To Play Us Out

I’ve slowly begun to realize that my television-watching interests are very much in line with those of my eighty-two-year-old grandmother.  My favorite genres of TV shows are those that are generally recognized as favorites of only the elderly — late-night talk shows and game shows.  Since I spent a good portion of time writing about the former, I figured I’d give the latter the same treatment.  I should clarify, though, that I’m not talking about these new-fangled game shows that are popular at the moment; anything like Deal or No Deal or Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?* is the antithesis of what I believe a game show should be.  No, the ones I love are the classics that are now shown on GSN (Family Feud, Password, Match Game) and the network staples that have been on the air for thirty years — Wheel of Fortune, and, of course, the High Priest of All Game Shows: Jeopardy.

* I don’t think there has even been a title of a show that I’ve hated more than Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader?  Even if I can’t remember some meaningless science fact I learned in the second grade, I’m fairly confident that I am indeed smarter than a fifth grader.  I would like to see a show where they take these little fifth grade assholes, test them on college-level questions, and humiliate the fuck out of them.

Jeopardy (technically “Jeopardy!” but I refuse to type the exclamation point) is everything God intended a game show to be.  The theme song was written by show creator Merv Griffin (whose set was stolen by Kramer), and is instantly recognizable.  The format itself is unique, what with the questions being given by the contestants.  And of course, Alex Trebek is the best game show host of all time (Pat Sajak, ima let you finish).  I have literally traversed my entire emotional spectrum with him.  Sometimes — like when he chach-ily denigrates a contestant, or attempts to say a foreign word with the exact pronunciation and emphasis — I think: what an asshole.  But most of the time —such as when he makes a pseudo-sexual remark during the player interviews, or does a physical interpretation of an answer— I think: this man is amazing.  I admit he was cooler when he had the mustache, but still.

Answer: "This person is a better host than Alex Trebek." Question: (Jeopardy studio immediately explodes into a ball of fire, because no one is better than Alex Trebek.)

Anyway, there’s a reason why I’m leading with all this.  But to get to it I have to offer a little more introduction.  Last year, when we lived in the dorms, we would often gather at 7 PM to watch Jeopardy while we ate dinner.  At that point, we were merely casual observers — we would occasionally verbalize an answer if we wished, but nothing was recorded, and it was all done in the spirit of fun competition.  Fast forward to a month ago, and we are planning events for a house-wide Beer Olympics.  In addition to the usual pong, flip cup, etc., we agreed to play one round of drunken Jeopardy (which Trashpockets and I proceeded to dominate).  That night, a ritual was born.

In all honesty, I shouldn’t even be telling you any of this.  For example, Fucktard was recently opining to a group of girls that he was the smartest one in our house.  I began to rebut this by saying that I had by far won the most Jeopardy games (we have a meticulously maintained scoreboard).  Mr. 3/5’s quickly prevented my counter-argument, however, and stated: “No, do not mention that.  The first rule of us playing Jeopardy is that you can’t talk about us playing Jeopardy.”  And he’s completely correct.  It is very pathetic that the greatest source of joy to this household seems to be the twice-a-day playing of Jeopardy.  7:30 PM on a Saturday night is the most depressing time of the week, because we know we won’t be competing again for almost forty-eight hours (the show doesn’t run on Sundays).

The main impetuous behind me writing this post was a dispute that occurred during a recent competition*.  Usually, there are many such arguments during a game of Jeopardy, but they are mostly resolved quickly.  This one, however, is still ongoing, and continues to irritate me.  So, I come to you, reader, to answer the query (a little writer-reader interaction: I like it a lot).

*I guess I should quickly explain to you the rules by which we play.  Point values for questions increase by difficulty, just like the actual show, except we use 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 points for Single Jeopardy, and 2, 4, 6,  8, and 10 points for Double Jeopardy.  Wrong answers result in point deductions.  Daily Doubles are given to the contestant who gave the last correct answer.  During Final Jeopardy, we clandestinely write down our wagers and answers on pieces of paper.

Here’s the situ-aish: Trashpockets and Fucktard each answered one same-category question in succession.  Both dealt with colloquial phrases.  The first wanted you to complete the phrase “People who live in glass houses should not throw…”  I correctly answered “stones,” while Trashpockets said “rocks” a split second after me.  Now, using the rules we play by, a wrong answer, even if uttered second, is docked points.  We had to decide, then, if Trashpockets should in fact lose points, given that “stones” and “rocks” are so similar.  It was determined, mostly by Fucktard, that since the phrase in question is very specific, the answer should also have to be specific — therefore “rocks” was unacceptable, and Trashpockets was penalized.

The next question asked you to complete the phrase “throw down the…”  Fucktard quickly yelled out “gloves,” then followed that by stating the correct answer of “gauntlet.”  Now, the general rule of thumb is that you can correct your answer, if your follow-up answer means the same thing.  For example, I once said “The FBI Building,” but then specified by saying “The J. Edgar Hoover Building.”  However, in Fucktard’s situation, the question was looking for a specific phrase.  Also, remember that it was indeed he who had been so fervent in establishing the precedent by deeming Trashpockets’ answer incorrect.  We had a vote, and Fucktard was consequently penalized for his response.  He said something to the effect of “Fuck all of you!” and stormed away, only to quickly return when he realized we would continue to play without him.

Yeah, I bet this guy gets the best out of his co-workers. What a pussy.

