Stuck in the Hot Hot Heat Vol. 3: There's a reason it ends in "double hockey sticks"

If you need any indication of how boring the second half of my summer was, I would refer you to C-SPAN. However, since I would never subject anyone to that kind of pain, I will describe the summer dullness in one, singular action: I decided to sacrifice a week of my freedom to be a counselor at a Christian Hockey Camp. Now on paper, this week was shaping up to be seven days of heaven. You've got Christianity (good), Hockey (great), and camp (awesome). However, it just didn't add up. What was heaven for the kids ended up being hell for me. Or as the nine-year-olds said, "h-e-double hockey sticks".
Every boy and girl attending the camp that week was randomly assigned to a group of six or seven, led by a single counselor. Members of the staff saw the random groupings as an appointment from God. Apparently, I had a lot of sins to pay for (and still do). Six eleven-year-olds were placed in my possesion for an entire week. I know what you're thinking, and I too thought to myself, "how can anything go wrong?" But as I quickly discovered, there is only so much you can expect from a group of pre-teens. Did I expect them to always listen? No. But when they are put in a situation where they are forced to be in constant contact with one another, can't they just be nice to one another? Is that too much to ask?
Needless to say, members of my group got along like Israelites and Hezbullah, or Scots and everyone else. My group was divided between four little punks and two little nerds. Still, the four young hellions touched my heart. They were the kind of adorable little misfits that you wanted to pat on the head and kick in the ass every now and again. Either way, these boys were four red-blooded, All-American kids, even the one from Ontario. On the opposite end of the coolness spectrum was Kevin and Cody. God bless them. The moment I saw them unpack their Pokemon cards and Yu-Gi-Oh pillows (five words I never thought I would have to use on this site), I knew these boys were in trouble. And the icing on this anthrax-laced cake, this week was the first time they were ever away from home. Perfect.
In retrospect, Cody wasn't that bad. The worse he could ever do was stare at me with his soulless eyes in a futile attempt to get a rise out of me. But then, there was Kevin. Now I now I am going to sound harsh in my description of this child of God, but believe, he (and his parents) have it coming. He was six going on eleven. He seemed so sheltered that I think Jake Gyllenhaal in Bubble Boy had it better. To insult this kid wasn't like hitting the broad side of a barn. It was like hitting the broad side of the Pentagon, or Great Wall of China. So this group of four, like a pack of wild dogs, pounched on Kevin every chance that they could. And to make matters worse, Kevin would try to defend himself after every jab, making him even more sceptable to put-downs. However, some funny moments did arise when Kevin had his mental lapses. For instance, when Kevin would break a rule, like wander away from the group, I would say would always say in my incredulous tone of voice, "Kevin, you're wandering away from the group". And without fail, Kevin would respond with an annoyed "I know". He just couldn't make that cognitive leap into realizing that he was doing something wrong. But as much as Kevin unintentionally induced headaches, he did tug at my heart-strings. As I stated earlier, this week represented the first time he was ever away from home, so obviously, he would fall apart and act like he watching the end of "Patch Adams" every time he thought of his family. Now of course, I fell to pieces whenever he cried. Anyone would. But even you sympathized with him the most, he opened himself to even more insults. Whenever he cried, he would stick out his tongue like he had tabasco sauce on it. Every night, I prayed that Kevin would one day survive high school.
From what I've said of Kevin and Cody, imagine what eleven-year-olds would do to them? Now, try eleven-year-old hockey players. I know that kids will poke and jab at one another from time to time, but there came a point in the week where I had to separate Kevin and Cody from the rest of the group. Seeing them being taunted just became harder for me than it did for them. But, surprisingly enough, everyone seemed happier because of it, proving that segregation (whether it be in the United States or South Africa) wasn't just enforced by the ignorant, but by pussies like me who just want to avoid conflict.
However, on Thursday night, those four little hoodlums realized that I had less to punish them with, now that week was almost over. Therefore, they tested their luck against me. They started throwing things at Kevin and Cody, and the insults only worsened. At that time, there was only one way I could lay the hammer down on them, and that was taking away their snack bar privileges. When it came time for the four boys to drown in a sea of artificial sugar, I pulled a Lee Corso and said "not so fast my friends". The boys squirmed and pleaded with me to give them go to the snack bar (it was two-for-one day, and they were treating pushpops like crack at this point in the week). I wasn't going to budge, but then, a miraculous thing happened. And if you ever needed proof that God exists, here it is. A little voice cried out "C'mon, Greg. Let them go." It was Kevin. For all the crap he took from these guys earlier in the week, he was still willing to stick you for them. My heart just melted. I let the boys go to the snack bar, and in gratitude for Kevin's courtesy, the boys gave Kevin some of their candy. Perfect.
Now, this would be a fitting end to any story. But no. In a Spielbergian twist (that's movie-geek lingo for not knowing how to end a story. See AI and Munich for proof) , Kevin's father visited Thursday night. Yes, Kevin's homesickness became so bad that he invited his father down from New Hampshire to attend a Chapel service. Interestingly enough, his father was more than willing to comply. I started to smell fish (which, along with the pungent scent of hockey equipement, isn't too good for the nose). And since it was Thursday night, Kevin's father witnessed some of the razing his son had suffered. On Friday, when parents had to choose whether or not to pick up their degenerate kids, he became so outraged by this taunting, he went straight to the camp director and called this a case of "bullying". Now, I know I've made this situation seem bad, but I'm guessing that this week was worse for me than it was for Kevin. Still, the father demanded that the boys apologize to his son and that their parents know that their children were "bullies". "Hmm," I said to myself "let's analyze the situation.":

