A ShavedGolf Farewell

The creative process is time consuming and the rewards for production are often minimal. Creativity and creation are commonly rewarded best through personal satisfaction - this satisfaction comes from the knowledge that your creation is beautiful, masterfully crafted and is bringing joy or usefulness to the world.

I no longer feel that personal satisfaction from my blog.

The creative process behind blogging is no less demanding of time. Blogging requires a tremendous amount of effort, dedication and passion. Because my passion has waned, the product has suffered. Because the product has suffered, I feel less satisfaction. Because I feel less satisfaction, the last thread of reward for my efforts is a laugh from coworkers or a Facebook like from friends.

I've decided these nods of approval are an insufficient reward and do not justify continuation of a tired blog.

As I mentioned, I believe the lack of passion impacts the product. The content I produce on a weekly basis feels rushed and I consistently find myself publishing for the sake of claiming I did so on a Wednesday. The passion is gone and the result feels like half-assed entries that barely limp across the finish line.

Time is precious. With my schedule packed and responsibilities ever increasing it has become apparent that something must give. There are so many other creative avenues to explore. Art projects. Short stories. Fiction writing. Novels. Programming. There are so many personal accomplishments left to achieve. Volunteer opportunities. Relationship development. Athletic endeavors such as a marathon or an Ironman Triathlon. Career aspirations. Home ownership. Starting a family.

The blog aids none of these goals and manages to hinder most of them.

At the point where I find the blog to be a roadblock. At the point where I find the process no longer bringing joy and instead becomes a chore. At the point where the content feels like forced dribble. At the point where I could be spending my time on so many other wonderful endeavors. At the point where I pour myself into a project to receive nothing in return. Well that's the point where the project must end. And obviously I find myself at that point.

Perhaps this isn't an end, but rather a new beginning. When a topic stirs passion, given enough time, perhaps a polished post will grace the page once again. But don't expect it and don't come looking for it. I'll come to you.

I've spoken of the blog's demise once before, written a farewell and fooled many people. This time it's with a heavier heart and no hidden gotcha. The end has come. Thanks for being my audience over the last 85 weeks. Your praise always meant so much. Thank you.

The End
xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Cuckold by Cuff Hole

I went to work wearing a nice dress shirt. Neigh, an awesome dress shirt. It's name brand, so you know I paid for it. A beautiful light blue color with the traditional white buttons. The shirt is non-iron so it never wrinkles. The collar points are kept sharp with the shirt's original collar stays. The shirt is crisp, clean and makes me look stellar...

...or at least it did.

At about 3:00 PM this afternoon I was admiring myself in the mirror when I discovered a massive coffee stain dead center of my awesome shirt. Knowing that I hadn't sipped coffee since the early morning hours hurt the most. Here I was walking around the office, strutting my shit, and just generally acting like a bad ass and all the while I had a giant stain on the front of my shirt.

I looked like a goob. I looked like a complete goob and my coworkers didn't have the heart to say anything to me.

*sigh*
Oh well. The shirt can be washed.

I completed my mirror check and moved to roll up my sleeves when...oh...oh gods, no! A hole. This beautiful blue dress shirt has a hole! It's not a big one, but right there in the cuff, a hole.

No longer an "oh well" moment. Holes can't be washed out. This shirt is destined for the dumpster.

But the cuff hole conundrum got me thinking how many of my garments reach the holiness level. Don't get me wrong...I appreciate fresh threads and believe the clothes can make the man. However, it seems I lack understanding of garment life expectancy.

When I purchase an awesome article of clothing, in my mind, it's awesome FOREVER. Those shorts were $40? Good for seven years. A $10 pair of boxers? Good for a decade. Jeans for $50? They'll last until I outgrow them.

But this cuff hole has me realizing that my standards may not be that of everyone else. I realize the shorts I bought seven years ago are ragged and frayed. I realize the boxers my mom purchased during Back-To-School season 2002 have holes and barely pass as a loin cloth. I realize the denim bought who-knows-when makes me look homeless.

But you know why this doesn't matter? Because I feel like a bad ass in these clothes. All of them. All the clothes I keep. As long as I'm strutting my shit and generally acting like a bad ass, I'll get shit done and be the guy I want to be. Clothes do make the man, so long as the man is comfortable in his clothes. The moment attention is brought to my gooberish appearance, I lose that confidence, that swagger, that charisma. Once I quit strutting the article of clothing has outlived its welcome in my wardrobe.

So, friends, what I ask of you is simple. Please, if you catch a stain on my shirt, a hole in my pants, or any visible fraying threads, don't tell me. No fashion critiquing. No mocking. I don't want to know. Because the minute I'm aware is the instant that I start caring and becomes the moment I'm slightly less awesome.

I don't need a new, blue dress shirt...I need less cuff hole.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Welcome Back, Old Friend

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

That's the sound of every man in America sitting his ass down on the couch, cracking a beer and turning on the tube to watch the NFL get underway. Yes, it's that time of year again. The NFL regular season has officially started with tonight's match between the Dallas Cowboys and New York Giants.

So it's time to frost your beer steins, warm up the grill and invite your fellow fans over for rockin' Sunday couch parties from now through December.

Yeah. Starting this Sunday, and for the following sixteen Sundays, the friends come over carrying their favorite potluck dish, the best six pack and their laptops.

The snack table is epic. A plate of buffalo wings. Some roasted weenies in bbq sauce. Thick, wet coleslaw. Guacamole. Cheese and crackers. Bagel Bites. The Taco Bell twelve taco box. Chili.

The fridge comes fully loaded with house beer and is stocked up with guest six packs as they arrive.

The football amigos hang out on the couch all day. We watch the games that matter and even the ones that don't. Hang on every play. Trash talk during commercial breaks. Critique the players' performance, the announcer's dictation and the commentator's analysis. Everyone brings over their laptop to keep tabs on their fantasy players. Women are invited but not encouraged to attend.

...or at least that's how it goes down in my head.

In the end, NFL Sundays become nothing more than a lazy day in my underwear. The friends don't come over. There's no snack table. Maybe some Taco Bell. The fridge is stocked with whatever hodgepodge leftover beer remains from Friday and Saturday night. Plays are missed in lieu of snoozing, scratching or picking at toenails. Commercials are a time for a new beer, a tasty snack, or a Sunday morning shit. Players are mocked. Announcers are mocked. Commentators are mocked. The laptop is ferried between the coffee table, the kitchen table and the porcelain thrown to keep tabs on the fantasy team. Women are invited and encouraged to attend, but rarely seen or heard from after doing so.

The reality sounds cold and harsh, but truthfully, it's not. Football season for me is really synonymous with lethargy and procrastination, but I enjoy the hell out of it. For seventeen regular season Sundays and for all the playoff Sundays that follow, I get to flip on the television and enjoy American athleticism at it's best. I get to marvel at the players. And most importantly, I get a free pass to do nothing.

For those who aren't fans and don't get it, NFL Sundays are akin to your addictive reality television or your Law & Order marathons. You so badly want to turn it off. You desperately want to be productive. Yet something holds you to the couch and keeps your eyes fixated on the TV. Sunday after Sunday, for seventeen Sundays of regular season and four weekends of playoffs, it's the same routine.

