If you have any questions about whether Crawl For Cancer is amazing or not I present to you:

Me performing “Baby Got Back” at the last bar…enjoy.

Two things happened on Memorial Day: 1. I stepped on my laptop getting out of bed and damaging the right 1/3 of the screen to a constant reminder of my stupidity and love of beer.  And 2. I was involved in this sports conversation:

What should the Blue Jackets throw on ice for a hat trick?

Now while I can’t fix the first thing myself (I know if I’d try I would get mad and end up having to repair my screen, a laptop-sized whole in my drywall, the broken bone in my foot from the laptop bouncing off the drywall and the $500 fine for opening my window and yelling obscenities in front of 13 nuns) I can come up with some extra ideas about the CBJ.

Something has to be thrown on ice other than hats.  It’s great there’s a display showing all of the hats that have been thrown on the ice in the 12 year history of Nationwide Arena, but we need something more because other teams have more.

The Detroit Red Wings throw octopi and the Nashville Predators are throwing local catfish.  Guess what else those teams have in common?  Success!  Or in other words something the Blue Jackets know nothing about.  Instead of throwing something on the ice to celebrate our good fortune and we throw grocery bags on our heads to make sure nobody we know sees us on TV and as a result of supporting a woeful team we get the dreaded Icy Hot Slot (Icy Hot gets put in the backside of your underwear and someone gives you a wedgie).

As a way to avoid future unbearable burn on unmentionables we must find a proper item to be thrown on the ice for hat tricks, big wins and whenever a fan’s BAC goes over .20.  Here are ideas that were thrown about at the cookout and some I threw in myself and they’re broken up in three categories: Columbus, clothing and crazy.

I) Columbus

We need something that will become ours and only ours; and nothing says ours quite like local products that can be chucked onto a sheet of ice.  Some 614 products include:

1. Buckeyes

• Pros: The nut of Ohio…there are plenty of these to be found in the state…who wouldn’t stop giggling whenever the announcer says “GOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLL!!!!!!!!!  IT’S A HAT TRICK!!!!!!!  AND HERE COME THE NUTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
• Cons: These are nuts that will hurt if thrown in your face (hehe…immature humor)…there would be a lot of cleanup to get thousands of Buckeyes off the ice…Ohio State has cornered the market on these items.

2. Plastic cardinals

• Pros: The bird of Ohio…it could develop into the official celebration of the state of Ohio…slow-motion replay of a plastic bird flying majestically through the air would be an instant YouTube sensation
• Cons: Other states have cardinals as their state bird (bastards)…the baseball team in St. Louis involves cardinals (infinite bastards)…a beak could probably crack some glass and make the team spend thousands of dollars on their fans who throw like chess club members.

3. Nationwide Insurance Forms

• Pros: It’s the sponsor of the arena and is Columbus-based…everybody needs insurance and Nationwide could convert random members of the opposition…who doesn’t love throwing a stack of papers in the air with no fear of cleaning it up?
• Cons: There will be at least 10,000 sheets of paper per hat trick (uh-oh, trees)…probably three individual sheets will make the ice and the others will rain on fans like a blizzard of paper cuts…multiple fires will break out from members of other insurance companies who are way too overzealous with their affiliation to another company.

4. Wendy’s chili

• Pros: This can be merged together with the already existing free medium chili when the CBJ score over three goals in the game…it’s unique to the Blue Jackets…that new Wendy’s girl in the TV commercials is hot so it’s a better chance for me to make out with her.
• Cons: Everyone will eat their chili before a hat trick happens…those who don’t eat the chili will throw it around like confetti on others…even if all the chili makes it too the ice that means melted ice mixed with boiling chili and at least a three hour cleanup.

5. Olentangy fish

• Pros: It’s a local product…no one eats these things (if they exist)…goes along with the seafood theme set up in the NFL already.
• Cons: I’m 99% sure touching a fish from the Olentangy River will cause in ulcers, puking and instant sterility…it will look bad to America that we support our five-eyed fish…copying another team by throwing fish is hardly unique.

II) Clothing

1. Pants (my buddy Mr. Smith’s idea)

• Pros: Instant Sportscenter play…they’re easy to smuggle in and throw…paying $3 for a pair of size 56 pants that are stained from a thrift store to heave on the rink is a fabulous idea.
• Cons: There’s no weight to pants so you gotta be right along the boards…the drunks in the audience who forgot an extra pair of pants will throw their only pair and reveal to the world they enjoy banana hammocks…kids taking off their pants in public will NEEEEEEEEEVER look good.

2. Denim tops

• Pros: they literally BLUE JACKETS!!!  HAAAAAAAAAA…it’s a crappy fashion statement that is fun to laugh at and yet fun to wear…you can personalize a message on the back to make yours unique.
• Cons: it’s a Canadian tuxedo (and supporting Canadian fashion is equal to tattooing “loser” on your forehead)…if you can’t find these in thrift stores they are pretty pennies to be hurling away…I honestly wouldn’t want to part with mine (it’s too 80’s Americana, damnit!)

3. Underwear

• Pros: you will make hockey players feel like rock stars getting underwear thrown at them…it’s very obscure, funny and unlikely to be duplicated by other teams…we’ll have a Mardi Gras party atmosphere (no rules, beads, alcohol…WOOOOOO!)
• Cons: sexual harassment will go up about 4,568% at games because of drunk guys unhooking bras to throw…one 80 year-old man/woman will scar anyone within a 50 ft. radius of the garment for life…skid marks.

4. Lincoln beards

• Pros: he was president during the Civil War and the Blue Jackets are from Civil War times (hooray history lesson!)…who won’t laugh seeing hundreds of Lincoln beards in the air at the same?…the player scores a hat trick + puts on one of the beards = ALL-TIME GREATEST MOMENT EVER!!!!!!!!!!
• Cons: everyone will be very confused at the beginning and it may not catch on because of the possible stupidity…having any fake beard touching skin results in uncontrollable itching…the last time Lincoln was in a public setting kinda didn’t go so well.

5. Jock straps

• Pros: every guy needs to wear a cup during contact sports to protect the boys…every person can splurge the $3 for a new one every game…it’s an homage to Slap Shot when a player did this.
• Cons: no man should ever have to touch another man’s jock…having another man’s jock land on your head will cause at least 50 hours of psychiatric care to the victim…if it lands in someone’s beer the city may burn down from the ensuing riot.

III) Crazy

1. Trash

• Pros: everyone has to throw it away so why not put it in one place?…with all the padding the players and refs have along with the fact there are no more glass bottles there aren’t deadly items that can be thrown…you may be able to recycle that stuff.
• Cons: it’s trash!…no player wants to celebrate a hat trick by skating around banana peels and smelling dirty diapers…lower bowl people will no longer pay extra money for seats closer to a giant dumpster.

2. Slime the opposing goalie

• Pros: kids will love to see this which means a growing future fan base…it embarrasses the person on the other team (because they suck!)…it’s harmless because there’s nothing toxic in slime (Nickelodeon proves it).
• Cons: we could get a hat trick and still be losing which means victorious green ice for the other team…the goalie could go psycho because of the mocking and end up going Happy Gilmore on a fan by trying to stab them with his skate…there’s a slight chance the electronics guy could hit the wrong button and make our goalie feel the extreme shame that winning 6-0 causes.

3. Mentos and Diet Coke display

• Pros: everyone loves to watch this combo explode!…it could get kids interested in science to figure out how it’s possible and the children are our future…the budget of a great display would be around $100 (nothing!)
• Cons: the budget per display is cheap, but getting the rights to use their brand names? (TOO MUCH!)…skating on slushy Diet Coke after the hat trick happens sounds like an awful time…being impressed by this is so 2005.

4. Condom balloon animals

• Pros: we get the satisfaction of throwing a dead carcass on the ice like other teams without the actual animal…it’s a pun on hat trick (condom = jimmy hat and tying condoms into animals is quite a trick)…cleanup is a breeze while being so easy anyone can do it.
• Cons: kids would want to keep their condom animal and, well, that’s just weird/wrong…I have a feeling the only animals made would be eels, worms and sea cucumbers (aka just an inflated condom)…STD and pregnancy will go up amongst the fans because their contraceptive device was nowhere to be found.

5. Poop

• Pros: it’s a symbolic gesture for how bad the team has been historically…it is easily obtainable (after the second goal people will be rushing to the stalls to be prepared)…people who have picked up dog droppings know how to properly use a bag for transport.
• Cons: IT’S POOP!!!!!!!!!!!!…there are way too many diseases to mention…if you scored two goals and knew if you scored another one people would throw feces at you would you want to get a hat trick?

Or we could just combine all 15 into the most super-awesome projectile involving denim jackets, fake birds, nuts, presidential facial hair, insurance forms, fast food, radioactive fish, testes savers, undergarments, blown rubbers, diet soda, khakis, green goop, garbage and excrement the world has ever seen!!!!!…………or not…….definitely not……that idea is bad.

So let’s do this Columbus!  I believe in us!  Let’s get something awesome done!  I can tell you one thing for certain:

Poop is NEVER cool to throw.

Quick…what are three of the best words in the world?

Baseball, beer, boobies?  Good one.  Winning lottery ticket?  Heavenly.  Haley Joel Osment?  What the hell is wrong with you?

The correct answer is a day that is the third best day of the year (behind setting clocks back an hour so we get a bonus hour at the bar and Joey Votto’s birthday):

Crawl For Cancer! 

Just typing those words fills my loins with enough joy and happiness I could rip my clothes off and run down the street (but I won’t…this time…I’m still giving sponge baths to old people at the retirement home near my place…so many wrinkles).

For those of you who don’t know Crawl For Cancer is a bar crawl that takes place downtown on Memorial Day weekend.  You have teams of 10-12 people, pay $40 a person (includes t-shirt and beer) and you go to five bars in the Arena District drinking four pitchers of beer at each bar until you’re done with your path.  After your CFC prophecy is fulfilled there is an after party every team is welcome to go to where you drink more beer until 8 pm.  The only way out is stumbling away from the bar into a cab, getting thrown carried away by friends to an apartment or waking up inside a dumpster at 4 am with the taste of ashtrays and regret in your mouth.

And that’s just your team.  Add in the beautiful weather, 10 people a team and $40/pop and there’s going to be around 5,234,847 people downtown (give or take 5,233,347…I’m a communications major).  You have a ton of teams in an array of colors all banded together to help defeat one thing besides our livers, brain cells, sobriety, relationships, inhibitions and being productive Sunday)…cancer.  Each year all the money paid and donated goes to charities that fight cancer.

Another great thing is how big this has gotten.  This is the fifth year and I’ve done it every year.  The first year there were six bars, one charity and probably 50 teams on a cold and rainy early April day.  This year there are 17 bars, six charities and too many people for my feeble math skills to handle on a hellish 90 degree May day.  Every year it has gotten bigger and bigger and it makes me happier and happier to have been on the ground floor for this.

Since this is my fifth year partaking in this glorious event I have begun to notice trends that happen every year without fail.  So for those of you who don’t know about what specifically goes on during the CFC allow me to paint you a (somewhat hazy) picture of what goes on from the inside:

12:01 AM (day of event)- Wake up hoping it’s morning with the eagerness of a kid on Christmas who knows he’s getting drunk…crap it’s just past midnight.

12:30- Fall back asleep with dreams of beer and parties dancing in my head.

2:30- “Is it time?…2:30?…AHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!”

2:32- Pop some Nyquil, do 500 jumping jacks and chloroform myself to stay asleep until a reasonable hour.

2:38- “WHAT?!?!!??!?!  HOW DID I WAKE UP SIX MINUTES LATER?!?!?!  I TOOK NYQUIL AND CHLOROFO…ZZZZZZZZZ”

10:00- Awake in a fog, but excited about two things: 1. I’m still breathing after the Nyquil/chloroform decision and 2. CFC.

10:05- Get up, shower, shave, chug two glasses of water and get rides set up for the first of traditions:

Bob Evans Breakfast

The 11 am brunch at Bob’s is a perfect way to start off the day.  We gather most of the team together in one spot, everyone gets a full belly of quality food (the key is heavy food that gives you a base…hash browns, sausage gravy, other meat, no veggies…delicious), the shirts are given out by the captain, you find out where your path will take you and most importantly you get to reminisce about CFCs of the past.

