Do not be fooled by the commercials. They are lies.
All of that stuff about German engineering? Horseshit. The smartest car on the road? More like the dumbest kid in school. Best in class this, best value that, highest rated something…you’re talking, but all I’m hearing is “blah…blah…blah.” You sound like the parents from Charlie Brown.
Of course I’m talking about you, Audi. You and your bullshit marketing campaigns, your snake-oil products and features, and your smug citations of awards and high ratings. You are either deliberately spreading falsehoods or simply delirious, for the only way you are the “best value” in anything is if the car owners ”value” having a proverbial stick shoved up their asses once every few months. You are the worst, and I will tell you why.
I’ve been the proud owner of one of your lauded (German Engineered!!!) vehicles for some five years now, and the experience has been nothing but one gigantic aneurysm. I’m fairly confident that I and class of preschoolers could engineer a machine that would hold up better, and none of us are even German.
Oh, it started out swell. I was seduced by your charm, you slick bastard, when I bought the car at 48,000 miles. The supple leather, the sleek interior, the immaculate paint and trim – for a used car, I felt I had done pretty damn well. It was so choice. My friends commented on how good it looked, how well it rode, how the engine purred, and I nodded along. They were impressed, and I was happy.
One day while admiring the fine machine, a friend’s dad asked casually how much I knew about Audis.
“Well,” I admitted, “not a whole lot. But they seem like nice cars.”
He – in as nice a way as possible – gave me the book on Audi, and none of it was good. “From what I see, they just seem to have a lot of problems after they hit 50,000 miles. You might be just fine, but I usually try to advise people against buying them if possible. If the sale isn’t final yet, you actually might want to reconsider.”
I dismissed it as hogwash. I would be fine; I had German engineering on my side. Besides, the sale was final.
And for a while, I was fine. Things were great, actually – no issues for the first few months, and the thing ran like a damn spaceship. I did nothing but treat it well and love it; washed it at least once a week, waxed the shit out of it each summer, treated the leather with fine creams, and kept the dash spotless and Armor All-ed. I loved it, and it loved me back. We were smitten. What a fool that man must’ve been.
Then, it started. At first the clutch went, then the cruise control, then all four brake rotors. This was the first year. After that, it basically turned into a constant, suffocating avalanche of malfunctions and deteriorated parts, many of which I cannot pronounce and didn’t know existed. I would get one problem fixed, drive the pitiful machine for six months, be lulled into a state of false confidence, and then three new problems would surface. It was maddening. And let’s not forget, aside from the sheer volume of work that needed to be done, all of Audi’s top quality German engineered parts cost at least three times as much as those of a normal, practical, working car. I could subsidize all the farms of a third world country with the money I’ve put into this godforsaken automobile.
At current time, I’m a week removed from spending another $50,000 (quite possibly an embellishment, but not by as much as you’d think) to fix the third major alignment problem in the past two years. I’ve literally rebuilt most of the underbody at this point. And just yesterday, I walked to my car before work, I noticed a spot under the engine. There is coolant leaking. Fabulous! I quick Google search of the issue indicates that it is most likely either a minor (in the neighborhood of $100) fix, or a much more serious one, to the tune of about $1000. You and I both know damn well which one it will be. It is NEVER the minor problem. I don’t believe the German language has a word for “minor.” And when fixing this major issue, it’s a dead-set lock that something else will surface as well. “Well,” the mechanic will say, as he always does, “once we got in there, we also found your left front radiator crankshaft router was cracked, so we’re gonna need to replace that, otherwise the car will spontaneously combust the next time you get in it. I’d also recommend we fix the rest of the radiator crankshaft routers – there are 19 – because they’re about a month away from having the same problem. The total comes to $26,748, before tax.”
This is fine, of course. Who really needs to pay rent or eat?
I can hear your rebuttal now, Audi, so just shut up. I already know what you’re going to say. Sam, your car is 15 years old. What do you expect? Well, I guess one expectation would be not having to pay the equivalent of the average person’s student loan debt in repairs over the life of the car. That seems somewhat reasonable. And while I understand the age thing, the car only has 110,000 miles on it. Up there, yes, but certainly shouldn’t be in take-out-a-second-mortgage-on-your-home-to-keep-this-thing-running territory. I’ve seen many vehicles easily make it to 200,000, without the need for constant extravagant repairs, and – amazingly – without the aid of German engineering. It’s clearly not that hard, except for you Audi, you worthless whore.
Well Sam, maybe you just got a lemon. With the millions of cars we produce, there are bound to be a few defects. We all make mistakes, can you forgive us? Not a chance in hell, for this is bullshit. My car is certainly the worst, but nearly everyone I know who’s owned an Audi shares the frustration. A coworker had an extremely expensive “engine sludge” issue – for which there was a class-action lawsuit, by the way – which he would’ve had to pay for out of pocked if he hadn’t been able to prove he’d serviced it regularly (and thus was covered by the settlement. Where’s my settlement, assholes?). My girlfriend Kristen owns a newer version of my car, and has had a laundry list of things break. Both of her rear windows are currently being held up by old concert pamphlets jammed in the window base, for they are non-working and off the tracks. She refuses to get them fixed, and for good reason.
Alright Sam, it’s clear this hasn’t worked for us. We’re sorry. Why don’t you just sell the car, get what you can, and buy a new car? First of all, apology not accepted. Second, despite the money I’ve had to dump into this spawn of Satan, it still breaks down to less than a car payment, which – after dumping said money – I certainly can’t take on now. Also, I fear the commitment, which is why I bought a (gently) used car in the first place. And really, get what I can for it? How much am I really going to get for a 15 year-old car with no a/c and no cruise control? What’s my sales pitch going to be? “Oh, I’ve already fixed pretty much everything that could possibly go wrong. There’s nothing left on this car to fix”? Yeah, that should work as well as a Brett Favre picture message.
Audi, you are the reason I drink. I hate you and everything you stand for. As soon as my transmission breaks – one of the few things I haven’t had to pay for yet – I am planning on flying directly to your headquarters in Ingolstadt, Germany and throwing the damn thing through a window, you Bavarian clothes-wearing pricks. If Hitler is actually still alive, he clearly works for you.
