Happy Halloween

As with the vast majority of Halloween party recaps, I will be allowing the photos to do most of the talking here. So be forwarned: there will be multiple disturbing images of your favourite blogger dressed as a transvestite Hooter's waitress, many in the ilk of the annual protective-cup-touching shot, as seen above. Yes, it was that kind of night.

And it began sometime around 9 when we arrived at DVZ and Sheera's, where Danny Boy was dressed like a cross between Jacques Cousteau and the human embodiment of a pair of moose knuckles... Not exactly the prettiest sight in the world, but then again, I was wearing a Hooter's waitress outfit, size extra-small, so really who am I to judge? The lovely Sheera was stunning as always, dressed this year as a Foxy Cleopatra hybrid, and their pad, as I've mentioned before, was done to the nines.

We'd had a couple of beers at my buddy Skeeter's place beforehand, which was essential to me being able to show up in that ridiculously disturbing outfit, and let me tell you, there were more than a few snaps taken, with extreme crotch-thrusting an absolute must. My favourite is of the Doc asking me to turn my head and cough. There was also some girl I've never met before (she may or may not have been the lovely lady doling out the humvees like they were all-star game fan voting ballots in the bathroom two years before) who took at least 15 closeup shots of my junk, unable to believe that I would show up at a party so exposed (she failed to grasp the idea that I might actucally be wearing something to disguise my Irish passport). In any event, I think it's safe to say that I at least managed to equal my disturbing hideousness of years past.

(The line of the night came from a man by the name of Robbie Doon, who walked into the party, took one look at my disgusting self, and promptly proclaimed: "Honestly? I've fucked worse.")

The party pretty well progressed from there in the way that most parties do, with the massive intake of alcohol (including via the house skull funnel), and some raucous tunes. There was a husband and wife combo dressed as duelling Peg Bundies (brilliant, in my opinion), which actually led to a nearly unforgivable gaff on my part. The "man" Peg had a beautiful set of fake breasts that I took great pride in squeezing at every opportunity. Of course, as the night wore on and I became increasingly more intoxicated, the distinction between the two Pegs became increasingly more difficult to discern, until at one point, after my eleventh beverage, I actually reached out for a handful of the real Peg... only to stop myself at the last minute, which was probably in everybody's best interest because the last thing anyone wanted was a pair of drunken transvestites duking it out amongst the glasses of spiked punch and the mini Snickers bars.

But the absolute highlight of the night, for me at least, came in the form of my little cousin getting his groove on. I have to tell you that my cousin; affectionately known to the rest of the civilized world as 'Little Buddy'; hasn't exactly had the world's greatest record of success with the ladies. Great guy. Salt of the earth. But I guess sometimes he just comes on a little too strong. It probably doesn't help that he's about seven years younger than everyone else either. But I digress.

So anyway, we're nearing the end of the evening, and there are only a few single ladies left, along with a slew of about a dozen single dudes. Everybody is standing around, doing the run-of-the-mill party thing, at which point J.T.'s Sexyback comes blaring through the system. The temperature may or may not have dipped below freezing in hades in that moment, but all I know is that Little Buddy took one of these two lovely ladies out onto the dance floor; a dancefloor surrounded by a stunned and disbelieving group of dudes, no less; and proceeded to put on an absolute grinding clinic, complete with Junior High caliber snogging. It was the stuff of legends.

And here's the thing: it's not as if this girl were only slightly out of his league. The only way I could describe it that night was to endlessly repeat that it was the dancefloor equivalent of Nuke LaLoosh getting called up to the show directly from A ball.

It was inexplicable. It was improbable. It was unprecedented. It was Kirk Gibson taking Eck deep in Game 1. It was Ron Artest running into the stands. It was Broadway Joe making a pass at Suzy Kolber. It was all of those things combined, times a thousand, and it may have been the single proudest moment of my life.

Here are some of the other highlights, in the form of costumes, from Saturday night:

The Lateral as Literal Art Form

I have no idea how the guy in the booth was able to keep up with every name on this play, but any sense of professionalism was certainly annihilated when his colour guy started screaming "GO! GO!!! RUN!!!" Nothing beats high-school-communications-class-caliber impartiality in the broadcast booth.

For my money, this beats The Play (U. Cal Berkley using a piddly assortment of only 5 laterals before drilling the trombone player en route to the endzone) because they used exactly three times as many laterals, although they really should have gotten a few of the cheerleaders involved.

It also beats the Music City Miracle because all of their laterals were of the "lateral" variety (ie, not forward passes), and because as far as my household is concerned, The Music City Miracle never happened.

Public Service Announcement

In the event that you ever need to ride an escalator, please consult with your local mall security guard for "how to use" instructions.

I have no idea what this dude was expecting out of this space-aged contraption, but it clearly wasn't this. You really wouldn't think it possible to fall up an escalator; and upside down no less; but this guy manages to pull it off. Bonus points for being able to eventually straighten it out and play it off like he was just trying to take a load off.

Putting the 'Ass' in Class

I'll be honest with you, one of my secret fantasies has always been to be at a sporting event, at least four Delgados deep, my team down by about five runs, and to then have the Jumbotron guy zoom in on me so I can matter-of-factly flip the entire stadium the bird without so much as cracking a smile...

This would easily fall into the top ten greatest things I've ever achieved in my life, slipping somewhere in between graduating from university and getting to 97 in the Century Club before becoming violently ill in my buddy's parents' backyard when I was 17.

