Category Archives: GateHouse

October 1, 2012

I WAS ONCE LIKE YOU, REPLACEMENT REFS

By Jeff Vrabel

NEVER LEAVE US AGAIN, YOU BEAUTIFUL MAN

GateHouse — For real, and I can say this because I have no particularly well-carved feelings on the Green Bay Packers, I felt terrible for the terrible replacement refs. Awful for their awfulness. Miserable for their miserable-ity. Sad for the sadness they brought upon us all, but also the melancholy must have felt slumping back to the locker room, hearts pounding, heads down, knowing that they had to hustle out of the stadium as speedily as they could, probably to get to their shift at Dunkin Donuts.

Seriously, how can you not have felt bad for these poor schlumps? Imagine their situation, that you were walking down the street, whistling a merry tune, a donut in your hand (sorry, totally stuck on the donut daydream now), and someone walks up to you with an oboe. They jam the oboe in your face and tell you in no uncertain terms that you’re playing with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra that night at 8 p.m. And you’d better be at the top of your oboe-game, and the world’s most elite oboe players (oboists? Obots? Barack Oboemas?) would all be in attendance, affected by your every low note, and also 90 billion people would be watching, waiting for nothing else other than to see you jack something up so they could whine about it on AM oboe radio.

(And then maybe one time you get to the end of a symphony and you still haven’t figured out the first thing about your oboe and you end up screwing the pooch on the grand finale so badly that it ends up sounding like Hungarian death metal and everybody hates you, at least as much as everyone can hate an oboe player. Also note: The hypothetical orchestral terror is effective on the likely chance that you, the reader, are not an oboe player. If you, the reader, are an oboe player, please put this column down and turn to Marmaduke at once, which, I am told, is usually pretty low on oboe jokes.)

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See, this is what I’m talking about right here.

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7 comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in GateHouse, Humor Columns

September 24, 2012

“Most Interesting Man In The World” holds Obama fundraiser, so naturally there is shrieking

By Jeff Vrabel

GateHouse — You could, when illustrating your support for or opposition to a political candidate or party or ruling junta or cat running for mayor in Nova Scotia — seriously, why is Canada better than us at everything — simply like that person.

You could do so thoughtfully, intelligently, in words and deeds and money if you’ve got it and wish to receive 4,500 text messages a day for the rest of your life. You could even slap a free bumper sticker on your car and hope you’re right, because those things are murder to scrape off with an Exacto come December, and yes I’m looking at you, Dad’s Dukakis/Bentsen sticker, you infernally adhesive little bastard.

Failing that, you could lose your spongy mind on the Internet about beer. Whichever, I guess.

I speak of Dos Equis, which I know as “the beer my college roommate Sean graciously bestowed upon us several times a month” and “the beer we kept having to mop out of the couch on those occasions we felt like having a clean couch, which were rare.” You, however, probably know it as the beer from the commercials with The Most Interesting Man In The World, the bearded awesomesmith who flips omelettes with tigers in his customized kitchens as a way to peddle alcohol to college students with filthy couches.

Well, it turns out The Most Interesting Man In The World is not just a focus-grouped construct designed by a team of skilled marketers firing at a younger demographic, but an actual human person with feelings and beliefs, one of which is that he likes this “Barack Obama” character who is currently sailing towards re-election against the worst political opponent in the history of anything, real and fictional, and yes I’m counting President Skroob from “Spaceballs,” who at least had the smarts to keep a three-ring circus and some escape pods on his flagship.

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1 comment   |  tags: , , , , , , | posted in Awful Political Things, GateHouse, Humor Columns

September 4, 2012

Paul Ryan’s marathon lie: Great, here’s another politician who’s apparently not Kenyan

By Jeff Vrabel

Pictured: Congressman Ryan

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GateHouse — Let’s get this out of the way: Paul Ryan’s for-realsies marathon time — the four-hour one that an official timer clocked officially in official 1990 using an official 1990 stopwatch, which played Bell Biv DeVoe music — totally beats mine. Hell, Sarah Palin’s marathon time beats mine, and trust me, this is not information that makes it easy to get out of bed every morning.

We could spend the better part of the afternoon inventorying the politicians who have run faster marathons than me — it’s actually most o of them, with the exception of Al Gore, who I shall now take to calling “An Inconvenient Turtle.”

