Curing Stinky Beard Stank

Grow a beard. It's manly. Wash that beard. It's disgusting.

If you're blessed with the thick facial hair that's potential is even a quarter of da beard on Brett Keisel's face, then you owe it to the world to grow that son of a bitch out. But the world is also owed a thorough washing of said facial feature.

Hair holds scent well. Too well. While you may grow accustom to the unrelenting odors emanating from your chin Wookie, the general populace has not. The stench of the fourth meal gut-bomb you chowed last night lingers.

Now, your beard scent is of little concern if you're a hermit attempting to attract bears; however, if the social scene is your goal, beard scent improvement is a must.

Start with a scrub-a-dub-dub using some Head & Shoulders shampoo. The potent formula not only cures dandruff but allows hair to defy gravity. Like a puffy, billowing cloud, your beard is heavenly. Warning: do not use Head & Shoulders on your pubic hair.

Now that the beard is floating like cloud nine, pull out that fresh lice comb. In addition to quelling pesky lice rebellions, the comb will sift out the food leftovers you were saving for later. The Frosted Flakes from this morning. The Fritos from lunch. The French fries from last week. Dinner is served.

The beard may give the illusion of a fluffy cloud, but it's rough as sandpaper. Time to condition that bitch. Lather up with a handful of Suave Apple Conditioner. Fuck...use the whole bottle...it's cheap as shit. Costs a buck at the Dollar Tree and at that price it's easy to afford a supple beard that smells like you fucked apple pie.

Finally, spritz the beard with the fantastic fragrance of Axe Body Spray. Axe commercials guarantee hot bitches and you haven't had an encounter with one of those since your last trip to the gentlemen's club. Don't hold back. Let the Axe can do the work.





Wonderful. Magnificent. Delicious. Free of food clutter, the beard no longer smells like the Denny's Grand Slam you just ate. Instead the beard buddy on your face smells like a dry-scalped, apple-fucking, frat boy and could be used as a facial flotation device.

Super manly.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Fantasy Football Fuckers

Every year you sign up for the same blistering punishment. The NFL season is supposed to be a joyous time, but instead, you're dealing with the anguish of another awful fantasy football clusterfuck. Nothing goes your way. Draft picks blow. Injuries hit hard. Your piecemeal team doesn't perform.

Beyond the expectation of failure and embarrassment are the various personalities making up the rest of the league. The other managers are friends, but they're the friends you love to hate. Here, now, are the ten people in the league that make you hate the new American past time...

The Cocky Champion
Everyone hates a winner. Hey, chump, you aren't God's gift to fantasy football. Gloating lasts a couple months and you're guaranteed a reminder next season. The league was auto draft, twat hole!

The Mid-Season Quitter
Overly enthusiastic at the beginning of the season, this ass clown waves the white flag after getting repeatedly crushed through the first eight weeks of the season. He's lost interest and neglects his rotation. The abandoned team has byes and IR's throughout. He beat you week one, but everyone else gets an easy W.

The Armchair Quarterback
Lending rotation advice in the middle of Sunday's action. Often unsolicited. Where the fuck were these injury reports and player updates four hours ago?!

The League Historian
Dude...I don't give a FUCK who won the cheapo $5 buy in league last year, let alone who won it the year prior. Focus on this year. Your team blows.

The Team Analyst
Reviewing all the draft picks and free agent signings...of his team. Reliving the draft picks one by one. Recounting the stellar free agent snags. Even the obscure players. Who fucking cares?

The Player Hoarder
This guy cleared his bench immediately following the conclusion of the draft and started collecting all the quarterbacks. When your QB goes down, you have to deal with this dude, and he'll screw you. He won't win the league, only your ire.

The Chat Braggart
No one reads that smack talk chat window. The text is in faint, six-point font and your insults suck. Get some wit and a skywriter and I might pay attention.

The Low-Ball Trader
Offering you a trade for your first round RB with some garbage free agent shit you watched him pick up last week. Nice try, buddy, but I can read the stats sheet just as well as you. Go fish.

The Fantasy Professional
If this guy isn't getting paid to play this shit, he's spending way too much fucking time doing it. Lobbies for an in-person draft annually and is consistently disappointed. He's willing to take a field trip to training facilities for scouting purposes.

The Lucky Noob
This newbie's never played in a fantasy league. He's been asking you for pointers all season long. When it finally comes time to smear this queer in head to head, he owns you 147 to 62. Fuck.

Fortunately your fantasy team doesn't make the playoffs so you can enjoy what's left of the regular season. With a sigh of relief, you can finally appreciate a Sunday afternoon of NFL action without pouring over stats, rooting for players on teams you hate or dealing with the bitches in your league. It's over...

...until next season.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Recovering with Tiger Blood

The surgery is over. Recovery is in full swing.

One week ago, I went in for a pain-reducing, face-altering operation to realign my jaw and correct my enormous cross bite and minor under bite. The surgeons moved my crooked jaw one centimeter over, the upper jaw two millimeters forward, and the lower jaw two millimeters back. Metal screws and pins were used to hold the hot mess together. End result: a straight bite alignment with a very slight over bite.

The remnants of the extensive correction linger. Scabs over the small pokes into various veins. One needle prick is still swollen and bruised because of a botched entry by a student doctor. I happen to be a squeamish pussy and damn near passed out as a result. The nurse saved me.

Swelling was the worst the day after leaving the hospital. By the time I arrived home, the steroids controlling inflammation had worn off and my face ballooned. Overly voluptuous lips. A massive double chin. Chipmunk cheeks. Friends compared the temporary bloating to Professor Klump. Fortunately the swelling seems to be rapidly receding.

Numbness has taken over the lower half of my face. The tip of my nose and upper lip have been slightly affected. Lower lip and down has been put to sleep and does not respond to touch. Attempts to move comatose flesh are futile. Facial expressions suffer. Because I lack the desire to take a razor to parts of my body without feeling, I am now growing a beard. Besides keeping me warm and fashionably Portland, it hides the bruising well.

Blood ceased trickling from my nose a few days ago. Instead blood combines with mucus and forms a dark red gelatin mix that is blown out into tissues. If the blood/mucus gelatin isn't cleared, it sets in the nostrils as crystal blood boogers.

Pain has been tricky to finger. Most invasive portions of the operation were conducted on bone, specifically the mandible and maxilla. Because of the bone work, I was told to expect immense pain. Worse than my last surgery, a hernia repair. So far I have found this not to be the case. During the hernia repair the surgeon had to cut through considerably more flesh and muscle resulting in near blackout levels of pain. The recent orthognathic operation was similar to breaking a bone, and while I have been woken by pain at night, I have not experienced symptoms of fainting...excluding that student doctor experience.

Of course pain management is primarily done through the use of my friend, liquid oxycodone, or as I have nicknamed it, Tiger Blood. The stuff is bright red, smells like poison and tastes about the same, but the potent effects make stomaching the drug more palatable. In an attempt to raise some quick cash, I am weening myself off the Tiger Blood and plan to sell it on e-bay ASAP.

Pain, swelling, and a new mouth appliance make speech difficult. For the first couple days following the surgery, mumbles and grunts were commonly misconstrued leading to a frustrated ShavedGolf scribbling communications on anything in arm's reach. As the pain and swelling subsided, the speech returned, and I was able to make my first semi-coherent phone call yesterday.