This whole incident took at least ten minutes.  And mind you, it was concerning the loss of only two points, which is not a lot in the whole scheme of things.  This tale only affirms the previous claim that this whole practice is pitiful.  The amount of concern, devotion, and (in Fucktard’s case) studying we put into playing a fucking game show could easily be put to better use.  But it’s not.  In fact, I am going to write to the powers-that-be at Jeopardy about the “gauntlet” controversy, and see if we can get an official ruling.  In the meantime, I implore you to vote in the following poll:

I have one final bone to pick regarding our playing of Jeopardy, and it again involves Fucktard.  Our rule (ironically, again, put in place by Fucktard himself) is that for a game to count in the standings, three people must play.  He is now trying to get that rule changed, saying the Jeff George should not count as one of the required three, given that he has yet to win a game*.  This is complete bullshit.  Jeff George is a valued member of this house and a respected Jeopardy competitor.  Yes, he has had some trouble getting victories.  What usually happens is that he correctly responds to a couple questions, gets on a roll, consequently gets trigger-happy, and then utters a string of incorrect answers.  But Jeff George will win a game before the end of the calendar year.  Mark my words.

*The scoreboard currently reads: Atlas-15, Fucktard-7, Trashpockets-6, Mr. 3/5’s-4, Jeff George-0, and Mr. P90ForLife-N/A, since he refuses to play.   Am I only telling you the scores so I can inflate my already giant ego?  Yes.  Am I only placing a link to a constantly updated scoreboard at the top right of this page so I can continue to display my complete and utter dominance?  Yes.  Am I a very vain person?  Yes, but you knew that already.

I know what you’re thinking: since we all get this much practice, we should be really good, right?  So why don’t we try out for the actual show?  I am being honest when I say I really think any of us could go on at least College Jeopardy (coincidentally, this year’s edition just took place) and perform respectably.  Unfortunately, I recently researched the online testing time for next year’s college version, and found that we had missed it by two days.  So, sadly, we will not be eligible until 2012.  So look for us then.  In the meantime, we will spend an hour every evening honing our skills, debating answers, and wondering if this is really the best use of our time.  Spoiler alert: it is.

(You ever notice how authors sometimes give novels two titles?  Like Kurt Vonnegut with Slaughterhouse Five or The Children’s Crusade: A Duty-Dance with Death.  I always used to think that was moronic.  I mean, someone like Vonnegut, who is obviously a literary genius, spends years carefully selecting each and every word that goes into his book.  Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of words.  And then it comes time to title the thing — and he can’t make a decision?  But, of course, like most things I criticize, I have come to embrace this entity.  Moving on.)

If it’s possible to have an early-life crisis, I think I’m having one.  We were having one of our typical house discussions the other night, lamenting the fact that, in just a few years, we will be expected to be fully-functional adults contributing to society.  We’re going to be…adults.  And this does not sit well with me.  P90ForLife suggested that we shouldn’t worry about this impending responsibility, or even talk about it — he said it will just hamper our enjoyment of the next three years of college.  This is definite possibility, but unfortunately, like the fear of death engrosses Woody Allen in Annie Hall, the subject of “growing up” absolutely encompasses me.

I think the main thing that concerns people my age, with respect to their future, is their career.  This is what gives me the most fear, for I have no idea what I want to do.  Let’s start with my major: finance.  Here’s a  fact: I hate finance.  Honestly, I couldn’t even give you an accurate definition of finance.  The selling of stocks and bonds, or consulting people on their 401k, or doing whatever it is that people in finance do, infinitely bores me.  Coincidentally, I’m currently reading a Michael Lewis book called Liar’s Poker, which is about finance.  And it’s making me loathe finance even more.

What are my other “interests,” you ask?  Well, I’m also about to declare a minor in political science.  Possibly due to the fact that I watch too much Jon Stewart, I also hate politics.  I cringe any time people start debating abortion or gay rights or some other issue.  Sure, I have my opinion on such matters, but I just don’t care about them at all.  I’m probably the youngest person to ever consider themselves jaded.  If I ever got a job in politics, it will be because I have completely exhausted every other option.  I fucking hate politicians.  Sure, Barack Obama is doing an okay job, but I’m sure McCain would have been fine, as well.  I think Dennis said it best on Always Sunny: “Vote for the Democrat who’s going to blast me in the ass?  Or the Republican who’s already blasting my ass?  Either way, politics is all one big ass blasting.”

And if I ever have to get a “desk job,” I will probably commit suicide.  Let me just present two examples: my dad and Jeff George’s dad.  Both are very successful business men — my dad works for a major food company, and Jeff George’s dad owns his own insurance company.  And, as Jeff George said, they’re both fucking bored as shit with their lives.  His dad recently played 36 holes of Wii Golf.  I’ve never played Wii Golf, but I’m sure that escapade took considerable time. My dad goes to movies by himself, which is…kind of indescribably depressing.  They both call us almost every day just to make conversation.  I mean, can you blame them?  My dad spends ten hours a day discussing the market values of pallets of peanut butter and mayonnaise.

If I had my druthers, there are two careers which would render me satisfied.  First, the general manager of a NFL or MLB franchise.  (This path would have never occurred to me had I not read Moneyball.  Fuck Michael Lewis for altering my goals.)  But as Seinfeld notes, that “can be tough to get”:

The only other job I can see myself doing (and this might be obvious given the hundreds of hours I’ve devoted to writing shit on here) is writing.  Specifically, I want to pull a Salinger.  Write something amazing — a novel, a movie, I don’t really care.  Then spend the next fifty years of my life as a recluse.  When I die, people will pretend to care.  That seriously sounds amazing to me.

