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!

“I really can’t stay.”
“Baby it’s cold outside.”
“I really need to go.”
“Baby it’s cold outside.”
“My mother will start to worry.”
“Well just have one more drink.”
“Why is it fizzy?”
“Drink it on down.”
“I’m startin’ to get woozy.”
“Let me help you with your top.”
“Why are you filming this?”
“Shhh… don’t talk just shut your mouth.”

Then there’s the “Holiday” parties and “Holiday” TV shows and “Holiday” movies, because lord knows everyone will be offended if you mention the name of the person you’re celebrating!!! It’s Christmas dammit! Say it! I would be less offended if you threw “A very special celebration of the life and work of Charlie Manson” than an pansy ambiguous ‘Let’s not offend anybody” non-denominational “Holiday Party”….because at least I know what the hell we’re celebrating! “But hey Shortbus, at least you get off work for Christmas.” Not if you work at the video store you don’t! “Listen I know that you guys have families and friends, but crappy overpriced movies are just more important. What if somebody wants a copy of ‘My Cousin Vinny?’ Listen, we need to keep this store open so it can lose money every day of the year.” “But hey, Shortbus, at least you get holiday pay, right? Time and a half?” Or that’s right. I forgot! Time and a half! That way I can make 8 DOLLARS AN HOUR!!!!!

I guess what I’m trying to say is Winter sucks. And it if on Christmas night three ghosts of my past present and future try to visit me to convince me otherwise, I’m pretty sure one will die of hypothermia, the second one will get distracted renting “King Ralph at the video store and the third will be date-raped by Dean Martin at a non-denominational holiday party for it gets to me, so I don’t have anything to worry about. Bahumbug. And that’s what Shortbus thinks.

Lil Wayne, or “Lil Weezy” as his fans, friends and parole offices call him, shot to fame in 2004 when the American public purchased 1 million copies of his first album, Tha Carter. This may seem impressive, but considering this is the same year that the country re-elected George W. Bush and decided that Larry the Cable guy’s subtle innuendos were brilliant enough to warrant both a film and television career, let’s just assume the whole country was suffering from an Iraqi-invasion induced binge drinking hangover, and our judgement was not quite on target.

At least that’s what I did, ignoring the Louisiana emcee who boasted that year that he was quote “The greatest rapper alive.” Which may seem like a dignified title, but after considering that accolade is on par with being the “healthiest guy in Aushiwits” it’s not really all that remarkable.

After a year or so of hypnotizing the youth of America with such lyrics as “I’m a Millionare, I’m a young money cash money, fast money, slow money, mo’ money millionare,” Lil Wayne disappeared from the public eye. And just when I thought that the tear-dropped tattooed, cough syrup swilling wordsmith had vanished for good, like any bad cancer that goes into remission, Lil Weezy returned last year with “Tha Carter III.” Only this time, something truly remarkable happened. And by remarkable I mean something as gutwrenchingly bad as being shot point blank in the junk with an elephant gun and writhing in agony while your paralyzed body is unable to change the station from a 24 hour Emo Phillips guest spot on the Bob and Tom show.

Everybody and their “cash money” grandmothers LOVED Lil Wayne. But not in the same type of “be nice to Timmy because he’s slow” way that we embraced William Hung. NO! People started hailing “Weezy” as a 21^st century Edgar Allen Poe! I mean, and with lyrics like “This Robot can move. And it’s say, haha yeah.” How can ya not, right? WRONG!!! I feel like I’m in an episode of the Twilight Zone! But instead of it lasting 24 minutes and learning a lesson in the end, I have to endure 3 years of this idiot getting showered with praise by Rolling Stone, Blender, and the National Academy of Arts and Sciences! What? The National Academy of Arts and Sciences? That’s right!!!! The same man who once rapped “Haha yea boy that’s my girl, and she pops excellent up in Wayne’s World” recently walked away with no less than 3 grammies!!!! 3!!! I could record a record of Paris Hilton and Bobcat Goldthwait debating the environmental ramifications of nuclear research and it would be more intellectually intriguing than Lil Wayne!!!

I beg of you America, please put down the cool aid! Just because a rapper ~SHOCK~ uses metaphors it doesn’t mean they’re good metaphors. I’ll prove it to you: Manlove, gimme a beat.

Yo, I be mad like Christian Bale,

Tried to ignore Lil Wayne to no avail,

Yo, Lil’ Wayne is appealing like a obese tranny,

This rant is over, now gimme a grammy.

And THAT’S what shortbus thinks.

As we all know, there are a few universal truths in life. You die, you pay taxes and morbid obesity is funny. However, I’ve noticed a trend lately that hasn’t been all that funny, like morbid obesity. No, it’s been sick and disgusting… just like being plain old fat.

I’m talking about fat people riding department store scooters. You know what I’m talking about. Those convenient little four wheeled contraptions with a wire rack on one end and the sting of shame on the other. Everybody knows they were invented for two reasons: so disabled people could shop for melons and intoxicated college students could race around the electronics section. And that was fine. But just like how people had to go messing with the Reese’s peanut butter cup (…Elvis!) leave it to the H.R. Puffenstuffs of the world to screw up the scooter carts for everybody.

Now it seems like I can’t walk through those wonderful automatic doors without seeing Ma and Pa Buttersworth breaking a sweat giving Mr. Scooter all she’s got, Scotty. Last week I was staring at a scooter being ridden by one these escaped Macy’s Day Parade floats and I swear I saw a single tear trickle down it.

This ridiculousness of this unabashed laziness is only matched by these peoples’ nerve to get offended when I stare at them. I’m sorry, but if while you’re hogging a scooter from people who ACTUALLY need it you stand up just so you can reach the jumbo box of moon pies on the top shelf and then sit back down, I’m going to stare at you like a P.T. Barnum sideshow act.

And that’s the part that infuriates me like one of these people realizing their Piggly Wiggly coupon book has been stolen: THEY DON’T NEED THESE SCOOTERS! It’s like a self fulfilling proFATcy. These people don’t think they need to walk because they’re too fat. So they sit down while they buy their Star Crunch cakes, and in the process… GET FATTER! Listen guys, I may not be Dave Thomas, Col. Sanders, or even “the Big Boy” here, but just hear me out. Walkin’ ain’t that hard. Sure, it may not be as fun as suckin’ back a delicious Ashland Kentucky Smashburger, or diving face-first into a Triple Hoburger with an egg on it… mmm… sorry, but it’s got its got its perks! Like letting the bearded lady in Home and Garden be the spectacle of the store, and not you.

So next time you waddle your way through those automatic voodoo powered doors… you tell me how they work… keep your chins up, looking for falling prices, and not to the left… searching for your instrument or sloth destruction. And after take those 5 steps past that scooter and wipe the sweat from your brow, you’ll feel good. …Or have a massive heart attack. I don’t know.

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.