You Are Not Lance Armstrong

Hey, you!

Yes, you sir! You, riding your 12-speed Trek Roadster in the middle of MacArthur Boulevard in the middle of rush hour! I have something I desperately need to tell you, and that is this:

You are not Lance Armstrong.

Oh, I know you think you’re Lance Armstrong. The Livestrong band on your wrist tells me as much. You even got the bike with the toeloops. And the asstight spandex biking shorts. I bet you think that looks awesome. I see you’re also wearing the fancy Giro bike helmet, the one that makes your head look like a crimini mushroom. That’s professional! I bet you even show up at the office, all sweaty, bragging to people that you, indeed, do bike to work. Kudos to you. Maybe you even belong to a peleton on the weekends.

But, alas, none of that makes you Lance Armstrong. I looked at a picture of Lance Armstrong just to make sure, and wouldn’t you know it? You look nothing like him.

You see, Lance Armstrong is a former world champion cyclist and seven-time winner of the Tour de France. Did you win the Tour de France seven times? No, you did not. Only Lance Armstrong did that. That’s why he’s Lance Armstrong, and you are not.

Lance Armstrong also beat cancer. Did you know that? He beat cancer and now only has one testicle to show for it. How many testicles do you have? I’m betting two, though you probably don’t get a whole lot of use out of them. That extra ball, sadly, disqualifies you from being Lance Armstrong.

Lance Armstrong also banged Grammy-award winning recording artist Sheryl Crow. Have you ever banged a Grammy winner? No? Know why? Because you aren’t Lance Armstrong.

You ought to know that when Lance Armstrong rides his bike, he does it in internationally sanctioned races that are planned months in advance. That’s why you don’t see any cars on the road when he races. They’ve been closed. You, however, take that to mean that all roads are open to bicycles and cars equally. Which is why I’m now stuck behind you while you go an astonishing 11 miles per hour in the middle of a single-lane road. Hey, that’s pretty fast for a bike! But you know what? I drive a Honda, which goes significantly faster. And every second I spend behind you is another second I want to mow you down like a fucking dog.

And why are you wearing a Discovery Channel jersey, as if you are actually a member of Team Discovery? The only reason Lance Armstrong wears a Discovery Channel jersey is because Discovery Channel pays him to do so. Discovery Channel does not pay you to wear their jersey. Like any person who’s experimented with drugs, I enjoy the Discovery Channel a great deal. But that does not mean I imagine that I’m being sponsored by them to ruin other people’s commute.

If you notice, there’s a strip of pavement next to the road. This is called a shoulder. It was invented by very smart people to keep cyclists and pedestrians safe from oncoming car traffic. But you have chosen to ignore this ingenious invention. Why? Because, clearly, you believe that you’re Lance Armstrong. Some roads now even have bicycle lanes to accommodate miserable people such as yourself. I assume you ignore those as well. Man, you’re a rebel.

Even if your name is Lance Armstrong, you are still not Lance Armstrong. You are Lance Armstrong from Topeka. Or Lance Armstrong from Chelsea. You’re not that Lance Armstrong. In fact, any time you think you are Lance Armstrong, consult this picture:

See the difference? Notice how Lance looks a like a Badass and you do not? Do you look like this? No? Then this case of mistaken identity has been solved. You are not Lance Armstrong. You’re a fucking dipshit. Now move.

Tevas Are Worse Than Hitler

A few weeks ago, I was walking around downtown when I spotted a guy hanging out with his kid. The guy was wearing Tevas. I immediately wanted to punch him in kidneys.

It’s 2006, people. If you’re still wearing Tevas, it better be because you carry a canoe around with you wherever you go. Otherwise, what excuse could you possibly have? I’m fully aware that having a child instantly makes you a fucking dork. But does it make you so unaware of your own dorkiness that you would actually go out in public wearing river shoes? If so, shoot me in the balls.