Since I pretty much think of myself as a celebrity in my own mind, I am constantly comparing my future life to those of characters in the entertainment world.  Here’s a few ways I could see my life turning out:

Good: Larry David in Curb Your Enthusiasm or Hank Moody in Californication.  Either a successful TV writer who is so rich that he can afford to be an asshole to everyone, or a novelist who gets laid all the time.

Mediocre: Mike Peters in Swingers. A terrible comedian/actor who hates everyone.

Bad: Miles Raymond in Sideways. A failed novelist who teaches middle school English.  And he’s a wino.

Absolutely Horrible: Paul Aufiero in Big Fan. A guy who gets the shit kicked out of him by his favorite NFL player, but doesn’t want to press charges because said player will be suspended.  He lives with his mother, and his life is devoted to calling into sports talk radio shows.  Also, he can’t masturbate when his team loses*.

*I’m really obsessed with fantasy football, to the point that one of my friends once asked me if I beat off to my roster.  Well, I kind of did, but not intentionally.  Almost every Sunday during football season, I would go down to my room during the late afternoon games to study and, occasionally, beat off.  The Bengals were playing Oakland, and I was watching even more closely than usual because I had had to insert Bernard Scott as my starting RB that week.

So I’m watching the game on mute, and at the same time watching porn on my computer.  Just as I’m finishing up with the porn (you know what I mean here) I look to my TV, and see Scott break off a 61-yard run.  I essentially came because of my fantasy team.

So what else is there to look forward to in life? Marriage?  I find the prospects of me finding someone that not only I can tolerate, but that can tolerate me, for any amount of time, laughable.  I will either never get married, or get divorced like ten times.  Children?  Maybe if I could raise them from the ages of like 2 through 4.  Any kid outside of that age spectrum is either annoying or an asshole.

And let me note that I’m not the only one who thinks about these things.  I think pretty much everyone in this house does, with the possible exception of Jeff George.  I could see him married in less than five years, with little Jeff George Juniors running around.  He’s probably the only one of us who will make something of himself.  I mean it’s a possibility that Fucktard becomes a doctor, Trashpockets a professor, 3/5’s a lawyer, me a writer.  Maybe P90ForLife finally realizes his goal of starring in gay pornos.  But my money is on the fact that in ten years, we all still live together, and we do nothing but play Call of Duty, fantasy football, and Jeopardy.

So now, as my high school English teacher would suggest, I need to relate this all to my thesis (or in this case, my first title.)  As the more intelligent of you may know, the Mayan calendar predicts the end of world to occur on December 21, 2012.  At the point, I will be six months out of college, probably desperately trying to find a job, followed by not finding a job, followed by contemplating taking a position at the local Burger King*.  So if the world ends then I wouldn’t really care.  In fact, I’m hoping for it.  Johnny Bench called.

*Excuse me.  BK Lounge.

If you like it, then you should’ve put a link on it:

• I’m still reeling from Conan’s departure from late night, so I’d figure we’d start with a couple CoCo-related tidbits.  First, it seems apparent that the hatred between NBC president Jeff Zucker and ConeBone goes back to their days at Harvard.  Also, while I am eagerly awaiting Conan’s new show (on whatever channel will have him), maybe he should take this advice for the time being and write for the Internet.  And if he needs any lessons on how to write extremely mediocre blog posts, I’d be willing to help him.
• The Snuggie and the Pillowig apparently aren’t enough for comfort-clothing crowd.  The latest one?  PajamaJeans — jeans so comfortable that you’ll want to wear them to bed!
• Deadspin is doing a hilarious series entitled “Great Moments in Drunken Hookup Failure,” and this one entails a guy getting cock-blocked by Justin Long.  I know he’s a movie star, but really?  Justin Long?
• What has happened to Harrison Ford?  He’s gone from complete badass to starring in Extraordinary Measures, which as Fucktard correctly pointed out, looks like a Lifetime movie.  But apparently he works around the clock:

• The guys at Holy Taco bring us 25 Clever Exam Answers.
• One of our female friends recently questioned why guys “waste” so much time playing video games.  I thought it was a somewhat legitimate query — until I heard a convo between two girls on the way to class today.  One of the ladies was going on about how she had been up until 3 AM designing rings on some website.  That’s the kind of shit girls do.  Video games are without a doubt a better use of time.  Anyway, this is all just a segue to a list of observations about Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2.  (For the record, #8 pretty much describes me.)
• P90ForLife and I were searching for Chinese food a couple months back, and stumbled upon a website for an establishment called China Dynasty.  Caution: this website contains the best advertising jingle in the history of the world.  It will be stuck in your head for days.  Proceed at your own risk.
• Finally, a hat tip to friend of the blog Mo Egger for bringing us this amazing clip.  (Usually, when I say “friend of the blog,” I mean “person whose blog I read.”  But Mo has actually linked to us a couple of times, even stirring up the massive debate on the Paul Daugherty post.  Anyway, thank you Mo.)

Because we have Mark Titus.  And some guy named Evan Turner.  But mostly because of Mark Titus — or should I say Mr. Rainmaker.

Update: We found the phone number of Jeff Zucker, president of NBC, and the man behind all this bullshit.  Fucktard asked to speak with him, but his secretary would only allow Fucktard to leave a message, which was something like: “Drop Jay Leno on his chin and leave Conan alone.”  Here’s the digits if you want to call: 212-664-2830.  Long live CoCo.

