Mistaken Guy-dentity: a schizo-textal affair.

This affair began during the second quarter of game two of the finals. During the commercial breaks of the game I was texting back-and-forth with a friend about the happening of the game thus-far. A germane tidbit about said individual entails his taking an abnormal psychology course. He seemed to feel one simple course, a course which has a historical track record of enabling students to over-analyze and more importantly over-apply the nature of the subject, to qualify him to diagnose me. This course was predictably, abnormal psychology. As a former psych-major: I'd been there, yet hadn't done that. Although I will admit the Wikipedia link to Schizotypal personality disorder did make me laugh a little:

Schizotypal personality disorder is a personality disorder characterized by a need for social isolation, anxiety in social situations, odd behavior and thinking, and often unconventional beliefs. People with this disorder feel extreme discomfort with maintaining close relationships with people, and therefore they often do not. People who have this disorder may display peculiar manners of talking and dressing and often have difficulty in forming relationships. In some cases, they may react oddly in conversations, not respond, or talk to themselves. They frequently misinterpret situations as being strange or having unusual meaning for them; paranormal and superstitious beliefs are not uncommon.

You can be assured, this segue was intended. Anyhow, we were texting about Finals play when I randomly received a text from an unknown individual who seemed to be very well-informed of the inner-workings of the MPOTF system who had a disdain for Manu Ginobili and Chris Bosh. It's relevant that this happened mere seconds after I had asked the aforementioned guy if his girlfriend had any thoughts about the game at hand. Timing.
At this point I suspected the random text to have originated from a third party in a new Floridian I'd recently encountered. After a few messages the exchange suddenly came to a halt.This person texts me a paragraph assuming I knew who they were? The gall! My mind started racing. Who could this be?
Why hadn't I asked them initially? Unfortunately, I knew the answer to this query. I don't save numbers in my phone because I memorize all of them - or pretend I do anyway. I used to do this accidentally before the cell phone craze began. Afterward, I concluded my system of numerical memorization was more efficient than having to save names. I could be anywhere and everywhere, without a phone and utilize all the necessary numbers I needed. Slick. 203-967-3757. Knowing all of my friend's old house numbers in Connecticut is unfortunately not as useful as I had wished. And that's my old house number so feel free to call it.The next day I texted the aforementioned friend whose girlfriend I suspected of texting me several times. He had successfully pranked me in the past - there was no way I was going to let it happen again.
"Clever girl..." I texted him. This is a quote from "Jurassic Park's Muldoon" upon realizing he had been stalked and cornered by several "Deinonychi."
"Who? What" He responded. Alright - he wants to play it this way, huh? I thought to myself. More than one of us can play dumb.
I texted the mystery number from last night under the clever guise of being uninformed of the situation at hand.
"Are you pleased with Bosh's performance?" "*Were you?"
"I blacked out and fell asleep right after texting you. But unless he died I was NOT pleased."
My conclusion was that the both of them had definately been in touch. This response was not only suspect but an easy cop out - and a slap in the face to my intelligence. They both clearly knew I was onto them. I immediately arose from my seated position and screamed "fuck."
Oddly enough though, negative feedback seems to encourage me. The next phase of my plan was immediately mentally laid out. I would use the new Floridian outsider to pretend to miss-text the mystery texter. Fucking slick.
Luckily for me, the Floridian was nice enough to agree to participate. The motion of my plan had began.
Later I was texted with a result.
I won't name names, but suffice to say the result was "Z."
I instantaneously reviewed all of the prior information about the entire situation. I was pretty damn wrong. The result wasn't my friend's girlfriend but guy a I knew, who I knew had a very strong bias against Manu Ginobili.
I had essentially made up this entire situation, been fueled by manufactured drama I'd created, and cornered myself into receiving another...
Reality Check.

McGovern Player of the Finals - Game 2.

