shaken, not slurred

Things that ran through my mind this week . . .

. . Tossing a crunched up piece of paper into a wastebasket doesn’t mean you could have made an NBA squad. Which is a shame, because I have been Stephen Curry-like in my epicness, when it comes to the wastebasket toss.

. .  How can you fuck up pizza? Oh, just ask Pizza Hut. They know how . .

. . If your ringtone is Bad to the Bone, you’re probably not.

. . Microwave popcorn will never be satisfying as long as movie theater popcorn is around.

. . Vera Farmiga was born on August 6th, same as my mom. That has to mean something.

. . I’ll miss Letterman. Even if I haven’t watched any late night since I became an old guy.

. . Commmunism sucked, but it sure did make the Olympics more interesting.

. . And speaking of the Olympics, it used to be that you couldn’t find a professional athlete in the games (outside of the soviet bloc countries). Now? You can’t find an amateur.

. . The Black Keys are my favorite band right now.

. . And I still want those little Five Seconds of Summer douchebags dead. Okay, horribly maimed will do.

. . Why am I so ashamed about my iZombie habit?

. . It doesn’t happen very often, but sometimes when you watch C-Span, you’re gifted a brilliant payoff like this one. When I think about this call, it makes me laugh hysterically, wherever I am.

. . Which reminds me. I need to buy a Bluetooth so I can laugh hysterically AND talk to myself in the middle of the street. I’ll never turn the shit on, no need.

. . God knows I’ve tried to decipher the meaning of that Viagra commercial with the couple bathing in clawfoot bath tubs at the top of a hill. I’m pretty sure it has some vaginal significance, but I can’t be certain. Alls I know is that the dude in the bathtub ain’t impotent. His hernia simply ate his penis after he decided to lift a five hundred pound cast iron basin up a hill. And one more thing? Why would you consult a doctor if your erection lasts longer than four hours? The shit is giving you extra innings for the same ticket price! There’s no need to consult a doctor unless she’s wearing fishnets stockings.

. . In the movies, why do the Romans all have British accents?

. . The term ‘team player’ was invented by people who don’t know how to manage.

. . People who play video games sixteen hours a day do not deserve a cool moniker like ‘gamers’.

. . If the league really wanted to punish Tom Brady, they would make him play for the Jaguars this season.

. . You know you’re in America when you’re standing in a checkout line and the person in front of you is accessing an app from a six hundred dollar phone in order to save twenty seven cents on their bill.

And one more thing. I love this song.

Roger GoodellOkay, I get it. Tom Brady cheated.

The only way I’m gonna trash him for cheating is if he’s running on Giselle. Because the only way you’re justified in cheating on Giselle is if you got Aphrodite on speed dial. The only way.

Outside of that, I can’t fault Tom Brady for doing what just about every athlete who’s ever laced up has done. A competitive advantage only works if you use it. And oh by the way, you still have to possess world class talent and incredible smarts to win the biggest games. If the Jaguars deflate their footballs, they’re still the Jaguars.

Jerry Rice and Don Shula have much in common. They’re both Hall of Famers who revolutionized the sport. They also happen to be full of shit when it comes to their take on Balls-Gate. Rice railed on about the Patriots gaining an unfair advantage while conveniently leaving out the fact that, oh yeah, he used stickum when he was playing. Shula talked about how his Dolphins always carried themselves with class and dignity during his tenure. I’m guessing class was out when Shula decided to flood the Orange Bowl field before the AFC title game against a speedy Jets team back in ’83; a game the Dolphins won 14-0. I would never have called these men to the carpet for doing what most players and coaches consider a part of the game . . until they opened their mouths and got all sanctimonious about the shit.

Listen, people cheat at different things, it’s just a fact of life. They cheat on income taxes, spouses, golf, diets, workouts, homework and the most callous offenders cheat at Trivia Crack; which really pisses me off, considering how tough it is to score the top spot in a weekly ranking. Point is, everybody cheats at something, and if they tell you they don’t, they’re lying- which is called cheating with your lips.

