My college friends and I play a game called, “Facebook Friday.” They (I’m not on Facebook) pull together a who’s who of lame status updates, and we, collectively, make fun of them.

“Glass houses, Dave. Glass houses, Dave.”

And you’re right. That’s very perceptive. I’m not completely innocent here. I’m not immune or above the lame status update. Back in college, when AOL Instant Messenger was king, I would rotate a series of song lyrics which matched my current mode to a tee.

“Don’t let the world bring u down…not everyone here is that fucked up and cold.”

I’m having a bad day.

“Jane says…’have u seen my wig around? I feel naked without it…’”

No one knows the real me. 

But eventually, like wearing wind pants or buying Weird Al CD’s, I grew out of it. I matured. Now, I do what most people do. I bottle up my emotions and randomly snap on sportscasters after they pronounce a player’s name wrong.

I digress. The updates that my friends and I truly bask in are the ‘sympathy baiters.’ My friend coined the term, but he’s not that clever, so I’m he sure he lifted it from some website. Regardless. This label is set aside for the only the most egregious of offenders.

Just happy I woke up this morning…

Wish I didn’t wake up this morning…

I hope at least someone is having a good morning…

Someday, something will go right…

My head is killing me, but it’s my heart that REALLY aches.

Can we all see the pain leaping off the page? The yearning, the longing for attention. These baiters need it. They crave it. They just need one response – one sympathetic ear for their cause.

“Keep your head up, Mike. Things will get better.”

Hopefully, Alice…but right now? I don’t know…

Boom. Poor Alice has just been successfully baited.

The first documented form of sympathy baiting came in 1990, when Iraq successfully reeled in Sgt. Slaughter. And sadly, as Facebook has taught us, history continues to repeat the same mistakes. Is it our motherly instincts forcing us to respond? We booed when Slaughter aligned himself with General Adnan, yet now, twenty years later, we’re falling for Mike’s same bag of pathetic tricks. These baiters are attention starved, and, actually, speaking of starved:

Haven’t eaten since Emily left…

And it’s not that I’m heartless. It’s really not. It’s just that I don’t care. Sympathy baiters don’t care about your problems either. The other day, I walked twenty-five minutes to work in the pouring rain. My pants were soaked. And my socks – don’t even fucking get me started on my socks. Do you think Mike cares? Do you think he would lend a consoling shoulder to cry on? No, of course not. And do you know why? Because Mike hasn’t eaten since Emily left. He’s got his own shit to deal with.

The mainstream media has been a bit critical of WIBR in recent months. For one, this blog closed in September. Then, without any real explanation, re-opened just weeks later. This crater-sized plot hole was never explained or addressed. It was like Bayside High curiously trading Kelly and Jesse for Tori Scott and her stupid bike helmet. Where did these two popular cheerleaders go for an entire semester? What seventeen year old girl owns a motorcycle? Why did I close WIBR, and then, on a whim, write 800 words on Verizon? Why can’t I stop asking rhetorical questions?

It’s been a struggle, this here public relations effort. Despite my work in the local community, planting orchids at the local Fenway Gardens and what not, the media has been hounded me with the same question:

“Sure, Dave, you write a lot, but are you really saying anything?”

It’s as if I’m being accused of ignoring the plight of today’s world. Health Care, Tax Reform, etc, etc. And while I understand the turbulent economic times we live in, what can I really do? I’m just one man. I’m here to offer an escape from your credit card debt, not a solution. I’m here to assess I.R.S.' in-ring ability, not provide you with invaluable tax tips. Steve Mix famously used the phrase, “KYP: Know your personnel.” It is advice I’ve taken to heart. I maximize my strengths all while acknowledging my limitations.

Until today.

Today, we travel outside our comfort zone. Today, I provide you with something of substance. Together we crawl out of debt. We will steer this economic ship out from troubled waters. But first, we need a leader, a captain: A captain of finance. A captain of industry. A captain of a 1989 Survivor Series team. 

For my Finance 311: Markets and Investments class in 2006, I wrote a five-page paper entitled, “Everyone Has a Price: Some Just Sell at the Wrong Time.” 

The following is an excerpt.