Maintaining proper body weight for the duration of recovery will be a struggle. Surgeons predict that a patient's body mass will be reduced by 10%. Meaning my already skinny ass will be losing approximately 14 pounds. In the past week since the operation, I've lost eight pounds. So for those of you mathematically challenged, I may shrink six more pounds to end up at a puny 128. Just about nine stone for you weird English relatives. Can't remember the last time I tipped the scale at such a staggering weight.

Weight loss is, of course, attributable to my chewing inability. My incapacitated incisors are due in large part to my fucking jaw bones breaking, but also because the surgeons installed a nice piece of hardware. A quasi mouthguard. Attached to my upper braces, the mouthguard will remain in place for about four weeks. For now, I'm all liquids. But hopefully soft solids can be added to the menu as early as this weekend.

The operation and it's buildup have been a long process, but with recovery well underway, an end is in sight. I'm encouraged by what I've seen so far and the recovery progress made in just one week. Very soon I'll be back to the fun-loving, high-spirited, binge drinker you know and love...

...but until that time, I'm trippin' balls on Tiger Blood.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Surgical Strike

The teeth are orthodontically positioned. The surgeons are well practiced. The hospital is prepaid. Tomorrow I wake my ass up at 4:30 AM for an orthognathic necessity .

This surgery has been on the docket for the last decade. It's been a goal for ten years, and the dull, numbing jaw pain has been a constant reminder of a goal left incomplete. The old adage of course being anticipation is a bitch, but I did not fear the surgery because I had pain and the operation was the solution.

However, anxiety caught up to me Tuesday morning at the pre op. The surgical strike force explained their mission in detail. Using a spliced up skull as a prop, the head surgeon provided a visual illustration of the procedure. To cope with the mental images of my filleted pallet, I decided to blog. Second only to drinking heavily, I find writing to be the most therapeutic activity.

Tonight's therapy will be a blanket criticism of just about everyone I know and a six pack of the cheapest beer I could find at the gas station Kwik E Mart.

Without a doubt the question received most frequently: "Are you nervous?" Trite. The conversation opener was constantly repeated. The absurdity of the question should be obvious, but it became the norm in response to the operation's description. Comparable to the greeting, "How are you?" demanding a response of "Fine," I'd respond with an equally meaningless, "No."

But to answer the question truthfully...of course I'm fucking nervous! A team of dudes I barely know are about to cut open my head through my mouth to slice bones in my skull and rearrange them as they see fit. If I wasn't nervous for a procedure of this magnitude, I would not be fully appreciative of the future face fuck coming my way.

Conversation progresses with, "Oh, I'm sure you'll do fine." The statement is not to be taken literally, but I do for humor's sake. Well I won't be doing anything. I'll be knocked the fuck out and so doped up when I come to I'll likely ask the surgeon, who looks like Dr Turk, to do his awesome Poison dance.

The conclusion is something along the lines of, "Welp...good luck!" Thanks. This I need. Good luck. Despite my friend's sincerity, half the time it feels like a *wink wink* I know you're fucked statement. Luck is all there is to offer because there is immense ignorance about the procedure from both parties.

In the name of therapy, I hope you all find it in your hearts to forgive my blog bashing of your dribble surgery banter over the past month. You're a friend, and I appreciate your sympathies.

Like a porn star faking an orgasm for a better performance, I'll fake courage for my operation in the hopes of not looking like a total puss. Despite being scared shitless, I know that I'll come out much improved on the other side. Less pain. Improved bite. Beautiful smile. The knowledge of better days ahead is keeping me together...

...that...and a cheap ass six pack.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

The Best Butler Toast

The Best Butler role is a time-honored position dating back to ancient Greece. Terminology coined as a play on words: a Maid of Honor is the indentured servant of the bride while a man-servant, or butler, serves the groom.

In weddings where the Best Butler is called upon, the Best Man generally serves as a figurehead. Duties such as the bachelor party, tuxedo fires, and making it rain may transfer from Best Man to Best Butler. Truly, the Best Butler is there to be the man behind the Best Man behind the groom. A well respected three-way.

This past weekend popped my Best Butler cherry as I serviced one of my Best Friends and helped him marry his lady. After 24 hours of brainstorming, 12 hours of memorization, 6 shots of Crown Royal, and 3 beers, my toast went a little something like this...

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name's ShavedGolf, and for those of you who don't know me, I went to university with the bride and groom. I also happen to be the groom's Best Butler, which the bride assures me is a title of endearment. I'll keep this brief because no one wants to hear the Best Butler ramble.

To start this toast off right, I need to address all the ladies in the audience: yes, it's true, I am single. However, I can speak from experience of being in a committed relationship, the one question guaranteed to get to the guy: when are you getting married?!!

The groom has fielded that question for as long as I've known him...and maybe longer.

Now...I'm not saying this to call people out because I'm as guilty as anyone else. I too went to the groom, maybe a couple times, to ask, "Hey man, so...what's the game plan? I just wanna know what I can expect. What sort of timeline are we thinking here?"

The groom's answer was short and probably well rehearsed, "ShavedGolf," he said, "we'll get married when we're ready."

Obviously that day has come as we celebrate tonight the commitment these two best friends have made to one another. I'm honored to be a part of this ceremony and I couldn't be happier for both of you.

So here's a toast, to two of my best friends, who took their time, did things their way and did things the right way by them.

To the bride and groom!

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Amusing Searches: The First

Blog maintenance is a bitch. Each week I wrack my brain for trivial tidbits and pull some random topic out of my ass that's just entertaining enough to keep you fockers coming back for more. Failure to entertain leads to dwindling readership. Dwindling readership leads to a deflated ego. Deflated ego leads to erectile dysfunction. So you see, I MUST entertain to maintain this prose boner.

This week the audience will be entertained with its own creativity. I've kept an eye on the blog stats and collected some of the off the wall shit you people are searching that somehow lands you on my page.

Of course, I can't just leave you with your own idiocy, so I ridiculed the searches for your viewing pleasure. Please enjoy.

sexual hand gestures
Undoubtedly searched by a naive junior high school administrator confused by hand gestures being made by unruly adolescents. He wants to write them up, but had to consult my blog for evidence of their wrongdoing.

jedi regret
Clearly a mistake. This search is a paradox. First, Jedis do not make mistakes, so there's nothing to regret. Second, regret is an emotion, and Jedis don't have that shit. Fucking, noob.

is my plasma donation fee tax deductible?
Are you seriously coming to Blogger for tax advice? That's like using Wikipedia to write a research paper or relying on Urban Dictionary for Scrabble reference. Next up, soliciting legal advice on your Facebook wall.

disguised masturbator
A plethora of meanings could be drawn from this search. Masturbator dresses up in costume for a roll play scenario to spice up love life with self. Masturbator disguises self to blend with surrounds and surprise attach unsuspecting victims. Masturbator disguises action of self pleasure for the purpose of performing publicly (see: Mike Cooper).

pubic floss
You sick fuck.

army men fighting godzilla
Truly an unfair match up. There isn't a military force on the planet capable of taking out Godzilla. Fuck...if Matthew Broderick couldn't do it, what chance do army men have?

dub mother f*cking step shirts
I get it. Dubstep is popular. Wait. No I don't. This shit looks like the crappy animatronics at the Pirates of the Caribean ride. Dubstep is the robot reborn. Shame on you for liking it and the shirts they make about it. But more importantly: how the fuck did this search get you to my blog?!

Ahhh...just reached prose boner climax.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

The Real 99

Portland weekend news coverage television was dominated by Occupy Portland protesters and the Portland Police efforts to retake Chapman and Lownsdale Squares. The cluster fuck was entertaining for five minutes.

