"Sack of Shit"

I'd like to take a few minutes to talk to you about a friend of mine. I don't want to use his real name, so I'll refer to him by a nickname which was given to him by my "good friend" Steve: Sack of Shit.

Now for the better part of the last 5 years, Sack of Shit has been calling me at least 5 times a week during the offseason and up to about 20 times a week when baseball season is in full swing. Yes, this is a lot of time for two heterosexual grown men to spend on the phone with each other, but what can you do?

The timing of these phone calls almost creates a timeline of cell phone billing procedures. At first, his calls could be expected right about 9:02pm. The reason of course was that his free nights and weekends plan would kick in at 9:00, and the extra couple of minutes was just to account for a margin of error. About a year later, those calls moved up to 8:02pm and then less than a year later, 7:02pm. At that point two calls nightly during the season were expected. There was the 7PM pre-game discussion and then the 10:00PM east coast wrap up chat that preceded Sack of Shit's self imposed 10:30PM bedtime. In between which I could expect a call anytime a player on his fantasy team did something good, or anytime a player on my team did anything bad. About a year later, Sack of Shit briefly switched over to T-Mobile and got a plan which, much to my chagrin made all of his calls to me free. This was not a good time to be me. Shortly thereafter, he switched back over to something else, and restarted the old 7pm schedule. Now, however, with the offseason slowly moving along, that 7pm call is temporarily extinct. It has, unfortunately been replaced by the 3:50pm call. The reason for which, is that as a teacher (please help the youth of America) this is when he is in the car heading home. Should I not be able to answer, or simply choose not to, this call is immediately followed by the 3:51pm recall. I would venture to say, though I'm no mathematician, that roughly 5% of my time awake is spent either on the phone with Sack of Shit, or ignoring his calls.

What is most amazing about all of this, is that during this 5 year evolution in annoyance and due to easily the single greatest miracle that the internet will ever perform, Sack of Shit got married. How this happened is one of the greatest mysteries of my life. Greater than the pyramids of egypt, women's reluctance toward anal sex and people's boundless interest in religion (I mean come on people, if Priests - people who are supposedly closest to "god"- are not afraid of any eternal ramifications of their earthbound actions, then why on earth would anybody else?) Sack of shit's engagement and subsequent nuptuals are simply astounding.

When I found out he was engaged, and I did so via an email, as did his parents, I knew two things for damn sure:
1. She was Asian
2. She was going to hate me
The reasons for my second conclusion were threefold. First, with the exception of one lovely Asian girl from my high school, with whom I have remained friends (though she continually ditches me week in week out as my movie-buddy) every asian girl I've met has taken an immediate disliking to me. Secondly, I knew if Sack of Shit kept up his dialing schedule with me, she would inevitably grow jealous and angry (which surpisingly hasn't happened with my wife, most likely do the fact that she doesn't like talking to me). And lastly, the majority of people when I first meet them strongly dislike me. (One prime example would be the friend of Jon's who was staying the night in my apartment. He thanked me for letting him stay and I joked that I had not invited him in the first place. He didn't get that it was a joke for almost 2 years.)

After news of a wedding date broke, I waited idly by to be told of my inclusion in his wedding party and to prepare a speech of some kind. Days went by, and then weeks. Eventually I got a call from my "good friend" steve, saying that he was a groomsman, and why wasn't I?

I didn't know what to say. I was shocked both at my exclusion and the fact that Sack of Shit had other friends. Surely if he called them as much as he calls me, there couldn't be any time left over for his wife, or even going outside. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't help but feel rejected. It's embarassing to say, but I was actually looking forward to being in the wedding. Alas, it was not to be. My wife, equally as shocked and appalled as I was called Sack of Shit on the phone to discuss my exclusion. She was told that his bride, who is from Taiwan - where most of her family still lives - was not having enough people on her side to allow for my involvement (We can question the intention of this later). My wife asked how he could not choose me when we spend so much time on the phone. What Sack of Shit said to that still haunts me to this day. I hear these words in my head on an almost daily basis, as they seem to sum up my life. Remember, roughly 5% of my time awake is spent talking to this person. Sack of Shit said: "That time doesn't count, because we never talk about anything important." A dagger into my heart. Not just any dagger either, a jagged dagger dipped in lemon juice, buried in salt then twisted into my chest.

