Baby Bear (Early Tuesday Post)

I don't recall exactly when it was first expressed around me, this odd colloquial phrasing to express perfection in balance, a childhood reference I never particularly enjoyed for the glaring plotholes and inconsistencies inherent in fairy tales. Yet now, now I see the beauty in it. The rapture. The sheer excellence and harmony in simplicity.

Baby Bear.


Hey, Bob, how was your day? Pretty hot out, wasn't it?
Naw, dude, everything was baby bear.

Hey, Ted, they screw up the margarita recipe again?
Nope. It's just baby bear.

Jesus Christ, Antonio! I heard your kid fell into the grisly pit at the zoo! Is she hurt??
No, she's all baby bear.

Baby Bear - adj. cls. Descriptor for a situation that is just right; perfect in every way; neither too hot nor too cold, too big nor too small, too hard nor too soft, but always and even ineffably perfect without over-achieving. It's all very Zen.

Ex: The right mattress; your favorite pair of gray sweatpants with the pockets and the drawstring and that little food stain you don't exactly remember the nature of; Mila Kunis.

Now go, children. Go to your FaceSpaces and your MyBooks and your Twattlers and make this happen. When the next person asks you how your day was, tell them it was baby bear. If nothing huge happened but you were completely content with what you did and are enjoying what life offers to you every day in the form of a sweet-smelling breeze and a few tumbling leaves, I bid you, tell them all your day was baby bear.

On Jason Segel

I often wonder if Jason Segel really enjoys the band Rush so much he tries to get it inserted into any project he's working on. "How I Met Your Mother," "Freaks and Geeks," I Love You, Man, Forgetting Sarah Marshal. Granted, I don't think his 3 lines in Say Anything gave him a lot of pull in the writer's room, but still it makes me wonder.

And then I wonder how weird that is and I'm not sure I'd really want to hang out with him.

On Man Law

My friends, and experience today has left me cold, the knowledge that our primal urges and behaviors have in fact not been tempered by the Man Law (or more recently "Bro Code," which we will discourage because it tacitly empowers those who identify as 'bros').

Despite what some hit shows entering their 5th season on ABC might have you believe, Man Law does not have a proper code of conduct established for every behavior, if only because as men we have the startling ability to continuously find new and horrible things to do to each other that remain utterly hilarious.

Case in point:

Earlier today I had an IM conversation with a friend of mine. This friend happens to posses ovaries whereas I, like her significant other, have testes. Note this, as I will make reference to it later on.

Now this conversation ended with the invitation to continue via text message if I so desired, to which I replied that I was pretty done, but would be open to such pleasantries. Now several hours later I had gone out to eat and gone food shopping and picked up a very useful text down at the book store, so I was in a fairly good mood and filled with a sense of accomplishment. Deciding to spread this joy, I texted this friend a photo I snapped a few weeks ago of my cat, sitting on my bed and absolutely mesmerized by Aqua Teen Hunger Force on my TV. Adorable.

Now shortly after this happened I ended up having a very long conversation with a person actually sitting next to me, so I understandably forgot about the message for a while. This ultimately led to my surprise when I received a message back. A picture message, no less.

Now if you recall, I mentioned that both I and my friend's sig-oth both are in possession of testes. I know this because the image I received (not reproduced here) depicted in a grainy, out-of-focus manner two hanging, shriveled gonads and what I assume to be an elastic waistband and probably part of a thumb.

The Dilemma

Now I'll be honest. I have seen so called "stag" films. I have taken biology class. I am the proud owner of two myself so, yes, I am familiar with what balls look like. Granted, the photo was very poorly taken but considering the job at hand I'm actually rather impressed with the lighting.

Irrespective, I find myself in a bit of a quandary. There is know real well-known procedure in Man Law to deal with a bro answering his girlfriend's phone and presumptively texting his junk to said girlfriend's friend.

Closest corollaries: A) A bro answers another bro's phone and performs said action to a third bro or a mutually detested anti-bro, or B) A bro wantonly texts his junk to his girlfriend's girl friend and a tryst and/or screaming match ensues.

So you see, it's just not expected to have a non-bro text you his happy sack from his brah's phone. It's a game-thrower. Your game is thrown. Off-like. Still, it has happened. How does one react?

Plan A: Return the Gauntlet - A challenge has been issued. The non-bro has asserted ownership over a specific vagina and is asserting Alpha status. One may meet this challenge head-on and instantly respond with a more graphic, better shot picture of one's own genitalia, preferably similar but more visually upsetting, in a "one upmanship" maneuver. Appropriate situational response would be all the loose skin from one's scrotum, collected outside a cuped fist and dangled like a fungal node similar to the Toadstool King in the live-action movie version of Super Mario Bros. starring John Leguizamo as young plumber Luigi Mario. This display shows the Alpha Bro that one is an equal to be respected, though not necessarily feared as a rival suitor for the vagoo. Camaraderie is reached through mutual disgusting jokes.