Anticipation spurred on by the events of the Oakland occupation had me hoping for so much more. Tear gas rolling along at ground level of the muddied parks. Police hurling stun grenades. Occupiers returning fire with concrete and Molotov cocktails. Police on horseback mowing bitches down. Occupiers lighting street fires and tipping cars. Police wielding batons and slapping unruly fuckers.

Instead, I was treated to docile police, crippled by local politicians and cell phone cameras, politely handling the uncouth mob. Chanting crowds almost obediently following orders. Portland Police asking, by show of hands, who would like to be arrested and then obliging the request. All followed by a tedious period of confusion and indecision on the part of the occupiers attempting to make their next move. Seemingly the most courteous eviction ever.

Truly horrible television.

Perhaps if the showdown had gone the way of my occupation crackdown fantasies, I wouldn't have found myself so pissed at the interruption of my weekend football routine. But as it was, local media, foaming at the mouth and wanting something to happen as desperately as their audience, kept on rolling through some of my NFL R&R.

I raged.

The experience drew me to one conclusion: the occupation is done. At the point the movement can't hold my interest during a lethargic Sunday and I opt to wash dishes and do laundry instead, we have a problem.

I'm not a part of the 1%, but I'm sure as hell not a part of what has been dubbed the 99%. I'm the Real 99. I'm plugged in. Hold a job. Own a car. Rent an apartment. I contribute to the GDP. And after a hard week, I like to occupy the couch with my ass, turn on the TV, and veg out to some fucking football.

I don't think it goes too far to say that I've earned that right.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm sympathetic to the idea of protesting for beliefs. Raising awareness through protest is a fantastic way of exercising the right to freedom of speech. However, the period following awareness must be filled with action.

The systemic issue with the Occupy movements across the US is their impotence to incite change. Rhetoric pours out from the camps, but inactivity diminishes the goal. Change will only be sparked by action. Start at the grassroots. Create community outreach. Get involved with charities. Form a PAC.

Change will be spurred by doers not complainers. Be the catalyst.

Alternatively, my advice is simply to go home. Because while you're out in the winter cold occupying some clod of dirt that used to resemble a city park, the 1% is getting richer and laughing at you.

And the next time you decide to get semi riotous, please consider all football schedules.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Raging Data Boner

Data was the fun-loving and adventurous robot on Star Trek: The Next Generation. He was one of my favorite characters because of his logic, feats of strength and charming personality. As a robot, Data was unexcited by events, situations, sensations, etcetera that would arouse humans. Instead of reaction based on emotion, Data responded to external stimuli with rationality and practicality.

Because of Data's thought process, it can be assumed that he would never pop a raging robot boner from intimate encounters, raunchy daydreams, or morning wood. His robot upbringing would lead to a ferocious Data boner from robot activities.

Number crunching. Coding. Programming. Analysis. All create opportunity for a raging Data boner.

Sadly, *spoiler alert*, they killed Data off.

However, my weekend festivities ran me straight into an individual of seemingly similar trait. A logical thinker. A numbers guy. A real stuporous personality. Stuporous and sponged.

Roughly six feet in height and weighing upwards of nineteen stone, the plump and inebriated man stumbled his way towards our table. His hair was thin on the sides and bald on top. He wore a large pair of rimless glasses. Wardrobe was not dawned to impress. The facial hair: a chimo 'stache, not long, not short, hued a slight tinge of red.

As if Data was back, yet, had let himself go.

The thick-bodied, drunkard announced his intention to join our party of two by stumble-stepping his way over, sloshing his beer as he set the pint glass down, and pulling a chair from the adjacent table to rest his fat arse. Clearly boozed and further faded than either of us, he drunkenly sipped his brew as we hurriedly finished our conversation.

Drunk Data was not demanding attention with his actions but commanding it with his presence, so as the conversation reached an uncomfortable point of "who the fuck is this guy," we turned to him seeking the answer.

In a response that can only be described as a naturally reserved man, fueled on liquid courage, and attempting to play coy, drunk Data began interrogating us. Do we live in the area? What do we do for a living? Would anyone notice if we went missing?

We humored him with dribble dialogue.

At some point he mumbled about programming, the state of the economy, Linux, and the Romulan Star Empire.

Both parties soon tired. We sat there in silence.

The bar was dead and the tenders were preparing for close. As my friend and I had already squared, we had no obligation to hang around. Not wanting to get phasered, we patiently waited for drunk Data to make the first move.

"There are girls," he said, dramatically pausing, possibly for effect or possibly from a buzzed tongue, "over there!"

We sat blinking.

He continued his thought, "We...should go talk to them!"

Drunk raging Data boner had targeted a table of women out of eyesight but clearly on his robot radar. Alcohol had changed Data's body chemistry to crave more than numbers. Logic had escaped him. Determined, drunk Data staggered from his chair to his feet and sloshed more beer to the floor. He turned his back to us and headed towards the women.

We slammed our drinks and ninja vanished.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Adventures of Young ShavedGolf: The Four Year-Old Transgender

Keen and astute observation of the world and people who inhabit it was a gift I was graced with from a very young age. I was an early bloomer. Memories of early childhood go back as far as my terrible twos. Complete sentences were formed around the same time, and my favorite book was a tie between the Oxford English Dictionary and the New York Times.

Doctors attribute this impressive toddler cognition to my extended stay in Mum's womb. After a few weeks of extra maturation past due date, it was decided a Cesarean section was necessary. If I wasn't coming out, they were going in after me. I was evicted by surgeon knife. I didn't go quietly.

Unfortunately the preschool percipience provided an unwanted side effect: an understanding and self-awareness of appearance. Turning to Mum and Dad as my role models of proper presentation wasn't enough, and because E! News didn't exist, I turned to my only other outlet: Walt Disney.

Cartoons weren't the first choice of a boy genius, but I played along to amuse my parents. Plopped in front of a TV, VCR rolling, I'd spend time examining the make-believe world and the ridiculous Disney creatures that inhabited it.

The study of Disney drew me to one obvious conclusion: eyelashes were the key in determining gender.

In a cartoon world where few wore pants and the unabashed had no shame in flaunting their "private areas," indication of gender was most easily taken by a character's eyelashes and their propensity to bat said lashes. If they had eyelashes, they were female. If they batted their lashes in a flirtatious manner, they were definitely female.

I was stunned. I had been lied to. I was living a sham.

Pants clearly were unnecessary, but more important was the horrific discovery that I had eyelashes and was clearly batting them with every blink. This little boy genius knew he was a boy, but cold the eyelashes also mean that I was some sort of mix? Perhaps some combination of man and woman. An in between gender.

Logically, I was a freak.

Scared and alone in the world, I did what any transgender four year-old would do: pick a side and commit. I was a boy, goddamnit, and I wasn't about to let some luscious girl lashes destroy my world.

Scissors were an obvious choice. The kindergarten shears with the round blades would allow me to trim up the unwanted eyelashes to a length deemed manly. I snatched the pair of mini scissors and calmly walked to the bathroom. Once in front of the mirror, however, I chickened out. Scissors? Eyeballs? These two clearly did not go well together.

The realization that I was more afraid of the scissors in my face than I was afraid of being a girl led me to the only plausible option left in my childish sex change arsenal. I would pluck the fuckers. While plucking wasn't enjoyable, it seemed like a more permanent fix. Perhaps the repeated pluck would also rip out the follicle and the lash would never grow again. Essentially extinguishing my femininity at the root.