Fuck. I'm disappointed for several reasons. The Spurs losing is an obvious cause which I'll gloss over for now. The lack of Jonah Hill commercials is also a mixed bag. I'm mostly concerned about my lack of game awareness. During the game, I was texted by an individual with around a paragraph of vitriol for Ginobili. I immediately dismissed this as a common-place reaction to my polarizing scoring system. Haters gonna hate.
It's relevant to know that at this point I was several Beast-lights deep into what I had pre-ordained as the most heavy point-exchange of the Finals. This also happened during a commercial break during which I was running back and forth between my fridge, my recycling can and my computer on the other side of the basement. I'll be the first to admit I was caught red-handed texting someone who I thought was entirely someone else throughout most of the game. If only I had simply read the area code of the number... or realized any concept of timing. I didn't..
The fact that I had added yet another FAGGOT to the list kind of excited me. This FAGGOT happens to be a long-time hater of the McGovern Player of the Finals - and predictably a LeBron lover. He'll be referred to only as NOS. He sent me a rather degrading E-mail regarding my point system before game 1 began. As the astute individual I am however, I simply informed him about a few key facts. One of which was that my point system seemed to be universally embraced: even by a hockey player among others. And that my post detailing the intricacies of my point system had an all-time hit-high. Told.
Coming into game two I had received a few Jonah Hill references from random readers. I figured this would be a coming down party for Mr. Hill's point total. One particular picture of him alongside Dale Jr. prompted me to give him a -10 point total to start the game.
Tim Duncan came out roaring and I had hoped he might be my man, this game. Here's the way it worked out... No commas this time. For every comma during my last post, google + tried to hyperlink me to something, usually the show 24 - I'm not sure why. As many commas as are quantifiable in my last post, is at least how many times I had to exit a hyperlink. Edit: it's still happening. Anyway...

HEAT:
Allen: +1 +1 +1 +1
Anderson: +1 +1 +1
Bosh +1 +2 +3 +2
Chalmers +1 -4 +1
Cole + 1
James -1* +1 +1 -1* +1 +1 +1 +1 +1+1*
Lewis +1 +2
Wade -1 +1 +1

Spurs:
Bellinelli +1
Diaw +1 +1 -1 +1
Duncan +1 +1 +1 +1 +1 -2
Ginobili -1 +1 +1 +1 +1 -1
Green +1 +1 +1
Leonard +1 +1
Mills +1 +1
Parker +1 +1 +1
Splitter +1 +1 +2 +1

*Inexcusable edit: The asterisks on James's points regard different things. His initial subtraction was because he yet again used "dog" in his pre-game pep-talk. The second was because of a "hard work" Gatorade commercial. His third was because I felt he looked at a ref the wrong way.

McGovern FAGGOT of the Game:
Heat fans: 0 (don't count them out - it is cumulative after-all and their chant enrages me)
M. Jackson: -1 -1 -1 -1 -1
J. Hill -10 -2 -2
Refs -1 -1 -1
Nos 0 (for now)

FAGGOT notes:
Don't count out Heat fans. They may be in a statistical hole, but every-time they perform that dumbass chant - which only seems to happen when their team is already winning, although I'll admit it's seemingly effective - I'm suspect to flip and subtract a massive point total. Whatever number first enters my head. Imagining it enrages me to an extent where I'd almost subtract something currently.

J. Hill: this fat fuck said 'real talk' during a clip; -10. I subsequently added any 22 Jumpstreet reference to his ability to lose points.

Nos: Well, well, well... when you threaten the big dog, you're likely to be bitten. No apologies here. As a supposed non-facebook user, you seem to have an interesting knowledge of the MPOTF point system's inner workings. If this was your goal: mission accomplished. One Taiwanese person is officially on the radar of the sports conglomerate known in the East only as MPOTF. I can add associations at will, subtract points on a whim and make-up stories wholly to warn. You have been.. warned.

Worthless piece of dog-shit lyin' in the road.

