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everydayanth · 5 years ago

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Academic Elitism: an institutional issue

Sorry for being so rant-y lately, but the elitism of university has been a problem for me from the exact moment I accepted my scholarship with a signature and a handshake in high school. (The scholarship was later revoked due to state up-fuckery, but that’s another story, and I was already in too deep by the time they told me).

My parent’s house was only an hour north, my younger sister had already claimed my room, but I was excited. I was in the furthest dorm building, because that’s where the scholarship kids went, it was like a poor kid diversity hall, every few doors was someone from a completely different background, but we were all poor except our Swedish RA, and there was an odd pride in that. We all had various scholarships: robotics, dance team, nerds like me, etc. (not the football or hockey athletes though, they had their own dorm next to the library for... reasons, lol).

But being the last hall, it wasn’t actually full, most of us had entire rooms to ourselves, often whole suites; our hall was co-ed, but rooms were only occupied at every-other, staggered down the corridor. Only the front two halls were used, the back two closed off for construction or codes or something. We had to hike up the hill for dining halls, which was fine until snowdays that shut the whole campus down (and I mean west Michigan ones, with 4+ feet of powder and ice underneath). I had an old computer my dad got me for graduation and I didn’t know it was old until my peers started calling it a dinosaur. I had to use the library computers to write and print papers, and most places I went, I ran into the other scholarship kids. We didn’t talk much, just a head bob here and there, awareness at our similarities and an annoyed spite at being thrown together this way. It was lonely for everyone.

I had a purple flip phone I’d gotten only that calendar year (2009) and was still learning to text with (abbreviations? instant messaging? what?). My roommate had come down from Alaska to live near her dad, we’d talked in the summer, but I never saw her. I moved my things in and her stuff was on her side, I texted her about going to turn in paperwork and when I came back, there was a note on my bed and all her things were gone, she couldn’t do it, had never been away from home for even a night. She left a few mismatched socks and a bag of junk pens that I resented for years.

Social media was mostly a way to talk to people across campus and exchange homework and party times/locations. We posted over-edited photos of our food and still jogged with our mp3 players and ipods. But within two years, I had to trade in my computer three times and upgrade to a smartphone to keep up with the expectations of communication. Professors would cancel classes by emails an hour out, and if I was on campus, I simply didn’t get the message, running between classes with 19 credit hours and three jobs. Work would call in or cancel my appointments (tutoring) and I needed to be able to communicate at the rate of my peers, so though it wasn’t something we could easily afford, my parents let me get the smartphone and my dad helped me find computers that could keep up with writing papers and researching without having to go to the lab, which saved so much time.

There was little understanding for my suffering. I didn’t have a car, I had to call my parents and organize a time to get home or take the train which was more expensive than waiting around on an empty campus. They were often things that even the wealthiest students had to deal with, but there were so much more of them for us, more stress, more problems, more solutions, more consequences, and in some ways, more determination.

I spent plenty of breaks holed up in my room, but when the swine flu/H1N1 outbreak happened, guess where they quarantined students?

In our hall.

Not the back one that was closed. In the room attached to my suite.

After half a semester alone, suddenly strangers shared my bathroom. I never saw them, I would just hear the formidable click of the bathroom lock followed by the shower. A week later I got a blue half-sheet note in my mailbox about quarantines. The other kids were as pissed off, as we watched kids escorted in with blue masks and were told to just get cleaning wipes from the front desk –they ran out in a week.

We were the recyclable students, brought in to trade scholarships for university grade averages. Many of my friends were struggling with scholarship qualifications and gpas (which only encouraged my continual obsessive perfectionism and involvement).

We were expendable.

I didn’t understand the elitism then, or I did, but I’d twisted it in my head from years tossed between private and public schools. I was an invader, I wasn’t supposed to be there, but I wanted to be. I understood that I didn’t deserve it, that I had to work harder to stay. I completed Master’s coursework for my Bachelor’s degree, finishing two BA programs (anthropology and English: creative writing) and 2 minor programs in philosophy and world lit, lead several campus groups and volunteered with honor’s societies. I spent hours on campus every day, running home just to go to one job or the other. I slept about four hours a night and I still romanticize it because I loved it. And I was good at it. It was a closed system, easy to infiltrate, easy to watch and observe and follow, to feel protected from the world, but there were always ways that I came up short.

I didn’t have leggings or Northface fleeces or Ugg boots or name brand anything (except a pair of converse I got in 8th grade from my Babcia). I had old high school sweats and soccer shirts, hand-me-down clothes from sisters and cousins that mix-matched a style I thought was unique but I now understand screamed I don’t really belong here. Example: I went to propose an independent study to a professor I really admired and I panicked about what to wear. I still cringe at the memory, gahhhhhh, but I pulled on what I thought was a decent dress because it had no rips or stains or tears and though I’d picked it up from a clearance rack, it was the newest thing and therefore the best. But in retrospect, it was definitely a “party” dress, I grabbed a sweater, hoop earrings that had always been beautiful in my neighborhood, and heels I never wore otherwise, and presented my idea. This old professor was just like “um...did you dress up for me?” Clearly spooked by red flags and I realized my mistake. Saved by quick thinking I clarified “no, I have a presentation later,” and being a familiar face in the social sciences department, I let him assume I was dressed up as something. I just went in my sweats and t-shirts after that, got a haircut that tamed the wavy frizz and learned the importance of muted tones, cardigans, and flats.

I made a lot of interesting friends in the process, people who also stuck out from the American Academic culture: exchange students, older (non-traditional) students, rebels, and other poor kids. But that also meant that we all evolved during our time there, so friendship was quick and fleeting as we adapted or dropped out or remained oblivious, lost in our studies and dreams of changing the world or our lives.

I had no idea how to approach the dining halls because I could only afford the bronze plan that was included with my room+board scholarship. I could enter the hall ten times per week, with four included passes to the after-hours carry-out (this was an upgrade from the free high school lunch I was coming from). I met other kids on this plan and their dorm rooms had fridges and microwaves and shelves of ramen and mac’n’cheese. Mine was sparse, my fridge had jugs of water from the filtered tap in the common room, and though it had a shared kitchenette, it always smelled bad or was being used and the nearest grocery store was Meijers which was a 15-20 minute drive from campus. I used so much energy dividing up my meals and figuring out how to sneak food from the hall for later or just learn to not eat, which is another story involving malnutrition, broken bones, and the American Healthcare System.

We like to summarize the college experience with fond struggles. I went back to my old high school to watch my younger sisters’ marching band competition that first year (it’s MI, and they were good). My old art teacher (not much older than we were but she felt so much older at the time, also her maiden name was Erickson and so was her fiance’s so she didn’t “change” her name and that blows my mind to this day), anyway, she stopped me to ask how school was going, and I was not prepared to be recognized in anyway and stammered out something like “oh, yeah, stressful. Fun, cool, yeah,” like the eloquent well-educated student I was. And she said, “oh, I loved it, don’t you love it? Everything’s so charming, and being poor? Oh man, it’s hard for a while, but it’s so good to go through.”

I was dumbfounded at her reference to poverty as a thing to go through when you’re a student. I again had to remember that I was infiltrating places where people weren’t just marginally more well-off than I was, but far beyond, in a place where they couldn’t comprehend an alternative, couldn’t conceive of surviving poverty, of not having a reliable place to fall if you mess up, parents who couldn’t support you if things went wrong, who couldn’t save you from having to drop out if scholarships were canceled because the money just wasn’t there.

Talking with my parents never worked, and I recently found this video by The Financial Diet��about Boomer shame in being poor, where many Millennials were united by it and it was #relatable. But all this is to say that there are so many layers and ways we develop in higher education that are often overlooked by the romantic nostalgia of the elite expectation. What we demand from education vs. what it offers us in return is rarely equal for students coming from poverty, and it starts with that first sacrifice of looking at money and deciding it has to be worth it to do something bigger, and that education is a necessary piece of that goal.

Now I live near Brown University, I’ve been to Harvard when we lived in Boston and recently took a trip to Yale with bold expectations. I am friends with several people who work at these places and I hear the same things: so many students are in a place where their obsessions are considered more important than the larger world, an argument that Shakespeare is a woman is more important to prove than the greater issues of sexism in society as a whole, while others are trained to look at data and the world as a pocketable fact-book, going to conferences and week-long summits and then off to D.C. to make important decisions about places they’ve never been to, for people they’ve never met, about problems they’ve never experienced.

It’s not new. It’s not romantic. It’s not nostalgic. It’s just sick.

I was horrified at New Haven. I have read so many social science reports and papers and experiments and academic bullshit that has come from professors at Yale with a big badge of ivy-league validation. So much of this research was focused on homelessness and culture clash and socio-economics in America, as that was my “dissertation” that got me discounted master’s classes for my BA in Anthropology. Anyway, my point was that I thought this noble, proud university that put out so much research was going to be situated in something of a utopia, where their research is put into practice. Obviously, I was wrong, but I didn’t expect how wrong. (I had also started reading Leigh Bardugo’s Ninth House, so... there’s another thing).

My observations were validated by employees of ivy-league schools, who have watched over the past 2 decades as they grow more and more reclusive, hiding away from the public except through a few, probably well-intentioned, outstretched hands that do little to contribute to the world outside the university itself. These ivory towers are built by poaching: environments, observations, resources, research, and yeah, even students.

I love academia. I will sit in a library for hours just pulling down tomes (and putting them back in their proper locations like a dork) and drawing connections just for fun. But right now, I’m a bit bitter and spiteful and angry.

When something like Coronavirus sneaks up on us, we have a tendency to throw the most expendable people under the bus as quickly as we can, and all I can think about is my shadow of a suite-mate sneezing and coughing with swine flu for two weeks, at how I refused to use my own bathroom and listened to my hall-mates’ advice about showering at the rec center a mile away as we all collectively locked our bathroom doors and were left there by the university to get sick without insurance to help with any foreseeable costs.

It’s not the same now, they’ve rebuilt the entire section of the campus, it’s odd to see it, I wonder where they put the expendable kids. Or maybe they don’t accept them anymore. I’ve worked in college admissions since then, and it is a scary industry of politics and preference and hidden quotas and image-agendas. Not all schools are industry monsters, but when you’re expendable, they sure do feel like it, whether you graduate summa cum laude with two degrees, six awards, and five tasseled ropes around your neck or not.

I wish I had a positive message. I wish I was in a place to help people who feel expendable or like they can’t keep up with communications because of technology or language or network or environment. But I don’t have much right now. For all its posturing and linear progression, academia needs to create profit. All I can do is yell about this existing.

If you are feeling expandable in university, I can tell you you’re not alone. I can let you rant about all the small ways your peers don’t get it, whether its an accent they shit on or ceremonies you don’t have the right clothes for or textbooks you share with a friend to cut costs but then they hoard them. I can relate to you about guilt and that sneaking panic that fills you with anxiety at night as you question yourself and wonder if it’s worth it at all, if it’s necessary, if it’s okay to be expendable to follow something that feels bigger. I can validate your doubt and tell you that you’re not actually expendable, you’re a bridge.

I’m sorry it still works like this. I wish we figured out how to change it by now, I wish I had secret shortcuts to tell you about, that there was more accountability or hope, but I’m not seeing it lately. I hope you do. <3

#academia #anthropology #sociology #university #culture #h1n1 #coronavirus #poverty #wealth gap #elitism

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itsmariotti-blog · 6 years ago

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Jay Mariotti: Who's got it better? Harbaugh

He wasn’t on the ballot and has yet to coach a game at Michigan, yet Jim Harbaugh finished fourth in voting last week for the student-body presidency. This should shock no one who has watched life’s two proven equalizers, karma and justice, embrace him with hugs and love since Dec. 28. You’ll remember that as the dark and dirty afternoon when the 49ers — and there is no other way to state it — removed his khaki-covered carcass from the premises in one of football’s all-time mismanagement fiascos.

Those of us who know Harbaugh — me from way back — realize his public persona is something of an act. Yet no PR firm could shape a campaign that has him coming off as a happy, wealthy and enormously popular BMOC, in contrast to a Jed York-Trent Baalke corporate abomination that grows more sour and depressing by the hour at Levi’s Stadium. Seems Harbaugh makes more news than the Kardashians these days, the difference being that his events always glow with good, fun vibes, devoid of a Kanye or Disick funk.

“Disappointed w/4th place finish for @umich student body Pres,” he cracked Monday on his Twitter account. “Competitive juices flowing! Hat in the ring for 2016 & will campaign.”

Can a man beat Urban Meyer and rule a large student body in one swoop? Jimmy Frat House might be the only coach capable of pulling this off. It’s amazing how he keeps his personal headline cycle generating with cool water-cooler buzz that must warm the collective embittered souls of 49ers fans, who at least can root for Harbaugh from afar while their franchise implodes amid a crippling roster exodus and a bizarre coaching appointment. If he already had blown away York and Baalke in the public-opinion race, what’s happened since is a rout akin to the last Seahawks loss.

There was Harbaugh on a snowy afternoon in Ann Arbor, playing good Samaritan when he observed a rollover crash on an interstate highway. Christine Mowrer didn’t know who he was, but covered in blood after her 2003 Jeep Cherokee flipped at least three times, she was relieved to see Harbaugh and another football staff member wrap her and her 73-year-old mother in blankets and administer first aid until help arrived. “He probably kept me from going into shock,” Mowrer, 53, told the Ann Arbor News from her hospital bed. “I had blood dripping out of my nose, and he helped me out and got me onto the ground.”

