So Derek Jeter is apparently going to “lay low” for maybe 10-years, because being in the limelight is

No ego involved here. None at all.

No ego involved here. None at all.

“not his style.” This from a guy who went on a season long schmoozefest, receiving gifts and accolades from every single opponent after announcing his retirement a full year before he actually retired.

But no, Jeets is way to classy to take some  lowly position just to keep his face out there. No way.

On a related note, what are the odds he’s back in baseball in some capacity within 2-years? I’m guessing a TV talking asshat. After all, how could a guy as narcissistic as he just disappear?

Does. Not. Compute.

Whaddaya think?

I’ve been hearing lately is how Dirk Nowitzki, LeBron James and a bunch of other NBA players

Old School, baby.

Old School, baby.

want the season shortened. Seems it makes them too tired and they can’t perform to their abilities. Oh, and the long season leads to injuries!

This made me wonder if, God forbid, today’s NBA players have become softer. Surely not, amirite?

Anyway, on a whim I instructed my crack staff here at Shoe: Untied to research the matter. Here’s what they found:

How many times have these current players played in every game of the 82-game season?

Carmelo Anthony – 1

Dirk Nowitzki – 1

Dwyane Wade – 0

LeBron James – 0

How many times did these former players play every game of the 82-game season?

John Stockton – 13

Karl Malone – 10

Michael Jordan – 9

Damn it Stockton! Don’t you know how much better you’d been if you’d sat out a few games? Malone, why didn’t you take more days off? Jordan, if you’d only rested more you might have been an all-time great, a Hall of Famer even! Hell, these guys may have even been on The Dream Team!

Wait . . .

Never mind.



SOURCE – After getting vanquished in a beer pong match, a group of sore losers opened fire early yesterday at a Texas house party, wounding a female reveler, police report. According to the Liberty County Sherriff’s Office, investigators are searching for two men who allegedly shot up the party after losing at the beer pong table. Deputies identified the suspects as Decoris “Red” Rucker, 24, and Chris “Crazy Chris” Hackett. Rucker and Hackett were among a group of five men who became upset after losing a backyard beer pong game. The men, witnesses said, ran from the home while firing wildly at partygoers. An 18-year-old woman was shot in the thigh during the gunfire.

Listen, if you decide to accept a beer pong challenge from two guys named “Red” Rucker and “Crazy” Chris Hackett while in Texas you deserve to be shot. Folks down there will cap you for losing a game of Candyland, let alone a game that involves booze like beer pong.

So save yourself some money and man hours Liberty County Sherriff’s Office, and let my boys Red and Crazy Chris remain free. The real criminals are the idiots who played them.


Michael at his peak.



Discovery – Piotr Naskrecki was taking a nighttime walk in a rainforest in Guyana, when he heard rustling as if something were creeping underfoot. When he turned on his flashlight, he expected to see a small mammal, such as a possum or a rat. “When I turned on the light, I couldn’t quite understand what I was seeing,” said Naskrecki, an entomologist and photographer at Harvard University’s Museum of Comparative Zoology. A moment later, he realized he was looking not at a brown, furry mammal, but an enormous, puppy-size spider. Known as the South American Goliath Birdeater (Theraphosa blondi), the colossal arachnid is the world’s largest spider, according to Guinness World Records. Its leg span can reach up to a foot (30 centimeters), or about the size of “a child’s forearm,” with a body the size of “a large fist,” Naskrecki told Live Science. And the spider can weigh more than 6 oz. (170 grams) — about as much as a young puppy, the scientist wrote on his blog.

Nothing to see here, folks. No worries. Just a spider with the leg span “the size of a child’s forearm.” Hell, I may even get one as a pet. Let it run around the house like a puppy. I’m sure the ladies would love it when it ran up their leg for a nice snuggle.

Anyway, check out that South American Goliath Birdeater up there. Good God Almighty.

