Free Mike Ogle!

Dubious congratulations are in order for our good friend Mike Ogle (remember, the guy who said, “Hey, why don’t you call it Blog Cabin?”). He is now officially the most famous person I know because … drum roll please … he is hated by the entire country of Guam.

Not to recap the whole obviously anti-Ogle agenda from the story – including on the side, where it includes his personal e-mail, so that you too can attack him! – but it goes something like this: He wrote about cockfighting, and the natives say he was “offensive and insensitive” to Guamanians.

In other news, “Guamanians” is a word, apparently.

Now our friend has the elite status usually granted only to politicians, athletes and criminals: “Ogle did not reply to an e-mail from the Pacific Daily News for comment yesterday.”

Congratulations, dude. You are officially “that guy” who could not be reached for comment. It’s like journalist bizarro world.

For those of us who know and love Ogle, we have long been aware that he is a world-class rabble rouser, making mischief in print for his own amusement, occasionally drawing the ire of his subjects.

Well, former North Carolina basketball player Jason Capel, long atop the list of Ogle haters – once going so far as to threaten him – is now a distant second to Guam, being that Cape is not an entire country unto himself, no matter how important he thinks he is.

Sure, OG pissed off the famed Cameron Crazies on ESPN.com’s Page 2 earlier this year, but being that they are only whiny little nerds (read: Duke students), it hardly counts.

Sending Guam into a tizzy? Now that’s a columnist coup! (The funny part being that he wasn’t actually trying to piss anyone off this time – it just sort of happened. Hey, when you got it, you got it.)

Anyway, Guam, being a U.S. territory, has a representative in Congress, although that member can’t vote on things. This leaves her with plenty of time to do other stuff.

Like demand an apology from Mike Ogle.

I urged him to apologize, if for no other reason than that will trump any story anyone he will ever meet will ever tell. Oh yeah? Well, I once had to apologize to a whole island!

Outside of that one good reason, I saw screw it. If the Guamanians don’t like reading my boy on ESPN.com, they can feel free to start up their own web site, ESPN.guam, and write about whatever the hell they want.

Free Mike Ogle! (Note: Ogle is not presently being detained by anyone. I just like saying that. A lot.)

They Say It's Your Birthday...

Here’s some disturbing news. Apparently, a sex-toy company has determined May to be National Masturbation Month, and claim it “climaxes” with National Masturbation Day, which also happens to be my birthday.

Having a birthday at the end of May, I have grown accustomed over the years to it falling on Memorial Day every now and then, meaning I have to share my special day with our nation’s fallen soldiers. That’s cool.

I just didn’t realize that one day, it would be a day dedicated to little soldiers standing at attention nationwide.

But, hey, what are you going to do, right? Maybe I’ll have a party. Hope everyone can come.

Playing Your Cards Wrong

Everyone hates the Hallmarks of the world to begin with, since they take perfectly nice events and crap them all up by forcing us to send everyone we know a greeting card of some kind to commemorate it.

Seriously, I’m sick of feeling guilty because I forgot to send Mom an Arbor Day card.

And now? Well, now they’ve gone straight off the deep end.

It’s not enough that there are cards tailored specifically to Mom, Dad, Bro, Sis, Aunt, second cousin and whoever else you might know. Or that you can actually get cards that indicate they're from your pets (most of whom, incidentally, would not even be able to reach that high on the card rack!).

Now some lady is coming out with cards for your mistress or other man. Are you kidding me? I don’t want to go all Nell Carter up in here, but gimme a break.

What are the cutesy poems in these cards going to sound like?

I just wanted to send you a note to say
Doing you at the Motel 6 made my day!
You’re the best thing I’ve got in my life,
If you don’t count my family and wife!
Happy Mistress Day!

People, this is what they make BLANK cards for, not that I have any idea why your mistress or other man (side note: why don’t we have a special word for that?) needs a card in the first place.

