Monday, November 30, 2009

Wanted: Alibis

Hey y’all,

I’m just writing for a little input from all of my Faithful Readers.

You see, Grace and I have some incredibly loud, incredibly obnoxious neighbors.

These folks enjoy slamming the front door and stomping up and down the stairs at all hours of the day, although they seem partial to late-night douchebaggery more than anything else.

When they’re not slamming the aforementioned front door or clomping up and down the stairs in that special way that only jackasses can, they’re upstairs dragging around dead emus and playing croquet, or at least that’s how it sounds anyway.

Anyway, the long and short of this is that I’m pretty sure I’m going to wind up killing these folks and stashing their bodies in a dumpster somewhere and I’m going to be in need of some solid alibis for Grace and myself.

So if you’re creative and have some solid alibis and/or own a secluded cabin where I could be “on vacation” at any given time and place without drawing suspicion, just lemme know.

Your friend,

Jeremiah


A Moment with Grace



Grace and I have been together for just a smidgen over seven years.

In that time we’ve developed a sort of innate ability to realize what situations warrant real, genuine concern and which situations merely warrant a head nod and an automatic mmmhhhmmmmm.

The day after Thanksgiving we were taking our sweet-ass time to get the day started as we’re wont to do. Grace was in the kitchen nibbling at some leftover cherry pie and I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth and preparing to actually start the day.

I grabbed for my contact lens case, but in doing so it slipped. I frantically reached out to snatch it and in the process managed to hit the door of our medicine cabinet/mirror into my head.

In a surprisingly polished, yet completely un-choreographed move, I stumbled backwards tripping up and over the edge of the toilet and fell ass over tea-kettle back into the living room.

I bounced off the arm rest of the couch and landing on the ground whimpering.

Grace came storming in the room, in what I assumed was a frantic panic regarding my safety.

While I rolled around clutching the side of my now swelling head, Grace simply picked up her laptop and slid it out of the way so that I wouldn’t kick it while thrashing about and meandered back into the kitchen to finish her cherry pie.

I sat up and before I could even go into some dramatic rant about how I could have died there on the floor, she beat me to the punch from the other room.

“Oh shut up, you’re fine,” she said. “Stop being such a drama queen.”

…and she was right.

I was fine.

It hurt like a mofo, but I clearly wasn’t dying or gushing blood from my noggin, so it wasn’t really anything worth flipping out about.

That gal’s got a drama-sensor that’d get the folks at NASA in a tizzy.



Sunday, November 29, 2009

I’m a Cat-Person



I’m a cat-person.

I get asked why I prefer cats to dogs all the time and I usually have a solid repertoire of answers for that inquiry, but yesterday, I gained a brand-new number one.

I’d love to simply tell you, outright what the new number one is, but I figure that without the story it’s not nearly as awesome.

Enjoy…

----------------------------------

I was walking to work yesterday when I sauntered passed a dude and his dog.

His dog had just dropped a deuce on the sidewalk and the dude was digging around in his pocket for a plastic bag.

For a split-second he did a quick scan of the area to see if he could get away with leaving his dog’s deposit. His plot was quickly foiled, however, by the appearance of some bitter-looking old gal taking her trash out.

She stopped dead in her tracks—clearly keen on the “I’m gonna leave poop” face—and the man knew he had to pick it up.

So he dug around, pulled out a plastic bag, and scooped up his dogs poopers.

The thing is, his dog was—um—a big dog.

As such, the dog left big dog sized droppings for the owner to shovel up. This required him to let go of the dog’s leash and use both hands.

When he let go of the leash, the suddenly much lighter and aerodynamic pup took off in a dash toward traffic.

The man, struggled to finish grabbing the last of his dog’s business—which promptly sent the bitter-looking old lady back inside to find something new to be bitter about—and stumbled after the dog.

He reached a few times for the leash; missing repeatedly whilst trying his best not to drop the untied bag—of what I can only assume was at least a pound of dung—all over the sidewalk and/or his shoes.

Finally at the last second he made a sort of awkward lunge toward the dog’s leash.

Only, the dog stopped so the owner went stumbling up and over the dog and landed, chest first onto the bag of poopers.

There was a long, awkward moment of silence. The dude sat quietly, no doubt processing what had just happened. The dog sat silently, no doubt sensing it had done something wrong. I tried to sit silently and avoid laughing so hard I’d pee my pants.