Note: The subject of this story, Mrs. Gladys Richie, passed away this morning. She would have turned 94 in November. As you will find out by reading my story, she was a very, very special teacher and a wonderful person. Her impact on those who knew her is immeasurable. 

I first understood how much a teacher could change a life when I was in 6th Grade. My teacher, Mrs. Richie, was the first teacher to really, really push me to do better. Up to that point I’d always gotten A’s and B’s and was perfectly happy with that. Mrs. Richie, however, wasn’t. I distinctly remember getting a 92 or something on a test early in the year and she was on me like stink on a skunk:

Mrs. R: “That’s a terrible score for you.”

Me: “Huh? I got an A-.”

Mrs. R: “You should never have missed two questions over this material. You’re better than that.”

Me: “Uh, OK.”

And so forth and so on for the rest of the year. She pushed me to always do my best, to never accept less than what I was capable of doing.

Mrs. Richie was also the first teacher I ever had that showed me school could actually be fun. We played games, we went outside for class, stuff like that. In addition, she never, ever talked down to us. Believe me, a 6th Grader appreciates that. Bottom line, for the first time I actually enjoyed going to school, and learning.

The thing with Mrs. Richie was, you were learning and never even realized it. Her classes never, ever felt like work to me. What a gift that is for a teacher to possess, right?

And because I remembered it so fondly, I carried some of her style with me when I became a teacher.

But on to the point of my story.

On the last day of class, Mrs. Richie took me aside for a talk. She told me how proud she was of me, and she told me to appreciate every day of school because they’d go by quickly. Then she told me the years were going to go by just like that. And as she said “that” she clapped right in my face.

I was sort of startled and said thanks, but in reality I had no clue what she was talking about. Hey, I was 12. But . . .

Fast forward 6-years to my Graduation Day. I was standing in line with my fellow graduates, and suddenly, in front of me, was Mrs. Richie. She looked at me, clapped right in my face and said this:

“See? I told you.”

At that moment I knew exactly what she meant, and it had in fact seemed like the first clap had occurred an instant ago.

Damn, was she right.

I know the lesson she was teaching me, that life is precious and should be appreciated every single day. It’s a lesson we all forget much too often, but it’s one Mrs. Richie always seemed to remember.

And I learned something else that day. Teaching takes patience, because some great lessons can take 6-years to learn.

Thank you Mrs. Richie. May you rest in peace.

Top 10 All-Time Classic.

Damn it, Sparky!

Damn it, Sparky!

So I’m in Chillicothe the other day doing some shopping, and as I pulled into the lot of a local mall I notice that I’ve parked 2-cars down from a jeep nearly identical to the one I drive. Same year, same color, same bug guard, same rain guards. As I parked it crossed my mind that I’d probably come back out and attempt to get in the wrong jeep, being the moron that I am. However, I quickly forgot about it as I walked into a store.

Probably 10-minutes later (I’m a quick shopper – real quick) as I was exiting the store I saw a woman walking towards the two jeeps and carrying some bags of clothes or something. For some reason I stopped and watched, because I had a weird feeling she was going to do what I thought I’d do – pick the wrong vehicle.

Sure enough, since my jeep was closer to the store she walked right towards it. She hit her remote keyless entry, assumed she’d unlocked her jeep, and grabbed the door handle.

I don’t know if she saw or heard the Fury of the Spark first. From my vantage point I saw a blurry, enraged Canine from Hell slam against the window as my loyal companion threw himself toward the intruder. The windows were cracked, so I also heard a snarling, growling sound that Spark usually reserves only for winged-creatures, hobos, and the occasional lady in a power suit.

As I hung back and watched, the lady screeched and stumbled backwards into the side of a 1999 Dodge Ram Pickup, dropping a bag in the process. And of this I can’t be certain, but I’m 77% sure she may have wet her pants.