Tom Brady cheated with the inflation of a football. The inflation of a football. I know it’s a rule, and I also know it’s such a loosely enforced rule it may as well have been written in Las Vegas. At Happy Hour. The only reason the Colts happened to notice the rule was being tweaked is because they were busy losing the AFC title game. Do you really believe if the Colts would have been winning that game at halftime that they would have noticed the politically incorrect feel of said balls? Hells no! You only bitch about something when you’re losing. That’s why losing teams always pull the referee card after a loss. You know what a referee looks like to winning teams? Neither do I, because they’re invisible.

For me, there’s no worse sporting fate than having to defend a team from New England; a team that has owned my Dolphins for the past fifteen years. But I know what’s going on here, and I know it has absolutely nothing to do with football and everything to do with a league office that desperately wants to look tough. The draft picks and money are window dressing; all show and no real effect on a team with plenty of front office smarts and more money than the Kennedys. And let me ask you something. How is giving Tom Brady a month long vacation considered punishment?

“Tom, you’re gonna have to spend the first month of the season at home with Giselle . .” 

“Bonus! Oh . . I mean, aww shit!” 

The penalties handed down ain’t gonna prevent the inevitable smack down the Patriots are gonna give to the division (again). They won’t prevent Brady from going all Luca Brasi on the Colts when the teams meet in Week 6. If anything, the penalties just gave the Patriots an inspirational theme with which to attack the season.

Thanks NFL!

Cayman Thorn’s Top 5 Deflate-Gate Penalties:

5- Make Tom Brady throw with his left hand all season.
4- New England has to go back to the Pat Patriot uniforms. It’s not so much a penalty as it is a gift to the fans, cause those threads were classic.
3- Bill Bellichick has to wear a suit if he wants to enter the stadium.
2- The team’s pre-game meals to be catered by Denny’s.
1- Don’t give Tom Brady a month long vacation with Gisele in the first place.

Seriously though, the four game suspension really pisses me off. And oh here’s why . . .

Tom Brady- 4 games for being ‘generally aware’ of deflated footballs.
Ray Rice- 2 games for knocking out his fiancee.

This is why I hope the Patriots fight this. Hard. They’ll have to pay the money and they’ll probably have to fork over the draft picks, but there’s no way in hell Tom Brady is gonna lose four games if they challenge it. There’s no way he should. I’m generally aware that he cheated. That doesn’t mean the league is allowed to play catch up for all the shit it hasn’t done in the name of preserving its ‘integrity’.

How can they judge a person’s balls when they don’t have any?

 

baltimore

True thing.

It’s been a long time since I let myself think on what tomorrow might look like. Call it self loathing. Call it depression. Call it running or hiding or lost. Whatevs. I guess I needed someone to tell me “It’s been real,” before I removed myself from this cave of a place I’ve been shacking up in for way too long a time. I guess I needed to hear the answer without ever being given one. And really, I guess I always knew what it would sound like.

And now, here I am, with absolutely no idea as to what happens next. And yanno? This is the very reason I kept this blog, even if I really didn’t know I kept it for this very reason (Hey, I’m not Carl Sagan. Shit . . I don’t even think Carl Sagan was Carl Sagan.) But this blog is here and I am uber thankful for that fact. Because it’s the one thing I know from the way back of things to here. It’s a thread, to which I wear. And Imma wear it some more.

I’m here. Tomorrow’s a thing.

Coo.

Dear God,

I know, it’s been a while and I’m really sorry about that. It’s just that, I’ve been sinning like nobody’s business and I figured it wasn’t a good idea to mix your business with my pleasure. I’m not asking for forgiveness, so chill. You deal with a gazillion ‘do over’ requests a day, and that’s just from the Clintons. I’m in awe of your ability to clean a human being’s hard drive of myriad improprieties while still having the time to make the sun rise and fall on cue. It’s why you’ve got the best selling Book, like, ever.

