EB: Giving ’em the business!

Brain dumps from the original Bonehead.

Calling out Cruise.

I wanna footrace against Tom Cruise.  I’m serious.  Have you ever watched any of his movies?  Mission Impossible 3, War of the Worlds, all the way back to Risky Business…  hell, you could probably just pick one at random and stand a legitimate chance of seeing him break out into some serious sprinting.  Sometimes, like in MI:3, I could swear it’s a camera trick!  Either way this guy can flat out book… and I think I can take him.  He seems like a competitive, high-energy kind of guy and I think he’d be up for it.

Come on Tommy boy, I’m calling you out!  I know you’re out there reading and checking my site daily for updates.  Don’t duck me man!  Just you and me, no witnesses, and I won’t tell anybody if I spank ya.  Bring it on.


May 24, 2006 Posted by | Random Ramblings | 4 Comments

Hi! Can I Help You Find Something?

For awhile now some of the traffic that’s been coming to visit here has been netsurfers: somebody out there just riding the search engines and looking for something.  From time to time I’ll see a visitor and the search term they were looking for and just wonder ‘how the hell did they get here‘; but other times it just seems to make sense.  Today I had one of each:

Women givin other men head:
I’ve been thinking really hard about this one and I’m not sure how it happened.  I know it’s highly unlikely but have I written something about blowjobs that I just forgot about??

Definition giving someone “the business”:
Ah yes, an easy one!  “Giving him the business” is an expression I snatched out of pro football history.  Back in 1986 during a game between the New York Jets and the Buffalo Bills someone committed a rare kind of violent foul.  The interesting twist here was that in a sport heralded for it’s harsh physicality, this play involved Buffalo’s quarterback!  Of the dozens of different positions one can play in this game only three are granted any kind of significant protection by the rules of the game and quarterback is one of them.

It would have been the sweetest of irony if the quarterback, Jim Kelly, had been the one commiting the foul but poor Jim was on the receiving end.  After being sacked (tackled to the ground),Marty Lyons, the Jets player, began repeatedly punching Jim in the head!  Although it’s clearly against the rules there is no specific entry in the rulebook against “kicking that guy’s ass”, so the presiding referee expressed himself in the best way he knew how.  He clicked on his mic and told the crowd this:

“Number 99 of the defense, after tackling the quarterback, was giving him the business down there!”

Hilarious.  The line immediately became part of National Football League history.  Why would I choose that for the name of the site?  Because all in that one moment you have a curious, awkward, but funny mixture; one guy got mad (Lyons), one guy got hurt (Kelly), one guy was left utterly speechless (Dreith, the referee), but true to the old adage humor was in the eyes of the beholders.


Correction: As pointed out by a visitor in the comments area, my reference was a bit off.  Marty Lyons wore number 93, not 99 as posted in the quotation I looked up.  Number 99 was “the New York Sack Exchange”, aka Mark Gastineau. 

May 23, 2006 Posted by | Random Ramblings, Sports | 12 Comments

Just A Little Tiny Bit Fraudulent.

Around a year or so ago I saw this pretty funny stoner flick called "Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle"; a movie featuring, among other things, Doogie Houser like you've never seen him before…  As if the title wasn't a dead giveaway the plot involves our heroes, Harold and Kumar, trying to make their way to White Castle to satisfy a spontaneous but undeniable craving for those tasty little steamed burgers.

You watched that bullshit?

I did.  What can I say – I'm a movie guy.  I was home, it came on, I didn't have anything better to do…  Ok, so as our heroes are embarking upon their quest the encounter resistance from (hit the music) The Bad Guys!!!  I don't know any of their names… probably something like Biff, Chaz, and Duke… whatever, I'll just call them The Bad Guys.  In a nutshell, they were a bunch of testosterone tweaked, macho's with a passion for extreme sports, snack foods with the word extreme in it, and making multi-digit hand/finger signs while screaming out "Extreme!!!" at the top of their lungs.  No, I'm not making this up.