What is idealized as a golden opportunity to fraternize with my fellow fans is little more than a lazy Sunday. That's OK. I like it that way.

Welcome back, old friend.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Amusing Searches: The Fourth

Once again it's time for another installment of Amusing Searches.  Why?  Because I'm lazy and have nothing better to post this week.  THAT'S WHY!

After Amusing Searches: The Third was posted, it became clear ya'll need a little refresher on how this shit works.

Step One: someone goes to Google and searches for something stupid.

Step Two: that same someone ends up on my blog via their search.

Step Three: I see the search pop up in my blog stats, laugh hysterically, and mock it on my blog.

It's just that simple!  So here now, for your viewing pleasure, seven of the most ridiculous searches my stats have produced.

raging boner
I find it highly amusing that someone is sitting out there on the interwebs searching for a raging boner.  It's not enough to just search for a boner...you're looking for a penis that is currently raging.  An enraged dick.  That's one ornery shaft.  You won't like it when it's angry. Incredible Hulk style.

champion spray

Raging boners typically lead to champion spray.  Sadly, I believe I know what this poor fucker was searching for when they typed this in.  The search appeared around the time I had written about champagne, and so I can only imagine they misspelled champagne...badly.

women rubbing butts together
Odd.  Really odd.  Not even sure where to take this one.  What's the benefit?  What's the purpose?  I'm just left scratching my head.  Maybe the sight of two women rubbing their butts together is enough to give you a raging boner and you'll shoot your champion spray into a tube sock...?

no mustache no sex

If women REALLY wanted to fuck with society, they would implement this rule.  No nookie without a lip rug.  Extra points for womb brooms.  Think about all the new mustaches that would be introduced into the world!

How could Michelle say no?

Yes, sir.

Gettin' some.

FAKE

twat flossing

Nine out of ten dentists agree with nine out of ten gynecologists, women should floss their twat regularly.  Lackadaisical twat flossing leads to cavities, bleeding gums, and a stinky cooter.

cats doing the dougie

OK...this search seemed ridiculous, but then I youtubed it and was pleasantly surprised.  I don't really get it...but I'm sure it's animal cruelty.

pokemon speed dating
Because Pokemon Masters don't have time for the usual dating scene, there is Pokemon speed dating.  Dating is very similar to Pokemon in that the end goal is to catch them all. Strategy tip for speed dating newbies: don't whip out your Bulbasaur too quick or you'll never get to see her Nidorina.  Lay low, play it cool then Beedrill the hell out of her Weepinbell with your Cubone.


Thanks for searching.  You stay weird, internet.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Hood to Coast Year Four

On Friday we embark on an epic journey from Mount Hood to Seaside, Oregon.  200 miles of blood, sweat and chafe stick.

From here...

...to here.

Epic.  So epic.

Hood to Coast 2012 will mark my fourth journey with our infamous office team of misfit runners and half-wit nut jobs.  Misfit runners because starting year one, there was hardly a runner among us.  Three years later, I believe some of us have earned the right to associate as runners...even if we're still misfits.

And I say half-wit nut jobs because anyone with more than half a brain wouldn't put themselves through the grueling test of endurance Hood to Coast presents.  We are by no means a fast team, but that may make our journey all the more impressive.  While the winners of Hood to Coast 2012 may finish in 22 hours, our team will be out pounding the pavement and churning the gravel for close to 34 hours.  The endurance to persevere and the willpower to finish on a team pacing 10 minute miles is no less impressive than a team pacing 6:20's.

Excited.  Amazed.  Anxious.  Enthusiastic.  Nervous.  Happy.  A plethora of emotions to experience through the anticipation leading up to the event, on race day itself, and through the week following. 

Excited to get out there and put our training to use and spend quality time with great friends.  Amazed that Hood to Coast 2012 is already here.  Anxious about my leadership and remaining responsibilities as captain of my first Hood to Coast team.  Enthusiastic towards our chances of nailing our official estimated finish time and receiving an invitation to compete next year.  Nervous about personal performance and living up to the standards and expectations I set of myself.  Happy that I'm willing and able to participate in The Mother of All Relays.

So bring it on.  Bring on the early start.  Bring on the running.  Bring on the dirty porta-potties.  Bring on the chafing.  Bring on the weather.  Bring on the hardships.  Bring it all on.  Because I know, no matter what, the thing remembered most about any Hood to Coast experience is overcoming all and having a blast.

I'll see you on the beach!

xoxo,
ShavedGolf


P.S. Follow the team's progress, for as long as we have cell reception, on Twitter: @ShavedGolf.

The Terrible Turkey Sandwich

Gawd, I hate work lunches.  The whole thing really ruins my day.  Not only does the meal consistently disappoint, but it has a tendency to drain any energy or motivation I had from the morning.  I could be running completely hot.  Just killing it.  Pounding through the work like a machine.  Then I head to lunch and it doesn't matter what I fuggin' eat, the result is almost always the same: siesta mode followed by long poop.

Today was no exception.  I ate the worst turkey sandwich I've ever eaten in my life.  Absolutley.  Hands down.  The fucking worst.  Yes, I made it.  Got out of bed, took a shower, made a sandwich.  Dumb fucking idea.

I started with cheap knock off bread.  Not really knock off.  It isn't pretending to be bread it's not.  The bread is perfectly aware how shitty it is.  It wasn't name brand bread.  Fuck if I'm gonna pay five dollars a loaf.  I've been shelling out $1.19 for the generic wheat bread.  Not even sure it can be called "wheat" bread.  Doesn't seem like it's any healthier for you.  Looks exactly like the generic white bread with a spray tan.

Anyway.  To make the bread worse, I bought it and immediately put it in my fridge.  I know this will dry the shit out of the bread, but I can't get through an entire fucking loaf before it molds.  Especially in the heat of this chicken tit August.  Why a chicken tit August?  Because it's been really hot and because the healthy temperature of a chicken is 107.5° Fahrenheit.  There.  You learned something new today.  You're fucking welcome.

The bread was next to the jar of mayonnaise.  Now...I spared no expense on the mayonnaise.  It's that olive oil crap that's supposedly healthy for you.  What they don't mention is that it tastes like narwhal semen.  It's foul.  Plus I don't really go through mayonnaise that quickly, so the shit has been festering in the back of my man fridge for longer than I care to think about.  But the bread's dry, so I lather the hell out of one slice with the porpoise jizz.

Every sandwich deserves a great slice of cheese.  My sandwich received cheese but was denied greatness.  Like a foot sinking in mud, the individually wrapped, mass produced, sweaty cheese was squished atop the heavy mayo pool on the bread.  Gooey mayo slopped out the side.  According to the marketing printed on the package, the cheese was allegedly pepper jack, which I can neither confirm nor deny.

The other slice of bread was lonely and demanded my attention.  I decided to moisten the dry slice with Kroger dijon mustard.  The large container of dijon was only recently cracked, but I can already tell it's headed for the dumpster as soon as I can pick up some Grey Poupon.  My newly acquired, bargain mustard just doesn't have enough kick.  Word of advice: don't skimp on the mustard; spring for the good stuff, you cheap bastard.

