Cleveland sports has prepared me for my numerous failed relationships

The above title is my tagline in a Cleveland sports forum in which I spend an almost embarrassing amount of time. When I first came up with it, I chuckled for a minute realizing that it was absurdly true. Having been a Cleveland sports fan since I was eight years old, I have suffered through The Drive, The Fumble, The Shot, The Move, The Blown Save, etc. These events have burned an unimaginable black spot on the back of my consciousness, one which I am certain leads to dramatically manic anger and bitterness when discussing anyone else's sport successes (the same goes for other people's successful relationships but I dissolve this hatred into a chipper "Oh, I sooo happy for you...") One such example was Detroit Tiger's run to the World Series last year. Everyone was so fucking excited about it, and loved to discuss the details of every game the next morning at the office. I would chime in with a sudden "Yeah, that Joel Zumaya...Wow, Love that guy!!!" when really I secretly watched each game, bitterly sipping bourbon with the evil desire of watching his right arm literally tear off his body and fly toward the backstop, and watching Jim Leland have to disgustedly snub out his victory cigarette and scramble to find a quick replacement. Meanwhile the Indians were suffering through an 78-84 season, after nearly unanimous predictions that they would win the AL Central. I only mention this to illustrate the following example.
In 2005, I decided to rejoin the "passionate sports (dating) crowd." Due to numerous disappointments through the years (read: failed relationships), I realized that at least being actually involved in some sort of an ongoing passion was just a good thing; it gave me something to do while throwing back numerous alcoholic beverages on a Tuesday night, and I could say that I was at least doing something while I was boozing, right? Well, 2005 was the year I decided to start watching and caring (e.g. pimping) again. The Indians had a surprisingly good season going, the young players were performing well beyond expectations, and goddamn it, I bought into it (in love???). They entered the final series of the season with a great opportunity to make the playoffs, and I'll be damned if I wasn't gonna be there for it. So me and my buddy Todd went up to the city, bought some tickets from a very honest scalper (whore), and placed our collective asses near the right field bullpen, bought a couple Budweisers, and impatiently watched our boys take us to the promised land. Well, to make a long story short, they lost that game. And the next. And the next. They didn't make the playoffs. At all. They went home. No playoffs, no drama, (no action). The bottom line of the season (read: last couple relationships) is that I got my hopes up, and was massively disappointed due to my own expectations. However, you know what???
Sometimes just being in the game again is more than worth it.

My sweet, sweet, virgin ass

In order to acquire the new wardrobe that is necessary to fit my rapidly expanding ass, I have been making somewhat frequent trips to the mall (which conveniently can be found across the parking lot from my apartment). Since I am being forced to shop for, as well as purchase new clothing, I have decided that I may as well do a decent job doing so. This has involved browsing and spending time in a variety of various outfitters in order to discover just which one would come closest to "defining" me.
After realizing that I had no desire to feel like a pedophile (A&F), had little chance of turning gay or Albanian any time soon (Express), have never touched a surfboard in my life and live in the Midwest (Hollister), and fear with my every living fiber that I am too-old-but-still-trying-to-be-hip (The Gap), I have settled on American Eagle. Their clothes seem to fit me well, they provide a friendly, non-threatening shopping environment minus pumping house music, and most of the clothing found within the store is...well...fucking reasonable. I feel like I can shop there.
However, my most recent trip across the parking lot has resurfaced a recent "issue" of sorts.
You see, an influx of gay men have been showing me a bit of attention lately. An almost uncomfortable amount of attention. Before I start to discuss this in any sort of detail, let me throw out the following disclaimer: I have no problem with gay folks. I really don't. In fact, I have friends/relatives that are gay*** But truth of the matter is, I really have no problem what-so-ever with gay people. It's no different than if you told me you were a Steelers fan rather than a Browns fan. A major and possibly irreconcilable difference in out lives? You bet. But impossible to understand? No, of course not.
This phenomenon started with someone that I see on a regular basis at my gym. I had always been rather friendly with him, much like other people that I see there multiple times per week. I assumed that he may be gay, but it really didn't take up that much of my consciousness, as the reason I go to the gym is to stop thinking for a while. However, when this particular gentleman was seen driving through the parking lot of my place of employment while I was out on a smoke break (I quit smoking six years ago but never quit taking smoke breaks) I told him with no mistake that this was NOT acceptable. This didn't, however, dissuade him from giving me a box of chocolates for Christmas. My co-workers thoroughly enjoyed them (I am unnaturally petrified of junk food), and since most of them were present for the drive-by, also got a good laugh out of the whole thing.
The next incident(s) occurred after a business trip to Chicago. While there, there were some gentleman who I was fairly certain were gay, but it never really came up in conversation. Upon leaving, I left my phone number on a note thanking everyone for being so friendly. Shortly after returning home, the text messages started. They were, well...rather suggestive in nature. When I talked to my co-worker who had taken the trip with me, she was not at all surprised, as apparently two of the guys there had approached her and asked if I was gay. She had denied this, but they were fairly certain that I was. And obviously this did not discourage them from sending me repetitive text messages. It was like some bizarre carnival competition, with the grand prize being my very average sized penis and virgin asshole. It was quite interesting to say the least.
The most recent chapter (and trust me, I could name several others) happened at the mall this evening. After shopping for a while, a very friendly salesman asked me if I go out to the bars in the area. I confirmed that I did (I do enjoy the booze from time to time) and he asked me which bars I frequented. I name my local favs and he asked about a few others that I had never been to. I mentioned that I'd check them out, and he very calm and collectively asked me..."Are you straight?"
I confirmed, yes, I was straight (For some reason gay guys always ask me..."Are you straight?" as opposed to "Are you gay?" I have no idea why this is). He reply as he walked away was, "That's too bad."