Meanwhile, in Santa Clara, York and Baalke were trying to explain the identity of Jim Tomsula and douse speculation that Tomsula had undercut Harbaugh to get his job, furthering perceptions that the departed angel had been sabotaged by the worst kind of office politics. As Harbaugh said to a Bay Area columnist, “[You] definitely walk down the halls and people look away or they look at you and you know something’s going on,” adding that it would be a good issue for Tomsula to address. When Tomsula did address it, he blamed the media and never really denied it.

There was Harbaugh, going to Michigan basketball games, belting out the “Hail to the Victors” school fight song and pressing his hand against his heart during the national anthem. There was Harbaugh, staying in a budget hotel with his assistant coaches and eating pre-dawn cereal in the lobby before carpooling to Schembechler Hall and staying until midnight. There was Harbaugh, hanging out with his 25-year-old son, Jay, the new tight ends coach. There was Harbaugh, waving at students who wear “Maize, Blue and Khaki” T-shirts and “Welcome to Ann Arbaugh” clothing lines. St. Jim, they were calling him.

Meanwhile, in Santa Clara, York and Baalke were ducking reporters on a day when serious explanations were needed for fans. Why was Patrick Willis retiring? Why were Frank Gore and Mike Iupati leaving? Why was Justin Smith considering leaving? Why was yet another player in trouble with the law? Why wasn’t the highly regarded Vic Fangio given the head coaching job? And why was Tomsula babbling incoherently during a CSN Bay Area introductory interview?

There was Harbaugh, a big fan of the “Judge Judy” show, using his Twitter feed to congratulate Judith Sheindlin for signing a contract extension, to which she replied with a good-luck wish for his opening collegiate season. There was Harbaugh, hosting NFL prospects Jameis Winston and Bryce Petty for precombine workouts in what only could be a tribute to his standing as a quarterbacking guru.

Meanwhile, in Santa Clara, Baalke was denying reports he is shopping Harbaugh’s regressing pet QB, Colin Kaepernick. This while Kaepernick was engaging in Twitter wars and telling one fan, @battman_returns, to “mind your damn business, clown” and to “get better at life!” — all because one Stephen Batten had said Kaepernick’s abs workouts wouldn’t help him find open receivers, which is kind of true.

There was Harbaugh, escaping the Midwest winter for Arizona, coaching first base for the A’s as a “special guest instructor” for an old pal from his Palo Alto boyhood, manager Bob Melvin. And you know what he said after the Cactus League victory? “How does it get any better than this?” he gushed, in a variation of his famous line. “It’s a great day for baseball, and just to be able to put on the uniform … I haven’t been in a baseball uniform since American Legion ball.”

“He’s an inspiration just walking out here,” Melvin said. “He’s got that air about him. He’s always been quite the competitor and everyone knows that. A winner. And whenever you can have guys like that around, guys benefit from it. Plus you don’t find too many guys who want to get in uniform and go out there and interact with the guys during the workout.” Meanwhile, in Santa Clara, emerging defensive star Chris Borland was becoming an inspiration in his own right by retiring from football at age 24, injecting a cursed element into the raging chaos.

Given the turbulence and in-house leaks that undermined Harbaugh’s final season with the Niners, he deserves to experience a blossoming love affair at his alma mater. If York were an effective CEO, he would have made the Harbaugh-Baalke combination work and buffered their strained relations. The Seahawks have made it work with Pete Carroll and John Schneider, but instead of drawing lines for the coach and GM, York did the covenient management dance and sided with his fellow exec. I covered a fairly famous sports dynasty, the Chicago Bulls of the 1990s, that ended prematurely because an owner couldn’t soothe the differences between a general manager and a coach named Phil Jackson, who went on to win more championships than any coach in NBA history. Yet everyone weathered the storms long enough to win six titles, six more than these 49ers won.

“You have to have like-minded people building a team,” Baalke said in a media gathering after Tomsula’s first news conference. “If you don’t have like-minded people building a team, coach, coaching staff, front office … If we’re not all looking for the same characteristics, the same type of players, it’s tough to build a unit that can go out there on Sundays and win football games.”

We’re still waiting for York to say that he failed in letting the marriage collapse, in choosing a winner and a loser. Clearly, he wasn’t overly interested in appeasing Harbaugh after using his ultrasuccessful debut season to help get a $1.3-billion stadium built in Silicon Valley. The coach was too popular and wanted too much power, and regardless of his three consecutive appearances in the NFC title game, the big bosses wanted control and no tugging of the rope. Now, Baalke gets to pull the strings of his puppet, Tomsula, and tell him which assistants to hire and which players to acquire. Now, York can preside over his sterile, quiet stadium — the high-tech antithesis of Candlestick — and count megaprofits from Super Bowl 50, WrestleMania 31 and an outdoor hockey game.

Each party in this debacle has gained total control — Harbaugh in Ann Arbor, York and Baalke in Santa Clara. Yet only one man is going to win a lot of football games anytime soon. Someone asked Harbaugh if he viewed himself as the messiah of Michigan.

“I’m not comfortable with that at all,” he said.

Oh, yes, he is. Very comfortable.

Be happy for him. He deserves that much.

Mariotti is sports director and lead sports columnist at the San Francisco Examiner. He can be reached at [email protected]. Read his website at jaymariotti.com.

#Jay Mariotti Sports Columnist #Jay Mariotti

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luxliterature-blog · 6 years ago

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Saved By a Woman

By Anthony Dunkley

Sitting in my office trying to write something new, something brilliant, while listening to Ray Lamontagne's song 'Trouble' on an old record player I had. The smell of a burnt out cigar filled the room quickly, I looked at the dimmed flame in the fireplace and turned around to take a sip of my scotch. As I put my glass down, I saw my wife standing in the doorway in front of me, wearing my old Michigan State football jersey I had. The only thought that came across my mind was, beautiful. "Come to bed." she says, but I shook my head and told her I couldn't right now. I had too much stuff to take care of, I needed to write another story, I wanted to complete this book. She stared at me with her big brown eyes, I grinned, still saying no. I got up and walked to the record player so I could play that song one more time, she refilled my glass. I sat down in my chair and looked at her standing right in front of my desk, "Go to bed, you need your beauty sleep," I said with a smile, "I have a lot of work I'd like to finish tonight." She leaned over my desk and told me she didn't want to go to bed alone, but I told her she'll be fine. She slowly walked around my desk, running her fingers across the dark wood. I leaned back in my chair, watching her, adoring the way she looked in that jersey as she came a little closer. She slowly walked behind me and rubbed my shoulders, I told her I'll be alright, I just wanted her to get some rest. She spun my chair around so I could face her, she leaned over me,

sliding her hands up my legs and to my shirt to unbutton it. I pulled away with a smile, but she pulled me back, leaning in closer to me, whispering those three words in my ear...I love you. I slowly stood up, kissed her and told her I loved her back. I looked into her eyes, I could see she didn't want to go, so I hugged her, held her tightly. She rubbed my chest and unbuttoned my shirt and took it off, knowing that I had a bad day and that I felt less than a man, she hugged me tightly and told me everything will be alright. I sat on my desk and smiled, she gave me a peck on the cheek, I rubbed her cheek and passionately kissed her lips as she did the same. I stood up and forcefully brought her closer to me, she grabbed my belt and it was like we danced across the floor and with each step a piece of clothing would drop to the floor until there was nothing. We found ourselves bumping into the old record player and it began to repeat the words, I've been, I've been, over and over again it played, she pulled me to my desk and cleared everything off. After the endless hours of thrusting our flesh to make them as one, she stood by the doorway waiting for me, "I'll race ya to the bed!" she said to me. I went to fix the record so it could play out, finally being able to finish its sentence, I've been saved by a woman, I chased after her letting her win that race.

Anthony Dunkley: I’m a 24 yr old, transman, who enjoys writing short stories and also is a freelance photographer. I have two jobs, that takes up most of my time, but I find it in me to make time for my various hobbies.

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chocolatechubby · 7 years ago

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Morph

Reprinted by permission of the author

(with deference to Wilson Barber and his wonderful Fast Majicke stories)

The CD case was quite ordinary. The only distinction, a small iridescent strip on the spine that caught Ben’s eye as he pawed lazily through the bargain software bin. It said simply “Morph”, and had a picture of a man in various stages of metamorphosis. There was something about the realistic quality of each rendering that made Ben hold onto the software.

It had been a tense morning at work, and he’d slipped out for a longer than usual lunch. Since his break up with Devin, he wasn’t able to concentrate as fully. Ben, the chief designer in his company’s marketing department, had allowed his ennui to cause two very costly mistakes that did not sit well with his boss. Called into his supervisor’s office, the phrases “pink slip” and “severance package” punctuated the conversation. Ben thought it best to allow time for his boss to cool down. He loved to come into Chucky’s Computer Cove when he was restless.

Chucky’s was a little Mom and Pop operation a few blocks from his office. The most beautiful brother he had ever seen—well besides Devin—owned it. Actually, Charles Brown, or “Chucky”, reminded Ben a lot of Devin: tall, cocoa brown skin, grey eyes and shiny bald head. They could easily have been brothers…with one major difference: Chucky weighed around a hundred and thirty pounds more than Devin did. Chucky had played for the Rams in the 90’s and busted his kneecaps sufficiently enough to make him walk with a pronounced limp. He had drowned his sorrows in food. Still solid and handsome, Chucky was definitely fat—a fact that Devin would rudely point out whenever he and Ben used to visit the shop together. “That’s the problem with brothers today...” Devin used to mutter under his breath—audible enough for Chucky to hear—“...we don’t take care of ourselves. THEN we wanna blame the white man for the fact that we can’t get ahead!”

Ben had never told Devin that he actually found Chucky’s size a turn on. He often fantasized about Devin putting on a few sexy pounds. A heftier Devin might also mean a kinder, gentler lover with less of an attitude. Devin’s attitude had been a major factor in the break up of the relationship. Both men had come from similar middle-class backgrounds. In fact, their mutual love of mainstream Americana had brought them together. Ben had heard Devin whistling the Brady Kids “Sunshine Day” in a record store, and the rest was history. Two black guys who, between them, knew every sitcom theme song since “Gilligan’s Island”.

But during the course of the relationship, Devin had begun to doubt his cultural identity. He would disappear for hours and, when questioned by Ben on returning, simply say he had been “hanging with the ‘brothas’”. Ben accepted his lover’s need to find himself; but it was how he chose to do so that had become an issue. Devin had taken up African drumming with a musician who played for an ethnic dance troupe—a tall muscular Kenyan who was the epitome of Black Maleness to Devin.

Then one day Ben had come home to find the two men pounding on a different type of skin in the bedroom. Even then, Devin chose to hide behind his search for identity. “Only a weak brother would have a problem with this”, Devin calmly stated rolled up in the sheets, as he watched the Kenyan drummer stumble around looking for his clothes and the tears rolling down his lover’s cheeks. “I can experiment with other forms of black love, and still want to be with you! And if you can’t understand that, then you have been brainwashed by the White Man.”

If the line had been any less clichéd and stupid, Ben probably would have kicked the shit out of Devin and the asshole drummer and landed in jail for assault. As it was, he just turned around, walked out of the apartment leaving his keys on the table by the front door, and cried himself to sleep in a hotel room at the Marriott around the corner.

That had been six months ago. And despite the callous and thoughtless things his former lover had done while in the relationship, he still missed him terribly. Sometimes he would come to the shop just to see the large physical reflection of Devin, which he found in Chucky.

“Ben!” Chucky shouted from across the store. No matter how busy Chucky was, he always found time to greet Ben personally. He finished helping the customers at the counter and lumbered over. It seemed to Ben that Chucky got larger every week. His big round belly seemed to hang lower over his straining khakis, and his arms almost burst out of his too tight shirts. “How ya’ doin’?” He asked, chewing on an enormous cruller. “Haven’t seen you and your friend here in a while.” Ben wondered, “Does Chucky know I’m gay?” He never felt awkward around Chucky…but ex-football player? Too many chances for homophobia so Ben always played it cool.

“We don’t hang out together anymore.” was Ben’s short reply. “Well probably for the better”, Chucky winked. There was something in the wink that gave Ben pause, but he decided not to pursue it. He changed the subject. “Chucky…do you know anything about the manufacturer of this software?” Ben showed him the CD-ROM he had picked up in the bargain bin. Chucky turned it over a couple of times. “Fast Magic”, Chucky mused. “Never heard of them. This must be one of the CD’s I bought from this homeless dude a couple of days ago. He looked like he could use a few bucks, and the stuff was in good condition. I was a little worried that he might have swiped it from somewhere, but he said he had invented it. Whatever. If you have any problems with it, just bring it back and get something else you like.”

“Thanks,” Ben said. Ben looked around a while longer, paid for the software and gave Chucky a final smile and wave. He couldn’t get Chuck’s comment: “Well probably for the better”, out of his mind.

The rest of the day was uneventful. The boss had calmed down enough to assign Ben to one of the agency’s bigger clients: Joe Dante’s BodyWonder line of bodybuilding supplements. Ben took the copy and the artwork home to play with it in his spare time. He seemed to have plenty of that these days. After dinner, he spread out the BodyWonder materials on the drafting table next to his computer and began looking over each item in earnest. It was all the same old crap: personal testimonials on how these pills and powders had changed lives.

