Manly Cards

The Value of a Dollar

By: Chris “The Stew” Stewart

 

You know what sucks? The Economy sucks. I used to like the economy, but all of the sudden it turned into an asshole and started ruining my day. I miss the 90’s and all of the post Reaganomics goodness. I will now rant for the next 200 words about what is wrong with the economy and you will listen to every word I have to say (…or not it’s up to you).

 

Candy:

When I was a kid in the glorious 80’s, every once in a while my mother would give my brother and I each a dollar to go to the local store and buy candy. Now that I know how annoying kids are I give my mom props for her genius. The walk to the candy store was about 20 minutes each way and was all uphill on the way home. My brossif and would disappear for 40 minutes to an hour leaving my mother with a momentary lapse of commotion and chaos and we would return happy and tired. My bro and I would load up on red hots, bubble gum, lemonheads and still have change left over for a carton of Marlboro Reds and a few MD 20/20’s… and all for $2.

 

Well shit’s changed. I went to a gas station the other day and purchased a Take-Five bar (delicious) and it cost me like 15 bucks. Why does everything cost so much money these days? I wish I was exaggerating but I don’t even know how to exaggerate. It’s a genetic disposition and my cross to bear. I’m not asking for sympathy…only understanding.

 

Raises:

Well everything’s getting more expensive. It costs $207 for a PBR thirty-pack and a candy bar costs me a week’s salary. Well at least I am going to get a sweet raise this year so that I can maintain my current lifestyle right? Syke! I am getting dick-squat for a raise this year because the “economy” is doing badly. The firm that owns my soul still makes bank and is profitable, but apparently asking that they break off a sweet chunk of that goodness is crazy talk. Instead of that they’ll milk my skills for one more year for the same amount as they did last year. Thanks for the morale boost. I am super motivated now!

 

8 Ball Says…

Stew:   “Magic 8 ball, will this all turn around shortly so that we can return to sweet times filled with high fives, raises, penny candy and karate on every cable channel between 156 and 188?” 

 

Magic 8 Ball: “Stew get your head out of your ass!”

 

That’s what I thought but I had to make sure. I wish this crap was just going to get all sweet and awesome in the near future but apparently the powers that be would rather do Jagerbombs in Congress than stoop down to my level and help me out. Thanks Government!

 

Well to summarize, the economy sucks, I can’t afford to buy a scrap of bread for my wife and children (I don’t really have any children) and I’ll probably end up homeless and have to give blumpies for nickels under the highway, but at least I’m staying optimistic.

Being a Fantasy Football Girlfriend 101

By: Blake Reiter

 

I hate my best friend.

 

I want to lock myself in my room and cry uncontrollably.

 

I want to chain smoke an entire pack of cigarettes. And I don’t even smoke cigarettes.

 

These are emotions felt by the majority of the male population between the months of September and January. These are feelings all men can relate to and no woman can comprehend. These are the symptoms associated with Significant Emotional Attachment to Fantasy Football Syndrome (SEAFFS).

 

Fantasy football is a sport that requires time, dedication, and a nine-to-five job that does not block the website www.fantasysports.yahoo.com. The latter is imperative. Without nine-to-five access to your fantasy football league, you’re going to miss out on valuable waiver wire pickups. Women obsess over handbags. Men obsess over waiver wire pickups. A woman will spend an hour looking at herself in a mirror from multiple angles trying to decide if a pocketbook makes her look fat. A man will spend an hour looking at defensive statistics to decide whether or not a random 4^th string wide receiver on the Chiefs is worth starting on a given week. It’s been a long time coming, but men finally have a seemingly trivial task to spend an unnecessarily long time completing.

 

With the football season just days away, men are preparing themselves for the emotional rollercoaster that is fantasy football. With the exception of sexual orgasm, nothing else can bring a man from a supreme, unadulterated high to a slobbering, waste of life in a matter of seconds. Women have to be strong and support their male companions during this time of extreme emotional volatility. Men do it when women get PMS. It’s only fair.

 

I’d like to address the ladies and elaborate on how you can support your male counterparts during the fantasy football season. (Men, forward this to your girlfriends, as it will only be to your benefit.)

 

First and foremost, do not rush your boyfriend into making a fantasy decision. Some decisions require a fair amount of time and research. Do you remember how long he waited for you to decide whether you liked the linen pants with the cotton top or the cotton pants with the linen top? I know you want him to take you to Sunday brunch, but the wrong decision can destroy an entire fantasy season. Your cornflake crusted brioche French toast can wait 20 minutes. 

