That Insane Photoshop Job Is Very Slimming On You

I grew weary of BumperSmashing there for a while.

Truth be told, I'm still lacking inspiration (at least until the weddings of Brother Andrew/Sommer and Ingie/Dougie, respectively). And while I'll use as an excuse that I've been busy, it's less of the "I'm writing the great American novel" variety of busy than the "I'm going to spend the next four hours popping this bubble wrap and catching up on Whale Wars" variety.

To bide the time til the wedding postmortems, here's a slice of life courtesy my place of employ's hallway decor:


The 2nd floor hall features a trophy case that proudly houses our "Best Local Election Coverage, 1978" Emmy, and a series of posters celebrating just some of ABC's most celebrated series (Lost, and Lost).

Now I know these are idealized publicity photos, but holy shit:

"That sound you hear is my face."

Remember at the end of Cocoon when the aliens turned back into their original form? Or perhaps this?

Potent Potables: Stag Party Ruminations

Bachelor parties are generally considered to be something akin to the film Fight Club, not so much in that the first rule of Fight Club is to not talk about Fight Club, but rather that at some point you will contemplate shooting yourself in the brain to make the evil go away as you watch the collapse of civilization while early Pixies plays in the background.

At the request of a certain scraggly-sideburned Stag of Honor, however, I will neither post [m]any pictures nor relate any of the more tawdry goings on from last weekend's Coors-soaked mountain high jinx, though I maintain that nobody of import is likely to Google "professor + kamikazes + boob-shot + terrifying." Now that I write that, however, that may well be a Funkadelic album, and certainly describes my dream episode of The Wonder Years.

That said, I'll here highlight the few PG-13 moments from our magical 48 hours of self-discovery and/or hangover recovery.

1. In an alarming development, I've [quite literally] stumbled upon a new, previously-undiscovered level of drunkenness; specifically, the "Bruce Springsteen is a douche" level. While I can not recall even once thinking about disliking The Boss, much less denouncing his entire life's purpose, I apparently spent much of late Friday night chastising everything from his songwriting acumen to his role in popularizing the bandanna. No doubt I was another highball away from shitting upon an American flag and insisting John Wayne preferred men.

2. Speaking of shitting (there's a segue I had hoped to avoid), Denver International Airport should consider handing out a free roll of toilet paper to arriving passengers. Only the most peripatetic of poopers know how altitude can adversely affect one's regularity, as I was woe to discover during six glorious trips to our well-appointed commode Saturday, tying Streiter's single-day record.

3. We sent Gerrit away from Casa du Sheflin with instructions to pick up enough 5 Hour Energy Drink to send Amy Winehouse into cardiac arrest. Upon his expeditious return, we were soon to discover that not all amphetamines are made alike. Given my staunch support of the energy drink genre, I was both unprepared for and embarrassed by Amp, which is all he could legally find.

Do not under any circumstances drink, smell, look directly at, nor mention in my presence Amp. While the label touts its JACKFRUIT CITRUS flavor, I found it more closely resembled HEMORRHOID CILANTRO. To recreate the experience, get a pineapple, cut it into 1 inch squares and marinate for 6-8 hours in balsamic vinegar. Now, turn around and bite the penis off the llama that somehow snuck up behind you.

The effects? Negligible, though my projectile vomi-spitting was admittedly youthful and extreme in its neon green coloration.

4. I am presently authoring an amendment to the Constitution that will require background checks prior to iPhone ownership. Alternatively, if Eric Streiter is permitted to continue his usage of his "Sounds Of Space Chipmunks Fingerblasting" application, I should be permitted to shoot him in the throat.

5. Pride precludes mentioning my performance at the batting cages. John John can rake, however. In an unrelated story, I'm learning to use my left thumb when hitting the space bar.

6. Nothing else happened, though we at long last resolved the question of who makes the best sundaes in the industry.

John's tire was the only flat surprise of the weekend.

Fortunately, I can take this entire weekend to recover, as the only event I'll be attending is tomorrow morning's Bay to Breakers, which is the San Francisco version of a marathon, which is to say that it's less than a third of the distance, has a lax dress code, and requires everyone to be naked and drunk. I smell another blog post and urine.

