Get 2 Choppin

I’m sorry that I am a bit of a sports elitist and I feel that the accruement of specific skills for each individual sport relative to the level (i.e. pee-wee, junior varsity, varsity, etc.) of play needs to be achieved for that athlete to be allowed to compete. I ask you, does that make me bad, bad Leroy Brown the baddest man in this whole damn town?

Recently I have gone about trying to help young athletes reach these levels through my own form of reverse psychology negative reinforcement. The necessity of this program came into fruition when traveling about I saw a youth soccer game in which the little kids were playing without a goalie, had a cookie break in the middle of the game, and they didn’t keep score. I mean what in the world kind of game are they teaching these kids; this isn’t frigging recess.

I decided to immediately stop in and start the negative reinforcement program pronto. The first step was to yell at a little boy who was getting circles ran around him on defense, literally they were running around him in circles while he was sitting on the ground pouting, so I kindly offered the advice, “Hey coach tell that boy that there is no crying in soccer”. Apparently the parents of this child weren’t too happy and they told me that the he was actually a she. The only response I could muster was, “Well then tell her to grow a pair and start getting tough on defense, you know it ain’t to late for testosterone therapy.”

The worst was the conditioning program of these teams or should I say lack of conditioning. As I scanned the field sitting on the bench was this little porker so I yelled in anger, “Hey coach tell Pudgy Paulie over there to lay off the pound cake and start pounding the pavement for some extra P.T., I mean I have seen petrified poop that played with more purpose than this portly pile of play-doh.” I mean does that make me bad, bad Leroy Brown the baddest man in this whole damn town?

I don’t want to alarm or startle people but there is an epidemic of epic proportions of pot use amongst the younger population of this country. These pre and post-pubescent pot puffing perps are everywhere and they are almost unidentifiable.

Parents, teachers, and anyone else that comes in contact with these Mary Jane made monstrosities, I have to insist that for the safety of the community that you do not let these doper delinquents out of your sight for more than 20 minutes tops. This includes schools with open campus policies for lunch; you might as well hand the kid a baggie and a Bob Marley CD and get ready to cash your kickback check from Mike’s Munchies Market around the corner.

To the untrained eye it is hard to spot these future felons but you should start with the simple signs of long scraggly hair, loud and unintelligible music, acne (from excessive chocolate munchies sessions), concert t-shirts that have what looks like a poison ivy leaf on the front, and random aerosol cans in their rooms. Another obvious trait of these grass grubbing gangja gangsters is bracelets and anklets, the more they have the more they have “gotten stoned” as they say.

It is absolutely necessary to not leave these teen terrors alone because they would attempt to smoke the family pet if they thought it would take them to that “happy” place. You don’t think that one missing sock is the result of some washing machine gnome do you? No sir-ree, it is your kid going Bill Nye Science Guy and experimenting on the poly-cotton blend and looking for that Hanes high.

Again this is just a warning and if we can nip this in the bud before it gets out of control we might be able to sleep peacefully at night without having to worry about some spleef-smoking seventeen year old breaking into our homes looking for something to steal and sell to keep their habit in check.

This is a public service announcement brought to courtesy of get2choppin.com and its subsidiary company Forging Integrity iN Everyone, Inc (F.I.N.E).  

It has recently come to my attention that I have not ever past or present thought about the fact that I had belly hair. This evolutionary mainstay has kept my mid-section warm for quite a few years but yet I have never once consider it or paid heed to it. 

Chest hair, yes I have considered it; it is an important step in every man’s life to proudly display this burgeoning area of manhood when the follicles of feminine fancy start appearing spontaneously. We men know that it is every woman’s secret fantasy to run their dainty fingers through our pectoral pleasure playground.

Facial hair, yes it will always play an important role in a man’s life. It is a simple fact, from the first cheesy teen moustache to the dab of hair under the upper lip to the goatee and to finally if you are lucky to the full beard we men will be dealing with the dilemma to shave or not to shave.

But the belly hair ballyhoo or the midriff muff has gone unnoticed in today’s society. Besides the wonderfully waxed waistline of underwear models around the world most men and I would fathom to guess even some woman have belly hair and by golly if I am not some over-grown curious george I believe that it must serve some greater purpose. That is why I am on the lookout for a pyshic that can read belly-hair.

