SuperMassiveBloghole

Political season is about to be in full swing here and I’d like to offer a polite suggestion to everyone I know: please shut the fuck up.

No matter which side of the aisle you’re on, please shut the fuck up.

Let’s get this out of the way first: nothing is going to ‘destroy America.’ Do you know why? Because America is not some dainty porcelain candy bowl that will shatter and explode when some other fuckwad is in office. America is a behemoth of a country that can handle its shit. And while we’re at it, you can’t ‘take the country back’ because that doesn’t really mean anything. And there’s no such things as a ‘Real American’ [besides Hulk Hogan], so stop proclaiming to be one because you read Mitt Romney’s wikipedia page once.

Politics is a dirty game and a necessary evil. We all accept this, yet still argue in terms of ideals and absolute values. Please stop. Like anything else in life, government is inclined to swings and stumbles and changes over time. Regardless of who takes office next January, you’re probably gonna be just fine. Calm down. We have these traits called human decency and reason that have gotten us through several millennia now; we’ll be ok.

I’m not saying government is unimportant, I’m just asking you to shut the fuck up about it. Nobody changes their mind because of your facebook post. And unless your name was once stenciled on the door of a government building, you truly have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about. You know as much about running a country as you do about banging a porn star; obsessively jacking off while thinking about it doesn’t make you an expert in either.

There is a time and a place for debate and it usually happens in October, in Primetime, on national television. It typically involves two candidates running for president and a moderator. You were not invited to participate in this event. Your tweets don’t count. In fact, nothing you say ever counts. Ever.

The only thing you could possibly do that resembles anything even remotely relevant is to vote. Go check your box. That’s all you get. Before and after that is an invitation to shut the fuck up land. Go there. Make yourself at home. Enjoy the fresh mountain air and cloudless skies. Watch football. Eat wings. Find peace in the fact that nobody gives a shit why you’re a republican or a democrat or even more insufferably, neither. And if you catch a friend or foe spewing worthless political noise in the next 2 months, invite him to shut the fuck up land too. Just be polite about it.

So I saw this on Buzzfeed today about finding your bizarro wedding. It’s a simple enough game: google [“john and eunice” wedding] and look for the first wedding that comes up. What I found was uncanny.

The first page that pops up on my search is this one. 

Yes, another couple named John and Eunice, but the similarities don’t end there:

1. Korean Americans
2. Deeply religious Christians (at the time of nuptials, anyway)
3. Majority of their dating relationship was long-distance (6/7 yrs for them, 3/4 yrs for us)
4. Brides in casual white footwear (Toms for them, Flip Flops for us)
5. Guys in sports apparel at the reception (NBA jerseys for them, Redskins for us)
6. Six bridesmaids. Six groomsmen. 
7. She was in grad school, while he was working.
8. Lived in Pasadena, CA
9. Life is weird.

I feel so unoriginal right now. 

During the Season 10 auditions for American Idol, I fell in love. It was a special kind of love. Not the kind of love worth singing or crying about. It wasn’t homo or hetero - it wasn’t sexual at all. It was a different breed of love. Not like “I Will Always Love You” love or even “The Greatest Love of All” love (that would be inside of me). It was more akin to the love one feels for a child or a puppy. A proud, nurturing love. A caretaker’s love. A father’s love. I loved a boy, an Angelboy as a matter of fact. His name was Jacee Badeaux. He was 15, from Lafayette, Louisiana. 

For his audition, Angelboy sang Otis Redding’s “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.” His voice, so pure and pristine, rang like heaven’s handbells on christmas morning. His fat little cheeks pinched his eyes puffy and his tousled hair was what happens when Mom tries the Bieber Cut at home. He breathed much too heavy for a 15 year old, but then again, all that soul don’t come easy. Angelboy.

Oh Angelboy. He was a shoo in for Hollywood Week, but it was only a matter of time before the darkness would corrupt him there.

