Tuesday, August 11, 2009

anything but mine..

this post is being co-brought to you by the annoying blinker on the rental Chevy Malibu we have and Pittsburgh Pirates baseball fans trash talk.. seriously, "hit the ball!" and "strike him out!" are as clever they get..

right now, i'm in Grove City, Ohio, a few miles out of Columbus with a few coworkers.. last Wednesday night got fairly out of control.. here's what i remember, i was too intoxicated to remember a chronological order so we'll use paragraph form:

our hotel lobby has the sack to give "drink cards" to their guests, allowing them 3 free alcoholic beverages a night from 5:30 til 7:00.. tell me this isn't genius.. 6 guys, including me, take full advantage of this opportunity.. after we finish, we walk to a restaurant a few blocks away called "Wings 'n Rings", a knock off of Buffalo Wild Wings.. the walk took forever.. "does this place exist?", i ask my coworkers.. they had all been here a week or two longer than i had, so they had stories from this restaurant already.. i'm not going to use names in this story to protect identities and prevent me from getting my ass kicked.. one of the guys (the coolest of the bunch) starts blowing kisses to female drivers on the walk over, blaming the fact that he had about 6 shots of Captain in his three drinks.. then he scratches his balls towards the hottest females passenger that was passing, who rolled her eyes at him while her boyfriend driving flicked us off.. classic.. walking in the parking lot of the restaurant, that same coworker declares, "we're shutting this place down tonight".. it's 7:30..

we get seated in a corner, probably for everyone's safety.. our waitress is red-hot and racked-out.. we politely ask if we can get the Twins/Indians game on the television, explaining we're from Minnesota.. she says sure.. five minutes later, she returns to take our order and still hasn't had the game turned on.. bad start.. the ID check is highlighted by myself and another gentleman short-arming our ID's across the table so she'd have to lean over and give us a clear cleavage shot.. we order two "beer tubes" to improve our mood.. a "beer tube" is 100 oz. of beer with a tapper at the bottom, they place the tube in some helmet or another sports related prop.. one of the beer tubes is gone in roughly 13 minutes.. the previously discussed 5:00 a.m. start for work the next day is starting to lose its appeal.. "if we get three of these, we're getting ten of these, i'm just warning you guys", says one of the wiser men.. "yeah, can we get another beer tube please?".. oh boy..

we had taken the first empty beer tube and placed it on the floor because our bitchy but hot waitress hadn't taken it yet.. "can you take this beer tube?" we ask, verbatim.. "oh you don't want that there, why?", she asks, snobbishly.. "because it's fucking annoying", someone other than me says.. "wow, i thought Minnesota was supposed to be nice".. "we'll be nice when people from Ohio are nice".. "am i being rude?".. "yes".. "i'm sorry, i've had a bad day and i always have a bitchy look about me, don't take it personally".. alright, calling her out worked! Twins game now on TV, quick 4-0 lead for the bad guys.. Nick Punto is apparently giving sexual favors to Ron Gardenhire cause he's still a major leaguer.. two of the guys with us claim to be big Twins fans.. here's how we knew they weren't: one of them said "Nick Punto is good" and asked if Denard Span was fast after he was thrown out stealing.. when we gave him the correct answers ("for a blind girlscout" and "yes"), he said he didn't know cause he's been out of the Twins loop for a few weeks.. Punto is hitting his weight and Span didn't get any faster in the last few weeks, but stick with that story.. this same "Twins fan" begged them to do a double steal with Denard Span on second, Joe Mauer on first with nobody out and Justin Morneau batting.. any half-ass baseball fan knows you don't make the first or third out at third base, and stealing in this situation with a hitter that good up would be insanely stupid.. however, it's not as stupid as another "Twins fan" asking whether the third game of the series was "home or away?" i don't know, they'll probably play all the games in the same location, since they've done it that way since the beginning of fucking time.. these are the same guys who would get fired up over strike and ball calls down 8-1 in the 8th inning of an early August game..

cool coworker decides we should play a game called "Cheers and Bottoms Up".. perfect.. we do two of these in a row.. originally i wanted to be back in my hotel room around 9:00 at the latest, i was exhausted.. this clearly wasn't happening anymore.. we had enough beer in us to start to make inappropriate sexual comments to our waitress when she was barely out of earshot.. something like "you think she could fit this beer tube inside her?" came out of my mouth, i'm not proud of it.. at this table of six men, i believe i was officially the only "single" one there.. 3 have girlfriends and 2 have their little flings or whatever going on, as far as i know.. apparently 5+ beer tubes makes guys feel/talk/act single..

"that girl is hot" - one of the "Twins fans"
"which one?" - me
(he points to a girl/guy in the distance)
"i could see it... after 2 beer tubes" - me
"from the back only" - cool coworker
"in the dark" - me
"blindfolded" - cool coworker

somehow we lose one of the guys who said something about "phone butt sex".. i'm not sure how this works.. i didn't ask.. instead, i tell the waitress she has a "ridiculous ass" while she turns to walk away.. i cover my face so she "doesn't know it was me", drunk enough not to know that clearly gives me away.. oh well.. the Twins have scored a run, causing us to erupt in cheers and i tell the boys we're "chipping away".. the manager of the restaurant has clearly bitten off more than he can chew by allowing us this much beer.. he's wearing a Boston Red Sox David Ortiz jersey, so naturally i call him "Big Papi".. he shushes us with the hand gesture Ross from "Friends" uses when he moves in with Chandler and Joey and wants them to quiet down.. we make fun of Papi.. "i kinda want to have sex with our waitress", i alert my table, and probably tables around us..

