WTF?! How in the hell did I miss this?

If only Chuck Norris jokes were still funny... I might have voted Republican.

Electric Six - Gay Bar

...does this really need explanation?

Mama Said Knock You Out

Hockey.



That's right. I said hockey.




I know I said this blog wasn't going to be about sports or what have you. But fuck off. It's my blog, and I'll blog about whatever I want to blog about. It's up to my blog discretion to choose what is blog worthy. So go blog yourself you bloggy blog blog blog blog blog blog.

I really hate that word.

Moving on.

Hockey.

Hockey rules because it has fighting. It's as integral to the game as the puck. Not only is it allowed, it's condoned. When the gloves drop, the refs suddenly become Mills Lane and monitor the fight instead of trying to stop it. Only when one player (or both sometimes) goes to the ground, do they move in and separate the two. In one video I watched, the ref actually bent down to move a helmet out of the way so one of them didn't trip over it and get hurt... (This, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call irony) Outside of boxing or MMA, it's probably the most violent sport. Which got me thinking...

More sports should involve fist fights.

I know what you're gonna say, every sport has it's fights. And while it's true that some sports do have brawls now and again (Baseball's bench clearers, Indiana and Detroit's basket-brawl that flowed up into the stands, Soccer's fan fight riots, the occasional NASCAR "angry about being put into the wall" slug fest and so on). But those sports are already exciting. Well... minus NASCAR.
The only people who watch NASCAR by choice either have too many chromosomes, or not enough. I'm thinking more about boring "sports" like golf, tennis, etc.

C'mon... how amazing would it be to see Venus Williams hurdle the net and brain Anna Kournikova with her racket? Or to see Phil "Always the bridesmaid, never the bride" Mickelson spear Tiger Woods as he's about to make his championship putt on the 18th green?

Maybe I just enjoy senseless violence because I'm a man.

Or maybe the fact that the O'Reily Factor is on TV is making me crave watching someone's face get beaten into a fleshy pulp.

But either way... sports could learn a thing or two from Hockey. And that thing is how to bleed more often, and more efficiently. Until then... keep playing. And keep smiling.

Cows is people too.

The average American consumes 200 hamburgers per year.*


American cattle are injected with gallons of BGH (Bovine Growth Hormone) that in turn is ingested by humans and causes girls to reach puberty at a much younger age than ever before seen in history.

This, coupled with the fact that all little girls are whores, leads to overpopulation and shrinking resources that will eventually lead to the demise of the entire human race.

Cow calves are kept in tight stalls in the dark and force-fed nothing but milk in order to ensure their muscles are soft and underdeveloped for veal steaks.

My roommate refuses to do the dishes and I'm flat broke and can't order a pizza.

For all of the aforementioned reasons, I, Daniel Kilpatrick Ebenezer Naponiello VII, am hereby beginning a hunger strike.

Following in the footsteps of such great Americans as Homer Simpson and Mahatma Ghandi, I will not touch a single morsel of food until the conditions facing the bovine species in the meat production industry improve (you know, besides the whole inevitably being murdered, dissected, and eaten by me part).

I am not an idiot. I understand that improvements in this field are going to be slow going in order to reach the level at which I think are, at the very least, adequate. It will take years, maybe even decades, and I am prepared to keep this hunger strike going for as long as it takes.

I will not be budged.

I will not be dissuaded.

I will not be tempted off my path of civil disobedience.

I am but a man, taking a single step in the right direction in hopes of starting a revolution. Would I call myself a hero? Definitely. And so should you. But I am not doing this for you. I am doing this for all the children out there who should be free to moo incessantly and obnoxiously at the top of their lungs and annoy the piss out of their parents as they pass every farm on the way to Grandma's house, and know deep in their cold black little hearts that those cows chewing cud and shitting where they sleep, have healthy undrugged flanks of deliciousness.

Oh fuck yes! I just found a bag of freezer-burnt frozen french fries. Screw that hunger strike shit. I'm fucking starving.


*all facts in this post are completely made up. stupid.