Here is a sampling of events that I have been involved with throughout the years: I ate two Chipotle burritos in one sitting, popped the button off my shorts and had to jury-rig it by tucking my shirt through the button hole, found the best bar created by man (Lodge Bar), made out, scaled 15 foot railroad fences to keep drunk idiots off the tracks (face planted twice), compared who had whiter thighs, fell asleep at the bar then later in my apartment grass and partook in a “you punch my gut, I’ll punch yours” game.  In other words…amazing times.

12:30 PM- With full stomachs and anxious faces we begin our descent to our first bar.  The non-Bob’s team members who don’t like tradition or America will meet outside the first bar and one thing always happens: someone’s late.  Whether it be that their ride got lost, they can’t find a parking spot, they overslept or they forgot to put pants on and were arrested for indecent exposure, but busted out of jail for this event…excuses, excuses, excuses.  Once Mr./Mrs. Come Lately arrives…

1:10- GAME ON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

At the first bar everyone gets settled in.  There’s a group toast to a (mostly) memorable day, catching up with people who didn’t do Bob’s and the beer flows at a steady pace.  Teams only talk to themselves at this sober stage of the game so the colors are organized neatly together like a painter’s…paint-holding-thingie…I are smart! 

2:15ish- Traditionally there is one bar we don’t like on our path.  The bar’s too crowded, there’s not enough room space to get drinks, the bathrooms aren’t clean, once took a bucket of cleaning water and threw it on a bald bouncer while yelling “HEY!  IT’S MR. CLEAN!”; the point is the bar is no good.  Whatever the reason everyone drinks as fast as they can while bitching about the bar.  If this takes longer than 30 minutes the person who hates this bar the most will pull a Carrie in her prom scene all over the whole bar.

2:45ish-  The third bar is paradise compared to the hated bar you left vapor trails from 30 minutes ago.  This is where you commence drinking games with teammates.  Never Have I Ever is the popular choice with the goal of embarrassing everyone in the group at least once (he did what with a microwaved Choco Taco?).  It’s the happiest of all bars because everyone is really tipsy, but not drunk…yet.

3:45ish- Here’s the funnest (yes funnest is a word!) bar of them all.  The fourth bar usually has plenty of room and tables for people to choose from.  In other words…Flip Cup time!  This is where your team unity is at its peak.  One member of your team seeks out another team to play against (if you send a girl you’re getting the first team she finds…if you send a guy you’ll have to wait a few minutes as he scours the area for the cutest girls…we’re pigs).  You match up numbers for however many people want to play (usually it’s 8 v. 8), grab your pitchers and then…flip cup!  There’s screaming, shouting, finger pointing, trash talking, slurring, hugging and general merriment for the duration of the game.  (If you really want to have fun…put wagers on it.  For my sake I usually want the kiss of a girl on the other team, but what usually happens is I lose and have to kiss the butt of a male teammate…why does this happen?!?!?)

5:00ish- Four hours have past.  Last bar.  16 pitchers down.  Four to go.  Everyone’s drunk, obnoxious, high-fiving members of other teams and texting regretful things to people unaware you’re hammered at five o’clock.  This bar is a stark contrast of the first bar: you hear nothing but loud human noises, there’s a line seven deep around the bar, there’s a line 707 deep for the bathroom, the colored shirts are melting together like a bad LSD trip and everyone has the attention span of a 13 year-old boy at Hooters (“Whoa…boobies!  I like her…no her!…wait, her!…mmm wings…no her!.) 

The people who don’t drink much holding on to anything that will prop them up; the couples are grinding/fighting/making out with each other; the single men are trying to do what the couples are doing; and the designated drivers who arrive looking at the wreckage in front of them wondering what happened.  CFC…that’s what happened.

6:00ish-8:00- It’s after party time!  Usually a few of the biggest bars in Arena have the after party, but this year it’s at the LC (the big concert venue downtown.)  Half of the people from the crawl make it to this level, but even with less people at the after party you are sure to find these events during these few hours:

Fighting: You never get to see the action, but you’re sure to see the bouncer living out his fantasy while breaking it up.  He gets to push through hundreds of people, deck whoever is fighting and hurl the bastard out of the bar saying something witty (“Get out of my bar you dirty, stinking ape!”…wait that was Planet of the Apes…oh well)

Random hook-ups: Two people of different colored teams + sucking face for 25 straight minutes w/o talk + friends checking in on them = BOW-CHICKA-WOW-WOW!  If done efficiently there’s a chance both people will be back to the after party.

Puking: This is inevitable and you treat these people like lepers: don’t make eye contact, ignore they exist and hope you don’t know them so you don’t have to spend your partying comforting someone.

Crying: See above.  (I’m not insensitive!  I just have great partying friends!  Get your friends together other people!)

Wild Card: IT’S THE CRAWL FOR CANCER!  ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN!!!

The ultimate goal is to make it out to 2 am.  This means non-stop partying with no naps, showers or changing out of your shirt.  Trying this marathon of partying is like the concussion worries for young players in the NFL: you know what you’re doing isn’t good for down the line, but you only have a short period of time for glory and you don’t want to miss a thing.  And why do we do this?

Because it’s the CFC…that’s why.

That’s right!  I said it!

I’m writing this post on behalf of not only the Bryans of the world, but also every lesser known name out there.  I’m speaking for the Seans, Stephens, Caitlins and Tammis of the world…our time is now!  Let us rise up and overcome our more “popular” (a.k.a. incorrect) named overlords!  Let’s get our names above our inferior superiors!*

* = This is not a rallying cry for people with goofy-ass names.  I’m sorry little JeBastian, but your name is too weird and funny to try and overcome conventional names.  There are unique names out there that are cool because they’re different, but there are limits to how unique a name should be.  Parents if you name your kid anything like JeBastian you might as well waitlist them for therapy now because you have set your son/daughter up for a lifetime of teasing, shame and an inevitable hatred of you because of your stupid name.

No longer will we be shunned by not having a souvenir license plate keychain, but “the other one” does.  Taking a Sharpie and writing our name correctly on name tags because the person in charge “thought it was spelled normal” is going to be a thing of the past.  Receiving an award then running to our parents crying because they etched in the “socially accepted” spelling of our name when we werea senior in high schoolin first grade will never happen again!

The revolution begins now and I, my awesome 2^nd-tier named friends, will lead the charge!  Starting right here and right now!  Strap yourself in, Brians of the world…it’s gonna get ugly.*

*= The exceptions to this rule include Brian Urlacher (certified badass) and Brian Piccolo (Brian’s Song is a fantastic movie).  They are exempt from my tirade.  Adolph Rupp was a successful Kentucky basketball coach and…well we know the bad one.  Point is there are exceptions to the unfortunate spelling.

Let’s start off by the origin of the names.  According to Wikipedia (a.k.a. The Holy Grail of Knowledge) both names mean “high” or “noble”.  Brian was from Irish decent, was the #4 name in the UK in 1934 and was used in Scotland for professional families. Bryan came along some centuries later when the Anglo-Normans invaded Ireland in the 12^th century and doesn’t have any of the historical significance.  While these facts would give a huge advantage in the name Brian, there was one more sentence that proves Bryan is superior:

“The surname Brian can also sometimes be a French surname; derived from the Old Occitan word brian, meaning “maggot” and used as a nickname”

Brian means maggot!  Maggot!  Bryans are noble people who will lead people to prosperity…Brians will lead people to the nearest rotting food source.  Bryans are strong men who can overcome any problem we come across…Brians can climb the tallest pile of poop they find.  Bryans are guys you want your daughter to marry…Brians are fly babies.  Score one for Bryans!

Now let’s move onto how the name looks.  Brian has that i in the middle.  That letter screams of elitism.  The dot on top is in the 1% of letter height.  It looks down on all the other letters thinking it’s so much better in its ivory tower and not-need-to-touch-the-bottom-99% attitude.  You know who else is in the top 1% and has an i?  Simon Cowell.  Do you want your son’s name to be associated with the I’m-richer-and-better-than-thou guy?

Bryan looks cleaner and of the people.  The y is just hanging around where 99% of letters preside and the bottom part of the y is even under the 99% making other letters look more important than itself.  You know who else is of the people and leads people to greener pastures?  Carly Rae Jepsen. Her music is something everyone can enjoy and is meant for the blue collar, working class…not the white collar, stuffed shirt, million dollar bonus snobs.  So…pretentiousness and turning up noses or hanging out and being loved by millions of people?…thought so.

Another thing about the look is that Brian doesn’t even look like it sounds.  The ian sounds like the name Ian.  Cambrian, Permian and other non-geologic terms clearly show the Ian sound.  Meanwhile Bryan is said exactly how it sounds.  Tryout, frying and dryer clearly show that this.  The evidence here is clear: Brian should sound like Breean and Bryan should sound like Bryan.  It’s simple facts, people!

Next up let’s focus on celebrities.  The Brians have disliked guys.  They have Dexter’s brother in the Showtime show Dexter named Brian Moser who was a serial killer; Brian Sipe was the Cleveland Browns quarterback during Red Right 88 that broke the city’s spirit before The Fumble and The Drive (would these events have happened if he was named Bryan Sipe…I most certainly think maybe); Brian Pride is my alter ego who makes Bryan Fraker’s life a nightmare the following morning..  Point being…they got nothin’!

Bryans have great guys.  Who isn’t aware of actor Bryan Cranston of Malcolm in the Middle and Breaking Bad fame?  There’s the astronaut named Bryan O’Connor, meaning Bryans are smart, too.  And here’s the kicker…Bryan Nickson Lomas.  That’s right: THE Bryan Nickson Lomas.  He’s the Malaysian diver who was 26th in the 2008 Olympics.  There you go, ladies and gentlemen.  Brians are evil, unreliable and incoherent drunks…Bryans are famous, smart and athletic specimens of men.  Boom! (and I didn’t even use Canada’s musical gift to the world of Bryan Adams…damn us Bryans are good!)

You see, people, what’s most popular now isn’t always the best.  Wearing suits to August baseball games was the correct way to dress in the early 20th century and apparently body odor and butt sweat was fun.  The pet rock was beloved by people growing up in the 1970s and confused everyone not from that era.  Freeing the twins has been a popular Mardi Gras tradition that’s been going on for decades…actually, that’s a good one.  The point is that as we age our lives change. 

We adapt and evolve into better humans.  We have invented medicine to cure polio, built cars that use zero gas and created condoms that glow-in-the-dark in case you forget where your dingle is dangling.  Am I saying that making Bryan the go-to name over Brian is on par with something like these wonderful innovations?  Most likely not…but probably so.  We just need to adapt and evolve to better names.

As you can see, ladies and gentlemen I have proven, through thorough research and biased unscientific thinking, that the name Bryan is better than the name Brian.  It’s simply better on all your sense.  It looks better with the laid back y instead of the condescending i; it sounds better because Bryan is spelled exactly how it sounds unlike the fraudulent, phonic-stealing Brians do; it feels better because I say it does; and I’m sure if you cook a Bryan up we smell and taste far better than our counterparts……wait, what?…

So remember when you think of what name is better it comes back to a basic math problem we all learned to solve in the 6th grade: Bryan > Brian.

Case closed.

Last weekend I took my car to an auto repair place to get my oil changed and have some routine maintenance done to it.  12 hours and a molestation of my wallet to the tune of over $1,000.00 I was left with a sickening feeling in my stomach.  Most of it was because of my two hour cry-a-thon when hearing the prices of all the needed repairs, but some of it had to do with when I brought the car in.

As I was waiting in line to be helped I looked in the repair garage and made eye contact with two mechanics eating their dinner.  They both scowled at me like I just swiped their cheeseburger through my buttcrack.  I instantly became uncomfortable because I knew why they did it. 

They gave me the death stare because they can tell I don’t know what I’m doing when it comes to cars.  They know I’m not one of their type and can’t wait to replace my oil with Pepsi, fill my engine with cat urine and leave some sort of fecal present inside my air conditioning unit so whenever it’s 96 degrees outside I’d rather be sweating profusely than smelling like a porta potty after three weeks on a construction site.

The point of this is that standing in a repair shop is incredibly awkward for me and that got me to thinking about other times I deal with awkward moments while shopping and wouldn’t you know it?…I have a list!  Let’s enjoy this, shall we!

Being the lone customer in hat stores and video game places.  I can’t even go into those stores when I’m the only person.  I become the center of attention when I just want to blend in, be left alone and make my purchase without a hole being stared through my soul.

In hat stores the shops are always small with nothing taller than 4’ in the middle of it meaning wherever you go in the store the person working can see you.  Whenever you touch a hat it must be a law that the employee has to tell you about their sales regarding that hat, what products to put on it to make it look better and whether or not you’re a part of their rewards program.  I’m very particular in my hat selection and I tend to try on 56 or so hats before I decide so after the fifth time the employee says something to me I quietly leave before I steal a mustard bottle from the food court and make it rain yellow napalm all over their shop.

