Overrated, CLAP CLAP CLAP.

Imagine there's this guy at work.  He's been there forever and you're new.   A coworker pulls you aside and tells you about him . . . when he joined the corporation, everyone thought he sucked.  Took a while for him to get his chance.  And with it, he did great on a few projects.  Saved the company a few times.  Heck, in 1996, they were the best company in the country.  But for every awesome project, he would blow one.  He cost them best company status several times in the last decade or so.  But hey, he's been there forever, he's never called in sick, and he's got to retire any day now.  I mean, he's been hanging on for years . . . 

Would you call this employee one of the best ever?  

If I put up a picture of Favre, the NFL would probably fine, sue, and waterboard me.
So here is a totally random, Viking-related picture.

That sums up Brett Favre.  Full disclosure here . . . I am a Bears fan.  He has done his fair share of slicing and dicing my team up over the years.  But when I look clearly at Brett Favre's career, and his records, and how the media gushes over him, I can't help but think he doesn't pass the smell test.  He's vastly overrated.  

I'm not saying he isn't great.  But in the GOAT (Greatest of All Time) discussion, he's a nonfactor.  In the NFL, the number one way you grade a QB is how may titles they won, and how good they are in the clutch.  Brett Favre's lone title came in 1996.  He wasn't even the MVP . . . he rode a stellar defense led by Reggie White, and a special teams unit that was so good, Desmond Howard was the Super Bowl MVP.  

I don't need to quote a bunch of career numbers.  I know he's got the most of everything in history . . . TD's, completions, games in a row, yadda yadda.  He's also got the one record that the media doesn't seem to enjoy mentioning . . . INTERCEPTIONS.  And here's one stat that isn't official . . . interceptions at the worst possible time in big games.  

Look no further than last year, or his last year with the Packers, or how the heavily favored Packers got handled by the Broncos in Favre's only other Super Bowl appearance.  Or how when Favre throws interceptions it's because he is a "gunslinger" and not a bad quarterback.  Why isn't Rex Grossman a gunslinger?  How about any other guys that throw 20 plus INT's in a season? Cutler?  Eli Manning?  Because for some reason, ESPN has changed the statistic to "gunslings" for Brett Favre, and "terrible plays" for everyone else.  

When someone mentions Manning, Brady, Brees of this era . . . what comes to mind?  Titles.  Don't let them get the ball with the game on the line.  How about Favre's peers?  Elway?  Aikman?  Now think of Favre . . . bonehead interceptions.  The retirement flip flopping every offseason.  Wrangler jeans.  The occasional sext of his wang.  

Favre is a tough SOB.  He can take a hit, on the field and in the press.  He's one of the best ever for sheer longevity, and eye popping plays.  He amazes one play, only to gunsling into a loss the very next play.  The best ever just win, and because of them, not in spite of them.  

Minnesota's head coach got fired for one reason only . . . he bet the house that Favre could somehow not be himself at the age of 41.  But he is who we thought he was, and now the coach is fired and the gunslinger will ride off into the sunset, never to return.  Maybe.  Possibly.  No, for good this time. 

Guys Will Bet on Anything. And I mean anything.

So from Thursday to Monday, it goes like this:

Thursday night, a few buckets of beer, and pretty soon, we are betting the next bucket on whether or not an NFL play will get overturned via replay.  Then there was a bet between two guys about how many feet are in a mile.

Then I made five separate bets, five bucks each, against pointspreads for Sunday, all sealed with a handshake (and did well, thank you very much).

Then two of my friends decided to race the 40 yard dash in the parking lot.  One of them was barefoot, the other one pulled a hamstring.

So today, they go back and forth about the injury, the race, the stakes.  They propose a new date and time.  First its three miles, then 60 yards, then 40 yards.  Then it's best of three races.  Meanwhile, I'm betting yet another friend a Subway lunch that Jay Cutler will have better numbers than Tony Romo this year (don't ask me why).

