Stop The Stupid Soccer Clock Now!

The World Cup is finally over, which means I won’t have to care about soccer for another four years. But wait—since I never care about soccer, I wasn’t interested this time, even though many of the matches reportedly were actually played in the U.S.

I probably watched fewer than 30 minutes of the action, none of which involved the U.S. teams’ games. The only action I saw was when a match happened to be already on, and I was too distracted to change the channel. I did, however, get to see a goal scored by a guy named Harry Kane on the England team. My reaction was: “Hey Beavis, they just said some guy with a hairy cane scored—huh, huh, huh, sweet!”

But even though I didn’t care and didn’t watch much, there is still something that greatly irritates me. Remember, I am a MOACA—a man of a certain age—which means I get greatly irritated over minor things. The worst thing about soccer is the time clock. Instead of showing how much time is remaining in the game, it shows how long the match has been going on. News Flash: nobody cares how long they’ve been playing, except maybe the players’ mothers— “I hope Miguel isn’t getting too tired with all that running and kicking.” Everyone cares how much time is left. In a one‑goal contest, you need to know how much time remains for your team to score.

This is a universal concept. You don’t care how long your car has been parked; you want to know how many minutes are left on the meter. You don’t care how much money you’ve spent from your checking account; you want to know how much is left. You don’t care how long the restaurant has been open; you care how much time you have until closing.

This concept has escaped the people at FIFA—the global governing body for world soccer for almost 100 years. All other time‑related sports—football, basketball, and hockey—do it the correct way. But soccer does it stupidly across all league levels, even in most high school matches.

Of course, the lame reason given for this is that the referee controls the time, not the scoreboard, and the clock does not stop for injuries, substitutions, or delays. Then the referee can add back time at the end of the half. This is accepted by the soccer world, but it is ridiculous.

Electronic scoreboards began popping up in the 1930s and soon became universal. Football, basketball, and hockey all figured out ways to manage the clock and time stoppages so the clock on the scoreboard was official. But apparently soccer did not—and still has not. Here’s an idea: Change your time stoppage rules so the clock has the official time, then show how much time is left like every other sport—you morons!

It can be done, but there is that difficult concept of change. When you’ve been wrong for almost 100 years, it’s difficult to admit you’re wrong. I would guess that the average age of the FIFA board is “deceased,” and they have lived with the stupidity so long that it would literally result in some members croaking if they ever brought a timing‑rule change to a vote.

So, continue to look stupid, FIFA. If you made the change next year, everyone would be happy—even me. But you won’t, because you’ve always done it this way—the refrain I heard often in my 40‑year business career. 

No Cards Please

Another beef I have with soccer is the practice of men giving other men colorful cards. Real men don’t send cards—red, yellow, or whatever—to other men. If they don’t end this practice, soon they will be giving each other “pastel cards,” which could ruin the sport—and of course it wouldn’t take much.

Oh, the Embarrassment

An online article said I should be embarrassed by the U.S.A. team getting knocked out of the tournament by Belgium. Uh, I don’t know anyone from Belgium, have no Belgian social‑media contacts, and am unlikely to encounter any Belgians at the store, so I think I can survive and keep my head up.

Making Soccer Useful

People always promote the World Cup as a way to bring countries together. I say we make soccer useful. I would like to see Russia play Ukraine, with the winner gaining the pre-agreed-upon disputed territory—and the war ends. You know you would watch that game.

Unfortunately, soccer could not be used to end the U.S.–Iran conflict. If Iran were leading 1–0 at the half, we could expect the following post on Truth Social:

Look, nobody knows soccer like I do, okay? And let me tell you, the Iranian goalie? Total disaster. A very bad guy, very weak, but he was blocking our shots. And some of these shots—believe me, folks—were the most beautiful, most tremendous shots you’ve ever seen. Perfectly straight. Tremendously hard. Nobody has ever seen power like this.

But this goalie, he wouldn’t let them in. He was totally restricting the passage of our beautiful, totally legitimate goals. It was a disgrace.