Video game places are even worse to be alone in.  There’s always at least two workers there either playing an old-ass regular Nintendo game or talking about a game that will be out in 2017 you’ve never heard of.  It’s a really weird energy in video game places when I’m alone.  It’s the only time where two 30-somethings who live in their mom’s basement and have only seen boobies when they stenciled Princess Peach naked on a gaming manual can make me feel awkward.  I’m not one of them.  They can tell.  I leave quietly while trying not to have their sad lives poison my DNA.

Lingerie at a department store.  Every guy has had this happen to them in a department store:

You’re walking to the cooking section to grab a non-stick pan for a Vegan stir-fry you wanna make men’s aisle for cheap pants when you see out of the corner of your eye a mannequin wearing nothing but a bra.  It’s the lingerie aisle.  You know that the men’s section is faster going to the right, but if you go left you can gawk at all the models in their lingerie and possibly fulfill the fantasy of walking past the lingerie aisle when a sexy librarian stops you, takes you into the dressing room, models off sexy outfits for you and finally takes your belt off, spanks you with it and……………………………………….huh……..what happened?….I just passed out……………did I go into my lingerie department store fantasy again?……this always happens!…..oh, well.

Anyway the awkwardness here is when you walk by the aisle you don’t get the sexy females shopping and looking for your advice…you get the obese woman who’s proud of her body and is talking way too loud to her equally obese friend two aisles about how “I’m gonna rock my man’s world with these XXXXXXL crotchless panti…………………………huh………..what happened?………..why is there vomit on my keyboard?…….uh-oh………..I said the lingerie aisle nightmare, didn’t I?……..why do I keep doing that!?!?!m……oh, well.

The point of this is that it’s awkward walking past that aisle and I understand why attractive women shop at Victoria’s Secret.  I don’t know if their products are quality (they look great), but part of their prices have to be a convenience fee for not having to deal with men because, as everyone knows, we’re pigs.  The models on posters in the window displays will easily distract any man away from who’s inside and if a man is inside Victoria’s Secret he either works there, is there with his girlfriend and will not let his eyes stray from her for fear of repercussion or is buying something for a wife/girlfriend alone and is so in over his head he blocks everything out but what he’s buying. 

See, ladies?  I understand you.  Now…who wants to date me?…….wait, where are you going?

Arguing over a pricing difference in a long line.  This is always a tricky subject.  What is the amount of money you’re willing to give up in order to keep the line moving?  I say if you can’t buy a $5 footlong at Subway with the difference when you’re buying $75 or more of stuff….let it go.  You let it go because if you argue it the employee will have to ring it up again to verify the price, call a manager over, get someone to go look at the price on the shelf and when all is said and done you wasted 20 minutes of everyone’s time to save $2.50 on a stereo that’s already on sale for $200 off.

Three other things to take into consideration:

1. The rules of shopping karma will take care of you later on.  You’ll find the last item of something sweet during Christmas time, find money on the ground or will have your lingerie aisle fantasy come true if you keep the line moving.
2. If you slow the line down even more there’s a chance you’re getting shanked in the parking lot or having your tires slashed by a vengeful customer who missed their hair appointment because of you’re arguing.
3. Whatever the missed price is just take that much merchandise next time you’re in that store…..wait, that’s illegal?….uh-oh…..um…….don’t what I said…..wink, wink…

Seeing an embarrassing item in the cart of the person in front of you.  When you’re standing in line you have to do things to take up your time.  You look at the gossip mags in the racks to see what the Octomom will do for money now (my bet: eat peanut butter off a homeless man’s beard), see if any gum is on sale and look at the items of the person in front of you to guess what they’re doing tonight.

1. If they have beer and ping pong balls you become jealous of the fun they’re gonna have.  If they have diapers and baby formula you know they haven’t slept in weeks and are on the verge of a nervous breakdown.  If they have Preparation-H, Depend adult diapers, condoms and KY massage oils…what is wrong with them?  You start laughing under your breath, but the laughter gets louder and more out of control when you give more thought to the combo of items until the person in front of you hears you, stares at you and you’re stuck laughing really hard at someone else’s pain (and possible pleasure with those condoms).

Seeing someone you don’t want to talk to.  This is more prevalent in college when walking to class, but it still happens shopping.

You’re walking in a store around the lingerie aisle when you see an ex walking by.  Not only is it your ex, but she dumped you and is with another guy.  This guy is better looking, wearing better clothes, has a Harvard grad shirt on and is wearing a tight pair of jeans so tight you can see the outline of his manhood…near his knees.  Needless to say you don’t want to let them see you.  There are a few ways to succeed in no interaction:

1. The phone peak.  A classic in this new generation.  All you do is get out your phone, look down until they pass and continue on your day like you didn’t see that horrible devil woman at all.
2. Tying shoes.  A simple one because who can recognize a person by the top of their head?  Wait for the offensive person to pass and you’re good to go.  This works even in flip-flops if you’re great at acting.
3. Hiding.  Use your hide-and-seek skills as an adult!  Crouch behind a display.  Dive behind a water fountain.  Duck under the fat flaps of a 500 lb. man.  Anything you can do to avoid being spotted by El Diablo works.
4. Scream in their face.  If they happen to spot you just scream in their face “I HAVE TO POO!!!”  That will bewilder your enemy and make sure she never wants to talk to you again.

Buying manthongs.  Granted this doesn’t apply to 99.9987% of males reading this, but for me it’s an awkward situation…especially since I bought these at a K-Mart.  There is one good thing for having manthongs in my underwear drawer: I know when I need to do laundry.

Every woman has a pair of underwear that is the “laundry pair”.  They aren’t comfortable or are ugly whatever the reason they aren’t in the normal rotation and are only for emergencies.  Men, however, don’t have such a pair.  Every pair of underwear works.  Boxers, briefs, boxer briefs, gym shorts, swimsuits, reusing worn pairs, ones with holes in them…they’re all comfortable and all work.  This is where the manthong comes in.  If I have to wear a pair of those…laundry needs done…stat.

Random erections.  It’s never not awkward when this happens and other people are around.

Using credit/debit card for less than $2.  Gets really awkward when you owe $1.50 and you only have $1 in your wallet.  You get mad at yourself for not hitting up an ATM, then at your Gatorade for being too much money, then at George Washington for not being on the $5 instead so you’d have enough money, then wondering if you can sprint to your car before the police get called, then wondering if getting pepper sprayed hurts that bad, then imagining Kelly Cuoco naked and finally sheepishly giving your debit card to the cashier.

Waving at someone who’s not waving at you, but someone behind you.  “Who is that waving at me?  Do I know her?  She’s kinda cute.  She must be into me.  I’ll give a seductive smile and a flirty wave………..and she’s looking at me like I just threw up on her cat…………and she’s hugging some other dude.  She wasn’t waving at me.  Oh, no!  I’m gonna go home and sit in a bathtub full of BBQ sauce and marinate my sorrows away.”

Getting caught staring at the cleavage of an employee.  Only happens at stores where employees are allowed to wear whatever shirt they want.  This doesn’t happen with polos or t-shirts.  When female workers are allowed to wear low-cut tank tops…beautiful.

It happens mainly when she’s showing you a book of designs for whatever you’re buying.  She’s behind the counter.  The book is in front of you.  She has to lean over the counter to point out the pretty flower pattern at the bottom of the page.  Your eyes first catch on her dangling necklace shimmering in the light, but behind the necklace…instant hypnosis.  You forget where you are, what you’re doing, who you are until…”Ahem!…”

You look up and see an angry face.  No more help for you.  No discounts.  No easy checkout.  Instead of getting the Mother’s Day gift you wanted you get a slap in the face and a restraining order.  Was it worth it?………….don’t…answer…truthfully…no it’s not…whew!…wait…am I typing my thoughts?….uh-oh….this is:

Awkward!

Obviously from the title this post is written from the perspective of a single male.  Had I been in a relationship I would have titled this “Dating’s Wonderful”, “Dinner and a Movie w/GF = Heaven” or “Whatever My GF Likes I Like!” because at that point someone can put up with sight, sound, smell, touch and (I guess) taste of me without instinctively rubbing radioactive material on my testicles while I slept so there I can’t make more of me.

The dating world sucks.  People in the dating world are like people swimming in the ocean on an April morning: they’re telling you they’re having a wonderful time, but from the looks of their pale skin, purple lips and general malaise look on their face it’s awful.

Now I’m not talking about people who are in committed relationships going on dates with each other.  You’re comfortable around your partner, you have things in common and there’s a loving connection between the two of you.  It’s exactly where everyone wants…and we daters hate you for it.

When you’re in a relationship you have already done all the hard/stressing/exhausting work.  Your blood, sweat and tears are shed already.  You’re in a place where just hanging out at home watching dull TV shows for hours on end is a suitable Friday night activity.  The only maintenance that needs to be done is an occasional compliment, doing something she likes but you hate once in awhile and don’t sleep with other women…unless your girlfriend says it’s cool and if that’s the case she’s either cheating on you, too or she’s the female version of Jesus and you can never let go!

The whole dating process sucks.  It’s an arduous process that takes weeks, months and even years to complete (and that’s assuming everything works out.)  If you’re a Casanova guy that can attract different women to his place week after week like a year-long America’s Next Top Model casting session…great (you bastard).  More power to you (you bastard).  You must be really happy with your life (YOU BASTARD)!  I, however, have the game of a three-toothed hillbilly, the dance moves of a recently tranquilized bear and the looks of a Napoleon Dynamite yearbook picture (no, really…people think I look like this…should I start wearing a paper bag now?)

First off you have to find a girl.  The problem with this is that once you graduate college…your opportunities for girls your age get shot to hell real fast.  In school you had classes, parties, clubs, men showers, sporting events…all with girls your age.  Once you receive that diploma it’s like all the attractive coeds you were too shy to ask out turn into 60 year-old divorcees who chain smoke and try to seduce you by taking their dentures out using only their tongue.

Here are the valid options for finding a girl:

1. Bar.  Women at a bar are either dating someone, looking for a on-night stand because that’s all herpes will allow them to do, not your type, flirt with you for your free drink then leave and even if you find someone you think is a perfect fit there’s a little problem called beer goggles.  You think you found a perfect mate, but it turns out the next morning her name is Gary and she has prostate problems.
2. Softball.  Usually you’re with a team of friends who are married, dated a really long time or you don’t see in a sexual manner.  This is also a trick because seeing a girl run around in gym shorts, fielding grounders and gingerly holding a bat near the knob will get me hot and bothered.  I bet if I saw Kathy Bates playing softball I could squint my eyes and think “I bet beneath those rolls and buttered rolls under the rolls…there’s a tigercat!”
3. Club.  Clubs in the real world are not like clubs in college.  Every meeting doesn’t end in a collective shotgun of beer.  These are usually with causes in mind, which is great for society, but I don’t think people like it when I go to AA to meet women and lead off with “Hi.  I’m Bryan F.  I’ve been drunk for about five hours now, so who wants to split a bottle of Boonesfarm behind a dumpster with me and make out?”…Gary was in my bed the following morning, too.
4. Church.  I don’t normally go to church so I’m no religion buff, but I’m pretty sure going to church only to meet women might be the 13th Commandment…right after “Thou shalt not performeth a double-dip with thoust chip” and “Michigan sucks!”
5. Speed Dating.  Because when I look for a mate I find that the best way possible is spending three minutes with 20 women and make my choices solely on looks, what they do for a living and what’s their sign (I’m a Capricorn!)  Hooray shotgun-approach-to-love-that-will-only-leave-you-lonlier-and-more-desperate-than-you-were-before-you-arrived!  Awesome!
6. Online Dating.  I’m not going to knock this until I try it.  I will try it the second I turn 43 and I enter 3/4 of my credit card information in a Russian bride website.
7. Work.  There’s a reason the adage “Don’t dip your pen in the company ink” exists.

As you can see many places where you an meet women are less than suitable.  There is, however, one more option that’s as practical for daters as the pay phone is to society

The blind date.