A sheltered child being picked on by kids who don't know any better / A parent overstating the severity of a situation.

Unlike Kevin, it didn't take me long to put two and two together. As it turns out, the camp director and I agreed that the father was exaggerating the situation just a tad, and every boy in my group said they had a wonderful week. In fact, one of the boys ended up apologizing to Kevin anyway. So, each one of my boys left camp with smiles on their faces and God in their hearts.
But that was far from the best part of the week. Did you forget this was a Christian Hockey Camp? I was blessed enough to be an on-ice instructor during this week, and after every ice session, my fellow counselors and I would play around after all the kids left the ice. At one point, while I was dicking around the puck, I went one on one with the goalie coach. Now, he had full padding on and was a little rickety in the joints, but he could still get around to stop a puck or two. So, while I was contemplating what to do on this breakaway, I put my faith in God's miraculous ways. As I came in on net, I shifted to my back hand, then twisted. When the puck was on my stick and completly behind my back, I flicked my wrists. The goalie went down for the save. The puck came in, deflected off of the inside of his pad, through the five-hole, and into the net. In a display of skill that I usually don't, or in some cases, never have, I shot the puck from behind my back to score a goal. For me, it was further confirmation that God exists, and He is good.

Here's to one year...

On August 9th, 2005, a completely insignificant event on this planet Earth brought a tiny sense purpose to one young man. My website (again, I will not use that other, uglier word) has been rolling along for exactly one year now. Reading over some of my older articles, I was surprised that I actually made myself laugh, so you dickholes should be thankful that I provided you with a year's worth of entertainment. I don't quite know how to celebrate, so I'll down a six-pack of Heineken in reverence. And yes, I prefer to drink an imported beer, and admitting it already makes me more of a man than most people. And now, as I raise another bottle, now that I am completely sauced, I can say, "Here's to another year, you...eh, I got nothing. Thanks for reading."

