The LA Galaxy Drinking Game

Becks, as I'm sure you know, didn't play on Sunday versus the Revs. In order to pass the time, we decided to play the LA Galaxy Drinking Game. Here's the rules:

1. Whenever the Galaxy turn the ball over in the midfield, drink.
2. Whenever Landon Donovan screws up, drink. (Watch for bad corners!)
3. Whenever the announcers talk about how horrible the Galaxy are playing, drink.
4. If the announcers say anything about David Beckham, or show him on TV, drink. Drink twice if Beckham is visibly disgusted with the Galaxy's play.
5. If the broadcast goes specifically to "Beckham Cam", drink twice.
6. Drink twice if Posh is shown.
7. Drink three times if some other celebrity comes to discuss David Beckham. (You decide if Alexi Lalas counts!)
8. Drink three times if the other team scores.
9. Finish your whole drink if the Galaxy scores.
10. If Beckham scores, everyone has to pound a full beer, and the last one to finish, has to drink another.
11. For the Fox Soccer Channel broadcasts, drink when Max Bretos uses a Spanish accent.

As you can imagine, we got wasted just on rule 1 alone.

Mads: The Becks Bait-and-Switch

My Boston friend pulled a lot of strings, only to have us go to the Revs/Galaxy game and see Beckham not play. Considering this weekend was the opening of the Premiership season, the MLS lost a huge opportunity to garner interest in their sport by placing all their eggs in the Becks basket.

"Let's go home and watch the replay of the Arsenal play again," my Boston friend said.

"Minus the first 51 seconds, of course."

"Of course. Poor Lehman..."

Mayor McCheese: McBranding to Kids

We did it. I just read it in the Chicago Star-Telegram: kids think food tastes better just by virtue of being wrapped in a McDonald's wrapper. It feels great.

According to the study, kids felt carrots and milk tasted better when in McDonald's containers, and didn't like our burgers as much when not packaged with our brand. Though the official line is that this is bad for the youth of America, behind closed doors, we're all doing the Tiger Woods "I just hit a birdie on the 18th to secure another major" pump fist.

This is what you live for.

Atlantic City

I know a lot of people have their own favorite Bruce Springsteen song. For Mads, my Norwegian companion, it's "Born to Run". "It's Shakespeare in Rock n' Roll," he says. For me it's a no brainer: "Atlantic City". Nothing else spoke to me more as a young man growing up in a working class background in Brockton, Massachusetts.

One day Mads and I are going through the music videos on ON Demand, when I see "Atlantic City" on the list. We had to go for it. Now, of course, I wish I hadn't.

It was a version he did with the Seeger Sessions band. All I can say was it hurt. It cut all the nuance and drama out of the song and replaced it with washboards and spoons. It was almost as bad as Alicia Keyes and the guy from Maroon 5 covering "Wild Horses" for some Unplugged thing.

"But, dude," Mads said. "If he's genius enough to make the song, he can do what he wants with it. I'm sure he was just experimenting with it, anyway. Don't get your panties in a bunch."

I always hated it when he called me "dude".

Mads: She's Like so Whatever

My Boston friend and I were taking a slack day, when that damn Avril Lavigne song came on the TV. As such, I had the bastard in my head all day. I needed to do something about it.

"All right, get off the couch."

"Why?"

"I need to do something about this damned 'Girlfriend' song."

"What do you intend to do?"

"You'll see."

We went to a karaoke bar frequented by visiting Japanese businessmen. It had naked women on tables with guys eating sushi off them, and TVs with videos of Japanese women in school girl outfits eating crap and getting done by like five guys and what not. I filled out my karaoke card and we waited.

"Nice place you got here, Mads."

My Boston friend lit a cigarette and shook his head at me. My name was called.

I performed the hell out of the song. I jumped on tables, straddled the girls the sushi was being eaten off of and sang in their faces; at one point I grabbed a Japanese businessman by his tie and pulled him close to me.

"She's like, so whatever... you can do so much better..."

"You right, I can do so muht bettur."

Being Avril Lavigne

Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I were taking a slack day, lying on the couch and eating Chinese food right out of the containers. Avril Lavigne's "Girlfriend" was on TV.

Hey, hey, you, you... I don't like your girlfriend... no way, no way... I think you need a new one...

"You know," Mads said. "How does one become an Avril Lavigne?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, like, she doesn't really do anything. Look at her here, she's not playing an instrument, she doesn't really sing... I don't get the appeal. Anyone could do this song and make a hit out of it."

I felt I needed to defend her, especially after she helped me out with the Barry Bonds thing, even though I did pay her a lot for it.

"She has a certain element of charisma. And I think she writes all her stuff. I think that's how she broke in. Besides, she's Canadian. How many people can say that?"

"She writes all her stuff? 'Hey, hey, you, you... I don't like your girlfriend'? And her other stuff: 'Why ya gotta go make shit so complicated'? What the fuck? A gorilla could write that."

"I think it's 'Why ya gotta go make things so complicated...', and I'll give you that it's not the best material.... Whatever, I can't be bothered to argue with you."

"Because I'm right."

"Pass me the beef and mushroom, fucker."

Boston's Age of Love

After Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I watched the finale of Age of Love we thought: we should do our own. We had our own early 30s bachelor in Matty, and it wouldn't take long to go through our considerable stables of women to find 4 kittens and 4 cougars. We were doing this.

"No way," Matty said.

"Are you kidding me?"

"Totally not. Why would I do that?"

"We have eight hotties, competing to do you. What's better than that?"

"You're a moron."

Mads and I decided to go ahead with the show anyway, and just tricked Matty into showing up. It took him a second to figure it out. The women had no idea he didn't know. I was waiting for Matty to take me aside or call me out, or maybe even go along with it, but he took an entirely different track: he sat in his chair and didn't say anything, watching the Sox game. I turned it off.

"You're killin' me, Matty."

He walked over to me.

"Let's get down to brass tacks here. I'm not Mark Phillipoussis (sp?). I have a bad Australian accent, I suck at tennis, and I'm 5'7" and out of shape. You've got no show here. I'm sorry, but they're just out of my league."

He patted me on my back. I looked to Mads, and he nodded in perspicacious agreement.