<snip>

Invest in Gold

In 1987, Ted DiBiase approached Hulk Hogan about the World Heavyweight Championship. A classic buyer meets seller tale. From there, Ted’s instincts took over. He asked some introductory questions. Kept the conversation light. Took some mental notes.

How are the wife and kids?

That Adonis sure is a strange duck, huh?

I think Danny Davis calls it right down the middle.    

This is good business right here. Ease into it. Foreplay before negotiation. Smoothly, DiBiase then transitioned into the business at hand.  

Would you be interested in selling the belt, Hulk? If so, how much are you trying to get out of it?

Now, what was DiBiase trying to acquire? In Professor James’ marketing class, I was taught that Starbucks sells an image, not coffee. Coke sells Americana, not soda pop. But I think the label as champion meant nothing to DiBiase. Consider this: The price of gold on December 1^st, 1987 was $487.80. The price of gold at the close of business day on May 12th: $725.00. The heavyweight belt was nothing but an investment for our hero. He would’ve melted that strap down the first chance he got. Did he successfully acquire the belt back in ’87? No, but Ted’s intuition was spot-on.  

<snip>

Invest in underappreciated assets; Sell the overvalued ones

In 1988, it was Hercules Hernandez, a powerhouse who had muscles on top of muscles. In 1994, it was Nikolai Volkoff, a down on his luck former tag champion who DiBiase acquired on the cheap.

And then there was Virgil. By the end of 1990, the bodyguard’s stock had reached its peak. By Royal Rumble ‘91, he was more bloated then a Canisius co-ed. DiBiase recognized this, even if the public didn’t. He tossed Virgil aside at the Royal Rumble and never looked back. Sure, Virgil’s value saw a brief spike later that year, but by the spring of ‘92, he was nothing more than mid-card fodder.

<snip>

The professor gave me a C-. Wasn’t really a wrestling fan.

I played trivia at the bar last night. At this stage of my career, I can only really answer questions about sports and 80’s wrestling. Ten years ago, I knew the capital of Bolivia. Now, well, I can tell you how much Dino Bravo bench pressed. My lifetime of knowledge and experiences can be summed up in three brief sentences.  

1) Turnovers will kill you.

2) Baseball playoffs are a crap shoot.

3) You never outgrow acne.

And as the emcee asked another U.S. Geography question I couldn’t answer, my only real productive thought was, “Should I pop this zit here at the table, or in the bathroom?” But despite my physical and mental imperfections, our plucky team entered the last round in second place.

Final category: Movies.

Perfect, movies. My girlfriend’s wheelhouse. I slid the paper and pen right across the table. She was pretty certain the answer to the 2005 movie question was 300. Now, I didn’t think 300 was right, because I remember listening to Q102’s morning show after I graduated college (’06) and female callers –

I’ve already said too much. Anyways, I stayed quiet. I kept my little secret between me and Booker and the gang. I played the role of a supportive and loyal boyfriend, and handed our answer to the emcee.

300 sounds right, I told her.

300 wasn’t the answer. It was some George Clooney movie which I had never heard of or seen. We finished in 5^th place, out of the money. We paid our bill and stood outside, waiting for a cab, waiting for the Brutus Beefcake question that never came.

What, you didn’t expect me to talk about the Phillies or Birds, did you?

I’ve shied away from writing about the current Philly sports landscape. There are three billions sites covering the Phillies playoff run, and all are better than mine. (I prefer the www.thegoodphight.com myself). So if you want my thoughts on last night’s game, text me. And if you don’t have my number, well, buy me a drink first. Be polite, respectful. Ask me questions. Don’t talk just about yourself. And don’t brag. I hate that.

Last weekend, I was in Buffalo, NY for a wedding. Everyone I know gets married in Buffalo because it’s good luck to have rain on your wedding day. I flew in Thursday night and stayed with my old college roommate (We’ll refer to him as ‘Brandon’ from here on out). Now Brandon and I are in an exclusive club. When most people were playing Madden, or (pfft) X-Box in college, Brandon and I were kicking it old school with the original Nintendo:

There was the night we played drinking Super Mario 3 with 100-proof Southern Comfort.

Or the time I accidentally got knocked out by King Hippo. (I got caught with a right jab).

And then there was Tecmo Super Bowl – the Holy Grail of video games. Since 2002, our freshman year of college, we have played about 1,000 games of Tecmo. My senior year of college, during one particular hot streak, I decided to write down the results and post them on the refrigerator.

