DAMMIT BCS!!!

I'm pissed off, so I'm going to tell the internet about it. The BCS again boned Boise State from any opportunity to get national recognition. "Well, they lost to TCU and didn't play anybody good all year!" says uneducated college sports fan. They beat the SEC East winner Georgia, additionally they lost to TCU on a missed field goal and TCU (10-2) is a talented team this year. That one loss definitely took them out of the National Champion game, that's completely reasonable but, I expected a good BCS Bowl match up between a decent SEC school like South Carolina (10-2) perhaps Arkansas (10-2) or a Big 12 team like Kansas State (10-2) or Oklahoma (9-3). Nope! Screw that! Y'all are going to play Arizona State (6-6) team who just fired their head coach and has lost to Washington State (4-8) and Arizona (4-8).

I fully respect Chris Petersen's decision on calling out the BCS after waiting patiently for 5 years and posting a record of 44-3 in the regular season and 3-2 in bowl games. Boise State is good dammit! I'm sorry that you can't make money off of a team that no one cares about but at least protect the sanctity of the game and allow the best teams to play each other. Also, I need to clarify that I am not saying Boise State deserves to play for the National Championship, they deserve to be in one of the four other bowl games the BCS hosts.

And now I'll vent on how stupid it is for Alabama & LSU to have a rematch. Very simply Alabama had it's chance and they lost. End of story. Let someone else lose to LSU this year. It makes no sense for two teams from the same conference to play each other, and it makes less sense that it's a rematch. So everyone can get a good mental image of how little sense this makes I'll paint you a picture.

I play my friend Frank in beer pong. Now, me and Frank are really really badass beer pong players, in fact we are so good that I'm #1 in the world according to robot-polls and he's #2 according to that same poll. We play and I beat him in a regular sanctioned beer pong event in my beer pong mansion. My friend Doug is also a very badass beer pong player he's ranked #3 by robots. Unfortunately I don't play Doug very often because I like to play at my sweet ass mansion that I only let really shady people play in and he only plays at his house which is kind of nice but he's got a few poor friends who aren't very established beer pong players.

So the BPCS (Beer Pong Championship Series) gives me a call and says that they are flying me out of my mansion to play beer pong in front of millions of people to prove that I am the best beer pong player in the world this year. I gladly accept and ask who I will be playing. They say Frank. I say, "Well, I've already beaten Frank this year, so I'd rather play Doug. I hear that Doug is pretty damn good this year."

They say, "Well, Sam that guy lost to some dick in Iowa, and so our robot advisers have deduced that Doug sucks ass."

I say, "I've beaten Frank once this year, so if he somehow beats me will we get a third game for the grudge match?"

They say, "Nope, if you lose, you aren't the best beer pong player in the world this year."

Well, I guess I'll play Frank again, but I really think it would have made a lot more sense if I played Doug I thought. Then it hits me! I know what can solve all of our problems! I call the BPCS and say, "Hear me out, I've been watching a lot of baseball, volleyball, basketball, hockey, soccer, chess, handball, 4-square, kickball and cricket, and in those sports they do something called playoffs! It seems like it's pretty smart."

They promptly said, "Don't be an asshole," and hung up. One and half months later I was watching Frank and Doug playing for the National Beer Pong Championship on Fox or CBS or NBC. DAMMIT BPCS!!!!

The End

Before You Say No, Just Hear Me Out: Part 1

San Marco, TX - 5:37 p.m. Jan. 11th, 2011

While laying on my couch watching Man Vs Food on the Travel Channel, I received a very heated phone call from a friend. Let's just call her TC. I answer my phone and she says, "I have an idea. Before you say no, just hear me out." Thirty minutes later TC picked me up from my apartment and we were on our way to Austin to rally two more folks, we'll call them Amy and Gerald, in our quest for New Orleans.

I'd say we were out of Austin's city limits by around 10 p.m.and by midnight we were in Katy, TX. By 2:30 a.m. or so, we were finally in Louisiana and decided that we should make our first stop in the beautiful town of Lake Charles, where we stayed in the six star hotel/casino aptly named Isle Capri.

Myself having an excellent sense of self-control, got changed into casino appropriate attire and immediately went to the Blackjack tables. I had just watched "21" earlier so I knew I was going to come out on top. One hour, six beers, and $150 later I discovered that Jim Sturgess is a liar and counting cards should be left to Math Majors, MIT undergraduates and Asians. Realizing the error of my ways, I did what any fiscally responsible person would do and pumped tens into the dollar slots. Instead of getting a swift kick in my wallet's ass like I deserved, the cruel Jezebel known as habit gambling gave me a $350 payout and Sam's Club jumbo pack of false confidence. Additionally it gave me gas, board and booze money for the remainder of our escapade.

Back to the Blackjack table I went.

