Jewy Mannish

I don't know if you guys knew this, but I am a manly man. Burly. I have hair on my chin-y chin chin. I have so much hair I need to use Nads. Not, you know, on my nads, but still, if you had to remove unwanted hair, you'd have to use a product called Nads, wouldn't you?

Anyhoo, the Bears beating up on an old man on Monday night emboldened me and my manness. And my manness had taken a hit recently, due to staying home, mommy-style, with the Child all week, and not being able to fight in the War on Christmas this year because of some lingering laziness.

The Fancy Family was presented with a crisis this week - our gloriously large TV stopped working. And now we were supposed to "talk," and "be a family," and "not ignore each other's slowly intensifying rage." So quickly I responded, and determined what the problem was - the lamp needed to be replaced. And instead of succumbing to the whim and schedule of some electrician, I decided to fix it...myself.

I could build up more suspense, but I don't want to screw over my readers who are afflicted with heart conditions. It was super easy, and took about 5 minutes.

But my manness has returned! Yay!

But it still isn't working, which means that I need a new color wheel, which, from the internets, seems to be a much more complicated process. But with my manness, I shall overcome. Or cry trying.

In the meantime, it's back to "pretending to listen to Wife's crazy patient stories." Wait, that shouldn't be in quotes.

And...we're back

The holidays are over, finally. And no, that's not an excuse for not writing more. You know what's great, though? I don't have to apologize - thanks to Yom Kippur, I'm clean as a whistle (which, by the way, makes no sense at all, if you think about it), so you can kiss my blogger ass.

No, that's the escape key. Wait, if you just mo- no, that' s my elbow. Turn ar- why is your foot there? It's just - if you'll stop - forget it. Just lean toward your monitor, and kiss the screen, and imagine my ass.

You're welcome.

Anyhoo, there was some crazy nonsense this past week. First, this happened:



And I have to say, it was GLORIOUS. We didn't get actual shots of the finished product because you know, holy Sabbath and all, but all the layers were there, and the stuffing was moist and delicious, and it was just...fantastic. I'm very happy to have done it, and now I'll probably never do it again. What a pain in the ass. Maybe for Child's wedding, if he happens to marry a vegetarian whose best friend growing up was a little duckling named Nibbles. That would be worth it, just to see if she laughs or cries.

Then, Neckbeard scares the birds living under his chin by throwing for over 300 yards against the Patriots, of all teams. What, exactly, is going on in Denver? Is it really just the change from Bernie Berrian, Bobby Wade and Desmond Clark to Brandon Marshall and Eddie Royal? Probably. It could also have something to do with that whole offensive line thing, but what do I know.

And finally, Cedric Benson - who, admit it, you all thought you tossed him some pocket change outside the supermarket last week - broke the Ravens' streak of not allowing a 100-yard rusher at 39 games.

CEDRIC! BENSON! I know, right? Left is right, up is down, and people who haven't done really anything are winning Nobel Peace Prizes.

Yeah, about that...they know he's not Morgan Freeman, right? Peace really had a crappy year for them to honor Obama. And I love the guy! Rush Limbaugh's head would have popped right off when he heard the news, if hadn't already sold it for Vicodin. Glenn Beck wept for days and days, gnashing his teeth and doing that whole bug-eyed thing. But Jebus, that was too much. Oh those Europeans, so silly, so smelly.

Bits of tids (because it's a word, right, and I switched it around. BLAM! - Funny)

I know, 2 posts in one week, I'm totally spoiling you. But when I saw this, and then I read this, how could I not write something?

Some of you might think that the return of the pill-popping good ol' boy is a bad thing for the Bears. Some of you Krazy Israeli are actually concerned. But not me. Because, you see, any possession that puts the ball in FavRUH's hands is one less handoff to Adrian Peterson the Greater. And it's one more pass floating past an open receiver into the welcoming arms of Charles Tillman, or Nathan Vasher. It's gotta be tough for FavRUH, with all those young'uns running around all fast-y like, and he's got to gun it in, just like he did in the field back in Mississip, only some of those blurs aren't on his team, and then he's sad, and only the pills can make it all better.

What I'm saying is, now the Bears can beat the Vikings, even with Crybaby Sulkypants as our QB. So hooray for that.