more rounds of "Cheers and Bottoms Up" take place and our waitress tells us that her shift is over but another waitress will take over.. "we prefer hot waitresses, thanks," i tell her.. we try to convince her to stay and drink with us.. "sorry, but my baby is more important".. drastic mood change.. no one wants a built-in family.. we send her on her way.. in a classic "good news/bad news" moment, the new waitress is cuter but not hotter than the previous waitress.. this is offset by the fact that she's wearing tube socks and her shorts are cut mid-clitoris.. good for us, bad for her.. i learn that one of our coworkers is puking in the bathroom when i break the seal.. i'm not sure which one it is, so when i come back out i tell the other couple guys there about the "mystery yacker".. one of the two suspects come in from smoking outside, so we know our offender.. he completely denies it, so we nonchalantly needle him the rest of the night by asking if he's feeling alright and calling him "Chuck"..

we lose another one of the guys who was texting a girl nonstop, so it wasn't a big loss, he wasn't adding much to the experience.. he steals an entire roll of paper towels and spits on the floor before leaving.. classy.. so we're down to the final four.. "i wanted to leave about nine hours ago", i say.. "but you didn't, that makes you a man", i'm told.. i smile.. winning first place in the "Obvious Statement" category is our waitress, Lauren, who tells us, "the shorter my shorts, the more tips i get".. at some point in this exchange, we pay our bills.. as we're getting our credit cards, she asks "do you wanna see it?", referring to said bills.. bad choice of words on her part.. "umm yeah, how much does that cost?".. she smiles and blushes, clearly crushing on me.. so we pay and go outside where a couple guys stop to smoke.. after a few minutes, Lauren comes outside and says "do you guys want another beer tube?".. that's like questioning our masculinity, so we go back in and order two.. "we're getting kicked out tonight", cool coworker says..

the events that took place during the final two beer tubes are unclear but it culminated in this: "how much will you guys give me if i tell the waitress i'll tip her more for a kiss on the cheek, and then when she comes in i'll turn my head and get her on the lips?", cool coworker asks.. "20 dollars" i say.. the other two put in a combined $15 or something.. he's struggling to find an opening, so i come right out and say "he'll give you a huge tip if you give him a kiss on the cheek", forgetting i'm drunk and this trick hasn't worked since 1994.. she sees right through it and walks away to help another table.. "i'm going to grab her ass", cool coworker says.. "she has to slap you or it doesn't count", i tell him.. when she comes back over, he whispers something in her ear and then grabs her ass, legend has it that he got a little under the shorts.. i throw my $20 at him and give him a high-five while she punches him on the shoulder but smiles, clearly happy about the whole ordeal.. he ended up giving her the entire pot and we're not kicked out..

in our demolishing of 8-9 beer tubes, one of the other coworkers got a little carried away, and when he gets that drunk, he becomes a "fighter" we find out.. first of all, he tries giving Lauren his business card for some other job he has and she's clearly weirded out.. "sorry for Creepy Kyle over here, here's my number, let us know if there are any cool bars around here" says the cool coworker.. we start the long (4 block) walk home.. "i miss Lauren", i tell the others..

angry coworker starts talking about how cool coworker "cock blocked" him (both of them have girlfriends and the cool one was joking the entire time, plus his girlfriend asks him if the waitress was hot later on when he tells her the story).. anyway, cool coworker stops and urinates on one of those giant ice cream cones outside Dairy Queen, while across the street someone yells "hey, stop peeing on our cone" from inside a car in a Walmart parking lot.. oh boy.. angry coworker runs over to the car to pick a fight with them.. while cool coworker runs to diffuse the situation and trips on the way there.. "down goes Frazier!!", i yell.. i have to pee myself, so i pee on the actual Dairy Queen building during said argument.. i then go and stand next to the 4th remaining guy on the sidewalk who tells me, "you look like you could handle yourself in a fight", which causes me to shadow box and respond "fuck yeah i could".. he also tells me "you look sober".. "i feel non-sober", i respond..

after the "argument" ends, allegedly with one of the people in the car asking if we had pot, we start walking again.. angry coworker is still livid with cool coworker about "cock blocking" him.. we tell him that he was being creepy and that he shouldn't drink with us anymore.. this makes him more angry.. we get to the hotel and get in the elevator.. he starts punching walls and stuff, so i skip my stop on the 5th floor to make sure no one dies.. we get to the 6th floor where cool coworker gets off and starts walking away.. angry coworker spews some more trash talk at him, so cool coworker runs back and keeps the elevator door open to talk some more.. i get out and keep him back, while the 4th coworker stays in the elevator and goes down to wherever they're staying.. cool coworker and i immediately start laughing as we hear angry coworker punching walls and stuff.. the final tally: 8-9 beer tubes, 2 waitresses, 100+ sexual comments, 2 public urination incidents, one attempted drug deal, 1 Twins loss, 4 employees in at 5:00 a.m., 1 at 7:00 a.m. and 1 failed to make it to work (angry coworker).. epic.. why do some people turn into completely different humans when they drink? if you've heard stories about you being a complete moron every time you drink enough, quit fucking drinking that much.. if you're an exaggerated version of the same person, that's fine.. when you turn into a fucking idiot, alcohol isn't for you.. thanks..