So, just as the second half started, I said, “We have to do something.” And I am very happy to announce that we executed a beautiful, flawless, surgical strike. We took out the Iranian goalie. Boom. Gone.

And you won’t believe what happened next. It was incredible. After we took this action, their backup goalie—complete loser—immediately ran right into the stands. Ran like a dog! And he ordered some nachos. Can you believe it? Total surrender!

Final Score: U.S. 78, Iran 1.

 

My Past Is Disappearing Fast

A Beginning Sidebar

I was new at the company when my sheep‑head boss (I had so many) used an expression I had never heard before. I had told him that another manager didn’t like his idea, and he exclaimed:

“Wilson doesn’t know his a$$ from a hole in the ground!”

I found the expression rather tacky. Even a severely handicapped person knows the difference — one is attached to you and needed for a bodily function, while the other can be easily seen, doesn’t follow you around, and usually doesn’t smell that bad.

The expression was born in early 20th‑century rural America. No one takes credit for it because it is so stupid. The only reason it caught on is that it uses the word a$$. Unfortunately, my boss used it frequently. I have never used it, but it came to mind as I started thinking about this topic -

My past is literally disappearing …… 

First My School

My high school was a great school. Despite being located in the blue‑collar section of the city and not receiving the financial support of the upper‑echelon and lower‑echelon schools, if you studied and worked hard, you received a quality education.

We had graduates go on to Harvard and other prestigious universities. They became doctors, lawyers, scientists, etc. While my college degree and career were less impressive, my claim to fame was being quoted multiple times in the Wall Street Journal.

But at some point, the school administration lowered its standards. There were violent acts in the building, and the quality of education plummeted. So many students escaped to alternative schools that the administration claimed they had to close the school. No, they didn’t close the school — they killed it.

They combined the few remaining students with students in an adjacent district to form a new joint $hi++y school. They built a brand-new, shiny school building as a result, and now have a bigger, brighter $hi++y school to conduct their $hi++y classes. The $hi++y  school after a President who was shot dead – just like they killed education in this city. It’s now a fluke to get any impressive graduate out of that $hi++y school, and more likely that students there will end up quoted in the prison newsletter than anywhere else.

They demolished my old high school. Now …

I can’t tell my past from a hole in the ground. 

Then My Church

It was the first church I ever attended. I went there only to play in the junior basketball league, but soon after found Jesus. At one point, the church touted itself as the largest in the world.

It was a great place, great people, great programs, great services. That church helped thousands of people and was a community institution. I have so many cherished memories of events in that building.

One of the best happened in the church gymnasium. By that time, I had graduated to the men’s basketball league. In my first season, we were the best team in the league. I was a mere role player, averaging just four points a game. However, in the league championship game, I played the best basketball game of my life. In the second half, our best player had to sit out due to foul trouble, and the opposition quickly cut our 11‑point lead down to three. In the next ten minutes of the game, I scored 17 points. To put that into perspective, if I scored at that rate for an entire game, I would have scored 68 points. I finished with 23 points and earned the game's Most Valuable Player award.

But then someone made a disastrous decision regarding leadership succession. This was followed by a series of bad decisions, resulting in the church's closure, the building's abandonment, and its decay over several years. Finally, they tore down the entire structure, including the gym. Now,

I can’t tell my past from a hole in the ground. 

Finally, My Tennis Courts

They were the first tennis courts I ever played on. They were very basic courts at the local park, black asphalt with only the lines painted. One summer, I basically lived on those courts — I wore out two pairs of tennis shoes that year. 

My old tennis court 

I made the tennis team in my senior year of high school and played second doubles. It was on these courts that we battled North High for second place in the city series, which was the best we could ever accomplish since yuppie Firestone High would finish first every year with their second team.

The contest came down to the second doubles match. Both teams and coaches watched, cheering on every point. My partner and I easily took set one, but North rallied to take set two. The third set was tight the entire way and went to a tiebreaker. Fifty years later, I can still remember the easy shot at the net I had to win the match — except I flubbed and hit the ball into the net. Fortunately, we won the match two points later, and a massive celebration ensued.

