The Monday Night Dong!!!

 
A few of our readers have asked me to write more about sports.  So far on the Struggle Bus I have written about sports just 3 times.  Why?  Because there is already plenty of worthless noise surrounding professional sports out there, and I think adding to it makes us all dumber.  So, I try to go in a completely different direction.  I try to be stupid AND funny.

The first ever blog post on the Struggle Bus was actually about sports!  On 3/2/10 I dropped a satire article making fun of the media coverage of Tim Tebow called “Tim Tebow Reinvents the Throw”.  Unfortunately, it was the Struggle Bus’ first day of existence, and the Denver Broncos hadn’t heard of the Struggle Bus yet (OK, like, only my mom had heard about us at that point, but go with me here).  Then, said Broncos bought into the media hype, wasted a first round draft pick on Tebow, and now religious sports commentators get to celebrate the single rushing touchdown that Tim gets every season while people in Denver freeze their asses off at a game while wondering if they could have acquired Tim’s services for much less.  At least the Broncos sold A LOT of jerseys to rednecks in Gainesville. 

The second time I wrote about sports I gave my readers an insider’s look at my eternal love for the corpulent, loud-mouth, don’t-take-shit-from-anyone, baby-faced head coach of the New York Jets.  It went really well, but it lead to a solid Struggle Moment when the director of a charity event I was MC-ing actually went to my website, saw the picture I made on Photoshop of Rex Ryan and I flipping each other off, and got really offended.  Luckily she stopped at that picture and didn’t read anything Jenn has ever written.  I probably would have been fired, or placed on a sex offender list.

The third time I wrote about sports, I defended the honor of my childhood heroes Walt “Clyde” Frazier and his backcourt mate “Black Jesus”.  I wrote about how Clyde was smooth and how Black Jesus was a revolutionary.  I loved it.  White people everywhere got confused.

Why can’t I write seriously about sports?  Because I see professional sports for what they are:  grown men playing a game meant for children and getting paid millions of dollars for it;  Only because we the fans/gamblers/fantasy team owners care more about the outcomes of the games than the actual players.

It’s just a stupid game!  Calm down!

 

The Cathedral

I don’t understand the religious-like passion for certain players/teams that lead to Yankee fans spitting at Cliff Lee’s wife during a playoff game (the Yankees are trying to sign him for next year… idiots).  I will never understand why a fan in Detroit instigated a riot with players during a completely meaningless regular season NBA basketball game because Ben Wallace got fouled a little too hard.  I find it hilarious watching people in Cleveland burn all the LeBron James paraphernalia that they spent their own hard earned money on over the past seven years because it might make them feel better. 

It’s just a stupid game.  Calm down.

(Side note:  If I was LeBron James and I was constantly signing 100 million dollar contracts with NBA teams, Nike and Gatorade, I would take some of the money I was going to completely waste at the strip club and send every single household in Cleveland a Miami Heat #6 jersey with “Merry Christmas & Fuck You” printed on the back nameplate.   Why?  Because I have a sense of humor and really don’t care if a city doesn’t like me.  It would live on in infamy as the greatest Christmas gift story ever.)

I am just as guilty as you are.  Just the other day I was flipping channels and saw Nomar Garciaparra on ESPN breaking down Baseball players; I instantly thought “what a douche” and turned off the TV.  Then I realized what I just did.  I judged someone I have never met because they played for the Red Sox, just because I am a Rays fan.  Nomar isn’t the douche, I am.

Our culture takes sports so seriously that teams threaten to leave their respective cities if they aren’t built a new, state of the art, modern day Roman Coliseum to play in.  Just ask anyone in Miami how the Marlins duped the politicians into using tax payer money to build them “Megatron-Marlin-Stadium” so their city could keep a team that went 80 and 82, doesn’t spend money on players, and couldn’t compete for the wild card in the crappy National League.  Why spend money providing for the poor, or rebuilding a broken community, or creating jobs, when you can watch Wes Helms hit .220 in a new ballpark?

If you are reading this in Tampa and laughing, don’t.  I promise our city and tax payers are next in line to get screwed.  Just like Miami, we don’t go to baseball games.  But, unlike Miami, our team is actually good, so our politicians will bend us over to keep them.

If you are reading this in NY and laughing, don’t.  You just got screwed into two new stadiums (three if you count the Meadowlands, but that’s in Jersey.  Four if you count the total debacle that is Jay-Z moving the Nets to Brooklyn (but that doesn’t count because I LOVE basketball), and the Marlins finished one game better than the Mets.  Enjoy your $20 beer at Citi Field.

But, the holy Cathedral that surrounds professional athletics is at its worst when it comes to the commentary and analysis of our beloved pastimes.  We have 24 hour coverage and scrutiny of every second of every game that is ever going to be played.  Instead of just enjoying a Dolphins game, I have to watch eight different former players or coach’s cram into a desk made for two, wearing $5000 suits tell me things like:

-“They need the quarterback to play well to win today”

-“The defense needs to step up”

-“They need to start fast and finish strong to pull-out a victory”

Thanks guys.  You’re brilliant.  Nice suit.

So, it is time for a change.  It is time for someone to bring some comedy to sports commentary.  I think I am just the man for the job!  Why doesn’t anyone make this fun? 

 

The Monday Night Dong!

On October 11th, 2010, the NFL and Monday Night Football set a new record.  They hit a major milestone.  Nobody talked about it, so I will!  This is what a broadcast of Monday Night Football would be like if I were in the booth with my new friends Jon Gruden, Jaws (Ron Jaworski) and Mike Tirico.  The game was between the Viking and the Jets, but I want to talk about dong!

(THIS IS A FICTIONAL BROADCAST THAT I MADE UP.  I DON’T ACTUALLY KNOW THESE PEOPLE.  COMEDY PURPOSES ONLY.  PLEASE DON’T SUE ME.)

Eric Prae:  Welcome to Monday Night Football between the Jets and the Vikings!!!  I am your host Eric Prae, here with my good buddies Jon, Jaws and Mike.  We have A LOT to talk about!  Let’s start with the major milestone that we hit tonight.

Jon:  You mean Brett Favre’s 500 TD pass?

Eric Prae:  Nope, couldn’t care less.

Jaws:  He means Randy Moss’ return to the team that drafted him!

Eric Prae:  Absolutely not!

Mike:  You mean that I told the world I’m not black?

Eric Prae:  Not touching that one Mike, but that’s the best guess so far.

I am talking about the fact that this game will have the most amount of publicly seen athletic penis’ on one field, in the history of sports!!!  I am renaming this show: the Monday Night Dong!  Let’s talk about some dongs!

Mike, Jaws, Jon:  WHAT???

Eric Prae:  You heard me!  Tonight we have three publically shown one eyed wangers, spanning two teams, with one current major controversy!  There is nowhere America would rather be than right here, talking about dong!

Mike:  So nobody cares that I said I wasn’t black?

Eric Prae:  MIKE!  Relax, I said I wasn’t going there.  I’d rather talk about dick.  Not in the mood for race talk this week, and it really doesn’t matter what color you are because with Jon and Jaws around this booth, it couldn’t get any whiter anyway…

Jon and Jaws:  WHAT???

Eric Prae:  Never mind.  Let’s talk about Monday Night Football making history!

On the field tonight are three, yes THREE football players who have shown their penis’ publicly, and only one of them did it by accident!

Mike:  Too bad Greg Oden doesn’t play football, that public dong was HUGE.

Eric Prae:  All right Mike!  Way to get involved!  Great point!  Jon, Jaws, any commentary so far???

Jon:  That dong is a football player!!!!

(Jaws looks at me like he might shank me for ruining the cathedral that is Monday Night Football on ESPN)

Eric Prae:  All right Jon!  Let’s start first with Jets receiver, Santonio Holmes who had someone take a picture of him standing in the shower wearing nothing but a Live Strong bracelet.  It’s safe to say that if you have seen this pic, it might have taken a few looks to notice the Live Strong bracelet. (1)

Mike:  His dong was soooo big, I’m not sure how he runs so fast!

Eric Prae:  If my dong looked like that I would never wear pants!!!

Mike:  Seriously, it has to weigh him down.  Women must be terrified of him.

Jon:  THAT guy is a football player!

(Jaws stands up, punches me in the face and starts walking out)

Eric Prae:  I think Jaws is going down to the field to ask Santonio if his Super Bowl ring from Pittsburgh is big enough to fit around his…

(Jaws turns as he is walking out and throws a binder at me, then slams the door)

Eric Prae:  Maybe not.

If you think that dong is big, let’s move to Visanthe Shiancoe!  This Vikings tight end was accidently shown naked on National TV when after a Viking-Lions game!  FOX cameras were in the locker room to watch the owner of the team give out a game ball.  The cameras caught Visanthe and BIG Visanthe coming out of the shower.  In Visanthe’s defense, he was wearing a towel, but nothing short of an area rug could have covered up that thing!

Mike:  I heard stadium security showed up because of a report that a huge snake was loose in the locker room.

Jon:  THAT guy is a football player!

Eric Prae:  That’s right!  In one magical moment, FOX TV cameras caught Vikings owner Zygi Wilf’s incredibly bad mustache, Brad Childress’ bald head, and Visanthe’s huge dong!  If you stare at the picture long enough on the internet, you might go blind. (2)

Jon:  Help, I can’t see!

Mike:  Look away from the screen Jon!

Jon:  Ohh, I’m ok.  THAT guy is a FOOTBALL PLAYER!!!

Eric Prae:  Damn strait!  The next guy on the Monday Night Dong is Brett Favre.  Brett has the smallest and oldest dong out of the three, but since his dong is the most famous- we will cover it last.

Mike:  And, Jenn Sterger is hot!

Eric Prae:  Yes she is!

Jon:  THAT chick is a football player!

Eric Prae:  All over the internet, via Deadspin, we got to see the humiliating pictures of Brett Favre’s penis that he sent to former Jets sideline reporter Jenn Sterger.  She alleges he was trying to get her to come back to his room for a booty call.  Brett says he just wanted to show her his “Blitz Package”. (3)

Mike:  It this more humiliating because Brett is married, he is a future Hall of Famer, or because his dong was 1/8th the size of Santonio’s or Visanthe’s?

Jon:  THAT guy’s not much of a football player.

Eric Prae:  It was the most embarrassing because of the odd mixture of its size, shape and hair color.  But you have to give Brett credit; he went for the Hail Mary with that one.  Jenn Sterger is slammin’ hot.  Plus, we all know that Brett has thrown the most interceptions of all time.  These photos were destined to get “picked off”.

Mike:  I feel like Dan Marino in his prime would have hit it with Sterger, then all of her friends, then played the next day and thrown 4 touchdowns.

Jon:  THAT guy was a hell of a football player!

Eric Prae:  Totally agree Mike.  I now move Dan Marino back to the best of all time, sorry Brett.

Mike:  You know I think your right.  Too bad former Jets great and Hall of Famer Joe Namath wasn’t in the practice facility to teach Brett some game.

Jon:  THAT guy was a football player.

Eric Prae:  Yes he was Jon!!!  Yes he was!

Well that will do it for our coverage of the Monday Night Dong.  We would stay here and announce the game, but I think Jaws is outside lighting my car on fire and well, the game will be boring as shit anyway!  Who cares about the Vikings and the Jets???

Have a great night!

 

Sources:

FYI-  If you click on these links, you will see dong.  Don’t get fired.  We will laugh at you!

1-  http://outsports.com/jocktalkblog/2008/04/21/santonio-holmes-nekkid-in-the-shower/

2-  http://www.bittenandbound.com/2008/12/08/visanthe-shiancoe-exposed-in-locker-room-video/

3-  http://deadspin.com/5658206/brett-favres-cellphone-seduction-of-jenn-sterger

 
 
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The Ten Year Fail!
 

Eric Prae:  I got this message over Facebook from a reader:

Random Friend:  Eric, stop doing so much stand-up and write something, dumbass!

Point taken, thanks.

 

The Ten Year Fail!

My buddy Bryan has been my best friend ever since I can remember.  We grew up together; graduated high school together, shared a house in college, and continue to see each other through an adulthood where both of us have moved around the country.  Doing stupid and immature things with your best friend from childhood is an important activity to remind you that even though you are an adult with responsibilities, you’re still alive.

The day Bryan and I graduated high school we made a joke/bet on which one of us was going to be the guy that brought the escort to our ten year reunion.  Which one of us would be the hapless, broke, single person who couldn’t find someone with two breasts and a pulse to go out with him long enough to invite to one important night?

