No way in hell we pass over Ingram at 2. Keep deluding yourself into thinkin Boston is getting Ingram. Bender has Darko potential. Mitch Kupchak is really good at drafting so I highly doubt we pass on Ingram.
Frank Costanza is one of my heroes. I love the holiday of Festivus, particularly the Airing of Grievances. I feel like if we all told each other what annoyed us or what pissed us off, we'd get along better. No one would talk trash about each other, and we'd all live in harmony.
Consider the following example where two chicks would ordinarily pretend to be friends and then talk behind each other's back, but instead were honest with each other:
Girl 1: Girl 2, I've wanted to say this for a while, but I think you're a giant slut. You were sort of hitting on my boyfriend, and I feel like you slept with one of my exes when you were with him.
Girl 2: You're right, Girl 1. I do get around. Perhaps I should only sleep with three guys per week instead of six guys. And yes, I did hit on your boyfriend and I did sleep with one of your exes behind your back. I did this because you're a b***h. You wore the same outfit as me at one party even though you saw me buying it.
Girl 1: I know, I know, I was jealous of you. And because you admitted that you hit on my boyfriend, I feel better about everything. In fact, let's have a threesome with him!
Girl 2: That sounds like a great idea - and since I like you so much now, let's invite my hot female friend with the nice butt from the gym. She'd love to have a foursome with you, me and your boyfriend!
See? If we made a habit of telling people why they infuriated us, there would be more threesomes and foursomes, and everyone would be happier.
I have eight grievances myself, all of which coincidentally occurred on June 8. I don't know if it's because I had more sand in my vag than normal that particular day, but everything seemed to agitate me. Most of this occurred at Tango, now currently known as JC Washington's House, but the first person I want to air my grievances again was spotted at my new gym.
1. Smelly Swim Coach:
I've been swimming a mile almost every weekday with Body Burners recently. We've encountered two issues at the gym, however.
First, the front desk gave Body Burners a tough time one day. The chick working there, previously referred to as the Girl with the Arm Tattoo, refused to believe that Body Burners had a valid membership even though the computer checked him in that morning when he came in to lift weights. He had to go to the back office to confirm his membership, which took 10 minutes out of our schedule.
I'd air my grievance with the Girl with the Arm Tattoo because she'd be super hot if it weren't for the massive tattoos all over her body (I recently noticed that they're covering her legs as well). However, I discussed my disdain for chicks with tattoos in my St. Patrick's Day entry, so I'm not going to repeat myself.
Second, Body Burners and I finished our mile on Friday, and as we were walking into the locker room, I spotted this fat, 10-year-old kid wearing a black Speedo slumped over near the wall. What stood out was this horrifying burn mark (or possibly a birth mark) on his back. It seriously covered 90 percent of the skin on his back, and it even ran down his legs. It was a disturbing sight, but I guess he learned his lesson - never eat part of the wicked witch's candy house, or she'll make you plump and throw you into the furnace. Best case scenario? You burn your back while trying to escape.
I wanted to ask the kid how he thwarted the wicked witch's plans, but he wouldn't sit still. He and his skinny friend, also sporting a wiener bikiner, were running around the locker room and the hallway. Jerry Sandusky would have enjoyed this display, but Body Burners and I were both frustrated.
Body Burners: Why aren't these damn kids at swim practice?
Me: Ugh, seriously, I think I'm going to vomit if I see that fat kid running around in that Speedo much longer.
Body Burners: Doesn't the swim coach notice that he has two kids missing from practice? What the hell kind of swim program is he running?
The swim coach Body Burners was referring to, of course, was Smelly Swim Coach. This was obviously an evil plot of his; he still wants revenge on me for calling him "stinky" last August.
To Smelly Swim Coach: Stop terrorizing me with your annoying, wiener-bikiner brats. And please, for the love of God, take a shower.
2. The Zone:
The rest of my grievances have to do with the time I spent at Tango last Friday evening. I was looking forward to a night of carousing, but I was immediately disgusted when I walked into the bar.
