To Play Us Out

Oh, Link Dump.  It’s been so long.  How I have missed you.  But it’s like they say: it’s better to have link dumped and lost than never to have link dumped at all.  Or something like that.

• This is the coolest thing I have ever seen: classic NFL moments re-lived in Tecmo Bowl.  I love the first one, obviously, except for that faggot announcer Gus Johnson calling my beloved Bengals the “Cardiac Cats.”  That is the gayest fucking nickname I have ever heard.
• Guess who’s coming out with a rap album?  J.J. Fucking Redick.  Listen, douchebag: just because you’re in the NBA does not mean you’re an honorary black person.
• This guy wants his daughter to be a porno actress. Father of the year candidate?  Seriously, though, I know a lot of girls who are going nowhere in life.  If I was their dads, I would probably encourage this career move as well.
• I play Madden a lot.  Like on-the-verge-of-obsession a lot.  I used to be amazing, and I was the undisputed champion of the house.  P90ForLife went as far as to research play-calling tips on the Internet just so he could beat me.  It must have worked, because now I hardly ever win.  I am constantly screaming after every interception or missed tackle, and I end up looking a lot like one of these guys.
• I take all my cues on how to woo women based on things I learn from romantic comedies.  Apparently that’s a mistake.
• When I inevitably quit whatever job I somehow manage to procure in the future, this will be the resignation letter I can only hope to emulate.
• Here’s a collection of some Halloween nerds.  Spoiler: every other picture is actually the not unattractive Olivia Nunn in a costume.  In one of the pics, she’s dressed as Princess Leia in the famous bikini.  I have said it many times: when I’m like 5-10 years into my marriage, and the sex life needs to be spiced up, I am making my wife dress up as Princess Leia.  I maintain that her in that bikini is the hottest thing ever to be put on film.

P.S. I found another nerd picture.  You all know him as Jeff George:

• To Play Us Out-approved music of the week: DJ Steve Porter’s “Press Hop.”  Without question, the greatest sports mash-up of all time.  I downloaded this and I play it at parties.  That is not a joke.

A final note on what everyone here is being for Halloween:

• Trashpockets and I are the Blues Brothers.  And we are on a mission from God.
• Fucktard is a gynecologist.
• Jeff George was going to be Peter Pan (the kid is addicted to that theme song), but now he’s being a mummy.  Horrible decision, sir.
• Mr. 3/5’s costume is the most clever, but I don’t think he wants me to reveal it just yet.  I’ll have to get clearance.
• P90ForLife claims he’s going to be either Lt. Dangle from Reno 911 or a Hasidic Jew, but as of yet he has done absolutely zero preparation.  My prediction is that he does not assemble a costume, and hence does not go out this weekend.

Yes, I sent it.

Dear Ms. Vogel,

I am writing in regards to a very offensive scene that I was forced to witness at Eddie George’s Grille on October 25.  But before I get to the matter at hand, I would first like to address two complementary topics.

First, please take note that I am contacting you only because I have no other option.  Ideally, I would like go straight to the top and speak with Mr. George himself.  Unfortunately, his contact information is not readily available.  Additionally, I’m sure he is far too busy making cameos in Steven Seagal movies and starring in his hilarious reality show, I Married A Baller, to talk to a patron like myself.

Second, when I went to your establishment’s website, some new-age R&B music suddenly began playing.  I finally managed to make it cease, but it was an annoying incident to say the least.  I know you want to seem hip and attract a certain type of demographic, but here’s a hint: get rid of the music.  It’s a nuisance, and it completely turns me off as a consumer.  Just a tip.

Now, on to the primary purpose of this communiqué.  My friend and I were walking past the Grille, having just picked up some Five Guys.  (This is not meant to be a slight to your restaurant, because I certainly don’t hate your fare.  But I think we can both agree it’s not in the same league as Five Guys.)  A crowd had gathered in the bar area to watch the conclusion of the Steelers-Vikings game, so my friend and I stopped to view it as well.

