Funny Video of the Week: Unbelievable Basketball Shot

This video may be short but it’s a classic. I think the obvious question here is: why was this little kid in such a hurry? I love how at the start of the clip you see him bolt for no apparent reason. You forget about him momentarily when he sprints off screen, only to be reunited with him seconds later in a moment of epic hilarity. I’ve got to kid the some credit, he certainly has some wheels. I mean, he randomly starts sprinting at half court, then like 2 seconds later he is already behind the basket. Probably would make a pretty good basketball player himself one day (if he isn’t in intense therapy for his severe phobia of balls).

What do you think was going through his head that made him start sprinting like that? Do you think he was sitting there enjoying the game when he suddenly remembered that he forget to lock his bike? Or maybe he realized, “Oh crap! If I don’t hurry, I’m going to be late for my date with a basketball behind the hoop!” I think the most likely scenario is that he had to go the bathroom real bad, and, like most kids his age, decided to hold it in until it became an emergency situation. It sucks that his urgent quest for relief was interrupted when a giant flying orb struck him in the dome. I hate when that happens. But I don’t feel too bad for him –he should’ve listened to his parents and gone the bathroom before they left the house.

I just hope someone at the gym had a mop handy.

Available Parking Spots Reach New Low

I was on the highway driving home from work today and noticed a new sign: "No Highway Parking". Is this sign really necessary? I mean, are they honestly having a problem with people parking along a major interstate highway? Who is speeding down the highway, looks over at the empty breakdown lane and thinks, "Man, I'm just going to park right here and walk 7 and half miles because I probably won't find a spot closer to the mall"? Do they turn to their kids and say, "We're here! Be careful about the 70 mph traffic when you open the door! And help me remember where we parked: next to the raccoon carcass between exits 14 and 15." I just find it hard to believe that people would park in the middle of nowhere. They might as well put a "No Parking" sign in the middle of lakes while they are at it. It's good to know that my tax money is going to such a worthy cause.

Sorry about the mini rant. I guess I'm just bitter that my favorite parking spot is now illegal.

Not Your Ordinary Summer Camp

With the start of NFL preseason camps this week, I find myself reflecting on the summer of 2003 when I worked as a ball boy for the Chicago Bears. Now, you’re probably wondering how I ended up getting selected from thousands of applications for a summer dream job with a professional football team. Honestly, I think my application stood out because of my excellent grades, consistent hard work, and impeccable character. Or maybe I got the job because my family is close family friends with the head coach at the time. I guess we’ll never know for sure. Regardless, after spending more than a month living and working with NFL players, I have more stories than Mother Goose.

It didn’t take long for me to learn that my title as “Ball Boy” was, in fact, a terrible misnomer. Sure, I did carry around footballs at practice and games, but I wasn’t getting paid 25 dollars a day just for that. No, the primary duty of the NFL ball boy is to do whatever he can to ensure that the players are happy. We really had to be a jack-of-all-trades. Walk into the locker room at any given time, and you might find one ball boy picking up sweaty jocks, another tying a player’s shoes, another separating the red gummy bears from the rest of the package, and me standing on a chair dancing an Irish jig for the players’ amusement. During practice, players would randomly tackle me to the delight of the laughing and cheering fans. Is it sad that getting pancaked by a professional football player in front of thousands of fans is one of the proudest moments of my life?

On my first day on the job, a particularly big and scary player approached me in the locker room and said, “I need you to do something for me. Go down to the basement. There’s a guy there -goes by “Gino” –who sells pot. Get me some and leave it in my locker.” “Yes, sir”, I said dutifully, before sprinting to the laundry room and hiding in the drier for an hour. Over the next few days several other players asked me to get pot for them and each time I would hide in the laundry room until all the players left the locker room. Curious to see if this was a common practice, I asked one of the other ball boys if he had the same experience. After a few minutes of uncontrollable laughter, he informed me that the players were asking for “pop” not pot. Hailing from Boston, I had never heard soda referred to as “pop” before, so I had misheard the players’ requests. This was incredibly relieving for me, and it also explained the frequently requested “orange flavored pot” that had me scratching my head.