But this guy takes the offensive Jumbotron gesture to an entirely different level. UncleBuck himself put it best when he said: "All that is left is for Budweiser to do one of those 'Real Men of Genius' radio ads about him."

Hats off to the cunnilingus king of Jacksonville, FL.

Halloween Weekend

In anticipation of the biggest cross-dressing, repressed-homoerotic-tendency-revealing, fantastic-excuse-to-dress-like-an-unabashed-whore weekend of the year, I've decided to post this classic costume warehouse commercial, along with some sultry pics of me (and a few nameless accessories) in a variety of uncompromising positions.

My buddy DVZ and his girlfriend Sheera throw the most killer Halloween bash every year, and it is set to go for this Saturday night. Just let me say that if I put as much time into preparing these blog entries as they put into decking their place out for their annual bender, reading these little discourses would be a completely different experience. Top notch.

But even with a pad elegently decked out in cheezy haunting decor, what makes their party so priceless every year are the costumes. And despite the fact that that last sentence is officially in the running for "the most obvious statement of the year", it always boggles my mind how people who attend the same annual party feel the need to up the ante from the previous year. And I am proud to say that I do my best to lead the charge.

And let me just reiterate my stance on Halloween: that for girls, Halloween is little more than an excuse to dress as boldfacedly slutty as possible, as it is the only time of year they can go all out without the fear of being reprimanded or judged; whereas for guys, it's a rare and inexplicable opportunity to try to outdo one another by dressing as unfathomably and flamboyantly gay as possible. It really is a special night.

In years past, things have gotten pretty out of control at this party with some girls in skin-tight see-through Thundercat outfits and others handing out hummers in the bathroom as if they were breathmints at a cash register in the local Diner. As for the guys? Well, I think I'll let the following pictures speak for themselves:

At this point in time, I have no idea what I'll be going as, but needless to say, it will have to top what you see above.

Personally, I can think of nothing more frightening.

Weeds

So my girlfriend came home with season 2 of Weeds this weekend. I have to tell you, I absolutely love this show. It took me awhile to get into it (the premise of an affluent white single mom selling pot in suburbia seemed a little far fetched at first), but now I'm completely hooked.

And the reason I'm completely hooked? Kevin Nealon.

Not since anchoring Weekend Update has he been so on top of his game. I can't imagine anyone better for the role of the pot smoking accountant, and his campaign to win his rightful post as Councilman Doug against the uber-bitch Celia in season 2 is comedy of the highest form:

Doug - "Ugh... Who let in Cancer Cunt?"
Celia - "It's 'Cancer Tits', Doug... No wonder your wife prefers to fuck a pole."
Doug - "My wife is fucking a Polish guy?"
Nancy - "I think she's talking about Dana's stripper class, Doug"
Doug - "Oh...oh... like, the actual pole itself...so... oh, I get it now... That's funny. But seriously, I hate you and hope you get hit by a truck."

He is the man every guy wants to be. Throw in Uncle Andy, the ultra-cool burnout live-in slacker trying to wiggle his way out of having to serve in Iraq while acting as the worst possible role model for his two young nephews (resulting in one of the all-time monologues regarding masturbation and a trip to the rub-and-tug for the 12 year old Shane), and you have a fantastic little show. They even throw in some gratuitous nudity and a cameo by Snoop Dogg, to say nothing of the fact that Michelle Tanner co-stars in Season 3.

If you have the chance, pick up a half ounce of the good stuff to go along with seasons one and two on DVD, and have yourself a giggling green weekend.

Goggles

The worst development in sports over the past 25 years has nothing to do with HGH, strip club shootings, or dog fighting. Nope. Hands down, the worst trend in sports is goggles in the dressing room.



I honestly didn't think that anything could ever top the "inexplicably bringing your kids into the dressing room" for the title of most shameless way to cheapen a team celebration, but this recent trend towards wearing goggles in the champagne-spraying festivities is utterly indefensible.


Twenty years from now, somebody is going to look at that picture of Curt Shilling holding the American League Championship trophy and think it's Chris Sabo.

Why the hell would you ever want to have yourself enshrined in this moment forever looking like a member of the Russian Synchronized Swimming team? When I was a kid, watching the guys get sprayed in the face with champagne and then trying to conduct an interview with their eyes burning, that was the absolute best part of the post game celebration... well, that, and when they'd dump beer all over Bob Costas. But now? These guys look absolutely ridiculous.



Which brings me to my World Series prediction.

There is no way in hell the Red Sox are beating the Rockies in this series. Just take a look at that picture with Hinske wearing those goggles. I mean, the fact that this is a team with Eric Hinske on the roster should be enough to sway you to the Rocks, but beyond that, going through all of the post-game celebration pics, the Sox are wearing goggles in every single shot. The Rockies? At least half of the guys are man enough to go goggle-less, including their manager, Clint Hurdle. I'll take a leader willing to risk his eyesight anyday.


And I'll take a team who's willing to man up and relish the sting of victory over a bunch of guys who would willingly and shamelessly degrade themselves for all eternity just so their eyes don't hurt in the morning.


Another reason to like the Rockies in this series? I managed to find a shot of Jeff Francis dousing a reporter (CBS' Vic Lombardi) with beer. That's a good Canadian kid who would never dream of sporting goggles during the most thrilling, spontaneous celebration of his young life. These are guys I want to go into battle with.






(Editor's Note: I have never been part of a World Series champagne celebration, or even a lesser equivalent. To say that I wasn't a good enough athlete to qualify would be a little like saying David Hasselhoff's version of Hooked on a Feeling falls slightly short of the original.)