Ok, so as the picture begins to come into focus you can start to see these guys somewhat.  Profiling right?  It's ok, we all do it.  It's all a part of learning and, recognizing patterns is considered one of the signs of intelligence; if every tall guy you met had red hair and you didn't think it odd when you came across a dark-haired guy standing 6'6, there may be something wrong with you.  Anyway, you can see the formation of a basic type here right?  Abercrombie-Lean and wearing jeans bought faded from the store, a "vintage" t-shirt, maybe some sort of wristband or choker, and wool skullcap in the middle of fucking summer…  You with me so far?

Why the hell do MEN wear chokers?

No.  Leave that one alone…  Ok now where was I??  So The Bad Guys are being bad guys and eventually our heroes, 'Roldy and Kumar, end up borrowing their SUV.  Kind of a long story there, but go with it.  The guys pop in a cassette called Extreme Mix or some horseshit like that and, far from what they were expecting, they're then treated to the melodic harmonizing of 90s pop group Wilson Phillips

The three chicks? 

Yes sir, that's right!!  Wilson Phillips!  Check this out – I've met some pretty tough hombres in my time.  Don't ask me why but for some reason "hombre" sound tougher than "guys", "dudes", "fellas", etc…  maybe it's because, in my head, it invokes Sam Elliot's voice and how can THAT be anything but tough?  I'm talking about some rock hard cats here and every last one of them had a soft underbelly.   Guys that secretly dig Celine Dion and chick flicks.  Why was it ok watching Al Pacino or Richard Gere tango in their movies but watching Hulk Hogan dance with his wife on VH1 just felt wrong?

C'mon guys, you know it's happened.  You're on the couch putting some mileage on the clicker and not really paying much attention.  You're distracted.  You snap back in when the phone rings.  You realize you've been watching Natalie Portman and Susan Sarandon cry and bitch about their feelings for the past half hour and for some God forsaken reason you can't wait to find out what happens next.  On your phone is one of your boys and instinctively the bass in your voice clicks up about three notches.  Then your eyes spring wide open as you hear the television out of your free ear and, to keep the peace, you reach for the mute button before anyone finds out…

Damn.  Where's Tim Allen when you need him?


May 9, 2006 Posted by | Random Ramblings | 2 Comments

Getting Beasted?

This is the story of a child that didn't know how far was too far.  It was an overnight business trip to Philly with my boss about three years ago. 

I know, Poca, I know…

Five A.M. meet up at the airport, we go in and execute the training, five P.M. the following evening we're outta there.  A job well done, if I do say so myself.  Here's where the action begins.  Me and the boss had seperate seats for the ride back and I found myself sitting next to a nine-year-old child traveling alone.  Smart kid, funny, sociable…  I'm sure his parents bragged about him to no end.

Maybe an hour into the flight the kid gets bored with his video game, pulls out a deck of cards and invites me to play.  Since we didn't play any of the same games he offered to teach me one of his favorites – some game I'd never heard of but bore a vague resemblance to rummy.  Being that he was only nine I wasn't expecting a detailed explanation of the game which was a good thing because I didn't get one, he showed me some basics of play and apparently figured he'd demonstrate the rest on me instead of to me.  It got ugly, and fast!  I lost game after game, sometimes not even by a respectable score.  I really couldn't care less since I was coming back from a business trip where I'd performed admirably; what does it matter if a kid that I met during a little 3-hour flight got his shine off against me in a card game that I'd never even heard of before?  Well, then the little prick opened his mouth.

Say again?

First it was a little laughter in-between hands.  I suppose laughing at a defeated opponent wouldn't qualify as being a gracious victor, but whatever.  Then it became more laughter.  Then some taunting…  "Dude, you suck!", that sort of stuff.  I could hear the echo of a fearsome banging from inside a cage somewhere deep within me but I still played it cool; gave him my best Bruce Willis smirk.  It wasn't much of a warning but it was the best I could do – anything I would've said back would likely have been incindiary.