For a few seconds she stared at the jeep, uncertain how an obviously rabies-infested Jack Russell Terrier had broken into her vehicle and attempted to rip her throat out. In the meantime Spark was running from the front seats to the rear window, raising hell all the while, growling and yapping and looking for a way out in order to assassinate this hideous monster who was trying to break into his dad’s jeep.

Somehow, someway, the woman got herself together enough to look into my jeep (albeit from a distance of approximately 10-feet) and ascertain that she had indeed chosen the wrong car in which to enter. Trust me when I say she took a wide berth when going around my vehicle to her own.

As for me, I stayed well back until she was long gone. When I walked to my jeep, however, Sparky barked and let me know all was well as he looked out the window in the direction of the parting would-be car thief.

What can I say? Sparky has my back. And also my property.

Good dog, Sparky. Good dog.

I can only pray he never figures out how to operate the door handles.

You know, back when MTV was a music channel.

And much less fun.

And educational.

You how people get so famous they think they can wear anything and get away with it? Tom Brady has reached that point. After last night’s game he said to himself, “You know, tonight I think I’ll wear my dad’s old bathrobe, a t-shirt, khaki pants, and I won’t comb my hair. People will love it.” And he did.

On a related note, I saw a homeless guy dressed exactly like this in downtown Louisville last night.



Badass hawk.

To this day I can’t recall who came up with the idea. It very well could have been yours truly, although God knows there are plenty of other likely and worthy suspects.

It was the last day of the Fall Festival of Leaves, the annual event that still draws thousands to our little town of Bainbridge, Ohio. People come in droves to the festival to witness the beautiful fall foilage, visit the craft booths, ride the carnival rides, eat Funnel Cakes and to watch the Grand Finale of the festival – The Fall Festival of Leaves Parade. But let’s digress a bit . . .

Back when I was in my early 20s, I was part of a group that, every year in late May, took part in the Annual Innertube Regatta. The Regatta basically gave a group of my friends, guys and girls alike, a reason to float down Paint Creek on innertubes while enjoying adult beverages and having a good time. We’d float down the creek with a dog or three along for the fun, stopping at a cliff to do some diving and having a picnic under a tree along the bank. We always had an innertube or two holding a net that kept our brews chilled.

Good times.

But back to my story. A few days before the Festival, a bunch of us fellow Innertube Regattians were sitting around bored out of our skulls. At some point someone came up with an idea – let’s crash the parade.

Yep. You read that right.

You really have to understand our mindset at the time, but as incredible as it seems this seemed like the best idea ever. And so it began. After some brainstorming (and I use the brain part loosely), it was decided we’d use the Innertube Regatta as our theme. The night before the parade we put our “float” together. It basically consisted of three stories of scaffolding sitting on a hay wagon. We threw on some boards to sit, stand and lay on, added some innertubes and streamers, and were good to go. Oh, and we also had a big INNERTUBE REGATTA sign that was falling off before we got a third of the way through. And did I mention the beer tubs, one on each level of the float? Hey, the men and women of the Innertube Regatta Renegade Float couldn’t go thirsty.

Oh, and we were to be pulled by a buddy’s old Model T. What could possibly go wrong?

The beautiful part of our plan was this – we constructed our float in a barn right off the parade line-up street. All we had to do was open the barn door and enter the fray. We even had a guy, Big Tom, who could stop the parade whilst we slipped into the mix. Trust me when I say that if anybody could actually stop a parade, it was Tom.

As the parade start drew nigh, 20-odd guys and girls awaited inside the barn, perched on our rolling monstrosity. We were ready. Soon the signal was given and the barn door opened. The renegade float was about to enter the parade and into festival infamy.

As we pulled out Tom simply hopped off our float, walked into the middle of the parade line-up, and raised his hand to stop whatever parade participant was next. It may have been the One Man Band, I can’t be sure. In any event, when Tom raised his hand to stop you, you stopped.

We were in.

