So a couple years ago, my hair just up and quit on me. In my younger days I had a wild mane that was similar to Seinfeld’s Kramer.
It was preposterous, but at least it was a look dammit… it was something! Now my hair is a shell of its former self. It’s like some sort of Greek ruins where gravelly remains peek up from the dirt. I’m the tour guide assuring anyone who will listen that it was once the site of mighty aqueduct. Sad.
So when I see celebrities (hell, even friends) who still have all their follicles in tact, flourishing to levels of beauty unobtainable by me in my current state, I whisper to myself “I would _________ for lettuce like that.”
Such is the case with grey-ing lion George Clooney. Talk about having it all. George is an all time legendary Hollywood cocksman. He’s trekked the globe alongside super models and starlets. He makes more money doing a 30-second Nespresso ad than I will make in a lifetime. Not only that, but this is what his luscious locks look at age 55:
Would I drown a bag of kittens with my own hands to have his hair? No. Obviously not. I’m not some horrible monster.
Would I press a button that I knew led to a bag of kittens being lowered into some sort of kitten drowning device that would simultaneously give me George Clooney’s marvelous hair? You must think me an ogre if you believe I would.
But what about if these were elderly cats?…. Say animal shelter cats which were scheduled for termination anyway?
….. (thinking)….
Obviously, as with everything, the devil is in the details.
Jimmy Garoppolo visibly agitated at Tom Brady’s attractiveness
With the return of Tom Brady to action this weekend I thought it a good time to address the brewing controversy stemming from his on-field absence, most notably in the first two games of the season. Of course I’m referring to the raging debate over the attractiveness level of Thomas Brady vs. Jimmy Garoppolo. The seasoned veteran with piercing bluebluishhazelgreenish eyes and the up-and-coming dreamboat.
Today, I present irrefutable evidence to put an end to this conversation, and prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Tom Brady is better looking than Jimmy Garoppolo. Anyone who says different is just being stupid and irrational like my wife.
EXHIBIT A – HAIR
Not much I can say here in terms of Tom’s hair that hasn’t been said before. Ravishing. Radiant. Silky. The works. Does Jimmy have good lettuce? Yeah, it’s good. Is it great? … umm, yeah, actually it is. Is it “Tom Brady Great?” Not even close.
Edge – Tom Brady
EXHIBIT B – EYES
Tom Brady’s eyes are a color that can best described as brilliant. Are they blue? Sort of. Green? That too. Hazel? Sure, why not…
As for the youngster, Jimmy, this is a really hard category to judge since he is often photographed with squint-y eyes and thus how dreamy or not dreamy they are is difficult to ascertain. Almost like he’s hiding something. hmmmm…
Edge – Tom Brady
EXHIBIT C & D – NOSE & SMILE
I’ll be honest with you here. I was going into this with the full expectation that once again I would be easily giving the nod to Tom Brady on both nose and smile. I mean look at him. Nose and smile you’d kill for. You could sell his snot for it’s medicinal qualities for god’s sake.
But after looking at numerous pictures online, it’s hard to discredit Jimmy’s nose and smile. Guy’s got a great nose an smile. Facts are facts. I’m a fair man. An honest man. For that reason, this is draw.
Edge – DRAW
EXHIBIT E – CHIN
This is where the conversation ends folks. This is where Tom Brady just lays the hammer down on Jimmy Garoppolo. Tom Brady has an absolutely dominating chin. That chin was sculpted from the Mount Olympus granite where Brady was born. Totally unreal.
Edge – Tom Brady in a landslide
CONCLUSION
There you have it. Tom Brady is certifiably more attractive than Jimmy Garopplo. The evidence is overwhelming. Years from now historians will scoff at those who say otherwise – like client change deniers. Sad really. Will you be on the right side of history?
One of my favorite comedy bits is Louis CK discussing turning 40. It’s sadly 100% accurate. Spot on. It’s brilliant, funny, and depressing all at the same time. I am planning on updating this blog with the various parts of my shitty body breaking down on me, but for now we’ll just concentrate on my elbow and how it is making me confront some preconceived notions I have… (a.k.a. racism?)
About two months ago I arm wrestled a woman in a bar. Destroyed her. Wasn’t even close. I did it because I’m a big man and this proved it. 100%. Her name was Hillary Clinton. Now how could she possibly be president? Tell me that. Stoopid pinko liberals.
OK, it was a coworker of mine who is also a physical trainer, and she’s really strong. A bunch of us were buzzed at the bar and she was wearing a shirt which came with tickets to the gun show, teaching all us slobs that with hard work, dedication, and inner demons constantly screaming their disapproval at you (has to be true right?) you too can have sculpted arms.
To test just how much power these weapons had, I challenged her to an arm wrestling match obviously. Knowing my arm is about a foot longer than hers, we both knew I would win based on sheer physics, but again, I wanted to test for myself just how strong she was. Very strong is the answer, but I still rattled of the victory.
Unfortunately for me, another colleague walking by during the contest (let’s call him “Popeye” for the sake of the story) saw me rag dolling a damsel in distress and needed to defend her honor. Popeye used to play hockey in college and when we put our forearms next to each other for comparison it was twice the thickness. Tons of girth. Basically the Ron Jeremy of forearms.
Popeye gives me a head start, basically starting the match with his hand 3″ from being pinned, and still proceeds to have his way with me. Using all my might (not much) I couldn’t budge him. He mercifully put me down and we all had more drinks, more laughs, more hookers (wait, what?) and called it a night.