Generally, the players were very nice to me. They even went out of their way to talk to me every now and then. One day I was driving a player to the cafeteria for lunch in a golf cart, and he started asking me about myself. I explained to him that I was from Concord, Massachusetts. “That town sounds familiar,” he said. “You’ve probably heard of it because it’s where the Revolution started,” I explained. He paused for a moment, caught in deep thought. “I thought the Beatles were from England.” I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, and I didn’t want to find out.

My job as a ball boy wasn’t all fun and games. I spent a lot of time in the laundry room dealing with dirty uniforms and the bacteria that they so graciously hosted. I struggle enough trying to do my own laundry, so you can imagine how difficult this was for me considering that folding the underwear of an average NFL player is a two-person job. One day the equipment manager frantically ran up to me and told me that we had a “Code 17C”. As we walked to the laundry room, I wondered what Code 17C meant, and why I was wearing rubber gloves. Turns out that one of the other ball boys accidentally mixed all of the clean laundry with the dirty laundry. In order to remedy this emergency, we used the time-honored procedure known by ball boys everywhere: the old “Smell ‘n’ Sort” technique.

So next time you see a ball boy on TV, keep in mind that his life in the NFL is not all glory. And if you ever happen to meet a ball boy, thank him for helping your favorite team and buy him a beer, or, if he’s under 21, some pop.

My view of the games was great, the sweaty jocks afterwards were not

Funny Video of the Week: Anchor Has Interesting Choice of Words

So, what was possibly going through this woman's mind when she said this? I mean, can you think of any connection that would make her accidentally substitute "gay" for "blind"? I can't even pull out the old psychology card and chalk this one up as a mere Freudian slip because the two words don't even share a single letter -the only thing they have in common is that they are both in the English language. I bet she's just one of those people who always mixes things up. Do you think she walks into a salon, sits in the chair, and then tells the hairdresser to "fill it up with Premium"? I especially like the dramatic pause she inserts right after the "but". She even emphasizes it with an inspired finger point. She masterfully gets the audience sitting on their edge of our seats, "but what!?" we all think to ourselves in the brief yet powerful pause. And then BANG. She smacks us with this curveball.

And by far the best part about this video is the fact that she messed it up twice: "but....he's gay!" (No...) "I mean he's gay" (Still wrong...) "Excuse me, he's blind" (There you go...). Come on, you're getting paid the big bucks to do what us normal people can't do: speak in complete sentences without making a complete ass of yourself. Going 0 for 2 like that is simply unacceptable. I can't even say that this is every newscaster's worst nightmare because I doubt that they could even dream up such a ridiculous scenario.

I also love the other anchor's reaction. I wish this clip had better quality so we could see the utter shock in his face. We can see that his jaw literally drops, and then he immediately looks down at his hands as if he was stating, "I have absolutely no part whatsoever in what's going on right now".

And how about the mountain climber? Not quite the introduction he was expecting, now was it? He trains for years to reach his goal, fighting the adversity of his blindness. Then he endures frostbite , thin air, and whipping winds on a grueling climb on the world's most treacherous terrain, eventually reaching the summit for the proudest moment of his life. And all he gets in return is this anchor who "outs" him to the entire world. How awkward must have been that interview? Do you think the climber brought up the "slip"? It's too bad for the anchor that the guy was blind and not deaf. I wouldn't be surprised if they fired that anchor during the three minute commercial break and just replaced her with some random person like the studio custodian or the producer's 5 year old niece or anyone who could go on TV and embarrass themselves less than this woman.

My Dream Wife Blogs About My Dream Wedding

Well the wedding is over now, and I can honestly say that it was the greatest day of my life. It seems like just yesterday that Eric surprised me with the cutest, most romantic proposal during the 7th inning stretch of the Red Sox game. I was explaining to him how much I appreciated the art of a perfectly executed double play when I looked up at the scoreboard and saw Eric’s proposal: “I hope our love goes into extra-innings. Will you marry me?” He always knows exactly what to say to get to my heart! I turned and there he was on one knee, presenting me with the most beautiful onion ring that I have ever seen!