This joke was funny as we drank our way through college, played varsity college athletics and didn’t know how to spell commitment.  It was funnier when we both moved across the country and started over because there were at least one (or a hundred) women in the last city that we had lived in who wanted to shank us. And the joke was still funny last year when we met up in NY to drink and laugh at our potential dateless loserdom. 

But today that joke is no longer funny.

Why?  Because our ten year high school reunion is only 7 days away, and it looks like the joke is on me….

 

                                                                                                    ***

 

Most women I date think I am a legit crazy person.  I wonder if they’re not wrong.  When I first moved to Tampa I had a small apartment that I found right in the heart of South Tampa.  To rephrase that for people who don’t live here:  I found a small apartment right within walking distance to every bar you would want to go to.  I basically renamed South Tampa: “Drunken-Humpville”!

My place was simple…Because, there was nothing in it.  Seriously, nothing.  And I didn’t give a crap.  I had a bed, a closet (separated into “workout”, “business” and “fun” clothes), and a small kitchen with no appliances.  It was hippy paradise.  I even rode a really cool bike everywhere!  No, not a motorcycle, a Trek bicycle!  Why?  Because I don’t have the money to get myself out of a DUI.

My days consisted of getting up, riding my bike 6 miles to the gym under my office building, working out, showering/changing for work, working, then going out and trying to take over this new city bar by bar.  I was like Napoleon, but taller, ginger and not French.

Fast-forward a few years…  I am still in Tampa, but living in a much nicer place with my BFF Jenn.  I am still the same hippy faking adulthood, but then something changed.  I met someone I thought was really special.

I met a slamming hot, blonde, Florida girl.  If you have ever been to Florida you know the type.  A girl that is so hot but doesn’t know she is hot, because every girl here is slammin’ hot.  If this girl had grown up north of Carolina, then she probably would have been a pretentious c-word because she would have always been the hottest chick in the bar.  But not her.  Not here.  She was wonderful.

The coolest part about her?  She also wears hearing aids!  How awesome is that?

Meeting another hearing impaired person that you are sexually attracted to is like one in a million, right?  To normal people we must have looked like two puppies that hang around with people all day, and then get really excited when they see their own kind.  We would sniff each other, run around in circles and then tug hard on the leash because we didn’t want the party to end.  Seriously, this was our first ever conversation:

Eric Prae:  Hi!  You wear hearing aids!  What kind?

Hot Chick:  What?  No one has ever asked me that before.

Eric Prae:  I’m weird.

If that’s not true romance, what is?

She even loved my website.  Her only request was that I NEVER write about her.  Oops.

We dated for a while, things were great.  Everyone who had an opinion that I cared about really liked her.  Then I did something really stupid.  I asked her if she wanted to go to my ten year high school reunion.  Probably WAY too soon right?  But screw it; you have to buy plane tickets in advance, and my quest to not have to sit alone my high school reunion with a bunch of boring married people was almost complete!

So, I bought the tickets:  Two round trip tickets to my hometown.  Thumbs up, let’s do this!

For one day of my life, one glorious fucking day, I was actually in a relationship with someone I truly cared about, and had plans to share this with people who I really don’t care about.  For some reason, this was bliss.

Off to the reunion, happily ever after.  The End!!!!

 

Just kidding.  This wouldn’t be my life of hilarity and failure if everything didn’t go to shit right?

A few months after I bought the plane tickets, I noticed that the drawer in my dresser I gave her was magically empty.  The overnight bag she kept in my closet was missing.  All that was left was for her to call me and say something predictably stupid like “I think we need to talk”.

Maybe I was wrong.  Maybe she just took her stuff home to wash it and maybe the bag was gone because….

***ring, ring, ring***

Fuck.

Eric Prae:  Hey!  How are you?  Do you want to go to…

Hot Chick:  We need to talk; can you meet me at the Starbucks by my house?

Fuck.

So I went.  No plot twist here.  She dumped me.  We didn’t have chemistry, or it wasn’t me it was her, or we just don’t have anything in common or whatever she said, I really don’t care.  It’s always the same.  I paid a toll to go to that Starbucks.  I paid a toll to get dumped.  She didn’t even buy me coffee.  Fail.

 

                                                                                                     ***

 

It’s now one week until my ten year high school reunion and the joke is on me.  While others are planning on showing off their hot dates, I get to do fun things like throw out pictures of me and my now ex girlfriend.   Even Facebook does its part and puts in my notification status every time some douche ex-boyfriend of my now ex-girlfriend writes things on her wall like: “Sorry I called so late last night, can’t wait to see you Sunday!”  Thanks Facebook!

This isn’t just an epic fail.  It is a Ten Year Epic Fail.

At least Bryan isn’t bringing a date either. 

So, if you live in Syracuse and you see two guys doing shots at Dinosaur BBQ next Friday night, laughing at each other because the joke is on us, come over and say hello.

Especially if you are a female.  I could use a date.



P.S.-  This is Jenn summing up this blog post and my dating life:

Jenn B.:  Wonderful...I actually almost teared up...  You are a fucking, complete mess- and you can publish that statement if you need to.
 
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Team Struggle & Bret Michaels!

I’m not sure what day in history we stopped vilifying 1980’s American Pop Culture and started glorifying it.  It just isn’t the best decade that American musical history has to offer.   I blame VH1.

The 1980’s was the decade of bad canned rock music.  It all sounds the same to me.  It’s all just another brick in the wall.  You can pour some sugar on me.  You can welcome me to the jungle.  You can tell me that I can’t stop believing.  I’ve been to Funkytown over and over again, and I just don’t care. 

To make matters worse, we now have to relive this decade of bad canned rock music every time your local pub has a karaoke night, and every middle class white person born from 1980 – 1989 shows up to screech a horrifying rendition of Journey that would make Simon Cowell put a gun in his mouth. 

I guess every rose has its thorn.

But, who was coming to Tampa?  Bret Michaels!  The former front man for 1980’s rock legend, Poison!  Did Team Struggle saddle up and head over to the Trop?  Absolutely!  It was a free excuse for me to drink and hopefully provoke Jenn into doing something stupid.  What could go wrong?

How much did it cost to see a baseball game and a concert here in Tampa for four people?  $40.  That’s it.  Oh, and they threw in four free hotdogs, four free drinks and four free cracker jacks.  At that time our baseball team was in first place and was in route to winning the American League East.  But, since no one goes to the games, you can get four tickets, four hotdogs, four drinks, four crackerjacks, and see a concert for less than a VIP room lap dance.  I love Tampa.  Go Rays.

We got our free food, drinks, may or may not have poured our flasks into the drinks, and then made our way up to section 2035, row zzz, seat 65-68.  I guess when you only pay $10 for tickets and food you basically have to sit on the roof.  Joining Jenn and I on this week’s adventure were Struggle Bus friends Jeff and Nick.

I don’t remember if the Rays won the game or not, I was too consumed with people watching, drinking and reading to pay attention to the game (yes, I said reading.  Don’t judge me, baseball is boring as shit).  Here are the highlights from the game:

There were two kids sitting behind us (in the only row after zzz) that had a cowbell and they banged on it EVERY SECOND OF THE GAME.  It wasn’t one of those nice little cowbells that the Rays hand out that fit on one finger.  No, it was a homemade monster cowbell that they were hitting with drum sticks.  You could probably hear it all the way back in Tampa.  It was driving us all crazy, but they were sitting directly behind Jenn, and I thought she was going to commit homicide.

Jenn B.:  (talking to me)  Isn’t that bothering you?  I’m going to fuck these kids up!

Eric’s Brain:  Please, please, please Jenn, beat this child and make my night interesting!

Eric’s Mouth:  No, I turned my hearing aids off a while ago.  They’re just kids.  I don’t mind.

Then, the Rays got a hit and the kids beat the cowbell like it owed them money.  I think the whole section turned around and glared at them.

Jenn B.:  UGGGGGHHHH!  IT’S DRIVING ME CRAZY!

Eric’s Brain:  Yes!  Yes!  Yes!

Eric’s Mouth:  What is?

Jenn B.:  The fucking Liberty Bell that that those idiot children are smashing in my ear drums!  Screw this, I’ve had enough.

Jenn got up and turned around.  I got excited.

Jenn B.:  Hey assholes!  If you don’t…

Jeff:  (seeing the train wreck coming and heading it off)  Excuse me kids, do you mind keeping it down?

Then Jeff went on to politely explain the correct times to hit the cowbell and not to just beat it repeatedly throughout the whole game.  Jenn sat down without incident.  Looks like Jeff really is the guy that can date Jenn- he tames her.

Eric’s Mouth:  Thanks Jeff!

Eric’s Brain:  Screw you Jeff!  I really wanted to see Jenn throw a kid down the stairs.

 

Later on in the 5th inning, a fight broke out in the section to the right of us.  Some white trash looking dude was screaming at a female and the whole section seemed to be sticking up for her.  The first funny thing was watching security run up the stairs to row zzz.  It looked like the end of a triathlon.  I thought one security guy was going to pass out.  Then they got an explanation of what happened from some guy in a polo, and instantly decided to put the white trash looking guy in a headlock. 

This was hilarious because I have been to a lot of Rays games and NEVER seen security touch anybody.  At a Bucs or USF game, you can get thrown out for breathing on someone wrong, but since the Rays have no fans, they seem to respect their paying customers a lot more.  Usually if a problem breaks out, they just move your seat to another section.  You could literally murder someone in the bathroom at a Rays game and then get your seats upgraded if you had paid to get in; as long as you agree to come back and pay again another night.

Did the white trash guy leave?  Absolutely not!  He fought the security people all the way down the stairs, screaming at the poor woman the whole time.  He kept it classy.

 

Then it was time for the running of the Pepsi bottles (1).  If you haven’t seen this, what happens is a foot race between three giant mascot bottles from third base to home plate.  There is the brown Pepsi bottle, the green Sierra Mist bottle and a white Aquafina bottle.  Then there is Raymond the Ray (the big Rays mascot) who always creates some sort of mayhem and during the race.  As stupid as this sounds, I find the running of the bottles mesmerizing.

The race began and the bottles were off!  The brown Pepsi  bottle took off and got a huge lead with the white Aquafina bottle in second and the stupid little green Sierra Mist bottle (who never wins) lagging behind.  Then, the white bottle started to catch up at the half way point!  But then, the brown bottle found a second wind and took off, he was not going to be caught!

Right as the brown bottle was about to cross the finish line, Raymond the Ray tackled him and started hitting him!  The white bottle flew past them and took first place!  The white bottle had won because Raymond cheated and took out the faster brown bottle.

Eric Prae (screaming):  OHH SHIT THAT’S RACIST!!!

Everyone in my section stopped what they were doing, turned around and stared at me.  One African American guy two rows ahead of us started laughing his ass off.  He seemed to be the only one who found that funny.

Eric Prae:  Come on people!  That’s funny.

Jenn B.:  God I hate you.

 

Then it was time for the concert.  We moved from the o-zone layer that was the third deck, to seats in the first deck that were much closer to the show.  I had forgotten what breathing normal air was like. 

The overhead lights went dim, the stage lit up, it was time for Bret!

Then it wasn’t.  No Bret, just some guy that came out on stage and gave us a five minute infomercial about what we could do to make Bret Michaels money.  We could watch his new reality show on VH1.  We could buy his new book.  We could go to his website.  We could go see him in Orlando this winter.  Did they mention that he had a book out?  Yes?  Well let’s talk about it more.  Buy it, buy it, buy it!

It was five minutes of my life that I want back.

Then “Welcome to the Jungle” came on blaring over the speakers.

Eric Prae:  Wait, wait, wait.  I don’t think this is a Poison song.

Jenn B.:  It’s not, dumb-ass.  It’s Guns & Roses.

Eric Prae:  Oh.  So why are we listening to it?

Jenn B.:  No idea.

Then Bret Michaels came out on stage!  He talked about how blessed he was and how much he loved Tampa.  He asked us if we have bought his book.  We haven’t?  Oh, well it is available to buy at…

Then Bret played Sweet Home Alabama.

Eric Prae:  I’m pretty sure this isn’t a Poison song either.

Jenn B.:  I noticed.

Then Bret took a break to tell us how blessed he was and again, how much he loved Tampa.  Did you know he loved Tampa?  You do now.  Oh and by the way, his book is available at…

Bret then decided to tell us about his new reality show on VH1.  A bunch of cameras came out and Bret announced that he was going to record a song for them as the new opening to his new show.  Oh and by the way, his book is available at…

What song did Bret play for us?  “What I Got” by Sublime.  A classic song; when it’s played by Sublime.  Bret and company absolutely murdered it.

