Longing To Be Mr. Irrelevant

Another NFL Draft has passed and somewhat surprisingly, another year went by without hearing my name called by Roger Goodell. Or the poor schmuck who has to call out the names of everyone drafted outside of the first round. I'm still waiting, Rog. I guess I'll just show myself out of the green room, again.

I'm kind of getting sick of this bullshit. Here I am, in my athletic prime, and I can't get one NFL team to take a flyer on me. Not one. Okay, I admit that it's probably a little unrealistic to think that I'd be a first rounder. I accept that. You just don't see too many 26 year olds getting that kind of love in the draft. But, there are seven fucking rounds. 252 people drafted! You're telling me that I'm not good enough to be one of those guys? That, I just cannot accept.

Trying to wrap my head around this anomaly year after year leads to a frustration that is difficult to express in words. It's square peg, round hole times infinity. Plus one. There are just no weaknesses in my game. The tale of the tape: 6'4", 195lbs. That is prototypical wide receiver size. You can't teach that.

The size is there, so obviously it must be my speed, right? Wrong. Majorly wrong. I'm a 40-yard dash beastlord. How does 4.65 strike you? Pretty fast right. Fuck that, I'll do you one better. 4.64. That's right, you heard me: 4.64. Personal best circa 1999, but I'm sure that with a couple of weeks of training I could be blowing up stopwatches again. Just don't get caught in my afterburners. You might end up slightly burnt. Wow, that smack talk was epic. That part of my game hasn't deteriorated. I went there, and guess what, if the mood strikes, I might just go back there again real soon.

I've got the size and the speed to cut it in the NFL as a receiver, so logically, not being able to catch the rock is the reason behind my current free agent status. Couldn't be farther from the truth; as I've been saying since the mid-90's, my hands are my livelihood. There's a reason I slather them with moisturizer every day, and it's not because I'm an aspiring hand model. It's because I need to keep my mitts as receptive to pigskin as humanly possible and it's a known fact that pigskins are attracted to moist hands. I'm pretty sure there is a Euclidean formula out there that proves that fact. If my hands were a household object they would be duct tape wrapped in that sticky paper used to roll up cat hair. They are that flipping good.

All the physical attributes are there so it must be that I'm not a big-time player. You know the type, the kind that folds like a piece of 400 year old origami paper when the spotlight is the brightest. Wrong again, mother bitch. I live for that shit. Just check out some of the accomplishments on my kick-face CV: 1st team All-FCIAC x2, 2nd team All-NESCAC, All-Pro ESPN Two Hand Touch league. Those are some gaudy accomplishments earned through hard work, determination and looking my best out on the field. That's right, little known fact flying your way: to play good, you got to look good.

Wonderlic test? Please. I guarantee you I put up a higher score than 95% of the receivers in the league. In my sleep, with one hand tied behind my back. Plus, I can teach a 3 year old the difference between a cover 2 and a cover 3. Just drop your kid off at my hypothetical day care center and by the time you come to pick Little Billy up at the end of the day, he will be able to tell you the proper yardage to reach when breaking off a "Dig" pattern vs a cover 4 defense.

Am I getting through to anyone? Mangini, I'm looking at you. Hook up a fellow alum. I'm not sitting through another draft without going up on stage and holding up my new uniform for the assembled press. I won't do it. I'll retire before I suffer through that embarrassment for a sixth year.

Right now I'm in between agents, so all GM's should email me their offer and I will get back to you in a timely fashion. I'll even take the league minimum. Just trying to stay realistic here.

Tooting of My Own Horn

Pretty proud of the little counter I put together on the right hand side of the screen. Only took me a couple of hours and a magical elixir crafted from the finest apothecaries that Myanmar has to offer. The internet truly is a wondrous place.

Okay, enough self-fellating here; it's just a Flash trinket that plays Viva Las Vegas when you click on it. A trained monkey could do a better job. And for less money.

On a completely unrelated note, here is a hilarious video compliments of (or mercilessly pilfered from) Awful Announcing, one of the few sites I check on a daily basis. Hat tip also in order to LOL Jocks for unearthing this gem.


Original, thought-provoking, gag-inducing post coming out Tuesday/Wednesday.

I've Got Nothing...

So I'm going to embed the pilot of an unbelievably humorous cartoon that was never picked up by Adult Swim. It's f'ing hilarious. Enjoy.

Part 1



Part 2



Part 3

Seriously, How Did I Get Home?

Question: What exactly is this vagabond rummaging around for?

A) Food
B) iPhone
C) Instruction manual for discarded television set seen in the foreground
D) Directions for me to get home
E) All of the above
F) None of the above

I didn't stick around long enough to find out. I had other feats to behold on my sojourn back to the Fletchinator Den of Sorrows.

