Fried-ay: Women’s Soccer, Hot Dog Eating Contests, and Fireworks SUCK…
Guys, guys, GUYS!!! It’s officially Friday, which means it’s Fried-ay, which means it’s time for me to mail it in until Sunday afternoon where I’ll try to work up the energy to address my future but inevitably fail with flying colors. Until then though, it’s pleated golf shorts, chewing tobacco, and the This Is: Shania Twain playlist on Spotify.
For those unfamiliar with Fried-ay, allow me to explain…
In life, isotopes shift, climates change, and Al Gores gore; however, the sanctity of Fried-ay perseveres like an irruption of crested Eurasian songbirds evacuating the nautical frontiers of Scandinavia to procure the succulent juniper berries coating the hillocks of Northern Ireland’s most temperate regions.
In other words, it’s a weekly blog installment where I vomit an onslaught of arbitrary, often misinformed theories on anything from our criminal justice system to Taco Bell’s unwavering lack of menu diversity. Let’s get into it…
Last Sunday, the US Women’s team beat the brakes off Holland to win the World Cup and I must admit I flat-out enjoy watching the women’s game more than the men’s. I mean, obviously there’s a significant drop-off in regard to skill but—as a casual fan whose soccer knowledge exclusively correlates to the amount of FIFA I’m playing at the time—I could care less about the intricacies of the sport. Simply put, I just want to see more scoring opportunities and less rolling around on the ground. And from what I watched over the last month, that’s what I got.
Not to mention, the US Women’s team is an ABSOLUTE WAGON. Not only did they curb stomp the field, but they did it in the cockiest fashion ever. Just pouring in 30 goals on Taiwan before throat fucking England and shoving the entire island of Great Britain’s nose in it.
Even before the tournament started, that purple haired chick declared her team’s “not going to the fucking White House,” which prompted Overlord Trump and every right-winger with wi-fi access to call her out for counting chickens before they hatched. How’d they respond? By burying the most goals in tournament history and twerking France into the God damn Quantum Realm. It honestly reminded me of that Mike Tyson run in the late ’80s where he just kicked the living shit out of everyone without even breaking a sweat. These chicks just hopped off the bus and PUMMELED teams…
When push comes to shove, July 4th ranks pretty high on my holiday draft board but, due to work, I had a relatively quiet day this year. I donned my finest cargo shorts, drilled a week’s recommended intake of sodium, and reasserted my dominance in Cornhole/Spikeball at a family friend’s house. Turns out they had this saltwater pool (next level, “fuck you” type stuff) across from a private beach; and when I say “private,” I’m basically just referring to an area of sand with slightly less people than the glorified mosh pit everyone pays $40 to park near.
So I get there and, as is tradition, proceed to deny the inaugural onslaught of sunscreen offers. Every Summer you can set your watch to me disregarding my Irish heritage and refusing skin protection, only to look like burnt rubber the next morning. I don’t know why I do it either, but I want to say it’s an ego thing. For some reason, there’s a considerable part of me that’s low-key convinced I’m stronger than the sun. Like, if the sun and I squared off outside some dive bar in South Boston, I’m confident I wouldn’t end up stiff as a board, sucking wind on the WorldStar message boards. Don’t sleep on conviction…
After a couple ill-advised trips to the keg, we tossed on the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest because, in America, we inhale saturated fat for sport. For the next ten minutes, we watched as twenty federationally sanctioned morons muscled down troughs of uncured beef in 85-degree heat. I argue it’s our country’s lowest annual moment.
I mean, imagine having the following conversation on the way out the door:
Poor Woman: “Honey, where are you going?”
Ludicrous Human Being: “Oh, I’m just heading out to woof down 70+ boiled sausages in front of an audience of drunk sociopaths on ESPN2.”
How do you look at yourself in the mirror after that? Just disgraceful behavior, but I digress… After migrating to the beach, obligatory conversation ensued. For the record, there are a few things New Englanders love more than misinformed shark discussion. Every year, the USA Network starts spraying out rebroadcasts of Jaws and suddenly everyone with access to the 5 o’clock news is a closet elasmobranchologist.
For context, picture a bunch of bloated Massholes sweating out Natty Lights on a sandbar and recklessly belting out things like “Yeah dood, I guess they spotted a couple bull shahhhks near Scituate. Due to the tide frequency, those cocksuckahhhs won’t come down here though.”
Like okay dude, then why even bring it up? That’s like getting on a flight and reassuring the cabin there’s little chance anyone smuggled a pipe bomb onto the tarmac due to the increased security measures. Maybe I’m just overly deferential, but I enter most situations confident I won’t tragically die and I’d like to preserve that frame of mind.
Last Note: Fireworks are more overrated than 3D movies and guacamole combined. I get it’s tradition but I’m not compromising sleep so I can watch things explode for 45 minutes while the guy next to me incorrectly predicts “Here comes the finale!” five times before everything concludes.
When it comes down to it, the only entertaining aspect of a public pyrotechnic display is the dick measuring contest that erupts between all the middle-aged guys on the shore who brought their own ammo. Dad hopped in the Tacoma and dropped a couple stacks in New Hampshire last weekend and he’ll be DAMNED if he doesn’t prove it…
– Joey Boats (@joey_boats)