Math Hates You 2

Me at the Blah Blah Blahg like to occasionally highlight a member of the community who has something to say. Me’d like to report that Todd, our last guest blahgger, is doing, um, well he hasn’t killed himself, yet, and he apologized for the vulgarity in his post. Me told him not to sweat it, that although it was quite awkward and inappropriate, it was no big thing. This week me present to you a special guest columnist, a friend of mine and a friend to us all. Please join me in welcoming Math!

Yeah, Well I Hate You Too

By: Mathematics

Hello, you fucks. This is Mathematics. But you all call me “Math”, since most of you can’t say  4-syllable words. Yeah, I’m the one everyone hates. Need proof? You seriously need proof? Here’s your fucking proof!: 

“If I have to divide one more Goddamn thing Imma kill a bitch.”

-Kyle Hansen, age 8, Eli, MN

“Anytime I hear ‘Pythagorean Theorem’ I like to imagine a python strangling Ms. Lindy.”

            -Makayla Watkins (age 13) in a txt message sent during math class, Nashville, TN

“Happy Easter, everyone! I want to let you all know that after I survive this year’s tax dealine I will be ending my life. Can you please pass the ham?”

            -Manuel Torres, 43-year-old accountant, Rochester, NY

“You slut! I have never loved you and if you keep making me do math you’re gonna find glass in your coffee.”

–Tyler Redding (age 6) to his mother at breakfast, St. Louis, MO

“How much is 20% of that? Fuck Math! Screw it. I’ll just give her 10%. She wasn’t that good, right?”

-Nearly every sloutch who has ever eaten out (and for the record, she was 30% good, 

            you lazy pricks)

How do I know people said this? Because I’m like Santa Claus, bitch. I hear everything! I see you when you’re sleeping (and it takes every fiber of my being not to slit your throats). I know when you’re awake. I know if you’ve been bad or good so be good for fuck’s sake, you whiney little cunts.

You’re damn right I’m angry. Why the hell wouldn’t I be? Here are a few scenarios that I have to deal with. Every time I see my doctor it’s, “Turn your head and cough. Whoops! Forgot the lubricant.” When I walk outside it’s, “Do you have some spare cha— Get the fuck off my sidewalk!” And every time I go to a liquor store to pick up my medicine it’s, “Hey you! Get the fuck outta my store, ya piece o’ shit!” 

I’ll be the first to admit that at some point in high school I become utterly useless. That happens with every old person. But there's not a single being besides myself that can say they’ve been involved in the production of nearly every man-made thing on this planet.

Without me, you wouldn’t be able to know how strong that mint shit is, the candy booze you’ve been sneaking into your coffee at work. Without me you wouldn’t be able to describe to your friends what size tits/cock that chick/boy you plowed has. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even be able to read this stupid fucking blog!

Oh, I’m sorry! It’s apparently spelled “blahg.” I wasn’t aware that Brad needs to go fuck himself!

See, now that shit's funny. 

I’m sick of it, people. “Did you know you can write "BOOBS" on your calc by typing in 80085?” Fuck you. “So, when do I carry the one?” How are you still breathing? “Where do you put the apostrophe when the word ends with ‘s’?” Wrong fucking subject, ASSHOLE! 

Breathe. Breathe.

I Wonder what Wendy has been up to? 

Oh, just writing NYTimes bestsellers about me. 

Boom and boom. 

Ahhh, much better. 

Look, I’m not gonna bite. I’m not gonna steal your husband or bang your dog. And I’ve been shooting blanks for over 5,000 years so I can’t exactly knock up your daughter. I may not like you, you may not like me, but I'm here to help. The greatest lie anyone ever told to you wasn’t that you’re attractive, it’s that “Math is hard.” So forget that and let’s do this shit!

Not when you're my age.

Now if you don't mind, Imma go carry the onie (if you know what I’m saying),

-Mathematics

And for the record, take the total of the bill, move the decimal one place to the left and double that amount. There’s your 20-fucking-percent.






Alright! Thank you, Mathematics? Well folks, I really didn't see that one coming so I apologize for any offense it caused. Stay tuned for another guest blahg entry in the future. Hopefully, um, it's something for the whole family to enjoy! 




Did this blahg make you reconsider your sexuality? Wow, that's never happened before. You're welcome? On another note, if you enjoyed it, pass it along to a friend. And you can catch the Blahg's first guest guest column here.

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."