Archive for November, 2015

I can smell the coffee from here.






First, Trent Dilfer brings us these words of wisdom . . .

[Be sure and unmute the vines]

Followed by Tony Siragusa drops this shocker yesterday . . .

Just so I have this straight, in the NFL you cannot lose and still win, and losses are not really good. Got it. Thanks for the insight, fellas.


Talking to Your Kids About the SEC Myth

Posted: November 30, 2015 in Humor, Sports





Hey, we’re in good company.


Note to ESPN, sports radio and other talking heads:Bengals

It’s BENgals. Just like BEN Hur, BEN Franklin, BENgay, BENeficial, BEEN there, done that, and I’ve BEEN watching morons mispronounce BENgals.

It’s not Bangles. That’s an 80’s band. It’s not Bingles. That’s a tasty snack treat. For the love of God, some of these dumbasses sound like a little kid trying to pronounce Pringles, but with a B.

It’s BENgals. Get it right idiots.

That is all. Thank you and WHO-DEY!

PS- I made that meme myself. You’re welcome.

I’m sure cockroaches will be fine though.


From their “Holding On, Holding Out” EP.


Well done, Ryder.


Somebody from Denmark just sent me this. Apparently she read about my fear of clowns on this site and thought this would be funny. Not funny Laerke Aagard. Not funny at all.



Seriously, it ended all Michigan trips, at least for me.

As usual, I have no idea who came up with the idea. All I know for certain is that, on a cold late November Friday night in 1979, I was on my way to Ann Arbor for The Game with 9 of my friends. In addition to me it was Andy, Tom, Joe, Lefty, Scott, Jay, a bartender (I’ll explain later), Joe’s college buddy, and two other guys whose names I can’t recall.

Our transportation? An old school bus owned by my uncle, heated by a wood stove and outfitted with bunk beds and, on that weekend, a fully stocked bar and a keg or four.

Oh, in case you’re curious, the wood stove pipe stuck out the side of the bus. We were quite a sight rambling up I-71 with smoke billowing out the side of the bus.

I might mention that at some point we thought it would be a good idea to have a bartender make the trip with us. Our solution? Stop at the old Big Wheel Saloon in Chillicothe, send a couple of guys inside, and convince the bartender on duty to hop on board.

Amazingly, he did.

We were off, and somehow we managed to avoid getting pulled over on the way. I mean, that wood smoke had to be a bitch for anyone following us north on the freeway.

Our first misadventure happened when my old friend Scott, God rest his soul, decided he wanted to pick up an old friend along the way. Scott had lived in Michigan so we drove the bus into some suburbs somewhere in the middle of the night, looking for his buddy’s house. After cruising the neighborhood for awhile, we came upon the house we were looking for. Scott and my cousin Joe hopped off the bus and walked right in. After all, Scott knew the family and knew where his friend’s room was, so why not? Hey, it was a simpler time.

As we watched from the bus, we saw a light come on upstairs. Perfect, he must be home. The next thing we knew, though, the front door flew open and out came Scott and Joe, running like bats out of hell. They jumped on the bus, screaming, “Wrong house! WRONG HOUSE! Get the hell out of here!

Trust me, if you’ve never been on an old school bus careening through the Ann Arbor suburbs at 3 in the morning fleeing the authorities, well, you haven’t lived.

Oh, and so you know, turns out it was the right house, but the people had moved. Scott’s old buddy’s room was now inhabited by somebody else, who’d just had the living bejesus scared out of them.


After escaping that little misunderstanding, we somehow arrived outside The Big House unscathed. It was in the pre-dawn hours so most of us decided to get some shut-eye before the real fun commenced.

Note that I said “most of us.”

After passing out falling asleep for less than an hour, we were awakened by a pounding on the backdoor of our Party on Wheels.

‘Twas the cops. Seems there had been a break-in at the stadium and the suspects had been seen climbing over the fence and running back in our direction.

Hey, it couldn’t have been us, and one of us told the cops that. Hell, we were minding our own business, resting up for the big game. The policeman’s response was priceless:

Cop, pointing to my cousin’s hands: “Then why are that guy’s hands all cut to hell?”

I glanced over, and sure enough, his hands were all cut to hell. Guess a couple of the Ohio boys had decided a visit to a closed-tight Michigan Stadium was in order.


Seems one of them had got hung-up in the barbed-wire during his hasty exit.


God knows how, but we sweet-talked the Po-Po out of some jail time and gathered ourselves before realizing it was daylight again. Oh well, might as well begin our pre-game festivities.

We somehow ended up in an Ann Arbor bar where we were shooting some pool and mocking enjoying the company of the Wolverine fans. We soon returned to our table only to find that some meatheads had stolen it. One of my friends politely pointed out that they were at our table, and mentioned that the drinks on the table were, in fact, ours. One of the Michigan Men promptly grabbed one of the beers, took a look, and smugly stated, “I don’t see your name on it.


