Fresh Wes

While driving around, me and my roommate noticed Shakespeare’s Trophy Shop in Santa Monica. Interested in finding a sweet fantasy football trophy, we decided to scope it out.

We began browsing the trophy collection, eventually settling on a bronze and wood Heisman trophy replica. We were elated, high-fiving in celebratory fashion over our selection. But something

caught my eye. Amongst the faux special olympic ribbons and “nice try” soccer trophies was a glorious treasure. We found a chromed out man throwing around serious weight on the incline press.

Immediately we knew this trophy was destined to be the legendary prize award to the victor of our newly planned annual Man Competition. The owner of the shop created it right there on the spot, crafting our legendary monument to testosterone in about 5 minutes.

After creating this masterpiece, the trophy store owner started to change. His eyes changed from delightful to envious. He kept repeating “my precious” as

he stared deeply at his majestic creation. We quickly paid and left, learning a valuable lesson: The Man Competition Trophy is highly coveted. If you are not manly enough, and happen to gaze upon it, you will be overtaken by greed and awe.

Only those daring and brave enough to enter the arena will be worthy enough to vie for the trophy. Are you man enough? Are you a man amongst boys?

Once again our friends at the Entertainment and Sports Programming Network (aka ESPN) managed to ruin what was probably the biggest surprise picks of the first day. Now I know everyone is mesmerized by the first round and surprise picks in the first round usually get all the press. This happened late in the second round when the Green Bay Packers took Brian Brohm at number 56. This is an interesting pick because former first round pick, Aaron Rodgers, is ready to take over for the recently retired Brett Favre, or at least keep his spot warm until he predictably un-retires.

BSPN was on a commercial break before pick 56 came up, and when they came back on the air Steve Young was in the middle of a rant about how “bad this was for Aaron Rodgers.” This probably went on for a solid 20 seconds. For those of you who don’t know, I hate to break it to you but the NFL tells ESPN what every pick is before they announce the pick. This is so ESPN can look really smart when they talk about the possible players that might get taken at the pick and they always mention the name of the guy taken, no matter how unlikely it seems. After Young was done talking there was a series of awkward silences and half-sentences as everyone at the table suddenly realized they were on the air and about to completely ruin this surprise selection. They never said the name Brian Brohm, but who the hell else would they take that would be “terrible for Aaron Rodgers.”

So after these morons finally get the news that they are back on the air, longtime announcer and asshole Chris Berman awkwardly puts his hand over his earpiece as everyone else stays silent. I really wish I could have seen Berman ream out the producer who forgot to tell him they were on the air.  At no point did they say welcome back to the NFL Draft. Then Boomer says lets go to the commissioner, as I’m sitting there saying I guess they’re taking a QB like Brian Brohm. Sure enough with the 56^th pick Green Bay selects Brian Brohm.

THANKS ESPN! The best part about watching the draft is when something happens that is in nobody’s mock draft. After the surprise selection you want to call up one of your friends and discuss what the pick means, why they did it, and how no one saw it coming. Instead I’m sitting there in disbelief at how ESPN managed to mildly ruin my life for 5 minutes.

My roommate and I are in our apartment drinking rum and cokes when we get a knock on the door. We open the door and see a man with grimy dreadlocks, a long nappy beard, and shabby clothes. “Hey you mind if I use your phone?” he says. Being the idealist that I am, I immediately say, “yea come on in, you want a beer?” Now the perfect outcome of this awkward situation I had created was for him to call the owner of whatever shelter he was able to scrounge up for the night, maybe have one beer, and then leave. It’s this type of naïve thinking that leads to bad situations.

Scott makes the call and does not get an answer. Then he makes himself at home on our couch and says those nine magic words: “you guys mind if I take my shirt off.” We both said ‘sure’ in the most insincere fashion. Due to the booze in our system and the overall absurdity of the situation, we were far too confused to utter the words ‘no Scott, you can’t take your fucking shirt off.’

He proceeds to peel off his disgusting hoodie, allowing his putrid body odor to immediately consume our apartment. It’s amazing how much of his stench was previously shielded from us by his hoodie. Perhaps it was made of lead, because his foul armpits were emitting some pretty raunchy rays.

My roommate, desperate to break the creepy silence, asked him if he could have a pinch of his chew. “Sure, I also have some homemade chew if you want.” My eyes lit up. Homemade chew? What does that even mean? I had to see it. He pulled out a baggy filled with some sort of substance that I couldn’t recognize. I smelled it and I can only describe the smell as some sort of fishy oil. I found out from some local who knew him (I know, our mutual acquaintance was a homeless person) that the secret ingredient in his homemade chew was nothing other than PCP.

Scott starts telling us about himself and how he used to work at Wal-Mart but quit because they “only paid him $8 an hour.” Let that sentence sink into your head for a second. A homeless person is trying to convince us he was overqualified and underpaid…for a job…that pays money…which he has none of. If this seems backward to you, don’t worry, you aren’t alone.

