A brief history of a timeline: The McGovern Player of the Finals.

Initially, I wanted to delay this 'til tomorrow when I would probably be more sober. I'll be the first to admit that sober, I'm a much better writer. A couple of things have happened since then have helped me not to dissuade myself from drunken typing, though.

As usual I took the decision out of my hands and left it to my dog and the Duel of Fates. I cranked the song up NASCAR style and decided the decision was on him. If he barked I write. So...
I'll start by mentioning that I don't like statistics in modern sports. I also don't like how statistics now seem to determine qualities that I believe are unquantifiable. Tennis is a great example of this. One can look at errors, unforced or not, winners, aces, etc. but have concept no of how the match was played.

From the age of 5, I had a neighborhood friend who would always play basketball with me in Connecticut. Probably because I had the best hoop in the neighboorhood but he would always pretend he was Jordan and I would always be Pippen. This probably predisposed me somewhat in my predilection for Scotty Pippen. I always felt he was dis-proportionally under-represented compared to MJ. When MJ left he was the first player in history (no not Oscar Robinson) to lead his team in every stat category. An ironic feat as I claim stats don't matter, yes.

Fast-forwarding to the year 1999. I had been gearing up to watch the NBA playoffs while playing NBA Hangtime. The N64 -better- version of the widely acclaimed NBA Jam. At the time I felt the game was racist because two huge white players who I felt were inconsequential kept denying me. Arvydas Sabonis and Bryant "Big Country" Reeves specifically. I started to hate the Blazers...

However as the '99 playoffs continued a couple of other factors helped change my tune. Bill Walton was one. I'll admit I didn't know he was a Blazer at the time but I still miss his "announcing" which consisted of him screaming passionately about random Blazer plays - almost all of which were great passes or blocks.
No NBA team has ever came back from an 0-3 deficit, however the Trailblazers were one of a few to do attempt the feat this year against my second most hated team at the time. The team was the Mavericks and my most hated player of the era - Dirk Nowitzki.

Sabonis played limited minutes at this point as his knees were awful and this was the end of his NBA career. That withstanding, he had easily the largest impact on the series of any player, other than Nowitzki, begrudgingly. Not only did his insertion to the line-up facilitate the 0-3 come back, it totally disrupted Nowitzki. Arvydas blocked him out and passed around him like a rag-doll. One play in particular, was the best pass I've ever witnessed.

When this happened live... there was a break. The Blazers ended up losing and no matter how much I claimed Sabonis was dominant - claiming the best +/- and efficiency per 48 mins (in the entire playoffs + .513 FG%) by a large margin I was unheard.

After much blowback from a bunch of haters regarding any opinion I had regarding the NBA I concluded that the popular appeal of professional sports had corrupted what it truly meant to be a great player. Highlights trumped results. Numbers topped names. Marketing overruled emotion. As a "true romantic" I had been labeled as at the time - I decided it was time to change the entire culture of sports. I desired an accolade based on the emotionally charged moment combined with the universal balance of timing. It was bourne. The most emotionally charged, utterly subjective, biased and opinionated accolade the world wanted but would never admit it wanted - yet judged on a point system. You often hear "haters gonna hate." Well, the McGovern player of the Finals could be described as "hater gonna rate."

The rules are simple: they're whatever I decide. They're fair, yet fluid. Every player is eligible to become a Player of the Finals (except Mike Miller). Their play is judged both on their finals play and their relative play-level compared to their average performance. This makes the system uniquely rewarding. Players like Shane Battier for instance - would never be eligible for a Finals MVP award - even if they step up and play 513% of their realistic aptitude. Is it fair if LeBron gets the Heat the finals and under-performs? No - which is why Shane Battier is a former McGovern Player of the Finals during the Heats first championship tenure.

Accolades aside, I feel the true beauty of my point system is in its adaptability. I award players normally +1-2 points based on their performance throughout the game. The adaptability comes into play because I simultaneously detract points for lack of performance. LBJ doesn't score for 5 game minutes: -1 point. Ray Allen misses two consecutive free throws - 2. Clutch free throws missed - 3 maybe. Ray Allen's game 6 winning shot vs the Spurs last year? +400. I specifically like that example as it's utterly ridiculous, yet I haven't met anyone who disagrees with it.

To boot: there is a separation of games aspect. Ray Allen for instance, won the highest point total for the aforementioned game (and any game) - with +406. However, he didn't win the player of the Finals, but Parker did. Parker had a higher point total in the other combined games. The number of games won determines the winner - a tactic the world cup seems to have adopted during the group stage. Recently was actually the first time in McGovern Player of the Finals history the award didn't go to a player from the winning team.

There are two sides to every coin, unfortunately. The downsides to the McGovern player of the Finals are apparent - and the blow back from the sports community "heavy-weights" are what you'd expect. Angry anti-progressive Yankee fans seem to really dislike the system specifically. Some of them have even gone so far as to destroy the archives in what I would only describe as a gluten-fueled jealous rage. Unfortunately, they merely fueled yet another evolution of the system.

For light, there must be darkness. The second face and subsequent phase of the McGovern player of the Finals has risen, like a phoenix. The McGovern FAGGOT of the Finals. It annoys me that I have to make this distinction, but I'm using FAGGOT as a general pejorative, not some anti-homosexual term. And this is where things get complicated.

McGovern players of the Finals is limited to players on the actual teams at hand. McGovern FAGGOT of the Finals, however, has no limits. It can be a person on the sideline making a facial expression I don't care for, a coach or an entire fan-base. It's pertinent to know Heat fans are the first ever 2-year consecutive champions of this category. Bandwagon pieces of shit at their worst. Yet, the total point leader of FAGGOT still resides with an opponent of the Heat. A mister Jason Terry. The year the Mavs beat the Heat he was actually in position to win his second player of the game award - when his post-game interview went sour... fast. He went from +12 points to -5,000,000. He remains the all-time leader in that category by a large margin over Mike Miller, at a mere -468.

Given the overwhelming response from both sides: I'm going to try to document this year's entire process online. I figured I'd give my readers a heads up in case the lawyers want to get involved. Specifically a certain lawyer who doesn't want a ...
Reality Check.

The Morning of Xmas.

I wake up this morning around 5:13 (am), nothing is astir, I simply need to pee.
As I walked into my bathroom, what did I see?
Melted candle wax ensconsed in my shower bed.
But instead of cleaning it up I got a beer instead.
It was neither the time nor the hour.
Yet I pressed the button to give my PS3 power.
EA has awarded the game with an Xmas day bonus team.
Worry not as the "Santa Slammers" will soon be reamed.
No, the poem doesn't get disgusting here.
It simply gets slightly queer.
This isn't where I rhyme with reindeer.
This is however where I bust a steer.
Referring to the art of misdirection, not a bovine with a large midsection (despite the fact I did-so twice, technically).
I am no magician or statistician
But I'll try to alleviate your superstitions.
Santa's slammers got jammed up hard and as usual quit in the end.
In my case this always precludes a message I'll send.
In the holiday spirit I modified it slightly,
Opposed to what I send nightly,
Jesus hates you, how does it feel do get wrecked?
Incase you couldn't tell, you just received a Reality Check.
Merry Xmas - Fuck Happy Holidays.