Or that could be Jackfruit.

When Asked About His Team's Execution...

Stop me before I draft again.

Despite my proclamations to the contrary, baseball is most assuredly not a thing of beauty. To be sure, the game can be charming in its simplicity, its dedication to its fans, its sounds, and its cherished place in the American experience.

Truly, baseball is but a structured mélange of talent and the grotesque.*

Perhaps an "action shot" would better serve Mr. Mossi.

So it was with great folly that I spent the eve of Major League Baseball's Opening Day in the the friendly confines of Washington Square Park, preparing in earnest for the most money-intensive of my fantasy baseball league drafts, the La Rocca's Home Run Pool.

When it is 77 degrees in the city, the grass is green, and the more emotionally-needy ladies of North Beach are wearing their bathing suit bottoms in their traditional fashion (internally), it is easy for a wide-eyed innocent such as myself to succumb to the cruelest of life's pitfalls: hope.

It's the same old story. "When all is clearly right with the world," one thinks, "surely I could not possibly fuck up the next 5 months of my life by drafting Adam LaRoche."

Not to put too fine a point on it, the brand of hope in question is not the pedestrian "I wish for a safe and prosperous future for my loved ones." Nay, the brand of hope in question is more the "For the love of all that is Holy, let us hope that Alexei Ramirez figures out what to do with that big piece of wood they keep sending up with him to home plate."

These are the glorious possibilities, these dreams of my drafting a rag-tag bunch of youngsters that will exceed their modest preseason expectations and slug their way to a triumphant championship for my proud "No Glove No Love" franchise.

And so it was that, surrounded by the dazzling sights, sounds, and less-than-dazzling smells of Washington Square, I finalized my draft game plan, opting to draft batsmen with high upsides rather than those so-called-established players I dismissed as last season's news. Carlos Lee? Not interested... it'll be Jay Bruce and his .176 BA for me please. I spit upon Lance Berkman's guaranteed 30+ dingers. I'll take the prolific Chris Davis, who is now hitting at a scorching .179 clip, which I believe gets you summarily executed in Latin American countries.

No Glove No Love skipper Nate Gallant expects
big things from Ian Stewart this season.

Finally, I awoke yesterday morning [technically, as it was before noon] to the news that my veteran catcher, Brian McCann, can no longer see out of one of his eyes, which I can only assume will prove a problem when facing, you know, moving baseballs.

*Yet another surefire BumperSmash (!) contribution
to Bartlett's Book of Familiar Quotations

You Will Get Nothing And Like It

BumperSmash will be on the back burner indefinitely as my [considerable] free time is dedicated to my five, count them five fantasy baseball teams, whose exploits will be no doubt make their way to the annals of BumperSmash once the season is in full swing.

Pee Papparazzo

After skateboarding to work on this beautiful Friday afternoon, I decided a trip to the men's room was in order. The KGO restrooms are the standard fare; the men's is a urine-soaked purgatory covered in plaque-colored tiling, while the lady's is a richly carpeted Xanadu, scented with a potpourri of extinct flowers and attended by towel-and-mint-wielding attendants.

I opted for the bathroom on the main floor, as it is located near the worker's lounge where I could warm up a bowl of my latest crock pot stew ("I Can't Believe It's Not Poison") whilst I was hosing the porcelain. So as I was tending to my business, somebody took up residence at the adjoining urinal.
As per the time-honored Code of Men, I did the standard half glance over and half nod, which is a gesture meant to convey "Hey there... I hope you have an enjoyable time pissing next to me for the next 15 seconds but don't get any ideas" through one manly bit of body language.

This is what I saw.

I have to stop using this restroom. There are far too many strange guests of our afternoon show running happily about. Two weeks ago I peed next to Jimmy Carter.

Perhaps I could author a coffee table book consisting solely of close-ups of the sides of celebrities' faces, all of whom are taking a leak and trying to ignore me. "Pissing Greatness: My Career In Television"

Did The Airbag Go Off Or Are You Just Glad To See Me?

Whilst watching the first of 8 consecutive hours of the NCAA tournament, I took an opportunity during a commercial break to grab a healthful snack in the form of a 3-day old fish burrito.