Now, with my dry bread wetted, it was time to throw down the main course of the sandwich.  Again I had turned to Kroger for my sandwich needs and the meat had originally satisfied.  Unfortunately, like the mayonnaise, the turkey meat has been hunkered down in my fridge praying to see the light of day again.  The deli meat had probably been laying around for a month.  The aging process left the meat dry and mostly anemic.  Devoid of turkey flavor, the meat was nothing but texture.  It was like chomping on chilled, thinly sliced rubber.

What better way to complete the worst insult to my taste buds than to top the terrible turkey with a moldy tomato?  I need to give credit where credit is due.  That tomato really held out.  I bought it the same time as the deli meat.  Yes...one month ago.  The confused fruit only had a couple infected spots and once those were sliced off it would be fine, right?  The problem was twofold.  First, I sliced a huge honking piece of that bitch for the sandwich.  I like tomatoes, so it seemed like a great idea.  Second, NEVER TRUST A TOMATO THAT LASTS A MONTH.  What the fuck was pumped into that tomato?  Likely due to HGH coursing through the tomato's innards, the confused fruit had zero taste.

So all this was thrown together in the haze of my morning fog, transported to work, and was waiting for me at lunch.  Oh the joy.  Just try and imagine the first bite.  Your teeth pierce the dry bread and your taste buds are assaulted with disgusting mayo and lackluster mustard.  Somewhere in the hot mess is a piece of sweaty cheese.  Next up, the tasteless tomato oozing it's genetically altered juices all over your mouth.  Then comes the turkey meat which would double as a patch for a wet suit.

That's what I had for lunch.  Can't wait for tomorrow.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Groupon, I want you back.

Oh hey, Groupon!  Wow...you're looking great!  How have you been?  You know...it's really great to see you. I've been meaning to catch up. Are you busy?  Maybe we could run and grab a cup of coffee.  I bet you know just the place.

Listen...I need to apologize for the way things ended between us. I said and did some horrible things, and worse, I betrayed your trust.

Google Offers and I broke up.  Google just couldn't offer the variety of deals that you can, Groupon.  And remember that bagel shop deal that Google Offers got me?  Well the place closed down before I even got a chance to use the deal.  How ridiculous is that?

Anyway...after Google Offers and I split, I dabbled with some other deal sites around the internet. Just looking for love and cheap deals.  I knew I'd hit rock bottom when I started messaging with Living Social.  Sure Living Social has some decent deals occasionally, but their return policy is garbage and...oh...sorry, Groupon.  I'm sure you don't want to hear about my past relationships.

You know you really spoiled me when we were together.  I think I took it for granted.  I didn't realize just how well you treated me until you weren't emailing once a day with the latest and greatest deals...

I have an admission to make.  I actually never unsubscribed from your emails like I said I would. I just sorta let them pile up.  I ignored them.  Then one day I was talking to my coworkers about how I'd really like a new wrist watch...and the following morning there was an email from you with a stellar deal on a Columbia Sportswear watch.  I bought one.

A few weeks later I was lamenting to friends about how it was summer and I didn't have a barbecue for my patio.  And you know what?  A few days later, you sent out an email about barbecues.  I bought one of those, too.

I'll admit it was a little eerie.  Kinda felt like you may have been stalking me.  You...you weren't stalking me, were you, Groupon?  Oh...hahahah...silly me...of course you weren't. No...you just always seem to know what I want...

So anyway, I've bought a couple local restaurant deals that you sent out recently and now bumping into you like this...Groupon...I miss you.  You're special, Groupon. I mean it.  I know I hurt you, but do you think that maybe we could try again?  You know...start over?  Wipe the slate clean?  Please, Groupon?

It's OK.  You don't have to answer me now.  Just think about it and know that I love you. Groupon, I want you back.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

The Derelict Profile

In the dawn of Facebook, during the college years, things were simple.  In it's infancy, Facebook's interface was uninvolved.  You had a profile.  You had the ability to message.  You could poke bitches.  Simple as that...

...but the people demanded more.

Facebook coders added walls and photos and groups and clubs and events and apps and games and links and instant messenger and locations and notes and activity logs and notifications and timelines and cover photos.  The project had snowballed.  Soon the Facebook was a jumbled concoction of code written by out of control dreamers hell-bent on building the perfect, all-encompassing social network.

The complexity was daunting.  I lost interest.

I left Facebook in search of simpler times.  Simpler social media.  Twitter.  Instagram. Foursquare.  I was hooked on the simplicity of the Facebook-lites.  Their inequality in content was the very reason I was drawn to them, and what little time I had devoted to Facebook was now given to the uncomplicated social networks.

Now my Facebook is floating in the social media abyss.  The profile is a ghost ship with no crew to man her.  Passers by, other profiles in the social media seas, hail the doomed vessel but receive echoes and silence in return.

So why not blast the ghost ship into social network smithereens?  Why not get rid of the Facebook?  What good does it do me?  What purpose does it serve?

Well I'm glad I asked myself these rhetorical questions...

Pictures. At current there 1,104 photos of me on Facebook.  Shit.  Scratch that.  It just jumped to 1,113 while writing this post.  See?  I can't even stop the photos from rollin' in.  It's amounted to a shit ton of photos.  Some might say a fuck ton.

A super majority, including the photos just posted, were added by trigger happy friends, and I couldn't be more grateful.  These visual records of the past take me back to events in my life, for better or for worse, that define me.  Every time I peer into the collection, I run across a forgotten moment bringing back a rush of emotion, and it's an enjoyable part of the Facebook experience.

Stalking.  I am a lion on the prowl and your life is my prey.  I'll dig through your photos, your wall and your friends list in search of the superficial nitty gritty.  Something piqued my curiosity.  We bumped in to one another.  Someone mentioned your name.  I accidentally drunk dialed you.  Whatever it was got me curious to see what you're doing, where you're doing it, and who you're doing it with.  The network spurs cyber stalking, and I cherish that creepy aspect of Facebook.

Vanity. I'm not ashamed to admit I keep Facebook around to rub it in the faces of friends that I'm leading an awesome life. I'm the motha fuckin' boss, and I'm living the life you wish you were leading, and if you can't handle that, then that's exactly why I post on Facebook.

Just kidding.

I don't really do that...but only because I never post on Facebook.  Besides there's no need to post when all those pics can do the talking.  If photos are worth 1,000 words, then by my math, I have 1,113,000 words already on Facebook.  I'm owning the Facebook pissing contest, and I appreciate that social network shit show.

My Facebook profile is adrift, lost and alone with no captain to give it direction.  And I'm OK with that.  I'm using that piece of social media how I want to use it; to retain memories, to stalk, to promote myself.  I'm not obsessed and constantly perusing.  I'm not zoned out and glued to a screen.  I'm not caught up in the online drama.  

The Facebook lost me when it ballooned into a social network that demanded upkeep.  Now the precious minutes budgeted for social media go to the well-deserving, simple outlets, because the instant Facebook felt like a chore, the honeymoon was over.

I may be the Amish curmudgeon of social media, but I'm happy, so please forgive my derelict profile.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

The Silver Surfer Recovery

My heartbeat soared.  My stomach dropped.  My mind raced.  The Silver Surfer had been parked in this exact spot, on this street corner, and now there was nothing but empty asphalt and chunks of tempered glass.  It was all the evidence I needed.  My car had been stolen.