He got up sheepishly and looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the atrocity that had just befallen him.

I did my best not to make any eye-contact as he picked himself up from the ground and quickly grabbed the dog’s leash and did that awkward run-walk that people usually reserve for emergency pooping situations of their own.

I disappeared around the corner and heard him mumbling something under his breath at the dog.

----------------------------------

I figure this situation, in addition to being hilarious, served a greater purpose in giving me a very solid example whenever people ask me why I’m a cat-person.

The top five reasons before went as follows:

You don’t have to walk cats.
You don’t have to carry their poop around in a plastic bag.
You don’t have to scoop their poopers up off the sidewalk.
You don’t have to feed them nearly as much as you do a dog.
You don’t have to take them outside to poop.

Obviously, nearly all of these revolved around pooping, so it seems only appropriate that the brand-new number one reason I’m a cat-person also deals with poop.

Without any further ado, the new number one reason I’m a cat-person is…

You never end up wearing cat poo. Period.

Cats win.

Friday, November 27, 2009

Black Friday Wins Again



In the wake of another successful Thanksgiving—and by successful, I mean I ate until I was ready to keel over—Grace and I have spent much of Black Friday lounging around the house.

We were in our pajamas until roughly one in the afternoon, we’ve plowed through leftovers—sorry folks, the cherry pie is long gone—and we’ve essentially been as worthless as the folks who make cranberry sauce will be for the rest of the year.

Then, in a random burst of post-gorging food-high, Grace decided today would be a great day to clean and finish up some other chores around the house.

She went about sweeping and mopping like a mad woman.

I changed the disgusting old shower curtain liner for a new one, and destroyed three of the plastic hanger-thingy-majiggys in the process and I prepared to hang up the curtain rod and curtains we purchased during our IKEA trip a few weeks back.

I promptly discovered we were without drywall screws.

In fact, I only had four screws total. Two meant for keeping parts of a metal reading desk together and two completely unmatched gigantic screws meant for keeping parts of a ship’s hull together.

Needless to say these would not suffice.

So I chugged a Full Throttle and threw on my coat, knowing full-well that an onslaught of psychosis awaited me at the hardware store, but I braved on.

Once inside the hardware store, I kept mumbling to myself “Drywall Screws. Drywall Screws. All You Need is Drywall Screws!!”

The drywall screws are, of course, located in the very back of the hardware store. As such, I wandered past dozens of items that practically leaped of the shelves and into my awaiting, consumeristic arms.

First it was a new set of plastic hanger-thingy-majiggys for the shower curtain.

“You just broke a bunch of these. This is totally necessary. Just these hangers and drywall screws, that’s it.”

So I picked up the plastic hanger-thingy-majiggys and carried on in my quest to find drywall screws. Although I then noticed out of the corner of my eye that they had a drill on sale for an astounding bargain price of $9.99.

“Well, if I’m going to be hanging curtain rods, a drill would be a lot more useful than trying to use a screwdriver. Plus I’ve wanted a drill for a while now and come on, it’s ten freakin’ dollars!! They’re practically giving it away.”

As one would expect, I picked up the drill and began on my way before a quick realization struck me and I was forced to do a little bit of inner argument action.

Rational Graves: “Wait…wait…wait…”
Consumerism Graves: “Oh know, here comes Bill Buzzkill. What the f*ck do you want?!”
Rational Graves: “Dude, you don’t need a drill.”
Consumerism Graves: “Are you kidding me?! A drill is like the perfect invention. It’s a screwdriver that does all the work for you. What kind of idiot wouldn’t want in on that action?!”
Rational Graves: “Yeah, that’s all great and fine, but the drill cost $10. Ten freakin’ dollars.”
Consumerism Graves: “I KNOW!! They’re practically giving it away!!”
Rational Graves: “Exactly!! What kind of shitty-ass drill are you going to be buying for $10?!”
Consumerism Graves: “Oh, well you pose a really good point. In fact I think that I’ll go ahe---BAM

That was the point where Consumerism Graves cracked Rational Graves in the face with the drill, knocking him out cold.

By the time I’d fully come to and realized what had happened, I was back home showing off all of the random crap I’d purchased at the overpriced hardware store.

My trek to acquire six—count ‘em six—drywall screws ended with bringing home shower curtain hanger-thingy-majiggys, a new drill, a tarp, some zip-ties, and a box of two-dozen drywall screws.

