Top Ten

Guns OK in Arizona bars starting Wednesday

Top Ten reasons why this is a great headline:

10) Welcome to the literal wild, wild west.

9) In some NYC bars, based on old cabaret laws, there are signs saying “No dancing allowed” which is totally no fun at all. Who thought based on a new law, we could end up in a bar with a sign saying “No firearms allowed”? Which is apparently totally also no fun.

8) Who needs darts when we can instead have target practice?

7) Someone thought this was a good idea? Gotta love the NRA.

6) This gives a whole new meaning to “taking a couple shots”

5) Good luck being the bartender and having to cut someone off...

4) Because I’d totally feel comfortable going home with a dude I met in a bar who had a Glock strapped to his belt.

3) Alcohol and guns. I see this ending well.

2) Charlton Heston just did a little dance in his grave.

And the number 1 reason this is a great headline...

1) Plaxico will have somewhere to party when he gets out of jail.

Pigskins in blankets: The results

Uhh so yea, we got killed. I think it was something like 55-6. I mean I guess at least we scored at all? To give you a taste of exactly how bad we were, here were the highlights from Saturday:

• I aptly named one of our "plays" the Clusterf*ck.
  
• Our best player was someone's brother who was visiting from DC for the weekend.
  
• We played the black team. Mainly that descriptor was based on their shirt color, but it worked on more than one level. Basically we might as well have been playing a prison team. and they took no prisoners. They had some girls that I wouldn't ever want to encounter in a dark alley.
  
• A guy on our team took a football to the face... TWICE.
• I had a very decent catch and carry!!!
  

It's gonna be a long season...

Pigskins in blankets

A couple of years ago, my office participated in a coed dodgeball league. I joined the team because it sounded like fun and a good bonding experience for myself and my coworkers. What I didn’t realize was that the games were all the way on the Upper East Side (ironic, considering I now live one block from there, and can see the school from my apartment window), and that this may be fun, but it certainly wasn’t for fun. The other teams were damn competitive and some of them even had mouth guards. They definitely were not messing around. After I saw one of my coworkers nearly have her head taken off, I called it quits. Effectively attending one game. Go team!

I’d basically given up on group sports, until a weekend in Fire Island when one of my housemates asked if I wanted to play football. I thought he meant to have a catch, but he apparently meant to literally play a game. Surprisingly I wasn’t that awful, so I recently joined a coed touch football team. Oh yes, you heard me correctly. The first game is this Saturday... I really hope we have matching team mouth guards...

The Daily Bailey

Ever notice how when you spend a lot of time with someone, you start to do similar things? Like when girls hang out a lot and they start to get their periods at the same time. Not that I’d know anything at all about that. Just because I (forcibly) had my balls cut off does not make me a chick. I am a man. THE man. Mr. Man, as SHE’s apparently taken to calling me lately, along with a smattering of other completely inane and degrading names that I will only answer to if the words “want to eat?” come after. We are not married. You do not get to call me by stupid lovey dovey names and completely emasculate me (that’s pretty much been taken care of already). I know you think I’m cute and all, and I am slightly in touch with my feminine side (see above mentioned lack of balls that I clearly do not have a complex about), but I refuse to be talked to like I am an adorable ball of (the softest) fur. It’s through no fault of my own that I’ve been saddled with these sad puppy dog eyes that make you think I’m all deep and junk. I am actually quite shallow and rugged dammit. I’d go hunting and hiking and come back covered in mud with dead things in tow... If I was allowed outside. So I’m putting my paw down. This shit stops now. Stop calling me Bailey Bails. And Boo or Booter, Booter Scoot, Scooter McBoo, Scoo, Mr. Scoo, or Bestest Buddy. My name is Bailey. And if you say it with a little growl in your voice, that is the due I deserve. Oh and next time you’re out, can you get me one of those fancy sleep masks (preferably a frilly one that says “frisky”), because the light is really bothering my sensitive eyes. You can get yourself one too, since you clearly do everything I do...