 

Now, if and when your boyfriend makes a bad fantasy move, he will be crushed. As the lady in his life, it is you job to support him and lick his wounds. And I don’t [necessarily] mean sexually. Your man will [most likely] be too distraught to think about sex. He needs to vent, and as his girlfriend, it’s your job to be there to listen.

 

Over the years, men all over have listened to their girlfriends talk about their problems and emotions, and we do our best to listen and provide the best advice possible. Fantasy football is different. Men can understand, or at least pretend to understand, the trials and tribulations of female life. Women, on the other hand, don’t understand fantasy football. So, here is a quick survival guide explaining how to handle various fantasy football related issues your boyfriend may come to you with over the course of the season.

 

First, we must acknowledge that there are certain rules men follow regardless of what they may actually think. For example, if your girlfriend asks if she looks fat, the answer is “No” every time. Fantasy football is exactly the same. If you are approached by your boyfriend and he asks if you think he made the right decision starting Player X over Player Y, the answer is “Yes” every time. He’s going to be second-guessing his fantasy decisions all season long, and if he makes the wrong one, he is going to be taking a lot of heat and trash talking from his opponents. As his girlfriend, it is your duty to support him and all of his fantasy decisions. 

 

Now you may be saying, “What do I do if he makes a comment to me about a specific player?” Well, below are a few formulas to help you generate well-thought-out, insightful football comments. The formulas pertain to situations that are likely to occur at some point in the season. Just follow step-by-step, and in no time, you’ll be impressing your boyfriend with your knowledge of football.

 

If he complains that his running back didn’t get a touchdown because another running back on the same team got the touchdown:
You say: “I’m really sorry that happened sweetie. [INSERT RUNNING BACK THAT DIDN’T GET TOUCHDOWN] is in a running back-by-committee system with [INSERT RUNNING BACK THAT GOT TOUCHDOWN] and that’s going to happen occasionally. A lot of teams have been using that system in recent years.”

If he’s upset that one of the players on his team had a great rookie season last year, but is now underperforming:
You say: “That’s really unfortunate baby. [INSERT PLAYER] had a great [IF PLAYER IS WIDE RECEIVER OR TIGHT END, SAY ‘RECEIVING’. IF PLAYER IS RUNNING BACK, SAY ‘RUSHING’. IF PLAYER IS QUARTERBACK, SAY ‘PASSING’] season last year, but he was a rookie. Now that he’s in his second year, it wouldn’t be uncommon for him to have a sophomore slump.”

 

The following deals with a very specific situation; however, if you are watching football with your boyfriend and the situation occurs, pulling a stunner like this will send him into a state of complete and utter disbelief. Try hard to understand the situation and be able to recognize it. If it happens at some point during the season, deliver this line. You will thank me.

 

If one of his players is in the end zone about to catch a pass for a touchdown, but he is unable to make the catch because of defensive pass interference, and on the ensuing play, the ball is placed on the 1-yard line and a running back gets the touchdown instead of the guy on his fantasy team:
You say: “Awww, honey. I’m so sorry. [INSERT PLAYER THAT DID NOT GET TOUCHDOWN] totally should have had that touchdown. It kind of reminds me of that Eagles game last season. Remember? Desean Jackson was about to get a touchdown, but he celebrated too early and threw the ball up in the air before he was in the end zone. Westbrook then got the touchdown on the next play. Made no difference to the Eagles, but really sucked for everyone who had Desean Jackson on their fantasy team.”

Most women hate football season. Their male counterparts spend all day Sunday watching football, and women begin to feel like ‘football widows’. This should not be the case.  Football should bring relationships closer. Men love football, and invariably, they will come down with a case of SEAFFS at some point during the season. Women all over America who take my advice to heart will sooner come to accept and even embrace this inevitable phenomenon that occurs every year between the months of September and January.

I Can't Believe the Crap That's On TV These Days!