It wasn’t easy picking a wedding date because I had to make sure we wouldn’t miss a Sox game or screw up Eric’s work out schedule. I know the day wasn’t “conventional”, but I think we actually had a decent turnout considering it was on a Wednesday. Putting together the guest list was also tricky. I refused to have a wedding without every single one of Eric’s former college football teammates present, so to compensate we didn’t invite a few of my family members, like my brother.

The actual day of the wedding was absolutely amazing. The turf was groomed perfectly on the Patriots’ field, where Eric and I were to be wed at the 50-yard line. I felt like a princess in my wedding dress. I decided to wear my old gym sneakers instead of expensive heels because no one can see the shoes underneath a long wedding dress anyway! We are going to use the money I saved on the shoes to buy a new HDTV for our apartment!

My shoes may have smelled a little bit, but at least they were comfortable. I made sure Eric was comfortable too, letting him wear a clip-on on bowtie instead of a real one (he doesn’t like the chaffing on his neck). He looked so handsome in his tux. I didn’t even complain that his shirt was inside-out. I figured that I would save the nagging for a more important occasion.

The food at the reception was exquisite, though I have to admit that we splurged a bit on the cuisine. For appetizers, we had buckets full of buffalo wings with mild, moderate, AND atomic sauces! I accidentally got buffalo sauce all over my white dress, but that wasn’t a big deal. Eric always says that he thinks I’m prettiest when covered in sauce. The entrées were 40 oz. steaks with a side of pork, and for dessert we had the most elegant Carvel ice cream wedding cake.

All in all, it was just a perfect day. I would love to tell you more about it, but Eric and I have to leave for our honeymoon. Cooperstown, here we come!

The Evolution of a Blog

People often ask me how I got started with humor writing. It was a natural process, really. After constant encouragement from my friends and family that my life was a big joke, I decided to follow my talent and become a humor writer. I have been writing since high school, but it was not until recently that I ever considered publishing my own blog. My mom was the first one who suggested the idea. One night after I came home from work she came into my room and said, “Now that you’ve graduated, why don’t you start your own blog?” This statement, after being processed by the special part of my brain that receives all mother-related content, translated as: “Grown men don’t play video games. For the love of God, find another hobby.” I thought this was a pretty good idea. After all, I was now a mature adult, and as a workingman I found my old hobbies to be a little childish. Plus, the scary games were giving me bad dreams.

So just like that, I transformed from an immature kid who plays video games all night to a sophisticated adult who still lives in his parent’s house and blogs at 2 am about the time he sweat on an old lady at the gym. I have to admit, though, that when I first published my blog I was pretty nervous. A “blog” is an “online diary for the public” and the last time other people read my diary things did not end well. Granted it was my private diary from sixth grade, but my classmates really gave me a hard time when they read about my irrational fear of Beanie Babies. I was also worried that my blog just wouldn’t compete with all the other sites out there. There are thousands of blogs on the Internet, and as I’m sure you are aware, every single one of them is well-written and entertaining. I mean, how am I supposed to entice people to come to my website when they can instead visit a blog called “All About Singapore Taxis”?

I knew that if I wanted a successful blog, I would have to come up with a memorable name for it. I solicited my friend for some advice, telling him that ideally my blog’s name would reflect my love for sports while describing the status of my life as a young man in transition. “How about ‘Stumbling Around First’?” he asked. “That’s perfect! You’re a genius!” I replied, “ ‘Rounding First’ it is!”

Now that I had the name of my blog figured out, I had to choose the address of my website. I wanted the domain name to be subtle yet sophisticated –something that would show my readers that I wasn’t full of myself like so many other bloggers –so I went with www.erickester.com.