Anti-Parable:
Gambling is a son of a bitch. It ruins peoples lives, destroys families and transforms Johnny Football Hero into a wife-beating alcoholic. However, it's a lot of fun and it's a lot more fun when you're winning. So if you're going to gamble be sure you're a winner.

Our Results:

	Start	Finish	Profit
Amy	$50	$560	$510
Gerald	$100	$140	$40
Me	$180	$450	$270

With fairness to TC, she did not play. Three of us made $820, and gambling is bad. It was 5:45 a.m. we had all made money and had a hell of a day ahead. Bedtime.

Part 2 coming soon.

Before You Say No, Just Hear Me Out: Part 2

After checking out of our sweet room around 11:00 AM, we were back on I-10 headed to The Big Easy, The car ride was hovering around normal with occasional "almost stops" to see live baby alligators (a life-long dream of mine) when we arrived in New Orleans at about 2:30 PM.

Mind you we had nowhere to stay, very little knowledge of New Orleans geography and minimal funds. So, we drove to the first hotel that looked haunted in the French Quarters walked in and asked the concierge (French word) for a hotel room. He looked at us skeptically, pulled out a cute little notepad, jotted down something and slid the paper to me face down like I was getting an estimate on a kilo of cocaine. The next words out of my mouth were, "Per person or all together?" He responded adamantly and said, "All together."

So, lady luck reared her pretty little head in once again, meaning we paid $25 per person to stay in a hotel fifteen feet away from Bourbon Street. So far so good. We unpacked what little luggage that we had in the car and made our way to the greatest street in the United States of America.

We started pretty basic and slow. I was the only one who was semi-familiar with New Orleans, so I had to play tour guide. I offered life changing tour knowledge like, "Hand grenades get you really really drunk. They are sold right there," and "Last time I was here, I got hammered at this place, it was awesome." So, we went into this place, because it was awesome and they had live music. Now it was January, it was pretty cold, and it was the middle of the day, so needless to say this place was not very crowded, but there was still more people than most would have thought. The band was awesome. They asked us where we were from and played music accordingly. Also, due to the fact it was still daytime we were getting offered outlandish specials like buy one beer get three free.

We went from bar to bar for a while, following our ears to whichever bar had the best sounding live music. At about 5 or 6PM (things were beginning to get perpetually fuzzier at this point), the girls went back to the room to change and get ready for the evening. So, there we were two 22 year-old-boys on Bourbon Street, I went ahead and asked what Gerald was already thinking. "What strip club do you wanna go to?"

Surprisingly, Gerald had never been to a strip club, and it's a little difficult to explain the massive amounts of talent in a no cover strip club, on Bourbon Street, in January, on a Tuesday, during the middle of the day. For lack of a better analogy and to sound severely misogynistic, I felt like I had just bought myself a ticket to a discount petting zoo. A petting zoo that was relocated from Chernobyl. Regardless, Gerald had the time of his life and the drinks were reasonably priced and I promised him we would go to a "real" strip club were they don't squirt your hands with Purex on the way out.

After a few more drinks we headed back to the hotel to meet the girls and get ourselves ready for the evening. When everyone was good to go, we stopped by the strip club one more time to introduce TC to our new friends. She showed her gratitude by threatening to murder us after we held her down to her chair for a lap dance (on the house might I add).

A few more bars later, and a completely failed karaoke attempt, we ended our evening at my personal favorite bar in the French Quarters. None other than Pat O'Brien's Piano Bar. A very quaint little spot with two giant copper pianos facing each other and pianists that work for their tips just like the good ole days. Naturally, I asked the pianist to play "Piano Man" by Billy Joel about one-thousand times. She was a good sport and she played, and we sang.

There are other details from this night but they are pretty fuzzy. I can remember meeting some Australians who wanted to marry Texas girls and ride a bull. I bought a really awesome shirt at some point too.

S.I.E.

When George Strait wrote the fantastic coming of age tale of young love titled, "Check Yes or No," I believe he left out one very awkward and crucial aspect of the male maturation process. No, I am not speaking of getting kisses on the school bus from sweet ole' Emmylou, passing notes in class, or chasing your crush around the playground. I am speaking of an unfortunate and bizarre occurrence that every boy must inevitably confront, the Spontaneous Involuntary Erection, also known as the random boner or a S.U.B. (Sudden Unexpected Boner).

Let it be known that this article is purely scholastic. I decided to write this post as an educational tool in hope that females can be informed of the male oddities during youth. During a discussion amongst my peers about the turmoils of childhood, a female bystander inquired about the subject and was confused and repulsed, as we reminisced about the baseness and abnormality of the S.I.E. So for all of the ladies who are reading this, this one's for you, and hopefully we can clear up the fog, and let the rays of enlightenment shine through.