By: Chris “The Stew” Stewart

 

Stew Man here coming at you live from paradise city (Baltimore). Ok so I come home from the gym this morning and my wife woke up early to catch up her newest addiction, Khloe and Kourtney Go To Miami or something like that. My wife has DVR’d about 15 days worth of the most painfully dumb and idiotic reality TV show ever known to mankind. I can’t get over how horrible this crap is and what I can’t understand is why chicks dig this junk. I’d rather hang out with the Jonas Brothers at a Hanson concert than watch some of this stuff. For those of you who are lucky enough not to cohabitate with your significant other or don’t have TV, allow me to fill you in on some of the crap out there. (Note…I am heavily focusing on the E! channel because it takes up about 88% of our DVR)

The Real Housewives of _________

This is the worst show in the history of television. I don’t want to kill the creator of this show, I want to kill the asshole he pitched it to who gave it the green light. That guy is a real dick. This show is about 4-10 bitchy rich women who know nothing about reality and love to create drama. They lie, cheat, steal, whore-out and basically ruin my life. I never watch this show but any time my wife gets together with another girl and they talk about it, I want to cut my ears off and staple them to the wall. “Can you believe what Sue did last night? I can’t believe she said that to random girl x!” Who cares? Really who cares? These people are losers with coin. I am way sweeter and more entertaining than these B’s.

 

Khloe and Kourtney Go To Miami

Ok so these girls are Kardashians. Raise your hands if you care about the Kardashians. That’s what I thought. Not one dude raised his hand because they are only famous because their dad kept the Juice out of jail. Sweet call Mr. Kardashian, OJ turned out to be a bastion of class. He didn’t arm up and bust into some dude’s pad in Vegas to steal trophies or anything. These girls just slut around, blast coke and talk about how awful they are. You are right girls, you are awful. 

 

Talk Soup

This show is hysterical. The only island to cling to in a sea horrible programming.

 

Kendra

Kendra is the dumbest person in the world. Does she have a sweet rack? Yes. Does she have any other redeeming qualities? No. She is quite possibly the dumbest and most annoying chick in the history of TV. This chick makes Jessica Simpson look like Good Will Hunting. This is why dudes buy Playboy magazine, but don’t watch Playboy models on TV: magazines don’t talk and ruin everything. They just nude up and entice you to fondle your goods. You had it right the first time Heff…keep them silent.

 

Denise Richards….It’s Complicated

Of course it’s complicated Denise. You used to be married to Charlie Sheen. How do you go from a sweet dude like that to anything else? Good luck. Charlie Sheen bangs out with all of Hollywood like every 15 minutes. Denise Richards owns a pig. Charlie Sheen has a sweet brother named Emilio Estevez. Denise Richards has a boring show on E! Charlie Wins. 

 

Well I hope that you dudes out there can feel my pain. 

Surviving Phoenix

By Guest Writer: Justin Neff

 

Most people, in most places look forward to the long, lazy days of summer. There is one thing these people have in common: they do not live in Phoenix, Arizona, the absolute worst place in the world…okay, the worst place in the United States…to be during the months of June, July and August. Here, we look forward to burning our bodies when we get in the car and having swamp ass from the second we step out of the shower until the second we step back in. Let me put it this way, do you know the dream sequence in Terminator 2 when Sarah Connor sees herself playing with her kids and then a nuclear bomb goes off and she gets burned to nothing. That wasn’t special effects, that was news footage of a homeless woman in Phoenix getting stuck while trying to climb over Charles Barkley’s security fence in mid July. 

 

So what do we desert dwellers do? The city can’t just stop: Lawns must be mowed, dogs must be walked and long pants and a shirt must still be worn to work. How is survival possible?   Well, it is different for everyone, but there is one thing every person must do to survive: bitch and act surprised by something that has happened for hundreds of years and will continue to happen for hundreds more. Honestly, if you arrive at work and don’t comment to the first five people you see in the morning and the last three people you see before you leave about how hot it is and how many days in row it has been above 110, you will not make it. 

 

I know what you are thinking: just get in the pool and stop complaining. Let me ask you a question: After a long run or sitting in the sun for a few hours, do you crave a nice warm bath? Perhaps one that has already been urinated in by a hundred of your closest neighbors? Obviously I don’t know your answer, but am guessing you aren’t craving a warm piss bath. If you do seek this as your form of escape, there is only one way relief is guaranteed. You will need two water noodles, SPF 50 or higher sun lotion and a pair of sunglasses that make you legally blind. Put one noodle under your knees, and loop the other under your neck and then under both arms. This will allow you to float effortlessly in the pool with only your face exposed. The only problem is that within 4-8 minutes the sunglasses will become either melted onto your face or hot enough to brand an entire herd of cattle. 

