"Deserves" Has Nothing To Do With It

This weekend was the annual rivalry game between the University of Utah Utes and the Cougars of Brigham Young Academy University.  It's a familiar story, replayed in nearly every rivalry in sports:  Team X hates Team Y and vice versa, and fans of both hope their team stomps the other into dust so they can gain some feeling of superiority-by-proxy through their team's victory.  Of course, parties to the Utah-BYU version of the story feel that there is something extra special about their rivalry.  In the local Utah press, it is called The Holy War, as if the very tenets of Provo's Candyland Mormonism are under assault by the mixed-faith gentile forces from Salt Lake. 

Both of my parents and two siblings attended BYU, so I was a Cougar fan from afar growing up.  When I enrolled at Utah after my return from Russia, I became a Ute, but didn't really get into the rivalry in my first year.  I liked them both.

Nothing like a year's worth of up-close exposure to their program to cure that.

It wasn't so much their fans in Utah that pushed me over.  Most of the trash talk you hear is the same crap you'll hear in any rivalry.  I'm not one of those who believes their fans should be held to a higher level of decorum because they root for God's school.  They're just as prone to human passion as I am.  Besides, good-natured trash talk is half the fun of it.  No, it was their players that killed any affection for their program.  The more I had to listen to jagoffs like Reno Mahe run their mouths to the press about how they get no respect for their 12-0 season, the more joy I experienced when a middling Louisville team mopped the floor with them in their bowl game that year.  It was the crybaby, entitlement arrogance from those teams earlier in this decade that transformed me from a Holy War agnostic to a war-painted Ute.

This year's game was an overtime nail-biter.  It didn't turn out the way I would have liked, and to be stuck watching in a venue where we Utes were outnumbered made it all the more difficult to swallow.  I about ground my teeth to dust watching them all stand up and sing their stupid fight song (who writes fake growling into their fight song?!). But it was amicable afterward.  I laughed and continued my trash talk, congratulating the Cougar fans and telling them all to get bent.  They called me a bitter poor-sport; I told them I've got their sportsmanship right here in my jock.  Haha.  Fun and games.

Then Sunday morning I read what BYU quarterback Max Hall had to say.  No haha from Maxie.  He decided to go scorched-earth at the post-game press conference, sparing nobody.  Here's a more-or-less complete collage of his mouthing off, so you can get an idea of the breathtaking arrogance of this kid:

"I don't like Utah. In fact, I hate them — I hate everything about them.  I hate their program. I hate their fans. I hate everything. So, it felt good to send those guys home. They didn't deserve it. It was our time, and it was our time to win. We deserved it. We played as hard as we could tonight, and it felt really good to send them home and to get them out of here, so it is a game I'll always remember."

When pressed about why, he continued:

"I think the whole university and their fans and organization is classless. They threw beer on my family and stuff last year and did a whole bunch of nasty things. I don't respect them, and they deserve to lose."

Not one to limit his goodwill remarks to his vanquished foe, he was next questioned about his poor performance in last year's game, which gave him the opportunity to micturate all over his own fans:

"People can say whatever they want to say, but until you're on the field and in that position, you have no room to talk or say whatever.  So, I really am thankful for our loyal fans and the people who stuck with us and with me and who continue to be positive with us and with me and say good things. And for the fans who sit behind screen names on the internet and say bad things about you aren't true fans, and it felt really good tonight to get a win in front of the good fans."

Hear that, BYU fans?  Until you've thrown 5 interceptions and fumbled twice (in one game!!), you don't deserve to criticize me!  I am above your thoughts on good quarterbacking.  So if you criticize me, you are not TRUE Cougars.  I only play for GOOD fans.  If you want be be a LOYAL fan, you'll only say positive things about me so I can continue to feel good about myself.  I'm talking to you, CougarBlu4Life.

If there's a way to win the battle while losing the war, Max just found it.

I really don't care about him saying he hates Utah's program and fans and the university in general.  Whatever.  It's a rivalry.  And despite the press release apology that the P.R. department wrote on his behalf, I accept that Max Hall still hates me.  I think his comments were as raw and unfiltered as they could be, and that he really does feel that way.  And I don't care.  Fuel for the tank keeps my motor running.  What really gets me is the "deserves" part of his comments.  BYU played their hardest, therefore, they deserve to win.  By extension, Utah must not have played their hardest, and therefore did not deserve to win. 

