Blah! Blah! Blah! Spin it any way you like, with JJ (Dumb) and JG (Dumber 2), we will NEVER get to a SB, let alone win one. Romo injured again; Dumber 2 should have never let him play in a game with the dirty, scumbag, neanderthal Seahawks. They don't tackle; they aim to maim and, in any way, take players out of the game. So, despite a positive backup (Dak), there goes another season.
This order is based off of my end of the season power rankings. I know this is a long shot be what happens next spring, but I will do my best since I cannot predict breakout stars and small school studs. Here is a link to my power rankings if you like explanations why your team is selecting where. http://walterfootball.com/PowerRankings/Published/490
I recently celebrated my 29th birthday. And by "celebrate," I mean I had trouble getting out of bed because my knees are shot and my back is constantly sore. Oh, and then there's the occasional insomnia. Can't I just apply for my AARP card already and get it over with?
I had a party at my house this past Friday. The following night, my friends and I went out to a bar. And to top it off, I had a family dinner Sunday night at the same Portuguese restaurant I discussed nearly two years ago. If you don't remember, I was fooled into thinking bruschettas were mozzarella sticks, and then I was hit on by a gay Portuguese waiter. Fun times.
I have jerks from all three nights...
1. Facebook Moms:
My friend Adrienne planned on being late to my party because Maroon 5 and some music band called Train were playing in Philly. There was some confusion here, because when Adrienne told me she was "seeing Maroon 5 and Train," I assumed she was taking the train to see Maroon 5. Like I said, I'm old.
Adrienne told me she was going to the concert with two female friends. This intrigued me, so I asked her to bring them to my party via Facebook IM:
Me: Hey, you should bring the two friends you're going to the concert with to my party.
Adrienne: Nah, they're too young.
Me: Really? How old are they?
Adrienne: One is 17, but the other is 16.
Me: Ah, never mind.
Adrienne: No, wait... One is 18 and the other 17 but turning 18 soon.
Me: That's perfect!
As the great Barney Stinson once said, "The only reason to wait a month for sex is if she's 17 years, 11 months old."
Adrienne: I don't think they'll be able to come.
Me: Why not?
Adrienne: My mom won't let them.
Me: What? I don't get it. Why does your mom have a say in this? I didn't hire her as my party bouncer or anything.
Adrienne: Because she's friends with their parents. That's how I know them.
Me: So, don't tell your mom. She can't forbid you to do something if you don't ask.
Adrienne: She already knows.
Me: WHAT!? Why did you tell her already?
Adrienne: Because she was looking at my monitor when you IMed me, dummy.
Adrienne wasn't able to bring her friends to my party, which completely ruined my birthday, all because a mom was allowed on Facebook.
It's not fair. I just wanted to game a pair of hot 18-year-old chicks. Why do we live in such a cruel world?
Nothing in this world angers me more than people who fail to live up to Facebook event page agreements.
I had 31 people RSVP to my party on Facebook, yet only 25 people showed up, some of whom were friends of friends who obviously didn't get a chance to commit to the event on Facebook. This means that nearly 10 people who RSVPed on Facebook didn't attend the party.
I don't understand how this is allowed to happen. When you RSVP for something on Facebook, you're taking a sacred vow to live up to that promise. Desecrating the Facebook event page is disgraceful and shows that you are unreliable.
I really think the government should step in and stop this. Forget all of the stupid debt ceiling garbage and stock market fluctuation. That stuff isn't nearly as important as Facebook event page defilement.
With that in mind, I'd like to propose a new law. Those who break their Facebook event oaths without a legitimate excuse should be punished by death via fat women at my gym pool. Or if you're a hot girl, you should be punished by having to sleep with me.
This may all seem cruel, but desperate times call for desperate measures. With this new law in place, I don't think anyone will be lying on Facebook event pages anymore. And thus, the world would be a much better place - mostly because I'll be banging lots of hot chicks.
