Archive for the ‘Literature’ Category
After my office closed early today, I did some cat sitting and then got home and had the stunning realization that I had, like, a whole hour to myself and didn’t even have to work out. I don’t want to be one of those mommybloggers who’s all:
SO OMG I am a MOM and as a MOM –
Did I mention? That I am a MOM? Well? I am. A MOM? As a MOM, I am VERY BUSY. I do not have TIME to do THINGS other than BE A MOM.
I do not OFTEN get FREE TIME as in TIME to MYSELF to DO THINGS I ENJOY JUST FOR FUN without CHILDREN bothering me and I haven’t SHAVED MY LEGS since 1987 oh AND ALSO VODKA.
but seriously, it was pretty exciting to have an hour at home to just do whatever. So, I had a bowl of my world-famous (not really) homemade vanilla ice cream (now with fancy organic vanilla extract, which honestly doesn’t taste all that different from the regular, garden variety vanilla extract) and — I shit you not — read a book for a while.
This is really embarrassing, because, like, I was an English major and shit and I’ve loved to read since I was a kid devouring Jack London novels from my yellow-and-orange-animal-wallpapered bedroom (the law of the wild = eat or be eaten). I still love to read. But, aside from the issues of Sports Illustrated stacked next to the bed, I haven’t read jack shit in forever. For a while, I had a little sticky post on the side of this very site wherein I listed books I recently read and enjoyed but took it down when there were like 3 things on it for like 2 years. Honestly, I can’t tell you the last book I read all the way through. That’s terrible.
So today I was thrilled to pick up Farewell My Subaru, which was recommended by a friend, who described it (brilliantly) as “like a homesteading blog but all printed out on paper.” And that’s exactly what it’s like and, as you might guess, I love everything about it.
And this is a blog post about sitting on my ass reading a book. Awesome.
In other news, I’m not making a big deal about this, but today I vowed to buy no clothes or accessories or anything you wear for the next year. I’m not making a big deal about it because I’m always making grand pronouncements like this and I always fail and it’s kind of embarrassing. If you know me or someone like me who has ADHD, you’re probably annoyed by this kind of shit all the time. We get all crazy enthusiastic about some new project, become totally obsessed with it for a while such that it permeates the very essence of our beings and probably makes us pretty tedious to be around, and then completely abandon it and never mention it again. On behalf of all people with ADHD, I apologize for that shit. I think this has a better chance of succeeding than my terribly failed spending fast, because now I’m intimately familiar with the idea that I can’t just stop doing something — I have to replace something with something else. I can’t do a negative (stopping a thing). I have to do a positive (something else). Does that even make sense? I think it does, but it sounds kind of hokey. So my plan isn’t just to stop shopping — it’s to go all hardcore wanna-be urban homesteader hippie, which has absolutely nothing to do with, for example, getting drunk and ordering Free People dresses on the internet. And I’m pretty sure I’ve said that before, but this time I’m really serious, which is more serious than I was the last time I tried, when I was just plain old regular serious.
The one exception is glasses because I have flex $$$ to spend.
Also, the penny in the photo is Soren’s money. He found it when we were busy visiting not one but two Whole Foods (Whole Foodses?) in Denver yesterday buying shit for Thanksgiving. He waved it at the cashier at the terrifying Cherry Creek location, which we braved just to get Hain vegetarian chicken gravy, which is like the best thing in the world, saying, “This is my money!” as if you could buy anything at Whole Foods for a penny.
I’m sure that by now, you’ve all heard of Go the Fuck to Sleep by Adam Mansbach (and of course the audio version by Samuel L. Jackson). I ordered the book and am waiting for it to arrive tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ve been reading the Amazon reviews (and comments on the reviews and the related discussion forum), which are awesome. Here are some highlights.
- Whatever happened to tasteful literature in this country?