I hadn't been this insulted since my mom told she "probably shouldn't have had kids," to which I said "I hope you like your Christmas present." Shockingly, the next day, at exactly 7:02pm, Sack of Shit called me. Did he think my wife wouldn't relay the message? Did he expect me to pick up the call? Why would I? It wasn't anything important. I kept this up for a few weeks, but just like constantly having sex without a condom, you're going to catch a disease. My disease was a Sack of Shit.

To add insult to injury, we were also not invited to the rehearsal dinner. Sack of Shit said that, as is customary, it was only for close family and out of town guests. We were coming from New York City and the wedding was in northwest Pennsylvania. Apparently, not far enough away.
The wedding day finally arrived and the cermony came and went. At the reception, the best man stood to make his toast and (despite Sack of Shit telling him that he was the best man - no kidding - on the car ride to the church) said the following: "I've known Sack of Shit a long time. We grew up together. Let's all wish them both the best of luck. To the Bride and Groom."

My speech would have been 43 minutes long if I rushed it. I would have detailed some if not all of the strange and downright unexplainable behavoirs that Sack of Shit has demonstrated during our time as "friends." Some of the most notable:

• While in college, Sack of Shit would drive his gray 1987 Astro Van (which I'm convinced was used in Silence of the Lambs) off campus to pick up high school girls that his obese roommate had met online and made arrangements to fuck. He would then wait outside the room for said fucking to subside, and of course drive the girl back home. Alone. What I would not give to now what they talked about during those rides back to suburbs of Rochester, or for that matter if the girls would even stop crying. (said roommate also agreed to a deal in which he would receive $50 for performing cunninlingus on an extraordinarily unattractive and unfortunately hairy woman he met at a bar, IF AND ONLY IF Sack of Shit would stay in the room to verify that it was taking place.)
• Sack of Shit once received a padded envelope in the mail from someone he described to me as "a guy in Cleveland I met online and trade stuff with," which was filled with CD's. One of said CD's, and for the record the only one I ever looked at, contained a film titled "Snow White and the Seven Black Cocks," which concluded with a scene that still makes me nauseus today. Upon completion of what appeared to be a highly uncomfortable group activity, the seven men took turns ejaculating into a single champagne glass, which Snow White then took into her hands and did who knows what, because I was long the fuck gone by that point.
• With the second overall selection of our 2002 Fantasy Baseball Draft, Sack of Shit selected Mike Piazza. Citing position scarcity as the most vital early round drafting technique, Sack of Shit finished some 64 points off the lead.
• Sack of Shit has a rather unique ability to take something you've said or asked and begin responding to it as though his response will be related to your statement or question, despite the fact that what he is about to say will have almost no relevance at all to what was first said. Example: "Hey, Sack of Shit, did you find and download Tommyboy yet?" His reply: "No, but I did find Stroke Your Cock, Watch Me Fuck." Another example: "Hey Sack of Shit, what kind of cereal is that?" His reply: "You want to watch Stroke Your Cock, Watch Me Fuck?"
• He and his younger sister look exactly alike and despite or because of this, I am intensely attracted to his younger sister.
• If you take your thumb and middle finger from the same hand and touch their tips together, the circle created is roughly the size of his wrists and ankles.
• At 2:45am the night of halloween, and dressed as a woman, Sack of Shit ordered the batter dipped deep fried haddock which was on special at the crappiest all night diner you have ever seen in your life.
• His alcoholic drink of choice is a vodka with cranberry juice.
• Before going to my "good friend" Steve's wedding, Sack of Shit tried to get me to drive over 3 hours out of my way to pick him up so he could save $11 on air-fare.
• Tried to convince me that Baltimore was in between New York City and northwestern Pennsylvania so that I would pick up a girl flying in there for his wedding in hopes that she would then have relations with our friend Jon.
• He takes his wife to Long John Silver's every Thursday night for all-you-can-eat fish sticks.
• He recently began a sentence to me with: "I got into the biggest fight with an idiot today" only to then conclude the sentence with: "on the cbssportsline baseball message board."
• He took swing dance as an elective class in college and practiced by tying a short white string to his door knob and "shim shamming" with it. Later that year, at a dance, when swing music came on, he refused to dance with a lovely female friend of ours, saying "she wouldn't know the moves."
• He lives in Miami, Florida and does not go to the beach.
• He once got an $8 haircut, paid with a $10 bill and asked for change.
• While he was in the car with his wife, I told him over the phone that we were looking for a new printer. After they mocked us for a few seconds, he then told me the make and model number of one that was on sale (on-line only) for the next 2 days.
• While on vacation in Arizona, he called me from a rental car and asked to go online and find the nearest bar to him that offered an on-screen trivia game that he likes to play at home.
• To my rehearsal dinner (as an out of town guest, he was invited) he wore khaki pants, a long sleeve t-shirt and an adidas Rochester Tennis Team warm up jacket.
• He exercises religiously, at least 5 times a week and right now uses the exact same weights for a dumb-bell bench press as he did as a senior in college 6 years ago.
• While in college, we would always know when he was masturbating because he always played the same song. (Adam's Song - Blink 182)