The only reason it wasn’t more was because I’d wisely left my credit cards at home and just brought what little cash I had on hand.

I vaguely recall staring intently at a four foot Christmas tree “the perfect-size for our apartment!”, a sticky bathmat “this way Grace won’t over slip and crack her head open in the shower!”, a peg-board coat hanger “I’d TOTALLY start hanging my coat up if we had this!”, and a big string of Christmas lights “teehee lights teehee shiny teehee!!”.

Luckily it seems my pre-ordained game plan to travel with limited monetary funds was a lifesaver!!

Yet, as I sit here staring out the window, I can’t help but think that our place would look awesome with a four foot Christmas tree, a new sticky bathmat, pegboard coat hanger, and some new super shiny lights!!

*sigh*

Black Friday sucks.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Football + Thanksgiving = Good




First and foremost let me wish a Happy Thanksgiving to all of my Faithful Readers here in the good ole United States.

To those of you in Canada, um, happy Thursday?!

Anyway, if you’ve followed me here at Blank Stares and Blank Pages for awhile, you no doubt are well-aware that I’m not a big football fan.

I enjoy the game well-enough, I just don’t live and die for it the way I do for baseball.

Yet, for some reason, every year on Thanksgiving, all I want to do is sit around and watch football.

Perhaps it’s just because I mentally associate a day full of football with the Thanksgivings of my youth or perhaps it’s just because watching other people run around makes me feel less lazy while I gorge on turkey and stuffing.

Either way, I just wanted to say that I’m thankful for Thanksgiving Day football.

…and pie.

I really f’n love pie!

Friday, November 13, 2009

I Might Be Out of Touch

oldnews001

I’m officially the worst journalism major of all-time.

Like seriously, I’m such a bad journalism major that the fine folks at Minnesota State University should be beating down my door to get their diploma back.

Granted, I’d probably ask for a refund in that situation and there’s no chance in hell that MSU is ever going to give me back my money. Anyway, I’m getting off-topic, let’s focus…me = bad journalism major.

Why am I such a bad journalism major, you ask?!

Well, let me tell you, my Faithful Readers.

I was on my way out to get a delicious cheeseburger for lunch today when I spotted a newspaper sitting on a chair in one of the hallway.

I thought to myself sweet, something to read whilst I devour dead cow flesh.

So I picked up the paper and wandered off to go eat the aforementioned cow flesh.

I sat at my table reading the paper and flipping through all of the world news and current events and—as is the norm—I found myself completely uninterested in nearly everything I read.

Then I got to the sports section.

The first article was all about the Red Sox setting up their starting rotation for the playoffs.

What the shit is going on?! I asked myself.

I then flipped the paper back to the front page and realized that it was from September 30th.

That’s right, I read an entire paper that was roughly a month and a half old and didn’t even realize it was out of date until I hit the sports section.

Somewhere all of my journalism teachers are twitching uncontrollably and a small part of their soul has just died, for I have failed them. I have failed them miserably.

Despite all of their urging and pleading that we—the new wave of journalists—stay immersed in the news and current events, I have no idea what the hell is going on in the world.

I made it almost completely through a newspaper before I realized it was well over a month old, imagine what a waste of space I’d be if I didn’t follow sports?!

Yeah, I’m officially the worst journalism major of all-time.

Shout-Outs: Itty-Bitty


Roshni is awesome.

Period.

For those who haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Roshni, you can get a quick glimpse here, here, here and, of course, here.

Anyway, back to my point.

Roshni is awesome.

And she’s awesome beyond the fact that she’s a hard-worker, the klutziest human on the planet, and has an encyclopedia-like knowledge of old television shows…she’s awesome because she’s just a little kooky.

Today’s example of the aforementioned kookiness is what compelled me to write this little ditty.

Here’s a little back-story for y’all: we are doing a bunch of annoying signage work in one of the other libraries on campus.

Long story short, we had to go through and manually check what books are on every shelf, create a new database for aisle tags, create a new template for aisle tags, print the aisle tags and now we have to go and switch out all of the old signs.

Roshni—because she’s most-likely a CIA-created worker robot—has done a big ole chunk of this work herself.

Today we’re headed over there to put in more signs and Roshni told me that because she’s, well, a borderline midget, she’s struggled to reach the signs to switch them out.

