It’s Sunday, it Must be Sports Gay, I Mean Day!

Ah, Sunday. The traditional day of rest. Once a fellow has made the bleary-eyed, pounding-head walk of shame home from whatever Saturday Night Sweetheart’s place he managed to crash at the night before, it’s time to just relax on the couch for the day and enjoy some good old sports action on the television. Turn the ringer off on your phone, strip down to your skivvies, make a plate of nachos for breakfast, and prepare to enjoy some good old fashioned testosterone fueled entertainment.

First off, let’s start the day with a rousing game of soccer, a sport that is considered manly in many parts of the world. Here in North America, we have a difficult time understanding any sport in which only the feet may touch the ball. I mean, we could understand it if it meant that the hands were meant to be used solely for punching your opponent in his stupid face, but turns out, there are other uses for the hands in soccer:

And a million female readers of People magazine turn livid with envy.

Well, that just dipped the manliness quotient a point or two. There are clearly no impediments in the above picture to Beckham’s teammates patting his back or tousling his hair in a “You done good, boy!” Uncle-type congratulation. It is possible Beckham would get pissy if they touched his thousand dollar haircut, but they have clearly made a choice here about a touching spot, and it is the wrong choice.

Okay, well no luck avoiding creepy ass-fondling with the soccer game. Why don’t we watch a good old fashioned game of baseball? Them good-ol-boys know how to keep their hands out of trouble. Hell, they need them for catchin’, throwin’, and hittin’. We should be safe from inappropriate butt-touching there:

“Look, I’m telling her I’m leaving her tonight, I promise. Now let’s just get through this game. I’ve got a booth reserved for us at Club Salsa for later. We can do your favourite, the Lambada! You know how much you love to Lambada.”

What in Christ’s name is going on here now? Obviously, a manly chest-bump would be ineffective due to the catcher’s chest protector. Ha Ha! I said “catcher!” A friendly shin-kick is also out of the question, but there is absolutely nothing, and I mean nothing stopping these fellas from exchanging good natured punches in the shoulder or a manly lean-in, one-arm, back-pat hug. There is no reason to be communicating with any type of bun-huggin’, so why the hell are they doing it?

Professional sports have really gone down the toilet. Our last hope is that testosterone-waving flagship of sport, the bone-crunching, hard-hitting sport of football. We should be able to avoid any awkward, cringe-inducing displays of public affection and concentrate on enjoying the copious amounts of pain and suffering being dished out. We need to salvage this lazy Sunday somehow.

“I hope my Mom isn’t watching.”

Okay, let’s just wait a second here. Maybe there is a good explanation for this. We did just switch the channel and it did go to an advertisement right away so maybe it’s not what it looks like. What it looks like however is a position that has a three beat system attached to it. That is, if they stayed in this position for one beat, no damage done, it’s just an accident. Two beats, well, they can never look each other in the eye again, and they will have to buy their wives a Porsche to help them forget about it. Three beats, they probably have tickets to Fire Island booked for the weekend. We’ll never really know, thankfully, but just to be safe, we’ll assume it was one beat.

Maybe we’ll have better luck checking out some women’s sports, they seem to have a lot more class and know how to act in an appropriate fashion. For safety’s sake though, I think we’ll avoid the LPGA and Women’s Field Hockey. How about a little Beach Volleyball?

“Here, let me give you a hand. Your ass appears to be trying to eat your bikini.”

Jackpot! Finally, some players that can conduct themselves in a professional fashion! In this case, the ass-pat is totally forgivable. To be encouraged, even. Attempting to pat the sand-covered back or shoulder could cause nasty abrasions, traumatic injury, and possible scarring, so the true professional women’s beach volleyball player knows the safest spot to caress lovingly in a congratulatory fashion is the soft and pliable, yet durably toned ass cheek. Well done, ladies!

That was a nice relaxing Sunday. Nothing like getting in a little sports action to make a dude feel like a real man. Now to close out the day with a nice long soak in the tub, the latest issue of Esquire, and a glass of chardonnay and it will be the perfect end to the weekend.

Michael, we hardly knew ye. Well, we wish we hardly knew ye.

So much potential…so much potential. Sadly, that large thing lurking in the background of this picture is not a huge tree. It is insanity.

Is this the seventeen millionth blog posting about the death of the King of Poop Pop? Yes. Has everything that could be said about it already been said? Yes. Do I give a fuck? Hell, no! My three readers have probably avoided reading the other stuff until now anyway, due to their hating Ol’ Wacko Jacko. Unfortunately for them however, they are mostly family and thus feel obligated to read this particular blog posting.

With all of the focus on unpaid debts, shit-flinging life-long monkey companions, and minor annoyances like multimillion dollar hush money payments to loud mouthed children, some of the wonderful lessons Michael taught us have been lost. Since it is hard to put a more positive spin on his passing than, well, his passing, I won’t dwell on that here. I would just like to acknowledge some of the important contributions he has made to our collective general psyche over the years. Some rules-to-live-by, if you will:

• White guys (or guys of any other shade, for that matter) should never put on a white glove, fedora, and jeri curl to go to a high school dance. The chances of getting laid that year will plummet considerably, as will the chances of ever getting laid in any other year in that town, or any other towns within the range of telephones, letters, or rumours. Might as well skip the reunion, too.
• Moonwalking is for people who can actually moonwalk. All others should practice more, or fuck off. Consequences of non-compliance with this rule can include those outlined in item one.
• Dangling infants from hotel balconies, while once a perfectly acceptable practice in some parts of the world I am sure, is not a good idea in Europe. Or anywhere else where people know how to operate cameras, think rationally, or have one single iota of common sense anywhere in their bodies.
• Letting your kids sleep over at a rich guy’s house, with him, in his bed, is not quite the harmless practice leading to fame and fortune that one might think. No matter how many Llamas, roller coasters, and tight-lipped, well-paid security people the rich guy might have, improper conduct may occur. Actually, maybe we should just not let our kids sleep at any guy’s house, in his bed, ever. For any reason. Or should that be “for obvious reasons?” Simple test: Neighbour Dude: “Hey, can Johnny come over to my house tonight for a sleepover with me in my bed?” You: Option 1: “No, you fucking pedophile!”, Option 2: “Sure, just let me pack up his toothbrush and innocence. You boys have fun!” Trust me, the correct answer is Option 1. How could you have let me go, Mom and Dad?
• Surprisingly, being stinking rich does not protect you from the public scorn directed at you for your stupid and psychotic actions, only the consequences of those stupid and psychotic actions. Yup, it’s true. Even after the cheques have been cashed, people might still think you are a douchebag. Sorry Mad Mel and OJ (Round 1 anyway).
• Finally, Michael taught us that change is not always a good thing. If you start out life as a good lookin’, ‘fro-sporting African American dude, it is okay to end it like that, too. At no point in one’s life should one succumb to peer pressure or insurmountable insanity and spend millions morphing into a baby-powder white, tinkerbell-nosed, freakish ghoul. Even if you have the money, and that hair-straightener that got re-gifted back to you from your niece last Christmas.

It’s probably a good thing it happened when it did. Two more shades and he would have been clear. Then we would be able to see the inner workings. I picture a lot of demons with a poor little ‘fro sporting kid tied to a chair and gagged. He’s got to be in there somewhere.

Unfortunately, Michael’s death has put millions of losers worldwide into a state of misguided mourning and holocaust-denier-like vehement ignorance regarding the less savoury aspects of his life. Fortunately for me, however, I have a new potential guest for future editions of From Beyond the Grave. Once he’s done with all of the lake-of-fire stuff and has a spare moment, that is.