Then we are talking about betting about my Bears versus his Cowboys.  As this goes on, a half dozen people are in on an email string, and the 40 yard footrace from Thursday between two guys turns into the following competition that we have instantly decided is a great idea.  I coined it "The Mancathlon."  However, a quick Google search and damn it, the name was already taken.  Hence, I must rename it.  Haven't figured out what to name it yet.  Awesomethon?  Stupidthon?  You be the judge.

It goes like this . . . start the timer.

• Eat 6 megahot wings. 
• Chug a 24 oz mancan. 
• Run a 40 yard dash. 
• Rest 20 seconds.
• Run a 60 yard dash.
• Swim across a pond. 
• Throw footballs at a target until you hit it 3 times.
• Kick a kickball as far as you can.
• Hit a softball off a tee as far as you can. 
• Spring 100 yards to the finish line.

Your final score is your time in seconds, plus your distance in kickball, plus your distance in softball hitting.  You are penalized 50 points if you puke.  

We are going to organize this before the weather gets cold.  I'm sure we will bet on who finishes where.  There will be side bets.  Bystanders will laugh at us.  And we will probably change the events at some point.  

What does this mean?  Guys will strangely bet on just about anything.  I have psychological theories about this, but they would not be nearly as interesting as sharing our new competition with the world.  

If you want to sign up, hurry, because I'm sure spots will fill up quickly.

Man Versus Wall

There is a scene in "The Messenger" when Ben Foster learns the love of his life is engaged to another man.  He proceeds to punch a hole in the wall.  To which my wife asked, "What is it with guys punching walls?"  Then she asked me if I had ever punched a wall.

Surely I would not be that prone to an outburst, right?  Surely I would not be that stupid.  But alas, I was.

I broke my fourth metacarpal when I was in high school.  I missed a layup and punched the padded part of the wall that's underneath most basketball goals.  You know, to show everyone I was really, really mad about it.  My knuckle disappeared as the bone broke, raising a huge lump int the top part of my hand as the split bone threatened to pop right out of the top.  I ended up having it surgically repaired with pins.  Recovery time, 3 months.

It never occurred to me, until my wife mentioned it, just how often I have seen a guy hit a wall.  My ballpark guess?  Ten times.  The wall is 10-0 in these bouts.  In an informal poll, it seems that any solid wall is indeed difficult to defeat.  I know one fella who figured he would harmlessly punch through some drywall, which is cardboard-ish and prone to breaking, only to hit a stud and blow out two metacarpals.

My friend Bucky has a sort-of victory worth mentioning.  He hit a 4x4 that helped hold up the overhang at the local IGA store with his forearm.  The wood split in two.  Even he was surprised.  Who was more surprised?  The guys that were threatening to whip his ass (or, more specifically, our asses).  Turns out they reconsidered after seeing this, and left.  The next week, I noticed the wood was replaced with a reflector on it, as if the owner assumed a car had hit it.  But that was forearm versus board.  Doesn't count in the standings.

Why do guys hit walls?  I have decided it is because there are two choices when we are angry or frustrated or ready to pop--keep it in, or let it out.  And hitting the wall is the most selfless form of release.  It is a choice to risk injuring ourselves instead of the alternatives.  The goal is actually to break through the wall, I'm sure.  Men are trying to say "Look, I'm so angry I want to hit things."  But logic is saying, "Look, I'm going to give myself a recovery timeframe of 3 months from this idiotic outburst."

Why hit the wall?  Is it inside of our genetics?  Did cavemen break their hands on cave walls after missing the mammoth with their spear, or after an argument with a cavewoman?

But it's more rampant than you can ever imagine.  Your assignment is to ask some guy if he's hit a wall or knows someone who does.  I will say with 100 percent certainty that you will get a story about hitting a wall for what they believe to be a very, very good reason.

I also guarantee that at the end of the story, the wall will win.

Gillette—Create a Razor With More Blades. Or Else.

I’m a tough customer when it comes to shaving.  I have some scars on the right side of my face, with gnarled hairs that kind of grow in any direction they want, as if they can’t stand each other’s company.  So I am about the damn authority when it comes to evaluating shaving power and finesse. 