I think it would have been the greatest wedding speech of all time, however, having reviewed this, he probably made the right choice by not giving me a chance to speak.

And in case you're wondering, his wife doesn't like me.

Insomnia

So here it is, 5:30am and I'm still awake. For the record, this is only notable because this time, it's against my will. I want to be asleep. I've tried to be asleep. But a little nasal congestion has joined forces with insomnia and sent me out to our living room to look up Grady Sizemore baseball cards on eBay. I like to wonder sometimes if other people somewhere else in the city are ever doing what I'm doing. I feel like this is one of those times when they are not. If it was two hours earlier when I was masturbating to farm porn while exfixiating myself with a new belt I purchased (for this particular purpose only) then I would and did assume that there were several dozen people, if not more, all around the city doing that very same thing.

Speaking of which, we've lived in the city for almost 5 years now, and have always been in a building that looked across the street into another building. Fascinating, I know. Aren't you o the edge of your seat, dickhead? I've watched enough soft core porn in my life to know that voyeurism in big cities is much easier than in small towns. Despite this, the only nudity I've ever seen out of our windows is a rather large woman getting dressed and after having seen it, I immediately wished I hadn't. But I kept looking anyway. When will our time come to see the perky lesbians experimenting with hot wax, or some other such erotic encounter? Also, contrary to what Cinemax will try and teach you from 1:00 - 3:00 am, the laundry room in apartment buildings is not, I repeat not a hotbed of sexual activity. It's still fun to jerk off into full washing machines, though (old college trick).

Why I am having trouble sleeping? That's a good question, so lets look at some possibilities:
- Fantasy baseball drafts are only two and half months away. And yes, I'm starting to think about them. Too much. And certainly when laying in bed naked, spooning my wife last night it was not the best time to start discussing the right round to draft Derrek Lee this year. Live and learn.
- Our dog recently stopped sleeping in bed with us and maybe I miss the warm, gentle gusts of wind that she would occasionally waft towards me from her anus every few hours.
- I watched football today, and anybody who read my last post (You three know who you are) knows that I don't usually do that, so maybe my brain is messed up trying to figure out why baseball started using a different ball. And totally different rules.

When I'm lying in bed my mind really starts to wonder. Tonight alone it went from fantasy drafts to my need for new sneakers to the movie "Sneakers", to "Field of Dreams" (which is a movie that almost always makes me cry, which almost always causes my wife to mock me mercilously, despite the fact that she cries during every makeover show on TV and recently will only watch programs that begin with the phrase "America's Funniest"), to little league baseball, to catching crabs in Cape Cod (from the ocean, not dirty Cod sluts), to things I could do instead of sleeping. The only three things I came up with were fantasy baseball reading, Text Twist or blogging. After doing the first two, I was left to blog.