But that’s the point: We can do that because I remember mine. Everybody remembers their own PRs, whether they’re two hours or seven. We love them unconditionally, we spend loads of time awkwardly shoving them into conversations that go on to cover the status of our knees, the contents of our running mixes, the number of packets of nutrient-rich goo we forced ourselves to absorb, the emotional attachment we have with our shoes (the majority of which do not love us back), and if you’re really lucky, some details about bathroom breaks. Point is, PEOPLE REMEMBER. God, you could start a second Instagram with the number of shoe-pictures alone. (Note: <– OH GOD, NO ONE DO THIS.)

Which is why when Ryan told a radio host that he couldn’t remember his marathon PR — “under three, high twos, I had a two hour and 50-something” — my eyebrows immediately went up. And not just my eyebrows — which was good, as I burned most of them off in a 1996 silver-nitrate-related chem-lab mishap — but the eyebrows of my actual running friend Jamey, who has run Boston three times and has been to known to talk an awful lot about his socks. Which WICK MOISTURE! Y’all aren’t even ready for the amount of moisture they can wick.

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13 comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in Awful Political Things, Culture And / Or News, GateHouse, Humor Columns

August 28, 2012

What have I been doing that’s so important that I couldn’t invent a Bacon Dog

By Jeff Vrabel

I mean, there have to be some vitamins in here someplace, right

 

 

GateHouse — The Little Man eats almost nothing. Nothing. Snacks and cereal. Carrots and apples, but only the non-squishy apples; if the apples have any squish about them whatsoever, they are immediately rejected, as His Highness does not cotton to mush.

Pretty much from fetus up until this week (age 8), the Little Man has subsisted almost entirely on a diet grounded in the waffle and/or chocolate milk families, with extra attention given to where those families intersect with bacon. Last year we discovered that he enjoys Clif Bars, mushy patty-like foodstuffs eaten primarily by marathoners and, I suspect, zoo animals. They also contain many vitamins, which explains why they taste like a formerly chocolate-ish object that into which someone has physically smushed vitamins with work boots. This was a big development, as it meant, for the first time in his life, he was consuming basically all vitamins from B to Q. Parenting is full of moments where you fully give up on long-held beliefs you thought you were going to keep in place, such as the times I told the 8-year-old things like, “Finish your Pop-Tarts, and then you can have more bacon.”

(There are actually two little men now, and though the older eats like he’s on a diet reserved mostly for patients without teeth, the younger one eats as though he’s storing up enough to nourish the entire daycare.)

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8 comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , | posted in GateHouse, Humor Columns, Terrible Things People Eat

August 20, 2012

Innocent Mars rock becomes most famous space-laser-debut victim since Alderaan

By Jeff Vrabel

Actual footage

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GateHouse — Is there some reason the Mars Curiosity rover isn’t the lead news, the 720-point dominant headline, the screaming neon BREAKING NEWS ALERT of the day, all day, every day? Is anything else truly happening that resonates on such a primal, galactic, mysterious, steam-shooting-out-of-your-ears level? Paul Ryan? Preseason football? A guy from “Saturday Night Live” talking about tax policy? This is all you’ve got? Nothing else that can match, in pure wonder and damn-right impressiveness, a sedan-sized space car that we parked on a DIFFERENT PLANET? Oh wait, according to this Major American News Website, “Boy’s head lodged in guardrail.” Sorry, professionals! Get back to work!

Well, while the TV networks clamor to see if anyone might show up with a saw, here’s the latest news about the Mars Curiosity rover: It is shooting Martian rocks with laser guns.

To recap: Last fall, we sent a thing to Mars. Shortly after, it arrived at Mars. If this was the end of the story — Thing We Shot At Mars Actually Freaking Made It To Freaking Mars — it would be cause enough for a joyous celebration tinged with childlike wonder, the turning over of some cars, and, I don’t know, probably some half-naked frolicking in the streets of whatever place space people hang out most — I guess that would probably be New Mexico? Where do nerds hang out these days? Is GenCon still happening?

Yet you likely do not know this story, which appears currently on a Major American News Network’s Web Site next to another headline that reads “Man floats with dog to ease its pain.” Which is sweet, unless he’s floating with the dog by holding onto it, which I have to surmise would cause more pain that it would ease, what with all the thrashing and wet-dog smell.