A quick Turducken update - I've successfully boned a duck. They're oilier, so it was more slippery, which made it more difficult, but also more satisfying, see what I'm saying? Notwithstanding the sexual innuendo, I made a kickass recipe with curry, garlic (15 cloves, bitches) and soy sauce. But it did call for not just boning, but also skinning, so that's not going to happen again. But I'm now ready, I believe, to prepare the Holy Grail of Gluttony for the Family Fancy Pants in October.

Finally, I went to the emergency room this evening, because some angular man-child put his elbow through my chin while we were both jockeying for position to catch a frisbee during an Ultimate game.

Now, were we keeping score? We were not. Did I need to scrap with the guy for the disc? Not at all. Did I make the catch? Fuck yes I did.

So I get a tissue from one of the other players, and I throw some water on my chin, and I ask my team - "Does it look like I need stitches?" Now, I don't know all the players very well, but I hope none of them are med students, or doctors, because they all said no. They didn't even equivocate - "well, I'm not sure, but maybe you want to go home just in case." Nope. "Looks like a nasty cut, but I think you're ok." So, did I keep playing through the end of the game? Hells yeah.

And then I got home. Wife looks at me like I'm Massive Headwound Harry



(Linda Hamilton can for sure kick my ass, but she's totally a man. If you catch her in the right pose, you can see her junk through her skirt. Seriously - frank and beans, people)

So I go in to the bathroom, and finally get to see the gaping wound in my chin with my own eyes. And we head off to the emergency room, where I get 6 (6!) stitches. So for all you frisbee players, next time you can see bone through a cut, it might need stitches. Hippies.

Don't be that guy.

I always learn something new around holiday season. Last year it was "leaving your Hanukkah candles in front of your turbo-jet heater will not only blow them out, it may end up causing your rug to catch on fire."

The year before that, it was "always know your audience before you make a joke about Jesus" (My favorite? Jesus walks into a hotel with 2 planks of wood and some nails. He says to the receptionist, "can you put me up for the night?").

This year it was all about holiday parties. As a Jewish Communal Professional, and the husband of a liberated, working lady, I attended many holiday parties. Some where cheesy, JCC-based affairs where kids drew horribly on their own faces to win oily treats. Others were formal dinners for day schools, who tried valiantly to convince their parents and donors that everything was ok while we ignored the asbestos dropping out of the ceiling and into our salads. I'm totally sending Child there - he needs immunities, and we're supposed to expose him to stuff like chickenpox. Asbestos is the same thing, right? Just like mercury, and lead, and whatnot?

But in other settings, "holiday party" is a euphemism for "Christmas party." Don't patronize me, Christian coworkers. If I'm going to a party with a gigantic pine tree shoved into the corner of a living room, and there are stockings on the mantel, and red and green tissue paper strung up all over the place, and fat bearded guys in Coca-Cola red ho-ho-ho-ing over the Ipod, then even I know it's Christmas time.



Here then, are some lessons I learned while attending Wife's office "holiday that celebrates Christian traditions and Jesus" party:

- if you're going to make jokes about Christmas creep, don't wear a kippah.

- if you're going to wear a kippah, don't go around demanding gifts in Jesus' honor. "What, I'm Jewish, he was Jewish, we're like the same person!" doesn't work. Even if you've grown out a beard, and are wearing a robe and sandals. Even if you made your own crown of thorns. If you turn water into wine, then you should at least get first crack at the Christmas tree cookies.

- Don't refer to the holiday as Xmas. It's weak. And it makes baby Jesus cry.

- Tell funny stories about your spouse to her/his coworkers, but not the one about how she stripped her way through PT school. Because some people will remember that gem through their drunken haze, and will ask her about it at work. Which segues nicely to...

- Don't be the first one at the party to get drunk.

- Don't be the first person to take your pants off.

- Don't be the first person to suggest swirling some Ecstacy into the punch and "letting nature take its sexy, sexy course."

- Always hold on to the car keys. That way, no matter what you do, even if you get locked out of the house, you can sleep in the car.

- Don't compare male PTs to nurses. They don't appreciate that.

- Don't compare male nurses to dainty ladies. They have no problem hurting you in front of your spouse.

- Always thank the host. Especially if she's your spouse's boss. And she was nice enough to help you retrieve your pants from the bushes out front.