Winner 

Dave

Team

Falcons

Player of the Game

Mike Rozier

Rozier held impromptu press conferences in our dorm room. He used a TI-83 for a make-shift mic.

It was a good win for us today. The O-line did a great job of creating some holes for me.

Brandon hated it. He called me obnoxious. I told him his D-line lost the battle at the line of scrimmage.  

This went on for years. We would play around ten games in one sitting and then argue over who won more. Teams were picked randomly. Close your eyes. Push the control pad frantically. Stop on the count of three. Brandon always landed on the Jets.

“Protect the ball, Blair Thomas!” became a standard plea.

So this past weekend, the rivalry was renewed. Brandon brought the Gentlemen Jack Daniels, and I brought my complex eight-play playbook.

Game 1: Jets vs. Redskins

This time I’m the Jets, and Blair Thomas has a chip on his shoulder. I sustain a seven minute drive, lulling him to sleep with four yard runs off-tackle. Brandon fills up his glass twice.

“I’m not happy.”

Pat Leahy boots four field goals. Brandon waves the white flag late in the 4^th with a desperate Gary Clark reverse hand-off.

Winner: Dave

Game 2: Dolphins vs. Cowboys

I set-up shop in the AFC East and walk over a beleaguered Cowboys team. Michael Irvin is out with an injury, no doubt stemming from Brandon’s season with the Browns that began in the winter of ’92.

I run a two-quarterback system with Marino and Scott Mitchell.

Both guys bring something different to the table, I explain.

“You’re such a loser.”

Winner: Dave

Game 3: Vikings vs. ???

This Minnesota playbook should be shot and buried underneath the Metrodome. Herschel Walker is slow, Wade Wilson is erratic, and that Rick Fenney dive play is fooling no one.

I have no idea who Brandon was. It didn’t matter.

Winner: Brandon

Game 4: Rams vs. Chargers

San Diego and Phoenix have the worst playbooks in the game. 75% of the plays aren’t runnable (not a word) against a seasoned player.

I love the Rams. Underrated. Cleveland Gary, a Brandon killer, would later run for 245 yards on Sunday.

Brandon punts numerous times on second and third down. Marion Butts blasts his coach’s play calling after the game.

Winner: Dave

Brief intermission. The Gentlemen’s is going down real smooth now. We leave some profanity-laced voicemails for some old classmates. I give one poor soul who answers the phone a play-by-play of my Game 1 victory.

Freeman McNeil for four.

Thomas for five.

O’Brien to McNeil for three.

…

Byner for two. Tackle by Byrd.

Byner for no gain. Tackle by Byrd.

Rypien, incomplete pass.

Punt.

…

…

Still there, John?

Game 5: ??? vs. Bills

I think Brandon keeps calling his fullback (Jamie Mueller) ‘Karl Mecklenburg.’ I must be drunk.

“Mecklenburg didn’t pick up the blitz there.”

Nope, Brandon is definitely confusing Jamie Mueller with Broncos linebacker, Karl Mecklenburg.

Winner: Brandon

Games 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

Things got ugly here. Brandon, desperate and whiskey-breathed, stopped closing his eyes and picked the Bills, 49ers, Packers, Eagles, and 49ers in succession. I get steamrolled. He mocks me by throwing to Jerry Rice in triple coverage. Bob Nelson sets up camp in my backfield and later roasts some marshmallows. Keith Byars scores from three yards out in the slowest developing sweep play in history.

I, on the other hand, have more turnovers than completions.

Ivy Joe Hunter, despite being in excellent condition, coughs it up twice.

Chris Warren fumbles two kickoffs.

Dave Kreig is color blind.

Winner: Brandon

Only thirty-seven games left to recap.

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Still there, readers?

I’m not one to really bash a company. Save for US Airways anyway, which has carved their own little nook in my jaded, consumerist heart. US Air and I have a mutual hatred for each other. They hike up prices and delay flights under the blanket excuse of ‘delayed,’ and I refuse to pick up my trash from the seat pocket in front of me. Admittedly, it’s a battle I’m currently losing.

Every so often, we as customers have a shitty experience. Three times a week, I have to listen to a colleague complain about her cable bill, which I suppose is slightly more tolerable than listening to her give a twenty-five minute run down of last night’s Big Brother episode. Yeah, apparently Big Brother is still on the air.