Now ladies, you may have always believed that the typical high school to college male to be the time frame in which males are at the height of their perversion. That assertion is completely incorrect. The peak maximum perversion would have to be elementary school all the way up to eighth grade and possibly ninth grade for some.  During these eras of immorality comes the era of embarrassment.

Spontaneous erections are completely unprovoked and often come at very inconvenient times for all parties involved. Example:

Your Fifth Grade Geography teacher is lecturing on the different peninsulas of Europe and asks you (student who has been not paying attention to anything) to point out the Crimean Peninsula on the map at the front of class. Not only do you have no idea where the fuck the Crimean Peninsula is, but low and behold you have pitched a one man tent. You are now presented with three options: 1.) The Front Pocket Push-Down. 2.) The Alley-oop Belt Up-Tuck. (must be practiced at home) 3.) or the boldest of the three: The Willie Mays "Say Hey Kid." In which you proudly present your raging boner to the class (and avoid the embarrassment for your lack of Eastern European geography.)

The episodes can and will occur at the most unusual of places, most importantly 80% of the time they materialize due to non-sexual thoughts. In fact, they may present themselves as a cruel joke from a boy's subconscious at any given time. Below is a list of locations that S.I.E.'s love to make their debuts, feel free to add to increase amusement:

Church, Funerals, Birthday Parties, Picnics, Bar-B-Ques, Petsmart, Playing Tether-ball, Church Camp, Treadmills, Monster Truck Races, Silent Auctions, Pine Wood Derby Races, Christmas Shopping, Vacation Bible School, Community Service Events, Pumpkin Patches, Game Shows, Snowball/Sadie Hawkins Dances (possibly not an S.I.E.), Car Washes, Amusement Parks,  Movie Theaters, English Class, Math Class, Science Class, Spanish Class, Theater Class, Computer Class, Music Class, History Class, Geography Class, Statistics Class and Class...

Witty Titles Are So Mainstream

Every so often a bizarre fad comes along to piss off parents and force individuals to question the trajectory of American culture. In my short life I have witnessed gray-haired women using furniture as weapons in hopes of acquiring a stuffed toy, known as a Beanie Baby. I can remember running underground pog-related gambling rings in elementary school. However, one component of counter-culture has chiseled its way into college campuses and succeeded in frustrating and confusing non-members of the hipster clan.

A hipster, in layman's terms, is a dick. A hipster is obsessed with going against the grain of modern society and forging their own unique style, taste and fashion. To achieve such individualism it is required to dress like a drunk 4th grader on Halloween and then hanging out with people who look like drunk 4th graders on Halloween. Thus, asserting your unique style. Now, dressing like Goodwill took a shit on you is just the first phase.

The second phase is slightly more complex and requires quite a bit of research and development. Phase two involves discovering music that no one has ever heard of, making fun of people for their lack of sophistication due to the fact they have never heard the obscure band, and then abandoning said artists after they become successful for producing music you used to enjoy.

It's understandable that a hipster wants to stay ahead of the pack and drive the future of pop-culture. Unfortunately, hipsters are rude, conceited, self-destructive and worst of all they are pack animals. If a hipster really wants to do the whole "ironic" thing, try dressing like the average Joe. Hell, you would be so far in disguise, that you could trick your other hipster friends into thinking you're no longer a hipster. A hipster dick slap.

Until then, move to New York, start a microbrewery, and write a formal letter of apology to your parents on how they wasted their money sending you to college to drink PBR, smoke American Spirits, and grow mustaches.

Leave me some feedback.

I'll set the pace. You know you're a hipster when...
Your V-neck goes down to your belly button so everyone can see your awesome pirate tattoo.
You ride a single speed to class to save gas and your parents own a share of Exxon and drive a WWII Panzer Tank.
You grew an ironic mustache in college because you were unable grow facial hair in high school.

My School Isn't Filled with Guidos... Well, Maybe it Is: Part 1

In the four (plus) years that I have attended Texas State, I have heard a myriad of attributions involving the reputation of my university. Some say, "you need a 6-pack and a pulse to get into to Texas State," or "I guess you couldn't get into a real school?" None of these statements come even close to the disappointing realization that my beloved school has been infested with the lowest common denominator of the party scene. Fist pumping, club fighting, gel haired guid-necks.

To hate the guido, one must understand the guido and delve into the arcane art of guidology. The word guido traces its roots to over a thousand years ago. It was originally a given surname popular to Italians. In the early 1900's  the word, guido, came to America, where it was used as a slang term that Nationalists used to let Italian immigrants know that the majority of Americans hated them.