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16 comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in Culture And / Or News, GateHouse, Humor Columns, Technology (Probably Apple)

August 3, 2012

Synchronized divers are the real Olympic heroes

By Jeff Vrabel

“Ew, you guys are terrible”

GateHouse — A few random thoughts about the Olympics, which I feel qualified to offer, as I spent a good part of my afternoon getting emotionally invested in the women’s weightlifting competition for what I’m pretty sure is the first time I was ever aware there was a women’s weightlifting competition. I’m not entirely sure how it ended, or who won, or if anyone won? I think the American ended up with a bronze, but of course it’s very hard to tell with all the grunting.

The Olympics, every four years, offer excitement, national pride and the cold inveterate knowledge that I work out for six hours a day for the 15 or so years I have left on Earth (a psychic once told me I’ll be killed by a hydrofoil in 2027, long story) and never be in a good a shape as people who played water polo at the *last* Olympics, let alone the Olympics currently underway. I’ll also never be in as good a shape as women’s weightlifters, which I’m making up for by grunting loudly while accomplishing menial tasks around the house, such as dropping the kids off in the morning, or perhaps making a smoothie.

But I’ve made up for this latest example of my physical inadequacy by becoming the planet’s biggest fan of synchronized diving, which combines two of my favorite things about the Olympics: diving, and two people doing the same thing at the same time for no discernible purpose whatsoever. I’d be deliriously happy if you synchronized literally everything about the Olympics: synchronized javelin, synchronized equestrianing, synchronized boxing, synchronized Bob Costas, synchronized godawful post-competition interviews, synchronized ruining the results of swimming with “Today” promos, synchronized Skydiving Queen Elizabeths, and SERIOUSLY why didn’t anybody think of that? SYNCHRONIZED SKYDIVING QUEEN ELIZABETHS. That happens one time, and no one would give a hot silly darn who “Michael Phelps” is. Frankly if they could synchronize the people who do the synchronizing, I would die a very happy man, via an apparently epic hydrofoil crash.

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5 comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in Culture And / Or News, GateHouse, Humor Columns

July 25, 2012

How I Risked Death In A Plummeting Glass Shoebox Of Doom For My Son

By Jeff Vrabel

There is literally not a single tiny partial fraction of a bit of this that I like.

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GateHouse — This is a story about parenting, and slightly manic fears about falling to your death in a glass cube of doom.

Last weekend my son and I visited the Skydeck, the top floor of the former Sears Tower (which is now called the Willis Tower, but I still call it the Sears Tower, because everything was better the way it was before). I don’t have a fear of heights, necessarily, but I do have a fear of dying in falls from very high places, which sets me apart from my apparently much more fearless 8-year-old, who has clearly failed to inherit his father’s self-preservation instincts, and by “self-preservation instincts” I mean “nerves of silky gossamer.”

My son was particularly interested in the Ledge, a small glass-floored outcropping that extends four or five feet away from the face of the building, giving the impression, when one steps into it, that one is walking out of the Sears Tower’s top floor into Empty Space, or, more accurately, the waiting and hungry arms of Death. As Chicago tourist attractions go, it’s probably the most pants-wetting, although I’m told the Art Institute’s exhibit on pre-Columbian textiles is totally not far behind.

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24 comments   |  tags: , , , , , , | posted in Dad Stories, GateHouse, Humor Columns

July 17, 2012

The Most Expensive Dog Wedding Ever Still Smells Pretty Much Like Kibbles

By Jeff Vrabel

“You call that modern formalwear, Alfie? Get in your bed! GET!”

GateHouse — The dog we had when I was growing up was an adorable, slobbery wet mop named Cutty, a wonderful companion known mostly for her thick black fur, dragon breath and abysmal bladder control. (Seriously, best dog ever, but if you’d brought one of those hotel room black lights to our downstairs carpet, you would have seen nothing but a minefield of long-dried puddles. If I’d had girls over, it would have been a problem. It was not usually a problem.)

There was a lot to like about Cutty: She could smile on command, which might have actually been angry teeth-baring but whatever it was adorable, she could catch mice (which came in handy when you live in a 400-year-old house in rural Indiana) and she could consume an entire box of 12 chocolate Santas in one sitting, which, incidentally, is not something you want to have happen in a house with light carpeting, if you catch my gloppy drift.

But Cutty, being a dog, did not live a fancy lifestyle. She had one possession in the world, one, not counting the throw pillow in the living room she would occasionally make love to. (I know what you’re thinking, and yes, the guests were regularly notified, and we had Lysol or whatever.) And that possession was a red rubbery ball that she got seriously growly about if you tried to touch it. OH wait, she also had a red and white dogsweater my Mom made her wear at Christmastime, and every time you put it on her she would give you this look like, “Oh I see that you are trying to get me to run away from home?” So, OK, three possessions. But never, at any point in her 16 years, did she own a $6,000 custom wedding dress.

