Wednesday, August 20, 2014

The Inspiring Coach Barry

Recently, an inspiring video has been making the rounds about the internet, a video of an uplifting speech given by a constructive coach delivered to the disheartened lads of a devastating little league loss:

This video made me reminisce about an inspriational speech delivered by my little league coach years back. His name was Chuck Barry.

Listen kids, this ain’t the booze talking this time. This is me, Chuck Barry—sober Chuck Barry. My friends call me Chuck Sobarry—when I’m off the bottle, that is. But, you guys still have to call me Coach Barry regardless of my sobriety, even though the season’s over.

For years, I’ve been known as the friggin’ best damn real estate agent this side of Pembroke. But, I gave up that title—that oh-so cherished title—to spend time teaching you boys the ins and outs of America’s Pastime. Did you boys know that I lost a million-dollar buyer because I had to attend one of your regular season games? Huh...? Yes, I know Joey, all our games were regular season, but that’s beside the point. A big sale, out the window. A goddamn shame. Gah, I really could have used that money. But, I cared about you fellas more. But, damn I would’ve really liked that money.

Chuck Barry taught me to always shut the window. 

Anyway, look, what I’m trying to say is, you guys did great this season. I mean, all those losses were a letdown. Gahd, were they a letdown. I never once bet against you guys, which explains my current financial situation. Though, you should feel pride in that! I never vote for the underdog, but I made an exception, for you guys. Because I believed in you. Well, not now that the season’s over, but I did at one point.

Listen, you’re probably not going to remember any of this. This horrendous season will be nothing but a footnote in your biography, but believe me when I say, these are the best years of your lives... Yes, Billy, even you, sadly. Next thing you know, you’ll be all grown up, so sick of your home life that you agree to coach a little league baseball team just to get away from your walrus-of-a-wife for an hour. Smoking cigarettes on the bench, desperately wishing you have super vision so that you can see if Timmy’s mom’s bra strap is sticking out of her top again... Goddammit Timmy, it’s a metaphor.

"Goddamn my 13/19 vision." - Coach Barry

Anyway, great season boys. I would’ve liked to have seen you do better. Or even just good. But, let’s bring it in for one last huddle. Alright, boys, on three. One. Two... Yes, Corey. On three. No, let’s start over. One. Two. Three. Go Barry’s Badgers!

Alright, I hope to see some of you next year. Ah, ah, ah. Don’t leave yet. Look at the back of your uniforms. What do they say? That’s right: Sponsored by Chuck Barry Real Estate. Those shirts belong to me. I can return them for a fraction of their worth... Well, Billy. It’s not my fault that you didn’t wear an undershirt. Here’s a sweat rag to cover up those poker chips. Alright, boys. Don’t forget to give my number to your mothers. If they want to speak with me personally, tell them to come to the Trinity Pub. If I’m not there, I’m likely at the Pink Lady.

Alright. Good season, guys!

Friday, July 18, 2014

Terence McGaffery, Motivational Speaker

I wake up every morning and boil my eggs in a vat of prairie dog venom. It may not be lethal to humans. Hell, it might not even exist. But, at least I know for a fact that it may be illegal in the states, and that’s pretty dangerous living, if I do say so.

"Man up, and say I'm fat." You tell 'em Chris! (Image Source)

Hi! My name is Terrence McGaffery, and I’m a Careless Crapshooter. An Optimistic  Opportunist. A Shill Dicer. A Five-Fanged Viper. A recently divorced father of six who has just been laid off from his job running price tags at K-Mart. And, yes, that also means that I’m recently single.

I’m here to tell you that life is like a box of fruit: Everything’s clearly labelled, and it’s your fault if you make the wrong decisions. But don’t fret! Today is your lucky day because I’m here to mentor the tens and tens of you on how to grab the reigns and finish the race. You may not win the race. You might not even place. But I assure you, you will finish. Just like that guy from that Cake song, you’ll be going the distance.