So here we are again, basking in the glow of another thrilling college football season (nationally, at least. It got rather, um…monotonous here in Boulder. And then there was all that horsing around going on up at Penn State. Okay, it was a weird season…but exciting nonetheless). We’re giving a collective satisfied nod to the most deserving player actually winning the Heisman; anyone who brings Baylor to national relevance certainly warrants the honor, and probably a Stanley Cup and some sort of humanitarian award, too. We’re trying to get interested in college basketball again, while wholeheartedly and emphatically ignoring the early, meaningless, small-time bowl games, the names of which seem to get longer and more corporate-laden each year. And, as usual, we’re all feeling pretty darn unfulfilled with our spoon-fed national championship game.
Yes, this seems to be becoming an annual tradition: some combination of computers and human voters select the two teams that will compete in the (Allstate) BCS Championship Game, showing as much tact as John McCain when choosing presidential running mates (and, for that matter, enjoying a similar level of public support). The people revolt. The masses, up in arms, cry out at the injustice. “That’s a terrible matchup! What about (Team X)? They had a much better resume than (Team Y)! THEY should be playing in this game!” Fans of any team in the top 10 make impassioned arguments that THEIR team should be in the national championship game. Dan Patrick takes to the air, smugly questioning how Boise State and TCU, et al, continue to be left out of the BCS picture. Snubbed student athletes halfheartedly compete in lesser bowls. Bob Stoops is pissed about something; nobody is exactly sure what. It all seems unreal, how it could be happening again.
This year, unquestioned #1 LSU (13-0) plays questioned #2 Alabama (11-1). The issue here is not whether Alabama is the second best team in the country – they probably actually are. The problem is, not only did the Crimson Tide fail to win their own conference (the SEC); they didn’t even win their own division (The SEC West). LSU did. Yep, the top two teams in the country reside in the same half of one conference – not all that surprising, considering I’m pretty sure 40% of the players in the SEC aren’t actually human, but mechanically engineered killing machines. It’s just a different world down there.
Ok, so the two best teams are in the same division. Who cares? Well, America cares, because they don’t want to see a rematch. Indeed, that “1” on ‘Bama’s record came courtesy of the Tigers earlier this season, in a 9-6 overtime yawner that was, at the time, generally considered make-or-break for each team’s national championship hopes. (I know this is all review for most of you. Feel free to skip this section if you’re getting bored). “The Game of the Century,” it was hailed, though I’m pretty sure the marketing department hits us with that moniker once every few years. Regardless, I think we’re all feeling a little cheated for tuning in to this so-called must-see TV, buying into the idea that it actually meant something, and then months later come to find out that, no, just kidding, we should probably rethink this, you know what, Alabama gets another try. Never mind that whole game of the century thing.
“Every Game Counts!” the ESPN college football promos have told us all season. Except one, apparently.
So we raise a ruckus. We don’t want to see a rematch as the national championship game, especially of a game that – despite being a strong football contest – wasn’t very exciting the first time. Plus, why can’t Nick Saban just go away? He’s scaring the children. For over a month until the game happens, we stand around in circles and lament the tragedy. Then we sit down to watch the game. What else is there to do?
If only there was some system, one that would select title game participants organically. A system in which we would take all those one-loss teams – and hell, maybe some two-loss teams, too – and throw them into a proverbial bin. We could organize multiple games, where each team included would play another team in the pile; then, when the dust had settled, the winner could move on and the loser would be sent home. After that – and this is only if college football fans would be willing to accept such a progressive change – the winner of one game would play the winner of another, until only two teams remained. I understand if you’ve lost me here; it takes a radical mind to grasp such an unheralded concept. But in theory, ladies and gents, I suppose the last two teams without a loss in such a scenario, well, those two teams would play each other, with the winner being crowned national champion.
Wouldn’t that be something? Unfortunately, we currently don’t know of any system that would yield such a result. Sigh. So I guess we’ll just go forward with the BCS, for at the current time, there’s no other option.
Wait a minute…
Actually, as I think of it more, that actually kind of sounds like the system they use in the NFL, a fledgling startup league made up of college football castoffs. And as the wheels turn, you know, it also kind of reminds me of the systems they use in the NBA, MLB, the NHL, college basketball, women’s college basketball, and every other level of college football. A playoff! Yes! I knew there was a word for it.
Of course, a playoff would never work in the Football Bowl Subdivision of college football (the artist formerly known as Division 1-A), or at least that’s what the honchos at the BCS keep telling us. And this post isn’t really about making an argument for a playoff – that’s been well-documented, and at present time, isn’t the point. Most rational sports fans agree it’s time for a change, so we’re going to temporarily ignore the (obviously erroneous and self-serving) arguments BCS supporters offer for why a playoff just couldn’t be done, such as:
– The extra travel would create too much stress on the student athletes. (They do it in every other sport. The stress level of those athletes is just fine, thank you. And I do find it funny that we suddenly care about the “student” part of the equation, Messer’s Conference Realignment and Multimillion-Dollar Television Contract).
– Fans wouldn’t travel to multiple game sites. (Have multiple games at the same site over the course of a week. Can I introduce you to the NCAA Basketball Tournament? You may’ve heard of it.)
– The lack of a playoff makes every game vitally important. (LSU vs. Alabama, 2011. Enough said.)
– A playoff would do away with the bowl season, and many teams that would’ve previously gone to a lesser bowl game would get nothing. (The best argument yet, but I don’t see why we couldn’t just convert the BCS bowls (Orange, Sugar, Rose, and Fiesta) into playoff games, and keep the shitty smaller bowl games intact. I mean, they’re essentially meaningless without a playoff system – none of these teams are getting another shot after the bowl, even if they win – and they’d be equally meaningless with a playoff. Either way, we should still get the pleasure of watching Rutgers take on UAB in the Meineke Care Care and Auto Parts Holiday Bashathon Bowl Presented By Jack Links Beef Jerky, Inc., on December 27. These are the things that are important to fans.)
Okay, so I didn’t ignore the arguments; forgive me, I can’t help myself. Regardless, the list is not exhaustive, but these are the types of lines we’re given when we ask why they won’t change the system.
But here’s my question: why would they change the system?
Really. Why would the same people who are making millions upon millions of dollars of this system just discard it completely and institute something else? For as much as we, the fans, bitch and moan about the BCS, we still support it wholeheartedly. We decry the indecency of a manufactured title game, but we sit down in front of the TV to watch it when the time comes, contributing to ratings and ad revenue. We label the bowl system outdated, yet we travel in droves to the site where our team plays, filling the stadiums of the same games we call meaningless (at least those of us with the financial wherewithal do). The same people that rail for a change in the college football postseason are the ones feeding the current machine, and making it work. What incentive are we giving the swinging dicks at the Bowl Championship Series – and their cohorts – to change?
