Vote Colby for Pope!

Pope Benedict XVI is stepping down as leader of the Catholic Church. What we’ve got here, ladies and gentlemen, is an ancient organization in dire need of a strapping young buck to guide it through the perils of the modern world. I can’t think of a strappinger young buck than yours truly, although I might be in trouble if Tim Tebow decides to run against me despite the fact that I look better in the hat. Ever wanted to see a pontiff ghost ride the popemobile? How about an Easter mass involving several Waterboy quotes? Want to upgrade the church wine to church Jack Daniels? Vote Colby for Pope!

When I’m in charge of the Holy See, I’ll finally be able to put some weight behind these new commandments I found written in crayon on the back of a Fallout Boy CD I got at a garage sale. Try these on for size:

  • Thou shalt not speaketh whilst riding public transportationeth.
  • Thou shalt stop seeing Jesus in thine toast. Dude hath better things to doeth than decorating thine victuals.
  • Thou shalt not order kamikaze shots lest thine are a pussy.
  • Thou shalt always remember to hollah “we want prenup.”
  • Thou shalt know what thou plans to order before thou gets in line.
  • Thou shalt not deprive others of ample Dannon Fruit on the Bottom variety.
  • Thou shalt honor Wednesday as Prince Spaghetti Day.
  • Thou shalt not poop in the shower.
  • But the sink is ok.
  • Thou shalt not trust bloggers.

I just hope the locals don’t rise up and kill me. I don’t trust any of my friends to properly lead my disciples to Utah.


Shit I Won’t Miss When the World Ends on Friday

Part of me really hopes the world doesn’t end on Friday. The apocalypse would be just like that time Fox cancelled Firefly; I was mostly entertained, and the show’s cancellation meant I had to find something else to watch, except there really wasn’t any other good science fiction on the television at the time. I was screwed.

Then there’s part of me that wouldn’t mind if it all ended in a burst of Mayan fire. The world is a ridiculous, illogical, stupid place–kind of like your average piece of Microsoft software. Maybe a reboot would fix it.

I’ve decided that the best option is somewhere in the middle: the world almost comes to an end on Friday, but a plucky crew of heroes saves it at the last minute. That way we all get a little excitement and the History Channel gets to launch seventeen new shows about ancient prophecies that might someday come true. Plus, if the apocalypse is averted, there’s a chance it won’t be stopped before the following things get wiped out.

  • Baby carriages. I’ve got no problem with babies; I was one once, after all, so hating them would be a bit hypocritical. Their primary mode of transportation, however, could use some work. Modern baby carriages are both built and operated like Hummers; they’re ridiculously big and complicated for what they do, and the people in control of them use them as battering rams for powering their way through surrounding traffic. This Friday, I hope all the baby carriages get hit by asteroids. After all the babies have safely escaped, of course.
  • Quarterbacks named Manning. These people live to make my football life miserable. Granted, it’s a lot of fun to laugh at the silly faces they make when they lose, but I wouldn’t be particularly disappointed if they all got eaten by zombies on Friday.
  • Grocery stores. There has got to be a better way to distribute food than piling it all up in narrow aisles clogged with old ladies trying to choose which can of beans they want. Don’t even get me started on the produce section. Those plastic bags on the roll? The devil incarnate. I wouldn’t shed a single tear if every grocery store was swallowed up by a fiery rupture in the earth’s crust.
  • Rewards cards. I swear I’ve got more of these than I have teeth–and I live in Massachusetts, not the south, so that’s saying something. Can I please just have the sales price without having my purchases tracked and my wallet stuffed with ugly plastic, please? I’d be very happy if all of the rewards cards on the planet spontaneously combusted sometime on Friday.

Dear Santa: The Great Grocery Grumble

Dear Santa,

You know who deserves some big ol’ lumps of coal in their organic stockings this year? The dirty hippies in charge of Whole Foods. You see, Mr. Kringle, those assholes bought out Johnny’s Food Master and closed the location closest to my residence.

Now I have to walk to the Shaw’s in Porter Square to do my grocery shopping. This inevitably leads to me attempting to hand the cashier my Stop and Shop card because who the fuck ever knows if they’re in a Shaw’s or a Stop and Shop, and then said cashier always gives me the stink eye and gets snippy. Those judgmental jerks deserve coal too.

The closure of Johnny’s Food Master has also severely limited my choices in Dannon Fruit on the Bottom yogurt. Shaw’s only has strawberry and blueberry; there is nary a raspberry, mixed berry, peach, or boysenberry to be found. I don’t even know what the fuck a boysenberry is, but it’s damn good in yogurt. I think it might be some kind of grape. This is why Johnny was the Food Master and this Shaw fellow is undeserving of any similar title of grocer nobility.