Like any great racial epithet, the Italians began to own up to the guido name. By the late 1980's using guido amongst other guidos became socially acceptable, as long as you were Italian. However, the 1988 guido and the modern-day guido are vastly different. In a sense, the guido has evolved. Many scholars use "Bounce," a single by techno/house group MSTRKRFT as the great schism that knocked down the cultural boundaries of only allowing Italians to be guidos. Shortly after the release of "Bounce," in December of 2009, a cultural phenomenon took insecure short people by storm and gang-raped it's way across the nation. The critically acclaimed masterpiece, Jersey Shore debuted on MTV. A show about 5 Italians and 4 other people who think they are Italian that get drunk and make silly faces.

Due to the dominance of Jersey Shore, anyone can be a guido. You just have to be super macho. For example: going to a tanning bed (incredibly macho), taking a shit-load of time to do your hair (macho as hell), going to the gym with your bros and grunting (shit-macho), and finally wearing shirts with awesome designs all over them that were totally bad-ass when you were 12-years-old (macho-supreme).

Now, this was all good for me. Watching Jersey Shore was like watching a zoo special on Discovery Channel. New Jersey is over 2000 miles away from my beloved San Marcos. College life was simple and gel/spray tan-free. Then another schism erupted seemingly out of nowhere, energy beers. Energy beers come in all colorful shapes and form, they are now illegal. They are the number one cause of date-rape, colorful vomiting, and alcohol poisoning.

I was very apprehensive the first time I ever drank a Joose and the now legendary Four Loko. These bad ass concoctions are infused with caffeine and around 10% alcohol by volume, and every macho-dude knows that beer tastes like horse piss and takes entirely too long to get drunk off of. Thus, energy beers took hold in the college ranks.

Now the science, Four Loko + Short Guys x Techno Music / Spray Tans + Steroids = 1.35 Guido. Through spontaneous evolution (right ingredients in the right environment) a new group of people of subhuman crawled its way to the top of the Texas State and subsequently Austin bar scene (sorry about that one Austin).

This concludes Part 1. Next will be Part 2: Denial

My School Isn't Filled with Guidos... Well, Maybe it Is: Part 2

Now that the fundamentals of science have been applied, we move onto the next phase of guidonomics. Similar to drug addiction, the next plausible stage is denial. Merriam-Webster defines denial as a refusal to admit the truth or reality; or a negation in logic. Negating logic was precisely what I had been involuntarily executing in my subconscious. How could the patrons of a school in the middle of the Texas Hill Country be so obsessed with acting like giant douches while getting their "drink on" at the "club?" Why was it necessary to spray tan and spend countless hours at the gym getting "swoll?" Thusly, when something makes little sense to me, I deny it's existence. My school isn't filled with guidos... Unfortunately, my denial doesn't erase facts.

A journey to the rec was like time-traveling to the St. Louis Cardinals club house circa 1997. To put it lightly let's just say I understand why some folks enjoy Joose so much. That being said, I am not a doctor (or remotely close) but I understand the importance of taking care of your body, but modifying your "sanctuary" synthetically cannot be safe. Anyway, upon my arrival at the gym, I would swim my way through the barrage of back acne, sweet well-kempt facial hair and cut-off Ed Hardy t-shirts to do my 20 minute run on the elliptical, followed by a few pick up games of basketball. Understandably, the rec center had become the capital of the Guido Chapter at Texas State. So, my voyage took me elsewhere.

The bar scene of San Marcos and later 6th Street in Austin have always been near and dear to my heart. Something about a $4.50 beer that you have to wait in line for just makes it taste that much better than a bitch-ass store bought beer. Again, times were simple and good. We would laugh at bars like Waterdogs that would open and close as fast as a shitty Asian buffet.

Seemingly out of nowhere came The Vault, a club that many in my cabinet thought would set the record for the quickest failed investment on the Square. I was mistaken. The Vault thrived. In fact, The Vault became popular and usually had a line like it was the damn Roxbury.

Being the curious investigator I am, I waited in line to see what this place was all about. The adjudication was typical. I hadn't smelt so much Axe Body Spray since going to family dinner with my stoner friends sophomore year of high school, the music was loud and above all and annoying as hell, and last but not least, everyone in their looked like MMA fighters. So, The Vault could possibly be the worst place in the world for someone like me, unless of course, I wanted to get my ass kicked by over aggressive gym rats with confidence issues.

So the jury met and the verdict issued. My school is filled with guidos, and I have to accept the fact. However, tolerance and acceptance are two different beasts. I can accept that their are gel-heads running around my campus, but one may tolerate another person but not accept them. I believe this is precisely the fork in the road at which I have arrived. It is difficult for me to accept someone whom is so infatuated with his own body that he would sleep with himself if that was somehow possible. I can sit idly by and tolerate said individual without the need to accept him.

Maybe one day I will be able to fully understand and eventually accept the guido, but until then they are just a shitty fad like Furbees, Pokemon and Kid n Play. This concludes the 2nd and final entry of the guido trilogy.

Do I smell tweed and ironic mustaches? That's a sweet single speed Schwinn...