For some reason, late-night talk shows just aren’t as big of a hit with people my age as they are with the generations before me.  I guess I understand it — a long, protracted, often-seemingly forced monologue with tired topical jokes, plus celebrity interviews that go nowhere is sometimes the recipe for these shows nowadays.  But for some reason, I’ve always been drawn to them.  Part of it is just pure respect — I’m amazed that these guys put together an hour-long show, five days a week, year after year after year.

Anyway, I’ve been watching this whole “Late Night Wars” thing at NBC with great anticipation.  If you haven’t been following it (because you have a life), here’s the gist: Jay Leno’s prime-time show was a catastrophic failure, so they want to give him a thirty-minute show at 11:35 (the usual Tonight Show time-slot).  Consequently, Conan and Tonight would be moved to 12:05, and Jimmy Fallon’s Late Night would be moved to 1:05 (Carson Daly’s show would be canceled, and he would resume living under the bridge on I-104 in East LA).

Well, today, Conan basically said “Fuck that” and quit.  He believes it would tarnish the Tonight Show tradition to move its time-slot, and he doesn’t want any part of that.  I completely agree with his decision, and it’s nice to see that someone in this whole situation has morals (unlike Jay Leno and the executives at NBC, which I’ll get to later).  If you’ve read this blog for some time, you know I basically have a huge man-crush on Conan.  He’s basically lived my dream life: writing for SNL, writing for The Simpsons, hosting his own show, getting stalked by a deranged priest.  The first time I ever saw his show (which, oddly enough, was not during the middle of the night on NBC, but rather during an afternoon re-broadcast on their sister station, CNBC), I was sure I had discovered the funniest man alive.  Today, while I’m not sure he’s even the best talk-show host out there*, I have a hard time believing anyone could watch him and not deem him hilarious and tremendously talented.

*Maybe it’s simply the fact that I saw him live, but I honestly believe there is no one more funny right now than Craig Ferguson.  He doesn’t do the boring old monologues that everyone else does — instead, he tells stories with jokes mixed in.  He actually has real conversations with his guests, rather than just awkwardly promoting their movies or shows.  And whether it is or not, everything he does seems like it’s off-the-cuff.  He gives the impression that he was just given a talk show and told to entertain — it doesn’t seem prepared and dull like the others sometimes do. Just my opinion, but I think he’s changing the face of late-night talk shows.

Now, I think the blame for this whole thing falls on the shoulders of two people.  First and foremost, the NBC executives.  Their decision to put The Jay Leno Show at 10:00 was a colossal mistake.  Talk-shows cannot compete with scripted dramas, which is what the other networks show at that time.  Because of this, his show got terrible ratings, and offered no lead-in to Conan’s Tonight, which in turn also received terrible ratings.  If Jeff Zucker, President of NBC, is not fired within the year, then the people at that network are dumber than I thought.

The second person who deserves blame is Jay Leno himself.  Now, here’s a disclaimer: I hate Jay Leno.  He is the most unfunny person I have ever seen.  And really, the only people I know that like him are my grandparents.  I guess his comedy is just for an older generation.  But I’ll try to look at this objectively.  First, a history lesson: most of you are too young to remember (hell, I’m too young to remember), but Leno should’ve never even been the Tonight Show host.  When Johnny Carson, the Grand Poobah of All Late-Night Talk Shows, retired, he wanted David Letterman as his replacement (at that time, Letterman was hosting Late Night — the show that was passed to Conan and then Fallon).  For reasons that are still unclear to me, Leno was instead chosen, and Letterman went to CBS.

Fast forward to 2004.  Conan was getting very lucrative offers from other networks who were interested in starting late-night franchises.  His dream, though, was to host Tonight. So a deal was worked out: Leno would retire in 2009, and Conan would take over.  Now, at that point, if Leno had said, “I’m not giving up this show.  I have great ratings, I’m still relatively young, and I shouldn’t have to leave,”  I would’ve been fine with it.  Conan was the underling — if Jay didn’t want to budge, Conan could’ve left then.  But Jay relented, and when 2009 rolled around, he decided he still wanted a show, and got one at 10:00.

Leno made a joke recently that NBC stood for “Never Believe your Contract,” in reference to what he believed is unfair treatment by the executives.  Well, how about you honor your contract, Jay?  No one forced you out of the Tonight Show — you could’ve stayed, and Conan would have had to go.  But you made your bed — lie in it.  By accepting the move back to 11:35, he is, for all intents and purposes, forcing Conan out after only six months on the job.  If Leno had any principle whatsoever, he should go to another network if he really still wants a show.  But instead, he’s being a baby and whining until he got what he wanted.

So Conan is leaving.  He’ll probably go to Fox and start a show there (some have even suggested that take over for the recently-resigned Simon Cowell on American Idol). I can’t really picture him on any network other than NBC.  This whole situation is just a mess, and it’s sad, really.  I’ve lost a lot of respect for Leno — not that I had much to begin with.  I guess it can all be summed up by what Craig Ferguson said last night: “At the end of the day, it’s a bunch of middle-aged white guys arguing about who will get X-million dollars — who gives a shit?”

For some reason, Jeff George still has the newspaper delivered to our house.  I’ve heard rumors that he got some deal where we’re getting it for free or something.  Regardless, no one ever reads it and numerous copies are continuously sitting on our porch or in our living room.  Last night, I was really bored, so I grabbed the issue that was lying on the couch (which turned out to be from December 13th) and began reading.  I stumbled across the following obituary, and I found it very odd.  And yes, as you can tell by this post and the one preceding it, To Play Us Out will now feature nothing but my critiques of bad sports writing and weird obits.