 

Obviously you can’t spend the entire day submerged in the water. A common form of refuge is the movie theater. Now I am not talking about a leisurely Saturday dinner and a movie type deal. I am talking about going to see what ever piece of shit is available in the middle of the day. There are things I've done in my life and am ashamed of, but will admit to. I have stolen weed from my students, I have taken advantage of the old and the weak, I have given a baby the finger because of his attitude and I have driven while drunk, high and writing a guest article for an online newsletter. However, I will never admit to some of the movies I have seen since moving to the desert. I, along with countless other embarrassed souls, will continue to enjoy the cool air while watching Rob Schneider and Andy Dick compete as counselors at a day camp for fat kids.

The nights offer very little relief. Every night I end my day with a little local news. In the top right corner of the screen are the time, temp and a pic of a peacock sans feet. If the time is before midnight, the temp is still in the triple digits. These are facts that try men’s souls. Some people have nightmares about clowns, about herpes on prom night, about Ben Roethlisberger dating your sister. Me, I have nightmares about the night and how it mocks my will to live. I don’t write this trying to evoke sympathy from the masses. No, my reason is simple: Enjoy your summers! Unless you are reading this from Phoenix or Vegas, go outside and inhale the sanity-allowing temperature. Embrace the rain and the humidity. Take your dog for a walk when the sun is out and turn your a/c below 84 degrees at night. Live, man, live during these months. Live for us tucked away in the Southwest. Live, because believe me, come February, we are going to be living for you poor saps.

 

As a side note -- if anyone mentions the phrase ‘but it’s a dry heat,’ I will erase your existence from human history.

Voicemail from Ryan

Another drunken masterpiece!

Play Voicemail from Ryan

Awkward Injuries

Everyone's gotten an injury in a less than heroic situation at some point in their lives. Here the Manly Cards partners share their stories.

Chris "The Stew" Stewart
Stew man starting the day just like any other day. Roll out of bed, grab a PBR tall boy and do some calisthenics for 22 minutes (no more, no less).  After my raucous workout, I set off to hit the shower and scrub my junk. Hop out of the shower and to my surprise there is a jaguar (my wife’s cat) sitting on the floor. I pick up the jaguar and make it purr like a motorboat. If you don’t know anything about jaguars, when you drop them, their claws come out instinctively. I wish I would have known this myself before making this fatal error. I dropped the jaguar and the claws came out like switchblades. One of the claws nicked my nutsack on the way down leaving me in hysteria. My nuts were bleeding all over the place and I had to get dressed to go to work. I couldn’t put on clothes because I didn’t want it to look like I was menstruating so I had no other option than to use a shaving styptic pencil to stop the bleeding. After singeing the wound on my nutsack, I continued my day as if nothing happened. I flexed in the mirror for 88 minutes then drove to work.

  

Ryan Ehrlich
When I was playing high school football, I dislocated my shoulder a couple times and as a result, had to get shoulder surgery. The hospital kept me overnight and after not peeing for about 18 hours, my bladder was bursting at the seams the next morning. With very limited mobility and only one good arm, I called the nurse to ask how I should go about relieving myself. Fully expecting old lady Edna from the night before, I am shocked when a hot twenty something coed walks in the door. I am further shocked when instead of helping me to the bathroom, she suggests she can just hold a container while I stand bedside and pee in it. Well, at this point I had two options, be a wuss and ask for the bathroom instead, or whip out that donger in front of her and make it happen. With one arm I clumsily undid my hospital scrub pants (hoping like hell they wouldn't fall to my ankles), whipped it out, and...suffered from a major case of stage fright.  After what seemed like 20 minutes, I finally got the urine flowing and escaped one of the most awkward moments of my life.

John Fontana Fong Fitchwell

2006 when I just started driving a lot of hours in the car for work coupled with my weight lifting gave me a mild case of internal hemorhroids. So, when I reported the irritation I had to the doc, they sent a stool sample kit to use and send in to make sure I didn’t have some sort of cancer or something. Then came the real fun. I visited the doctor and was told to strip down into one of those gowns. The doc comes in and has me lie sideways on the table and now I’m feeling very awkward and nervous about what is about to take place...which, as you can guess, was a little finger up the pooper. Initially it wasn’t very painful, and then he basically curled the finger inward and I let out an “Oh Shit!" Well, there wasn’t anything major and I just had to use some of that cream for a month or so and was right as rain.