Jenn B.:  Killing a Sublime song should be illegal!  (Jenn and I are HUGE Sublime fans)

Eric Prae:  I… Think… I… Am… Going… To… Faint…

After that, the cameras went away and Bret reminded us about his new reality show on VH1.  Oh, and by the way, his book is available at…

Bret played some “new hits” next.  Then took a break to tell us how blessed he is, how much more he now loves Tampa, you can see him in Orlando this winter, he has a new reality show on VH1, and Oh, by the way, his book is available at…

Then Bret talked about his recovery and how he found God.  He also professed undying love for his daughters.  Brett Michaels?  This is the same front man for an 80’s band that dabbled in everything from drug abuse, to putting strippers through med-school, to who knows what?  The same guy is now telling us that he has found God because he almost died?  That’s like a serial killer telling the sentencing jury that he found God in the 4 weeks he spent in jail awaiting trial.  I thought this was funny.  Nobody else seemed to share in my sentiment.

Finally, after many more “new hits”, confessions of love for Tampa, plugs for his new reality show and book, Bret played “Every Rose Has It’s Thorn”.  It was awesome.  I sang along at the top of my lungs.  All of a sudden, waiting four hours for this very one song didn’t seem so stupid.  After that song the crowd went crazy, Bret took a bow, grabbed the microphone and said:  “by the way, my book is available at…”

For an encore Bret played “Nothin’ but a Good Time”, but we decided to leave.  It seemed a good time to get out before Brett took more time out of my life to plug his new TV show.

What did I learn from all of this:  You can’t get a better deal than tickets to a baseball game, concert, free food and drinks anywhere else but the Trop.  Jenn hates children with cowbells.  Every rose still has its thorn.  Bret Michaels LOVES Tampa, he has a new reality show coming out, oh, and by the way, his book is available at…
 
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Team Struggle vs. College Education!

Jenn B.:

The other day, I was sitting in my personal “office” at work, blankly staring at my computer screen when I had an epiphany.  Ok, so two things are wrong with that statement.  I don’t have an office, but I like to refer to my cubicle as one so that I can feel more important when speaking to people who are obviously higher up in the social caste system.  The second thing is the epiphany- I don’t think I had one of those, but I definitely had a realization that many people my age have had or will have eventually.  When it comes to the corporate world, I am a complete waste of space.  Yes, a worthless sack of human excrement. 

If you’re reading this, and you’re about my age, you may be in the same predicament that I find myself in.  You wake up at the same time every day, Monday-Friday, put on your big people clothes, and arrive at a job that you most likely would choose chewing gravel over attending.  You probably agreed to the job position solely based on the fact that you were told that “there is so much money to be made,” or “there is a lot of growth potential with your go-getter attitude.”  Well, now you’re a little pissed off because you’re not making shit for money, and the only place your go-getter attitude has landed you is the never ending labyrinth of miserable cubicle mongers.    

This is the only time in my life where I may admit to ever being jealous of Eric Prae.  He was once a part of the corporate land of misery, but decided to take the leap and make a change.  Now he is irritatingly happy, finds it completely acceptable to be drunk at 11am on a Tuesday, and somehow still manages to make ends meet.  Eric is in no way jobless, he actually works very hard.  But he somehow found a way to work hard doing jobs he wants  to do (coaching, writing, stand up, etc).  I still wonder if he strips, or gives happy endings for cash.  Either way, he has a smirk on his face when I come home whining about my long day at work, probably because the only damper to his day was the fact that Tux the Puppy ate his favorite lip balm, or that he didn’t get enough sun block on his pasty white ass while writing at the beach last weekend. 

One thing that my favorite red-head and I have in common: we both have great college degrees that are about as useful as the pull out method.  Our whole lives, we played a sport that we were very good at; Eric played football, and I played golf (I’d appreciate if you kept the butch jokes to a minimum).  We were well known around the city we grew up in for those respective sports, and we each ended up with some sort of scholarship because of our athletic inclinations.  I obtained my B.S. in Physical Education, and Eric has a B.S. in Corporate Finance, or as I refer to them as “Bullshit Degrees in Career Fields You Will Never be Affiliated With, Past The Day You Sport Your Cap & Gown.”  They have also been known as a B.S. in “Hey Dad, you dumped half your retirement fund into my bank account on a weekly basis, just so I could afford to help pay the electric bill at the liquor store.” At least if I was going to waste years of my life and thousands of dollars in trade for a piece of paper, I did treat college as a social buffet line.

I went to college to become a Physical Education Teacher, and again, I would appreciate you keeping the lesbian comments to a minimum.  I’m sure you’re adding all of this up in your head: played golf, gym teacher, and throw in the fact that I drove an SUV?  Yea, all I needed was a set of Yosemite Sam mud-flaps on that thing and I was a shoe-in to be the president of GLAAD.  For the record, I am in no way against lesbians; lesbians prefer innies, while I prefer outies.  No big deal.

I chose Phys Ed because I liked kickball so much as a kid, and sweatpants were already a staple in my wardrobe.  This career path seemed like a no-brainer.  I neglected to think about how I, the Queen of No-Filter-Land, would be responsible for shaping the minds of the Nation’s Youth.  I also neglected to realize that no human being with responsibilities, or a need to eat on a regular basis, can survive on a salary of $27,000 per year.  I would have inevitably become a hooker.  After school hours, of course, but I still think administration would have looked down upon that.  I was up shit’s creek without a paddle, with that degree.

To this day, I can’t believe I was actually awarded a degree that declared I was ok to teach children.  Don’t get me wrong, I love kids, but I am in no way in the right mindset to teach them the difference between right and wrong, or not to punch someone in the face who calls your mom fat.  To me, that is a logical solution to any problem.

I guess my point is that; unless it is in a highly specialized area like Orthopedics, a college degree doesn’t do much for most.  What does it do?  It adds to the never ending stack of bills piling up on your coffee table, under all the beer cans and Popsicle wrappers.  If you feel that your college degree was a waste of time, like the great Michael Jackson once preached, “You are not alone.”

 

                                                                                                 ***

 

Eric Prae:

I have a really cool degree in corporate finance.  After college I was lucky enough to get a great job with a solid corporation, doing something corporate finace-ish because my daddy was a vice-president there.  At the age of 22, I was making money, owning crap and making decisions.  I was living what most people call “the American Dream”.

The real difference between Jenn and me: acceptance.  I have accepted that I won’t ever play for the Lakers.  I have accepted that I won’t ever have a 9 inch penis.  I have accepted that my college degree is an $80,000 constant reminder that I once traded five years of my life for a piece of paper that I can’t afford to frame.

Deep down I am a deaf beach bum that would rather spend money on another tattoo than eat in a fancy restaurant. I’ve come to terms with it.  I’d rather eat canned fruit and drink beer between beach volleyball games than be promised a promotion.  I can stand on a stage in front of a few hundred people, spot light in my eyes, telling jokes for as long as the club will stay open; but cold calling the suburbs embarrasses the crap out of me.

The business world just seemed to me like a lot of tall white people selling shit to other white people that they didn’t really need.  Over and over again, I found myself working for more money so I could buy the next trinket and keep up with the Joneses.  Then I needed money to pay for the insurance on that trinket.  Then I needed money to feed that trinket with fuel.  Then I would realize that there weren’t enough hours in the day after working to afford the trinket, to actually enjoy the trinket.  So fuck it.

 

You were better off doing something stupid…

 

You think that’s bad advice?  I could give you examples of people like Bill Gates.  He is the richest man in America and he dropped out of college.  But, people like Bill are really smart, and also really boring to write about.  I am going to make the assumption that Bill would have been successful even with a college degree.  I could show you the Forbes Top 10 Richest Americans list, which is just full of old white people who started Wal-Mart, Bloomberg and Oracle (1).  I could reference a lot of professional athletes that never graduated, but they are extremely gifted.  This is a comedy website, let’s have some fun.  I give to you:

Top 5 Struggle Bus Celebrities That Are Way Richer Than You Will Ever Be, While Also Being Way Dumber Than You!!!!!

I’m not ranking them in any order of money or stupidity, because I don’t give a shit about order.  Just know that everyone on this list will make you feel really bad about having a college degree.


#1 Mike “the Situation”- from MTV’s Jersey Shore:

Really this spot could go to anyone on the Jersey Shore, but we are going to use the Situation because he has turned himself into a millionaire.  I can’t find any information about one day this moron spent in a college classroom, yet he is reporting personal earnings of $10 Million this year (2).

You laughed at him on MTV?  This midget hit the gym, gave himself an alter ego, acted like a total d-bag, and is worth millions.  You paid for a college education. Who’s laughing now?    By the time season 5 of Jersey Shore comes out, Mike will be able to own his own college.  That’s probably the only way he could get a degree.  He makes more in two episodes of Jersey Shore than Jenn and I made combined  last year. 

Mike Sorrentino- 1; you and your college degree- 0.

 


#2  Kim Kardashian- from every magazine you have ever seen on the grocery store shelf:

Again, we could use any Kardashian here, but I like to research Kim the most because I have “studied” her sex tape 32 times.  Did Kim attend college?  Here is what I found on the internet: “Kim Kardashian attended Santa Monica city college at least for a few classes...I sat next to her in a summer school class in 1999 or 2000” (3).  If that doesn’t want to make you beat your old biology professor with the $200 book he made you buy, then nothing does.

What are Kim’s talents?  Ummmmm, pretty much what she did on her sex tape.  Her website says she has “entrepreneurial business skills.”  I am about to take my college degree, hug it to my chest, and jump of my apartment building.

 


#3  Wishbone- the Dog:

Wishbone the Dog has his own television series.  He is a fucking dog.  He has won four Emmy Awards and never took one college class.  Just by being a human, you are smarter than him, yet much, much poorer.  If you politely put your college degree on the floor, Wishbone will shit on it for you.

 


#4  Paris Hilton- hotel heiress, cocaine trafficker, and all around waste of air:

Paris Hilton has a GED.  I am officially nominating her as the least talented but famous “actress”, “singer” and “model” that I can think of.  She has a net worth of millions/billions; I cook a $12 Campbell’s Soup dinner for my girlfriend.

“But Eric, that’s not fair!  She was born into mass amounts of wealth; you can’t compare her immense income and educational failures to our meager income and educational successes!  We are on a different playing field!”

That’s my point!  Instead of piling up college loans, you should have been looking for richer parents!  Or take Jenn’s approach and try to get knocked up by professional football players!  No one cares how smart you are or what your degree is in.  They would rather watch the Simple Life re-runs.  Stupidity is alive and well my friends.  Your college degree would be worth ten times what it is now if you just took it out of its frame and had Paris autograph it for you.

 

#5  Spencer Pratt and Heidi the Plastic Doll-  televisions best couple:

If these two don’t convince you that going to college was dumb and doing something crazy and stupid would have made you millions, then nothing will.  I can’t tell you one interesting thing about these two besides that Heidi’s plastic surgeon’s life’s motto is: bigger is better!  I’ve never seen one episode of the Hills, because my IQ is higher than 80.

But if it wasn’t, I’d probably be a star…

Jenn loathes Spencer’s flesh colored beard.  I loathe the fact that he could buy everything I own for $50.

 


So whether you use your college degree to sit in a cubicle all day like Jenn, or you use it to hold up the low end of your book shelf like me, just know that someday those college loans will be paid off.   Someday you will no longer be in massive debt.  After a few more years of corporate servitude you will probably change your name and move to some island where the loan officer will never find you.  Or you can just do something stupid and make millions.

Thanks for reading my something stupid.


Sources Cited (aka- Shit I used)
1- The Forbes 400
http://www.forbes.com/wealth/forbes-400
2- NEWSWIRE:  Jersey Shore's The Situation will make $5 million this year by Sean O’Neil
http://www.avclub.com/articles/jersey-shores-the-situation-will-make-5-million-th,44475/
3- Kim Kardashian’s Website
http://kimkardashian.celebuzz.com/bio/
 
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Booze, Bums & Baseball!

This is part 3 of a 4 part short story by Eric and Jenn about the Beef Studs and the University of South Florida soccer and football games!  Part 1 - 3 is in Eric's Archives.  Part 4 is in Jenn's Archives.  Check it out!

So there I was standing on the edge of Raymond James Stadium property, still fully painted, with nothing but time, alcohol, a crumpled up free baseball ticket, and a new friend.  My night was just beginning…

After the Random Old guy on the bike gave me a free ticket to the Tampa Yankees game, the first thing I did was try to re-connect with el Bing, Jenn, and the rest of my friends.  I reached in my pocket for my cell phone.  It wasn’t there.  It was in el Bing’s purse.  Hmmm, no cell phone, no car keys, no one to talk to but myself.

I saw a police officer standing on the corner and walked over to him.

Eric Prae:  Sir, could you call me a cab?  I need to get home.