A few episodes after Angelboy, another young singer was showcased. Scotty, a gangly country bumpkin, 16 years old, from Garner, North Carolina. He described himself as an All-American Kid, singing since before the age of one, retelling his doctor’s tale about coming out of the womb humming “Bye, Baby Bunting.” It was apocryphal. He played baseball and had smirk lines tattooed on his face.

His voice was deep, in tone only. He sang Josh Turner’s “Your Man.” Admittedly, it was the right choice of song. It showcased his style: overtly hick with a tinge of rapist, and he got to do his George Strait head bobs at the end of every phrase. Scotty made it through to Hollywood and oh yes, he went on to win Season 10 of American Idol. 

As far as reality TV competitions go, Idol’s Hollywood Week is right up there with eating a donkey shit covered cockroach while amazing racing through Sri Lanka with a Kardashian sister and 8 kids. It breaks people. And the absolute nadir of human existence is broadcast on network TV as the hotel lobby at 4 AM during the Group Stage of Hollywood Week. Nineteen year old demi-divas with their weaves a mess and voices hoarse, singing motown, acapella, while the white girl struggles with leaning right on the “1 and 3 and 1 and 3 and” choreography. 

It is in this world where our two contestants meet. Angelboy, the beloved, so pure and so rare, joins a group called the Guaps. As they begin to assemble, we hear the faint echoes of carnage in the background. It soon becomes an incessant 3 second stream of noise: “baby lock them doors and turn the lights down low… baby lock them doors and turn the lights down low… baby lock them doors and turn the lights down low…” It’s Scotty. He’s singing the opening line of the Josh Turner song, on repeat. Robotically. Like some kind of twisted singing cowboy machine used to tell redneck fortunes in Alabama. Scotty couldn’t find a group and was now whoring himself to anyone who’d listen. He finds his way to the Guaps, gazes off into nothing and shows em what he can do, “baby lock them doors and turn the lights down low…” It is Angelboy, the merciful, inviting him to join their ranks. Angelboy the Merciful.

There they stood, side by side, until Sabatoge! The Guaps have mysteriously decided to reduce their quintet by one. Such a sudden change. Why? What demonry of black magic and destruction, Mcreery? Scotty Saboteur! Saboteur! I hiss at the screen. Young Angelboy is asked to leave the group. Abandoned by the ones he came to save. The cold shoulder from some unimportant dipshit named Clint with obnoxious white glasses. Angelboy’s beauty replaced by a rival who looks like the slow-witted younger brother of the MAD magazine coverboy. It is hard to watch. Hard to fathom. Angelboy is fighting back tears, but pain comes so flush in the face of one so pure.

“It’s ok. Y’all have fun, ok? It’s ok. It’s ok,” Angelboy says to the ones who spurn him. He means it. His kindness knows not irony. He walks idly through the lobby. Lost and bewildered. And then he begins to weep.

What happens after this no longer matters to me. What’s lost is lost forever.  

Angelboy, 15, from Lafayette, Louisiana has learned of betrayal. Pain. Pain of the heart. Is this who we are now? A group of savages ripping apart the innocent boy? All for what? For Hollywood Week? For sport? For making it through to the Top 13 and holding the microphone like some god damned one-handed piccolo while you awkwardly bobblehead your way through ruining another country classic? How fitting you’ve become the American Idol, Scotty Mcreery. Savage. This is who we are now - savages. And for that, I will never forgive you.

-Epilogue-

I still think of him often, Angelboy. Our Angelboy, 15, from Lafayette, Louisiana. I’m reminded of him when I see betrayal. I’m reminded when I see kindness. I’m reminded whenever I see a fat white kid with maple colored hair. And every time I witness pain of the heart, I think of him, how purity is lost, not at the hands of time, but by the cruelty of others. All it takes is a little singing competition. 