Jerry "50" Sabatini
Mine must be the toe.. I think thats probably the winner.  The circumstances are pretty kick ass, though not necessarily awkward. I was trying to give John a swirly, which is why we were wrestling in the bathroom. Wait, I think that clears it up -- the wrestling in the bathroom part is pretty awkward, right?  Do you want a more descriptive passage?

Scott Frye
The Chevette parked, I flung open the door and leapt out with excitement. I rounded the car and set my sights on the prize…a Hills shopping store. The wonders within Hills called to me...soft pretzels, Rowdy Roddy Piper, Icees, the rocket quarter ride. Shoelace untied, Damn! Once finished, I noticed my mom and brother had gotten a little ahead of me so I dashed to catch up. Once I caught up to them I kept on truckin’ and turned to give my brother the business for burning past him.

 

I wake up in an ambulance and have no clue as to what’s going on. So I ask, “What’s going on?”. “You were hit by a car,” the paramedic tells me, “and we’re taking you to the hospital to be checked out.” I let this sink in for a second and then asked, “What kind of car?” “A Gremlin,” the paramedic responded, “green”. Damn! I had been cheated out of a soft pretzel and Icee by a green Gremlin! The smirk on the paramedic’s face as he told me of my assailant confirmed my fears: he too thought I was a wuss for getting dominated by a Gremlin. I closed my eyes and began to cry.

Adam Vagley
I have a story very similar to Ryan's, but I haven't copied anyone since I wore that keyboard tie in 5th grade after I saw Jeremy Bukowski wearing one, so I'll go with an original: when I was in college, I decided to sled off a landing that had a 10 foot drop and then turned into a steep slope. My theory was that momentum would carry me over the drop so I would hit the slope sailing. I had to go head first because there was a railing around the landing and if I went feet first I would have clotheslined myself with cold steel.

So I got a running start, dove onto my sled, went over the edge and promptly nose dived into the ground. I ended up impacting two bones in my left wrist (that's when the bone smashes in on itself, which feels delightful). Man everyone who saw that sure thought I was cool. And I got to wear a cast during track season.

Going Big Time

By: Adam Vagley

 

"They keep time very well." So said my dad to me about a number of military-style watches he had bought on eBay from some guy in Japan. "How many did you buy?" I asked. "Oh, just a few," he responded.

 

For most people, this might be an atypical conversation, but it's fairly standard for me when the conversation involves my dad, better known as Big Time. Why is he known as Big Time? Because no other human operates on his level.

Communications tend to be typed and snail mailed to me on his company letterhead. He finishes each letter off by typing "Dad" but also signs "Dad" just above the typed version. I receive several of these letters every week, usually containing articles from the Wall Street Journal and advice to keep my resume updated. Recently, he sent me an envelope full of Tylenol with directions on what to use it for, since obviously after a lifetime of branding I don't know what to do with those little white tablets. If you don't believe me, you can view the letter here.

For my sister's college graduation years ago, he had a picture of her freshman year dorm building sent to a cake company on the west coast, which made an enormous cake in the shape of her dorm. To actully transport the cake back to the east coast for the party, he had to buy an airplane ticket for the cake, which got its own seat so it wouldn't be smashed.

 

Two years ago, my dad found a guy in England who did scale models of buildings, using the actual architectural blueprints and the same materials. Since he loves New York, he decided he wanted models of the Empire State Building and Chrysler Building for his office. They would have been roughly 7 feet tall and cost several thousand dollars each. The guy had blueprints of the Chrysler Building but not of the Empire State Building. My dad wanted the pair or none at all, so he asked two of my roommates, both architects, to find the blueprints for him so he could complete his quest. Luckily, they were far too busy to look and he eventually forgot about it.

 

Back around Halloween, Big Time sent me a giant pumpkin hat, and a few months ago he sent me the pillowcases shown below. I am 28.

Most recently, for my birthday, I received a giant snow globe of New York. I offered to return it but my dad just told me to put it on my shelf. He is a master deflector. When he got me buttons featuring the seal of my alma mater for a blazer (I don't actually own a blazer) and I tried to give them back, he told me to keep them for my kids someday. 

