Blogs Are Gay… By Kyle Kincaid

Every year without fail, like a particularly punctual case of Herpes, there’s a cancer in this country that returns to devour the minds and souls of my friends and family. Like any hard-working S.T.D. it has no cure, its inescapable, and the only way to survive is to look away and hold your breath like Twitch’s wife when she’s forced to make love to him, and wait for it to go away. I, of course, am talking about the vile sickness that is football.

For generations, men throughout the country have scratched their stupidly painted heads wondering why the rest of the world doesn’t enjoy this sport whose 4 hour games consist of 2 minutes of excitement and 3 hours and 58 minutes of waiting. And waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

They can’t seem to comprehend why other countries don’t understand the game whose own rules are so convoluted that decades long fans still don’t know what the hell some of the rulings mean!

“Well, John, it looks like we’ve got a half-back double safety touch pass on the third down quarter out!”

“Wow, Rich, amazing that all those rules apply to a game where… everybody’s just kinda standing there.”

So you can imagine my joy when I heard the news of a possible NFL lockout! No longer would I hear about FOOTBALL on the radio while I drove by FOOTBALL fans wearing their FOOTBALL jerseys on the way home to play their fantasy FOOTBALL while watching ESPN’s coverage of FOOTBALL as I ducked calls from friends who invited me to watch the FOOTBALL game after they tossed the FOOTBALL in the front yard discussing who would win the upcoming FOOTBALL game as I shoved a FOOTBALL in my brain to escape FOOTBALL FOOTBALL FOOTBALL!!!!!

Then, earlier this week, my hopes dreams and sanity were shattered into a thousand Rawlings sponsored pieces when I heard the lockout was over. I (laugh) mean laugh) sure, I understand the players need to make even more money living their dreams, shooting up clubs and working ten times a year. After all, Rothlisburger’s roofies aren’t going to buy themselves!, and I was happy their precious little egos and been stroked enough to DO THEIR DAMN JOBS, but really? So quickly? Hockey had a lockout. Baseball had a lockout. And those sports are just as popular as ever!

But I guess I’m a dreamer.

“Imagine there’s no football/

It’s easy if you try

No games on Sunday

No blimps in the sky

You might say I’m a dreamer

But I’m not the only one

I hope some day you’ll join us

Or I’ll make Ben Rothlisburger force you to against your will

And THAT’s what shortbus thinks!

Allright, I have not forgotten about this blog. Comedy and wrestling posts are forthcoming.

Over the next few months, in addition to new shit, I’ll be posting all my radio bits in transcribed form on this blog rightchere for your reading amusement. This is a rant from last July. Indulge my ego and enjoy:

It’s been months since my last foray into angry creative expression known as “What Shortbus Thinks.” Admittedly, the bits are usually more creative than the title. However, in recent months a cancerous plaque has spilled out over our fair city that has awakened me from my slovenly slumber.  A plaque consisting of power bars, dumbbells and mesh shorts so tight they’re illegal in most middle eastern countries. I’m talking to you, abs-migillacutty!

I’m talkin’ about health freaks! But not just the gym rats of yesteryear. The guys you only used to encounter at the beach that made you second guess that third bear claw right when you were beginning to feel good about yourself again. No, these are pumped-up superdousches who know exactly what they’re doing when they jog by the window of the burger joint, making eye contact with you right as you sink into that third bite of the ketchup ole, pretending to check their little pockets on their bicep band holders. What are those things!? What can you possibly fit in a container on your bicep big enough to hold three cents? Is it your travel tampax?

You know who I’m talkin’ about! The guys whose ex-football player dads forced them to watch “Pumping Iron” so many times in high school they now get sexually aroused by it. The muscle heads who punish themselves for missing that last rep on the quad bicep military gorilla press by downing 8 protein bars and talkin’ smack to themselves while they perform 19,000 sit ups. “Bigger is better, bigger is better (slap) you did this to yourself bigger is better!”  

And they always gotta go jogging at 1:00 in the afternoon, right when  the sun is closest to the Earth. It’s like a melanoma game of chicken. But it’s cool, they combat that by wearing no shirt, because god knows a pencil thin muscle shirt must be just downright sahara-like.  

I used to be jealous of these guys until I realized that most of their personal lives make vanilla ice cream seem downright scandalous by comparison.  Now, I just feel sorry for them. I mean, sure they’ve got the bodies that attract chicks so hot they graduated high school thinking that Roosevelt was just some giant head on a mountain, but they’ll never know the joy of 6 custard filled mega donuts. The way root beer fizzes after you drop a zinger in it, almost saying “you shouldn’t be doing this, but I won’t tell.”  Or the mere feeling of accomplishment seeing your picture on the wall of a steakhouse letting you know you’re grossly irresponsible.   I mean, I’d like to buy these guys a drink, but I don’t know where I’d find a protein shake made from turnips, raw eggs and forest ruffage.

So, my fellow couch potatoes out there, don’t be intimidated by the physiques of these Lou Ferigno-loving Roger Clemens-worshipping card-carrying members of the dousch brotherhood. Realize that while they’re obsessing over how many calories are in a keesh, you’re throwing caution to wind, as long as that wind doesn’t blow the condements off your table.

I’ve finally done it. After years of contemplating the seismic consequences of unleashing my own blog on the world, I’ve finally decided to break down and spend the thirty seconds it takes to create one and belatedly jump into the blogosphere. I’m not delusional enough to think that anything that anybody writes on these meaningless time wasters really effects or changes anybody, I just know that mine will. Probably everybody. For the better. Zack, I’m sorry. Just take solace in the fact that your uninspired tripe is read more than my uninspired tripe. This isn’t a competition. Although I will win. Enjoy!