Goddam Cubs!

For those of you out there not reading this (and current Shitty Captain count has you at just a tad over 6.8 billion), I was going to put up this great post back when the Chicago Cubs clinched the division and a post-season berth.

It was going to be awesome. I had pictures and a couple of YouTubes of stupid songs - one extolling the virtues of the manager set to the tune of Rihanna's Umbrella (talkin' 'bout Lou Piniella-ella-ella-ay-ay) and another for that Eddie Vedder tune - and possibly a haiku or two defining the spiritual merits of the Cubs and the claiming of the Commisioner's Trophy. It was a Cubs bukkake with me in the center. And I was starry-eyed and smiling the entire time.

Thing is, sometimes the Captain likes to have some of what the land kids call the pot and I maybe forgot to put all that stuff up in a coherent and cogent manner, always saying "Oh, I'll do it tomorrow because I have all the time in the world because the Cubs are going to float through the post-season and win the World Series because all those guys at ESPN say they will and even that asshole Mark Kriegel says they will and even I say they will so I'm going to take a nap now and wake me when they sweep the Rays for the championship, 'kay? Great. G'night."

Then Dempster, unbeatable in the Wrig, walked seven, including loading the bases in the fifth and they didn't take him out and James Loney hit that massive grand slam.

Then the Dodgers rocked Big Z and the bats came way too little, way too late.

Then the Cubbies kind-of rolled over and died in Chavez Ravine.

And that was it. One, two, three, sweep. One hundred now becomes one hundred-one.

I'm not going to be all sour grapes and boo the band when it gets back to town, no. I'm not going to preach hellfire and damnation about who needs to go and Lou's inability to win after the regular season is over. I'm not going to say shit 'bout no fuckin' curse.

I'm going to wait until next year, ignore that pre-season exhibition Arizona Grapefruit waste-of-time and start over afresh once more when it all begins again.

I'm still glad I didn't do that fanboy bullshit of a virtual Cubs shrine. I could have deleted it and all when I came to my senses, but I always would have known it was there and no amount of hand-washing or crotch-scrubbing would make that filth go away.

So fuck you this year and good luck next year, you lovable, over-paid, need-to-start-pulling-it-out-in-the-clutch rapscallions. I'll always love you.

Seriously, though, you guys really do need to start winning in October. Or I'm going to start claiming South Side. At least they can win it all.

Corhole Is Stupid

Yeah, I said it. Cornhole is stupid.

And guess what? I live in on the campus of a major university.

The last time I threw a bean bag at something, I was trying to make a Tic-Tac-Toe. Not only that, but I was trying to prevent the other guy from ruining my attempts while at the same time trying to thwart his. Talk about nuanced. At least that's something to play for.

You know what else I hate? That game, I don't even know what it's called, where you throw two little balls connected by a string at a standing unit made out of PVC pipe.

Being so goddam popular, I've seen both on sale in the sports store across the street from the school's football stadium.

Now, I'm no general hater of mindless gaming to pass the time, no. But it just seems that college kids aren't really trying when it comes to dumb recreation.

We didn't have lawn darts (or yard darts, or yarts, or whatever the fuck) so we threw scissors up in the air. Sometimes at each other. That was fun. More importantly, it was innovative adaptation. Something severely lacking in the current crop of college youth.

To wit, beer pong.

Beer pong?

Double-you tee eff, son?! That is one slapdash, piece-of-crap excuse for getting drunk. Seriously, it's Quarters for retards. You can do the same thing at the county fair and win a goldfish, that's how simple it is.

Not only that, but it's also incredibly pretentious. The same people who won't drink muscatel with you at 10 in the morning because they're not, and I quote, alcoholics are the same people who get sloppy-faced wasted playin' the pong and chalk it up to the other guy's skill with a little plastic ball.

Of course, they may refuse to drink muscatel at 10 with you because you've pissed yourself but that doesn't lessen my point any at all.

All I'm saying, if you're going to get fucked up at least admit that's what you're trying to do. We had a game we liked to play fairly frequently. There was no formal title, but the rules were pretty simple: If you do a bong hit, then you drink a beer. That got you lit up quick. When we weren't playing that we had another game with different rules: If you take a drink of beer, then you do a bong hit.

There's no reason to be coy about getting your buzz on.

So back to my original point, which, up until now, I have not backed up very well (nor will I probably) - Cornhole is stupid.

Sexiest Unfit Mother Award

And the award goes to...

Casey Anthony!

Yes, the lady who lost her daughter and didn't call the authorities for a month might be one of the worst mothers in America. But she's also one of the sexiest! Whooo!
Now, the Captain knows a thing or two about sarongs and the American Flag-themed get-up Casey is sporting above is meant to not only capture our hearts but also our dongs. And it works. I'm totally smitten.

Normally, with the frequency stories like this happen across the newswire, I wouldn't be so interested. But, normally, the mothers involved being accused of drowning or cutting or stabbing or microwaving their own children don't look like Casey Anthony. Va va voom!

Being under the intensely-scrutinizing gaze of the mug shot camera can make anyone look horrible. But Casey is still able to keep her poise, her trashy charm and, dare I say it, yes, even her sexiness throughout her separate booking processes. Only a natural beauty could pull off something like that.

The Shitty Captain has a new crush. What's best is I don't like kids and apparently neither does Casey. Sounds like a match made in heaven.

That bright boomerang smile, those elfin ears, her greasy-but-still-gorgeous dark locks. Mmmm.

Deceitful? Maybe. Cute as a button? Absolutely.