.It is now becoming quite apparent that the “friend” Scott came over here to call is probably nonexistent. As all three of being to realize this fact, Scott says, “you guys mind if I crash here?” Most of you think you would immediately say no and try to kick him out. But this guy was so pathetic that we couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. However, there was no way in hell he was going to be staying with us that night…or ever.

My roommate quickly says that my sister is coming within the hour and she didn’t want any of my friends to be staying there. It was a terrible lie that really made no sense, but luckily Scott was so brain-dead from all the substances his body has incurred over his “life” that he bought into it. Then he smiled at me, with his Indian corn teeth, and asked me how old my sister was. Yea Scott, you’re just her type. And don’t ask how old she is as if any number I throw out there is really going to sway your decision one way or the other.

So I go onto the computer to avoid having to talk to Scott as well as to find refuge from the Agent Orange that was steaming off his filthy, shirtless torso. I IM one of my friends and telling him to call my roommate to save him from Scott. It doesn’t matter what you say, just make that phone ring.

The phone rings, my roommate puts on a Oscar winning performance pretending to be talking to my sister. This ruse back up our lie, and Scott gets up to leave. He asks to use the phone one more time. This time the person who we thought was fictional picked up and said Scott could come over and crash both agreed on what we should do with this treasure. We placed it on top of our TV like the prize that it was, and every time we watched TV and looked up at it we would remember that fateful day a smelly bum showed up at our apartment door.

“If the misery of the poor be caused not by the laws of nature, but by our institutions, great is our sin.” - Charles Darwin

And it’s not a crotch rocket either.

This past weekend the weather was really awesome, and everyone and their mother went to the beach and/or the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica. And since I live near the beach, this meant getting to and finding parking at Baja Fresh was a nightmare. That got me thinking, I need to find an alternative method of transportation that is less gay than roller blading. Since Segways were never cool, I had to go with a bike.

Since everybody who owns a bike feels the need to shit-spew Bike propaganda , I feel the need to defend myself. These are not reasons I wanted to get a bike:

1. Commuting - Get sweaty before work? Doubtful!
   
2. Picking up ladies - Nothing says “playa” like spokes
3. Environment - For every mile I bike, I make sure I drive 5
4. Safety - I’ll pull a Ben Roethlisberger before I rock a helmet
5. Errands - They are not called errands, BUT called doing shit. On a bike, this requires a basket and a uterus
   

Those are are totally valid reasons for some people - just not for me. Here are my reason’s I got the bike:

1. Day Drinking - Nothing says fun like a BUI
2. Basketball - Played at a court near my house - everyone wondered why we drove. I didn’t wonder. We’re lazy.
3. Parking - Parking sucks in LA. Trying to get a validation after using an ATM is painful.
4. Gas - $4 a gallon? What is this Dom P?
5. Bike By Shootings - Nobody expects that shit. Especially not kids.

I bought a new beach cruiser from the XYZBikes.com website. They delivered it the next day and I built it myself (that’s manly right?). The color is gray, but I prefer to call it Gunmetal Gray.

So I went for my first ride last night, just to break it in.  It was pretty sweet and I think I’m starting a small gang with the kids down the street.  Let them know this is our hood and we got to represent hard.

My neck is covered in 360 degrees of hickey and I actually have one on my cheek just under my eye. I lost my phone but when I got it back last night I had a text message saying “you better appreciate this, I’m really taking one for the team” and I found out this was because he was with a slightly uglier/fatter version of whatever was mauling me.

It happened again. It always happens. Gmail inbox says “Natalya has added you as a friend on MySpace”.

Keep it cool Wes. No big deal, this happens all the time to you. You’re a baller. You know what? Don’t even click the link. You’re too busy, and you’ll get to her later. Maybe tomorrow. Whatever.

…………………

click click click.

…………………

Damn it she wasn’t real. No I don’t want to see your fucking webcam. How did you find me?

Don’t lie MySpacers, you know this has happened to you before. It has to have. I’m not even that popular on MySpace and this happens to me constantly.

All I have going for me is the sliver of hope that I may have actually met this person in real life. Here’s the thought process:

1. Where was I recently?
2. Was I drunk?
3. Did I attempt to converse with any species of human?
4. Did I actually give them my real name, or even try to grunt syllables which would resemble my name?
5. Are they the police?

Usually this works out pretty successfully.

But it’s worse if you’re a computer geek too, where interactions with hot women usually are made of pixels and ascii characters.

You know full well that you don’t know anybody named Natasha or KeLli <3, but you continue to move your pale Cheetos-crusted finger on the mouse, hopelessly clicking away. You think – “hey, maybe somebody read my blog? Maybe they thought your Warcraft character was hot and want to meet up?