I have a collection of cuff links even though I don't wear french cuff shirts. They sit next to my collection of business cards embedded in lucite. I have a letter, on my dad's letterhead, several pages long detailing the difficulty of embedding my first business card, which kept fading because of the heat of the embedding process.

I have successfully avoided taking possession of chairs featuring the seals of my high school and college, as well as a giant red Cornell rug. Big Time gets pissed at me when I tell him I don't have space, telling me he's "not going to hold on to them forever."

 

As I get older, I'm realizing that I am in many ways just like him. A couple years ago I planned on dropping $1,000 for a 10 foot long fiberglass marlin to hang on the wall. Only a lack of cash prevented that from happening. I later looked into purchasing 3,000 lanterns, the minimum order size, from some guy in India just so I could get the dozen or so I wanted for my roof deck. Being relatively poor also dissuaded me from that adventure. And one of my main goals in life is to build a pirate ship with paintball cannons and attack cruise ships, something most people would say is ridiculous but I think is a great idea...I mean, the advertising would take care of itself. I can only hope my bank account catches up to my good taste.

Served

By: Chris “The Stew” Stewart

 

Twenty seven years, five months, and 8 days have brought me to this point in my life. A point on which I will someday reflect and say that it was my greatest accomplishment or I will wallow in despair due my overlooked hubris. One thing is for certain though: this day is bound to live in infamy.

 

I picked up my silver watch and bound it to my wrist like a prison shackle. While tying my laces to my new Puma sneakers, I couldn’t get over the uneasy calm that I felt all over my body. It was as if my veins pumped novacaine from my core to my extremities, rushing dull soothing relief to the anxiety that I earlier experienced. My head felt as if in a fog and detached from both my body and reality. Never before have I been so on edge and so at ease at the same time. I took my coat off the brushed nickel rack as the door closed behind me.

 

Twenty minutes later I found myself at my predisposed destination. Passersby went about their business as if this day was trivial and without consequence. Maybe to them that was the truth, but with so much at stake it seemed unnerving that they lived life in that manner. The other members of this monumental occasion collected together and started performing ritualistic, almost mechanical, practices that led way to what was about to transpire. The ground was covered in a soft smooth brown material that was necessary for a successful venture. The stage was set, the event to come.

 

The other group involved in this affair began to set a gauntlet that many would believe to be impossible to overcome. Moving fast and smooth they brought out thunderous hoops and hollers with their break dancing skillz. Popping, locking, head spinning twists, and a crass attitude, they brought what they could to the table. They had made the argument that they owned the rights to these streets; however it was now our chance for rebuttal. 

 

As my crew descended to the predetermined arena, we scorched the earth with our moves. Hips were moving, bodies were flying, and jaws were dropping as far as the eye could see. We struck the arena like cannons and ravaged the battleground till the rivers ran red with the blood of the innocent. Never before has there been such a slaughter. Our crew showed once and for all who the best break dancers are in this town, and the losers held their heads in lowly shame. Uproars from the crowd deafened the street noise as we reigned supreme. Echos of the word “Served, Served, Served, Served” were shouted as we walked triumphantly passed our thwarted counterparts. As I passed the leader of their group I entered his personal space and quietly yet poignantly stated, “You got served” thus ending a bitter and drawn out feud between us. I then ate a power bar and went to work.

Ryan, Adam, Fong? Your Ladies Are Pissed at You.

By: Adam Vagley

 

This past weekend, the Manly Cards partners gathered in Virginia Beach for the nuptials of Big Ween, the younger (and much larger) brother of Jerry. As I’ve previously huddled, when we’re all together we have a penchant for hitting each other which grows more pronounced as we consume alcohol. You would think that at a wedding we would behave ourselves but sadly this is not the case. For this reason, I spent much of the reception protecting my crotch.

 

The evening started off tame enough. We arrived at the reception on the top floor of a hotel with our wives/fiancés/girlfriends and stood around with drinks and hors d’ouvres, telling stories and maintaining the peace. But once dinner was over and everyone made their way from the dinner tables to the dance floor and open bar, it was a given that things would head downhill. The fifth round of Bourbon shots was probably the tipping point for us.

Ryan made it a point to hit Fong in the solar plexus and Stew started smacking people in the nuts. This started a domino effect and we all started hitting each other in the nuts, or the stomach, or the kidneys, or the arm, or the leg – pretty much whatever was left exposed. At a certain point, everyone was standing around talking in a circle with one hand over his crotch and another protecting his stomach.