Among the literature, were the standard “before” and “after” pictures that would show flabby men and women transformed into Venus and Adonis in a matter of weeks. Most of them looked better in the “before” pics, Ben thought. There were also the stills of Joe Dante himself—five-time World Body Building Champion and all around humanitarian—shaking hands with his success stories and showing off his impossible pecs. One of Ben’s jobs was to make sure that all the muscles and curves were in place on the “after” pictures. He wouldn’t really “change” any of the pictures—just clean up any unwanted bulges and enhance the image as best he could. He was always searching for new programs to help him with this task. He decided to try out his new software.

He slid the disc into his CD-ROM and hit “run”. The familiar blips and bleeps gave way to a high-pitched whine and the lights in his apartment began to flicker. Suddenly, the entire place went black. “Great!” Ben thought, “I’ve probably introduced this mega-virus to my computer, and I’m going to spend the next month cleaning up my hard drive!” As he was about to begin feeling through the darkness for the breaker switch, the apartment was again illuminated and the computer had its familiar glow. The new program had apparently installed itself and a little gnome-like wizard was waiting patiently on the screen prompting Ben to complete the process. “Please input registration code” the gnome instructed. Ben turned the jewel case over and over. No numbers anywhere. He was about to give up when he noticed the holographic strip that had caught his eye in the computer store. “8,3,1,9,9,0”

The numbers seemed to float in front of him. “That’s odd…” he thought, “…that’s my birthdate.” He keyed the numbers into the proper box and pressed enter. The little man walked to the center of the screen and slowly began to change. His body began to take on different forms—going from small and elf-like to muscular, to giant sized and overweight—each metamorphosis more believable than the last. The figure then winked and disappeared. Replacing it was the title of the software and a warning notice. “The creators of this program are not responsible for the misuse of this product. Please use with caution as results can be permanent.” “What an odd warning.” Ben thought.

He scanned a couple of the “before” and “after” images into his computer, along with one or two pics of Joe Dante posing at some contest or another, then brought them into the new program. The interface looked pretty simple. He rarely looked at the “readme” files that came with graphics software—most of the writing was for novices. The tools were familiar and he quickly got the hang of using the program’s palate and toolbars to create the effects he wanted. There was a smoothness, and an intuitive feel, that caught Ben’s imagination immediately.

He finished making his changes on the first image in record time. A mister Carl Hurley of Grand Rapids Michigan had gone from 330lbs of man fat, to 220lbs of muscle. He still, however showed a good deal of love handle, and his pecs were softer than the rest of his frame. Within a matter of minutes, Ben had managed to erase all indication of flab in his mid-section and tone his chest to perfection. The program had a tool that allowed the artist to effortlessly balance changes on one side of the body to reflect those on the other.

When he finished, he leaned back to examine his work. He was astonished. The picture in front of him was flawless. Every line, shadow and curve was perfect—if he hadn’t known the image had been retouched, he would have sworn this hunk in front of him had been born that way. That gave Ben a thought. He had always loved big men. In college, he worked for the school paper, taking photographs and drawing images for the sports column. Sometimes he’d get hard just sketching a big boy’s arms, legs and buttocks. Lineman made him cream, and he loved to draw huge beefy men and jack off to his heart’s content. Could the program help him do that to this guy?

He started with Hurley’s face, using the “before” image to recapture Carl’s strong double chin—he even added a goatee to give him a slight bearish quality. Then he worked on the upper body—smoothing out some of the pectoral and upper arm definitions so that Mr. Hurley looked more like a powerlifter than a bodybuilder. He lovingly sculpted the stomach, so that a strong gut emerged from the burgeoning six-pack abs, and placed it on powerfully built legs that would never fit into a standard pair of pants. He lengthened Hurley’s entire frame so that he took on the larger than life proportions of a comic book superhero. By the time Ben had finished, Mr. Carl Hurley had gone from a 220lb-muscle boy, to a 400lb behemoth that could play for any professional football team in the league.

Again, he surveyed his work, astonished by the results. There before him was a perfect slab of male beef. His penis confirmed the aesthetic appeal. Suddenly, the little brain in his underwear took over. He wondered aloud, “If the software could turn Carl Hurley into a hunk…could it turn Joe Dante into a chunk?” His imagination and dick began to respond. He grabbed one of the shots of the owner of BodyWonder and went to work. The program was incredible. He had seen morphs online in many of the big men sites he frequented—many were poor in quality—impossibly stretched midsections on underwear models. Every now and then, he’d run into some real masterpieces, but for the most part, he’d lost interest quickly. And forget about men of color. No one seemed to have any interest in making Lee Haney fat.

With this program, he would change all of that. It was as if the Morph software could read Ben’s mind. He watched as the tight, overly muscled body of BodyWonder’s founder melted into the smooth corpulent flesh of the men in Ben’s dreams. Under his mouse, Joe Dante’s pecs became voluminous man tits, puffed out and resting heavily on a stomach that fell past his mammoth thighs to his knees. His face, which most morphers failed to touch, became large and round with a huge double chin that enveloped any trace of a neck—his arms and shoulders joining it in a wide and fleshy mass. He gave him huge suckable nipples that sat in the exact center of perfectly round areolas the size of small saucers; and huge legs the size of Redwoods, with a rump to match. He finished him off with an organ long enough to peek past Dante’s stomach, and rest below the massive gut.

When he had finished, Joe Dante looked like he weighed over a quarter of a ton—a perfect transformation. Ben had the raging hard-on of his life. This program was the stuff of all his fantasies. Of course, he would have to do normal sized renderings for campaigns, but he would have his own private gallery of manufactured big men all for himself. He clicked “file”, and then “save” and the familiar “are you sure you want to save this file?” prompt appeared. Ben clicked “okay” and oddly, the program asked again “are you really, really sure?” Ben did a double take—must be the programmer’s idea of a joke. He clicked “okay” again. “File saved”, was the software’s smug response.

Ben yawned mightily and looked at his watch. Two A.M. He had been at this since eight in the evening. He knew he had to get up for work in a couple of hours, but there was one more rendering he had to do. He searched through the picture files on his computer and came up with the perfect image of Devin. It was one of their vacation photos. On the beach in Hawaii, Devin could have been an ancient island god. “Let’s see how the program does on a ‘brotha’”, Ben thought. He worked feverishly—barely containing his lust. When he had finished, he had the perfect Devin—a Devin that made Chucky from the Computer Cove look as if he was on Slim Fast. Ben shot the biggest load of his life, and fell fast asleep at the desk.

He woke up late for work.

As he arrived breathless to the door of his office, he heard a great commotion coming from his supervisor’s suite. “Might as well start packing he thought.” Sure that firing was in store, he decided to get it over with, and headed towards the door to his boss’ office. He was not prepared for what he saw. Standing, well, stooping in the door of his superior’s suite was none other than Mr. Carl Hurley himself. Ben’s late evening jack off project was standing before him in the flesh. However, not the 220 pound muscle boy from neither the “after” picture, nor the fleshy 330-pound “before” fat man. In front of Ben was the spitting image of the morph that he had created: 400 pounds of Carl Hurley. He was so big; he could barely fit in the doorframe. Every part of him was exactly as Ben had sculpted: arms the size of an average man’s waist, chest so wide it struggled to stay inside the overly stretched super-sized sweatshirt he wore. His legs were so big; they had begun to rub the material between his thighs thin. He was phenomenal.

His voice boomed in the small confines of the office. Ben caught the last part of his sentence: “…incredible! I took a glass full of supplement last night before bed, and I woke up like this! I must’ve grown half a foot and look at my body!” He flexed impossibly huge biceps and nearly hit his head on the frame of the door.

“And look at mine!” came a muffled croak from inside the office.

Hurley moved slightly, and Ben caught a glimpse of his second shock of the morning. Sitting in his boss’s office, taking up a couch that usually held three people, was one enormous Joe Dante. He too was exactly as Ben had morphed him—a human Jabba the Hut, scarfing down doughnut after doughnut: his jowls quivering as he struggled to keep up with his new hunger. There was so much fat on his body, he could barely raise his arms to stuff his sausage fingers in his mouth. His mountain of a belly stretched out three feet in front of him and cascaded down between his mammoth legs. And through his too tight sweatpants, Ben could make out the organ of organs hanging like an elephant’s trunk between them. Ben took a step backward, almost fainting in disbelief.

What the hell was going on? Had he done this? Dante was burping, eating and talking all at the same time. “Must be a glitch in the new formulas. I knew I should never sample this crap!” he said, spewing out chocolate sprinkles. “How am I going to sell this shit looking like Moby Dick?” “Speaking of which…” chuckled Hurley “…I’ve noticed a change in THAT area as well!” “Only damn good think about all this!” the mountain that was Dante replied—trying to reach for his mammoth penis that jumped every time he took another bite of doughnut. “Well we’ll just have to cancel any appearances until we figure out what went wrong. Until then,…” Dante eyed the remaining food with a lust usually intended for a night of raw sex “…I get to eat anything I want! Wheel me to the nearest all you can eat buffet!”

Ben staggered to his desk—his eyes swimming from what he had just seen. Somehow, his lust-filled fantasy handiwork on the computer had become a reality. How was this possible? What kind of program was this that had the power to transform people with a few strokes of a mouse? He had to find answers. Chucky told him to come back to the Computer Cove if there were any problems with the software. Well, this was a big problem.

He decided to go back to Chucky and find out if he knew anything else about the program or the homeless man who sold it to him. First, he needed to get to the restroom. His crotch was so hard from witnessing the two men’s transformation that he had trouble walking to the john. Once in a stall, he stripped down to his skivvies, propped one leg on the toilet seat, and let his mind play back the pictures of Joe Dante and Carl Hurley. Their sheer mass was unimaginable and hotter than he could have ever dreamed.

He stroked himself and watched his cock grow hard and throbbing in a transformation of its own—veins bursting as the image of the burping Dante grew stronger. The force of his ejaculation threw him against the wall of the stall. Whatever was happening was certainly good for his libido.

There was only one customer in the shop when Ben entered. A man at the counter was in a hushed conversation with Chucky. And what a man he was. It was a very obese man who, from the looks of his clothing had been growing quite rapidly. From behind, his fleshy rump crack was peeking boldly from pants that barely contained his big butt. His puny shirt could no longer hold his mass, and incredibly ample love handles played hide and seek on each side, exposing most of the mid-section. And what a mid-section it was. From where Ben stood, the man’s brown belly pressed on the counter and hung halfway down his thighs. He ungainly shifted, supporting his bulk by leaning his chubby arms on its surface. Chucky was so enrapt in conversation with this fat boy that he hadn’t looked up for his usual greeting.

As Ben approached the two big men, he could hear bits of the conversation. The guy with his back turned must have been quizzing Ben about area eateries. “There’s a Pizza Hut around the corner that has a pretty good lunch buffet…” Chucky offered “…but with the way I bet you like to eat, try the Bloated Belly around the corner—they know how to treat guys like us!” It was then that Chucky noticed Ben. “Ben!” Chucky cried. “Look who stopped by to say ‘hello’!” The big boy turned around.

It was Devin.

TO BE CONTINUED

#ccmorphs #fatbrwncub

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junker-town · 5 years ago

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No one can deny Andy Reid’s impact on football ever again

Matthew Emmons-USA TODAY Sports

Andy Reid’s Super Bowl victory means we can finally appreciate him for who he is.

His reputation was always unfair, but for a long time Andy Reid coaching your football team felt like both the best and worst thing that could happen to it.

Best, because he quickly established a high baseline level of competence. He coached playoff teams in 15 of the 21 years he’s been the head coach of the Eagles and the Chiefs. Worst, because he had established a pattern of screwing up in the clutch.

Specifically, Reid botched clock management, particularly in the postseason. The Eagles lost three straight NFC Championship games under Reid before finally making a Super Bowl. Then they lost that game when they piddled away nearly four minutes scoring a late touchdown, leaving almost no time to get the second score they needed against the Patriots.

When Reid went to Kansas City in 2013, he took over a 4-12 team and immediately got it to 11-5. He has since missed the playoffs just once with the Chiefs, but he also introduced a formerly championship-starved fanbase to a new brand of heartache. In 2016 and 2017, his team once again moved at snail’s pace on crucial fourth-quarter drives in postseason losses. In 2018, the Chiefs had a 21-3 lead over the Titans in the Wild Card Round, and were shut out in the second half of a 22-21 loss. The next year, Reid suffered the fifth conference championship game loss of his career after a wild fourth quarter against the Pats.

In short, Reid’s teams consistently collapsed in pivotal moments, and masked everything that made him a brilliant head coach the 99 percent of the time when he wasn’t managing good teams in late-game situations.

By several measures, he is one of the best offensive minds the NFL has ever seen. Pro Football Focus determined that Reid was one of the NFL’s top 10 play callers every season from 2014 to 2019, notably finishing first by its metric the last two seasons. In cruder measures, Reid-coached teams have finished top 10 in total offense nine times and top 10 in scoring 13 times in his 21 seasons.