Point is: customer complaints are as boring as another person’s fantasy team or a Sunday mass during Ordinary Time. (Seriously, let’s skip the foreplay and jump ahead to Advent already). So perhaps I’m taking a leap of faith here, subjecting you to a post about Verizon and two hundred dollars.

Some background. It my was my girlfriend’s birthday two weeks ago, and I bought her a gift card to Verizon.

Nice gift, Dave. Was Target fresh out of oven mitts?

Since you must know, I thought this gift card was a terrific gesture, one of my best ever actually. She desperately wanted an iPhone, and I, her heroic knight, provided her with the unattainable gift of practicality - and that is not something you can put a price on. (But if I had to ballpark it, I would say practicality costs around $200). I am not a Verizon customer; therefore, an iPhone would cost me the retail price of $600. For my girlfriend, however; a Verizon customer due for an upgrade, the iPhone would cost her $200.

Well, she thought she was due for an upgrade. We went to the Verizon store in Boston last Saturday, and were told the grim news. She wasn’t eligible for an upgrade until February. Ok, so the gift card blew up in my face. No, big deal. I’ll return the gift card Monday, cook her dinner, buy her some sneakers, DVR the Rachel Zoe Project. Yes We Can Still Salvage This.

Monday

I return to the Verizon store. Explain the situation. Bring the gift card, the little red pouch it came in, and my receipt. I had paid in cash, because I didn’t want to leave a paper trail. Actually, I just wanted to use the phrase, “because I didn’t want to leave a paper trail.” I still had the receipt after all.

Associate Peter spends thirty minutes processing the refund. He works in complete silence. No big deal. I’ll just browse your vast selection of phone chargers here for a half an hour. I’m in no rush.

“I’m sorry, sir. We can’t give you a refund today. We have no money in the store.”

Wait, wh—

“The lunch time rush hasn’t hit yet. I would come back again after work.”

You don’t have even a dollar in the store?

“No, sir.”

But this phone charger here costs thirty dollars. What if I pay with two twenty dollar bills? Would I get change?

“Not today, sir.”

And this problem has never come up?

“Not with me, sir.”

I’m baffled. Every answer Peter gives me only raises three more questions. Alas, my lunch break is over. I’ll try again Tuesday after work.

Tuesday Night

I return to the Verizon store. Explain the situation. Bring the gift card, the little red pouch it came in, and my receipt. I had paid in cash, because I didn’t want to leave a paper trail. Actually, I just wanted to use the phrase, “because I didn’t want to leave a paper trail.” I still had the receipt after all.

I don’t remember this associate’s name, but I remember Peter.

“Who helped you yesterday? Asian Peter or white Peter?”

Are we really having this conversation, Verizon?

“It’s ok. You can answer.”

Um…Asian, I whisper.

Two employees work on this refund for forty-five minutes. Sure, it may seem like a long time, but consider the ambiance I’m experiencing on the house.

“Sorry, sir. There appears to be a system glitch.”

A glitch? What’s the problem?

“It looks like Peter successfully processed the refund yesterday – “

But I never got my money.

“I know that, sir. But the system is reading that you did. So we can’t process the refund because there is nothing to process. This gift card has already been voided.

So this means…

“We’re going to file a help desk ticket with the IT department. This is going to take between twenty-four and forty-eight hours.”

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Why don’t you just open the register?

“We can’t.”

You can’t open the register? Can’t you just hit a button?

“No, sir. It doesn’t work the way.”

Do you have money in the store today?

“Yes, sir.”

Well, that’s a start.

They take down my number. Promise to call me in 24 to 48 hours. Blood is boiling.

Friday Afternoon

Still no phone call. Verizon is waiting me out, stalling, lulling me to sleep with the proficiency of a Steve Trachsel start. I call the store. Explain the situation.

“Oh, you, the $200 gift card guy. We were just talking about you.”

I’m notorious.

“Let me put you on hold for a second. See what my manager came up with."

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Sixty-five minutes later, I’m still on hold. Let me say that again. SIXTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, I’m still on hold.

But Dave, why didn’t you just hang up?