You had to know our group, but trust me when I say this was not a good idea, even if we were outnumbered roughly 393 to 10. Trouble was afoot. The next thing I knew one of our guys (Andy) had grabbed a Michigan lettermen’s jacket that had been draped over the back of one of the chairs and began walking away.

Michigan Man: “Hey! Where the hell are you going with my jacket?”

Andy, holding up said jacket and twirling it around slowly: “I don’t see your name on it.


After what seemed like a 23-second staredown and the complete silencing of a crowded bar, the cat in Maize and Blue grinned and said, “Here, take your seats. Let us buy you a beer.”

Crisis, and bar fight, averted.

I’d like to change directions for just a second to point out something I just recalled, and that is the fact that my friend Tom and I were, inexpicably, wearing cowboy hats. Don’t ask, as I have no answer.

But back to my story. Now that we’d survived the pre-game there was the matter of actually getting tickets to the game. Did I mention we’d come this far and gone through this much without actually having tickets? Because we did not. As luck would have it, everyone scored tickets well before the game except yours truly. Try as I might I couldn’t find one. Everyone else had gone inside The Big House and I was left standing outside the gate. Finally, minutes before game time and right before I was about to go to a bar and watch the game behind enemy lines, a guy standing in a small group of students gave me a holler, asking if I needed a ticket. Hell yeah. I ended up paying $70 for the ticket, which was pretty steep at the time but hey, it was The Game.

As I entered the stadium, for some reason I glanced back at the group I’d bought the ticket from and they were laughing. As I walked on in I looked back again and noticed they just stopped and stared at me.


It wasn’t until later that I’d understand why.

The game was amazing. It was the game where Todd Bell picked up a punt blocked by Jim Laughlin late in the game and scored, giving the Buckeyes an 18-15 victory.

Our group had tickets that were spread all over the stadium, and cousin Lefty had scored a seat smack dab in the middle of the Michigan student section. I’ll never forget looking across the stadium after the blocked punt and seeing thousands of Wolverine fans standing still, stunned, looking like a photograph. And right in the middle, one man, leaping up and down, spinning and pointing at them, screaming deliriously with unbridled joy.

A special moment, burned in my mind forever.

And if you ever see an old video of that famous blocked punt, you might just see a red-haired maniac leap the wall at the end of the end zone and meet Todd Bell there. And his name might be Andy Anderson.

Again, some moments can never be duplicated.

After the game we took the bus through campus, basically taunting Michigan fans while somehow avoiding death. Cousin Joe rode on the hood trash-talking everyone in sight, and I distinctly recall one of us reaching out the bus window and snatching the hat off an enemy’s head, laughing maniacally as the poor schmuck chased the bus, jumping up and down as his hat was held just out of reach. How our bus wasn’t turned over and burned I’ll never know.

Good times.

But back to that ticket. It was only later on the way home, when I was thinking about the guy I bought my ticket from and the group standing there. How they seemed so smug, laughing as I went to the gate, then just staring open-mouthed as I walked on in.

Only then did something make me look at my ticket stub. It read:

Wisconsin vs Michigan, November 3rd, 1979. A full 2-weeks before the OSU-Michigan game. Seriously. This is the actual ticket:

They’d offered me a useless ticket for $70.00, and I’d foolishly taken the bait. Lucky for me, Mr. Ticket Taker wasn’t very observant.

Hence the laughs as I handed the man the ticket to get in, and the shocked stares when the ticket worked.

Joke’s on you, assholes.

Did I mention we gassed it back to the Ohio State campus in time for the famous riots that night? The one complete with cops on horseback, riot gear, tear gas, and hundreds of arrests? Yeah, we were right in the middle of that action as well. Again, all ten of us made it through unscathed.

Well, mostly. I guess it depends on how you define “unscathed.” It was a long weekend.

To recap, we survived a home invasion, a stadium break-in, a bar fight, a Buckeye victory, a suicidal drive through Michigan campus, a High Street riot, and a 9-hour round trip drive in a rolling bus/bar/powder keg.

And as for me, I got into the game on a bogus ticket.

Now, can you understand why I never made another trip to Ann Arbor for the game? I’m 51% sure we’re allowed back so it’s not that.

It’s just that, like I said, some things can’t be duplicated.

PS – After we returned home and were cleaning out the bus, somebody opened a cabinet above the beds in back. It was full of an assortment of guns. Everything from deer rifles to shotguns. Thank God those cops didn’t conduct a search.



Pretty much.


Here’s a lady taking a vegetable steamer from a baby! Good times!

Here’s a Walmart employee in a brawl with a customer! Woot!

Here’s a brouhaha down in a Texas Walmart!