One morning, when I was 12, I stood waiting for my school bus at the bottom of the hill where Granalta Circle meets Kemp Lane. It was a crisp Maryland morning, still early enough to see the white fog of breath and the light grey sheath of morning dew atop the fields across the street. I was alone at the bus stop each morning as I was the oldest kid in the neighborhood (there were only 4 of us), and I usually just stood there fidgeting in my Redskins Starter jacket, pushing my glasses tight up against my face. This was the only method for keeping my glasses in place on my fat, flat, Asian face.

My fat, flat, Asian face.

I wasn’t aware of any of this at the time, my fatness or flat facedness or Asianness. Well, not in a self-conscious way, anyway. I knew I was different, but I was just a goofyass kid. I had scored some major cool points in 6th grade by writing an original horror story about a family that had their limbs cut off and stuffed into pizza boxes and delivered to their relatives as free pizza (because, hey, who doesn’t love free pizza?). Not only was I writing for an audience, I was also performing quite a bit in the classroom. I once received a written referral citing my creation of “250 paper missiles and other spitball projectiles positioned in a threatening way to fellow students.” Another time I was made to sit out in the hall during science class because I kept pointing to an empty chair next to me and telling my friends to “come shit over here.” I once spent an entire math class miming as “Michael Jackson in a Box” from my desk at the back of the room.

And that morning, waiting for the bus at the bottom of Granalta Circle, I was just another goofyass 7th grader waiting for the bus. The bus was a crazy place. My middle school shared a parking lot with my high school and so, the district thought it only made sense to pack petrified 11 year olds alongside 19 year old redneck ‘super seniors’ who’d had their driver’s license revoked for conducting ‘hillbilly drive bys’ with their BB guns, all in one yellow school bus. This is all true. And for the fifth year in a row, I was the only non-white person on the bus.

When the bus finally arrived that morning, I climbed aboard and found it unusually quiet, even for a Monday. Our bus driver, Mehrle DuVall, usually had country radio playing in the background, but he was in no mood that morning. I quickly surveyed the scene: the eighth grade girls doing their hair up front, as usual; the 6th graders huddled three to a seat hugging their clarinets; the high school couples dry humping at 6:47 in the morning; and the aforementioned super senior rednecks in the last three rows. I usually sat with my friend Colin somewhere in the teens, but that morning, I saw Colin’s pale arm shoot up and wave me to the last row - he had been accepted by the rednecks! My face lit up as I made my way back; there was always unspeakably awesome mischief taking place beyond row 25, or at the very least, candy. 

I sat down next to Colin and kept quiet. I had no idea how he got the invite back there, but I wasn’t gonna blow it. I fidgeted some more with my jacket - it kept puffing up in the middle, and I cleaned my glasses with the Redskins shirt I had on underneath (we had just beaten the Giants on Sunday). I still couldn’t help but wonder what Colin had done to move up (back?) the social ladder so fast. After silent deliberation, I decided it was the condom-as-a-skullcap bit he did on Friday that put him over the top. Yep, condom as a skullcap, it’s exactly what it sounds like. The hicks LOVED that.

So there I was, wedged into row 28 with my knees up against the back of row 27, listening to Alpha Redneck talk about how he was building a wall of beer (“burrr”) cans in his shed. He had fresh welts on his face and arms; apparently from a game of paintball war he plays with his brothers except instead of paintballs, they shoot copperhead BBs at each other. “Paintball is fer pussies,” he said. He looked hungover.

The bus hit the wavy part of Shookstown Road and Alpha Redneck slowly turned his neck a full 90 degrees to stare straight at me while keeping his shoulders awkwardly square with the seat. I avoided eye contact at first, but flashed a bashful smile and raised my eyebrows.

“What’re you doin back here (‘hurrr’)?” he asked.
I just shrugged, unable to speak as my mouth was suddenly deathly dry.
“This bus is white man only, don’t you know?” 

His tone was obnoxious and laced with a hint of sarcasm beneath it. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, he always sounded like that. Like Stifler making the jerk off gesture.

And suddenly, before I could respond, he said it: “no Chinks allowed.”