We soon turned the corner onto Main Street and passed the main parade stand, the one where the dignitaries sit and the guy announces what’s coming next. In this case there was no description for what was coming next. One, because we weren’t on the line-up card, and two, because we were indescribable. What was coming next was a float to end all floats, a towering, wobbly construction that, for a second, didn’t appear capable of squeezing under the first stop light.

As we waved and acknowledged the cheers from the crowd, I remember the announcer frantically looking through his notes, trying to figure out who the hell we were. I think the Tipp City Mum Festival Queen or somebody was supposed to be next so he was, shall we say, perplexed.

I also remember watching politely clapping people as their faces turned slowly from smiles, then to confusion, and eventually to disgust.

To the horror of festival organizers, we rolled on.

Of course, at some point somebody thought it would be a good idea to throw a beer to the crowd, which led to many beers being thrown to the crowd. This was wrong on many levels, not the least of which being that it was probably against the law. At the time, watching two 9-year old kids scramble over a beer was funny. Today? Not so much.

Imagine being one of our friends, attending the parade, and looking up to see the Renegade Float rolling down the street. What would you do? Why, join us of course. And join they did, people occasionally breaking from the sidewalk to run and climb up the wobbly sides and onto our Rolling Hay Wagon Pulled by a Model T Scaffolding Float from Hell.

We continued unimpeded, because really, once you’re in a parade how are they going to stop you? I suppose they could have tried to redirect us down an alley or something but they were all too stunned to act. Besides, we didn’t really look like the type of group you’d want to attempt to stop. Long story short we made it through to the delight of a few and the outrage of many.

The Renegade Float had run its course successfully (well, depending on your viewpoint) and into festival lore.

I have no recollection of returning the float to the barn. I think we may have jumped off and scattered at some point, who knows. And I recall no ramifications resulting from our buffoonery, as after all, no laws were broken. You know, if you ignore the whole tossing of beer to random people thing. Bottom line? I don’t remember anybody getting into any sort of trouble at all.

If it happened today I’m sure folks would be beside themselves with indignation, demanding our heads on a platter. We would probably be charged with inducing panic or some sort of terrorist act. Alas, it was a simpler time.

There once existed a picture of the Renegade Float, undoubtedly taken by an innocent bystander who happened to be in the right place at the right time. The photo showed smiling faces, long hair blowing in the wind, beers and heads held high, unadulterated joy on our faces. It was majestic, really.

I wonder if that photo is still around, hiding in somebody’s closet at the bottom of an old box. If so I sort of hope it stays there.

No doubt the image in my memory is much better.

Originally published on October 19th, 2012.

From the man that brought you Beatle Pancakes!

What’s lower than negative times infinity?

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I’m pretty sure I saw a nose amongst the debris.

BRISTOL, CT (WFSB)A hotel employee pressed charges against a man for what police called imagesZWS66AM1“aggressive mopping.” Officers in Bristol said they were called to the Double Tree Hotel on Century Drive just before 6:30 p.m. on Monday. John Thornton, 30, of Southington, was arrested for the incident. Police said Thornton became unruly at the hotel and grabbed a mop from a 27-year-old female employee. They said he then began to mop the floor, but became more aggressive and mopped over the employee’s shoes several times.The woman allegedly told Thornton to stop, but he turned his back on her and forcibly backed her into a corner.

Listen, if anyone ever needed arrested it was John Thornton of Southington, Connecticut. You know why? Because nothing says insane like “aggressive mopping.” Bro just grabbed a mop and went to town like a madman, mopping over anything in his path. Simply horrifying. Then, when he was told to stop, he aggressively reverse-mopped some lady right into a corner.

Diabolical mopper. Just diabolical.

Note: I don’t know this for a fact but I picture John Thornton laughing maniacally while singing show tunes as he aggressively mopped, because that would be perfect.

Awesome night that I was watching live. Sonny and Cher were both on the show, and although Cher was scheduled to sing Sonny was not. It had been years since they’d performed together. Classic moment in music history.