a couple more blog worthy incidents that have since i've been in Ohio:

last Friday night, i went to dinner at a place called "The Black Olive" with the former "Cute Hometown Girl" (you remember her as "CHG".. she authored the surprise Thanksgiving visit, won Defensive MVP honors in flag football (awarded by me) and took care of me after my wine/hot tub-induced black out, among other things).. on the ride to the restaurant, i get the worst anxiety of my life, i'm nauseous, sweating and my entire left arm is tingling.. i've kind of become an expert at hiding my anxiety and not letting it show.. when i recently told a couple family members about how i feel sometimes, they both said they never notice it.. anyway, this was worse than i've ever felt and obviously wasn't hiding anything very well.. she asked me if i was okay and i told her how i was feeling.. i had already talked to her a few days earlier about how my anxiety has been worse lately after switching medicines and it was more in social situations rather than being more generalized.. she was super cool about it when i told her then and is going to school to be a P.A., so she had helpful things to say.. anyone who has never had anxiety really doesn't understand how badly it affects you.. although it's not dangerous, it feels horrible and it's hard to control unless you've gone through therapy and have learned exercises and techniques to change your thought process.. obviously there are several factors that go into it, but i believe the main cause of my anxiety goes back to having terrible acne in high school and being VERY self-conscious, shy and aware that i wasn't as good looking as most people.. it's built up to the point where my brain can't handle it anymore and that's where i am now.. obviously i know my thoughts are over-the-top and not true but that's how anxiety works.. the brain has it's own way of operating until you change it.. anyway, i immediately know i need beer to calm down.. CHG is controlling the conversation while i drink beer faster than they can pour it.. "i like your hat," she says.. "i like your dress," i say, glancing at her boobs.. she's looking ridiculously awesome in a cleavage-revealing sundress and her hair was done very attractively.. with my anxiety being that strong, the worst symptom was that it was hard to take advantage of looking at her..

eventually we leave and my beer medicine is starting to take effect.. we walk down the block to another sit-down place for another drink, chat about family and miscellaneous things and move along.. we go into a bar much like any small town bar (funny, being in the capital of Ohio) and stand by the bar.. an older gentleman somehow starts talking to us about Minnesota and how he spent time there in 1996 while working for President Clinton's campaign.. he goes on for an hour about how people in the Minnesota area are the nicest people in the world and people to the east, south and west are assholes.. Columbus was where people started to get nice again, according to him.. we chatted about Ohio State football and Vikings football and Browns football and old athletes, some of whom i actually knew.. also, quite a few Ohio State players have been stars for the Vikings: Cris Carter, Robert Smith, Korey Stringer, Antoine Winfield, etc.. eventually he started repeating himself and sounding like your grandpa who tells you the same story every 25 minutes, so i asked CHG if she was comfortable being there by herself while i went to pee.. i was half expecting her to be gone when i came back.. luckily, she wasn't kidnapped but he had found another older guy to come join the same conversation.. eventually we break out of the stranglehold of this guys nonstop chattering and leave the bar..

we decide to stop one more place before we end the night.. i have to pee again, so i walk in and make a beeline for the bathroom.. there are a couple people in line and a bathroom attendant looking rather flamboyant, shall we say.. didn't bother me and i thought nothing of it.. finally it's my turn to pee.. done, go to wash my hands.. guy is having trouble working the automatic faucet.. he looks at me.. "want to lick my handsss?" he says in the stereotypical homosexual voice.. "umm no thanks" i say and walk out.. my gaze catches CHG's on the walk back to her and she breaks out laughing.. she had stopped drinking long ago but there were two beers on the bar.. "i had to drink here".. she's engaged in a conversation with two lesbians who give her directions to a bar they're going to afterwards.. meanwhile, i'm watching male bar patrons lean over the counter to kiss male bartenders.. i stay glued between CHG and the exit, just in case any funny business happens.. i'm rooting for CHG and one of the lesbians to make out and have my cell phone handy in case photographic evidence is needed.. no such luck.. finally, we walk out.. "i think i'll blog about that", i say.. on the ride home, i find a country CD that i had sent her last summer/fall and put it in.. then, every time a new song started, i told her it was Kenny Chesney (like she didn't know) and we sang Kenny duets until we made it home to find her newly acquired puppy, who is a) super cute and b) fond of biting my feet..

the next morning i'm supposed to be going with the cool coworker to Cincinnati, just to get away from the hotel for a while.. we had agreed Friday night to leave at 10 a.m.. i get a text at 9:50, "make it 10:15".. i'm still 20 minutes away so i say "make it 10:30".. can't wake up.. "fuck, make it 11:00," i say.. "thank you.. call me when you get here to wake me up," he says.. finally i'm on the road.. i shower quickly, washing the anxiety-induced sweat from last night away.. i meet him in the lobby at 11:00.. "what the fuck happened to you?" i ask, noticing the scab on his chin.. "i don't want to talk about it," he says.. he tells me about a drunken episode last night where he tried running to catch up to the other guys, jumped on the back of one of our coworkers, went down and landed chin first on the cement.. awesome.. "i'm so hungry i could eat a zebra," i tell him.. we stop at McDonald's.. hindsight being 20/20, i made fun of him for ordering a Big Mac, the biggest burger on the menu, with a sore jaw and needing his hands to drive..