After doing a little formatting and slapping on the only picture that I could find of myself that wouldn’t scare visitors away, my blog was up and running. It’s been fun so far, but it also has been more complicated than I anticipated. In order to publish my posts on the web I have to use HTML code, which is an unnecessarily complicated computer language invented by nerds to make me feel like an idiot. So occasionally I’ll mess up the coding and as a result my writing will appear with crazy HTML symbols as decoration.

All in all, my blog has been a great experience, and I think (!url_pattern.test(field.value)) that I’m finally (/span%) starting to get the hang of it. (br /)

New Year's Resolution

My New Year's resolution is to get a more accurate calendar.

Working Out a New Gym

As a former college football player, working out has been a big part of my life. While playing for Harvard, I would join my teammates four times a week in the weight room for an intense workout designed to maximize grunting and the thickness of our necks. I became very accustomed to this lifestyle, so when I graduated college this spring and moved back home, it took me awhile to accept that I no longer have a free, state-of-the-art weight room at my disposal. I felt an overwhelming desire to keep both my muscles and ego inflated, and soon found myself looking to join a gym around town.

I hoped to join a badass weight room, or “Arm Farm”, as we referred to it in college. A place where guys with names like “Rocco” and “Mack” only take breaks from bench-pressing to drink raw eggs. Instead, I found myself signing up for a “Couples Membership” with my mom at a “Fitness Center” named after the 19th century transcendentalist, philosopher, and body builder, Henry David Thoreau.

Walking into the fitness center for the first time, I immediately noticed several differences between the “Thoreau Club” and my old weight room. First, there were no signs anywhere reminding the members to refrain, if possible, from spitting on the floor. There were plenty of signs for workout classes, however. Apparently, these “wellness classes” involve a group of people trying to repeat the movements of a much more flexible and attractive instructor, all while in a room covered with mirrors to constantly remind everyone of how out of shape they are. I saw a sign for a “Pilates” class, but when I asked the receptionist what “pilots” were, she just shook her head and directed me to their lone bench-press.

Upon entering the work out area, I immediately established myself as the strongest member in the history of the club. I would be more proud of this accomplishment if there was anyone remotely close to my age in the club. I suppose I should have expected an older demographic at a fitness center whose brochure boasts of “a beautiful wooded setting, a relaxing atmosphere and a variety of wellness and recreation activities”. I heard a cheer coming from several older gentlemen who were watching mounted TVs while exercising on the ellipticals. “Oh good,” I thought, “the Red Sox must have just scored.” I walked over to the TVs to check the score, only to discover that these men were actually giving each other high-fives because of the current headline on CNBC: “Dollar Rallies From Record Low Against Euro.”

Next, I headed over to the treadmills for a quick run. These treadmills were much fancier than the ones that I’m used to, with a control panel similar to that of a 747, only with more buttons. I randomly pressed a bunch of them, and before I knew it I was running at a pretty brisk pace and building up a good sweat. After a few minutes, I heard what sounded like a whimper coming from the treadmill next to me. I quickly glanced over but didn’t see anyone. Now the whimper turned into words: “Excuse me?” It turned out that there was, in fact, someone on my neighboring treadmill –I just didn’t see her when I first looked over because she was a little old lady who stood at 4 foot 10, tops. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but….you’re dripping on me.”

I stopped my treadmill and looked at her. Her sneakers as white as snow. The skin of her hands as delicate as paper. Her fine, gray, hair glistening with dozens of droplets of my sweat.

This poor woman. How long had she been enduring my perspiration shower before she spoke up? She had been taking a leisurely 1 mph walk on the treadmill and reading the latest issue of “Sew News Magazine”, only to get drenched by an assault of sweat bullets from some hairy beast who was making noises like a moose in mating season as he gasped for air. I apologized profusely. “It’s alright,” she explained, “You know, when I was your age I used to sweat that much too!”

Suddenly, I was just as grossed out by her as she was by me.