I've complained about loud music at bars and clubs in numerous other entries. It could be my most favorite song ever, but I'll still be pissed off if the volume is too high. I want to be able to talk, and I don't want to exit the establishment at 2 a.m. with blood coming out of my ears. Besides, I've never met a single person who said, "You know, I love it when the music is super loud! What'd you say!? I'm deaf in my right ear, so talk on my other side!" Seriously, why do some bars and clubs insist on playing repulsively loud music? Why did any of them think that doing so would be a good idea?
Tango usually doesn't even have live music in its sports bar room, so seeing a band there was surprising in itself. The only live music they've ever had there was John Lennon's DJ'ing, and I've yet to see him since. My best guess is that he read my negative review regarding his performance, and because his life-long dream was to be an awesome DJ, he's turned into a recluse who cries in his room all day. I'm sorry, John Lennon!
As bad as John Lennon was on the turntables, I wish he would have been there Friday night because the band absolutely sucked. They were called the Zone; they were a cover band that played the worst versions of certain songs I've ever heard. Seriously, when they played the Joker, it sounded like some fat lady was drowning at my gym pool. I had to cover my ears to prevent getting a headache. In fact, my friend Jess actually left the bar around 1 a.m. with a migraine.
What set this band apart from other crappy bands were the obnoxious things they announced throughout the night. They constantly shouted, "OMG OMG TONIGHT IS DOUBLE TIP NIGHT! MAKE SURE YOU DOUBLE TIP YOUR BARTENDERS OMG OMG OMG!"
What the hell does that mean? Double tip the bartenders? It didn't mean we were getting discounted drinks. I already tip heavily - I sometimes give the Blondtender $5 to impress her - so that means I'd have to tip $10 for a $4 beer. That's ridiculous. In fact, I found the whole thing so outrageous that I sarcastically yelled, "Tonight is triple tip night! Triple tip night! Make sure you triple tip your bartenders!"
I drew some dirty looks from some of the other Tango patrons when I did that. I guess they thought I was some the Zone groupie. That just made everything seem worse.
To the Zone: Not all of us can force gold coins out of our buttocks. We can't afford to double tip bartenders. And I'd like to suggest that you should make everyone sign waivers so they can't sue you when their ears begin bleeding.
3. Tracy the Groupie:
Believe it or not, the Zone had groupies. Well, to be more accurate, they had one groupie. Just before Jess left, they announced, "OMG OMG WE THOUGHT WE PLAYED OUR LAST SONG BUT TRACY SAID SHE WANTED TO HEAR FIVE MORE SONGZZZZ OMG OMG OMG!!!"
I'm pretty sure everyone at the bar groaned, save for Tracy, of course, who was just sitting by herself and clapping along with the music. I bumped into my friend Matt in the bathroom - not that there's anything wrong with that - and we had a short conversation about Tracy and her favorite band.
Me: I can't believe that b***h Tracy asked for five more songs.
Matt: Ugh. We should slash her tires.
Me: That actually sounds like a good idea. Unfortunately, we don't know which car is hers.
Matt: That's true. I don't get how they're paying this band. Tango doesn't charge cover, so how are they making money?
Me: Hmm... maybe the band offered to play here for free.
Matt: You're probably right.
After hearing those five last songs - followed by five more last songs - I proposed a new theory to Matt while we were sitting at the bar.
Me: You know, I'm beginning to think that this band actually paid money to Tango to play here. They're so bad.
Matt: I think you might be right.
Me: They were probably like, "Here's $100! Can we pleeeeeaaasseee play here tonight!?"
Anyway, we eventually found a flier for the Zone. They're playing at random bars in Philadelphia and New Jersey this summer. What stood out is that they won't be performing at all between June 9 and June 29. I guess they have to secure more funds to pay the bars.
Poor Tracy. What's she doing to do for 20 days?
To Tracy: You're a slut. But you're an attractive slut, so you can do better than the Zone.
