The Stanky Fridge Lineup

My fridge smells. Bad. Really bad. Not even Arm & Hammer could cover up the stench. Not that I tried their witchcraft. There's no baking soda in the door, but I bet if there was, it wouldn't do shit. The humming white box in my kitchen might as just well be that because I dare not open it. When I do open my fridge, I doorknob it. The smell has a ten minute half life. Do the math.

The magnificent aroma is the result of leftovers. Produce left to stew. Noxious egg nog. Musty milk . Soup sprouting spores. Burrito bowl bursting with a bitchin' bouquet. All these freeloaders have been enjoying a comfortable home for some time now and living rent free. No longer!

Tonight marks the end of their stinky tyranny. Tonight is the end of their unjust stank. Tonight is our independence day!

Tonight...I clean my fridge. A picture diary. I'm sorry.

An ominous odor stings the nostrils as I closed in on the smelly source. It's rank. It's pungent. It's tangy. Hurriedly I opened the adjacent window and alerted the local firehouse, who in turn alerted HazMat, that toxic fumes may blanket the neighborhood.

Like Gang Enforcement on the east side, I rounded up the usual bitches and strip searched them for signs of foulness. The kitchen became a lineup of suspect stinkers. I booked the lot of them. First up...

Item(s):
Soup
Purchase Date:
Variable; Over One Month
Expiration:
Variable; Past Date
Smell:
Gangrenous
Sentence:
Garbage

Item(s): Super Food
Purchase Date: One and a Half Months
Expiration: Approaching
Smell: Sweaty Gym Socks
Sentence: Garbage

Item(s):
Laughing Planet Burrito Bowl Leftovers
Purchase Date:
Two Weeks Ago
Expiration:
Two Weeks Ago
Smell:
Bigfoot's Dick
Sentence:
Garbage

Item(s):
Holiday Egg Nog
Purchase Date:
Well before the holidays
Expiration:
One Month Ago
Smell:
Rotting Holiday Vomit
Sentence:
Garbage

Item(s):
Rice Pudding
Purchase Date:
December 7th
Expiration:
Didn't want to know
Smell:
Curdled Mucus
Sentence:
Garbage

Item(s):
Fat Free Milk
Purchase Date:
One Month Ago
Expiration:
A Week Or Two
Smell:
Really Not Good
Sentence:
Garbage

Item(s):
Variable Produce
Purchase Date:
I Don't Remember
Expiration:
Fucking Forever Ago
Smell:
Festering Feces Covered In Burnt Hair
Sentence:
Garbage

With the apartment reeking like a dumpster and my appetite shot, I bagged the fuckers and took them downstairs to commence their sentence. Justice was swift. No more freeloaders. No more expiring smells. No more stinky inedibles. The multi-headed dragon was slain.

Stink lingers in the fridge, but the smell is a reminder: always eat out; never purchase perishables.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

The Fear of Innovation

This blog is not a wealth of self-help knowledge. This blog is not a pillar of illumination. This blog is not a motivator of the masses, and, more often than not, this blog will inspire you to go to church before inspiring personal reflection. However, tonight's entry is different because tonight is a soapbox rant regarding your fears of innovation, or more commonly referred to as change.

Fortune 500 companies tout innovation on a quarterly basis. Shareholders crave it. The management of these companies remind shareholders of changes made recently and the innovations planned for the not so dissent quarter to come. The quarterly ritual of promises is done in the hopes of bolstering stock prices thus making the company net worth increase. Why? Because change sells!

If this process works for companies it can work for the average Joe. Often individuals attempt a personal renaissance in the form of a lackadaisical new year resolution. Admit it, we're less than two weeks into this new year, and you've either:

• a) failed
• b) given up
• c) all of the above
• or, worst of all, d) failed to make a commitment of change

I get it. I know why. That visceral reaction we all have to change holds us back. Change isn't easy. It's uncomfortable. It's unknown. Change is different, and we don't like different. We have a fear of failure, and there's a chance it could be a disastrous waste of time.

All excuses for why change isn't attempted, and, at the same time, all reasons change is valuable. If innovation were easy, everyone would do it, and no one would pay for it.

Innovators see the green because companies know that without innovation past mistakes are repeated. They know the inefficiencies of yesterday bog down progress. They know the opportunity for betterment is floundered. So why not change?