I went to prep school (Yes, I went to prep school. I know. I’m gay.) during the dreaded Teva/Birkenstock explosion of the early 90’s. People wore Tevas, played hacky-sack, and listened to Phish. This had to be the darkest period in our nation’s history. Far worse than slavery. The worst part is that girls got in on the trend. Have you ever seen a girl rock a pair of Tevas? Doesn’t it make you immediately want to gag yourself with a nail file? If you’re a girl, and your name is not Rosie O’Donnell, and you’re still wearing Tevas, give it up. You have no reason to continue living.

Don’t give me the whole “they’re comfortable” argument. Fuck that shit. Women are supposed to look hot, not be comfortable. Besides, flip flops are comfortable, and they don’t make you look like you rape maple trees. Buy a pair.

And if you’re a guy who’s still wearing these things, well… Let’s just say that you’re not really a man if you’re wearing shoes that have a fucking ankle strap. Even European men, who are all completely gay, wouldn’t be caught dead in these things. If you’re a guy, wearing Tevas is basically your announcement to the world that A) You have no real interest in your testicles, and B) You have no real concern for citizens of the world that have to look at your raggedy-ass feet. Seriously, look at those fucking things. Just thinking about it now is forcing bile up through my esophagus.

Do people think they look cool in Tevas? Do they think the jazzy nylon pattern is going to somehow make things right? It won’t. Tevas are a horror on par with mass genocide. If you have children and go out in public with them while wearing Tevas, child services should come and immediately place your kids in one of those retarded foster homes. Because, by sporting Tevas, you are telling your children that you hate them, and you are telling the world that your kid has no hope of growing up into something other than a complete douchebag.

I hate Tevas.

Drexl Spivey: The Man I Want My Daughter to Marry

Now that I have a daughter, I get to spend the next 25-30 years worrying about just what sort of jackass she’ll end up marrying. It’s a known fact that 75% of all men are complete tools, so the odds of finding a decent one aren’t that great. It’s the reason why unmarried women over 30 want to hang themselves. They’re screwed. All the good men are taken by then. The only guys left at that age all have something wrong with them. Either they jerk off to dog porn, or they work in politics, or there’s something else repugnant and horrible about them. Ugh.

It makes me think that arranged marriages aren’t so bad. Assholes are easy to spot at an early age. If a young boy acts like a tool, chances are he will become a fully grown one (certainly true of myself). Whereas, if you find a nice young lad, you may have better odds. It’s a great cover-your-daughter’s-ass maneuver.

Even so, marrying a nice boy may not be enough. I want my girl to be protected. I want her taken care of. She’s gonna need a real man. That’s why I have decided exactly whom she will marry:



That’s right. It’s Drexl Spivey, the pimp from “True Romance”.

It’s no secret that “True Romance" is one of the 5 greatest films ever made. And if you believe otherwise, you deserve to be gassed to death. Among the great characters in the history of cinema, Drexl stands alone. This man is a fucking Badass. He’s such a badass, he not only pulls off the whole white-man-acting-like-a-black-man thing, he makes it look cool. No one can do that. But Drexl can. Know why?

Because, YOU DO NOT FUCK WITH DREXL SPIVEY.

Drexl will unload a six-barrel shotgun on you and then go right back to eating his egg roll. That’s the kind of confidence and decisiveness my daughter deserves. And Drexl cares about women, too. For example, there’s a scene where Christian Slater goes to meet Drexl and his bodyguard, Marty. He wants to tell Drexl that his wife, Alabama, won’t be whoring for him anymore. This is their exchange:

MARTY: He’s here about Alabama.
DREXL: (doesn’t bother looking up, because he is a Badass) Where the fuck is that bitch?
SLATER: She’s with me.
DREXL: Who the fuck are you?
SLATER: I’m her husband.
DREXL: (laughs, because he is a Badass) Well, that makes us practically related.

You see that? That is a man who instantly recognizes the importance of family. He also shows great concern for the whereabouts of his woman. And, best of all, he casts a skeptical eye on the man she has married, wary of any potential douchebaggery. How is this not the perfect son-in-law? I want to adopt the guy already.