Other highlights included:

Man Taking Piss

TRASH! Part 1

TRASH! Part 2

And finally...

Where I Sleep at Night

80's Party Countdown

For those not in the know, or not cool enough to be on the invite list, The Fletchinator, along with his two roommates, is hosting an 80's party tonight. Suffice to say, I'm excited. There are about 13 hours left until kick off. Check back here for updates throughout the day.

Update 9:19 - Going to try to focus on doing work today, make the time go by faster. I'm already thinking about how gnarly my teased hair is going to be.

Update 11:22 - Starting to get hungry and find myself watching the clock much more frequently. Have accomplished very little so far today and see no signs of that changing. Ugh.

Update 1:16 - Have an assignment for the rest of the day. Motivated. Also, contrary to one of the comments, I am one of the tri-hosts for the shindig. I just don't like other people offering to use my money for something without asking first. Call me cheap, if you must. Hmmm. Sounds like a certain NCAA Tourney pool I know about.

Update 3:36 - Afternoon project heating up, as is the office. Cool is not the word I would describe it. Balmy works.

Update 5:10 - Mission accomplished and I am pleased with myself. Also, can this really be happening: the Sonics moving to Oklahoma City. Clay Bennett needs to be drawn and quartered. I don't care how rich you are, Oklahoma City does not deserve a big-four sports franchise. Please do us all a favor and die.

The Longest 24 Hours...Part 2

Sorry for the delay with the exciting conclusion of the Longest 24 Hours but with the writers strike, binge drinking and my penis falling off because of Fernando Torres induced priapism, I've had a lot on my mind. I don't want to bore you with the mundane details, so I'm just going to pick up the story right where it left off. For those who need a brief refresher, check this out. For those of you too lazy to click on that link, I applaud your lethargy. All you need to know is that Jack Bauer is going to the driving range and shit is about to get all motherflipping twisted up in this biznatch.

****The following takes place between the hours of 1am July 19th and 12:59am July 20th.****

12:10pm - Bauer winces as he releases the grip of his Nike Sasquatch driver. He looks down upon his left hand to see what has caused the discomfort: a blister, larger than a decent sized pearl, has erupted on his thumb. A vermilion tinged pus rivulet begins to trickle from his open sore. He smirks and decides to hit 35 more balls. It's nothing compared to what the Chinese did to him.

After finishing up his bucket of balls, Bauer wanders to the driving range's clubhouse. The bar is empty. Why shouldn't it be? It's only 1pm, for God's sake. Taking the seat farthest from the door, Bauer grabs a menu and waits for some service. Alone with his thoughts, he once again examines his thumb. The clotting process has begun. The creamy viscous goo has now dried on his palm. It reminds him of the time that he had to jerk off a male panda bear while incarcerated in a secret Chinese POW camp just to get a piece of bread. He is one of the few men on the planet that know that pus and panda semen are practically identical in nature. Suddenly, Bauer isn't so hungry.

"Where the fuck is the bartender," he mutters underneath this breath. Thirty seconds pass. He says it again, this time only a little louder. Two minutes go by. "Where the fuck is the fucking bartender!"

A portly man emerges from a doorway and heads towards Bauer. His wispy hair no longer fully covers his scalp and his cheeks are pockmarked from acne scares from decades long passed. Bauer looks at him and points directly to a bottle of Jack Daniels. No words need to be exchanged. It's a scene that has been played out at this location multiple times. The barkeep fetches the bottle, places it in front of Bauer and walks away. He leaves no glass. One won't be needed.

The whiskey burns the ruptured blister as Bauer douses it with alcohol. Finally, bringing the bottle to his lips, he drinks deeply from it, opening his throat and letting the acrid mash flow down his esophagus unimpeded. Within a minute, he has downed half the bottle. That's enough for now. There is still half the day left.

He stands and exits the bar without paying. The bartender watches Bauer walk out the front door. "Thank God he's gone," says the man. "At least he didn't start blabbering about the Chinese again."

1:32 - Back at home, Bauer barely makes it through the front door. The whiskey is firmly in control now and has decided not to play nice. The room begins to spin wildly and Bauer's legs feel wobbly. Stumbling forward, he crashes through an unassembled cardboard box laid over two stacks of cinder blocks. It was his living room coffee table. Now it is just another thing Bauer has destroyed. He lapses in and out of consciousness as he lies face down on the soiled carpeting. While still awake, he attempts to make a mental note of the carpet's condition. The dirt and grime caked into the Berber carpet make him long for his past life. The life before he knew that backstabbing cunt Nina Meyers. The thought of Meyers leaves Bauer feeling nauseous.