The first thing you’ll need before you’re sitting in God’s ivory tower like me is a proper wingman. Look around the room; there is no better man to qualify as your wingman as me. Therefore, after this assembly is dismissed, I’ll be waiting out back if you’re looking to hit up some clubs. Maybe even a simple pub for a drink. Or, a movie would suffice. Seize the night and revel in the light. Seriously, I’ll be your wingman, and you can be mine. I’m a really good wingman. Please.

(Image Source - will not disappoint)

Next, you’ll want to be confident. You think my wife left me because of my unremitting gambling addiction? No, she left me for her glowingly fit, sprightly personal trainer. She left me for a man so insecure, that he has to stay lean and muscular to maintain a positive body image. Not me. My body is the perfect representation of someone who is comfortable with himself. Not too obese, but also not too bald. You can achieve my physique with minimal effort.

Those muscles act as a cloak to conceal his insecurity. (Image Source)

Moving on, I’d like to touch on making intelligent career moves. If your boss is having a go at you for simply being merely three and a half hours late for only the second time that week, tell her to relax and ask her on a date. The worst thing could happen is that you’ll be fired, nothing to fuss over when the job market's as ripe as a carrot tree. Furthermore, I— Oh, boy. It seems that security has found someone hogtied in the back. Me? No, sir. I’m the real Terence McGaffery. An ID? Well, no, I—Uh. Are you sure that ID he has isn’t a fake? No? Well, folks,  it looks like their rushing me off the stage as I’ve eaten up most my time. Remember, I’ll be out back. I’ll pay halfsies on the cab. Please?

Sunday, July 13, 2014

Mystery Box of Awesomeness Unboxing

Attention, readers! I have a very important announcement.

No, much more important than any of these headlines.

I have received the Mystery Box of Awesomeness!

As I'm sure all of you have heard, Brandon and Bryan over at A Beer for The Shower had announced the results for their contest recently. As promised, I have created a post to sing praises about the awesome goodies graciously given to me by The Beer Boys and make you all green-eyed at what could've been yours, if you had participated harder than me in the contest.

I decided the best place to open the box was in the kitchen, in case the Mystery Box of Awesomeness was housing a juicy filet mignon. That way I could eat it before it got cold. Unfortunately, I was made instantly aware that the box did not contained a steaming segment of cow as my girlfriend tore into the box with the furiosity of a carpet viper thinking it was Mario Kart 8, informing me that no such smells were emanating from the box.

Upon lifting the box flaps, I was greeted my a letter. Now, you're probably wondering why I blurred out the body of the letter. The will of my conscience prevailed. I could not allow myself to post the shockingly depraved sexual language contained within this letter. It's enough to make 50 Shades of Gray look like The Giving Tree

After getting over the confused feelings brought on by the perfume-laden letter, I moved onto my next gift. I finally have a wooden, unisex drawing doll. It couldn't have come at a better time because those bodies in my basement were really starting to stink. I figured I call her/him Grephyliax, a common, non-gender-specific name. If you guys don't recognize this doll, then you're missing out on a really great short story collection by Brandon and Bryan called The Graveyard Shift

Sweet nectar was the next thing to flow forth from the box. The Beer Boys sent we a few of their favorite brews. They-erm-hand-delivered them to me seeing as it's illegal to send beer through the mail. They tasted perfectly legal to me.

Nothing better to wash away the regret from rifling those four beers down my gullet than soap made from beer. Never have I thought to absorb beer through my pores. This will be a riveting experiment. The soap smells like a mixture of lumberjack musk and pine.

Yes, finally, they too see that my influence in the literature field is on the rise. They were smart to give me their business card. And what's this on the back? A link to a new blog banner! Yup, in case you don't feel like scrolling back to the top of the page, Brandon and Bryan were kind enough to design me a new banner:

And last, but certainly not least.

The Beer Boys are cooking up a new book and allowed me to catch a glimpse of the work-in-progress. Unfortunately, I haven't had a chance to read it yet because I got back from camping about an hour ago, but I read through the first page and a half, and it pains me knowing that you guys will have to wait a little longer for the finished product because it was splendid, to say the least.

I would again like to thank Brandon and Bryan for holding the contest. On top of free laughs, The Beer Boys have delivered a plethora of great gifts. I hope this has convinced many of you to take full advantage of the entries options if these guys choose to hold another contest.