3. Pizza Requests:
My sister Jackie made great food for my party, including dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets, buffalo chicken dip and other delicious things.
There was a ton of food on my dining room table. Or at least I thought so. Jackie apparently didn't agree.
Jackie: When are you going to order pizza?
Me: Pizza? I think there's enough food.
Jackie: No, there's not. It looks like a lot, but it'll all be gone soon.
Me: Meh, I don't think so, but I'll call later if we run out.
Thirty minutes later, a random person at the party interrupted my beer pong playing to tell me that Jackie wanted to talk to me. I reluctantly went upstairs after the game.
Jackie: We need to order pizza now.
Me: But there's still tons of food on the table.
Jackie: No! We need pizza!
Me: No we don't. Not yet anyway. I'll call later.
Another 30 minutes later, I received a text from an unknown number: "Your sister says you have to get pizza now."
I went back upstairs, and there was still tons of food on the table despite the fact that I earlier devoured half of the dinosaur chicken nuggets.
Jackie: GET PIZZA NOW!!!
Me: NO! WE HAVE ENOUGH FOOD!
Jackie: IT'S GOING TO RUN OUT SOON!!!
Me: NO IT ISN'T!!!! AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I didn't order pizza. The following night, I was in the car with my mom and Jackie...
Mom: Why didn't you order pizza when Jackie told you to?
Me: Because we didn't need it. There were plenty of leftovers from the party.
Jackie: But I wanted pizza.
Me: So why didn't you order pizza yourself?
Jackie: I dunno...
Ugh. You might be thinking that all of this aggravation could have been avoided with simple communication. But then I'll ask you: How can anyone communicate when there are dinosaur-shaped nuggets to be eaten? NOM NOM NOM NOM.
4. Joe Legend:
I didn't open up most of my presents at the party, but some guests insisted that I unwrap their gifts in front of them so they could see my reaction. One such person was my friend Cave Man, who was frustrated that he had never appeared on Jerks of the Week before.
I peered inside Cave Man's bag and found three bottles. Two were lubricants, while the other was a sexual stimulant. I will be using those, thank you.
After this, we played a game of 21. For those of you unfamiliar, it's a drinking game where people take turns counting to 21, where the only initial rules are that 14 or 7, and 7 is 14. So, you take turns counting 1-2-3-4-5-6-14-8-9-10-11-12-13-7-15, etc. The person who gets to 21 can make a new rule. They can say that eight is now "octopus" or 16 is now 19, or you go in reverse order at 12. If you mess up, you have to drink.
Our games get pretty intense and very humorous. We tend to replace our numbers with dialogue, so when my friend Jess turned two into "Did you hear that Walt's pregnant?" that sparked a series of hilarious number transformations. Soon enough, it went:
Did you hear Walt's pregnant?
Who's the father?
I think Gary's the father.
It's not Gary, but it's someone in this room.
The father is Ray!
Walt must have had a wild time at his birthday party.
Forum mod Injured Reserve later turned 16 into Joe Legend, a forum member whom I often get into football arguments with. Several rounds later, we were playing in elimination mode, and it was my turn on 16. Since I was drunk, I was drawing a blank.
Me: Damn it, I forget what 16 is.
Injured Reserve: You have five seconds.
Me: Wait... no... damn it... umm... crap... I give up...
Injured Reserve: Joe Legend!
Me: AHHHH!!! SCREW YOU, JOE LEGEND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Damn you, Joe Legend, for ruining my birthday party.
5. Pig Tails Girl:
Five people, including myself and forum mod Injured Reserve, went out Saturday night. We wanted to stay local, so we hit up a bar called Sweeney's, which is right across from Whiskey Tango. Whiskey Tango is OK, but we were tired of going there. Besides, none of us had ever been to Sweeney's before...
...And I don't think any of us is ever going again. At least I'm not. Smoking is illegal in Philadelphia bars, so as I soon as we walked into Sweeney's, I was appalled and confused to see some woman in her 40s smoking a cigarette at the bar.