What I’m asking for is kind of a big deal. To me. And no . . this has nothing to do with that prayer I sent you about Mr Vera Farmiga meeting his untimely end inside the gaping jaws of a great white shark while I attempt to save his life (from a pier) . . . after which, his mourning wife Vera falls in deep and crazy love with me . . and after which we live in God-sanctioned sin for the rest of our lives. I realize this particular prayer was inappropriate, since . . yanno, you never answered it.

Sooo, here’s my prayer. Make Tim Tebow’s last chance at an NFL gig last longer than five minutes. Before you start laughing, hear me out.

Professional sports gives us ‘upsets’, not miracles. That would all change if Tebow scored a spot on the Eagles roster this fall, seeing as how his NFL resume reads like something out of Ripley’s. I realize he hasn’t played football in almost two years, but the Cleveland Browns haven’t played football for a lot longer than that and they still get to lace ’em up on Sundays.

God, I know I should be praying for that world peace thing, or rain in California, or a return to the original Uma Thurman face. But those things ain’t gonna happen unless He walks the earth again, and I really don’t see Ronald Reagan coming back anytime soon.

It would be a mighty cool thing, watching Tebow on the sidelines again. If he happened to make a couple starts, even better. If his mechanics have improved enough to score a start or several and turn summer into fall? That’s best case scenario, and I’m getting ahead of myself. The last time I got ahead of myself, it took me eleven years and divorce papers to catch up. Sorry about that . . .

Admittedly, there is a part of me that would love to see all these so called experts– and Mark Sanchez- eat their words. The peeps who accuse Tebow of being nothing more than a circus act are the same ones who pitch the tent and fire up the spotlight in the first place.

Here then, a top five list of reasons why Tebow deserves another shot:

1- He came out of the University of Florida with two national titles, one Heisman and zero arrests. That last statistic is most impressive when you consider those Urban Meyer clubs singlehandedly raised the crime rate in Tallahassee.

2- His magical playoff run with the Broncos. Okay, it was one game . . but what a game it was. It might not have qualified as miraculous, but it was magical. Professional football hasn’t experienced a magical moment like that since the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders introduced themselves. Which only goes to show, when you and Hugh Hefner collaborate on something, genius shit happens.

3- Tebow’s a virgin. He’s twenty seven and he’s a virgin. This confirms the fact that I am a whore, and I don’t care, because Tebow is the much needed anomaly to a league whose extracurricular activities are illegal and worse.

4- I’ve had it with QBR and all the other statistical evaluations that come with it. Worshipping numbers is mark of the beast stuff. Just look at Tom Brady. Too soon?

5- He’s not Aaron Hernandez. This ass clown shouldn’t count. Not any longer and not ever again.

Tebow, should count. In a league where deflated footballs require more investigation than battered women. In a league where bad guys get bucco chances and TV gigs after that.

On a human level, it’s even more obvious. Tebow should count for the one in a million shot we never stop believing in. He should count for all the right things in a world gone crazy with all the wrong ones. He should count for anyone who ever doubted their ability to make the day work in spite of the long and unforgiving odds. And hell (sorry), if Tebow can make the cut, doesn’t it tell us everything about ourselves in the doing?

If you can’t answer my prayer, I’ll understand. So long as you see it in your infinite power to introduce Tebow to my daughter some day, we can call it even.

 

This. Is tough.

Saying goodbye is never easy. Unless you’re saying goodbye to a cavity. Or a lien. Or a crazy ex-girlfriend who stole away your soul and your Chicago Blackhawks jersey . . .

Alright, I would apologize for digressing, but that would mean I have to apologize for, basically, my entire life. Soooooo,  I’ll spare you that inappropriate and exaggerated space of time  and just go with the words. If I can find them, somewhere. Because, truth be told, the words are failing me in a big time kind of way. The idea that this here post is the very last one I will ever serve up on this blog?