- I found the premise of the book really sad. The kid has probably been in daycare all day and now wants to prolong the short time he/she gets to spend with parents. I get that parents are tired and want some time for themselves. But parenthood was their choice, not the kid’s. Grow up and stop whining.
- Your assement of this situation is what is really sad. Do you really think the parents are whining to their children? NO? Well either do I! So they can not vent about their frustrations to other adults with a little help from this creative book. Shame on YOU.
- Get a life, you are an agree person, go have some fun. Life is short.
- When I spend 12-16 bucks on a book I like to get something that takes more more than one minute and 33 seconds to read. I’m not exaggerating – I timed it. And that was being deliberate and purposefully taking my time. It probably takes closer to 57 seconds to read in real time.
- Although the illustrations are quite cute and the POEM is also very funny, I would NEVER call this a BOOK?? I have no idea why it is under the books?? I think the author could have spent more time than two days writing it and came up with a few more pages of funnies for us to enjoy! I bought it on kindle for under $5, but think it was the worst purchase I have ever made. I was caught up by the funny title and figured it would be worth a read, but certainly isn’t worth a second read!! DON’T WASTE YOUR MONEY!!
- What is your definition of a BOOK? Amazon clearly lists it as 32 pages. I don’t have it, but I am sure each short poem takes up both sides of opposing pages, just like a children’s BOOK!. It’s not worth a second read?????? Well you must be a genius. Of course, it isn’t. When you hear a really funny joke and tell all your friends, do you go back and tell the same joke to them the next time you see them? Of course not. They already got the joke. It’s over. This book is a joke. A very funny joke, but who would read it again? I have to go. I have to get back to reading my “The Cat in The Hat” PAMPHLET.
- How sad that this is found to be entertaining to people. People wonder why there are foul-mouthed kids running around? Moral decay is right…I would never buy this or have it in my home. We actually find better ways to express ourselves other than using the F* word…it is actually ignorant to use that all the time. Again – not funny, but sad.
- People have cursed since the founding of our nation. Do you think our founding fathers were clean mouthed perfect gentlemen ? No. They were like common folk.
- I can’t believe I just paid 4.99 for a 14 page book.
- Total waste of money and time, However it was so short, not much time was needed. Soooo not funny
- Sad that the F word is so common. Yes kids will do any thing no to sleep. A free or $.99 would make a better price. Enjoyed the art more than the writting. After two pages of writting the book was boring. Wher do I get a refund?
- Are you kidding? What the he11 were you expecting? To Kill A Mockingbird?!?!
- Wher do I find out what writting is?
- This book is disgusting and I have decided that once it is released on Amazon, they will no longer be my store of choice. No matter if I have to pay extra at other places, I will not support a store that sells books like this…Childrens books with swear words! I have bought hundreds of things but I will not buy anymore from this website if this book is released! Re-evaluate your purchases and go for the moral stand everyone! I can’t believe that someone was dumb enough to write such a book. If it DOES get into the hands of children I can’t imagine the words they will learn! STOP THE PUBLISHING!
- Can you imagine what would have happened if some loser had tried to release a book with this title, fifty years ago? Only incompetent (and intensely dislikeable) ‘parents’ would buy this book, and give it positive reviews to boot… So bear that in mind when reading every single positive review here – these idiots are only talking about THEIR children when they laughably claim that “every parent” has experienced this problem (which is actually of their own making). Typical of the idiots who should never have been parents, to think this book is funny, or acceptable. You are losers who shouldn’t have children, as simple as that. I sure as hell don’t want to be living in a world of your hideous progeny.
- The book kind of makes no sense unless you assume that parents stay bedside until their kids go to sleep. This was not parenting practice when I was a kid. You were put in bed (or went there yourself if you were of ambulatory age), and the lights went out. Not asleep? That’s your problem. Do young parents these days sit by the bed and watch the kid until he sleeps? When did this custom start? This might actually be the problem. I’m not sure I’d feel comfortable sleeping with someone staring at me.