The plucking process was long, arduous, painful, and lasted most of the afternoon. Breaks were necessary. Between plucking sessions, I'd admire my handiwork. I was truly looking more manly with each eyelash destroyed. Affirmation of manhood.

At around 5:30, Dad arrived home from his white-collar workday. He was greeted by his son. He was greeted by a man.

The family sat down for a well deserved dinner after a hard day's work. Dad coming home after a successful day of doing whatever the shit he did when he was gone, and me, busy at home, manning up.

But...wait...hang on...

I paused from my eating and examined my dad closely. Dad, he who embodies all that is man, had hair attached to his eyelid...like eyelashes...like me.

Relief.

Lessons to take away from my childhood traumatization: eyelashes do not determine gender and pants are unnecessary.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

The Small Victories

Discouragingly dreary days during autumn months lead many into a depression spiral. Reduced light. Reduced heat. Reduced fun.

Feeling like a piece of shit in body and spirit can create a multitude of problems in a personal or professional setting. So in order to keep from feeling blue, maintain friendships, and prevent getting shit-canned, I celebrate the small victories of the day. Honoring the accomplishments is not done with a party or event. No cake and ice cream. No fireworks. There is no physical reward, but instead, merely the knowledge that I did something great.

The sensation from utter relief and complete satisfaction is achieved through no easier means than by vanquishing an especially dirty turd. The bigger the better. A mega dump is like birthing, but instead, you're stuck with the product for a couple minutes, not 18 years. Completing a bowel movement creates a sense of jubilation for the remainder of the day. Discharge two in 24 hours and you're the fucking boss!

Ingrown hairs are painful, irritating, and unsightly. So there is no greater pleasure than removing these ingrown fuckers from your body. Like a surgeon carefully conducting an operation, the cancerous hair is identified and removed. Savor the victory by holding the rogue hair hostage and taunting it - make any survivor think twice about growing backwards. Bam! A true triumph of the day!

Nose hairs seem pointless, so there's nothing worse than one of those dicks catching air out a nose porthole. The bastard's at least an inch and looks like a spider leg. As if a pubic hair was bored of it's crotch domicile and moved north to find better real estate. It's dominated the nasal cavity and pestered the nostril interior for far too long. Pluck the fucker. Evict it with a discriminating tweezer tug. Fuck yes! Feeling successful now!

This isn't a lunar landing. It's not the end of a war. There's no cure to a deadly disease. In the spirit of such mediocre events, no physical reward is called for. Don't pop champagne. Don't toss confetti. Just crack a smile, throw your hands up, and announce to the world, "I did something fucking epic!"

See? Feel better?

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Useful Euphemisms

Modern day perverts are scrutinized for everyday vulgar vernacular they drop on unsuspecting conservatives. In the quest for political correctness, it may be requested that the deviant's crude language be silenced. In effect, censorship.

Limitations on the freedom of speech drive the dogged degenerate underground and forces s/he to speak in code. Enter euphemisms - dialect developed with the goal of leaving the tight-assed traditionalist scratching their pointy head. Aiding the cause of these devil-tongued terrorists, the following is a list of my seven favorite euphemisms, their definitions, and their proper use in a sentence. For consideration and inclusion in your vile vocabulary, I give to you...

The Seven Useful Euphemisms

Pressin' the Flesh
Start cautiously. Tread lightly. Test the waters with this commonly used term for a handshake, but turn it into something more.

Proper use in a sentence:
I took her back to my place and it wasn't long before we were pressin' the flesh.

Bump Uglies
First utterance CE is credited to Dr. Turk Turkleton on an episode of Scrubs. The word bump refers to the action of thrusting during intercourse, while the uglies refers to the reproductive glands.

Proper use in a sentence:
Dude...it smells like someone bumped uglies in your back seat.

Wrestling the Wookie
Kashyyyk is the dog-eat-dog home world of Wookies within the Star Wars universe. A planet where the strong survive and the weak are fed to Rancors. To wrestle with a Wookie and live to tell about it is a true feat of strength, courage, and honor. The phrase was coined to disguise the act of masturbation.

Proper use in a sentence:
I wrestle the Wookie so others don't have to.

Body Spelunking
Mask sexual endeavors with an uncommon sport: spelunking. The cave innuendo is lost on no one, and throwing body on the front clears up any possible misnomer that you wish to explore a subterranean area. Not recommended for use around those with claustrophobia.

Proper use in a sentence:
We harnessed up and went body spelunking all afternoon.

Bedroom Tetris
As a child growing up in the 90s and glued to my Game Boy, I had hours of Tetris practice. Now as an adult, practice is proving to pay off as I attempt to fit pieces together in the bedroom.

Proper use in a sentence:
I just set the highest score in bedroom Tetris!

Sheath Excalibur
Condoms are a necessary evil in a pre monogamous life. Fortunately the word condom doesn't have to be with this throwback to the Knights of the Round Table.

Proper use in a sentence:
King Arthur never had to sheath Excalibur when he was with his dear Guinevere, but they were married and his only option was lambskin.

The Trilobite Tangle
Evolution is a commonly accepted theory in the scientific community. Human genitalia evolved from trilobites. This veiled provincialism again refers to sexual intercourse. Not recommended for use around Creationists or those with weak stomachs.

Proper use in a sentence:
Just finished studying for our paleontology exam; we really crammed the trilobite tangle.

If the above made your virgin ears scream, you may side with the aforementioned condemning censors. You may be one that would limit the speech of others in the interest of pushing their beliefs through the subversive claims of political correctness. You may have motivations to straitjacket the tongue of those that speak such a loathsome lexicon. If that's the case, this blog may not be for you.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

The Bachelor Diet Picture Cookbook

Recent conversation among age peers and geezers has been dwelling on my diet. Upon hearing bachelor diet ingredients, nutritional guidance is commonly offered. Suggestions pour in. Eat this. Cook that.

Well fuck this and fuck that, I say, and prepare yourselves for the ultimate guide to eating like a dude in his mid-twenties. Exactly what you need to satisfy the stomach pangs of that closet bachelor within. Welcome to The Bachelor Diet Picture Cookbook.

Chapter One: Appliances

Effective preparation of food will be seriously inhibited without the following bachelor diet tools.

The microwave. This fucker cooks everything. Period. If this fucker does not cook food item, item is deemed inedible and is not purchased.

One fork. One spoon. One knife. Utensils may be left dirty for extra flavor.

The pizza wheel. Also doubles as crust-remover for those wishing to experience elementary PB&J like mom used to make.

Can/bottle opener combo. Truly the Swiss Army Knife of kitchen appliances.

Chapter Two: Food

These iced meals are nutritional gold. Title and packaging allude to the idea of healthy contents within. Cooking instructions found on the back. Plus they're cheap. Stock up on these things Y2K style.

Fred Meyer sells a $1 microwavable pizza. That's one fuggin' dollar! A greasy gut bomb delight.

Fish has protein in it. Tuna is a fish. Nuff said.

Beverage of choice: beer. Light beer is used to wash food down. Dark beer is used as an MRE.

Snack of choice: crackers. Often accompanies a dark beer MRE for crunchy satisfaction.

To spice up the menu, keep seasonings on hand. Pepper. Cholula. Love.

Chapter Three: Supplemental Insurance

Because doctors, nutritionists, and lawyers may not agree with the above dietary recommendations, supplement consumption with supplements. Like a meal in pill form.