This officer was standing at a traffic light obviously waiting for the USF game to conclude so he could direct traffic.  He was talking to another officer.

Officer:  (without even looking at me)  The cab stand is just up the road.  (He pointed back towards the stadium.

Eric Prae:  I know.  I just came from there.  Looks like the cabs don’t show up until the game is over.  Could you please call me one?

Officer:  No.  Go over to the cab stand area, I’m busy.

I was now 0 for 2 with Tampa’s finest for the night.  I really didn’t feel like explaining that I wasn’t technically allowed back on Raymond James Stadium Property or the cab stand for a while because I was escorted out of a football game for blowing a horn.  Too bad he was too busy shooting the shit with his friend to use his radio or cell phone to help a citizen in need.  I really could have used the cab.  Or, a friend.  Or, a police officer that actually cared.

Since I couldn’t take a cab back to el Bing’s car, I just started to walk in that general direction.  I figured it was about a mile or two away and she and Jenn would be waiting for me at the parking spot.  I started drinking, singing and hippy-skipping towards the parking lot.  Then out of nowhere I saw a yellow car coming towards me!  It was a cab!  My tired legs were saved.

I took the cab the mile or two back to the car.  Cost $5; and a lot of attitude that I only tipped the dude $2 on a $3 cab ride.  I ran over the grassy knoll at that separated the road from the front of the parking lot and saw the car.

Wait, that’s not our car!  The car is missing!  I turned back towards the stadium.   The lights were still on, the game was still going.  They must have left!  FUCK!

Life Lesson:  If you or any of your friends ever gets separated from you at some sort of event and there is no way to contact them, DON’T TAKE THE CAR AND LEAVE!  The car serves as a home base.  It is the only place that I could go to meet my people.  I figured that I would just get to the car and drink and talk to myself until the game was over!  They knew I didn’t have a cell phone on me.  The car was my only link to my friends, and now it is gone.  I am totally screwed.  Why would they take the car?  Why?

Because they are women.

Then it hit me.  I just paid a cabby to take me in a direction two more miles away from my house.  I pissed him off so he won’t come back.  I have no phone.  The car is gone.  My friends are long gone with it.

I now only have $35, ID and 1 ½ flasks of Crown Royal.  Wait!  What else is in my pocket?  A crumpled up baseball ticket!!!

I had forgotten about the Random Old Guy who generously gave me a baseball ticket.  The stadium is right around the corner!  I decided right there to go to the game and get hammered.  Why not?  I would just have to worry about how I was getting home later.  Then I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Haphazard Bum:  Hey man you got a dollar?

Eric Prae:  Depends, you got a car?

Haphazard Bum:  Naw man!  I ain’t got no car.  I just need some cash.

Eric Prae:  You need cash?  I am stranded here.  I just can’t afford to give anything away right now.  I’m sorry.

Haphazard Bum:  Come on man, just a couple bucks!

Did he just go from asking for one single dollar to a couple bucks?  Inflation is a bitch in this town!

I reached in my pocket and the Haphazard Bum’s eyes lit up like my puppy when you open the food pantry.  I pulled a Struggle Bus website card out and handed it to him.

Haphazard Bum:  What the fuck is this?

Eric Prae:  It’s a promotional card!  If you go to my website and email me, I will come back and give you a couple bucks.  That way you get your money and I get a few extra hits this month.

Haphazard Bum:  I don’t have a computer.  What am I going to do with a business card?

Eric Prae:  Roll a blunt with it!  I don’t know.

I started skipping away towards the baseball stadium.  I felt bad for not helping the bum out, but I figured it would cost me about $25 to get home by cab, so I only had $10 that I could use on dinner and drinks.  I had to be economical and prudent.

I got to the stadium, walked in the front gate and was amazed how beautiful the Tampa Yankees stadium is all light up on a great summer night!  I had been to that stadium before to take a tour of it when I first moved to Tampa, but I have never been to an actual game there.  I quickly got in the food line and bought a hotdog with the works and the largest diet coke they had.  Then I walked to the sink in the men’s room and emptied the remaining alcohol from both of my flasks into my XXXL diet cola.  I stirred it up and took a sip.  It was perfect.  I then looked up at the mirror over the sink and started laughing.

Looking back at me was a version of myself I wasn’t quite ready to see.  I was covered in paint that was starting to wear off in places that I leaned up against the walls in the police holding cell.  My arm had a bruise from where Undercover was grabbing me.  My hair was a ginger mess of sweat, green paint and hair gel.  I was going on about 4 hours of sleep from the night before.  I was beat from working all day.  I looked like something Rocky the Bull mascot of USF would throw up after a long night of drinking.

And why the hell am I still shirtless???

I put my shirt that was hanging from my shorts on, cleaned my face in the sink, grabbed my dog and drink, and headed to my seats.

I walked up to some old usher, who looked like had seen better days, for a little stadium assistance.

Eric Prae:  Hey man, can you tell me where my seat is?  I owe this old guy a beer for the free ticket he gave me and I want to know where to find him.

The usher just stared at me.

Old Usher:  Umm, if you would just read your ticket it says general admission.  You can sit anywhere you want.

I looked down on the ticket.  It had GENERAL ADMISSION printed across it in bold ink.  I looked like an idiot, again.

Eric Prae:  I guess they don’t really need such helpful ushers then do they?

What a jerk!  Seemed to be disgruntled usher night at the USF and the Tampa Yankees game.

I took a seat in the second row.  That random stranger who was nice enough to give me a free ticket wasn’t going to get his cold refreshing reward after all.

I sat down in an empty seat, took a bite of my dinner and looked around.  There were hundreds of children everywhere!  The Tampa Yankees weren’t a Double A baseball team!  They were a day care service!

Everywhere you looked was a few slumped over, dozing off adults, with every kid from their block running around screaming.  It looked like Chucky Cheese with a baseball game going on in the middle of it.  Then a naked child, wearing only a diaper, half shorts and some kiddy Crocs, ran down the aisle in front of me.  I gave him/her a high five.  The child stopped, pointed at my Silly Band, giggled and then ran off to high five someone else. 

I looked over to see this child talking to some other adults.  I immediately felt better because he/she had found their parents.  Nope.  They were pointing back at me hoping I was the parent.  The child came running back.  He/She high fived me again and sat in the seat next to me.  I just started eating my hotdog and drinking my Crown and diet. 

I was sitting there in full body paint next to a naked 1 to 2ish year old in a diaper, praying that the parents of this young person knew where they were and actually cared what they were doing.  I hate to judge parents because I have never been one, but I feel like I would have a little more knowledge of where my 1 to 2ish year old is at a baseball park. 

So I just sat there next to my new friend.  I figured that he/she was safe next to me; I could keep this child out of harm’s way for a bit.  They were probably just as stranded as I was.  Plus the kid was getting a kick out of my green and gold skin color.

I looked down at him/her.

Eric Prae:  Hello!  I’m Eric.  What’s your name?

No answer.  Just a blank stare and more poking at my green and gold skin.

Eric Prae:  Cool.  I’ll call you “kid.”

As the game went on, I finished my hotdog and got about half way down my Crown and diet when I made another friend.  Some random four year old walked up to me, sat on the other side of me and started talking.

4 Year Old Maria:  Hi!  I’m Maria!  I’m four! (No, I’m not using any child’s real name)

I looked around for her parents.  Didn’t see any.

Eric Prae:  Hi!  My name is Eric and I’m getting punked!

4 Year Old Maria:  What’s Punked?

Eric Prae:  Punked is a TV show where your friends have some elaborate set up that turns into a practical joke that gets played on you.  The TV show goes on until you get genuinely frustrated and then some really bad actor named Ashton jumps out and pretends everything is cool.  It’s a crappy show.

4 Year Old Maria:  (with a confused look) You’re on TV?

Eric Prae:  I have to be.  It’s really the only explanation of how I got dragged out of a football game by an undercover cop who just happened to be standing by my entrance, for blowing a horn that a security allowed me to bring in.  Then I got processed, and let go without being searched for my contraband, which I just happened to be hiding in my crotch.  Then I found that my date took the car we came in and took off for no apparent reason other than to just strand me in the middle of Dale Mabry highway with no cell phone.  Then a random stranger gave me a ticket to a baseball game that just happened to be next to where the car was missing from.  Then I sat down and started talking to random children who apparently have no guardians.  I’m telling ya, that first base coach is going to turn around any minute now, take of his helmet and be Ashton f-ing Kutcher.  My best friend Jenn is just a big enough d-bag to put me on TV.  I’ll bet you everything I own she is behind this!

4 Year Old Maria:  You’re funny!  I like your Silly Band!  It’s pink!  I have Silly Bands!

She started showing me each of her 2000 Silly Bands one by f-ing one.

Eric Prae:  (cutting her off and pointing to the random 2ish year old sitting to my right) This is my friend Kid.

4 Year Old Maria:  No, that’s Jamey.

Eric Prae:  You know this kid?

4 Year Old Maria:  Yes!  Hi Jamey!

The random 1 to 2ish year old perked up and smiled. 

Then Maria’s parent walked up to me.

Maria’s Parent:  Hi, are they bothering you?  Why are you wearing green paint?

Eric Prae:  I’m Aqua-Man.  They’re fine.  But this one needs some clothes, it’s getting cold.

It really wasn’t cold at all; I just didn’t understand why this kid was naked and sitting next to a stranger.

The game ended with the Tampa Yankees losing to Toronto’s Double A team by one run.  I finished my drink and stood up.  Then I instantly regretted that decision.  Turns out when you bring enough alcohol for three people and drink it all yourself, you get a bit hammered in the process.  My brain was clear, but my legs were cold, inebriated, tired, and didn’t want to work.

I gained my composure, said goodbye to my friends and left the stadium.  I started walking back towards the cab stands.  Again, no cabs.  The USF game must have just finished.  I decided I would walk towards home until I found a bar with a phone or a cab.  I could walk safely all the way down Dale Mabry to Spruce and then worst case hitch-hike to a bar.  Yet with my current state of inebriation, the walking was slow, steady and getting tiresome.  Time to once again to get resourceful.

I saw a stranded car on the side of the road.  It had a driver in it.  I walked up.

Eric’s Brain:  Please don’t shoot me.  Please don’t shoot me.  Please don’t shoot me.

Eric Prae:  (sticking my head in the back passenger side window)  Hi!  I’m Eric.  I’m stranded.  Can I have a ride?

A really nice older gentleman looked back at me.  We shared about 10 seconds of complete awkward silence.

The stranger started laughing at me.

Ryan:  Are you wearing body paint?

Eric Prae:  Tonight was tryouts for the circus.  I thought the body paint would help, but it turns out that my red hair and drinking problems made me too overqualified to be a traveling clown.

Ryan:  (laughing)  Sure, hop in the back.  My name is Ryan.  That’s Chief!

I hopped in the back passenger side door.  I looked next to me to see a huge dog.

Eric Prae:  Hi Chief!

The dog just gazed at me.

Eric Prae:  What are we doing on the side of the road?

Ryan:  Waiting for my son Mike to call so we can pick him up from the USF game.  I am meeting him on MLK blvd but I’m not perfectly sure where it is.

Luckily he had a drunken local comedian in the back seat.  I’m like a Garmin that slurs its words and makes your car smell like Crown Royal.  I showed him it was the road behind us.

After we picked up Mike, Ryan just drove me home.  I am assuming it was really far out of his way, but if it was, he didn’t show it.  I thought it amazing that after encountering some of the meanest people I have ever met in Tampa (Hobbit, Undercover, Giggles, Officer, Old Guy Usher) that I had the fortune to run into the stranger on the bicycle who gave me a free ticket and then two absolute saints who were willing to help a smashed idiot in need.

Ryan and Mike never asked for anything more than just friendly conversation.  They didn’t want gas money.  They didn’t even want a thank you.  They just wanted to do a good deed for a fellow human being.  I wish I had a way to repay them for their generosity, more than the 1000 times I thanked them as we pulled into my complex.

Just as I was getting out of their car, Jenn and el Bing pulled up to the gate.  They started honking the horn and screaming at me.  I ran over to them and hopped in their back seat.

If Jenn was a good person, with caring feelings, and a heart of gold- this is what she would have said…

Jenn B.:  Where have you been?  We’ve been worried about you for hours!!!  Are you ok?

But, since my best friend is a completely insensitive, selfish bitch- this is more along the lines of what she had to say…

Jenn B.:  You stupid asshole.  Where the hell were you?  You do realize that I went that whole game without a flask, don’t you!?  Get in the car, and shut up- we are going to get McNuggets.

I laid down on her backseat and just started laughing.  I didn’t know where to begin with explaining that night’s story.  That is how I struggle!