None. And that’s why the system won’t undergo any meaningful change until we, the fans, decide to actually commit to such a change. Yes, there are talks of a plus-one model, but those talks have been going on for years, it’s unlikely to happen in the near future, and plus-one provides little real progress while bringing on a new set of problems. It is not the true playoff most fans seek; that is not even being seriously discussed. The only way the bowls system will change is if we decide to change it. And the only way to do that is through the same means that drive the BCS and college football as a whole: the almighty dollar.
We as fans need to stop the hypocrisy of verbally pissing on the college football postseason, then turning around and supporting it with our dollars and eyeballs. No progress will happen until bowl game television ratings drop sharply and those football stadiums are half-empty on New Year’s Days. Then, and only then, those who control college football will take notice, for their financial windfall will start to disappear, their wallets start to thin. Until then – until we commit to making a real and meaningful statement – they will continue to stay fat, happy, drunk, and rich, and we will be footing the bill.
Don’t ask Congress to get involved; this is not their jurisdiction. The Senate and the House have many more important issues – issues of actual substance – to take care of, most of which they’ve proven they can’t handle anyway. The only likely outcome of a governmental intervention in college football would leave a lot of national issues even more neglected (if that’s possible) and make the bowl system even more fucked up (if that’s possible).
For a change to occur, we need to stop timidly accepting what is given us. Until we turn our backs and cross our arms at the things we claim to be fed up with, the machine will roll on, business as usual. If you actually want to see a change, please join me in doing something else during The Game of the Century, Part 2 on January 9.
As you might’ve noticed (and judging by the stacks of fan mail, countless emails, multiple impassioned pleas, and many, many fruit baskets sent to me, it seems you have*), I haven’t written anything in quite some time. Indeed, it’s been long over a month, and the lack of insight and general telling-it-like-it is has clearly been absent from the internet without fresh posts from Top Drawer**. This has not been well received by my mother and random persons that accidentally stumble upon this blog expansive fan base, and rightfully so. An idle blog is no blog at all, and this is unacceptable.
However, dear readers, I assure you this issue is not being taken lightly, nor is it permanent. This blog is not defunct; it is only undergoing a brief hiatus. As occasionally happens at certain times of the year, I have recently been saddled with the dreaded “busyness,” and have been for the most part preoccupied with prestigious and high-profile matters of the utmost import***. I’m sure you understand.
Many of you have expressed confusion, sadness, and even outrage with these (lack of) developments****. But fear not, loyal fans, for this unplanned intermission will not last much longer. Soon, I will be back on the proverbial horse, churning out blog posts at a head-spinning (monthly, at least) clip, and entertaining the masses. Shit, I might even get to it this week. Or next. Don’t rush me.
Regardless, I appreciate you continued support, and hope to see you back hear for some new material in the near future.
Warmest regards,
Sam
* Not intended to be a factual statement.
** Debatable.
*** Working nondescript volleyball matches, drinking socially, and following the weekly exploits of multiple bad football teams.
It’s pretty simple, the recipe for a college mascot. Take an overenthusiastic member of the student body, put him or her into a costume depicting a large animal or mythical creature, and have them jump around and wave a lot. There are a few simple rules for the costume: it should look friendly – more like a Saturday morning cartoon character than an actual animal. Stitching an obnoxiously large smile on the creature’s face usually takes care of this. Its upholstery should be soft and furry – anywhere from something resembling wool socks to shag carpeting – for this is what makes mascots lovable. The fuzz factor certainly plays to the hearts of children, but also appeals across age demographics (much like the movie Shrek…and pretty much anything else Disney and/or Pixar put out). Just make the damn thing furry.
These are fairly rudimentary criteria, yet somehow schools still manage to fuck them up. The majority of mascots have at least some endearing factors, but some are just downright atrocious.
Before we go any further, one thing must be clear: any school which employs a live animal as its official mascot is automatically awesome. They’re just better. Most of the time, live mascots are also accompanied by a suited character, but regardless of any flaws the latter might have it is exempt from ridicule. Employing a real animal gives you a free pass in anything else you might do in the mascot realm, for it just shows more proverbial balls. This goes for schools such as Georgia, Florida State, and Colorado, which takes the unquestioned crown of greatest mascot ever: Ralphie.
I will admit I’m biased here; I do work at the University of Colorado. But I’ve yet to meet anyone to argue that a gigantic buffalo thundering across the football field in front of a game is not the most badass tradition in college football. So regal, so majestic – the Ralphie run always motivates Colorado’s football team to win games play well compete with passion.
So Ralphie’s the best. With that squared away, let’s look at those schools that really screwed the pooch: the worst mascots in college sports.
Kansas State
In my opinion, the unquestioned leader of mascot shame. Why on earth would you combine a giant cat head with the body of a skinny white male? Why not just make it a whole cat suit? It’s as if the funding got cut after the head was bought, so instead of scrapping the project they just threw together this mascot Frankenstein. Look at the picture – even the little girl is creeped out by the creature. Repulsive. Combining humans and animals is never a good idea; it’s why centaurs never really took off. Even mermaids have slowly lost traction over the last 25 years or so. And “Willie the Wildcat” is worse than either of these. Plus, this happened:
Iowa
Again, my bias is showing. I’ve had a strong disdain for the Hawkeyes since I’ve been old enough to say “herpes.” But look at this asshole; he’s a total train wreck. First of all, he’s wearing a helmet without a facemask. Safety hazard. Second, he’s just skinny and awkward – no fuzz factor. And while I realize it’s fairly hypocritical for me to belittle someone else for being a lanky bastard, I more or less gained my stature through natural causes. Herky over here was presumably conceptualized by an overpaid marketing whiz and created by a seamstress. They actually wanted this to happen; the damn thing is designed like a real bird. And it can’t even fly. Failure on all fronts.
Harvard
I hadn’t seen this one till recently, but the boy-geniuses up in Cambridge must not have saved any of their abundant brain power for the mascot. Holy shit, this thing looks like a hung-over guy who just had a stroke.
Penn State
The mascot equivalent of Joe Paterno: an exceedingly outdated design that nobody wants to get rid of in fear of messing with history. Seriously…the scarf? And what’s with those fangs? From the neck up it looks more like a dinosaur than a nittany lion, whatever that actually is. Wait…is that even a real thing? Why am I wasting my time on Penn State? This is slightly demoralizing. I feel like Joe Paterno looks. I’m going to spend the second half of this blog up in the press box.