Plan B: Tattle on the Douche - Now this non-bro is clearly a douche, possibly of the bag variety but also possibly merely a douche with an niche-evolved sense of humor. He probably feels threatened by your relationship with his brah, a brohood in its own right that predates their mutual bro-ing out. Since he is obviously a douche, one may not feel very guilty in telling his girlfriend what has transpired. The two possible reasons for this are The blatant and the shady.

• Blatant: "You're boyfriend is a douche. I sent you a pic-msg last night and he answered your phone and shot back a picture of his balls. He doesn't respect me, or you, or the fact that you are capable of having friends outside of his group of people you have repeatedly referred to as "completely retarded assholes' and, oh yeah, he's an admitted Nazi."
• Shady: "Yo, so funny story? I sent you a pic last night on your phone last night, just my cat being adorable? And then I started talking to my mom and I get a text back from you and it takes me a minute to realize that I'm looking at a picture of balls. Yeah, I know, funny right? Anyway I ended up having a conversation with [REDACTED BRO NAME] about how I was familiar with the sight and he thought I wasn't enough and yeah, so, funny right?"

Now the first option is pretty out of proportion. It is not in one's duty to dictate the lives of others, especially bros because if we help bros then they will never die out via natural selection and we'll have to keep giving the Darwin Awards out every year.

However, option two is now better. Yes, if you can detach from the situation a bit you will find that it is in fact truly hilarious as a moment. You just have to get past every social dictum that's violated by impromptu testicular exposure. Funny. Ha. Yes. This is a move of the defined Anti-Bro

Yet even this option is actually a veiled version of option one. It's a round-about way of saying "You're boyfriend is an ass who treats you like an empty bag of corn chips," but denying one's own belief in this absolute fact, relying on She Who Sleeps With The Accused to come to this same conclusion despite how okay with it one seems to be. This is the move of the Shady Bro.


So which of these plans of attack have I subscribed to? Well, I completely didn't even think of one-upping the bastard until hours later because despite his suspicions I really don't have aims towards his vagina. I know, I realized how good it was then, too. However after much debate I was approached by another Male, whom I trust is a brilliant fellow and just inebriated enough to give perfect uninhibited advice, and we had a quorum. We agreed that the best course of action was simply to file this tidbit of information away in the ol' noggin and let my brah handle it because it's her problem, and eventually she will learn of her bro's habits. Unfortunately, I actually can detach from the situation and I really find it very funny, and I know she would too so it's ind of killing me like the best joke I could tell but OOPS NO IT MIGHT VIOLATE SOME KIND OF TRUST IN GIRL WORLD and of course that leads to yelling in the real world which leads to little Adolf going all blitzkrieg on my ass and attacking Broland after the invasion of Czechbroslovakia.

So I might be able to hold this information for a while yet. Still publishing it on the internet and telling all my friends, but I think I can go without tattling on the prick. Besides, dude's packin' an overnight bag instead of suitcase, if you know what I mean.




















(Please note: this is an entirely different variety of douchebag than previously delt with, a Brous Maximus, but is still hilarious.)

When It Happens to Other People, Sure

Tonight I had dinner with my father, my stepmother, and my too younger half-brothers. It was the littler one's 14th birthday. We ate at a fancy Italian restaurant and I finally got to have real veal and I even tried a bite of ostrich, which was awesome because I imagine you slaughter ostriches by burying some bear traps in sand and then chasing them around the yard with a stick, yelling and screaming all the way.

Anyway, the birthday boy complained that he hardly ever can contact me because he had to switch AIM accounts and he stopped receiving updates from me on Facebook. I kindly informed him that this was because I defriended his punk ass because I didn't want my family reading and commenting on all the crass and hateful shit I post (usually about them).

Our father found this very amusing, I mean laugh heartily with a full belly hilarious.

That was of course until I said, "Oh yeah and you," and his grin dropped like acid at a Phish concert. Shocked, wounded, limping, he asked how I could do such a thing and I again replied that I defriended all but a few family members and that it is highly inappropriate for a parent to Facebook friend their children anyway, though he did not enjoy this. I must, however, point out that my stepmother, who usually hates me and everything about me with a gusto exclusively reserved for racist Southern folk in social progress nominees for Best Picture of the Year, thought this was the funniest thing to happen all night, and keep in mind she had already (jokingly) threatened to "fucking kill" me if I corrupted her little boy with cheerleaders like the birthday card I gave him suggested. [Side note: the cheerleaders were male, in leather and that was not just "kill" but "fucking kill" which we all know hurts way more.]

