Minor League Puck Bunnies and Armchair Parenting

I was going to call it "Minor League Hockey and Minor League Uncle'n", but despite the clicks it could produce, I think minors and uncles should not be in the same statement.

Not quite 20 hours into the work week, and the fantasy football and news have all been caught up on. This means I have to come up with something that seems meaningful to the rest of the world. With the previous week feeling devoted to the lack of girlfriend (I don't like aches, I want the pain all at once), all I got out of those seven days was trying to relate to my seven year-old nephew at the Rivs' home opener.

He was seated between my dad and I, so I had to refrain from commenting about all the familiar faces in the line up. "Returning" to Peoria for the love of the sport (as I rush from my afternoon retail shift to watch them)? Are you sure you are not living here because of an ill-advised night with a puck bunny (thanks Google and Urban Dictionary)?

That would have to be a nightmare scenario for so many people. As a player, you are probably in your late 20's hoping for one last shot at the ECHL. Instead, you end up having a puck fuck with no net minder. As the biscuit basket's parents, you may feel shame that because your daughter is so dim that she thought a Southern Professional Hockey League player was going to make it to the big time. At least there are some groupies who have their thumb on the pulse of music when they start looking for a rocker to support them for the rest of their lives (It is a small some from my experience). If they are not in the AHL, do not go chasing sweaty balls.

That is two blogs in a row with attempted parodies. I really got to focus on writing my Rage Against the Machine's "Killing in the Name of..." knock off. These blogs are still decades behind Weird Al.

When it came to stuff that I could talk about with my nephew, I am only frustrated by my sister's over protective parenting. Damn teacher thinking she knows everything.

A Naïve Coworker:

My parents were teachers and they were great. It is also great because in the summer, they could spend all that time with us.

Me:

Out of area code grandparents?

They went on about how they are obsessed with their niece. I joked about putting 90 miles between me and my sister's spawn. After finding out that my nephew has yet to experience Buffalo wings, my absence is worth considering regret.

Nephew: I am not a chicken guy. I mostly eat vegetables.

The world is going to end with your generation. Facebook is trying to push its cryptocurrency at a federal level. If Trump is reelected, we are going to have to put Ruth Bader Ginsburg in suspended animation and fight the court battles to keep her in it (as she is still of sound mind). At least enjoy 11 herbs and spices. Appreciate parmesan and garlic. Enjoy sweet, yet hot sauces. And feel powerful looming over the stack of remains left in front of you after consuming any lingering essence of their life force.

Then there was not being able to encourage him into cheering the college flunkies' (at least learn from "Super Troopers") in the A&W Chug a Mug competition.

Me: Do you like Root Beer?

Nephew: No.

Me: Have you tried it?

Nephew: Well no. 

I can appreciate not letting children have soda, but if there is a tap, they must have root beer. It looks like I will have to bring a gallon of it my next trip home. That will be the real test to determine if they are over parenting.

It is not like the little bugger is not smart. When there was a phantom elbowing call against the Rivermen after a QC Storm twat flopped:

Me: Get that guy a mouth guard!

Nephew: Or a face cage.

Me: Good one.

He does not get clever English from my sister. But otherwise, how much does he know about himself.

Me: Where was that penalty?

Nephew: He pushed him.

Me: Oooh, a shove.

Dad: They cannot do that in Mites.

Me: So when are we going to sign him up in wrestling or karate, despite my lack of fandom for that art?

Nephew: No thanks. I play with the eight year-olds.

Me: You aren't tough until you get floored with a front kick.

Yes, how much do you know about yourself if you have never been in a fight? I guess the moral of this rant is that  I need to abandon trying to get my pro-wrestling zombie comedy "Main Event of the Dead" (but if you have any ideas on how to promote the idea or would like a treatment, email me at russthebus07@gmail.com) off the ground and focus on a direct-to-streaming nihilist children's film about toxic masculinity.

Again, the world is heading towards destruction. If Damon Lindelöf's "Watchmen" has not already shown us enough to back that up that prediction, we might as well start educating them the evils of being manly. Otherwise, I am just going to wish for the machines to take over. At least they do not have a stake in our destruction/restoration.

I have picked my side, and its that new Google quantum processor. Perhaps they should fund my film. YouTube Red needs content.