Logical Fallacy

 I suppose it's an appropriate time, to break in this new keyboard on the awful OS that is Windows 8, given the commercial qualities which now comprise anything left of a holiday spirit.
I almost feel bad for anyone dumb enough to buy a laptop... but ignorance isn't bliss, financially speaking. Anyhow... I'll admit Im slightly perturbed at the virtual happenings of the other night - which I plan to describe in detail, so if you've never played a game, you aren't my target audience anyhow... so lay down in a road or something.
Jammin'
This post isn't about rastafarian culture, believe it or not. It's about the most unfair online experience I have ever had. The name: NBA Jam. The game: fun but so utterly corrupt it cannot be taken seriously. For readers in a cave - NBA Jam is an 'arcade' basetkball game which falsely attempts to mask itself as the superior product of NBA Hangtime on N64... "know what I'm sayin?"
Regardless, Ive played said game more times than I'd care to admit. After dominating the "real AI" difficulty with the Bobcats vs the Heat I decided it was time to 'step my game up.' Little did I realize what didn't await me: victory. NBA Jam Online is perhaps the most corrupt entity I have ever experienced. I have yet to discover another game that quite literally rewards the loser(s) with a win, in almost every instance. Unless you win on a last second shot in the 4th quarter you will never, ever be guaranteed a win... if your opponent quits... you lose: always.
So last night I decided to try and break the trend. Predictably I had been drinking a little bit.
After around 15 beers, I was on a 12-game "losing" streak. Losing because when I'm beat I take my L's like a man and when I win, even vs 2 ppl which is seemingly the norm, I am habitually quit upon. This is despite the fact that every 2-person team picks either the Lakers, Heat or the even more ridiculous "Team EA."
This same 2-person team who I'd somewhat embarassed earlier with a Greek team kept getting assigned to me, and rejected me continually. Did I give them satisfaction... yes and no. I messaged one of them on PSN with something along the lines of "I guess 2v1 won't help at this point, huh?"
Hook, line, sinker. The bait was taken and the rematch was imminent. I picked my A-team, the Timberwolves - the most underestimated American team in the game. If you can't guess who they picked by now... stop reading and start cutting... yourself. They picked the Heat. Shocker.
I was Love + Kirilenko - AK47, which I reminded them with via blutooth with every three he made.
We were tied in the 4th quarter - and it was seriously Gordon Time - :24 seconds left. Kirilenko steal... Love for 3. Wade retaliated with one of his own as it's impossible to defend to real people.
Tied once again... with 4 seconds left, Heat inbound. Kirilenko stole the pass and passed it to Love who was already up in the air... oop I did it again... says the announcer. The backboard shatters as the buzzer sounds. Let's just say I received several messages back, none of which were as 'civil' as mine. Ask for, and thy shall receive - with Love.
Chatter
..And this is where the tale resumes. Only in the glory of victory can one appreciate its counterpart.
..And no that isn't fore-shadowing. Although if it was, I wouldn't admit it.
Anyhow, I'm somewhat inebriated at this point and my self confidence after a sole "win" was sky high. I'll clarify what "somewhat inebriated" entails as I have had two 4-Loko's (each of which contain 24 oz's of 12% "straight alchohol") and most of the 18 pack I bought earlier. The great combination of Irish-Scotch-German DNA plus liquid confidence: the perfect equation for a confrontation... in a Matt Damon movie.
I heard sound from above and I ran upstairs to resonate. My father had returned home from a night of ballroom dancing. Im sure my dog could smell the pheremones of overconfidence. Once I saw who was upstairs I retreated back downstairs to continue watching "White Collar," as I cannot get through Nip/Tuck season 4.
"So that's that gay guy, right?" My dad asks me upon wandering downstairs.
"Uhh, what?" I reply.
"Oh, I meant that guy on the show, the good looking one, he's gay... you didn't know?"
"No... what difference would that make?"
"I just figured you'd know, you saw the article I emailed you, right?"
(My dad constantly emails me articles which he knows are against my view to annoy me: anti-man-induced global warming, the uselessness of recycling, etc) - And his subject line is always "thought you'd find this interesting." Needless to say, I have yet to receive 1 reply from a counter-arguement that isn's a hyperlink.
Back to the story... "What article?" I asked.
"The one about the FDA... and how all supplements are illegitimate."
"I have no idea what you're referring to but this has 'big pharma' written all over it. Do you beleive everything you read?"
He attempts to respond here... but I interrupt him.
"I already see your response coming. You have 5 tells. I've never played poker but if I did I'd clean you out in 3 hands."
He is laughing at this point.
"If you believe everything you read... you're a fool and I guess I'll give up on you." I said, somewhat annoyed.
"So you believe everything you read in your 'scientific journals?' he quips.
"No." I state angrily. "I don't believe anything I read. Reading isn't simply assimilation, it's the art of interpretation. How do you not know this?!?"
"I don't read. It seems like a waste of time." - I have essentially no reply to this so I simply default - and get mad.
"But now that you mention it, I guess if you don't believe anything you read, I have the ability to counter all of your arguments right-off-the-bat? Huh?"
"So you send me worthless articles to annoy me for what reason?" I queried.
"I haven't sent you any worthless articles." he stated plainly. As a door was shut in my face... the victim of yet another backhanded, utterly stupid but nonetheless appropriate...
Reality Check.

Cougar Down

The other night I went out to a dive-bar with a friend who was clearly drunk. I don't regret it, necessarily, but I do regret the money I ended up spending.
Anyhow... my friend and I were drinking at the bar and predictably, bringing up republican issues (he was). I was already highly inebriated by this point, so I simply laughed and encouraged the conversation - which was about gun control -  the perfect topic to speak about with the opposing gender. Needless to say, I partook in this conversation.
I'd like to say for the record - I did-not - come out to get laid. Even if I thought I could pull that off, I'm just not that guy. My "style" is constantly missing opportunities and getting rejected. And I am comfortable with that, given my Chasexual nature.
This night, however, played out differently. It was akward as fuck. I like to delude myself into thinking I can't be made to feel this way - but I stand corrected.
In retrospect I felt more like a deer in the headlights.
This lady - who was clearly one of the more affluent individuals in the bar - had a different take on things.
 I have no idea what about my white-trash 'no-shave-November" look seemed to turn her on, or if I was just the least common denominator - but little did I know -  I was being watched. While this scenario might've been a first for me, I took little time exploiting it, in getting her to play me in pool for a liquor drink. Slick.
She made the rules in the pool game we played and still managed to lose. She kicked my ass in her made-up custom game and then scratched on the 8-ball. That's how I roll? (pun intended?)
The following was maybe the most akward interaction I have ever been involved in. She had already bought me the drink - when she did she told her friend, who was leaving, under her breath "don't worry I got this."
If I possess any "game," this took me off it.
I was immediately conflicted.
This woman made her intentions quite clear - and she clearly had cosmetic enhancements I was curious about.
On the other hand - she acted like I was some type of "mimbo" to quote Seinfeld, the entire time. Turn off.
It might be pertinent to know I was high during the entire duration of the pool playing - not that it would've mattered as she seemed to make up her own rules anyhow - and still lost.
Fortunately for me, the best moment was still imminent.
After she scratched on the 8-ball, while I was chanting "reality check, told" and laughing she comes up to me and leans in.
I had not anticipated this.
Predictably, I mis-timed my counter-lean-in and ended up with the most akward "hand-shake" in history - which I accidentally started.
Fortunately she left, with everyone who had witnessed the situation pretty much laughing at me and giving me a deserved...
Reality Check.

