The Monday Roast: Adolf Hitler

1.  Lance only has one nut, but he chose to live strong not crazy.  Boom, roasted.

2.  No one will ever be comfortable around a German accent. Ever.  Boom, roasted.

3.  Napoleon complex.  Boom, roasted.

4.  You were so mean!   Boom, roasted.

5.  You just had to ruin a perfectly respectable facial hair piece for the rest of us.  Boom, roasted.

A Stranger and Her Journal on the Train

A recent jaunt on the San Francisco Municipal railway (MUNI) at rush hour on a Thursday provided a little peek into a stranger’s life.

Tardy for dinner, I awaited the MUNI at 16^th and Church; restlessly updating the train status page on my phone as if it would somehow speed things up. I finally boarded the train and crammed myself between some hipsters and business fellows. I knew it was indeed a rush hour voyage as I had human contact on every side. Standing there, I recognized how fortunate I was to be able to see and breathe above the masses.

From my vantage point I noticed, squeezed into the front window seat with extraordinarily limited leg space and an American sized passenger in the accompanying aisle seat, a journaler. A young lady impressively and carefully writing in a journal while packed into a herky, jerky cesspool of grumpy nine-to-fivers, loud talkers, hobos, and the rest of us.

I couldn’t read what she was writing in her pint size journal and she was using a mechanical pencil; the softness of which made distance reading impossible (Aside: hotter commodity: the mechanical pencil market circa 6^th grade or real estate circa ’05? Tough). My appetite for hot gossip on the stranger’s life was clearly not going to be satiated due to the limiting factor of pencil. However, atop her journal page, distinctly written in black ink, was the only legible piece of this entry:

I’m Happy

This incredibly basic header – a conjugate and infant-level adjective – declared everything I could ever need to know about this stranger. In ink, at the top of her blank and open page – as if daring the empty page and ensuing pencil writing to change that permanent fact – the proverbial decision to be happy had been made.

What else really matters?

The Monday Roast: Hangovers

1.  So now I'm $60 poorer, 1000 CAL richer...until I yak. Boom, roasted.

2.  Everyone knows what you are, so why am I still expected to be productive Friday AM? Boom, roasted.

3.  The definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting a different result.  Boom, roasted.

4.  Yes, I will pay $6 a pint for this. Boom, roasted

5.  Excuse miss, what's your name again?  Oh, well I almost guessed right, but I have to get going now.  Boom, roasted.

The Monday (Night) Roast: Protein Powder

1. Myo-Xplode-gene-andro-tek-muscle-rip-Juice. Translation = condensed milk in a colorful, oversized can. Boom, roasted.

2. You still shouldn't flex in the gym mirror. Boom, roasted.

3. Does it come with a tan and a V-neck? Boom, roasted.

4. If you can't pronounce it, don't drink - actually, drink up in that case. Boom, roasted.

5. Grrrrrrrrrrrrruuuuuuuuunnnnnnntttttt!!!!!! Boom, roasted.

The Monday Roast: People That Don't Watch Soccer Because of Flopping

1.  You better not be a Duke fan, because I've seen Greg Paulus "take a charge."  Boom, roasted.

2.  You're right, the sport would be better if there were no disincentive to injuring star players who risk their professional salaries to play for their country.  Boom, roasted.

3.  Right again, sprinting constantly up and down a field measuring 120 yards by 75 yards for one and one half hours is a pansy endeavor.  Boom, roasted.

4.  How do you explain your affinity for watching figure skating?  Boom, roasted.

5.  Not a fan of faking?  Talk to your girlfriend.  Boom, roasted.

Wold Cup is Abbreviated WC and I Like Both

I’m caught. Hook, line, and sinker.

I’m head-over-heels.

I’ve got a fever and the only remedy is more World Cup.

That’s right. Me, the former hater of all soccer, is in love with it. It’s amazing. I want crosses and headers and corner kicks and yellow cards and strikes and flops and ties and vuvuzelas and bald Bradley’s and flags and everything. I want it all.

If you re-read that list you will indeed see I’ve embraced the flopping. Get over it. It’s part of the game just like steroids, USC recruiting, and John Calipari. It happens, now deal. Flops and dives create set plays and 33% of all goals in the 2006 World Cup were scored on set plays. It works and winners play to win.

I used to think soccer was 90-minutes of run and kick; a glorified kindergarten recess if you will. No. It’s incredible. It’s a grueling, heart and gut check 90-minutes of strength and endurance. Goals are created not stumbled upon. I truly see it as “The Beautiful Game.”

Oh yeah, and the US advanced to the elimination stage by winning Group C. NBD. Didya see it? Ya know, the one where keeper-extraordinaire, Tim Howard, outlet the ball to Landon-the-Conqueror who forwarded it to Jozy Altidore who missed but Landon-the-Fearless found the back of the net in the ninty-first minute? That one.

And Landon-the-Magnificent came through. He’s played well throughout the Cup and should continue to do so. An iconic, American athlete, on the biggest stage, in the biggest moment delivered. Hyperbole time sports writers?

I’m not about to follow the English Premiere League and certainly not MLS. I’m not going to collect soccer cards or remember stats. And I’ll undoubtedly never call it futbol. But I no longer hate or fear The Beautiful Game I didn’t know. It just took some patience and understanding (take note far-righters).

So, onward and forward it is for the kickin’ Yanks. This Saturday, go find an American bar with an American crowd get an American pre-noon drink, definitely high-five, and cheer for the red-white-and-blue.

Take heed World, for it’s Dempsey, Bradley, and Howard then go hit the shower.

The Monday Roast: Glenn Beck

1.  The only thing in this country you haven't compared to Nazi Germany is a state law that requires you to carry proof of citizenship at all times.  Boom, roasted.

2.  Did you have your cuff links shipped directly from your Goldline International broker?  Boom, roasted.

3.  You started a clothing and merchandise line based on "bringing us all back to the place we were on September 12, 2001"--uh, no thanks.  Boom, roasted.

4.  The people who pay you know you're wrong, you're crazy, and you're an asshole.  Boom, roasted.

5.  You don't know it.  Boom, roasted.