4. The Blondtender:
I actually saw the Blondtender (formerly known as Hot Blond Bartender) the preceding Saturday at a gas station. I had just paid when she got out of a car and jokingly yelled, "Are you following me!?"
I didn't recognize her at first because it was dark, but I did manage to make out that she was hot, so it was actually plausible that I was stalking her without even realizing it. It's safe to say that I was relieved that Blondtender was just messing around. Phew. Restraining order averted!
Fast forward to Friday night - the male bartender served me my first two beers. I finally saw the Blondtender the third time I went to the bar. I was about to tell her what I wanted when...
The Blondtender slapped me on the cheek! I was so shocked that I was rendered speechless for a few seconds. Worst-case scenario, she read Jerks of the Week and really thought that I stalked her to the gas station. Best-case scenario, this was some sort of mating ritual of hers. I finally figured out that I had to ask about this.
Me: What was that for!?
The Blondtender: Oh, that's just how I say hi now!
Me: Oh. Phew. Restraining order averted again!
The Blondtender: What?
Me: Never mind.
To the Blondtender: Umm... actually, I have no grievances about the slap. It was kind of hot.
5. The Male Bartender:
My fourth beer wasn't nearly as adventurous as the third. Someone broke a bunch of glasses, so the Blondtender had to clean the mess, leaving only the male bartender behind the counter. This turned out to be a major problem because it took 20 minutes for me to get served.
I'm not exaggerating. Matt and I sat there like complete a**holes for 20 minutes. We held our money out and yelled at the bartender, but nothing worked. It wasn't even crowded or anything. The problem was that the male bartender was flirting with this fat, 40-year-old woman, who constantly blew him kisses.
Look, I get that a horny, 40-year-old fat lady might tip well, but you do have other customers. I was so infuriated at that point that I wanted to leave a $0 tip. And even on double tip night, that's still $0.
To the Male Bartender: Don't bother with fat women because they don't tip well. Not in terms of money, anyway. She might give you a couple of celery sticks - only because it's food that she deems undesirable.
6. The Mongolians:
The male bartender fake flirted with the fat lady for about 10 minutes. He turned around, so I thought he would finally see us. Instead, he spotted these two Mongolian guys who approached the bar that very second. He served them, and then went back to the other side to catch more blown kisses from the fat woman.
I was so annoyed at this point. Matt and I were sitting there for 10 minutes already, and we couldn't get beer because of broken glasses, an obese, horny monstrosity and a pair of Mongolians. What a horrible night.
The Mongolians were the worst part. They've committed all sorts of atrocities over the years. They invaded China. They invaded Mother Russia. They invaded some other places. They orchestrated the Jerry Sandusky scandal. And now, they were trying to make me sober on a Friday night. This was their worst act ever.
My friend Val eventually spoke to them for some reason. I asked her why, but couldn't hear her response over the Zone's awful music. I only hope that Val made them apologize for Mulan. That's all I ask.
By the way, Val is now one of my sworn enemies because she told me that she likes Maroon 5. Anyone who likes Maroon 5 sucks. They make terrible music; Adam Levine seriously sounds like he's having diarrhea whenever he sings. And even worse, their Philadelphia concert occurred the same day as my 29th birthday party, so some people decided to go to that instead of my house. I've never forgiven Maroon 5 for that.
To the Mongolians: If I ever become President of the United States, I will instantly declare war on the country of Mongolia for Mulan, JoePa and this beer incident. And don't be surprised if it's revealed that the band members in Maroon 5 are Mongolian supporters. You heard it here first.
7. Mata Man:
There were some hot women at Tango on Friday night. One was this tall brunette who had giant breasts and really long legs. My friend Jess first pointed her out to me when she said, "You see that girl with the curly brown hair? She told me that I had nice boobs!"
That was definitely interesting information. Unfortunately, Nice Boobs Girl was with some guy. She started making out with this dude wearing a black-and-white jersey of some sort with the name "Mata" on the back. It took me a while to figure out what sort of jersey that was, but then I remembered that there's a Euro Cup of lacrosse going on right now in Europe, so this guy obviously liked some lacrosse player named Mata. I don't watch lacrosse, so I've never heard of this Mata.