- I’m guessing that the parents who like the book have really crappy kids who won’t go to sleep and the parents are clueless on being a parent. As a parent, I just can’t relate to the book.
- Well, as a parent, I just can’t relate to someone who can’t relate to this book.
- This is the worst goodnight book I’ve ever read. It made my four year old cry every single night I read it to him. And then just the other night when it was time to put his baby brother down, he said, “Why won’t he go the f*** to sleep?” What sort of lesson is that? I don’t normally give one star reviews. I would have given this a two star review if the authors had used a better word like “fudge” or “flock”, as in “Go the Flock to Sleep”, but now, thanks to this horrible book, my four year old is using the f-word every day and my baby son just said “flluch”, so his first word was the f-word. Am I supposed to tell him this when he gets older? “Son, your first word was the f-word”? What’s he going to grow up to be now? A tattoo parlor artist? A Democrat? This book is a disgrace.
- This book is supposed to be for parents. I think if people are reading this to their kids then they are morons.
- I have concerns for this parent.
- I can’t believe you actually read this book to your child. This was obviously meant to be a humorous book for parents! And, for you to actually say “What’s he going to grow up to be now” A tattoo parlor artist? A Democrat? You shouldn’t even be a parent with those stereotypical, narrow minded views.
- You need CPS to check into your home situation. You read this book to a child? And MORE THAN ONCE!!!? You need to go to jail.
- Obviously the person who wrote this review is grinding some sort of socio-political axe. He might just as well worry that his one year old son (whose first word was the f-word) will grow up to be someone like Senator David Vitter (R-LA) who enjoyed wearing a diaper while frolicking with prostitutes.
- This book is for PARENTS, this is NOT a good night book for children!! What kind of a parent would read this to a child? Please, grow up.
- Taking the content into consideration, and coupled with the fact that your child is crying after reading this book, why would you Think it would be a good idea to read it more than once? Poor judgement on your part. I guess it’s just easier to place blame elsewhere. Oh your poor child…..14 more years of parenting stupidity.
- What a terrible premise for a book. I read the preview pages, and I certainly wasn’t impressed. I won’t buy this book. And those who laugh at the pages of the book, what would you say if you heard someone say the exact same thing to a little child while you were visiting their house? Would you call Protective Services? Maybe you should.
- Especially weirded out that this will be a movie.
- If I’m going to be punished with this whole fatherhood thing then I’m going to read my kid the books I want to read.
- If you didn’t want a kid, you should’ve gotten a vasectomy.
- Since when is it OK to promote a book that makes abundant use of the F*** word, even in the title.
- WHO IS THIS BOOK FOR? WILL AMERICANS BUY ANYTHING AT ALL GIVEN ENOUGH PR? I ask who this book is for? For adults, of course, right? That’s why it looks just like a children’s book. That’s why it’s made to be irresistible to any kid, right? The many glowing reviews claim the book was therapeutic and hilarious—for adults? These are adults? being entertained by a typical kiddy book with the addition of a naughty word? Really? One parent regrets she can’t read it to her three-year-old. Never fear, I’m willing to bet this piece of trash ends up in your child’s hands and millions of other children’s hands. Ah but who cares? It’s all good.
- I cannot believe this trash is being published in the guise of a children’s book. I blame the publisher as much as the author. What a terrible idea! Too bad this thing is being published instead of good writing. A true author would never even want to publish this garbage, which makes me believe we are all in the hands of small-minded marketers who only want to make the almighty buck off of an illiterate society.
If this is “pure genius”, then Sarah Palin should be president of the planet! We would all do well to boycott such endeavors.
- You could get “Bucky Katt’s Big Book of Fun: A Get Fuzzy Treasury” and laugh your silly butt off for 243 solid pages usually with 3 cartoons, or “comedy units” each. That is 729 top shelf chuckles. It’s $11.55 at Amazon today. That’s 1.5 cents per chuckle, with at LEAST 100 belly laughs in the mix. This Book has 30 pages, with one moderate comedy unit per page. At $8 that works out to 26 cents per chuckle.
