The other day I was driving behind a small Honda Civic. I know, I know, where's the story going, Dave?
On the rear window the owner had one of those family stickers, you know the type, a mother, a father and a couple of kids holding hands. I wasn't really sure what type of family owned a Honda Civic, but I moved on to the next bumper sticker.
In white capital letters on a black background it read, "DON'T BE A DICK."
An interesting message for a family vehicle.
But I wonder, is this a preemptive "DON'T BE A DICK."? Is he telling me, "Dude, do not tailgate me, that's rude. I have a family." Because, I wasn't tailgating him. I was hanging back. Because I'm a good driver and I care about driver safety.
Was he maybe saying that I should treat my family and friends right? That I shouldn't hit my girlfriend? I just don't know what to believe.
I did, however, find it incredibly ironic that he (I'm just going to assume it was a dude at this point.) had one of those widened mufflers. The type that does very little actual muffling. To the point where you wonder, why did he pay for a muffler at all?
I'm pretty sure there isn't a single person whose driven behind a car with a muffler like that and hasn't thought, "Damn, this guy sure is a dick."
Friday, June 22, 2012
Monday, June 18, 2012
A Revised Letter for my hopes of Eventual Graduate School Acceptance
Dear Head of the Journalism Department,
My name is David Start and I want to be a humorist. Seeing as you offer no courses and or degrees in this subject, I would very much like to get into your school's prestigious Journalism program so I can sit next to a more academically ambitious student and give his or her project a running commentary and wrap up any and all assignments with in-depth, witty, yet practical analysis, while also doggedly trying to make all of my prospective Professors chuckle and or kick me out of his or her class due to my charmingly amusing antics.
Please accept me into your school. I promise I will only waste twenty to twenty-two hours of every day on frivolous ideas and awkwardly timed jokes. (I won't even post all of these on the internet, because that is perilously close to actually doing work, and I'll have none of that, thank you.)
If you don't accept me, could you please send this letter, my resume and my transcripts over to the Head of the Political Science department? If I can't learn to get paid for writing down my humorous take on the World, I'd really love to get paid sit around and talk shit about politicians all day. (That's called a Political Correspondent or Analyst, I believe, the Daily Show told me so.)
Thank you for your time,
Sincerely,
With love in my heart and laughter on my tongue,
Under the warmth of the sun and from the meticulously fanned light of your intellectual flame,
From Russia with Love,
David Start
P.S. Enclosed in this letter are a whoopee cushion and a webcam. You know what to do.
P.P.S. If you are possibly a Dean and or Head of Department, even a Professor of a school I may or may not attend, I absolutely do not feel this way about obtaining a higher education.
P.P.P.S. Unless you feel that way, then I totally do.
My name is David Start and I want to be a humorist. Seeing as you offer no courses and or degrees in this subject, I would very much like to get into your school's prestigious Journalism program so I can sit next to a more academically ambitious student and give his or her project a running commentary and wrap up any and all assignments with in-depth, witty, yet practical analysis, while also doggedly trying to make all of my prospective Professors chuckle and or kick me out of his or her class due to my charmingly amusing antics.
Please accept me into your school. I promise I will only waste twenty to twenty-two hours of every day on frivolous ideas and awkwardly timed jokes. (I won't even post all of these on the internet, because that is perilously close to actually doing work, and I'll have none of that, thank you.)
If you don't accept me, could you please send this letter, my resume and my transcripts over to the Head of the Political Science department? If I can't learn to get paid for writing down my humorous take on the World, I'd really love to get paid sit around and talk shit about politicians all day. (That's called a Political Correspondent or Analyst, I believe, the Daily Show told me so.)
Thank you for your time,
Sincerely,
With love in my heart and laughter on my tongue,
Under the warmth of the sun and from the meticulously fanned light of your intellectual flame,
From Russia with Love,
David Start
P.S. Enclosed in this letter are a whoopee cushion and a webcam. You know what to do.
P.P.S. If you are possibly a Dean and or Head of Department, even a Professor of a school I may or may not attend, I absolutely do not feel this way about obtaining a higher education.
P.P.P.S. Unless you feel that way, then I totally do.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
A Letter to Hot Waitresses
Dear Hot Waitresses, (Also, in this case, the one who served my table Friday at Outback.)
