throughout the Mediterranean countryside, filling baskets with Joepples and glass jars with the sweet nectar of Joeney, which could be harvested from the many Joehives that lined the outskirts of the province.

It was a hectic, yet serendipitous lifestyle the Joes in the province of Joe lived. Their main export was meatballs, which served as roughly 70% of the communal diet in Joe. During the week, Joes would roll milk, bread crumbs, onions, and ground beef together to create spherical excellence.

On Sundays, Joes from all over the province would congregate to the center of Joe to feast; the leftover meatballs were ceremoniously hurled across the Mediterranean Sea as a sacrificial gift to Joe—the theological deity of Joe. However, amongst all this joviality, there existed pain and misfortune just miles away…

On the outskirts of Joe, across the Mediterranean Sea, lived a dwarf by the name of Joe. Years earlier, Joe had been born to a young woman (presumably named Joe) who had abandoned him (presumably due to his small stature) on the neighboring doorstep of Joe, the Prime Minister of Joe.

Instead of abandoning Joe for the second time, Joe decided to shower Joe with the same praise and paternal love that other Joes throughout the province of Joe received.

That was, until civilization began to thrive around the province, beginning with the discovery of Rome in 753 BC. For years, the Joes had lived in solace, unaffected by the brash, capitalistic ambitions of Western society; however, as the Romans began extending their authority with militaristic force along the Italian peninsula, tensions echoed throughout Joe.

Unfortunately, many Joes felt that this era of insecurity and angst directly coincided with dwarf Joe’s arrival to the province. Children would hurl stones at Joe and curse him for his small stature, eventually running him out of the province, and across the Mediterranean Sea.

During his years in solitude—subsisting exclusively on the sacrificial meatballs that had been hurled across the Mediterranean Sea—Joe the Dwarf would sit upon the mountains outside Joe and watch as the Roman army bull rushed through the neighboring cities, until one day, when they invaded the province of Joe.

Atop the mountain of Joe, Joe watched as the good people of Joe were slowly but steadily slaughtered and forced into slavery. It was at this time that he knew he needed to do something to save those he once referred to as his fellow brethren.

Joe thought to himself, “If they won’t accept me as a Joe, then perhaps—given my smaller stature—I can consume enough meatballs to give myself the appearance of one! Huzzahhh!”

And so on Joe went, recklessly vacuuming up all of the sacrificial meatballs along the coast of the Mediterranean until he had doubled his weight, giving him the appearance of, well, a full-sized meatball.

The next day, Joe rolled himself into the center of Joe which, by this point, had been under Roman occupation for nearly a year. Once stationed in front of the Roman army, with the remaining Joes of Joe watching, he pleaded and begged for the Roman army to spare his people, offering himself as a sacrifice.

Shortly after, the Roman army beat, raped, tarred, feathered, raped, and murdered Joe in the center of town, harvesting his organs for cannibalization purposes while the other Joes looked on in severe confusion.

Most Joes witnessed this fiasco with curious eyes. They uttered things like “What a clown…” and “Did this fucking idiot really think that would work?” until one Joe came to a distinct revelation: Perhaps Joe the dwarf was actually the theological deity the Joes would toss sacrificial meatballs to; perhaps he was their God and savior!

The Joes rejoiced in existential relief until the Roman army eventually beat, raped, tarred, feathered, raped, and murdered every last one of them in the center of town, harvesting their organs for cannibalization purposes.

Following the genocide, the Roman army felt a strange communal sensation we now refer to as “guilt.” In response, they decided to rename March 27th “National Joe Day” in honor of the fallen province of Joe, as well as their “savior,” Joe.

So now you know…

– Joey Boats (@joey_boats)

Fried-Ay: March Madness, Wofford, and SkullCandy AGAIN!!!

Guys! Guys! GUYS! It is officially Friday, which means it’s Fried-ay, which means it’s that time of the week where genius juice flows from my ears, runs down my shoulders, and invades the crevices of my keyboard. As always, I elect to explain what Fried-ay is, so here goes nothing: Fried-ay is the greatest blog installment on the planet if you’re human; for those who aren’t, you probably don’t have consistent wifi access or a computer anyway so SCREW YOUUU AHHHHHHH.

First and foremost, March Madness is in full swing and my perfect bracket has been injured (this happened Thursday but whatever). A lot of upsets over the last few days—par for the course—but the biggest story of the tournament so far is this little online school from South Carolina, Wofford.

For those unfamiliar, you’re rooting for Wofford. They are the strangest collection of basketball talent from a name perspective you’ll ever watch. With guys like Trevor Stumpe, Nathan Hoover, Keve Aluma, Donovan Theme-love, Tray Hollowell, Isaiah Bigelow, Storm Murphy, and Messiah Jones, you just have to tip your cap, turn to your buddy, and say “$50 says they’re all Mormon.” Not to mention their biggest stud is this dude by the name of Fletcher Magee, who just broke the all time NCAA record for threes in a season last game. In other words, this guy is basically living out my dream.

I’ve always said that, out of all the athletic experiences one could go through, I think the best would be to be (awful English but whatever) that horse on a 12/13 seed (Wofford’s 7 but whatever) that makes a run in March. I mean, how great would it feel to be the guy dropping 30 a game and upsetting Kansas or something in the round of 32 knowing that every girl with low self esteem back on campus is licking her/his/its lips (I don’t assume pronouns).

My second favorite would be that third or fourth White dude off the bench who comes in to give rest to the starters but finds heat from deep and pours in 21 points off 7/9 shooting (all threes). That’s the dude who definitely has the 7-year steady girlfriend who visits campus every weekend so they can both watch Mad Men or The Bachelor in the common room though.

Okay, so for those of you who read my last Fried-ay blog, you know I have a bone to pick with the SkullCandy headphone company. To summarize, I bought pretty expensive headphones from them and they broke after a couple months—once again, par for the course—but they offer a 2-year warranty so I shipped them back. After 2 weeks of waiting, they finally got back to me and said they’re gonna have to send me a company credit coupon because they were “out of stock” of the headphones I bought (at their FUCKING WAREHOUSE).

I said fine, waited a week for the coupon and it never came so I called them roughly four times. Finally the woman sent me the coupon and I had to buy the older model because the newer, more expensive model that broke on me was conveniently “out of stock.”

After a week of waiting, they finally arrive. I use them three times and BOOOOOMMMMM!!!

They don’t work. Won’t turn on and also, conveniently, refuse to charge. Love this company. Love this brand. Love this life.

I’ll be initiating a full scale social media assault on these clowns until I’m appropriately compensated, so expect an update next week….

– Joey Boats (@joey_boats)