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