Stuck in the Hot Hot Heat Vol. 2: Surviving Gay Day

The Irish have March 17th, trees have April 27th, and now gay people have June 26th. It may not be official, but to me, the last Monday of every June will forever be known as Gay Day. Now, as a teenage male, I usually get bombarded with homosexuality on a daily basis, but on this day, it seemed particularly unbearable. The progressive half of my mind took a beating for twelve hours. And if you don't believe the sudden barrage of gayness against heterosexuals, just look at the alleged cases of heterophobia in Provincetown, Massachusetts. The overwhelming gay population taunts the town's straight citizens as "breeders" and attacked the people who signed a petition in favor of banning gay marriage. Now, it's not as if I'm in favor of constitutionally prohibiting civil liberties, but publishing the names on a petition that you oppose is probably a little bit lower than where gay activists intend to aim.
Anyway, the assault began when I boarded the subway for Boston and picked up a copy of the world's biggest piece of gay propaganda in circulation: the Metro. This miniature version of the Boston Globe usually has some kind of gay news to report just to catch the reader's eye. I took the bait when I spotted an article about the gay pride parade that took place in San Francisco on the previous day. Like most news stories, I dismissed it and continued reading. However, when I reached the Arts section, things started to get a little weird, or in this case, queer. Half of the section (which usually occupies a quarter of the entire paper) was devoted to gay literature, including reviews and (brace yourselves) pictures. Now I typically don't judge a book by its cover, but some of these novels bordered on pornographic and just begged for an obscenity charge. Like the idiot that I am, I proceeded to read some of the reviews. Although only one book was pictured, its title and synopsis have since been seared into my brain forever. Surf 'N Turf was the name, and the plot went a little something like this:

The story is basically the movie Mean Girls transported to a beach-side community, where two rival gay factions, the "queenies" and the "meanies", do battle.

Yes, I too fell out of my chair doubled over in laughter when I read that, even on the disgusting, subway car floor.
When I got off the train, the first vehicle that passed on the street was from the Duck Tours, which are a common site on Boston streets. I have no idea how to classify their amphibious vehicles, so I just call them "automo-boats". Again, seeing these automo-boats is an ordinary occurence, but this particular one had a great big rainbow pattern on its side. Now, my mind doesn't usually rush to certain conclusions, but today just had to be special.
At this point, you may be asking why this gayness has surrounded on me on this particular day. You may also be asking why I was on the subway. I'll respond to both of those questions with a single answer: I went into town for a book signing of The Alphabet of Manliness, authored by none other than the great Maddox. For those of you who do not know Maddox, do us all a favor and punch yourself in the nuts (or ovaries as the case may be). He is an incredibly talented (and vulgar) satirical writer, the creator of The Best Page in the Universe, and one of my biggest influences. Internet goers have visited his site over 150 million times. The Alphabet of Manliness is his first venture into the publishing world, and it is so manly, even the sentences don't have periods. Because of the overwhelming masculinity that surrounds this book, the gay powers that be needed to compensate, lest I become too manly. However, a closer examination of the book's cover may suggest a different interpretation of manliness, maybe one closer to the themes I had seen all day, but that's for you to decide.
Since Maddox is such a huge celebrity (very famous), a large crowd gathered to meet the legend at his book signing. This resulted in a large line that twisted and turned its way throughout the Borders Book Store. Unfortunately, the line, coincidentally enough, found itself in the gay and lesbian literature section, where none other than Surf 'N Turf was waiting to be purchased. However, my favorite title was the Lesbian Vampire Chronicles which, interestingly enough, was classified as African-American literature.
Now, having a book signed by their idol is satifactory for most people. I, however, took the opportunity to display my comedic prowess to one of the funniest men alive. On his site, Maddox stated that he would be doing a free breast signing at the Borders Book Store in Boston, and anyone without breasts should bring a copy and a signed apology for not having tits. I took things a step further. Rather than an apology, I spent several hours on a rendering of myself with boobs for Maddox to sign. It looked a little something like this:

I am now acquinted with two celebrities, Maddox, and actor Bob Saenz, who is currently helping me develop my screenwriting ability via message board.
Afterwards, I ate a big ol' burger at Burger King and returned home with my heterosexuality in tact. I proved it to myself by getting roaring chubby after watching a straight porn between a man and a woman, the way God intended porn to be viewed.

*Note: I do not actually watch pornography. It is a dangerously addictive activity and can potentially lead to ED, so don't do it. Your dick will thank me.