I’m sure we all know what happened next.  Brett Favre went all Brett Favre and tried to do too much, throwing an interception when his team was already in range for a game-tying field goal.  For all intents and purposes, that miscue sealed the Steelers victory.  Now, given that we are in Columbus, which I thought was Bengals and Browns town, I expected to hear a lot of dejected remarks, perhaps even some vulgarity.  Au contraire, Ms. Vogel.  Au contraire.  In fact, ninety percent of the room started rejoicing.  I mean, sure, I hate Brett Favre as much as anyone and I would usually root against him.  The guy should decide on a retirement timetable and maybe start spelling his last name correctly.  But against the Steelers, I wish him nothing but success.

Now, none of what I have mentioned is your fault.  I know you can’t control the fact that Steelers fans frequent your place of business. I’m not proposing that you pull a George Wallace and determine who can and who cannot enter.  However, I think you can control what happened subsequently.  After the interception, the “Here We Go, Steelers” theme was played over the Grille’s loudspeakers.  Excuse my language, but fuck that, ma’am.  That song should never be played in Ohio.  Never.

I’m sure you think that I have some sort of vendetta against the Steelers.  Well, as a matter of fact, I do.  Remember the 2006 playoff game between them and the Bengals?  I do, because I was there.  My dad pulled me out of church once he managed to secure an extra ticket.  That was most likely a mistake, and we probably angered God or something and turned him into a Steelers fan.  Anyway, there we were, unbelievably excited for the first Cincinnati playoff game in fifteen years, and on the second play, that asshole Kimo van Oelhoffen destroyed not only Carson Palmer’s knee, but any chance the Bengals ever had.  And then I had to watch while that smiling piece of shit Hines Ward, that douchebag Ben Roethlisberger, and that little fuck Antwan Randle El unfairly won the game en route to a Super Bowl championship.

So, yes, I do hate the Steelers.  But that’s not the point here.  The point is that “Here We Go, Steelers” should never be played again at the Grille.  It’s a slap in the face to those of us who are loyal and support our Ohio teams regardless of atrocious they are.  I mean, how can anyone even watch a Browns game, let alone be a fan?  Seriously, Browns fans have to be somewhat mentally disturbed.  Nevertheless, they support their local team, and should be rewarded for that, not subjected to the enemy’s fight song.

I’ll close with this:  If I ever hear that god-forsaken song at your restaurant again, I will cease being a customer.  Also, I will start an all-out smear campaign against the Grille.  I will stand outside your establishment every Sunday and drive all the customers to a different restaurant.  I don’t really care for McFadden’s, and I much prefer the Grille, but I’m sure they would never stoop so low as to actively support the Steelers.  Don’t make it come to this.

On an unrelated note, a complimentary gift certificate would probably make me forget about all this.

Thank you,

Atlas Jobinson

We’re having a case race.  Trashpockets and I vs. 3/5’s and Jeff George vs. The Foster Child and Another Kid.  Each team gets one puke.  There are no bongs, cozies, or any other devices.  This is the live blog.  Go to it.

Click Here To Go To The Live Blog

Fucktard: Today, you woke me up by lighting two fire-crackers and slipping them under my door.  Trying to exact revenge, I attempted to make you eat a pepper that I had rubbed on my ballsack.  Unfortunately, you did not fall for my stunt, and I was to forced to endure a painful burning sensation on my scrotum for the next fifteen minutes.  I promised to get back at you, but in reality, I will not.  I mean, come on, you tea-bagged me when I was passed out once.  And I didn’t do shit.  I don’t know what it says about you that you wanted to put your two-inch cock that close to my facial area, but I digress.  I am terrible at pranks, never having a set of brothers to practice on as you did.  I suggest we call a truce.

Additionally, please stop indulging in “activities”.  And by activities I mean random parties, meet-and-greets, evenings spent with your old dorm room pals, meeting people, and attempting to have threesomes.  I really hoped that you would have followed up on your promise to “get double-teamed” last night.  (And for the record, stating it like that is probably the most homo thing I’ve ever heard.)  Nevertheless, if you ever bring chicks like that back here again, and attempt to, in your parlance, “put your magic wand in their Chamber of Secrets”,  I will personally murder you.

P90ForLife: Your love for Indian women has long disturbed and interested me.  I always pondered whether to dub your interest an “obsession” or a “fetish”.  But after I saw the look on your face when those Indian girls entered that party the other day, I am going to go with the latter.  Also, prepare to swipe me tomorrow, because I can’t live another day without a #8.