I gave a nervous chuckle and looked away. I was scared and I immediately sensed my brain trying to process the situation. The only thing I could surmise was that I had somehow never known the meaning of the word “Chink” until now. Why did I think it applied to Mexican people? Was it ‘Chico’ that I was confusing it with? Chicano, maybe? Wasn’t A.C. Slater Chicano? Is ‘Chink’ supposed to imply that I’m Chinese? He knows I’m not Chinese, he’s asked me before. In fact, just last week he kept referring to me as ‘Koreanese.’ I distinctly remember not knowing how to feel because I had no idea what the intended effect was. Is he joking? Is he gonna pick me up by the collar of my puffy Starter jacket with his huge, hay-bucking hands and kick my Koreanese ass? I knew it wasn’t the “N word,” but I knew it was derogatory. At least, I thought it was meant to be derogatory. No one had ever called me that before. Could Alpha Redneck really be that unabashedly racist and stupid?

So I just chuckled. That’s all I could do. Chuckle like a harmless, cowardly, little Chink. Chinks don’t fight back. Chinks act like they didn’t just hear that word come out of your mouth. Chinks sit there and chuckle, quietly. Stupid, scared, little Chink.

Alpha Redneck looked right between my eyes, at my fat, flat, Asian face and he said, “yeeaaah I thought so.”

Then, suddenly, he shot up like a prairie dog and pointed to the window, “Holy shiet! Look at that buck! Thas at least a 10 pointer right thurr!”

I was saved by a fucking deer. Durrrrrr.

Almost 18 years later, I think back to that morning and what it meant. I remember wanting to cry in the moment, but not because it hurt me; I just didn’t know what to do with it. Maybe it was the impetus for my fascination with words and my irreverence towards race. Maybe it was the day I started classifying everyone in the world as either “stupid motherfuckers who don’t know what they’re doing and saying” or “cool people.” Maybe it was just another one of a billion odd and wonderful things that happened to me in Frederick, MD.

Last week, ESPN.com went with the headline, “Chink in the Armor,” when the Knicks lost and Jeremy Lin had a bad game. I chuckled. It was the first time I’d heard the word since 7th grade. The first time I recall, anyway. I wasn’t offended. In fact, my first instinct was to laugh my ass off. And when my wife heard about it the next morning, I told her I was certain the writer made an honest mistake as “Chink in the Armor” has become a rather boring, but common idiom in the American sports vernacular. (I swear this was my reaction! My wife will vouch for it! PLEASE BELIEVE ME!!) Anyway, over the next few days, the requisite media shitstorm invaded my internet universe and even conjured up some of Jay Caspian Kang’s best writing. I still chuckle at the whole thing.

I’m not 12 anymore and I don’t chuckle because I’m scared or confused. I chuckle now because I think a headline featuring an Asian basketball star that says “Chink in the Armor” is a pretty damn funny mistake to make. It’s better than a chuckle, in fact, it’s worth a full-throated laugh. Of course it’s not ok. Of course he should be fired. Of course we shouldn’t teach our children such words or values. Of course it’s hurtful and ignorant. Of course. But we’d all get on so much better if we’d just accept that racism happens. Yes, we’ve come a long way and we’ve all evolved so much in the last 20 billion years (Eminem! Obama! Tiger! Lenny Kravitz! Larry Bird! Jeremy Lin! ALF!!), but stupid racist shit still happens and it always will. Do you know why? Because there will always be somebody dumb enough to be ignorant or hateful, or both. There will always be stupid motherfuckers who don’t know what they’re doing or saying.

But there doesn’t always have to be somebody on the other side being offended by them.

In the case of words, victims are voluntary. They called him Chink. So what? Give em the finger and move on. It is beneath us, all of it: the chatter, the fight, the “one step forward, two steps back” essays. I’m more offended by the amount of time and credence given to the word than the actual word itself. It wasn’t wanton (wonton?) discrimination. Jeremy Lin wasn’t denied the right to vote or told to use the Yellows Only bathroom. It was just a stupid word. Laugh it off and move on. Just laugh because it’s all so absurd, especially in this day and age. Laugh, and it loses its power. Laugh, not because you approve, but because it’s so stupidly wrong that anyone who attempts to hurt you with such words looks utterly stupid and wrong. Laugh, and make it “Chinks in the Armhair.” Laugh, and it loses its power. Laugh, and we become bulletproof. Laugh, and we eliminate chinks in the armor.

