Moronic Ramblings

RULE OF THUMB:

If you ever take a lady out to tear up the bowling lanes, do NOT arrogantly taunt her or say things like "I AM THE ZUES OF BOWLING" or proceed to moonwalk after picking up a 7-10 split. Trust me, such actions will come to haunt you. She most likely will nail three strikes in a row in the final frame to claim victory. And you will be standing there, dumbfounded, choking on a rather large slice of humble pie.

This is how I will spend the entire day at the office, trying to piece together my shattered game and manhood.

Munsoned!

Growing up a vigilant Red Sox fan, it's been interesting to see the dismantling of the 2004 World Championship team. Today, we bid adieu to Bronson Arroyo. I'm not too suprised, nor do I care that much, honestly. However, it got me thinking that there were times that I really enjoyed Bronson's presence, but times where I wanted do dope slap him with a ball peen hammer.

For instance, here's a few things I did enjoy:

The old school high leg delivery. I think good 'ol "Brandon" is the only pitcher, at least the only one I know of, that still delivers off the mound via this style. Just as long as he never wears knee-high boots or burns any books, the Goose Step Delviery will always be okay with me.

He was involved with not one, but TWO memorable embarassments to Alex Rodriguez. In the above, Ms. Alex intentionally slaps the ball out of Bronson's hand. Also, Mr. Arroyo "drilled" A-rod with a devestating 45 pmh curveball to the elbow, enciting a good old fashioned Boston donnybrook.

Shows no fear when the time comes to bed 19 year old Northeastern University freshman with superior cleavage. Not sure if Cincinnati State will offer up as much.

Okay, and here are few things that I definately did NOT like about the guy:

Those dumb ass cornrows. He looked like a cross between an N-Sync reject and a UMass Amherst sorority chick who just got back from her spring break in Cancun. Dude, just get a wiffle.

I'm glad I never have to hear the guy play music again. If I had to hear one more interview about his undying love for Alter Bridge or him covering some fucking Nickleback song, I was going to go Jeff Jarrett on his ass.

On this day, every year, I get the same thing. People coming up to me saying, "Hey, today, big day for you right? You know, being Irish and all." Translation: "CONNELLY!!! That's an Irish name! Dude, your totally getting FUCKED UP tonight!! You guys are all alcoholics!"

Um...thanks? Why is it that people who are not of Irish descent feel the need to remind me and "my people" of one our most shameful stereotypes? I've yet to approach any of my Italian friends on Colunbus Day and spurt something out like, "Hey!!! Vinny Polumbo, HAPPY FUCKING COLUMBUS DAY!!! Here, I brought a pox ridden blanket that you can go wrap around a Native American. You Italians, you guys are NUTS!!!!!" I wouldn't do that. Stop asking me if I want a Guiness or a fried potato sandwich. And if you are not Irish, don't pretend that you are today. We already have enough assholes representing us, we don't need you to add fuel to our raging fire.

Though I hate when people ask if I will be drinking on St. Paddy's, truth is, I'll most likely indulge in a few frosty beverages. I can't help but actually bask in the stereotypes that my ancestors have bestowed upon me. However, I don't gloat about it. Unlike like "Tod O'Malley" who ends up partaking in the annual flip cup toutnament, sporting a Nortre Dame sweatshirt and piss stained khakis, while simultaneously chanting "IRISH NUMBER 1!! IRISH NUMBER 1! IRISH NUMBER 1!!!!." That's just wrong.

Warick Davis, another celebrity spokesman for Proactiv

Making the several rounds a year back and forth between Brooklyn and Massachusetts, I have come across some interesting and enticing billboards in the caucasion commune known as Connecticut. Some of them promote certain "gentlemen's" clubs that boast a "lunch with a few," others, adult entertainment chains that chomp at the bit to buy their merchandise, etc. and so forth.

However, my favorite has to be the one that advertiszes for the astounding legal consultant firm

1-800-NOT DRUNK

Dude, if these guys can post billboards on a highway, I'm just waiting for the 1-800- I SWEAR SHE TOLD ME SHE WAS 18 flyers in the male bathroom stall at Bar None.

I get a kick out of the hand that irony lays on the table. As my birthday looms in the coming weeks, I have been told by a handful of people, on a number of occasions since the dawn of 2006, that I need to grow up.

 "Grow up, Wes!"

"Can you get any more immature?"

"Stop scratching yourself in public and GROW UP!"

"Quit quoting lines from 'Monster Squad' and inserting Oingo Boingo lyrics into your everyday vernacular and GROW UP!"

"You're only 5 feet, eight inches? Grow up!"

Well, if I may quote Xzibit, "What you see is what you get." I am a bastion of immaturity and can't help it. I offer an olive branch to those I have either offended, let down, or upset with my insolent actions, but hey, it just enhances my charisma. And if I know thing, people love charisma.

As for my birthday, maybe I'll use it as launching pad to kick of my long overdue venture into adulthood. It'll probably look something like this:

Grown up, ain't it?

Actually, I'll probably just surf ony my couch eating take out burritos and watching a Legally Blond marathon on TBS instead.

Da na na na na na na....YOU!!!

Da na na....

Da na na na na na na....TOUCH!!!

Da na na....

Da na na na na na na....KIDS!!!

Da na na....

Only three years for Glitter. I thought that child molestation was punishable by death in Vietnam, no? I'm not big on capital punishment, but I wouldn't have lost any sleep if Groping Gary met the firing squad for touching those youngins. I mean, he also guilty of molested the ears of millions of music listeners with putrid sounds Rock and Roll Part 2. Just conceiving that song alone warrants a death sentence, let alone being a diddler.