Whoa, Did You Know That Michael Vick is in Trouble?!

Subtitle: Hero of the Day, Vol. 6

So, I was trying to watch Monday Night Football, and Michael Vick wasn’t even playing and all they could talk about was Michael Vick, so I guess he is in some kind of trouble, or something? I'm not sure. If anyone can fill me in on what happened, that’d be great.

Juuuust kidding. I’m so tired of Michael Vick, I wish the media would get eaten by pitbulls. I turned on Sportscenter the other day, as I do every morning, and the topics list on the side read: Vick, Vick and the Falcons, Dogfighting in the US, Prison Time?, Vick’s Career, AL Playoff Race. Yeah.

Kill me. Listen, the torture and killing of dogs makes no one sadder than me. I’d care a lot less if it was the torture and killing of, say, American corporate executives, seriously. At least there are people in the world who probably deserve it. Hmm...too far? Anyway...

I don’t want to hear any more about it. I don’t want to hear if Tony Kornheiser thinks Vick might go to jail. I don’t want to know what Suzy Kolber overheard from an animal rights activist. I don’t want to see that clip of Michael Vick OBVIOUSLY not believing a thing he’s saying in his “apology speech.” I do not want to know. Stop talking about it.

You know what I do want? I want Joey Harrington (whom I’ve always liked because he reminds me of the meathead older brother on sitcoms) to have an incredible season. People, Michael Vick was overrated! And I think Joey Harrington is way, way underrated. I think he just got a bad reputation with a REALLY bad team in Detroit.

And come on, look at him!


He’s so likeable. He looks dopey, but plays jazz piano. He goes by the name of “Joey.” That’s cool!

I like you, Joey Harrington. You’re my hero of the day! Keep on keeping on.

Hero of the Day, Vol. 5

So, this job is really, seriously interrupting my blogging habit.

And I’m sorry about the lack of my “What I Do at Work” pictorial. I think my camera may have just hizzant the skizzant, or in other words, shit the bed.

But today, in honor of Chicago’s miserable Super Bowl loss, and in honor of their dismal running game, (after Lovie Smith was quoted as saying that the Bears game plan was to run the ball all over the Colts defense) I’m officially declaring today to be a day of honor for the late, great Bears running back, the Sweetness himself, Walter Payton.



Because it is Walter Payton Day, I’m going to share with you a little thing known as the "Walter Payton Drinking Game."

To play, you need:
* Two Iron City pounders per player (I suppose any beer would work, but why would you want to drink anything else?)
* A television
* A VCR
* A VHS copy of WWF’s Summerslam ’94. (What, not everyone owns that? Robbo told me they did, and that it wasn't weird that he owned it, at all. Apparently everyone also owns a VHS copy of Survivor Series 1994, but whatever.)

Rules of play:Cue up the tape to the point where Razor Ramon

is sitting in the locker room. Press play, and crack open your first pounder. Razor Ramon is about to announce (while oozing machismo) that in tonight’s intercontinental title match (in Chicago), he will be inexplicably be accompanied to the ring by “The Sweetness himself, Walter Payton.”
Drink.
Drink every time the words “Walter Payton” are uttered.

Okay. Fastforward through the Alundra Blaze/Bull Nakano match because seriously, who cares? There’s no mention of Walter Payton. Oops! I just said it. Drink!

Although I would like you to see a photo of Bull Nakano because, well….here.


Anyway. Next up is the Razor Ramon/Diesel match, but the details don't really matter because—who is that coming down the aisle? Why, it’s Walter Payton! Drink!

For the next, oh—15 to 20 minutes, the announcers will say “Walter Payton” (not “Walter,” not “Payton,” but each time, “Walter Payton”) in just about every sentence. Drink. Drink. Drink. Within 20 minutes, you’ve drunk two pounders, and you love Walter Payton. And that is why today, Walter “Sweetness” Payton is my HERO OF THE DAY!

Viva la Pittsburgh Fans! (or Hero of the Day, Vol. 4)

This morning, I was waiting for the bus to work. It was freezing. It was snowing those annoying tiny snowflakes that pop you right in the eyeball and kind of burn, and that sucks. The wind was blowing like 59 miles an hour and I was miserable, huddled in the doorway of some bar for respite. I really need to buy a winter coat. But I digress.