Smug Harbor

The other night I decided to make a great decision. After beasting a few beast-lights I decided it was time to hit the town in celebration of a friend's day of birth. I'd like to think it was of good intent but nonetheless, strike one. After my breif but nonetheless dumb automtotive excursion I arrived at my destination. I then called the aforementioned friend to come outside to meet me. In my brief trip from car-to-bar I managed to lose my phone. Strike-two. Despite searching frantically albeit thoroughly throughout the bar, everywhere around and under the only booth I'd been sitting in the duration of my stay at Thomas Street Tavern, I was unable to find my phone. Strike three. Clearly this was a quick three-and-out, although -unfortunately- it did not dissuade me.
As said, these events would normally perturb a more sober version of myself the remainder of the night, however this wasn't exactly a huge problem given my current lack of a sobriety. So we transversed to Snug Harbor. I approached the stage - with live music happening and one of my friends pushed me on the stage to dance. I did, briefly.
Then it happened. Four bouncers - each of whom outweighed me by at least 60 pounds approached me.
"Let's go." was there reply.
"Okay, can I get my wallet though?" I replied.
"No. It's time to go."
"Are you serious, how am I supposed to get home?"
"Deal with it yourself," said the rotund individual.
"How am I supposed to do that without my wallet?" I queried.
"Should've thought of that before-hand." He replied.
That was it - it was time to start trying.
"Alright," I responded and walked off. Infact I walked directly behind the bar and scaled its approximate 20 foot barbed wire fence. I landed just behind the dumbster while only one couple - who laughed at me - saw me.
Slick.
So I go back inside and head strait to the source: the bar.
"What would you like? the bitch bartender who probably had me removed asked."
"I'd like to close my tab and have my card back please."
"What's the name?"
"McGovern."
She instantly called the bouncers over to deal with me.
"Listen I just want my wallet back, is that alright - I'll wait outside if necessary."
This statement was evidently fruitless as they proceeded to throw me out anyhow. Predictably, now I got mad.
"Do you realize how worthless you four fat fucks are?" I quipped after having being tossed out once again.
"I could dust the shit out of all of you at once."
Then one of them proceeded to shove me face first into a tree installation. It hurt, but I was fueled by liquid rage and overconfidence - so I wasn't dissuaded.
They all laughed and I got up while doing the same. This didn't please them.
"Nice try fat fucks, maybe you should be more accurate next time." I exclaimed.
"You couldn't catch shit on a leash, you worthless pieces of shit!"
Obviously they tried to catch me now.
I ran around a back alley while screaming "you fat slow fuck!"
I turned a corner and was met with an unfortunate suprise. Two of them were waiting on me. They proceeded to throw me to the ground and kick me several times. It wasn't pleasant.
Somehow I rolled out of their kick-fest and rounded the corner to the front of the bar.
Fortunately two of my friends were there and the bouncers backed off.
They proceeded to tell me how much of a moron I was while we walked back to their car and yet again I was served with a...
Reality Check.

No Games.

For the past couple of days, one of my friends was nice enough to take me down to the outer banks with him.
The house and scenery were beautiful to say the least - which I clearly have no issue with.
Once we arrived at our locale the first things we did was rent bikes, then venture to the local ABC store. I realize that may seem shocking.
Anyway, one night we were riding our beach cruisers - which for the record are the most fun bicycle.
Later, we headed out on a night cruise to the end of the island. We had traveled probably six or so miles to an essentially uninhabited portion of the island we were staying on. Literally the only thing we noticed present ,aside from the street lights and wildlife, was a water treatment plant at the very end of the island.
So we turned around on our bikes to trek home. Unfortunately, although usual for me, our trek didn't go as planned.
Out of the corner of my eye I see this police cruiser sitting off the road waiting for speeders. We proceeded to ride past it. Sadly, this was the wrong decision.
My friend and I didn't get more than 40 yards by them 'til we noticed the pulsating blue and red lights.
It's worth noting that both of us had been drinking earlier but were easily more than capable of driving, as we had already transversed several miles. It's also pertinant that the sidewalk had ended more than 5 miles prior to our current location.
Over an officer's loadspeaker we hear: pull over to the side of the road. Given there was no sidewalk and we were pretty-much already there my mind started racing. As per normal, my first thought was along the lines of "fuck! is this a fucking joke?"
Fortunately this thought later served me well. The officers, a seemingly experienced male and his kinda-hot newbie officer - in a porn sense - instructed us quite sternly to park the bikes off the road. We both complied rather quickly. After we had parked our bikes the officers asked us both to approach... slowly.
Then they both faced me while my temper became slightly elevated.
Luckily they both shined an annoying light in my face while questioning me first. What a fucking dumb thing to do. It's the middle of the night and they're using they're only lights to focus on my face, whilst being currently unarmed. IDIOTS. Yet another day in my life I that wished I was Doc Holiday.... but I'm not, so I was simply blinded, searched and questioned - by a fucking idiot.
Male officer "What do you have on you?"
Me "Just my wallet and my cellphone."
Same moron officer: Do you have any fire-arms or grenades on you?
At this point in time, I'm doing my best to contain my emotions.
"No" I reply.
"Are you sure?" He asked me in a totally accusative manner.
At this point - as usual - my emotions got the best of me, unfortunately.
I turn my head deliberately slowly, while scowling and looking at the female officer. I'd like to delude myself into thinking she realized how much of a motherfucking piece of shit this guy was being. I stopped my deliberate head turn directly under the guise of the male officer.
I raised my gaze, slowly, while staring directly at him and laughed while replying "Yep... I have 5 grenades in my pocket," in the most sarcastic manner I could muster, while smirking.
Apparently this wasn't a smart decision.
He wasted no time in strip searching me before asking me "does it look like I'm in the mood for playing games?" Keep in mind this is the same fucktard who pulled over two guys on bicycles and then questioned if they had grenades on them.
I don't have a problem with guns but they're power frankly intimidates me. However, if I had one I'd like to think I'd have shot this douche either in the face, or every single joint before I stomped his face to death. Cruel? Perhaps. Although how cruel is it pulling bicyclists over in the middle of nowhere, asking retarded questions and then threatening one of them (me, of course)? Clearly these questions will never be answered.
Back to the tale however...
"So answer me son (yes he said this) - do I look like I'm playing games?
(In the back of my mind I was sooooo closed to asking "cops and bike riders?")
Although knowing the probable consequences I didn't.
Fortuitously this was yet another moment I regretted to hear my name - spoken over the radio.
Despite the fact I - along with help - have made several attemps to clear my name - aka FUCKING BULLSHIT TRAFFIC  VIOLATIONS - over the past several months I heard the voice over the intercom implicated me.
"Now... I can take you to jail for DWI, traffic obstruction, public drunkenness and believe me, I could tack on some other stuff too."
I held my tounge here while not wanting to mention my supposed grenades.
Luckily for my friend and the both of us, he inspected, searched and questioned him immediately afterward.
He informed the retard that he was in the military, and here with me on his leave.
The officer's temper was immediately alleviated.
Of course mine wasn't exactly following suit - but I knew the thin ice I was on.
He asked me friend his current military position and deployment - and it seemed to allievate his temper.
Point probably not proven - in front of your hot rookie officer you were a faggot-ass douche-bag. You have legal authority to pull over people on vacation on bicycles. I'm sure that'll get you sexual reprisal real quick - dumb fuck.
Then the worst part - for me, of course - comes.
Over the radio I hear my name, address and drivers license nunber.
"I need your license sir." Says the male officer.
"Mmkay" I reply.
"This license is suspended."
"What the fuck! Why?
"I'm sorry I really don't know sir." Said the female officer.
"So you just follow orders blindly without any questions or answers? I question.
"I don't wanna hear one more word outa your mouth." said the male officer.
Once again I had just been delivered a seemingly undeserved...
Reality Check.

Head Shot

I have no idea what's going on with me lately. I'd like to think I'm painted with some type of infrared paint but regardless I seem to be on fire.
Earlier today I was jogging down the street in a neighboring development. I was breathing to Billy Joel - Uptown Girl, one of my favorite repeat songs. To inform those of you non-mouth-breathers, when I jog my duplicitious multi-track mind essentially forces me to breath to the sounds of music. Otherwise I will drive myself insane. So I was inhaling to half of Billy Joel's lyrics while exhaling to the others. I had been jogging for roughly a mile and a half when I rounded the next corner.
The last "words" I breathed were 'I bet her momma never told her why?' - when it happened.
Whoosh... Knock.
Headshot.
This experience might have been worth it if the Unreal announcer had said so.
I stumble, utterly dissoriented out into the street while trying not to fall down.
"Wh-se-ch-wh-th-gid-shit?" were the approximate lack of words that exited my mouth.
"Hey, sorry can I get that back?" Asked the probable cause of my headshot.
"Uh." I replied, still completely dissoriented. Then my hearing kicks in and I hear the ball bouncing near the gutter and instantly spot it. Slick.
"Here ya go." I replied after I picked up the ball and returned it to him. So much for playing where it lies.
As I regained my composure I began to realize how fucking rude this douche was. He hit me in the head, didn't ask how I was and simply asked for his ball back. If it wasn't for Billy Joel, I'd have flipped out.
So I continue to run and round the corner with the club playhouse-park in the development I am running in.
Fortunately the song playing gives me my second wind: Britney Spears - U Drive me Crazy.
I dominated the remainder of the hill, crazily. As I arrived at the top I was met with yet another surprise.
Whoosh!
Yet another golfer hit a ball out on the road, near me. I run daily and I have no idea how this happens but what am I to do? The golf-ball lands on a lawn on my side of the street as a golfer emerges.
"Yo bro, can I grab that back? He asked.
Not mentally handicapped this time around, I decided to question him.
"Depends... what stroke are you?"
"So are you going to give me my ball or what?" He asks.
"It was a simple question, no reason to get insecure about a game." I retorted.
"Then just throw it over dude." He replied.
"Sure man, as soon as you tell me your score - I'm curious." I responded.
"I'm six over can I please get it back now?" He queried.
"Don't you mean seven over?" I quipped.
Now he looked a little confused. "I don't get it," he replied.
This is the part where I'm an asshole. I threw the golf-ball in the complete opposite direction from the golf-course, faced him and retorted "wrong, you're seven over." Then I sprinted off while singing the chorus to "Oops I did it again," over the sound of my breath so that hopefully I wouldn't be the day's only victim of another...
Reality Check