- If there is a Yankee swap, hold off on loudly mocking the scarf that looks like it was knitted by a blind arthritic thumbless freak. It was probably made by a coworker.

- If you don't like what your spouse ended up with at the end of Yankee swap, don't challenge the male nurse to a wrestling match for the Barnes & Noble gift card. You will lose.

- If you do take your pants off, remember to wear underwear. Ideally not a leopard print thong.

I found these lessons to be useful. If you feel they will ruin your good time, feel free to ignore them. Just remember: flowers can only make up for so much. Ignore enough of those rules, and you may have to shell out for jewelry. Maybe even real gold.

A quick update on the No Fear Player of 2008 - Old Rambling Man made a good case (albeit not in the Comments) for honoring Congress, but I don't like handing out awards to multiple people - trophies are expensive, and I'm trying to save up for some real jewelry for Wife so I don't have to sleep in the car anymore.

So your No Fear Player of 2008 is... Sarah Palin! I have to say, I'm giving this to her in honor of her becoming a grandma, and also because I appreciate her efforts in setting back the Republican Party a good 12 years. So thanks, Sarah! Good luck with the whole Alaska thing.

NFPOTY 2008

There was some serious competition for this year's No Fear Player. And unlike last year, where OJ conquered the hill of douchebags in September with his audacious kidnapping and grand larceny, this one has come down to the wire.

Here then, are the nominees:

Gov. Sarah Palin (R-AK) -
- Helped the Republican establishment sink John McCain's Presidential bid;
- Spent upwards of $150,000 in public funds on clothes for herself and her family in less than a month;
- Repeatedly offended the letter "g" by excluding it from its rightful place at the end of words;
- Caused Tina Fey to have a serious identity crisis;
- Brazenly talked up abstenance-only sex education while her daughter was getting nailed by Levi Johnston;
- Used her developmentally disabled baby as a political prop.

CEOs Rick Wagoner of GM, Alan Mulally of Ford, and Robert Nardelli of Chrysler -
- killed the electric car;
- made really crappy, unreliable, inefficient, gigantic cars and trucks, allowing generations of small-penised men to feel good about themselves. Well, maybe that's not the worst thing;
- demanded a bailout from the federal government without any sort of plan to make their companies better;
- Flew in separate private jets to their first senate hearing to request money because they "don't have any;"
- made Michiganders look to their 3-9 Wolverines and their 0-14 Lions for comfort.
- turned Detroit from a decrepit, depressing city with no future into a decrepit, depressing city with no future.

AIG CEO Edward Liddy -
- took $150 billion in taxpayer money, used it to wipe his ass;
- after receiving all that money for financial assistance, then took his executives for spa junkets and massages. Of course, he shelled out extra for the happy endings;
- after getting caught on camera on one of said junkets, went back to the U.S. senate and requested more bailout money. Which he received;
- Got so much money so easily from the federal government that Wagoner, Mulally and Nardelli thought they for sure deserved some of that cheese.

And finally, Mr. Bernard Madoff -
- killed Jewish philanthropy;
- dug it up, raped it, and killed Jewish philanthropy again;
- stole $50 billion from individuals, corporations, and charities;
- turned the Palm Beach Country Club into a den of greed and hubris, instead of the den of elitism and snobbery it had once been;
- Together with Jack Abramoff, made Jewish non-profits long for the days of Michael Milken and Ivan Boesky (look them up, and reminisce about a time when financial malfeasance was nice and comprehensible);
- defrauded the nice little old ladies of Hadassah out of $90 million;
- caused 2 family charitable foundations to shut their doors, and renege on millions in committed grants.

Personally, as a Jewish Communal Professional, I say Madoff. But, as an American Taxpayer, I could easily see Liddy or the Detroit Three winning. I could also include Bob Babich, who has turned a once-mighty Chicago Bears defense into a toothless, blitzing-addicted paper tig- um, bear, but that might be a little too petty for this year.

The winner will be announced as soon as I blog again, because I trust very few of my 4 readers to vote, and also because I'm tempting you with an unusually quick follow-up post. So look out for that.

Once you go black...

I was all set to write about my No Fear Player of the Month, Senator Ted Stevens, R-AK, who was found guilty on 7 felony counts of corruption and bribery. What makes him so gosh-darn indefatigable is that he is persisting in his Senate campaign. And because it's Alaska, home of rocks, oil, and Governor Tina Fey, he may be the first senator ever to serve his term from a jail cell. So hoorah to you, sir.