I heard a male voice yell, “It’s coming!” I thought he was talking about the bus, and I craned my neck down the street. No 54C. Whaaat?

I looked for the source of the sound— it was a grizzled, middle-aged man wearing a Steelers hoodie, his hands jammed into the front pocket. He pulled one hand out and pointed to the sky. “Three inches!” he shouted at me.

“Yeaaaaah,” I said. Because really, what else do you say when some creepy guy is yelling about snow at 8AM?

“BUT THE STEELERS ARE STILL GONNA KICK SOME FUCKING ASS TONIGHT!”

Huh.

Seriously, there’s something about the resilience of this town that gets me every time. This game really means nothing. The Steelers pretty much done for. What’s to get excited about? Nothing.
But this man, he’s still excited. He still believes.
I mean, it may just be naïveté, but I want to believe otherwise. I want to believe in the perseverance (instead of the stupidity) of the Pittsburgher. There's something to be said for wholeheartedly believing in something, regardless of the circumstance. Granted, he was probably drunk, and probably heading for the White Eagle to keep up the boozing, but it still touched me a little.

So today, Grizzled Steelers Fan, you are my HERO OF THE DAY! Keep on keeping on!

For reference, when you do a Google Image search for the phrase "Steelers Fan," this is the first hit:


The funny thing is, it was originally in the Post-Gazette, but was reprinted in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer in January 06, right before the Super Bowl. I don't think anyone else in the country gets it. The city of Pittsburgh truly IS the guy in that comic, and we're proud. What else can you say?

And one last thing! If you're looking for a place to watch tonight's game, I propose the 31st Street Pub in the Strip...where The Maxipads just happen to be playing.

Elections. Or, Why I Hate All Old People Except for My Grandmother (Subtitle: Hero of the Day Vol.3)

So the election is over, mostly. We’re still waiting to hear about Montana and Virginia in the Senate, but the Republicans will probably win those because whenever there is controversy, they just go ahead and legislate into a win. But I’m not going to talk about that, because I don’t talk about smart stuff on my blog.

What I want to talk about is how my polling place was 1) held in an day care center for senior citizens with developmental disabilities called Elderberry Junction; and 2) run by what appeared to be residents of the center.

“Ohhh, Robert!” cooed the oldest woman ON EARTH, to Robbo. “That’s my favorite name!”

I laugh politely. She stops smiling and batting her dusty old eyelashes at Robbo for just long enough to sneer and bare her old lady teeth at me, then goes back to smiling at him. I’m taken aback. I am also slightly intoxicated.
Naturally, Robbo turns on his Rico-Suave*-like charms (see also: How Robbo Got Me in the Sack.) Every time I laugh politely, which I continue to do because I am slightly intoxicated, she glares at me.

The other two old women at the table, who were clearly the second-oldest and third-oldest women on earth, didn't say a word to me. Just glared. After they got finished telling Robbo about where they lived, their pets, and their children.

Old ladies. I don’t get it. They must hate me because when I sit down to eat, I don’t have to move my boobs aside to put my napkin in my lap.

So, we walk over to the electronic voting machines, which I didn’t find nearly as perplexing as the ostensibly retarded old fat man in the too-small t-shirt, stained with drool and what appeared to be barbecue sauce, who was sticking an 8-track cassette in the side of my machine. He was also grinning at me with less teeth than I have fingers. This guy is going to ensure that my vote counts? Yikes.

In summation, as you can clearly see, old people suck. Except for my grandmother, who called me to remind me to vote so we can get that (and I quote) “son-of-a-bitch Santorum out of office." Now that's the kind of old lady America needs more of. Good work, Nana! I indirectly credit your slandering of that bigot Rick Santorum with taking him out of the Senate. You're my HERO OF THE DAY!









*Oh, and just in case you forgot what Rico Suave looks like, here:

Hero of the Day, Vol. 2

Well, I didn't update yesterday because I was upset about the Steelers’ loss or, more accurately, the shitty way our offense performed, and I didn’t want to say a bunch of things that I’d regret such as “What a bunch of bums,” or “What the hell was Ken Whisenhunt thinking?” or “Ben is such a fucking turd,” (oh wait, I think I’ve said that before. )

Then, the baby from the previous post was found, alive and well, hydrated and with makeup covering her telltale birthmark, so that’s not even that interesting. I just really have nothing to say.

