The Case of the Belt Buckle Burster

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am about to present to you a clear-cut case of manipulation, a crime so heinous you may lose sleep over it, but I beg of you, when you are tossing and turning from the thought of this wrongdoing, please do not stumble into the kitchen to make yourself a pie, because that’s exactly what the defendant would want you to do. 

Ladies and gentlemen, I will show each and every one of you through eyewitness testimony that the defendant, Mr. Superdumbface, a.k.a HotMom72, is not only a terrible influence on society at large, but has committed a crime so vile that it will probably one day be featured on Lifetime.

Mr. Superdumbface is trying to make me fat.

Your honor, if it pleases the court I’d like to present my first piece of testimony: he gets me high. A lot.

Now, I am a grown man and I have the ability to rise above peer pressure. But when you have another grown man mocking you, fake crying and calling you a baby, essentially challenging the “I’m a fun guy” reputation you’ve been working on since those lonely high school days, you tend to give in and get high.

This moves us on to Exhibit B. In this bag I hold not one, but two blahg entries dating back to April 27^th of 2011, where our hero, me, chronicled the misdeeds of the defendant.  These stories, ladies and gentleman, establish a pattern in the Mr. Superdumbface’s behavior, where he has repeatedly suggested we get food and the eateries he floats by my hungry mind are of the unhealthy variety.

“OBJECTION! The Defense would like to file a motion to bar this evidence. It is inadmissible due to its blatant prejudicial nature.”

Objection?! Who the fuck are you and why are you writing in my blahg?

“The accused is my client. I am his attorney.”

Oh, well shut up then.

“Of all the fucking cases to preside over, I get put on this one? The motion is denied.”

Thank you, your honor. Anyway, where was I?

“Wait, why would the defendant try to make you fat?” 

Thank you for asking Juror number 4 (you have great personality by the way!). Well ma’am and all that have gathered here to witness this trial, his reasoning is quite simple: He strives to look better than me. He has noticed that since last August I have lost 30 lbs and he is threatened by this. Someday we will stand side-by-side before a beautiful woman with a great smile and personality that you just can’t stop thinking about, personality that you just want to caress and squeeze and pinch gently and maybe bury your face in between (Breasts. I’m trying to get at breasts here), and when we stand in front of her, if I am looking rather swollen, showing a triple chin because I can’t stop looking down at her personality, she will pick him. Or so the defendant hopes.

This is not a conclusion I came to easily. No, let the record show that it is incredibly difficult to come to any conclusion when you’re high. I arrived at this point by watching his behavior, listening to his words, and eating a lot of fatty food at his behest.

But what really made the light bulb go on is when, last weekend, he so casually and nonchalantly stopped on the Food Network while flipping through channels on the telly.

Yup, of all the 62 channels to choose from: the X-Games on ESPN, the 2^nd Matrix on TNT, Bob The Builder on Nick Jr., he picks the one channel that will without-a-doubt unleash the blind, insatiable appetite of The Beast.

When this occurred, this tiny slip in his plan, I started to replay instances from the past:

I have never heard the defendant utter a phrase like, “How about we split a rice cake or go buy some apples from Whole Foods?” No, ladies and gentleman! His script reads, “Dude, let’s go to Taco Bell.” or, “Alright, here’s the plan. We go to the grocery store, get some ice cream Snicker bars and a pizza, eat a one of the Snickers in the car, come back and start cooking the pizza, smoke a little more, eat another Snickers bar while the pizza is cooking, play some Nintendo Punch-Out, cut the pizza, eat another Snickers bar while the pizza is cooling, and then eat the pizza.” Dairy Queen. Sonic. McDonald’s. All of the sodium rich, carb loaded, moment-on-the-lips-straight-to-the-hips deliciousness our great nation was founded on have all been dangled in front of me by the defendant on numerous occasions in attempts to plump me back up.

I also find it very convenient that whenever the accused and I make high trips through the super market he always seems to lead me down the junk food isles, causing me to sweat profusely. If the defendant wasn’t trying to burst my belt buckle then why wouldn’t he stick to isles like the cleaning isle or the magazine isle? 

“Probably because you’d try to drink some Windex thinking it was Gatorade or eat a “Gourmet” magazine because there’s a pie on the front.”

Your honor, would you please ask the Defense to stop interrupting me? It is, afterall, my blahg.

“Stop interrupting the Prosecution. It is his blahg.”

Thank you, your honor. So, ladies and gentlemen, with the evidence I’ve mentioned above, I predict a swift conviction.

…

“The Defense calls the Prosecution to the stand.”

*Gasps.*

“First of all, may I say you look dashing today in that three-piece suit?”

Why yes you can and thank you.

“No, thank you! You clearly have an unrivaled sense of style that should be respected and praised. And man oh man are you sexy!”

Well you have great personality.

“Thank you. Will you please state your name for the record?”

No. This is an anonymous blog, so no I will not state my name for the record.

“Oh, right. When you came up with this elaborate conspiracy deeming my client some sort of monster, were you high?”

Yes.

“Have you ever, in the short time you’ve been smoking marijuana cigarettes, felt paranoid?”

Yes, but—

“Just answer the question!”

Yes.

“Is it possible that your mind generated this entire plot, this conspiracy against my client, due to your paranoia.”

*A long pause and silence falls over the courtroom.*

Yes. It is possible.

***GASPS!***

“The Defense rests, your honor.”

If you liked this blahg, great! You should write about it in your blog. Once you’re done with that, “follow” mine by clicking the button in the upper right. because they just don’t do eight people juries anymore.