Check out USF Part 4:  Jenn's Version of Eric Get's Kicked Out of Raymond James Stadium in Jenn's Blog archives.  It is the USF Football category.

 
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Eric Gets Kicked Out of Raymond James Stadium!

This is part 2 of a 4 part short story by Eric and Jenn about the Beef Studs and the University of South Florida soccer and football games!  Part 1 - 3 is in Eric's Archives.  Part 4 is in Jenn's Archives.  Check it out!

So, on a random Friday, I decided to paint my body with a University of South Florida student group and lose my voice at a women’s soccer game.  It was a great warm up for what was going to be the main event for the weekend: getting my body painted, grabbing a cold drink, and screaming my head off at the University of South Florida home football opener!

After having to spend a whole hour in the shower the night before getting paint off of me, I headed up towards the USF campus to get re-painted for that night’s festivity.  Once again, the Beef Studs were nice enough to paint a total stranger who doesn’t even attend their school.  I even got to have a very absurd political discussion with a Beef Stud member “Mumbles” about our conflicting political views.  I have weird political squabbles with people all the time, but having one with a shirtless man who was multitasking by painting my naked body while also sharing his conservative political outlook was an all time high on the awkward scale.  I think FOX News should have a show where Mumbles and I stand naked and paint each other while also disagreeing over the latest political agenda.  It would be the most visually stimulating and uncomfortable show on television.  Guaranteed ratings!

Then I went to work.

If you just thought to yourself: “Wait, you went to your place of employment in full body paint?”

Yes I did! 

That’s what I call dedication to having a good time.  I’m a volleyball coach and a writer; I’m not the President of Sweden.  What’s the big deal about a little body paint on my coaching uniform?

After work was over and the laughter subsided from my co-workers about being covered in green, gold and white paint, I headed home to wait for “el Bing” to get out of her friend’s wedding that she was attending.  I was sitting on the floor (I didn’t want to get paint on our new couches), petting the puppy, drinking a cold beer and watching other college football, when I had this text conversation with el Bing:

El Bing:  THERE IS NO OPEN BAR AT THIS WEDDING!!!  THIS SUCKS!!!  I AM NOT PAYING $8 FOR A DRINK AT MY FRIENDS WEDDING.

Eric Prae:  You know where there is an open bar, my kitchen.  I started without you.

El Bing:  I’ll be leaving here ASAP.

Eric Prae:  Take your time. I have a few more FREE beers to drink!

El Bing:  Who doesn’t have an open bar at a wedding?

Eric Prae:  Obviously your lame ass friend!

El Bing:  HAHAHAHA!  See you in a bit.

 

Let’s take a second and break down the proper “open bar at a wedding” policy.  I love weddings.  They are a great celebration of two people that are so madly in love with each other that they want to bring everyone who matters to them together and have a huge party.  It is an awesome time to see old friends, meet new ones, and share in the excitement and happiness of the newlyweds; as long as said newlyweds follow one simple rule:  hand out as much free booze as possible.

If you are having a wedding, then you are probably expecting people to travel a great distance to see you, pay for an expensive gift to give you, and blow a whole Saturday celebrating your happiness.  Think of all the work that your family members did to help plan this gala of merriment.  Think of all the work your best man/maid of honor did to prepare a speech about your long lasting friendship.  Think of all the money that people gave you to help you put this event on.  YOU OWE THEM BOOZE!  LOTS AND LOTS OF BOOZE!

An open bar is the way to say “thank you for giving up a Saturday during football season to sit in some old uncomfortable church in 100 degree weather and then watch me be happy”.  An open bar shows that you understand the sacrifice that people made to make your wedding day a success.  An open bar means people have the freedom to get drunk and hook up.  An open bar means your friends can drink their faces off without worry, because at an open bar EVERYONE drinks their faces off!

If you don’t have an open bar at your wedding, then you’re more than just a douche bag.  You’re an inconsiderate douche bag!

But Eric:  What if I don’t drink?

 That doesn’t mean everyone else can’t drink and have a good time! 

What if I can’t afford an open bar?  They are expensive!

Then skip out on the flowers!  Does your wedding party really need eight matching red and orange tuxedos?  Get cheaper invitations and go get a keg!  We throw out the invitations anyway, tool-bag!

 

Got off on a tangent there, sorry.  Back to the story:

El Bing finely shows up, takes one look at me and keels over laughing.

El Bing:  When did you go paint your body?

Eric Prae:  Before work!  I stopped by the campus this morning.

El Bing:  You went to work in full body paint?

Eric Prae:  You expected less from me?

El Bing:  You’re an idiot!

Then I got this text from my BFF Jenn.

Jenn B.:  HELP!  I am hot, bored, sweaty and need Crown Royal!

Eric Prae:  I am on my way to save you!

This is everything that I packed in my shorts for the game: my ID, $40, and two huge flasks of Crown Royal.  That’s it.  El Bing threw my cell phone in her purse.  I put on my bull hat, grabbed my trusty vuvuzela that I got at the game the night before, and we headed to Raymond James Stadium for the first football Saturday of the year!

It was a beautiful Florida evening as we walked into the stadium a few minutes before kickoff.  We went through security, the ticket gate, and were heading up the escalator towards the student section when all chaos broke out.

While standing on the never ending escalator to get to our section, el Bing and I were high fiving other USF fans, doing USF cheers with the crowd, and just basking in the excitement and enjoyment that only a college football Saturday can bring.  I started blowing my vuvuzela and the crowd started cheering me on!  For just a moment I was Maximus!  I was the center of all attention.  I was at a game with a slamming hot date.  I was VERY happy.  The more I blew my horn the more excited everybody on the escalator got.  So I just kept blowing it.

At the top of the escalator someone put their hands on my chest and started yelling at me.  I instantly got confused.  I looked side to side, no one was there.  Then I looked at el Bing, she was looking down.  I did the same.

Standing in front of me was some four foot tall woman wearing some sort of ushers outfit.  She was yelling at me.  I instantly started giggling.  Some hobbit was trying to communicate with me and I couldn’t understand a word she was saying.  She pulled me aside so the crowd could move around us.  I turned on my hearing aids because I couldn’t read her lips since I was Godzilla and she was exceptionally vertically challenged.  This is how I the conversation went as best as I could understand:

Hobbit Usher:  You can’t have the horn!  It’s restricted.

Eric Prae:  Umm, I went through security and it didn’t seem to be a problem. 

She tried to grab it from me.  I then held it above my head where she obviously couldn’t reach for it.  Everyone around me thought this was hysterical.

Eric Prae:  Umm, they gave these out at the USF game last night.  I would really like to keep it.

The crowd started cheering me on again and while also yelling at the Hobbit Usher to leave me alone.  I put the vuvuzela to my lips and once again made my horn ring into the night sky.

The Hobbit Usher finely took her hands off of me and started making a call on her cell phone.  Before she even touched three buttons on her phone, someone else grabbed my arm and pulled me around.

Once again, I looked down.

Some five foot man in street clothes had my arm.  Why was everyone at this game so f-ing short?  What gives anyone the right to put their hands on me like that?  What law did I break to piss everyone off so badly?

Undercover Cop:  You’re fucking out of here buddy!!!

Eric Prae:  What?  What did I do?  Who the hell are you?

The undercover cop said something to me that I totally couldn’t understand, pulled out some badge from under his shirt, and literally put it in my face.  He actually thought he was Will Smith from Bad Boys.  Then his short friend with some horrible blonde man-ponytail came over to “assist in the arrest”.  Was this second guy also a cop?  I have no idea because he never made it clear.  He just smirked with his stupid southern grin and his “I’m never going to ever get laid” man-ponytail and enjoyed my misery.

Eric Prae:  Whoa, wait a minute.  I am getting thrown out for blowing a horn?

Undercover Cop:  You were blowing it in her face (pointing to the Hobbit Usher), you were being disrespectful!

Eric Prae:  How could I have blown it in her face?  She was calling to see if I could keep it!

Undercover Cop:  She was calling to get you thrown out asshole.

I looked over at the lady.  I couldn’t believe she was letting this guy throw me out.  I didn’t say anything nasty to her, I never laid one hand on her (she touched me) and I didn’t blow anything in her face.  I just starred at her in astonishment, giving her my best “come on, you know this is unreasonable” look.  She just walked away and ignored me.

I turned back around and saw el Bing standing there all alone.  Shit, I really didn’t want to leave her there and ruin the game for her also.  Time to change strategies; Time to suck it up, lose my dignity and just get out of the predicament.

I broke away from the undercover police officer and approached the Hobbit Usher.

Eric Prae:  I’m sorry.  I apologize.  I didn’t mean to disrespect you.  I didn’t know horns were illegal.  Again, I am sorry!

I handed her my prize vuvuzela in defeat.  She had won.

Eric Prae:  Again, I’m really sorry.

Then the asshole undercover cop grabbed me once more!  He whipped me around.

Undercover Cop:  Let’s go!

Eric Prae:  What???  I JUST APOLOGIZED INFRONT OF THE WHOLE STADIUM!

Undercover Cop:  I don’t care!  You’re out of here.

At that moment three things became very clear to me: 

1- The Hobbit Usher, Undercover Cop and his man-ponytailed friend “Giggles” were enjoying this tremendously.  No matter what I said or did, I was getting thrown out.

2- I was leaving my date all alone and there was nothing I could do about it.  That really hurt, I really felt bad that my stupidity had such a negative impact on someone I cared about.

3- If Undercover or Giggles searches my pockets and finds the half bottle of Crown Royal I have stashed away, I’m going to get arrested for real.

Undercover and Giggles started pulling me towards the exit ramp.  I took the hat off my head, put it on el Bing and mouthed the words “I’m sorry”.  To me that was code words for: “go find Jenn and have a good time, I’m a big boy, I’ll be fine”. 

We then started walking towards the exit, until we walked right by the exit.

Eric Prae:  Wait, the exit is back there.  Where are you taking me?  Aren’t you just gonna let me go?

Between smirks, Giggles again started giggling.  He was REALLY enjoying this.

Undercover Cop:  We’re taking you to processing.  There is a police station in the bottom of this stadium.

Fuck.  There goes my easy escape.

Eric Prae:  Come on man.  You guys are actually taking pleasure in this.  All I did was blow a horn.  I even apologized profusely to that lady.

Undercover Cop:  YOUR MOUTH IS NOT HELPING YOU RIGHT NOW!!!

Noted.

We went for a 20 minute walk through the bottom of Raymond James Stadium looking for the police station.  All three of us were missing the game.  The other two didn’t seem to care.  Throwing me out was the best thing to ever happen to them.  Giggles couldn’t help but to just smile at me the whole time.  I couldn’t help but watch his pretty man-ponytail flop on the back of his uneducated head as he walked.  Undercover had a Vulcan Death Grip on my arm the whole time.  He acted like I was some gangbanger hiding a Colt .45 in my waist band.

I have never been so mad at myself for sneaking in alcohol somewhere.  All that was going through my head was:  Does this guy even have the authority to throw me out?  I didn’t break any laws!  I’m not drunk.  Why is he enjoying this?  What is up with Giggles ponytail?  I need to find a real cop who can help me.  I have never seen such an abuse of power!  What gave that Hobbit the right to put her hands on me?  What gave Undercover the right to put his hands on me?  Why is he still grabbing me?  This must be why the N.W.A hated the police so much.  Jenn is going to murder me for not successfully delivering her a flask.

But, none of that mattered- simply because I was carrying a flask or seven (who’s counting?).  I just had to take it and hope they didn’t search me.  Even in my state of anger I had the clarity of mind to realize it was time to get resourceful.  I took my off hand, (you know the one that wasn’t being held behind my back by Undercover) and reached in my pocket.  I pulled out my license and handed it to Undercover in some sort of peace offering, hoping he now wouldn’t need to go in my pocket for me.

Undercover Cop:  First smart thing you have done all day!

No Shit.

We got to the police station and he opened the door.  It was pure chaos in there.  About 20 or so uniformed police officers were in a room “processing” a bunch of unruly fans.  One drunken guy was in handcuffs and fighting it.  One girl was bleeding and crying.  Some inebriated idiots were against the back wall being held down.  Another guy was being hauled out in handcuffs.

Eric Prae:  Is that how I am going to be leaving?  Do I really deserve to be here?

Undercover Cop:  Not if you don’t need to be.  Shut up!

I looked at him in disbelief.  All I did was blow a horn!

After I stood in front of all the uniformed officers and got looked over, they put me in a holding cell.  I instantly went to the back corner and started searching the ceiling and walls for cameras.  I needed to make some smart “wardrobe adjustments” if I was going to get out of here with my alcohol intact.  There weren’t any.  I wasn’t being watched electronically.  Advantage Eric Prae.