About three days later, my elbow is done with me. Hates my shit, threw all my clothes on the front lawn, called me trash on Facebook, and quit everything. I tried resting it, icing it, all the stupid stuff they tell you to do that doesn’t work because you’re just old now. (See Louis CK above)
I wound up going to a doctor. (See Louis CK above)
So here we are now a couple months later and I’ve decided I’m done with all these new world doctors, and their “science” and their “tested medicine” and their “data” and have decided to give acupuncture a whirl. I don’t actually know anything about acupuncture other than I consider it a million percent fake hippie-dippie baloney medicine, but I do know my insurance will cover it so I’m willing to give it a shot. I mean, free’s free!
BUT NOW I’m realizing I might be racist. While researching “tennis elbow acupuncture” (i.e. watching YouTube) I came across this guy:
Are you kidding me with this? Like I said, I don’t know anything about acupuncture, but I know the acupuncturist has to be Asian. I want my acupuncturist to operate on the 2nd floor of a building in Chinatown, sandwiched between a shop decorating their windows with marinaded duck carcasses on floor 1, and an illegally run opium den on floor 3. Otherwise you’re just getting duped.
So yeah, from the list of approved professionals by insurance provider I chose someone based solely on their ethnicity. Is that wrong? I feel like I’m completely in the right on this. If someone told me they were going for a refreshing pint of Guinness in Ireleand at a pub called Giovanni Romanos, I would think it was an awful decision. How is this any different?
So I had a real swell conversation this morning with a buddy of mine about purchasing term life insurance. I’ve sort of put off said expense for a number of years for no reason in particular. That’s not totally true. I’m lazy. That is the first an foremost reason. I am too lazy to do the adequate research necessary to make an informed decision about the type of investment I need to make to ensure my loved ones are cared for financially in the event of my untimely demise. I’m kind of asshole like that.
Recently, I discovered my workplace actually has life insurance that can be purchased which leaves all the decision making to someone other than myself. I thought “sure. why not?”
So my wife and I fill out a few pages of paperwork and that was that. Not so fast my friends. We got feckin’ denied! We’re 40 and 41 years old. WTF?!
So obviously the insurance carrier thinks we’re a big enough risk to die that they don’t want any part of our disease ridden asses. I’m going to go ahead and blame my wife because I’m in denial, but still, what am I supposed to do as a widower with two kids ages 2 and 9? Huh? Did she ever stop to think about that? Couldn’t she have the decency to wait until the young one was at least 18? And now with this news from the insurance company, I can’t even get in on any of that phat dead spouse cash that everyone is raving about.
My neighborhood is overflowing with rats. Rats as far as the eye can see. Rats up to my eyeballs. Deplorable.
Recently, I’ve been drafted by my wife to kill these bastards who are guilty of nothing besides being born the wrong animal. They haven’t invaded our home. Our garbage is covered. Neither of the kids have been swept up into the violent world of #ratculture. Apparently though, these guys got to go. They are a big problem.
So I built this ingenious device that some real time American hero manly dude built on YouTube:
Turns out though, that trap works like shit. Apparently, that guy is dealing with some dumb ass country bumpkin rats and not smart city rats like I got. The only thing I got was my peanut butter licked clean by squirrels. I tried raw bacon too, but that didn’t work either.
So then my wife talks to a vermin catcher at our local park and he tells us we need to go old fashion snap traps on these things. I Amazoned the most primitive, medieval nasty looking rat killing device I could find.
This feckin’ beast:
The rat chomper 2000 “rat catching nightmares or your money back!”
These bad boys were expensive. $13.99 for a 4 pack! I figured, “no big deal. They’re reusable…..”
Feck’ that noise! Have you ever seen a dead rat embedded into a metal trap in your backyard? Shit is horrifying. #Nightmarejuice type stuff. I’d post a picture, but I didn’t take one because I’m not some type of psycho path who snaps photos of my rat kills on the internet.
Turns out though, rat killing was absolutely nothing in terms of challenging my man skills. I was stirred from my bed yesterday morning by my wife telling me frantically that a bird got trapped in our rat killing device. She wanted me to rescue it.
I go out back and sure enough, there is a bird on it’s last legs just suffering with a broken leg stuck in the trap, and for some reason, missing an eyeball. (…I have no idea how that happened. I think it might be unrelated to the trap. #denial #tangent)
So saving this guy is out of the question, and I’m pretty certain animal rescue just sends a guy to your house to point at your penis and snicker at you if you call them about a problem such as this. Only reasonable (and frankly humane) thing to do is to grab a shovel and smash the bird into next Tuesday.
Feathers everywhere. Repressed memories that will resurface in my dreams for years to come being born right there in my backyard. Awful.
At least it lead to this fun exchange with my BFF though:
So about a year ago a friend of mine suggested I start a blog. He works in various realms of the inter-webs and said if you can attract a niche market, perhaps in say, reviewing craft beer, it could be a lucrative way to make a little bit of extra cash* with doing something you like to do anyway. In my case drink beer. However, I’m not a one trick pony! I’m more than just a opinionated beer douche bag. I also like TV and sports and technology and popular culture and travel and Internet pornography gardening. Basically, the same things every middle aged white guy likes. Oh, and my wife & kids. I like them too. They’re alright.
So this is a blog about all that. To be honest Dad Saloon really was meant to be “Dad’s a Loon” but when I went to buy the domain name a long time ago, it turns out dadsaloon.com looks like Dad Saloon, which frankly is a much cooler name. Go figure. (Cool story Hansel!)
Anyways I’m the main loon and I hope you like my ramblings.
*I don’t expect to make any cash from this blog. I fully understand my friend has set me up to create my own Creed Thoughts for his enjoyment.