Missouri
To be honest, I remember Mizzou’s mascot being much uglier than it is. I for some reason had the notion in my head that this stuffed Tiger was kind of haggard and disgusting, when in reality it actually looks pretty normal. Preconceived notions, probably mostly because they had the audacity to name it “Truman.” Is Andy Bernard naming your mascots now? Anyway, I kept it on the list as sort of a protest against the fact that they don’t have a live mascot. I know it’s not practical, but come ON! A live tiger? How f’ing awesome would that be??? Just have the damn thing pace in a cage on the sideline…the other team would piss its collective pants. I’m also petitioning Baylor to have a live bear and Alabama a real elephant. I don’t care what animal rights laws you need to break, just get it done.
Notre Dame
Um…what the hell is this? It’s just a guy. There’s no animal element whatsoever. No stuffing. No fur. This blows. Unacceptable. At least make it accurate; they’re supposed to be the Fighting Irish, and this is just a run-of-the-mill college tool. More fitting would be a slurring drunk with an overinflated sense of national identity.
Texas Tech
As you can see, this is a live mascot, which I said were above ridicule. Well I’m breaking my rule. This is a matter of principle – I have no direct problem with the mascot per se, but I just despise everything and anything about Texas Tech. The colors, the (former) coaches, the stadium, the town of Lubbock, TX – they’re all terrible, and I can’t even put my finger on why. But everything in that town just seems lopsided and dry. And why the hell can kids play football for four years at a tech school? That’s always bugged me. Aren’t they supposed to stay for two years and then go make cabinets or something? Whatever. Just add it to the Tech list. And give me a little time with this mascot – this female Zorro – and I’m sure I can learn to hate it as well.
Tulsa
No words necessary.
Anything from the NFL
Yes, this blog has been about college mascots, but I feel compelled to add this category because any attempt at a mascot in the NFL – or, to a larger extent, any pro sport – usually ends in disaster. I’m not sure why they keep trying; there’s no pageantry in the NFL. It lacks the “school spirit” element of which the mascot plays such a crucial role, so in turn they just end up being weird guys in weird costumes that everyone tries to ignore. Just look at some of these examples – hell, the Patriots guy looks like the main character from “American Dad.” And nobody likes that show, just as they don’t like pro mascots, yet both endure.
Oklahoma State
Not really a terrible looking mascot, but the creep factor is off the charts. Instead of being rowdy and exuberant like most characters, Pistol Peter here is just the opposite, and it’s weird as hell. His head seems to rotate in slow motion like the girl from “The Exorcist,” and every time he walks it is in slow, measured steps, as if he really needs to take a shit and is afraid of moving too fast lest he might have an accident. Not sure what Pistol Pete’s mannerisms should be, but this isn’t working.
There I was, minding my own business and carelessly clicking on the Facebook shortcut for the 787th time today, and what do I see when the page loads? Carnage. It’s completely different! The things that were over there are over here now, and the things that were over here…well shit, I can’t even find them! How the hell am I supposed to know whose birthday it is? This is complete and utter chaos – the stock markets will surely drop because of it. My god, another recession is coming! Why would you do this to us Mark Zuckerburg? Do you hate us? DO YOU HATE AMERICA???
This is a summation of some statuses I’ve seen since Facebook made a few minor changes to its layout this week. It happens once every twelve months or so – The ‘Book does a subtle redesign to shake things up a little and ultimately improve functionality, and The People Of Facebook collectively react as if a cow had jumped in their bathtub. In reality there isn’t much difference from the previous version, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Why would they change a perfectly good thing? the people moan. It’s as if we expect the developers to consult with each of us individually before making any changes. The irony, of course, is that in another twelve months when Facebook does another minor redesign, we’ll collectively freak out again and long for the days of THIS version. The one we’re currently condemning. It’s a vicious cycle.
Anyway, this public outcry made me think about other stupid things people do with their statuses. Be it worthless, obnoxious, or mind-numbingly repetitive, there is a lot of Facebook status garbage out there. I call it status abuse, and it annoys the hell out of me, just as I’m sure it does many of you. Disclaimer: yes, I know I am under no obligation to read or expose myself to other people’s statuses or Facebook altogether, just as the layout change bitchers are not required to visit the website at all if they find it unsatisfactory. Nobody is holding a gun to our heads – we have complete autonomy to use Facebook as much or as little as we want. But let’s be real: we’re all hopelessly addicted, so there’s no way we’re gonna quit. It’s like nicotine, and there’s no Facebook patch. So instead? We come back again and again, and piss and moan about what we don’t like. It’s just easier that way, and I’m totally okay with the arrangement.
So, commence pissing. Commence moaning. Here’s a (certainly not exhaustive) list of status abuses; things that if people stopped doing, it would make the digital world just a hair better. And yes, I realize pointing out ridiculousness in social media is not exactly a novel concept…it’s been done once or twice. That’s fine. I’ll be following this blog with a standup routine about how men don’t like to stop and ask for directions.
Here we go – examples of status abuse in italics, with descriptions to follow:
Ugh I’m so bored! – While I’m sure you are, since you’re spending your time writing something so inconsequential on a website, this has no meaning. You’re bored. Great. Why do you think we need this information? What are we to do with it? I do not care how bored you are, just as I do not care how tired you are. These are things we all experience, but do not need to be shared with the digital world. Please save your posts for something at least marginally in the same neighborhood as interesting. Also, “ugh” is not a word. It just sounds like you’re pooping.
Working till 4, going to the gym, then having dinner – This is not a status; this is a summary of your day. Again, pointless. Those who need to know what you’re doing – anyone actually involved in your day-to-day life – will already know your personal itinerary. The rest of us don’t give a fuck.
Looking forward to the weekend! – We all are.
(a constant barrage of pictures/posts about your infant or toddler) – Listen, I get it. You’re a mother/father, and your child is your life. It’s how it works, and that’s great. But please try to realize your child isn’t everyone’s life. If they do something of actual note or something actually funny, by all means share it with us. But playing flag football or trying on Dad’s hat do not count. In these cases, keep it in house. Tell your spouse and move on. And all those people commenting on how cute your kid is? They’re just being nice. Sorry.
Why does everything always turn out like this? – Ah yes, the classic vague downer fishing for sympathy. If you’re gonna publicly feel sorry for yourself, at least literally tell us what’s going on. We still don’t care, but that would be slightly interesting. But simply posting a few ambiguous words about how unhappy you are, and hoping someone asks for more info – that’s just pathetic. How insecure can we be, people?