But I recently found out they are ripping up the tennis courts. (The photo is days before demolition) My first thought was, “But where is the tennis team going to practice and play?” Then I sadly realized that wasn’t an issue because there is no longer a tennis team, since there is no longer a high school. Now:

I can’t tell my past from a hole in the ground. 

The Replacements

On the school site, a shiny new elementary school and arts building is being built. I’m sure the teachers will try hard, but eventually these students will end up at that $hi++y high school across town. At least some of the fat kids will learn to play the tuba at the arts school.

On the church site, a huge warehouse for that giant retailer Megazon is being built. A church building where people were cautioned against consuming too much is being replaced by a structure that encourages people to consume too much. There is no better example of our cultural decline than this. Now, people who should be in church on Sunday morning can get deliveries of crap on Sunday morning.

The tennis courts will be replaced by skateboard ramps. Yes, the ramps will be used more than the tennis courts — but nobody ever broke their arm on the tennis court — so good luck to you, whippersnappers! 

Yeah, I’m Old

Change is difficult - even more difficult when they rip up your past. It’s becoming challenging to understand this crazy world. I get confused so easily. And now:

I can’t tell my past from a hole in the ground.

 

This Sport Won’t Curl Your Toes

Once you reach a certain age, you feel entitled—ah, enlightened—uh, justified… okay, you just don’t know when to keep your opinion to yourself. You start telling younger people when they’re wasting their lives.

Of course, I have never, ever done anything worthless and have lived a totally fulfilling, enriching life with no regrets whatsoever. That must be why, since retiring, I’ve felt the need to recommence teaching college classes, resume performing standup comedy, and continue writing and selling books—all at the same time—in an attempt to squeeze every last drop of enjoyment out of the remaining bits of life I have left. And how is the retirement‑induced joy going? I’ll let you know when I feel some.

Regardless, I know time‑wasting when I see it. And one of the worst examples of young people wasting their lives is the sport of curling. The Olympics have brought this ridiculous spectacle back into the public domain—and onto my big‑screen TV. Thank goodness this happens only once every four years. The only reason anyone, especially the participants, cares is that at the end of the competition, Olympic medals—some of them even gold—will be awarded.

But getting a gold medal for sweeping well is not as prestigious as other Olympic sports, and I’m sure the other athletes look down on the curlers. “I got my gold medal by risking my life ripping down the giant slalom. How did you get yours?” “Uh… I use a broom really well.”  

Curling has to be the lamest sport ever. It originated in 16th‑century Scotland, where people started sliding hunks of granite across the ice for fun. The game basically resembled shuffleboard on ice. Everything changed the day some idiot decided to take a broom, sweep the ice, and redirect the granite. This had to be a blatant violation of the existing rules, but soon everyone was sweeping the ice, and the modern game was born. It’s called curling because after you watch it for ten minutes, you want to curl up in a little ball and sleep until the brain-numbing match is over.

My wife has become a fan of the sport, so I’ve been “forced” to endure these matches if I’m parked in the living room at the time. How bad is it? I think women’s basketball or even chick soccer is more interesting. You can argue for the sport, but if it’s legitimate, why is it only on television every four years at the Olympics? Even horseshoes and cornhole appear more often on ESPN.

And yet, in this Olympics, the competitors are taking the sport more seriously than ever. A men’s match between Canada and Sweden ended with players swearing at each other—you don’t hear bilingual profanity very often. A Swedish player accused a Canadian player of “double‑touching” his stones, which I admit would upset me. I remember being accused of double-touching a cheerleader in high school. I was cleared when I claimed the contact was inadvertent due to the tuck rule. But come on! Getting that upset over a curling match? Guys, don’t get your brooms in an uproar. And you do realize that when you swear at a foreigner in your native tongue, they have no idea what you’re saying?

I have no idea how curling ever made it into the Olympics, and I think I have the perfect replacement. Roller derby on ice skates—Slider Derby—would be ten times more exciting to watch. I’m a big roller derby fan; who doesn’t enjoy ladies in tight pants and fishnets beating the heck out of each other? It would be way wilder than roller derby—once you throw sharp blades and the possibility of blood into the mix, the whole thing suddenly feels riskier, faster, and more chaotic in the best way. And let’s face it—the Olympics could use more fishnets to go along with those slinky figure‑skating outfits.