Much like reading my blog, writing it this morning is making me a little sleepy. Maybe this is my perfect cure. I hope so, because my neck is a little too sore for another go with my new belt. Though if my overweight neighbor across the street is up...

My Machismo

Recently, my masculinity has come under a bit of long overdue scrutiny. The catalyst, if you will, of this McCarthy style witch hunt was a simple misunderstanding about a local piano bar. To make a long story slightly shorter but nonetheless uninteresting, a friend of mine (and theoretical co-blogger) Jon plays the piano and has for many years. To my amazement, he is actually very good. This is alarming to me because as far as I know, his hands spend so much time on and around his own cock and balls that I didn't think there was any time left over for piano practice. Apparently there was. Jon has been looking for a bar at which to participate in an open mic night, and get some experience playing before a crowd. He currently enjoys a weekly gig in front of about 250 people. Unfortunately, since it's at a soup kitchen, most of his audience is homeless, or at the very least, more hungry than they are interested in his piano playing. So he's been looking for the chance to entertain a slighly more upscale crowd, and so far has not had much luck.

While returning some of the Christmas gifts I got my wife (an annual custom) I happened by Brandy's Piano Bar, which is around our neighborhood (UES). It was about four in the afternoon, so the only people in there were the bartender and a delivery man. I asked about open mic nights and was pleasantly told that they have about 6 hours of entertainment a night, and are always looking for open mic piano players. I happily took his business card, and was told to email him and schedule a block of time for my friend to come in. (At this point, it should be clear that my earlier declaration of my intent to keep this story short has been abandoned, much like the integrity of the few Baseball Hall of Fame voters who left Cal Ripken off their ballots) I gave Jon the card and told him to contact the email address. He was excited about the prospect and a few days later sent me an email titled "Piano Bar," which I was expecting to detail when he would be playing there. Turns out, Brandy's Piano Bar is in fact, a gay bar. A gay piano bar to be specific. Most, if not all of their piano players specialize in show tunes, and the bar is "famous" for its sing-a-longs. Oops. I say he still should play there. He's single, Italian and the highly suggestable type.

Normally, such a mix up would not cause an investigation into my manfulness (it's a word, trust me), but the investigators dug up some other evidence which paints me in something of a less than heterosexual light.*

The case against me is as follows:

1. I have little to no interest in football - The problem is all my sports energy is focused on baseball. I'm so invested, that by the end of October, I'm just worn out. You want to know how many home runs David Ortiz hit last September (7), I'm your man. You want to know where Eli Manning went to college, try the internet.

2. I don't like beer - This by itself wouldn't be a huge issue. I know a lot of guys who don't like beer, and they have "their drink" when they go out and nobody makes a big deal about it. However, "my drink" is a frosty beverage known around town as a Smirnoff Ice. And whenever I drink them, unless I'm groping my wife (who often has a beer in her hand) assumptions are being made.



3. I love my dog - Again, on the surface, hardly a big issue. But she's small (about 35 pounds) and my wife insists on a purple collar and matching purple leash. When I walk her, I might be putting out a certain vibe. And that vibe is not that I like vaginas. Also, I probably should sleep spooning her a lot less.

4. I spent a week deep in the Canadian woods with four other guys, and no power - Believe me, this one's hard to get around. When I start describing this trip to people, I always get the same response about half way into it: "You're married, aren't you?" Why can't a bunch of friends just bond in the wilderness together? I admit, the idea of a reunion with people who live in the same city is strange, and the fact that my buddies ate their weight in Keilbasa isn't helping, but dammit, there's nothing gay about sitting around a frightening large (and dangerously uncontrolled) campfire, making smores with your old high school friends.
I just read that sentence again, and I now I'm not sure.

5. My favorite dessert in NYC is a Chocolate Salami - please see www.thepickygourmand.blogspot.com for more information about the restaurant UVA. The Salami is a 6 inch long chocolate cock filled with cookie dough. If you don't like it you can kiss my ass.

6. I have a favorite dessert in NYC.

7. I go to the gym a lot - This may be true, but I am not one of those tank top wearing closet jobs, who wear as little as possible while they work out and claim it's to watch their form. Little tip, there aren't a lot of girls around the free weights, so you aren't wearing those teeny tiny tanks for the ladies...