LOL – Stop. Just stop. This has gone on long enough. You are not laughing out loud. So stop. For god’s sake just stop.
Stop.
(song lyrics) – I love music just as much as the next guy, so I completely understand how song lyrics can make you feel, and why you’d want to share that feeling. But when will we finally realize that words sung over a tune do not translate to text in a status box? Even if the reader knows the song and the lyrics, the feeling doesn’t transfer. It usually just ends up looking like a poorly constructed sentence. Which reminds me…
thought i’d hed over to smittys and get a beer anyone want to join meeet me over their should be a god time after thatwe can hit the trails or whatever anywon wanna come jis hit me up on the cel – Listen, this is the internet; I’m not asking for perfect grammar and punctuation. But for shit’s sake have some self-respect. This looks like you vomited your status.
(self-pictures) – You know, a single person holding out the camera and pointing it back at themselves (or taking it in the mirror, same thing) for no real reason, other than to show the world how good they look. Usually alone in their home or a random location. This does not make you look fun or pretty, just lonely and insecure.
Down 25 pts in my fantasy league but got Brady playing tonight. Come on Pats! – Hey, I’m as guilty as anyone of oversharing about fantasy football. But what we need to accept, fantasy players of the world, is that nobody cares about our fantasy team but us. Really, it’s less interesting than Chris Daughtry. Share with people in your league, nobody else.
Headed to the show with @JennyMarquis @PaulDzzz, gonna be crazy! #Aintnostoppingusnow – Wrong website. This isn’t Twitter.
Why do we love watching people get angry? Watching them lose their shit? Witnessing them meltdown, raise their voice, and finally express just how pissed off they really are?
For some reason, being there when someone else throws a fit of rage in a public fashion makes a lot of us happy. It’s an inverse effect. And this is especially apt in sports; we love watching sports figures rant and rave. Probably because they’re so composed most of the time, giving stock answers and blank stares, dodging questions in postgame interviews, toeing the company line, and avoiding anything resembling emotion. They desperately avoid telling us what they’re really thinking, and I’d be willing to go out on a limb and say most of them probably don’t even know why they do this. It’s just what they’ve been taught since sixth grade: feelings are bad, so don’t share them with the public. Most coaches/managers/owners preach this religiously, for they seem to think any shred of internal truth that’s shared with the public will surely sink the ship. They might be right; I don’t know. And I don’t really care.
The point is, when a sports figure goes off, we love it. It’s spontaneous and unintended, so we know we’re getting the genuine article. Most coaches don’t ever want to show emotion, so when they do, it’s clear they’re straying from the script. Which is awesome. We finally get to hear something real. What a day!
Coaches tend to be more well-spoken than players, plus they fear fewer repercussions – a coach can’t discipline himself, and I’ve yet to hear of one getting fired for a rant – so when they go off, they really get after it. And we celebrate the rant for years – ESPN will replay it constantly, and YouTube has itself another star. Everyone loves a classic coach rant. Denny Green made our week when he informed us the Bears were who they thought they were. Mike Singletary (re)won America’s heart with his impassioned plea for integrity. Jim Mora is just a weird little man. Mike Gundy had possibly the longest sustained streak of neck-vein bulging we’ve ever seen. Jim Calhoun verbally curb-stomped a reporter. And you could spend a month watching Bob Knight’s best stuff, and still probably not get through it all.
These men are the legends of the field, and for that I commend them. But none of these is the greatest coaching rant of all time. No my friends, that title belongs to short-lived and mostly unsuccessful Chicago Cubs manager Lee Elia. Lee managed the Cubbies from 1982-1983, and did little of note from the dugout. But on April 29, 1983, after another loss which dropped his club to 5-14 on the year, he had had enough. Fans in the stands had been consistently booing and heckling the team, and Elia was not going to take it anymore. So in a postgame meeting with reporters, he went off like an atomic bomb. Unfortunately, being 1983, TV cameras did not exist, nor did fluorescent lights, indoor plumbing, or automobiles, I assume. Anyway, the rant was not recorded on video. But luckily for us, a shrewd ol’ dog named Les Grobstein got the audio on tape. Great work Les!
Now I give you the greatest rant in coaching history. Lock the doors, hide the children, turn down the volume if you’re at work, and find a room away from your parents if you’re 14 or younger – this clip is obscene. Like seriously, saying it contains offensive language is like saying New York City contains man-made structures. Lee was not one to mince words, and for this I love him. I don’t think censoring was invented yet, either, so if you’re offended by profanity, I’m going to need you to either develop a sense of humor or just leave.
(pause)
Still there? Great. I knew you wouldn’t bail after all that buildup. Without further ado:
Isn’t that great? He had absolutely no regard for tact or self-restraint; he didn’t care who heard him or what they thought. He even explicitly told the reporters to “print it!” Outstanding. The man just murders his own fans! The people that essentially pay his paycheck, but Lee Elia doesn’t care. Lee Elia doesn’t give a shit, he just does what he wants. What an outstanding display of keeping it real.
Lee Elia: the greatest rant in sports history. I’m giving him the title. See? The Cubs have won something in the last 100 years.
Heavyweights is the greatest film of all time. This is purely a statement of personal preference, but it is not an opinion; something that feels this undeniable can’t be anything other than fact. When asked to list my favorite movies, I feel compelled to mention that Heavyweights is number one and everything else is residual. Simply put, the movie is a masterpiece, a piece of art so divine that it can only be the work of God himself. Walt Disney Pictures claims ownership, but this is a farce, for no one entity can truly own this film any more than one can own the sun, sky, or oceans. Heavyweights belongs to all of us.
The plot is simple – a bunch of overweight youngsters are shipped to a summer camp with the express purpose of getting their weight under control. The veteran campers are not worried in the beginning; they have developed a system of staying well fed, minimally active, and generally obese throughout the summer, which is why they return year after year. The camp owners – the Bushkins – do little to hold the kids’ feet to the fire; they seem content to buy them go-karts, jet skis, and large inflatable water toys while watching them enjoy the hell out of the summer and neglect any form of weight loss. This all changes when the camp is bought by Tony Perkis (Ben Stiller, before he was Ben Stiller), an overbearing fitness freak determined to whip the little fatasses into shape. All hell breaks loose, the campers eventually mutiny, and general hilarity ensues. Also there’s a hot nurse.