Dementia

Believe it or not... I like to consider myself a rational individual. This may or may not be the truth. Earlier today my faith in this concept was tested to an extent I'd never like to endure again. I was driving through a neighborhood I have never particularly favored, an enclave for old people. Perhaps I am an age-ist but I generally find old people offensive and we generally seem to disagree at a high degree. Anyhow, I'm merely attempting to pass through a "retirement community," when something unexpected happened. Most people have been asked "why does a chicken cross the road" before. My question is simultanously different albeit similar.
An old male was crossing the road in-front of me, so I was "forced" to stop in front of him, while letting him cross the street (jay-walking pos). For some reason, my guess was dementia, he stopped crossing the street once he gained sight of me. Normally, I would proceed to use this situation to speed off, embarassing said individual, while maximizing my travel time. The whole age-ist thing 'helped' hold me up, though. He approached the window of my car, while I did my best, attempting to containt my excitement.
"You're the Irish guy that keeps speeding through the neighborhood, aren't you?" He asked me.
"Well I am an Irish guy," I responded "and I do speed through your neighborhood and will continue to do so. I suppose the question is what do you plan to try and do about it?"
I don't think he saw this - or frankly any response coming. I'm also going to guess he didn't like Irish people nor do I understand how he discerned I was Irish but these are powers beyond my comprehension. Perhaps he and the neighborhood comittee were simply informed of my face & last name - that seems to make the most sense as I have frequently flouted their rules that I deemed to be unimportant, with joy.
Yet my utter confidence was met with uncertainty. I definately did not see his response coming. I suppose that is the strength of a demented individual, unpredictabilty.
He raised his cane threatening to hit my Tercel - from hell. He had called my bluff and I proceeded to laugh in his face. This didn't please him.
"I'm going to stop you here in traffic (there was none around us) and call the authorities." He said.
I'm trying not to laugh partly because I was going to have him arrested for jay-walking and also because I felt sorry for him. Yet, there was another variable still in the mix. His maid, and hopefully hospice worker runs out of a house - assumingly his.
"What in the devil? I'm sorry sir, what's happened?" Asked the nurse dressed in full pink.
"This guy accosted me, threatened me and then made a racial slur in my direction," I said to the black woman I was speaking to.
"Racial?" she questioned as she looked me up and down.
"Correct." I stated with supreme confidence.
"So you a white-boy attempting to pull some racist bullshit on me and an oldy? I don't think so hunny."
"Oldy" I questioned "who the fuck says that?"
"I ain't got no time for you" was the response I was met with.
I was humilated. Despite the fact that I was in the right, in my view, I was cut off by a hospice worker and given an extremely curt but probably deserved...
Reality Check.

Snake

Today something happened to me for the first time. I hit an animal. It was pretty devestating to both the animal's general well-being and my own psychological state. Afterward I thought a little more about the issue in depth. I think people drive these literal killing machines we call cars with a certain purpose. Pre-destination. We start a car wanting to go somewhere before we get there - which makes sense? What also makes sense is the predestinational focus we have on the road - which I suppose is both a compliment and an insult. My reasoning being if we focus on the road we can't focus off-road to the same extent. Anyhow... the animal I hit was a snake. I'm not very proud of it. Although the silver lining is it did get me thinking, is there a worse animal to avoid? It's a slow moving animal (which was longer than my car is wide) that moves relatively slowly, albeit for deliberate reasons, that enjoys laying out on a hot surface to enhance it's metabolic properties. Essentially everything except biblical fairy tales makes snakes the worst thing to avoid on the road, sorry children. If I possessed godlike vision I may have been able to avoid it by wrecking my car, but clearly my car is a lot more important than a living, breathing being - not from hell, although it was a snake, strangely enough.
Hell hath no fury...
As a male I find the statement hell "hath no fury like a woman scorned" hilariouis. After an hour of deliberation I couldn't fathom who might've came up with it - the only thing of my perceived value I discerned was that the bible was probably written by a woman - but who cares as everyone can write stories? Anyhow, getting back to the issue at hand, a woman scorned, I scorned a woman the other day - rather easily. After I scorned her and she assaulted me, legally, she proceeded to call the authorities on me only to be escorted off my residence. The gall was more than I could bear. Here you have a person of lesser, essentially everything, and that's not in general just in this case - (not including weight though) hitting me in the face because of something I said while simultaneously counting on the fact I wouldn't retaliate for legal reasons. I'll elaborate: I went upstairs and found my fat-slut of a sister there who supposedly wants nothing to do with me, there.
The next verbal exchange was pretty straight forward. She makes an unassuming snide comment in my direction. I respond with a verbal blitzkrieg. I have the evolutionary upper hand (in a dispute, sorry ladies) ... why wouldn't I? She responded typically. What happens to prey backed into a corner? Desperation. Which is ironic given that she started the process. I was wearing my glasses and she slaps them off my face - pretty bold and a good strategic move if it was intentional. The problem being assaulting an individual who is your superior in every aspect is pretty-much the worst strategy, ever. So she slaps the glasses off my face and as they echo on the ground comes in with her left for another blow. Right here, ironically enough, my fight-or-flight kick's in - it's time to start trying - I instantly riposted her attempt and grabbed her hand. Predictably she came in with her other arm trying to assault me further, it didn't work. While I grabbed her other arm, I laughed - in her face. Icing on the cake-eater. Some people might not brag about beating a girl in a fight, luckily this wasn't a fight and more importantly I'm not one of them. As a wrestler I found out rather harshly and unfortunately, if you're in the weight class, you go, period. And I discovered this rule having to wrestle a girl who was several weightclasses above me, yet inferior in every aspect of the sport. Imagine you're being told to pin a retarded little kid... that's almost what it's like - except more akward.
Anyhow back to the 'fight' she tries to knee me in my groin and I come to the inner realization "this bitch is out of control" and use both of her arms against her. I twisted both of her arms and threw her to the ground while staring at her, semi-laughing and saying "dumb cunt, get the fuck out of here." Clearly this didn't please her. After assaulting me she still had the confidence to call the police on me. Vaginal entitlement off the charts.
It didn't work. The officer, who clearly wasn't taking this seriously, said he was legally bound to ask me certain questions. Yes... the holy grail. For once the law was on MY SIDE. The right side. While I didn't understand it, I went with it. Upon seeing that I had finally been cast in the role of of a situational victim I immediately divested the opportunity. Nearly all the questions I always wanted to ask a cop were now green-lit. It'd take several paragraphs to cover all of them but the most pertinent one is to follow: "What do you think the percentage of domestic disturbances and/or assaults are in terms of gender? Like does one happen far more than the other - what's the breakdown?" For some reason, instead of arresting, fining or shooting me, he answered me. "It's pretty much 50%-50%," he said - although he didn't say percent.
I inquired a little bit further. "So if it's 50-50, then what do you think the true ratio is, as more crimes go unreported than are commited?"
"Probably about 60-40."
"In terms of whom?"
"Females because most males don't report crimes." The exact answer I had anticipated.
By now the police had both statements and were ready to take action. For whatever reason, probably the history of the property, there were four of them "dealing" with us. ALL of them approached me. Then proceeded to ask me what to do. I'm busting. My exuberance was off the chart. I tried my hardest not to jump around chanting in my sisters face and while it was extremely difficult, I managed. I chose not to press charges but said that I wanter her escorted off the property immediately. They proceded to do so as I sat on my steps, drinking a beer savouring yet another...
Reality Check.

