Sunday, December 9, 2012

Best of 2012 - New York Giants

The Giants won the Super Bowl, 21-17.  It was a close, tense, ugly game which wreaked havoc on my nervous system and digestive tract.  Carlo hosted us at his house for the game, as he does every year.  This year he was kind enough to extend the invitation to football watching sons, which was important as I could not experience this game without Ben beside me.  His allegiances to Big Blue are an odd blend of his father’s neurosis and his own obsessions about the NFL which are rooted more deeply in Madden’12 than the actual realities of the NFL.  But as the game’s tense late quarters simmered, even Ben’s body began to lock up in the stress of the final minutes.  His fair complexion turned a beet red.  With 0:57 left, Brady had to drive the ball down the field, a task he’s conquered many times before.  In the last play of the game, Brady dropped back and sent a Hail Mary to his receivers, aptly covered by Giants defenders in the endzone.  The ball dropped incomplete.  With the ball sputtering on the floor of the Lucas Oil Dome, my team had won the Super Bowl for the fourth time in my life.   My nerves slackened but only a little bit, freeing my vocal chords but still, I was a shaken and dazed wanderer.
Every year for the Super Bowl, Carlo makes a nuclear chili, the best chili you could ever have.  Usually a bowl of this majesty makes its way through my body like an insidious militant band of armed revolutionaries, instilling chaos and fear to all parts.  It is simply the price you must pay.  And last night, at 2:30am, I awoke from an inordinately bizarre and unsettling dream, for which I blame Carlo’ chili.
In my dream, I was standing at the altar of a large cathedral, awaiting my wedding.  I was the age I am now and seated to my right were the groomsmen from my wedding twelve years ago.  They weren’t wearing any unified groomsmen formal attire, and although they were not shabbily dressed, their unmatching attire gave off an air of indifference and contempt that I could sense was not sitting well with the bulk of the ceremony’s attendees.  I looked down to see I was wearing.  I had on an old wrinkled blue suit.  I also wore shoes that were embarrassingly scuffed.  My real wife and children were nowhere in sight and I had no clue where they were or what had happened to them.  I began to feel suffocated and made my way off the altar to a side hallway.  The hallway looked as though it were from my old high school in Armonk that I attended before my family moved down south.  While taking a much needed drink at the water fountain, the realization came to me that I was about to marry the older sister of a girl who was my eighth grade lab partner.  This older sister was then standing next to me wearing a crème colored suit.  She looked nothing like my wife and the absence of a reason for my real wife and the childrens' disappearance began to fill me with an enormous sadness.  This woman, whose name completely eludes me, stood before me saying that it was a good thing that we were being married.  I nodded dumbly and quietly began to panic.  Then I was standing again at the front of the church waiting for the proceeding to begin.  I watched as the adult version of the girl who’d been my lab partner, the younger sister of my bride to be, began a slow and sultry walk down the center aisle to take a seat in front in support of her sister.  She was dressed in all black and she looked magnificent; sensuous and beautiful in contrast to her older sister who was urbane yet marred by an inescapable dullness.  I began to ponder how to best flee the scene, looking to my groomsmen who were now lounging on a low slung couch, growing drowsy and boorish.  Fortunately, I woke up.

Unable to sleep I went downstairs and turned on the television.  I’d had my fill of highlights of the Super Bowl.  Indeed, each time the Giants have won the Super Bowl, I have felt as though God Himself has reached down to embrace me and deliver a perfunctory gift of telluric reward.  But with objective eyes, Super Bowl XLVI was an awkwardly won game.  My digestive tract had done its damage to my brain as a result of Carlo’s chili.  So I tuned into one of the various nature channels in the hopes of seeing some documentary of lions devouring prey animals in the African grasslands.  For reasons I’ll never understand, I always find these videos of nature’s utter savagery inordinately comforting.
Amid the mindlessly ingested commercials plaguing the channels I sought, was one that carried a warning that materials discussed were controversial and might be upsetting to some viewers.  Ah, indeed the trap was set and I took the bait.  The commercial spot featured nothing more than text and a spoken narrative stating that our way of life is about to end and that America is doomed.  But there was something I could do to protect myself, my assets and my family.  For further information, I was invited to log onto the website:

How could I not follow through and see what this was all about?  Did I not task myself with documenting 2012, the year when all the sad petals will fall off the flower of human existence?  How could I turn my back on a website whose warning carried such pathos and implied perversion?  When I heard this voice calling to me from the abyss (who was Alex Jones FWIW), whose invitation at that hour of the night specifically looks to hook lonely insomniacs pining for that voice assuring them the end is near; I knew I had to follow through.  But not that night.  This would have to be for later.

The day had been slow going at work as I was reeling from the Giants’ big win and the effects of too little sleep and too much chili.  I took some time in the morning to soak in the internet news reports of the game from the night before.  I’d watched every minute of the game and already read any salient analysis that might be out there, but somehow, mindlessly scrolling through coverage of the game sustained the euphoria of winning that so quickly is vanquished by life’s inescapable banalities.   The afternoon would be lost in a vortex of work that came in the form of a large data assembly assignment brought to me by my boss, a benevolent man who seemed almost apologetic about the throbbing tedium I’d have to endure.  Although I’d wanted to sneak some time to investigate that NewAmerica23 nonsense, I couldn’t with this newly delivered task.  But before I got lost in this task, I did manage to peek into’s coverage of the Super Bowl.
The article itself was a straightforward rendering of the game and the handful of buzzing side stories that are somehow as vital as the scores and statistics.  But this was not what I was after.  I wanted to read the reader comments as provided by subscribers who logged onto  Considering this was a matchup between two left leaning East Coast cities, I anticipated angry voices from America’s Heartland to post up some bungled attempts to stab at the vicious liberal dragon that wants to take away their guns and their freedoms!
I was richly rewarded:


1.  Our first customer is “dontrussgov” who doesn’t much care for that Puerto Rican dancing.  You taking note, Victor Cruz?