Reid has been called “innovative,” but a better term would be “studious.” His offensive philosophy has evolved steadily from his West Coast education because he pays attention to what everyone else is doing, particularly at the college level. A good anecdote illustrating how Reid stays on the “cutting edge” is this from The Ringer’s Kevin Clark:

In 2013, I sat down with Reid in a plain room in a college building in St. Joseph, Missouri, where the Chiefs held their training camp. He told me that the college game is five years ahead of the pro game and that in five years, the spread offenses that had thoroughly dominated the college game would finally dominate the NFL. Five years later, it happened. The Eagles beat the Patriots in what Oklahoma coach Lincoln Riley told me looked like a Big 12 game.

The game that arguably started Kansas City’s reign as the NFL’s incubator for offensive ideas was the 2017 season-opening win against the defending-champion Patriots, which included Travis Kelce running the read option. This year, the Chiefs leaned so far into researching college offenses that they successfully ran a play that Michigan used in the 1948 Rose Bowl.

Reid may be an offensive genius, but more than that he is open-minded and malleable. That is harder to accomplish than it sounds considering how many coaches get fired every year by clinging too tightly to a dogma that they don’t realize is a sinking ship until much too late. In a profession where even if a coach doesn’t screw up the Xs and Os, they tend to fall afoul of personality disputes with players and upper management, Reid has only ever had long tenures.

Reid seems to nurture relationships. His assistants almost always come out better people than when they came into his fold, creating one of the strongest coaching trees in the game. In contrast, Bill Belichick assistants keep getting head coaching opportunities despite a terrible track record.

Reid and Belichick are arguably the two most accomplished active head coaches in the league. The difference between their coaching trees may have to do with their personalities. Both have succeeded in similar ways, foremost by never treating their prevailing philosophies as so precious that they can’t be re-thought. But where Belichick has also become a stand-in for curmudgeonly Do Your Job toughness, Reid represents nothing more than the importance of being utterly and simply oneself. And where Belichick’s assistants have failed by only adopting Belichick’s talent for being an inscrutable jerk, Reid’s example isn’t so easily misconstrued: Enjoy the game, and don’t ever believe you’ve mastered it.

Reid has never taken the game too seriously. Or at least, he’s not above being humbled by it. He has been tagged as a coach who Can’t Win The Big One since early in his Eagles tenure, and answered the same needling questions for decades now. Being the “winningest coach without a Super Bowl” is more an indictment than praise. But in response to the idea that he needed to win a Super Bowl to cement his legacy, he was adamant that football’s intrinsic value meant more to him.

Just then, Reid was answering a question from a reporter by explaining that, once he has taught players the right way to play, he wants them to enjoy it.

”Why ruin something they love doing?” he asked.

It seems the rest of us are intent on doing the same with Reid’s record. However much Reid may privately burn for that championship, everyone else seems to be in a rush to ruin something he has loved by pointing out its flaw.

”It’s not about me getting over the hump,” Reid said. “It’s about our team playing well. That’s what I’m into.”

More than anything, Reid is really likable. He is one of the few coaches who has found success without giving himself up to the current of hyper-machismo that has always run through football. He grew up under the dual influences of a radiologist mother and an artist father, and majored in English at BYU, where he wrote creative sports columns. Instead of grumbling through every public interaction, he does things like offer up his famous mac ‘n’ cheese recipe. He likes Hawaiian shirts and celebrates big wins with his team under the novel assumption that sports are supposed to be fun.

I’m fairly confident that almost nothing Reid does is an act, which may make him the only coach in pro football who isn’t posturing in some way. The outpouring of love for the coach from current and former players before and after Super Bowl seems to confirm as much. Even the Eagles organization was stoked to see him win the big one despite their bittersweet relationship.

Reid comes off as stable and consistent and amenable, and that has led to a team culture that feels the same way. If it took a while to lead to a Super Bowl ring, that may say more about the inherent cruelty of football than some inherent problem with Reid.

Ultimately, I think Reid’s career illustrates two things:

Just how much one’s legacy is determined at the margins. That’s especially the case in football, in which the Super Bowl is disproportionately weighted within American sports culture, and the postseason is single elimination, making it easy for anyone to gain a reputation as a choke artist in just a few missteps. And ...

That being genial, patient, nurturing, hard working and empathetic is still, and can always be, a path to success. In football or otherwise.

Until Sunday’s Super Bowl victory, it looked as if the first point might submerge the second in the long story of Andy Reid. He shouldn’t have needed to win a Super Bowl to be properly appreciated, of course, but now that he will be getting a ring, it’s nice to know that the record will be corrected in every sense.

Andy Reid is a champion, and no one can take anything away from him anymore. We no longer have to talk about him with arbitrary caveats. Finally, there is nothing standing in the way of appreciating his importance, and all the lessons we could have been learning if we hadn’t been so concerned about his legacy.

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pcwpolwrestling · 8 years ago

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PCW Runs House Show in Battle Creek, MI

by Art Nouveaux

(From Left: Ray McAvay, Magnum P.O.’d, Charlie Blackwell. On the ground: Starz N. Stripes)

Headlining the show with a wild tag team match between Les Miserables Charlie Blackwell and ‘Red Solo Plastic Cup’ Ray McAvay against the American Patriot’s Starz N. Stripes and Magnum P.O.’d, PCW ran its first full-fledged house show in two and a half years in Battle Creek, Michigan last night featuring a eight match card.

Before the match, McAvay called for a moment of silence to commemorate the recent death of Robert Hulseman- the inventor of the Red Solo Cup.

Red Solo Cup

Highlights from the show:

(REPLAY: The Champion Speaks at the PCW Battle Creek, MI House Show) The crowd chants “PCW!…PCW!…PCW! as inside the ring stands ‘The Prairie Populist’ William Daniels Bryan- the newly minted PCW Champion. He’s flanked by fellow Les Miserables Charlie Blackwell and ‘Red Solo Plastic Cup’ Ray McAvay.

=======================

Charlie Blackwell-HT: 6′ 4″ WT: 215 / HOME: New Braunfels, TX / FIN: Tazzmission (Katahajime)

‘Red Solo Plastic Cup’ Ray McAvay: – accompanied to the ring by West Texas Adult Entertainment Legend Stormy, her protégée Starbrite, and Bert the Janitor. HT: 6’-3” WT: 195 / HOME: Fort Stockton, TX / FIN: McGill Bomb

William Daniels Bryan– ‘The Prairie Populist’ Two time PCW Champion. Former PCW Television Champion. HT: 5’10″ WT: 180 / HOME: Platte, Nebraska / FIN: Cattle Mutilation/Crane Kick

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Bryan, with the PCW Title belt slung over his shoulder, raises the microphone and raises his fist in the air.

William Daniels Bryan: WE DID IT!

And that pops the crowd. “PCW! PCW! PCW!”

William Daniels Bryan: Technically, this makes me a three time champion. I won the title back about two years ago when Dawn, Charlie, and Chris attempted to restart PCW. Two years ago, we went up against a corporate conglomerate who poached all our talent and PCW didn’t have a chance. Now. We’re all back under one umbrella again and it only makes winning the title at Extreme Election Night even sweeter.

Bryan pauses for the requisite applause that follows.

William Daniels Bryan: You see, I defeated two men who represented the establishment…the status quo. Kirk Walstreit and the ‘One Man Hollywood A-List’ Stone Chism don’t represent people like you and me. Walstreit and Chism don’t relate to us one bit. Usually, their kind get over people like us. At Extreme Election Night, we got over on them.

Again, the crowd cheers and Bryan waits.

William Daniels Bryan: So, on behalf of my compadres Ray McAvay, Charlie Blackwell, I say this to ALL the Les Miserables out there who need someone to take up their cause. We will do our best to represent you in the best possible light. We will do our best to entertain you when we come to the ring. And I will do my best to be a PCW Champion that you and ALL of our PCW fans can be proud of. Thank you and-

youtube

Maroon 5 heralds the entrance of the ‘One Man Hollywood A-List’ Stone Chism, rocking an expensive pair of sunglasses and a trendy gray suit, gray tie, and a burgundy scarf. Chism is followed by GreenPete, sporting a GWO (Green World Order) t-shirt, James the Jeep Worker, and Kathryn Randall Collins, wearing a black pants suit not dissimilar to the ones favored by one Hillary Clinton.

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‘The One Man Hollywood A-List’ Stone Chism- former PCW Champion and 2 time PCW Television Champion- Valets are Paris and Nicole aka the Skanky Rich Bimbos. HT: 6′ 2″ WT: 225 / HOME: Hollywood, CA / FIN: Hollywood Blockbuster

James the Jeep Worker- Managed by Union Jack Taylor HT: 5’10″ WT: 221 / HOME: Toledo, OH / FIN: Picket Line

Kathryn Randall Collins- 4 time PCW Women’s Champion HT: 5′ 11″ WT: 145 / HOME: Ft. Myers, FL / FIN: Gogoplata

GreenPete- Part of the Green World Order (GWO) HT: 5′ 11″ WT: 195 / HOME: Los Angeles, CA / FIN: Harpoon (modified spear or gore)

========================

Stone Chism: William, William, William. Here’s the problem with three way dances for the title. The match becomes more susceptible to ‘chance’ instead of skill. You won…congratulations…but PCW has always prided itself on not resorting to three way matches to determine titles and what happened at Extreme Election Night 2016 bore that out.

Assorted boos ring out from the crowd.

Stone Chism: What happened at Extreme Election Night will go down in PCW history as a low point…the lowest of the low. Donald Trump, with the interference of you and your Les Miserables, became the next PCW CEO. YOU, with the interference of your Les Miserables, walked out holding a title that you do not deserve.

More boos follow. Chism simply waves them off.

Stone Chism: And you people. You people are under the mistaken perception that people actually care what you think. No. That’s not the case. You see, people like me…the One Man Hollywood A-List…we set the tone…we set the agenda…we tell you what you should think. Your interference in the match at Extreme Election Night caused someone, who should never have been allowed to wrestle, to become the PCW Champion and cheapened the PCW title in the process.

Now the crowd starts getting into it. Loud boos fill out the arena.

Stone Chism: The only way to fix this problem is for William Daniels Bryan to face me tonight…in this ring right here…for the PCW title. It’s the only equitable way to fix-

Out walks Phil Finebaum- the chief apologist of the SEC aka…the Sports Entertainment Corporation, along with SEC members A.J. Alabama, Stevie ‘War’ Eagles, Gator Bates, and Butch Fullmer. Alabama wears an Unversity of Alabama football jersey. Eagles an Auburn football shirt. Gator Bates has a Florida t-shirt on. And Butch Fullmer is dressed in all Tennessee Volunteer orange.

The Michigan crowd welcome Finebaum to Battle Creek.

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Finebaum, lights reflecting off his follicly challenged head, climbs into the ring with a big ol’ SEC grin on his face, his big ears wiggling in delight at the reaction the Michigan fans have to him being there.

Phil Finebaum: What the hell happened to the Big 10? At least Washington scored a touchdown against Alabama- but Ohio State couldn’t score once against Clemson?

Finebaum’s comments about Ohio State grant him a temporary respite from the adverse reaction of the Michigan fans…

Phil Finebaum: Penn State choked away a fourteen point fourth quarter lead…Wisconsin only defeated Western Michigan by a touchdown…and then there’s Michigan. Florida State 33-32.

…which doesn’t last long.

Phil Finebaum: Good job Big Ten. Way to take out the ACC. I can’t honestly say that I’ve never…ever…met a Michigan who had an ounce of humility and who didn’t think that their team…who lost three games this year and wasn’t in the national playoffs- again…wasn’t the greatest of all time regardless of what their record was…10-3…didn’t make the national playoffs…

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Phil Finebaum: …especially since Jim Harbaugh became Michigan’s head coach.

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Suffice to say, Finebaum has them in the palm of his hand.

Phil Finebaum: Michigan fans are, frankly, the worst. They’ve won…what…HALF a national championship in the past sixty years and they go on and on as if they’re on the same level as Alabama-

A.J. Alabama: ROLL TIDE!

Phil Finebaum: …Ohio State, Oklahoma, Nebraska, and Penn State all wrapped into one. I’m starting and finishing right there. These same people come after the SEC…and I might be tone deaf…but you all are the most arrogant bunch of ‘fans’ in the world.

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Finebaum sees someone in the crowd wearing a Notre Dame shirt.

Phil Finebaum: Now, Notre Dame. I respect Notre Dame. Notre Dame stands for something and they don’t think they’re better than everyone else. Notre Dame has a record of integrity and tradition. Michigan thinks they’re better than everyone else and I don’t understand why. When Jim Harbaugh showed up, Michigan fans developed the sense of entitlement that they really haven’t earned.

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Phil Finebaum: And in that same sense, our new PCW Champion William Daniels Bryan has the same problem. In a match that did not feature A.J. Alabama or anyone else from the SEC, Bryan lucked out with a lot of help and ended up winning the belt. Now, let me say this- having a PCW title match without one of the SEC is like having a college football final four without a team from the SEC conference.

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Phil Finebaum: But there is a way for Mr. Bryan to gain credibility and that’s a match against A.J. Alabama right here tonight in Battle Creek.

*flute and clarinet flourish*

Two men appear in the back. They start forward towards the ring and unroll a white carpet as they go.

Dancers then appear. They…dance. Ballet dancers show up…they…ballet?

Little children walk up the white carpet and drop rose petals.

Some guy lets loose some pigeons…we’re not sure just how they’ll get out of the building.