Really Max?  Because I always thought that the quarterback who goes 12-of-32 for 134 yards was the one who deserves to lose.  You turned in a dogs*#t performance and then walked into the press conference and threw up all over your opponent and your own fans.  I'd say that you deserved to lose, and you won DESPITE your on-field performance.  But deserves has nothing to do with it.  The sad part is, BYU fans have loved you because of all the monster numbers you've put up against the bottom feeders of the MWC.  It is you who has betrayed them by regularly wetting the bed in every big game you've played in.  You are a choke artist.  That is your M.O.  That, and now poor sportsmanship.  Lucky for you I've still got plenty of that left in my jock for you.  But since you seem to be better at performing with your mouth than with your arm, you'll have to come get it on your knees.

Humungus Denounces Pretentious Navel Gazing

Dear Seeing,

You are free to point and mock all you want.  And it DOES make you a total jerk.  But to what end?  Thanks to folks like you, these people of whom you speak are almost certainly already aware of whatever glaring defect you are so itchy to point out.  Except maybe the bad breath guy.  He never seems to have a clue.  The reason doctors get to speak frankly about these issues is that the people have come to them seeking counsel for complications associated with these issues.  It is part of what they do.  They spend years in school learning to make their insults sound like constructive criticism, as opposed to your unschooled, overt disgust.

But that is all beside the point.  What I don't understand here is, where is your head?  If you intend to survive the apocalypse, you need to start practicing apocalypse thinking right now.  You should be grateful that these people have been stamped with such glaring signs of inferiority.  Open your eyes, jackal.  They are bright, shining beacons of your first meal of Armageddon.  They may as well carry banners that say, "Not fit to survive the collapse of civilisation.  Help yourself to my coat when Nuclear Winter arrives."  I'm not saying you need to inspect the contents of their garages to see what kind of goods they have, but it might not be a bad idea to tail them home, just to get an idea of where to find the low-hanging fruit on your first foraging expeditions.

You may also want to look around and assess who you have surrounded yourself with for friends.  You will need to form alliances for protection and procurement of necessities.  Also remember to avoid friends who display signs of extreme vanity.  Highlights in the hair isn't an immediate cause for concern, but coupled with waxed eyebrows, pedicured toenails, and a pierced bellybutton, the alarm bells should be ringing.  Every hour spent gazing in the mirror is an hour not spent honing survival skills.  Their inability to cope without running water or shopping malls is generally equal to the inability of the physically deformed to cope without prescription medication and mayonnaise.  If you see that a high proportion of your friends are stamped with one or more of these inferiorities, it may be time for you to branch out.  Try the gym.  Or the firing range.  Anywhere where you will find people practicing skills useful when chaos reigns over law. 

Come to think of it, you may want to do a self-assessment while you're at it.  If you feel you may be among the stamped, who knows?  Maybe with some work, there may still be time for you to get the target off your back.  Just don't come around me.  I don't want your stench of weakness rubbing off on me.  Sit tight and I'll be by to pick up all of your canned food and/or camping gear soon enough.

Don't you wish your mom was bomb like mine?

My mom is quite possibly the bombest in all the land.  In the wake of my GMAT meltdown, the first person I texted was my mom.  And my distressed/enraged texts must have left a powerful impression.  Today as I approached my building after work, I saw a package on the stoop out front.  I bent to see who it was addressed to, never thinking it could be me.  Right there on the mailing label was a note for all the world to read, "Thinking of you in this hard time.  This too will pass.  I love you.  Mom."  I'm positive that every UPS man that handled that package and every person that walked past my building today saw that note and wished they had my mom.  Even as I write this, I am snacking on chocolate covered pretzels and carmel corn.  Someone's getting a Guns N' Roses box set for Christmas.  I love you back, mom.  You're the best.

I Hear Her Voice, In The Morning Hour She Calls Me

I've stated my affection for the city of DC before.  City life has a constant hustle to it.  There is always so much going on and something to do.  But I wasn't raised as a city boy, and often I get to itching for an escape to nature.  What this means is that around late April of every year, I spend the better part of my workday wishing I were anywhere but the city.  I daydream of floating down a lazy river or hiking a "mountain," as they like to call their hills here.  The last two years, I've taken a nice, long Saturday floating on an inner tube down the Shenandoah river in order to sate this need for escape.

But we had a particularly brutal legislative season at work, and we got runned over in a major way by the states.  My annual trip down the Shenandoah fell short of the needed release.  This year I made a more concerted effort to get away from the city to places where I could clear my head.  I went to Puerto Rico for Memorial Day, where I hiked the rain forest, climbed (and fell off of) many waterfalls, and swam in the bioluminescent bay.  That trip will warrant its own entry soon.  Below are some pictures of a weekend camping trip I took in July.  I went with some friends to hike the Blue Ridge "mountains" and take a ride on some natural water slides.