Closing Johnny’s Food Master, sir, is about as naughty as it gets.

Merry Christmas,

P.S. I wouldn’t mind getting some of that boysenberry Fruit on the Bottom in my stocking. Keep it in mind.

Cliff Diving, Fiscally

The so-called fiscal cliff looms at the end of the year like…well, like a hundred foot high precipice. Said cliff is the dumb ass term coined by dumb ass news people to describe the dangerous alliance of revoked tax cuts, healthcare cost increases, and spending reductions in important assistance programs that’ll go into effect at the end of this year if the government doesn’t do anything about it. Congress, in this situation, is Kevin Bacon running headlong toward the edge as a subterranean graboid bares down on him. Will he throw the dynamite and get out of the way in time so he can bang the geologist and get himself in National Geographic?

Perhaps there’s a question even more pertinent than the fate of the heroic Val: why the fuck does Congress wait for the absolute last fucking minute to deal with everything? Suspense works great for cheesy science fiction movies, but it’s fucking annoying when it comes to fiscal policy.

This fiscal cliff thing reminds me of bowling. For the sake of this analogy, candlepin, duckpin, tenpin, and even tiny plastic kiddie pin will work just fine as long as there’s alcohol involved. Just as tax cuts can stimulate business, it’s scientifically proven that drinking makes people bowl better–but there’s a sudden point where additional alcohol suddenly leads to strings filled with gutter balls, stumbling releases, and complaints from neighboring lanes. Both fiscal cliffs and alco-bowling cliffs can be seen coming from a long fucking way away; neither is a surprise, unless you’re a fucking idiot.

Is it too much to ask that the people who dictate fiscal policy at least pretend that they aren’t fucking idiots? Maybe they’ll understand if we take them all bowling. The first few gin and tonics are on me.

Scott Colby’s Officially Recommended Halloween Costumes, 2012 Edition

It’s almost Halloween, bitches! This time of year is really a trick-or-treat situation. On the one hand, all of the bars are about to be filled with people in funny/skanky/creative/okay-mostly-just-skanky costumes, and watching Slutty Raggedy Ann, Slutty Strawberry Shortcake, and Fat Dude Dressed as Tinkerbell make the walk of shame home the next morning is probably my favorite part of being an American. On the other hand, the day after Halloween marks the annual beginning of the ridiculous deluge of Christmas shit that makes me want to take a hair dryer to Frosty.

Luckily, I’m here to make your walk of shame extra special. If you’re going to stumble bleary-eyed through Davis Square in an inappropriate costume at 11 am, you might as well do it in style. Stand out in the bedraggled crowd with the following costume suggestions:

  •  Staple a bunch of flip flops to your long underwear, print out a shit ton of pictures of Jessica Biel and Natalie Portman and stick them in a binder, and head out dressed as Mitt Romney. Bonus points for adding a dash of Just for Men: A Touch of Gray to complete your look.
  • Dress yourself completely in white. Cover your face, hair, arms, legs, feet, and hands. Everything. Then choose a random stranger out on the town–preferably someone dressed as a sheik or a camel or Princess Jasmine from Alladin–and circle that individual all night at an inconspicuous distance with your arms outstretched straight to either side. Everyone will love your predator drone costume!
  • Put on a leather jacket and a bald skull cap. Stand around outside the bar and yell at the bouncers “I was a Navy SEAL and a governor! Why won’t you let me in?” until the cops come, then lead said cops on a merry chase around the block. Congratulations, you’re Conspiracy Theory with Jesse Ventura.
  • Sweatpants Boner Guy is always a hit on public transportation or in a crowded elevator. Just remember that erections that last longer than four hours need to be checked out by a doctor–although, that right there might make for an interesting couples costume…
  • I’ve seen a lot of pictures of people dressed as Walt White or Jesse Pinkman, but people who really  want to show their Breaking Bad cred dress as the RV, complete with a steady plume of noxious yellow gas. And sometimes, if their friends want to go elsewhere, they stay behind and make choking noises until someone jumps them with a hand-cranked generator.

What do all of these options have in common? Nothing. I’m an idiot.