What, everyone you exchange bodily fluids with should get a piece of thin, folded cardboard as reassurance that you care?

Maybe hookers can start buying cards for their customers, too, while we’re at it. How would that be for a Dear John letter? *rimshot* (Frightening side note: that’s two entries in a row with the mention of hookers. What's goin' on here?)

But back to the point, which is that cards suck. Except birthday cards. And I only say this because my birthday is just nine days away. Bring 'em on!

Prone to Creativity

Here’s something very interesting: according to a recent study, we’re more creative when lying down as opposed to standing.

It certainly explains why I have tons of brainstorms when I’m trying to go to sleep at night, yet not so many when I’m say, changing a lightbulb.

I mean, Michaelangelo painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel lying down, right?

What it doesn’t explain is why the New York Times bestseller list is not comprised entirely of books by hookers.

But oh well. Someday.

The theory also lends itself tremendously to a whole bevy of quality pickup lines. How 'bout you and I go "get creative" at my place, baby?

Of course, to explain said pickup line, you’d probably have to carry a copy of the aforementioned article around with you everywhere. Unless there were some other way to work it out. If only I could think of one.

I’ve got to go lie down.

I'm Too Sexy For My Job

Good news for all the scribes out there like me: According to a poll conducted by Salary.com, “reporter” is the fourth-sexiest occupation out there.

Take that, event planners! (They finished sixth.)

Of course, I’ll be taking this information with a grain of salt, since the poll probably takes more into account the makeup-laden talking-head retards on the TV news than it does actual “reporters.” You know, people who gather and disseminate information, as opposed to learning to read a teleprompter really well.

Plus, whoever was surveyed for this has obviously never been at the buffet line for the press meal at a sporting event.

Let’s put it this way: at 240 pounds, I’m often one of the slender guys.

Also, the list seems to be a little full of bullshit. I mean, are we saying strippers aren’t as sexy as interior designers? Then again, I suppose that depends on your, shall we say, personal preferences. (Random stereotype alert!)

Also, nurse? Maybe if it’s a naughty nurse.

And veterinarian? Maybe if it’s a naughty veterinarian. (Now exiting this line of thinking before we start getting into rectal thermometers…)

Anyway, perhaps the sexiest scene of all time could be achieved if a private plane caught fire and had to have an emergency landing.

On board is an important CEO (No. 3) being served a drink by a flight attendant (No. 2) and discussing an upcoming gala with his lawyer (No. 10) and the event planner (No. 6) for the party when suddenly and engine catches fire and has to land. Luckily the pilot has radioed ahead that there is trouble, so a doctor (No. 9) and a nurse (No. 7) are on hand waiting when the plane lands. But so is a reporter (No. 4) because he heard about it over the police scanner. And of course, there is the big guy, No. 1, the firefighter, waiting to put out the blaze.

And nothing is sexier than a great big coincidence.

The Monster Mash

I really am slacking off, I suppose, this being the first entry in nearly two weeks. But it will all be worth the wait when you see one of the best names in the history or sport, Kansas softball player Destiny Frankenstein.

If you’re last name is Frankenstein, do you just say “Oh, fuck it,” and give your kid a weird first name, too, knowing she is already in for hell when she gets to middle school?

This is not an isolated incident. Just ask Destiny’s sister, Cherish Meade Frankenstein. I shit you not. It’s in Destiny’s personal info section on the bio.

The creepiest part to me is how this Frankenstein girl – who rocks the nicknames “Money” and “D-Frank” – has kind of a boxy head, a la, you guessed it, her monster namesake.

It should be noted that all my references here are to movie depictions of the monster, not to Mary Shelley’s novel, as we will not let literature get in the way of cinematic recollections for the purpose of this argument. (Dummy translation: No book, movie.)

Seriously though, her forehead is so big it’s closer to a five-head. All she’s missing is the bolts in her neck.