Funny Video of the Week: Hidden Camera Catches Kid Singing to Britney Spears

My initial reaction after watching this video for the first time was that it's fake. I mean, it was just too good to be true. Had to be staged. But then I reviewed the evidence, and now I am 100% sure that it's real. If the kid's parents or older sibling forced him to do it in order to make a funny Youtube video, there is absolutely no way that he would have performed with so much passion. Just look at his face when he closes his eyes and squeezes his body and tell me that's not a kid who is loving the song with every fiber of his being. I think the kid legitimately believes that he is Britney Spears, and to be honest, for a second there I thought he was too.

Despite his obvious passion and commitment to Britney, I can't in good conscience give his performance a good review here. His moves are too disjointed and I am pretty sure that even I could dance better than he does, which means he truly sucks. Also, this video is recent -not from 1998 when the song was popular -so this means that the kid is not only a poor dancer, but is like a decade behind the times as well. Needless to say, but he's got to figure some things out before he hits the cutthroat world of middle-school social life.

Bold move by the parents posting this video on the internet. If it were my son, I probably wouldn't go and share this video with the entire world, and instead burn it and sign him up for some extra-curriculars or a hypnotist or exorcist or something. My parents have a really embarrassing video of me parading around my house naked when I first learned to walk, and I am so lucky that Youtube didn't exist when that video was filmed 7 years ago.

A Misleading Truth That Works In Conversation, But Not In Text Messages

Over-Enthusiastic Girlfriend: I know we haven't been dating for long, but I feel such a connection with you.  I love you.

Reluctant Boyfriend: I love U2

A Conversation With a Kid You Haven't Seen Since High School, Translated

Tim and Matt, back from college for the summer, run into each other at Blockbuster. (Translation in red)

Tim: Matt! What’s up? It’s been awhile. (Wow, I haven’t thought about you once in like, 3 years) I barely recognized you! (You’ve gained at least 15 pounds)

Matt: Hey, man. How’s it going? (Your name is either Tom or Tim but I’m not sure which…so I’ll just play it safe with “man”)

Tim: Pretty good, pretty good. Just home for the weekend…I’m living in New York this summer. (I got real homesick)

Matt: Nice, what are you doing there? (I honestly don’t care, but I’ll ask anyway)

Tim: I got an internship with an investment bank, actually. (My dad’s got connections) It’s long hours and pretty intense, but it’s been a great experience so far. (I want to kill myself)

Matt: Sounds cool. (If I were you I’d want to set myself on fire) I’ve been living here at home this summer and working for my dad. (A few too many beers last semester equals no summer job for me. My dad pays me allowance for picking weeds and taking my dog out to the bathroom)

Tim: Oh, nice. So have you seen anyone else from our class? You still with Ashley? (I can’t believe you got her in high school. She was so out of your league)

Matt: No…we had a mutual break-up a few months ago (She dumped me. I later found out that she had been cheating on me with my college’s entire offensive line)

Tim: That’s too bad. (I wonder if I have her number still…I’m totally gonna hit that up)

Matt: It’s ok, we still keep in touch. (I’m blackmailing her with that video we made together) So what movie are you renting, is that “The Notebook”?

Tim: Oh, yeah. Had to pick this up for my mom. (I heard Ryan Gosling’s performance is to die for)

Matt: Alright, well I better get going. It’s good to see you, though. We should definitely hang out sometime (I hope we never see each other again)

Tim: Yeah, totally. I’ll see you later (Agreed)

In Loving Memory

I had to say goodbye to an old friend today. Even though she died a couple of weeks ago, she wasn’t put to rest until now. So as she was towed away to Volvo heaven, where she will always be filled with Premium and every light is green, I thought back on her fulfilling life. I affectionately called her “White Lightning” because of her color and blinding speed. I suppose her name wasn’t totally representative of her attributes, but I found that if I referred to her as “Slightly Off-White Slug” I had a difficult time picking up girls.