If you are an inferior cinema mind and haven’t seen Heavyweights, you might ask why I hold this movie in such high regard. Well, it has everything:
Fat People
More specifically, fat children. It’s a well-known fact fat people are funnier than the general population; they need to be to make up for their physical situation. It’s natural selection, really. But fat children are funnier yet, with their underdeveloped social skills, irrationally optimistic views on life, and chubby cheeks. Naturally, Heavyweights is full of fat children – it is after all a movie about a fat camp – and it utilizes them to the max. Aside from the obvious curb appeal of lead man Gerald Garner (age 11, 141 lbs) and his phenomenal side-part, the movie also features a young Keenan Thompson as Roy and Shaun Weiss – best known for his work as Goldberg in Mighty Ducks – as Josh. A star-studded cast, all fat, young, lovable, and hilarious.
And let’s not forget camp counselor Pat Finley, who is repeatedly berated by Tony Perkis throughout the film until the end when he overcomes and hooks up with Julie the hot nurse. I’m giving their relationship credit for setting off the rash of “fat guy with hot wife” sitcoms the past 10 years (King of Queens, According to Jim, Grounded for Life, even Family Guy).
A packing/unpacking montage – Always a good idea, executed to perfection here. When Gerry makes his first visit to the Chipmunk bunk – early on in the movie, while the going is still good at Camp Hope – Josh introduces him to the Chipmunk way of doing things. “Chiiiiiiiiiiiipmunks, download NOW!”
Tony Perkis – As mentioned before, played by Ben Stiller, in undoubtedly his greatest yet least celebrated major role ever. Tony is the classic villain, ruling Camp Hope with an iron fist and not allowing even a shred of positivity creep into the campers’ lives. He even has his version of the SS – Team Perkis – to do his bidding and eradicate all candy and fatty food from the grounds. We come to find out that Tony’s intention is to make and sell an infomercial out of the kids’ weight loss that summer, and when things don’t go according to plan, he begins to lose it.
A certain member of Team Perkis does play a crucial role in ensuring all the campers are using the buddy system during swim time, possibly their one redeeming quality. Which brings me to…
An obliviously funny foreigner
A David beats Goliath moment – I assume this cliché still works if David is actually bigger than Goliath, which is the case here. At the end of the summer, the kids are forced into a competition of skill known as the Apache Relay against neighboring Camp MVP, the jock camp. As one would assume, they get their large, round asses neatly kicked each year, but this summer is different. Through sheer willpower, an eclectic skill set, and the cunning orchestration of Pat Finley, Camp Hope finally wins the Apache Relay, and we are all along for the ride. The race culminates in Gerry actualizing his lifelong dream of driving a go-kart as he beats a skilled driver from Camp MVP by jumping clear over him. If you would like to raise the point that this might be a tad unrealistic given Gerry has never driven a go-kart in his life, you can go fuck off somewhere. Gerry had it in him, I’m sure of it.
Inexplicably the Apache Relay is not on YouTube, which is akin to not being able to find any clip from the Boise State/Oklahoma 2007 Fiesta Bowl. A damn shame. I would go through the process of putting this clip up myself, but nobody actually puts any videos on YouTube. We just wait for other people to do it.
Moral of the story? If you want to experience the finest in American cinema, watch Heavyweights. If you’ve already seen it, watch it again, for I assure you it gets better with each viewing. My brothers and I watched the VHS until the tape began to wear out, and then we watched it some more, filling in the quotes of any parts that might be damaged. We couldn’t help but gravitate to its genius. My life will forever be changed by the day my father came home from the video store, set the movie down on the counter, and after examining the front cover, asked “hey, you guys want to watch a movie? Something about kids who make sandwiches?”
– Web developers: when designing a drop-down menu to select one’s “country of origin,” and when the majority of your traffic comes from the United States, please just make the USA the first option. I applaud your effort at equality and cultural sensitivity by listing every country on the planet (and seemingly, a few made-up countries as well) in alphabetical order, but the functionality is a bit flawed. I don’t need to wade through the names of every third-world truck stop before I find my nation. Thank you.
– Why do I continue to see private business names containing the word “armadillo” in them? The Brass Armadillo, The Armadillo Mexican Restaurant, and The Armadillo Border Grill are just a few examples of stores or eateries that have the uncanny effect of making me want to be as far away from them as possible. To whom, exactly, is this repulsive animal supposed to appeal?
– It seems that telling a woman in her early 20s she reminds you of “a young Meryl Streep” is not considered a compliment. Odd.
– Would there be many feelings more satisfying than shooting a neighbor dog that refuses to stop barking? I’m doubting it.
– “This vehicle stops at all railroad crossings.” How am I expected to use this information? It’s awful nice of them to pre-warm me about the looming stops, but aren’t brake lights designed to accomplish that same goal?
(In the summer of 2008, my friend Jim somehow convinced me to travel to Alaska with him and work at a gas station. What follows is an excerpt from my book on the ordeal, Memoirs of a Gas Station. This particular passage describes one of Jim’s attempts to hitchhike from Denali to Fairbanks – I was not with him on this trip, but Jim tells a colorful enough story that a toddler could probably recollect it with 80% accuracy. I’m shooting for 75. I once asked him to put the story into writing himself, but in the midst of assembling a prolific collection of wolf shirts he never found the time. Alas, this will have to do.)
Another car zoomed past, showing no absolutely zero sign of stopping. This was becoming routine. Jim had been walking alongside the road for what he estimated to be an hour and a half, and was getting nowhere. While hitchhiking is an inexact science, you can usually count on some kind soul (or pothead) to pick you up…especially in Alaska, where the laws are a little more lax. Today was not one of those days. The highway was somewhat remote and the cars were sparse, so Jim knew it wouldn’t be all that quick. But he was getting concerned. He had left early in the morning, but the sun was getting warm now. The plan was to get to Fairbanks and back before evening, and it was looking increasingly unlikely.
Another ten minutes passed without any cars. He wasn’t even turning and holding out his thumb when he saw a vehicle anymore; he just held out the Fairbanks sign and kept looking forward. Although his pack was nearly empty, it was getting heavier, and his shirt began getting moist under the straps. He glanced behind him and saw nothing but rock and highway.
The idea of giving up crossed Jim’s mind. He could turn back and be home in another 90 minutes, which would leave enough time to do something constructive with the rest of the day. There was always next weekend to try it again.
