Sunday, May 31, 2009

Defining the Cougar

Cougars are nature’s version of onions – at first glance, it seems so simple… “A woman over 40 who preys on younger men.” But then, as you dive into it, you realize there are plenty of layers involved. What if the man is 38 and the woman is 42? What if the man is only 6? What if “she” is a “he”? What if it’s actually a pair of Siamese twins who are connected and are individually only 21, but combined become 42? With these questions in mind, I set off on a mental expedition to navigate the mysterious world of The Cougar and plot down a map full of rules guiding the way. Just call me a Metaphorical Columbus. (Don’t worry – no natives were harmed in the production of this paper. Animals, on the other hand… a few of them had to go, but don’t worry, most of them were cats.)

They’re also like onions because sometimes they’re a great addition, but other times they make you cry as soon as you get inside them.

Without further ado, I present to you the rules of cougardom. Or, as Cosmopolitan would say, “7 Signs You May Be a Cougar”.

A cougar crouches on a hill outside of Old Pro, waiting to pounce on its younger and drunker prey.

Rule #1: A cougar must be at least 40 years of age. Self-explanatory, and yet I’m writing two sentence in the explanation area anyway. Put your hands together for verbosity!

Rule #2: The prey must be less than 40 years of age. See above comments.

Rule #3: It does not matter how old the cougar appears to be. Demi Moore is 46, but looks like she’s in her early 30’s. Your mom is 46, but they don’t check for her ID when she asks for the senior citizen discount at movies. If either of these women hit on me at a bar, they are equally cougary.

If your mom looked like this, I’d be hanging out at your house more often.

Rule #4: To qualify as a cougar, there must be a minimum age difference of 7 years between hunter and prey. If you’re 42 and hitting on someone who’s 37, you are not a cougar. If you’re 44 and hitting on someone who’s 33, you are a cougar. If you’re 52 and hitting on someone who’s 12, you’re a pedophile.

Rule #5: Twins, triplets, quadruplets, or any other same-birthday sibling set do not combine to form one mega-cougar. In other words, even if you hook up with the entire cast of Jon and Kate Plus 8 (minus the parents), you still haven’t hooked up with a cougar. In some areas of Southeast Asia, this is also known as the Siamese Principle, due to the fact that hooking up with Siamese twins at the same time still does not classify as hooking up with a cougar.

Rule #6: Cougars may be any weight. Wikipedia claims that a cougar “is the second heaviest cat in the American continents… and the fourth heaviest in the world.” It’s false statements like this one that give Wikipedia a shoddy reputation and continue to make me create footnotes while pretending I cited other sources when I write academic papers.

Rule #7: Cougars are always hunters. Fortunately for us, Wikipedia is still reliable most of the time, such as when it informs us of the following: “A capable stalk-and-ambush predator, the cougar pursues a wide variety of prey.” If you spot Jennifer Aniston at a bar and hit on her all night, even if you somehow go home with her and are able to convince the world that you didn’t slip a roofie in her drink and you somehow got lucky on your own, she’s still not a cougar. Cougars are hunters, plain and simple. None of this gatherer bullshit. Cougars may have pussies, but that doesn’t mean they are one.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Why write full paragraphs when I can write quick haiku blurbs instead?

This is my weekend
Written only in haikus
By Andrew Meyer

Finish work Friday
Hooray! Now the weekend starts
No work, only play

Give Steve a ride home
Go inside to have a drink
“A” turns into “five”

Margaritas, yum.
“Vicky how do you make these?”
“Pre-made mix, dumbass.”

Eddy speaks Russian
That damn dirty commie fuck
Da da da da da

On to PA bar
“NoLa?” I see no flashing.
We need more boobs. Fail.

Rest of night a blur
I don’t really remember
Let’s jump to next day.

Wake up Saturday
Why does the room spin so fast?
My head fucking hurts.

Cocoa pebbles, yum
Better than Harry Potter
Sorry, Madeleine.

You remember when
Puni claimed W was only
One syllable? Ha.

Back to Mercy House
Need to pick up my car there
Guess I’ll hop on bike.

Cali is awesome
Outside in January
And it’s 64!

Ravens-Titans game
They score less than Steve Carrell
When he played virgin.


C'mon guys... even I could have found a way to score more than three times all game.

Cardinals-Panthers game
This game isn’t even close
Hey Jake, that’s wrong team

Vietnamese food
Holy crap this menu’s huge
I feel overwhelmed

Mercy House again?
Sure, why not, let’s play some pong
Too full, bad idea.

Back at home, it’s late
Write haikus at 2 AM
Not sure why. Oh well

My dreams make no sense
Toy chair, blue tree, donkey light
Bag of Norways. Huh?
 