Because if I hung up after ten minutes, it really wouldn’t make for a good story, would it? While on hold, I call back the store with another phone. A second phone. A different employee answers.

I’ve been on hold for sixty-five minutes on another phone.

“Sir, why don’t you hang up that phone?”

I ask the questions around here.

Why was I put on hold for over an hour?

“My manager is working on this right now. I promise. We have your cell number. I swear on my mother’s life that he will call you back tonight.”

For your mother’s sake, I hope your manager calls me tonight.

What, too much?

Friday Night

I’m at happy hour. Still no call. I do a shot of whiskey, my third of the night. I can’t say no to her. She’s persuasive, a seductive temptress with bold, beautiful brown eyes.  

“Do it, baby. Call up Verizon. Show them you’re the man of this relationship.”

Ok, whiskey. I’ll do it. For you.

I leave the bar. Call up Verizon. It’s five minutes before close. An associate answers. Poor guy never had a chance. Profanity-laced and slurred, this tirade lasts longer than a Don McLean song. I don’t let the associate speak. I’m the man in this relationship. Whiskey’s tongue dances along my ear. She whispers, feeding me line by line:

The associate from earlier swore on his mother.

It’s been a full week now.

You will not accept this.

Then something about the better business bureau. I don’t get all of it. My ear tickles.

Saturday Morning

I grab my keys. Take my girlfriend’s hand.

I don’t know how this is going to end.

“We’re out of milk,” she said, her voice trembling.

The walk to the Verizon store is a purposeful one. I rehearse my speech. Speak clearly. Be self-assure. THEY wronged YOU. Never forget that, Dave. I am a victim, sure, but a resilient one.

I walk in the store.

“The two hundred dollar guy…we’re so sorry. I know this has been a huge inconvenience for you.”

No whiskey this time. I have to fight my own battle.

Yes, it’s been a huge inconvenience.

“Our managers are working on this right now. Please wait just a second.”

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Forty-five minutes later.

Speak clearly. Be self-assure. Find your target.

Edward. Can I ask you something?

“Yes, sir?”

What if you were a Verizon employee, in Boston. You have access to your store’s cash register, your debit card, ATM card whatever. And I said you had one full week to get two hundred dollars. Could you do it?

“Well, sir, I mean it all depends on the circumstances.”

What? I just gave you the circumstances. You are a Verizon employee. In Boston. You have access to the register. You have a debit card, a credit card. Could you access two hundred dollars in one week?

“Well, I mean…it’s hard to say –“

Quit toeing the company line, Edward. Your store has my two hundred dollars. It’s been a week. I shouldn’t be here. This system glitch isn’t my problem. Either have your manager open the register or tell them to go to the ATM, and get out two hundred dollars.

Saturday Afternoon

I have my refund. The manager just returned from the ATM. Their resolution was my suggestion. I am vindicated, yes, but I don’t feel good. I don’t feel like a winner.

There are no winners in this one.

I received a really cool email last night. It’s always nice to get a compliment about the blog that:

1) Didn’t come from a family member.

2) Didn’t come from spam trying to sell me weight loss pills.

So this post goes out to Pat from Lancaster - long time listener, first time caller.

(Quick aside: I wrote two “Remember this Guy” pieces on the Fan Posts section of SB Nation’s Sixers blog, Liberty Ballers. Ron Anderson and Mark Hendrickson were the guinea pigs for this little experiment). 

Take it away, Beechy.

Name: Matt Beech

From: Oakland, CA

Clubhouse Nickname: Beechy

Nemesis: Jose Offerman

Pessimistic Quote from a Young WIBR:

Beechy has trouble keeping the ball in the yard.

Optimistic quote from a Young WIBR:

Beechy’s not afraid to challenge hitters.

For a blogger who prides himself on knowing arbitrary details about 1990’s Phillies, Beechy has evolved into my elusive white whale. My memories of guys like Sefcik and Whiten are as clear as day, two beautiful random songs that I can recite note by note. I could tell you what Mike Grace was wearing in a post-game interview after a meaningless May start.

Gray slacks, navy blue dress shirt.

Don’t bother to fact-check me.

Except for Beachy. My memory of him is fuzzy, gray, like a cute koala bear whose name, favorite food, and continent of origin I just can’t seem to remember. Not to boast, but I know just about everything there is to know about every random utility infielder and random pitcher to step out on to the Vet turf. It’s a labor of love.