Bad boys

What-ya gonna do? In order to properly start this sordid tale I feel it's best to go to its beginning - like the start to almost any story. It's around three in the afternoon on a Thursday when I arrive at a local liquor store. After carefully browsing the store's selection for the cheapest liquor I could find, Mr. Boston's Riva Vodka, I made my way to the counter to complete my purchase. Shortly afterward, I arrived home. I subsequently questioned my sister Colleen on whether or not she possessed any shot-glasses as my entire collection - which was quite substantial -  has apparently been lost. Alas, she informed me she did not. Being the resourceful individual I like to think I am however, I simply cleaned a scoop for an empty protein-powder jar to make-do. Apparently this make-shift shot glass was more resourceful than I intended. Taking several back-to-back shots while playing Tekken Tag Tournament 2 were my last memories of the afternoon.
Coming out of a blacked-out state is similar to emerging from underwater, in the dark, after diving in from a decent elevation. You remember diving and surfacing relatively clearly but the trek into dark territory, to deliberately reference Under Siege 2, is often mysterious. It's around ten o'clock on the same Thursday. I'm in the upstairs kitchen and I'm angry. Oh and I don't remember one minute of the entire last six-plus hours. Apparently my father's solution to an alcoholic's supposedly angry tirade is to pour out said alcoholic's entire bottle of liquor. Shortly before-hand my first memory after emerging from a blacked-out state was looking for and failing to find my half-gallon of vodka. Now I'm not implying that drinking more at this point in time was the right or even a good decision, I'm simply stating that taking a supposed addicts "supply" while said individual is already supposedly enraged seems like a recipe for disaster. In this 'case' I know it was. After scouring both floors for my lost vodka I decided it was time to take my 'investigation' to the next level: interrogation. I 'questioned' my sister and father regarding the location of my lost love. Shortly afterward my father revealed to me he had poured out the entire bottle. And off the cliff I go, predictably. It's probably pertinent to know that at this point in time I'm entirely convinced he is simply hiding my liquor. In my irrational reasoning I've convinced myself that if I just push him to his breaking point, he'll reveal its location despite the fact he's already made it quite clear where it's located. After around what I think to be twenty minutes of failing to 'break' him I retreated downstairs and made an important decision. It was time to start trying. I exited the backdoor of my home, jumped my backyard fence and got into my car. A few minutes later I arrived at the gas station and bought two 24oz Four Loko's, each of which contain 12% "straight alcohol." As I approached my driveway, which for the uninformed reader consists of a long plant-lined tunnel, I noticed several squad cars awaiting my arrival. Without missing a beat I drove right past them and my driveway toward the neighboring development of Birkdale. From a satellite view of my home on Google maps it's quite evident that the neighboring development is simply waiting to buy my entire property. Aside from the street and one side of the property I currently reside in, Birkdale surrounds me. They obviously have no qualms making their intentions quite clear as there are two streets whose marriage seems inevitable, which stop right at my property line on two sides. So picking the tale back-up I pulled into Birkdale and traveled down one of the streets lining my property. I parked my Tercel - from hell - at the very edge of one of the dead-ends near my lot's territory. With my two Four Loko's in-hand I jumped my property's barbed-wire fence and trekked into my thickly-wooded backyard. Convinced the police wouldn't hear me, saddled in their cozy cruisers, I quickly and probably somewhat noisily approached my home from the back. As I got closer I attempted to mask my approach using stealth... slick. I got close enough so that I could see what wasn't going on inside my house while keeping an eye on both police cars. Ultra-confident in the security of my current position, sitting in on the ground in the woods beside my house, I decided crack open one of my Four Loko's. After several minutes of sitting out in the dark drinking, I decided it was time to investigate the police's intentions. I called one of my family members inside, my sister, on my cellphone. For some reason, she picked up. Making sure not to communicate my location I asked her why the cops were parked outside. She informed me my father had called them to arrest me for "communicating threats" and that I should stay the night somewhere else. Great advice to a drunken man sitting in the woods although nonetheless advice I should have taken, in retrospect. Instead, I decided to wait-them out. A smart decision from an idiot sitting outside at night... out-wait people on-duty sitting inside heated vehicles.
Yet somehow... my strategy succeeded. Around forty minutes later the police cars left. Told. From a strategic standpoint, whenever you're the most confident you're generally the weakest. For me that point was approaching imminently. After attempting to get back inside my house I realized that all the doors were locked. Although I had a key to my front-door, I 'reasoned' unlocking the font door would alert my father to my presence; so I took a different approach. Then after kicking in my back-door I again decided to change strategies. After finishing my first Four Loko I walked upstairs... beaming with victory. I waisted little time allowing said 'victory' to go unnoticed. I approached my dad to ensure his awareness.
With a smile from cheek-to-cheek I quipped "nice try."
"Thanks." He quickly responded.
"How many times do I have to tell you that the police are all slow, dimwitted idiots?" I asked. "They can't catch me, they're all fat, slow, lazy fucks."
"Congratulations, you win," he replied.
Around this time, my glorious victory rant was cut short as I looked outside my window to see blue lights  blazing down my driveway. Slick. I headed toward my backdoor as rapidly as I could. Apparently it wasn't 'rapid' enough. As I exited there were immediately several flashlights on me along with voices instructing me not to move. Aforementioned voices then demanded I jump my back partially barbed-wire fence to slowly approach them. An interesting instruction but one I nonetheless complied with.
"What seems to be the problem officers?" I asked jovially as I walked closer.
I was immediately cut-off with the curt response of "don't talk." I was subsequently shoved against one of the officer's cars, searched and cuffed.
"What am I being charged with?" I asked.
I was met with the same response.
"I'd like to know what I'm being charged with," I persisted. To his lack of credit, the officer who detained me appeared to be somewhat of a newbie - or perhaps a savant playing his cards the smartest way he could by withholding any kind of information whatsoever. Apparently "communicating threats" is a relative term. For example, if I communicated any kind of threat in front of him I'd be charged with another crime (despite lack-of-evidence for the initial one). Shockingly the opposite did not apply as upon my insistence of asking my charges he proceeded to communicate probably a dozen or so threats toward me. One of which was related to the tightening of my handcuffs. The marks evident on my wrists afterward were clear indications they weren't very empty threats. After he had tightened my hand-cuffs and I continued to question the nature of my supposed crime he grew increasingly angry - as did I. After spending some time in his backseat to ponder my next move I came to yet another important conclusion. Once again, it was time to start trying.
There was a partition dividing the squad car's backseat into two sectors. I positioned myself as to use my head against the partition as leverage in conjunction with my feet pushing against the car's window to attempt to break the partition if he continued my silent treatment. Believe it or not, this was a decision he neither liked nor agreed with. Go figure that after having the cops called against you for communicating threats (not that any of them ever informed me of this charge at any point) communicating additional threats via body language isn't a great idea. I suppose hindsight is 20-20. Also go figure that he didn't notice anything I had just done despite the deliberate inordinate amount of noise I had just made in doing-so. My perceived power play not having been noticed by its target audience bothered me. My successive actions apparently made this clear.
I began pressing outward with my legs against the car's window, kicking it meanwhile. I'm not totally clear of what happened afterward as I suspect that you lose memory and consciousness after you're tazed (one of the threats that had been communicated to me earlier). Of course this also happens to be the case if you're really drunk. The fact that my entire body was sore the next day makes me somewhat unsure of the truth here. Regardless, the next thing I remember is pulling up to what I later learned was Mecklenburg County Jail-North (the recipient of the inaugural NC 2001-2002 “Large Jail of the Year” Award). Apparently I arrived several years late for the party.
After being "processed" for several hours, predictably without hearing any charges, I was sent to what appeared to be some type of jail counselor. I answered all of her psychobabble-related questions honestly, which was probably my first and only smart decision of the night, which was now the next-day. Afterward I was released into some type of prisoner containment room lined with cells on one side and phones on the other where you're allowed to make calls. Of course they were all pay-phones and all I had was $5 in paper-money. As a former NC "Large Jail of the Year" recipient it's surprising that it had no change machine. It wasn't surprising however, that after taking all my possessions I wouldn't have been able to use my aforementioned fortune anyhow. An interesting part of the mobile-phone revolution is that it's largely made pay-phones useless. To anyone who remembers 90's commercials it's evident this has also made collect-calls useless as cell-phones cannot receive collect calls, technically. I'll elaborate: by technically I mean cell-phones can, technically, receive a collect call - they just can't respond or hear who it is from. So what will happen is a person will receive a phone-call, then have no idea who it is or where it's from and be disconnected - but not until you can hear them pick-up and say hello, luckily. I wonder why that would be the case? I can't imagine who is benefiting from allowing that to happen while simultaneously using time which costs money. Anyhow... after failing to connect with anyone in my allotted time to make a call - between 3 and 5AM - the peak hours to connect a call (to Australia), I'm placed in one of the many cells lining the room and fitted with the traditional jail-bird attire. A trusty orange jump-suit which is surprisingly uncomfortable. Luckily, it made a terrible blanket in a room placed right under the vent-duct which was seemingly blasting air conditioning in March on an already cold night. Breaking character however, I was able to pass-out on the cold, hard floor for a much needed and frequently interrupted hour-and-a-half nap.