Cincinnati is exactly 100 miles from where we are and the road is mind-numbingly boring.. it's as straight as an arrow with nothing to look at.. we stop at a rest stop and pick up some books on fun things to do in Cincinnati and the surrounding area.. we decide to go to an aquarium right across the river from Cincinnati in northern Kentucky.. my coworker wants some Neosporin and a bandaids for his chin after i tell him "you're leaking".. we cross the river into Kentucky and not 30 seconds after doing so, we see a horse and buggy.. i took a picture and he started singing the theme to some old redneck TV show.. we can't find a gas station and judging by the car-to-horse ratio, we debate asking them where they get more horse feed.. finally we find some little convenience store.. i think my camera needs batteries, so i look around for them, finding some generic brand like Dave's Batteries or something.. coworker asks if i think they have a bathroom and i say "yeah, probably in that back corner".. he returns, saying "thanks for sending me to the managers office to take a shit".. naturally, the Neosporin and bandaids are 3 rows apart from each other and my "low battery" turned out to be a full memory stick.. the lesson, as always: i'm an idiot..

it's unbelievably humid out and i tell the coworker that Kentucky is the hottest place on earth, slightly exaggerating.. we pay $20 a piece to go into this aquarium.. it doesn't live up to the hype at first but then we start seeing alligators and sharks and penguins.. that's where we got our money's worth.. they had a tank where you could pet small sharks using only 2 fingers, so naturally we make sexual jokes about that.. we found ourselves across from a low-cut red shirt wrapped around a blonde girl (photographic evidence on Facebook).. we pet some sharks for a few minutes, actually getting into it.. "this is the gayest thing i've ever done," he says.. finally we leave, stopping in Barnes and Noble for fantasy football magazines and use his Blackberry GPS to find the Bengals and Reds stadiums and do some investigating.. we continuously call the GPS voice lady a bitch because she likes to tell us to take U-turns whenever possible and told us to take about 15 lefts in a row when right was clearly the right answer.. after yelling at homeless men to "quit bragging", we're on our way home.. i fall asleep immediately on the way back, coworker later tells me he had to start texting people to stay awake.. reassuring..


i'm starting to read a book called "The Maxims of Manhood: 100 Rules Every Real Man Must Live By".. instead of lyrics on this blog, i'm going to include a few clips from this book, it's pretty comical.. i'm only through rule #22 and have barely scratched the surface in the "Women" section so there may be more material to share in the future:


Rule #1: Tip Well.

Proper tipping shows that you're worldly, you're not a tight ass, and that, at rare moments, you ever give a damn about people besides yourself. It's more than good manners- it's good ethics and it's good karma. You must know how to tip the following professions:

Barber: Simple common sense. You see the same guy at least once a month, so unlike at a restaurant, say, a frugal tip is neither anonymous not forgotten. Ancient bit of wisdom: be generous to a man when he has a blade to your throat.

Hooker: For some reason the publisher denied my request for "research money" to explore this profession, but here's my hunch: if you tip a waitress 15 percent for serving you a plate of spaghetti, then you should probably tip a woman at least that much for letting you stuff her vagina with your penis.

Babysitter: She was just responsible for the life, safety, and health of the most important person in your world. If scorned, she's in a position to kidnap your baby. Probably not the best place to scrimp.

Bartender: If the place is crowded, the key is to tip heavy early in the night, make eye contact, and they'll remember you later and give faster service. The better you tip, the better yours odds of a buy-back.

Manucurist: I don't know this. And neither should you.


Rule #2: You Only Recognize Primary Colors.

The male retina can only process three colors- red, blue, and yellow. Through heavy squinting, it is also possible, in rare and extraordinary circumstances, to recognize secondary colors like orange, green, and purple. Men can also understand black and white, as generations of watching football - natural selection - has developed an ability to spot the referee's uniforms.

Tragically, this physical handicap has been underreported by the mainstream media, triggering both miscommunication and awkwardness. Women will ask questions like, "What blouse should I wear: the periwinkle or the magenta?"

Periwinkle? Magenta? These words mean nothing. Magenta sounds like the villain from X-Men, the dude with the red and blue helmet (maybe you call it purple). Periwinkle could be a Dickens charachter, or maybe a book by Dr. Seuss.

It's not that men simply shouldn't know the difference between "indigo" and "chartreuse," it's that we don't. Can't. It's not in our genetic code. And this impairment causes problems.

For instance, men are unable to enjoy picking out the color of new linoleum tiles. There will be no spirited debates over wallpaper. When you buy a car, you buy a red car, or a black car, or a blue car. Despite what is says in your owner's manual, your car sure as shit isn't "pewter." It's dark white.


Rule #3: Know How To Give a Compliment

Seems easy. Giving a compliment is simple. You just tell someone they they "did some good shit" or that they "look fucking good." What's so hard about that? The art of the compliment, however, requires a different approach for men and women, buddies and coworkers, family and strangers. While you're certainly not enrolled in the Ministry of Manners, you do know how to issue a complement without kissing ass, embarrassing the recipient, or humiliating yourself. You follow some of the basic Dos and Don'ts.

When complimenting a woman:

Do: Keep it simple. Avoid cliches. Hold eye contact. If you're in doubt? It won't score points for originality, but the old warhorse "You look great" has yet to fail.

Don't: Say that her breasts look terrific. Say she has beautiful eyes. (Barf.) Compliment her on the fine application of lipstick. Condescendingly say that she throws pretty well for a girl. Point at her dress and say, "Ooohhh, the new Betsey Johnson. Loves it!" (She wants you to appreciate how she looks in the dress. She doesn't want you to actually appreciate the dress itself. For women, fashion is a game of tricks and illusion. You just broke the spell.)

When complimenting a buddy:

Do: Understate it. If you're playing golf and he whacks a hole in one, your response should be something like, "That shot didn't suck." Compliment his new car, TV, gaming system, or power tool... even if yours is bigger and shinier and better.

Don't Compliment his appearance. Say that his daughter is hot or call her a DILF. Tell your roommate that you heard the walls shaking all night, and it sounds like he's a real tiger in the sack.