A trivial pursuit

Recently I’ve started attending trivia nights with some of my friends. As expected, I am truly terrible at trivia (although somehow really awesome at the Trivial Pursuit iPhone game because it's multiple choice). I was useless at television trivia, only able to pitch in to help name soap opera couples and the Saturday Night Live theme music. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an episode of 227 or even heard of a game show called The Joker’s Wild. I was slightly more helpful at 90’s trivia, able to correctly identify The Barenaked Ladies in a crappy B&W photocopied picture, but unable to recognize a quote from the movie “Reality Bites.” The only random trivia I’d excel at, would be Jessica trivia. But I doubt that would be very exciting for anyone.

Trivia is like the mah jongg or bingo of the almost 30s set. I go to socialize and eat dinner because it’s a fun and different thing to do. At 90s trivia, I ordered the macaroni and cheese. Everyone else got salads or appetizers so I was already feeling slightly like a huge pig, but when the waitress asked me if I wanted the appetizer or dinner portion, I just went for broke. She mentioned that the dinner portion is actually quite good when it’s reheated and she usually has enough to eat for days. So when it came and I realized that I could easily house the entire thing in that one sitting (since I have no problem admitting that I’ve eaten an entire Family Size box of Kraft cheese and macaroni by myself on many occasions), I encountered a conundrum. I began to eat it very slowly, practically one macaroni at a time... All the while wondering how embarrassing it would be to finish something that someone else eats for days. Days? I mean c’mon it wasn’t THAT large. Luckily after I’d made the decision to not care if the waitress thought I was a binger, I found a gnat baked into my mac n’ cheese, and that was the end of that.

What is Jessica’s favorite macaroni and cheese variety?
a) Kraft spirals
b) Kraft regular
c) Velveeta
d) Trader Joe’s frozen
e) Super Mac
f) All of the above

Top Ten

New tool to fight syphilis? Wal-Mart gift cards

Top Ten reasons why this is a great headline:

10) I’ve never been to a Wal-Mart in North Carolina, and I wouldn’t do it even for a $50 gift card.

9) As if just being sure you did not have syphilis wasn’t enough of a reward.

8) Do you have to test positive to receive the card? Because I could really use $10.

7) This would only work in the South. In NY, it’d have to be a helluva lot more alluring of an offering. Like VIP access to the exclusive sample sales. Women would be lining up around the corner to get tested.

6) Get tested for the syph to get $10 toward the new Miley Cyrus Wal-Mart exclusive album. Now we’re talkin...

5) Simply because it came along with the above photo in which pictures of girls with STD’s were posted on a wall for everyone to see. We need to bring that back... And yes it looks suspiciously like my sorority composite, but we were SDT not STD. Get it right.

4) This whole financial incentive thing is really getting out of hand. Next it’ll be Cash for Chlamydia...

3) So the gift cards fight the syphilis. That sounds painful doc... Can’t I just get a cream or something.

2) Whitney Houston is pissed that the syph is trying to steal her comeback spotlight. And I think Kanye is going to say something about it. (sorry, I had to)

And the number 1 reason this is a great headline...

1) I wonder how Wal-Mart feels about being pimped as an incentive for venereal disease testing? Oh that’s right Wal-Mart had no comment because they don’t care. Wal-Mart is a whore. Wal-Mart probably already has the syph.

The Daily Bailey

As I sit here typing to you fine people, I am pondering the meaning of “curiosity killed the cat.” I’ve heard the saying of course, but I really don’t believe it. I think it’s simply a glorified cat scare tactic. I mean I suppose I almost did light myself on fire once, but that’s nothing that a little child wouldn’t do also (I heard her talking about putting child locks on the stove). Why do I get so much crap for it? I like to explore. Deal with it. And there isn’t much to explore in the palace that I live in. I’ve been under the bed. It’s just okay. It’s dark and full of plastic boxes containing even more clothing than is in the closets that I am not allowed to explore. I’ve been on top of the refrigerator, in the refrigerator, and in the shower. But I’d never been behind the television! Every time I climb on top of the tv I get screamed at or sprayed with water. But Saturday morning at 7am, while SHE was sleeping, I managed to successfully get back there and let me tell you... It’s amazing. It’s like my own little fort! Fort Bailey. The Fort of Bailey. I like the way that sounds. There are cool wires back there! And SO much dust! I love it back there! I am going to stay back there forever... Shit, I’ve been found out...