Creator of 50-star flag was teen in Lancaster

Now, maybe it’s just me, but this headline seems very wrong.  It mentions nothing of death.  Rather, it seems like it’s saying that a 50-star flag was literally just created by a teen in Lancaster.  Terrible job, headline-writer.  I mean, literally, your only job is to write headlines — and you fucked that up.

Robert G. Heft, the “Betsy Ross” of America’s 50-star flag, has died.

Ok, this sentence pretty much sums up my greatest fear in life — becoming known for something inexplicably obscure.  Like something that’s just enough to maybe get you a small Wikipedia entry, and enough that people are like “Oh yeah, that fucking guy.”  Steve Bartman, for example.  No one knows and/or gives a shit about what Steve Bartman did before October 14, 2003, and no one will care if he does anything notable the rest of his life.  The guy could cure cancer and people will still think, “Oh, here’s that dipshit that fucked up the Cubs chances at the World Series.  Sure, he saved millions of lives, but would it have been too much for him to let Moises Alou catch that goddamned ball?  Fuck! I love the Cubbies! Deep dish pizza! ‘Da Bears! Another random Chicago stereotype!”

Anyway, I’ll bet if you could travel back in time to the late ’50s, and tell teenage Robert Heft that someday he would be known as the “Betsy Ross of America’s 50-star flag,” he’d immediately stop crafting his design and say, “Fuck this.  I couldn’t give less of a shit about this goddamned new flag.  I will not be called the ‘Betsy Ross’ of anything.”

In 1958, a history teacher assigned Heft and his classmates at Lancaster High School to each redesign the national banner to recognize Alaska and Hawaii, both nearing statehood.  Heft, who was 16 at the time, crafted a new flag from an old 48-star flag and $2.87 worth of blue cloth and white iron-on material.  His creation earned him a B-minus. Heft’s teacher later changed that grade to an A after Heft’s flag was sent to Washington, D.C., and selected by President Dwight D. Eisenhower.

Teacher: I’m sorry, Bobby.  I like your design and all, but sadly, I just don’t think you put forth as much effort as you should.  You probably spent too much time watching Father Knows Best and listening to Bill Haley &  His Comets instead of working on your project.  I’m going to have to give you a B-.

Heft: No ma’am, I tried really hard! Look at this blue cloth and white iron-on material.  This cost me $2.87, which is like spending $21.37 in 2009.

Teacher: Why do you know the conversion rates for 2009?

Heft: That is random, isn’t it?

(Three weeks later)

Heft: (waving his congratulatory letter from Eisenhower in the teacher’s face) Boom bitch! You know what that is?  That’s a letter from the goddamned President.  They chose my flag.  Motherfuckin’ Heft in the hizzzzyyy!!!

Teacher: That’s wonderful, Bobby!

Heft: That’s wonderful, Bobby?! Let me ask you a question (takes out a pistol and aims it at the teacher): Do I look like a bitch?

Teacher: What?

Heft: Do. I. Look. Like. A. Bitch?

Teacher: What?!

Heft: (shoots teacher in the kneecap) Say what again!

Teacher: No! No, Bobby, you don’t look like a bitch!

Heft: Then why you gonna fuck me like a bitch?  I don’t like to get fucked by anybody except — well, probably no one as of yet because I am a sixteen year old in 1958 America.  Regardless, can you help me remember what grade you gave me on my flag?

Teacher: What?

Heft: (shoots teacher in the shoulder) Say what again!!

Teacher: I, I gave you a B-, I think!

Heft: That’s right! You remember!  Now here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to change my grade to an A.  Otherwise, I’m going to call up my new friend Mr. Dwight D. Eisenhower here, and have him go WWII on your ass.  Capiche?

(Five years later, Robert Heft had a son named Steven Heft.  In 1968, the entire Heft family went to Big Kahuna Burger to celebrate Little Stevie’s 5th birthday.  It was there that Robert told him the story of how his flag came to be chosen by the President himself.  Little Stevie thought that this story would make for a really good scene in a movie.  Years later, when Little Stevie was a famous director making movies in Hollywood, he recalled his Pop’s tale, and added it to his film.  Of course, by then, Little Stevie had changed his name to what you all know him by today — Quentin Tarantino.  Also, everything you just read is patently false.  Or is it?  Yeah, it is.)

Heft was one of thousands to submit a flag design with alternating rows of five and six stars. But apparently he was the only person who actually stitched together a flag and shipped it to D.C.  His design became the official national flag in 1960.

So basically this guy added two stars to the flag?  Why is this a big deal?

Teacher: Class, the President has asked us to design a new flag that reflects the impending statehood of Alaska and Hawaii.  Yes, you heard me correctly: Hawaii.  Isn’t that some bullshit?  Like we real Americans want those tiki-torch-lighting, lei-wearing sons-of-bitches to be a part of our country!  What if — and this just randomly popped into my head —  what if someday we had a President from Hawaii?  I mean, really — Hawaii?!  Oh, me and my nonsensical, off-topic tangents!  Where were we?  Oh, yes: the flag.  I’ll go head and assume that none of you are retarded, and that you realize that the 48 stars represent the current 48 states.  Alright, get to your flag-making!  (She lights a cigarette, takes a long draw, and then decides to beat a kid in the front row for looking at her funny.  I mean, it’s 1958, she can do whatever the fuck she wants.)