Afterword:

Satisfying the stomach is, in the end, merely an opinion. Personal preference for tantalizing the taste buds should not be judged by others. However, in the spirit of those casting scorn upon my cookbook, I'll slight your eating style.

Time spent slaving over savory concoctions doesn't make you superior. It boils down, pun intended, to an opportunity cost pertaining to quality of life. We make a judgement on how much time we allot to food preparation, and what you dub as useful exploration into culinary genius, I deem a waste.

It's a hobby. Food is the result. No different than this blog. Every week I spend hours blogging. It's a waste to some, but the end result is a blog, and I am satisfied. Equally satisfying is the variety of Lean Cuisines in my freezer.

So the next time you consider handing out unsolicited advice from your nutritionally superior lifestyle, please keep in mind that the individual on the receiving end doesn't give a shit. If it tastes good, he eats it.

After all, you are what you eat, and I eat the bachelor diet.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Gone Fishin'

Just kidding. I don't fucking fish. I'm sick as balls and have a splitting headache. Promise to be back next Wednesday.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Adventures of Young ShavedGolf: My First Speed Stick

Miss Kim began the school day in her 5th/6th blend with a stern lecture. According to our teacher's nose, there were a handful of children in the elementary classroom that were beginning to smell. The lecture turned into a preamble for sex ed later that year, but Miss Kim delicately explained how our bodies were changing and because of these "fun and exciting changes," we smelled. We were instructed to wear deodorant.

As an ascetic, forward-thinking fifth grader eager to grow up, the invitation into adulthood via deodorant was borderline emancipating. Furthering evidence of age impatience was my choice in reading material - while most were reading Boxcar Children and Goosebumps, I was studying the Oregon DMV pamphlet for my learners permit a full six years early. Adulthood could not come soon enough. I needed to grow up. I needed to land a career job. I needed the American Dream. And deodorant was going to take me there.

I can only imagine what my poor parents were saying behind my back after I hurried home that afternoon and excitedly informed them that Miss Kim demanded I wear deodorant. To be labeled as parents of the smelly kid is less than desirable. Perhaps in fear of the family reputation or worry that the stinky issue might embarrassingly come up at parent/teacher conferences, they gave little resistance to deodorizing and rushed me to the nearest supermarket pharmacy aisle.

Options were limitless. So many deodorants used flowery marketing like Xtreme Sport or Arctic Chill, but I wasn't fooled. My first deodorant was a Speed Stick. The name said it all. I needed a deodorant that could keep up.

To say I was excited about wearing the stuff is a gross understatement. Ignoring my mother's request to unload the groceries, I dashed down the hall to the bathroom, ripped my shirt off and began generously applying my Speed Stick.

The rush. The tingle. The sensation.

Notifying my parents that I was no longer their little boy was the hardest part. I explained to the audience of two, likely rolling their eyes, that I had applied the forbidden pharmaceutical fruit of adulthood to my underarm and it smelled delicious.

Figuring that I could master the Speed Stick, respect it's power, and wield it responsibly was my parents' mistake. Like Smeagol to the Ring, my fondness for the newest weapon in my adulthood arsenal quickly grew into an obsession.

Lathering my pits post shower soon seemed insufficient. Frequency of use was increased to include the typical morning application and an additional bonus round right before bedtime.

In following the American mantra of more is better, the next move was to increase the dosage. Smothering skin with Speed Stick became a five minute OCD ritual. My pits were lathered with cakey layers.

The final act was to maximize potency by increasing surface area covered. Underarms were inadequate. My chest was carpet bombed with the stick. There was a method. An enormous X stretching across the entire chestal expanse was drawn followed up with a box outlining my frame.

My Speed Stick lasted a week.

The deodorant protocol lasted until the morning mom caught me applying the X across my chest. She told me I was ridiculous, I was wasting the stick, and if I couldn't use it properly she would take my new found manhood away.

Ashamed of the eccentricity and frightened by her threat, I weened myself off.

Uncle Ben once said, "With great power comes great responsibility." His life lesson is applicable in no better situation than my deodorant coming of age tale. Respect the Speed Stick and it will love you back.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

My Burn Ritual

I am all that is man, and as such, my testosterone levels are off the fucking chart. Men tremble while in the presence of my virility. Women swoon with a whiff of my potent man musk. Children cry from the knowledge that my fiercely refined masculinity pales their fathers'.

But alas, being a man and a half is not all it's cracked up to be. The problem with testes the size of kumquats is the ferocious growth rate of my bold-bristled beard. Whispering whiskers are an endangered follicle within the fur ecosystem on my face. Sandpaper stubble is the norm.

Based on stubble strength, I cannot rule out the possibility that, if left to grow, the epic facial feature would reach two or three feet in length with enough girth to conceal a weapon, ferret, and a small child. If I was a caveman neanderthal, or a dirty hipster from the east side, I'd proudly sport the magnificent man-beard. Unfortunately, my high-powered, sales-oriented, client-facing vocation of importance dictates the face be kept an uninhabited expanse of opportunity.

Truly a blank canvas has never begged for a greater work of art; be that as it may, I conform, and shave the shit out of that bastard.

My morning shave ritual sees me up at o'dark:thirty. Fumbling while half asleep, I manage to clear cut the beastly five o'clock shadow from yesterday with an electric razor. This is no small feat, for the five o'clock has evolved from the manageable PM version to the dangerously powerful AM monstrosity. The bastard is close to becoming self-aware and achieving the end goal: rule my face.

Electric razoring lasts roughly ten minutes and is never truly successful. Already the face flesh is reeling from the vicious punishment of the painful Panisonic. While attempting to vanquish beard beast, the skin will occasionally break open. This weakness is not known by my relentless facial hair. A splash of cold water from the faucet notifies my face that phase one is complete.

But the beard battle has just begun.

Touch ups are done in the shower with a Gillette Fushion ProGlide Power. The name says it all. Five blades of fury designed to take no hair hostage. Fresh blades will glide effortlessly across the face and remove any trace of the Euro grunge look; however, forget to replace the razor's head often enough and you'll pay dearly.

Post-op, my face burns with the intense fieriness of a thousand suns. The torrid temperature causes searing pain and agony lasting hours. The follicle genocide and subsequent emotional scarring is a ritual played out in my bathroom daily. This is the price I pay...because I'm successful...and far more manly than you can imagine.

It puts the lotion on it's skin or else it burns like a mother fucker again.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

The Art of Ninja Vanish

Ninja Vanish (verb): To quickly disappear from sight like a Japanese warrior escaping to fight another day.

The art of ninja vanish dates back to seventh century Japan. Large armies were commissioned by the Japanese emperor to defend the island from Mongol invasions and the occasional Godzilla attack. The elite among these men were recognized early and expected to train as Ninjas. These archaic special force commandos had a multitude of special skills to carry out their warrior missions, but no one skill was as important as the ninja vanish.

Perfecting the ninja vanish is paramount to living a productively prodigious modern-day life. Many situations necessitate a ninja vanish, yet many have not mastered the ways of this amazing feat. The art of ninja vanish is easily perfected with the designation of a target, proper timing, and knowledge of terrain.

Designating a target is the first step in successfully ninja vanishing. Know your enemy. Bystanders do not matter. This clod cannot see you leave. The ninja novice should start with the designation of a single target, but as skill improves the number of targets may increase.

Example: While in a bar you run into that weird kid from junior high that always smelled like shit, wore socks with flip flops, and had an awkward skin rash. Time has not changed him - he smells, dresses, and looks the same today as he did in school. This man is your target. The patsy won't know what hit him.