I was, however, impressed by how the women curlers handle those brooms. Their sweeping ability is tremendous. So, single guys, the hot curlers in this Olympiad are worth pursuing. When I asked ChatGPT who the hottest curler was, it said beauty is subjective and accused me of being a sexist pig—ha! Artificial intelligence can be so wrong. It still wouldn’t answer me when I asked which curler had the biggest rocks.

A woman’s ability to use a broom is an underrated skill. Therefore, I would consider Selina from the Swiss team to be a superior catch to Sydney Sweeney. While Sydney might be superior in the boudoir, Selina can do it there, in the kitchen, in the living room, the bathroom, the hallway, and even the garage. By “doing it,” I mean sweeping it sparkling clean. Exceptionally clean—spotless even. As the curling commentators said, even a piece of lint could cause a problem when sweeping the sheet. And let’s face it, these ladies are experts in handling and positioning of stones—’nuf said.

Fortunately, all this mad sweeping has come to an end, and the Good Housekeeping Awards have been granted. Now we don’t have to pretend to be interested in curling until the next Olympiad and can return to being bored by watching NBA basketball—oh look, another long 3-point attempt.

No Room At The Inn – The Holiday Inn

Gather round, children—yes, you full-grown, tax-paying children—because your Uncle Don has another classic Christmas tale guaranteed to warm your heart this holiday season.

Now that original Christmas story features a trip that goes horribly bad. But before we get to that one, let’s revisit a little misadventure your Uncle Don had himself. Picture it: 1985. Uncle Don and his pregnant wife decide to take one last “grown-ups only” vacation to Cape Cod before parenthood shut that door for a good long while.

And honestly, it was a great trip. On our final day, we finished everything on our vacation checklist by lunchtime. Since we were flying out of Boston the next morning—and our reserved hotel was south of the city—your Uncle Don had a brilliant idea, children. We’d cancel the reservation and just drive up the highway until we found a place closer to the airport. Simple. Efficient. Foolproof.

Except it wasn’t.

We spotted a hotel, pulled off the interstate… booked solid. Next exit—full. Next place—was a Holiday Inn. There’s always space available there. But there was no room at the inn, children – the Holiday Inn. And there I stood in the lobby, my pregnant wife beside me, stranded in the wild, exotic land of Boston. (Trust me, for a Midwesterner, it counts as foreign territory.) Suddenly, Uncle Don felt a deep, personal connection to the Biblical Joseph that he had never quite appreciated before.

Now For the Original Bad Trip

Joseph, of course, had carefully planned his and Mary’s journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem. He wanted to arrive just in time—close enough to the due date for the experienced women in his family to deliver the baby, but not so early that the aunties and grandmothers would start doing calendar math. And oh, children, those old Jewish ladies could do the math. They knew Mary was nine months pregnant, but had been married for less than that. Some of them women might be cruel to the “harlot” Joseph had dragged into the family.

But Joseph, as a typical man, greatly underestimated two things:

1.    How many breaks a very pregnant woman riding a donkey would need.

2.    How much a donkey on bumpy, unpaved roads could speed up labor.

By the time they reached Bethlehem, his whole plan had unraveled. The first inn inside the city? Sold out for days. The innkeeper basically tossed them out and pointed them toward the stable. A kinder man might’ve said, “Sure, have the baby in my place,” but no—off to the barn they went.

And then Joseph, exhausted from travel, had to deliver his own baby. We celebrate Mary—and rightly so—but Joseph was chosen just as carefully. A carpenter with skilled, steady hands - able to keep his cool under extreme pressure. The trip was a disaster, but the ending? Pretty spectacular.

Now Back to Boston

So there I was, your Uncle Don, standing in that lobby, stressed and unsure what to do next. I’d dragged my pregnant wife into this mess, and I wasn’t about to leave without a plan. There was a pay phone—yes, children, a real pay phone—and we had a bag of quarters and a travel book. That’s how it was done in ancient times, children: pay phone, quarters, printed guidebook. 