Jeff George: The fact that you beat me in Madden yesterday is complete bullshit.  Plan on that being a rarer occurrence than Haley’s Comet.  I am going to Cover 3 and Engage Eight the shit out of you until I force a turnover.  Then, I will run the ball down your fucking throat.  Oh, wait, you’re going to put more defenders in the box?  That’s when I call Play Action Stretch and bomb it over-top your bitch-ass.  Fuck.  You.

3/5’s: You are a dirty, rotten slut.  If I play you in Smash right now, I will beat you.  Because you are a dirty, rotten slut.

Trashpockets: You owe me $7.50, a quarter-gallon of orange juice, and eight beers.  And until I receive my bounty we are not going to Miami.  Also, I will have the case race, on the condition that we start at 6:00 PM tomorrow.  Finally, you are terrible at beer pong.  Playing with you is like being Zach Greinke.  I know I’m not getting any support from my team, so I have to be amazing just to stand a chance.  You should practice in your spare time.

The Foster Child:  Remember those shoes I let you wear to Sloopy’s?  I still haven’t worn them since you did.  That’s how much of a germophobe I am.  So you can have them.  And I’m still disappointed in you for not drinking that one night.

We’re nearing the one-year anniversary of To Play Us Out, and obviously the content here has been a little lackluster as of late.  So we’re going to change things up a little bit.  For those unaware, I now live in a house in Columbus with my five best friends.  I’ve mentioned this before, but basically we think of ourselves as a real-life version of Entourage.  In fact, the other day we were discussing how when we graduate, we’ll probably just all say “Fuck it” and continue to live in this house together.  I mean, personally, I don’t ever want to have a “real” life.  Once college is over I pretty much consider my life to be over.  As Trashpockets said today, I kind of hope these people are right about the Mayan calendar and the world ending on December 21, 2012.  At that point, I’ll be at least six months out of college, and I wouldn’t really care anymore.

But back to the topic at hand.  Everyone in this house is going to a contributor to the blog from here on out.  That means that some former members will be returning, and it also means that there will be some fresh faces.  They are:

• Trashpockets, former writer and co-star of the amazingly popular “Atlas and Trashpockets Go To…” series.
• P90ForLife, former 2nd-in-command here.
• Fucktard.  I know, I know, how in the world could I let him on here after all his past transgressions?  Obviously I have lost my mind.
• 3/5’s.  You’ll recall he penned this masterpiece entitled “Mein Kampf”.  Maybe he can write a new one called “Mein Erfolg”, if you know what I mean.
• Jeff George.  I feel like he’ll never write on here, but whatever.
• The Foster Child. He doesn’t live here (hence his name) but I don’t care.

So, yeah, I’ll be honest.  I’m out of ideas.  That’s why I’m doing this.  A year of writing has taken its toll.  Plus, nothing interesting ever happens to me anymore.  OK, let’s be honest, it didn’t before either.  But I was able to bullshit and twist things enough to at least make it semi-interesting.  So let’s hope these new additions work.  If not, you can always just read this blog, written by someone who went to high school with me.  I think it proves why most people should just keep their thoughts to themselves.

I’ve got one more week until I move back to Columbus.  For the sake of maintaining my usual demeanor, I was going to try to act like I’m bored out of my mind and that I’m trying my hardest to give myself a lobotomy and yada yada yada…but that wouldn’t be true at all.  I just got back from a mind-blowingly awesome trip to the Left Coast, specifically L.A. and San Diego.  A quick recap:

• Listened to nothing but The Ramones’ “California Sun” and 2Pac’s “California Love” for 2 hours out of my 3-hour plane ride.
• Went to Joshua Tree.  Tried to acquire and ingest shrooms à la Entourage.  Was told that the consumption of illegal drugs was not a family-friendly activity.
• Attempted to get tickets to Conan.  Failed.  Went to Craig Ferguson instead.  You can kind of see me on Wednesday’s episode with Mila Kunis.  Ferguson is now my favorite late-night talk show host.  Sorry Conan.
• The one time I go to a Dodgers game, Manny doesn’t play.  Just like the one time I went to a Twins game, Joe Mauer didn’t play.
• Met Rick Reilly of Sports Illustrated and ESPN fame.  Fought the urge to tell him about the time I ripped him on the blog.
• Met some Gaysian who was apparently a contestant on Paris Hilton’s My New BFF.  I thought for sure “he” was a woman, but my sister informed me he was in fact a male.  Plus I asked him personally.  That was awkward.