Bring it on you little motherfucker!!

Uhm.  Yeah, something like that.  Things were a little different for me when I came up.  It was still ok to talk trash but there were rules: 1) Be careful, because you never know who you're fucking with, and 2) Never, ever, ever spit game you can't back up.  You've got to be ready to have your bluff called and then there's no more time for words, it's put up or shut up.  Upon his next win he enthusiastically shouted out "I Beasted You!!" and the smirk was frozen.  Did he say bested?  No, he said beasted.  Pupils dilated.  The 2×4 holding that cage shut snapped like a twig…

Demon, unleashed.

To me, my competitive streak is like a personal demon.  There are times when it used to absolutely consume me.

Go get 'em, boy!

Oh yes, another job well done – I dedicated every brain cell in my power to putting a mean one on this little boy and at the end I beat him like he was my kid… and I talked hot, stinkin', dirty, nasty shit the whole way through and you know what? it was kinda fun!  He wanted to talk like a man so he got beat like a man and I didn't feel bad about it at all.  I took a page out of a friend's playbook and declared the final game "The Man" game; the loser would have to humiliate himself each and everytime the question 'Who's The Man?' was asked. 

Just after landing my Demon was admiring the new notch on his belt as I tucked him back into his cage, and the boy gleefully put his cards back into his knapsack.  Before we disboarded I kneeled down and asked one last time before I never saw him again…  Who's The Man? 


April 28, 2006 Posted by | Random Ramblings | 3 Comments

Get Your Evil On.

Go ahead, you know you want to!  It's in us – somehow, in some way, it's in us.  It's the whole reason that we attentively watch skateboarders when we go to the park.  It's the reason everybody slows down to get a good look at the carnage of a roadside auto wreck when, instead, they could speed by; but very few pull over to go help.  It's the part deep down inside that knows you love your kitty but still wants to throw her like a fucking shot put when she rips up your furniture again.  Watching someone slip and bust their ass is always funny unless they get hurt… right?

Turn out your fist and stick out your pinky and stick that little fingertip into the corner of your mouth 'cause you know you got some in ya'.  Let's get this out in the open where everybody can see it: It's ok!  A kind, elderly woman on the phone once commended me for having "the patience of a saint" all the while, completely unaware of the many many folk that I've choked out in my day.  Hey, it happens. 

Yo!  Remember that guy that was squirming so much that when he tapped out you didn't realize it until he started flailing with his leg??

Heh.  Yeah.  Wait, where was I?  Right – the evil thing!!  Ok, it's like this: way back in high school one of my teachers came to class with a list of famous quotations.  He had no intention of requiring us to memorize the stuff but he did want us to think about each one and discuss them.  What was so special about each quotation that of all the utterances throughout the history of man, these survived the test of time?  One of the quotes he gave us was from the ancient Greek: Metron Ariston, meaning 'moderation is best'.  Evil… Moderation…  Put it all together.  Balance achieved through the intertwining of extremes. 

Kinda like that old song lyric about a whore in the bedroom but a lady in the street?

Why why why do I keep letting you in here??  I'm just saying it's cool.  Be the hero.  Go get a white horse to ride and be prince charming if you want.  Fuck it – why not go all the way and just be Shrek!  But don't forget to get dirty once in awhile.  You can try to be perfect if you want, and you won't be the first to fail – so don't go hard on yourself when you do, but believe me it's alot easier if you just haul off and bitchslap somebody every so often.  It'll help you stay balanced.  Trust me, I know these things!  😉


April 27, 2006 Posted by | Random Ramblings | 1 Comment

Why’d you kick me?