Yes, you know you slayed the audience when the person who hates you is laughing her ass off and the last thing your father says to you as you drive off in the dark and rain is "Yeah, fuck you, buddy."

Awesome.

On Basketball

Since my dear friend Bryan Haas has taken tonight as an opportunity to break away from his usual sports blogging to talk about something serious, like baseball.

Well not to be upstaged, tonight I shall be sharing with you my revolutionary theories on the third most-American sport, basketball.


Now to begin, I would like to point out that I may appear biased in this tirade. Yes, dear readers, I was by birth technically a Jewish child and thus I am incapable of playing basketball, dancing without lifting chairs over my head and paying full retail price for anything. Yes, the only way you'll catch me at a Lakers game is if A) I was invited and couldn't get out of it, B) was given tickets I could not scalp or C) I have recently purchased the team straight-up cash.

But I am not the petty man I may seem. No, I have caused my share of upsets in high school's Knock-Out games. (Possibly the lowest time in gym class history: when children actually WANTED to play dodgeball.) More importantly, I have in fact drawn all attention into a chaotic room to myself before demanding respect and calling a perfectly executed lob toss in Beer Pong while yelling the requisite baritone "KOBE!" Clearly, I am no provincial man.


So yes, basketball. These are my beliefs on basketball:

1. It really does go on too long
2. The scoring is ridiculous
3. Improvement in the caliber of the average player has made the game too easy

Now all of these points actually stand together. The foremost and the latter inevitably lead to the middle issue. Think about it. When a game scored by ones, twos and the occasional three routinely ends with both teams reaching triple-digit tallies something has gone horribly wrong.

I will not argue this. I will also not claim that "only the last 15 minutes are important." That's far too arbitrary. I would just as soon suggest subtracting all points scored within randomly generated spans of time roughly equal to three-fourths of the game. Every moment is important. Do I merely suggest fewer moments. No, because frankly I would not want to watch less than 60 minutes of a game anyway.

So how do we fix this? The players can easily score 100 points in 60 minutes, but we cannot reduce the length of a game. The obvious solution?


Making It Harder to Score

Sheer brilliance!

Stage 1: Raising the Hoop - At least 25%. This is just common sense. Basketball players used to be 5'9". They also used to not allow "coloured folk" in the gyms, but as was the case then, sometimes change is needed. Taller, more athletic players means the game needs to be retooled for a more competitive show. "But, Dave," you ask, "isn't that too unfair? I mean the hoop isn't much bigger than the ball! Shooting higher isn't realistic!" Well, I'm right there with you. We need to compensate the compensation.

Stage 2: Biggering the Hoop - Yeah, obviously the target has to be bigger if we're moving it farther a way and throwing the same sized projectile at it by hand. I'm not a monster. Think something around the scale of a smallish hula hoop. Something very young children might have.
"But, Dave!" I hear you cry again, and frankly it's getting fucking annoying, "Have you not stolen all the fun from the sport? Is scoring now not harder and less frequent?" And again I say I am thirty-seven steps ahead of you.

Stage 3: Slamball Wasn't All Bad - Remember when they tried to legitimize those crazy engineering frat boys who built a basketball court with trampolines and beat the hell out of each other flying through the air? Yeah, I didn't know what it was really called either. Thank you, Google. Anyway, in spicing up the old sport they actually had the right idea. What we need to do is make basketball harder, but more exciting. I propose not going the way of the Natty Ice drinkers, but the route of the ancient Mesoamericans who basically invented the game that became both basketball and lacrosse. And kinda soccer. They were kind of awesome.

No, we shall not kill the losing team (or their captain, not even on special holidays, Like the Final Four). What we will do is reintroduce a primal and dangerous quality to the game. WE SHALL SET THE HOOPS ABLAZE. WITH FIRE. I'm serious. Increase hoop diameter 30%, raise hoop height 25%, then set the sucker on fire. HOW IS THIS NOT AWESOME. You can't tell me. Because it is. WHAT. NOW.

The trampolines in the floors I've given up on.


For those interested, my new project is tackling exactly the opposite problems of low scores and desensitizingly copious amounts of violence, that last haven of white sportsmanship since Tiger Woods broke the color barrier associated with actually caring about golf: hockey.

A Toast to Ted Kennedy

Here's to Ted Kennedy!