When complimenting a coworker:

Do: Ensure the right person gets the right credit. Don't just lavish praise on the boss; speak up when the junior person worked until midnight. Acknowlede the behind-the-scenes stuff that gets overlooked.

Don't: Ever ask if someone "didn't get the memo" or refer to those "TPS Reports." No, those aren't compliments but they're very, very stale jokes. Telling them should be grounds for immidiate dismissal. And you should never, ever compliment a woman's appearance in the workplace. You must act as if women look like pencil sharpeners: they're not pretty, not ugly; they're just competent, sexless machines that get the job done, same as a man.

When complimenting in the bedroom:

Do: Make her feel sexy. Compliment her body. Say that what she's doing feels good.

Don't: Overdo it. An unrelenting stream of flattery isn't sexy, it's corny. Just shut up and fuck already, okay? Another don't: if it's early in the relationship, you should never say "I love your body" or "I love the way you feel" or whatever. This is how it might sound to her: "I love... [long, dreadful pause]... your body." She might think you're about to drop the L-bomb, in which case she'll either freak out or be disappointed. It's the same reason you should never give her jewelry that comes in a ring-sized box. A final don't: after oral sex, don't say, "I can tell you've done that a lot. You're a real pro."

Rule #11: Never Switch Your Favorite Team.

You will have many jobs. You will own multiple cars, pets, and suits. And barring some nightmare scenario where you marry your high school sweetheart, you'll go from girl to girl.

Like almost everything else in life, these are all fleeting. Replaceable. But you do have something timeless and true, a lifelong bedrock; your favorite sports team. You are permitted one team for each major sport, and this can never change. Ever.

Your girlfriend won't get it. She'll ask, "Wait, didn't you say you have 'commitment issues'?" She'll then argue, "if the whole point of sports is a fun diversion, why not just root for whomever you please, sip your beer, and enjoy the game?"

You know better. Sports aren't just some "fun diversion." Every year is a long, torturous season, where you slog through bad drafts and crushing playoff defeats. We lose more than we win. We sulk more than we cheer.

This pain, though, is like boot camp for our soul. It hardens us. It stells us for life's disappointments. To flinch from this pain - to upgrade teams when your beloved Vikings are in the gutter - is to betray your core principles. The man who changes teams connot be trusted. This is the man who fip-flops his politics and cheats on his wife.

The maxin transcends geography. If you grew up in Boston as a lifelong Patriots fan, and then you have the misfortune of moving to Buffalo, it is unacceptable to adopt the Bills as your new team. It also transcends individual players. True, a Packers fan is allowed to root for Brett Favre when he plays for New York, but his is forbidden from claiming the Jets as his new favorite team.

A note on timing. you might wondner when in live, precisely, you need to make your choice. Follow this rule of thumb: you should settle on your favorite team by the day you stop trick-or-treating. When you've stopped dressing up like Yoda to beg your neighbors for fun-sized Kit-Kats, you've entered the grown-up world of sports fidelity.

Rule #13: Shun Networking Guy.

When you go to watch the game, you must go to watch the game. You're not there to woo a client. You're not there to lather up your boss. You refuse to be Networking Guy. You shun him.

Additional in-game etiquette:

No cussing in front of the kids. I'm fucking serious. You can be as raunchy as you'd like in the sports bar, but when you're in earshot of little Timmy, trade the shits for shoots. Plus, it's fun. My favorite trick is to swap well-known profanity with unique, G-rated slurs. Like when the ref makes a bad call you scream, "Awww c'mon, ref, that's a bunch of HORSE... RADISH!!!" Or you can say the call wasn't bullshit, it's "baloney." Try it sometime. You're guaranteed a chuckle.

That being said, tolerate loudness. Embrace it. Don't be that guy shhhhhhhing the crowd. You're at a stadium. Deal with it. If you want to watch a game in complete silence, go see the Toronto Raptors.

A word on jerseys. If you're at a Cubs/Astrols game, minus 5 points for wearing a Braves jersey. (Wrong team.) Minus 10 points for wearing a Bulls jersey. (Wrong sport.) Minus 35 points for wearing an Argonaut jersey. (Wrong country.) Minus 100 points for wearing a custom, personalized jersey with your name on it. (Wrong path you've chosen in life.)

Do not do The Wave. It's now in the highest pantheon of group corniness, right up there with the Macarena and YMCA. If the rest of the stadium starts it? Stand your ground. Follow your principles. Be that lone, defiant protestor in Tiananmen Square, staring down the tank that is the wave.

Unless you're eight years old, no bringing your glove to a baseball game. Two words: Steve Bartman. If he had followed this rule in 2003, his Cubs might have won the World Series.

Rule #14: Know Who's Pitching.

Let's say you're a Dodgers fan. It is unacceptable for you to walk into a buddy's apartment, see they're playing on TV, and casually ask the room, "Hey, who's pitching tonight?" Or, even more appalling; "Hey guys, who are we playing?" ("We," apparently, are playing a little game where we pretend that we're a sports fan and have a penis.)

No actual fan would be so blithe, so oblivious, about who's playing or who's pitching. It's like Sarah Palin never having heard of the Bush Doctorine. These are simply things you know. How could you not?

You know your team. Specifically you know the following:

Your team's schedule. No, you don't need to be the anal-retentive dork who memorizes the Raiders' entire sixteen-game schedule, but you must, at a minimum, know the next few games. You should know the upcoming opponents, any scheduling quirks (night game vs. day game), and you should knwo when your team is on a bye, because that's the one weekend between Labor Day and February that you can spend Sunday with your girlfriend.