As a result, Itty-Bitty spent most of her last sign-switching adventure dragging a stool along from aisle to aisle so that she could reach the signs.

In an effort to remedy that situation, she’s gone a whole different route today.

Today she brought in a pair of high heels.

That’s right, my Faithful Readers, she’s chosen to voluntarily wear high heels whilst primarily working on her feet.

So rather than drag a stool around, she’ll be uncomfortably clicking her way around the other library at an altitude roughly an inch or so higher than she’s accustomed to.

All of this will take place while she’s dressed in her usual khakis and hoodie—of course—thus making her quite the amusing sight—and sound—to behold for all library patrons.

It is kinda crazy…but it’s also awesome. So awesome that I nearly spit Red Bull out of my nose because I was laughing so hard when she told me about it.

So today, this shout-out is all yours, Itty-Bitty.

Keep bringing the crazy!

Time Well Wasted




I love my job, really I do.

I may blog ad infinitum about nerds, stalkers and crazy patrons from “the outside world.”

But rest-assured, I do love my job.

There are days, however, where I’ve got to stop and wonder is this really the best use of my abilities?

Today is one of those days.

I spent roughly half-an-hour this morning fighting with a jammed stapler.

It was jammed because some nerd wandered in—roughly eight seconds after the doors opened—and promptly began banging on it with the intent of attaching three—count ‘em THREE—tiny pieces of paper together.

He then looked up at me with those sad doe eyes that everyone under the age of 21 comes fully-equipped with and asked me to fix it.

I offered him the use of three other staplers, but he said he wanted to use the jammed stapler, because he liked the size of the staples better and he only liked to use “Swingline” staplers.

Now, I don’t get why anyone in the world—aside from Milton, that is—has a stapler preference, but this dude certainly did.

So rather than use one of the other staplers or some paperclips or anything that would be more logical than waiting…he waited.

He sat and watched me fix the stapler he’d jammed. It took forever, because apparently he’s majoring in Stapler Engineering and this was some sort of well-concocted field research for a final thesis.

I eventually got in unjammed only for him to pound the crap out of it again and rejam it, luckily this time he’d already fastened his three sheets—of what I can only assume were some Twilight fan fiction—together prior to the second wave of stapler-jammage.

I then spent another ten minutes unjamming the stapler, for a second time, prior to 9:30 in the morning.

Nothing is right about this.

Sunday, November 08, 2009

Live From Boston, It's Saturday Night Lame...



Somehow I’ve stumbled upon the “Wanda Sykes Show” on Fox tonight.

If nothing else, tonight proves that my life has gone terribly awry, but beyond that, this horribly predicament shows me that, without a doubt, Wanda Sykes sucks at life.

I’m pretty sure that her fifteen minutes of fame ticked off the clock about six years ago, so why the hell is she getting a show now?!

Perhaps the bigger question would be why networks are deciding that now is the time to get in on the “late night” action.

TBS has already made the ill-fated decision to give George Lopez his own late night show.

Anyone who listened to me rant and rave during the Major League Baseball playoffs knows how much I hate George Lopez.

That dude’s annoying commercials (the two least-annoying of which can be seen HERE and HERE) aired roughly every 18 seconds during the playoff games on TBS.

Some Googling shows me that Lopez is—supposedly—a comedian.

To think, I just thought he was some annoying jackass, who knew.

The fact that he is a comedian boggles my mind. I could have sworn that people had to be funny or unique or—at the very least—mildly amusing to be a comedian.

As it turns out that’s clearly not the case.

Anyway, moving on, let’s get back to Wanda Sykes.

When the playoffs shifted to FOX, baseball fans got the same awful punishment that we did on TBS, but instead of George Lopez every 18 seconds we got painful Wanda Sykes promos rammed up our patooties.

Three minutes spent on YouTube taught me all I need to know about Wanda Sykes.

Apparently she is George Lopez.

The only differences are that she’s a chick, not a dude; and instead of making a big deal about being Mexican dude in white America, she makes a big deal about being a black woman in white America.

She’s equally unfunny and thanks to her grating voice, about twice as annoying.

At this point I’m not sure what’s worse, the fact that this show is on national television or the fact that I wasted 45 seconds of my life watching it.

Ugh…Saturday Night Lame, indeed.