Thanks again to the authors at A Beer for The Shower, and if for whatever reason you're following me and not them, then take a peak at what they have to offer; you'll need no further convincing.

Friday, May 30, 2014

Zero-Tolerance Dark Thirty

Mrs. Higgens, Ms. Tremblay, and Mr. Polksy tried to suppress their heavy breathing. Their bowels moved with the furiously of a tsunami. How could they gain control over the situation, if they couldn’t even control their own bodily functions?
Principal Hutchens arrived at the scene. He quickly took up position beside the entrance to the cafeteria, alongside Mrs. Higgens, Ms. Tremblay, and Mr. Polksy. “What’s the situation?” he gravely inquired.
“One perpetrator. Armed. Several hostages,” huffed Mr. Polksy.
“Be precise, damn it!” demanded the principal, “How many hostages are we talkin’?”
“The entire third and fourth-grade class,” Ms. Tremblay said while fighting back a sob.
“What’s he armed with?” the principal became irritated over the swift, unproductive responses.
“A… A handgun,” Mrs. Higgens managed to stutter. He body lurched forward as she let out a sob.
“But what kind, Mrs. Higgens!”
“I don’t know,” she cried.
The principal smacked her across the face. It looked like she’d been painted red as she reeled back in disbelief.
“Have all our drills been for naught? Can any one of you imbeciles at least tell me what he’s packing in the magazine?” The principal’s face was nearly purple, like a pink Easter egg that got a little purple on it by accident because someone wasn’t paying attention! Now we have to paint the eggs all over again, thanks to that someone! Anyway…
Mr. Polksy nervously leaned toward Principal Hutchens. “He’s packing major heat, sir. You might not want to hear this, but it’s… peanut butter and jelly.”
“Oh, Lord. This makes the Pop Tart handgun incident look like a pastrywalk.” The principal wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. All of a sudden, an idea hit him like a ton of shrimp. He quickly devised a plan. Gathering everyone close, he carefully went over the strategy that’d take this mad kid down.

“Now!” shouted the principal.
The squadron of teachers burst through the cafeteria entrance like rhinoceroses through a cafeteria entrance. Mr. Polksy took lead and grabbed a nearby chair. Little Susie fell to the ground—having so recently been thrown off a chair—and let out a painful cry. Mr. Polksy paid no mind, knowing that if this plan was successfully executed, she’d be thanking him for saving her and her classmates. When he got close enough to the perpetrator, a young Billy Preston, he launched the chair at his head as if he were an Olympic shot-putter. The back leg of the chair tore through Billy’s temple as he came crashing to the ground in a flurry of tears and child blood.
The cafeteria fell still. Mrs. Higgens, Ms. Tremblay, and Principal Hutchens threw up their hands in disbelief. They cheered, knowing well that it was no longer necessary for them to follow through with their part of the plan
Mr. Polksy dove on the peanut-butter-and-jelly-shaped handgun and bit off a bit of the barrel. He hell what remained above his head in triumph. "Look kids! It's no longer a handgun! It's kind of like a boomerang or the corner of a square! Nothing to fear!"
In the end, young Billy Preston was sentence to a 2-days suspension, and Mr. Polksy was fired for having interacted with a kid in an nonacademic way.
If you're confused, I based this little tidbit off of this news story: 

P.S. I apologize for my absencea nd this half-assed post. Aside from staying late and attempting to cover ground after a system failure at work, I've been putting more time into my WIP. I will continue to read your blogs, though, and I apologize again if I haven't had a chance to read any of your posts recently. I'll get on that once a free-up on time.

Thursday, April 3, 2014


Leonidas: This is where we hold them! This is where we fight! This is where they die!

Captain: Arm these shields, boys!

Uncredited Spartan Soldiers: Haoo!

Leonidas: Remember this day, men. For it will be yo— Wait a second. Has anyone seen Jerry?

Captain: He should be here. I sent out a reminder to everyone on Scrivver.

Astinos: Ugh! Father, he’s not following you on Scrivver. Hardly anyone uses Scrivver anymore. I told you to set up a MyPlate!