If you've accepted what I've said so far and are foaming at the mouth for directions on inciting change or instructions on innovation, you may be disappointed. What works for one, might not work for all. The best advice I can lend comes in short, bullet form:

• Take a Timeout - innovation rarely comes when cramming 25 hours of work into a 24 hour day.
• Take Stock - what's on the docket? what's on your plate? what are your resources? who are your allies?
• Review Your Struggles - you've always known something was amiss in that one spot, but you couldn't put a finger on it.
• Find a New Strategy - analyze the problem, find a work around, improve the process, clean up the mess.
• Be Patient - Rome wasn't built in a day and chances are your innovation won't be either.

That's it. Simple right? That's my map, my outline, my guide to tackling the future. While I'm not a success story yet, I am confident that my healthy outlook on innovation and change will eventually spur success. Because what works for companies will work for me.

Show me a company that is satisfied with the status quo. Show me a company that prides itself on stagnation. Show me a company not working towards goals and the betterment of their product or service. Show me this company and I'll show you a company doomed for failure. Is it really much of a stretch to say the same about any individual? Stop fearing change and embrace it as an opportunity. Grab change by the balls, bend it over a barrel, and show change how it's done.

Do it.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

The Worst Drivers in Portland

Following the format of the recent Fantasy Football Fuckers post, and because the world would be a safer place if everyone drove like me, I'm presenting a list of the ten worst driving personas in Portland. The categories may be universal, but Portlanders are especially notorious for the following behaviors.

The Rainy Day Wreckers
It Rains in Portland. A lot. Sometimes for weeks or months at a time. Yet somehow Portlanders forget how to drive in the H2O. Just take it a little slower, keep a safe distance from the car in front, and turn your mother fucking headlights on.

The Lane Campers
Possibly day dreaming and definitely not paying attention, this space cadet can be found in a fast lane near you. Their talents would best serve another lane, but they're content and oblivious. You're up their ass and even with other cars whizzing by them on the right, they remain in your way.

The Hopelessly Lost
Navigation technology is awesome. Google Maps. Smart phones. GPSs. But this clueless fuck has decided to go it alone. Instead they're attempting to use the guess and check method while driving 5 MPH in front of you. They could pull over to let you pass, but won't. Legally you can't go around them, but legally they can do nothing about you flipping them the bird.

The Dazed and Confused
Downtown roads are confusing. All those one-way streets, intersections, pedestrians, cyclists, and hipsters can make navigating Portland proper a daunting task. Unless you fucking live there. It's annoying to see these drivers stop at intersections with no stop signs or callously ignore pedestrians attempting a cross walk. I don't drive like an idiot in your neighborhood...

The Rush Hour Speed Racer
This jerkoff can't handle the rush hour pace, so s/he bobs and weaves from lane to lane. With little compassion for fellow travelers, this driver takes an every-man-for-himself approach to the commute home. Easy, broseph. We're all on the same team come 5 o'clock.

The Overly Cautious
This pussyfoot has trouble merging and uses the break lights once on the freeway for seemingly no reason. Ironically this nervous Nellie is a menace because of their excessively leery approach to the everyday road rituals. Grow a pair, gain some confidence, and drive like you aren't a senior citizen.

The Underly Cautious
Speeding, weaving, and using the shoulder to pass, this asshole thinks your safety is less important than his road rampage. Maneuvering like a precision driver from a Fast & Furious movie, this family man is desperate to get the adrenaline rush he can no longer achieve in the bedroom. Justice is occasionally served when you see him pulled over five miles later.

The Skittish Snow Driver
Guilty. We all are. PDX drivers know not how to drive in the white stuff. When Portland goes snow globe, panic ensues and the roads get fucked. Snow jobs are annoying, but they only happen once a year, and I'll happily use a vacation day to avoid the clusterfuck.

The Distracted Driver
Salem passed legislation making it illegal for Oregon drivers to text message while driving. However, many asshats choose to ignore this law. We all knew it was a shitty idea before it was a law, but for some reason continue to do it. And if I was to take it a step back and say it's illegal to read while driving, people would respond with, "psh, duh, yeah!" So please grow up and stop your LOL'ing and ROFLcopter'ing.

The Washington Outsider
While it seems to be a great banner as a politician, it's a curse on Portland streets. Because of Portland's unfortunate proximity to the WA state, we occasionally have to deal with a WA driver. Beyond the WA plates, this individual is easily spotted because s/he is less courteous, drives faster, and smells bad. Welcome to our fair city, now drive like us or go the fuck home.

Portlanders, it's time to respect our roads and the fellow man in the car next to you, so if you're doing one of these things, you're a douche nozzle and should stop it. Thank you for your consideration.

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

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