PCW CEO Barack Obama then makes his way to the ring surrounded by his aides and second in command Joe Biden.

Obama climbs into the ring with the official microphone of the PCW CEO and begins to speak.

PCW CEO Obama: Okay. Sorry to interrupt but I have a couple of announcements to make. First, I have just issued an executive order to terminate the employment of referee Corrina Romanov.

The PCW fans voice their disapproval at the news.

PCW CEO Obama: It’s clear that, through Romanov, Vladimir Putin and the Russians unduly influenced the CEO match between Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton. In taking this action, I have sent a stern message to Russia that we will not stand for this type of interference. The PCW Executive Committee has unanimously supported this action.

Second in Command Biden claps his hands in agreement.

PCW CEO Obama: In doing so, I am sending a powerful message that in the final days of my tenure, I will not allow-

The video screen comes to life and a tweet appears from Donald Trump. It reads: “One of my first acts once I take power on January 20th will be to rehire Russian referee Corrina Romanov.”

PCW CEO Obama: *clears throat*…as I was saying, as of today Corrina Romanov will no longer referee PCW matches. The second announcement I am making tonight is to confirm the participants in tonight’s PCW Tag Team Title match. After giving the matter due thought and consideration, I have decided- in consultation with the PCW Executive Committee- that the match will feature: James the Jeep Worker and the Ultimate Social Justice Warrior, representing the Progressive Alliance versus Starz N. Stripes and Kirk Walstreit of the American Patriots.

Phil Finebaum immediately steps forward with his arms spread wide- clearly questioning why the SEC are being left out.

The video screen fires up once again. Another tweet appears from Donald Trump. “Only two teams again. Not fair to leave out the Les Miserables or even the SEC from the tag team title match.”

Obama sees Trump’s tweet and shakes his head.

PCW CEO Obama: Okay. The final announcement I need to make tonight is about the main event later on in the show. Tonight, new PCW Champion William Daniels Bryan will face the number one contender for the PCW title ‘One Man Hollywood A-List’ Stone Chism.

Chism pumps his fist.

PCW CEO Obama: I have also signed another executive order banning the Les Miserables from ringside during the match. We will see how Bryan fares when he has to take on Stone Chism in a one on one-

The video screen interrupts again. Donald Trump tweets: “Belay that. We will determine a proper #1 contender for the title once I take office.”

PCW CEO Obama: Belay that belay. Mr. Trump needs to understand here is that there is only one PCW CEO at a time.

Video screen: “Belay the belay of the belay.”

PCW CEO Obama: No…belay the belay-

Video screen: “Belay!”

PCW CEO Obama: Belay of the belay-

Video screen: “Belay!”

PCW CEO Obama: Belay that be-

youtube

A very unhappy PCW Owner Dawn McGill walks out from the back waving her hand in the air.

PCW Owner Dawn McGill

Dawn McGill: Okay…just shut it down. Stop the music.

The music is quickly cut off.

Dawn McGill: Okay let me get this straight. We’ve just had a twenty minute segment of nothing but talk and revolving heads just…talking? What the hell are we? The WWE?

Dawn looks out at the crowd on hand for affirmation.

Dawn McGill: I’d rather go back and watch Mariah Carey’s New Year’s Eve lip-synching trainwreck on an endless loop instead of having to suffer through you guys talking and talking and talking again.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!”

Dawn McGill: All right! I think we’re all had enough of the gridlock and we’ve wasted enough time here already. So here’s what we’re going to do. Next week on PCW Extreme Political TV, ‘The Wall Street Market Analyst with the Man Crush on ESPN’s Kirk Herbstreit’ Kirk Walstreit from the American Patriots and the ‘One Man Hollywood A-List’ Stone Chism from the Progressive Alliance will meet with the winner becoming the number one contender for the PCW Title.

McGill pauses for the crowd’s applause.

Dawn McGill: Also next week on PCW Extreme Political TV, a tag team champion will be crowned. James the Jeep Worker and the Ultimate Social Justice Warrior of the Progressive Alliance…the American Patriots Starz N. Stripes and Magnum P.O.’d…Charlie Blackwell and ‘Red Solo Plastic Cup’ Ray McAvay from the Les Miserables…A.J. Alabama and Stevie ‘War’ Eagles from the Sports Entertainment Corporation-

A.J. Alabama: ROLL TIDE!

Stevie ‘War’ Eagles: WAR EAGLE!

A.J. Alabama: ROLL TIDE!

Stevie ‘War’ Eagles: WAR EAGLE!

A.J. Alabama: ROLL-

Dawn McGill: ENOUGH!

Phil Finebaum steps in between the two bickering Alabama/Auburn rivals and maneuvers A.J. Alabama away from Eagles.

Dawn McGill: As I was saying…those four teams and PCW Originals the Goatbusters will battle it out.

McGill again looks out to the crowd for their reaction.

Dawn McGill: That’s right, five teams enter but only one team will leave the ring as the new PCW Tag Team champions.

And with that final statement, McGill drops the mic and departs.

NEW PCW MANAGER E.J. FLACK DEBUTS

E.J. Flack

Flack is in the ring. McGill is standing back along the ropes and watching.

E.J. Flack: …forget about ‘rowing the boat,’ sometimes in life, you have to face the big monster thingy. Sometimes in life, you have to take on something that’s bigger than you even if its huge tusks can shred you to bits in seconds…even if its jagged teeth can tear through you like a hot knife through warm butter. Sometimes when you’re climbing life’s mountain and come up against insurmountable odds, you have to…

Flack points to the Garthok insignia on his jacket.

E.J. Flack: …‘Narfle the Garthok!’

McGill mouths ‘narfle the garthok?’

That’s okay, several people in the crowd also mouth ‘narfle the garthok?’

E.J. Flack: That’s right. You have to Narfle the Garthok! Why? Because a garthok eats an oar for a snack. He uses an oar as frickin’ toothpick. A garthok runs into a fight, not away. A garthok eats difficult conversations, and people, like fat people chew through a breakfast burrito at the local McDonald’s. I can promise you this, folks, I am here in PCW to bring this message- whoever I end up managing will to find a way to out-care everyone else, out-give everybody else, and out-how everybody else. Whoever I manage will somehow find a way to- NARFLE THE GARTHOK!

AND OF COURSE, AN APPEARANCE BY RAH!

FULL RESULTS FROM PCW’s BATTLE CREEK, MICHIGAN HOUSE SHOW -Jill Berg defeated the Millennial Man-The Green World Order (GreenPete/’Extreme Vegan’ Brock Cole Lee/’Radishing’ Rick Rube-Agronomist) vs. ‘Not Just Intolerable…Not Just Unbearable…He is…’ Justin Sufferable/Mike the Mechanic/’No Frill’s Chris Escondido)- time limit draw -Rah! defeated The Fainting Goat Kid-A.J. Alabama/Stevie ‘War’ Eagles (Sports Entertainment Corporation) defeated Farmer John/Brad Company -James the Jeep Worker/Ultimate Social Justice Warrior defeated The Goatbusters (Peter Jenkman/Ray Scantz)-‘One Man Hollywood A-List’ Stone Chism (Progressive Alliance) defeated Brad Company-Kirk Walstreit (American Patriots) defeated ‘The Bureaucrat’ Andy Riley-MAIN EVENT: Starz N. Stripes/Magnum P.O.’d (American Patriots) defeated Charlie Blackwell/’Red Solo Plastic Cup’ Ray McAvay (Les Miserables)

NEXT WEEK ON PCW EXTREME POLITICAL TV- JANUARY 15TH

PCW TITLE #1 CONTENDERS MATCH:Kirk Walstreit (American Patriots) vs. ‘One Man Hollywood A-List’ Stone Chism (Progressive Alliance)

PCW TAG TEAM TITLE MATCH:James the Jeep Worker/Ultimate Social Justice Warrior (Progressive Alliance) Starz N. Stripes and Magnum P.O.’d (American Patriots) Charlie Blackwell and ‘Red Solo Plastic Cup’ Ray McAvay (Les Miserables) A.J. Alabama and Stevie ‘War’ Eagles (Sports Entertainment Corporation) The Goatbusters (PCW Originals)

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reedusdixonfictionaddiction · 8 years ago

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The Summer in Georgia

Chapter 12, The Station

Daryl pulled into the Sheriff’s station and parked next to Rick’s Bronco. They got out of his truck and headed inside. Isabella was incredibly nervous. She reached out and held onto Daryl’s arm, standing off to the side of him. Rick was in his office with another deputy, he saw them come in and waved for them to come back. Isabella was still holding onto Daryl’s arm when they got to Rick’s office. Daryl looked down at her and nodded, as if to say that it was ‘alright.’ She smiled at him hesitantly and let go.

“Hey, there she is. Miss America.” Rick exclaimed. “I was hoping Daryl would bring you down here.” He looked over at the deputy in his office and said, “Chris, this is Isabella the young lady I was telling you about.” He turned back to Isabella and said, “Isabella this is my right-hand man, Chris Jackson. He’s in charge when I’m not around. I couldn’t do my job without him.”

Chris laughed and held out his hand to greet Isabella. “It’s great to meet you. I hear you’re a college grad this year. Behavioral Science? Pretty impressive.”

“Thank you.” She answered, shaking his hand. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

Chris was the undersheriff. He was a 6’4” black man with a gorgeous smile. He was Rick’s age and he had a degree in Criminal Justice from Georgia State University, where he played linebacker for their football team. He was married to a nurse named Yvette and they had one child, a 5-year-old son named Ricky. Named after Rick.

Isabella stared at him a minute, wondering why he seemed so familiar. Then she realized. He looked just like the movie actor, Morris Chestnut.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like…” She started when Chris cut in.

“… Morris Chestnut?” Chris said nodding his head, smiling.

“Yes!” she laughed.

“Who’s Morris Chestnut?” Daryl asked.

“He’s the guy that played Ricky in that movie, ‘The Boyz in the Hood’. Rick said. “and yes, he does. Ironically, that’s what his boy’s name is.” He continued.

“Oh yeah, he does.” Daryl said, nodding his head.

“My wife says, that’s the only reason she went out with me when we first met. Hey, he’s a good-looking guy, I consider that a compliment.” Chris winked. “But my boy’s named after Rick, here. Not the guy in the movie.” Rick puffed out his chest and smiled proudly.

“Come on Isabella, let me introduce you to everyone else that’s here right now.” Rick said, motioning her to follow him into the main area of the station. She smiled at Chris and then followed Rick and Daryl into the other room. He led her over to two other deputies who were busy talking by the coffee machine.

“Hey guys!” Rick said to the men. They turned and smiled. “This here’s Isabella, she’s staying with me this summer and she’s going to be working down here a few days a week. Say ‘hi’.”

One of them, a tall, blonde around 40ish held up his hand and waved ‘hi’.

“Hello, Isabella. I’m Edwin, but all my friends call me Jenner. So, I guess that’s what you’ll be calling me too.” He smiled.

The other man was Asian and in his early 20’s. He had a black eye, which told Isabella that he was the deputy that was assaulted the night before. He looked her up and down very obviously with a big smile.

“I’m Glenn Rhee and you can call me Glenn.” He said waving.

“Nice to meet you both.” Isabella responded.

Glenn looked at Daryl and raised his eyebrows and mouthed ‘WOW!’ Daryl just rolled his eyes. Rick took Isabella around and introduced her to everyone else, the receptionist, the dispatcher and the one jail guard that was on duty. Daryl stayed and continued talking to Jenner and Glenn.

“Looks like ya’ became someone’s bitch last night.” Daryl said lightly slapping Glenn on the face. Glenn slapped his hand away and scoffed.

“Damn Daryl! She is fine! Please tell me you noticed that ass. Cuz, damn! I sure did!” Glenn laughed, punching Daryl’s arm.

“Man, shut the fuck up.” Daryl said, rubbing his arm. “Why ya’ lookin’ asshole? Whattsa’ matter, Maggie not givin’ you no love? She finally come to her senses?” He laughed.

“Hell no! She loves me, man. How could she not?” Glenn said, flexing his muscle.

Daryl laughed and shook his head. “Phuh!” he said under his breath. “Just remember that, Short Round. That means keep your eyes off Isabella’s ass.” Daryl continued.

“Hey, I’m not married yet and I’m not dead, so I can look. What do they say? I can look at the menu, as long as I eat at home.” Glenn laughed. “Besides, what do you care?”

“I don’t, she’s just not like that. Ok?” Daryl said defensively.

“Not like what? I wasn’t saying anything bad about her, I was just pointing out the fact that she’s got a nice ass. Ohhhh! Wait a minute, wait a minute. You like her. Don’t you? Holy shit, Daryl likes a girl.” Glenn teased.

“Shut the fuck up.” Daryl growled.

Just then Charlie walked into the station.

“Hey Charlie.” Everyone said.

Rick and Isabella rejoined Daryl, as Charlie approached them.

Charlie had a big smile on his face when he saw Isabella. Daryl noticed the way he was looking at her and tried to step between them, but wasn’t fast enough.

Isabella smiled back. “Hi Charlie.” She said.

“Wow, Isabella. You look even more beautiful today than you did yesterday.” Charlie flirted.

Daryl’s face got hot and he glared. “No, she don’t. She looks the same.” Daryl said abruptly. Everyone went quiet and looked at Daryl, but no one said what they were all thinking. ‘WTF?’

