menometrorrhagia

In honor of college football's glorious return tomorrow with no less than 16 games kicking off between 6 and 10:30 ET, I'm going to roll out my poorly thought out predictions for the season.

1. If Notre Dame does better than 9-3 Brady Quinn will win the Heisman. Worse than that and Adrian Peterson is the front-runner. My favorite dark horse candidate: Brian Brohm.

2. Baylor will finish third in the Big 12 South. I'm going to say 7-5 or 8-4 with the opener against TCU being the swing
game. Wins over Northwestern State, Army, K-State, Kansas, TAMU, OU, and Oklahoma State. OU might be a stretch, but with the debacle at QB the Sooners have going on, and extrapolating from last year's overtime game, it's doable. They might conceivably beat Tech too, but I wouldn't bet on it. The Bears don't have the depth at DB to run with Tech.

3. UT goes 12-2 with losses to the Buckeyes and the Fiesta Bowl opponent. Nobody in the Big 12 South competes this year, and the Horns defense and speed to the corner on offense expose Nebraska as not quite ready for prime time. Twice.

4. Michigan versus SEC champ for the national championship. The Wolverines are pretty stacked on offense, and if they get through the Big Ten with only one loss that's not to Ohio State then they can punch their ticket. I'm not sure who
wins the SEC, but if somebody does it without a loss (or with one loss depending on the rest of the contenders) they have the inside track. My money's on Auburn or LSU.

5. USC will win the Pac 10 but lose to Cal. They will play for their fourth consecutive national championship in the Rose Bowl.

6. I will contemplate buying a TV just to watch football this year. I'm considering a series of Sears rentals: buying a TV and returning it within the return policy from several stores in succession until the season is over.

7. You guys were not adequately awed by the power of Mentos and Diet Coke evidenced in the links provided in my prior post. I predict this will bite you in the ass when you fail to heed the warnings and eat Mentos with Diet Coke, producing projectile vomiting and a ruptured ulcer in your esophagus. I predict I won't feel sorry for you.

I don't travel much, but I did pay attention when they started banning hair gel on flights. Now, I'm sure that's a legitimate threat, but they've missed something that certainly has the potential to do tons of damage. Perhaps you have heard of the Mentos and Diet Coke phenomenon? If you haven't, you should pay attention as it may have serious implications for your personal health. Now that is probably reason enough to ban mentos from airplanes, but now it's gone nuclear! I am not kidding about this in the slightest. I have to fly to Houston soon, and if I see some bearded fucker 
munching a Mento on the plane I'm taking him out. Let's roll.

PS New pics up at Phenie's flickr page, including my favorite.

Terrible Vegetarian Date Conversations vol. 1:

 1. "Hi I'm Juan Cue. I'm so vegetarian my middle name's Tofu."

     "So you're name is Juan Tofu Cue?"

     "Well I don't usually on the first date, but okay."

2. "So you don't eat any animal products?"

    "Well I do eat pussy."

 

Unused Limericks for Pawpaw's Birthday Party

   Once Pawpaw's fly was not at the top

    Pete worried that out his peter might pop

    But Pawpaw just sighed

    And quietly replied

    The most it could do is just flop

 

Other post ideas:

    My baby the super genius

    My baby the most beautiful ever?

    Phenie greater than Mozart?

"Sir, what were you doing when you first felt the chest pain?"
"Masturbating."

So the first part of the night of infamy that I have a vague memory of is Roy slapping my face repeatedly in the parking lot of the Windmill Country Store about a quarter-mile from my house. I guess he gave up, or I somehow managed to convince him that I was awake enough to go home. We pulled into the driveway and I was oblivious to the lights on in the living room. It had never dawned on me that my parents would wait up for me to get home. (As an aside, this is one of those fucked up double standards my parents had -- they never waited up for Chris and pretended that his drinking in high school was not that big of a deal.) So I stumbled into the house with Roy helping propel me toward my room. Remember, I was wearing someone else's clothes and was totally shit-housed. I tried to just slip into my bedroom without saying much.

But I failed.

I ran into the closed door to my bedroom, blowing my previously iron-clad cover. My mom said something and I replied "I had two beers right before we left, that's why I'm like this." Roy opened the door and we slipped in. Roy then locked the door as I proceeded to dry heave into a trash can. Roy even tried turning on the radio to drown out the retching. My mom made Roy open the door and asked me whose clothes I was wearing. I remember thinking she was a moron and replied that they were mine in as snide a voice as I could manage. I had no idea I had on someone else's clothes. That's all I remember from the night, but I guess eventually my parents convinced Roy he wasn't screwed because his friend was an idiot and everybody went to sleep, ending the second worst night of my life.
(File worst night under: Donkey Show)

Denoument

The next morning Roy and I were getting ready for the basketball game we had to play. I was pretty oblivious to the scene from the night before but knew things weren't cool. I'm standing there brushing my hair when my dad lays into me. He was going off about some cordless drill. To this day I have no idea what he was talking about. I never saw any fucking drill in that car. If it was in the car then somebody just stole it. He also went off about getting his suit wrinkled. Again I had no idea how the suit got wrinkled but I at least knew that a suit had been in the car. I told him I'd pay for the dry cleaning. He told me that wasn't the point. (Speaking of point, at some time during this "conversation" he started poking me in the chest like he was trying to pick a fight with me. Which is exactly what I think he was trying to do. I mean he only outweighed me by about 50lbs.) I made the mistake of asking what the point was and he cuts loose with the greatest line in the history of parenting:

"You lied to me and you trashed my shit, you
                                                                        stupid,
                                                                                    little,
                                                                                             fuck."

It's even better if you are familiar with the look of complete disgust that my father has mastered. He's like the Yoda of insulting facial expressions.

Epilogue

Roy and I went to our game. I remember we were playing Austin Hyde Park. They wore red and gold. In the locker room several people were shocked not only that I was there to play but that I was even alive. That game was one of the few high school games that I played without the absolute panic of making a mistake that normally consumed me on the court. I let the anger and hate kindled by my father dictate my play. I scored a couple of times on put-backs that I normally wouldn't have fought as hard for. I threw some well-placed knees to cutters coming across the lane.
At one point I got a steal around half-court. I saw Roy streaking down the right side and whipped a bounce pass that he caught in stride and he went up for the lay-up. This stocky guy for Hyde Park completely took Roy out without 
even making a nominal attempt on the ball. I snapped. All the anger I had pent up from my dad's questionable 
parenting style, not just from that morning but from my entire life to date, suddenly welled up and sent me into a 
blind rage. I hauled ass and tackled that chubby fucker into the wall behind the basket. We were quickly separated and I was tossed out of the game.
The varsity team for Hyde Park was all sitting together watching the game from about the third row of bleachers. They were 17-18 year old men. Clearly, and intimidatingly bigger than I was. They started heckling me as I stalked off the court. I did what anybody else would have done in that situation. I stopped and challenged them all to fight me. Raising my arms and beckoning them, I repeatedly shouted "Step out on the court. Right now, let's go. Just step out on the court." Eventually I meandered over to the bench where I kicked one of the chairs, grabbed a towel and hid my face in it so people wouldn't know I was crying. I think Kyle Krejci knew because he was sitting so close.
Anyway, I was Ron Artest before Ron Artest was Ron Artest. I'm thinking of suing him for ripping off my schtick.