- When attempting to review a book such as ‘Go The F.. To Sleep,’ the reviewer must keep in mind a single, elemental truth: that although the book is presented to us in the guise of a work meant primarily for children, this is merely a playful facade–a mind-trinket if you will, to throw us off-guard, to play raquetball with our medulla oblongatas. It is with this thought in mind that I offer the subsequent musings. From the start, turning from page to page, the reader is at once both mesmorized and beguiled by the wondrous grasp of language–both literal and figurative–which populates this tome. It is a spectacle to behold: how such apparently sparse lines can electrify the reader as if we were there alongside the writer as he desperately tries to get his loved one to depart the conscious realm and enter the nightly unconscious world of dream and splendor. We hear the author’s words, the scent of the home rising through our curious nostrils, the sweep of the air throughout the bedroom and beyond.
- I would read this to a child.
- I am SO glad you were not my mother. I still respect my mother for never ever having used foul language. I do not respect you. And I am sure you don’t care. Guess what? I don’t care that you don’t care.
I started really having trouble sleeping when I was on Adderall. You’d think that’s because I was hopped up on amphetamines, but that’s not how it works. As the psychiatric nurse specializing in ADHD explained it: You have ADHD. Your mind normally operates at 200 miles per hour. Adderall slows it down to about 60. But then the Adderall wears off and by the time you’re trying to fall asleep, you’re creeping back up to 200 and can’t sleep. Her suggestion was more Adderall, taken later in the day. Although for reasons I’ll tell you about one day that would’ve made me a much more pleasant person to be around, I knew it wasn’t good for me and didn’t take more Adderall. Eventually, I quit Adderall altogether. Like all medication I’ve ever taken in my life, Adderall started out really awesome and ended kind of badly, but that, too, is a story for another day.
Since Soren was born, I have more trouble falling asleep than I did while on Adderall. I’m not sure why this is — whether it’s something that just happens to some new parents or whether I’m just weird. I like to go to bed at the same time Ben does, and he falls asleep in, like, seconds. That leaves me the time between when he falls asleep and when I fall asleep, which is kind of lonely and weird to tell you the truth. To fill the void and to try to keep my mind from racing1 I engage in various activities including but not limited to listening to the police scanner. (I tried the White Noise app but that didn’t have very good results.)
I’ve been feeling a little anxious for the last few weeks2 and, as a result, have taken to reading in bed while a melatonin tablet dissolves under my tongue because books do a better job of filling up the weird spaces in my head than the police scanner, which, as awesome as it is, is not always what the psychiatric nurse specializing in whatever the hell mental disorders I have orders. The last book I picked up was Infinite Jest. This did not go well. If a reading experience could ever qualify as tragic, this one did.
I made it to page 72 of Infinite Jest. (I also read the accompanying endnotes.) When I got to page 72,3 I inserted my bookmark4 between pages 72 and 73, closed the book, and tossed helplessly on the choppy ocean of my mind until sleep finally came after spending what felt like endless hours wide-eyed waiting for something terrible to happen. The next day, I moved the book from my bedside table to one of the bookshelves in the living room.
The problem is I’m just too soft for Infinite Jest. It’s like this. When I was just out of college, I did what any reasonably intelligent adult who majored in English and psychology would do. I looked for jobs “helping people” and ended up at a nursing home where I spent time reading charts to get to know the people with whom I’d be working and because reading charts was less terrifying than anything else I could be doing and didn’t know how to do. One chart revealed something horrifying that I’d never heard of called “organic brain syndrome.” Let’s be honest here. I’m not a person who needs to know about organic brain syndrome.5 My problem (well, one of my problems) is that I don’t understand what separates me from someone with organic brain syndrome. I don’t mean that to be as stupid as it sounds. It’s like, why does this guy have organic brain syndrome and I don’t? What if I do have organic brain syndrome?