I'd like to lead this letter with a notation of how incredibly hot you all are. You're incredibly hot--beautiful even, if it makes you all feel less...thirteen.
Notation over.
Beyond that (incredibly important) point, I very much enjoyed your (in this case) quick and smiling service, and I'm inclined to visit your establishment again in the future--not only because I enjoy [Outback's] cuisine, but because you made my experience better and I kind of want to ask you out.
Which leads me to this letter, and why it exists. Hot waitresses, or if you want to go PC, incredibly beautiful female servers, seem to be a staple in the food industry. I understand the logic. People (all people, don't lie to me) like attractive people. Our biology essentially forces us to trust beauty. Ugly people are bad and they'll rifle through your purse if you get up to go to the restroom and leave it behind. I know it's horrible, but even ugly people like attractive people more...you don't fight your nature. (At least not with any expectation of winning.) Thus, (to the point) we (the people who dine at your establishments) are more inclined to tip an attractive server. We like you right away! An ugly waitress with a golden personality really doesn't have the time to win me over in the thirty minutes I'll be eating. Her tip may suffer.
Now, following the logic that many waitresses are beautiful leads you smack into the second conundrum:
Men are weak. At least in your presence, hot waitresses. We can't really help ourselves. You're everything we were born to love. You're beautiful. You smile a lot (so you must be happy!)You bring us food and in some cases pick up our trash when we finish. You keep our drinks full and laugh at our jokes. You are in a room full of televisions playing sports and you don't roll your eyes or complain about how we don't care about you anymore. You are the perfect woman.
So here's the question, all waitresses in general and also Outback waitress in particular, how does a guy know when there's something actually there? You, the employee aren't going to hit on the customer. That could lose you your job. And would come across as desperate.
The customer, of course will hit on you, and you'll respond lightly, with neither an affirmation or denial of his affection, because it could lose you money. But, then, I could see how from your perspective, I (male customers) am just flirting with you because that's what men do. We flirt with hot waitresses. It's safe to assume that you know how beautiful you are. You're serving tables, and making pretty good money doing it. You're not a child.
So then, the only option to those of us without cosmic charisma and killer good looks:
Go to the restaurant every weekend. Constantly connive to get the same server. And over a period of weeks and months, befriend her and win her over.
Of course in that time she could have met a guy at a bar one night and wha-la, boyfriended.
How do you win, in this situation, hot waitresses?
It certainly isn't the classic "number on the napkin." (Or dollar bill.)
I'm not a regular at very many bars anymore. But when I was, the waitresses loved to bring over the various notes they got from men throughout the night. Now, we all know I'm not above judging people. (That would be silly, I have a comedy blog.) These guys weren't always bad looking slobs. Some of them were well put together guys that if they asked me I'd give them some practiced line like, "I'm not gay, but if you're buying..." (Practiced because gay guys love me, obviously.)
Is it just something about the restaurant industry that kills your warm and fuzzy parts, hot waitresses? If I asked you out after talking to you at a coffee shop would you go out with me? Or kindly decline and quickly walk away so you could call...sorry--forgot the age--tweet all your friends about the "absolute idiot who just asked me out at Starbucks. He was kinda' cute though..." (I added that last part to feel better about this entire pretend situation.)
Well, I'm sorry, hot waitresses, that I have a hard time asking you out at work. Many of you are heartbreakingly beautiful and I know heartbreakingly isn't a word but, shouldn't it be?
Maybe, in the future, I'll find a way around the conundrum, like, right before you bring the check, asking "Hey, how do you feel about going out?"
I've heard that sometimes works.
Sincerely,
Dave
I'd like to lead this letter with a notation of how incredibly hot you all are. You're incredibly hot--beautiful even, if it makes you all feel less...thirteen.
Notation over.
Beyond that (incredibly important) point, I very much enjoyed your (in this case) quick and smiling service, and I'm inclined to visit your establishment again in the future--not only because I enjoy [Outback's] cuisine, but because you made my experience better and I kind of want to ask you out.
