Thursday, May 23, 2013

Garrrrrrl , she is living for all of it on the realsies, yo, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers

Remember Anthony Weiner, the peter tweeter? He is running for mayor of New York; this could bring new meaning to polling his constituents.

Oklahoma Thunder star, Kevin Durant, and the Oklahoma Thunder have each donated one million dollars to the Oklahoma City tornado victims. Or as the rest of the NBA calls two million dollars: child support.

Have you seen the amazing video of that sweet old lady whose Oklahoma City house was destroyed, but, during the interview, she finds her little dog alive and fine? It was so touching, the IRS agent who is auditing her cried.

In London, a 33-year-old research scientist said she had to quit her job because she was too good looking; it’s the exact same thing that happened to Dennis Rodman on “The Apprentice.”

In London, a 33-year-old research scientist said she had to quit her job because she was too good looking; finally the world can learn of the horrible oppression we too-good-looking people face on a daily basis.

A bar in Brooklyn is hosting The Smallest Penis Contest; this is a strict contest. No tucking, no cold water baths and no peeking at a hidden picture of Madonna.  

Since you asked:

Don't you just love those tear-stream-inducing shots of the deployed dad surprising his daughter? Can just picture it if I was returning home from Afghanistan and I surprised Ann Caroline:

"Oh, hi, Dad. Could you get me a Jamba Juice? Thanks. (Returning to iPhone) So then Hannah said that Jessica said..." 

Wally atop the Wally-Cuddle-Couch. You cain't help but smile when you say Wally. 

Donald Trump is gloating about defeating an 87-year-old Chicago grandmother in court over a condominium; Trump’s bloviating is easier to take since we now know Trump’s penis is only three inches long. (Psst. I have no idea how long Trump’s penis is, I just made a side bet of $1 mil. I can get him to show it to us)

Dear Snotty Pharmacists:

Listen, I know you think you're a doctor? But you're just a guy who takes peoples orders and fills them, like they do at McDonalds. The difference is, if a clerk at McDonalds rudely told me to come back and get my order in an hour, they would be fired.

Since you asked:

Lex's' Bullying Story, #2. 

One summer, when I was in just-after-Fourth grade, my parents sent me to the North Shore Baseball School. NSBS. All the cool kids went to NSBS. The problem? I was two years younger than the age limit. But, because I was a big kid and because my mother wanted me out of the house during the day, I was enrolled.

This was a huge mistake for two reasons: One, I was terrified of older kids. My brother was four years older than me and was horribly bullied due to his being extremely near-sighted, terribly uncoordinated and un-athletic. So it was my opinion all older kids were mean and it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. 

They were mean as hell to me. You want someone to pick on you? Show them you're afraid.

In addition, at the tender age of 8, I was not a good baseball player. By eighth grade I had willed myself into a pretty good first baseman with a good glove, lots of power and speed. But at age 8, I was below average at baseball for even my age and way below average for a camp full of mostly 12-year-olds who loved baseball.

You can't even begin to overstate the difference, physically and mentally, between a shy 8-year-old and cocky, athletic 12-year-olds. (yes, believe it or not, I was shy) 

So the natural result was I was the proverbial kid always picked last. 

One day I wasn’t picked last, I wasn’t picked at all. Too embarrassed to draw attention to myself, I just spent the day sitting in the stands. Our “counselors” were just high school baseball players who were as qualified to instruct kids as my dog, Charlie. Maybe less.

Well, sure enough, two of the meaner 12-year-olds decided it would be fun to beat up the big eight-year-old kid who stunk at baseball. Why not? And, like I had seen my brother before me, I just stood there and took it while quietly crying. 

Now keep in mind, this is North suburban Chicago bullying, not Southside bullying. They stole my hat. Punched me in the arm, stole my glove. Pushed me down. Stole my bike and ditched it. Now and again the stomach punch that would knock all the wind out of me. Whatever it took to make me cry so they could make fun of the fact I was crying. 

Nothing in the face. That was the unwritten rule.

One day the whole camp went to a Chicago Cubs game. Although I wasn’t yet a huge Cubs fan yet –that would change in a coupld of years in Sixth grade -  going to Wrigley Field with my Dad was a great experience and is still a cherished memory.

But it wasn’t fun going with the two kids who picked on me. This day on a Cubs field trip they decided to really ramp up the bullying. Something about the excitement of the Cubs game and the counselors wanting to watch the game and not us, really made the two bullies want to beat the crap out of me. 

And they did. Like it was yesterday, I remember just sitting in my seat with one of them in back of me punching repeatedly in the back. And then it happened. 

Later, while standing in the concession line, one of them knocked my full 7-Up out of my hands. That was it. My Keds sneakers were soaked. He just stood in front of me with a “Well, what are you going to do about it?” look on his face. This would prove to be a mistake. Loved me some 7-Up, I surely did.

Without ever having done it before, I wound up and slapped him as hard as I could across his face with my open hand. Just like a discus thrower right before the release. The sound of the slap was as loud as the crack of the ball coming off a baseball bat. My entire palm stunk like I fell on the pavement falling off my bike.  He went flying back like a cartoon character with his high top Converse sneakers flying up in the air.

Clearly I had violated the no-face agreement big time.

I’ll never forget, he landed so hard on his back that he bounced his head on the dirty Wrigley Field cement. Hard. His Cubs hat went flying. Everyone froze. The kid I smacked was so stunned, he didn’t even cry. Everyone was shocked, including me. He just sat there holding his head and rocking. Then my bully-turned-victim’s cobwebs cleared and he started balling loudly and I got in big-ass trouble.

My hand-print looked like it was painted in red on his left cheek.

Yes, he was four years older than me, but like with most bullies, he was small for his age. Yes, I was banned from going to the next Cubs game. Yes, I got in big trouble with my Mom. (Turns out the bully I almost knocked out was her friend’s kid)

But guess who never got picked on for the rest of that summer? And was I ever picked last for baseball ever again? Was I? 

Well, yeah, sure, I still sucked at baseball.  That didn’t change with a slap.

But nobody bullied me again.