Basically, this is a long, annoying way of saying that I’m an anxious person with drastic hypochondriac tendencies.
So when we get to page 72 there’s a woman with bangs plastered to her forehead and a nice rack lying in bed wanting to die and I have a hard time not wondering why I’m not her. I mean, I don’t want to have bangs plastered to my forehead and I don’t want to die, but somehow this shit hits too close to home for me.
Reading Infinite Jest made me feel like I was in one of the following two situations.
1. David Foster Wallace and I are children playing in the family room of my parents’ house. We’re playing that game where you line furniture from one end of the room to the other and climb back and forth and you can’t touch the floor because it’s covered in lava. I’m holding onto one of my stuffed dogs and I hold onto that dog for so long the synthetic fur sticks to my hand sweat and the dog ends up with bald spots but I love him anyway. Suddenly instead of playing this game, we’re doing something that’s somewhere between the game Operation and the infant scull surgery I inexplicably watched on tv once. He’s sticking things into my head pretending he’s working in my best interest but in reality he’s trying to hit something in there that will result in a terrible “BZZZZZZ!” sound and make me feel the most exquisite, intense anxiety I’ve ever felt. I want to be his friend but I know he’s just fucking with me and I don’t like it.
2. I’m trapped in a bathroom. Scattered around the room are steamed-up upside down glasses containing giant roaches in various stages of death or dying. There’s an HD television on the wall playing scenes of individuals experiencing intense pain and/or being diagnosed with horrific illnesses and scenes of bees6 and scenes of close-up animated renditions of facial hair and/or meat.7 I can’t leave the room.8 I try to yell for help but fail. I have a computer and try to, like, tweet for help, but this is what comes out:
DFA JOAIGJ OAGIFJ AODGJF APER0GE-RGJAP’EGMAP’OGAERJP’EGMA’PDFM
Help never comes.
I think these feelings mean one of two things. The first option is that David Foster Wallace and I should’ve been BFFs. This option can’t be true because it makes me sound like a poseur wanna-be intellectual asshole who kills people at book club by smothering them with smug self-satisfaction. The second option is that I’m just too soft for Infinite Jest. I hate admitting that. I mean, the writing is fantastic. It really is. You should read this book. I just can’t handle it. It’s disturbing and when it comes down to it, I just don’t like being disturbed. I mean, I already am disturbed. I don’t really need more. I hope that one day, when I take myself and the world less seriously and maybe have a big stash of medical marijuana,9 I’ll be able to read this book.
For now, I’m reading Sports Illustrated in bed. That’s going quite well.
1. While speaking to the psychiatric nurse specializing in ADHD, I described my experience with ADHD as follows: It’s like my mind is a radio and someone (not me) is controlling the dial (or buttons, whatever, I’m old school) and I hear little bits and pieces of random stations and sometimes the dial might stay on one station for a bit but then it moves on to something else. Sometimes I do these thought exercises when I’m lying in bed, where I’ll try to think something all the way through — like, I’ll try to go through every room of a place I used to live and remember as many details as I can, but I never even get through a whole room before I’ve thought of at least 27 other things even though I really try to stay in that room.
2. I’m also prone to anxiety, although I’ve never sought professional help for it outside the claustrophobia context.
3. There is nothing remarkable at page 72; that’s just where I stopped.
4. My bookmark is a card from Beaners, a now-defunct coffeehouse in Arlington Heights, Illinois, where Ben and I spent many hours drinking coffee and unsuccessfully trying to buy World Series tickets in 2007.
5. One of the worst times of my life was the time I took a neuroanatomy class in college. That’s the class where you learn about brain lesions and their symptoms and then spend many sleepless nights analyzing which symptoms you have and considering the likely course of action after it is revealed that you have a brain lesion.
6. I like bees but, while we’re at it, I might as well admit that I have an intense fear of honeycombs. Honeycombs freak me right out.