Leonidas: Are you serious? The Persians are, like, right over there, you guys.  

Captain: I’m sorry, my liege. I wasn’t aware that Jerry was still living in the Bronze Age! We’ve known about this for weeks. He should’ve etched it in his planner.

Astinos: Father, MyPlate is all the rage, now. Scrivver is so last span. Isn’t that right, Spartans?

Uncredited Spartan Soldiers: Haoo!

Leonidas: Quiet, the lot of you! Our phalanx remains incomplete; we have to think of a plan. We can’t go limp in front of Xerxes. Not now.

Astinos: I hear he has GOM.

Leonidas: What in the seven hells is that?

Captain: Greek Overnight Messenger. It’s some retro bull crap from the 500s. Only hipsters and geezers use it nowadays.

Astinos: Says the man with nine different Scrivver handles.

Captain: My liege, I may have a suggestion. Is it possible that we may replace Jerry’s position with one of the Arcadians?

Leonidas: You can’t be serious. We’re called the 300, not the 299 and the Arcadian puss. Those nerds don’t even lift.

Captain: What other option do we have?

Astinos: Well, father, you can hit up that bulbous mutant, Ephialtes, you seem to always be chatting up on Scrivver.

Leonidas: Ew, no. I’d rather die in a volley of arrows than be within eyeshot of that thing.

Captain: Eh, well, we could alw—

Leonidas: Screw it, no. We’ll be fine. One Spartan is equal to about, like, 333.33-repeating Persians. All we have to do is cover the difference, and we’ll be fine. About 1.12 more kills per Spartan. You think we can do that?

Captain: Wow, my liege. I didn’t know you were such a…

Leonidas: Genius?

Captain: Nerd!

Astinos: What a nerd!

Uncredited Spartan Soldiers: Nerd! Haoo!

Wednesday, March 5, 2014

The Illumin-Oscars

After watching the Oscars, or, well, reading about the results the next day, my discriminating eyes couldn't help but detect the overwhelming appearance of Illuminati symbols throughout the ceremony. I know this subject—much like that ten-year old scab on your upper thigh/groinis one that should be left alone, but the potential consequences of this blog post bear no weight against the tension that builds on my soul. These secrets desire—nay, need to see the light of day.

Therefore, I shall break down just a few of the Illuminati symbols that aired unapologetically and defiantly before the eyes of the entire human race.

The Pizza Guy

Red and white, representing the duality of Heaven and Hell.

This was undoubtedly the most abundantly clear Illuminati ritual of the evening. Overlooking the obvious red attire representing the pizza boy's alliance with Satan, what food item embodies the command structure of the Illuminati more than pizza?

The triangular, pyramid-like shape of a slice of pizza represents the top-down command structure adopted by the Illuminati. Seeing the celebrities, or should I say Illuminati puppets, consuming these brainwashing and possibly mind-controlling slices of pizza was almost enough to make me get up off my couch and do something, almost.

John Travolta's Idina Menzel "Flub"

Adele Dazim? How do you get that monstrosity out of "Idina Menzel"? Wow, Travolta, I don't think I've heard a flub that bad since Rutherford Hayes capsized his canoe while taking the Delaware in 1942. Or... was it really a flub to begin with? With the pressure of my sound, focused curiosity, I decided to run "Adele Dazim" through the Google Translate database.

Aha, just as I thought. It wasn't a flub at all; it was an incantation. He was calling upon the Illuminati officers and his reptilian brothers to begin their incursion against those who seek to unveil the atrocities forming behind-the-scenes at the Illuminati headquarters, located 5 million miles below sea-level. 

Overwhelming Presence of Skulls

A common tool in nearly every Illuminati ritual is a skull. Being a symbol of mortality, skulls are used to initiate new members into the Illuminati.

And where were these skulls present at the Oscars, one may ask...?

Baw, that's cute. They think they're normal.

That's right, the celebripuppets smuggled them into the event inside of their heads. How sick and twisted can one be? I've heard of sneaking candy into a movie theater inside your pockets, but never have I heard of using your head as a pocket to smuggle skulls into a highly prestigious, televised event.