(Meanwhile, Bobby Heft is sitting in his place in the back of the room, mischievously thinking to himself):  Wow, I didn’t know the number of stars correlated with the number of states! Maybe I am a retard.  But I do have a dastardly plan.  What if — and bear with me Bobby (wait a second: I’m telling myself to bear with myself?  I really am stupid) —  what if I add two stars to the flag?  You know, because we’re adding two states to the country?  Brilliant!  Brilliant, I say!  No one else could possibly think of that!

Heft worked as a motivational speaker in retirement, sharing his flag-making success story. His inspiring tale connected him with people around the world.

“And now, our featured speaker: the man who radically altered American history by adding two — count ‘em! — two stars to our nation’s flag.  That’s right, folks: the one, the only, Roberrrrrrrrtttt Heft!!!!!”

Heft appears, and leads his 1-hour, 45-minute speech with his flag-making story.  The rest of his lecture, however, seems very random and downright strange, as it contains segments discussing: his drug experimentation in the mid-60s; his torrid affair with Diane Keaton; his obsession with The Golden Girls; his torrid affair with Michael Keaton; how the fact that there are two nuts named after people (Hazel and Filbert) really makes him happy; the attempt by his competitors to paint him as a traitor by concocting a story falsely claiming that he bet on the USSR hockey team in the 1980 Winter Olympics; how fruit makes him incontinent;  and, finally, he concludes with a humorous tale that involves him, his wife, a hooker, and a little bit too much Viagra.  If you are in the market for a motivational speaker, you can find Heft at www.iamajackassformakingfunofadeadguy.com.

“He didn’t let his notoriety become him,” said Rodney Wakeman, a friend of Heft’s and co-owner of the funeral home in Saginaw handling Heft’s arrangements, which are pending. “He was a very down-to-earth individual.”

“When you first look at Bob, you wouldn’t think this was the man who designed our 50-star flag, but once you listened to his story, you couldn’t help but be in awe,” he said.

Just curious: what would give it away that this was the man who designed the 50-star flag?  For all his supposed “notoriety” and celebrity status, he’s still just a regular guy.  Most well-known people don’t really stand out.  Like one time I saw Dan Marino in a hotel in Florida.  Now, when I first looked at him, I didn’t think “here’s the man who holds most of the NFL passing records.”  Rather, I thought “here’s a socks-with-sandals-wearing asshole who is accosting a well-meaning maid for no reason.”  I’m not making this up.  I literally heard him say “can’t you speak fucking English?”  I don’t know what this story has to do with anything, but it signifies the end of this post.  R.I.P. Robert Heft.

One time I had the “honor” of meeting Cincinnati Enquirer columnist Paul Daugherty when he came into the library where I worked during high school.  Now, I’ve never liked the man’s columns — he’s a complete hack with a flair for using big words to explain things that he himself doesn’t really understand.  So I mustered all my courage, approached him, and absolutely skewered him with: “I like reading your column.  Also your wife is my gym teacher, and she’s really nice.”  (The latter fact was actually true.)  Basically what I’m trying to tell you is that I’m a giant pussy.

Anyway, for some reason I still read the guy’s columns (online, of course — who still reads actual newspapers?).  I usually get intensely frustrated when doing so, and I’ve been known to break things or even weep.  His latest work about the Bengals really sent me over the edge, so I thought I’d share it.  Bt-dubs,  metacriticism of a Cincinnati-based sportswriter is probably a really niche-y thing, so feel free to not read this.

2009 Bengals more mature for playoffs

The Bengals aren’t much for style points or sex appeal. You wouldn’t date them if you were wild and free, but you’d marry them when settling down mattered.

You would fuck the shit out of the Saints.  You wouldn’t ever wear a condom, you would just pull out and cum all over their face.  That’s how awesome they are.  Shit, you might even try anal with the Colts (they’re so fucking sexy!)  And the Raiders have gonorrhea.  (I am attempting to display the stupidity of this analogy.)

They’re solid and dependable, stable and mature. They’re sort of the Volvos of the NFL. Tom Hanks would play them in the movie.

Fuck it: let’s play his stupid little game.  Brad Pitt would play the Chargers.  Kevin Spacey would play the Eagles.  Miley Cyrus would be the Browns. And Jon Gosselin would play the Patriots (because they both cheat! Ba-zing!!!!!)

The win Sunday made perfect sense. It was like a lot of wins this season: Reasoned and dull and ultimately effective.

You’d like the Bengals a little more if they’d allow Carson Palmer to be more like Drew Brees than Drew Carey. A $100 million handoff specialist doesn’t get you dancing in the seats. You’d fly a little higher if the offense had wings.

Hardy har har.  Another pop culture reference.  You are so fucking clever.  And of course Carson will never be what he once was.  A QB is never going to fully get over an ACL injury, and then he had the elbow problem last year.  But he’s got 3,000 yards passing, a 21/12 TD:INT ratio, and a QB rating of 86.3.  I’ll take it.  More importantly, we are 10 and fucking 5 and in the fucking playoffs — stop fucking complaining.

But you’ll take the ’09 Bengals, their 10-5 record and their AFC North title. You’ll definitely go with Palmer, the ultimate Tom Hanks, who has shelved whatever ego he has, to oversee the offense Marvin Lewis thinks will win games.