Then an African American officer in uniform started looking in the window to watch what I was doing.  I stopped everything and sat there silently, stoic.  It was obvious that he had to watch me because they were afraid I was going to do something to myself.  I don’t think he realized that I was afraid that Undercover and Giggles were going to do something to me.

As luck would have it, some commotion broke out in the station room and the officer that was stationed at my holding cell door ran off.  I quickly grabbed both my flasks, pulled them out of my pockets and stuffed them deep in my boxer-briefs.  If they did search me they were going to have to really look deep for my beautiful flasks!  Then I took my shirt that was hanging out of the back of my shorts and put it over my genitalia (my new flask hiding place).  Now, all I had in my pockets was money.

Then I just sat there for what had to be 30 minutes with freezing testicles from my flasks, having deep inner personal dialog like:

Irrational Eric:  I’m never bringing a flask anywhere again!  I hate this place.

Rational Eric:  Shut up!  You will be back here next week with more body paint, more booze and more friends.  This is just a minor setback.

Irrational Eric:  This cop is a douche!  I am going to get his badge number and file a complaint…

Rational Eric:  Shut up!  You just happened to run into the one cop who has a small penis, an authority complex and short-man’s disease.  What are you going to do?  Call his mom?

Irrational Eric:  Come on!  He can’t treat me like this!  I didn’t do anything!  This is America, the land of the FREE.  I have rights!  This is inhumane!

Rational Eric:  Cops do whatever they want, whenever they want.  They were the big bullies in high school who picked on everybody and then couldn’t get into college.  Now they get paid some low salary to “keep the streets safe” and kick retards like you out of a football game because once a bully, always a bully.  You’re lucky this is America!  In some crazy countries they would have taken your hand with the stupid horn.

Irrational Eric:  Damn, I loved that horn.

Rational Eric:  Stop crying, I’ll get you a new one.

Irrational Eric:  My balls are freezing!  I cannot wait to drink this flask!

Rational Eric:  First rational thought you have had.

 

Finally, Undercover opened my holding cell and pulled me out of there.  He escorted me down the hall.  Once again, why was he putting his hands on me?  I shuffled next to him slowly because it is hard to walk with flasks scraping your ball sack.  We got to some sort of exit.  Undercover stood there with my license and started giving me a speech.

Half way through his speech I realized that this might be important and asked him to start over because I couldn’t hear him.  One of these days I am going to have to learn how to hear.

He concluded his speech with the words “citation and it’s really no big deal”.

Ohhh…  Now he is my friend?  It’s no big deal?  Go tell that to el Bing who got left alone.  How about the money that was spent on my ticket to get in the game?  How about the money I spent on parking?  No big deal?  Screw you!

Eric Prae:  So I don’t get my horn back?

Dead silence.  That joke bombed.

Undercover handed me my license, told me I had to leave the property immediately or get arrested.  Then he kicked me out some side door.  He smiled at me as the door slammed.

Eric Prae:  Congrats on winning that pissing contest!

He obviously forgot to give me my citation paperwork.  I walked over to a tree and sat down.  I took out my flask and took a long, sweet sip.  I then laughed as I pictured Undercover and Giggles going home to pleasure themselves to Roadhouse and text each other all night reveling at their impressive victory.

But they would be wrong!  Getting kicked out of Raymond James Stadium was just the beginning of my night.  I still had my ID, $40 and two flasks full of Crown Royal.  I wasn’t just going to go home and cry myself to sleep.  My body was still painted.  It was still early.  I still had chaos to find! 

I started walking toward where el Bing parked the car to meet up with her.  Some random old guy on a bike started chatting me up as we crossed the street.  I told him my current story of hilarity and failure.  He started laughing at me.

Random Old Guy:  Those security guards are assholes!  You want to go to a Tampa Yankees game?

Eric Prae:  Now?

Random Old Guy:  Absolutely, here is a ticket!

He pulled a small crumpled up ticket out of his pocket and handed it to me.

Eric Prae:  Sweet.  I’ll buy you a beer!

There I was standing on the edge of Raymond James Stadium property, still fully painted, with nothing but time, alcohol, a crumpled up free baseball ticket, and a new friend.  My night was just beginning!


For part 3 of this story, check out USF Part 3:  Booze Bums & Baseball!  It is under "Tampa Yankees" in the category archives.
 
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Beef Studs!

This is part 1 of a 4 part short story by Eric and Jenn about the Beef Studs and the University of South Florida soccer and football games!  Part 1 - 3 is in Eric's Archives.  Part 4 is in Jenn's Archives.  Check it out!

(all photos are at the end of the story)


There is this crazy group of people at the University of South Florida that every school should have.  Their name:  The Beef Studs.  This is the beginning of my two day adventure with them.

On one beautiful Florida Sunday sitting at the pool, my friend “Sal the Ginger Italian” (Sal-GI) was bragging to me about this club he was in while I drank a Bud Light.

Sal-GI:  I’m in this group called the Beef Studs!  We paint our bodies and go…

Eric Prae:  (cutting him off) You’re in a group called “Beef Studs”?  That sounds like really bad gay porn.

Sal-GI:  No this is a legit group at USF, Google it!

Eric Prae:  So, you want me to go Google “Beef Studs”?  I know we’re friends, but I really don’t want to see your penis on the internet.  My computer has enough viruses already from Jenn “doing research on it” while I’m at work.

Sal-GI:  No, you’re an idiot.  This is a student organization that paints their bodies and then sits in the front rows at all of the sporting events and completely loses their minds.  It’s A LOT of fun.

Eric Prae:  You want me to paint my body and scream for no reason?  That actually sound like a perfect idea!

Sal-GI:  It would be a great article for the Struggle Bus.

Eric Prae:  Done.

I did some research and Sal-GI was right.  The Beef Studs are legit.  They were even the focal point of a really boring article in Sports Illustrated (the SI On-Campus.com part).  I read it and instantly thought I could do better.  Seems a lot has been written about the Beef Studs, but no one has written as a Beef Stud.  Time to man up, get painted and lose my voice.  BEEF STUDS!

I decided to do a two day sports event with my new body painting friends.  On Friday night there was a soccer game that they were “suiting up” for, and then the next night was the USF Football season home opener.  I thought Friday would be a good night to meet them, take some photos, see if they could make a soccer game interesting, and get a feel for this awesome group.  Then, on Saturday, I could get plastered and watch USF kick the crap out of Stony Brook in football. 



(FYI- This short story had to be broken into four parts.  This part is about the Friday edition on my Beef Studs adventure.  I got escorted out of the game by police on Saturday without ever seeing one play, and that tale of stupidity quickly became a whole new escapade that had to be written about separately.  Check back for that story on Tuesday)

 

Friday afternoon, I collected el Bing (the slamming hot blonde in all the pictures), who is also an USF’er (my term for University of South Florida students) and a member of the Beef Studs.  We drove north to campus, parked, and got in what seemed like a never-ending line to be painted.  That’s when a dude wearing a pink shirt with a popped collar and matching pink scarf around his waist walked by.  Everyone instantly started making fun of him, but not me.  I was afraid I would post a pic and have one of my old college buddies that reads my site would send in what I looked and dressed like at 19.  I was a total tool-bag back then.  I felt this guy’s pain. (1)

Sal-GI was already there and started to get painted. (2)  The Beef Studs have this assembly line-type production where you get three different colors of paint, but only one at a time.  Since different people were doing each color, the line moved pretty quickly.

Getting painted is actually a lot of fun.  The guys and girls doing the painting are pretty friendly and will chat you up as they lather you with color.  The Beef Studs are also an all inclusive group.  I’m not a student or an alumnus of USF, but they don’t care.  They just want crazy people to show up and scream.

After we got painted and took a few pictures in all of our Beef Stud glory, we walked into the game to find free vuvuzelas!  Yes!  I get painted and I get a free vuvuzela?  Greatest day ever!

Why do I want a vuvuzela?  Because they are sooo annoying.  I desperately want to skip around the house blowing a stupid horn until Jenn gets mad enough to rip my face off.  I now had just the tool to accomplish this!

One problem, we couldn’t bring the vuvuzelas into the sections behind the goalie where the Beef Studs were congregating.  El Bing was nice enough to bring them back to the car so I could cause havoc with mine for evermore.  She was also cool enough to lose the car keys on her way back.

So now we had no horns to blow and no car keys to drive anywhere.  At least we had body paint and a game to watch!

The Beef Studs strategy was to assemble behind the opposing team’s goal, make a lot of noise and torture the other team’s goalie.  The victim:  UCF’s goal keep, #0, Jaclyn!  The Beef Studs came prepared with her name, bio and a lot of funny chants that would intimidate even the most stoic athlete.

The Beef Studs spent the first half pounding the barrier between them and the field, chanting about Jackie the UCF goal keeper, and just going crazy over every call. (3)  Not knowing anything about the calls in soccer made it even more fun to be a Beef Stud.  Every so often in Soccer, a referee just blows a whistle and gives the ball to the other team.  Every time this happened against USF, we all just lost our minds!  Were the calls good ones?  Who knows?  It’s just fun to make fun of the ref.

Right before half time was when I realized how exceptionally cool the Beef Studs are.  They are so devoted to USF sports that they got a TON of people to show up to a random women’s soccer game and unite in sport fanatical craziness!  I wish my school had a group like this when I played college football.  They make the game way more intense and show their athletes that they really give a shit. They also are all very friendly, inclusive, and really funny; everything you would want in a sports crowd.

USF and the Beef Studs had one major problem though:  The more people chanted and insulted Jaclyn the UCF goal keeper, the better she got.  I think the Beef Studs had the misfortune of abusing the wrong player.  Jaclyn was A WALL.  USF had scoring opportunity after scoring opportunity while the Beef Studs got louder and louder and Jaclyn just kept her composure and systematically kicked our ass.  NOTHING was going in that goal.  She did everything but turn around to the crowd and give them the Undertaker “It’s Over” cut throat gesture.  After one save I was certain she was going to punt the ball away, turn around, stare down the Beef Studs and flex a bicep. (4)

The first half ended in a 0-0 tie (shocker! a 0-0 soccer game) and the three of us went to get a drink, look for lost keys, and call Triple A. 

The second half was more of the same:  USF players taking shots at the goal and Jaclyn bitch slapping them away.  Luckily for the home fans, it didn’t seem like UCF was ever going to mount an offense, so eventually a goal had to go in.  Then it happened:  #22 for USF (Venicia from Jamaica, who was killing the UCF defense all day) stole a ball and went flying at the goal.  She passed to another girl who crushed a shot.  Jaclyn got a piece of it, but the ball barely went by her!  We were about to score!  YES! YES! YES!

Then #32 for UCF came flying in behind Jaclyn and kicked the ball away just as it was about to pass the white line to make it a goal.  NOOOOOOO!

No goal.  Great defensive play.  The match ended in a 0-0 tie and then UCF won it in overtime with a goal I can’t break down for you because it was at the far other end of the field, I was sitting down and it had been about 36 hours since the game started so my brain had shut down. 

If they handed out an MVP, it would have to go to Jaclyn.

We headed back to the parking lot and got a call that the guy from Triple A was on campus.  It wasn’t hard to find him because he was driving a huge truck at about 200 mph through the parking lots and then squealing the tires at every opportunity.  Obviously this hard-ass wanted to impress some college educated ladies.  After stopping next to every girl in the parking lot looking for us, he finely saw the three of us in the corner of the lot looking like we wanted to kill him for making us wait.

Hard-Ass:  Dis’ your car?

Eric Prae:  You mean the only one around that we are all standing in front of?  Yes that is our car.

We finely got into the car, found the keys, stopped for Chinese food and headed for home.  I had my vuvuzela prepared for when we walked in the front door.

Jenn B.:  I can’t believe you actually painted yourself.  You look stupid.  How was the game?

I pulled out my vuvuzela, put it to my lips and let the sweet horn sound loose.

Eric Prae:  VVVVVVVVUUUUUUUUUUUVVVVVVVVVVUUUUUUUUUU!

Jenn B.:  I’m going to kill you!

That’s how I end a successful night.


For part 2 of this story, check out:  USF Part 2:  Eric Gets Kicked Out of Raymond James Stadium!  (USF Football in the Category Archives)
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The Beef Studs!!!

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Eric Pee's in a Cup

My good friend Jackie “Gangster” Mac decided to bring me on as a coach for the club volleyball team she works with.  I was very excited.  Someone is going to pay me to run around a gym, teach and play a sport that I absolutely love and am good at?  Perfect!  And, I get a free gym membership?  Yes we can!