Raise your glasses, everyone. I didn't know the man, and what few positions of his I was aware of I disagreed with, and to be frank I really could not care less about his death one way or the other, one less old rich white man disagreeing with the guys I agree with, I guess.

BUT ANY REASON TO DRINK, AM I RIGHT, TED!?

On Caddyshack: A Running Commentary by Dave Zucker and the indomitable Bryan Haas

Bryan Haas is the Brosef Goebbels to my Martin Broman. His blogs can be found at TotalHaastility and the Bleacher Report. Nerd.

Dave: Alright, that woman's vagina has to look like a Japanese subway station by now.

Bryan: Imagine if they were all the same age? Her placenta would have looked like the back of an entertainment center.

B: Do you ever think that Chevy Chase would like to build a time machine, and go back to this time period so that he could kill himself because it was never going to get any better for him? That's of course contingent upon Chevy Chase having enough money to build a time machine.

D: He and Steve Martin would pool their resources. With a loan from Eddie Murphy.

B: Maybe a little Dan Aykroyd too?

D: I was gonna say that.

B: Where the hell is he now? He might work at the new Sonic in Binghamton.

D: Writing the next Ghostbusters movie

B: Ah, I like that more.

D: It's CGI with the entire original cast voicing. Brooklyn goes to hell. Literally.

B: I like it.

D: You are a fool.

B: Clearly. I'm going to be like Bill Murray and just carry around a pitchfork.

D: But would you wear a little red jumpsuit and hooded cape?

B: Do I have the abs for that?

D: No. DAMNIT MRS. HAVERCAMP!

B: What a scrumptious piece she is, huh?

D: Dude, expensive though. I could buy like 4 or 5 Cokes for her price.

B: I'm more of a Pepsi man myself … Judge Smales. Tremendous slouch.

D: That reminds me, I still have ticket's to Dangerfield's in the city. Gotta get on that … I feel like no one ever says "That'll never happen" and immediately cause it. We're too well trained now.

B: I want a golf bag with a radio. But it can only play Journey.

D: Why would it need to play anything else?

B: A little Men at Work would be acceptable.

D: Hey, Maggie, clearly wants to do Danny in the freezer at work tonight.

B: Sperm is more potent at lower temperatures. Maybe that's why she thinks she's knocked up later in the film.

D: Oh, I always thought it was because they were dumb promiscuous potato peelers. [Note: this is a JOKE. I am Irish and I absolutely adore my retarded Mick brethren.]

B: She is an Irish Whore.

D: A HOOR YOU SAY!?

B: I'm going to start dressing like Rodney Dangerfield in this movie. I could pull that off.

D: If I follow you around as your Asian investor Wong … OH! Little-known fact: the only good varmint pootang is actually sheep poontang. Pig is also acceptable.

B: Compelling stuff … Let's go to bullfights on acid.

D: It's very urban Hemmingway. Very appealing.

B: My guinea pig's name is Hemingway.

D: I've been meaning to get an all-gray smoosh-faced cat and name him Melville … I have never seen a man act so cool in a speedo and actually succeed.

B: It was the 80's.

D: You know that actor was a violent anti-smoker and was up to a pack-a-day by the end of filming?

B: Really? What a random fact.

D: Hey, this is a commentary. Gotta have SOME stupid trivia.

B: I'm sincerely upset by the fact that Chevy Chase has more hair than I do. And that ain't saying much.

D: Does he still? I'm fairly certain he transformed into Kevin Nealon in the mid-80s.

B: Wow, that is spot-on. And correct

D: It's like the Last Supper of Comedy. He thought we wouldn't notice. And no one did.

B: Well, until you Dave. Which really doesn't shock me.

D: I stopped watching Weeds 2 eps into season 3 because of it.

B: See, I enjoy that show. But it's just the prospect of seeing Mary Louise Parker naked that keeps me coming back for more. Or maybe it's not wanting to see Elizabeth Perkins naked. Either way.

D: I just got too busy and stopped caring. I can see her naked on the internet. You can see everyone naked on the internet.

B: Even [REDACTED (male coworker)]. Yes, I've looked. Ok, not really.

D: Aaaahh… now I just pictured them doing it and it was more awkward than my parents.


[A portion here has been redacted because it involves very harsh criticisms of the love-making style of certain former coworkers who utterly failed to keep their awful relationship secret. Also Bryan Haas said he wanted to break off a piece of Judge Smales.]


B: Strange thing about this movie, I had never seen it in it's entirety until last Fall. Criminal, I know.

D: …and they let you do a commentary on it.


[We herein devolved into a discussion of Wiffleball. Watch this instead: Caddyshack in 30 Seconds: With Bunnies. Good night, sex weasels of the internet.]