A wise man once said “Don’t rub the lamp if you don’t want the genie to come out” and, although overly simplified, the wisdom in that statement is undeniable.  I’ve long held the opinion that just as no one should be able to make you do something against your will, no one should be held accountable for the choices you make.  For instance, just a short while ago a friend told me how pissed off she was at a particular towing company in the city; when I asked why she said her car had been towed and subsequently broken into and she lost thousands of dollars worth of goods.  I then asked why was the car towed and she said she had hundreds of dollars in unpaid parking tickets.  My response: “Well, I guess paying those tickets would’ve been cheaper huh?”  As I understand it, that response qualifies me as being a dick. 

That response?  That response?!  Asshole.

Accountability, or at least the lack thereof, is something I’ve always found puzzling; this is likely because I learned it at an early age.  I try to pick up life lessons from all around me as I meander along and this whole accountability thing was expressed to me decades ago at that very same Tae Kwon Do school where I learned that I was gifted with the ability to absorb a pretty impressive beating.  One day while sparring in class, a guy got kicked in the nuts and he was pissed!  My instructor stopped us all to give the guy a minute to regroup.  Upon seeing that the kid who got kicked was eager to fight again, Alonzo instead wanted to talk to us all and make sure we understood what had just happened:

“You have no reason to be upset with that man.  It’s not his fault that he kicked you in the balls.
It’s not his fault.
It’s not his fault he kicked me in the nuts?
No it’s not.  It’s your fault.
But how is that possible, sir??  I didn’t kick myself.
You didn’t kick yourself, but you did make a mistake.  Then, you allowed your opponent to exploit the mistake you made.
  …puzzled look…
Look.  If you’re a man and he’s a man then anything he can do to you, you can do right back to him.  But also, there is nothing he can do to you that you can’t take action to prevent.  You are just as capable as him or any other guy in this room and none of us can take advantage of you unless you allow us to do so.  Now tell me – why did he kick you in the groin?
So it's my fault because I didn’t block?
Right.  And if I tried to kick you in the groin right now what would you do about it?
I’d block it.
Good!  Everyone line up!  Face your partners and bow out…"

Just that quickly, that young boy and the rest of us that were paying attention in class, all got a brief glimpse of what accountability is all about.  Going back to the example earlier where my friend’s car got towed, that really is a sticky one because, unlike my classmate, she had no opponent.  The argument could even be made that the outcome was far less foreseeable than a foot to the jewels but, her devout refusal to feed the meter for months ultimately had consequences that she did not care to face.

If you listen closely you can hear Sir Issac Newton somewhere far off in the distance shouting 'checkmate in three'; it ain’t just physics, baybee.


April 24, 2006 Posted by | Random Ramblings | 2 Comments

Embracing The Hood.

The ebonics dictionary is written in pencil so, every few years when the entries are erased and re-written, if you don’t have this year’s version of the book you just might get your Ghetto Pass revoked.  I’d explain but it’s not like that… if you know then you just know.  I’ve met people that never set foot outside the Hood until adulthood.  People that were old enough to vote before ever crossing a state line.  There’s an unspoken code of honor that is revered by not leaving The Hood both physically and emotionally.

Before we proceed I should clarify.  Whether it’s the Hood, the ghetto, the PJs, the bricks, the streets, the “inner city” what the fuck ever.  Y’all know where I’m talking about.  That place where the incomes are meager and the minorities are plentiful and if you carry your shoulders too erect you might be mistaken for a cop.

I guess what I don’t understand is the appeal of bitterness?  The society that gives more street cred to someone for ‘knowing how to do a bid’ rather than for getting straight A’s or for staying out of trouble.  While there is an undeniable strength that comes from surviving impoverished, depressing conditions, allowing your environment to diminish your aspirations, I think, is insanity at it’s finest. I think it’s sort of like the opposite of being an outdoor survivalist; you know those guys that can go live off the land for days or weeks at a time?  Folks that you could hand a scout knife to, blindfold ’em, and toss ’em out of a boat somewhere and not only would they make it home in one piece but they might have a new sharktooth necklace when they get back!  The difference seems (to me) to be that the outdoor survivalists are clear that they’re doing it by choice whereas the urban survivalists are often doing it by default.  Maybe it’s not that hard to understand at all… when you don’t have a choice in the matter it’s easy to be pissed off.  Right?