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7 comments   |  tags: , , , , | posted in Back Home Again In Indiana, Dad Stories, GateHouse, Humor Columns

July 9, 2012

Chuck E. Cheese Replaces Mascot, A Nation Mourns Its Lost Innocence

By Jeff Vrabel

 

This guy needs replacing? Why?

GateHouse — I was in a Chuck E. Cheese one time, once, for a birthday party for the son of a friend we no longer talk to because he held his kid’s birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese.

This was years ago, before I knew precisely what the phrase “having kids” truly meant, before I realized you could wiggle your way out of birthday parties at the last minute (if I ever tell you “the baby has an ear infection,” I am lying to your face), before I fully appreciated that “being a parent” meant “benefiting from astronomical, near-miraculous odds to be born at this age, in this time, and then burning the impossibly precious gift of life in a windowless hellscape filled with shrieking and pepperoni and aging robot mice who sing Beach Boys songs.”

In that few hours, I learned a lot of things about both Chuck E. Cheese and pain, mostly pain. But joking about that is silly, because that is the POINT of Chuck E. Cheese, that it makes you want to invent a way to beat yourself into unconsciousness with breadsticks and everyone knows it, but ugh “the kids like it” or whatever so you do it, because who needs $400 anyway?

Well, I’ve got news: Things are about to change. Get ready to forget everything you knew about Chuck E. Cheese. Well, except that part about the loudness, and the shrieking. And the wanting to brain yourself with breadsticks. And the dead-eyed robots singing iconic 1960s surf songs you know what, whatever, just remember everything but the mascot.

Chuck E. Cheese announced last week that it’s replacing its signature mouse, rebooting Chuck, re-mousening its brand, feeling that the current rodent is too outdated, because when your business plan involves group-plumpening kids by the dozens and then plugging their brains into shooting games, you want to stay current. According to the AP, Chuck E. Cheese’s parent company, which goes by the decidedly less funtacular name of CEC Entertainment, Inc., is launching a new campaign featuring, and I’ll just quote this because there’s really no way to improve upon its awesome: “a revamped image of Chuck E. Cheese as a hip, electric-guitar-playing rock star.” I will now pause to let this amazingly marketed horror of that sentence sink in for a minute, while I play some skeeball.

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228 comments   |  tags: , , , , , , | posted in Culture And / Or News, Dad Stories, GateHouse, Humor Columns, Terrible Things People Eat

June 26, 2012

Deep-fried fair-food cereal: Can it be worse than regular Trix?

By Jeff Vrabel

Pictured: Step 5 of the P90X program cycle.

GateHouse — I am not a big eater of fair food, which you can probably tell, because I am not dead.

I am also not a very big rider of fair rides, which you can also tell, for the same reason. There was an annual fair that came through my Indiana hometown every year — it had to, because it was an annual fair, and if carnies are known for anything it’s their strict adherence to contractual obligations — and I would go every year, because it was either that or play fantasy baseball with my friends. And here is this only time this sentence will ever be written anywhere on Earth: The county fair was the much stronger option for possibly meeting girls. (It was also a much better option for eating funnel cakes, which was the far more likely outcome.)

This happened when I was in my teens, in the mid-1930s according to my hair and posture, back when my unformed adolescent body could do things like consume three consecutive funnel cakes without collapsing into a heap of convulsive stomach-clutching. (By contrast, if I eat one whole glazed donut now I must run four miles to destroy the attendant calories, which is hard, as I don’t really have the two hours to spare.)

And it is a DARNED or possible GOLDANGED good thing, too, because if I were a teen hitting up the Lake County Fair now I would have all manner of newfangled (and newdanged!) fair foods to consume while not meeting any girls. (Can I tell you that I have never understood the idea of fair foods anyway, and not just because of my aversion to throwing up into a Crazy Ball game, but because I cannot fathom why, when you’re going to be hitting 8 Gs in a rattletrap spinny contraption that was built in 1956 and contains most of its original rivets, you definitely want your waist parts jammed full of unregulated dough prepared by undocumented gypsies. God the kids are going to LOVE going to the fair with Fun Dad in a few years.)

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10 comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in Back Home Again In Indiana, GateHouse, Humor Columns, Terrible Things People Eat

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