It’s usually a friend’s girlfriend who thinks it’s a great idea.  “Hey.  I’ve only known you for a few months and have only been around getting to know you for three days during those months…but I have a friend who is perfect for you.”  Next she looks up Facebook to show you a picture of her…but it’s always the 13th or 14th picture she sees.  With every swipe of her finger on her phone your enthusiasm for this idea decreases.  Finally she picks a photo of her friend from 2008 (before real life smacked her in the face), only you don’t know it’s from six years ago and by the time you arrive on the blind date you realize that since the photo you saw your blind date has gained not only the freshman 15 of 26 people, but also has colored her hair yellow and works as a street walker who specializes in Big Bird fetishes.  Um…eject button, please?!?!?

Granted the above scenarios only involve finding the right woman so surely once you find the right woman, won’t it be easy for you to get a date?  First off don’t poo-poo on the scenarios.  I spent hundreds upon hundreds of seconds in my own mind coming up with those scenarios.  Secondly, the first date is even more nerve-wracking than finding a girl.

I wrote about the perils of a first date in this post/skit.  Even with all the hilarious events I depicted in that wonderfully written column that somehow was snubbed for the Pulitzer last year, it’s the macro look at everything that truly shows how first dates are so unnerving.

The nervousness starts in the pre-date preparation.  For women all you have to honestly do is show up.  You could shower in Pepto Bismol, wear a Power Ranger onesie and get thrown up on by a homeless person right before we pick you up and all we’ll say is “Hi.  How are…oh…my…god……..I was the red Power Ranger for Halloween one year!”  We want to date you…it won’t faze us a bit.  As for our preparation…

I’m a woman!  I’ll spend 20 minutes in front of the mirror so I can get my hair just right so that my sorry excuse for a hairline doesn’t give me the look of a 40-year-old man going through his mid-life crisis.  I’ll change shirts five or six times to make sure it goes right with my shoes, it doesn’t have a lot of wrinkles, wasn’t worn 12 times since the last wash and it doesn’t reference beer or women.  After this three hour self-esteem roller coaster I’m left holding my breath for when I see my date the first time and she doesn’t give the nervous smile that is the universal sign for “I want to pepper spray this guy right NOW!”

The next step in this awkward process is conversation.  I always over think what to talk about (don’t make jokes about sex, sports references she won’t get, talk of previous boyfriends, make her pull my finger or quote full episodes of The Simpsons) and the only thing I can pull out of my scared ass is “So…do you like…stuff?”…and even that’s a Simpsons quote of Ralph Wiggum walking Lisa home on a “first date” for a second grader!  Damnit!

Dinner is a stressful environment, too.  Oh, it shouldn’t be, you say?  You’re just eating food.  It’s something you’ve done your whole life, you say?  If you’re saying that…you obviously haven’t seen me eat.  I tend to do, what the French call, le spilling.  There is nothing more dangerous for me than wearing a white shirt because as soon as I start to eat with a white shirt it’s a scientific fact that I will stain it within 21 seconds (38 seconds in any other color).  Now add that scientific study sweaty palms while I eat spaghetti and meatballs while trying not to break eye contact with her while she’s telling a story…ohhhhhhhh nooooooo!!!!!!!!!

Now let’s say the preparation, conversation and dinner go really well there’s still one more phase to hit…the end of the date.  Will there be a hug?  Will there be a kiss?  Will there be an awkward high-fave mixed with a mussing of the hair like she was your four-year-old cousin?  Whatever happens there’s only one thing that’s for sure and that’s you don’t want to mess this up so there isn’t a second date.

Starting with the second date there is a stage of dating limbo that is the most confusing part of a budding relationship: the prelationship.  The prelationship is the one month period where you’re going on dates and hanging out, but you’re not in a relationship.  This is where the stakes are highest. 

One moment you’re on top of the world thinking you may have found a girlfriend.  The next moment she is hitting the prelationship abort button and ends the dating with you leaving you lying in the fetal position alone with your thoughts about what the hell happened and the fact that you have invested your time, money and emotion into something that fell apart without any warning.  It’s because of the prelationship stage that dating sucks because in the aftermath of a prelationship breakup all you do is question what you did wrong instead of doing the sane thing…painting the other person as a slut/dick who’s too good for you.

I’ve been on both sides of a prelationship meltdown.  One time I was really into a girl who I thought was really hot, but not with any self-awareness.  I thought we were building a relationship; she thought I was someone spanning a gap between actual boyfriends.  On the other side of the ledger I was dating this girl whose company I enjoyed.  I wanted to take things slow while waiting for the feelings to “pop”; she was head-over-heels for me and questioned me about a picture on Facebook of me and another girl who happened to be my roommate’s girlfriend (lesson: NEVER, EVER go on your boyfriend/girlfriend’s Facebook page.  Nothing good can come from it…NOTHING!)  Prelationship abort!  Prelationship abort!

If you survive the prelationship and get into an actual relationship congratulations!  You are now in the tedious and steady practice of monogamy!  Get ready for arguments about your friends, grudges being held because you didn’t say thank you when she passed you the remote control and slowly realizing annoyances about the other person that will either strengthen your bond because you don’t mind their little tics or those annoyances will send your relationship into a death spiral.  After the smoke clears from the smoldering rubble that was your healthy relationship you’re left single and wiser; and once you finally get back on that horse to find another mate you’re left with one thought and one thought only when you get back in the game:

Dating sucks.

In the continuous search for blog ideas I like to spitball a lot of premises and see how they stack up.  I rummage through every crevice of my brain and write down whatever comes to mind.  After weeding out all the ideas that could legally send me to the crazy house I find the one topic that I can write a post about.  Unfortunately there are several other good ideas, but they just don’t have the legs to write in-depth about.

Having said that, spring is upon us and I need more brain space for important things like where happy hour deals are, the OBP of every member of the Cincinnati Reds and how to throw the sound of your farts at other people’s butt like a ventriloquist.  I figure a good spring cleaning of my brain is in order.  Here it goes:

1. I vote we drain the oceans.  I don’t like seafood, it covers over half the Earth and fish poop in it.  There are a ton of pros to doing this: we can drill for oil easier, put people at work draining the water, find all sorts of crazy critters of the deep, end shark attacks forever, create a Titanic museum in the actual Titanic and find the sunglasses the Gulf of Mexico took away from me in Destin, FL!  The only places that will remain with ocean water are ½ mile out from all beaches and the whole Carribean…they’re too beautiful and fun to get rid of.

2. Sundresses are awesome!  Nothing says spring quite like the sundress.  They’re festive, it’s comfortable for women to wear in the heat and men get to see the happiness for women wearing a sundress beaming from their chests…yeah…both beams……mmmmmm…I mean….um, what?

3. Find your spirit animal.  It’s nice to find an animal you connect with.  I was told I am a bear because they’re hairy, sleep a lot and never have relationships with human females……..hey, wait a minute!

4. The #1 job in sports is MLB closer.  You get paid $10 million/year to work one inning at a time, you come out to whatever music you want (My choice: The Too Fat Polka) and the crowd goes wild whenever you come in!  For the amount of work done combined with your salary and fame…nothing beats it.  

5. I wish I had boobies…I mean I wish I had boobies, but I wish I liked them…I mean I like boobies, but not when I can feel them…I mean I like when I can feel boobies, but not with my hands…I mean I like boobies when using my hands, but not on my bare chest…I mean I like boobies on my bare chest, but not…not…not…AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!…(pass out on desk with hands fondling my chest).

6. I hate my resume.  I’ve spent more time on this thing than hours I’ve worked in my life.  I have written it, revised it, had peers edit it, added stuff, dropped stuff, amended it, formatted it, cried about it, submitted it, set fire to it, stared at it, threw it away, flattened the thrown away version out long enough to spit on it, emailed it, re-emailed it, deleted it, restored it from my recycle bin, saved it, saved a new version, saved a third version, saved a fourth version and finally I have vented on my blog about it…all of which leaves me…hating it.  Help me!

7. Board games into movies?  I’ll end my random thought post with what has taken up most of my brainpower as of late: They’re making the game Battleship into a movie?

There’s not a lot of precedent for this crossover idea.  Clue was made in 1985 and it was very good about keeping the integrity of the game into the murder mystery/comedy plot they had.  However I’m guessing by the previews I’ve seen for Battleship there won’t be a lot of stationary boats wait to get hit by huge plastic missiles fired by one commander staring at a 100 square grid.

With Battleship coming out it did get me thinking about what other board games would make good movies.  I came up with these two ideas (intellectual property of Bryan Fraker…if Hollywood uses these ideas you owe me $100 million):

• Guess Who?  I see this being an action/thriller movie starring Jason Statham.  The looks will all resemble Crank, The Transporter and every other singular noun titled movie he’s been in mixed with 24.  He plays a renegade cop who has to find a mysterious bad person who’s carrying a toxic virus that, if let loose, will kill the whole city.  One person saw the suspect with the deadly virus…but he was beaten almost to death and can only remember what the suspect looked like if you start ask him questions about the suspect starting with very generic (“Is it a man?”) to very specific (“Did he have a goatee?”)  Statham has to run through the Super Bowl looking for this man/woman/tranny based on the little amount of clues he’s given at a time by the witness.  Coming summer of 2016.  One renegade cop.  One deadly virus.  One major city.  One mysterious suspect.  One forgetful witness.  One question to ask: Guess Who?
• Candyland.The obvious way to go with this game is to make it animated, kid-friendly and chock full of life lessons like sharing is cool and don’t touch yourself in public, but I want more of a sinister way of looking at it.  Let’s make it a horror flick based around six college kids who get really high and go to a children’s theme park called Candyland.  It will have all the characters of the game in them and the stoners will sneak into a random basement to hotbox and have fun.  Little do they know that right after they sneaked into the basement…a nuclear meltdown happened, turning everyone else into zombies.  The stoners emerge after coming down from their high at 2 am.  All the lights are off and they don’t know where to go.  Can they find their way out of this hellhole alive and enjoy the sweet taste of life?  Or…will they fall victim to the sour existence of the zombies in…Candyland.

There…my brain feels better.

I can’t stand the St. Louis Cardinals!

They are the bane of my Reds fan existence.  They win divisions.  They win World Series.  They beat us…it’s annoying!

As I was reflecting on my extreme dislike of the Cardinals, Wisconsin basketball coach Bo Ryan threw a hissyfit about a player of his wanting to transfer and Ryan in turn blocked all colleges close to the player’s hometown from the list of potential places.  That being said it solidifies something else:

I can’t stand Wisconsin!  After coming down from my 142 minute of cussing and cursing both places I realized that there are much more places I really don’t like.  I would use the term hate, but that’s not a strong enough word to get across the point.  I’m using a term so shameful, so degrading and so vile that anyone under the age of 21 should look away…

UNLIKE!

That’s right!  I’m using Facebook jargon for this!  There’s nothing worse someone could do in the Facebook world than unfriend you.  That means they no longer want to associate with you in any way and won’t share vital information with you like “Gummi bears taste great!” or “It’s so hot outside today, isn’t it everyone?”

I’m going with the fact that when I was a baby I liked everything in the world because I had no idea what stuff was.  I liked carrots, hammerhead sharks and Milli Vanilli.  Over time I realized that I don’t really enjoy certain things and I just ignore them.  However, with these places, I can’t ignore them.  I want nothing to do with them.  I don’t want them near my life.  I want them to stay away from any and all of my happiness.  Therefore…UNLIKE! 

Here we go:

1. The State of Wisconsin

• Reasons for unliking: Green Bay Packers, University of Wisconsin, Bo Ryan, Bret Bielma (don’t know if that’s spelled right, but I don’t care enough to look it up), Milwaukee Brewers, heart disease from all the obese cheeseheads, making Miller Light (what were you thinking?)
• Length of unliking: Since 2001 for the Packers; since 2009 for the Brewers; since 2008 for Wisconsin; since I learned what heart disease was; since my first sip of ass, I mean Miller Light.
• Severity of unliking: I want to set the world record for the biggest tire fire by burning the whole state.
• Redeeming qualities: cheese, High Life, UW big party school, Lambeau Field’s history, keeps Canada farther away from us.
• Odds of re-liking: 0%
• What it will take to re-like:Inventing a diet beer.  You drink enough…figure it out.

2. The State of Michigan

• Reasons for unliking: University of Assh…I mean mother f…I mean Michigan; Detroit Lions; Detroit Red Wings; Michigan State; city of Detroit; they touch us with their stink; Lions coach Jim Schwartz and his dickness; Ndomekon…Ndamecon…Mr. Suh.
• Length of unliking: Since I was conceived by my mom and dad…wait a minute…they had se…oh, no…AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH…(setting eyeballs on fire with lighter fluid)…….better.
• Severity of unliking: Whenever I take a pee break in the state I always seem to miss the toilet…I’m talking 0% in the toilet, 20% on the seat and 80% on the floor…it’s the strangest thing.
• Redeeming qualities: Home Improvement (Al Borlin, really), 70 MPH highway to get out of there faster, Eminem.
• Odds of re-liking: I have better odds giving birth to twin hamsters on the 4th of July while shaking hands with a naked Betty White and I’m singing “Achy Breaky Heart”.
• What it will take to re-like: We give Michigan to Canada and Puerto Rico is the 50th state.