Okay, okay, maybe that was a little mean. But I’m sure it will all work out for her. She’s smart (Academic All-Big 12 second-teamer, according to the bio) and athletic (could steal 20 or more bases this season). So I’m sure one day she’ll settle down, get married, and begin reproducing.

As long as Destiny doesn’t meet George McFly, who would then attempt to woo her in the malt shop with lines like, “Density, I am your density.” Could get ugly. But him being fictional and all, I’m not too worried about it.

Now matter how it turns out, one thing is for sure: I, for one, could not be more excited about Destiny’s child.

On a Totally Random Note...

...I was having lunch with Matt Dees, who explained that his boss was a workaholic. And I wondered aloud, what is the opposite of "workaholic?" Is it "social worker?"

Dissin' Dakota

I was reading something online today about that child actor, Dakota Fanning, who is in that scary movie with DeNiro, if I remember correctly.

And it just suddenly pissed me off that her name is Dakota. What is she, one of Bruce Willis’ kids? Do Rumor and Scout have a sister they don’t know about?

But I digress.

My point is this: There is no two-word state that you should be able to split up and use as a name, with the possible exception of Carolina, and then only if you live in a Spanish-speaking country.

Plus, why stop there? How ridiculous would it be if we started splitting up one-word states and using those parts for names?

LaWare, maybe? Perhaps Nebra could be the new Debra. Or you could address an envelope one day to Miss Issippi Smith.

But then I started thinking about this more and realized we already have a bunch of names like that (not even counting such obvious ones as Maryland, Louisiana, the Virginias, or even Wyoming, which sort of sounds like Yao Ming).

Take Ana, for instance, the last lonely part of Montana. Now, I could invoke the Spanish-speaking country rule here as well, but I’ll give the benefit of the doubt, even without the double N.

There’s also the old-old-school name Ida, which is only missing a ho, and then you’ve got yourself a state. Or a really slutty grandma.

And how about Egon, which as we all know finishes up Oregon.

Of course, you’re never going to end up talking to anyone named Egon, unless you often travel with a proton pack on your back and are “fuzzy on the whole good-bad thing.”

So the point here is, we’re all screwed. We can’t control this whole name thing. Except me. My kids will simply be numbered.

Massachusetts Institute of Tomfoolery

Wow, has it really been this long since I had an entry here on the ol’ blog? Apparently it has.

That’s too bad. If I could go back in time and change it, I would. Then I would visit the Time Traveler Convention that will be held at MIT on May 7.

When do you go to something like this, when you're officially too nerdy for Star Trek conventions? (Not counting the time travelers themselves. They're cool.)

Also, is it just me, or does this sound a little too crackpot for an institution with the academic reputation of an MIT? I’m not sure what my favorite part is, the fact that they give latitude and longitude directions in case MIT no longer exists in the future that someone is traveling from, or the fact that there’s no dress code.

Because, really what’s more embarrassing than making a 3,000-year trek backwards through time only to learn when you arrive that this was a black-tie shindig?

Also, call me a skeptic, but the following sentence bothered me: “We welcome any sort of proof, but things like a cure for AIDS or cancer, a solution for global poverty, or a cold fusion reactor would be particularly convincing as well as greatly appreciated.”

Oh, you want proof? Sure, no problem. And I’m sure as soon as I, as a time traveler, leave again for my home in the distant future (assuming I haven’t had too many beers at this rip-roarin’ convention to drive the time machine), these MIT punks will steal all the good future innovations.

At the very least, I’m sure they will conveniently “forget” who brought what.

“Oh, you brought the potato salad, right?”

“No, the AIDS cure.”

“OK, potato salad it is. I’ll rinse that dish out and get it back to you.”

And really, nothing will ruin a time-traveler’s day like having to chase down some little snot from MIT who stole his stuff from the future. So, really, I mean why are we having this thing?

Oh, and one more thing, just for the hell of it: “They found me! I don’t know how, Marty, but they found me!” (What, you thought I’d have a whole time-travel entry without quoting Doc Brown? For shame!).