How can I be Awesome?

Dear Pope,
I want to be more awesome like you, but I don’t k now how. I’ve run with the bulls, taken shots with Russel Crowe, and even met the President yet nothing seems to make me as totally awesome as you. What can I do
-Cardinal Awesome

Cardinal. First off, you’re not a Cardinal. I know for a fact you haven’t met the Higher Power and earned that title. No, not ‘God’ you moron. The Space Pope. Obviously you don’t know, so we’ll move on.

Let’s look at this from outside if we can. What defines awesome? Is it inherent? Can it be learned? Taught? Is awesome related to the sole individual or is it dependent on who said individual hangs out with? Do accessories or styles make awesome? Can you pop a collar, get a tattoo, or wear eye liner and become awesome?

You ran with the bulls? How about swam against the sharks off the Cape of Good Hope?
You drank with some kind of celebrity? How about taking vodka shots on the space station with the Russian chimp as you reenter Earth’s atmosphere?
You met the president? Who @#)$*%^ cares!? I bumped into a guy on the street the other day. Was he a businessman? An assassin with the ability to curve bullets? A parallel Earth version of Charlton Heston who never got on board with ape hatred? The fuck if I know! Or care! Or am going to go telling people about!

How can I be awesome? I don’t know. Not be you. You sucks. You is not interesting, not famous, has no amazing skills. What you’re really trying to do here is to be me. Which you can’t. It’s just not possible. You could attempt to become more interesting; fighting geriatric German grandmother’s for fun and profit. More famous; kill all the members of Nickelback and wear their heads like hats. Gain more amazing skills; drink a 5th of wild turkey and then totally smoke that Asian kid at hot dog eating contests while simultaneously banging his mom. But ultimately, you’re still you, not me. There’s just no getting around it.

You could try some extreme level existentialistic, paranormal, breaking-down-the-4th-wall shit that would make you not you, but at that point 2+2 wouldn’t equal 4, you’d end up making out with some dead fish god, and your consciousness would stop caring about being awesome, making the whole point moot. So, the answer is no. You can’t be more awesome.

You sick necrophilic fuck!

Ghost's Vacation Blog!

I know everyone out there has been dying of Ghost-related deprivation, so I've decided to blog my week-long siesta back home to Ghostville. I will update daily. Enjoy.

Saturday-

7:50 pm- pull into town, immediately go to Grandma's house to visit Grandma. Grandma is old, frail and Austrian, taunt Grandma into arm-wrestling match by loudly proclaiming "All Austrians are the Kaiser's bitch! Archduke Franz Ferdinand had it coming!" Easily pin Grandma in arm-wrestling match, celebrate by strutting around the room doing Mick Jagger's rooster dance. While celebrating, Grandma clandestinely pulls 8' bowie knife out of her boot, before I know it I'm pinned to the wall with a razor-sharp blade at my throat. Grandma tells me "This blade has spilled more Commie Ruski blood than Rasputin himself. And this blade is thirsty!" Quickly use superior judo reverse arm-bar hold to turn her away. Flee Grandma's house, terrified, as she yells profanities at me in German.

8:26 pm- hit the local bar with Ghost, Sr. Get into doubles pool match with local yokels, easily defeat them, celebrate with shots of whiskey and bacon grease.

1:00 am- try to go to sleep, but keep hearing Grandma screaming German profanities at me. Wonder if she'll come to spill my blood. Sleep with loaded Desert Eagle .50 cal under my pillow.

Sunday-



9:07 am- awake to smells of Mother Ghost cooking breakfast. Hungrily devour breakfast of steak, eggs, bacon, steak-fried bacon, bacon and eggs stuffed steak, scrambled egg soup with bacon broth, and more steak. Wash it all down with a hot cup of bacon grease. Have some bacon shaped like a chocolate bar for desert.

9:25 am- have seconds of Mother Ghost's breakfast.

9:48 am- go to sleep until Monday.

Monday-

11:47 am- venture out to Lake Michigan with Ghost, Sr. for a fishing expedition. Our cargo: two half-gallons of Wild Turkey, a cooler full of ice and a 30-pack of PBR, a nitrous tank, a bacon cake containing two pounds of magic mushrooms, two gas masks, a shotgun, a crossbow, a .50 cal Desert Eagle, and a net.

12:01 pm- after finishing each of the half-gallons of Wild Turkey, half the PBR, and the bacon-mushroom cake, Ghost, Sr. repeatedly fires shotgun into water off of the side of the boat. Nothing turns up. Apparently fish aren't biting today.



12:50 pm- out of boredom, fire crossbow into Ghost, Sr.'s ass while he is bent over inhaling from the nitrous tank. Ghost, Sr. forgets to tell me the arrows are laced with poison and exploding tips. Explosion blows up the nitrous tank and the boat.

12:51 pm- find Ghost, Sr. floating unconscious, draped over the cooler. Move Ghost, Sr. to get to cooler, shotgun remaining beers floating in water.

12:57 pm- waves are large, so surf Ghost, Sr.'s lifeless body to safely to shore. Preform secret Ghost-Ninja revival techniques, bring Ghost, Sr. back to life.