Image from the CG Shrines

A warped tribute to Ron Santo, Leslie Nielsen, and Tyler Durden

Frustration is a common theme when it comes to my satire, but especially when it comes to my personal blogs. Of course I am on who believes that frustration is necessary for good writing.

At least in terms of nonfiction, but that is not entirely true. Some of the best works are done in response to the poor ones. "Airplane" was to "Airport," as "Scream" was to slasher flicks.

And then we get "fill in the blank Movie." Not to speak ill of the dead (especially since he rarely appeared in the latest stain on the big white screen), but hopefully Leslie Nielsen's death will slow those productions down as a memorial/moratorium to him. One would hate to need to put a hit out on Kevin Sorbo or Diedrich Bader.

As a narcissist, it is a bit frustrating to be stuck on movies. Then again, some of those who are reading this blog maybe frustrated that my self-centered nature is where I am taking it to. For those who have not pushed the back button or the X in the top right corner, let me finally begin with frustration is what sums up 2010.

I don't think it is wise to follow the suggestions of Tyler Durden, and the "Big Lebowski" showed that nihilism only leads to missing nonessential body parts. Which makes me wonder why ears are prized by psychotic war vets and Mike Tyson?

I would at least take the fingers. A necklace of those tells people not to screw with me. Mess with me, and you will never throw that poor slider again. If I was Lou Piniella, that is how I would have handled the Carlos Zambrano issue. Some would say that maybe a mistake, but it tells me Lou was getting soft. Big Z turned the season around, but will that carry over to this year? Take away Z's middle finger, he would have one less way of offending us with his frustrations, but more importantly, we could take his contract off the books. I am sure that crossing the boss would be a breach of the reckless behavior clause.

The Chicago Cubs, the definition of frustration. No wonder that it seems to be a constant in my life. Frustration is what leads me in wanting to believe in nothing or to join a Fight Club.

Could you imagine Ron Santo is the basement of Lou's pummeling Len Kasper into Oblivion, beating him to death with his prosthetic leg? Hopefully, he is spending the afterlife decimating those sport writers that did not vote him into Cooperstown in their lifetimes, but I suppose it cannot be heaven for him till he gets his hands around the throats of the veterans committee.

Religion, another frustration, another reason to focus on philosophy. Philosophies like those provided by the characters of Chuck Palahniuk novels. Give me some credit. I do eventually get back to the point. Adapt this method of storytelling if you ever have to go into therapy, and enjoy watching the psychotherapist go nuts.

The approach does not work in group sessions. With so many people, they are quicker to demand you get to the point. Just stay quiet and have a good cry after the session. Just like "Fight Club."

xombiedirge.com

2010: Russ Stevens - The AntiBukowski.

2010 may not have been a bad year. It just needed to be a great year after my 2009.

I probably did not notice how bad 2009 was since I wrote a lot more. It was not actually the writing, but more likely the publishing. That is weird because I did not have a lot to say, and it also led to poor writing habits. Damn the news media.

I do not mean the conservative bullshit that fed my depression upon returning to my parents in 2009, but the Illinois Central College newspaper, The Harbinger. Writing movie reviews, no problem. Writing opinion pieces, big problem. It was not the let down that I always had to endure when the satirical bite was removed, but is was wanting to save the ideas for pieces for the paper. Because of that, I was not writing the stories when they came to mind. Thus, my production was dramatically less, but the college audience was larger, so it was a necessary sacrifice. When you are an unattractive 29 year-old with nothing to offer, you have to take any attention you can get, even though it is more of a delusion.

Again, 2009 sucked. My highlight was selling out to a college newspaper. Based on that, wanting to kill myself if 2010 was not an improvement seemed just.

2010 needed to bury 2009, especially since I had just entered my third decade of being directionless. In all honesty, the lack of direction has been pressing on me since I turned 28 (all the cool people die at 27), but I could ignore since I was getting laid triweekly.

I know I will sound like a pig, but after an intercourse-free 2009, I could not go on if 2010 was the same. It is pitiful, but at this age, how else do I know if I am worthwhile? My therapy era started in 2006, the first year where I did not get any action since becoming sexually active, so does anyone want to invision where two nookie-free years would leave me.