Yes, Paul, surprisingly people enjoy winning, especially in a town where it’s so rare.  If you apparently realize that, then why the hell did you even write this column?  You’re completely defeating you’re own argument.

These Bengals are good people as far as we know, and good teammates. They’ve earned their stripes. All the things we weren’t sure were possible in the NFL anymore.

A) What does this have to do with anything?  B) Good people?  Correct me if I’m wrong, but Tank Johnson, Cedric Benson, Bernard Scott, Larry Johnson,  Shaun Smith, and (until his death) Chris Henry have all had disciplinary/legal troubles, and they are all still on this roster.  These are the same people you were calling “thugs” a year ago.  So what’s the difference now?  Oh, that’s right: we’re fucking winning, so none of that shit seems to matter anymore.  And how are we winning?  By playing this boring style of football that you hate.

Leave it to middle linebacker Dhani Jones, Renaissance football man, team conscience and de facto MVP, to give the season some verbal heft:

“When you come together as a team, you get better as a team. There is a responsibility toward one another in the locker room. The unit wins, not the individual.’’

Why is Dhani Jones a Renaissance man?  Because he has a show on Discovery Channel?  Besides, if I were starting a team of Renaissance men, I would totally put John Locke at QB, Baron de Montesquieu at RB, and Voltaire at some sort of slot/return man/Wildcat/Percy Harvin-type role.  Their team would be called “The Social Contracts,” and their arch-rivals would be the “Divine Rights,” who are of course headed by the notorious, Jerry Jones-ish coach/GM: Thomas Hobbes.

(On a serious note, Dhani Jones for MVP?  That is nonsense.  Have you seen how this defense has been gashed since Domata Peko went down?  Plus he has awesome hair.  That’s your MVP, folks.)

The unit struggled to beat a bad Kansas City team, 17-10. The game teetered for almost 59 minutes, until Leon Hall intercepted Chiefs quarterback Matt Cassel, deep down the left sideline. It contained all the usual 2009 warts: Overly basic play-calling, too much reliance on Cedric Benson, false-start penalties, dubious red-zone work.

After two quarters, Palmer’s QB rating was 12.0. After three, he’d thrown for 61 yards against a KC defense allowing 225 a game. The Vikings and Chargers have shown what happens to the Bengals when they can’t play shutdown defense.

Ok, admittedly the Bengals played like shit against Minnesota.  But how did the Chargers loss “show” them anything about their defense?  It was a very close game against the hottest team in the NFL that was decided by a field goal as time expired.  And why, in the very same paragraph, does he mention Carson’s struggles?  How are these things related?

The most overrated asset in the NFL now is a great running game. Props to Ced Benson, who is making himself a lot of money. But the money games are won in the air, because running 25 times is a time-waster when you’re behind a couple scores.

6 of the top 8 rushing teams in the league are in line for a playoff berth.  So I guess that’s an overrated asset.  And really, the whole point of this article makes zero sense to me.  Here’s what I say about the Bengals: “This year, they’ve obviously turned the team into one that focuses on running the ball and playing solid defense — and we are going to the playoffs.”  Here’s how Paul Daugherty sees the Bengals: “Fuck Marvin Lewis.  I like passing.  More importantly, I like not going to the playoffs so I write columns bitching about a 10+ win team.”  He then gets into the fetal position and begins whimpering.

And yet, 10-5 is 10-5 and hard to do in the NFL. And as Lewis said, “When you hold that (Lombardi) trophy up, there’s no scores on it.’’ That his team wins like it’s 1968 is of no concern to the coach. He likes this team. It bears little resemblance to the ’05 club that won the division.

That team was a grenade in your pocket, for better or worse, symbolized by Chad Johnson, then a high-performance, high-maintenance diva. That Eight-Five was great on the catwalk, until he broke a spiked heel. This team’s face belongs to Jones on one side and Bobbie Williams on the other. Both are thoughtful, grateful practitioners of the sport, who don’t assume a thing.

No, that ’05 team was symbolized by Carson Palmer.  More specifically, that team was symbolized by Carson Palmer writhing on the ground with a torn ACL on the second play of the fucking playoff game.  That’s why that team lost.  Not because Chad did something wrong.  And I’m pretty sure Bobbie Williams does assume something: I think he assumes the snap count is always “one” because all he ever does is FUCKING FALSE START.  If he’s the face of this offense, I rescind my Bengals fanship forthwith.

Their eminence has been felt all over the locker room, filled as it is with players who know what they don’t know, and are eager to figure it out. As Lewis said, “The NFL is new to most of them. All they know is what has transpired the last few years. That’s key.’’

Please read that again: “…filled as it is with players who know what they don’t know, and are eager to figure it out.”  What in the name of all that is holy does that mean?  Did I somehow stop reading a sports column and accidentally pick up a Sherlock Holmes mystery?  Is this going to be the plot twist in the next M. Night Shyamalan movie?  What the fuck is going on?

Lewis went crazy-mad in Detroit four years ago, where the Bengals clinched the division by beating the Lions in Game 14, and responded by dumping Gatorade on the coach. To Lewis, that meant his players didn’t understand that making the playoffs was only a first step. This time, no Gatorade.

Know who else went crazy-mad after getting Gatorade poured on them following a victory?  George Allen.  Because he fucking died from it.  Look it up.

There is “a little different atmosphere than there was a few years ago in Detroit,’’ Lewis said. “This group knows there’s more out there. That’s the message across the board.’’

“This shouldn’t be that much of a celebration,’’ said Shayne Graham.

