Ned Bitters

This week’s inductee into the “Overrated Hall of Fame” is … your dreams.

There are certain sentences a person never wants to hear, a sampling of which is below:

“That wasn’t powdered sugar. It was anthrax.”

“I thought we could watch seasons one through three of According to Jim tonight.”

“Ben Stiller made another movie!”

(To a man) “Is it in yet?”

(To a woman) “Is it in yet?”

We can also add, “I had this really cool dream last night” to the list, because that dreaded sentence is invariably followed by the scintillating recounting of said dream by the human blob of boredom that is talking to you. Dreams, while no doubt fascinating to the dreamer, are never interesting to the poor sap who has been suckered into listening to the excruciating play-by-play retelling of the dream. If listening to someone describe a great movie is tedious, having to endure a blow-by-blow account of someone’s stupid dream is downright brutal.

If you are one of those people who feel the need to regale friends or even mere acquaintances with a detailed version of your every dream, here are a few tips you might want to internalize before you repel every person you know with your dream recaps.

(Please note that I am not talking about your life’s dreams. If your life’s dream is to someday open your own Bed and Breakfast, or to travel the country for three months in a tricked out van, or to own season tickets to New York Knicks games, well, by all means … keep that shit to yourself, too. Those aren’t dreams. They’re fantasies. We both know your lazy ass will never do any of it, so stop wasting both our times.) On to the tips …

Sorry, but no matter how descriptive you are, we can’t visualize the surreal details of the Salvador Dali-esque dream you dreamt last night. Stop trying to describe your crazy dream. We’re just not interested enough to put in the effort. So the five-legged cow was this color or that color, and the doctor had this really gross rash on his skin and the hotel was just a big, endless tower with live human gargoyles. If we want nonsensical imagery that bores us to tears of blood, we’ll read a Harry Potter book.

Even if I was a player in the dream, I’m not interested in hearing about it because it was, you know, a fucking dream. Was I really at your house playing the trumpet? So what. You mean I was eating crackers with sardines and wearing checkered socks? That would be boring in real life, let alone your boring-assed sleep fantasy. I was banging whom? Well, when I woke up today, my morning wood was dry and unsucked, so I guess I didn’t get laid after all.

Yes, I know, I know. That person we both know was doing something completely out of character in your dream, and it’s sidesplittingly hilarious. So our boss was in a hula skirt singing karaoke. Or our aunt was directing traffic outside of church. Perhaps the neighbor lady was milking a goat. These things would be at best mildly interesting if they actually happened. The fact that they transpired inside your unoriginal mind while you were asleep makes them even less interesting to us. I’ll be nice and laugh and gasp and say, “No way!” But I’m faking it.

No matter how crazy things get in dreamland, you just can’t make a dream interesting to the people who didn’t dream it. In fact, the more unreal the events of the dream, the faster we stop listening. Fantasy works for some people (not me) in movies and in well-written books. Your clumsy retelling of last night’s fantasia sounds like an unreadable attempt at fiction by a third grader. Believe me, your fantastical unworldly dreams are not unique. We all have them. Most of us just have more refined internal filters that prevent us from sharing every thought that passes through our brains, especially the ones that show up while we’re sleeping.

Having to listen to every damn detail of your dream was draining enough. Your amateur interpretation of the dream’s meaning is sapping my already withering will to live. The world’s best sleep scientists still don’t have a firm grasp of what dreams are all about, so your layman’s interpretation of last night’s (no doubt wacky) dream is certainly wrong and probably quite stupid. Not every woman in every dream is your mother. A guardian dream fairy isn’t warning you to stay home from work that day or to take a different route to the mall that night so as to avoid tragedy. Yes, your subconscious is telling you something, but you don’t know what it is. You’re not even perceptive enough to gauge boredom in your listener, so you sure as hell don’t have the mental muscle to play Freud and analyze your dreams. Let it go.

Finally, your sex dreams really don’t interest us. Please spare us the gore of picturing your naked, doughy body writhing and sweating with that chick from work who wouldn’t fuck you in real life even if she were a death-row inmate and you were walking through C-block with a fistful of pardons. It’s gross. We know that, just as with your real-life sex stories, you are either embellishing or flat out making shit up. Dream lies are pretty easy to spot. If it ends with you giving Maria from sales a screaming orgasm, we know it wasn’t a real dream. It was your latest pathetic spank fantasy.

I thought of this topic last night when I awoke from a bizarre nightmare. Let me tell you about it. I was vacationing in Russia with my wife and our friend Scott. We got to the hotel and found out that my license was missing, so I ….

Hey, where did everyone go?

Ned Bitters is, in fact, overrated. You can contact him at teacherslounge@hobotrashcan.com.

Ned Bitters

This week’s inductee into the “Overrated Hall of Fame” is … The Natural.

I love baseball. I spend $150 on the MLB Extra Innings cable package every year. I go to 5-10 games in four or five different cities each season. My shitass team is in the midst of the longest string of losing seasons in the sport’s history, and still I watch almost every game, and even more pathetically, still care. At 46, I still try on baseball gloves at sports stores. The baseball playoffs in October are my March Madness.

So, I should love the movie The Natural, which, like Rudy and Remember the Titans, is probably showing on one of your cable channels right now. But I don’t love it. Oh, I enjoy it, but it contains too many goofy elements that keep it from achieving classic-sports-movie status.

It’s not that I’m against fantasy and cheap emotion. I get goosebumps five or six times when I watch Field of Dreams. James Earl Jones’s “People will come” speech gives me chills every time. (Although I have to admit that the last scene, the father-son game of catch, is a bit hammy. In my ending, when Kevin Costner asks, “Dad, wanna have a catch?” his old man would respond, without even looking up, “No, I’m too damn busy” and then just walk off. Hey Kinsella, your dad still owns you, bitch!)