Later on in that scene, Drexl beats the shit out of Christian Slater. Anyone who beats the shit out of Christian Slater gets an automatic Gold Star from me, but it gets better. After a thorough beating, Drexl turns to Marty:

DREXL: He musta thought it was White Boy Day. It ain’t White Boy Day, is it?
MARTY: No, man. It ain’t White Boy Day.

And this is a white man talking! And he pulls it off! Holy fuck, Drexl is a Badass. Sure, he’s a fictional character, and he ain’t as pretty as a couple of titties, and he gets a bullet to the nuts in the end, but who fucking cares? Look at the guy. Look at his scars! He’s only got one fucking eye! He’s wearing a leather chapeau! Backwards! Do you fuck with this man? No, you do not.

So consider it done. The Girl will be known one day as Mrs. Drexl Spivey. I can’t wait to give her away.

Bullshit Myths About Parenting

When Mrs. Drew got pregnant, I got a lot of needless advice from dipshits with kids. People with kids love to push all their parenting know-how on me and anyone else unfortunate enough to come within earshot. These people need to get a life. I hate people who have no life outside of being a parent. It’s creepy. Go see a movie, for fuck’s sake. Most of what they said is horseshit anyway. To wit:

“Having a kid will change you forever.” Bullshit. Unbelievably wrong. I feel exactly the same as I did three months ago. People make it sound like having a kid is the equivalent of finding Jesus. I fully expected them to be right, too. I was all ready to start weeping at life insurance commercials and what not. But nope. I’m still the same: hornier than a 60-year-old divorcee and annoyed that I don’t have more time for drinking and gambling. Don’t get me wrong. I love the Girl, and I love hanging out with her. But having a kid doesn’t automatically make you a pussy. And if it does, you were probably a pussy to begin with. Pussy.

“Get ready for total sleep deprivation.” Wrong again, fuckstick. I sleep plenty. I wake up to feed the Girl once or twice a night. It takes a grand total of about an hour. So I go to sleep one hour earlier. Thus, I get the same amount of sleep. Amazing how the math works like that. Suck on it.

“Anyone can be a father, but it takes a real man to be a Dad.” Again, total lie. I’m anyone, and I’ve managed to do a good job thus far. The real man is the deadbeat dad. Ditching your wife and kid to go live on a houseboat in San Diego? Now that takes some serious balls.

“I can’t even remember life before (insert douchebag kid’s name here) was born!” No? Nothing memorable about life before you had a kid? Then that means you were a loser. And guess what? You still are one. I had fun before I had a kid, and I enjoy those memories just as much now as I did then. Probably even more so.

“Nothing’s more important than family.” These people obviously haven’t been waiting 29 years for the Vikings to win a Super Bowl.

“Cherish this time. They’ll be grown up before you know it.” This is, hands down, the most annoying thing people say about parenting. The Girl is two months old. These have to have been the longest two months of my life. What month is this? April? It’s only fucking April? Are we going by the Martian calendar? Jesus. The day the Girl can clothe herself, feed herself, mow the lawn and bring me a beer can’t come fast enough.

Daddy Gets His Mind Blown

Do you know the songs "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star" and "The Alphabet Song" (You know, "Now I know my ABC's, next time won't you sing with me.")?

Do you realize that they are, in fact, the same fucking song? Sing them back to back. It's the same melody. Twenty-nine years I've known those songs and never put two and two together.

Holy shitballs.

Trade Secrets From the Greatest Husband in the Fucking Universe

It’s no understatement that I am the greatest husband mankind has ever produced. Compared to me, Ward Cleaver was an adulterous prick. I’m so good at husbanding, they should legalize polygamy just for me. I cook. I clean. I listen. I have a penis the size of a Mag-Lite. If you’re looking for the total package ladies, well tough shit. I’m already taken.

What’s the secret to a successful marriage, you ask? I’m about to tell you. Over the years, I’ve developed a repartee, if you will, of things to say to Mrs. Drew to keep her happy. For example, let’s say I fuck up and forget to take out the trash. Rarely happens, but I’m only a demigod. Here’s what I usually say in my defense:

“Honey, I’m just doing the best I can.”