Upon reentering the living/loving room, mine eyes fell upon the television at the following, rather unfortunate, moment... I'm going to suggest that the new Chevy Traverse advertisement could stand to lose this portion of the sales pitch:

"Hey! Aren't you Howie Long?"

I could not eat the burrito.

What Dreams May Come or: How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love the Giant Penguin

Presently it is 5:45 in the ante meridiem and, mere moments ago, I was hiding out from the mob in a clothing/aquarium store that featured a six-foot-tall free-roaming penguin, some scattered electronics, and hundreds upon hundreds of thick, long-sleeve shirts (only available color: dark red).

Were one to consult a dream dictionary, a cursory interpretation of my nightly meanderings through the netherworld would tout an unprecedented window into my repressed fears, desires, and unholy marriages of the two. But such theorizing can only go so far methinks; if you dream of getting an epic blowjob from a woman named Burrito, you went to bed horny and hungry... you are not wrestling with some sort of important career decision. Unless you're currently boning your day-shift manager at Señor Sancho's.

But this morning, as I awoke startled and smelly, I made a stunning revelation regarding my most recent dream; I could trace even my most fanciful hallucinations to the events of the previous day, a day spent in and around Berkeley with the Fair Briana as we awaited her car windows being fixed. Long story.

So I present to you a laundry list of a few of the dream's more prominent characters and props along with what sparked them.

1) Who/What/WTF: Towards the beginning of the dream, Gary Oldman (dressed as Commisioner Gordon) was shot in the chest for being an informant. That's how all good dreams start out. What planted the seed: Briana and I went to see a matinee of "Coraline" and three of the thater's five screens were showing "Watchmen," which sent me on a diatribe about how ridiculous it is when people say things like "Finally, a serious comic book movie." The new Batman flicks are no exception, nerd.

2) Who/What/WTF: Vincent Pastore, a.k.a. Salvatore "Big Pussy" Bonpensiero, was the guy doing the shooting. What planted the seed: after deciding that we are no longer into "Tell Me You Love Me," the better half and I thought it's time to check back in with Tony and Carmella, season four. Alternatively, I'm terrified of pussies.

3) Who/What/WTF: Gary Oldman's body falling onto an enormous cutting board. What planted the seed: cutting up carrots for Briana's tofu Thai feast, which stood as my only contribution apart from moral support.

4) Who/What/WTF: A vaguely Scandinavian family, all wearing dark Ray Ban sunglasses. What planted the seed: the family was an obvious amalgam of the many inconspicuous tourists that were roaming the streets, but the glasses were spurred by my astute observation that there was "some sort of blind person convention in town or something."

5) Who/What/WTF: A 20-feet-tall woman wearing rain boots. What planted the seed: Mr. Bobinsky, from "Coraline."

6) Who/What/WTF: The afore-mentioned giant penguin, who was looking at an aquarium and, in a comedic moment I can not hope to do justice in writing, gave a passing female shopper a condescending look. What planted the seed: I walked by a credit union on Shattuck Avenue and took a few seconds to figure out what their logo was supposed to be.

7) Who/What/WTF: The store I was hiding out in (Gary Oldman had survived the attempt on his life) had a huge display of eggs for sale. They were labeled Mackerel, Herring, "Fish", and Baby Penguin [?!]. What planted the seed: this one's a two-fer. The eggs themselves were a conversation point over brunch at La Note, where we took great pleasure in ordering, and subsequently consuming, our "oeufs." The contents of the dream oeufs were courtesy our pre-dinner run to the the local soon-to-be-its-own-zip-code Safeway, where I inexplicably felt compelled to buy fish sauce despite reading the list of ingredients.

Okay that's enough of that.

But while on the subject, a party who wishes to remain nameless is offering a handsome reward for anyone who can get her significant other to stop snoring. Handguns are to be considered a last resort, unless you know a guy.

Frippery

As my daily interweb regimen has been devoted almost exclusively to a potent time-wasting cocktail of Scrabble, exhaustive fantasy baseball research, and laughing at this guy's before/after photo, BumperSmashing has proven to be a low priority.