White Lightning and I have many fond memories, but our greatest moment occurred last summer. It was a sweltering day in Boston, and she and I were caught in a nasty traffic jam. The air conditioning didn’t work because, as the repair shop so courteously informed me, the AC Fluid that White Lightening required contained a chemical so toxic that it had been banned in the continental United States since the Nixon Administration. So I sat in the traffic jam angrily, desperate to get home so I could get out of the oven that was my car and instead sweat in the comfort of my own bedroom.

Then a miracle happened. I heard the siren of a police car or ambulance coming from behind me, so I inched White Lightning to the side of the road to let it pass. About a minute passed, and even though I could still hear the siren loud and clear, I could not see any emergency vehicle in my mirrors. I stuck my head out the window to get a better look, and was shocked to discover that the siren was actually coming from White Lightning. Some will say that in her old age she experienced a massive internal malfunction, causing the car alarm to go off while I was driving. But I know what really happened that day. My car and I shared one soul, and as I sat agonizingly stationary in the never-ending traffic line, White Lightning decided to take matters into her own hands.

I looked up and saw dozens of cars that, in the name of good citizenship, pulled over to the side of the road to let my “emergency vehicle” proceed on its mission. I hesitated only for a moment before realizing that the Red Sox game was on TV in only five minutes, confirming that this actually was an emergency situation. White Lightning and I took advantage of the sudden turn of events and sped forward, the mass of traffic parting like the Red Sea as I triumphantly maneuvered through town on my Ivory Chariot of Twisted Steel.

Thanks to White Lightning miraculously transforming into an “unmarked police car”, what would have otherwise been a 20-minute horror show of a commute turned into a 5-minute joy ride. I snickered as I saw the look on everyone’s face when they realized that I was not, in fact, a police officer, but a 21-year-old guy who desperately needed a shower. I just made them more irate when I yelled, “So long, suckers!” (maybe you can relate to their anger more if I admit to you that the term I used differed by one letter). I made it in time to see Josh Beckett throw his first pitch to the Tiger’s leadoff hitter, which of course was a matter of life and death to me.

After our glorious triumph, White Lightning’s health began to decline rapidly. First she sprouted a leak in her Power Steering Fluid, forcing me to use all my strength just to turn the wheel. If I took a drive of twenty minutes or more, I couldn’t lift my arms for a week. Then the radio antenna, feeling left out for being the only normally operating mechanism remaining in White Lightning, decided to stop getting reception of the regular radio stations and instead start picking up signals in languages that I’m pretty sure are not spoken in this hemisphere.

Mechanical issues really started to take its toll on White Lightning, and two weeks ago she finally succumbed and died smack in the middle of one of the busiest intersections in all of Boston. A police officer pushed me and White Lightning out of danger and into the parking lot of the Double Tree Hotel, and as I gracefully deposited her into the bushes (her breaks had apparently stopped working as well) I knew that it was over. While I was driven back to my house in a tow truck, White Lightning’s corpse hooked up to the back, the 6 o’clock traffic report came on the radio: “A breakdown at the intersection of the Mass Pike exit ramp and Storrow Drive has caused a huge backup, avoid this area if you are able.” I smiled. At least White Lightning’s death got the recognition that it deserved.

Ford Thinking

Well it looks like our friends at New England Ford Dealers have come up with yet another brilliant marketing strategy and are heavily advertising their new campaign: "Employee Pricing: You Pay What We Pay!". Reports indicate that Ford officials finally settled on this slogan after hours of debate on whether to instead adopt their alternative marketing campaign: "Visit Your Local Ford Dealer, Where We Are Cutting Everything From Our Prices to Our Employee Benefits!"

Funny Video of the Week: The Grape Stomping Lady

There are just so many things to say about this clip that I don't even know where to begin. I mean, videos like this are the reason the internet was invented. I've seen this like 1353 times now and every time I find something new to laugh about. This clip has turned into a Youtube phenomenon because it has the two most fundamental qualities that are essential for any funny internet video: a) an epic fall and b) a woman crying like a baby Velociraptor. But besides the obvious strengths of this video, try to appreciate its more subtle aspects that truly make it a complete package of hilarity. For instance, the reporter trips because she yells "STOP", getting her "opponent" to pause a moment, and then quickly stomps her feet in an effort to get ahead in the "competition". Honestly, who cheats in a grape stomping competition? And a fake grape stomping competition at that? I have never seen a faster instance of karma in my entire life.