Panic set in.  Who to call first?  It was 7:30 on a Wednesday morning.  I knew Mum would be asleep, but I tried anyway.  Mum would fix this.  Mum would rescue me.  Mum would find my car.  No answer.  Fuck.

Dad was next up.  I attempted to type his number into my cellphone, but my grief-stricken head was jumbling numbers and I dialed my own.  Hitting my voice mail confused me.

Remembering that I had numbers saved in my phone (fucking duh), I typed in D-A-D and hit call.  Two rings later, he picked up.

"Hello?"
"Hey, Dad."
"Yeah?"
"My car was stolen."
"Shiiiiiit."

Not exactly sure what I was expecting out of my father at that moment.  Sympathy.  Empathy.  Reassurance. I explained my next course of action was to call the Portland Police non-emergency number (503.823.3333), file a report and contact my insurance agent.  Dad gave his blessing.

The non-emergency number enters with prerecorded instructions to "Please hang up and dial 911 if this is an emergency."  Well no shit.  From there it's one of those Choose-Your-Own-Adventure phone robot games. Press 1 if this shit happened to you.  Press 2 if you want a cop.  Press 3 if yadda yadda yadda.  Upon successfully navigating the phone tree maze, I reached an enthusiastic (not sarcasm) dispatcher who diligently took down my information and instructed me to wait for an office to file a police report.

Wait? Wait where? There's no time to wait!

I paced up and down the block thinking every passing minute was increased opportunity for my car to be stripped, dumped and burned.  The Silver Surfer could be miles away by now.  He's in trouble.  HE NEEDS ME!

My next dial was to the insurance agent. I wasn't wasting any time.  She needed to know.   I needed to alert her to this travesty and brace her for the claims filing ahead.  Helpful as always, Agent passed along her sympathies and told me to get her the case number off the police report when I could.

"Will do."    *Click*

Frustrated by the amount of time passing, I walked the distance from my apartment door to the curb where I'd left the car, all the while clicking the panic button on the fob.  After several trips, I admitted futility and, ultimately, defeat.  Whoever had my car was clearly not hiding it on my block.

Amazingly I felt little anger towards the individual responsible for jacking the Silver Surfer.  I'm OK, the car is just a material possession, and besides, insurance will pick up the tab.  I was at peace with the idea that perhaps the perpetrator needed the car more than me.  Times were hard and they were pushed to the edge...Gone in Sixty Seconds style.

Not to say I didn't want the car back.  So in an act of desperation, I turned to social media in the hopes of attracting enough eyes to somehow miraculously save the Silver Surfer from the clutches of evil.

Dumb.  Naive.  Desperate.  The method of grassroots detective work via social media seemed logical at the time, but ultimately it leads to nothing more than online sympathy and a plethera of text messages from friends reading, "Dude!" or "Seriously?!" or "What happened?!"

Aware I would need to get to work eventually, I called Girlfriend, knowing full well she'd be asleep but would likely have her phone on.

"I'm still sleeping," she said in a groggy voice.
"I know, [cutesy pet name], but someone stole my car."
"What?!"

She was energized.  After providing all the details, I asked her for a ride to work.  She would get ready for work and be right over.  Excellent.

All the phone calls, texts, and live tweeting was sucking my smartphone's juices, so I moved the search HQ into my apartment.  After plugging in the phone, I setup my laptop to follow social media updates and turned on the local news in hopes of a police chase/arrest involving my car.  Nothing.

To pass the time, I began trolling Craigslist.  Half in search of my car.  Half in search of a new car.  I was coming to terms with my loss.  Chances were good that I'd never see the Silver Surfer again.  He was gone.  If the body ever was found, I knew it would be stripped.  The car would be written off by insurance and I'd need a replacement.  Moving on was the right thing to do.  It's what he would have wanted...

An eternity passed before the police officer called.  He explained there had been a car accident and it took precedent, so he would need to take my statement by phone.  He took similar information as the dispatcher, walked me through the last time I saw the vehicle, and then gave a police report number (which I promptly passed along to my insurance agent).

Alright.  Shit was handled.  My parents were in the loop.  My social network was keeping an eye out.  My local cops had an APB out.  My insurance agent was processing the claim.  My employer was expecting a late arrival.  My Craigslist prospecting was decent.  My girlfriend was on her way over for pickup.  Nothing to do now but sit and wait.

Girlfriend didn't mess around.  She arrived in about 20 minutes and called my cell.

"Hey."
"Hi."
"Are you here?"
"Yes."
"OK...I'll be right down..."
"What's your license plate?"
"[plate number]...why?"
"Your car is down here?"
"WHAT?!...Are you serious?"
"Yes...your car is down the block."

In my morning mental fog and haste to get to work, I had arrived at the exact spot where I had parked my car...two days earlier.  I had indeed left the Silver Surfer in that very spot, but I had subsequently moved him.  I saw the tempered glass laying in an empty spot on the block, put two and two together and made fifty-seven.

Defense: I live in the city.  I don't have assigned parking.  I park on the street.  My driveway is about a four block radius around my apartment.  This was bound to happen eventually.

Lesson: If I ever find my car stolen again, I'll take a deep breath and walk the streets around my apartment clicking my fob prior to calling/posting anyone/anything.

Advice: If you ever report your car stolen and find it before the authorities do, make sure you notify the cops.  They will pull you out at gunpoint, rough you up a bit, and generally treat you like a criminal.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Hairdo & Commentary

I went out on a limb. Took a chance. Grew my hair out. Screw you! It's more than you've done. Your idea of adventure is going commando to work. Kudos, but no one notices except your dry cleaner.

Sorry...that was a little hostile...you've done nothing wrong...yet.  Please keep reading.

This is an experiment. It's an adventure. Foreign territory. It's a new haircut.

...Jägerbombs!

To me it feels like much ado about nothing (no pun intended). Hair grows. It's been growing. I didn't buzz it off. Thus I have longer hair. But when you go from Doctor Evil to Super Saiyan I suppose a little commentary should be expected.

This to that.

Still. It's been relentless.

Anyway...here's a smattering of the shit I've been hearing since letting hairs grow...

"I like your hair."
A much needed compliment. When you delve into the unknown, as I have, you need the encouragement of those around you, lest you reach for the beard trimmer. Your comment is appreciated. You're a gentleman and a scholar. Good day, sir. I SAID GOOD DAY!

"It makes you look younger."
Come again? Younger? Typically buzz cuts are the ultimate in childish haircuts. They're simple to maintain and fit into the cheapo family budget. So to go from near bald to product-styled do and hear that I look younger is a welcome surprise. Again...I need all the encouragement I can get. You are a gentlewoman and an acedemic. Good day, ma'am. I SAID GOOD DAY!

"Are you growing your hair out?"
A little trite. You can do better. It's the more friendly, personal equivalent of talking about the weather. But, if you must know, I will be growing my hair out from now until I'm six feet under. This shit just won't stop coming.

"What's going on up there?"
OK...now we're venturing into the we-better-be-friends territory. The question implies the interviewer holds whatever is going on up there in disdain. Fuck you. It's my hair. It's growing. That's what's going on up there. A-hole.

"Are you just getting lazy or is this the new look?"
Well, well. Aren't we ballsy? Thanks for the loaded question, dickhole. Please enjoy this stern glare and a hostile lade response. The question implies that my appearance is somewhat unkempt. I smell great. I shaved. I ironed my shirt. It's the new look.