Now while I am leaving out a few other incidents at local bars and here and there, I have been asking myself why this is happening at such an alarming rate. I have come up with a few theories:

I am I fairly good-looking guy in excellent shape. I mean, I would fuck me. If you wanted to know how I felt about the whole thing. So, if I was gay, I would probably be attracted to me. This is my first theory. I am just pure sex. This I cannot help.
My second idea is that somehow I give out a massive gay vibe. I don't talk softly, I passionately discuss sports at an almost unhealthy pace, and I oogle cute girls at every opportunity. Therefore, I feel as though I can confidently dismiss this theory.
When drinking, I stare at everyone. This is because it takes me at least an extra three seconds to focus, and then another five or so seconds for my thalamus to provide the necessary information to my cortex for further processing. Then I have to decide whether what I am seeing pleases me. When drinking, generally everything pleases me or instantly infuriates me. So what I'm saying is that maybe I just stare too much. This is certainly possible.
I'm going to hold to my first theory (this is the one that states that I am pure sex if you have forgotten). For the sake of my sanity, that is what I'm going with. It is the only plausible explanation for this whole thing. And someone just sent me a text. I hope it's not from Chicago.



***There is no quicker way to spot a racist/homophobe than to hear someone say this. This is simply true.

The first day is the hardest day Why the fuck am I doing this anyway???

In order to justify my own existence (something that is not easily done, ask my friends...) I feel as though I must post some sort of a mission statement involving the purpose of this here blog taking up space on the world wide Internets. So here it is:

1.) I happen to find myself rather amusing, and I think that you will, too.
2.) Sometimes throughout the day, things happen to me. Some of these things warrant mentioning. I will mention those things here. You can read about them if you like.
3.) I find myself rather amusing, and I think that you might as well.
4.) I know rather obscure baseball statistics dating back to when I was eight years old. However, I cannot remember my own father's birthday if my life depended on it. I am not sure how this lends itself to a readable blog, but I am fairly certain it must.
5.)Like the average male, I enjoy sports, alcohol, half or fully naked women, and gratuitous swearing. I promise that the majority of this blog will be filled with the aforementioned subjects. You have my word that I will not post about "my feelings," "emotional issues," or "specific advice from my latest psychiatrist meeting." I promise to keep these things buried deep within me, as one should.
6.) One cannot spend all of one's time on the world wide Interwebs checking out teenage chicks on "Myspace." I have a friend who did this and a uniformed man claiming to be from the "local police" confisicated his computer. Given my fondness/addiction to my computer time, I must make certain that this doesn't happen to me. In other words, this blog is nothing but a front.


In order to convince you that this blog is dripping pure testosterone,
I will leave you with this...


Until next time bitches...