3. Canada

• Reasons for unliking: they’re America’s hat; that hellhole known as Windsor; stupid maple leaf flag; stupid anthem; free healthcare (get a job!)
• Length of unliking: 1776.
• Severity of unliking: I wear a hat with an American flag on it that’s two sizes too small because I love ‘Murrica!…I won’t even acknowledge Canada’s existence on a map (what’s that country above us?…France II?)
• Redeeming qualities: Joey Votto…you’re lucky his Canadian you hosers, eh?
• Odds of re-liking: about their percentage of minorities…2% (Canada is so white and ugly!)
• What it will take to re-like: Votto to bring the Reds a World Series triumph and him

4. St. Louis

• Reasons for unliking: the St. Louis Cardinals!; St. Louis Blues; Yadier Molina and his neck herpes tattoo; Chris Carpenter and being a menopausal diva; Tony “Swept in 1990” La Russa; that arch (McDonald’s one is better…it has two).
• Length of unliking: since birth for the Cardinals; since the Blue Jackets came into existence for the Blues.
• Severity of unliking: A piece of my soul dies with every Cardinals win.
• Redeeming qualities: Nelly; BBQ; Steven Jackson; Bud Light; start of the Oregon Trail…wait…it’s Independence, Missouri?…………I unlike you even more St. Louis!
• Odds of re-liking: YOU CAN’T EVEN START THE OREGON TRAIL GAME?!!?!?  WHAT USE ARE YOU?!?!?!?
• What it will take to re-like: Free Bud Light for life, Nelly performs at my birthday party and I get to see both Molina and Carpenter get dysentery on the Oregon Trail.

5. The State of Alabama

• Reasons for unliking: having to drive FOR-E-VER through the state in 2005 and 2012 on spring vacations and dealing with this place where survival of the fittest clearly isn’t happening.
• Length of unliking: since 2005.
• Severity of unliking: Whenever I hear the word “Alabama” I instantly shudder and say “F***ing Alabama”.
• Redeeming qualities: fried chicken and their role in Civil Rights Movement
• Odds of re-liking: 5%
  
• What it will take to re-like: deodorize the state (there’s a weird smell as soon as you cross the state line) and make everyone go 450% faster than the rate they go now.

6. Gary, Indiana

• Reason for unliking: driving through the city at night and having a constant fear that if my car broke down I would be shanked no less than 876 times.
  
• Length of unliking: since 2008.
• Severity of unliking: I get to third base with my car’s muffler as a thank you for making it through unscathed.
• Redeeming qualities:a minor league baseball team and the sun shines on it.
• Odds of re-liking: whatever percentage of sunlight that day has.
  
• What it will take to re-like: free pair of night-vision goggles and an invisibility cloak.

7. Backroads in Kentucky

• Reason for unliking: having my first ever panic attack after getting lost on the way to Florida this year and driving 20 minutes through unlit, sidewinding, creepy-as-hell roads.
• Length of unliking: less than a month.
• Severity of unliking: I’d rather take a kick in the groin by Mia Hamm than do that again.
• Redeeming qualities: those roads weren’t in Ohio, I survived and a movie idea about our struggles through the backroads (tentative title: Kentucky Gothic…you know…like the painting American Gothic…with the farmer and wife?…oh, you know?…no need for the middle finger…I’ll just move on)
• Odds of re-liking: Same odds as Kentucky Gothic winning an Oscar
  
• What it will take to re-like: apple pie moonshine delivery to my front door by a blonde, Southern girl who looks very…smart.

8. Cantina (downtown Columbus bar)

• Reason for unliking: too loud, expensive, crowded and elitist
• Length of unliking: since I turned 21.
• Severity of unliking: I need a BAC of .25 to even think about going in there…and even then it’s because I have to throw up.
• Redeeming qualities: hot girls everywhere and the off-chance that one of them will brush against my butt (score!).
• Odds of re-liking: .69%…hehehe.
• What it will take to re-like: Lodge Bar reopens…no exceptions!

9. Mornings

• Reason for unliking: who wants to wake up before 7 am willingly?!?!?!
• Length of unliking: since nap time wasn’t a part of the school day.
• Severity of unliking: I have given the bird to my alarm clock approximately 4,325 times.
• Redeeming qualities: I’m still alive!
• Odds of re-liking: 80% (when I’m old I’ll enjoy it because conventional morning equals 3 pm to me).
• What it will take to re-like: a girl/omelet/girl-shaped-omelet is in bed with me.

10. Fart elevator

• Reason for unliking: tasting another person’s broccoli and bean dinner last night is no fun.
• Length of unliking: 30 seconds until it dissipates.
• Severity of unliking: I want to jump in the shower fully clothed to get that toxic layer of methane off me.
• Redeeming qualities: being unified with every other victim in the elevator with our hate of the offender…or in this case the nose-ffender…thank you, thank you.
• Odds of re-liking: 0% or I lose my sense of smell.
• What it will take to re-like: elevators become equipped with a special laser that senses when someone farts, alarms go off and a giant spotlight is placed on the one who dealt it.

Now…where do you people unlike?

There are cities in America that have local food that is beloved by its residents.  Chicago has deep dish pizza.  Memphis has BBQ.  Ann Arbor has deep fried sh*t (I assume.)  Here in the 614 we have something very special for Buckeye Nation…Dime-A-Dog night.

Columbus, Ohio is home to the Columbus Clippers, the AAA affiliate for the Cleveland “Wait ‘til next year!” Indians.  The Clippers have been here for around 475 years according to numbersfromfrakersass.gov and I have been going to games since I was a little kid getting free tickets for straight A’s and not getting wedgies from girls bigger than me.  The piece de resistance of Clipper games are without a doubt the Dime-A-Dog nights.

That’s right.  Hot dogs are a dime those nights.  Sure, the dogs were originally cooked during the Reagan administration, the quality of the dogs is worse than government grade and if you try to feed one to a hungry dog the dog will look at you and say “Um…no thanks.  I’d rather lick my own butt instead”…but it’s a Columbus tradition, damnit!

Dime-a-dog nights are a bonding experience with your friends and family.  You go there knowing that you are eating more sandpaper than actual meat parts, but it’s all part of the experience.  Having been a veteran of double digit Dime-A-Dogs and eaten over $10.00 of hot dogs during that timeframe you notice a pattern of events and people that are as inevitable to be there as these hot dogs will have me die of a coronary at age 24…uh-oh…(flat line sound)………………….

The first thing to make every Dime-A-Dog epic is to totally forget when it is.  They happen once every month on a Monday and the usual time to remember it’s Dime-A-Dog night around noon the day of.  This leads to a frantic mass text to people you think can make it on such short notice.  You have to weed out married couples, second shift workers, people who don’t like sports (blasphemy, I know), vegetarians (gross), non-drinkers (double gross) and all friends with benefits.  This leaves you with three people and the cold realization you’re a sad, lonely man…good thing you hide a bottle of rum in the back of a toilet.

After you polish off half the bottle, send an inappropriate email to the hot girl at the end of your cubicle row and vomit in the copier you go home for the most important part of the night: pregame.  Clippers games start at 6:35 so if you work a 9-5 you have around 45 minutes of pregame to get in before you head to the field.  You want to have a nice buzz going for the walk there so you take a few shots of vodka, chase it with a beer and grab a dingy shirt to wear for the condiment shower that will ensue during the hot dog warfare.

At the ballpark as soon as you enter the gates you go straight to the concession stand.  Unfortunately for you thousands of other Columbusans…Columbusites…Columbusonians….oh, yeah…Columbuserizers have the same idea and the line is so long it stretches onto the field and you’re stuck standing next to the left fielder dodging fly balls as you wait.  Here’s the clutch move that true Dime-A-Dog vets know: grab a beer before you get in line.  It helps beat the heat, you continue buzzing and it loosens you up so you don’t try to drown someone in stadium mustard for cutting in line.

Five hot dogs.  That’s all you can get at a time per person.  That’s unfortunate because just once I want to show up, go to the front of the line, drop a $20 bill on the counter and yell “This round’s on me!”  I would be the hero for all obese people in attendance.  They’d try to raise me on their shoulders, but everyone would be too winded from bending over to successfully lift me in the air.  After I get done with my fantasy of being King Wiener I snap out of my daydream, buy the five hot dogs, a large beer and wander over to our seats to enjoy this $.50 feast…after the condiments, that is.

Here’s a giant mistake rookie Dime-A-Doggers should know never to do: never get normal mustard on your dogs.  There is a great invention called stadium mustard that is mustard…you get at a stadium!  Save the normal yellow mustard for your salad at home.  If you don’t get stadium mustard on your dogs the terrorists have won.  If it was socially acceptable I would grab the stadium mustard jug and a straw and just sip on it while the game is going on.  I know I’ll end up eating 3,999% of my daily recommended sodium intake by drinking stadium mustard, but the food pyramid doesn’t exist anymore so therefore I can eat whatever I want and not feel any consequences…it’s just science.

The big irony of this day at the ballpark is that during Dime-A-Dog night…you don’t follow the game.  You notice big plays and catch most of the action, but outs, balls, strikes, who’s on what team and wondering if there’s a three point line in baseball all go by the wayside.  You’re talking with your friends, you’re stuffing your face with hot dogs, you’re guzzling overpriced beer and you’re partaking in another ritual of Dime-A-Dog night: people watching.

With the affordability of a $6 adult ticket into the game and $.10 hot dogs you’re going to get quite the wide array of people at Dime-A-Dog night.  You are certain to run into these people every time you go:

• At least three homeless-looking gentlemen.  These guys may not be homeless, but their ZZ Top beard, stained flannel shirt and confused look on their face gives them the look of a man down on his luck or Santa on a budget vacation against his doctor’s orders to lower his cholesterol (“Go ho-ho-f*** yourself,” Santa yelled at his physician.)
• Multiple groups of awkward high schoolers.  Their topic of conversation usually centers around online video games, hot Sears bra ads and inside jokes that anger their parents.
• At least one group of over 10 drunk college kids.  They lead the charge in singing off key to at-bat music, hurling undecipherable insults at the opponent and getting to second base with their girlfriend faster than any baserunner.
  
• The couple who doesn’t say a word to each other.  They eat three hot dogs combined, pay attention to their phone the whole game and leave without even acknowledging the other person exists.

Once you down your quota of hot dogs and beer there’s one more thing left to do: speed pitch.  In left field right near a main entrance there is an inflatable Clippers helmet that houses their speed pitch game.  $1 gets you three pitches to see how hard you can throw.  Everyone does the same thing: briefly warm up your arm in line, grab the baseballs and throw it with the speed and force of a speeding bullet so you can impress everyone watching with your throw of: 61 MPH…legally allowed on the highway.

The best part about speed pitch is that I will always mistime when I release the ball.  I always am a little drunk when I throw and I let go of the ball too early, sending it into the top of the helmet and giving me a 23 MPH fastball that is immediately ridiculed by everyone watching me.  I slowly walk away like a depressed Charlie Brown and I turn around only to see a six year-old throw the ball with two hands and reach 87 MPH on the gun.  And that’s when the tears come…

Filled with hot dogs, beer and speed pitch shame I waddle home to lay in my bed and wait for me to give birth to a 5 lb. 10 oz. pork-based baby so I can sleep peacefully.  I know I have aided to liver, heart, brain and life failures on Dime-A-Dog night, but it’s Columbus tradition and I can’t wait to forget when the next one is.

Who can spare $.60?

Howdy Y’all!  I’m back writing stuff!

I know I’ve been off the grid for almost two weeks, but it was with good reason…vacation from March 29-April 4!  WOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!  Destin, FL was amazing and I’m still peeling skin out of my receded hair line that I couldn’t put sun tan lotion on because they don’t have a sun tan shampoo.

After I got back from vacation, however, I just went through six days of laziness.  Thursday I went back to work and lifted weights: no blog.  Friday I jogged, went to Cantina for happy hour margs and ended the night chugging Bud Light and laughing at The Simpsons: no blog.  This past weekend was Easter and there’s no point in upstaging the resurrection of Christ with poop jokes and boner references: no blog.  Monday was Dime-A-Dog night for the Columbus Clippers (that’s another story): no blog.  Finally…here I am!