Your team's roster. It's amazing how many "fans" will watch a football game and have utterly no clue who's anchoring the O-line. You might know the names of all your cousins, but you know all fifty-three players, and you know where they went to college.

Your team's strengths. This is more encouraged than required. While you don't have to be an Xs and Os wizard like Hubie Brown or Ron Jaworski, you should be able to talk a little strategy. You should know that when you match up against the Warriors, you have a height advantage and should dump the ball in the post.

Your team's weaknesses. There aren't any. These guys are going all the way.

Your team's coach. You're smarter than the coach. You know that he should have gone for it on fourth down, that he should start the rookie quarterback, and that he's deploying the prevent-defense alarmingly too early. Yes, you acknowledge that he watches fifty hours of game film a week. But that just makes him blind to the obvious.

Your team's history. It separates the bandwagoners from the faithful. Without hesitating, you can rattle off the years your team won a title, the years they should have, and 80 percent of the championship starting lineups.

Rule #15: Slap His Ass.

Physical affection with another man freaks you out.

The idea of holding a man's hand is unthinkable. You'd never help a man comb his hair. You wouldn't kiss him on the cheek. You wouldn't rub sunscreen on his back.

Obvious stuff, right? These taboos are so off-limits, so clearly beyond the pale, that they don't even warrant their own rules. You get it. Even though the infractions seem minor - and even though, frankly, it's the same harmless stuff girls do with girls - you don't want to go there because, you know.. well, you know.

So you avoid physical contact with other men. You keep them at arm's length. Good for you and good for him. Good for all of us.

Except...

When you're both hot and sweaty and playing the same sport, nothing is more emphatically, more clearly heterosexual than slapping another man's ass. When he hauls in a touchdown, you slap in on the ass. When he swishes a three-pointer, you pat him on the ass. When he smacks a home run, you treat his butt to a little palm lovin'. Even when he misses a free throw, you still say to yourself, "You know what? Screw it! Let's slap him on the ass!"

And this doesn't strike you - or anyone - as at all homoerotic. Trying on another man's pair of jeans? That's gay. Tapping the man's butt? That's camaraderie.

One theory... Your athletic prowess is so virile, so stunningly heterosexual, that it gives a smokescreen for everything and anything else. And who knows? Maybe the ass tap is just the beginning. Soon, perhaps, we'll see more advanced moves - when the pitcher throws a no-hitter, say, his teammates all line up and give him the newest gesture of manly appreciation: the "ball squeeze."

Rule #16: Stay Until The End.

If sports were merely about jumping and sweating and catching balls, we'd be just as entertained watching dogs play fetch. But we demand more. Strategy, pushing the limits, heart, redemption, and every once in a long, long while... moments of magic.

We crave this magic. The stunning comebacks, like Tracy McGrady's thirteen points in thirty-three seconds. Eli Manning and the helmet catch. The Sox coming back from 0-3. The Bills roaring back from thirty-two points against Warren Moon and the Oilers. And so on.

This magic doesn't come free. The price is loyalty. To trule appreciate these golden moments, you must demonstrate your commitment. When you pay good money to cheer the home team, it is unacceptbale to leave early to beat traffic. Your team deserves better. You deserve better.

The deserters who skulk out of the stadium with six minutes left - bowing their heads in shame, peeling off their jerseys - should be photographed by security, have their tickets confiscated, and get slapped with a lifetime ban from the ballpark.

Would you walk out of your daughter's piano recital the moment she flubs a key? Abandon your buddy if he passed out in a bar? Ditch your girlfriend if she suddenly became annoying? (Scratch that last one.)

The traffic-beater species is not indigenous to any one city. They're everywhere. The flee blowouts; they wince at the first drops of rain. Some traffic-beaters actually leave early during close games, perhaps becauss they forgot their Midol.

Rule #22: End The Call First.

Men can be enlightened - take the phone, for instance. Just like pasteurization, TiVo, and the printing press, the phone is an important invention. The phone lets us order pizza. It lets us text message. It can be used in an emergency, like to call the cable company when the NBA League Pass isn't working.

The phone has many uses. One thing we frown upon, however, is use of the phone for talking. A quick call to coordinate plans? Not a problem. A brief, predinner chat to see if you want quiche or brisket? you bet. (Technically, in that scenario, we'd prefer a text. And come to think of it, the answer should be obvious: brisket.)

When you're on the phone with your girlfriend or wife, you must want to end the call before she does. To clarify, this doesn't mean that you, personally, must initiate the hang-up. Once again the key is intent. You mustn't be the blabberer.

On the call itself, your role is to silently suffer. Don't worry. You have plenty of options. You can flip the phone to mute and play video games or mow the lawn. You can utter a stream of "mmmh hmm," "that makes sense," or "exactly."

The advanced move? As you're checking your e-mail and surfing the web and utterly ignoring her, you say, "Right... but what do you really mean by that?" This sneaky little ace-in-the-hole, regardless of when you play it, yields unfailingly strong results. It conjures the illusion that you were not only paying close attention, but you're probing for something deeper. You're not just thinking about what she was saying, you're analyzing why she was saying it, you're assimilating this new informations into a holistic, oft-analyized view of her personality, and you want to knwo more. Try it sometime. It's good for the relationship.

Every group has one of these guys. When you're on a Vegas trip, he's the guy who leaves the blackjack table for "just a minute" to call his girlfriend, then returns an hour later, sheepish. This is the same guy who holds on 16.

Women say they want a man who's sensitives and communicative - fair enough. But they don't really want a guy who talks their earrings off. Ask questions. Don't soliloquize. Take a cue from George Costanza: end the conversation early and "leave 'em wanting more."