So I was going to snark all over that. And then I saw this:



He's dashing, he's daring, he smells like...our new President. Three cheers for the bus driver, bus driver man.

When I heard he was going to do this, I had several reactions. First, I wondered at the vast sums of money that allowed him to buy all that time: he's raised over $600 million in less than 2 years. That's 600 million dollars. 600. Million. He has so much money he's buying ad space in video games. He has raised so much money he's funding the next bailout. Obama has brought in so much cash he's making it rain, and he can afford to actually create precipitation instead of just throwing singles at strippers.

The next thing I thought about was how unbelievably self-indulgent the ad could be. The possibility of a front-runner for leader of the free world, having most of the country's attention to say...what, exactly? Would he take a crap on a picture of John McCain on camera? Hell, with that kind of money, he could pay McCain himself to appear in person and be pooped on, and still have enough left over to sway undecided voters in Virginia. Or would it just be footage of him speaking in that sweet sweet baritone, as Nubian princesses rubbed baby oil over his chiseled torso? Either way, it wasn't going to be pretty, and might just be the bump McCain needs at this late date to get back into the race.

So I have to say I was pleasantly surprised. It wasn't too self-aggrandizing, it wasn't all that messianic, and he wasn't on camera nearly as much as he could have been. And while I thought Bill Richardson's beard was pathetic, for the most part the endorsers were pretty good.

Was it a transformative experience? No. Do I think it will change people's minds? Sure, why not. If you thought Barack Obama was a Muslim socialist who eats the hearts and livers of gentle white folk while listening to Public Enemy and snorting blow off an American flag, then you might be persuaded by the video. And it put to shame McCain's increasingly nasty message, given that McCain and Palin came up exactly not at all. So in that sense it was a clear plus for Obama.

What I would have liked to see - and it would have been underhanded, dirty, and hilarious - is 27 minutes of backroom footage of Palin trashing her meal ticket, and criticizing his campaign strategy.

"Oh, dat old guy doesn't know his yass from his yelbow, donchaknow."

Lord, she's appalling. I know she's got lots of kids, and an adoring husband who loves her but hates America and wants Alaska to secede, but I really want her to catch a football with her nose, Marcia Brady-style. That would make my day.

Don't get all huffy and say she doesn't deserve it. She's earned the broken nose. Just ask John McCain.

8 days and counting

Need I remind you that there are 8 days between birth and circumcision?

That while 7, in the context of the world being created in 7 days, renders 8 as the supernatural, the "beyond worldly bounds?"

I think I do.

There are 8 days until Election Day. Some of you are angry because your candidate is old and likes boobs so much he made them his VP candidate. Some of you are strutting around like you forgot what racism is. And some of you are like me - terrified with a small but hardy center of quiet optimism.

Before I get to me, I want to say a few words about gridlock. If you think the government is bad, or at best incompetent, you want gridlock, so they can do nothing. This is George Bush's position, as dictated by Karl Rove and Dick Cheney: leave the government with nothing, and it can do nothing. Thus the free market reigns.

This is not how I roll. When the first whispers of an all Blue government arose someone asked me what I envisioned as a successful first term for Obama. Here's my list:

- Socialized healthcare. Not universal, socialized. Because we're socialists, and now we have all of the power. What are you going to do, suckas? Go wait in line for bread.

- Subsidized day care. Because more women working means more taxes coming in. Plus, as much as I have some problems with Hillary Clinton, there's something about a lady in a pantsuit...

- Does Hilary have one or two L's? Does she know? Does Bill? I bet Chelsea knows.

- A new GI bill. And not one based on 1945 costs, I'm talking free college for soldiers, and people who commit to an equivalent length of service to the country. And if the schools don't like it they're free to give up their Defense Department grants.

- North Dakota and South Dakota will be joined, and there shall be Dakota. Because really you're both useless as states, but it just wouldn't be fair to hand you over to Canada like you deserve.

- A commitment to alternative energy and infrastructure that includes internet access in every home. Where will all the money come from? What a silly question; we're Democrats! We're going to tax the shit out of rich people and corporations!