And you know what? It fucking works, because it’s true. But here’s the catch: you actually do have to do the best you can. You can’t crash the car, bang the nanny, give your wife syphilis and then say, “I’m just doing the best I can.” Because, in that case, you are clearly not doing the best you can. If you put in some effort, and then point out that you’re making that effort, you’ll be at the bar playing Golden Tee with her blessing in no time.

Here’s another situation. Let’s say Mrs. Drew is telling me a long story that, for one reason or another, I have no real interest in. Mrs. Drew isn’t a babbler like your standard female lunatic, but sometimes I just won’t feel like listening. Here’s a gem I’ll usually throw out:

“Well, there you go.”

It’s the perfect thing to say, because it means absolutely nothing, but works in context with everything. Bad day at work? Well, there you go. The Girl was fussy today? Well, there you go. Dinosaurs have returned to Earth? Well, there you go. If I pepper that little saying through her story, she’ll be convinced that I’m retaining all the info she’s dumping on me. I’m not actually listening, of course. I’m really thinking about the NFL Draft. But a couple “There you go”’s and I give off the illusion of listening, which is just as good.

Here are some more sayings I’ve perfected:

“Well, what are ya gonna do.” Any time Mrs. Drew is angry about something not involving me, this usually calms her down. Something shitty happened? Well, what are ya gonna do. Daddy needs a scotch!

“Eh, that’s the way it goes.” See above.

“Well, if that’s the worst thing I’ve ever done, consider yourself lucky.” This works because there are so many dipshit guys out there. Shit, did I accidentally leave my Chap Stick in the wash? My bad, dear. But hey, at least I’m not as shitty a husband as Scott Peterson!

Mrs. Drew knows these sayings by heart now, but here’s the thing: any time I say one of these things to her, she laughs because it’s so transparent. And then she forgets what she was pissed at me for. So take the above advice to heart. When your wife/girlfriend/concubine/kidnapping victim is letting you eat ice cream and masturbate while playing online poker, you’ll thank me.

Babies: A Clear and Present Danger to Your Testicles

I was administering the Girl’s 4AM feeding over the weekend when she spat up. Nothing new there. The Girl spits up with every meal, which is normal. Doctors have a saying that spitting up, “isn’t a health problem, it’s a laundry problem.” This passes for humor in medical circles. It also explains the existence of “Patch Adams”. And you thought lawyers were humorless pricks.

Anyway, the Girl spat up. Usually, I’m well-prepared for this to happen. I always have the burp cloth over the Girl’s mouth ready to catch it and everything. I’m that good. Not this time. No, this time the Girl spat up and scored a direct hit into the hole of my boxer shorts, which was open ever so slightly, nailing my testicles with a heaping tablespoon of spew. You haven’t lived until your daughter throws up on your nuts. Quite a moment.

Compounding the problem was the fact that I had just farted earlier. Ever have one of those farts that smells like food, which somehow even makes it more disgusting? Well, there you go. So I had a pair of warm, formula-moistened nuts that I had to tend to, while the scent of Hunan Chicken wafted in the air. And I haven’t eaten Hunan Chicken in seven years. Disturbing. Unpleasant.

Even with that event aside, feeding the Girl isn’t fun on my nuts. The Girl is a shifty sort, so I have to constantly readjust to keep her upright. This inevitably means that my nuts end up falling between my legs, which means that I have to keep rescuing them, which means I have to hold the baby with one hand, rest the end of the bottle on my chin, and use my free hand to pull my nuts back up for air. This happens about three or four times every feeding. Mrs. Drew averts her gaze when she sees it.

Women don’t understand the scratching testicles phenomenon. They seem to think that grabbing your nuts is some kind of come on, or a form of pre-masturbation. It’s not. It’s strictly done out of necessity. But women don’t buy that. They just think you’re a pervert. They’re right, of course, but they completely miss the point. Typical.

The Girl has also gotten extremely kicky and has grazed the top of my nuts on occasion. This doesn’t hurt, but the Girl’s legs are bound to get longer, reach farther, and eventually hit paydirt. Unless she turns out to be one of those super midgets, something I now pray for every day.