An Essay on Rhetorical Greens: Should the Bohn Salad be Tossed?

You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna pour another glass of wine and finish this god damn script. But you know what I’m gonna do before that? Procrastinate and give you a piece of my uninformed yet shockingly savvy CU Buff mind. How is this strange dichotomy possible you ask? Astute question, my cute little* Buff Fan.

It was bred into me, and no matter how many football games I ignored while shivering next to my dad at Folsom Field, I guess I absorbed something more than hot dogs and BeerSmell™, like this little tidbit: Paul McCartney knows what he’s talking about cause he’s been there, and he was pretty good at his job. Amazingly, same goes Bill McCartney.

Shocking, right? Here’s my two cents:

Seems a few of ya’ll think a bad couple seasons = bad coaching. How about we simplify things for you ladies? [Read more…]

The Friend Zone: How the Hairy Man-Baby Can Help Get You Laid

With apologies to Maruice Sendak. My cursor did this against my will.

My Dear Gentlemen,

I’m going to say something that might make your skin crawl. Ready? I had weird baby dreams last night. Considering how well you understand the crazy woman you’re either currently dating or your “bro’s” dating, this will probably be helpful, so “bear” with me. (Sorry, I just couldn’t help myself.) You still there? Good.

Context: I’m a 30-something single chick. Baby dreams should be a dead give away for that one, but in case you’re thick, which we’ve already established, I thought I’d just spell it out for you. And if you’re a single straight dude brave enough to date a 30-something, that…”Why the fuck is this woman crazy?” question has certainly crossed your mind sometime this week. So I’ll tell you about this dream. Then we’ll analyze it, pull all it’s little hairs off and give you a rare glimpse into the not-so-crazy-30-brain. Then you’re going to use this information for the good of womankind. Cool?

Okay, dream goes like this: [Read more…]

Never Use the C-word in Mixed Company

You know what I hate? Clients. Not the individual people or the companies. I hate the c-word. It’s just not a good word.

So I was wrapping up a nice week of freelance work at this little ad agency. Busy, complete with the expected learning curve where I try to figure out what the hell the Creative Director wants and he tries to figure out why the hell I suck at taking creative direction. And then you get past that and get stuff done. Headlines come out your ears, he inevitably picks the worst of the lot, and I get paid to wax poetic, or wax boring depending on what spins your buttons, and it’s a good week. Nice people, doable deadlines, creative-ish loft space with tables that kinda say, “I wish I’d gone to architecture school” and bottomless coffee. Two thumbs up.

Enter the C-word

It was Friday, and we’re chatting about next week- his work flow, my availability, deadlines I have with another “client,” blah blah blah. I guess this guy’s technically a client, cause I’m freelance, but normally I’d think of him as the CD or creative boss man and the client’s the brand I’m working on.  But the c-word’s a slippery, slimy little bugger. And that other client? I consider him a writing partner. A full on, equal on equal collaboration team of surprisingly well-matched spectacular.

Creative Director Client: Well, I don’t have much coming in, so you can fully focus on your other client, blah blah blah client blah client blah blah client client client. If I have any emergencies roll in can I give you a shout?

Me: Yeah, perfect.

And I suddenly wanted to grab the nearest rubbish bin and heave like I did that one time when I ate two cookie sheets worth of coconut macaroons (I was probably eight).

When we call someone that — “client,” I mean — we’re making them the automatic anonymous enemy. [Read more…]

How Tebow Popped My Cherry: Confessions of a Virgin Fan

I hate football.

Actually, that’s not true. Football’s right up there with all the other pro-sports. I hate that I don’t GET it. I don’t get the appeal. I don’t get how people feel such passionate affinity for a pro-team that’s made up of players who have no ties to a city or the fans, aside from a grotesquely massive paycheck. I don’t get why Denver rioted when the Avalanche won the Stanley Cup the first year the city scalped them off the Canadians. I remember watching the “celebrations” from the safety of my family’s living room while the Denver fan-herd just couldn’t help but bust out the jazz-hands (I wish) while climbing lampposts, lighting trash cans on fire and tipping cars over in Larimer Square. Real classy. I can just imagine the conversations that followed:

“Son, why’d you tip that car over?”

“Your honor, I…I was just so happy those Canadians-pretending-to-be-Coloradans went and won a big shiny mug for us! I mean, I’ve been an Aves fan for, gosh, 4 months now! It’s in my BLOOD! We finally have something to taunt BOSTON with! I just couldn’t contain my glee! I plead crazy.” (Jazz hands!)

See? I don’t get it. Which is probably why I’m writing for The Daily Dickpunch. I have no idea why I’m writing for The Daily Dickpunch. Maybe it’s exactly because I have very little to say about either politics or sports. It’s just not my territory. The boys already have that covered, and covered well.

However, I am a huge fan of Broncos’ Quarterback Tim Tebow, but not because he’s all up in his Jesus and not because he seems to be pulling miraculous wins from his hunky shoulder pads garnished with rugged facial scruff. (Okay, that may have something to do with it). It’s because there’s something far more interesting going on.  [Read more…]

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