Now I am definitely in trouble. SHE looks mad... And slightly panicked that I am stuck back here. She keeps calling my name in angrier sounding voices, but I really don’t want to leave my fort. So she starts shaking my favorite toy and it’s making that bell sound... And I might be caving... Nooo, I am staying. Then, ohh, uh oh, I hear my treats coming out of the cabinet!! Okay you win wench! Here I come!!! What? No treats and she’s going back to bed?? Damn, she fooled me. I am SO going back into my fort, the hell with you. So back I go, and again I hear my treats... And again I fall for it, vacating my fort and leaving it wide open to enemy attack. I am such a sucker. My fort was attacked! When I try to sneak back in, I see there’s a blockade at the entrance. What the hell is this? What am I supposed to do now? I guess I’ll just kill and try to eat this bug I found by the front door. Hey! Where are you taking my bug?? What do you mean “we don’t eat bugs”??? Ugh, she takes away all of my fun...

Fantastic Federer

When I was younger, we had family friends that were Greek. They were crazy. We went to their house for dinner once and they put what was probably 4 pounds of pasta on my plate and then chided me "what's the matter with you, you don't eat??" Another time in my driveway, I was bet $50 that I couldn't make a backwards basketball shot. Of course, none of my attempts were even remotely close, until he left. Then I made it.

I will now practice this shot for the rest of my life. I love you Roger.

Dude looks like a lady

This whole time I’ve been anxiously awaiting the next great headline... “Mrs. Doubtfire breaks land-speed record in 800-meter final” in response to the ridiculousness that was gender testing on a runner (see previous blog http://rtweb.blogspot.com/2009/08/top-ten_19.html) simply because she was faster and better than all of the other girls (who apparently ran like girls?) However instead I got... “Embattled track star Caster Semenya gets new coach, new look.”

New look? Oh, I get it... The old ‘if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, must be a female’ strategy. What genius PR person decided to do damage control by sticking a dress on her? Hey, they think she’s a man... Just throw some makeup and a dress on her... Done. Woman. Oh and you know what, let’s toss on a necklace and 401 bangle bracelets just in case anyone was still a skeptic. I mean based on this strategy and the fact that we all know the magazine industry (although I’m not really familiar with the editorial practices of South Africa’s YOU magazine, but definitely considering landing myself a subscription) and their overt airbrushing... It may only take a wee bit of convincing for me to start believing that Madonna is actually a man too...

Thesaurus: my favorite dinosaur

As a writer, I use the thesaurus often. Most of the time it is quite a helpful tool (instrument used to shape, gadget, device, person who allows himself to be used), however sometimes I find the suggested synonyms to be insanely amusing (entertaining, pleasant, gladdening).

Such as today's entry: Old/Older

Amusing proposed synonyms: decrepit, fossil, grizzled, oldish

A synonym for old is oldish?

The Daily Bailey

I bet you’re all wondering how I craft this literary genius that I post, being that I lack opposable thumbs and all. Yes it’s true, my paws are a bit large and awkward for accurate typing. Instead, I use my nails... Since they’re usually nice and long being that I squirm, rip my paws back from her clutches, and cry every time SHE tries to cut them. Basically I like my nails to be like the checkout girl’s at Pathmark... But without the airbrushing. That’s why I dread when I see her pull out that little clipper and try to lure me with the promise of special treats. Don’t get me wrong, the treats are pretty tasty, but still get your freaking hands off my paws. I guess I shouldn’t really complain though, because... Wait for it... I am no longer a foster kitty. I am adopted! ME-OW! I suppose most humans don’t exactly scream that from the rooftops in celebration... Well except for little orphan Annie. And she got to live with a rich guy, which coincidentally enough, is my goal for myself and my human as well...