On the way up the trail, we passed a slide that looked way too steep and possibly dangerous, and decided that a person would have to be crazy to give it a try.  For anyone that's new to literary techniques, that last bit is what we call "foreshadowing."  Anyway, we continued up the trail until we came upon a group of people enjoying this much safer, more docile slide:

It was pretty fun, in a playground kind of way.  The water was about two degrees above freezing, so I got a good nipple workout while swimming.  So there's that.  But the whole time, I couldn't shake the thought of how much more fun it would be to ride Big Slick further down the trail.  I knew that if I left the hike without giving it a try, I'd regret it all the way home.  That's the way I am.

As could be expected, when I climbed out into the stream, it looked much steeper than it had from the rocks overlooking the landing pool.  I sat perched atop the slide for a few minutes, hovering over the water, contemplating the beneficiaries on my life insurance policies.  This is a little ritual I developed in the wake of my near-death Puerto Rican waterfall experience earlier this summer.  Having determined that everything was in order in case the ride ended poorly, I yelled "I'M RICK JAMES!" and dropped into the rushing current for an exhilarating 1.8 second plunge.  Yahoo! What a ride!  This will be an annual trip, I think.  The only thing that could make it better is warmer water.  I'm not asking for much; three or four degrees would do wonders.  But all in all, a great escape.  Thanks to V-Slice and Jeanette for the pics of the weekend.

In The Business of Getting PWNED!!

Stooped at a table, in silence I've toiled

Adding 'like factors' and practicing FOIL.

Robbed of my slumber, questions still burning,

I tossed and I turned, the cogs always turning.

"With TIME and HARD WORK you can master this test."

Such positive thinking helped summon my best.

For months I prepared and finally felt strong.

My answers hard-earned very rarely were wrong.

I zigged when you zigged, zagged when you zagged.

Of success I was sure, my win 'in the bag.'

If X equals Y, and seven is three,

How many monkeys can live in a tree?

If apples are oranges, and both fruits are pears,

Then why is it round if the pi are squared?

What is the ratio of knickknacks to widgets,

And what's the percentage of three-headed midgets?

I know it! I know it!  The answer is three,

If X equals pears and the knickknacks are free!

But if you add seven to a factor of Y,

Then midgets hate apples and eat all the pi.

YES! I felt good.  I could conquer the world.

Of course I'd do well when the test was unfurled.

And you played the puppy, your submissiveness fake,

Sitting and rolling and learning to shake.

I thought I had tamed you, trained you to lay,

So I sat down to pet you at the end of the way.

I reached out my hand and heard a deep growl.

Your teeth were well-honed, your breath was most foul.

Now staring, shell-shocked, into your maw,

I was three-quarters there, no time to withdraw.

Or was it four-fifths?  Is that a factor of red?

And what's the probability of me wetting the bed?

Probability's good, for no jugular was seized.

You tore through my gray matter with relative ease

Deceptive, bloodthirsty, villainous savage!

My meticulous plans you fiendishly ravaged.

With claws and incisors you ripped at my dreams,

Devouring my hope whilst the carcass still steamed.

Empty, disheartened, brainless, or more,

My plan fades to black.  The horror.  The horror.

I Just Blue Myself

So this post is jumping the line a little bit. I have other stories to tell, but no time to tell them right now. Sorry. This little dispatch doesn't require much explanation, so I thought I'd put it up now. Plus, I've actually had a number of requests for these pics, despite the fact that they may come back to haunt me at some future point. Never let it be said that The Humungus doesn't listen.

So without further ado, I give you Tobias Funke, analrapist.

And in case you had your doubts about my committment to the character, nevernude shorts were in play. It's a good thing I'm such a fan of nakedness. Otherwise this would have been awkward. And for those who are unfamiliar with Arrested Development, the unpainted ring around the waist was intentional.

This costume was actually, by my standards, a late breaking idea. Normally, I'm planning my costumes around March so I have time to track down and assemble all of the items, and also so I can string out the costs over the course of months. I had been planning a full-on luchadore getup this year, but costs started getting prohibitive when I started adding in the boots and tassled wrist greaves. I had bought these shorts for a race I ran in September, but didn't end up wearing them to race. I did try them on at home, though, and when my roommate saw them, he asked if I was being Tobias for Halloween. In a matter of 0.7 seconds, my answer went from "Gee, I'd never thought of that," to "Yes. Yes I am."

Despite the warm reception it received at the party, I'm afraid this will not be a repeat costume. In terms of effort-to-payoff ratio, it was too low. Painting the entire body is messy, time consuming, and uncomfortable. I spent the whole night trying not to touch walls and people. I couldn't get no hugs from all the pretty ladies. Riding in the car was a mess, and cleaning the body paint off at the end of the night took forever. What can I say? Lesson learned, I guess.