DOUBTFUL. It’s not that easy, and it never will be. But still, we all fall for it. This isn’t e-Harmony, or my proposed Gangster version, G-Harmony. This is MySpace, the web’s version of the house they use to film “To Catch A Predator”.

Stick to Facebook, where stalking is okay if you call it “networking“.

“after careful analysis I conclude that you have never touched a woman, however, it is now my homepage.”

“Imagine him ordering his meth-addicted bastard children to get him Natty Lights, all while using their cleft palates as personal ash trays. Unfortunately, with that DNA running through their veins and their rampant signs of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, these children will serve as evidence that evolution cannot possibly exist. These freaks of nature will have no mothers. Sadly, they will all be born from several different hookers. It will be just like the plot of “I Am Sam“, only slightly less heartwarming.”

This summer I am planning on creating a competition to find who is this manliest among me and my friends.  Although no where near as manly as the World’s Emotionally Strongest Man Competition, this contest will be unique and most likely tailored to things I’m good at. I don’t know the exact date, but I assure you it will be the manliest day of the year. The winner will get a trophy of a flexed bicep or something with similar masculinity.

I haven’t exactly planned out the scoring system yet, but here are some of the proposed events:

Proposed Events:

• Parallel parking
• Football accuracy contest
• Poker game
• Question and answer segment
• 25lb curl competition
• Arm wrestling (both arms)
• Chug contest
• Getting 10 girls at the bar to sign your bicep
• 1 hour fishing tournament
• Mini golf challenge

Any thoughts or idea proposals?

I don’t even know if I need to train… I’m gonna take this competition

The first of many hateresque posts from our newest contributor Darwinian Phenom. If you knew him, you would see how oxymoronic that name is. Enjoy!

For all of the wonderful things television has given us over the years, it has also brought one of the greatest plagues on our current society. The “as seen on TV” product. This epidemic of crappy merchandise has graced us with such memorable punch-line products as the chia pet, the egg wave, and the infamous clapper. But the other day I came across a perfectly normal item, a pair of binoculars for only one easy payment of $29.99 plus the cost of shipping and handling. A woman in the commercial testified that these binoculars were “just as good as the $1,000 pair her husband had bought.” First off, lady, did you perform a comprehensive experiment testing the performance of each pair of binoculars? Can you present documented evidence that these $30 binoculars can see at night, through my window, across the street, and into the window of my neighbor’s 14-year-old daughter at 9:37 p.m. when she gets undressed before her nightly shower? Didn’t think so.

Usually I would ignore a commercial like this, but then came the big “call now and we’ll throw in (insert some really shitty deal here) ABSOLUTELY FREE!” Along with receiving these “high quality” binoculars, the first 500 callers were also promised a pen-sized pocket “spy scope.” That’s right, at first glance what appears to be a completely ordinary pen is really a hand-sized, relatively undetectable telescope in disguise. This product is a worse idea than the Jump to Conclusions Mat from Office Space.

“Oh man, I’m like 50-50 on whether I’m going to buy those binoculars…but oh shit! I get a pen sized telescope with absolutely no practical use too? And they only give it to the first 500 callers?” (Dialing frantically) I hope they didn’t stock out of spy scopes yet! Think about the fact that someone who works for this company proposed this crappy idea, and then got it approved by their overpaid and clearly underachieving superior. Hey boss, I’m predicting a huge growth in demand for pen-sized telescopes designed to spy on people during highly covert operations. A product like this should only be found in one of those claw grabbing arcade games where some kid gets pissed off because he wanted the mood ring and got stuck with the spy scope.

I can’t think of one good reason to own this piece of shit. I could perhaps see someone buying it in order to cheat on a test (even though the scope would clearly have to resemble that of a number 2 pencil and not a pen), but think of the risk and consequences associated. I’m not talking about a failing grade and possible expulsion from the school. Instead, I’m saying if someone catches you then you will have to admit to owning this stupid thing and tell the embarrassing story of how you acquired such a device. Those first 500 callers that receive this item should have to register as spy scope owners and their place of residence should be made available to the public. If I can search for sex offenders living in my area, I also want to know if there are spy scope owners in my area. I trust someone with a spy scope about as much as I would trust Michael Jackson to babysit my kids, probably less. I can understand that there are people in the world who have a fetish for kids, but I can’t understand a person who believes a spy scope somehow enhances their quality of life.

The creators of this product are clearly lacking in attributes fit for survival. In an era in which we’ve seen such great innovations as the internet, social networking, cellular phones and GPS devices, these half-wits give us the spy scope. The next time you have what you think is a good idea and someone shoots it down as being the stupidest idea they ever heard, tell them about the spy scope.

“An American monkey, after getting drunk on brandy, would never touch it again, and thus is much wiser than most men.” - Charles Darwin