Two young women were working the desk. Let’s call them Amy and Becky. As we started flipping through the book, Amy told us we had to leave the hotel since we weren’t guests. No one else was in the lobby, we weren’t causing trouble—she was just irritated we were still there. And that made your Uncle Don furious, because now she was putting his pregnant wife at risk. But I wasn’t leaving that pay phone, it was my literal lifeline - so I just stared her down in silence and continued with the task at hand.

We made our first call—no luck. Then Becky quietly motioned me over. She could tell we were in trouble. I explained what was going on, and she told me about another hotel just two blocks away, hidden from the highway. It was under renovation, but likely had rooms. She even offered to call for us. That small act of kindness saved the day. The hotel was perfectly fine, we had a good meal, and we made it home safely. My little “Joseph moment” ended well too.

And that, children, is the moral of this festive Christmas tale. Don’t be like that cranky seahag Amy, snapping at people for no good reason. Be like Becky—the angel who stepped in with kindness when it mattered.

Merry Christmas, children! And to all a good night—and an absolutely tremendous New Year!

 

Guys – Woo Your Love Interests

 I previously blogged about how women have trouble forming romantic relationships because they tend to underrate men’s physical attractiveness, while overrating their own. Let’s be honest—both men and women often overestimate their own appeal. Women may undervalue men's looks while overestimating their own, and men frequently assume they're irresistible without putting in the work. The result? A romantic stalemate. And you don’t want a stale mate – Do ya?

Men have forgotten how to woo women. Woo is defined as “to seek affection or favor – especially with romantic intent”. Think flowers, thoughtful messages, and genuine attention. Men want to get the girl without doing any of the work. However, women want to be wooed. They want to be pursued. They want the man to have to work to attain the relationship. It's not "playing hard to get". Women need to be respected. Women are affirmed when they are valued. And something of value is worth pursuing. Disclaimer: No, still means no. If she bluntly tells you no, stop all wooing.  

But today's men are lazy. They expect to smile, say "Hey, Baby," and badda boom, badda bing – I got a girlfriend. No other trend exemplifies this than the sending of "dick pics". This is not wooing in the least. It just says, “Hey, I would like to have sex with you”. The dick pic attempts to eliminate all that messy romantic work and jump straight to physicality.

In reality, sex is the last thing a man should be concerned about in a potential relationship. The man experiences no bonding as a result of the sex act. Almost all women do, to a certain extent. You do not want this woman to bond with you in any way until you get to know her better, because once they form a bond, it can be messy and complicated to break it. And for those women who feel no bonding whatsoever during/after sex? Those are to be avoided at all costs since they will be the ones that will bang your disgusting Uncle Herb after you are married. Yes, that's right – I just advised guys to delay sex and be way more selective about who they shag.

There is this guy I know who is looking for a woman who can cook for him, clean for him, take care of him, oh, and she should have large breasts. There is no mention of forming a relationship or what he might provide for her. The guy doesn’t want a wife – he wants a maid – one with big hooters. Typically, you don’t enter into a long-lasting vertical relationship with your maid, large breasts notwithstanding.

So guys, realize how a loving, long-term relationship works. You are going to do as much for her as you expect her to do for you, maybe more. You are going to put forth effort and continuously strive to make the relationship work. And this literally starts at the beginning. Again, you must woo her because she wants to be wooed. So guys, step up. Show effort. Send thoughtful texts. Plan dates. Be consistent. But make the effort because she wants you to make an effort – and you will stand out from your competition.

Advice for Women

If you’re lucky enough to start a relationship today, try not to overanalyze everything. Men are simple and stupid, and often simply stupid. Don’t rush to “fix” him. Constant criticism erodes trust and affection. Instead, use tact and kindness when suggesting change. Men hate to be constantly criticized and disrespected. The male ego is fragile, so devise more subtle ways to suggest changes in behavior.