Again, the phone itself is not evil. Phones don't bore; people do. And conversations themselves aren't necessarily awful. In fact, sometimes, a long conversation with a girl can be enjoyable. Really. (Preferably, this is done in person, which allows for the possibility of sex.)

So if there is truly, legis, honest-to-God news that's worth discussing at length, a thirty-plus minute phone call is justified. If you're on business in Pittsburgh, say, and she calls to say she's pregnant, it's probably worth a leisurely chat.


Men's Health Tips of the Week


What The Woman in Your Life is Really Thinking

When you look into a woman's eyes, you probably often wonder, What is she really thinking? You truly believe that you want to know. Poor thing. Your curiosity is stronger than your fear.

Very well, then. Every woman reacts differently, but my account here will scare the bejeezus out of you by coming pretty damn close to what your wife or girlfriend was thinking at various points in the arc of your relationship. Psychologists are standing by to help you understand—and deal with—us women.

Here's what she was thinking . . .

The Night You Met
Are you actually hot, or have I just made that up so I won't get bored and eat all this bread, which is awesome? I can't believe I have to be nice to your friend's girlfriend, who is phenomenally stupid, in case I want to date you.

Finally! You're looking at me. Chin's okay. Nice eyes, mouth . . . wait. Is your hair kind of gay? Oh. You looked away. I didn't like you anyway. I'm bored. I want more bread.

Wow. You just totally smiled at me! If you hadn't, I would have just stopped talking to you, and you would have thought I didn't like you. But I wasn't going to be the one to stick my neck out, because that's your job. I wonder if your friend's girlfriend is going to be, like, a pain if I don't ask her to be in our wedding?

The First Time You Picked Her Up
Why aren't you here yet? My breasts look so good. But I'd better not catch you looking at them, because then I'll think that you think I'm easy. I have the greatest life! I am so pretty. You're 5 minutes late. I look like a total slut. Where are you? You're 10 minutes late. I'm totally going to be a single mom.

Oh, wow. Here you are. I am so crazy. You're cute. Like the suit—a little rumpled, neat but not trying too hard. If you want me to fall in love with you, you're going to have to do something about that hair.

When I disappear briefly to get my jacket, I think I'll take off my underwear so I don't have panty lines. But I'd better put them in my bag in case you take me to a place that sells wings or jalapeño poppers. I'm classier than that, can't you tell? I'm already mad at you, imagining you taking me to a place like that.

On Your First Date
I blame you for my monologue in the car about my parents' dog's nail fungus. If you don't ask me a question in 5 seconds, we're not meant to be. Okay, 10 seconds. Fifteen. Ah, finally: "Do you like your job?" A little stiff, but you made the effort, and you are so lucky you said something before I reached 100.

Excellent restaurant choice—elegant but not stuffy. The hostess doesn't have our reservation. Great. Now you're going to freak out on her and embarrass me . . . Oh, you just said, "No big deal. We'll get a drink at the bar while you work it out." I'm aroused by your restraint.

Wait a minute: You like the hostess! It was dark when we met. Did you remember me as younger, or blonder, or thinner? Like the hostess? I was lying when I thought I didn't want you to look at my breasts. Stop reviewing the wine list and look at them! I don't like you anyway.

I have to think of something flirtatious to say, to see if you respond favorably. Thank goodness I've only had one drink, so I'm still aware that "I'm not wearing any underwear" is not a good choice. Did you just say the wine list looks "approachable"? "Tell me you did not just say the wine list looks approachable." Whoa. Did I say that out loud? That was mean. Why do I have to be sarcastic when I'm feeling needy?

Oh, you're blushing and saying, "I'm just nervous because you're really pretty," and now you look embarrassed you said that. But trust me, it was the right thing to say. We're such a good couple. It's totally cool if your friend's dumb girlfriend wants to be in the wedding. But she can't be a bridesmaid. She can do the guestbook or something.

The First Time You Kissed
I am putting my bare feet on the couch next to your legs. Wow. If you didn't get the memo on that one, you're past hope. Maybe you just don't even like me. I am making this really easy, dude. My toes are now touching your leg. Did you watch me walk to the kitchen and decide my ass is too fat and now you're trying to think of an excuse to leave? Do I say something? No. My job is to wait for . . . wow, your hand is on my knee.

You're pulling me toward you. I am scared you have bad breath. Not too fast, very good, start off slow. I want to feel like you're dying to sleep with me but not like you're worried I won't. I can't believe I need everything to be perfect; it's going to be my undoing. I wonder if I'll date when I'm a single mom.

Closing my mouth a bit to slow you down worked. This is good. I should get one last thought in before I stop thinking, which is to remind myself to keep my underwear on. Oh. Right. Well, you can't touch where my underwear would be if I were wearing any.

Your First Time in Bed
Should I put my legs up in the air, or is that too much? Why am I having sex with you? Oh . . . why not? I remember when I was younger and thought I was going to be a virgin when I got married. Now that is funny.

I am so glad I didn't eat any carbs or sugar for 3 days. My stomach is so flat! I like looking down at it while you're on top of me. It's so weird that I'm always thinking about getting married. I wonder how many times I have to have sex with you before I can make you buy better sheets. I wish I were more like you. You don't seem to have a whole lot on your mind.

When She Accepted Your Proposal
I am so in love. I am also relieved I'm not going to be a single mother. I hope I'm doing the right thing. I know why there is a giant ring associated with getting engaged, because every time I look at it, I feel enormously soothed.


8 Things She Hates About You

The biggest fight in my relationship has been replayed more times than Beyoncé's tumble in Orlando. It usually happens something like this: First, after 3 or 4 hours of silent abuse by me, my boyfriend starts to suspect something's up.