And can that chick par-tay! Even faced with the disappearance of her tiny child, the woman could still find time to drink it up and shake her shit.
The Captain, as you may already know, loves to party. The Captain also very much appreciates a woman who understands the value of careful prioritizing. Keeping this third-person thing going, The Captain also thinks Casey Anthony should call him once her schedule frees up.

Now, I have never been one to squabble over the type of woman that comes my way. I have been with, and thoroughly enjoyed, the companionship of a wide variety of ladies and never once did I favor one kind over another.
But I must confess a slight predilection towards petite, pale brunettes with youngish features. And nice boobs. So you can certainly understand my current fascination with one alleged child-murdering inamorata.

By the way, Casey, if you're reading this - the big, dark sunglasses look really suits you. I mean, it makes almost anyone look good, hence the current trend. But you rock the style and make it your own. With most girls it's like, "Hel-lo! Who are you hiding from?" But with you, you're actually hiding from the paparazzi and the people camped outside of your door calling you a babykiller.
That's street cred. That's juice.

So, please, join me in presenting to Casey the Sexiest Unfit Mother Award of 2008. You deserve it. Sharon Stone has nothing on you.

Oh, and don't forget, there's still a child missing through all of this. So if you have any information on little Katie or Callie or whatever her name is, the number you can call is probably somewhere on the internet. Just google her name and something is bound to pop up.

Meanwhile, you stay strong Casey.

And don't forget to holla.

R.I.P. Gregory McDonald

Gregory McDonald died Sunday, September 7, 2008 at his farm in Tennessee.

Respect.






If you don't know who Gregory McDonald is, the Captain would like to put a giant turd in a burrito and feed it to you for dinner.
The Captain would, however, permit you to use generous helpings of sour cream as he realizes no matter what it tastes like, you still ate a turd.
And rightfully so.

Boxer Briefs, Scourge Of The Seven Seas

Quick factoid about Der Beschissene Kapitän: I originally stopped pulling down my pants to piss when I was 6.

It was right about that time when I started using the dick flap on my briefs. I liked to go through. It was comforting. Not only that, but it was convenient. Especially when I started wearing a belt on a regular basis.

Then I moved to boxers. There was zero transition because boxers have the dick flap too. No problem.

So recently I figured I'd try boxer briefs. They were a comfy fit and very flattering. I thought I had found a new stage in the evolution of my underpants.

Then I went to the bathroom.

And everything came tumbling down around me.

No dick flap.

What?! I thought perhaps I had put them on backwards. Silly me. After a few moments of uncomfortable de-panting in a public stall I learned that, indeed, I did have the damn things on correctly and that, indeed, they had no dick flap.

This was confusing as boxers have dick flaps and briefs have dick flaps. It would make sense that any combination of the two would also possess a dick flap. Was there some recessive gene their offspring inherited? Were the underwear companies aware of this massive mistake? Or maybe I had just purchased an anomaly, a rare set of drawers that made it through quality control without someone noticing the beloved dick flap had been forgotten.

But, no. Every boxer brief I found was sans dick flap.

As I shared with you in the beginning, I stopped going over at 6. And I'm not about to start again a quarter-century later.

So, thank you, boxer briefs, you comfortable and heartless sons of bitches, but I will no longer be needing your services.

Olympic Village Life Would Be Awesome

I have always wanted to stay in the Olympic Village.

Not because it would mean that I would be one of the world's peak athletes living and mingling with more of the world's peak athletes while we competed at the pinnacle of amateur sports, no.
I've always wanted to stay in the Olympic Village because of the crazy-ass partying that probably goes on. I may not be a world-class athlete but I am a world-class partier. I can hang with the best of them, holmes.

Did you hear about the Village of the 2000 Summer Games? Only one of the most fantastical parties that was ever partied in the history of partying.
I have a journalist friend who covered the Games that year and he described it as a 336-hour rave. "If you multiplied Burning Man by the square root of a Roman orgy, you'd have Sydney," he said.

I deeply regret I missed it.

Beyond the feting, think of all the beautiful snatch that would be flitting around.

I don't know about you all, but I loves me some foreign ladies. I would totally be chasing after one or two of the Polish volleyball players. I saw a Chinese badminton player that was super-cute in her outfit. There was an Italian diver I couldn't stop watching spin and twirl. And I would probably try to date the entire Norwegian handball team...at the same time.
Two pole vaulters, a Russian and an American, were exchanging harsh words. I would like to try and broker a peace deal between the two in my bathtub.

By the time the Olympics were over my junk would see more representatives from different countries than the United Nations. I'd even rename it Kofi Annan (which, trust me, is ten times better than its current moniker).

I'd get no awards to brag about. But, at the end of your life, what's more important to have experienced - winning an Olympic medal or nailing a chick who just won an Olympic medal?
You try both and tell me what you think. Me? I'm erring on the side of nailing.

I'll be waiting to hear how it went in Beijing this year. The Chinese fucked up the giant party palace that was British-controlled Hong Kong so I'm guessing they can probably do the same to the Olympic Village.

That gets a big "Boo" from me.

...Is Stupid

I think a lot of things are stupid.

I'm also pretty vocal about exposing the inherent stupidness found in many things.

That said, one of the recurring features you will see in this blog are posts sharing with you, the reader, stupid things.

You'll know these posts by their titles.

Don't mistake this for my gimmick because this is the first post. Didn't you know that calling things "stupid" was the reason blogs were invented?

No, my gimmick is being a very horrible sea captain.

Well, to be perfectly honest, I'm a pretty bad captain all around.

When I was captain of the local softball team we lost a lot. And when I played Captain Willard in a stage version of Apocalypse Now the boat put on a few years back I was panned by the critics.

So I guess this blog title is appropriate across all aspects of my captainly life.