Which leads me to this letter, and why it exists. Hot waitresses, or if you want to go PC, incredibly beautiful female servers, seem to be a staple in the food industry. I understand the logic. People (all people, don't lie to me) like attractive people. Our biology essentially forces us to trust beauty. Ugly people are bad and they'll rifle through your purse if you get up to go to the restroom and leave it behind. I know it's horrible, but even ugly people like attractive people more...you don't fight your nature. (At least not with any expectation of winning.) Thus, (to the point) we (the people who dine at your establishments) are more inclined to tip an attractive server. We like you right away! An ugly waitress with a golden personality really doesn't have the time to win me over in the thirty minutes I'll be eating. Her tip may suffer.
Now, following the logic that many waitresses are beautiful leads you smack into the second conundrum:
Men are weak. At least in your presence, hot waitresses. We can't really help ourselves. You're everything we were born to love. You're beautiful. You smile a lot (so you must be happy!)You bring us food and in some cases pick up our trash when we finish. You keep our drinks full and laugh at our jokes. You are in a room full of televisions playing sports and you don't roll your eyes or complain about how we don't care about you anymore. You are the perfect woman.
So here's the question, all waitresses in general and also Outback waitress in particular, how does a guy know when there's something actually there? You, the employee aren't going to hit on the customer. That could lose you your job. And would come across as desperate.
The customer, of course will hit on you, and you'll respond lightly, with neither an affirmation or denial of his affection, because it could lose you money. But, then, I could see how from your perspective, I (male customers) am just flirting with you because that's what men do. We flirt with hot waitresses. It's safe to assume that you know how beautiful you are. You're serving tables, and making pretty good money doing it. You're not a child.
So then, the only option to those of us without cosmic charisma and killer good looks:
Go to the restaurant every weekend. Constantly connive to get the same server. And over a period of weeks and months, befriend her and win her over.
Of course in that time she could have met a guy at a bar one night and wha-la, boyfriended.
How do you win, in this situation, hot waitresses?
It certainly isn't the classic "number on the napkin." (Or dollar bill.)
I'm not a regular at very many bars anymore. But when I was, the waitresses loved to bring over the various notes they got from men throughout the night. Now, we all know I'm not above judging people. (That would be silly, I have a comedy blog.) These guys weren't always bad looking slobs. Some of them were well put together guys that if they asked me I'd give them some practiced line like, "I'm not gay, but if you're buying..." (Practiced because gay guys love me, obviously.)
Is it just something about the restaurant industry that kills your warm and fuzzy parts, hot waitresses? If I asked you out after talking to you at a coffee shop would you go out with me? Or kindly decline and quickly walk away so you could call...sorry--forgot the age--tweet all your friends about the "absolute idiot who just asked me out at Starbucks. He was kinda' cute though..." (I added that last part to feel better about this entire pretend situation.)
Well, I'm sorry, hot waitresses, that I have a hard time asking you out at work. Many of you are heartbreakingly beautiful and I know heartbreakingly isn't a word but, shouldn't it be?
Maybe, in the future, I'll find a way around the conundrum, like, right before you bring the check, asking "Hey, how do you feel about going out?"
I've heard that sometimes works.
Sincerely,
Dave
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Forcing Her Hand...In Marriage
There are a veritable slew of these things going around on Youtube now. It's not just this guy, but also one in Seattle, one in Washington, one in a mall...the list goes on.
'
I'm completely torn on the issue.
I'm a Hopeless Romantic so I really do hope, with all my bleeding heart, that this couple (these couples) do, in fact, get married. And then remain married for a hundred years. If not a thousand.
However, (of course there's a 'however') this is essentially forcing her to say yes. What type of person wants to be hated so much, to put so many people in such a weird place, as to say "no" in front of a thousand people? It's like asking her to marry you at a professional sporting event. She's going to say yes. There's like a one in one hundred chance she says no, or runs away, or whatever it is. More likely, she'll say yes, even if she doesn't mean it, and then in the car on the way home say something like "Yeah, sorry about earlier but...this isn't working out."
But, is that her fault? What kind of person puts her in that kind of position?
A smart, possibly conniving man who believes he can hold the situation together until there's a ring on that finger.
Oh, and also, thanks for one-upping every guy ever. It's pretty much Flashmob or Die now, and you know what? That sucks.
Friday, June 15, 2012
The Bad Sheriff
So, 5-Hour-Energy has gone and created the creepy "Energy Sheriff." Apparently being tired is now a crime. We can only assume that littering...isn't.
He's not really very good at his job.