Me: Someone stop that woman! She's committing a crime!
Unfortunately, the loud music made my plea inaudible to my friends. I then noticed that several other people were also smoking. When the music died down, I asked my friend A-Team about this.
Me: Why are they allowed to smoke in here?
A-Team: Because this bar technically is outside of Philly.
Ugh. I moved out of Philadelphia to avoid paying the ludicrously high city business tax, but as a result, the cigarette smoke followed me. I hate bars where you can smoke. Nothing, aside from trying to survive a dip in the pool with fat women, is worse than coming home stinking like cigarette smoke, because you then have to take a shower at 2:30 a.m. instead of passing out in bed.
At any rate, there were only a couple of attractive women at this place, but all of them were with dudes. There was one female employee who caught my eye. She was a red-head with pigtails and she seemed to have a nice a**, though I didn't get a good look right away.
Since she was a sober worker and I was getting drunk off beer, it was going to be difficult to talk to her. So, I just observed her whenever she walked by.
What occurred was astonishing. Normally, beer goggles make ugly and ordinary women seem more attractive. With her, she was growing uglier every time she passed by us. The third time this happened, her a** wasn't as magical as I once thought. On the fifth occasion, she wasn't cute anymore. And on the seventh time she passed by, she was extremely hideous.
I brought up my observation to someone, but I can't remember who.
Me: Wow, I thought that chick was hot when I first came in, but now she's ugly.
Friend: Me too!
Me: Really? I thought it was me.
Friend: Nope. She seemed attractive at first, but she's somehow gotten much uglier in the span of an hour.
I don't know what happened, but I'm pretty sure the damn cigarette smoke played a factor - though I do suspect that the fat women at the pool were somehow involved as well.
6. Uncle Joe:
As mentioned, we went to that Portuguese restaurant Sunday night. And that gay Portuguese waiter was still there. As soon as I saw him, I knew I'd have something to write about.
My parents brought over some wine. Two of their bottles had this fancy red velvet covering with Russian letters on the label. The only English I could make out was "Uncle Joe's Red Wine." There was a picture of a gray-haired man with an impressive mustache above these words, as pictured here.
If you're wondering who Uncle Joe is, that would be Joseph Stalin, who murdered countless people as Russia's dictator decades ago. As a comparison, that would be like walking into a Wine & Spirits store and finding an American wine called Uncle O'Donnell, as Rosie O'Donnell has eaten many Americans over the years.
As the gay Portuguese waiter uncorked the bottles, my dad quizzed him about "Uncle Joe."
Dad: Do you know who this is?
Gay Portuguese Waiter: Jeeezth Chriitthh! No I don't but he sure lookth thexthieee!!!
OK, fine, he didn't exactly say that.
Dad: Do you know who this is?
Gay Portuguese Waiter: No, who is that?
Dad: That's Joseph Stalin!
Gay Portuguese Waiter: Ah, Jotheph Stalin?
Dad: You don't know him?
Gay Portuguese Waiter: Ohh... no... I don't.
Dad: He was a bad guy.
Gay Portuguese Waiter: Oh really? Did he do a lot of bad things?
Gay Portuguese Waiter: Ohhhhhh... woooooowwww...
My cousin Steve and I overheard this and couldn't stop laughing. When the waiter left the room, Steve and I had our own version of that conversation.
Steve: Hey, have you heard of Adolf Hitler?
Me: Who is that?
Steve: He was a bad guy!
Me: Jeezth Chriiitthh did he do a lot of bad things?
Steve: Yes, he wasn't nice.
Me: Ohhhhh... woooowwwwww...
Seriously, how have you not heard of Jotheph Stalin? Sorry, Joseph Stalin?
I know, I know, gay Portuguese waiters are too busy to know who Stalin is. That's because they spend most of their time doing their makeup, taking dancing lessons and banging lots of other gay Portuguese waiters up the anus. Not that there's anything wrong with any of that.