The NFL is becoming more and more like the NBA, neither league possessing much sportsmanship. It's now more about classless in your face behaivor. Do we have to watch hotdog players get on one knee to pointout a in your face first down. Nor do we need salsa dancing after a touch down.”

2.  Next up is “tazzuja” who wishes you lemmings would put down the remote, popcorn and beer and redirect your attention to the New World Order coming to wipe away your savings and give them to third world poor people too lazy to work.


Thank God it's over. Can we now be spared any more hype?
I didn't even bother to watch this freak show designed to brainwash the American people to go into more debt.”

3.  “Foxsavesuandme” believes the Mara family should promptly deliver the Lombardi trophy to Redskins owner Dan Snyder.


Super Bowl Giants with an asterisk?
Couldn't beat the Redskins in 2 attempts

4    “turdart” is upset that Mayor Bloomberg has not organized a ticker tape parade for returning soldiers.


NY1 cable news just announced a 'ticker tape parade' for a bunch of footballer players. None for the returning soldiers though, per the twisted mayor Bloomberg, eh?  Very telling.

5    At the conclusion of Madonna’s halftime show, the words “World Peace” were projected onto the field in massive letters.  When “souse65” saw that, it just reminded him how much he hates those goddamn hippie commie scum:


The whole world peace thing at the end of the halftime show just ruined it. I hate hippies with a passion.

6    “jackton” just relieved that a god-fearing conservative like Eli Manning won the MVP.  “I don’t know about the rest of the team” he writes.  Don’t worry, Jack.  I’m sure Jason Pierre-Paul is a card carrying member of the John Birch Society and I’m 100% positive that Osi Umenyiora thinks Barack Obama is a Kenyan usurper:


I do not know about the team but the QB is a conservative along with his brother and family.

       7.     Honestly, do these fuckers even try?


It was Obama's fault that Madonna performed at halftime

Don't laugh,,,it may well have been,,,LOL He seems to want to control everything else...


The best outcome ever! Now if we can just get them to stop prancing liberal half brained hoes around a stage at half time

8  Ah, here’s my favorite.  Apparently, the filthy rotten Irish of Boston are to blame.  Because the one thing I can guarantee about New York is that it doesn’t have any democrats and certainly doesn’t have any Irish:


Cry in your green beer you filthy shanty Irish liberal democrat donkeyheads.........God punishes you for your support of the Kennedys and cheating!!!

9. This one has nothing to do with the game and the dazzlingly puerile comments it inspired.  The bewildering paradox of user name and rendered message warranted inclusion:

The last woman you tried to get sat on my face last night.  I clinched the deal with this line: "Sit on my face, and I'll guess your weight."

Best of 2012 - New York Islanders

The New York Islanders and I were born 40 years ago a few miles apart; the former in Hempstead the latter in Rockville Centre. Although I’m admittedly a casual NHL fan, I do harbor a strong affection for this team.  I blame my adoration of Mets-borne calamities having no channel in the winter. So like many fans, I was troubled at the prospect of losing the Islanders to Kansas City or Quebec.

It did look grim. Understandably, Long Islanders did not want to hand their tax dollars over to Charles Wang to rebuild the 110% asbestos Nassau Coliseum. Lucky for us, Brooklyn came to the rescue and now the team will play in the Barclay’s Center. The team’s age-40 mid-life identify crisis came to a swift and fortuitous resolution? No more wallowing away in suburban anonymity. It’s hipsville and urban chic for the boys in blue and orange.

Best of 2012 - Newt Gingrich

Newt Gingrich tried but failed to win the bid for the 2012 Republican nomination.  His biggest victory along the way was probably winning the South Carolina and Georgia Primaries.

Honestly, Bush 43’s second term and Obama’s first term have taught me that it simply doesn’t matter who’s in the White House. America’s carnival of ignorance, chaos and calamity is going to sustain on its own course, no matter who leads it. So having a baboon like Gingrich in the oval office might even have delivered some much needed comic relief.

He is the ultimate Buzz Windrip from Sinclair Lewis’ It Can’t Happen Here. Against Obama, Gingrich unleashed the tired Nixonian charges of arrogance and elitism. To his enemy on the right (Romney), Newt borrowed shamelessly from the Occupy movement and claimed Mitt was a financial predator who doesn’t pay enough taxes. While seeking to deny the marriage rights of others, he himself is a serial adulterer, leaving behind two rather heinous-sounding divorces as though they never happened. When faced with questions he doesn’t feel like answering, Gingrich whines and cries about media unfairness and liberal bias. To the raucous mongrels attending those primary debates, no comment from any candidate elicited such spontaneous joy like Newt lashing out at the media. It is his ‘Freebird’. It is his ‘Layla’. It is his ‘Stairway to Heaven’. They’ve heard it on the radio a thousand times but it’s the one song they want to hear live. It takes a special breed of man who, despite possessing the charisma of a drunken Serbian bureaucrat, looks in the mirror and says, 'Yeah, I should lead the free world.  It's me they need'.

Gingrich endures.  He is a magnificent specimen: a floating mass of an unidentifiable, shape-shifting synthetic substance buoying happily as he navigates the national ocean of blame, negativity and predictable, unrelenting ignorance.