“Uh, thank you Charlie.” Isabella said looking at Daryl.

At the same time, Glenn patted Daryl on the chest and whispered, “Smooth, dude. Real smooth.” He laughed and walked away.

Rick told Charlie he needed to talk to him. Charlie headed for Rick’s office and Rick followed, but not before looking at Daryl and shaking his head. Daryl felt like an idiot, once again. He hadn’t meant that she didn’t look more beautiful, he was just trying to shut down Charlie’s flirting. He kept putting his foot in his mouth, the harder he tried to play it cool, the more idiotic he came off. He smiled unsurely at her and tried to come up with yet, another apology.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Daryl said. “It’s just that… Well, you should… Charlie can be… Just watch out for him.” He finished quietly.

Isabella nodded her head, she was pretty sure she knew what Daryl meant. She was also hoping that maybe he was just a little bit jealous. Which he was. Daryl told her they should go, so she said ‘goodbye and nice meeting you’ to everyone, and they headed to Rick’s office to say ‘goodbye’ to him and Charlie. Daryl stood in the doorway between he and Isabella. Isabella took ahold of Daryl’s right arm again and stood beside him. Daryl smirked to himself, hoping Charlie was seeing how she was touching him. He did. Rick motioned to her come over to him and gave her a hug around the shoulders and she and Daryl were out the door, back in the truck and headed toward Daryl’s house.

As you drove down the hill that Rick’s house was on, you came to a fork in the road. Off to the right was the station and the main road into town. To the left was Pine Green Road. This was the road Daryl lived on. As they drove towards his house Isabella commented on how nice everyone was. She asked Daryl if he knew what kind of work she would be doing there. He told her he didn’t, but stated that he was sure she could handle it.

“Glenn looks so young.” Isabella commented. “Is he married?”

“Nah, but he’s got a girlfriend. Maggie. Rick’ll probably introduce ya’ to her. She’s nice, she just got outta’ college last year. You’d probably have some stuff in common, ya’ both bein’ smart and all.” Daryl answered. Isabella nodded her head. “Her dad’s a doctor at the hospital here. His name’s Hershel, Hershel Greene. They gotta’ farm out on Route 3. He’s a nice guy, you’d like him. Chris’s wife works with him. She’s a nurse.”

“Does Maggie have any brothers or sisters?” She asked.

“Yeah! She’s gotta’ little sister, Beth. He said annoyed. Maggie’s mom died a few years ago, so it’s just them three, plus Otis and his wife, Patricia. They work the farm for Hershel.” Daryl explained.

“Why did you say Beth that way.?” Isabella asked.

“She just... she’s always followin’ me around and shit. She’s a dumb kid.” Daryl answered.

“Sounds like she has a crush on you. How old is she? Is she pretty?” She asked.

“She ain’t beautiful, she’s alright, she’s kinda’ plain. She’s a 17 year old girl, but she looks like she’s 14.” He laughed.

Isabella was relieved. She didn’t want any competition coming between her and Daryl.

“So, she likes you?” She asked carefully.

“I don’t know. I guess. I don’t wanna’ talk about her. Maggie’s cool though. I think she’s 22. And Hershel? Well, he’s just good people. You’ll meet em’.”

“I look forward to it.” Isabella said enthusiastically. “Have you known Glenn long?”

“Nah, just a few years. He moved here from Michigan about 3 years ago. He was sposed ta’ go ta’ school, but he lost his financial aid. He was deliverin’ pizzas tryin’ to save up money ta’ go home and he met Maggie. So, insteada goin’ home, he stayed and joined the department. He’s a good guy, he’d give ya’ the shirt of his back if ya’ needed it. Maggie and him are sposed to get married next spring.”

“It sounds like he came for school, but stayed for love. That’s romantic.” Isabella said.

“I guess.” Daryl said flatly. “Don’t know much about romance and shit, but they’re good together.”

“I can’t wait to meet Maggie. What does she do?” Isabella asked.

“She helps work the farm, I think she wants ta’ be a vet or somethin’ with animals. I can’t remember. They got horses and cows and shit, so she helps take care of them and Hershel has a clinic he runs, when he’s not at the hospital and she works there with him too. She does a lot of different shit.” Daryl answered.

They’d been driving for about 20 minutes, so Isabella asked how far he lived from the station.

“About 13 miles. It takes a while cuz a this curvy road. We’re almost there. Why ya’ gotta’ pee or somethin’?” He laughed.

“No.” Isabella laughed. “I was just wondering. There’s so many trees out here. It’s beautiful.”

“Yep. We’re here, this is me on the right.” Daryl said, pulling into a dirt, circle drive.”

H(t~'5M'#�

#daryl dixon fan art #Carrion Trilevel #The Walking Dead #norman reedus #daryl dixon

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ecotone99 · 4 years ago

Text

[TH] I AM MR HANDSOME

I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go.

Looking for an invitation to arrive.

I am Mr. Handsome. I am sure you have heard of me. My reputation precedes me.

I won’t tell you too much about me but every story needs at least a setting? Well, there is only so much I can tell you that will give you a taste of the kind of person I am and what I do but not give the entire game away.

So, first things first. I am Mr. Handsome and I live in the city of London. That’s London, England. Not London, Ontario. Not London, Michigan. Or London, Kentucky.

No - I am from London, England. The same city where Old Jack comes from. That’s right. Jack The Ripper. And I see myself as a 21st Century Jack. They’ll never catch me. Try as they might. They will never catch me. I am the spiritual successor to Jack…

I live in a small apartment alone. I work a fairly menial job which allows me to go under the radar and there’s really not much in my daily life or routine that would ever garner your suspicions (apart from being Mr. Handsome of course).

It’s the nighttime when the demons within me come out and the evil simmering inside of me comes to boil in a violent froth. And my night will usually always end with a new victim.

Now. Let me tell you what type of victims I like and this is often reported in the media (don’t you people read the newspapers). I like young women. Twenty somethings. They HAVE to be blonde.

And let me let you into a little secret about catching my prey. When you’re Mr Handsome - it is EASY!

That’s right. The girls come to me. And I honestly don’t know how the ugly serial killers did it. Because Mr. Handsome does not wait around for his prey. I don’t have to stalk the city nights for long. The newspapers and TV are trying to guess how many victims Mr. Handsome has taken now but hell, even I don’t know, once you get into the 20s you begin to lose count.

It was Saturday night and I had been venturing in and out of the bars that evening, I had been out for about two hours. The bitter frustration of a damp squib was looming on the night. Everybody was on high alert about me at the moment and you can see the fear and paranoia emanating from the city.

There’s a hysteria whenever I go out now. I try not to put too much pressure on myself to find someone and on days like this I try to just have a drink and look around. Before you know it - the girls will come to you.

At least, they do for Mr. Handsome.

There’s an isolated bar just outside of my apartment. I won’t tell you the name because, like I said, that will give the game away. But this bar is perfect to go hunting in.

It sits just off a main road which leads to the motorway and the carpark backs onto this quiet woodland. The kind of woodland that’s normally few and far between in urban London.

I try not to stalk this bar because sometimes it’s nice to have somewhere which is separate from my business. It’s nice to not have everybody poking their business right outside your front door and I try to keep police away from my area. Even though I set myself a series of rules for Mr Handsome’s conduct but sometimes the urges are just too much.

The Urges. The Urges. That is what it all came down to, isn’t it. I am a product of my urges.

The pretty, young girl approached me at the bar. Which is natural when you’re Mr Handsome but also surprising given the high alert of that evening. I must have fit some description she was after. The lady looked me up and down and said simply:

“What are you drinking?”

I was in my finest suit and tie and I probably stood out amongst the other clientele, with their big fat beer bellies hanging out from their Millwall Football shirts.

The woman fit my M.O perfectly. She was beautiful. She was delicate and slim. She was blonde. She was blonde… like my mother was…

“Red wine tonight my dear.” I said.

“Would you care to split a bottle?” She asked.

This was too easy…

We got to talking and I gave her my name (I think I was Clive this evening?). I told her that I was a gardener which was actually true and that I had been raised in the area my entire life, another half truth although I was actually born in Aberdeen. She didn’t tell me much about her. Almost like she didn’t want to.

Her name was Elizabeth. She worked as a receptionist but she was actually trying to be an actress. She came on quite heavy in talk but when I motioned to go near her she almost flinched in my presence. She walked a tightrope between attraction and fear. Something didn’t seem right. She wasn’t actually attracted to me. She just acted like she was. She talked and talked but when I touched her she’d recoil.

“Are you from around here?” I asked her.

“Yes. I don’t actually live too far from here.” Elizabeth replied.

“But you were born here?” I asked.

“Of course.” She said with a smile.

Something about this woman gave me a very bad vibe. Almost as if, as if I was being set up. I decided to pull the ultimate test:

“You should be careful around here tonight.” I said.

“Why’s that?” She asked.

“Well, you know who Mr Handsome is don't you?” I asked.

“No…” She told me.

I HAD HER. There’s nobody in this area that doesn’t know who I am and the fact she told me no confirmed it. She was lying… This is a set up.

“Kiss me.” I tell her and she’s taken aback immediately.

She doesn’t know how to react. In that instance I could read right into her. She has to keep up the appeal but the thought of kissing me repulsed her. I lean in and she gives me a half arsed kiss with her eyes open and I’m one hundred percent certain that they’re on to Mr Handsome. They’re all on to me.

She’s bait.

My eyes open mid-kiss and I peer into her own opened eyes. I pull away.

“Why don’t we get another bottle and we can… finish this at mine?” She asked, her voice turning into a false sultry tone.

“I would love to.” I said.

We smile at each other and I lean in for another kiss. I’m fully in tune with the cat and mouse that’s going on right now.

“I just have to take care of something.” She said to me.

I stared at her incredulous.

“It’s a very private thing… but it won’t take long. Can you meet me by the cinema? Ten minutes? Outside where the car park is?” She asked.

She doesn’t need to overact here. This is perfect for me. I smile. I give her one of Mr Handsome’s widest shit eating grins and I tell her:

“Fucking perfect. Ten minutes.”

And I down my wine.

Outside the pub I watched Elizabeth rush off into the distance. I had taken off my large trench coat and blazer. It’s just left with me wearing my white shirt in the night cold. As I’m walking through the carpark, I see Glen.

Glen’s a local homeless degenerate that I always see lurking outside of my building. The guy would do anything for money.

I approached Glen holding up a twenty. Glen’s so spaced out, I wonder if the twenty is even necessary. But I slid it into his pocket anyway because I am a man of honour. I threw my blazer and trench coat over him and I explained that I need him outside the cinema within the next five minutes and I almost carried him across the street to the front of the Odeon Cinema.

Crouched down under the parked cars I can see Elizabeth staring at her watch and looking about her. I whisper to Glen to calmly approach the young lady with his back straight, in the full Mr Handsome strut. I slapped him on the back and pushed him from behind the car into the path of the bait.

For a second I nearly fooled myself; Glen was walking silhouetted against the night and looked the spitting image of Mr. Handsome.

As he’s nearing closer and closer, I can see the excitement just beaming from Elizabeth. I’m watching Glen in the distance, he’s trying to walk as if he’s sober, like this guy has ever had a sober day in his life.

His feet are banging against the paved floor and it sounded like the gallop of a horse.

Next thing; four big burly blokes jump out. One puts a sack over Glen’s head and the other kicked him in the chest.

Glen rolls over onto his side and screams in agony and they pick him up and throw him into the back of a van. I see a few more punches thrown at Glen as he’s being thrown into the van.

This wasn’t the police.

This was a vigilante job.

Elizabeth doesn’t go with the guys. Clearly it’s a task too bloody for the young, fragile drama student.

No, Elizabeth has the audacity to go back to my local pub and have a few more drinks to calm her nerves. She thinks she’s vanquished Mr Handsome.

What Elizabeth doesn’t know is that I had rifled through her pockets when she wasn’t looking and I had a copy of her driver’s licence; address and all.

Here I am, sitting in the dark, just waiting… I’m writing this on my phone now and I’ll upload it online tomorrow from somewhere discreet. Poor Glen is in for a tough time but it won’t be nearly as tough as what Elizabeth has in store once she comes walking through that door.

I’ll just sit here in the dark and once I hear the click of that door closing behind her, I’ll simply say:

“Hello Elizabeth”. I’ve got my ice pick in my pocket. It’s itching to get used.

Elizabeth is a theatre student. I really hope she appreciates the dramatic touch…

On my headphones I play back the song again:

I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go. Walking with a dead man over my shoulder.

I hope you all liked hearing from Mr Handsome. Because I would love for you to hear from me again.

submitted by /u/mysteryconfidential [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/2CFP1sz

#Blogger #Story

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3sportsguns · 6 years ago

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Joe Tiller 2.0

The last time we saw Purdue on the field fans got a reminder of how far Jeff Brohm still has to take this team after a 63-14 drubbing at the hands of a down Auburn team. As fans we aren't strangers to these kind of losses but with spring practices underway there's a different kind of excitement surrounding the black and gold at Ross Ade Stadium.

Growing up a Purdue fan during the Joe Tiller era was such a treat and all you knew was winning and bowl berths. Even being born in 89 I remember expecting a bowl game each year, the huge Rose Bowl berth and how excited everyone was about those teams. And who doesn't remember the fumble and the echo that carries for the football program when it seemed like the team was never the same.