He's not really very good at his job.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
The Rise of the EPO
What is the deal with Engagement Photo Ops? When did this become a thing? Was it a thing before Facebook became a thing?
There are probably millions of these photos out there, lost to the World, neatly filed but decoratively arranged in albums with the couple's names engraved on the cover.
Of course, they are almost certainly covered with dust and sitting in Grandma's closet in a picnic basket that hasn't been used since picnic baskets were also things. Because no one looks at an EPO collection more than one time.
It was nice, the first time I saw one. (Of course, it actually was my Grandparents album, and it was a Wedding Album with some pre-Wedding photos.)
And then, it was still relatively nice when I was in my early twenties and my friends and old high school classmates getting married was still a relatively new phenomenon. That was back when people thought Facebook was a really great way to meet girls and rekindle lost friendships rather than a convenient way to share photos with the family or lose a job with style.
And sure, even then, sans Facebook, it was nice to see that, wow, Grandma and Grandpa were kids once. Damn, they got married young. It was even interesting seeing me standing next to my Mother and Father, looking like a boss with a stupid grin on my face.
Nowadays, everyone has a cousin or girl-friend that's a photographer. Five out of every four people have gone to Best Buy and looked through their camera section thinking, "Damn, if I could only afford this one I would take the absolute shit out of some photos."
Because, of course I would be great at it.
The thing that gets me, and this may seem horrible, Future Wife, but, I really can't think of anything I'd like to do less, in regards to getting married, than pose for an EPO. Wedding Photos? Sure. We're having a good time. We're dancing. Our friends and family are here. Let's take those photos. Someone get over here and take the absolute shit out of some photos.
But the idea of finding a photographer, (Not hard, got forty or so on my Facebook, I'll just post a status like "Hey need a photographer for something." And before I hit "enter" I'll have three personal messages and a price quote.) finding a location, and then smiling at my fiancee for however long an EPO takes to get done sounds suspiciously like torture.
I can just hear the not quite Hipster not quite Preppy photographer talking now:
Smile at her lovingly.
Now smile at her lovingly but tilt your head to the left.
Now lean against this tree, touch her stomach, and smile at her lovingly.
Too lovingly.
Whoa. Not lovingly enough? Dude, are you cheating on her?
Let the love reach your eyes.
Now stand in front of the sun. Lean on the tree. Climb the tree.
SMILE LOVINGLY AT HER FOR THE SAKE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY!
Eventually, because I'm me, I'll get frustrated. Then I'll get smarmy. Then Future Wife will get mad, and then I'll get mad. But she'll smile, because she loves me (but she's beginning to question it) and say to me, in her most supplicatory voice, "Do it for me, baby."
And then she'll smile lovingly.
And of course I'll do the damn EPO, and the entire time I'll be thinking, if I am ever actually tortured, I'm sure it will be to the tune of "Do it for me, baby."
So now, it's a Tuesday evening and (the Collective) we see that Sally is getting married. Yey, Sally! Congratulations!
10 seconds or so after her status changes to "Engaged" (because that's the most important part of being engaged,) an EPO surfaces. As a member of Sally's 500 friend strong Facebook circle, we feel that we are wanted, if not required, to take a look. So we glance, we click through the photos leisurely, or if the album seems to go on into Eternity, then rapidly. Then we move on with our day.
Sometime later, let's say less than two years after our run in with Sally's EPO, we run into her at a bar. Or a coffee shop, grocery store, whatever floats your fantasy boat. And the following conversation inevitably happens:
"So how have you been, David?"
"Oh, I'm doing just fine, thanks. The job isn't what it used to be and the girlfriend thinks I need a haircut, so I'm picking up this bag of M&M's to make myself feel less morose about the whole situation."
"Wow."
"Yeah. So how are you?"
"Well, my husband and I went to the Ke--"
"Oh! You got married! When?"
*Sally is a fictitious character used to make this blog more relevant and connect to you, the reader.
*David is my name because I'm the writer and I get to to put my name in prestigious places. Like the Internet.
There are probably millions of these photos out there, lost to the World, neatly filed but decoratively arranged in albums with the couple's names engraved on the cover.
Of course, they are almost certainly covered with dust and sitting in Grandma's closet in a picnic basket that hasn't been used since picnic baskets were also things. Because no one looks at an EPO collection more than one time.