7. You would not believe how many times while you’re watching ESPN at the gym you’ll see commercials featuring close-up animated renditions of facial hair (these freak me right out) or meat.
8. I’m claustrophobic.
9. I don’t actually smoke weed all the time. I just think that sometimes it’s good for what ails you and if you want to know the truth, I trust weed a lot more than I trust pharmaceuticals.
Song: In the Sand by Panyard
Last year, on a lovely February day, the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue arrived in my mailbox and said:
Less than four months after giving birth wasn’t the exact time I’d pick to view page after page of sexy women in teeny little swimsuits. I mean, I’d realized a long time ago that there was no reason to fear or hate sexy women. In short, their existence doesn’t lessen whatever attractiveness I may possess, and any guy who wants one of them doesn’t want me and, therefore, they’re not going to encroach on my market or anything. However, looking at them while feeling a little new-mom flabby wasn’t my favorite thing in the world.
This year, I was ready for the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue. I’m finally, for the first time in years, at my “yay rah happy weight” (this must be said in Wesley Willis voice). Listen. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not skinny and I’ll never in a bazillion years look as good as the women in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue, even without them being photoshopped to within an inch or two or several of their lives. But at least this year I don’t feel like it’s saying:
So that’s an improvement and I’ll take it.
In other news, I’ve been in the market for a new swimsuit. Being at butt head say rah happy weight means new things are possible this summer. Maybe we can have pool parties in our yard (we upgraded our above-ground pool last year) — we can invite people over, play beachy-house music (stuff like the song linked above*), eat stoner bruschetta, and drink beer (I’d say some other kind of drink that you’d actually serve at a pool party, but I don’t know what that is and let’s be honest, we’re just going to drink beer anyway). Maybe we can go to the wave pool or a public pool, which now that I think about it probably isn’t a good idea because I’ll just sit there and think about how all the kids peed in the pool because you never admit it but everybody in the world did that (I did it a lot after that time when I was a kid and I did not properly dry off to go to the bathroom after swimming at my grandparents’ condo in Lauderdale-By-the-Sea and actually fell into the toilet and got stuck and my mom had to pull me out — after that, I was all pee in the pool all the time).
Attaining my rock over London rock on Chicago weight means it’s time to stop squeezing into the old Victoria’s Secret tankini I’ve been wearing for years. It maybe fit me like two cup sizes ago, before I had a kid, and that shit’s just not right. I’m, like, entitled to a new swimsuit or something.
So I was on a mission. Victoria’s Secret was out because, although they awesomely make bra-sized swimwear, they do not make bra-sized swimwear in my ridiculous new bra size. I mistakenly spent some time at work one day looking for other options and stumbled upon something that looked remotely like soft-core porn. Sorry, work! I do not wish to look remotely like soft-core porn and I’m sure the world does not wish that I would look remotely like soft-core porn, so that was out.
I finally found something that comes in my ridiculous size, looks decent, and has a boyshort option. (It’s by Freya.)
Not bad, right? Because of the gold trim, I can rock my old nameplate necklace, because for whatever reason, those things are all over the Swimsuit Issue this year** and I kind of like an excuse to wear that thing without feeling like I’m trying to represent Sex in the City, which I’m totally not, because I liked Sex and the City back in the day but a few months ago I tried to watch the movie and couldn’t even get through the first hour because it was so dumb, which is kind of like Inception, which put me to sleep because it was so smug and proud of itself I just couldn’t take any more and gave in to the sweet relief of unconsciousness less than an hour in, which is good because I missed the part where they were so self-satisfied they decided gravity didn’t apply to them or something. I’m not really a movie person, as you might have guessed. I am, however, finally, a swimsuit person. I guess.
* Here is a complete collection of beachy-house tunes.