Soccer Debacle Part 1: My Debut

I’m hungry. I have a red stain on my shirt. I feel the pain in my knee and see it’s swollen. What the fuck happened tonight, I ask as I catch a blank stare from myself in the mirror. My downward gaze sees my green shorts. Soccer shorts! A mind bomb goes off as I suddenly remember that I was playing soccer earlier tonight. That’s when it happened.

Rewind to a few of weeks ago. It’s game 7 of the Stanley Cup. The Bruins of Boston are facing the Canucks of Vancouver. A friend of mine, let’s call him HotMom72, the same friend who helped coin the phrase “Tootsie Roll,” asks me if I want to come over to watch the game.

“I may have to leave early cuz I have intramural soccer at 9:15,” he says. “But you can come watch and we can hang out afterward.”

“What ever you say, Captain Asshole!” I should have said. Instead I went with something like, “Sure.”

We sit through the hockey game, me secretly hoping for a tie to push it into overtime so I won’t have to go watch soccer. I should have known then. I should have listened to my instincts, because if wouldn’t have gone to that game, I’d be able to walk normal right now.  Instead, the Canucks lose in 3 periods and we’re on our way. I reward myself by getting high. After all, I reason, I’m an American and an American team won the cup, so naturally, as a full-blooded, cry-when-the-national-anthem-is-sung-beautifully child of the red, white and blue, I turn to drugs to dull my boredom. Or, just because it makes me feel good.

As I’m about to revisit the car for my forgotten water bottle (a necessity when you’re high), HotMom72 yells at me.

“Hey man, wanna be our sub?”

“Are you fucking kidding me,” my brain screams. “I’m high as fuck right now! No, I can’t play in your Goddamn soccer game!” I stand there like a deer in headlights, contemplating how large of an explosion it would take to make everyone look the other way so I can escape undetected. I’m terrified, so I do what anyone on the “gateway drug” would do: I say yes. 

I run to the other side of the stadium and realize I’m higher than I thought. I’m bouncing on the concrete like Neil on the moon and the walls are vibrating with each stride.

Fuck. I’m actually doing this.

I haven’t played soccer in over 13 years, not since sophomore year of high school when I was so out of shape that I didn’t even finish tryouts. My self-doubt swallows me, which is part of the reason I want in. I want to redeem myself, another shot at doing something that I could’ve done years before. But right now all I can think of is looming disaster.

I circle around the field, which is basically a hockey rink with artificial turf instead of ice. There are two bench areas for the players, both with doors that latch, and between the two there’s a box for the score clock.

How do I get into my sudden team’s bench, I ask myself, frozen in fear. There’s an opening in the score clock box, but then I’ll have to walk onto the field. Hmmm. I’ll just stand here behind this nice net. And there I wait. “Why don’t you come around,” asks a female teammate of HotMom72. “They’ll let you through.”

Damn.

I creep around the corner, cautiously, to prevent complete and utter embarrassment. I tiptoe through the press box, as if landmines are buried beneath. The ref lets me onto the field and said teammate opens the door to “our” bench. And there I wait, wondering if I’ll actually sub in, or if they just needed an extra body to start the game so they pointed me out with no intentions of calling on my services.

I get my answer in the form of HotMom72 jogging to the bench and gasping for me to take his place.

Holy shit. This is it.

I run onto the field, frantic like an idiot. I put myself into a play, start to feel comfortable, but a whistle halts my imminent stardom. “You need shin guards,” says the white-haired ref. I look past my khaki cargo shorts to my sneakers and tube socks, and a sudden revelation dawns on me: I am a moron. Of course I need shin guards.

I guess when your high you forget these things, little things, like pretty much the only piece of equipment that you actually need to play soccer. A “minor” detail I failed to recall from the three years I played before the fat and lazy summer of ’98.

I feel dumb. All my worries of being laughed at have come true. Paranoid, I glance to the bleachers to make sure no one is filming this. I don’t want to become a YouTube sensation for the wrong reasons. I jog over to the bench and jump over the side instead of opening the door and stepping in like a civilized human being. Shit, I don’t need a fucking door, especially when I just want to duck behind the boards, which is where my dignity is surely hiding.

Well apparently another rule, besides the shitty “You must protect your shins to play,” is that you can’t jump over the boards to enter the bench area. You must unlatch the door, step in with an air of self-righteousness, all whilst sipping a cup of English Breakfast with your pinky in the air. The zebra locks onto my position and follows me to the bench. “Next time your team will get a yellow card.”

A part of me is incredibly relieved. No more blossoming into a muttonhead for all laughing eyes to see.

Half time brings HotMom72 and the rest of his team to the bench. He says he knew I was going to get kicked off the field. “But I needed a break.”

Asshole!

The other ref comes over during half time with a pity-driven smile. He tells me they probably have shin guards I can use in the lost and found. “If someone has socks, you’re set.” One of my new teammates does have a pair in her car. “But they’re kid socks, so they’ll probably be a little tight.”

They. Are. Incredibly. Tight. And take me what seems like forever to get on.

HotMom72 recalls it this way: I look over and he’s putting on a sock. I continue to play and about 5 minutes later I look over again. What the fuck? He’s still putting on the same sock. By the way, don’t my tits look great for a mother of three?

O.K. He didn’t say that last part, but whatever. Finally the socks are on and snuggly hug the borrowed shin guards. I step back into the bench and soon after I’m on the field, nervous, spazzing my way to almost scoring two goals.

After the game I get asked to join the team, obviously due to my on-the-field wonders, says my ego. But the side of me that keeps it real, bitches, reminds me that I just got done making a fool out of myself and it’s because they just need another body. I had a lot of fun, so another yes leaves my lips.

If only I would’ve said no.

Click here for part two of "Soccer Debacle."