My title is quite literally how one of my friends referred to the other friends' entire family upon moving to NC.
Imagine a Hatfield & McCoy type feud devoid of anything interesting. This was the Rockholt - Baker feud of old.
The first encounter is fresh in my mind. I was playing Goldeneye - the first FPS that it mattered to be good at - inside when my father told me to quit and to talk to the guy at the top of my driveway. This guy was rollerblading back and forth, clearly in no rush to be anywhere. I'll admit, I was kind of intimidated as a new-comer to the neighborhood. Someone rollerblading around your property line has that effect. Deliberate, I'm sure.
I walked the trek to the "top of the road" as it's referred to down here; known everywhere else as, the street. I met a guy who I thought was a roller-hockey badass/enforcer. After asking me about my origins, he proceeded to give me a few breakdowns on Southern history and culture. He informed me about ins and outs of the civil war I wasn't aware of. George Washington had fought for the South, among other things. He also informed me, unintentionally, that "down here, we don't waste time sayin' whole words" my grammar was lacking. This was my first snap-shot of Southern culture. His name was Cody Baker.
I later discovered a different subtly of the neighborhood. I was hanging out with Cody at a neighbors house, shooting hoops - I later found out this neighbor was an evangelical christian. These two shady characters in hoodies showed up. This weirdo from my bus who had made strange faces at me and his tall, silent friend. I get the feeling they had more interest in me than in Cody but I bit my tongue for the time being. They hung out yet didn't disclose or volunteer their names. It was slightly akward.
Later that night, Cody's mom called him inside - literally. I was left standing around with this closet christian I didn't know, and two other shady street members. It's pertinent to know at this time, both of the shady 'others' of the neighborhood were sizing me up, not exactly knowing what to think of me - as I may be on Cody's "side." There was literally a family divide on the street that I wasn't aware of.
A random dog was following one of them, which I approached and petted.
"What's his name?" I questioned.
"Max." shady #1 answered.
"What's your name?" Shady #2 answered for him: "Jarred" (nearly as worthless as Jonah, but I didn't disclose this information at the time).
"So you wanna come over?" Jarred asked.
I accepted and we walked down the barren street of Babe Stillwell toward his house. Along the way, Shady #2 revealed his name to be Roddy and asked me several questions about Cody and his well-being.
"You know Cody is full of shit right? Everything he says is a load of dog shit" he stated.
"Uh, well I just met him a few days ago.."
"A Baker (Cody's last name) is like a worthless pile of dog-shit lyin' in the road."
This kind of flabbergasted me. I admittedly burst out laughing while looking toward former shady #1, Jarred as his name apparently was. He simply nodded. These people really are dumb inbred fucks - was a thought that passed through my head.
Nonetheless, we kept walking toward Jarred's residence while Roddy kept telling me how worthless the entire Baker clan was. Despite how ignorant I perceived him, along with everyone I had met on the street, I followed them and was entertained.
Upon entering the Douglas residence, I was met by a short, stocky woman in Jarred's mom. Upon entry she greeted me warmly whereupon Roddy asked "Mrs. Douglas, how dumb is a Baker?"
She laughed hysterically and didn't answer.
There's more to this portion of the story - but it isn't a part of this story. It mostly involves Jarred's brother and his friends scaring the shit out of me. Little did they know..
I felt I had been duped. The entire first few days I had been soaking up everything my first friend on the street, Cody Baker, had told me.
I was still skeptic of both sides, as neither had given me convincing evidence that anything they said was credible. This Jarred character told me the Jaguar XJ220 was the fastest car in the world - I insisted it was the McLaren F1.
When Roddy wasn't telling me about how terrible the Bakers were, he was insisting a Chevelle was the fastest car in the world at a quarter mile... and that his dad had more tools than mine.
I'd also like to emphasize that these tellings are mere morsels of my historic storytelling capability. Yes -  if you've ever met me, just know that you're never safe. I am the sole master of my vaults' domain. Air traffic controllers, economists, coke throwers, lawyers: none of you are safe - pun intended.