Sandwiches with Paige
Turkey sandwiches are great
NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM

Where’s Ed Hochuli?
This ref isn’t jacked at all
I am unimpressed

Five dollar footlong
I’m sick of your commercials
Please go away. Thanks

That was my weekend.
Hope you liked my poetry
Oh and don’t forget…

You look like a tool
When you have your collar popped
You are a douchebag.

Thursday, January 08, 2009

6 years later, I still think popping your collar makes you a douchebag.

(Note: I meant to post this right after the Wild Card games last weekend, but then I got lazy and forgot.  If you don’t like it, go read a real writer.  You know, one of those people who makes actual points and writes something down that isn’t just his stream of thoughts as they come to mind.)

 

            Some writers will watch all of the NFL Playoff games this weekend, take some notes, evaluate what happened, and put together a well-written column with a single theme/thesis that manages to tie together four different games by finding a common theme between them.  These writers are weak.  Why settle for one theme when you can have 4,734 of them?  As Crash has already proved, if your piece of work has 52 plots instead of 1, your chances are that much better of winning an Oscar.  And while I may not be winning any awards for this, it does help me save the time of trying to come up with such tedious things as “transitions” and “analysis.”

 

THOUGHTS FROM WILD CARD WEEKEND

 

“The retractable roof is closed today, so it’s gonna be loud for this NFC Wild Card matchup between the Arizona Cardinals and the Atlanta Falcons.”  That’s right folks – Arizona has managed to pack 35,000 of its senior citizens into this dome, so the Falcons will be hearing all sorts of whiney cheers today, ranging from “WHERE’S my BED pan (clap, clap, clapclapclap)” to “HEY OFFENSE, TURN THE BALL OVER ALREADY AND GET OFF MY LAWN!”

 

Speaking of Arizona being old, isn’t it appropriate that Kurt Warner is their starting QB?  What if other teams looked at the Cardinals and thought to themselves “hey, maybe the reason they succeeded and made the playoffs this year is because they hired a quarterback who matched their fan base”?  The 49ers could start the league’s first openly gay quarterback.  The Bills could make their team a little bit more Canadian each year, until it’s starting an entirely eh-filled lineup by 2011.  Dallas could sign a bunch of players who love guns... oh wait, they already signed Pacman and Tank Johnson.

 

Did anybody else realize that Edgerrin James has the 11th most rushing yards in NFL history?  I haven’t been this surprised since I learned what seals look like.  (For those of you who are unaware, I went through the first 20 years of my life with a very detailed picture in my head of what a seal looked like… and then I saw one for the first time at the Mystic Aquarium… and it wasn’t even close.  Imagine going through your whole life thinking “I like my socks, they sure are warm!”, and all of the sudden, when you’re 20 years old, someone tells you “hey dipshit, you’re supposed to put those on your feet, not your ears.”  And you realize you’ve been way, way, way off your whole life.  That’s how I felt.  I fucking hate seals now.  In my mind, Seals is just an acronym for Self Esteem Abolishing Little Shits.)


Basic math. Trust me, I'm a stats minor.


“Look at all the penetration!”  Cris Collinsworth: NFL announcer, or porn narrator?  Speaking of which, this was shortly followed by “in this case, you can’t allow penetration, and Jamal Williams, he gets penetration.”  Damn it, Jamal, no means no!

 

 

Me: “I think a Manning Bowl could be cool, except that I’d have to stop watching ESPN for two weeks leading up to it, because the overhyping would be way too ridiculous for me.”

Alex: “Well, I’m still wondering WHO’S NOW?!!!!!!!!!!!???????!!!!!!!!!!”

 

It would be way cooler if Turner was one of those elusive running backs who… you know… turned a lot, instead of a straight power runner.  And maybe his middle name could be “the”.  Michael the Turner.  Not quite as intimidating as Ivan the Terrible, but at least it would be accurate.

 

“A look at the Grand Canyon, in the great state of Arizona…”  See, it’s shots like these that make me think we should move away from putting sports teams in major cities, and start putting them in the middle of nowhere.  Wouldn’t it be awesome if this game was the Idaho Mashers vs. the Montana Ranchers?  What would they show as our scenic attraction between commercial breaks, and what would the announcers say while doing the whole I-feel-awkward-if-I’m-not-saying-something-right-now routine?  “And here’s a closeup of a potato from the great state of Idaho… sure is beautiful, isn’t it, Cris?”



Look at it! So majestic! So beautiful! So awe-inspiring!

 

Whoever said ambrosia is the food of the gods never ate pig in a blankets and chicken tenders while watching football.  Perhaps his popped collar was cutting off circulation on the way to his brain.