"Can't get the top down in the Miata?"
I'll give credit where credit is due. This one is a little inventive and gets you some points to compensate for being an asshole. The question implies that my hair is funky and my wheels are the stereotypical gay man's car. Well played, dick.

"What's up, David Beckham?!"
I smiled. Thought this was a compliment. But have you seen Beckham's hair recently? Seriously, Google that shit. It's weird. Fuck it. I'll Google it for you...

See...fucking weird, right? Sooo...what's up, David Beckham?!

...and not wanting to end on a sour note...

"What's up, Wolverine?!"
Admittedly...I like this. I dressed up as Wolverine once for Halloween. Threw on a wife beater, tucked it into some jeans, wore a huge belt buckle, stole knives from the college eatery to use as claws...and just generally looked like a badass. Looking like Wolverine is A-OK...keep that shit coming.


I'm doing something bold. Trying things out. Experimenting. And it's a work in progress. So in the interim...you know...until I figure this beast out...best keep your mouth shut because you're kind of starting to sound like a bitch.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Mister Hipster

You're a slack one, Mister Hipster
You really are a sloth,
You're as lazy as a larch,
You're as pointless as a moth, Mister Hipster,
You're a porcupine's balls with greasy black froth!

You're a dummy, Mister Hipster,
Your head's an empty hole,
Your brain is full of toxins,
You have weed in your bowl, Mister Hipster,
Employers wouldn't touch you with a thirty-nine & a half foot pole!

You're a foul one, Mister Hipster,
You have termites in your flat,
You have all the sex infections
Of a filthy wrestling mat, Mister Hipster,
Given a choice between the two of you I'd fuck the wrestling mat!

You're a rotter, Mister Hipster,
You're the king of sinful sots,
You stink of dead tomato
Splotched with moldy purple spots, Mister Hipster,
You're a triple decker vomit chunk and burnt stool sandwich with sweaty arse sauce!

You nauseate me, Mister Hipster,
With a nauseous super crotch!
You're a sluggish ass jockey
And you ride a sluggish hoss, Mister Hipster,
Your body is an appalling dump heap overflowing with the most disgraceful assortment of feces imaginable mangled up in tangled up knots!

You're a foul one, Mister Hipster,
You're a stinky, skanky skunk,
Your home is full of unwashed socks
Your toes are full of gunk, Mister Hipster,
The three words that best describe you are as follows, and I quote 'Lazy, cheap, whore'!

xoxo,
ShavedGolf


Image liberated from guardian.co.uk.

Black Snake Moan

ShavedGolf Industries
6969 Lick My Dick Lane
Portland, OR, 97269

To The American Firework Industry:

It has come to the attention of the American people that you have promoted, produced and sold an epically lame firework entitled Black Snakes. This letter is to serve as a formal cease and desist for reasons of false advertising, liberty infringement, and high treason.

Your work entitled Black Snakes, which annually appears in the hands of disappointed children, is false advertising. Your work, Black Snakes, is a disgusting perversion of the definition of firework. Products that stay on the ground and do not emit sparks, flares, any form of projectiles, or any sound cannot be considered fireworks. Simply put, your product is not fun.

Your blatant disregard for entertainment during the Fourth of July holiday is unpatriotic.  Products that merely steam ash when lit, labeled as fireworks, and sold to Americans to celebrate their liberation from tyranny, borderlines on terrorism. Therefore, I believe you have willfully infringed on American liberty as outlined in the Constitution and could be held for treason and liable for statutory damages as set forth by God.

America demands that you immediately cease the production and distribution of all infringing products, including but not limited to Black Snakes,Jumbo Anaconda Black Snakes, MeDusa Jumbo Black Snakes, Colored Snakes,Dizzy Snakes, Mighty Max Snakes or any other item currently in production with snake in the name. All unused, undistributed Black Snakes, and various knockoffs, are to be destroyed immediately.

Americans are tired of these mother fucking snakes on their mother fucking driveways!

If I have not received an affirmative response from you by Independence Day indicating that you have fully complied with these requirements, I shall consider taking any and all legal remedies available to promote fun, defend freedom, and protect America.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

ShavedGolf Does Instagram

Mark Zuckerberg paid a billion dollars for Instagram.  He Zuckered it up with a billion fucking dollars.  That's $1,000,000,000.  And the moment he dropped that cash, hipsters fled the photo sharing site like rats on a sinking ship.  The hipsters were furious.  They instantly hated Instagram.  Suddenly their precious indy photo site had become another victim of capitalism.  How dare they sell out?!  This shit isn't cool anymore!  Worried about personal privacy, company integrity, and social status, the high-horse hipster herd left.

Perfect.  This opens the door for ShavedGolf to get involved.  Time to share some photos, bitches.

It starts off slow...

First I snapped a pic of my beer bottle...that was fun...what else needs it's picture taken?

How about that pole?

Look at that old train station!

What a quaint street!

I'm a fucking artist!

Put a bird on it!

Fuck yeah!  Now how about those clouds?!

Pretty clouds.

More clouds.

These fucking clouds are a gateway drug to crap.

Suddenly my mediocrity knows no bounds and I start taking pictures of my fucking shoes...

...my keys...

...and even my fucking blood donation!

In the end Instagram is no different than Twitter, Facebook, or fuck, even this blog.  I post shit.  People close to me pay attention so they know what's fresh. Acquaintances judge based on what little they know about me.  Strangers stumble upon it and critique harshly.  With each degree of separation the audience's interest decreases.  The content posted is always of most interest to the author, hipster or otherwise.

It's pointless.  It's dribble.  It's narcissistic.  It's social media!

So thank you once again, Zuckberg, for scaring off the hipsters and helping me waste time.  My content is the fucking bomb, and you help me share it with the world!

And if you want to follow, come find me on Instagram.  You know the name.

xoxo,
Shavedgolf

The Idiot's Guide to Hangover Recovery

Epic night, brah. Totally started that night off by going shot for shot. So jacked! Followed that shit up with a Jäger bomb. Wasn't gonna stop there! Went to that bar that pours liquor to the brim then splashes Monster on top. Don't puss out now. Kept the party going with a couple shotguns. Night's not over, dude! Nightcap was an AMF then we peaced the fuck out and took our taxi through the Taco Bell drive-thru. Totally epic.

Well guess what, dumbass. All that shit's poison so guess what you've got the next day. That's right, a receipt for a $200 bar tab, an upset tummy and a slamming headache. It's a massive hangover. Epic, brah.

You got your bitch ass into this mess, and now you gotta pull you bitch ass out. Fortunate for you, I binge drink for a living. I know the cures. I know the remedies. Stick with me, follow the plan, achieve greatness.

Start with the list.  These are the items to have prior to that epic evening.

The List...

• One bottle of water
• One 7.5 oz can of Coke
• One roll of toilet paper
• One box of wet wipes
• One $5 bill

Alright.  You've got the recovery items ready.  Now let's cover what not to do.


Don't...

...sit in bed until mid afternoon.  Maybe you feel paralyzed and it hurts to move, but doing nothing in bed is accomplishing little.  Plus it's a waste of a fucking day.  Get up.  Get moving.  Beat this shit.