8. I don't like buffalo wings - I don't know what this means to people, or why they care, but I was asked last weekend while at a bar trying to watch football, why I wasn't taking advantage of the $2 wing special. When I responded with the fact that I don't like wings, I was told in not so polite terms that I was slightly less than heterosexual. To prove my assailant wrong, I chugged what remained of my Smirnoff Ice.

9. My taste in music - This is where it all falls apart for me. I cannot tell you how many times my taste in music has been compared to, or has directly matched that of a teenage girl. It's scary. Some of my favorites include: Christina Aguilera (though strictly because she is fucking hot), Kelly Clarkson, Avril Levigne, Nickelback, Staind, Green Day, Blink 182, Backstreet Boys (admit it, 'I Want It That Way' is a fucking good song and you still know exactly how it goes). For some reason the fact that I don't like Bob Dylan upsets a lot of people, too:
Guy: What music do you like?
Me: Christina Aguilera.
Guy: I guess she's hot. You like Bob Dylan?
Me: Not at all.
Guy: Are you gay?
That is an exact conversation I had recently had one night at Brandy's Piano Bar.

10. There are some women whom the media tells us are hot, but for various reasons, I am not the least bit attracted to them:

• Pamela Anderson - She's got an STD, people. And there is absolutely nothing real about her. Now look, I don't care if a woman has fake breasts, if I can see them, they're real enough for me. But when they're bigger than her head, and you can see the skin puckering constantly, it does nothing for me. Also, SHE HAS A FUCKING STD. Not that I ever could, but I'm pretty sure that I don't want my penis going anywhere that Tommy Lee and Kid Rock have been.
• Jennifer Lopez - Has a woman ever become famous for doing so little? Can't act, can't sing, but wears a fucking robe to an award show and suddenly she's huge. I don't get it. But quite obviously she's confident that she's better than everybody else. Thankfully, she married some ugly dude who's way more talented than her, and she's been reduced to a reality TV judge on MTV.
• Jessica Simpson - There is nothing attractive about this idiot. Nothing. Don't get me wrong, if you told me you knew some stupid chick with huge tits that I should meet, I'd be excited, but all you have to do is watch one frame of Dukes of Hazzard, or one second of that fucking reality show and you'll want to murder her. (and after she's dead, probably have sex with her, but that's because you're disgusting)
• Kate Bosworth - Never have a I wanted to force feed a girl a sandwich more in my life. She literally has the body of my 13 year old nephew. As a guy who likes asses (which could be another item on this list in itself) this flat assed boy/girl and all of her anorexic-bulemic friends are of absolutely no interest to me. (See also: Nicole Richie, Calista Flockhart, Keira Knightley, Lara Flynn Boyle, Mary-Kate Olsen, the girl on HOUSE, the new Lindsay Lohan, Mischa Barton) If I were to have sex with one of these girls, I can guarantee you two things. First, I would be arrested, because the sex would not be consentual, and secondly, all I'd be able to think about the whole time was little league baseball. If I wanted to have sex with a boy, I'd kidnap and rape one. Again.
• Britney Spears - Admittedly, she has a great body and yes I went online to look at pics of her vagina, but people, take a look at her face. Seriously. A long look. Really look at it. Guys, look at it for about two minutes and if you're still hard, then turn the fan down, or push your dog away.
• Paris Hilton - Simply put, this chick is a twat.

I'm sure there are others, why just off the top of my head: I wear silk underwear, I like popsicles, I've started to use color in my blog postings, I have a blog, I like having parties, there are several photos of me wearing a dress - including one in which I am being spanked by a cowboy, I refuse to watch porn with uncircumcized guys, when I have sex with my wife I think about my male friends and I have a red pair of athletic pants.

*I feel I should say that I do not consider myself a homophobic person, and I'm all for gay rights and am a big supporter of gay marriage. This blog was meant to be amusing and was not intended to offend anbody. If you were offended, you probably shouldn't be reading this blog. And you probably also shouldn't join my friends and I next fall up in Canada.