It was nice, the first time I saw one. (Of course, it actually was my Grandparents album, and it was a Wedding Album with some pre-Wedding photos.)
And then, it was still relatively nice when I was in my early twenties and my friends and old high school classmates getting married was still a relatively new phenomenon. That was back when people thought Facebook was a really great way to meet girls and rekindle lost friendships rather than a convenient way to share photos with the family or lose a job with style.
And sure, even then, sans Facebook, it was nice to see that, wow, Grandma and Grandpa were kids once. Damn, they got married young. It was even interesting seeing me standing next to my Mother and Father, looking like a boss with a stupid grin on my face.
Nowadays, everyone has a cousin or girl-friend that's a photographer. Five out of every four people have gone to Best Buy and looked through their camera section thinking, "Damn, if I could only afford this one I would take the absolute shit out of some photos."
Because, of course I would be great at it.
The thing that gets me, and this may seem horrible, Future Wife, but, I really can't think of anything I'd like to do less, in regards to getting married, than pose for an EPO. Wedding Photos? Sure. We're having a good time. We're dancing. Our friends and family are here. Let's take those photos. Someone get over here and take the absolute shit out of some photos.
But the idea of finding a photographer, (Not hard, got forty or so on my Facebook, I'll just post a status like "Hey need a photographer for something." And before I hit "enter" I'll have three personal messages and a price quote.) finding a location, and then smiling at my fiancee for however long an EPO takes to get done sounds suspiciously like torture.
I can just hear the not quite Hipster not quite Preppy photographer talking now:
Smile at her lovingly.
Now smile at her lovingly but tilt your head to the left.
Now lean against this tree, touch her stomach, and smile at her lovingly.
Too lovingly.
Whoa. Not lovingly enough? Dude, are you cheating on her?
Let the love reach your eyes.
Now stand in front of the sun. Lean on the tree. Climb the tree.
SMILE LOVINGLY AT HER FOR THE SAKE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY!
Eventually, because I'm me, I'll get frustrated. Then I'll get smarmy. Then Future Wife will get mad, and then I'll get mad. But she'll smile, because she loves me (but she's beginning to question it) and say to me, in her most supplicatory voice, "Do it for me, baby."
And then she'll smile lovingly.
And of course I'll do the damn EPO, and the entire time I'll be thinking, if I am ever actually tortured, I'm sure it will be to the tune of "Do it for me, baby."
So now, it's a Tuesday evening and (the Collective) we see that Sally is getting married. Yey, Sally! Congratulations!
10 seconds or so after her status changes to "Engaged" (because that's the most important part of being engaged,) an EPO surfaces. As a member of Sally's 500 friend strong Facebook circle, we feel that we are wanted, if not required, to take a look. So we glance, we click through the photos leisurely, or if the album seems to go on into Eternity, then rapidly. Then we move on with our day.
Sometime later, let's say less than two years after our run in with Sally's EPO, we run into her at a bar. Or a coffee shop, grocery store, whatever floats your fantasy boat. And the following conversation inevitably happens:
"So how have you been, David?"
"Oh, I'm doing just fine, thanks. The job isn't what it used to be and the girlfriend thinks I need a haircut, so I'm picking up this bag of M&M's to make myself feel less morose about the whole situation."
"Wow."
"Yeah. So how are you?"
"Well, my husband and I went to the Ke--"
"Oh! You got married! When?"
*Sally is a fictitious character used to make this blog more relevant and connect to you, the reader.
*David is my name because I'm the writer and I get to to put my name in prestigious places. Like the Internet.
Friday, June 8, 2012
5 Reasons You Shouldn't Care About Lil' Wayne's Thunder Arena Ticket Shenanigans
If you follow sports, there's a good chance you're following the NBA playoffs. The Spurs were the talk of the Nation with their twenty game win streak that ended in a stunning 4-2 (four in a row for the Thunder) route by the Durant and Company.
It was an amazing series to watch and there are plenty of newsworthy tidbits that popped up from the surprising series. Questions that will fuel sports analyst's debates until the 2012-2013 season. (Will Tim Duncan finally retire? Can the Spurs still hang? What will Charles Barkley do next?)