...chug the water.  The damage is already done.  Your body is already dehydrated.  The best way to rehydrate is to do so slowly.  Guzzling water achieves very little as your body cannot process large quantities of water as fast as you can drink.  You'll end up pissing it all out.

...eat the greasiest morning meal.  We all crave grease after a night of drinking, but that gut bomb is only going to increase the pain and cause a brand new set of symptoms such as stomachache, bowel problems, and love handles.

...vow to never drink again.  That's not gonna help cure your stage four hangover, and ultimately you have neither the inclination or willpower to pull it off.  Plus you sound like an idiot.

...complain.  No one gives a shit.

Great.  We've laid down the ground rules.  Now let's cover the recover.


Do...

...brush your teeth.  The night of binge drinking and bar food chomping has your mouth tasting like tacos and vomit.  Clean that shit up with a little toothpaste.  That minty fresh feeling will make a world of difference.

...crack that bottle of water and sip.  As mentioned above, guzzling this bottle is useless.  Sip slowly.  Gurgle.  Alleviate some of the dry mouth.

...reach for the short can of Coke.  Why Coke?  It has the perfect balance of caffeine, sugar and sodium to aid your recovery.  There's a reason hospitals serve it and ultra marathoners drink it.  Coke works.  Why the short can?  Because you don't need that much, fatty.

...hop on the commode for judgement day. Your asshole has a date with destiny.  Sit down, hold on, enjoy the ride.  Now would be a very good time to whip out the TP and wet wipes. That monster shit has been brewin'.  The stomach stew is a nasty concoction of your poison of choice and the gut bomb you devoured along with. Don't force it.  Don't rush it.  This turd is a test of patience, endurance and tolerance.

...wipe.

...jump in the shower.  A little personal hygiene goes a long way.  You smell like the floor of a drunk tank and you're sticky like one, too. But the shower isn't just to smell rosy; the hot water and accompanying steam will feel delightful. Plus your asshole is still dirty from that hangover shit.  Wash it out.

...dress yourself.

...take the five spot to the Starbucks and order a tall drip and a turkey bacon breakfast sandwich.  Coffee is an obvious choice.  That'll wake you the fuck up.  The turkey bacon sandwich might seem odd.  Remember, you're hungry for grease but are trying to avoid over consumption.  Well this turkey bacon sandwich has just enough grease to satisfy the craving while not destroying your innards anymore than last night did.  Plus it's got egg on it; protein that will see you through the day.

...face the day.

That's it.  That's the secret recipe.

Saturday is gonna be pissed if Friday gets all the fun, so don't let that pesky hangover leave you in the dog house.  Get rid of that shit.   Get the list.  Follow the steps. Survive the weekend binge. Now get out there and recover like a pro.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Fond Flashbacks with Father

This coming Sunday is Father's Day.  Consider that my public service announcement for the year.  I've reminded you of Father's Day...now go get a gift, you procrastinating fuck.

Women may attempt to dispute fact, but science has proven that the father is 50% involved in the creation of you.  Because of this basic reproductive concept, we should celebrate the hell out of them.  Let's buy Dad gifts, shower him with praise, and make him feel appreciated.

Fathers are awesome, and my dad is no exception.  He is a great man.  I aspire to be similar.  Only similar and not exactly like him.  He's a little socially awkward.  But shit...he's got at least 65% of his life sorted in the way I'd like to have my own.  65% of the time, he's right every time.  Nice work, Dad.

I've had some fun experiences with Dad, but three stories really standout as deserving props.  These are the experiences that have stuck with me through the years and possibly shaped who I am today.  I've never told him, I probably never will, but since he reads the blog, now he'll know.

* * *

Dad on Handouts

Fast food was a treat growing up.  Trips to McDonalds were rare, and for this reason we cherished each visit to the Golden Arches.  We craved their shitty food.  The we includes my dad.  Mum didn't like to poison her children with transfat, but Dad was/is a junk food junky.  Pretty sure he'd set up base camp in the handicap stall of a McDonalds bathroom and venture out only for double cheeseburgers and McFlurry keg stands.

One glorious day, while Mum had her back turned, Dad whisked us away for a trip downtown.  Why?  No fucking clue.  And I don't care.  All I can remember is the surprise McDonalds trip.  Dad was treating us for lunch with some fatty food.  Yippee!

But before we could make it through the door of lunchtime nirvana, Dad was approached by a disheveled man requesting financial assistance.  A panhandler.  It was my first encounter close up.  I'd always seen panhandlers along the side of off-ramps from the backseat of the minivan.  Never had I dealt with one face-to-face.  I took mental notes.

Dad refused the spare change request outright.  Instead, Dad offered the man a meal.  The man ordered an egg McMuffin meal deal with hash browns and a coffee.  Dad paid.  I never forgot.

* * *

Dad on Sports

My first Portland Trail Blazers game was memorable because of one man: Arvydas Sabonis.  What?  You were expecting me to say my father?

Sports weren't big in our household.  Our family wasn't much into spectating.  Mum insisted we participate in sports which, in our formative years, translated to bunch-ball soccer, but rarely was interest ever expressed in professional play.  Basketball was foreign, and before attending my first game, the only thing I knew about the sport was that tall people played it.  I'm not even sure how we ended up going to a Blazers game, but if I had to guess, I'd say they were free company tickets given to my dad by some schmoozey sales dude.

Regardless, we were at the game.  Dad bought us popcorn and drinks and we headed for our 300-level seats.  The Rose Garden was overwhelming and looking down at the court gave me vertigo.  The game started and we sat in the nose bleeds watching the players run up and down the court.

All these years later I can't tell you who the Blazers were playing or if they even won.  What I can remember is Arvydas Sabonis, the Blazer big man, throwing a hissy fit and chucking his mouth guard across the court.  That's it.  That's what I remember.  That and sharing an awesome laugh with Dad as we witnessed Sabonis's histrionics and a little piece of Blazer history.

* * *

Dad on Camping

Dad had mandated the Boy Scouts for the purpose of living vicariously through me.  That was fine.  I enjoyed it.  So when Dad suggested we join my scout troop for a snow camping trip and build ourselves a snow cave to sleep in, I said fuck yeah.

For people of proper intelligence, snow camping is not an appealing adventure.  Fortunately my dad doesn't possess proper intelligence.  Like father, like son.

The troop had rented out a lodge for a couple nights, but Dad and I ditched those candy asses.  We headed straight for the nearest snow-capped hillside and dug in.  We started with a doorway just big enough to crawl through, then took an immediate left turn and burrowed a cave big enough for two sleeping bodies plus gear.  The whole thing took us a day to construct.

Warm sleeping bags kept us warm.  Thick sleeping pads prevented the cold from creeping through the ground.  Knowing our body heat would cause melt, we laid plastic down and used it as a cocoon to encase everything.

The preparation and hard work paid off.  We stayed dry.  We slept hard.  We made everlasting memories.

* * *

Now think back.  Think hard.  No, harder.  Harder!  Wait.  Too hard!  OK.  Just right.