Thursday, November 05, 2009

A Moment with Grace


Grace says some pretty intriguing stuff.

Some of it is funny. Some of it is serious. Some of it is bat-shit crazy.

Most of it is in song…because she thinks life is one gigantic musical.

Anyway, tonight we were talking about our upcoming anniversary—it’s this Saturday, November 7th, for those of you in the present buying business—and more importantly we were discussing our plan to not buy each other gifts.

We’ve decided instead to pool our money to buy some things we both want for around the apartment and a soon-to-be-blogged-about remodeling(ish) of our spare room. As such, we’re making our first-ever trek to IKEA next week, wait, I’m getting off topic…

…anyway, Grace doesn’t believe that I haven’t gotten her a gift.

In fact, she has blatantly accused me of getting her a gift and she is annoyed because she is worried she’ll have to run out last minute and try to find me a gift.

Anyway, that’s all the back-story you need, here’s the little ditty that brought it all home:

“This always happens! We say we’re not going to get each other anything and then you go out and get me an SUV and I get you a picture frame and I look like an ass!!”

…and there you have it, my Faithful Readers, your moment with Grace.

Tales of an Angry Fatty


I’m not much for emotion.

That might sound a bit terse, but it is accurate.

I can probably count the number of times I’ve cried on one hand—maybe two hands if we’re counting times I got hit in the stones—and I really don’t go the other direction and get ragingly angry all that often either.

Does this mean I’m a bubbling cauldron waiting to explode in a multi-state killing spree that leaves dozens of innocent people dead in my wake?

Maybe, anything is possible, I guess.

For the most part, I think it just means that I’ve learned how to deal with my anger and/or sadness in other ways.

Today we’re going to focus on my anger-management skills.

You see, Faithful Readers, there was a time back in my youth when I didn’t have any anger-management skills.

When I got mad, I turned into a punk-ass little beeyotch.

I’d throw things, I’d break things, I’d curse, I’d scream, I’d beat the ever-living dog-piss out of my little brother (we’re all good now) and when I was done with all that the anger was gone.

As I got older—and received a plethora of well-deserved ass-kickings—I learned that there were probably better ways to deal with my anger. So I quit breaking things and quit beating the crap out of my brother and moved on to many other things.

There was running, baseball practice, writing, sleeping (an odd reaction if ever there was one), running again, baseball practice again (I thought I had a mighty fine fastball at one point), running yet again and eventually, when I got to college, drinking.

Drinking probably wasn’t the best option, because when you’re full of rage, half-a-dozen Bud tall boys ain’t going to do anything to calm you down.

So after a short period of drunken, ill-advised decisions to punch holes in things (NEVER a wise move)…I replaced that with my current anger suppressant – eating.

Well, eating meat, to be more specific.

When I’m all pissed off about something there is nothing more likely to calm me down than a perfectly cooked (read: medium) bacon cheeseburger with all the fixins.

Today for instance, I had an insatiable urge to bludgeon a co-worker to death with a crowbar before dragging his/her bloody remains over to the Charles River, where I would then give him/her a proper Viking funeral by using one of the MIT sailing club dinghies and a few homemade Molotov Cocktails courtesy of the fine folks at The Muddy Charles Pub.

Instead I huffed and puffed a few times and wandered over to Fresco’s Grille and snagged myself one of the aforementioned rage-sapping bacon cheeseburgers.

To make things even better they gave me a free side of coleslaw—which I can only assume was rapidly approaching an expiration date—and the fine musical-stylings of Journey came blaring over the radio.

By the time I left Fresco’s, I was out of rage and full of meat. As such, said co-worker survived the day and most-likely he/she will survive for many more days.

Clearly my “eating to devour rage” game plan is working and working well.

My only worry is that if things like this keep happening, I’m going to be one very angry fatty!

Some Things Take Time



I got my hair chopped on Monday.

As such, I’m in the “transition period” that always seems to follow a new haircut.

You see, my Faithful Readers, I generally let my hair grow and grow and grow for months on end until it’s turned into some sort of weird bowl-cut/mullet hybrid that I lovingly refer to as the bowllet (pronounced: bullet).

When my hair is in the bowllet stage, I generally require a lot of shampoo. Like we’re talking a big ole handful here—and I’ve got really big hands—you see, despite the fact that it’s rapidly thinning, it still takes a lot of shampoo to penetrate the thicket that adorns my scalp.