Appropriate timing when performing the ninja vanishing act is accomplished through recognition of opportunity. The moment a window opens, the ninja vanisher must recognize it and act swiftly. There's no time to think when you're going mach 3; you think, you're dead. Realize fortuity and get out of dodge.

Example: The smelly, sock and flip flop, skin rash has been chatty Kathie about old junior high drama of little interest to anyone but him. Not much has been accomplished in his life since he went through puberty, so he's singled you out to reminisce about a time most of us choose to forget. Opportunity presents itself when skin rash suddenly gets one of his infamous nose bleeds. Claiming to run for napkins and paper towel, you bounce. Peace out, stinker!

Lastly but not leastly, to achieve maximum vanishing, a ninja must be ever mindful of surroundings. Constant cartography of terrain and topography is vital in avoiding the post vanishing altercation with the previously designated target. Know the lay of the land and you shall be rewarded.

Example: Stealth mode through the bar crowd post vanish from the rancid, rash-covered, flip flopper. Recall the exits from earlier mental mapping. The previous preparations will lead you to the closest door. Take it. Your freedom is at stake. Vanish into the night.

Japanese warriors gifted a magnificent skill, and it has been passed down and perfected through the centuries. The art of ninja vanish rewards the practiced and prepared with successful escapes of awkward or unwanted situations. Proper application and preparation of the technique in today's world will aid the modern-day ninja in the quest for avoidance.

Know it. Learn it. Use it.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Awesome to Coast: A Riveting Recap of Raucous Running

Hood to Coast is an annual event pinning teams of twelve against asphalt, weather, sleep deprivation, chafing, and each other. Hood to Coast 2011 marked the 30th anniversary of the race dubbed The Mother of all Relays, and was comprised of roughly 1,250 teams, 15,000 runners, 4,100 volunteers, and a countless number of porta-potties. Each runner is responsible for three legs with leg distances ranging from 3.5 to 8 miles and total individual mileage ranging from 13.5 to 20. By the ocean front finish line, the runners have covered a collective 200 miles, developed a new threshold for pain, and discovered new and fantastic bodily smells.

Hood to Coast 2011 had the pleasure of hosting yours truly, resulting in increased performances by those lucky enough to be graced with my presence. The vicinity of my running libido plays factor - the closer I am, the faster you run.

But there is a price paid for such speed. Injuries plagued our team. While the physical hardships might have seemed harmless at the moment incurred, some scars may last a lifetime.

If you'll recall a blog entry back in June titled Rejected Hood to Coast Names, I provided team names discarded by teammates. Unbeknownst to most, one team name from a much longer list of names had been chosen: Chafed and Confused.

The team name turned out to be a dark premonition of things to come because, you see, chafing turned out to be our first injury. More than one had the chafe between their legs. One may have had chafing of the underarm. But I can say with confidence that I had it in the worst of locations.

Nipples aren't meant to be raw. They aren't made to bleed. In fact, I'm slightly confused why I have them at all. Yet, when rubbed to the point of chafing, those man tits will make it known that they are not happy. Especially in the shower. And for days after.

While the chafing of my mammary man glands was harsh, it was not the most immediate of concerns when out on the course. Blisters are a well documented occurrence for walkers and runners alike. Friction in the shoe has the potential to cause sores just about anywhere on the foot.

Fortunately, it's the common appearance of these foot pustules that gave us the foresight to prepare. Both vans of team Chafed and Confused had a cooler stocked with delicious deli meat. Many consider this just another form of race sustenance, but really it doubles as a blister countermeasure.

Once a toe hot spot has been detected, liberally drape deli meat in the area to soothe the afflicted foot. Ensure the deli meat remain cold by rotating applied pieces between foot and cooler. Teammates will tell you they'd prefer to know when you're in need of such treatment; however, I've found it best to keep this antidote between you and your ham sandwich.

Indeed blisters are painful, pus filled, and unsightly, but it is very possible the full extent of greater injuries may not be appreciated for decades to come.

Compression shorts: worn by many, feared by few. Until now. Tightness of the confining man spanx thrusts the male genitalia into the elevated body heat of the runner. Testicles cannot sustain sperm life at those extreme temperatures causing temporary sterilization. Forgo the condom post 8 miler because you're shooting blanks.

There is great reason to be concerned that fertilization after compression shorts might not be possible - Sam and Frodo were cooped up in that genital sweat-lodge between my legs for 24 hours...they probably won't fight for Gandalf anymore.

News outlets sell tales of crazy runners participating in a ridiculous relay race. They'd have you believe the level of training required is too arduous, the financial price tag too high, the bodily harm too great. And after reviewing the above injuries, I might agree with them.

But it's nothing my deli meat can't cure.

See you on the beach in 2012!

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Pitfalls of Internet Dating or: How I Didn't Meet Your Mother; Part Three: The Date

Welcome to ShavedGolf StoryTime's first mini-series entitled Pitfalls of Internet Dating or: How I Didn't Meet Your Mother. The three part series is dedicated to the abysmally depressing world of cyber-arranged relationships.

Disclaimer: While I do not consider myself a professional in the sport of eHarmony creeping, I am sexually frustrated enough to blog about it. Keep in mind this mini-series is written by a man - any woman that disagrees with what is written beyond this disclaimer can grow a dick.

Part Three: The Date

Impressive. Most impressive.

Like a spider building a web, you masterfully constructed a cunning profile designed to ensnare all the single ladies (Part One: The Profile).

Like a venus flytrap luring its prey with a sickly sweet scent, you whispered sweet nothings via messages to the defenseless vixen (Part Two: Messaging).

Now, in Part Three, the most delicate of tasks is presented: like a caveman picking a cavewife and dragging her back to his cavehome to make cavelove, you must deceptively convince the saucy wench of your legitimacy face to face, drag her back to your mancave, and make manlove.

The date is not a foreign concept unless you're you. Unfortunately, you are you. Rusty and out of practice. Clueless on what to wear. Baffled by appropriate game time performance and a terrible conversationalist.

Added to the stacked odds is your inability to decide where to put your hands.

If you could just hold your hands down at your side, we'll begin.

Tackling the first obstacle, the rust and recent inexperience on dates, is as easy as stopping in at the neighborhood bodega. Snatch the frostiest forty because you're going to prefunc. Following the chugalug, I recommend some mouthwash...you smell like malt liquor.

There are fine lines between buzzed, tipsy, drunk, and shit-your-pants blackout drunk. If you're anything past buzzed, that suspicious gentlewoman across the table will detect it, be offended that you didn't share, and cut the date short. Don't test her.

Moving on to the inadequacy that is your fashion sense. The attire for the evening will depend on the woman and the venue. When charming a high-maintenance, classy creature at a fancy affair, suit up. When entertaining a gal in her early twenties at a college dive, pop the polo collar. When hanging with a smelly hipster chick at the vegan bar, wear skinny jeans and don't shower for a week.

Game time performance will already be improved with confidence provided by the liquid courage and appropriately chosen threads, but that alone will not do. First dates are interviews. This is a test. An opportunity for the lady to sniff out the lies and pin down the creeps. Don't let her get the chance.

Any interrogation of your interests and hobbies is merely a scan to detect anomalies in your story, so turn the questions on her. With every answer provided, ask another thoughtful query related to the details she gave. This will take plenty of concentration because her details are trivial, she's a terrible story teller, and you're distracted by what appears to be some portion of the appetizer stuck in her teeth.