But, interestingly enough, the biggest, most talked about story (at least on Twitter) to come out of the Thunder/Spurs series had nothing to do with basketball.
It had to do with Lil' Wayne.
Of course it did.
Reportedly, (So reportedly, in fact, that I felt the need to restate the word in italics.) Lil' Wayne was denied entrance to the Chesapeake Energy Arena for game 3 of the Western Conference Finals.
Lil' Wayne tweeted his displeasure (Oh, Twitter, the things you inspire us to say.) "Was going to go to the Thunder game tonight but was denied by the team to be in their arena. Wow. Smh. Go Spurs!"
Now. If Lil' Wayne was actually denied to be in the Arena for any reason other than "didn't have a ticket," or "was carrying a weapon," I would sound the Call to Arms. Long live the People's rights! Especially when they rap reasonably well and not all of their lyrics suck! Yeah!
But when the reason actually is, "Doesn't have ticket," I kind of lose some steam.
So here are my 5 Reasons You Shouldn't Care About Lil' Wayne's Thunder Arena Ticket Shenanigans:
1: The Thunder have sold out every single home playoff game this season. Every single one. In fact, they are already sold out of season tickets for the 2012-2013 season. Whether or not you're rich, famous and good looking doesn't really come into the debate. If you don't have a ticket, and all these other people do, and there aren't any seats left, you're not getting in. This is called Capitalism. Or even deductive reasoning.
2: Lil' Wayne wanted a front row seat. Court side. Sigh. I can possibly see Thunder Management pulling strings and getting him in a box. I can see them asking a "normal" fan to give up their seat for some kind of reimbursement.
But the people who sit front row during Conference Finals? They put large amounts of money down. Some of those people probably make more money than Lil' Wayne. Taking their seats could actually mean a lawsuit. That they themselves may be able to pursue. Because they could be lawyers. Comedy logic, Weezy, it could be true.
3: Is he even a Thunder Fan? I thought he liked sizzurp and cash money. Doesn't that mean he should be a Heat fan? I jest, I jest. He should be an early 2000's Trail Blazers fan.
4: He made it a race thing. ["That's not the point, though," he told The Associated Press in an interview Friday night. "It's the players stepping up but of course the players aren't white. I don't want to be sitting there on behalf of you and I'm sitting next to a (person) that's like, 'I don't want this (guy) sitting next to me.' (Forget) you ... I'm in Forbes," he said, laughing.]
How? How do you even make the tickets being sold out a race thing?
In other news, Lil' Wayne goes to grocery store, but they're sold out of cookie dough ice cream, because they're freaking racists.
5: Just to bundle this in with the race thing (italics aren't italicsy enough for that) he (in the above quote) blames the fans for not wanting him there. What? What type of indirect logic is this. I'm going to follow it through for you in a few easy steps. (I didn't say they'd be logical, but they aren't my steps.)
FIRST: The Thunder make it to the Western Conference Finals.
SO NOW: It's Game 3 (their first home game.)
THEREFORE: People, i.e. fans, want to go see the game live.
DUE TO THIS: They buy tickets to go watch the game at the arena.
BASED ON HOW MANY SEATS ARE PHYSICALLY IN THE ARENA: The tickets sell out.
"KEVIN DURANT IS A G": Lil' Wayne decides he wants to see the game, too.
SEE "TICKETS ARE SOLD OUT": He can't purchase a ticket. Or even, there are no tickets, for to buy.
IPSO FACTO: The fans hate Lil' Wayne.
It was an amazing series to watch and there are plenty of newsworthy tidbits that popped up from the surprising series. Questions that will fuel sports analyst's debates until the 2012-2013 season. (Will Tim Duncan finally retire? Can the Spurs still hang? What will Charles Barkley do next?)
But, interestingly enough, the biggest, most talked about story (at least on Twitter) to come out of the Thunder/Spurs series had nothing to do with basketball.
It had to do with Lil' Wayne.
Of course it did.
Reportedly, (So reportedly, in fact, that I felt the need to restate the word in italics.) Lil' Wayne was denied entrance to the Chesapeake Energy Arena for game 3 of the Western Conference Finals.
Lil' Wayne tweeted his displeasure (Oh, Twitter, the things you inspire us to say.) "Was going to go to the Thunder game tonight but was denied by the team to be in their arena. Wow. Smh. Go Spurs!"