12:59 pm- Ghost, Sr. is enraged I brought him back to life, says he was crushing it in the afterlife, had Vishnu in a headlock when I brought him back. Challenges me to whiskey drinking contest and slaps me in the face. I accept.

1:14 pm- at Ghostville bar, Ghost, Sr. drinks me under the table, I pass out. Ghost, Sr. invites various local barflies to deface me with magic markers and their own bodily fluids.

Tuesday-



6:40 am- awake tied to the mast of a 35' cutter yacht named The Duke. Realize the cutter is pulling into port somewhere along the northern Lake Superior shore to Canadian land. Vow eternal revenge on Ghost, Sr.

9:33 am- after a breakfast of french fries and gravy, decide that since I'm in Canada already, might as well make some changes. Travel to capital city, Ottawa, use superior Ghost intellect to convince them to change their government from the silly representative republic/socialism blend they've employed for the last 200+ years to good ol' US of A capitalism. Get entire Canadian legislature changing "USA! USA! USA!" Also pass legislation to require Mounties change their uniforms from the lame red-coat-and-wide-brown-brim bullshit they've had to ultra-sweet new Ninja costumes. Pass more legislation to convince national army to attack one small, defenseless country every three years, preferably with gigantic bombs. Before I return, stalk, hunt, then ritualistically murder and dismember each member of the band Nickleback in front of their respective families. Impregnate their wives with little Ghosts, which in nine months will jump-kick their way out of their mother's uteri, then start a band named "Fuck Yes!", record eleven platinum records and bring world peace.

6:47 pm- return back to Ghostville.

More to come...

I Hate Horses

I might be a little late to the party on this one, but I just saw this blog that might be one of the funniest things I've seen in a long, long time. Check it out:

http://horsehater.blogspot.com/

Come on... tell me that's not funny. Unless you're a horse. And if you are a horse, and you're reading this, then that is simply amazing. Wait... horses can read and surf the internet now? Hmmmm. Maybe the Glorious Horse Uprising of 2008 is upon us. If it is, then what that horse did to Christopher Reeves is gonna seem like a gentle summer breeze rustling your hair compared to what they have in store.

What? Too soon?

P.S. This gives me the opportunity to post the gayest horse picture ever made. Huzzah!

Does the Pope Shit in the Woods?

All hail a new partner blogger, Pope. Ninja Please is happy to have Pope blogging on his own and along with me, and undoubtedly will expose me for the drunk hack that I truly am. The good news is he is a drunk hack as well, so if you like listening to two inebriated fake superheros argue about the mating habits of comic book characters and many other non-sequitors, then this is the place to be. If not, then FUCK OFF. We never liked you anyway.

An Open Letter to the Football Jesus

Dear Mr. Football Jesus,

First off, let me say Thank You- you gave us Cheeseheads 17 years of entertainment, an embarrassment of riches and winning, really. We will always love you for this.

But...

Please stay the fuck away. You're done, you said so, you even cried at your retirement press conference. It was hard, fond memories, blah blah blah. We wanted you back, you said there was nothing left.

We found someone else. His name is Aaron, and since he's following you he's been fucked since the day he was drafted. There is no way he could live up to your image, your mythology. But he may be pretty good, if he can stay healthy. Now you want us back? Why in god's name did you retire in the first place, then?

We call you the Football Jesus because you resurrected football in Green Bay. It cannot be overstated how depressed and sad football was before you came. Mossy Cade was raping women and Forest Gregg was a delusional psychopath. Sure we still sold out every game, drank beer, ate brats and danced to polka in the parking lots during pregame, but it was more a celebration of culture and the past than it was any kind of preparation or excitement for the present, let alone the future. You changed all that, with your Howitzer arm and disarming lack of knowledge of the fetid putridness of the Bart Star, Forest Gregg and Lindy Infante years. I can feel the bile rising in my throat just mentioning that 30+ years of dark, dark hell- but you changed it all. Now we expect to win. Now when you rally the youngest team in the league at 398 years old to a 13-3 record and one stupid, stupid interception away from another Super Bowl (oh sweet Christ was that interception terrible), we're really not that surprised, just happy.

So, uh, thanks for all that. But we've moved on, and you need to move on too. And I don't mean to another NFL team- It's not hyperbole when I say that I simply cannot bear the thought of you wearing another uniform, chucking 50-yard interceptions for another team. It simply cannot happen, it would ruin everything for me. I'm starting to understand how Bulls fans felt seeing MJ shooting jumpers in a Wizards uniform. Nobody needs that.

You're a competitive guy; Jordan tried his hand at baseball, maybe you could do something else. Bullfighting, perhaps? Don't even tell me that the skills you honed dodging and diving away from a crazed Warren Sapp wouldn't translate to you skillfully taunting an enraged and half-dead animal into charging you, then just escaping at the last second to thrill the crowd. That's exactly what you did, and it was great. But it needs to happen somewhere else- anywhere else.

In closing, please stay retired. Not for you, but for us. I don't really give a shit if you have an 'itch' to play. Scratch that shit and get on with your life. We have. I don't want the Football Jesus tag to mean you rose from the dead of retirement to play again. Has that ever, EVER, been a good idea? I don't mean to doubt you, but in the immortal words of Stephen Colbert: "Just because you're infallible doesn't mean you can't be wrong."

Sincerely,

Ghost