2006 was a bad year for me, the bankruptcy I envision happening in 2011 came up that year in an attempt to be the most awesome of guys. The entire reason I went bankrupt was because that was what I thought was right. I would like to think I have always lived my life that way. Returning back to the Palahniuk attitude, if I would have died before the result could be witnessed, I would still die at peace knowing I was trying to do right. Unfortunately, I guess I thought there would be worldly rewards if I did not

.

Really, the reward could have been as simple as seeing something good coming out of what I was devoting my time and debt to. It was about proving that being a nice guy would be worthwhile. Instead, I am broken down by a junkie who would fuck everyone (dead beat dads, toothless addicts, fat fucks) except me. It was not about getting laid, it was more about not being the guy who was getting laid. What hurts more is finding out about the assholes she had screwed prior to meeting this nice guy and not even being offered to pay for the services she provided like the fatties got to.

Everyone I respect (and despise) seem to have gotten to end up with someone by age 27 where they had a chance to meet the one person that with a little faith (a huge demand of a relationship) they can be happy with. I am talking about something nearly tangible. Couples who got married or had kids. No, the happy ending may not be there for the relationship, but history cannot deny the greatness at some point. It just leaves me feeling like a fuck up, especially after the reinforced nice guys finish last stigma.

An unsuccessful Zoosk membership did not help the self esteem either.

Fans or Girls? A query for the reluctant 9 to 5

And the alternate Japanese title: "A Call for Nihilists: Fuck Me or Friend Me"

I just want to give the reader a heads up this is kind of a psycho-analytical work, and the title is the conclusion. I found the journey to the conclusion to be fun, but the lack of known readership since 2009 has left me to conclude that many of you find me whiny. This conclusion leaves me a little bitter, but you've known that aspect of me longer than I have, so what gives. A little feed back, or dedication to the cause of "Main Event of the Dead." (Email russthebus07@gmail.com for a treatment of this pro-wrestling zom-com).

russthebus07@gmail.com

"The high road is pretty to look at, but you'll have a hard time marching your armies up it."

I thought if I was ever going to open a blog up with a "Game of Thrones" quote, it would be from a profound character, but I guess the show is not so profound. Guess I'll quit running the blu-rays to "entertain the cat" while Mom is cleaning my apartment. It is not great subliminal material.

Then again, Mom's lack of fandom to the "A Song of Ice and Fire" or J.R.R. Tolkien is due to the exploitation of short people. Better step away from this talk about mothers (a weak George R.R. Martin transition) and get to why I opened this journal entry with the quote of a sadistic character...even if it does feel like a waste of Freudian psychology (word/phrase association, mommies, sadistic influences).

Let us delve into abandonment (which has nothing to do with mother). I have cut out a lot of negativity of the outside world. Removed "friends" from Facebook that represent the lazy, hateful nature of white America, stopped listening to ignorant, chauvinistic sports talk radio (Mike & Mike, @MarkMaddenX is not ignorant...and only seeming chauvinistic) that promotes bullying (I guess I should thank indie wrestlers to keep that in my mind @knightwagner ), and been napping till Jon Stewart opens an easy-to-stomach liberal agenda in the evening. All of these actions may have left me with further self loathing because there is little to get angry about. Got to get pissed at someone, may as well be me. Eva the cat is just too cute.

First shift does not help me. If I must be depressed and nihilistic, let me have hours to that accommodate my nature. I wake up, go straight to work, go home, make dinner, and when I am comfortable enough to be constructive, I have to go back to bed. Thanks Je...whatever for Sobieski's high quality and low price point and poor selling, weakly flavored Stoli varieties. Without these, my nihilism would have reached "Fight Club" levels. Not to say that I'm not at a "I am Jack's smirking revenge," state, I am just not social enough to organize underground boxing (or a film production, but I am sure you the reader can help).

Now I think I need to add "Fight Me" as an option to the alternate Japanese title.

This blog is feeling successful, relating to two other brands that I think my fans would relate to. Too bad I do not know where they have gone. Damn the Facebook migration. I rocked MySpace.

By the time I get on Twitter to self promote, the fellow first shifter are tuned out. So I cannot jump on any trend to get @MainEventZombie exposure. Beliebers must have surrendered to Katy Perry as Queen of the Twits. Because of this failure to Belieb, no one can confuse them with #GetMainEventZombieto47. I am realistic, eight figures is not.