A 56-year old man is still in Foothills Hospital after being both mauled by a grizzly bear and accidentally shot by his hunting partner in the Fernie area.

Around 9 a.m. MST Sunday, conservation officers and emergency officials responded to a call about a man who was attacked by a bear while hunting near Fernie, British Columbia. They found a man who was seriously injured.

“During the attack, the victim’s hunting partner shot at the bear, killing the bear,” said a statement emailed by David Karn of B.C. Ministry of Environment.

The man, identified by a family friend as a Fernie resident, was also shot during the altercation.

“STARS responded to the Fernie area around 9:23 a.m. to transport a 56-year old male who had been mauled by a bear and shot while another person attempted to neutralize the animal,” said STARS spokesman David Fairbanks.

First off, nothing ever good happens outside of Fernie, British Columbia, amirite? Fernie is bad news, people.

Anyway, tough day for this guy, huh? First you’re attacked by a grizzly bear, and just when you think your day can’t get any worse you’re shot by your so-called “friend.”

These guys have to be the worst hunters of all-time, right? First the bear gets the jump on them and then one guy shoots the other. They’re the Keystone Cops of the hunting world.

And what are the odds this guy shot his buddy on purpose? He probably harbored a grudge against the guy for years and saw this as a golden opportunity:

“Officers, I was trying to save my best friend from the grizzly. Total accident. Not even kidding. I swear. Plus I’m a really bad shot.” 

You know, I always feel badly for the animal in these situations. They’re just hanging out in the woods doing what they do, some humans show up with guns to screw with them, the animals attack and ends up paying the ultimate price in a fight that wasn’t fair from the get-go. It’s not right, folks. Not right I tell ya.

And why when a bear attacks is it always called a “mauling”? Do only bears maul? Raccoons never maul. They just attack. I’d like to see a guy mauled by a cow. Now that would be entertaining.

On a related note, I always love it when the bullfighter gets gored by the bull. That makes me happy. I shall now go search up some bullfighter maulings on The Goggle so I’ll feel better.

I’m out.

MjAxMy0wZDNlZDAwNTNkYTkzMjE5I’ve heard the following under several different circumstances over the past few weeks, usually regarding the Jets and their quarterback situation:

“Well, if the Jets are playing for the future they’ll stick with Geno Smith. If they want to win now they’ll start Michael Vick.” – Random former player/sports announcer/talking head/asshat analyst

After much thought and retrospection, I have the following question for the morons who utter this statement:


I’ll answer that for you. Nobody. Everyone wants to win now.

Humor me and try this little experiment, just for kicks. Walk up to any player, coach, fan or random 5-year old and ask them the following – Hey, do you want to win now? Or would you rather wait a couple of years?

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Good grief.


You can’t make this stuff up . . .

A pet parrot that spoke with a British accent when it disappeared from its home four years ago 86345has been reunited with its owner – and the bird now speaks Spanish. The reunion was brought about by a Southern California veterinarian who mistook Nigel, an African gray parrot, for her own missing bird.

Teresa Micco tracked Nigel’s microchip to Darren Chick, a Briton who lives in Torrance. He said his bird went missing four years earlier.

Little is known about Nigel’s whereabouts the past four years, but Chick says the bird’s British accent is gone, and it now chatters in Spanish.

Chick says last week’s reunion brought tears of joy to his eyes – despite the fact that Nigel bit him when he first tried to pick him up.

Boy, that’s some nerve from Nigel here, huh? Dude just walks out on Darren Chick, apparently vacations in Spain for 4-years, parties with DiCaprio, learns a little Spanish, comes home, then as his owner cries tears of joy he bites the hell out of him.

That’s cold, Nigel. Cold indeed.

On a related note, word is there’s a little senorita parrot somewhere in Marseille with a shattered heart. Damn you, Nigel.

That’s a lot of work.

J-u-s-t a little short, but he stuck the landing. So to speak.

Tossing a lioness like it ain’t no thing.