Unfortunately my stay at the former "Large Jail of the Year" was nearing an end. I was awoken by the sound of breakfast being served. Fortunately I was able to trade most of my breakfast to other inmates for their slices of white bread, which I devoured for their apparent entertainment and disbelief. After the breakfast festivities had concluded it was time for the chain-gang to start marching. I'm proud to state that I, along with another guy, were first in-line to get into the police van that would take us to jail central. Upon entering the locked and enclosed lack of space in the van, many of my van-mates began to complain about the temperature. Many felt it was too cold, which it was but were somehow shocked at how 'aggressive' the van's heating system was. Soon enough, however our journey to jail central came to an end. The van pulled into a highly secure facility in central Charlotte equipped to the teeth. After several more hours of 'processing' I was put into one of the jails many medical wards as that was apparently where I belonged. Although in retrospect this probably turned out to be a blessing in disguise, this decision dismayed me. I had high hopes of being put in some type of solitary confinement so I would have fewer friends to talk and listen to.
The medical wards are pretty much the opposite. They're large communal rooms with lots of cots, two bathroom stalls, several tables and even a flat-screen. They have large front windows that open up to the front guard station so that the guards can supposedly continually watch-over the enclosed individuals.
Immediately upon entering my designated chamber I was greeted by a seemingly more experienced inmate named Jack. Although it's not very difficult to describe his appearance, his character is even easier to describe assuming you've seen the movie The Shawshank Redemption. After several hours inside the ward to observe his behavior I'm convinced I'm being punked and he is Morgan Freeman made-up as a white guy. He is a born helper. As frequently as all of the other inmates turn to him with questions he doles out the sound advice of a veteran beforehand. One of the other inmates who was calling his mother later in the day during the phone-call grace period even asked him to come over to talk to her for him, which he of-course did. Gold. Anyhow, after being assigned a cot upon entering he instantly approaches me with his name and a hand-shake, instructing me to exchange cot-lining-pillows with the empty one next to mine because it's the 'comfortable kind.' Despite the fact I'm writing it, it goes without saying that he was utterly correct. Charming motherfucker! He proceeded to give me the "lay of the land," the "in's, the out's and the in-betweens." I proceeded to take nearly all of his advice like a love-sick teenage girl. He even alerted me up at every meal-time to make-sure I didn't miss it, despite the fact I was in cot #1, nearest to the door. I also continued to practice my bread-trade much to my ward-mates delight. They received the 'good' food while I received yeast-soaked flower and people-points, win-win. After I was able to manage a few hours of sleep Jack proceeded to query me about the nature of my detainment. I informed him of the situation: that legally, it was my first offense and told him what had happened. I had finally been informed of the charges slightly earlier after a meeting with a different jail-counselor individual, so I was also able to 'communicate' that aspect of my detainment to him. He proceeded to tell me that 10-days was the most you could get for a first-offense so minor and that I'd probably be out of jail today if it weren't Friday. I asked him why the day being Friday mattered and he told me that my arraignment would usually be next-day if I had been arrested earlier in the week. However, given that it wasn't, it would probably be pushed back over the weekend 'til Monday. Sweet. He also said that given the space issues in our facility that the judge would probably let me out after my arraignment given the 'weekend vacation' I had already served. He instructed me to go into the arraignment and after assessing the judge's response (assuming he hadn't already said to let-me-out) plead guilty to expedite the legal proceedings. His reasoning being if I had plead not guilty and claimed the authorities had no proof I would most likely be held captive until my court date: which predictably is 5/13. The 'beauty' of our legal system knows no bounds. A prisoner pleads guilty and gets out of jail more quickly than the same person who pleads not-guilty. Meanwhile any sensible person knows 'justice' is ultimately determined my money. Anyway I thank him for his advice, thought and candor. It's around this time where I come to the conclusion to change mind-sets given I haven't successfully gotten in-touch with anyone and have no realistic recourse. I decided to stop trying. Clearly I'm going to be there at least a couple of days. I made this decision around 3 o'clock just prior to when the phone-call grace period begins at 4:00PM.
After hearing the aforementioned phone call with Jack attending to a fellow cell-mate and his mother the phone is free. I again attempt to make several collect calls and subsequently fail every one. It seems my ironic talent for never forgetting has failed me yet again. Little did I know...
Apparently someone on the other end of one of said failed calls was doing some searching of his own. After receiving my call only to be disconnected, an individual with a seeming affinity for making big plays was concocting yet another. He reverse-traced my phone-call from the internet and discovered its origin. Upon realizing it was from jail he instinctively performed a quick mental analysis of suspects. Apparently my reputation proceeds me as I was either at or near the top of it. After an online search of recent detainees my name was discovered. He then made subsequent arrangements for me to be bailed out by another friend who came through in-the-clutch. Slick timing given that at the time I was watching March 'madness,' on the cell's flat-screen during the allotted TV-time for the night. At this point it's around 9:30. I'm watching some basketball game when I hear the guard calling my name and instructing me to "get my things." Still having little hope at this point-in-time I rise from my cot, put my jail-sandals on and collect 'my things.'
"Should I bring this box?" I ask referring to the bin we're handed upon checking into the ward.
"Yeah... bring it," he tells me. Against my best instincts I begin to have a glimmer of hope despite hearing from Jack earlier that it takes 7-hours or so to be bailed out anyhow. The cell door opens and I exit with my bedding and other supposed binned-belongings and follow the guard. He proceeded to lead me to the intermediate locked-down area between the ward and the long hallway where the other wards are located. My hope is somewhat quelled after sitting there for around 20 minutes. Government efficiency at work. Even when being released the psychology behind the process is designed to break you. After what seemed like an eternity I'm finally taken down two floors to a similar transition-type room outside of what I later found out to be one of the many infirmaries. I proceeded to sit in the pre-infirmary room for another annoyingly long period. Then did the same thing inside the infirmary once entering. After probably another hour-or-so I reached the ground floor of the jail and was put into a large mass-holding cell alone. Finally, after more than a day of wishing for it, my goal of solitary confinement was realized but my mind was racing too much to appreciate it. Typical.
Not a short time later I was transported back to the NC 2001-2002 “Large Jail of the Year," where I had initially been taken into custody. I was not surprised when the proceedings there took an inordinate amount of time. After being processed for the umpteenth time and subsequently being continually questioned about the processing details from the prior facility I was held in, my actual belongings were returned. My excitement is  curbed when I realize that it's close to midnight on a Friday and the prospect of finding a ride home isn't very great. Auspiciously, I also notice my cell-phone is completely dead after several attempts to turn it on. Apparently luck and I just don't play well with one another. A short while later I'm inevitably released into the jail's "arrest processing center." Ironically enough the same type of pay-phone which I had felt betrayed me earlier would serve as yet another life-line. A key point at this juncture is the fact I still have no idea who bailed me out. As I did not yet think that anyone aside from my father and sister knew about my incarceration, I thought the identity of my saviour had to be one of them. Soon thereafter I realized this wasn't the case. By chance, someone in the lobby happened to have change for a dollar as the officers behind the counter refused my plea for assistance. Once again all of my calls fell on deaf ears, except one.
Somehow my "last call" was received by a friend who was awake and aware but unable to drive in his current state. He was gracious in giving me the information on a calling card he had so I could make other calls though, along with assisting me several times in communicating with other friends who were apparently aware of my predicament.
He also informed me as to the true identity of my bailer and the aforementioned process which resulted in my release. As I did not currently have the fiscal ability to get myself home I initially attempted to catch a bus as there was a stop just outside of Jail-North. The bus driver did not provide much assistance, as despite my frantic gestures to entice him to stop or even slow-down were evidently of no use. Fortunately I was able to get back in-touch with my friend and again he provided me with a way out in calling me a cab. Fortuitously though, the cab never came.
Later, I overheard the conversation between two fellow detainees who had similar mobile-phone power issues. A Hispanic woman who had been released earlier mentioned that she was awaiting her boyfriend's release and that he might have a charger that fits a droid, which the other male detainee she was conversing with could use to charge his phone if she could use it too. Luckily for me, shortly thereafter said male detainee lost his temper with the perpetual lack of assistance from the officers working in the arrest processing center.
"You better pray I never see either of you on the fucking street god damnit!" He shouted at the officers behind the counter. "You better fucking pray! I'll put a bullet right between your fucking eyes." I laughed inwardly as this was ironically enough the exact same reason I was supposedly arrested to begin with despite the fact that it wasn't witnessed by any members of the law, a large room full of people or myself. After he proceeded to state he was walking home and stormed out without consequence my laughter was quickly replaced my unbridled rage before I quickly realized the incident could potentially provide me with a charged phone. I then used the situation as a segue into conversing with the Hispanic woman about potentially charging my phone which she agreed to assist me with if her boyfriend indeed had one.
A couple of hours later her boyfriend was released and by some insane stroke of luck did have in-fact have a droid charger which I was able to charge my phone with and subsequently use to contact the very same individual who I found out was largely in-part, responsible for my release and somehow still awake close to 5AM. Big play. After contacting said player I was ready to make arrangements for a cab ride home. As I walked out into the parking lot to see a taxi already waiting I was speechless. So was the Hispanic woman and her boyfriend as they walked outside right behind me asking to use my phone. 'Generously,' the driver was more than obliged to take all of us to our destinations in the same cab.
Sometime after 5:13AM I arrived back in Huntersville at a friend's residence where I proceeded to savor my freedom 'til the next morning when I realized the additional consequences of my...
Reality Check.