Yes, this is a man.

Anyway, now that I’m back from vacation, I am pretty goddamn bored.  I was reading through my Facebook inboxes to pass the time, and I stumbled upon a gem.  I don’t know if anyone remembers the podcast episode where Trashpockets and I talked about two high school sophomores, both named Ashley, who were basically obsessed with us.  (Of course no one remembers this.  No one listens to the show.  How stupid of me).  Well, Trashpockets had a legendary chat with his Ashley that I feel compelled to share:

4: 32 PM Ashley hey can i talk to you about what i need to talk to you about

4:34 PM Trashpockets yes?

4:34 PM Ashley what i need to talk to you about when i looked on your wall and i saw you getting trashed and a lot of other pics like that is that what happened that night
because when i saw that i thought you was much better than that

4:37 PM Trashpockets well it happens from tiem to time…I am in college

4:37 PM Ashley yes i know that but i thought you was much better than that to stay away from that

4:39 PM Trashpockets well i guess im not? not sure why its sucha big deal

4:39 PM Ashley you are better than that if you put your mind to it is a big deal because i have feelings for you and do not want to see you get hurt or something else

4:42 PM Trashpockets im sorry, but im safe about it (editor’s note: not true) and we dont know each other that well, im not sure its your right to judge me either

4:42 PM Ashley i am not judging you i guess you do not care what i have to say i know we do not know each other that well but this last few days i have fallen for you i know you are sorry

4:43 PM Trashpockets i have a confession to make

4:43 PM Ashley k go for it

4:44 PM Trashpockets im not sure how we know each other…sorry

4:44 PM Ashley i know we do not know each other but we can grow to know each other and take it from their
i know you are sorry

4:44 PM Trashpockets ok

Trashpockets continues to claim he has no idea who this girl is.  I’m not sure if I believe him, but I really want to arrange a meeting between the two of them.  I think they could build a relationship.

I have been sick for the past two weeks. Do you ever notice that when you’re sick, you incessantly wonder what it would be like to feel healthy again?  Well, I’ve been wondering that for a fortnight.

(Aside: I’m watching Letterman right now.  Mike Myers is on there — he could pass for a dyke.  He joins Kevin Bacon in that club.)

It all started two weeks ago on Tuesday.  As per usual, I decided to attend Sloopy’s Bar for fifty-cent pitcher night.  It was pretty uneventful until late in the evening.  Some girl approached me and started chatting.  I thought she was decent and mildly interesting, but four pitchers of beer, a half-pitcher of rum and coke, and a pitcher of Liquid-X had rendered me completely and utterly alcohol-goggled.  A Facebook look-up and a couple of texts later, I assured myself I would never ever speak to this girl again.

Anyway, after awhile she asks me, “Do you have a phone?”  I am absolutely shit-housed, and I have no idea what she is implying, so I drunkenly answer in the affirmative.  She enters her number in my phone, and we part ways.  Now, let me explain something: I hate bars.  I never even started going to bars until this summer.  It’s just a big orgy of skanks and drunk douchebags.  I have never liked any girl I met at a bar.  The fact that she’s even at a bar disgusts me.  I’m a lot like Tucker Max’s friend SlingBlade in that I assume every girl is a whore until she gives me a reason to think otherwise.  So a girl that actively gives me her number at a fucking bar really irritates me.

I leave at about three in the morning.  I’m halfway back to my dorm when I get a call from Trashpockets’ friend (and if you read this, yes Duse, you’re my friend too, stop bitching).  I ask him where he is and his response is, “I’m bleeding.”  Great.  I find him in the parking lot of a UDF.  Now, as most of you know, parking lots are flat.  So how he fell so badly that began bleeding is beyond me.  We make it back to my room (not before Duse falls down a flight of stairs) and go to sleep.  (Trashpockets spend the night in a bush on Mirror Lake, not dissimilar to his experience at Miami.  I don’t know enough details about his sojourn to write about it.  If he wants to leave his tale in the comments, he may do so).  The next morning we watched homemadefuckvideos.com in the MarketPlace.