How to Fix Weddings

I’ve been to a handful of nuptials in my time, and I’ve always thought there was something missing. But what? There’s always a groom, a bride, a bunch of people affiliated with one or both who get to stand in front, a few people annoyed that they didn’t get to stand in front, a cake, awkward dancing made even more awkward by people used to drunken dancing who don’t want to make it too obvious that they’re professionals at being drunk and at dancing in front of a mixed crowd, and an open bar (because if there isn’t, at least for a little while, fuck that). Despite all of those components, something still seems amiss.

A recent tequila binge helped me sort it all out. The problem with modern weddings is that the entrances are boring. The bride always comes out to the same song. The groom comes out to some other sappy number that does nothing to establish his awesomeness. Neither gets spotlights, fireworks, or a crowd of rednecks singing along with his or her entrance theme. Needless to say, if you’re about to get married, you really ought to take a closer look at the WWE and how its competitors travel to the ring. Below are a few examples to get you lovebirds started.

Shawn Michaels, Wrestlemania XXV

Few superstars knew how to make an entrance like the Heartbreak Kid, the Show Stopper, Mr. Wrestlemania…the one-and-only Shawn Michaels. This one is useful for two reasons: number one, it proves you’re devout, that you’re a saintly, good little church boy who certainly would never have done anything naughty with the white clad bride to be; number two, it immediately establishes you as the sexiest boy in the room, which could be useful if there’s an ex or a forever-alone-admirer of your bride-to-be lurking anywhere nearby.

The Funkasaurus


Foregoing the church for a secular display of affection on the beach, in your parents’ backyard, or in the local VFW? To hell with ceremony; show all those gathered here today that your ass knows how to get down and nip any potential objections in the bud by pretending to be a man-dinosaur from Planet Funk. Just be careful as to your choice of Funkadactyls; boogie-ing down to the alter flanked by the biggest skunks in town will surely put a damper on the honeymoon.

The Bushwhackers


Do your future in-laws think you’re nuts? Sure they do. Don’t waste your time trying to change their opinion when you can discourage regular visits with a bit of help from Down Under! They didn’t know a headlock from a body scissors, but Luke and Butch were always a shit ton of fun. Sadly, I couldn’t find a video that included the best part of their entrance: licking the heads of random fans in the front row. That’s not a joke. Lick Aunt Sally’s head on your way to the altar and there’s no way in fuck you’ll have to deal with unwanted Christmas fruitcake ever again.

Hollywood Hogan

Are you a bad motherfucker with bad motherfucking friends? Get yourself some black shades and a limo and fire up the Hendrix. Bonus points if you can get Dennis Rodman to walk down the aisle with you. By the Force, I miss the days when evil Hogan was cool.


Here’s one for the ladies and a few brave men (although I once saw a man try this; it didn’t end well for poor Santino). I’m not sure what you’d be doing the splits under in a traditional church wedding. Jesus’s outstretched arms? Maybe slide in between the preacher’s legs? I’m going to hell. Hopefully Melina will be there and she’ll want to be friends.

And, if I ever get tricked into marriage by a beautiful heiress with a giant boat who doesn’t want a pre-nup…I’m doing this, regardless of how much that blinking jacket costs:

Keeping Up With New York

According to the New York City Mayor’s Office, Staten Island may soon be the home of the world’s largest ferris wheel. As a resident of the Boston area with an inferiority complex who’s had too much to drink, I’m outraged. We’ve lost the baseball arms race to the hated Yankees. Peyton Manning’s goofy little brother fucked the Patriots over in the Superbowl twice. Boston can’t afford to fall behind in the all-important giant carnival shit market. Failing to keep up could mean an end to our way of life; New York could soon annex all of New England and turn it into an extension of Brooklyn, forcing us all to drink PBR, listen to shitty music, and bow down to Jay-Z.

Fuck that. I look like a total douche in square glasses and a cardigan, and that’s saying something considering how douchy I all ready look. This is a future we must prevent at all costs. Boston needs to install at least one of the following:

  • The world’s largest bumper cars. No, the minivan cabs in Faneuil Hall at 2 am on Friday and Saturday nights don’t count. Neither does the Red Line when its drivers are busy texting. I want bumper cars big enough to hold entire football teams. There’s room in Somerville if they fill in the crater where Good Times used to be–and putting a large fair ride on the former site of the Boston area’s greatest drunken carnival would just be fitting.
  • The world’s largest ring toss. I suppose we can use the tips of the Zakum Bridge as targets. Think of all the jobs the world’s largest wooden ring factory is going to create.
  • The world’s largest hall of mirrors. Just slap that shit on the walls of the Ted Williams tunnel and we’re good to go. I debated suggesting that we convert that section of the Big Dig into the world’s largest tunnel of love, but the mood in that hole just isn’t quite right.
  • The world’s largest frog launch game. You know what would finalize the seaport area’s transformation into the new Innovation District? A catapult that hurls giant rubber frogs at the harbor islands.
  • The world’s largest Matterhorn. This could replace 93 south and offer us all a much easier way to get to Cape Cod Friday after work.