What do I know about doing bids?  Not a damn thing – and if I have my way I never will know anything about it.  I blame no one but myself for the mistakes that I make or for the circumstances in my life that I have not yet changed.  I have not been killed or imprisoned, nor have I been emotionally or psychologically handicapped.  I still maintain great ambition and do not feel any sense of entitlement that would forego the need for discipline, hard work and integrity.  I absolutely, positively do not believe in feeling sorry for myself.  And after all these years I am still a certified expert at mixing Kool-Aid flavors.  As the lyric goes, I am the stone that the builder refused…


March 9, 2006 Posted by | Observations, Random Ramblings | 1 Comment

No, I’m not frustrated. Thank you.

When did saying “I’m pissed off” become out-of-fashion?  I’m confused by all of this because not everything unpleasant is adequately described as ‘frustrating’.  That’s the latest buzz word: Frustrated. 

I have a suggestion.  The rules regarding the assault law should be amended so if someone hits you with that “I understand your frustration” line, and they’re clearly patronizing you, you’re within your rights to load up your sock with three rolls of quarters and slap them silly with it!

Ok – let me go on record with this: Empathy is a good thing.  It’s a great feeling when you can talk to someone about the things that bug you and they sincerely get where you’re coming from.  You know… misery loves company…  kindred spirits…  all that jazz.  But how often does it really happen?  How often does the person you’re talking to have no clue what you’re really feeling but they do know that giving you a blank stare would just feel too awkward?  So they play along and say “I love you too”.  They do what they feel is appropriate or what they feel is expected of them. 

You can’t be pissed but you can be annoyed.  You can’t be depressed but you can be frustrated.  It all reminds me of an old Carlin rant about impactful words being increasingly euphemized until there’s no impact left – no feeling, just another empty expression that won’t stir up any reaction.  It’s like the language of our lives is being ‘optimized’ by some punk ass Marketing Analyst. 



January 10, 2006 Posted by | Random Ramblings | 3 Comments

So have you heard that Christmas is actually a Pagan holiday?

Seriously.  Turns out that the December 25th and the birth of Christ have nothing to do with one another.

Hold it!  Wait!  I’ve had enough of this shit.  You snuck back in when I wasn’t looking and I don’t really care.  You got all deep on me for Thanksgiving and I let it slide.  Understand this: I am not going to let you fuck up Christmas for me.  On Christmas we give gifts and we put up trees and lights and shiny decorations and we do it because it’s fun.  Watching childrens faces when they unwrap Christmas presents is one of life’s priceless joys, period.  Now would you please, please, please shut the FUCK up and pass the egg nog.  Bitch.

Well alrighty then.



December 26, 2005 Posted by | Random Ramblings | 2 Comments

Rediscovering the Passionate Lullabye.

If I said I’d been asleep for the past three weeks would you believe me?  Yeah I suppose I could’ve been comatose or something but that wasn’t the case – a piece of my soul had gone inert and it’s an absolutely devastating feeling.  I found myself feeling depressed because things that used to mean alot to me have begun to mean alot less and my sense of identity was challenged because of it.

All of this lead me to begin thinking alot about passion lately; specifically about trying to understand it.  I think the commonly accepted definition is off base because it’s not about sex or romance at all.  Think about it – for many people sex is no more passionate than an exercise bike, and romance is a tool in an emotional chess match.  Passion simply has to be more than that. 

I don’t enjoy being angry but I am infinitely grateful for my ability to get angry.  I used to refer to anger as my “default” emotion; it protected me from extended bouts of depression or frustration.  I inevitably get pissed, usually at myself for not exerting more control over the circumstances in my life, and once that anger gets me going I begin to feel alive again.  My goals become clear and my pursuit of those goals is nothing short of passionate.

Good morning!


December 14, 2005 Posted by | Random Ramblings | 4 Comments