Okay, I’m failing on the words, because this is an April Fool’s joke. And soooooo, Got? Meet you!

Sorry peeps, but I’m gonna blame the calendar for this episode.

This here be an “Annoyances Post”. Part 184 . . or whatever the fuck, not sure, don’t care, lost count, who cares? It’s all about that time of year when a young man’s fancy turns to things he loves to hate. And I got plenty, starting with the more accepted use of the term annoyance in our vernacular . . .

Pet Peeve- The term pet peeve is an utterly ridiculous premise. Why WOULD you keep a peeve as a pet? Makes no sense.  Pets are to be enjoyed. You love your pet, you spoil your pet, you take silly pictures of your pet. Your pet is your silent partner in crime. Pets are God’s greatest creation since beer. A peeve, on the other hand . . sucks harder than Jemma Jamison in front of a camera. A peeve is something you capture, tie up and carry out into the middle of the woods and throw into a ditch you dug earlier. After which you light it on fire and toast a few rounds to its horrible demise. Before covering up the remains with lime, kitty litter, stones and mulch. Umm . . . let’s move on.

“Fam”- It’s family. I understand that most peeps want to spend as little time as possible with family, but saving three letters and a millionth of a second in order to kitsch the word into a warm fuzzy alternative is preposterous.

People Who Use Coupons (Who ain’t me)- When I use coupons, I’m being a responsible consumer. When anybody else uses coupons, they’re just being annoying.

Flo

Mr. Vera Farmiga- Goes without saying . . .

Apple Stems- I love apples, in spite of those evil little antennae that sit on top of their shiny little heads. I can’t eat an apple until I remove the stem, it totally creeps me out.

Short Pronged Forks- I cannot use a short pronged fork. Ever. If there are no long pronged forks, I will either eat with my hands or not at all.

Starbucks- If they want to play mommy and daddy to the world, start with making a decent cup of coffee. It hasn’t happened yet . . .

“March Madness”- The ‘madness’ is make believe. Tournament teams aren’t seeded based on winning or losing their way into that spot. They’re seeded by some suit in a boardroom whose sole responsibility is to paint something provocative. The same teams always show up in the Final Four and the same teams always win it all, so spare me the ‘Cinderella’ talk . . until Washington University in St. Louis is crowned champion, coo?

PG-13 Horror Movies- It’s like fat free ice cream, non-alcoholic beer, hemp tattoos, non-toxic paint . . .Why even fucking bother?

village idiotsSelfies- Nothing says “Look at me, I’m a self absorbed jack wad!” like pointing a camera at your own mug. If you’re not up on your selfie 411, you might think the image to your left serves as the nadir to a creepy trend. Obviously, you don’t have a Facebook account . . .

Zippers- We can send George Clooney to the moon, yet we haven’t been able to come up with a better way to close up shop on our most valuable real estate? I could understand the utility of these mini-chainsaws back when Philadelphia had a professional baseball team and the Titanic was still considered a tragic event and not the best thing that ever happened to James Cameron. But it doesn’t make a bit of sense that selfies get a stick and we’re still stuck with zippers.

Family Car Stickers- Never mind the fact these stick figure decals are annoying as fuck, they also happen to be an incredibly stupid idea. Think about it, you’re advertising your great big happy family to complete strangers . . with road rage issues. What’s the worst that could happen?

The Irish Post Pt. V

The Irish PostThere are two reasons this place is still happening.

For one, it’s the peeps who find their way here and then spell my misbegotten rants with their graceful sense and their timeless sensibilities. In spite of myself, I’ve got the most articulate, spirited, talented, beautiful bloggers that WordPress has to offer. I’m not being hyperbolic, either. I don’t do hyperbole on week days, it’s against my religion. Cayman Thorn may not be a real person, but you all have managed to bring him to life, and keep him there.