It is weird to feel alone when you are supposed to be operating with the majority of yanks. Alright, this may actually be the prevalent reality in the nine-to-five lifestyle, but I figure most of them have significant others or children to share the despair with. If not those, than an AR-15 or AK-47 (Are patriotic newsmen ignoring the AM-16 when shootings occur?) that comforts them with the thought of getting some much needed attention.

In conclusion, I need fans or sponsors, a girlfriend, or to abandon my strict gun-control stance. Do not worry, you know I will not sell out a leftist ideal for anything. My false sense of honor is what affirms that I am a good person.

Netflix DVD - Brigsby Bear: A Mental Disorder to Rally Around

Things seem to be going pretty well for me. I have gotten a little bit of financial aid. The only problem with that it involves a banking conglomerate that does not have an office in Champaign. By the time I am off from work and clear of any immediate responsibilities, there are very few things of interest in Bloomington/Normal.

Only a few weeks of trips to go. At least I can claim it was not charity. I am putting in the miles.

And who knows, I may be able to send it all back. It was a good week of interviews, advancing to the third stage in one of them. This week, I have got a good amount of work at the retailer and two in person interviews. The only thing my success will cost me is my sweet mustache and excessive goatee. Their terminations will not be too hard to get over, but with 40 pounds I could lose, how will I define my chin?

Fortunately, I can work to find the bright side of any situation, so my girlfriend's 24-hours of sleeplessness on Thursday (was it inspired by concluding "Fight Club" or just her buyer's remorse on skipping a B1G1 deal at Rue 21?) allowed me to finally get comfortable enough to explore a feature about captivity, mental illness, and Teddy Ruxpin, "Brigsby Bear".

Check out the rest of review at "Ninety For Chill: A More Acceptable Runtime

http://www.brigsbybear.jp/

Schrodinger's Cat: Rationalizations of an Existentialist (Part 11: Information Kills)

I've come up with some ways of promoting "Main Event of the Dead," but they're all dependent upon having some kind of enticing media to draw attention to it. My love for the written word prevents me from video blogging (but if any of my tempting female friends would like to read a press release for YouTube, that may work), so I think a movie poster is the way to go. If any of my artistic friends can come up with a cool pro wrestler vs. zombie image that is worthwhile, pass it my way and I promise some sort of fiscal compensation for your effort (effort...drinking money, worthwhile...we'll talk).

If you want to spread the word about any worth this project may have, I'd be happy to send you a treatment of the script so that you may promote the best parts...or at least give me pointers of how to clean up the worst. Please email me at russthebus07@gmail.com

It's tough to muster up the mental strength to write this blog. I'm kind of glad for the longer I had the "How you can help statement" to take up space. On the flip side, the start time for when I write this post was 90 minutes late.

Now we're in a homicidal Krusty The Klown zone:

• Lack of Energy--that's bad.
• Convenient Filler--that's good.
• Procrastination--that's bad.
• Using a 20 Year-Old "Simpson's" Joke to Fill Unnecessary Space--that's good.

What's really good today was that the distractions (after buying Cubs tickets and a Macho Man tank top...http://barbershopwindow.com needs to look into that market for the tattooed wrestling fan...and an affiliate program so that wouldn't have been a free plug) lead me to come up with a way to complete my forearm to make my "Tank Girl" pop out more when I tell the world to "sod off." It's also a way to let me pay homage to KMFDM.

So those are a couple of little victories, but it reminds me of how nihilism has taken over.
 I mean, say what you want about the tenets of National Socialism, Dude, at least it's an ethos.

Rationalization 37 (Preview): Complete = Defeat

I could really get on a Palahniuk roll to potentially wrap up this series of blogs, but I got to try shining the turd that I couldn't get to last week.

Rationalization 32: Insecurity does not demand equality.

I don't know if I would have cooled down from Jenna encouraging a loss of Marbles if the vertically challenged Peoria Chicago (so use to pissing on the appropriately nick named "P-Town") wrestling scene didn't express their lack of knowledge about the difference between inequality and insecurity. Or maybe I'm just upset about the lack of kayfabe because the heel's tweet was shared by the last face he feuded with (I haven't seen any booking announcements to indicate any turns).