Get on this shit pronto, Mayor Menino. What’s that, Your Honor? Well, mabahabahbaamabagah to you too! Asshole.

Shit I Don’t Understand, September 2012

I don’t understand why bars that print a new receipt after every order do so after the first drink order of a customer reading a dinner menu. If I were a bartender at such a place, having to do that would drive me nuts.

I don’t understand people who say they like Mitt Romney. How do you actually like that dufus? He’s that out-of-touch rich guy people suffer through friendship with just so they can use his pool. He’s the poster boy for how much the two-party system sucks; no way he’d be in the position he’s in with a bigger field. There’s nothing wrong with saying you’re voting for Mitt because you don’t like Obama. Just admit it. Hell, I’ve never actually voted for a politician I actually liked, but Jesse Ventura hasn’t run for president yet.

In related news, I don’t understand why I miss Herman Cain so much. Oh, wait…it must be my love of pizza.

I don’t understand NFL coaches that challenge matters of field position early in a game. Losing such a challenge almost always means not having the challenge necessary to review an important fourth quarter play. I feel the same way about teams that call timeout to avoid delay of game penalties on third and long. What’s five more yards added to a down you’re probably not going to convert? Save the timeout for something important, dumbass!

I don’t understand junkmail. Surely the assholes behind that scourge know that I’ve never responded to a single piece. The amount of car insurance offers I receive is asinine, especially considering that I don’t drive. And that Scott Brown advertisement I got today? I disowned my beloved Doug Flutie because I saw him playing the drums at that twat waffle’s victory celebration. Someone needs to update their demographic information.

A Novel Idea for Sports Ownership

Few things have so thoroughly infected modern American life quite like sports. Sundays between September and February should be considered national holidays. Certain areas of the country consider a clean sweatshirt boldly declaring one’s allegiance to the local squad essential formal wear. Our language is rife with metaphorical sports references. Fans live and die with the fates of their teams. Like it or not, sports is important.

Sports is also a business. Although many fans treat their loyalty to their teams as something akin to religion, the teams themselves are focused on one thing and one thing only: making money. It just so happens that putting together a successful team that wins more often than not is a great way to make money.

A rash of ridiculous labor disputes has brought that focus on business into the limelight. The NBA lost almost 20 games due to a lockout last season. The NFL is using replacement officials of questionable caliber due to issues with their usual referees. And the NHL, a league that just recently pulled itself out of the years self-inflicted hell caused by their previous labor problem, just locked out its players. Watching billionaires clash with millionaires over a few million bucks is, quite frankly, disgusting, and such pettiness makes me wonder why the hell I should give a crap about (or any of my hard-earned cash to) these shitheads.

At the risk of sounding like just another fuck-the-wealthy crackpot, the problem lies solely on the out-of-touch rich douche bags that own our sports franchises. I’m all for paying people their due for services rendered, but what, really, do most franchise owners actually contribute to their products? Competent owners who exert positive influences upon their organizations are a rare breed. For every Mark Cuban or George Steinbrenner, there’s an entire league of James Dolans, Jeffrey Lorias, and Mike Browns. Many of these guys either inherited either their teams or the money required to purchase them. What the hell do they do to justify the ridiculous amounts of money they’re making? In a lot of cases, jack fucking shit.

“But Scott Colby!” you say. “These are the guys financing your teams!” To a point, yes. Guess who has to foot the bill for the stadiums and the infrastructure required to get fans to them? Taxpayers. You and me. We don’t like it, but we do it because we can’t imagine life without our favorite teams or because we believe that hosting a team is economically beneficial. They’ve got us bent over the sink with our pants down and we’re just begging for more.

The Green Bay Packers, the only community-owned professional sports franchise in the major American leagues, have it almost right, but they don’t go far enough. Put our sports teams under the umbrella of our local governments. Set a percentage of profit that goes back into improving the teams and their facilities, and set a percentage of profit that goes to useful things like schools, roads, and public transportation. Make sports franchises nonprofit entities that truly exist only to better the communities that host them.

And before all you capitalists jump down my throat and burn me to death atop a pile of Marx’s writings, let me say this: I’m not anti-capitalism, I’m anti-douche-bag. I’m sick of buying into an ideal and seeing it ruined by some twit’s greed.