You know your dad was there for you.  You know he had your back.  If he's still around, he's still there and still has your back.  Unless you're a bastard child with a deadbeat dad, then none of this really applies.  Look...point is your dad played a major role making you.  At least 50%.  If it was missionary, I'd go as far as to say 75%.  You owe him a phone call.  You owe him a beer.  You owe him a meal.  But at minimum, you owe him your gratitude.

So this coming Sunday, make sure you let him know you care.

Hey, Dad, thanks for fuckin'.  Really appreciate it.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

The Men's Room Mentalist

An analyst is always analyzing.  A constant surveyor of surroundings.  Always cognizant of the people and objects within the immediate area and beyond.  Analytical abilities can't be shut off and they can't be left behind.  They are a gift and a curse.

Analytical thinking is what I do.  It's my job.  I'm an analyst.  And, as so often occurs with any career, my role as an analyst has come to define me.  Analytical thinking has become a trait characteristic.  Perpetual analysis of all situations impacts my day-to-day living.   It has become my gift and my curse.

The men's restroom is a regular haunt.  I log long hours in pursuit of perfecting my art, mastering my craft, and warming porcelain.  And my analysis isn't checked at the door.

Sights.  Sounds.  Smells.  The men's room is ripe with them.  The sensory details are clues to visitors past and present and the level of relief they've achieved.  My men's room analysis has become a game of mystery.  Either in the stall or at the urinal, I'll put my analytical abilities to the test by deducing whatever I can about the man on the can.  I'm a detective piecing together a shitty crime and using all senses to catch the defecating culprit.  I am the Patrick Jane of the stalls.  I am the men's room mentalist.

Like Jane, I open my mind and let the clues speak to me.  It could be as simple as a clearing of the throat or their gait to the stall.  It could be as complex as the plops of turd water entry coupled with TP sheet count guesstimation via the squeaky dispenser.  It could be the rustle of a newspaper.  It could be a pre-dump ritual.  It could be the smell.

It could be any of these things or any multitude of other sensory data that pours in.

With keen observation and astute analysis, I've successfully identified numerous defecating regulars.  There's the man that wipes his ass like he's scraping a lasagna dish with a scouring pad.  There's the man notorious for taking the WSJ on a joyride and subsequently returning it to the break room post dump.  There are at least two men with weak streams leading to the conclusion they could possibly own an enlarged prostate.  There's the man with a distinctive diet leading to a unique and potent smell.

All of these men have been ID'd by the men's room mentalist.

But every good detective story has a super villain.  In CBS's The Mentalist, Patrick Jane matches wits with a sinister, highly intelligent and equally elusive, serial killer responsible for murdering Jane's family.  In the men's room, ShavedGolf matches wits with a stinky, highly fiber-fed and equally flatulent, shotgun shitter responsible for repeatedly destroying the handicap stall.

The shotgun shitter's BM MO is well documented.  He strikes during late morning and early afternoon.  He commits his crime about once a week, on average, giving reason to believe he is irregular.  His calling card is distinctive: caked shit sprayed like a shotgun blast on the back of the toilet bowl.  Because the BM hits with obvious force, under great duress and pressure, we can deduce the man has irritable bowel syndrome.

One thing is clear: the shotgun shitter has no remorse.  He cares little about the porcelain he destroys and has complete disregard for his fellow man.  Rest assured that I, the men's room mentalist, will eventually expose this shotgun shitter and bring him to justice for his bathroom crimes.  It's only a matter of time before he slips up, makes a mistake, and allows this analyst to crack his serial pooping.

The poo clues are everywhere.  Are you paying attention?

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Standardized Toilet Paper

My comfort level was at an all time low.  After hours of a gurgling tummy, I had decided to release the beast.  A party at an acquaintance's house was hardly the time or place, but I had run out of options.  I did the poo waddle down the hallway attempting to dodge all conversation and awkwardness.

Success.  Reaching the bathroom door felt like summiting Mount Everest - I had reached the beautiful mecca and now must begin my decent.  With the door locked, mind prepared, and sleeves rolled up, I sat down for what I knew would be the end of days.

Satan had released a play thing in my bowels.  Out demon!  Out, I say!  And before my tush had enough time to warm the porcelain, it arrived.  An explosion of epic proportion rocked the tiny apartment bathroom.  Splatter everywhere.  The splash damage was immense.  My bowels unloaded the intestinal time bomb in very quick order.  Zero to poo-pocalypse in under four seconds.  The sphincter, tired from the undertaking, gave some pathetic aftershocks.  It was over.

Relief came with mixed emotions.  Jubilation for removing the unagreeable monstrosity.  Remorse at the damage done to the acquaintance's bathroom.  Fear the party had heard my transgression.  Concern that cleanliness could only be attained with a shower.

Anxiety hit when I reached over for some toilet paper.  The cheapskate had stocked up with one-ply.

One-ply?  One-ply?!!?  This was no time for one-ply!  I'm not even sure what to do with one-ply during a regular BM let alone the atomic bomb of all movements.

The TP dilemma isn't limited to one-ply, but rather to all plys.  Practice makes perfect.  Once a shitter becomes familiar with a certain ply, they hone their cleaning skills with that tool.  All plys serve a purpose but without proper knowledge of use or cleaning technique, a defecater may face defeat.

One-ply
As mentioned above, the cheapest of the cheap.  The flimsy butt floss is the preferred paper product of masochists hellbent on rubbing their assholes raw.  Proper cleaning technique calls for using half the roll per wipe.  One-ply was created by accident.  During mass production of two-ply, a ply machine broke down and thousands of rolls of one-ply were created before the machines could be shut down.  One-ply is provided to prison inmates and Guantanamo Bay detainees - if they're using it, you shouldn't be.

Two-ply
Double your pleasure; double your fun.  Two-ply is strength on a budget.  While the product wouldn't be considered soft, it is strong.  There is 100% more paper separating fingers from asshole.  Proper cleaning technique calls for seven sheets.   Two-ply gives the user a satisfactory clean and is approved for use by 9 out of 10 proctologists.

Three-ply
Soft.  Supple.  Like a cumulus cloud floating by to wipe the sphincter.  This paper achieves uncompromising comfort and undeniable strength.  With just a few sheets you'll be able to accomplish a clean not seen since that bidet encounter during your European excursion.  The Most Interesting Man in the World doesn't always take shits, but when he does, he prefers three-ply.

Four-ply
Ridiculous overkill guaranteed to clog most toilets.  Four-ply is the elusive Bigfoot of TP, but I can confirm its existence.  Imagine taking a travel size pillow and wiping your ass with it.  Proper cleaning technique calls for one sheet.  Proper flushing technique calls for an industrial strength toilet.  Four-ply is the Rolls-Royce of TP and is about as easy to flush as one, too.

Different strokes for different folks and all that garbage.  But when you're presented with the task of cleaning a dirty asshole and have the unfortunate circumstance of an unfamiliar paper product, the little chore can become a momentous hassle.  For this reason I argue that all papers should be standardized.  Screw these different numbered plys.  Pick one and commit.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Catchy Pop Shit

I was writing.  Blogging.  Gettin' it done.  Then YouTube lured me away.  Distracted me.  Enchanted me.   Suggestions filled the right hand column of my monitor.  Suddenly I found myself watching Teenage Dirtbag by Wheatus.