Life on the inside

Yeah... you've been had by C4 w/ yet another lame April Fools prank.
Worry not victims, as relief is coming tomorrow in perhaps my most massive post since Road Trip; the tale about my 20-hour trip from (tr)Asheville to Huntersville.
The title is the 'clue' as to what its content will entail.

Lost Reality Check #2 - Jury Duty

So one random day several of months ago, I'm sitting around participating in my usual routine (doing nothing) and my dad calls me about something. He seems pretty 'chipper' on the phone, which I initially found strange, so I question him as to the nature of his call. He was fairly happy to inform me that I, or one of us, was selected for jury duty, given we have the exact same name and the post office doesn't seem really care about discerning between people with the same name and the same address. I, of course, wasn't. For some reason he seemed to be under the impression I'd be happy about serving jury duty because I could make money by doing so; probably the thing he, along with most of white collar America, views as the most important thing in this world. "How do you know it isn't for you?" I asked. A fair question given we have the exact same name. "I just figured you'd want to go so you can, you know, make some money," he replied. "It pays $12 for the first day, which is hardly more than the gas money to get there and back, why would I want to make significantly less than minimum wage when I could be inside my own house sleeping?" He replied, "well, then I'm going to tell them (the courts) it was you regardless, so you better get ready to go unless you want to have a county sheriff throw you in jail." It is at this point in the conversation where I revealed the actual reason I didn't want to go to jury duty.
"I think I might have a bench warrant out for my arrest," I informed him. Over a year ago I was supposed to drive across the state to Raleigh for a second time because of a drinking ticket I had gotten over 2 years ago on the previous Halloween... by a douchebag cop. Apparently I had qualified for some kind of immunity program since my record was clean (not really) so all I had to do was attend a certain amount of documented AA meetings and present them back in court several months later and I would be scott-free. Needless to say, I did not attend or even attempt to attend one AA meeting. So I was clearly concerned about the fact that if I showed up in court I might have a bench warrant and arrested on the spot, even though it was from a different county. Especially since the last time I had appeared in court the exact same thing had happened to me; being arrested upon arrival. Chuck was definitely mad but that was the end of the discussion for the time being.
A few weeks later he had finally spent some time figuring out which one of us actually had to attend since I clearly wasn't going to do so and discovered it was, of course, me. I asked him if he'd be willing to bail me out of jail if I indeed had a bench warrant like I semi-suspected. "We'll see," was his answer.
The night before my duty was to be fulfilled I made sure I was supremely wasted to make sure I could pass out early enough to subsequently get enough sleep for enduring an entire day of jury duty. Not a bad idea, in retrospect. Not a good execution of said idea, in any respect. I ended up finally falling asleep around 2:30-3:00am, not optimal time for getting up at 6 to beat or should I say beast, the traffic.
It's before 8:00AM and I arrive at the parking garage near the courthouse. It's rainy, shitty and cold weather, so I actually had the heat turned on in my Tercel, from hell. Unfortunately for everyone else, this meant anyone driving near me or especially behind me got blasted with a shitload of exhaust fumes and limited visibility - which is only intensified being inside a parking deck. I get out and begin my journey across the street, to the courthouse and I'm the only person without an umbrella. What a bunch of faggots.
After walking inside, taking off my shoes, and asking a few security guards for directions I had finally arrived at my destination. The room where you wait to be 'called' for jury duty. It wasn't too bad honestly. But it still really sucked. After showing us these retarded videos about the American legal system, they started calling people about 15 minutes later. This was when my stomach started to churn. They always called the (randomly selected) names in alphabetical order. Then I heard someone named McGregor called. I laughed. About 10 minutes later another announcement came over the intercom. Once again, they started calling names. Unfortunately this time I was not so fortunate. This time McGovern was called. The only bright spot was that a girl whose name happened to be alphabetically closest to mine happened to be moderately attractive I guess... but that didn't last long. After taking us up several floors they realized they had taken about twice times as many jurors than they could possibly use. So around half of us had to return downstairs and I was separated from the aforementioned juror. Luckily, I was able to spend the next two-to-three hours in a room with the most entertaining program about civic duty that I've ever witnessed. I was legitimately impressed with the clear message from the instructional 'film' - set on repeat - at how intimately the government realized how fucking stupid the average person is. The delivery of this message I felt was almost stone-cold to anyone with an IQ above the bell curve. Despite this appreciation, the instructional film only made me incredibly angry - how surprising. As I sat in the utterly unstimulated room and began to read one of the books I had brought along in my backpack - which is never short of any unnecessary necessity, EVER - the voice over the loudspeaker began to list names once again. I listen intently dreading the sound of my own name, a statement I can rarely make. The woman finishes listing names and transitions into giving instruction. I'm utterly relieved and my heart-rate begins to slow - in an awesome way.
I begin to read once again. Just as I am able to ignore the voice over the loudspeaker, she besmirches me: Charles McGovern.
I accompany my fellow jurors to the appropriate room, whilst hearing them categorically denied by the D.A. Apparently she was looking for individuals whom had nothing against the city of Charlotte. Despite my soliloquy regarding Charlotte traffic, I was selected.
Luckily the judge gave me one more reprieve.
"Is there any reason you don't believe you'll be able to serve, Charles?"
Me: "Yes. I'm an alchohlic going through terrible withdrawals. I can hardly concentrate."
The judge and the female lawyer couldn't have been nicer when dismissing me. Perhaps that might not've been the 'case' if either of them 'witnessed' the massive grin on my face leaving the courtroom.
Lost - Reality Check