And then there’s Beech: A Phillies pitcher from ’96 to ’98 with fifty-three starts to his name, a guy who should be right in my proverbial wheelhouse…and, yet, I don’t know if I’m coming or going.

Case Study A

The Phillies played the Astros, and after a disastrous top of the first inning by Beech, Whitey muttered this:

“The only thing that can save this team is Dr. Kevorkian.”

Poor Whitey thought we were still at commercial, but we were back live. I heard it. I know I did. I was playing Triple Play at the time. I was sitting in a black chair. I had on socks with a hole in the big toe. I also know it was a home game. I’m positively certain of it. Yet, the only game that fits the bill was this one – at the Astrodome. A road game.

And the quote – this beautifully crafted and fitting quote from Ashburn – there’s no evidence of it anywhere. Only from me.

Did I make this up? How could I make this line up? I’m not that clever. And my comedic timing sucks.

Case Study B

There’s a thunderstorm, and the electricity at my parents’ house is out. The Phillies are in San Diego. The game is on our battery-operated radio. Beechy just got roughed up in the early innings. I’m in my living room, lying down on a giant, oversized Notre Dame pillow which I used to wrestle with –

(Oh, I’m the loser? You’re the one reading this crap)

My mom keeps lighting candles, then blowing them out. She’s petrified of starting a house fire. Beechy is serving up batting practice. I have my flashlight pointed out the window. I can hear some rustling in the woods. I think I can see it, too. I just don’t know what ‘it,’ is. The battery of my flashlight is dying. I slap the pillow in a cross-face chicken wing. The scene is straight from an R.L. Stein novel.

But what game?

This one? Beechy battled five strong.

It couldn’t be this gem. And he struck out nine during this masterpiece. 

So what game was I thinking? The first game, a shaky five inning performance where eight hits were scattered like rain showers in southern Florida. Did little WIBR think that outing was a shellacking? I just interpreted that box score as a Gearyian effort, a game performance that was half-human, half-bulldog.

Hypothesis

It’s obvious that Matt Beech’s career has blurred the lines between myth and reality. The only thing I know for certain about Beechy’s Phillies tenure is that, in fact, I don’t know everything.

Channeling my inner www.TVmywifewatches.com, allow me one quote from Joe Gorga – he of Real Housewives of New Jersey fame:

“How much is one man supposed to take?”

This Joe character rhetorically asks this three times an episode. Receive an unsavory text message from his brother-in-law?

“How much is one man supposed to take?”

Watches his gymnast niece slip on the uneven bars?

“How much is one man supposed to take?”

Opens a bottle of wine and discovers a dry cork?

“How much is one” – hell, you get the idea. Joe wears his heart on his sleeve. A bit overdramatic, sure, but glass houses, people, glass houses.

On Saturday, I watched Notre Dame cough up another game in the waning moments. The magnitude of these choke jobs have become a weekly storyline in a decade of, let’s call a spade a spade here, well-documented mediocrity. Notre Dame isn’t just losing games right now. No, that’s not enough. The Irish have to lose with pizzazz, style. It’s a spectacle at this point. They’re like television writers trying to concoct new ways for Gilligan to screw up the rescue attempt.

What about this? This is gold! Our heroes, with victory in their grasp, turn it over five times!

“We did that on last week’s episode. And the week before that.”

*Man with glasses pulls up an Excel file*

“Although, we pulled huge ratings last week. Nielsen gave us a 4.8. Too bad it wasn’t Sweeps Week.”

Have we considered scripting an ill-advised interception in the end zone, when our heroes are only down a point…and had like the ball at let’s say…the other team’s twenty yard line?

“Been there, done that. ‘The One Where the Guys Gift Wrap a Game for Tulsa.’ Season ten, episode nine.”

Oh, shoot…um…well, what about overtime? Have we considered that?

“With all due respect, sir, the critics will kill us. That has been hashed and re-hashed. Don’t you remember Michigan St. last year? We even wrote in a fake field goal spot for that one. Don’t you remember the narration we used?

‘The play was called "Little Giants" -- and Michigan State used it to steal a victory from Notre Dame in the most audacious way imaginable.’ 