"I know you're annoyed," he says. "What did I do?"

"You didn't do anything," I say. "It's fine, whatever. I'm not annoyed."

"Just tell me."

This goes on for hours until I finally blurt it out: "You didn't introduce me when we ran into that guy you work with! And why do you need to go out to brunch with your ex?" Then I feel silly for letting such small things bother me, and we laugh and roll around on the bed and all is right again in our world.

But he raises a good point: Most of the time he has no idea of what sets me off. Which is why I've prepared this handy inventory of things men tend to do that we tend to find annoying. If you study up, you'll be able to stop repelling the women you want to meet—or aggravating the one you have. And we women can continue not telling you why we're mad, because we'll figure, "Hey, he should know already!" Besides, who said this would be fair?

You're a Mess
Actually, we really don't mind if you're a little messy at our place. An empty beer bottle here or dirty T-shirt there—no problem. But when we start seeing pieces of you (literally) all over the place, we tend to go off. Like when we find your pubes all over our bar of Dove, or toenail clippings on the nightstand, or a pile of chewed-out sunflower-seed shells on the counter. Please clean that up before we see it and want to gag. And then we'll promise to be better about leaving globs of our hair in your shower drain. Do we have a deal?

You're a Nag
You ask how much our new haircut or handbag costs, yet conveniently don't mention your sportsbook.com account or the $200 you lost on the NCAA parlay. Until we're sharing a bank account with you, we're not all that interested in your opinions on how we should or should not spend our money.

And if we are sharing a bank account, here's something you should know: Reminding us when we're in the throes of post-retail bliss that we just blew all our disposable income for the month is not going to endear you to us. The perfect boyfriend response: "Wow, [fierce/sexy/hot] new [haircut/handbag/lingerie item]. I guess dinner is on me tonight!" Then wait a few days to bring up your financial concerns, by proposing we both start saving for something we want to buy together.

You Use Guy Talk with Us
If you have any romantic inclinations toward us, please don't call us by our last name. Otherwise we'll assume we've already been relegated to buddy status and start thinking of you that way, too. Also, you'll rarely find us holding entire conversations in Simpsons and Old School quotes.

Similarly, we don't talk in numbers the same way men tend to. We're happy to see evidence of your improvements at the gym, but we really don't need to know how much you can bench-press. We also couldn't care less about your day rate, the price of your car, or the number of beers you once shotgunned in college. And fantasy-league anything will make us flirt hard with the waiter.

No, the conversation doesn't have to be all about us, but we do want you to shoot for topics of mutual interest.

You're Vague
Men seem to have perfected a special way of talking about the future that makes it unclear whether we're a part of it or not. Or maybe you don't know you're doing this? For instance, you frequently mention your buddy's wedding in another state 6 months from now and you haven't asked us to go with you. Or you have a monthlong international business trip coming up but haven't asked us whether we'd like to come for a weekend visit. If you picture us in your future, try talking about these things in such a way that we'll stick around for it.

You Stop Wooing Us
You have us as your wife or girlfriend. We're committed to the situation, and all is good. But pretty soon you stop trying to impress us—and we don't like that.

"Now that we're married, he never tries to 'win me' anymore," says one friend. "If he wants to come on to me, he needs to ditch his gross dress socks and gym clothes and make an effort. Otherwise he ain't getting any. Also, there is less foreplay and it's more routine, which I hate. After 7 years, a man's got to bust some new moves."

Or at least bring back a few of the retired ones that used to work. Like simply bringing home a pizza, a bottle of wine, and some flowers when we've had a bad day. Bring back the woo. We want the woo!

You're Sloppy with Porn
We don't care that you masturbate, and we can't change the fact that you might occasionally browse the fine and varied selection of naked ladies on the Internet. But if you're looking at porn on a computer we also use, kindly delete your history. We don't want amazonbabes.com to pop up every time we want to do some shopping or, worse, when your mother's over and an underwearless young starlet showing her bald spot appears as we're showing Mom something online.

You Say No to Sex
When it so happens that we're the one who wants sex and you're the one who doesn't, we find your refusal to be confusing and irritating. Reassure us that we're attractive and that you love us, but that you just aren't in the mood.

It helps to throw out a hint at what's going on—that you're tired, depressed, anxious at work, whatever, says Aline Zoldbrod, Ph.D., a Boston-area psychologist. That way we won't obsess or be too pouty or aggressive.

If we happen to be fresh off a girls' night out liquored up and ready for sex, which you're refusing, tread extra carefully. Horny can change to emotional, crying wreckage very quickly when your girl has a couple of glasses of Prosecco in her.

You Don't Call
Texting is fast and easy and leads to sexy banter—but save it until after the first date. Calling a woman to ask her out is much more personal. It takes more effort (and balls), which is exactly what we find so sexy about your doing it. Okay, it's an unfair burden for you, but it comes with an advantage: It makes you stand out from the mass of other men who text instead of calling.

"So many people are conditioned to communicate through text messages that to receive a phone call or even an e-mail feels like a generously romantic gesture," says Kristina Grish, author of The Joy of Text: Mating, Dating, and Techno-Relating.

Another thing: Don't include us in any mass texts you bang off to half the female names in your address book at 10 p.m., expecting one of us to come rushing out to meet you for the night.

"Women know when your 'plans 2nite?' texts are generic, and when they're intended to specifically address them," Grish says. "You have so few characters to make a succinct point, but tuck an inside joke or reference into the message to make it personal, sexy, and fun."

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