Fore, Fat Fucks

Several days ago I was partaking in one of my favorite outdoor activities for the first time in far too long. This activity being frolf - not to be confused with disc golf, its bastardized commercial whore of a cousin. Anyhow, this had been the first time my partner and I, who shall only be referred to as "Big Play," had played in some time. So despite the fact that we were both self-admittedly rusty, we were still enjoying ourselves... initially. Now I consider the both of us quite considerate when it comes to frolf etiquette. If a player or group behind us is constantly on our tail or waiting for us, we'll let them play through and just hang back for a moment to give said party its necessary space; accordingly we hope to have this same attitude "payed forward" toward us. Unfortunately - mostly for the other party involved - this was not the case on this given day.
We didn't get more than three holes in when a group of the most insidious nature started to "throw us off our game," pun intended. We were constantly being bombarded by the sounds of several fat, loud and annoying individuals. In all fairness one of them wasn't fat but he was equally obnoxious so I don't feel particularly bad lumping him in with the rest of the swine.
Just before we eclipsed the half-way point, hole 9, we'd noticed that the aforementioned group was constantly on our tails. It's worth noting that even Helen Keller couldn't have missed this group coming. I have no issue with people playing quickly - just getting up to the tee and chucking without a second thought. However that usually means you're either really slick or really terrible, oblivious and/or apathetic. Given the placement of the swine party's discs I noticed, terrible and oblivious are the superlatives that best apply. Big Play and I had talked about letting these guys play through just so we wouldn't have to hear their every stupid word with every terrible shot they took, however we both decided that in principle they didn't deserve any special treatment. Ironically enough, one of them would later receive some anyhow.
Around hole 13 one of them finally decided to halt his ongoing nuisance of a soliloquy to ask us if they could play through. The verbal exchange that proceeded probably didn't go as he had expected...
Annoying guy: "Hey, would y'all mind if we played through?"
I immediately shouted back a fairly curt "YES!"
"Yes we can play through?" the annoying faggot asked.
"No!" I shouted back. "Yes I mind if you play through you dumb fuck."
"What the heck man there's no need for that kind of language," he retorted.
Said idiot and his swine brigade began to talk amongst themselves, clearly trying to formulate some kind of plan of action. Big Play and I took the opposite route and continued to play in the most nonchalant manner we could muster whilst totally ignoring them. I notice the one non-fat guy emerge from the group and start walking toward us, near the end of the hole. We of course continued to ignore him, never once turning our backs to acknowledge his presence until he was within touching distance. My favorite part of his impending approach was that just as he had finally reached us I made a fairly bad-ass long range putt. The chains rattled as my disc hit the disc-catcher utterly perfect - in trajectory and timing - and interrupted his initial attempt to open his maw. Afterward I turned around like it hadn't been the best shot I'd made all day to face him.
"So what's your problem man?" asked the swine party representative.
"My problem is that you faggots have been loud and annoying the entire fucking time you've been here," I immediately replied.
"Wow man, who uses that kind of language, think about the integrity of the game," he said.
"I do." I instantly replied, with a smirk. It was already abundantly clear that my totally unnecessary normal level of rage had intimidated him.
"Well whatever man, I'm not trying to get the police involved out here," implying that he was going to fight me.
"You wouldn't have to worry about them anyway, you'd be dealing with people in a hospital. Would you like me to remove my sunglasses so you can see my eyes?" I asked him with great anticipation. I, of course, had found the perfect opportunity to rip off my sunglasses - a la The Rock, the Great One, The People's Champ, the Most Electrifying Man in Sports Entertainment - and then deliver one of my own favorite trademarks: the stare-down. Unfortunately, he indicated that I should leave my glasses on and my heart subsequently sank. However when he proceeded to turn around to walk back to his group without saying another god-damn motherfucking word, I cheered up a little - and then burst into laughter with Big Play, who had been playing it cool as the silent, distant enforcer lurking in the shadows several yards away throughout this entire exchange.
As we continued to play through the rest of the course, we never heard nor saw the swine party again. Imagining what this guy said when he went back to his group of friends after venturing out so boldly pleases me in a way that can only be described as a Chasexual climax. Reality Checkmate.

Son of Anarchy Online

Earlier today I happened to be driving on a fairly high-traffic boulevard at probably the worst time of the day. There is no getting out onto this road without some give-and-take, to quote a skilled Nascar orator. Essentially unless you're a huge pussy and/or you feel like being an inconsiderate asshole and holding up anyone who may be behind you indefinitely, you're going to pull out in front of someone. This isn't to say that you have to cut someone off but if someone behind you doesn't lay off the gas a little or show the least bit of courtesy and perspective, you're going to have someone on your ass. And since apparently the Southern population of the United States is largely comprised of god fucking awful drivers, you're always going to have someone on your back-bumper. On this day the individual who felt I had cut him off was a fat black man on a hog. The word hog describing his motorcycle as opposed to who he probably spends his private-time with. It's pretty common knowledge that if you drive a motorcycle you're automatically hard and a total bad ass. Somehow this logic applies universally despite the fact that I could kill him at will with my '91 Tercel - from Hell.
Clearly displeased he pulls up next to me and gives me a dirty look and waves his index finger, trying to tell me no, no, no you just don't do that to a biker. He is probably equally displeased at the fact that I'm wearing headphones, and those pseudo-clear douche-bag-esque sunglasses - but hey they're the ones I leave in my car for sunglass-less emergencies, so I wear them with pride - after I clean them off. Anyhow, I subsequently held a hand up and made a shrugging gesture toward him, trying to communicate that I couldn't care less, then drove away. As we approach the next red light, I notice he and a fellow biker bad-ass were sitting right behind me, clearly gesturing toward me and gossiping like a bunch of housewives desperate for Bojangles. So as I notice them looking at me through my rear-view mirror I begin to make nonsensical hand and arm gestures, attempting to indicate I am fully aware of their conversation and they can both go fuck themselves. To make sure my point wasn't lost on these two sons of appetite I concluded my performance by immediately stopping my frantic arm movements and giving both of them two very clear middle fingers. Apparently they got the message but weren't very happy about it. We're still sitting at the same red-light, so one of them pulls up beside my driver's side door. I had both windows up at the time and I briefly considered just leaving it up and acting like I couldn't hear what he was saying. However in the end I gave in to my temptation of a possible verbal sparring bout, in which I seem to have difficulty using self-restraint - and just frankly enjoy.
"Do you enjoy living?" the biker asks me. Little did he know how terrible of a target he had chosen for such a question. With my headphones still on, I replied "not particularly," half-way laughing in my delivery. The light had turned green by this point and cars were finally starting to move. He was clearly struggling with a reply to my light-hearted response so I simply quipped "See ya!" and drove off, never seeing the bikers again throughout the duration of my trip home and also feeling somewhat smug knowing that I had delivered some dimwitted bikers with a much needed... Reality Check.