The male ego is bizarre. Men need to be affirmed and have that ego, among other things, stroked. Men thrive on affirmation. Compliment his strengths, even if subtly. Compliment his maleness. Charm that ego – even if you don’t mean it. That’s right – be crafty in praising your man. Craftiness comes naturally to women, but in this instance, use it for good. Your guy will love you if you do this – trust me.

Final Thoughts

To wrap up these last two posts - Ladies: Consider broadening your criteria. The perfect guy might not check every box, but he could be a great partner.

Gentlemen: Put in the effort. Pursue her with sincerity and passion, and continue to demonstrate your value long after the first few dates. Concentrate on connecting with her.

My work here is done! Now go out there and build something real. Relationships take work—but the payoff is worth it.

 

Some Women Have Problems With Relational Math

 An OK Cupid (a dating app) survey found that women on the site rated 80% of the men as below average in appearance. Just for reference, assuming all factors are equal, 50% should be above average and 50% below. This 30% gap goes a long way in explaining why people today are finding it challenging to form meaningful romantic relationships.

Furthermore, additional studies indicate that women tend to overrate their appearance compared to how others perceive them. I fully believe this to be true. Years ago, when I worked in an office, the guys would be amused at the women who thought of themselves as “babes” but fell well short.

The tendency for a woman to underrate a man’s appearance and overrate her own causes a pronounced “relationship math” problem. (The math is explained below.) A guy with a dynamic personality or a great sense of humor, which are qualities that women often lie about on surveys, may never even be given an opportunity. A man and woman who are, in reality, well matched in appearance and compatible with each other will never become a couple due to this false perception.

The Math: Let's say a man and a woman are both “5s”, and should be very compatible with each other. If they were to get hitched, it could be a long and fulfilling marriage. But they will never pair up. The woman, based on that survey, rates him a “3”. She also possibly overrates herself as a "7". The relationship gap in her mind is a "4". If we arbitrarily say that the widest acceptable cultural gap is a “3” (and admit it – you do the math all the time. If you see an “8” with a “5”, or a “6” with a “3”, you do notice) she is going to show no interest in this guy whatsoever. The exception, of course, is money. A lot of cash can transform a guy from a "3" into a solid "7".

Fishing in the Wrong Pond

That woman, who is a “5” and thinks she is a “7”, will also be fishing in the “7-to-9” computer dating pool and won't be able to catch much competing against actual “8s”. And just because a guy is attractive doesn't mean he isn't a jerk or good-husband material. As Shania Twain proclaimed, "So you got the looks, but have you got the touch?” 

Other Faulty Perceptions

Women also have too high of expectations when it comes to men. I blame Disney movies. Women are seeking their Prince Charming. Men are neither princes nor are we naturally charming. We are dirty, smelly, arrogant, lazy, disrespectful, unemotional, unreliable, and non-communicative creatures who tend to be promiscuous.

Ladies, you can control, limit, and somewhat improve men, but you cannot fundamentally change them. So, sadly, this is what you have to work with. That being the case, accept that your man will never come close to being a Disney Prince – he is closer to one of the Seven Dwarfs.

I once discussed relationships with a 30-something woman I met at a networking meeting. She expressed her frustration with finding an acceptable guy in the dating pool. I soon realized she had a warped view of reality. She described how she wanted things to be rather than how they are. I tried my best to get her to expand her thinking and perhaps lower her expectations, but to no avail. That beautiful, intelligent, pleasant woman is still looking for love in her 40s.

A 2010 Gallup survey found that 88% of women believed in the concept of finding a soulmate. Hallmark movies give women the idea that their soulmate is out there just waiting for them to bump into them at Starbucks. Of course, the couples in those movies are typically both “9s”. Hey, why doesn’t Hallmark make a movie where the lovebirds are plain “5s”?

I’ve Been Searching So Long …

You can search for that soulmate, and you might find him, just like you can keep buying lottery tickets, hoping to win big someday. It would be much better to look for a guy who is honest, faithful, hard-working, and a potential good father to your children, even if you consider him plain-looking. Not so much a soul mate, but someone who mates well with your soul.