** The nameplate necklaces as seen in the SI Swimsuit Issue are from Caja Jewelry.
The Art of War by Sun Tzu is a classic Chinese treatise on military strategy. Written in the sixth century, B.C., The Art of War has provided inspiration and instruction for military leaders, as well as leaders in other disciplines, such as business and management.
The Art of War focuses on how to outsmart — rather than out-battle — your opponent. Thus, its wisdom is particularly applicable in the world of sports heckling, where quick-witted fans must use their minds to engage in battle with stronger and more physically skilled opponents.
It is with great pleasure that I bring to you Chapter I of The Art of Heckling. I hope the following tips and ideas will help you engage in effective heckling at sporting events and that, just maybe, your heckling becomes so profound and so loud that you actually help your team on to victory (unless of course your team is playing against my team, in which case you suck and my mom who is in her sixties and has diabetes and sciatica could heckle better than you).
5, 6. The Crappy Player causes the people to be in complete anger and frustration with their team, so that they will heckle him regardless of their team loyalty, undismayed by any glimmering of momentary success or danger.
9. Players deserving shit for other reasons include ugly players, players who willingly went to other teams, Yankees, Knicks, Red Sox, Patriots, Duke, Omar Vizquel, and any college team from the state of Indiana or coached by Bobby Knight.
10. Random drunken belligerence is to be understood as the result of having way too much beer and taking issue with things that would not normally warrant boisterous heckling, such as missed free throws by the home team, dropped passes, whining, bad end zone dances, or terrible halftime entertainment.
13. (1) Which of the two teams is your team? (2) Which of your team’s players has most ability and from whom weakness or mistake will not be tolerated? (3) With whom lie the advantages derived from home court and fan support? (4) On which side is discipline most rigorously enforced by the officials? (5) Which team has a better record or fewer asshole players? (6) On which side are players and coaches more highly trained and appealing? (7) On which team is there the greater constancy both in wins and level of play?
15. The coach who hearkens to my heckling and acts upon it, will conquer: let such a one be given a multi-year contract in the millions! The coach who hearkens not to my heckling nor acts upon it, for example by running when he should pass or by failing to substitute players during a 20-3 scoring run by the other team, will suffer defeat:–he will suffer ridicule in opposing stadiums and will end up coaching at a vocational school in the central U.S.!
16. While heading the profit of my counsel, avail yourself also of any helpful circumstances over and beyond the ordinary rules. If you read an article in Sports Illustrated about a player’s contentious divorce, use of performance enhancing drugs, or sex allowance, use this information to enhance your heckling. Point out a player’s physical flaws, such as his resemblance to Sasquatch or a turtle, or that one time Reggie Evans grabbed his nuts. In the case of Isiah Thomas, remind him that your mom, who is in her sixties and has diabetes, is less of a pussy than he is.
17. According as circumstances are favorable, one should modify one’s plans. When the ushers at Coors Field threaten to have you removed from the premises if you keep making reference to Barry Bonds’ s anatomy while you are heckling, change your strategy to instead refer to his more family friendly weaknesses, such as sciatica, the fact that nobody but idiots in San Francisco actually like him, and the fact that performance enhancing drugs and cheating are very bad and not a good example for children.
19. Hence, when able to heckle, we must be loud enough for the players to hear; when using our forces, we must be confident that a scream at just the right time can change the trajectory of the ball; when we are near, we must make an extra effort to be heard by the opposing players; when far away, we must unite with neighboring fans to make ourselves louder.
20. Hold out baits to entice the enemy; a syringe for Barry Bonds, a chicken for Chris Kaman, prison orange for the Cincinnati Bengals, the internet and a wrist brace for Carlos Zambrano. Feign appreciation, and heckle them.
26. Now the team that wins makes many calculations on the court or in the field while the game is being played. The team that loses makes but few calculations beforehand. Thus do many calculations lead to victory, and few calculations to defeat: how much more no calculation at all! However, regardless the number or quality of a team’s calculations, it is by attention to heckling that the fan can hope to affect the outcome of the game.