He heard a rumble behind him and didn’t turn around. Slowly walking forward with his head half-hung, Jim held the sign to his left when the sound got closer. He knew the vehicle was bigger than a car when it zoomed past by the way it felt. When it was a few hundred yards down the road, Jim raised his head to look. It was an old Winnebago, probably from the early nineties, loaded down with gear. Sleeping bags, tents, random canisters—even a canoe on top. He watched in fascination as the motor home moved down the highway, baffled that it didn’t topple from all the gear throwing it off balance.
The brake lights lit up, then stayed lit for a few seconds, and the Winnebago moved to the side of the road. Jim realized he had a ride and began jogging to go meet the good Samaritan(s). He quietly thanked God.
As he approached, Jim saw a husky bearded man in overalls exit the driver door and disappear behind the vehicle. He got closer and a young boy no more than 12 years old hopped out of the passenger side. The boy yelled at Jim when he was close enough to hear.
“Come on in!” he shouted. Jim began jogging faster, almost running now. He didn’t want to piss off his ride by making them wait. The boy greeted him as he reached the Winnebago. He was fairly normal-looking kid for his age; lanky, buzz-cut, what appeared to be a kool-aide stain around his mouth. He was friendly and exuberant in helping Jim into the back seat of the motor home, where his younger sister was sitting. There was as much shit on the inside of the Winnebago as there was on the outside. The boy introduced himself as Troy, and his sister as Starlight. Starlight must’ve been eight or nine, and probably had ADHD. Her blonde hair was in loose curls and pulled and pinned in every direction. She had roughly half her teeth, and was equally happy to invite Jim into the vehicle. Starlight held a small cat in her lap, which she tugged and squeezed every time she got excited. This happened a lot, and thus the cat was subject to a certain amount of abuse.
Their father was relieving himself outside. Jim tried to get comfortable amongst the mess in the backseat, while Starlight and Troy eagerly smiled at him. They were happy to have a new passenger.
The driver side door opened and revealed the man, who greeted Jim as he climbed back into his seat. He was nearly as odd as his children, and his words boomed through the cabin of the motor home. The clothes he wore must’ve been at least a decade old and probably hadn’t been washed much in that time. His beard was an overgrown and tangled mess of black and gray. The man’s actions were constantly dramatic; the climb into the driver seat looked like an epic struggle, he spoke in a tone just below shouting, and his little round eyes darted around quickly. He seemed to be constantly on edge about something. The man introduced himself as Vince.
Jim thanked him profusely for the ride. Vince told him not to mention it and closed the door. He was just helping out a brother in need. Troy and his father asked Jim the standard questions as the Winnebago got moving—where are you from, where are you going, where do you work, etc. Starlight smiled and stared as she twisted the cat’s ears in unnatural directions. Jim gave them his background and explained he was trying to get to Fairbanks. Vince watched the road and stroked his beard as he took in this information, as if he was making a life-changing decision. You’re in luck, he told Jim, because they were headed to Fairbanks as well. They would be able to get him to his destination. While this satisfied Jim, it also made him uneasy knowing he would be sharing a Winnebago with this family for over 100 miles. Vince promptly informed him that it might take a little longer than expected, because their vehicle didn’t go over 50 miles per hour. Jim nodded as if it was no big deal.
He asked Vince about himself and his family. The man was happy to oblige, and launched into a narrative outlining his world views and plans. They had fled Anchorage to escape the oppressive government and schooling system, and were now headed north in search of deliverance. A place they could get away from The Man. They didn’t know exactly where they were headed, but the plan was to hang out in Fairbanks for a few weeks while they plotted their next move. Vince was currently unemployed; the trip had required him to quit his job. They’d left his wife (and the kids’ mother) in Anchorage to work for a few more weeks and make enough money to finance the move. She would meet them in Fairbanks at some point.
Vince explained he thought about everything spiritually first and logically second. This was the best way to do things. They were being oppressed and abused by the ruthless Anchorage government, and the spiritual and logical decision was to flee. It was very possible the government was still after them, although Vince doubted it would follow very far north. The schooling system down there was a gigantic conspiracy that would certainly ruin the children’s lives if they stayed in it much longer. Vince would home school them from here on out.
He spoke more about the atrocities of government and public school as the Winnebago rambled down the road. Vince began asking Jim if he agreed with what he was saying, and Jim wholeheartedly endorsed all of his opinions. Down with the oppressors. He wasn’t about to disagree with this guy. Soon, Starlight was hopping around and yelling that she had to pee. Vince sighed and maneuvered the vehicle to the side of the road once again. He told Troy to go help his sister, and they both ran out the door as soon as it opened, leaving Jim alone with Vince in the RV. The man leaned back in his seat and was silent for thirty seconds before he spoke again.
“Starlight has not turned out the way we planned.” His voice was quieter now, and he didn’t move his gaze from the road.
Jim didn’t know how to respond. “Oh, really?”
“Troy is shaping up to be an exceptional man. Strong will, very intelligent, good problem solving skills. I am very pleased with Troy’s development. But Starlight…it hasn’t been the same with her. There’s a difference between the spirit of a boy and a girl, you know. You can tame a boy’s spirit, but you cannot tame a girl in the same way. And that’s what is happening with Starlight. I’m not able to tame her spirit.”
As usual, Jim agreed. Whatever you say.
The kids ran back into the Winnebago as fast as they had run out. Vince started the engine and slowly brought the vehicle up to speed (around 48 mph) again. He asked Troy if everything had gone alright. According to Troy, everything went smoothly. Starlight resumed molesting the cat, and the drive continued.
“Young man,” Vince said suddenly as he looked at Jim, “I need to know something. What is your…final destination for today?”
Jim was slightly confused but repeated what he said earlier. “Um, I’m hoping to get to Fairbanks.”
“I know. But exactly, where is your final destination. Where, exactly, do you hope to end up?”
“Well, I want to get Wal Mart or Fred Meyer at some point.”
Vince resumed stroking his beard as he took in the information. He squinted his eyes and nodded his head periodically, still navigating the highway. After a minute of thought, he spoke again. “Okay. Thinking spiritually and logically, I believe we can get you to Fred Meyer in Fairbanks.”
Jim thanked him and said that would be great.
“Now,” Vince continued, “spiritually and logically, what can you do for our cause? What can you…contribute…to our journey?”
He didn’t expect this. But hey, they were giving him a ride. And they might be bat-shit crazy. Maybe if he offered them money, they wouldn’t chop him up and eat him.
“Oh, how does 20 bucks sound?”
Vince stared straight ahead and didn’t say anything. Jim decided to up the ante.
“Or how about 30?”