Damn those false prophets of the palm, I want to know the truth dammit. The flow, overall shape, and the little twists and twirls that are unexplainably scattered like buckshot across your mid-section are like a map to the future. Where are you Tummy Tarot Reader? Where is my Stomach Svengali?  

Yesterday was the first day of fall and with the change of seasons also comes a breath of fresh air on the boob tube. The new fall line-up is just beginning with its numerous season premieres this week but I am a little worried with all the great new shows you may miss out on a few of the more obscure ones that are getting rave reviews.

This week on the outdoor channel is the season premiere of Pimp My Tree House.  I am afraid to say that this once iconic symbol, of the innocent journey of young men and woman as they explore and experience a unique sense of freedom for the first time in their tree house, has become corrupted into a den of illicit behavior. It has been transformed from an ABC (All Boy’s Club) into a DEF (Drug Enhanced Frenzy) Jam.

Parents have no one to blame but themselves because they have basically created a laboratory that their children can experiment with such sordid behavior as sniffing pixie sticks and kissing girls, which then leads to the gateway drug of smoking doobers. The tree house crowd is basically the next generation of boozers, losers, and dopers. That is where Pimp My Tree House comes into play. 

The premise of this show is that it will transform that wooden hut of hedonistic behavior that you have made for your children into a pimped out pad for Mom and Dad. Imagine if you will a place you can call your own with everything you need to escape reality for a couple of hours or maybe a whole week.

It could consist of a couple of leather massaging recliners with a 42” HDTV with the latest video game systems and satellite TV that would be the centerpiece. A kicking surround sound stereo system to drown out the whining coming from your kids or even your significant other. A fully stocked stainless steel refrigerator with numerous Adult beverages and snacks for the big game or the Lifetime Movie Marathon for the ladies would be in the corner. There would of course be a WiFi connection for checking fantasy stats and for the ladies finding recipes. Possibly a couch so you could take a nice nap on a crisp fall day. For safety sakes it would have a big slide to get you out of the tree in case you enjoyed to many adult beverages.

This is just the tip of the iceberg and you will have to tune in to see the rest of the conversions but remember kids if you go out to your old tree house and you see a neon sign blinking that says, “If the tree is a shakin’, mommy and daddy are baby makin’” then just know that your tree house has been Pimped.

When I first heard the idea of “The get of the got”,  I am not going to lie I was a little confused by it, but the more that I let it simmer in my cranial caldron and let it roll off my tongue the more I came to understand it.

Let me first give credit where credit is due. The get of the got was Wham Bam Diddly Dam’s idea after pulling off the zing of all weekend zings. It is similar to the same inter-connected relationship you would see with the Ying and the Yang, and the Zing and the Zang; the get and the got flow together like the two great rivers of China, the Yangtzee and the Yahtzee.

Unfortunately, names have been changed to protect the individuals involved, but it was Jay “I got the Blues cause I didn’t see the Clues” who was the one that was the “got” while it was Wham Dickham with some encouragement from the peanut gallery that put the “get” in the get of the got. He pulled this off like a wax strip on his girlfriends shin, it was fast and painless; for him that is.

The set up for the “get” couldn’t have occurred any better. The night was going pretty smoothly and the snocktails for Jay and Wham were going down like a broken elevator full of fat people, when in walked a blast from the past for good old Jay, “I got the blues cause I didn’t see the clues.” He wasn’t sure if she had seen him and he was a little nervous to go talk to her (he is a shy guy sometimes) so he walked away from the group.

Wham, loaded with the girl’s name and a half dozen snocktails, yelled across the bar, “Hey don’t I know you. Isn’t your name ______? Aren’t you friends with Jay? Didn’t you see him when you walked in? Hold on a second. Where is Jay guys? Oh here he is over at this other table of people we don’t really hang out with. Hey Jay, Hey Jay! Guess who is here? You will never guess who is here, okay I will tell you. It is ______!

Well we all know how shy Jay can be, but thanks to Wham’s action as tugboat captain, he pulled Jay into the harbor of love and docked him right next to that lady in question. Your Welcome, Jay. Zing