Tim Tebow believes everything he says. I know this because I used to be Tim Tebow. Well, not literally, of course, you dumbass. I mean I used to say the things Tim Tebow says and I used to believe the things Tim Tebow believes.

There’s a temptation among “non-believers” to lump all “believers” into a single category of “crazy religious people.” It’s actually quite easy and fun to do this, especially when the majority of religious people seem to fall so readily into the “crazy religious people” bin. You’ll know they’re genuinely crazy religious people when they take pride in being labeled as such and then proceed to picket military funerals or strap C4 around their belts and ride the bus. I’d like to suggest that this level of “crazy religious person” is actually quite far down the periphery of religious folk and Tebow is definitely not in their ranks.

Tim Tebow is passionate in his belief and love for Jesus. (I’m going for the Most Obvious Sentence of 2011 Award). Although this may be classified as crazy by some, it is not disingenuous. Tim Tebow is a devout, well-intentioned, evangelical Christian in the truest form. This is why he is so beloved. This is why he’s treated like Jesus Jr. within his community of faith and observed like a zoo animal by the rest of the godless horde.

While some may be dismissive of the idea, there actually is quite a large spectrum of belief and praxis within Christianity. The diversity of theology and culture is what makes the faith fascinating (to me, anyway), and what we’re seeing in Tim Tebow is a classic evangelical Christian. Evangelicals wear their God-lovin hearts on their sleeves. In theory, they don’t do it to show off or be prideful in their piety; they are up-front in their expressions of faith because they believe that Jesus is the most important thing they can offer the world. This is the underlying philosophy of short-term overseas mission trips: while clean water and food and a sustainable economic infrastructure are great, the Gospel is the most important thing I can give to my Third World neighbor. Jesus is the bread of life, not you know, actual bread.

So, when Tim Tebow says his annual summer trip to Dad’s orphanage in the Philippines is what makes him most happy, he means it. It is his adherence to a higher calling. It is living life in the most fulfilling way possible - the way Jesus would have done. Evangelicals believe it is their duty to be the hands and feet of God. That means everything they do, whether in word or in deed, is intended to honor the Almighty. As an Evangelical, everything matters: what I say, what I do, how I walk, how I dress, how I behave in front of Brent Musburger.

I’d bet a year’s salary that Tim Tebow has read or heard about a book called, The Prayer of Jabez. It’s a pocket-sized text based on the prayer of a little-known character in the Old Testament named Jabez who invoked a simple prayer: “’Oh that you would bless me and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me, and keep me from harm so that I will be free from pain.’ And God granted his request.” Evangelicals interpret this prayer to mean, “bless me so that more people will be within my sphere of influence.” In other words, “God, help me be successful so others will look up to me and I can tell them all about You.”

Every time Tim Tebow wins a game, his territory is enlarged and when he mentions his faith or thanks God in an interview or Tebows after a game, he’s doing you a favor. He is sharing with you the most important message he knows. Like The Secret before The Secret. He may not be preaching to you directly and he may not be holding a bible study in your home, but he is bringing God into your conversation, and that honors Him. Tebow believes that his actions and expressions of faith, no matter how indirect they may be, will somehow compel you to be like him. The crazy thing? When you’re Tim Tebow, it works! Tebowing toes the line of irony because it’s often done in jest but is also a huge win for the evangelical Christian community. When was the last time words like “faith” and “God” have so dominated the dialogue of sports? Tim Tebow is God’s bulldozing hype man into the secular world.