“Hey!” Vince exploded with happiness. “That would be just great. Did you hear that kids? This young man is going to help us on our trip!”
The kids agreed it was a truly magnificent contribution.
An hour passed. The Winnebago was approaching Nenana, a small river town which was the only real sign of civilization until Fairbanks. Starlight had to pee again, and Vince informed his passengers they would be stopping for gas and snacks. There was a small convenience store in the gas station, and Jim saw an opportunity to pay his debt and be done with it.
“I tell you what,” he said. “Instead of just giving you money, how about we all go inside and I buy you guys some groceries? They have a lot of stuff, and it should add up to around 30 dollars.”
Vince was again overjoyed. “Well how about that! What a kind man. That would be just terrific, wouldn’t it kids? He’s going to buy us groceries!” Starlight and Troy nodded in approval.
When his jubilation subsided, he paused and lowered his voice. “You know,” he said, “I’m not sure if this is the best place for a donation like that to happen. A place like this just…doesn’t have the selection of a larger store.”
Jim said nothing.
“Why don’t we just wait until we make it to Fairbanks, and we can do the grocery buying there?” He looked at Jim.
“Sure.”
Another hour. The Winnebago was finally pulling into the outskirts of Fairbanks. Thank God. It had been a long 2+ hours of anarchy lectures and attempted cat murder, and Jim was ready to be done with it.
Vince asked the best way to get Jim to the Fred Meyer. Jim told him where it was, and Troy quickly recited the quickest route to get there. Over the course of the ride, Jim had found the kid to be remarkably intelligent. He seemed to be articulate for his age, and was thoroughly impressive when reciting math tables. It was anyone’s guess as to what would happen to this intelligence under the tutelage of his father.
The man promptly dismissed his son’s route suggestion. That would take them near an Army base, and Vince was having no part of that. The place would be swarming with government swine, and he would not go anywhere within miles of it. He didn’t want to give the oppressors a foothold. He and Troy argued for a while. Vince finally put his foot down and took the long route, which added another 15 minutes. Jim was getting antsy.
After another eternity, they pulled into the Fred Meyer parking lot. Jim quickly thanked them and prepared to hop out. Vince began stroking his beard as he gazed out the windshield, then at Jim.
“Well, here you are,” he said. “We’ve delivered you to Fred Meyer. Now all that’s left is your contribution.”
Jim rifled through his wallet and realized he only had seven dollars cash. That certainly wouldn’t satisfy the man. He explained that he’d need to go inside and use the ATM, that he’d just give them the money and let them buy the groceries themselves. He told Vince to wait there, and he would be out in a minute.
The ATM was easy to find, right inside the sliding doors. Jim shook his head as he withdrew the money. He could’ve damn near paid his way to Fairbanks on a legit bus for $30. Whatever. He would give them the money and be done with it.
The Winnebago was waiting where he left it. He opened the driver side door and handed the cash up to Vince, who thanked him and reminded him to avoid the oppressors at all costs. Jim closed the door and went back into the store. A wave of relief washed over him. It cost him three and a half hours pay, but he made it to Fairbanks and was now rid of the strange family. He checked his watch and figured he had enough time to do a healthy amount of shopping before he had to start trying to catch rides back. Because of the large volume of cars in the area, it would probably be easier to get picked up going back. He made a silent promise to avoid old Winnebagos from there on out.
The store was huge, and he had a lot of work in front of him. He walked to the food section and decided to start there. Camping food was a priority; stuff that’s quick, easy, light, and cheap. Ramen noodles were a staple. He found some instant potatoes and tossed a few packets into his basket.
Troy was standing at the end of the aisle. Jim didn’t believe it was him at first, but after staring for a few seconds he realized it wasn’t just a look-alike. Troy saw him and yelled down the aisle.
“There you are! My dad’s looking for you!” He motioned for Jim to follow him. Jim stood there for a moment and considered refusing or just running, but that wouldn’t do any good. He reluctantly followed the boy. This was weird.
They moved out into the open area of the store and saw Vince and Starlight standing by the checkout aisles. Jim walked over to see what they wanted, and Vince’s eyebrows rose as he drew near. He wasn’t sure if this was the smart thing to do, but he saw no other option. Well, except running. He kept that option open. Vince spoke first.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding here. You see, I was of the impression you were going to buy us some groceries.”
Um…what? Did he forget about the $30 he just received? Jim explained that he had said that initially, assuming they were buying groceries in Nenana. Since they didn’t want to do that, he just gave them the money so they could buy their own fucking groceries.
“No,” Vince said matter-of-factly. “No, I don’t believe that’s what you said. I specifically remember you telling us you were going to buy us some groceries.”
“Yeah, but instead, I just gave you the money. It’s the same thing. You can buy whatever you want with it. It’s my contribution.”
Vince paused and eyed him. “Kids, do you remember this young man saying he was going to buy us groceries?” The kids nodded and agreed.
Jim stared at the man. He was either legitimately crazy or just a slimy bastard. It didn’t really matter which. He wasn’t budging. What a dick. Starlight was standing there holding a large bag of trail mix and a few packs of beef jerky. Her eyes gazed hopefully up at Jim, as she offered the items for him to take and buy. Jim looked at her, then back up at Vince. Without a word, he grabbed the fucking food, placed it in front of the nearest fucking cashier, waited while she fucking rang it up, and paid with his fucking debit card. It came to $24.17. He handed the plastic bag to the old man without looking at him and began walking away. Vince thanked him loudly for his contribution to their cause. Jim didn’t look back.
Four hours later Jim had bought everything he needed. His pack was loaded down with food and camping gear. He was tired and still pissed about what had transpired earlier. The thought of trying to find another ride was not an appealing one, but the sun was getting low. On his way to the highway, he spotted a parked bus from the Princess Lodge—another hotel located in Denali. There was a short, husky woman with bleached hair having a cigarette out in front of it. Jim pegged her as the driver, and he was right. He introduced himself, explained his situation, and found out that the bus was heading back to Denali in 30 minutes. Jim practically begged the woman to let him ride along. Please, he said, I need to get back tonight. She inhaled deeply on her cigarette as she thought it over. They weren’t supposed to do this, she told him, but after much deliberation, she supposed it would be alright if he sat in the back and didn’t talk to anyone. He gladly obliged, found a seat in the rear, and slept the entire way home.
Why do we love watching people get angry? Watching them lose their shit? Witnessing them meltdown, raise their voice, and finally express just how pissed off they really are?