Yes, I’m telling you to lower your expectations. Yes, I'm telling you to settle for less. I know this is not the reality you seek, but rather the reality that is. I realize that many single women’s heads will explode at my suggestion. They will view this as the ramblings of an old sexist chauvinist. However, at the very least, be open to the possibility that I could be right.

Instead of playing the game over and over again in the same way and losing every time, why not change it up a bit? Instead of quickly swiping left over that plain-looking guy, give the guy a chance. He deserves it, and you may hit gold if you are willing to dig below the surface.

 

Do Not Send Me Any More Video Clips

 Friends send me too many Internet videos. And by too many, I mean any. Because, sadly, I don’t watch any of them. I also use the term “friend” loosely because some of these videos are sent by people I have no other contact with whatsoever.

Yet, every day on Facebook Messenger, Instagram, text, or whatever, here are all these videos with the preview picture and headline beckoning me to click the link. I decline to because I just don’t have the time. If I clicked every link, in addition to the standard clickbait on my homepage, I would spend the entire day staring at my screen, entertained by entirely worthless videos.

Some of these videos are of a political nature, showing some snarky politician “sticking” it to the other side. But that’s what’s wrong with the nation today. The politicians are all interested in sticking it to their opponents instead of sticking to an agenda that benefits the country. By forwarding the video, I assume people get a vicarious thrill that they are now sticking it to “those fools” as well. And to those people who post daily about how upset they are at what some loudmouth occupant of the White House says - this makes you look weak and petty. If words from someone you don’t know anger you so much, I suggest you mute yourself on all news reports. You will feel better about life, and so will everyone because we won’t be exposed to your constant bitching. It’s a win-win!

The videos featuring women with enormous breasts are also of no interest to me. Now that I am older and wiser, I do not fall for the trap of fake breasts. They are decoys that women use to deceive men. Hunters will place decoys and laugh at how stupid animals are fooled by them, and then go all googly-eyed at a woman sporting her large decoys on her chest. These are hi-tech falsies. They are fake, meaning NOT REAL. You would reject fake currency and all other fake items, but not fake hooters! Would you accept fake melons made of silicone at the store? So why here? All they have done is hide some silicone in strategic areas. Guys, would you get excited if someone hid lumps of silicone under your bed? No, you would find it bizarre and annoying …. so, it’s just well-placed silicone.

And this boob chicanery causes problems for older guys engaged in intimate activities. These fake melons serve as literal speed bumps, delaying arrival at the desired destination. An old guy doesn’t have time to explore the entire park. He needs to get to the main attraction with minimal detours and distractions. In addition, fake breasts present a safety risk. Guys, especially less nimble older guys, need to be careful because, as Ralphie in A Christmas Story was warned: “They’ll put your eye out!” Therefore, the enormous breast videos hold no interest for me. Please note: To my lady friends who have had reasonable breast augmentation surgery, I just want to say: You look mahvelous, darlings, every one of you. And my previous statements do not apply to you in any way, shape, or form – especially form.     

Then come the stupid cat videos. How many videos does it take to prove cats are stupid? Once you realize that, all the videos are just stupid videos – sent by seemingly stupid people. And aren't these videos disrespectful to cats? Cats may be stupid, but they can’t help it, can they? These videos are mean-spirited and defame all cats. I believe the cats need to get themselves an aggressive attorney and sue – Tim Misny, perhaps? Somebody needs to pay for these aberrations. Once the cats win their lawsuit, they can roll around in very expensive, very potent catnip, which will make a great video, which I will send to, uh, well, no one. But this particular video will still be great. 

I get videos on life hacks, investing, interviews with psychos, talking comic strips, and monkeys smoking pot – No, no, no, no, no. Now, I do watch videos with a direct connection to me and my books, but those are few.

I have asked some people not to send me videos, but they typically ignore the request. It’s just like telling a junkie to lay off the crack. There are those awkward moments when I will run into someone in person, and they will enthusiastically ask, “Did you get that video I sent you?”  “Yes, I just haven’t had the chance to open it.”, in reply. And by this, I mean I will never have the chance to open it. It will sit quietly in my inbox and wait for me like an unrequited lover forever, and ever, and ever.