When asked by reporters about his frequent conjuring of the Lord in interviews, Tim Tebow disarms the questioner by responding, “If you’re married, and you have a wife, and you really love your wife, is it good enough to only tell your wife that you love her on the day you get married? Or should you tell her every single day when you wake up and have the opportunity? That’s how I feel about my relationship with Jesus Christ.” While godless heathens like Chuck Klosterman are surprised by such a lucid reply (jk, CK, i love you, I’ve got all your books), it’s just one of many canned analogies Evangelicals are taught from an early age. There will be more, especially if you start questioning his beliefs. Tebow will explain the Trinity to you by comparing it to the 3 molecular phases of water (ice/water/steam=God/Jesus/Holy Ghost). Tebow will talk about the faith of Abraham and Job and he’ll encourage his teammates by reciting a proverb about iron sharpening iron. This is what a good Christian boy does, and he does it earnestly.

There are more “crazy religious people” within the Christian faith than I can shake a stick at; and at times, it seems the hypocrisy of the church knows no bounds. It’s the diversity of belief and culture that’s led to the proliferation of hundreds of denominations and the unbelievably asinine nature of “church drama,” but if all the in-fighting has honed one skill, it’s our ability to spot a fake. No one is faster to accuse a believer of hypocrisy or impure motives than a fellow believer. I’ll tell you this: no fellow believer doubts Tim Tebow’s motives. He’s criticized for being calculating and throwing religion in your face. Well, that’s because he is. That’s what he’s trying to do. In everything he does, whether in word or in deed, Tim Tebow wants you to look at him and think about Jesus. If Tim Tebow sold steak knives for a living, he’d be the same way. Except he’d be the “crazy religious steak knife guy.” Football is just what he happens to be doing now. He wants to win games and be the best quarterback of all time because it broadens his territory. His final destination is not money or fame or victory, they are means to an end: to hype Jesus on the biggest platform in America; ‘cause Elway ain’t done shit for Jesus.

Tim Tebow is modest about everything except his faith. That’s because he’s following the words of the Apostle Paul: “I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God for the salvation of everyone who believes: first for the Jew, then for the Gentile” (Romans 1:16). In a world full of Jews and Gentiles, Tim Tebow is not ashamed and he’s not lying.

I knew the weed was kicking in when my fingers became cold. My body temperature was dropping and I felt my head bobbing back and forth with the motion of the bus. Not violently, but in a way that made my head feel about 3 pounds heavier.  

And then came the intense focus on listening. “I have super human hearing right now!” was the first thing I muttered when I was fully lit. I could hear everything: the drunken, murmuring up front, the three clowns arguing about nothing a few feet away, every word to Theophilus London playing in the background, the crunch of Fritos beneath someone’s feet. I was taking it all in. I wished my hearing would stay that way; listening with such clarity and focus. 

Everything was funny. Every insight, groundbreaking. Every moment deserved my undivided attention and love. I was hunched over with my arms crossed into my chest and just staring, listening to my terrific friends and being thankful. I kept making mental notes to remember how thankful I was to have such amazingly funny and entertaining friends, each with his own “classic” identity that amplified itself when inebriated, or at least when I was. I’d keep it together and giggle like mad every 2 minutes when someone would say or do something that so perfectly summed up who they were:

“I’m really feeling like opening these shades is what I wanna do right now. Yea guys, let’s open these shades and see the sun.”
He opens the shades and the rays of a perfect sunset splash in.
“Wow, this is the best idea I’ve ever had in my entire life. It’s such a beautiful sunset guys.”
Without missing a beat, someone yells from the back: “Shut the fuck up.”
I laugh hysterically. So classic those guys! 

I wanted so badly to write on that bus, to remember what I was feeling and record my thoughts about the characters around me. I was high and freezing. My sense of hearing was incredible and moving proved to be overstimulating. So was eating. Someone tossed me a fun sized Snickers bar and it kicked my ass. Chocolate and nougat pounding away at the tip of my tongue. I raised my hand to get the attention of the drunken horde:
“Guys, this flavorful chocolate bar may have been a huge mistake on my part. It is just too intense for me right now. Please be careful.” 
We all laughed. I was hilarious.