I refrained from drinking until the next Tuesday to try and give my liver a break.  (Well, that’s not entirely true.  I did drink more.  But I didn’t drink to almost-dead levels).  Sloopy’s was, unfortunately, uneventful.  (The best time I ever had at Sloopy’s was the first time.  Maybe I’ll write about it some other time, but I hung out with Terrelle Pryor, and people assumed my friend and I were part of the OSU offensive line.  Girls were lining up to flash us in exchange for jello shots.  It was lovely.)  As we left though, Trashpockets and I met a drug dealer by the name of Bricks.  After refusing his attempts to sell us crack cocaine, we invited him to our inaugural house party this fall.  Honestly, what livens up a party more than a crack dealer?  We then headed to Buckeye Donuts, made them play our iPod over the loudspeakers, and invited Arthur the cashier to our party.  Trashpockets made us stop at Mirror Lake and eat our leftovers as we sat and watched the ducks (sometimes I question his sexual tendencies).  Finally, we went back to my room and prank phone-called people for an hour (because we are mature).

I woke up that morning and I could feel the illness setting in.  The kid across the hall had been sick forever, and he infected me with his disease.

Nevertheless, this did not hinder me from traveling to Trashpocket’s hometown for a party.  That decision has led to me still be sick as of this writing.  I got a combined 19 hours of sleep from Tuesday-Sunday.  Let me tell you what happened.

Tuesday: Story above.

Wednesday: Trashpockets had a “classy” party where everyone was required to dress up.  I didn’t have a tie or nice pants or anything, so I just wore the $5 dollar blazer that I bought at Goodwill last year.  We drank constantly until 6:30 in the morning, at which point I fell asleep watching Lord of the Rings and Mike and Mike, the latter of which is a fucking morning show on ESPN.  When that came on I realized it was time to go to bed.

Thursday: We went to breakfast at Bob Evans.  The sign at that establishment read “Get back to college gift cards here!”  Who the fuck is buying their college children Bob Evans gift cards?  Bob Evans is for people age 60 and over.  The only people I go there with is my grandparents or Mr. Hangover.  I decided to go to the Blink-182 concert that night, so my friend Fucktard drove me back to Cincinnati.  Once we got there, I tried to sneak my handle of Smirnoff past his mom, but she could sense what was going down, and I failed.  I watched the concert after drinking 4 shots of Kamchatka (or as I call it, 4 shots of water).  Blink was great though, and this is coming from someone who wasn’t even that big of a Blink fan.  I went to back to Fucktard’s house and tried to beat off, but I couldn’t because his parents have an internet content-blocker.

Friday:  I went to the Reds game.  They got shut out by the worst team in baseball, so that was a good use of my money.  Some kid from high school came up to me at the game and started talking to me.  I literally had no idea who he was at first, and two of the phrases that came out of his mouth were “We should get married” and “Let’s message each other on Facebook”.   I was very scared.  We got word that a party was going on at our friend’s house.  At first, I was averse to attending, given my onset of death-like illness and not wanting to become an alcoholic.  Of course, I decided to embrace my addiction to alcohol and go anyways.  Even then, I told myself I would just drink a little and go back to Fucktard’s house.  But then we were promised pancakes the next morning, so fuck it, I’m staying.  Fucktard threw up all over our friend’s sink, which proves even more what a bitch he is.

Saturday:  I awoke after two hours of sleep.  There were no pancakes.  I was seething.  It’s a good thing Fucktard was there to drive me, because even at nine in the morning, I was too drunk to drive.  As we walked outside, I said, “That’s it.  I’m never drinking again.”  Fucktard said, “Mr. P90ForLife is having a party tonight.”  To which I replied, “God damnit.”  I had to plan P90ForLife’s whole party for him because he is, of course, a bitch (I have insulted many friends in this post).  I quickly got drunk and spent two hours playing an intense game of chess.  I kept drinking heavily during the game, but somehow my focus just got better.  I ended up losing a very close match, but I count it as a moral victory because my opponent was not drunk.  P90ForLife’s parents’ liquor cabinet was opened, and at that point I was too drunk to stop what was going on.  We drank the rest of the available Triple-Sec, and then filled the bottle up with water, because we are geniuses.