The song brought me back to my childhood.  I grew up on this shit.  Rocked out to it.  Wheatus was my adolescent Motzart.  Mistakenly I believed the lead singer was a woman and subsequently my world view was severely shaken roughly ten minutes ago.

But why this song?  What drew me in?

Flash forward twelve years.  Have you listened to today's pop music?  I mean really listened?  Maybe I'm the only one out there that does this, but I pay a lot of attention to the lyrics.  Too much attention.  So forgive me for sounding like an old man shaking his fist when I say, today's pop music is complete crap.

You needn't look far.  Sample some of Rihanna's S&M...


The takeaways from Rihanna's dirty brainchild is that she's good at being bad, chains and whips excite her, and she has very smelly sex.  While I can poke fun at the content, I cannot deny the song's popularity.

Pop music follows a recipe.  The initial hook is the beat.  It's catchy, not complicated.  It's memorable, but not a musical masterpiece.  The syncopation will get stuck in your head and rot your brain.  It's this beat that sets the tone for the song.

Now that you've been lured by rhythm addiction, it's time to finish you off with some trite lyrics.  Writers craft lines that are specific enough to tell a story and paint a picture in the listener's mind hole, yet at the same time, general enough that any asswad can put themselves in the shoes of the singer.  The assemblage is no different than a horoscope.  This technique allows the listener to slip into the song and identify with the singer.  Example: "Rihanna has smelly sex just like me!  I totally get where she's coming from."

The recipe is a winning combination.  The success is undeniable.  The composers give the people what they want: a catchy tune with base lyrics relatable to all who listen.  And regardless of my criticism, I'm a part of it.  Far too much of my brain is filled with the useless garbage lyrics of the popular music genre.

The fact that I know all the words to Live Your Life: somewhat ridiculous.  Confidence in lyrical masterization of JT's What Goes Around: embarrassing.  The ability to sing along to Bieber's Boyfriend: downright shameful.

Admission is the first step to recovery.  I'm not about to start a twelve-step program, but I won't give up my pop hip hop either.  I just want to encourage everyone listening to the Z100s out there to open their ears, pay attention, and be critical.

The songs are garbage.  Enjoy responsibly.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Amusing Searches: The Third

We've reached an impasse, you and I.  This time you've forced my hand.  I'm not even mad.  I'm impressed.    It's a feat of accomplishment.  Print this post and hang it on your fridge.  Maybe list it on your resume.  Frame it for your office.  Your searching has compelled me to do the one thing I hate most.  Censor.

You know this blog.  You know the content.  To say the topics are edgy and the writing racy would be a classy way of saying it's crude and vulgar.  So when I review the stats for the worst of the worst searches, perhaps it shouldn't surprise me that the Googled terms attracting visitors are in poor taste.

But even I have my limits.  In this, the third installment of Amusing Searches, I've had to draw the line.  Even I know better than to click publish on scandalously scornful searches that might draw the ire of authority and/or lure the wandering eye of unwanted perverts.

That's right.  I can't post it.  I can't write about it.  I can't mock it.  It's that bad.  So with that in mind, here now, for your reading pleasure, are seven censored search topics and my scathing ridicule of the internet idiocy.

floss
Try the medicine cabinet.  Looking to buy?  Try the pharmacy.  Shit, your dentist hands the crap out for free. But no, your pathetic oral hygiene isn't the reason you searched floss.  You merely wanted a picture of it.  For your efforts you were dumped at Trim, Floss, Adjust.

old looking young people
IMDB:  Because of an unusual aging disorder that has aged him four times faster than a normal human being, a boy enters the fifth grade for the first time with the appearance of a 40 year old man.

Go watch it.  See also: Greg Oden.

naked ash ketchum
Proving that hentai is alive and well.  When I published my Pokemon post, it never occurred to me that people would peruse looking for nude cartoons. I thought the post would receive hits from Pokemon enthusiasts like myself. Wrong. You're more interested in Ash's ass.

bitch is looking thick
Weight fluctuation among bitches is not uncommon.  Indeed bitches of certain breeds have a tendency to pack on the pounds.  However it is also possible your bitch is looking thick because she's pregnant.  Has your bitch been spayed?  If not, try to recall the last time your bitch was in heat.  Did the bitch come into contact with a male?  Do you think the bitch fucked him?  Best go see a vet about your thick bitch.

i usually don't find the droids
I don't always look for droids, but when I do, I usually don't find them.

lice pubic comb
Buddy...you've got problems.  Many of them.  Of the creepy, crawly variety.  Living in and around your genitalogical private reserve.  The wild lice roam free.  So nice of you to designate your pubic region as a safe haven for unwanted critters.  Fun to think how you're never alone.

simple shoe bag
Said Simple Simon to the pieman, "Let me taste your ware."
"My what?"
"Not your what, your wares.  Let me taste you ware."
"What wear?  I got no where!"
"You know what ware!  Any ware!"
"Who's got wear?"
"You got ware!"

...or just watch the video...




Undoubtedly you're left wanting more.  You want to know what was cut out.  You want to know what was edited out.  You want to know what was censored.

Tough shit.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Hugs: You're Doing It Wrong

For too long the world has suffered from inadequacy.  For too long we've endured the agony of impotent physical interaction.  For too long too many have doled out the most insincere, feeble, or coy versions of personal touch.

Hugs.  Shitty hugs.  They're rampant.

Undoubtedly you've been a victim of the lackluster embrace.  The instant that weak hug occurs, you cringe.  A poor hug is like blue balls for the soul.

There are numerous hugging techniques deployed with the intent of avoiding full body contact.  One such method is notoriously utilized by women: the butt-out hug.  Regardless of relationship status - be it acquaintances or besties - women stick their posterior out with the intent of skimping on a full hug.  Image analysis reveals the hugger's intent.  The rear end protrudes in order to prevent genitals from touching and to minimize chest-to-chest contact.  It's uncomfortable.

Another classic technique is the side hug.  In a side hug, the hugger uses only one arm to pull close and gently press their side against the side of the huggee.  The side hug is the preferred technique of first dates as a greeting or farewell.  The side hug says "we're friends, but we're not that good of friends."  Alternatively, the side hug could mean the hugger is sheepish and lacks confidence.  The side hug could be read as cowardice.  It's embarrassing.

Whether it be a butt-out, a side hug, or some mutant variation, all techniques lead to physical frustration.  The huggee is left jilted.  The muted, dull hugs are insufficient.  They lack compassion.  They're absent of gusto.  They're hollow.

Fair enough.  That's your prerogative.  I have mine.  In that instance, when deciding between a full embrace and feigning friendship, don't fucking touch me.  I'd rather get a wave goodbye.  Shit.  Even a cheesy thumbs up would be better.  I may lose my man card for saying so, but quit fucking around and hold me tight.  Squeeze me.  Bear hug me or don't even bother.

If you're uncomfortable feeling the other person's body, you shouldn't be hugging.  If you're gonna hug, do it right.  Feel that person up.  If you care that much that you're willing to touch them, then fucking go for it.  A weak hug is like a limp handshake.  It's a disappointment and both parties leave unsatisfied.  So get in there and fucking enjoy it.  Stop being a timid pussyfoot.  Don't half ass it.  Move in for the kill.  Pull them in close.  Hug the shit out of them.  It's what you both want anyway.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf


Image pirated from never-without.blogspot.com