When the Destin trip finished I compared notes from previous vacations and have noticed things that you must be taken into account so you can maximize the amount of your fun and happiness and minimize your amount of crying and sadness.

1. Use nicknames for people you meet.

This is the best way to remember strangers you come into contact with throughout your vacation.  Why try to remember someone’s name and occupation when you can refer to him as Combover? 

“Hey do you remember Megan?”…”Who?”…”You know…the secretary from the bar?…”Who?”…”Purple Bra McCleavage?”…”Oh yeah!  She was hot!”

An example from Destin was when we were on the beach playing Frisbeer (awesome drinking game…you wanna know, just ask me) and this incredibly sun burned guy wanted to know how to play.  He came over, introduced himself and started talking about random stuff, but he did mention that in the South there were 24 oz. cans of Natural Light beer called Natty Daddy that was higher in alcohol than normal beer.  My partner David looked at me and said “We’re calling him Natty Daddy from now on”…and the legend of Natty Daddy was made.

Giving nicknames to people you meet get better over time.  It can be three years from now and I can write “Remember Natty Daddy?” on David’s Facebook wall and he will instantly start laughing and reminiscing about our trip.  Other people will have no idea what the hell I’m talking about, but it doesn’t matter because David will know.  You can’t just put “Remember Evan?” on his page.  Then it’s just me mentioning a man’s name on another man’s page and instead of laughter and memories I’ll have men caressing my butt and whispering “I’ll be your Evan” in my ear.

2. Drive if within 12 hours of your destination.

The road trip is a rite of passage in America.  There’s something special about cramming a car full with luggage, piling as many people as possible into said car and driving 800 miles to your destination.  You get all sorts of memories you don’t get from flying.

Stopping at gas stations in different states is always an adventure.  Whenever you go inside you’ll inevitably find a stereotype from that state.  In Kentucky you’ll hear someone talking hick.  In Alabama it’ll take you 15 minutes to pay for your $1.59 bag of chips because the cashier can’t find the $.59 button.  In West Virginia you’ll find cousins making out next to a Dale Earnhardt Jr. cutout.  It’s all there.

Even getting lost is an adventure.  Going to Destin the GPS we were using threw us off for 15 miles on the wrong highway and to get back where we needed to go we had to drive through backroads in Kentucky…at midnight…with no streetlights on the road…for 20 minutes.  I don’t know what it’s like to simultaneously have a panic attack AND have my soul violated, but I’m pretty sure I had that happen.  I imagined us breaking down on the side of the road and scary movies like The Hills Have Eyes and Saw playing in my head.  My pants weren’t brown when we started the trip, but…

A final perk that could happen is getting flashed by a hot chick from another car…it can happen, damnit!  It has happened in movies, TV shows and high school field trips…WHY NOT ME?!?!?!?

3. Thoroughly “clean the barrel” (wink, wink).

This is imperative when vacationing with your girlfriend and family members.

You want to have sex with your partner…it’s just science.  Whenever the urge strikes at home you can answer the call with no problem.  When on a family vacation, however, it’s a lot harder to knock boots when Great Aunt Edna is sleeping in the same room with you in her see-through nightie.

It’s bad enough that you know you’ll be around family for five days with no privacy…it’s when you think you have some privacy coming when it gets bad.  Your family will talk about going to the store for supplies.  You fake having a stomach ache and “want to lay on the couch” to feel better.  The family agrees and even says your girlfriend should stay with you.  Just when you start getting the “urge to merge (genitals that is)”…your 12 year-old niece wants to stay to watch Spongebob and throws a hissy fit until the family leaves her with you and you’re forced to watch Spongebob half-staff and as a result of not making whoopie you start becoming turned on by Sandy the squirrel in her bikini…just wrong.

Next time this problem occurs I have come up with an idea: surprise gift hunt.  Whenever the urge strikes the two of you tell your family you’re buying a birthday/Christmas/Easter/random-ass gift for your mom/dad.  Tell them you need to go in town with your girlfriend so she can help.  This gives you the perfect alibi where it makes you seem like an amazing son while at the same time gives you the chance to ease some of your tension in the woods, at a lake or behind a fast food dumpster…the way romance should be.

4. Know the proper length of time with the people you’re with.

Everyone gets tired of people.  It’s simple math to know what’s the appropriate time for each vacation scenario before you want to grab a corkscrew and jam it in your ear so you won’t have to hear more little kid screaming.  Let’s start with a seven day vacation as an example:

• For every kid under five: subtract a day.
• For every person your age who drinks: add a day.
• For every creepy uncle: subtract 1/2 a day.
• For every aunt asking “when are you gonna get married?”: subtract 1 1/2 days.
• For every day spent in a warm setting like a beach or Las Vegas: add as many days as you want.
• For every day spent camping with no electricity in 100 degree July heat: subtract 175 days.
• For every person a friend brings who you want to choke out with his/her inflated ego: subtract three days.
• For every friend who talks/walks/acts like you: add days until you die.
• For every grandparent who is loud, racist and is incontinent: subtract six days.
• For every vacation in the state of Alabama: add one cyanide pill.

And last but not least:

5. Drink, drink and drink some more.

Nothing is more relaxing when: sitting down, standing up, walking, laying down, playing a game, using the shower, yelling gibberish, peeing outside, chasing a skunk until it sprays at you or streaking the neighboring cabin because they “looked like they wanted it” quite like drinking.

That certainly is a must for a great vacation.

Here was my thought process last night:

“IN TWO NIGHTS I’M GOING TO DESTIN, FLORIDA FOR FOUR DAYS OF AWESOMENESS WITH FOUR AWESOME FRIENDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I can’t wait to get to the beach, throw the football, throw back some beer, throw some kisses at some ladies, throw up from said ladies kicking me in the groin for blowing kisses at them and throwing my hands to the sky because this trip is going to be awesome!…….what’s that?…we’re not taking an automatic car?…really?…what is this, 1952?  There are automatic cars for a reason!………oh #*#&@(%(@(@)# balls.”

Old Destin timeline: pack my stuff one minute before leaving, forget my toothbrush and have great fun.

New Destin timeline: realize 48 hours beforehand I have to learn stick, have first lesson 24 hours before leaving, nearly throw up from nerves after said first lesson, have second session six hours before leaving and be highway ready come Thursday night.

No pressure.

This should be a no-brainer.  I should know this by now.  I’ve been driving for nine years, my dad owned a stick this whole time and the video game Cruising USA has a stick shift I could have used.  The problem is that I’ve had Altima Prime for my nine years of driving, whenever my dad said “wanna learn to drive my stick?” I became incredibly nauseated and I could never find the shifter on Cruising USA so I just ran the race in first gear going a cool 37 MPH and yelling uncontrollably about how stupid the game is.

Anyway I knew this time would come.  My mom always told me to figure out how to drive a stick in case of emergencies.  My reply was always “Mom…I’m talking to a girl on the phone and it costs $2.99 a minute.  Her name is Greg and I find her very special.  Leave me alone!”  Nine plus years later and $1,248.99 in sex line fees later…she was right.

So here I was in my roommates car on OSU’s West Campus parking lot at 9 pm finally learning something that 16-year-olds are continuously learning every day.  The only thoughts going through my head were movies and TV shows showing teenagers learning to drive in their parents car, having trouble getting it to work and running into another car/mailbox/grandma with a walker.  So…no pressure.

I understood it wouldn’t be easy.  I was shown with perfect detail how to ease into the clutch, put it in first gear and find the sweet spot to get it into drive and going.  I was told to not worry about messing up the first few times because “everyone does it so I’m ready for you to start going and you will get better after your first try..”

Nailed it.

First time I tried I got it into drive without stalling, put it back in park and promptly put on a new pair of pants I originally brought in case I peed myself from hitting a grandma on a walker, but this time it was for pure joy.  After nailing it on my first time this should be a piece of cake.  “I’ve got this!” I said to myself while calmly getting ready to do it again.  “This is super easy.  Who has trouble with thi…”

20 minutes went by and I was hitting my head on the wheel, poking myself in the eyes and threatening to graffiti “Cars Suck!” on Henry Ford’s tombstone.  The first try was the definition of beginner’s luck.  It was like starting a lawnmower, making a sandwich and putting on pants all over again…got it right first by luck and then I proceeded to suck.

I was being calmed down/laughed at through this whole lesson by my roommate.  He did a great job of balancing his comments between “Hey…you’ve got this, buddy.  You did it before.  You can do it again, champ!” and “HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”  This put me at ease because I would get mad, he’d laugh at me and I would become calmer because I realized this isn’t life or death…except if a grandma on a walker comes by…she’s a goner when someone’s learning stick.

15 minutes later I was getting the hang of it.  I could get into third gear and was able to pull a 180 with the car out of gear and ease into second gear when done with the turn.  Granted if I made a mistake with the clutch I would instantly freak out and jerk my body like I was being cattle prodded while the car shook like a badly balanced washing machine, but that’s semantics…I was learning!

During me spinning in circles at the break-neck speed of 11 MPH we noticed another car doing the same thing.  When I stopped, they stopped.  When I started again, they started.  When I popped and locked it, they popped and locked it.  We were more in sync than the Jabberwockies (yeah that’s right!  An ABDC reference!  You don’t think I’m hip, cool and down with the sickness?  Shazaam!)  After staring in their car when we were within eyesight and I saw my worst fear:

An Asian woman learning how to drive a stick as well…two stereotypes in one…and she’s doing as good as I am (most likely better than me.)

As a result we should banish those unfair stereotypes that Asians and women can’t drive.  We should replace it with “Wow!  That person can’t drive.  You’re driving like a 25 year-old white guy with a thicket of chest hair, no girlfriend and is way too comfortable in a man thong.”…rolls right of the tongue.

25 minutes after being the new face for crappy driving I became good enough that my teacher said those magical five words: those lesbians wanna bone you…that’s a free beer keg…you’re ready for that street.  After 13 minutes of me sitting quietly white-knuckling the wheel and my eyes wider than when I saw Bambi’s mom die I whispered “Ok.”

After five treks around the street surrounding the parking lot and not hitting any Gertrude going for a stroll it was time to head home.  I got out of the car, kissed the ground for allowing me to live and when I got up I knew what pre-chewed gum sitting in a pool of motor oil tastes like (mothballs swimming in cat urine.)

The ride home I was ecstatic.  One hour before that ride home I couldn’t drive a stick to save my life.  One hour-long lesson later and I can drive a stick well enough put my life in slightly less danger than sitting still.  Sure I may have popped the clutch 87 times, shifted incorrectly 143 times and clenched my anus strong enough to bend steel, but one thing’s for sure:

DESTIN, FLORIDA HERE WE COME!!!…one choppy gear shift at a time.

These steps can be used to know if you are a misfit for any situation you face.  The example I will use would be how me, Bryan Fraker, is a misfit in classy society:

That last sentence threw you for a loop, right?  Bryan Fraker?  Not classy?  I know.  It’s weird.  Sure I don’t know how to tie a tie, I giggle at any/all fart noises and I think caviar is the stage name of a stripper and not an elegant food item (although both do cost a wad of hundreds.)  Does all that make me unfit for high society?…don’t answer that.

Anyway here’s my Seven Steps To Being a Misfit for the situation I ran into tonight at a restaurant in Dublin, OH that I’ll just call…Classies (I fear lawsuits…they probably have enough money to resurrect Johnny Cochran and sue me, damnit!):

1. You think you’ll might be a misfit before you show up.

At work I won a $10 gift card to Classies in a raffle…last year.  I didn’t use my gift card for over a year because I had a feeling this place was not meant for a beer-drinking, sports-watching, dollar-menu guy like me.  It’s right near my work and I have driven by it many times when I was hungry, but the $10 gift card to Classies wasn’t burning a hole in my pocket like a $5 gift card to Subway does (those average 3.4 minutes before being spent on a Cold Cut Combo.)

Today was different, however.  I worked an hour late, went to the driving range a block away from Classies to hit some golf balls (most of the time I was straight, but occasionally I veered off course…kinda like my sex life!…no, wait…) and afterward I thought “To hell with it!  I’m never gonna use this $10 any other time…let’s do this!”