Now, if a blog post featuring such significant evidence doesn't wake you up, then I feel sorry for you. The Illuminati has the human race by the balls. 

So, let me ask you this, World, are you ready to take your balls back?

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

A Lesson Learned: 11-Year-Old Cupcake Dealer Believes She's Above The Law

Article: Frosted: Health Department Shuts Down 11-year-old’s Cupcake Business


An 11-year-old girl earns money to buy a car by selling cupcakes to friends and family. She also donates the confectionery goods to fundraisers to help those in need. However, the Health Department caught wind of her nefarious actions and laid the authoritative smack-down on Chloe and her unsanctioned business due to her lack of permit and certified kitchen.

A symbol of injustice.

Lesson Learned:

Children think they are impervious to the undiscriminating fist of the law. To them, the law is like the inconsistent writings of a blogger, namely one called Chiz: The point of the law is not always clear and typically holds no significance. Chloe is no exception to this gross generalization.

If anything, the Health Department saved Chloe. The repercussions of her selfish, thoughtless actions could have caused her heartache and tons and tons of money. Just imagine, Mr. Beggard buys a cupcake from Chloe. Little does Mr. Beggard know, the cupcake he ate does not sit well with the two liters of gin and four double-bacon cheeseburgers he consumed three minutes prior. Now, guess who's going to wind up footing the bill for the two minutes Mr. Beggard spent spewing technicolor all over his bathroom? Someone has to be responsible for his brief bout of barfing. If not for the Health Department, Chloe would likely wind up paying the $100,000 in damages to Mr. Beggard caused by her negligence.

If you won't listen to me, at least listen to Jesus.

Now, if I was Chloe's mother, I'd turn her in the direction of a safer and more rewarding business: Drug dealing. But doesn't the country pour billions of dollars into fighting the War on Drugs? Yes, there lies the issue. Drug dealers who are just getting their feet wet are the main targets in this war. However, with enough hard work and perseverance, Chloe could escape this dangerous group and become one of the main suppliers, the people in the business least likely to be caught.

Chloe's already shown her disrespect of the law, but she's also demonstrated something else: Her dedication to hard work and forward thinking. I believe she has the attitude and willpower it takes to one day lead a cartel and cast aside this disgusting, selfish confectionery business.

I guess this is a female Scarface.

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

The Tortured Soul of a Well-Off, Suburban Child

My neighbors recently vanished. Well, maybe not vanished per se, but they’ve moved. Perturbed by their ever-reclusive reclusive son, I decided to break into their home investigate their formerly-owned residence. There wasn’t much in the way of money or jewelry; even though I assure you, that’s not what I was looking for. But, I did happen upon an eerie journal. A journal full of poetry penned by what I can only describe as the tortured soul of a well-off, suburban child. There’s no structure to the poetry, but what can be expected of a child that no one understands?

Here are some unnerving excerpts from this deeply disturbing collection:

Oozing from the Cut

There is a hole in the pit of my stomach,
I feel as empty as an empty bag.
A vessel am I, but I know the cure,
I must cut.

I must cross the lines,
The knife cutting as smooth as a smooth-cutting pair of scissors.
Should I cut once more? I know the answer.
I must cut.

I will cut and consume,
Filling this empty void.
I will cut and consume,
Until the elder blood of my blood tells me I’m grounded for eating all the pie.

Don't worry. It's just a close up of cherry pie.

All These Pills

I long to be lost in my two-dimentional world,
Wandering the gaps of a sharp, meandering maze.
Ghosts breathing down my neck,
As I engorge on an overabundance of pills.

But here I lay in tedium,
Staring at the ceiling of this suburban prison.
Until the maternal creature with which I dwell,
Releases me of the binds of this groundation.

                So that I may go play Pac-Man in the basement.

Disturbing Pacman Art

In This Room

This room is dark,
But I wish it more blinding.
The blackest of blacks,
Is out of my grasp.

I’m adorned in shadows,
From my neck to my boots.
But I’ll never be consumed by darkness, my friend,
For I have blonde hair.

                And the wench won’t buy me black hair dye.

My transformation is almost complete.