However, a desultory instant message from one Nicholas Desbiens, a dear pal from the Marshy Fields of central Wisconsin*, has rekindled my blogging fire via a fond reminiscence of a particularly miraculous card trick we performed one sweltering summer's day at a Minneapolis journalism camp.**

But I'm not going to write about that yet.

To bide the time, I'll share with you an entirely infantile chestnut from the vault courtesy the online yearbook I somehow stumbled upon, most likely whilst google-stalking ex-girlfriends.***

In yon high school days, the acme of hilarity was the fact that Chris D. and Sean B. were, for lack of a better term, inseparable.

There you have it.

SIDE NOTE: Our assistant principal was named Harley Davison.

*Please note that Marshfield is home
to both the world's largest round barn
and the world's largest urinal.
Suck on that, Europe.

**Holy fuck I was dorky.

***Only kidding, honey.

Of Tubed Wasabi and Other Goings On

Given that the only newsworthy event of the previous week[s] was The Fair Briana's Triumphant Return, the editing staff here at BumperSmash have had a galling time forging a post worthy of our collective approval, and, moreover, one that adheres to the unique blend of journalistic integrity and entertainment you the reader expects but rarely deserves.

I am now, however, happy to report that contemporaneous with Briana's return were a series of minor happenings that, en masse, are mildly entertaining.

(1 : 100,000 Scale)

1. "So, Round Eyes Thinks He Can Make Sushi"
High on my list of Least Well-Thought-Out Gifts was my lavishing upon Briana a pseudo-gourmet sushi set. Taking into account the fact that I bestowed said gift while she was still living in Wisconsin, where access to sushi-grade ahi is not exactly the point of fishing, I suspect that by this holiday season I'll streamline the process by doling out Glenn Beck Studio Store gift certificates to loved ones and explaining where hamburgers come from to random children I pass on the street.

Sensitivity in the field of gift-giving notwithstanding, Briana and I decided to try out the new set by treating Krumbo and Celeste to a delightful evening of authentic Japanese cooking and/or traditional food poisoning. After preparing just the right amount of rice, we took our neatly portioned ingredients over to Chateau Celeste and soon set up a dedicated spilling-shit station. The floor and counter space newly rich in nutritional content, we eventually put together what could technically be called sushi in that it contained raw fish and was cut into roughly bite-sized pieces.

Unfortunately for all those involved, Chez Gallant was in charge of the nigiri, for which the ingredient list included delicately sliced ahi tuna, a shoebox-sized brick of gluey rice, and just a scintilla of scarily-labeled tubed wasabi, henceforth known as the bottled hellfire of a million lost souls.

I can safely say that the only reason Mike and Celeste are still on speaking terms with yours truly is because I sampled the nigiri first. Upon placing the roll in my mouth, I almost immediately noticed a mild sensation of heat. My next ten minutes were spent with lips upon the refrigerator's water dispenser as the other dinner guests expressed amusement at the lingering effects of my spice miscalculation.

2. "Your Wii BMI Rating Is: Whale Shark"
Another exciting [see: spirit-crushing] development since Briana's return was our unveiling of the Wii Fit, which was designed to help the American gaming public gain the same healthy body image of Nintendo's Japanese programmers.

As you have no doubt guessed, I was absolutely thrilled with Wii's assessment of my athletic prowess. Upon taking the preliminary Body Mass Index test, my meticulously-crafted "Mii" morphed from a cartoon likeness of myself to a cartoon likeness of a flesh-colored 6'5" bowling pin and I was promptly given a week to live. Then, grainy footage of Pearl Harbor newly crisp in my mind's eye, I was told that I am not only morbidly obese but also have the body of a 51-year-old.

3. "Honey, In This Economy, We Can't Afford Not To Buy These 3-Pound Bags Of Imitation Cinnamon Toast Crunch"
At the risk of being crass, I'm just going to come right out and say it: I want to get in Target's pants. It's not that I love Target; it's that I want to get it into the back seat of my old car and get it pregnant.