Know when there should’ve been a celebration, Shayne?  In ’06, when we should’ve made the fucking playoffs.  But you guys botched a goddamn extra point in Denver, and then you — you and you alone — missed a field goal in against Pittsburgh.  So fuck you: you are lucky you’re still on this team.

You wonder, though, if the imperfections that nag you about this team will lead to its early dismissal from January. Sure, the Bengals mounted a spectacular and necessary 98-yard drive to win the game. But they did it against the 27th-best defense in the league. Until then, they’d motored Benson off both tackles and scored one touchdown.

What imperfections?  The Bengals are ranked sixth in rushing, fourth in total defense, second in rushing defense, and fifth in points allowed per game.  They win games by running the ball and playing great D.  And those are the things they are best at.  Ok, so we don’t throw the ball all that well.  Well guess what? Indy’s run game is virtually non-existent and last I checked, they’re playing pretty goddamn well.  You don’t have to be good at everything to win.

The Chiefs hung around. Give ‘em a chance to eat, they’ll find the table. It looked like a game the Bengals had to play, not one they wanted to play. When you sweep your division and win seven of your first nine, you earn days like this, if earn is the right word. Good teams win these games. The Bengals are good. Maybe that’s enough.

This is the typical Daugherty technique.  Rail against/tarnish something for an entire column, then forget everything you’ve said and endorse the very entity you’ve been trashing.  Remember this sentence from a column he wrote (yes, I keep old Daugherty columns handy so I can use his quotes in meaningless blog posts) when the Reds traded Adam Dunn: “As insignificant as Dunn was to winning here, 40 homers and 100 RBI don’t appear magically every March.”  Dunn was worthless! But you can’t replace him! In unrelated news, Daugherty is writing a screenplay entitled: “Abbey Road and Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band Are My Favorite Albums: I Hate The Beatles.”

I don’t know about you, but in my family we always open our stockings on Christmas Eve.  In addition to the usual assortment of candy, I received one item that made me think my parents still love me, and a whole bunch of other shit that makes me believe otherwise.  The gift that made me think the former was a DVD of The Sandlot.  It’s probably my favorite sports movie of all time*, but somehow I’ve never owned it. Now I can spend what little is left of my break watching Squints not only make out with Wendy Peffercorn, but utter some of the best movie quotes ever: “You’re killin’ me, Smalls!” and “For.  Eh.  Ver.”

*I’m thinking of doing a Top 10 Sports Movies of All Time post.  Are you getting sick of these Top 10 lists yet?  Because I’m not.

But besides that I got a big pile of shit.  My parents put absolutely zero thought into what they got me.  (You could argue that we’re discussing mere stocking-stuffers, but I don’t care.)  First, I got this card game called “Fact or Crap.”   It’s possibly the most simplistic game ever created.  Here’s how it works: a card has a statement on it, and you have to guess if it is true or not (excuse me, if it’s “fact or crap” — I’ve got to use the proper terminology).  I really don’t understand how something could be less thought-provoking than this game.  Instead of playing, I spent my day throwing the cards at my dog to entertain myself.

But that was nothing compared to these next two horrible presents.  I got a pen light.  Now, why, you ask, would my parents get me a pen light?  Well, the other day I was driving my car at night, and the light that illuminates the speedometer/odometer went out.  It began working again the very next day, and it’s been fine ever since that one occasion.  Yet my parents felt the need to buy me this light so I could read the dash in case it did happen again.  Here’s a new flash: I only come home like four times a year, and that’s the only time I drive my car.  So this gift was a precaution on the off-chance that something happens in the like five total hours that I drive my car in a given year.

Finally, I was given a reading light.  Now, I only got this for the following reason: as we drove to Michigan last week, I complained that it was too dark to read my book*, and asked if anyone had a reading light.  My mom went on some diatribe about how she had one, but it needed batteries, and she always forgets to pack batteries, and yada yada yada.  She told me she would buy me one, but I said don’t bother because I have a couple at my house in Columbus that I had just forgotten to bring.  But apparently she either didn’t hear me, didn’t care, or thought I needed three reading lights.  Again, like the pen light, this is something I will never have an occasion on which to use it.  I never read in dark areas unless I’m riding in a car on a long trip.  And I only ride in cars on long trips when I’m fucking home.  Also, I just thought of this: couldn’t I just use the pen light to read?  Fuck redundant gifts.

*I’ve noticed that I am completely averse to reading any new books.  On my trip, I read The Firm and Moneyball, which I’ve read five and eight times, respectfully.

Christmas Day didn’t get any better.  I got a whole bunch of clothes that I will probably never wear (save for a shirt that my sister got me that says “Assistant (to the) Regional Manager”).  I got Craig Ferguson’s autobiography, which looks interesting — but like I said, I don’t read new things.  That’s the problem with getting early Christmas presents (like I did with my Maualuga jersey and iPod) — you don’t get to open anything on Christmas Day, and it sucks.  Anyway, I probably sound like a selfish baby, but that’s what I am.

Basically what I’m saying is that the luster of Christmas wears off the second you find out Santa isn’t real.  When you realize that an old fat man isn’t going to be coming down your chimney bearing gifts, you just stop caring.  Around 11 PM on Christmas Eve, I had a fleeting moment where I thought, “I can’t be up this late.  It’s against the rules, it’s Christmas Eve.”  Then I realized I’m nineteen years old, and I continued to watch Bad Santa.  I can’t wait to go back to Columbus.