- For the first 100 days, every abortion in the country is free. Especially in Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi, Georgia, Wyoming, South Carolina, Dakota and Texas. Not because we hate babies, but because we hate your babies, almost as much as you hate your women. Except Sarah Palin, but she's Tina Fey-sexy.

Sure, there are dozens of other important issues, like bailing out some more investment banks, or nationalizing the search for a cheap, safe hydrogen engine. But those things can wait until a second term.

And America goes 3 for 3 this week, and No Fear Players of the Week

I've long given up on the United States Executive branch. Sure, Scott McLellan comes out with his memoir, and that's important. But it changes nothing. So for the past few months I've been ignoring the President and his puppeteer Cheney.

But I still held out hope for the other two governmental branches. After all, Congress is Democratic, and that counts for something, right? And the Supreme Court, well sometimes Justice Kennedy is a liberal, so hooray for that!

And then Congress gives the telecom companies a gigantic blowjob, and on the same day that they get the death penalty right, The Supremes go Dick Cheney on the Alaskan ecosystem.



I can swallow the cave-in by Congress. The Democrats are used to giving in, so this was more of a habit than anything else. Plus it has the added advantage of looking tough on terror in an election year, so hooorah. Hell, it even prompted Saint Obama to vote in favor of immunity. But the Supreme Court? It was Justice Kennedy's week to be a liberal! Ginsberg was fixin' for a fight! Souter got to stay up past 9! But no. Instead they gave away $2 billion that was due Alaska. Whatever, it's not like there were pictures, right? Wait a minute...















On the flip side, this does give us cause to celebrate our No Fear Players of the Week. Sens. Chris Dodd, Rusty Feingold (Wisconsin, Heyo!) and Barbie Boxer. I'm not going to give it up for the liberal Supremes, partially because Diana Ross still won't take them back as her backups, and also because David Souter still lives with his mother, so he cannot, by definition, be a No Fear Player. Ever.

The supposedly Democratic Senate has rolled over and offered itself up for abuse by the Bush administration too many times to count, and it's getting a little nauseous in here. So kudos to the actual Senate Democrats - Boxer, Feingold and Dodd - for having the stones to vote their party's platform. The rest of you spineless power whores can kiss my ass.

Another Leon and Max adventure

– You look terrible.

– Well you’d look worse, if you’d just been in a fight.

– Oh my god Max, someone beat you up?

– Did I say that? No. I clearly said I was in a fight.

– I don’t know how clear it was, your cheek’s all swollen and – are you missing a tooth?

– Three. But you should see the other gi – the other person.

– What do you mean, person? Wait a second: did you get beat up by a woman?

– Leon, what did I say? What did I say? I said I’d been in a fight. And yes, with a lady. Well, not so much a lady as the Whore of Satan, with her fat ass and ridiculous bangs and– well.

– Oh man, that’s hilarious! You got beat up by a girl! You must be humiliated!

– You’re an ass, Leon.

– Whatever, at least I didn’t get kicked by a woman. I can’t get over it! Whoo, let me catch my breath. So, did you cry? Did she beat you about the head and genitals with her purse? Were you mesmerized by her jiggling bosom as she pummeled you?

– I told you, I wasn’t beat up. It happened to be with a female, but yes, I’d say we were fairly matched, what with her polished claws and stiletto heels. She was like some sort of tarted up chicken.

– It was a retired grandma, wasn’t it. Did she whack you with her walker?

– What do you know? Were you there? You can ask anyone from the parking lot that day. The police officer said he’d have done the same thing.

– Of course, of course. So what you’re saying is she was black.

– What? Oh, ha ha. No, she was this WASPy little…whatever. Vicious. She’s probably eaten her children.

– Please, Max, you’ve got me on the edge of my seat. I’m a child on Christmas morn. With a heart that skips and throbs I wait to hear of your epic brouhaha. What happened?

– Leon, please. Suffice it to say that I won’t be shopping at Target anytime soon.

– Actually, Max, that does not suffice. It is not, in fact, sufficient. Kindly relate your tale of woe.

– Tale of woe? I kicked her ass, Leon.

– Max, I would say that anytime you are in a situation that seems to require hitting a girl, there is a little, maybe a just titch, of woe.

– For her maybe. Fine. So I’m at Target to buy a toaster, because Susie decided it was the quickest way to dry off her hamster, and I don’t know if you know this, but charred rodent is a bitch to clean.