He closes his eyes. The world continues to spin.

4:58 - Hours later, Bauer is stirred to life by a loud thumping noise at his front door. After trying to ignore it for five minutes, he relents, rises to his feet and peers out the peephole. Nothing. Could be an ambush. Quietly, Bauer steps away from the door and grabs whatever he can get his hands on first. This time, it happens to be an umbrella.

"Come on, let's finish this once and for all," Bauer says in his most threatening voice even though there is no one around to hear him.

Again, the knock. One more time. Finally, like a recently uncaged mongoose, he springs to life, kicking open the door and performing a perfectly executed front somersault to get behind his opponent. Deftly rising to his feet, he lunges forward, the point of the umbrella directed at the unwanted visitor's throat. He is millimeters away from puncturing the jugular of his would-be assailant. But he stops just short of that fatal blow. The knock at the door came not from a Chinese assassin, but rather one of the neighborhood Girl Scouts. She is carrying the box of Thin Mints that he ordered two weeks ago. Tears stream down her face.

"Um, sorry about that," says the apologetic Bauer. "Here, let me, um, give you a little something extra for your troubles."

He hands the umbrella to the girl and dashes into the house with the box of cookies. Holed up in a corner of his bedroom, Bauer enjoys the refreshing mint kiss of the sugary wafer. All the shit in his life is washed away, if only for that moment. All the Nina Meyers memories, the Chinese torture stories, the time his wife died in his arms. None of that matters right now. The only thing in Bauer's world at this very moment is that box of Thin Mints. And that's a good thing.

7:18 - Thin Mints finally depleted and still huddled in the corner, Bauer awakens from his peppermint induced reverie. The sun has begun to pass beyond the horizon and, like a werewolf craving manflesh, he longs for alcohol. Without it, the unthinkable might happen: he might have to stay sober through the night. It's enough to make him gag.

Much to Bauer's dismay, there is no booze in the disheveled bungalow that he calls a home. He scours the cupboards, rummages through the pantry and even looks in places where he thinks he might have once hidden a bottle or two, but to no avail. So he faces a difficult choice: to go outside and buy a liter of fire water or to count the seconds as he waits for bedtime. He isn't sure he can make it to 9:15.

With no booze and nothing on Game Show Network to pass the time, Bauer turns to his last resort, his old standby, the one thing in life that's never let him down: Guitar Hero I. To no one's great surprise, Bauer never graduated to the next gen consoles. He plugs his plastic Gibson controller into the port and begins to stretch out his fingers and wrists. There is about to be some serious shredding going down in his home and he doesn't want to be sore tomorrow. Fully limber, he picks out his favorite tune- More Than a Feeling by Boston- and prepares to unleash Hell on his video game guitar.

Enjoy the show:


Merely satisfied with his perfect performance, Bauer decides to call it a day. It's only 7:45, but he has experienced more in the past hours than most people will have to go through in their entire lives. He is weary and knows that he needs his rest. For tomorrow is another 24 hours and he knows that the Chinese will be waiting for him.

Just like every other day.

Photoshop is Fun!

Let me preface this by saying that my proficiency in Photoshop is about .5 out of 100. You wouldn't be wrong by calling me a Level 1 apprentice. That being said, it's still quite fun to play around with the program. Take this little creation I put together:
It looks like that diabolical cat is trying to kill that unsuspecting individual. Ha! That is hilarious.

Now you can join in on the fun. Put one of your friend's faces in the "Insert Face Here" section and send to that individual. Trust me, they will not receive a more humorous email all day and you will look like a creative genius. Or just someone who has way too much time at work. Either way, they are going to be so jealous of you.

Glass Case of Emotions

Nervous:


Ecstatic:


Overjoyed (Boner-time):


Oh Shit:


Fuuuuuuuuuuck:


OMG, WTF, FTW! Jubilation:


Relief:




Huge hat tip to 101 Great Goals for the vids.

The Longest 24 Hours...Part 1

To all the 24 fans out there that I'm about to offend, my sincerest apologies, but it seems that Jack Bauer has a lot of time off these days. So that got me thinking: what does America's number #1 anti-terrorist super-agent do in on his off days? The answer below...

****The following takes place between the hours of 1am July 19th and 12:59am July 20th.****

1:00am - The phone rings. Jack opens his eyes and wearily gazes at the clock. The red LED lights on his Bose Wave Radio clock have yet to come into focus. He squints and is able to make out the time. "Who the fuck is calling at this hour," he mumbles as he reaches to pick up his phone.

"Bauer here."