Anyway, I walked by Mata Man to get change for the pool table, and I immediately noticed that he reeked. He smelled like trash. It made me wonder how long he had been wearing that Mata jersey. Maybe he's such a big fan of lacrosse that he refuses to remove that Mata jersey until Mata's team wins the lacrosse Euro Cup championship.
So, how can a hot chick like Nice Boobs Girl be smitten with a stinky guy like Mata Man? Well, I would quickly discover that she had some negative qualities herself. After the Zone played a Spice Girls song - I told you that they sucked - she sprinted toward Mata Man and screeched the following in a very hoarse voice: "OMG OMG OMG THEY PLAYED THE SPICE GIRLS WHEN I ASKED THEM TO AND THEN I ASKED FOR ANOTHER SPICE GIRL SONG AND THEY SAID THEY MIGHT PLAY IT OMG OMG OMG!"
To Mata Man: Wash your jersey. Take a shower. And please, for the love of God, never let your hot woman speak ever again.
8. The Smelly Cougar:
Most of the Tango patrons cleared out around 1:45. Matt pointed out one of the few people remaining: "Looks like we have some cougar action over there."
Indeed. The woman Matt referring to was about was a dirty-blond-haired woman around 40. She was wearing a dress of some sort and her cleavage was hanging out because she was leaning over the bar. In other words, she was easy game for one of the desperate, scummy guys remaining. Including me, I thought - until she approached us.
Yeesh. She was pretty ugly up close. Even worse, it smelled like she just climbed out of a dumpster. I thought about telling Nice Boobs Girl that Mata Man was cheating on her with the Smelly Cougar in some sort of trash can, but she already left.
It quickly became clear that the Smelly Cougar was unbelievably drunk. She was slurring her words and nearly falling over. My sister and Matt thought it'd be funny to mess with her.
Matt: We just got married!
My Sister: This is our honeymoon! We decided to come to Philly and spend our nights at Tango!
The Smelly Cougar: Thazzzz grrreeaatt guyyzzzz connggraadduuzzzlaaashuhnsnss!
Matt: Thank you - that means a lot!
My Sister: I'm from Alabama. We got married in a trailer church!
The Smelly Cougar: I'vzzz nevuurr beeenn tewwww Albammmmauhh.
Matt: It's really nice. You should visit.
The Smelly Cougar: I'mmm gonnn visisssuutt whennn I goo onnn vacaaashuuunn. Duuzzz annnywunnn wunnnn daannnce?
Matt: He looks like he wants to!
Matt pointed to me. The Smelly Cougar wrapped her arms around me and started swaying from side to side. I tried to follow her rhythm, but it was difficult because it took so much energy not to pass out from her stench.
Eventually, the Smelly Cougar realized that I didn't want to take her home, have sex with her and contract some of her plentiful STDs, so she moved on to someone else. Matt proceeded to apologize to me.
To the Smelly Cougar: Stop sleeping in dumpsters, and take your STDs elsewhere.
Even though according to Freakonmics, drunk walking causes five times more deaths than drunk driving, I walked to and from Tango because it's a block away from my house. I stopped by Wawa on the way back and ordered a very healthy salami-and-cheese sandwich. It was healthy because I asked for American cheese, and everyone knows that American stuff is the best for you.
I normally wait until I get home to eat my late-night Wawa snack, but I decided to scarf down my sandwich as I ventured home. It made the 8-minute stroll go by so quickly; I finished my healthy meal just as I reached my house. I was so proud of my genius eat-and-walk idea that I felt better about the entire day. Suddenly, there wasn't so much sand in my vag. I went up to my office, sat at my desk and talked with an awesome girl who loves football for the next couple of hours.
All of my worries went away, and I was in such a good mood that I almost forgave the Mongolians for framing JoePa and stealing my beer. Almost.