Tiller is the all time winningest coach at Purdue with 85 wins. I was working at an apparel store during the 2008 season as the countdown was on to see that record set. I watched the Oregon game on the computer while we were waiting to see if we could put the shirts out only to suffer heartbreak losing to the #16 Ducks in 2OTs. Then the next week when he finally set the mark by beating Central Michigan when Kory Sheets sealed it.

Drew Brees, Dorien Bryant, Sheets, Jaycen Taylor, Keith Smith, Ryan Kerrigan all some of my favorite players to wear the black and gold, and the dominating end to Tiller's tenure with the blowout 62-10 win against IU. Five bowl games before Tiller and from 97-08 he only had two losing seasons with 10 bowl games and five wins. What was going to happen with Tiller gone.

I was underwhelmed when Danny Hope was named the replacement and that's how his tenure went, but he did just enough to give you hope each season. From the head scratching timeout late that gave Notre Dame a chance to score the winning touchdown to the massive upset of Ohio State it was up and down the entire time, but I still believed that last season. Even the coach said they would win the Big Ten and then Shoelace and Montee Ball got on track in back to back weeks in combined 82-27 wins. I left that rainy Wisconsin game early. The writing was on the wall and you knew the team wasn't going to do anything.

Then Darrell Hazell got hired, fresh off a double digit winning season at Kent State. He had ties to the Tressel Ohio State programs. Someone that had success leading a team and said all the right things. One brick higher brought legitimate rejuvenation to West Lafayette. Then the team went 1-11 in his first season. Okay well he had to reshape the program, but then things never got any better. No more than three wins in a season and only nine in four years despite losing his job before the fourth season finished, and let's not forget how frustrating Morgan Burke was as an AD. I liked Hazell, have his autograph and even had a nice conversation with im down in Indy at the mall, but he couldn't lead this team anywhere.

Mike Bobinski was brought in to replace Burke, an actual football guy. That's a great start but who will he get as a coach? P. J. Fleck to Western Michigan to a New Year's Six Bowl, will he come to West Lafayette. Instead Purdue got Brohm who masted some extremely powerful offenses at Western Kentucky and was on Bobby Petrino's staffs. This looks like a good hire and it has been.

Brohm has gone 13-13 in his first two seasons and 1-1 in bowl games but this is an entirely different feeling then the last back-to-back bowl games that happened at the end of the Hope tenure. There's the obvious 3-0 against ranked teams in 2018, and there's comparisons to the Hope seasons with the inability to put the whole season together especially after the blowout loss to Minnesota, but this is different. How about going to bowl games with the terrible Hazell recruiting classes and now securing a top 25 class and getting players that Michigan, Penn State, Texas and Alabama wanted? How about a true freshman getting Heisman consideration?

Jeff Brohm is 13-13 in two seasons while leading the Boilermakers but this isn't a team that's just scrapping through to get to bowl eligibility, this is a team on the rise and building something special. Hope couldn't keep his team playing steady, Hazell couldn't recruit or win at all and Purdue slipped back to what it was before Tiller. There was a low ceiling for both those teams and fans could see it, but with Jeff Brohm our imaginations can run wild. This is a Tilleresque hire and resurgence for the Boilers and the reason why two off seasons have seen Brohm tied to other jobs. West Lafayette has found its next Joe Tiller.

#PurdueFootball #JeffBrohm #JoeTiller

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fashiontrendin-blog · 7 years ago

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The Best New Menswear Pieces To Buy Right Now

http://fashion-trendin.com/the-best-new-menswear-pieces-to-buy-right-now-16/

The Best New Menswear Pieces To Buy Right Now

Topman Red Flannel Shirt

If you want to stand a chance of anyone jumping your bones this season, steer well clear of novelty Christmas jumpers. Instead, channel your inner St Nick in this cosy flannel shirt from menswear behemoth Topman. No, it doesn’t give you a license to get hotties to sit on your lap, and equally no, that’s not why it’s called Lapland.

Buy Now: £35.00

Dr Martens x Engineered Garments Monkey Boot

Anglo-American relations could be on the up if this collaboration between New York-based Engineered Garments and British stompy shoemaker Dr Martens is anything to go by. Reworking the retro Monkey Boot, the pair has added contrasting textures and additional eyelets, all presented in a UK/USA cotton bag.

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Idle Man Slim Prince Of Wales Wool Suit Trousers

Great news for anyone starting a new job in 2018, The Idle Man has relaunched its suit offering, and very smart it is too. Honing its tailoring expertise, the menswear e-tailer has come up with a four-strong contemporary collection of slim-fitting suits made from (sweat-patch-free) breathable fabrics in classic colours.

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Miansai Fusion Pendant Necklace

New York accessories house Miansai has built a name for itself turning out the kind of jewellery blokes actually want to wear. Case in very stylish point: this pendant necklace, which pulls on the latest trend for mixing metals.

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Sunspel Shetland Wool Sweater

Made in bonnie Scotland on a traditional circular knitting machine that ensures a smooth construction (trust us, a good thing), we’re barmy for this army green jumper from Sunspel, the brilliant brand that brought us boxers.

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Carhartt WIP x Underground Resistance Simple Pant

Impossibly cool workwear brand Carhartt WIP has teamed up with Detroit-techno-collective-cum-political-activists Underground Resistance for a collection of everyday essentials. Made up of a parka, beanie, hoodie and these awesome heavy duty chinos, it’s everything you need to withstand a brutal Michigan winter.

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Vintage Artwork Guinness Cans

It’s Christmas, so accessorise your look with a glass of something cold. Happily, Guinness is celebrating what would have been the 120th birthday of John Gilroy – the artist who helped to shape the brand’s identity – with a run of limited edition cans splashed with his work. And because it’s the season of goodwill, we reckon you can have tou-cans.

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Ami x End Heart Logo Hoodie

Hooking up with young Parisian label Ami, the team at forward-thinking menswear retailer End has crafted an exclusive collection of oh-so-soft hoodies complete with an embroidered heart logo and subtle tonal branding on the back. Très chic, we say.

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Freedom to Exist Watch

The creative director of ultra-swanky members’ club, Soho House, and Marks & Spencer’s furniture chief have joined forces to produce a series of sleek, unbranded watches that have more than a dash of Scandi style about them. And at just £155, the price is pretty minimal, too.

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Stone Island Brushed Cotton Shirt

Once the preserve of football fans yelling obscenities in the terraces, Italian technical brand Stone Island has undergone a resurgence of late, and we’re pretty happy about it because it whips up cool coats and expertly aged shirts like this could-be-vintage brushed cotton example.

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Eastpack Killington Backpack

Beginning life as a supplier of tough-as-nails backpacks and duffle bags to the military, US bag brand Eastpak is embracing its heritage this season by making use of the very on-trend army green and camo print. If enlisting looks this good, where do we sign up?

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Adidas Prophere

Inspired by its impressive nineties archive, Adidas has created its chunkiest silhouette yet. The all-new Prophere lifestyle runner is no wallflower – packed with futuristic details like a textured sculpted sole and pops of neon in the fabric.

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H&M Merino Wool Cardigan

Dressing like your old geography teacher doesn’t begin and end with corduroy. To properly shake those sartorial tectonic plates you’re going to need a cardigan like this Merino wool version from H&M. And if you want to get really ballsy, try tucking it into your trousers.

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River Island Faux Fur Trim Hooded Parka

If most of the time you live on a diet of staple navies, blacks and greys, make this the season to add some mustard into the mix. This parka from River Island, which is finished with a faux fur trim hood, looks good enough to eat from where we’re sitting.

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Weekday End Leather Gloves

With spring just around the corner, you might have to wait until next year to get the most out of these gloves. But thanks to their simple design and timeless black goat leather body, they’ll look just as good then and every winter after.

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Belstaff Steadway Stretch-Cotton Shirt

With its neat nods to classic military style, it’s safe to say heritage outfitter Belstaff has nailed it with this shirt. In addition to being spliced with tonal topstitching and finished with a logo print patch on the sleeve, the jaunty pocket is just slanted enough to make you wonder whether you’ve knocked back too many mulled wines.

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Oliver J Woods Abyssinian Clay

With a client list that includes Jude Law, Brad Pitt and Daniel Craig, you can trust your locks are in well-trained hands with Oliver J Woods. The hairstylist to the stars has just released his own grooming line including this matt clay styling product.

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New Era 9Forty Premium Adjustable Cap

There’s only one way to wear camel this season, and it’s literally head-to-toe. This textured wool-blend cap from the new premium range by American headgear giants New Era seems like a logical place to start.

Buy Now: £25.00

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itsiotrecords-blog · 7 years ago

Link

http://ift.tt/2sMHXon

While some people are handed everything on a silver platter, just because someone is at the top doesn’t mean it was always that way. In fact, many of the wealthiest people in the world started their journeys in slums and orphanages. Many of them even credit their hardship with giving them the motivation, understanding, and personality required to make it to the top. These are 25 inspirational rags to riches stories.

#1 Andrew Carnegie This Scottish-American industrialist started to work at a cotton mill for a 12-hour, 6-days a week job in America when he was only 13 years old after his father lost his jobs as a handweaver in Scotland. Hired later as a telegraph messenger at the Pennsylvania Railroad Company, he was able to climb the corporate ladder where he used his earnings to invest in ventures that led him to build an empire in the steel industry including his large-scale philanthropic legacy.

#2 Oprah Winfrey Born to unwed teenage parents in Mississippi, this media mogul wore dresses that her grandmother made out of potato sacks. After being molested, she ran away at the age of 13 and became a mother at 14, but her son died in infancy. Sent to live with his father, a barber in Tennessee, she got a full scholarship in college, won a beauty pageant and was discovered by a radio station. Her empire is now worth $2.7 billion which she shares with the world through her philanthropic works.

#3 Maria Das Gracas Silva Foster Born in the poverty-stricken shantytown of Morro do Adeus, Brazil to an alcoholic father, she earned extra money by collecting cans and paper to continue her studies. She broke the barriers of the corporate ladder when she was hired as an intern at Petrobras, an oil company, in 1978 and became the first female head of the department of engineering. She also became one of the world’s most influential people as the first female CEO of Petrobras.

#4 Sam Walton During the Great Depression, Sam Walton and his family lived on a farm in Oklahoma where he milked the family cow and delivered bottles to customers to make ends meet. He joined JC Penny three days after graduating from the University of Missouri with a BA Economics degree. After WW II, with capital of $25,000 that he borrowed from his father along with the $5,000 that he saved from the army, he bought a Ben Franklin variety store which he expanded into the retailer giant Walmart and the membership-only retailer warehouse Sam’s Club.

#5 Chris Gardner Born without knowing his real father, he was driven out of his home by his abusive stepfather. He enlisted in the Navy and later became a medical supplies salesman. Due to the slump in his job and with his own family to support, he became interested in stock broking after seeing a stockbroker with a Ferrari. His travails of sleeping in a subway station bathroom, being homeless, passing the licensing exam for stockbrokers, and becoming employed by Bear Sterns was documented in his memoirs, “The Pursuit of Happiness,” which became a hit movie as well.

#6 Ingvar Kamprad Living on a farm most of his growing up years, this Swedish business magnate had always been known for being enterprising even at a young age as he bought matches in bulk and sold them individually to his neighbors. This expanded to fish, pens and Christmas decorations. He also used the cash reward that his father gave him for good grades and used this to create a mail-order business that became the retail company IKEA. Furniture became the company’s biggest seller, which made him one of the richest men in the world today having a net worth of $3 billion.

#7 J.K. Rowling Joanne Rowling, a native of Yate, Gloucestershire in England moved to Porto, Portugal in 1990 when her mother died. While she was already writing the Harry Potter novel even before her mother’s death, the seven-year period that followed entailed a divorce from her husband in 1993, a move to Edinburgh, Scotland and a life with a daughter living on welfare while suffering from clinical depression until she finished the first book in her famous series, “Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone” in 1997. She was able to finish it by writing on scraps of tissue paper from the numerous cafes they visited to let her daughter sleep. With over 400 million books and the worldwide success of the Harry Potter franchise JK Rowling’s net worth is $1 billion.

#8 Jim Carrey James Eugene Carrey was born in Ontario, Canada to a middle-income family where his musician father worked as an accountant. However, things got worse for his family when his father lost his job and they all had to move to Scarborough. He worked at the Titan Wheels Factory for eight hours a day while attending school, but never finished high school. While living in a camper van, he started doing stand-up routines and eventually landed a gig in the sitcom The Duck Factory. He first gained recognition in 1990 when he became one of the casts in the sketch comedy ‘In Living Colors.’ He later moved on to movies and became one of the highest paid comedians in America.

#9 Sheldon Adelson The son of a Lithuanian immigrant taxi driver, his mother ran a knitting store from their home. He grew up in a tenement where he shared a bedroom with his parents and three siblings, started selling newspapers at the age of 12, and started his candy-vending machine business at the age of 16. Though he tried his hand at various enterprises from packing hotel toiletries to mortgage brokering his biggest break came from developing a computer trade show. He purchased the Sands Hotel & Casino and later the mega-resort, The Venetian, from the profits of his ventures pegging his net worth today at $21.8 billion.