Maybe...

You know that feeling when all the blood drains from your face and you feel your heart stop beating. You can sense time stopping right in front of you. You can feel the world stop turning. For a lot of people this feeling is brought on by something fantastic like losing your virginity, getting married, falling in love, watching your team win the world series or winning the lottery. In those cases, the feeling is joy; uncontrollable jubilation. In my case it was not.

In my case, this feeling was absolute terror. Horror. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe. It was a horrible feeling. I was paralyzed. I didn't even blink for almost a minute. As far as I was concerned, the earth's rotation stopped on a fucking dime. It didn't start again until my eyeballs started to hurt from a lack of fluid and I was forced to blink and come back to the world. When I did, I didn't know how much time had passed or where I was.

What happened? What caused my temporary lapse? Why was I momentarily incompacitated? Simply enough, it was because of my wife. Harldly a plot twist, I agree. But nevertheless, it's the truth. So here we go. I'm sitting at our computer at roughly 11am. I was gleefully reading the latest Keith Law blog on espn.com or some fantasy baseball related article, when my wife emerged from our bathroom and uttered the single most terrifying phrase that a young man can hear. More terrifying than your parents telling you they "need to talk about the magazines they found in your closet." More terrifying than your college roommate telling you that he "saw you watching him change after his shower." More terrifying than a religious official asking you "do you take this woman..." Terrifying.

She walks out of the bathroom with her hand on her stomach. She doesn't look well. She looks at me and says, with all innocence: "Wow. I've been nauseous like the last three mornings." Time stopped. My heart stopped. For all intents and purposes, there was no more oxygen in the earth's athmosphere. None.

Unfortunately, as a guy, I am preprogammed to fill this deadening silence with something. My brain, suffocating though it was, insisted on saying something. In my oxygen deprived condition, my thoughts were admittedly less than genius, and thusly the first thing out of my mouth was, though devastatingly logical, instantly regrettable. "Maybe it's just Lukemia," I offered. Perhaps this was and still is the very first and hopefully last time the phrase "just Lukemia" has ever, ever, ever been uttered.

It definitely says something about me that the idea of my wife, the love of my life, being stricken with a likely terminal illness was, for that brief moment in time, a better solution than the possibility that she was carrying our child inside of her. Obviously, I'm insane. That's clear to anybody who was with me tonight, in the sports bar, watching the NFL playoffs (about which I absolutley could not care less) who observed me sweating with the effort of preventing myself from getting up and straightening the painting below the TV, which was slightly askew. Seeing myself as a father, as somebody in charge of someone, of something that isn't walking on all fours, covered in hair and shits in the street was absolutely terrifying.

Thankfully, my wife, wonderfully understanding of my insanity as she is, knew just what to say. "Maybe," she responded quizzically and rolled her eyes.

After a few minutes of perusing fantasy rankings, the air had crept back into the room. I could breathe and move and think again. After perusing the fantasy ranking of Travis Hafner, the perenially undervalued DH of the Cleveland Indians, I prepared to make the long walk across our living room to my wife on the couch. This walk, though only about 15 feet, truly felt like a mile. Why? Simple. Anybody who hooked up with an ugly or otherwise regrettable person at college and had to trudge back home across campus in the early morning knows the feeling. It's shame, and the feeling of every set of eyes around on you, knowing your shame and judging you for it. Was my crime worse than blowing the back up second baseman of your division 3 baseball team at some gay fraternity party? I didn't think so, but it sure felt as bad (for the record, I have no idea what blowing the backup second baseman on my college baseball team would feel like, but I imagine that it feels pretty shitty, because let's face it, that dude sucks at baseball - which is of course, not to say that if he was better at baseball that blowing him would feel better. Although, what do I know, maybe it would.)

So I walked over to apologize and for what I wasn't exactly sure. Was it my immaturity? My hope for her illness? Or my off color remark about the incestuous nature of her family's distant and obese "relations?" Either way, it was clear that a long bout of cunnilingus was in my immediate future.

I wouldn't say I'm a bad husband, but the word "good" seems a bit strong these days...