Sunday: I once again awoke after two hours of sleep.  I helped clean P90ForLife’s kitchen, and then was driven back to Columbus.  When I arrived, I was literally too tired to sleep.  I started and quit three Madden franchises before I fell asleep at my desk.

Also during this time, I ate maybe three real meals.  I have been depriving myself of food, sleep, and a functioning liver, and I wonder why I haven’t gotten any better.  Since then, I’ve been downing Tussin like it’s my job.  I’m addicted to Hall’s cough drops, and I take them so often my mouth is stickier than that of  a $5 dollar whore who specializes in blow jobs.  Yesterday, I coughed so much that I spit up on myself like a baby.  This marks the third time in four months I have thrown up on my own clothing.

In other news, I have ran out of meal swipes on my food plan.  I now rely completely on others to feed me like some sort of invalid.  I have no cash, and I lost my ATM card, so I can’t get any cash.  My computer charger is slowly breaking — in two days, it will be completely broken, and my computer will slowly perish with no resuscitation in sight.  I lost my iPod.  I listen to my iPod every night as a I fall asleep, so now I can’t sleep at all.  I lost my phone charger, so soon I will have zero ways to communicate with anyone.

Three weeks ago, I said I hated the movie Gladiator.  My friend told me I should be cursed for saying such a thing.  I think it worked.

Here’s something weird: As I’ve mentioned several times, I can see what search terms people are typing in to find To Play Us Out.  Almost every day since I wrote “Atlas and Trashpockets Go to McDonald’s”, 10-15 people per day are arriving at this blog by searching the word “McDonald’s”.  Now here’s my problem: how many millions of results would have to appear before our lowly story would come up?  I mean, McDonald’s is one of the largest corporations in the world.  I would think there would page after page of results before any one would find our blog.

Being the vain person I am, I typed “McDonald’s” into Google to see if I could find the blog.  I went through forty-three fucking pages before I gave up.  To me, this means that there are people who sift through hundreds of pages of Google results after they type in a search term.  These people need to get a life.

Some writer from Slate magazine emailed me the other day asking if that “Take Me Drunk, I’m Home” picture I used in that post was real and where I got it.  And someone from Zaxby’s emailed me asking me to stop posting the links to our Zaxby’s related posts on their Facebook fan page.  Listen, Slate magazine, I found it on the motherfucking internet, and I don’t know if it’s real or not.  And Zaxby’s — no, I will not stop posting links to your fan page, because you ruined my life and the life of my compatriots by removing your Columbus franchise.  Live with your decision and accept the consequences, Zaxby’s.  Like they say in Spiderman: “With great power comes great responsibility.”  Now, restaurant executives/magazine columnists/paparazzi, I know I am a very popular writer, but please stop contacting me, for I am a very busy man.

Once you’re done reading this bullshit, check out my new column on Points in Case.

I was going to try and be all clever and put my new PIC column in the link dump like it was just another link.  But instead I decided to put it here.  Go read it.  It’s about amateur porn.  The people at PIC are going to be shocked when they realize the only thing I know how to write about is masturbation.

I've always wanted to put this picture on the blog.

Links.  Now.

• Here’s a list of what you can plan on learning in college.  I already learned #1 when I came back to my room one morning to find my laptop soaking in a pool of Jack Daniels.
• Oh, you wanted a gallery of nerds wearing video costumes?  Well, here you go! As a kid who grew up playing Zelda on Nintendo, the last picture is especially pleasing.
• Someone mixed Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up” with Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”  I love the internet.
• Holy Taco tells us what a girl’s pet really says about her.  Spoiler alert: girls with cats are scary.
• It’s no secret that you really don’t have to be athletic to play baseball.  So it’s only fitting that someone compiled the MLB All-Fat Team.
• Here’s some tips on how to find gainful employment in this recession-crippled economy.
• Finally, some Filipinos put together a dance video with Batman, Robin, the Joker, and the Penguin.  Oh, and a midget dressed like Spiderman.  Did I mention I love the internet?