While I kept climbing I became more still, listening harder. I was now picking up subtle changes in road noise and hearing the small rattle of a zipper from the luggage packed behind me. My vision was in tilt-shift, adjusting my focus as I listened in on a quiet conversation up front:

“I’m not f*cked up right now. I’m fine.”
“Yes, you are! Don’t lie!” I yelled across the bus.
Everyone’s head turned.
“Why are you listening in on our conversation motherfucker? How did you even hear us from back there?”
“Cuz I told you, I can hear EVERYTHING right now motherfuckers!!”
We all laughed. I was hilarious.  

It was fun while it lasted and it lasted a more than a few discomforting hours. Edibles are to be taken with caution, boys and girls. I think it’s real what they say about our true selves being revealed under the influence; in vino veritas. I suppose that means deep down I’m just a giggly bitch who loves his friends and wants to write about how great life is. What I miss the most, even more than the super human hearing, is the courage that comes with the high. Well, not so much courage as it is diminishing fear and insecurity. I needed a guitar and a mic on that bus. I played DJ without giving two shits what other people thought about the music I was playing. It was good enough for me. 

This is all stoner talk and I sound like an imbecile, but I swear I had some genuine bouts of clarity while I was high. I was happy and grateful and brave. I wanted to write and make music. I had deep empathy and compassion for the people around me, as flawed as we were. I was a funny sonuvabitch too. I’d like to think that’s who I really am. I’d also like to have the super human hearing back. Classic me. 

So, last night’s Saints-Packers game was classic proof that I am indeed cursed. I’ve joked about it for years, and then the laughter turned to tears as I watched my Skins fail year after year after year. The curse is no joke and I’m gonna prove it now. 

I started a site to track all my NFL predictions and analyze what happens to them. I’ll probably make some gambling folks good money along the way. If you’re into the NFL or curious about my curse or like to bet on games or if you like anything that you enjoy then you’ll probably find this palatable: Cursed Bets

And now, a shameless self-aggrandizing excerpt: 

If you’re wrong, you’re wrong. How is it a curse?  

It’s not that I’m wrong, it’s how close I am to being right. Anybody can be wrong, but it takes a special kind of curse to string you along til the last possible second - only to be wrong in the end anyway. It’s a cruel suspense, but I’m sure it’s thrilling for the people who bet against me.

Game 1, week 1 of the 2011 season is a perfect example of my curse. The Saints were 4.5 point underdogs to the defending champion Packers. I took the Saints to cover in what I thought would be a close, high-scoring shootout. It was an incredible game: 2 TDs on special teams, Aaron Rodgers throws 3 TDs in the first quarter, Drew Brees lights it up in the second half. Down 27-42 in the 4th quarter, the Saints score with 2:15 left in the game to pull within 8. They fail to recover the onside kick. Green Bay ball at the Saints 45 and the defense only has one timeout. Game over, right? Nope! The Packers can’t convert on 3rd and 4 and are forced to punt with 1:05 to play. The punt is perfectly executed and it looks like they’ve pinned the Saints at their own 1 yd line. Game over, right? No, wait! The ref calls it a touchback - Saints ball at the 20. Drew Brees is in shotgun with 1:01 left and no timeouts. He throws 4 beautiful passes to drive the Saints down to the Green Bay 11. With :03 left in the game Brees drops back and throws a laser to the end zone - incomplete. Game over, right? No, wait! Pass interference on AJ Hawk! Saints ball at the 1 yd line! They’re gonna score! They’re gonna cover! The curse is lifted! Last play of the game with no time on the clock: Mark Ingram, halfback dive from the 1 yd line. Splat. Stonewalled. Game over, Packers win 42-34. After the game, Trey Wingo tweets: “76 points… and it takes a defensive stand from the one, on an UNTIMED play to seal it.” Profootballtalk can’t explain why Sean Payton, one of the most brazen playcallers in league history, lost his nerve on the Saints’ last chance.The curse lives on.