Now. If Lil' Wayne was actually denied to be in the Arena for any reason other than "didn't have a ticket," or "was carrying a weapon," I would sound the Call to Arms. Long live the People's rights! Especially when they rap reasonably well and not all of their lyrics suck! Yeah!
But when the reason actually is, "Doesn't have ticket," I kind of lose some steam.
So here are my 5 Reasons You Shouldn't Care About Lil' Wayne's Thunder Arena Ticket Shenanigans:
1: The Thunder have sold out every single home playoff game this season. Every single one. In fact, they are already sold out of season tickets for the 2012-2013 season. Whether or not you're rich, famous and good looking doesn't really come into the debate. If you don't have a ticket, and all these other people do, and there aren't any seats left, you're not getting in. This is called Capitalism. Or even deductive reasoning.
2: Lil' Wayne wanted a front row seat. Court side. Sigh. I can possibly see Thunder Management pulling strings and getting him in a box. I can see them asking a "normal" fan to give up their seat for some kind of reimbursement.
But the people who sit front row during Conference Finals? They put large amounts of money down. Some of those people probably make more money than Lil' Wayne. Taking their seats could actually mean a lawsuit. That they themselves may be able to pursue. Because they could be lawyers. Comedy logic, Weezy, it could be true.
3: Is he even a Thunder Fan? I thought he liked sizzurp and cash money. Doesn't that mean he should be a Heat fan? I jest, I jest. He should be an early 2000's Trail Blazers fan.
4: He made it a race thing. ["That's not the point, though," he told The Associated Press in an interview Friday night. "It's the players stepping up but of course the players aren't white. I don't want to be sitting there on behalf of you and I'm sitting next to a (person) that's like, 'I don't want this (guy) sitting next to me.' (Forget) you ... I'm in Forbes," he said, laughing.]
How? How do you even make the tickets being sold out a race thing?
In other news, Lil' Wayne goes to grocery store, but they're sold out of cookie dough ice cream, because they're freaking racists.
5: Just to bundle this in with the race thing (italics aren't italicsy enough for that) he (in the above quote) blames the fans for not wanting him there. What? What type of indirect logic is this. I'm going to follow it through for you in a few easy steps. (I didn't say they'd be logical, but they aren't my steps.)
FIRST: The Thunder make it to the Western Conference Finals.
SO NOW: It's Game 3 (their first home game.)
THEREFORE: People, i.e. fans, want to go see the game live.
DUE TO THIS: They buy tickets to go watch the game at the arena.
BASED ON HOW MANY SEATS ARE PHYSICALLY IN THE ARENA: The tickets sell out.
"KEVIN DURANT IS A G": Lil' Wayne decides he wants to see the game, too.
SEE "TICKETS ARE SOLD OUT": He can't purchase a ticket. Or even, there are no tickets, for to buy.
IPSO FACTO: The fans hate Lil' Wayne.
"Was going to go to the
Thunder game tonight but was denied by the team to be in their arena.
Wow. Smh. Go Spurs!" Wayne tweeted.
Read more at: http://www.nesn.com/2012/06/rapper-lil-wayne-mad-at-thunder-for-denying-him-from-entering-arena-without-ticket.html
Read more at: http://www.nesn.com/2012/06/rapper-lil-wayne-mad-at-thunder-for-denying-him-from-entering-arena-without-ticket.html
"Was going to go to the Thunder game tonight but was denied by the team to be in their arena. Wow. Smh. Go Spurs!"
Read more at: http://www.nesn.com/2012/06/rapper-lil-wayne-mad-at-thunder-for-denying-him-from-entering-arena-without-ticket.html
Read more at: http://www.nesn.com/2012/06/rapper-lil-wayne-mad-at-thunder-for-denying-him-from-entering-arena-without-ticket.html
"Was going to go to the Thunder game tonight but was denied by the team to be in their arena. Wow. Smh. Go Spurs!"
Read more at: http://www.nesn.com/2012/06/rapper-lil-wayne-mad-at-thunder-for-denying-him-from-entering-arena-without-ticket.html
Read more at: http://www.nesn.com/2012/06/rapper-lil-wayne-mad-at-thunder-for-denying-him-from-entering-arena-without-ticket.html
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