Besides, we also did very special overtime episodes with UConn, Pitt, and Navy.”

My memory must be going…there was an episode where Notre Dame lost to Navy?

*Heavy-set man eats his coffee*

“Yep. Twice.”

*Red-faced man throws his visor on the ground*

“FUCKING THREE TIMES ACTUALLY!”

Why are you screaming?

“I DON’T FUCKING KNOW! BUT I’M EXCITED FOR THIS FUCKING OPPORTUNITY!”

Like all Notre Dame supporters, I hope for this “Return to Glory,” a liberally used phrase among fans just treading water until Davie Willingham Weis Kelly (?) brings the Irish back to national prominence. But at this point, I may as well be waiting for Santa Claus or the Eater Bunny. I have no idea if Notre Dame will ever win a national championship again, or, hell, ever just play for another one. But in the mean time, I wait. It’s all I can do. I’ve waited fifteen years already. What’s another twenty? Or fifty? Or a hundred? I just need to stay busy I guess. Keep myself distracted. I’m sure there are still a few Rocket Ismail clips I haven’t seen.

Here’s hoping anyway.

I open up this Word Document at 1:06 A.M. I promised myself that I won’t edit this. It’s not a great idea, this drunk blogging, but it’s raw, pure. I’m like filming a cutting-edge documentary here - something that will be aired on Current TV, because that’s what liberals in Boston do: They make documentaries, watch Current TV, and grow facial hair. They also watch a lot of soccer.

I am not wearing pants right now. Or a shirt. My apartment has an air conditioner, but it’s the loudest thing ever and doesn’t actually cool anything.  I used to be pretty strong. I say ‘used to’ because I currently have a good look at myself in just my boxer briefs. Also, I bought nine boxes from Ace Hardware today and had to stop multiple times to get a better grip. I don’t think it was so much that the boxes were heavy, but awkward really. I kinda want to do some push-ups. But I also want to check www.whatifsports.com and see if my imaginary baseball team won. I am fighting the urge to do both.

I have nothing to write now.  I just turned off my air conditioner, because I couldn’t hear myself think, but now I am sweating and have no thoughts. This AC will be the death of me. My friends and I used to joke that there was nothing more embarrassing than “Death by turtle” in Super Mario Brothers. We used to imagine the authorities having to tell Mario’s parents that his son was killed by a slow moving turtle who only moved right to left.  My greatest memory from high school was beating Super Mario 3 at my friend Greg’s shore house. He was a good guy, Greg that is, but then went to Nicaragua, denounced capitalism, bought a pair of snake-skin sandals, and never talked to me again. My friends think it stemmed from an incident in my high school cafeteria. He asked me for one of my Tastycakes (one of those Peanut Butter Cakes). I said no. I still feel bad about it. I just didn’t have a lunch that day, that’s all. A few minutes later, he told everyone his uncle was sick and for all intent and purposes, vanished. I’m not on Facebook – religious reasons – but if I was, I would try and find him. Apologize for the Tastycake incident, maybe find out his address and send him a box. Goodwill I suppose. His favorite band used to be Godsmack. Fuck, though, we’ve all made mistakes, ya know? I’m going to end this now. This is my worst post ever.

An email from my brother:

“I was looking around your bedroom at mom and dad’s today and I found an autographed photo of Johnny Davis.”

I’m not going to sell low on that.

Some housekeeping news.

Whereisbenrivera.com is shutting its doors in October. I’ll get into this more in the upcoming weeks, but I confirmed with GoDaddy two weeks ago that I will not be renewing my host and domain. I just don’t have the time needed to update this blog daily (last week was the exception, not the norm), and really, that’s the only way for a baby blog like WIBR to carve a niche on the internet. Out of sight, out of mind as they say.

I would love to align myself with an established site (Hi, are you an owner of an established site? I’m Dave!), which would be like the blogging equivalent of Scott Norton joining the nWo. So if you stumbled upon this blog looking for information on Ben Rivera (Sorry, still no word from him), and are searching for a free, freelance writer who loves to use fabricated dialogue:

Wait, what do you mean?

“This, dummy.”

Then email me here: whereisbenrivera@gmail.com.

So with that being said, I hope to deliver some cutting edge material in WIBR’s waning days. And by ‘cutting edge,’ I mean more Scott Norton jokes.