"Jack, it's the Secretary of Defense, we need you. We just got word that an Algerian band of terrorists have smuggled a couple of containers of weapons grade plutonium into the country. We don't know why just yet, but we need you to put out any fires that might arise."

"God damnit! This is not happening. Hold on. Let me get my shit together." Bauer rolls out of bed and begins to search for his pants. After sliding into the wrinkled chinos, he puts the receiver to his ear.

"Okay, Secretary, what's the situation?" He can't be certain but he thinks he hears a muffled giggle on the other line.

"Secretary O'Hearn, is that you?"

"Gotcha Jack! It's Ron from across the street! I'm just busting your balls. You are so fucking gullible. That's like the fifth time you've fallen for that joke. God, you are an idiot. No wonder you can't get laid."

Bauer yells an obscenity at his devious neighbor as he hangs up, then curses himself as he slips back into bed and under the covers.

Sleep does not come quickly.

7:17am - The alarm slowly fills the room, a gradual crescendo of classic rock slamming into Bauer's sensitive eardrums. He crushes a pillow against his head in an attempt to block out the incessant warbling of Stevie Nicks. It is not the ideal start to the day for Bauer. The man debates whether or not to hit the snooze button. Will nine minutes of extra sleep really help him? No, what he needs now is coffee. Black coffee. Boiling coffee. For the second time this morning, he rises from bed.

He strolls past the pants that were haphazardly discarded after the phone call incident from earlier. Pants are no longer necessary; his boxers will do just fine. He exits the bedroom and sets a course directly to the kitchen. There will be no stopping in the bathroom for Bauer. Truth be told, he hasn't had the urge to go to the bathroom much these days. Think of that: a grown man who can't bring himself to piss. Bauer scoffs at the irony as he enters the kitchen.

Still some coffee left in the pot, he thinks to himself. Damn, when was the last time he made a fresh batch? Three days? A week? He doesn't remember. Hell, he's been drunk the past month. He fills a mug to the brim and shoves the cup into the microwave, spilling at least a quarter of the obsidian liquid. Then he waits as radiation warms his morning sustenance.

After his coffee is ready, he leaves the kitchen and makes for the living room. There are empty bottles of whiskey strewn about the room. Much to his surprise, a naked woman is asleep on his couch. Strange, Bauer doesn't recall ordering a prostitute last night.

He settles into his chair and turns on the television as he nurses the first few sips from his plastic novelty mug. The coffee makes him shudder. It tastes like dirt and flat soda water. Just the way he likes it.

"Ah, good shit," says Bauer, as he browses through the channels. He stops at the Game Show Network. "Hell yeah, a Card Sharks marathon," he blurts out to no one, especially not the woman of the night who has apparently taken up residence on his couch. Suddenly, she emits a soft, yet high pitched squeal from her lower body. Bauer can't help but crack a smile as he realizes the whore has let loose a tiny fart.

10:30am - Bauer grows weary of Card Sharks. He's sat through six straight episodes of the show. How much Jim Perry can one man take, he wonders. Time to get up. Bauer's body creaks as he lifts himself from the chair. He runs his hand over his scars, their bulbous nature somehow soothing to the touch. Amazingly, the woman is still asleep on the couch and Bauer can't decide if he should wake her. Deciding against it, he makes his way to the bathroom. Finally, he can piss. Or so he thinks. After standing at the toilet for five minutes, a weak stream finally begins to trickle out of him. He blames the Chinese for this. He blames the Chinese for all the problems in his life.

He runs the shower and steps into the warm current of water cascading down from his military strength shower head. It's going to be a long day, determines the rogue agent.

11:15am - After the shower, Bauer feels more energetic. To his delight, the woman has vacated the premises, ostensibly without taking anything from his wallet or his home. That makes it all the more shocking when he gazes out of his front door and sees that his mailbox has been obliterated. That's the last time he stiffs a whore.

Time passes slowly for the out of work federal employee, especially while at home. So he decides to spend the rest of his morning and the early afternoon doing something productive. It's off to the driving range or as Bauer refers to it, "The Range of Danger."


What adventures lie in store for our hero at the range? What diabolical plan do the Chinese have in store for Bauer this time? Stay tuned to this channel to find out the exciting conclusion to the Longest 24 Hours.

An Open Letter to God

To God,
Don't let me die before June 13th.

Thanks,
The Fletchinator

Site update: I'm working on a cool little design for the site. Hopefully it will be done in a day or two. It really depends on how busy I am at work. Check back in a couple of days for the final result. Also in the works is a tribute to Jack Bauer that's probably been done somewhere on the interwebs before but what the hell, I'm going to do it anyway. That should be out tomorrow. To pass the time, here is a picture of my greatest accomplishment: a perfect game I pitched in Candystand baseball.