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

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