One of the boys decided to post a cartoon on their Twitter feed (so I'll at least credit him for using the best social media tool I've discovered...Tumblr is calling out to me) opens with a frame that shows a guy tell an over-sized girl "I prefer thinner girls" only to be unanimously called a pig by a group of girls. In the next window, a shorter man is told by a woman that "I prefer taller men" to be cheered on by the same group of girls (only one of the stick chicks made a short insult).

The cartoon ask why men are pigs for telling a girl something she "can" control while girls can reject men who are short and not be demonized. My attempt to try calming down the insecure by claiming that women can't be judged because they are controlled by biology to focus on the better physical specimens failed (satire is truly a dead art). He claimed that men will be called pigs regardless of how they determine their ideal mate. This implies to me that if you feel insulted, you should get the opportunity to insult the verbal assailant. We shouldn't allow gender rules to dictate otherwise.

I'm sorry, were you called a midget once by a girl? To feel insulted for what you are, I think a derogatory term needs to be applied. Or a play on stereotype (sorry, I'm so use to being wicked short, I don't know them). I doubt a girl would dangle a napkin with her phone number above your head to taunt you. She'd just give you a fake number.

If you can't change it, don't feel insulted by it.

When it comes to waist lines, you are the ironic pig to use that as an out. You're basically telling the person to change to be likable. Thus, ignoring the fact that skinny is not the only thing to like about someone. And you're just being lazy. Can't you be creative and come up with something like...height? Or lie when you see what ever bobble that indicates their faith. If all else fails, choose Satan.

Rationalization 33: It's not me, it's you damn it.

People do not want to feel like that. They don't get their way because of their short comings. The moment they are rejected, they need to determine why the other person is a cock or cunt. I know the words lack equality, but I can't resist alliteration...but it does remind me that society has a problem when there are more feminine derogatory terms than male.

Since the person doesn't want to feel like a bad person, they want to justify their feelings. But to the rejected, not only do they think the person is an asshole, they think they're a judgmental asshole. This makes them feel better about themselves and just in their anger.

I'm not saying that the rejected shouldn't feel bad, but if it isn't personal, they shouldn't be angry. Unless someone drags the rejected along for their own whims, anger about a person's preference (not actions, they are totally different) is never just. Too bad people find strength in anger, so usually the rejected friends will tell them that it's better to be angry than morose.

Rationalization 34: Attraction is a Yes or No Query, Not an Essay Question.

I know it's nice to get information to learn to be a better person, but we don't ask the questions for that reason. As I said, we ask for explanations only to make the other person seem worse than us. So, we maybe better off not asking the follow up question of why. Fuck, avoid the four W's all together.

Just accept and give honest answers. If anything, that will give the rejected time to play the law of averages. The rejected may end up like a Spinal Tap drummer, but it's better that waiting in line behind Tommy Lee.

Rationalization 35: I am the Next Spinal Tap Drummer.

So get back together you limey twats. Oh yeah, I don't play.

Rationalization 36: There is no place for me outside the box.

I think that is the best way yet to transition to why the Feline is Jean-Paul Sartre. Too bad I have to finish Rationalizations 28 and 37.

Choke: A Movie About Sex Addiction

This was the review I gave to ICC's Newspaper The Harbinger. Unless I'm writing a new review, I don't want to stick to my "Rough Draft" moniker. As long as MySpace still exist, you can check out my rough, uncensored review at http://myspace.com/inimitablerc

Hope you enjoy the professionalism of this work.

"Choke" is the second Chuck Palahniuk (the writer of "Fight Club") novel to be adapted to the big screen, and it shows the wide range of subjects that can be developed from antisocial behavior, nihilism, the lack of male identity, and addiction. The film also shows us a softer, light hearted side to his work that may perplex fans of his first adaptation, but for that reason, it may be worth their time to check it out.

Unlike Fight Club, Choke is not about the sociological aspects of society’s affects on an individual, but more of personal quest of the main character, Victor, (Sam Rockwell from "Confessions of a Dangerous Mind").

Check out the rest of review at "Ninety For Chill: A More Acceptable Runtime"

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