I went through all the appropriate steps to being hired.  I did the interview, the background screening, and attended the coaches’ meeting- easy stuff.  Then I got to the last step in the hiring process:  the very controversial, almighty drug test!

You should know upfront that I’m not some advocate for or against drug testing.  I really don’t care either way.  I totally understand how people feel violated being tested for something they do in their leisure time by their employers.  I also think they should just legalize weed already.  But, I understand that companies want to know if the people that are representing them are shooting heroin in the back alley during lunch break.  Bottom line is: I now work with children, and the parents of those children probably don’t want someone on drugs teaching their kids anything.

I also don’t care about drug testing because all I had to lose by taking this test was a few precious hours of my life.  I don’t do drugs.  Actually, I do a lot of caffeine and booze, but for some reason those drugs are legal.

I got to my new place of employment and waited in the lobby for my paperwork.  Three large, older men were sitting around a table talking about deer hunting.  I instantly ran over to the window to make sure it wasn’t snowing: I thought I already moved out of a small up-state NY town!  People in Tampa sit around a tables and talk about deer hunting?  I decided to jump into their educational conversation.

Old Dude #1:  (mid conversation, I missed the first part) Yeah boy, we usually like to kill a deer or two and then head for out for food.

Old Dude #2:  It’s ok huntin’ up there, but I don’t like how people just cut the heads off the deer and pile them in that old dumpster!  Grosses me out!

Old Dude #1:  That’s ridiculous!  I just do what the bible says and dig a hole right by the car and bury it.

I started giggling because I was picturing this old fat guy in a flannel sweating over the digging of a fresh deer head grave in the Florida heat.

Eric Prae: (doing my best southern accent) Damn!  The bible says that you can slaughter an animal as long as you bury the head?  Hell Yeah!  I got to read me some of that book!

They both just stared at me in horror.  My paperwork was ready; I grabbed it from the front desk and skipped back to my car.  My morning of comedy was just beginning.

 

                                                                                                     ***

 

In my mind, when I picture getting a drug test, I picture myself walking into a really clean doctor’s office, grabbing a cup from their counter, having some super hot nurse watch me pee the perfect amount into my collection container and then showing off my pimp walk as a saunter back to my car.  I figured the whole ordeal would take somewhere between one and three minutes.  No problems.

I was wrong.  Dead f-ing wrong.

I can only describe the real life drug test center as something between a methadone clinic and a crack house.  There were 30 of the most despondent, hopeless, and beaten down people I have ever seen, slumped over into waiting room chairs, praying that their name was the next to be called.  I walked up to the reception window, there was nobody there.  I waited and looked around.  Still nobody.  I cleared my throat really loudly and finely a very short portly woman with gold teeth came around the corner.

Ms. Gold Teeth:  What ‘chu need?

Eric Prae:  Hi, I have to take a drug test for work and…

Ms. Gold Teeth:  Well just sign in then!  (She points to a sign that reads: “please sign in”)

Eric Prae:  Oh, OK, I was just wondering if…

Ms. Gold Teeth:  Just sign in!  We will get to you!  It’s about an hour wait.

Crap, now I have to sit here for an hour and the leader of the crack house, Ms. Gold Teeth, was mad at me.  After signing in, I turned back to the waiting room and noticed that there was no TV, no radio, and no magazines.  I took a seat in the far back corner and started doing what I always do when I get really bored:  text Jenn and people watch.

Luckily for me my comedy partner gets bored at her big girl job and has plenty of time to spend texting me every day.  Here was our conversation:

Eric Prae:  Sitting at a drug test clinic, waiting for some hood rat making $8 an hour to call my name.  FML

Jenn B.:  So do you find it ironic that you have to get a drug test to get a job, but people don’t have to take drug tests to go on welfare?

Eric Prae:  This is horrible; sitting here makes me want to do drugs…

Jenn B.:  Work today makes me want to do drugs.  But, on the bright side- I came into work and found a giant bottle of Jameson on my desk for all my “hard work.”  Winner, winner, who needs dinner?!

 

The best part of the people watching was seeing the reactions of the people in line as Ms. Gold Teeth told them it would be an hour or longer wait.  Some people yelled at her.  Some people stormed out.  Some people politely told her they would come back.  I felt their pain, sitting there for an hour to do something that would only take one minute seemed ridiculous.  The best part was how calm and cool Ms. Gold Teeth kept it.  She didn’t care either way if you took your drug test.  She didn’t care if you waited an hour, a day or a week; she was still getting paid. 

Every so often, Ms. Gold Teeth would call you up and then the doors would open to let you in.  After I was done texting/harassing Jenn, the doors flew open and an old guy who looked like he wanted to kill someone stumbled out holding a sippy cup.  I wondered what his problem was.  Then I quickly found out.  What I assume was his wife came out right behind him using a walker and screaming at him! 

Old Lady:  HARROLD!  DID YOU REMEMBNER MY SIPPY CUP?  HOLD THE DOOR!  HOW FAR IS THE CAR?

Everyone in the waiting room (who spoke English) was laughing hysterically as this poor man ran from his wife while being berated by her.

There was a lady sitting in a waiting room chair to the left of me screeching into her cell phone so we all could hear her conversation.  Best part was that she was sitting directly under a “no cell phones” sign.  Classic.

The guy to the right of me got on his cell phone and decided to loudly tell the person he was talking to that he was getting an STD test.  I quickly inched my chair as far from him as possible.

Finally, my name was called!

Ms. Gold Teeth:  Eric Prae….  Ummm…  Praetoski…. Ummm… Praeacowski…  Ummm…  Eric P!  Come to the window.

Eric Prae:  Hi!  Here is my paperwork…

Ms. Gold Teeth:  You are here to take a drug test?

Eric Prae:  Yeah, I am a little worried.  I didn’t really study; I am hoping to get like a B or a B- and still pass the class.

Ms. Gold Teeth didn’t get my joke.

Ms. Gold Teeth:  Do you have any questions?

Eric Prae:  Just one.  How long does cocaine stay in your system???

Ms. Gold Teeth:  JUST GO THROUGH THE DOORS!

Ohhhh, now the person who made me wait an hour has an attitude and can’t take a joke?

I walked in the back and was met by the woman who was going to take my pee.  She instantly started giving me an attitude.

Pee Collector:  Sir, you need to put ALL of your belongings in that locker right there.  Please do it now.

I did.

Pee Collector:  Here is the cup for your sample; you MUST fill it to the black line.  If you do not fill it to the black line you will have to come back again.  You MAY NOT flush!  You ONLY HAVE FOUR MINUTES TO COMPLETE THIS TASK!!!

Eric Prae:  I have four minutes?

Pee Collector:  Yes.  Four and only four.

Eric Prae:  Sweet!  I got time to drop a deuce!  Should I keep the door open?

Again, a person who was giving me an attitude doesn’t have a sense of humor.

I went into my allotted pee place and filled her cup to the brim.  I definitely didn’t want to come back and wait all over again.  When I was finished, I proudly handed her my full specimen bottle. 

She poured half of it out.

Eric Prae:  What did you do that for?

Pee Collector:  I only need half of what you gave me.

Eric Prae:  Lady, with the amount of Bud Light I drank last night, you could have squeezed a lime in that cup and sold it!  Way to be wasteful!

Pee Collector:  Here is your receipt sir, PLEASE LEAVE!

What did I learn from all of this nonsense?  If you have to suffer through a drug test and lose a valuable chunk of your day, take the time to torture the idiots that are making you wait.  At least you will have some fun.
 
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Eric Goes Horse Racing!

(all photos at the end)

While traveling this month, I had the opportunity to hit up the Horse Races in Saratoga Springs, NY.   If you haven’t been, the Saratoga Race Track is a sweet place where you can randomly place bets on little people who whip horses to make them run faster.  It’s quite a sight.

The first thing you realize when you get there is how enormous the place is.  It’s like a huge concert hall filled with rich white people dressed in “summer dress attire”, with a race track placed dead center.  The first spectacle to see as you walk in are the teenage children standing by the front gate trying to sell you a “cheat sheet” or “expert advice sheet” that will help you win all your bets.  I bought one for $1, with the hope it would return mass profits.  Then, I opened it up and started reading the “experts” picks and got a little worried.  Under each experts picture was their winning percentage for the day before:

Nick L:  1 for 10

Liam D:  3 for 10

Tom L:  1 for 10

Bill T:  3 for 10

Daniel F:  3 for 10

I just paid a dollar to take advice from “professional gamblers” who have the winning percentage of a Pat Burrell batting average.  Shitty.

Here was my goal for the day:  take a $20, gamble, and see how far I can go.  Is it really that hard to randomly select some animal with a cool name to win a race?  Do the odds really matter?  Was the “cheat sheet” that I wasted a dollar on going to help me win?  Time to find out.

I missed race #1 because I was hippy-skipping around, eating food and trying to find out where you can pet the horsies.  Here is a tip for any race fans who want to attend a day at the track in the future: don’t try to pet the horsies, people get mad.

I took out my trusty program and cheat sheet and sat down to pick some winners.  The second race of the day was on the outside track and 5 ½ furlongs long.  Wait, what?  What the fuck is a furlong?  Did the race track just make up a unit of measurement?  I think they did.  They couldn’t use miles?  How about kilometers?  Meters maybe?  This is absurd, so I got out my trusty Crackberry and looked it up.  A furlong = 201.1680 Meters.

So I decided to make up my own unit if measurement.  If some race track in Albany can do it, so can I.  Now the Horses were running 5.50 Furlongs or 1106.424 Meters or 7098.667 Eric’s.  Simple, right?

My New Mathematical Equation:  1 Furlong = 201.1680 Meters = (88/6)*88 Eric’s

I went up to the gambling booth, put $2 on Flying Gang to show, and $2 on Sweet William to show.  That’s right, $4 bets!  BIG spender over here.  Then I went to the rail to watch the race.

If you have never been to a horse race live, they are brutally boring.  The horses’ starting gate is what seems like miles away from you, and then you have to wait and wait and wait until they run past where you are standing.  You watch them fly by for .01 seconds and then realize your bets didn’t win.  It’s like NASCAR, but for snobby people.

But Eric, if the races are sooo boring, why do people go?  Easy, they go for the announcing!

It’s not a big deal that you can’t see the race because screaming through your eardrums is the sweet voice of some old man (who must have a much better vantage point), belting out every second of the race as if it means life or death!  I love the announcer!  I want to be him!  How does he scream a whole race without taking a breath?  How does he make something as boring as midgets hitting animals so cool sounding?  I hope they pay him a lot, he is worth every penny.


And their off…  Future Empire comes out to an early lead, Screaming Eagle on his right and gaining, with Cheeky Momma rounding out the top 3.  Power of Dreams leads the second pack, 2 lengths back with Victory Team, Flying Gang and Sweet William all neck and neck.  Wild Cat Stevie and Wing Glider in the rear.  Round the first turn, Future Empire is still holding it steady, but the middle group is gaining quick.  Cheeky Momma makes a move to the outside, Sweet William starts hugging the rail.  HERE THEY COME DOWN THE STRETCH!!!  FUTURE EMPIRE LOSING STEAM, POWER DREAMS MAKING A MOVE, CHEEKY MOMMA ALSO GAINING, WHAT A RACE WHAT A RACE WHAT A RACE, HERE COMES VISTORY TEAM BUT FUTURE EMPIRE IS HOLDING, SWEET WILLIAM MAKING A PUSH, IT IS CLOSE, I THINK I JUST CAME IN MY PANTS!  DOWN TO THE FINISH THEY GO!  SWEET WILLIAM SWEET WILLIAM SWEET WILLIAM!!! OH MY GOD SWEET WILLIAM, WHAT A RACE!!!

Yes, I want this man to stand in the corner of my room and announce my sexual escapades!

And their off…  Eric Prae throws the unsuspecting female on the bed, he looks like he’s going for it all, and they both seem to be drunk off of $1 beers.  Her phone starts to go off, probably one of her friends wondering where she went, but Eric Prae grabs it and quickly silences it and throws it out of the room.  Veteran move by the lefty ginger!  CLOTHES ARE COMING OFF, IS THAT A BRA ON THE FLOOR, YES IT IS, IT IS HOT AND HEAVY IN HERE THEY ARE GOING FOR IT ALL, ARE THOES BREASTS FAKE?  YES THEY ARE YES THEY ARE YES THEY ARE!  SHE IS HOLDING ON TO THE RAILS, IT IS CLOSE COMING DOWN TO THE LINE, IS HE IN?  YES!  ERIC PRAE ERIC PRAE ERIC PRAE, OH MY GOD ERIC PRAE, WHAT A NIGHT!!!