Rapid fire questions will inevitably lead the girl to gush about herself. Perfect. Now you can zone out for ten to twenty minutes.

Once awake from conversation hibernation, pay the tab, and leave.

Rinse and repeat this formula until you grow a pair and ask her up to the bachelor pad for a Netflix night and cheap bottle of wine. Then make her a woman.

Some thought you'd fail the profile. Many thought you'd flunk the messaging. Most thought you'd flop on the date. But congratulations, because despite all the atrocious qualities and disgusting traits that make you, you, you actually made it through.

Now get out there, message, date, and wrap your tool.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Pitfalls of Internet Dating or: How I Didn't Meet Your Mother; Part Two: Messaging

Welcome to ShavedGolf StoryTime's first mini-series entitled Pitfalls of Internet Dating or: How I Didn't Meet Your Mother. The three part series is dedicated to the abysmally depressing world of cyber-arranged relationships.

Disclaimer: While I do not consider myself the authority on the art of electronic courtship, I am horny enough to blog about it. Keep in mind this mini-series is written by a man - any woman that disagrees with what is written beyond this disclaimer can eff a goat.

Part Two: Messaging

Congratulations on surviving the gargantuan task of creating an online dating profile, but quit patting yourself on the back because there are more social landmines ahead.

Statistically speaking, you're outnumbered, outwitted, and outgunned. Demographics of internet dating sites follow the 80/20 rule in multiple categories:

• 80% of the population is male, 20% female
• Of the female population, 80% are lesbians, jury's still out on the remaining 20%
• 80% of the non-lesbo crowd is out of your league, the remaining 20% are possible soul mates

Forget the plenty-of-fish-in-the-sea argument because when all these categories are compounded, you're left with maybe two or three women. Better get to work, you've got some trolling to do.

Finding a target is tricky. Most women choose shitty pictures and write even worse profiles. They can do this because they are women and therefore rare. Economics 101 teaches the principle of supply and demand; this principle can be applied to internet dating: women are in short supply, there is a high demand, and you are fucked.

While searching for The One, you will notice that all women of the website fall in to one of following five classifications:

• Woman with well crafted profile - she's ugly
• Woman making kissy-face in one/all of her profile photos - she's a moron
• Woman wearing fake mustache - she's a smelly hipster
• Woman who opens profile with statement about how she hates to talk about herself - she's a liar
• Woman with humorous profile - she's mythical

Pick the one that irritates you the least. She'll do. Click the message button and let's begin.

Messaging is similar to approaching a woman in a bar; the exception being you are only as foul as your ugliest picture, so she might actually correspond with you. Admittedly untrue because your half-witted and slurred pickup lines aren't doing you any favors at the local cantina either.

Peruse the target's profile, carefully note anything she mentions that is interesting, and cling to this tidbit like a life preserver. This unusual factoid is your in. Exploit it. Ask the prospective lady friend a question about her odd personal detail. Sprinkle in some humor. Tell her nothing about yourself (she doesn't care). Keep it brief.

Once you go pro, you can expect a success rate of roughly 13%. That's right...for every 100 bitches messaged, you'll get 13 responses back. FYL.

Banter back and forth with any wench willing to give you the time of day. Ask questions about anything she says. Omit trivial addendums from life experience - information about you only makes her yawn. The key will be to convince the self-centered female counterpart on the other end of the Cat 5 cable that you aren't a creeper. This task is challenging because you are, in fact, a creeper.

Inevitably she'll get bored with you and quit responding. Raise the white flag after two follow up messages, request for an exit interview, and proposition for casual sex.

Move on to the next victim. Rinse and repeat.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Pitfalls of Internet Dating or: How I Didn't Meet Your Mother; Part One: The Profile

Welcome to ShavedGolf StoryTime's first mini-series entitled Pitfalls of Internet Dating or: How I Didn't Meet Your Mother. The three part series is dedicated to the abysmally depressing world of cyber-arranged relationships.

Disclaimer: While I do not consider myself an expert in the art of interweb dating, I am lonely enough to blog about it. Keep in mind this mini-series is written by a man - any woman that disagrees with what is written beyond this disclaimer can STFU.

Part One: The Profile

Your face. The first impression. The first thing people judge. The first challenge in profile construction: which picture of your goofy ass to choose for the world wide web of women to critique?

The Jiminy Cricket of internet dating would tell you to snap a MySpace style pic at the very moment of profile conception so that you are as honest and upfront with every woman that ogles your profile.

The ShavedGolf of internet dating is telling you to squish that annoying internet insect because he's not going to get you laid. Post the most attractive Polaroid you have. The shot from that one summer when you lost 25 lbs will do nicely. Reason: everyone expects you to post your best pic, so if it's not, your shitty photo is assumed to be the best. Therefore you are ugly.

Perfect. Your picture is a devilishly handsome pic of younger you from yesteryear. But now you need content to go with that pretty pinup.

Content can be excruciatingly difficult for a simpleton. When fleshing out the profile with your weak wordsmithing, it's important to keep in mind that you're boring and no woman is really interested in you. Fact: you're on internet dating for a reason.

Omit trivial drabble about your Dungeon and Dragons hobby, that you successfully went for one week without showering, that you successfully went one week without defecating, and that you fuck on the first date. You aren't impressing women in real life with these tedious tidbits.

Sprinkle comedic musings throughout the profile - if you make the woman laugh, she may choose to ignore your looks.

Once finished with profile content and the resulting depression from the realization of your inferior command of the English language, move on to the survey questions. Every site has some gimmicky gauntlet of general Q and A.

The more questions answered, the better the chances of a match. The more questions answered, the better chance you're a loser. A profile displaying 268 answered questions belongs to one with too much time on their hands. If the site runs out of questions to ask, it's a sign.

Best advice for filling out the survey: answer the questions in a manner in which the woman you're trying to attract would answer them. Answering questions truthfully will only attract a woman equally as bizarre as you, and honestly, no one wants you two procreating. Or even practicing to procreate.

Congratulations! You've got the pic. You've got the content. You've got the answers. Now sit back, relax, and watch the bitches roll in.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Questionable Content

To quell government shortcomings and budget deficits, the IRS has begun to crackdown on unreported taxable revenue for companies, individuals, and blogs. Because of the possible Big Brother blitzkrieg on my blog's bankroll, I've decided to deploy this edition of ShavedGolf StoryTime as a preemptive strike to explain earnings.

My ascension from rags-to-riches is credited to the introduction of advertisements on this blog. Prior to the ad add, when my brain brood and written writings were clean of clutter, the blog was a pristine sanctuary full of knowledge and wit. However, once the pollution of capitalism was in place, it became clear that the blog's questionable content may lead to purely entertaining advertisements of little interest to the audience.

The below is a sample sidebar that may have missed the target audience rendered for...

First, let's tackle the Douche. Summer's Eve chose an ad tagline that would grab the attention of any unclean woman or describe any frat boy. Second, let's Make a Difference. BioGift is asking you to advance medical science with an ad powered by Google. Seems trustworthy. Third, let's ponder the Sperm Bank. What's your gut reaction to this ad title with the blurb "free photos" below it? Fourth, let's untangle the Umbilical Cord Banking. ViaCord.com felt it necessary to trademark the phrase "Bank with the cord blood experts." Smart thinking. And last but not least, let's...AURA by IATS. Huh? Is this for money laundering or a phishing scheme?