Fast-forwarding several years, I think it's clear who was right among the important points. I was pretty-much right about everything, including Deinonychus being the dinosaur that inspired "Velociraptors" (in reality a chicken sized dinosaur, comparative to archeopteryx - an ancient chicken) in Jurassic Park.
And although his counterpart seemed to be wrong about pretty much everything, Roddy was entirely right about Cody Baker.
Upon being friends with anyone else on the street. He started to make up random rumors about me, which I found even more insulting as I felt I was his sole defender among social circles.
Things came to a head when he told "everyone" he found me "all coked out in Food Lion." A ridiculous statement for several reasons. The obvious being I hadn't done coke yet. And even if I had been theoretically coked up - I like to think I would've shopped at Harris Teeter anyhow. My idol, Patrick Bateman, definitely wouldn't shop at Food Lion.

... And tonight. Tonight, I was traversing what I believe to be my street, in my Tercel - from hell - when I saw a sign in the Bakers' lawn when rounding a corner upon my return trip. "Interesting," I thought to myself. I wondered if Cody was there, and how it'd look if I showed up. Would I be scorned, welcomed or glanced over? Had he told his family about my supposed coke affair? Does Jeff Baker still sport a mustache? After 20 minutes or so of deliberation and a couple of beers I decided there was only one way to find out.
On with my sandals and off I went. A trek across the street to a fish fry. As I walked down the Baker's gravel driveway I felt an ominous sense of confidence. A couple who I will only describe as "fishing people" were walking up the driveway as I trekked down.
"Is Cody there?" I asked.
"Yeah bud, right there."
I thanked the nondescript fisherman and continued. Honestly, my entry beyond that point felt somewhat rape related. Everyone looked at me strangely, I kind of figured I wasn't welcome, yet I entered anyway. Baker rapist?
I strolled right up to Cody.  "Hey, how's it goin' "bahs" (his version of "boys," to this day I still don't know if it's a throwback to the slave terminology "boss") - I said.
His look was obvious from the start. He looked like he had seen a ghost. I won't say this had played into my hand - as for once, I had no agenda. Yet I had planned for this contingency on my short walk over anyhow. It was his party and he was totally panicking. Upon realizing my eventual boot I decided to pull a card out of a certain Kasey Kahne's playbook: sandbaggin' it.
He had said nothing at this point, he was sweating, looked extremely nervous and confused.
"Hey man... should I just leave? It's alright." I questioned, with an admittedly faux victim-of-the-moment tone. Knowing of course, that he was the most uncomfortable person there.
"I can just leave, if I'm intruding - no big deal man." I reiterated.
"Nah, just one sec, man." He struggled to say.
In the meanwhile I talked to a few of his friends who I told how long I'd known him and how we used to go fishing - both of which are true.
A minute or so later he stumbled up to me and said "Hey man, you wanna talk over here?" Insinuating there was some lonesome isolated position which didn't exist in actuality. I have to admit at this point I was kind of enjoying this charade.
"Where? 'Top o-the road? Cody, if you want me to leave, it's cool man, just give me a nod."
"Nah man, it ain't like that." He insisted.
"This is just kinda.."
"A family thing?" I finished his sentence with.
"Yeah! I mean, uh, no offense man."
"I wouldn't have expected any less, none taken."
And I left. My tail not between my legs but scorned nonetheless. Proud that I had simply showed my, drunken face, for some reason - although everyone there was far worse - and heavier.
This might been written a bit sooner if a certain character who I'll refer to as "Boom" didn't cahoot with an enemy, steal my title and then distract me with a new fighting game release.
Regardless I ended up walking down my driveway, listening to the Bakers party, not sure if I was the victor or victim of yet another...
Reality Check.