And who is she talking to when she keeps yelling "Oh stop! Oh stop!" Stop what? The camera? It's almost like she knows that all of us are watching the video in the future and is begging us to stop laughing. Personally, I like to think that she is talking to the other woman, who, pissed that the reporter tried cheating in the fake competition, seized the opportunity to add insult to injury by relentlessly tickling her as she rolled around in pain.

And the two hosts at the end seriously deserve a daytime Emmy or a Noble Peace Prize or whatever for not laughing on live TV when the show suddenly cuts back to them. I mean here they are, listening to probably the most unnatural noises in the history of humankind, and they don't even break smile. They didn't even have to use the classic go-to move of "let me pretend to scratch my noise so I can cover up my smile". I also love how the guy says "I think she's actually hurt", as if there was a slight possibility that she somehow faked the whole thing and was just making up those sounds from another dimension.

Some nights, as I lie sleepless in my bed wrestling with deep questions about the direction of my life, my mind wanders to the Grape Stomping Lady. I know that she's OK, because I googled her to make sure. But what is she doing now? How do you come back from that? The bottom line is you can't. But I bet that she takes at least a little pleasure knowing that she has provided about 10 million smiles to people worldwide. Then the sound of her ridiculous cries creeps into my head, and I start laughing so hard that now I'm the one who can't breathe.

How to Get Your Girlfriend to Watch the Movie You Want

It’s a Friday night and you and your girlfriend are trying to figure out a movie to rent. It’s been a long, tiring week, so you suggest a couple fun yet relaxing flicks, like Fight Club and Texas Chainsaw Massacre. She counters with P.S, I Love You. You two are further apart in your choices than you anticipated. So how are you going to trick convince her to watch a “guy” movie with enough violence to satiate your testosterone-soaked brain? Try suggesting a few movies with titles that are ambiguous enough that she may just agree to it:

Movie: Goodfellas
How You’ll Pitch It: Good guys do exist, and in this touching science fiction movie you’ll see what true gentlemen are all about. Enjoy this cinematic adventure as you are transported into a magical world where every morning starts with breakfast in bed, every day new flowers are waiting on your doorstep, and every night ends with two-hour sessions of “pillow-talk”.

Movie: The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly
How You’ll Pitch It: This movie explores the joy, the laughs, and the tears on the Red Carpet of this year’s Oscars. Who were the winners, who were the losers, and whose acting career is forever ruined by her catastrophically bad choice of a dress

Movie: Diamonds are Forever
How You’ll Pitch It: In his 7th adventure, James Bond finds himself in an unfamiliar position: his heart has been both shaken and stirred. Follow Bond on his life threatening trips to Tiffany’s as he searches for the perfect ring for his bride-to-be. Feel the powerful emotions of a man willing to endure anything in the name of love, from his humbling loan application to his internal struggle with buyer’s remorse. Also be sure to check out the sequels, The Rock and Rules of Engagement

Movie: Planet of the Apes
How You’ll Pitch It: This award-winning documentary explores the frustrations of women living in a world full of idiotic men. Ever been frustrated that your boyfriend remembers baseball statistics from 1992 but can’t remember more serious matters, like, for instance, your birthday? Then this movie is for you.

Food for Thought

Upon entering the real world I figured that I would be presented with many adjustments and new concerns, but I never figured that eating would be one of them. After all, I’ve been eating on a fairly regular basis since I was a baby, so you would think that I would be a pro at it by now. As it turns out, I have entered the post-college world woefully inexperienced in this relatively vital aspect of human survival. I guess in college I really took for granted having prepared food readily available for me –whether I was eating dinner in the cafeteria, a pizza in my room, or crusts from that pizza a week later, there was always something for me to munch on. For the last four years the most complex food preparation I had to perform was putting ketchup on my burgers, and even that was a stressful task that often ended with sweat on my brow and a stain on my shirt.