Kentucky Mall Brawl! Probably fighting over some cigarettes that were on sale.

One of the funniest scenes in television history.

Sierra Exif JPEG

Pure evil.

I have a confession to make. The crime has been hidden for 50-years, and it’s time for my soul to be cleansed and my conscience to be cleared.

‘Twas I who killed The Turken.

Here’s the story . . .

When I was a kid I had an aunt and uncle who lived across the street. I loved them both, and my sisters and I were over there a lot. When I was around 8 or 9 they acquired a turken. A turken is the monstrosity in the picture right there. It is also 50% chicken, 50% turkey and 100% abomination of nature.

Note: I can’t wait for my first threatening email from an insane turken lover. I’m hoping it’s similar to the ones I received from the angry clown, angry bowling mom or angry LeBron James.

Why do I feel this strongly about turkens, you ask? Because my uncle had the meanest, nastiest, most vile turken who ever lived. Why he bought this creature remains a mystery to this day, but this turken tarnished my opinions of turkens forever. I don’t recall the turken’s name, perhaps because I’ve blocked it from my memory forever. Anyway, this turken would attack at the mere sight of an innocent (sort of) 9-year old boy. He had talons of steel and a beak like a razor, and he would come charging at me like a Turken from Hell. I swear to God that beast would be all wings, beak and claws, just flapping and clucking as it came at me. He got me several times over a period of a couple months, as well as several other neighborhood kids who had the misfortune of crossing its wicked path.

And then one day it happened. I was playing baseball in the front yard with my friend Ted, and a foul ball went over the roof of my uncle’s house and into the backyard. I wasn’t sure if the evil fowl was back there, but I had to get that ball.

With much trepidation I crept around the corner of the house to take a peek.

Nothing. The yard was empty. And at the back of the yard lay my ball. Slowly, tentatively, may I say courageously, I advanced onward.

Finally, as quietly as possible I picked up my baseball, then turned to make my retreat.

And there he was.

Yes, standing between me and my route to safety was the modern day Pterodactyl from the Bottomless Pit, The Fowl from The Abyss, The Gargoyle Come to Life.

And he was glaring at me with his black, soulless eyes.

What to do? The creature horrified me. If I ran he was sure to track me down like a winged raptor, rip a vein out of my neck and kill me. If I stood my ground he would attack as he had numerous times before.

I decided to fight.

I took a deep breath and made my charge, hoping to take him by surprise. I was screaming like a crazed banshee, fully expecting him to run for his life.

No such luck.

Instead, the nefarious freak of nature charged towards me.

I froze. When I did the turken performed a heinous leap of death, right at me. He clawed, he snapped, he flapped, and he pecked. I was wearing shorts, which in retrospect was a bad idea if you’re expecting a possible confrontation with a murderous turken.

That bird clawed the hell out of me. Miraculously I escaped eyeballs intact, but pride in tatters.

This time, though, the turken had gone too far.

I was pissed.


Not mine, but almost identical.

I went into our garage and fired up my mini-bike. It was one of those real little ones that dad had bought used for me somewhere, and that baby could roll, lemme tell ya.

I hopped on, revenge on my mind and vengeance in my soul.

I sprayed gravel as I tore out of my driveway and across the road, intent on exterminating the beast once and for all. As I barreled around the corner of the house I spotted him strutting away, obviously enjoying his latest conquest.

Not so fast, horrendous cock.

Charging full-throttle, I went right for him. It gave me some satisfaction that the last thing that turken ever saw was yours truly. For just before impact, the turken turned his frightful head and our eyes met.

To be certain he was vanquished I made a return pass, feathers still raining down from the heavens. I stopped and looked down, half expecting the turken to rise up and attempt a last-ditch lunge at my throat.

But alas, he was dead. The Reign of the Evil Turken was over.

Rot in hell, evil turken. Rot in hell.

Later that evening, my uncle and my dad were talking in our driveway.  At one point my uncle said, “Yeah, looks like a dog got hold of the turken. Found him dead in the backyard.”

Meanwhile, somewhere nearby a young boy knelt, smiling contentedly as he plucked feathers from his mini-bike spokes.

What just happened there?


76tfrr3ssdBefore I begin, let me give a quick heads-up to all my young male readers out there:

Women can be persuasive. They can be very convincing when they want something from you. They have special, secret ways that are apparently passed down from generation to generation, grandmothers to mothers to daughters. They cast spells. They are sorceresses and enchantresses of the highest order. Oh, and it also helps to not look them directly in the eye. So be forewarned, young men, and keep your guard up and your head on a swivel, lest you end up in a place such as I last night.

So  I let my girlfriend talk me into venturing out into the masses Thursday night, just a quick in-and-out at The Walmart. Although apprehensive, I eventually agreed. Hey, I figured what the hell? What could it hurt? It’s not even Black Friday yet, how bad could it be?