McGovern Player of the Finals - Game 1

A few brief notes before I get to the actual point break-downs for game 1. I was reading an article in Yahoo! sports before the game had began and for some reason on the sidebar which recommends similar articles that may be of interest, there was a random link to something like "Jonah Hill, longtime supporter of gays, apologizes for slur." I don't normally click on any entertainment related articles, however the placement of this one amongst sports articles piqued my curiosity enough to do so.
As per usual with any entertainment article it was written with over the top PC-ness and ridiculously in general. The entire thing described how Mr. Hill was goaded by a paparazzo who insulted his family into emitting some incredibly foul anti-gay slur. And Jonah (what a fucking terrible name - by the way) being overly apologetic regarding his behavior to the LGBT community. The article essentially danced around the situation while not listing the slur at hand. Eventually the term was revealed to be none other than faggot - yes.
I wasn't initially sure how I felt about this. I find Jonah Hill to be fat, worthless, terrible and I suspect the only way I'd laugh at him would involve his death. On the other hand, I liked what he said yet... he apologized - even if it was fake. I ended up deciding to continue disliking him anyway. I have yet to see him in anything good and his mere presence always seems to annoy me somehow.

On to the game:
* LeBron started out the game with -1 point because I didn't like the way he used the word "dog" in his pre-game team-huddle speech. It just sounded forced and terrible.

McGovern Player of the Game:

HEAT:***
R. Allen: +2, +1, -1, +2 (4)
Anderson: +1, +1
Bosh: +1, +1, +2, +1, +1 (6)
Chalmers: -1, -1, -1, +2 (-1)
Cole: +1
L. James: -1*, -1**, +1, +1, +2, +1, -3 (0)
Lewis: +1, +1
Wade: -1, +2, +1, +1, +1 (4)

Spurs:
Belinelli: -2
Diaw: +2, +1, +1, +1
Duncan: -1, +1, +1, +2, -1, +1 (3)
Ginobili: +1, +1, +1, +1, +1, +1, +1, -1, +1, +1 (8)
Green: -1, +1, -1, -1, +2, +1 (1)
K. Leonard: -1, -1, -1, -1, +1 (-3)
P. Mills: +1, +1
Parker: +1, +1, +1, -1, +2 (4)
Splitter: -1, -1, -1, -1, +1 (-3)

** Upon seeing and disliking the entirety of the Beats commercial - the athletes, celebrities and entertainers alike, I gave LBJ yet another -1 for his inclusion.
*** After the HEAT lost a game without AC, in the heat, I decided to detract another -1 from the entire team, giving them in actuality -1 to whatever their point total in parentheses lists. This could end up making a difference if any HEAT players end up with tied total games won, where the tiebreak is based on cumulative point total.

McGovern FAGGOT of the Game:
HEAT Fans: 0
M. Jackson: -1, +1, +1
Refs: -2, -1
J. Hill: -4, -2, -2

FAGGOT notes: (points in this category are almost always negative, positives coming when a participant, willingly or not, does something that pleases me temporarily)

A newcomer to this category; I never cared much for Mark Jackson as a commentator in general, but found him acceptable before his coaching tenure at Golden State I suppose. Since his return I've found most of his commentary to be utterly bland and to often ruin the flow of Jeff Van Gundy's poignant yet pragmatic commentary. This often provokes a pseudo playful banter between them, which I find entirely unbearable. Where Van Gundy and Jackson used to butt-heads with back and forth verbal jabs, now it seems as if Van Gundy is too nice and secedes a little too much. I could blame Van Gundy for this, however I suspect it's because of Jackson getting fired, then immediately coming back into the announcing crew basically the next day. I don't pity the fool who is pitied. His 2 positive points were for a well placed "He Got Game" Ray Allen reference and a comment that rightfully made Van Gundy sound like an idiot for being overly nice.

I've thought about putting the refs in this category for years and upon seeing a few calls I put them in sometime in the second quarter. No explanation necessary.

It was with annoyance and open arms that I saw Jonah Hill, the equally untalented Ice Cube - perhaps the worst rapper turned actor of all time slightly ahead of Ja Rule (because he was in a Seagal movie) - and another tool devoid of personality pop-up during the commercial breaks for the game, for a special unentertaining segment. I'll admit after reading the article earlier I actually laughed for a second upon immediately adding Jonah Hills name to the FAGGOT list, with an immediate -4. As of now I plan on subtracting 2 everytime I see one of those shitty crossover ads. Another deduction everytime a 22 Jumpstreet ad comes on isn't out of the spectrum of possibilities either.

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.