So when I get it shorn down to its current, Tom Hanks in Philadelphia level, I require a teeny-tiny drop of shampoo.

This transition always seems to take at least a week or so to stick.

During the transition, I find myself pouring enough shampoo for eight of my now-dang-near-bald noggins into my hand and I end up wasting a whole big bunch of it and we’re talking about the gloriousness that is AXE Shampoo, folks…the good stuff!!

The worst-part is that I find myself over-thinking my gratuitous shampoo-usage when finishing up the rest of my morning preparations.

As a result, I use drastically less AXE body-spray—which Grace appreciates—and I use drastically less toothpaste—which Grace does not appreciate—and this is quite frustrating.

I’m wasting shampoo. I don’t have my usual odiferous scent-of-douchebag and my breath smells more like Frosted Mini Wheats and Red Bull than Crest.

History has proven that in time these things will all balance themselves out, and I’ll get back to using too much AXE and just the right amounts of toothpaste and shampoo, but this week I’m one big stinky mess.

Gross.

Wrestling with Writing



Faithful Readers, I’ve come to here today to let you know that I’ve recently made a decision to expand my sports writing…well, sort of.

Don’t get me wrong, this doesn’t mean I’ll be going into in-depth coverage of Tom Brady and the Patriots or Kevin Garnett and the Celtics.

I really couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the NBA if I tried and the NFL only serves as a buffer between the last out of the World Series and the first day of Spring Training.

Rather, I’ve taken to writing about—WAIT FOR IT—professional wrestling.

Now, I realize that to most people—myself included—professional wrestling isn’t a real sport. It is essentially a gigantic testosterone-fueled soap opera infused with gratuitous violence.

If anyone is in the mood to comment and tell me that it’s all scripted, that’s okay…I’m already well-aware, but thanks for thinking of me.

If anyone is in the mood to comment and tell me that it’s all fake, that’s—well—wrong. They do really hit each other and there’s really no way to fake getting dropped on your back, it is all pre-planned, but it certainly isn’t fake.

That, however, isn’t what this is about. That debate has raged on for years and will probably rage on until the end of time or Vince McMahon’s death, whichever comes first.

There are a few major reasons why I’ve made this decision and they are as follows:

1) During baseball’s offseason, the amount of content to write about dips pretty precipitously until the Winter Meetings in early December and then again until Spring Training in February. As such, in order to keep myself busy and active over at BleacherReport.com, wrestling seemed like a pretty easy topic to dive into.

2) I was a HUGE wrestling fan as a kid. Anyone who has seen my collection of luchadore masks or seen my head pasted on the bodies of the Ultimate Warrior or “Macho Man” Randy Savage a dozen or so times on Facebook can attest to that.

3) If a dude wants to be a writer someday, it can’t hurt to have a diverse background of writing samples. Plus, some wrestling writers make decent coin and I’ve already heard back from two different wrestling editors complimenting my writing.

4) This may sound conceited—and that’s because it is—but most other wrestling writers are awful. Like Carrot Top bad. Like Carrot Top and Paris Hilton make a baby bad. Yeah, that bad.

5) This is the big one: it’s for my brother, Eric.

For those of you who are avid readers, you’ve heard me talk about Eric plenty here at “Blank Stares and Blank Pages.” Often times in reference to his many accomplishments at the Special Olympics.

Well, Eric is a huge wrestling fan. He watches the show every week and once a month my parents order the pay-per-view events for him to watch. He has followed it since he was a kid and has never given up on it.

As such, I’ve never given up on it, either. Wrestling is something that has always connected us, much like baseball has always connected with my Pappy, and that’s why I’ve refused to let it go.

I’m one of only a few people who really talk with Eric about wrestling and that’s a bond I’ve never wanted to lose. So ever since I went to college and quit watching it with Eric on a regular basis, I’ve spent a lot of time researching what’s going on in the wrestling world and I’ve learned a lot about it: the lingo, the behind-the-scenes action and everything else.

Every time I talk to Eric we spend at least half of our time chit-chatting about wrestling, so I figure since I’m essentially doing the research anyway and I have no intentions of stopping anytime soon, why not write about it.

So there you have it, Faithful Readers…if you see pitchers of half-naked dudes popping up on my sports blog, now you know why.

Unless it’s Joe Mauer or Chase Utley…that’s probably just man-crush related.