The answer, of course, is really really bad.

The first sign of trouble was the parking lot. It was full. After scoring a spot, however, we approached the main entrance. The second sign of trouble was the twenty-something male that ran past us screaming, “Don’t go in there man! DON’T GO IN THERE!”

And then, I felt it before I saw it. The panic and anxiety emanating from the store was palpable, actually oozing from the entrance.

As we walked into the store, I saw a scene that could only be described as total and utter chaos. Middle-aged women snarling and snapping at each other, grown men weeping, old men in obvious catatonic states, and frightened children in various stages of shock.

It was a scene from a horror movie. Cries of anguish everywhere, people sweating, wild-eyed shoppers attempting to grab that hot deal on the last pair of Ladies Micro-Fleece Sleep Pants, which I presume are pajamas.

Immediately sensing impending doom, or at the very least being crushed by a 300-pound Vinton Countian bent on grabbing that last Barbie Dreamhouse, we made an executive decision. Let’s vamoose. Scram. Hightail it out of there. Run for our lives.

As we did, from the corner of my eye I saw a Walmart stocker stealthily crawling into the relative safety of a Nickelodeon Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Storage Bin.

In aisle 11, women were having a 3-way Tug of War over a George Foreman 5-Serving Removable Plate Grill.

Over near the pharmacy, a lady in her upper 80’s dropped a much-younger counterpart with a vicious atomic elbow.

Although it can’t be confirmed, there were reports of a woman being beaten with a Magic Bullet Express Blender over in Home Appliances.

It was a scene these eyes shall never forget, because well, some things simply cannot be unseen. The degradation, the greed, the overindulgence, the . . . smell.

It was too much for me.

As I staggered out into the night and breathed in the fresh night air, I could only count my blessings that I’d survived the mayhem that was Black Friday Except It Was Actually Still Thursday.

Imprinted upon my brain is a vision of a young father I’d seen as I was making my escape. Our eyes met, albeit ever so briefly, and they haunt me still. I believe I saw his hand reach out to me, but alas, I could not turn back.

I wonder still if he made it out alive, or if he’s still in there, with his wife, searching for that hard to find Fisher-Price Superstar Step ‘N Play Piano for his 2-year old.

I guess I’ll never know.

God bless her.


A 1,400-year-old Ginkgo tree in China has recently drawn thousands of people from all over the country. Golden leaves have been falling on the ground since mid-November, turning the temple’s ground into a yellow ocean. The ancient tree grows next to the Gu Guanyin Buddhist Temple in the Zhongnan Mountains and is a perfect celebration of autumn. Awesome.

The Ginkgo tree, also known as the Maidenhair, is sometimes referred to as a “living fossil” because, despite all the drastic climate changes, it has remained unchanged for more than 200 million years. It is a living link to the times when the dinosaurs ruled the earth. Amazing really. Enjoy the photos.

Powerful indeed.


Due to the high demand for quality blogging, there are only a few times during the year 111111that the crack staff here at Shoe: Untied are given the day off and allowed to leave their Worldwide Blogging Command Post. Those days are Christmas, New Year’s Day, Easter, Groundhog Day (big Bill Murray fans here), Chinese New Year (it’s 2/19 and I give them the day off because Sim Hao Xiang and Tan Qi Xuan are two of my top humor writers), Independence Day (our parties are legendary and have resulted in neighborhood calls to the authorities), and finally National Dog Day (der). Of course, Sparky comes to work with me every day so to him it’s no big deal.

I also give employee Ancel Pinsky the day off on Yom Kippur so he can atone and repent, because let’s just say he needs it.

We used to honor Take Your Daughters and Sons to Work Day on 4/23 but discontinued because things took an ugly turn. ‘Nuff said about that, but let’s just say that employee Hank Moffitt’s 8-year old son is an asshole and incredibly inappropriate around 13-year old girls.

And yes, we work Valentine’s Day because we believe it’s a commercially created atrocity. Plus we’re cheap and hate leaving flowers in somebody’s house to die a slow and agonizing death, so there’s that.

Anywho, enjoy your day feasting on chocolate rabbits, Peeps, and arguing with extended family members or that weird uncle who smells funny. And no worries, the crack staff here at Shoe: Untied will be right back toiling away tomorrow morning, churning out hilarious and opinionated blogs about a wide-ranging variety of topics, as well as the occasional video of somebody getting knocked out or falling down the stairs.

But for today, we hope you have a wonderful and happy Easter.

PS – Seriously, I’m firing Hank Moffitt tomorrow because of that awful kid of his. He has no idea just how black a Black Monday it shall be. I’m accepting resumes as we speak.

Really, Ohio? That’s the best we can do?