Safety First

It's not one particular column or idiotic statement, it's more of a feeling in my gut that's been slowly building for like four years, but whatever the case it is now official: I hate Bill Simmons. I really do. And to explain why would take way too long. I guess you could just cut and paste that column about Chuck Klosterman from the NY Press into a Word document, do a couple of "finds" on the words "Chuck" and "Klosterman" and than a couple of "replace alls" with the words "Bill" and "Simmons" and that would begin to tell the story. Again, too long and too hard to explain the exact reasons for my decision to give him official "hated" status, but he's there now and that should say enough.

I went to Astor and got a haircut yesterday. Rocco wasn't there but they said they had another "real good guy" who'd "take care" of me. Those are not words that instill confidence in me as a patron. If I went in for surgery on my meatus and they were all, "We're sorry, your doctor's not here. But we have a real good guy who's gonna take care of you," I'd be rather nervous. And so I was nervous at Astor. And sure enough, the guy butchered me (see fig. 1-a). Particularly my sideburns. You may or may not be aware that I am unable to grow real man-style sideburns (see fig. 1-b). The sideburn is one of several areas on my face that simply don't get hairy. So when I get a haircut, it's imperative that the guy leave what's there intact, because it's all I got.

But this guy yesterday gave me this real girlified, 1980's, too-short, too-wide sideburn cut that looks atrocious. Billy Ray Cyrus could pull it off, but few of us can match his charisma. Beyond Billy Ray and Rex Chapman, that look has never worked for anyone. Least of all now.




But we move on with our lives. That's what we do.

I had a great weekend, howboutchoo? On Sunday I spent about three hours with my pop, listening to him tell stories. He's 79 years old and he's had a very interesting life. Sometime soon I would like to sit down with him and make a concerted effort to chronicle it.

In the meantime, I will just tell you that when I was over there on Sunday I got a chance to look at a binder that his lady friend has assembled for him. In it are all the remaining artifacts of his life, some really fascinating stuff. Letters from interesting people, photos, postcards, his varsity basketball letter, etc. There were some pictures of my sister and me, one where I'm looking mint in my Cosmos T-shirt with my Silver Surfer poster on the wall behind me. I never even liked the Silver Surfer. It was a free poster, I remember that.

As I was looking through all the stuff, I noticed that there were lots of letters, notes and documents relating to my sister, and nothing from me. Then I unearthed a rather impressive fossil. Based on the doodles on the page and also that it was clearly typed with my father's electronic typewiter thing (word processor?) that he got in the mid-80's, I would estimate the date of the document as May 9th, 1984. I think my father had just gotten the typewriter, and I was messing around with italics to see how they looked. It was really just a piece of scrap paper, but somehow it has become the only thing my father has that represents who I am. Here is what it said:

This penis is substantially larger than the penises you are accustomed to.

We hope our new penis will not present any difficulties.

However, if you do find the penis is not comfortable strapped in the typical “over the shoulder” style, we are more than willing to provide an extra sack in which to cram the leftover penis and balls.

Enjoy the penis and remember always, safety first, especially when handling a giant penis.

He must have been so proud. Let's call that the first ever verbungle post.

We have a time-sensitive new prediction from Dan K. today. Interesting.

Also, if you want to get behind some good ol'-fashioned French-asshole-bashing, you should read Garrison Keillor's review of Bernard-Henri Lévy's book American Vertigo. I've never really gotten into Garrison Keillor so much, but I think he's spot on with this review. Lévy, if I recall correctly, is a pompous ass in need of a clubbing.

My father fought in World War II and was discharged in the middle of 1946. He enrolled at the University of Illinois that fall on the G.I. Bill. When he arrived in Champaign, he got off the bus and climbed into a cab to take him to campus. The cab driver's first words to my father, the 20 year-old veteran, were:

"Where you wanna go, (insert insulting but kinda funny word)?"

For ten genius points, what word did the cabdriver use?