The other reason I keep Drinks Well? The Irish Post, of course. It’s the Holy Day for yours truly. It’s not my reason for being, but it is my reason for being certain enough with the mystery of our existential paths. When you can square the roots of this great big universe based on the glorious milieu of familiar smiles all dressed in green, you’ve landed on the 17th.

I understand it’s been a week since ‘me Irish brogue went rogue, but that’s ‘coo. The Irish Post- like St. Patrick’s Day- doesn’t concern itself with running on time. All it has to do is show up, and it has for the last five years. This happens to be one year longer than the “Gipper’s” college career at Notre Dame and the Irish Potato Famine . . which did not happen concurrently if you’re scoring at home.

My social calendar has gone all Howard Hughes (sans the billion dollar bank account) in recent years. I have whittled my tea time gatherings with friends into monthly-ish excursions. This reset is in accordance with my preferences for peace and solitude over poker games and sports bars. It has worked to great effect because just like candy, when you miniaturize something, the flavor only gets better.

We kicked off the evening at Annie Baileys. The friendly confines have been witness to great moments in bachelor history and I wore the Ireland soccer shirt gifted me by Ms. Isla Bonita from back in the day to commemorate the occasion.

Guinness CanI ordered a Guinness for me, Coors Light for Big Papi . . two shots of Hennessy.

“Make them friendly,” I pleaded with the waitress.

No sooner had our drinks arrived than Red came over with her daughter in tow, dressed all in St Patrick and a day’s worth of party. They were on their way home while we were just getting started, but I coaxed them into prettying up our table for a spell.

My girl sat next to Big Papi while her daughter joined me, and for the space of a little while, the four of us settled the world’s business. Red’s daughter is a beautiful creature who just so happens to be more intense than a Scorcese flick. She’d never have to buy a drink if she didn’t feel like it, but it’s not Happy Hour that concerns her so much as the rest of her life and who to spend it with. And maybe I’m jaded and maybe I’m too damned old for my own sake, but I happen to think the girl should fetch those eyes and happily accept those free drinks until she meets a guy whose balls match his bank account. We talk about politics and education and her kids- she has two from a failed marriage. She’s an amazing teacher and a great mother, but then again, she had the best example going.

As the second round of happy showed up at our table, the girls bid us adieu with hugs and kisses. And then it was me and Big Papi left to our own devices, which is either the most dangerous thing in the world, or the funniest. When the place started going loud and young, we moved our two man caravan over to a kitschy little hole in the wall near his place.

The waitress knows Big Papi’s drink before he sits down, while I order another Guinness as we settle in while Elvis Costello is pumping it up from the way back of 1978. And then we’re talking on how great music used to sound and then we’re pining for the days of Dr. J and then we’re laughing at how we used to think Rambo was great cinema. We come to a gentleman’s agreement on how age is just a number; a huge, fucking slab of a number indeed . . but still, just a number.

It was a good place going as St Patrick’s Night went crazy to the wicked ideas of a simple good time and a metamorphosis occurred, wherein a number transformed itself into times and places and rock ‘n roll. And so what if we’re not as young as we used to be? It’s alright, because we’re never gonna be the kind of old we always used to fear. Not ever.

Big Papi’s kid made the scene and I bought him a Guinness. We toasted to girls dressed in green and then the conversation went simpler than that. We talked on the Philadelphia Eagles, we argued on instant replay and we laughed like hell about my 40th birthday; a party that almost never started and then almost never ended.

It was some time later when a fine young chica caught the kid’s attention, after which he sent over a drink. We wished him luck and then I drove Big Papi home and then he told me to thank Red for showing up and I told him I would. He’s always gonna be in love with her and I’m never gonna hold it against him.

I hit the road and I turn on some Elvis and I watch the dashboard clock move St. Patrick three hundred and sixty four days away from me. There’s some melancholy in the thought that another year will pass, but there’s plenty more sustenance in the good times we made happen.

It’s all you can ask.

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