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