– Was it Sir Gallahad or Little Fairy Francis?

– Um. Can I tell you how awkward it is that you remember the names of my daughter’s hamsters?

– You don’t know, do you.

– It was the one with brown spots.

– You’re the best father ever, did you know that?

– Do you even know where your kids are?

– No. But one day I shall travel this great land, hoping to see some vestige of myself in the face of a busboy in a diner in Little Rock, or a high school quarterback in Racine. Maybe a nun in Jackson Hole.

– Have you really been to all those places?

– Remember when I was a roadie that one summer?

– No, if I recall correctly you were the only one in the neighborhood who had your own van. You were a chauffeur for a summer. Did Quails of Adonis ever actually get a gig?

– They mostly played parking lots. But they were in front of venues, sometimes. But buildings and stages could never fully contain the teeth-gnashing, seizure-inducing Sturm und Drang that was the Quails. Anyway, so you’re buying a new toaster…

– Alright, fine. I buy a new toaster – which is great, by the way, I can cook everything from steak to toast, so I don’t have to touch our oven, because that particular appliance is possessed – and I’m walking to my car when I see this…woman repeatedly slamming a stroller into the driver door.

– That’s odd. Didn’t she have anything better to do?

– Okay…she’s doing it as she’s taking her kid out of the car. It’s part of a process through which she is transferring her baby from the stroller. The collision of stroller and minivan is strictly incidental. Why would…never mind.

– Maybe she was OCD, or something. I don’t know, Max, women are crazy. Plus you threw down with her, maybe she’s actually, you know, certifiable.

– … Moving along…. So I go up to her, and I say excuse me, could you stop ramming my car. And she turns to me with what I can only describe as complete shock, as though it never occurred to her that the object impeding her stroller’s progress was a car, that this minivan could be owned by a genuine person, or even that there were people who owned cars.

– Hmm. What did that expression look like?

– This:

– Oh. Wow. She really was surprised, then.

– Didn’t I just say?

– Yeah, but, you know, there’s bound to be some exaggeration.

– Do you want to hear this or not?

– I’m still waiting for why she kicked your ass.

– We’re right there. She gets over her shock, and says “I am so, so sorry. Are you ok? Does your pussy hurt?”

– Well, that escalated quickly.

– I just…I was speechless. She’s got a baby in one hand, helping a toddler into of her car with the other, and she just stepped up and gets in my grill, like she wants to start something.

– Did she really, Tupac?

– I have to say, Leon, now that I’ve been in a fight, I kind of see where all that aggression comes from. Rappers, they take it right from the streets, and put it into their songs.

– I’m sorry, have you been living in a cave for several years?

– No, but now I FEEL it.

– Of course you do.

– Damn straight. So getting back, I still haven’t said anything to this tramp, and she’s smirking, and says “oh, does your wife not let you talk to other women? Or maybe your husband? Is that it? Are you just afraid of our entire gender? Is it the menstruation that freaks you out? The tampons?”

– What is wrong with this lady?

– Well that did it. So I come back to her with “Sorry, ma’am, I was just wondering how you fit all that junk into your pants. I didn’t know they made ass girdles.”

– And Max comes roaring back!

– I felt I had regained some ground.

– And then some. Is that when she sprayed you with the contents of her whup-ass can?

– No. But meanwhile she’s still got the stroller between me and my ride.

– You realize you can’t call your Dodge Caravan “your ride.”

– It is what it is. That’s where I do my pimpin’.

– Did you climb over the stroller?

– So very carefully, as she’s looking at me, not with daggers – there are huge flaming broadswords shooting from her pupils toward me, with hacking and swinging motions – the succubus puts her baby in his car seat, takes the stroller, and slams it into my shins.

– Awesome. Sorry, Max, but I am in awe. Astonishing, this firecracker.

– But it’s not one of those tiny cloth and plastic and aluminum deals. It’s a Bugaboo, with full on off-road tires, and the little cowcatcher in front. And it hurts. I have matching bruises on my legs.

– So did you pop her?

– I’m too shocked to move. So she starts screaming “Get out of the way, cuntweasel!”

– Cuntweasel? That’s new. I like it. Cuntweasel.

– Leon? That’s a lovely cuntweasel jig you’re dancing there, but I’m going to finish the story now.

