Relativity

How I’d go about preventing someone from jumping off a building:

“There is no real meaning to life, only patterns. The adventurous type, the boring type, the quiet type, the flamboyant type, the cynical type, the geeky type, the perverted type, the suicidal type and so on and so forth. No matter who you are or how you identify yourself, you’re not the first to do what you’re about to do, and chances are, you’re not going to be the last either. No matter how different we perceive ourselves to be, we really are all the same. Everything is relative to everything else. Could you imagine what would happen if Kevin Bacon decided to jump off a mountain? The six degrees of Kevin Bacon would no longer exist.”

“And that’s a bad thing? “

“Hmmm, good point. I’ll see you in another life, brother.”

Okay, so maybe suicide prevention isn’t my thing. But you know what? I think White Castle burgers aren’t my thing either. I should have realized it after having to use the bathroom less than two hours of having my first White Castle burgers ever. I should have also realized it after having three more of those burgers after clearing out the inaugural set. Instead, the realization hit as I was running late to work this morning because my ass didn’t want to leave the toilet. What felt like a never ending stream of the squirts was actually excess burger, cheese, onions and steamed buns – the catalyst for a smooth ride out the hole. Pepto-Bismol, now that’s what I craved.

The time sitting on the pot wasn’t entirely full of waste though. I started to think of the previous day’s good times being in the company of great friends, and then it hit me.

The cheese sticks. The onion rings. The answer to the Bobby Brown question.

If my lovie was constipated and had asked me to take my hand up “there” to literally clean her system out, I would have to respectfully decline. If she then offered to sing that Whitney Houston song from “The Bodyguard,” I’d point to her and sing, “That Girl is Poison.” That’s right Bobby, let me put it this way: If Bel Biv Devoe busted a cap in your ass, do you honestly think Whitney would fist you to get that bullet? Shit, not if that bullet was filled with crack. “If It Isn’t Love?” What the fuck are you smoking dude?

I could see the comic right now in tomorrow morning’s newspaper:

“Love is...plopping your woman on the toilet and shoving White Castle burgers down her throat for instant constipation relief.”

Buffalo Rock State Park

Cleared for Takeoff

March 29, 1987 – The only light in my bedroom is coming from the television that is on channel nine, WGN news. I look over at the bottom bunk where my sister is sleeping peacefully, and I yawn, thinking that it’s past my bedtime too. It’s only around 9:30 at night, but at seven years old, 9:30 PM is more like midnight to me. My eyelids are heavy and I just want to lie down, but there’s something driving me to stay up and keep vigil, because there in my youth I truly believed that something big was going to happen. And it did.

“WGN news, tonight’s sports is brought to you by…”

As the commercial plays, sleepy weariness is replaced by an adrenalin rush. The light from the television seems brighter and I’m squinting because my pupils are trying to adjust. My heart appears to be beating faster. I have awoken.

The commercial ends and we cut back to the sportscaster at WGN news, but in what felt like not even a second, there it is:

I’m seeing Hogan vs. Andre. I’m hearing the words of Gorilla Monsoon, “The irresistable force meets the immovable object.” Both of them look at each other look at the sea of humanity, all 93,173 people at the Pontiac Silverdome for WrestleMania III.

The rest of that night is history. For me personally, that’s where it all began.

WrestleMania: WM3, Detroit – Where it all Begins...

Again – WM19, Seattle – Childhood dreams can come true...

And again – WM22, Chicago – Two words: Home City, One word: RINGSIDE...

And again – WM23, Detroit – The childhood dream comes full circle

It’s confirmed. April 1, 2007. Ford Field, Detroit. Silver package. I’ll see you in the lower level.

Touched by a Writer

Chuck Palahniuk (author of Fight Club, Invisible Monsters, Choke, Haunted, etc.) is one sick f*ck.



Chuck, thanks for agreeing with me. To all you in the Pacific Northwest, it's Ore-Ah-Gone!

A Modern Day Samson and Delilah

To all the fellas out there, I know you’ve heard this before, but I am going to officially join the millions (and millions) of guys before me and say that you cannot win against a woman. There’s just no way. It’s not possible, especially when it comes to making bets.

Men win bets simply because women let us. Women play to our needs knowing that we need instant gratification so they give us the quick and easy wins.

“Haha, you have to sing “I’m a Little Teapot” in public and you have to do all the motions.”

“Hizzah, make me a banana cream pie. Wait, why don’t you make that twoooo...and three quarters.”

“Heh heh, that’s right girlie, get underneath the table and do your thang while I have a nice conversation about politics and religion with your parents over dinner, yeah, yeah"...

...Okay, so not all these really happened. A second banana cream pie would have been nice...

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned though. To a woman, a guy winning a bet is like a tremor undetectable to the most sensitive of seismic equipment. It’s not really a big deal.

“‘I’m a Little Teapot?’ How about I wear a backpack with fake explosives and do it in Arabic in the middle of synagogue on Passover?”

But women are cruel like that. They toy with our emotions and monitor our happy meter; eventually all the little tremors build up into something catastrophic that blows up in our face:

“Wear that pink shirt, bitch.”

Or in my case earlier a few weeks ago,

“Stop being a wuss and lift up your arms so I can shave your pits.”

Yet another example of how a man’s misery can bring about a woman’s happiness.