 

Meanwhile, our significant others, who just wanted to dance and have a good time, decided we were Neanderthals and wanted nothing to do with us. “You guys are retarded,” was a frequently heard refrain.

 

At 10:30 the reception officially ended. As the lights came on and people began to leave, we made our way to a table full of cookies to grab a couple for the road. But then Ryan pounded a cookie into Jerry’s hand, which just restarted everything. With the venue mostly cleared out we now had space to maneuver. Ryan and John faced off trying to kick each other, circling each other like boxers, and Ryan started keeping people away by lashing out with face height roundhouse kicks.

 

Jerry stumbled into the bride’s mom after dodging an attack. His wife, who was standing nearby, saw it and immediately yelled at him to go apologize. By the time Jerry weaved over to where the mom was standing, she was engaged in a conversation. Jerry waved in her face until he got her attention, then slurred he “was sorry for running into her” and added, pointing at us, that “those assholes made me do it.” Somehow Jerry then ended up on the floor in a fetal position, with us kicking him.

 

The girls, who couldn’t believe our behavior, told us it was time to leave. When we got to the hotel lobby we ended up going through the hotel bar to the pool deck to say goodbye to Big Ween, who was enjoying a cigar. This accomplished, we started fighting yet again. The girls, finally fed up, left the pool deck without us. Ryan snuck behind Jerry and delivered a full-force punch to the back of his leg. Jerry punched Ryan in the jaw and we finally decided to call it quits. 

 

After bemoaning the fact that we were leaving simply because our significant others wanted us to, Ryan, Fong, and I walked through the bar towards the entrance of the hotel. Some guy stopped us and asked, “Are you Ryan, Adam, and Fong?” We said yes. “Your ladies wanted me to tell you that they’re really pissed at you.”  

 

As I write this, I’m recovering from several bruises on my forearms due to the unfortunate reality that blocking a punch with your arm is the same thing as getting punched in the arm. I also have several bruises on my leg and shin from "blocking" various punches and kicks. Ryan has a sore jaw. Fong’s nursing a sore leg from a Charlie Horse. Jerry spent Sunday limping around. We decided to immediately plan a Manly Conference so we could assault each other without getting yelled at by the women.

The Art of Slacking

By: Kristoff Von Stewartsen (KSV)

 

Work Sucks! If I didn’t slack at work, then there would be one less sweet dude in this world. So instead of committing suicide, I’ve perfected the art of slacking. If you are reading this huddle, then you are probably a sweet dude/chick so I would recommend that you listen closely to the words I have to say, because committing suicide is for losers and for Japanese kids that don’t get into good high schools.

 

Cruisin:

I would like to extend thanks to our favorite Vice President, Al Gore. Because of his invention of the Internet, we are capable of getting all of our crappy administrative tasks done on the company dime. Online banking, bill-pay, catching up on that missed episode of 30 Rock (thank you Hulu), and of course online shopping are all great ways to get some of those mundane every day tasks out of the way while at work, so when you get home you can focus all of your energy into important things like building miller light body armor for a tailgate or writing divine jams for your band.

 

Microsoft Paint:

As many of you are aware, I am level 10 Microsoft paint wizard. I didn’t end up with this high ranking without logging multiple hours of hard work. Do you know how many deadlines were missed to gain the skills necessary to draw a perfect rendition of the Stay-Puft Marshmallow man? Me neither but it was probably a lot. There is no better way to impress your friends and stick it to the “Man” at the same time than by putting together tasty treats like these. PS, chicks love them.

Thinking about Lunch:

I don’t know about you guys, but I spend at least 45 minutes before lunch just thinking about lunch. 

 

Talking about Sports:

Generally if you are having personal conversations all day long with coworkers, it is frowned upon. The one exception to this rule is talking about sports. Sports are so awesome that they break all rules. Nobody is going to give you much crap about talking about last night’s game or how amazing it is that the Steelers and the Penguins both won championships in the same year (City of Champions), because if anyone tries to squelch sports conversations, they come off as weak and not manly. I abuse this to no end, and don’t have a single regret lingering in that sweet, sweet melon of mine.

 

Well there you have it. Some sure fire ways to keep your sanity while at work. I appreciate all forms of Microsoft Paint Art, so if you need someone to critique your early work and give you some pointers, shoot them my way, I am always open for a distraction.