– Sorry, I’m listening.

– By now there’s a crowd gathering, because she’s shrieking like some meth-ed out harpy. I back out from between the cars, if only to let her pass, hoping she’ll stop jamming her SUV of a stroller into my shins. As soon as we’re out in the open, she hauls off and whacks me with her baby bag.

– I thought you said the baby was in the car.

– One doesn’t actually put – baby stuff. There was baby stuff in the bag. Diapers, toys, sippy cups, and somehow a very heavy, very substantial three pound weight.

– When are kids supposed to start working out?

– For her, Leon. Wait. Are you high?

– You mean right now? Maybe a little. A bissel. What, you want to fight about it?

– Funny. So the weight knocks out my teeth, and while I’m blinking away the whirling pretty stars she kicks me in the crotch.

– Oof. That’s uncalled for.

– There was a line, and she had crossed it. So I hauled off and clocked her, right in the baby maker. Bam, fist to uterus. She staggers back, and I pull myself upright, and deliver what might have been the greatest right cross of my nascent and short-lived boxing career. Knocked the bitch right out.

– Speaking for men everywhere, Max, I can truly say that you are the No Fear Player of the Day.

– You know it. What’s so funny?

– I’m sorry, I can’t get it out of my head. Cuntweasel. Genius!

And Now, the No Fear Player of the Year…

Orenthal James Simpson

You cannot argue this. There is no discussion allowed, no argument you could introduce, no alternative you could suggest. OJ simply has the biggest testicles on this, our dear Planet Earth. President Dingus has the decade wrapped up, I’ll concede that. And Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan have put up some big numbers in recent months. But I am talking sheer audacity, folks. Bill Simmons writes about an athlete’s “I’m Keith Hernandez” moment. This will have to change. Because Keith Hernandez is a wallflower, an awkward 12-year old hiding behind bleachers and taller classmates as the last slow song plays at the big dance, compared to Mr. Simpson.

From now on, all gutsy, outlandish, “who does that guy think he is?” moves must all be compared – and found wanting next to – to OJ’s robbery.

His logic, though, is impeccable. Unbreakable, even.

You’re OJ Simpson. Hall-of-fame running back, 2,000-yard season. Great nickname – the Juice. Strong supporting role in hilarious Naked Gun movies, strong enough to get his own catch phrase (“Where’s Nordberg?”). Commentator on national television.

Killer, in cold blood, of his ex-wife and her boyfriend.

Focus of the Trial of the Century, with the legal Dream Team. On TV every day for months. We all know the story. White Bronco. Kato. Bloody glove. The Chewbacca defense. Mark Fuhrman. Acquittal.

A man gets off scot-free on a murder rap that, had it been anyone else, anywhere else, would have led to life in prison, and a new boyfriend name Snake. And here he is, walking out of the court room. Sure, there are some who turn up their noses. He definitely can’t get a job, although it’s not like he needs one.

He lays low for a few years. Loses the civil suit, but who pays attention? Everyone knew he was guilty, so the verdict is no surprise.

Fast forward to 2007. OJ gets a book deal to write, if you can handle it, “If I Did It.” The biggest fuck you to a victim’s family that has ever been committed to paper. “I’m not saying it happened. I’m just saying, give me my money.” Universal outrage, lawsuits. Common sense wins out, and the book is not only pulled, but the rights are awarded to the Goldman family. Strike one, OJ swings mightily, and misses. Still, those are some sizable nuts you’ve got there, guy.

Last week, OJ is arrested again in Nevada for criminal conspiracy, kidnapping, assault, robbery, and using a deadly weapon during the theft of some sports memorabilia he claims he owned. He walked into a casino hotel room (did you know there are cameras all over casinos? Amazing!) with some friends, all armed, and according to OJ, were there only to “perform [their] own sting operation.” Fan. Tastic. Instead they walked off with $80,000 worth of OJ memorabilia.

Was he wearing a mask? How dare you suggest cloaking the majestic glory that is the visage of Orenthal James!

Did he wait until the guy was out of his room? Skulking around is for vagabonds and hoboes! I am the Juice, conqueror of vast lands, executioner of innocents! I must walk with my thighs spread wide to accommodate the two Honda Civic-sized globes residing in my scrotum!

We are all in awe, sir.