 

Back to the races.  Since Sweet William won, I had myself the first winning ticket of the day!  I took my ticket up to the winnings booth and proudly handed it to the man behind the counter.


Jerk Behind the Counter:  Wow, you bet $4 and won $2.60!  BIG winner over here!

I then realized that he was right, Sweet William won me $0.60 on that $2 bet and Flying Gang decided to suck, so that $2 was out the window.  This total d-bag just reminded me why I don’t gamble.  FYI- don’t ever try to diss a comedian.

Eric Prae:  Wow, you make change for big betters like me for an hourly wage at a place that smells like horse shit. Your mom must be proud!  BIG winner over here!

Jerk Behind the Counter scowled at me and then gave me my $2.60.  Now my $1.40 loss was making two people feel bad about themselves.  That’s what he got for trying to verbally take me on.


Then the most random part of the day happened: a dance troop came out by the race track all dressed up and did Thriller!  They completely rocked it; every move, every part.  A huge crowd gathered around and people were really impressed.  Why was a bunch of teenagers at a horse track doing Thriller?  I have no idea, but who cares, they were great.  For some reason, people randomly breaking out Thriller can make any event brighter. 


I lost more money on the third race and decided to go back outside to where the horses walk by to choose my next “winner”.  Horse #8 was a massive animal named “Voodoo Out Thinker”.  He looked awesome, and he was wearing pink.  This was the horse that was going to win me back my money!  The jockeys hop on their respective horses and my boy Voodoo and his jockey trotted right by me.

Eric Prae:  Hey little man!  Whoop that horse hard, I need to win a 20 spot back so I can eat tonight!

The jockey stared at me in horror.  He is a little person who rides a horse for a living (and probably makes a lot of money), he can’t take a joke?

Whatever happened to the Voodoo Out Thinker?  Well he came out of the gates blazing and was in the lead for the first 240 Eric’s, but then literally just dropped to a trot and came in dead last.  I’m not even sure he finished.  More money gone.  I then decided to stop investing in horses and start investing in alcoholic beverages.


I spent the rest of the day drinking with my sister, losing money on horses, and talking to a guy who had a must-see mullet hair cut.

How did my goals for the day work out?  My $20 was long gone.  Is it really that hard to randomly select some animal with a cool name to win a race?  Yes, virtually impossible.  Do the odds really matter?  Oh, you bet-cha!  The horse with the worst odds almost always came in last.  Long shots just lose you money.  Was the “cheat sheet” that I wasted a dollar on going to help me win?  Absolutely not.  Was it a good day overall?  Yes, because I got to spend time with family and drink, not because of the horses.
 

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The Greatest 12th Man Ever!

(all photos at the end)

I was sitting in a restaurant in the Charlotte airport, working on a short story and sipping on a coffee when it hit me.  I had to take an emergency dump!  NOW!  The combination of that morning’s salty diner eggs, last night’s Crown Royal, two cups of airport coffee, and sleep deprivation, sent my stomach to a place it didn’t want to go.  My colon was about to pay the price.

I threw my laptop in its case, the coffee into a garbage can, and then did the Oh-My-God-I’m-Going-To-Crap-My-Pants shuffle to the nearest men’s room.  Just as I rounded the circular entrance to the can, I saw another guy doing the same I-Got-To-Poop saunter coming in the other doors.  Too bad for him I am mad fast!  I clenched the cheeks, sprinted to the handicap stall, locked the door, and let loose.  Why the handicap stall?  Because it’s so spacious and always clean.  It is like my own loft apartment.  If you’re mad I’m taking up the only handicap stall and don’t think I belong there: fuck you, I wear hearing aids.

While I was in the process of taking the Browns to the Super Bowl, I heard the bathroom attendant walking around, whistling and cleaning the counter tops.  I instantly felt bad for him.  I know we are going through a depression and jobs are scarce, but bathroom attendant is just a crappy profession.

I couldn’t imagine a job where I had to stand in a small room and listen to people grunt and fart all day.  We all hate public restrooms.  Working in one would be a total mess.  Standing there with a hand towel silently praying that self-important businessmen throw you a single after you dry their dainty hands is not my idea of a dream job or on my bucket list.

Then something wonderful and life changing happened.  While I had my feet up on the handicap stall stabilization bars, struggling to drop the kids off at the pool, the restroom attendant that I had so much sympathy for just burst into song!  Yes, the poor man who had to smell poo-butter for a living was sweetly serenading me while I pinched a gigantic loaf.

Bathroom Attendant:  And I’m proud to be an American! Where at least I know I’m free!

You could just feel the contentment and joy in his perfectly tuned voice as he kept belting it out, while wiping down the sinks and stalls and smelling my stank.

Bathroom Attendant:  And I won’t forget the men who died, who gave that right to me!

Was I amazed that a 60ish African American man was singing to me while I took a crap?  Nope.  I was amazed that a restroom attendant’s outlook on life was so bright that he decided to bust into song.  And not just some old country song about how his life sucks or his dog died; he sang about how proud he was just to have the opportunity to clean that bathroom.  He was content to live in the land of the free where he truly could be anything he put his mind to.  Instead of throwing a pity party about having one of the most undesirable jobs you could think of, he was just happy to be getting paid.  Realizing this instantly changed my outlook on life. 

So I just joined in the song.

Eric Prae:  And I gladly stand up, next to you, and defend her still today!

Then we just finished it strong together, in perfect harmony.

Bathroom Attendant & Eric Prae:  Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land!  GOD BLESS THE USA!

I finished up in the stall and went to the sink to wash my hands.  The Bathroom Attendant came over with a fresh towel.

Bathroom Attendant:  Damn boy!  Thanks for singing, no one ever sings with me.

Eric Prae:  Thanks for making my day.

Then I put a few dollars in his tip bucket and walked to my connecting flight, head held a little higher.

 

                                                                                                     ***

 

Lately LeBron James has come under a lot of scrutiny for “quitting” on the fans of Cleveland.  He has been marked a traitor and a bum by “credible” sports writers and television personalities everywhere because he left the Cavaliers.  People in Cleveland are burning his jersey in the streets.  The fans are mad, the media is mad, former NBA greats are mad.  EVERYONE IS SOOOO MAD!  And they are ALL a bunch of losers.

For seven long years LeBron James was working as the attendant in a public bathroom called the Cleveland Cavaliers.  He was serenading the good people of Cleveland and smelling their poo-butter, while under the unrealistic expectations of single handedly winning championships for a organization that hasn’t been relevant since… Ummm… Ever.  He was supposed to do all of this in a city that hasn’t been relevant in sports since…  Ummm…  Jim Brown?  (Yes, the same Jim Brown who faced equivalent ridiculous expectations, and then left Cleveland to bang movie stars during his prime.)

But, what about LeBron’s legacy?  He will never be Jordan!  Superstars win it by themselves!  Bird and Magic would have never played together!

SHUT UP!!!

Why did LeBron really go to Miami?  Because he is a talented 25 year old professional with options; who would rather get paid to play a game for children on the beach with his buddies and win, then deal with one more Cleveland winter.  That’s it.  It isn’t about legacy, or about being Jordan, or about Charles Barkley’s opinion. It is about living by the beach with his homies.  It is about the chance to leave his life as a bathroom attendant behind, and head for palm trees.

LeBron can either live near South Beach in the city of bikini models, celebrities, and porn stars, or stay in the land of Cleve.  If you are the dude in Cleveland who is still mad at LeBron for leaving, maybe this winter you can shovel a few extra driveways, save up a bit of extra cash and take a quick vacation down to Miami.  After 5 days of sun-bathing, Mojito drinking, and hittin’ it with some dark skinned hottie who doesn’t speak much English, you will understand why leaving Ohio wasn’t the hardest decision of a talented 25 year old’s life.

If you are the d-bag in Cleveland who is standing in the street crying over a smoldering #23 jersey, screw you.  LeBron gave you seven good years of NBA relevance on a team that you didn’t go to watch even once until LeBron got there.  Burn the jersey of your owner who spent seven years raking in all the LeBron-Made-Us-Relevant income.  He didn’t spend any of it getting better players to surround LeBron.  Burn the jersey of your General Manager who held expiring contracts he could have swapped for better players at the trading deadline.  Burn the jersey of every coach who sat back and collected paycheck after paycheck to do nothing more than watch one of the NBA’s all time greats earn him a Coach of the Year trophy.  Oh, wait…  You can’t burn their jerseys because they don’t wear them!  Just blaming the player who busted his ass for you for seven hard years is easier.  Chalk up another loss for the mindless meatball sport’s fan.

But, the bathroom attendant in the Charlotte airport got me thinking: LeBron went after his dream job (getting paid to play basketball near the beach with two other gold medal Olympic players while getting to score with Miami’s finest ladies).  Maybe I should do the same!  So I drafted this proposal to Pat Riley (the General Manager of the Miami Heat) to employ me as his team’s 12th man.  I know he needs to fill out the roster with some minimum wage players. I think I should be one of them.

 

To:  Pat Riley

From:  Eric Prae

Subject:  The Greatest 12th Man Ever

 

Dear Mr. Riley

My name is Eric Prae, I am a writer/comedian/local town idiot in Tampa Bay, Florida.  After singing a duet with a bathroom attendant in Charlotte, North Carolina, I have been inspired to chase a dream position as the 12th man on your Miami Heat roster.  I think I can be the greatest 12th man ever to play professional basketball.  Here is why:

My first qualification to play for your Miami Heat team is that I am a great hype-man and I give very solid chest bumps.  I would actually go as far to say that I give just about the best chest bump around.  While your team is overflowing with talent, it definitely lacks in the charisma department (LeBron is now an immortal villain, Bosh has the personality of a pencil eraser, and Big Z has never smiled).  I think I can fill this charisma void for you.  I promise to get up for every game no matter how irrelevant the opponent.  Every time LeBron, D-Wade or Bosh dunks, I will be that guy at the end of the bench who just absolutely loses his mind.  I can run into the crowd, I can scream at the top of my lungs, and I will give a solid chest bump to anyone and everyone within my chest bumping range.  I promise to establish a magnetism with the fans.

Every great NBA team needs a white guy that sucks at basketball.  I can be all of that for you and more!   I am basically a much better looking version of Brian Scalabrine.

I will volunteer to be roommates with Zydrunas Ilgauskas on all road trips.  All of your young black players don’t want to share a room with a 7-foot tall Lithuanian dude who can’t speak very good English?  I’ll take that spot, no problem.  I’ve had weirder roommates in college, so I have adequate experience.

Whenever a fight breaks out, I will be the crazy person who comes running off the bench and throws a punch at the dude that crossed LeBron.  Through the course of an 82 game season, some idiot is going to get flustered with routinely being blown out by 40 points and take a shot at one of your superstars.  Just have “Coach Spo” give me the nod and a crazy ginger will come flying into the fight with a chair, Triple H style!  Then I can take the suspension while LeBron and company keeps dunking on cats.  You don’t need me to play anyway.  I am your new enforcer!

I will never hold out or ask for more money like every player in the history of the NBA.  The league minimum is a lot more than I have ever made in my life.  It will be plenty.

I will wear a crazy number and take on a cool nickname that will sell a lot of t-shirts.  #88 is my favorite number, but I am willing to wear the number that will sell the most jerseys.  Also, I won’t use a stupid nickname like “Superman”, “The King”, “The Truth”, or “The Answer”.  We can come up with something much, much better.  You don’t think a cool number and nickname matters?  Just look at what it has done for Denver’s Birdman!  Boston has Kryptonate, New York had Black Jesus, and Utah has the two greatest basketball nicknames of all time: Dr. Dunkenstein and the AK-47.  Miami needs to step up its creative genius, and that will start with me.

I promise to throw one “Allen Iverson” type press conference a year where I berate a few reporters and then kick some lyrical genius that will live on in You Tube infamy!  “Practice?  We talkin’ about practice?  Practice?  How the hell and I supposed to make my teammates better at practice?”  Your fans will love it.

I am good for one home game white boy dunk per season.  I know deep down you are worried about your season ticket holders getting bored and angry at every home game vs. a crappy team like New Jersey, where your three stars will be out of the game and resting by the start of the third quarter.  I know it’s not your fault that the Heat will be so good that they will be up 35 points at half time most games.  What better than the anticipation of a 12th man white boy dunk to keep your fans in the seats?  Nothing, absolutely nothing.  Watching a white person dunk is like seeing a unicorn hop over a rainbow.  You’re not sure it actually happened and even if it did, you will probably never see it again.

In closing, Mr. Riley, your team will love having me, as it’s 12th man.   I promise not to let you down.  I will be so happy to have the job, that even if you made me the bathroom attendant, I would laugh and sing songs.
 

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