The titles are absurd. The taglines bizarre. The ads are just ridiculous. Despite your lack of interest in the wares, and forgiving the ignorant Google bot scanning the blog and posting ads, this is my admission: they make me rich.

While the rules of Google AdSense prevent me from encouraging viewers to click erroneously, I will encourage you to click on any ad that catches your interest. Because, let's face it, you smell, and really need to douche.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Squatty, Balding Ginger

Groggily, I began to come to. Yellow-hued light and the dull murmur of two voices from my apartment bathroom poured in through the pulled to bedroom door. The early morning disturbance had thrashed my REM sleep, and I was dropped into a handicap consciousness - perfectly aware of my surroundings yet completely incapable of reacting.

Panic. Fear. Who were these people? Why were they in my apartment? What did they want?

The two intruders, one man and one woman, were early to mid twenties, fashion forward in threads, and clearly about to get intimate in my bathroom. The couple had begun to disrobe and throw their designer clothes on the dirty linoleum floor.

I moved to get up, to yell, and to chase the trespassers out. Only instead, in my sleep inebriated state, it was all I could do to roll over on my stomach, hang on the side of my bed, and muster an eerie moan.

It was enough.

My woozy attempt at speech startled the young lovers. They could make out my angry, befuddled face through the crack in the doorway lit up by the dim bathroom light. Quickly, they collected their clothing and began a half naked dash to the apartment entrance.

By that time I was capable of moving. I wasn't fast, but I could stand. With enough strength as a geriatric man, I gave pursuit. Stumbling and weak-kneed, I fell at my apartment's door. The two had fortunately left it cracked allowing me to swing it open.

I had expected they would be half way out the building by the time I even made it out of my apartment door, but instead, when I swung the door open, there were six confused faces staring back. The two lovers were there, accompanied by a squatty, balding ginger in glasses, a woman who resembled Elaine Benes from Seinfeld, and two hefty men, twins, by the look of them.

My tongue returned to allow words, but only in the form of slow, short, and slurry sentences, "What the hell?!...What the hell...were you doing...in my room?"

The two love birds looked at one another and began to giggle. Certainly their laughter was designed to infuriate me, and it worked. The anger helped clear my fuzzy head and words formed more freely.

"What the FUCK were you doing in my apartment?! How the hell did you get in?" I demanded.

There was a short pause as everyone attempted to make sense of the scene. The group of six looked just as confused as me. It was at about this time I noticed the four newcomers were all carrying boxes. Moving boxes.

"Who's moving?" I asked.

"I am," said the squatty ginger, pushing his glasses with his index finger to the top of his nose, "I'm moving into room 706."

His answer confused me. This is 306, not 706. There's only four stories in this building.

Head ache. I tried to tell him he had the wrong room...the wrong building, but when I did, my head spun and words froze. I blacked out.

BEEP BEEP...BEEP BEEP...BEEP BEEP

The rude alarm clock gave me a jump from my bed. The whole thing a dream.

Moral of the story: I hate plot lines like this one. They're trite. So over used. Worn out. Fooling the audience with the most amateurish and pedestrian trickery. Really terrible, miserable, boring writing.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Snail Mail Spam

The mailbox for my NW district apartment is comparable to the rental space it supports - small. Unfortunately, the size and my inability to remember to snag the mail compounds to an avalanche cluster fuck once the miniature door swings open.

This persistent conundrum is worsened by the relentless onslaught of advertisements. Redplum. Rite Aide. Safeway. QFC. IKEA. Clipper Magazine. Ads from unwanted merchants show up weekly. These ads are truly the spam of the snail mail era.

I live in Portland. I vote Democrat. I watched Captain Planet. Because of these reasons, I decided to reuse the never ending supply of paper.

First attempts at repurposing the unwanted ads led to the shitter. Wiping an ass with glossy ads is like cleaning the crack with silk. The sleek surface is built for speed, but be forewarned, paper cuts are an ever present danger. This practice was hampered by the regular clog accompanying every bowel movement. The landlord was pissed.

In an attempt at avoiding another work order for clogged pipes, I began lining the bathroom floor like the cage for a parrot. Toilet troubles be damned! The floor was my bathroom! Disposal and a constant odor not even Febreze could hide led to the downfall of this technique.

Realizing that the bathroom was perhaps not the best place for my reusing plan, and in a scramble to get to a birthday party, I grabbed a fist full of ad and used it as bachelor wrapping paper. This idea is truly solid and I'm still using it today. However, due to the high volume of ads, my social life and miserly soul cannot keep up with the flow.

Apartment decor was the next flash of brilliance. Bachelor pad wallpaper. Similar to the newspaper style wallpaper you might find at a shitty Subway fast food joint, but far more valuable. On the off chance Redplum had sent a Dominos Pizza ad, it could be ripped straight from the wall. This method worked until it was brought to my attention that bachelor pad wallpaper might be chick repellent.

Undeterred from using ads to decorate, I attempted origami. The apartment ceiling would look magnificent with hundreds of paper cranes flying from fishing line. Origami was scrapped after my first crane attempt - I got to step 11 and was so frustrated that my temper tantrum was confused for a domestic dispute. Two officers responded.

In the end I settled on the most logical reuse idea of all. I began mailing the ads back to the distributor with a note demanding they reuse and resend to a more receptive recipient. Weekly ads are saved, eventually slid into an envelope and postmarked for the spam HQ.

Gaia, the spirit of the earth, can no longer stand the terrible destruction plaguing our planet. Recyle, reduce, reuse, and close the loop. Cuz saving the planet is the thing to do. Looting and polluting is not the way. Hear what Captain Plant has to say...

The power is YOURS!

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Zinfandel and White Lilac

After discovering Ron Artest, of the Los Angeles Lakers, had recently filed a petition to change his name to Metta World Peace, my mind started to wander. Metta...meta...Adaptation...blog...I lost The Game.

It occurred to me that this blog may have become legitimate enough for a meta entry. Granting the audience a window into the process behind ShavedGolf. Pulling back the curtain to expose the inner workings of my mental musings and mind mush.

May God have mercy on your soul.

The process starts in a state of vulnerability. Generally an idea will come to me at the most inopportune time: during defecation. To ensure the idea does not escape while on the shitter, I drop everything and duck waddle to the computer to start the fresh composition. As a for instance, I still need to wipe.

Once an idea is hatched and captured, I torture it for days. The idea stews at a low simmer, but as Wednesday approaches, I bring the idea to a rolling boil. Due to procrastination and writer's block, boiling will typically occur only hours away from deadline.

The writing process is much like you imagine it, but more awesomer.

Scented candles and luminescent votives flood the room with fragrance and romance. White lilac stems are hung strategically from my apartment's ceiling to encourage the flow of positive energy. Everyday drab garments are removed and I slip into a lavish kimono made of fine silk and Egyptian cotton. Chi is focused through meditation and hot yoga. A robust and fully matured Zinfandel from Sonoma Valley is uncorked, sipped, and enjoyed. The cares of the day melt away.

Voilà! The masterpiece is written.

After some quick revisions and approval by editors and legal counsel, the product is ready to publish. Like a mother bird delicately encouraging her children out of the nest with loving nudges, my mouse finds the PUBLISH POST button.

My idea is free. The idea that I gave birth to while on the can. The idea that I put through the cerebral pressure cooker. The idea that I brought to maturity through tradition and ritual. It's free. And it's no longer mine. The idea belongs to the world.

Exhale. A long sigh of relief. Exhausted, I retire to my bedchamber with the knowledge that tomorrow the process begins anew.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf