Treinta

What an unfortunate thing it was to spend precious time watching that "fight" I posted about last week. It was very likely the most boring piece of shit fight I have ever seen in my life. Amputees could have squared off and produced a more entertaining boxing match. 

That being said, Evander Holyfield deserved an obvious victory and a piece of his old heavyweight crown back, but it was not to be. As happens so often in boxing, a terrible and most likely corrupt decision was made in favor of the giant Valuev. Usually when I spend $25 and wind up that revolted and depressed I have to get a blood test done afterwards.

As I watched Holyfield plod around the ring so much slower and generally just less than what I remember, I couldn't help but think of the horror that awaited me this week.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I will be turning 30 years old. This may come as a shock to many of you who had me pegged at about 14 based on my insecurity and fondness of dick jokes, or those who thought I wasn't a day less than 47 due to both my looks and 3 teenaged daughters. But I digress...Really, I do. Mostly when I'm alone. 

Sometimes I feel that my life so far can be summed up with the phrase "Stop at a Whammy..." but other times I think I'm pretty okay. 

I'm not really sure how to handle this milestone of making it 3 decades without killing myself while trying to impress some girl.  I really don't want to reflect back on what I have accomplished in my life because I want to kill more than 28 seconds. After 30 years it seems my biggest contributions to the world have been frightening examples of poor fashion sense and popularizing the phrase "It's like buttering a waffle."

I can't say that I am where I pictured myself being when 30 ticked off on my clock, but many of those dreams involved a scantily clad Susan Lucci and the magnificent benefits that come with having superhuman strength. Am I close to being where I feel I should be? Not at all, but  I did manage to lose my virginity along the way somehow, so that's a nice surprise. 

30 years without getting drunk is something. I'm not sure what exactly. But something is definitely a description of it.

I'm  depressed over the shrinking of the range of "older women" who I would pork caused by my rapid age gain. Am I about to lose the right to use the term MILF?

Physically I have never been anything to write home about, so I could always work out like crazy and turn into of these assholes who winds up telling every person he bumps into, "I'm 35 and in the best shape of my life!" I hate those fucks, but you can be sure the second I see one ab muscle I will have my shirt off and flex until I prolapse my rectum.

I guess that's it I worry if I think any more about my birthday that I will start crying and fall headfirst into a tin full of various flavors of popcorn that all of you have probably been sent by now. Before I stop I would like to ask a favor. 

If you are kind enough to comment, please refrain from using any of the following phrases:

"30 is the new 20"

"The big 3-0"

"It's all downhill from here"

"You're still so young"

If you use any of these, you will ruin my birthday. When you see a news report of a man getting paralyzed as he tried to hang himself with tinsel, I hope you'll be proud of yourself.

The Real Deal

I'm not a religious person by any means, but I can't help but feel the love of the Lord fill my body whenever Evander Holyfield fights. He is a Warrior of God. You can see the strength of his convictions in the way he fights and his dedication to spreading the love of God by the 11 children he has with numerous different women (according to wikipedia the number is "at least 11").

Tomorrow night Evander, now 46 years old, takes on World Champion Nikolai Valuev of Russia. His nickname is "The Russian Giant" Here is why:

What a mountain God has put in front of The Holy One to climb. I'm positive he is an actual living, breathing ogre and that he gets paid for his fights with buckets of raw fish.

In all seriousness, this fight should be ugly. Evander is well past his prime and has slowed down significantly. At 7ft tall and 310 pounds, Valuev isn't exactly Barry Allen either. Despite this I will watch. I will cheer. I will yell. I will make the sign of the cross and hold on to the tiny shred of hope that Evander Holyfield will turn back the clock tomorrow night, for both of us.

That being said, look at this monster bastard.

Seriously

For at least 2 decades I thought Tom Jones was black.

"You never listen!"

Now that may be a bit of hyperbole, but it is not completely inaccurate. I would say I have "listening difficulties." My girlfriend would say, "You don't ever fucking pay attention to me when i talk!" Tomato, Tomahto.

This problem is not limited to only to her. Co-Workers, friends, parents, financial advisers, acquaintances, parole officers, etc., all fade into the background eventually. Their words ricochet off the side of my huge head as I start to wonder things such as how I would look in a fedora or if someone has already taken the woolly mammoth as it's national symbol.

I don't want to zone out when I am spoken to. I would like to say it's the fault of chronic ear abuse that started many years ago as a young Ryan  pressed the headphones of his Walkman tightly to his skull so he wouldn't miss one note of "Armageddon' It". I would like to say that I have conversational ADD. It is more likely, however, that I am disgustingly self-absorbed.

I want to pay full attention, most of the time. I feel that I would have better and more meaningful conversations. My overall knowledge would increase, and I would get yelled at less. 

For those of you who would like to pay less attention when certain people are talking to you, I will share a list of useful, but mindless, refrains you can spit out every so often during a conversation to pretend like you are paying attention.

There are the obvious ones such as "yeah," "Uh huh, "I know," "really?" and "That's weird."

You also have more advanced options such as "I know, right," "No way," "Are you serious, "Are you sure about that," "No No. You're right. You're right," "Ummm...I don't know about that one," "That's something you have to do some thinking about," and "They really need to cut that out."

Laughing can also work, but like the advanced options should only be attempted once you have become better skilled at talking without listening. Also, never use "You don't say." No one says that anymore and will blow up your spot in a jiffy.

I take zero responsibility for any failure with these phrases. You may just use them wrong and there are some out there who actually pay attention and will know what you are doing right away.

What's Wrong with Cash?

I'm taking a break from my healthy diet bashing today as I am so full of succulent meats and flaky goodness from this weekend that I do not wish to ruin the vibe with talk of something disturbing and vile, like fish. There is a much more pressing matter at hand. 

It's holiday shopping time.  Across the country people are turning out in surprising numbers to get amazing deals and crush underpaid immigrants under the weight of their Christmas cheer. This is also a time of great stress as I, and my brethren, desperately struggle to decide what to get our significant others.

I'm not one of those folk who wants their girlfriend to specifically tell him what to buy, although once Dec. 20th rolls around and I start to wonder if my mother has anything cool I could steal, I reconsider my stance a bit.

It's the thought that counts, but I don't have a thought. I have thoughts. Numerous, ridiculous thoughts.

"What do girls like? Girls like clothes. I should get her clothes. What kinds of clothes does she like to wear?  Why can't I remember what she wears? I hate it when she wears clothes. I can probably go to the store and pick out something good. Maybe a nice top, or some kind of frock. What size is she? If I get something too big she will say I think she is fat. If I get something too small she may feel fat and bite my nose off. Think! Think about when she talks about clothes! OK.  She told me to never wear that button down one with the hot dogs on it ever again. Usually when she sees me in my underwear she laughs and says "Oh no. Oh Nooo." And here's her constant anti-jean shorts campaign...OK forget clothes.

How about shoes?  If I get heels that are too big she might be taller than me. Do they still have those looks like a pump/feels like a sneaker deals? What's her shoe size again? OK forget shoes. 

Jewelry!! Where do I get decent jewelry? Tiffany's. Chicks love that place. I wonder if they sell giant clock medallions. Oh these earrings are very ni-Holy shit this is expensive!! They have to have good items for a bit cheaper. Oh look this is only 100 dollars. A "sterling silver money clip." OK forget jewelry.

Maybe she would like some books. She is literate, and I remember knocking some off her bed every now and then. I wish i could remember what kind of books they were. Was there some kind of long haired pirate with an open shirt and windswept hair on the cover? Would a self-help book be insulting? Maybe something from Oprah's book club? Wait, I don't want her gaining enlightenment and realizing she should dump me. This is hard!"

If only she would be content with me tying a bow around my genitals and doing that Beyonce dance that all the kids seems to be into.