#10 Kirk Kerkorian The Armenian-born Kirk Kerkorian grew up at the time of the Great Depression, where he learned English on the street and dropped out of 8th grade to become an amateur boxer. He became a daredevil pilot for the Royal Air Force during WW II and delivered supplies over the Atlantic flying some of the most perilous routes. After quitting gambling in 1947, he bought some charter planes and also engaged in real estate in Las Vegas in 1962. He became the “father of the mega-resort” when he bought The Flamingo and built the stalwarts of the Las Vegas scene, The International and MGM Grand, which made him worth a few billion dollars.

#11 John D. Rockefeller One of six children born in Richford, New York, Rockefeller might have inherited his good business sense from his father, a traveling salesman who used all the tricks to get out of decent hard work and taught his son to always get the best deal in all things. His mom struggled to raise them and though they moved a number of times, he was able to finish school and get his first job as a bookkeeper where he earned $50 in three months. He decided to put up a firm and built an oil refinery with his friend Maurice B. Clark in 1859. He later bought out the Clark brothers’ refinery firm and renamed it Rockefeller & Andrews. He also founded the Standard Oil Company to become the world’s first billionaire and the richest person in history.

#12 Leonardo Del Vecchio Del Vecchio was sent to an orphanage when his widowed mother could not support all five of her children. He worked in a factory that made molds for auto parts and eyeglass frames where he lost part of his finger during an accident. He opened his first molding shop called Luxottica at the age of 23 which expanded to be the world’s largest maker of sunglasses and prescription eyeglasses. Luxottica, the known maker of Ray-Ban and Oakley eyewear, also owns 6,000 Sunglass Hut and Lenscrafters retail shops. The second richest man in Italy is now worth $11.5 billion.

#13 Li Ka-shing Born to a family that fled mainland China for Hong Kong in 1940, his father died of tuberculosis which made him quit school at the age of 15 to support his family by working for 16 hours in a factory that made plastics and plastic flowers for US export. He founded Cheung Kong Industries in 1950, which manufactured plastics at first but later on ventured into real estate. The 9th richest person in the world has ownership in a number of multi-range companies from cellular phones, banking, satellite television, steel industries, and shipping.

#14 Howard Schultz Howard Schultz came from a poor family living in the Canarsie Bayview Houses, a housing project in Brooklyn, New York, which made him want to have a lifestyle beyond what his truck-driver father can provide. As he saw escape in sport, he became a football scholar at the University of North Michigan where he graduated with a degree in communication, the first in his family to do so. While working for Xerox, he discovered a small coffee shop called Starbucks and became captivated by it. He left Xerox and became the first CEO of Starbucks in 1987, which he expanded from its first 60 shops to over 16,000 outlets worldwide, giving him a net worth of $1.5 billion.

#15 Ursula Burns Ursula Burns grew up in a housing project in Manhattan’s Lower East Side, a hub for gangs. She was raised by her Panamanian-immigrant single mother who ran a daycare center at her home and ironed shirts for a fee so that she could send Ursula to Cathedral High School. She earned her Mechanical Engineering degree at NYU and became an intern at Xerox. Ursula Burns became the first African-American woman to ever lead a Fortune 500 Company and the 14th most powerful woman in the world.

#16 John Paul DeJoria Before John Paul Mitchell Systems became a success, its founder, John Paul DeJoria had a rough life. After his parents divorced when he was just 2 years old, he sold newspapers and Christmas cards to help his family until the age of 10 when he was sent to live in a foster home. An LA gang member before he joined the military, he was also employed by Redken Laboratories. He loaned $700 and founded JPM Systems to sell his company’s shampoo door-to-door while living out of his car. Today JPM Systems’ annual profit is nearly $900 million.

#17 Guy Laliberté Before Cirque du Soleil came to life, its founder, Canadian-born Laliberté started his acts in circus as a fire-eater that walks on stilts. His venture paid off when he brought his successful troupe in 1987 from Quebec to the Los Angeles Arts Festival with no guarantee of a return fare for the cast. He now commands a total net worth of $2.5 billion.

#18 Do Won Chang Do Won Chang had to work three jobs as a janitor, gas station employee, and coffee shop attendant to support his family when they moved from Korea to America in 1981. After three years of thrift-spending, he was able to open his first retail store Fashion 21, which grew to be the retail clothing giant Forever 21, a pioneer in fast fashion. The multinational clothing empire with over 480 outlets worldwide generates an annual income of $3 billion.

#19 George Soros After surviving the Nazi occupation of Hungary in 1947, George Soros escaped the country to stay with his relatives in London. He supported his studies by working as a waiter and railway porter and then sold goods at a souvenir shop after graduating. He also wrote every merchant bank in England until he gained an entry-level job at Singer & Friedlander. He became “the man who broke the bank of England” due to his famous bet against the British pound in 1992, where he earned more than a billion dollars in profit in one plunge in the Black Wednesday UK currency crisis.

#20 Zdenek Bakala With just a $50 bill wrapped in plastic and hidden in a sandwich, Zdenek Bakala fled communist Czechoslovakia in 1980 when he was 19 years old and made it to Lake Tahoe. He worked as a dishwasher at Harrah’s Casino while studying for his undergraduate degree from UC Berkeley and an MBA from Dartmouth. He later on ventured in banking, opened his first company Credit Suisse First Boston in Prague after the fall of the Berlin Wall and presided over a coal company that has a $2.52 billion market.

#21 Harold Simmons Harold Simmons grew up in a shack in the poor rural town of Golden, Texas with no plumbing or electricity. He still managed, however, to graduate with a B.A. and masters in Economics from the University of Texas. His first venture was a series of drugstores which were almost entirely funded with a loan. This became a 100-store chain which he sold to Eckerd for $50 million. He became famous as a master of the corporate buyout and currently owns 6 companies that trade on the NYSE including the world’s largest producer of titanium, Titanium Metals Corporation.

#22 Richard Desmond Richard Desmond was raised by a single mother living on top of a garage. He quit school at the age of 14 to focus on being a drummer while working as a coat-checker to help pay bills. Though he never became famous for his musical abilities, he later opened his own record store and published his first magazine, “International Musician and Recording World” and expanded the Desmond magazine empire with publications such as the British version of Penthouse and OK!. He now owns a number of publications around the world and was listed on the 2011 Sunday Times Rich List with a net worth of £950 million.

#23 Harry Wayne Huizenga Harry Wayne Huizenga was born in Chicago, Illinois to an abusive father. His family moved to Florida to save his parents marriage but his father never changed. He moved back to Chicago to go to college but soon dropped out and then signed up to be a reserve in the Army. He went back to Florida after his training and bought his first dump truck to start a trash disposal business. This venture became highly profitable so he purchased more garbage trucks and later built his company, the Waste Management Inc, which became well-known all over the US. He also purchased Blockbuster stores, which later merged with Viacom. He is credited for founding three Fortune 500 companies.

#24 Richard Branson Born to a family of lawyers in Blackheath, London, he had poor academic performance due to his dyslexia. Therefore, he focused more on his business which included growing Christmas trees and raising parakeets. He later started his own record mail-order business at the age of 16. In 1972, he established the record store Virgin Records, which prospered in the 1980s with a number of outlets. He also created Virgin Atlantic Airwaves, which expanded Virgin Records into a music label, making him the 245th richest person in the world today.

#25 Roman Abramovich An orphan at the age of four, this Russian business tycoon was raised by his uncle and grandmother. He got his first break from an expensive wedding gift given by his in-laws. He dropped out of college to pursue his business, which included selling imported plastic ducks from his Moscow apartment. He then ventured into managing the oil giant Sibneft after taking it over in 1995. He continued to flip his investments with profitable ventures such as Russian Aluminum and the steelmaker Evraz Group. He is now the 5th richest person in Russia and owns the $1.5 billion yacht ‘Eclipse,’ the largest private yacht docked in New York City and the Chelsea Football Club, among others.

Source: List25

#IoTRecords

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junker-town · 7 years ago

Text

The Rose Bowl made me wonder how it took me so long to fall in love with college football

An unbelievable game opened my eyes to everything I’ve been missing.

When the clock struck midnight before New Year’s Day, I’d never watched a Rose Bowl from start to finish. I’d seen the iconic opening shots of those hazy mountains in the late afternoon sun and I had watched a few plays, but I hadn’t stuck around. My flimsy excuse is that I grew up in New England, where college football doesn’t matter the way college football is supposed to matter (read: very much and on an almost spiritual level). The NFL has always been my jam.

That changed January 1, 2018, which will henceforth be known as Charlotte’s Day of College Football Reckoning At Long Last, Hallelujah, Praise The Lord.

It starts around 2 p.m., when I turn on the Outback Bowl. Ryan Nanni, my SB Nation colleague/the internet’s #FryinNanni, is dressed up like a giant fried onion on national television (long story) and I don’t want to miss my opportunity to make fun of him on Twitter. I don’t watch the game between Michigan and South Carolina very closely because I’m distracted by the fact that the grown man I work with is wearing a shiny red bodysuit; an unwieldy, multi-tiered foam girdle; and has a bucket shaped like a bowl of dipping sauce strapped to his head. He performs beautifully and makes us all very proud.

The bit of the game I do pay attention to is fairly enjoyable, however, so I keep the the bowl games on as I go about my afternoon. As I fold some laundry, I hear the strains of a Sia song, and look up to see that ESPN is playing a kind of pump-up montage before the Rose Bowl. I start to feel a tingling anticipation.

I watch the players take the field. UGA’s coach Kirby Smart runs out there, too, and ESPN zooms in on him. I decide that in 2018 I’m going to wear a visor, polo shirt, and khakis, and speak in vague phrases like “we’re just thinking about the next game” to see how long it takes before a school offers me a job.

Oklahoma’s Heisman-winning quarterback Baker Mayfield was apparently sick with some sort of flu this week, but he looks pretty healthy right now. He must be feeling better. I wonder how many bottles of DayQuil he’s mixed into his water bottle. Party on, Wayne.

The sound of cadets singing the national anthem fills the stadium as fighter jets roar over it. I get chills at kickoff. I can’t believe how much I’m feeling. This seems like it matters. I find the expectation on the players’ faces deeply moving.

Oklahoma executes a masterful drive, scoring with a swift and ruthless precision that blows me away (Mayfield is good at football — I’m not sure if any of you knew that). Georgia answers with a touchdown of its own. I’m pretty sure this is the best game I’ve ever seen, and we’re only in the first minutes of the first quarter.

Mayfield throws up a “surf’s up” hand gesture, and Rodney Anderson threads the needle between two UGA defenders so beautifully that I suddenly think I’m a Sooners fan. But then Roquan Smith tackles an Oklahoma guy and I’m certain I’ve been saying “Go Dawgs!” since birth. Touchdowns fly back and forth, and by the end of the half I’m pretty convinced that both teams might score 70.

The game is fast and fun, but every once in a while something decidedly unprofessional will happen to remind me that the college game is more human than the NFL — like when the Sooners leave a hole big enough for nine Sony Michels to run through.

The halftime marching bands are incredible. The choreography is so intricate, and involves so many people that I think the schools must use incredibly advanced technology to map it all out (update: they kind of do.) People dance in the stands as band members play their horns and bang their drums and raise their batons. Honking pomp and glittering circumstance.

The ads playing for SEC schools during commercial breaks make college look so fun that I want to go back and enroll at a real football school. I didn’t go to one, and I feel the loss of something that I never had.

By the third quarter, Georgia appears to have finally realized that teams from their state should just always run the damn ball. I’m convinced Smart didn’t actually speak to players in the locker room, but instead just played T.I.’s “Bankhead” very loudly. That’s the only way to fire up a group of people to this extent. They look ready to kick down doors.

Mayfield is intercepted. Maybe his DayQuil is wearing off? Smart looks like he may be having an out-of-body experience as the Dawgs pull ahead after being down by as many as 17 points. But then Steven Parker scores a touchdown and Oklahoma is back on top. AND THEN UGA TIES IT UP AGAIN!

I’m stress-eating Thai food at this point. I’m sweating. I’m laughing. I’m tweeting. I’m short-circuiting. I’m obsessed with the Rose Bowl. I want to move into the Rose Bowl. I am a rose. I’m made of bowls. My hands are footballs. I’m laughing again, uncontrollably now, as we go to overtime for the first time in Rose Bowl history.

What did we do to deserve this? I love that moment when you realize you’re watching a sports game become legend — when you witness something you know people will talk about for years to come with can-you-believe-it-I-still-can’t levels of awe.

The game is tied 48-48 in double overtime. I want to stay suspended in this glorious moment of intense anticipation forever. Freeze me here, without a winner and without a loser, when everything wild is still possible, before anyone’s heart has broken and no one’s dreams have yet come true. Make this my Groundhog Day.

UGA blocks a Sooners field goal. And then Michel takes off, running the ball for Georgia, and — oh my god, he’s juking defenders, he’s running, he’s still running, he’s going to run forever, he’s going to do it! He does it! He scores a touchdown! Georgia wins! They won! The game, the best game in the history of the world, is over. I’m elated for the Dawgs and devastated for the Sooners. I can’t look at Mayfield and I can’t look away from Michel. I didn’t have a horse in this race, I just didn’t want the race to end.

I’m emotionally drained. I have been reborn like the new year. I am now the biggest college football fan to have ever walked the earth. I’m sorry it took this long.

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