So thus! Today’s post is dedicated to my HERO OF THE DAY!

The inaugural HOTD was someone I knew, so I thought that this one should be someone I don’t. and I give you (drum roll, bated breath please):

OKSANA BAIUL.

Yeah. That’s right. What’s that? You don’t care about Oksana Baiul? Well you’re reading my blog, so you must have very little taste. And those of us with very little taste should love Oksana Baiul. Why, you ask? Because she started out as this darling little thing in 1994 that came from nowhere to beat out Nancy Kerrigan for the gold medal in the Lillehammer Olympics, and we weren’t even that mad, because seriously, we were only rooting for Nancy because we felt bad for her, and she had those big nostrils and kind of seemed like a bitch anyway.


So cute! I mean yeah, the bangs, but it was 1994, and she's from the Ukraine, and a figure skater, so whatever. America loved Oksana, embraced her with open arms, made her (briefly) our new golden child.


Now, she's this…thing/woman/what? :


Yeah. I know, right?

I decided to do a little research on Oksana. Everyone knows about the drunk driving arrest but I mean, the woman still shows her face in public (a big part of the reason that she is today’s HOTD) so she’s gotta be doing something.

The answer is this: living in New Jersey, and managing a clothing-and-jewelry line (it’s allegedly “skating-themed.”) I couldn’t find anything about it online, so it must suck. I guess that probably could have gone without saying.

But hey! Oksana! You’re still out there, girlfriend! You're running around at Fashion Week all uglied up, and quite possibly drunk! Way to have no shame, Oksana! Keep on keeping on.

Hero of the Day, Vol. 1

This weekend, I pretended like I wasn’t allergic to milk and now I’m paying the price. And paying. And paying. Yuk.
I didn’t want to use the bathroom in the HR department (it’s really close quarters) so I headed up to the 2nd floor, to Compensation & Benefits, where I actually used to work.

That’s where I saw Marilee.

Now, a little background. First of all, I’m well aware that my blog has sucked lately. The reason is, nobody at my new job is insane. Seriously. Go through my old entries—they are all about 1) drinking or 2) my ridiculous coworkers. I can only be so funny on my own. And that’s not very funny at all.

Thus, I’m beginning a new element to my blog: Hero of the Day. I’ll write these when I can’t think of anything better to say. If you’d like to nominate yourself or someone else, email me (There’s a link at the bottom of each post. Yeah, the envelope. Clever!)

So let me tell you about Marilee. She is my favorite coworker to date (except, of course, for Liz Flot) because she was batshit crazy. I sort of hated her at the time because she annoyed the hell out of me, but in retrospect, I couldn’t have asked for a better officemate.

The thing about Marilee was that she was vocal about her craziness. For example: she was really into German Shepherds. I mean, really really into German Shepherds. She had a tear-off-a-day calendar with nothing but German Shepherds. Every morning, when I sat down at my desk (15 minutes late, no doubt), Marilee would bound over in her stunning suit-jacket-over-a-Harley-Davidson-tshirt combo with picture in hand and tell me about the dog o’the day. “This is Bosco. He is all black.”
Neat.
Mondays were the best days for German Shepherds, Marilee told me, because on Mondays, we get to look at Saturday’s and Sunday’s dogs as well.
Hallelujah.

Marilee also really hated Asian people. She always talked about how they were taking all our jobs because they were more professional than “us kind.” I didn’t point out that her standard work ensemble (see above) was a little less than executive material. That crazy Marilee!

She wouldn’t drink coffee because it was a “dietic” (diuretic?). She set her cell phone at the highest-pitched, most ear-splitting, nerve-rattling ring tone because it “reminded her of the beach.” She thought that Regis Philbin was the most handsome man in America.

I never asked any of this. Just like I never asked to see picture after picture of her weird-looking kids. Or German Shepherds. She just offered. That’s what made Marilee so great. A combination of craziness and a willingness to share all.

So today, I salute you, Marilee. Keep on keeping on.