Nobel Prize, Here I Come

Approximately 3 hours ago I returned from seeing the University's performance of The Who's Tommy. As you may or may not know, I am a pretty big fan of The Who and of the musical Tommy in particular. (I like Quadrophenia better as a film and Tommy better as an album, but that's a moot point) The entire cast was brilliant, with special consideration to the guy who played Oliver Reed's character as Tommy's father (in the movie he was the Lover, but the script was amended in various ways for the play). From where I was sitting he looked a dead ringer, and his voice was identical. Wait... did I say the entire cast? I neglected to mention that the dude who played the adult Tommy was horrendous. He was completely tone deaf, had a piss poor sense of timing, and when "rocking out" to the songs played by the live band on stage, his "dance moves" were exaggerated, ridiculous, and completely contrived. I'm fairly sure his choreographer must have been in an advanced stage of Parkinson's disease. Honestly, the only way to describe his actions with any sort of accuracy can be summed up in two words: vertical seizure.

All of this of course has very little to do with the content of my purpose behind this post. Before the play began, I had been sitting in my seat, alone, not talking to anyone but watching everyone, as I'm prone to do, and oddly enough had a plethora of near-friend sightings. For those of you who don't know what those are, you do, just don't know that you do. A near-friend sighting is that phenomenon of when in a crowd of strangers, you see someone that you think you know, but it turns out just to be someone who looks just like them. Well while sitting in my seat, I "saw" two ex-girlfriends, another ex-girlfriend's ex-boyfriend, my best friend's brother, and two friend's of friends. And I really hate when that happens once, but when it happens 6 times in the matter of 10 minutes, I get pissed. But through my anger, I stumbled across quite possibly the best idea I've ever had.

From now on whenever you find someone who looks just like someone else, grab them, bring them to the original, interview them to find out which one is cooler, and then kill the other one. This not only cuts down on the number of annoying near-friend encounters (and potentially embarrassing as well if you're one of those who has actually yelled out your friends name or, god forbid, started a conversation with them before realizing the truth), but would also help cut down on the earth's overcrowding. I mean, if all of these duplicates live in the same state as their originals, within just over a 100 mile radius, imagine how many there are across the country, even the world.

Not to mention the world would be a way better place. I mean, if you living or dying depended on how cool you were, you'd have to get super cool really fast just to secure your place. It would make life more interesting if you were living an NCAA basketball type tournament bracket to be the coolest "you" there is.

And also like the NCAA tournament, it'd only be single elimination.

Inaugural Post. Can you feel the excitement?

So right now, you may be asking yourself:

"What the shit is this? Why are you blogging about Golf? Golf sucks. Blog about football. That shit rules. Go Cowboys! Woo!"

To which I would reply... well... I wouldn't reply. You're obviously inbred and/or borderline retarded. So step away from the computer, crawl back inside your box, and take a nap in your pile of popcorn styrofoam before you hurt yourself.

Now, if you had asked:

"Way to Golf? This is an interesting title. I should like to know more. Please teach me oh wise one, so that I may become as enlightened as thou art and cast off these ill-fitting robes of ignorance."

I would gladly tell you that this blog does indeed have absolutely nothing to do with Golf, per se. The title was simply derived from an experience I shared with a group of my close friends two years ago while walking down some train tracks on our way to Chicago's Southside Irish Parade. It was around nine in the morning, we were all drunk from playing flippy cup (if you call it 'canoe' I'll fucking castrate you with a pair of rusty garden sheers) to pregame, and were heading to the parade when we passed a municipal golf course. We spied some elderly gentlemen engaging in this ancient worldly passtime, and the alcohol fueling our brains told us "Well now, you know what would be a really entertaining occurrance? If one of us were to shout an off colour remark at those fine gentlemen." Which of course is exactly what happened. My friend Tom, who had the wit and spontaneity that only a 12-pack of Icehouse can bring, immediately shouted, you guessed it...

"Way to Golf!"

So as you see, this phrase has little to do with the sport itself, and everything to do with humor and stupidity, which is the focus of this, my public forum. And now that I've volunteered the information, never ever ever ask me "What does your title mean?" ever again.

I shan't pretend to think I'll update with any sort of consistency, as I tend to tire of things quite easily. In fact, I'll probably post like I fuck. At first I'll be all into it and not want to stop and feel like picking up the phone while doing it so I can brag to my friends in the middle of it all how good I am at it, but then I'll just start to get bored and distracted by the TV, and eventually I'll just give up and go to sleep while I'm still inside.

However, I will post if and when the mood strikes me, so check back often. You might get lucky. And please, do tell your friends.