In hindsight what pegged me as a misfit was probably my outfit.  I had on my Westerville South senior T-shirt from 2005, a pair of brown shorts missing its button (only noticeable if you’re staring directly at my crotch…and if you do…thank you, I’m flattered!), some Nike running shoes with no insoles because I lost them and a thin layer of dried sweat from gripping and stroking my shaft into the balls and shooting the white projectile by myself (now THAT’S like my se…nevermind.)

2. The stuff considered “normal” is odd to you.

As I pulled up to Classies I noticed they had valet parking.  This confused me.  The only time I’ve had something valeted would be when I was six my uncle parked my sled because I went down a backyard hill into some thorn-bushes and was crying too much to put it away.  I avoided eye contact with the valet so I wouldn’t have a flashback and parked the car.

When I approached the front door the valet jumped in my way to open the entrance door.  Before I could process how someone could be smiling so much with a rod up his ass the hostess had already opened the other door for me while greeting me…”Welcome to Classies!”  After determining she was what society calls “statutory” I calmly strolled to the bar without saying a word.

Looking at the people by the bar was like looking at what might happen if an Eddie Bauer catalog mated with a Chico’s catalog (I googled “classy women’s clothing brands” for that one) and the offspring was placed at Classies bar.  There was nothing but button-ups, ties, sundresses and necklaces.  Suddenly my sweaty high school shirt and button-less shorts didn’t seem to fit in.

3. No one acknowledges you.

I walked up to the bar hoping to have someone check on the status of my whopping $10 gift card.  After waiting for every Eddie and Chico to get served I got the bartender’s attention by waving my card like it was on fire.  He took the card, found out it was for only $10 and walked back to me with the sadness of someone doing the depressed Charlie Brown walk and handed me a menu.

Just as I was about to find what I wanted…a woman walked up to the bar and pulled my menu in front of her!  It clearly was in front of me, but instead of noticing a human sitting in the seat in front of this menu I bet all she saw was a lower tax bracket.  I would have said something, but I’m sure she would have maced me for even making her aware of my presence.  I waited for her to leave, ordered some sliders and a rum and coke and sat quietly.

After I got my drink I looked at people’s faces to see if there was a Mrs. Sugar Mama/Mrs. Bryan Fraker in the audience.  Directly across the bar I noticed a girl around my age dressed in a white tank top that made her look…“boobies” “smart” (wink, wink.)  I did my go-to move: look at her, look away, look at her, look away and repeat until she notices me. She noticed me, alright…

She held her class of wine up to her face while looking down at the bar and whispered stuff to her friends.  As a man who knows rejections it was the patented “Talk S*** Trick”: she makes fun of you while telling her friends what you look like so they can find and make fun of you…classic.

Not only did White Tank Top mock me, but the bartender who served me went over to here area and instead of talking in the American accent he gave me…he talked in an Australian one!  He didn’t want to give me the enjoyment of hearing a foreign voice.  Everyone knows people who talk with an accent are awesome (minus Hillbilly-nese.)  That was a subtle jab that struck deeper emotionally than White Tank Top.  I’ve been turned down by girls…I’ve never been turned down of an accent.

4. Your surroundings are nothing you enjoy.

In order to avoid getting rejected more I looked around the restaurant to see something I could relate to…didn’t work.

On the wall there were paintings of nothing.  Don’t get me wrong there was paint on a canvas, but they amounted to nothing.  Isn’t this painting of a pink circle surrounded by a black outline next to some Chinese symbols cool?  No.  What about this one of free-form squares in different colors of brown?  No!  Does that mean you don’t find this picture of a naked fat man holding frying pans over his nipples as he’s tap dancing in a kiddie pool of chocolate pudding while singing “Baby Got Back” provocative?  I find it pro-vomit-ive!!!

In the dining room area there was a bistro feel.  Bistros are expensive and don’t fill you up.  The music playing was a Starbucks employee’s wet dream: slow, acoustic and crappy.  I’ll give them credit for having ESPN on TV…all two of them.  There should be a minimum of four televisions per bar area so every corner of the bar could see it evenly!  AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I…MIGHT…BE…A…MISFIT!!!!!!!!!!!!

5. When finally acknowledged by people…they label you the misfit.

While waiting for my food I kept looking around the bar to pass the time.  As I glanced around I noticed a guy from across the bar giving me the stink eye.  He was in a button-up, had a loosened tie, gelled hair and was drinking something that looked expensive.  He looked at me like I had just walked past him driving his BMW without complimenting him on how rich he must be.

I figured at any moment he was going to come over and start bragging about his life to me.  “Hey, brah!  Whatchu doin’ in here, brah?  You see this watch?  $3,000!  I bet that’s more than your six month salary!  Brah…brah…you see this drink?  It comes from Luxembourg.  Yeah, the littlest country on Earth, brah!  You know what this costs?  $780 an ounce!  I BOUGHT A TRIPLE SHOT!!!  GET AT ME!!!  What makes you think you can sit here, brah?  Do you make $270,000/year?  Do you know the governor on a first name basis?  Have you banged the fourth runner-up of Mrs. Columbus 1991?  HAVE YOU???  ANSWER ME?!?!?!”

Instead of that situation playing out what really happened was whenever he wasn’t looking at me I would watch him talk to other people and I imagined fart noises coming out of his mouth instead of English.  I laughed at myself.  I bet I’m the misfit.

6. Embrace being the misfit.

This is the most important step.  Once you’ve realized that you are indeed the misfit…own it!  It takes the satisfaction away from those looking down on you for being different.

My sliders came (two for $5…that’s a happy hour “deal”?) and they had some surprise onion straws with them.  I’m sure the polite way to eat these would be with utensils so you can eat them dignified…NAH!!!!!!!!

I started wolfing them down by the handful.  I’m dipping them in ketchup and getting it all over my hands.  I’m shoving them in my mouth and having 65% of them fall back onto my plate.  My napkin won’t be touched during this gorging period.  I don’t look up the whole time.  I’m sure there are murmurs of people asking whether the disheveled gentleman violating his food is homeless or not, but they can deal with it…I know I’m the misfit.

After I’ve had my fill of food and drink I get the tab from Mr. Non-Accent.  He gives it to me, says “have a good night” in his best American accent and promptly leaves so he can wait on a table of cougars who undoubtedly will get an Aussie accent so good it makes Russell Crowe sound like a prepubescent girl (please don’t hurt me, Maximus!  I’m a misfit!  Let me be!  AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!…okay I peed myself…I hope that’s punishment enough.)

I place the $10 gift card on top of my credit card so I can pay the $3 remainder (I didn’t have cash…typical misfit move, right Sir Brah?) and wait for the second bartender to pick it up.  He grabs it, laughs at the gift card, waits for Mr. Non-Accent to come back and says either “Bet that guy’s check sure is cheap” or “Bet that guy’s pecker is really, really awesome and any lady would be lucky to have it!”…bet it was the latter.

After I tab out there was only one thing left to do…

7. Leave the scene proud of being the misfit you are.

I got out of there so fast I bet I didn’t leave a trace…except for the huge swamp ass stain I’m sure I left on the stool.  Going to the driving range for an hour on a hot day leads to perspiration…everywhere.  I’m sure I left a puddle big enough to drown a small child.  The next person who sat in that stool will need a lifeguard to jump in Butt Juice Pond to save them…no wonder I’m single.

I got in my car and as I was waiting to turn out of the restaurant I had one final event proving I didn’t belong there.  On the patio there was a woman staring directly at my 1998 Nissan Altima with dents all over it, a missing passenger mirror and only one hubcab.  She had judging face on.  I looked at her in my rear view mirror and thought only one thing:

Damn it feels good to be a misfit.

Is there anything better than watching a bride and groom consummate their marriage in front of all their family and friends?……wait a minute…….

Let me rephrase that: is there anything better than weddings?  (Only creepy Uncle Karl would like the first sentence.  He’s not allowed to own a copy of Sixth Sense or Home Alone due to restraining orders and he can’t be within 500 feet of a retirement home due to his Fake Teeth fiasco of 2008 when he took cups holding the old people’s dentures, undo his pants and lower his scro…nevermind…the lawsuit is still pending).

So…weddings!  Yippee!  It is easily the most fun a friends and family function can have.  Everyone is smiling, laughing and enjoying themselves.  No other gathering can say that.  Funerals are depressing.  Graduations are awkward and only celebrate one person.  Orgies shouldn’t involve family period, you weirdo.  If you’re not the one planning/paying for the wedding the whole process of a wedding is fun and interesting down to the last detail.

It starts off with people setting the date.  Since the dates are done at least six months in advance there is little chance for some other engagement to be in the way when you’re a 25 year-old single male whose only major thing to remember is to not eat poison.  There are a few things that will sour reading the RSVP card, though: a Sunday wedding (the reception won’t get rowdy), planning it during an important OSU football game (you heartless bastard), a destination wedding when I’m a groomsman (I can barely afford two socks…tickets to Barbados aren’t happening) and a dry reception (don’t be surprised to find a loogie in the “not attending” box).

This step also includes the most pressure-filled moment for a single person: am I bringing a date?  Usually you get a month or so to mull this question over until the RSVP card is due.  You start off smug, think “I’m sexy and I know it!  I’ll find someone” and check +1.  A few weeks go by and you find out through the grapevine that a few girls you want to ask are dating someone/out of town/repulsed by you.  You start to panic, but realize “Hey…I’m meeting some friends of friends this weekend…I’ll make the moves on someone and see where that goes!”  After failing miserably you have one week to respond.  This is when you go last ditch effort…ex-girlfriend/one night stand.  It’s all-or-nothing.  Once the ex is done laughing at your pitiful life and the one night stand is done laughing because in her phone you’re saved under “Tiny Weenie Man”…you frantically scratch out +1, curl into the fetal position and search for mail-order brides while stuffing your face with Bagel Bites.

As the date approaches you have to buy a gift.  It has gotten to the point that I don’t even bother with reading where they are registered…I’m going to Bed Bath and Beyond.  They’re going to be registered there, prices are reasonable and they will deliver the goods to the couple’s house wrapped and with a special note…score!  I recently mailed a couple three sets of different glasses and wrote “Enjoy the f***ing glasses” on the note…and it was ok!  That’s sweet.  Not only do I buy all my gifts there…I inevitably snag something for myself because I can’t NOT buy an “Aim Here” sticker for my toilet…I forget sometimes…thanks BB&B!

One week to go…time for the wardrobe.  It’s time to dust off the suit from the back of your closet or, if you’re lucky…get measured for a tux.  Tuxedo measurements are…different.  You walk into most likely a Men’s Warehouse and before you know it someone is helping you and has his hand right under your crotch for the inseam…they’re that fast and efficient.  All workers make a joke about “At least it’s not you, right?” if you’re not wearing a wedding ring and you laugh.  Then they’ll ask you about if you’re bringing a date, you’ll have a Vietnam flashback to Bagel Bite Depression 2012 and instantly puke on his measuring tape.  After a few choice words and guesstimating the rest of your outfit you scurry off knowing you’re made a mortal enemy for life and you’ll have to pay for any little blemish you put on your tux.

Here’s a special step if you’re close to the couple: the rehearsal.  The rehearsal is the time where everyone runs through the whole wedding start to finish so that everyone knows what to do…too bad everyone walks through it half-listening and wondering which bridesmaid is ripe for the picking.  Next comes the dinner.  It’s always a very nice dinner with lots of fun, but there’s one thing that always happens: someone gets too drunk.  The combination of free booze, close friends and classy food ultimately will lead to someone having too much to drink and being the drunk one for everyone else to gawk at.  Depending on how this person spends their recovery time back home that night will show if they will recover in time to look presentable at the ceremony or if they’ll pass out in the holy water.  (And for those of you wondering NO!…I’ve never been this person!…the reception on the other hand…)

Finally the big day arrives!  Everyone gets gussied up real nice and look as perfect as they can.  Most guys can run through their whole ensemble in 20 minutes.  Me…I have a weakness: my hair.  I don’t have Samson hair that looks great and I just want to stare at it; nor do I have the 7th grade math teacher combover that I have to take plenty of time to perfect.  I’m stuck in the middle.  I have lost some hair, but have enough to make it look presentable.  The problem is I never know what presentable looks like.  I always play with it in the mirror until I’m all out of goo……………I’m talking hair gel, people!!!  Get your head out of the gutter.  The worst part is when I sincerely ask people if my hair looks fine I always get a laugh because they think I’m kidding.  I’m not!  I honestly need to know for a wedding!  TELL ME!!!

Now comes the big moment: the ceremony.  Everyone shows up on time.  The groomsmen are awkwardly leading Ma-Maw to her seat even though she thinks she’s at The 1948 Democratic National Convention.  The music is in place.  Once everyone is settled in…showtime!

