Where The Wild Things Aren't

I saw Where The Wild Things Are over the weekend.

Severe disappointment.

People have been telling me for years about it. Some have even questioned my sexuality because I had not seen it. So I decided to go on opening weekend to prove those guys wrong. And peep me some boobies.

Not only did I not see Neve Campbell and Denise Richards once in the whole movie but there was also never any lesbian, fuck-in-the-pool scene. Just some furry monsters and a weird little boy. It felt like a NAMBLA convention.

I wanted to walk out but I thought the bitches-in-heat moment might come after the credits like Sam Jackson in Iron Man so I stayed for the entire thing. Big mistake.

Oh, and for those into that kind of thing, just for the record, there is no Kevin Bacon junk in this movie either.

Fantasy Football Is Stupid

My celly has been blowing up more than usual recently. Since more often than not I hear Marky Mark's I Need Money, that can only mean one person is calling - my bookie. And since it's my bookie calling so frequently, that can only mean one thing - football season.

Now, I loves me some me. And by me, I mean football. Weekends in the fall are some of the most glorious times in the Shitty Captain's life. Because of football. And Percocets.

I love football so much that I want to make out with it.
But only the cheerleader part. And maybe Tom Brady.

There's been this ever-growing fad over the past half-decade or so, though, that has been feeding off of my love like a voracious parasite. This tapeworm is Fantasy Football.

Seriously, it's like one of the stupidest things ever invented. If ever there were something that could make Armchair General Managers think they know about sports when they don't, fantasy football is it.

To wit: I know this guy, we'll call him Canary, for lack of a better term. All through college this guy never watched a lick of sports. Spouting pretentious metaphysical bullshit while trying to be the coolest guy you know (and failing miserably) was more his style. Suddenly, though, after he graduates, he becomes a self-described football guru. He "knows" which college star will best be suited for the Steelers 3-4 Defense. He "knows" which team will take the AFC South this year. He even started up a shitty website to share his gridiron thoughts with the world. All this because he started playing fantasy football and it gave him this odd false sense of thinking he knows what he's talking about.

A few weeks ago I got to spend a lovely afternoon manhandling the libido of a lady from the neighborhood whose husband was participating in not one, but three drafts that day. He'd been laboring for weeks over reports and "professional" analysis and failed to remember that his wife had one of those things called a vagina.

Thinking all her lonely-ladyparts problems solved once the draft happened, it seems she flipped a switch when her man lamented (with little contrition, mind you) about all the time over the next four-plus months he would have to dedicate to stat-keeping and deciding who his starters would be before heading out the door for the next 18 hours.

We ran into each other in the pharmacy department of the local supermarket - she was looking for migraine relief and I needed Robitussin for the party I was hosting later that evening. I picked up a bottle of Excedrin she dropped and as I handed it back she asked rather spontaneously if I played fantasy football. "Never in my life have I ever cavorted with that particular beast," I replied. After that, she instructed me to follow her home.

We've got a standing date for the next 17 Tuesdays. That's the night her husband, head of the stats committee of two of his leagues, meets to divvy up last week's points among the players. So maybe Fantasy Football isn't all that bad.

A Pictorial Representation Of A Favored Playground Saying From My Youth

See if you can figure out which one.

Here's a hint: It is not the one about the guy going pee-pee in your Coke.

Push Is A Win

You know that shitty book by that shitty sportswriter, The Five People You Meet In Heaven? I never read the thing. But I did take too many quaaludes one night and sat through most of the TV movie in a haze.

I figured out the Five People I'd meet in Heaven would be Liquor, Pills, Gambling, Titties and Five-Dollar Buffets. All have had major impacts upon my life at some point or another. Since I'm not dead, I decided to visit the only other place besides Heaven where I could meet my Five People all at once while on a spiritual quest. No, not Monaco. Even better - Vegas. Less tuxes and more flip-flops.

Due to the free drinks the casinos ply you with while you throw your money haphazardly across their felt-covered sacrificial altars, most of the time I spent there was a blur. Add to that the fact the CVS by the Venetian has no problem filling out-of-state, questionably-legible Valium prescriptions and that blur was actually more like a staccato melange of disincorporated sights, sounds and smells strung loosely together to form what I refer to as the memory of my wonderful desert vacation. Allow me to share with you some of the highlights.

Apparently the Miss USA 2009 pageant was held at my hotel during my stay. I did not find this out until after I returned home. I originally thought there were just a bunch of girls staying at the hotel who were very enthusiastic about where they were from.

Let me answer some questions I know you are having right now. Yes, they are hotter in real life. And smaller. Yes, they wear those sashes everywhere. The sashes allow tourists to easily find their state's representative and stare and point at her while she eats her breakfast. Finally, yes, security will escort you out of the buffet area if you attempt to touch their hair to see if it is "really real or like those motherfuckers in The Matrixes real".

I'm not sure exactly what I was getting at. Neither did the pageant contestants nor security. Hence the escort out.

The Double Down Saloon is a quaint punk bar located about a mile off the Strip. The bar is not a gay one itself but its location in the vicinity of a handful of gay clubs will have your cabbie questioning your sexuality the whole way there. Even if your lady friend has her shirt pulled up and is loudly requesting you suck on her nipples because she's not sure she can feel them.

I had something the bartender called Ass Juice because it was red. It also tasted fruity so I had two more immediately following the first. I usually follow the simple maxim of Whatever Tastes The Most Bitter Will Get You The Most Drunk. That was an error in this case. Luckily, the walls in the bathroom are heavily stickered and graffitied so no one noticed (or cared, presumably) that I pissed on them.

Old Downtown is the stuff of Las Vegas Legend. Now, it's something called the Freemont Experience. You can still find four-dollar surf-and-turf dinners. The Golden Nugget and Binion's are still there. It's cheap, loud, lit too brightly and crowded. But a fella can blend in easily.

A friend of mine knew a janitor at the Stratosphere who could get us white crosses for a song. I washed a handful down with some Red Bull, which, even though it was sugar-free, was an unfortunate whistle-whetter. I had the jitters and the sweats within minutes. The public tram was crammed full but no one wanted to be near me. Even a harmless statement such as, "Excuse me, this is my stop" came out sounding like the maniacal ravings of a lunatic. But when I got to Freemont that all changed. Every brand of fucked-up is represented so no one feels the need to try and hide who they are.

Like I said, a fella can blend in.

I ran into Sir Ben Kingsley at the hotel pool. 'Nuff said.

Thinking he'd eventually go Don Logan on one of his entourage, I hung around watching from the shadows of a close-by cabana. Boy, was I wrong.

Sir Ben sounded like a queer Gandhi throwing around all those dah-lings and showing concern for a woman who showed up late. I got bored and left when the daiquiri hut wouldn't serve me any more piña coladas.

Okay, kids, that's all the Captain is able to piece together for the day. I will leave you with this interesting fact I learned on my trip: There is no in-between when it comes to paying for liquor. It's either very expensive or very cheap. For fifteen bucks you're either going to get one frozen berry rum drink or two dozen shots of tequila.

It all depends on where you're at.