fuck field goal football

Jenna Fischer, from the american version of "The Office" said in Esquire Magazine: "You know what's really gay? Football. Instead of watching it, just have sex with another dude once a year. Get it all out of your system at once." As a resistant football fan, I have to say that Ms. Fischer and I have similar feelings about the sport crammed most down America's throat, followed closely by NASCAR. She's right though. Men idolizing men, dreaming of being them, meeting these hypermasculanized, homoerotic beings. I know people who are obsessed with football players, legal stalking I call it. And as much as I point the finger and tell someone, "Well why don't you just go fuck him in the ass?" when a fan says "I love you [insert player name here]" after a touchdown, sack, etc., I can't help but surround myself around it. I have friends who are obsessed, and God knows, if a friend came to me and said they were gay, I wouldn't sever that friendship and avoid spending time with him. I may disagree with their decision, but I support them as human beings. And damn them if their lifestyles don't permeate into my own. I start using their language, those people, abbreviations for everything. P.I. = pass interference T.O. = Terrell Owens I disgust myself. I have a sadomasochistic relationship with american football. While I loathe ESPN for spending countless hours on speculative gossip amongst never wases like John Clayton, Sal Palantonio, Stuart Scott, and the utterly worthless Sean Salsbury, I can't help but root for the pathetically prodigal San Diego Chargers as a hometown loser, thank you very much LaDanian Tomlinson, Antonio Gates and Shawne Merriman--who I admit to haveing man-crushes on because, as fondness turns to love, my love lies in living vicariously through their athletic greatness. But it is so that I cannot even pay attention to an entire football game. My grandmother always complained that I used the word boring, but I don't think she ever sat through an entire NFL football game that ended in overtime, 9-6. And I even attended this game and paid $8 for beer and $10 for nachos unworthy of the hangover and diarrhea that ensued. So while I love the ever decreasing presence of Chris Berman and Tom Jackson, football just really ain't for me. It's too gay first of all--just ask our Director of Programming who his man crush is. It oversaturates the television channel I want to be watching--even when the stupid sport is out of season. It lasts 3 hours minimum. MINIMUM.

And so my only reconciliation for the atrociously latent homosexuality that is american football is to eliminate the field goal. Sound strange and completely random, no no no. Eliminating the field goal means eliminating the placekicker. Everyone's happy. I know from football players that kickers are not regarded as real players. They are a nuisance, and nobody likes them. They don't take hits, they don't hit. They decide games and they lose games. There are no field goal dances for a reason. Besides, football would be more like playing as a kid, when it was actually fun. You score a touchdown, seven points. Bam. No extra point, or field goal on fourth down. Throw the ball. Take some chances. I told this to a friend who replied, well then we couldn't call it football. I'm not saying get rid of the kickoff, or punts, punters can be badass (Darren Bennett, Chargers punter, 90's, rugby player) but kickers are just douchebags who weren't coordinated enough to play soccer. And you can't tell me a punter couldn't learn to kickoff in an hour or two. Coaches hate kickers, management hates kickers, owners hate kickers, fans hate kickers. I'm pleading. No more 3-0 games, or 9-6. I'd rather see 0-0 ties than boring ass 50 yard field goals. 100 yard field goals don't impress me. Now I understand the man love that emanates from sweaty fans and players elated in victory and sobbing in defeat over the loss of a meaningless contest, and while my true fantasy is for the entire american football thing to implode, I ask that it be a little more exciting with touchdown city. Or nude cheerleaders . . . in Green Bay.

"sequential futility" a candy man's memoir

I like candy, and it shows. i keep company with candy. i don't trust people who tell me they just don't like candy, or don't have a sweet tooth. When people ask me what my favorite candy is, and that question has been asked intercontinentally, I tell them asking ME that question is like asking ME what my favorite movie is. Mood, genre, all time, or current? I'm a headache. But at 24 years old, I can say, right now, that JAWBUSTERS are my favorite form of candy. For those who don't know JAWBUSTERS are pearl shaped jawbreakers, consisting of red, purple, yellow, green and orange variety all equalling deliciousness. The JAWBUSTER merely possesses 6 of the 7 characteristics that I think make for the perfect candy:
1. I can suck on them if I want to.
2. I can chew on them if I want to (albeit at a price of probably losing my teeth)
3. There is a best flavor: red. There is a worst flavor: green.
4. They aren't ridiculously expensive (as is the case for 3 Musketeers Popables, a pricey investment)
5. I can eat them one at a time or a mouthful at a time ( 3 Musketeers qualifies).
6. I can never eat too many of them but I can never really eat that many of them (3 Musketeers exist until gone, DNQ).

The one characteristic not satisfied: JAWBUSTERS are not chocolate.

A member of our fair and equal society, now forming to become the Union of Lost Souls, name pending upon Board approval or President dismissal, is our Director of Programming, Tyler Ott. I believe he shares a love for candy that I do, for stoned or not, we can enjoy our favorite candies together, as different as they might be. For Tyler, his love lies with RUNTS. And I feel confident saying his love lies in what I see to be 5 of the 7 characteristics, since I am unsure whether Tyler feels there is a best flavor of RUNTS. I commend my friend for his diligence in the pursuit of new candies, though feel confident in his eternal love for RUNTS as well as SWEET TARTS and SKITTLES.

It's a candy world and I, I AM A CANDY GIRL!

if only there were a single word to describe the sound of a human whistle, mimicking a bomb dropping. This is my own response to the posting from 9/04. I guess I had an out of body experience. I know I typed those letters, that formed those words, that directed those sentences, and yet I read as a stranger would, criticizing a sequence of such imbecility, only a meth addict or crackhead might find my diction enticing. Well fuck that. Hemingway was on to something. With alcohol, the world's leading legal narcotic, other than tobacco, words flow and bullshit glows and human nature's tendencies toward insecurities and conformity lead everyone to believe that the intoxicated ramblings of a fool are in fact genius. Yet maybe the sheep are intelligent and merely follow the fool for his willingness to transcend, or as I see it, as in the taste of a beautiful wine, despite the price and the pomposity of knowledge, it's all just full of shit. And maybe i play with words as a pseudointellectual, frightening by my own unwillingness to learn, hiding behind an education I don't possess, and only possessed briefly. Or maybe I'm drunk and impotent, wait, indifferent, no impotent, wait, wait, imaginative?

Depressing

Another late night post, but since i'm the only one reading these I can do what i want. like capitalize when i want, and not capitalize when i don't want. and form sentence fragments and so forth. what's depressing is the more than three month absence i realize has occurred and i vow to attempt, vow to attempt, same thing as trying i guess, trying and lying are the same thing-nightly posts, big or small, fat or skinny, although as John Weir might say about me, son of a bitch that he is, god i love him though, "anything from you is fat." not funny, really, too many commas. late night ramblings about nothing, seemingly druginduced from the frenetic, nonsensical pace and nonsensical language. but i assure, i guess myself, that i am peaking as a human being right now. movies ain't got nothing on me. president, over and out.

rebirth

in an attempt to reanimate a position on my moviegoing experiences, i feel it necessary to begin with my lazy truth for absence: lazy and lazy, i lazily feared myself into thinking i couldn't access enough verbage to parallel the preceding logs. so, in short, i will be short, and brief. and so on. president, over and out