I first shaved with a single blade Bic razor.  All I can say to Bic is . . . stick to pens, boys.  I would have been better off shaving with a Slap Chop.  So my mother bought me an electric razor—and that cut me as well.  Sucked in a few of those wild hairs and sheared off a little bit of scarred up skin. 

Years passed, and behold, the Mach 3 arrived.  Certainly the answer was not more blades.  Was it?  Hell yes it was.  Shaving cuts became rare.  I used it for years until they made one that had the lubricating strip.  Then—are you ready for this?  They put a battery in that badass, just to make it shake like a real power tool. 

Surely this could not go on, but progress has a way of just happening.  Four blades.  Did you hear me?  Four!  I jumped from Gillette and into Schick's multi-bladed embrace.  Now I never got cut—and I was almost positive my shave was at least twenty five percent better.  But not totally sure. 

More years passed.  I was happy and content.  Life was good.  Then I’m walking through Wal-Mart . . . I’m going to get my four blade refills.  Just a normal day at the store.  Or was it?  No, it wasn't.

They.  Did.  It.  Again. 

Five blades.  It was like Gillette-sent angels had fluttered into Wal-Mart and placed this new shaving system before me.  My jaw dropped.  Ye Gods.  My shaving experience was about to increase yet again.  I purchased these blades immediately, along with the new handle, which was pretty much the same as the old Mach 3 handle, but the colors didn’t match.  And everyone knows that color-coordinated shaving equipment gives you a slightly better shaving experience. 

 I was happy for more blissful years, until I read this article about foolish men who still used their single blade razors.  They like the routine of shaving for twenty minutes with the risk of injury and death.  I read about how men are revolting against the gimmicks of shaving with more blades . . . about how men are stockpiling cheap, older razors, such as the ancient Mach 3 razor, so that they are safeguarded against spending more on the new models.  They cite the old Saturday Night Live bits with hilarious “three bladed razors” and the slogan . . . “Because you’ll believe anything.”

Men!  What are you thinking!  We cannot stop this evolution with our thriftiness or responsibility.  We cannot be good consumers here.  We are this close to shaving immortality.  

A friend of mine has the most amazing, shifting beard I have ever seen.  He sculpts it in accordance with pictures from the Beard Hall of Fame.  One day he’s Lenny from Motorhead, the next day he’s Alan from The Hangover.  You can watch the thing grow.  Folks, trust me . . . a beard with this kind of attitude doesn’t require less blades.  Five blades might just be good enough to keep it at bay, but in order to slay this beast more blades will be necessary.  It’s simple science.  More blades equals more things actually cutting through your facial hair.    

So if we keep this going—and I’m recommending we do—what will my next razor look like?  Six blades?  Seven?  Hell no.  I want it to look like a farming disc getting pulled by an ergonomic handle.  I will take out a mortgage for the model with the car battery in the handle, you cheap guys out there can opt for the pull start model.  Lubrication strips?  Ha. I laugh at you, lubrication strips!  I want smurf-like creatures riding on the razorhead itself, shooting Aloe-enriched soap onto my face with a whole other smurf-team scrubbing it in with tiny brooms, working as frantically as the Swiss curling team.  I want a shave so close it cuts tomorrow’s whiskers.  I want “5 O’clock Shadow” to be replaced in our lexicon by “Next November Shadow.” 

If you have an accident with this razor, I don’t want a simple cut—I want a black box left behind in the bathroom so the authorities can figure out what went wrong.  I want a razor so technologically advanced, that if it exceeds the speed of 88 miles per hour, you travel through time.  Is this too much to ask?  We have been rewarded with many extra blades of shaving power during this last decade, so maybe I’m just spoiled.

So I challenge you Gillette.  My mandate for this breakthrough is 2018.  If you truly want to be the best a man can get, the formula is very simple.  More blades.  More Aloe.  More batteries in the handle.  But most of all, more blades.