Sitting in the peanut gallery is a piece of cake for the ceremony.  Being a part of the wedding party, however…nerve-racking.  You’re constantly thinking from start to finish:

“Ok, here we go!  I wait for the people in front of me to reach the first pew and then I lock arms with that bridesmaid…or is it that one!…oh, why was I imagining the hot one at the end naked instead of listening to the preacher, pastor…guy.  Oh, she’s looking at me.  Whew!  Ok don’t trip, don’t trip…and we’re good.  Alright now right arm over left arm…or is it left over right?…I don’t think it matters…I look like a Secret Service agent…what if I acted like that…hahaha…I don’t think the bride would be happy…I wonder which girls in the congregation are single…oh, she’s hot…and her…and her…is that a man in a dress?…ok whatever I do…don’t fart…that will be bad…I like the feel of this tux…really comforting on my junk…I hope I don’t sneeze…oh, she’s cute, too…I wonder if the Reds are winning…man I’m enjoying free booze tonight………..”

And it goes on like that for the whole ceremony.  The good thing about constantly thinking is that you are always self-aware of where you are and it keeps you in check so you don’t do something stupid.  The problem: the inevitable laughter.  It always happens when men let their minds run free during a time when everyone’s supposed to be quiet.  Once that thing is thought of…it takes an incredible amount of composure to not bust out laughing.  Hopefully with all the will power we can muster the only thing that happens is a few inaudible nasal laughs, we center the dragon and everything works out just fine…..or we ruin the whole ceremony…either/or.

Once the ceremony finishes and the rice/bubbles get chucked in the face of the husband and wife it’s reception time!  Here’s where the party begins.

The reception is why everyone loves weddings (obviously).  The food is always perfect, the toasts are always heartfelt and sweet or lighthearted and funny and the conversation is seamless…unless you’re stuck at the odd table.  I’ve never experienced this, but if you’re ever stuck at a table mixing you, a few friends and some older relatives you don’t know…I pity you.  You can’t be yourself if Ma-Maw is staring daggers at you because you “look like the devil” or if there’s a family with three kids under six throwing risotto in your drinks.  You have to be nice until after the dinner when you can meet up with friends and burp, cuss and be your natural stinky self.

After dinner you have the usual actions: cutting of the cake (always stuff it in your partner’s face…it shows you actually like being with each other), the father/daughter and mother/son dances (always sweet, but I never know what they’re talking about.  My guesses: how to stop terrorism, asking why this wasn’t a shorter song or talking about how awesome Bryan Fraker is…just a hunch) and the most awkward of them all…the garter toss.

I want to know who thought the garter toss was acceptable for weddings.  You have the groom essentially getting to third base with everyone cheering him on and lots of pictures being taken, the bride’s parents giving the groom the stink eye if it’s too risque and then the groom launching a piece of clothing that was just in his mouth and high on the thigh of his wife into a crowd of uninterested men who are only out there because “it’s tradition”.  At least the bouquet toss has the comedy potential of having the girl in the longest relationship catching the bouquet and her staring daggers into her boyfriend for “not taking the plunge after eight years of dating” and the boyfriend having the I Hate My Life face…classic.

Once all the pleasantries are out of the way it’s time to dance!  The dancefloor is usually barren for the first 45 minutes or so as people digest their meals and get the BAC up in their body.  Once the buzz hits and a group dance comes over the speakers…game on!  Every wedding needs a group song to come on within the first half hour to get people going.  Something like the Electric Slide or Cupid Shuffle will get people excited.  Every couple has their own unique music taste, but there is one song that needs to play at every wedding and if it isn’t played you have let everyone you know and love down:

Shout by The Isley Brothers.

There should be a law demanding that song be played.  You can’t tell me you don’t get into Shout.  You know you’re jumping up high, you’re taking it down low and if you’re a cool guy…you gator.  Don’t know how to gator?  Watch Animal House, you weirdo.

After a few hours of boozing it up there is another tradition that happens at every wedding: the hook-up.  Here’s the problem: the movie Wedding Crashers gave single men like myself false hope!  At every wedding we’re supposed to believe that an incredibly attractive woman will be at a wedding sitting by herself and all you have to do is send a little kid to ask if she wants to dance and she will?  What crap!

Here’s what really happens: once a slow song comes on you gauge the playing field.  If a girl goes straight to a guy then she’s taken.  If she immediately sits down a table or talks with other people she’s probably dating someone who isn’t at the wedding because he couldn’t make it…no go.  What you look for is the girl who is standing on the fringe of the dancefloor looking around.  She wants someone to dance with her, but she is by herself…bingo!

After the recon is done you move in for the big question.  “Would you like to dance?”  You go over it in your head over and over, but the words have lost all meaning.  With eight beers coursing through your veins you think you’re Mr. Wonderful and try to go with something debonair and sexy.  You approach the girl, look into her eyes and say: “Do you like poetry?…yes?…well here’s a haiku I wrote just for you: Let’s go to my room/I have condoms and champagne/You make my penis (point to smiling face).” 

Shockingly this doesn’t work and her answer doesn’t come from words, but rather a bottle to your head….see Wedding Crashers…it’s not that easy, Hollywood!

Once everyone finds someone to be with for the night and the DJ has played the last song the reception is over.  For many people this means heading home with their family to calmly lay in bed reminiscing about how elegant the ceremony was and how much fun they had.  For the party people of the group…it’s after-party time!

There are a couple of options that happen.  You can have a gathering in someone’s hotel room and drink booze you smuggled inside for free.  You can head out to nearby watering holes and impress the locals with you sweat-stained suit and highly flammable breath.  Or you can combine both worlds…hotel bar.  You get the combination of people you know from the wedding staying in the hotel and new people who are staying at the hotel that you don’t know yet and could include an attractive woman who wants to “see if your bed feels like hers”…granted that doesn’t happen 99.99998% of the time, but I’m an optimist, damnit!

After the after-party dies down and it’s in the wee hours of the morning it’s time to pack up shop.  You say your good byes, stumble towards your room, take 13 minutes to use the room key properly, take your pants off in the hallway and sprawl out on the bed.  You know it’s gonna suck in the morning.  The pounding headache..  The unquenchable cotton mouth.  Realizing you split your pants while gatoring.  All those things happen after all is said and done, but one thing is for certain:

You had a fantastic time.

Allow me to take you readers on a journey… a journey 12 years into the past. I take you to a Friday night around midnight where an unsuspecting 13 year-old Bryan Fraker is about to stumble upon the greatest thing of his young life:

Mom may have gone to sleep, but I don’t have school tomorrow!  WOOOOOOOO!!!  I’m staying up as long as I can.  I’m gonna eat ice cream and chocolate cake and hot dogs dipped in Ranch dressing and stay up for ever and ever and EVER!!!!!! 

What should I watch on TV?  Nickelodeon is playing those shows for old people now and I don’t understand what’s happening on Cartoon Network…I know!  I’ll watch something on Cinnamonmax!  I once saw All Dogs Go To Heaven on that channel…maybe it’s on now…(click)…Bow-chicka-bow-wow…whoa!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

That’s right…I found Skinemax.

The Friday and Saturday late night movie lineup on Cinemax was the highlight of my week from ages 13-16 (when I finally kissed a girl…she was bipolar and anorexic…but she kissed me!)  Every week I would wait for my mom to finally go upstairs to bed.  Then I’d turn the channel to Sportscenter for 15 minutes or so…then venture to the premium channels for some late-night entertainment!

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen boobies (that would be Titanic…oh Rose…thank you for being suckered into getting naked and posing for a painting by a guy you just met), but this was the first time I could enjoy them mano-e-mano…or in this case boyo-e-boobo.

I remember that first Skinemax experience I detailed for you.  There was a woman in a doctor’s office.  I don’t remember any of the dialogue, names or what music was playing…all I remember was…boobies.  A second thing I remember is that I’m not a doctor, but I was pretty sure you don’t check a lady’s temperature in her naughty parts with your face.

Every weekend I would get better and better at not being detected (or so I think…this isn’t the kind of thing I wanna ask my mom.)  The volume would be at whisper-level, I’d have ESPN set as last channel in case I heard footsteps and I would practice lines for what to tell mom if she asked about tonight (“Why was I up late last night?  The Angels were beating the Athletics 10-1 and I had to see how it ended?”…perfect).  My only fear were those Nielsen people.  See, I knew the Nielsen rating showed how many households are watching a particular event, but what I thought is that each family got a copy of what they watched over a month with the cable bill and that’s when my mom would see 13 minutes of The Bare Wench Project and know exactly who did it.

Luckily those Nielsen people never ruined my nights and as the years went on I became more and more tech-savvy.  Did I use my smarts to learn computer software so I could write basic programs?  No.  Did I begin to load cassette tapes onto the computer using an adapter then burning the tracks onto a CD?  No.  Did I figure out how to record whatever Skinemax movie I was watching onto a blank tape so I could watch them again in the privacy of my room?…hell yeah!

What a glorious find that was.  After two months of recording I would finally get my first mixed tape.  No longer did I have to sit through 15 minutes of agonizing dialogue about God knows what until I got to the good stuff.  The secretary would put her clothes on then…bam!…shower scene with another girl.  It was like having a sleeve of Oreos, but only of the creamy center!

As great as the VCR recording was it wouldn’t last forever.  When my mom got a DVD player and changed all the hook-ups the VCR wouldn’t record right.  Normal kids would probably call it a career of bootlegging Skinemax movies and just enjoy what they had, but not me.  I wanted more!  There were more channels now!  Cinnemax!  Showtime!  HBO!  Playgirl!  I couldn’t keep using the same old stuff…I want it all!  So what did I do?  Simple:

I got the family camcorder out, set it up on a tripod and framed the lens up so I could videotape the TV.  Not even MacGuyver was this horny smart!  Granted I couldn’t turn the TV up loud enough to register on the camcorder without waking my mom and there was a constant glare in the bottom right corner of the screen from our lamp…but it worked.  The most awkward part was playing it back and hearing myself talk/sneeze/cough.  Nothing kills the mood built up from a topless volleyball match than the camcorder microphone catching you whisper “Oh, that’s hot”.

That was my life as a boy going through puberty for around four seminal magical years until I found the toxic playground known as the Internet.  I thought this part of me was gone until recently when I stumbled upon an old VHS of my amateur filming days.  Just for sh*ts and giggles I popped it in to see some t*ts do wiggles. 

Upon watching that VHS and then a DVD called Wicked Intentions (hooray 17 year-old me!) I came to realize certain things about the Skinemax industry:

• The cast is all the same: the hot girl plays the protagonist (she only gets naked once, it’s always the shortest scene and it’s always at the end of the movie); the ugly girl plays her sister/friend/coworker (always does the kinkier stuff, is on-screen way too many times for your liking and essentially is filler); the older woman plays her mother/coworker (definition of a cougar, has huge fake boobs and isn’t very versatile due to her age and the fact you can tell she’s just there for the paycheck); and the man (who cares about him?)
• There are only six plots that exist: murder mystery, a writer looking for inspiration, spring break, something set in the future, a woman involved in adultery (whether with someone or trying to catch her husband) or copying an existing legitimate movie and making it sexified.
• Acting=gross.
• I wager there are seven basic music tracks used in every Skinemax movie ever made.  All they have to do is choose a section of one, add/subtract an instrument and you have yourself a new song!
• The biggest wild card is the lesbian scene.  Every movie has only one lesbian (or threesome) scene and it is a complete crapshoot where it is.  Most of the time it’s in the middle as a diversion from the crappy script (wait, how did the detective shoot the bad guy through a concrete wall?…lesbian scene!).  The best time is when it’s right off the bat.  The best Skinemax movie ever (Busty Cops) used this concept by having a threesome in a hot tub right when the movie started…awesome.

Finding that VHS of Skinemax T&A was A-OK.  It provided me with a stroke stroll down memory lane.  It was nice to reflect how far I’ve come in 12 years.  I was once a 13-year-old boy who was scared of girls, wondered how I got chest hair and video taped the greatest thing he’d ever seen on his mom’s camcorder.  Now I’m a 25-year-old manboy who is still scared of girls, wonders how I got so much chest hair, recently watched a mixed tape of Skinemax movies I taped on my mom’s camcorder 12 years ago and just wrote a blog post detailing how much I know about Skinemax movies…

I think I’m gonna be sick.

Me…bodybuilding briefs…sophomore year of college…enjoy!