Now, like most of my coworkers, I bring my own lunch into the office. The problem with this seemingly simple duty, however, is that I haven’t packed my own lunch since grade school, so I end up going with what I remember from that time. So as I sit in the break room with my coworkers as they eat their Greek salads and chicken Caesar wraps and discuss fancy things like profit margins, I gobble up my string cheese, Gushers, and Dunkaroos. As they sip on their Skinny Hazelnut Lattes, I throw my juice box in disgust because I’ve finished it in only like, two sips. My Smartfood isn’t living up to its name, because all it does is make me feel like an idiot.

In addition to the slight shame I feel from the contents of my food, I am also a little concerned about how healthy I am eating. I never had to worry about this in college. At school if someone warned me to “watch what you’re eating”, it meant that I had lost focus and missed my mouth a few times, leaving my face covered in ice cream. Now, “watch what you’re eating” means “whoa, Eric, no need to put hot fudge on your popcorn.” It was a sad day when I realized that even at the tender age of 22, I have to stop eating like my 20-year-old football player former self.

It turns out that I am not the only one struggling with my food intake. Everyone seems to want to eat healthier, which turns out to be a much harder task than people realize. Isn’t strange that recent studies have shown that Americans’ number one goal is to lose weight, but yet other research has indicated that our number one favorite pastime is eating? So what do we do? Fortunately, there are a few solutions. The other day I tried some organic cookies that a coworker shared with me, and they actually exceeded my expectations. Granted, I was expecting them to taste like chalk, but it turns out that they tasted like good chalk. So I guess there is some hope for those of us who want to live the American Dream of eating like pigs while staying thin. Now, if they’ll only invent organic Smartfood…

I Don't Get the Audio Books Craze

I was complaining about how I hate my long drive into work, so my friend recommended that I buy some audio books. So I went out and got these two:

I'm not sure what my friend was thinking...they didn't have anything to do with my drive and they were pretty boring reads.

Finally, Some Drama

Here we are at the halfway point of the season, and up until now the Red Sox have been cruising along atop the A.L East with few problems. Sure, they had their share of injuries, and it is hard not to notice the gaping hole left on their roster with arguably the most clutch player in Red Sox history on the Disabled List. I am of course talking about Mike Timlin, who developed left knee tendonitis from constantly having to sprint to back up the catcher on close plays at the plate. Despite the notable absence of Mike Timlin and injuries to lesser role-players like David Ortiz, the Sox have managed to distance themselves from the Yankees and put together one of the league’s best records.

Even with our winning ways, the season seemed to be lacking the catalyst that has caused me and so many other Sox fans to develop irrational obsessions with the hometown team: off-field drama. But our Sox never let us down in the drama department, and even though it came a few months later than expected, this year’s edition of Red Sox theater looks to be better than ever. For fans, the Red Sox are our Grey’s Anatomy, our Survivor, and our Sex and the City. So we turn our noses at the absurdity of others discussing whether Miranda was to blame for ruining Carrie’s wedding, and instead turn on sports-talk radio to listen a much more intelligent conversation about whether Manny Ramirez was justified for smacking Youk upside the head for throwing his helmet in the dugout.

The sports fan thrives off of the drama created by professional athletes. The most talked about sports stories of the past year have been about Barry Bonds and his steroids, Michael Vick and his dogfights, and Jason Giambi and his lucky gold thong. We love discussing an off-field controversy as much or more than analyzing last night’s game. So when we hear that Manny, in an amazing display of sheer power and athleticism, throws a 64 year-old man to the ground over a dispute regarding his ticket allotment, we immediately call up our closet 10 buddies to psychoanalysis the slugger. After hours of thoughtful and discerning debate, we finally come to the conclusion that there was probably more to the story that led to Manny’s attack, like the old-man was really a terrorist in disguise, or even worse, that he ruined Manny’s wedding.