Probably Not The High Point Of Tony Bennett's Career

And thanks to Briana (and, more to the point, her car) I was recently able to get to my local Target location and do some shopping with just me, my best gal, and a bargain-induced bulge in my trousers. Bless her heart, Briana still makes a shopping list, but luckily I was able to do some solo exploring (two floors worth of big big savings) and came away with an industrial strength crock pot, six pairs of tiny tiny boxer briefs, a very haute shower curtain rod, enough sugary cereal to reanimate the recently dead, and, in a daring bit of last second mid-checkout-line bravado, a junior-sized box of Junior Mints.

The purchase that got away, I'm sad to report, was a cheap braided area rug that I was talked out of after a series of "We can find something better"s despite, admittedly, some tearful begging on my part. Truth be told, it wasn't the perfect fit for the look we're going for in our apartment ("Fuck, is everything we fucking own from fucking Ikea" chic), but when I'm on a roll at Le Targét, almost any rug will do.

Lo The Floods They Did A' Cometh

Over the past three days I've noticed some subtle changes in the view from my kitchen window. Whereas I once had a view of your typical California parking lot, this morning I couldn't help but find the vista somewhat less serene.

The good thing about torrential rain is that it provides an excuse for my doing what I do best, namely sit on the couch in various states of undress and illegally download music in front of televised women's volleyball. If I'm really feeling motivated, I'll clean out Gladys' fish bowl or even do some spring cleaning.

But not this weekend; thanks to The Merry Krumbster, I spent 9 hours frying up various incarnations of turkey-based meat products.

You see, after graciously accepting a slightly used cast-iron skillet from Mike, I scoured the interweb for tips and tricks on how to restore and re-season my newly-acquired cookware. After concluding that most of the precedures described online were devised as a joke by teenagers on acid ("Now, use a halved potato to scrub off any excess wheat germ") I opted to take things into my own hands.

Step One: Removal of Toxic Oxidation

For reasons I can not hope to explain, I poured day-old coffee grounds and kosher salt into the pan and attacked the skillet with both great prejudice and a heavy-duty sponge. About ten minutes into the process, I looked up from the sink and realized that anybody who had bothered to glance into my window during this time had witnessed a large pasty bald man from the waist up, vigorously pumping his right arm up and down. Given that I was also shirtless, I decided that I would wait for the police to arrive while moving on to:

Step Two: Seasoning & Scorched Earth

If the online resources are to be trusted, seasoning requires only some food with a high fat content, a stove top or oven, and a doctorate in Advanced Thermodynamics. As for the food portion of the equation, Briana is not yet back from her Midwest Odyssey, so my kitchen pantry left very few seasoning options outiside of Bisquick, two types of hot sauce, and expired Toaster Strudel. Since venturing out-of-doors to Trader Joe's was not a viable option, I prayed my bachelor freezer might provide some inspiration.

Six turkey burgers, a pound of turkey bacon, and two pints of canola oil later, I was making some progress, as evidenced by my having to disable the smoke detector in the living room. When my eyes began to sting from airborne bacon, I concluded that any further "seasoning" would be foolish without consulting somebody with more experience working under these conditions. I finished the skillet in the oven set at broil and spent the rest of the night lying on the floor below the noxious blue haze and breathing through a wet towel.

Step Three: The Making of Toxic Egg Dishes

By the next day the skillet was no longer in gaseous form, but was, amzingly, still hot to the touch. In the name of metallurgy-based fine cuisine, I talked myself into formulating a breakfast menu worthy of my new cookware. Completely unable/unwilling to do that, I opted for the predictable menu of Turkey & Spinach & Mushroom Frittata with Turkey Bacon and a side of turkey bacon. Though the iron content of the meal was probably a tad on the high side, the results were surprisingly delicious.

Enjoy your meal.

I just have to avoid magnets for a few weeks.

In a related story, perhaps iron poisoning helps explain my dream last night in which I was in a plane crash with a George W. Bush look-a-like and about 100 girls all dressed like the daughters in "Little House on the Prairie."

And oh, going all the way back to the downloading of music in my skivvies, somebody please help me figure out the organ sample used in this song. Since I'm probably violating several copyright laws, I can only tell you that the band's name rhymes with Fortishead. Anyways, it isn't the theme song to "Taxi," as I originally posited.

This post really changed direction there in the end.