I have this chick wrapped around my little white fluffy paw. I can basically do whatever I want because now she’s stuck with me. Not like I didn’t do whatever I wanted to before. She even bought me a “you’re adopted” gift. Which I promptly lost like I do with all of my other toys (see me above pictured with one of said lost toys), after I feigned excitement (ok maybe I was a little excited) because the toy had a bell in it. She thinks I love it because I chase it around the entire apartment, when I’m really trying to lose it so I can sit back and laugh as she gets down on the ground and searches for it under the bed, under the chair, under the furniture, under the oven, in the bathroom... Because I look really sad that I’ve lost my toy. This happens all the time and when she actually finds it, poor sucker is so happy... and then I lose it 5 mins later. Just think... This is what we have to look forward to for the next 18 or so years... Thanks for adopting me Mom!

Isle of Fire

Selected Fire Island memories (the ones that are appropriate for sharing ;-)

The power of the $1.50 candy necklace.
Who knew that a row of sugar worn around one’s neck made them so much more attractive. It was like I was a totally new person that all the D-bags in my house had never seen before. In fact, one of them even told me his sad story about almost getting kicked out of the house like I hadn’t been there for all of the other 4 weekends. Like he’d NEVER seen me before. Amazing.

6-slice
My friend Mara will apparently talk to anyone. While on line for pizza one night, the guy in front of us ordered 6 slices for himself, then sat outside the pizza place with the box open and ate them. Mara thought he was cute, which is fine, but he was also probably 45. The next morning I saw him wandering around in the same outfit he had on the night before. Then a couple hours later, I saw him again at the Sub Shop. Both times he still had the salt and pepper hair that drunken Mara claimed had been blonde. Not quite.

Buck me
The deer in Fire Island have no fear. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d eat you if they could. It is also extremely dark on the island. Basically pitch black at night. So on my walk home from the bar one night, I was having a conversation with my friend Parisa, who was on my right, and turned to my left mid-convo and about 2 feet from me was the most GINORMOUS deer ever with huge antlers. I screamed, grabbed Parisa and bolted. I still have nightmares about it. Honestly it was like a moose.

Table surfing
The guy who runs my house is hilarious. You rarely see him during the daytime hours, but at night he’s everywhere. He’s like a vampire. A crazy, drunken, hilarious vampire. One night he decided to do belly flops onto the beer pong table. He literally would get a running start and throw himself chest first onto the table. Thump. Thump. The best part of the whole thing was that after the first time, in which I was shocked he didn’t break either 6 ribs or the table, he continued to do it. I think he did this 4 or 5 times, while we all stood there and cheered him on like the enablers we are.

Grill master
Every weekend we bbq'd. Of course I never cooked because who in their right mind would let me near an open flame. My friend Meredith took the reigns one evening and while we were inside eating, flames began shooting out of the grill. Our house manager Ian kept asking if there was a fire extinguisher in the house, but none of us seemed in any hurry to find one which looking back is odd since all of the houses on Fire Island are made of wood. That sucker would have gone up in about a second. Somebody call 911, Meredith is fire burnin down the house... oooh ooh oh.

It was a crazy game of flip cup
The people in my house do not take their flip cup lightly. Basically flip cup is an Olympic sport out there. 2 problems with that. One I couldn't remember the last time I had played, and two, I don't really like beer at all let alone at an accelerated drinking pace. My first game I was labeled a "one-handed flipper" because apparently my technique wasn't acceptable. Since then however, I have become quite the expert. Except for the one time I drank so much that I kept turning to my friend Kim telling her I was seriously going to throw up if they made me go first again and I really needed to leave the game. But you can't leave the game... that's how intense it is. I would have been publicly ridiculed and burned at the stake. So I stayed until I literally had to go upstairs, lay on my bed in the fetal position and moan for 10 minutes in order to be able to make it out to the bars.

Ahh summer, where have you gone...
(per Mara: Names are not being changed because no one is innocent...)