But The Natural just misfires too many times. Let me attempt to kill some of the enjoyment you might get out of this overrated schmaltz-fest:

• Why do we hold Mr. Mom-Baseball-and-Apple Pie in such high esteem? He leaves his loving, loyal girlfriend behind, and within a day or two he’s trying to bang some batshit crazy baseball groupie he met on a train. Don’t tell me about his small-town innocence. He’s already been tapping his doe-eyed farmgirl for months. The dude just wanted fresh pussy. Nothing wrong with that. He was a horny young stud. Yet we’re manipulated into seeing him as duped by the evil temptress. Bullshit. If that chick is unarmed, Hobbs is going to be treating her like a three-dollar Bowery whore.

• Mr. Wonderful couldnt’t even bother to use a condom when he was banging the smalltown girl he knew he’d be blowing town on first chance he got. He impregnates the sweet girl who loves him, then bolts for the bigtime. Had she known single parenthood was in her future, I’m sure the jilted young lady would much rather have taken a Hobbs gob down the gullet rather than be a 19-year-old burdened with a blond bastard kid, no provider and stretch marks.

• Robert Redford was almost 50 when he made this movie. He was in great shape for a man his age, but come on, that face was craggier than Lincoln’s. They had to filter the camera lens to the point where half the movie looked like a dream sequence. Yet I’m supposed to believe he was in his late 30’s and still able to turn on the inside heat? Surely they could have found an actor with a younger face. You know, like Nick Nolte or Gary Busey.

• Redford was too skinny to be a power hitter. Sure, the “splendid splinter” Ted Williams hit over 500 homeruns, and thin as rails Hank Aaron and Ernie Banks blasted almost 1300 dingers between them, but Redford’s twiggy limbs and chicken neck make that Ruthian power too implausible.

• Throughout the movie, we’re manipulated into feeling sorry for the old coot who missed out on a Hall of Fame career due to a lead love letter courtesy of the luscious loon he might have banged. Yeah, sure. I feel so sorry for poor ol’ Roy Hobbs, who got to bang a young Glenn Close (with no rubber, mind you), a hot baseball Mollie (who you know was as crazy in the sack as she was in her head) and Kim Basinger (still in her prime, good god). If any baseball character deserves our poon sympathy, it’s Ray Kinsella, who somehow had to work up a stiff one for that shrieking shrew of a wife. Yeesh.

• Hobbs is also supposed to be appear nearly destitute when Darren McGavin’s Gus Sands predicts that he’s got “ten bucks” in his pockets. Viewers think, “Awww … poor guy, out rolling with the bigtimers and trying to nail expensive snatch with only 10 dollars in his pockets.” Well, a little check of Westegg.com’s inflation calculator shows that 10 bucks in 1937 is worth about $143 today. Do you have 143 bucks in your pocket right now? Will you have that much cash when you go out tonight? Dude was doing all right in the scratch department considering it was the tail end of the Depression.

• Wilford Brimleys’ put-upon manager isn’t worth feeling sorry for either. He whines incessantly about never having won a pennant. Hey there, coach … yeah, you … the one with the Don Zimmer physique and the Bill Parcells personality. Maybe you’d win more games if you didn’t sit around playing Name That Shitty Tune with your coach and if you’d give new players a real look instead of benching their asses just to spite your owner. You couldn’t motivate an Eskimo to wear mittens. You should have stuck to farming like your old man wanted you to. No wonder you’re 130 years old and still chasing that first pennant.

• Why is tenacious reporter Max Mercy so villainized? The man works harder than any reporter this side of ESPN’s John Clayton, but we see him as some sort of ink-stained satan whose main sin is the pursuit of the truth. Would that Max Mercy was on the White House beat in the days leading up the Iraq War.

• While we’re busy pulling for pussy-hound Hobbs and the dimwitted manager, where’s the love for the poor third baseman who makes the crucial 9th inning error in the final game? The Angels’ Donnie Moore eventually shot himself after blowing the 1986 pennant by giving up that two-out, three-run tater to Boston’s Steve Henderson. But this poor bastard boots an easy grounder which blows the pennant, and all we care about is whether Mr. Selfish can win the big one for the retarded manager.

• And speaking of retards, what’s up with that batboy? He doesn’t belong in the on-deck ring. He belongs in the center ring of a traveling freak show.

So let’s ease up on praising The Natural. It’s not an awful movie. It certainly has its moments. But too many elements misfire and distract me from getting lost in the story. Instead, I just get lost in the cavernous valley’s of Redford’s craggy face.

Ned Bitters is, in fact, overrated. You can contact him at teacherslounge@hobotrashcan.com.

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Ned Bitters

This week’s inductee into the “Overrated Hall of Fame” is … the nation’s progress.

I was overwhelmed with emotion last Tuesday at 11 p.m. when CNN called the election for Barack Obama. Getting emotional over anything not Mario Lemieux-related is not normal for me. I think I dozed off in the middle of 9/11 and recall only a vague sense of “how about them apples” after the 1980 Miracle on Ice game. But something about that moment found its way to one of my hard-to-find soft spots.

Scheduled for back surgery the next day, I nevertheless stayed up late and watched Obama’s stirring acceptance speech. When I woke up the next day, my first thoughts went not toward my impending surgery but instead toward the momentous event of the previous day. It truly did feel like I was living in a new country, a country that repudiated eight years of meanness, smallness and general dufus-ness.

Then I went downstairs, read the newspaper and realized that I still lived in Backwardland, where progress comes in starts and fits instead of rolling in in a well-lubed Ferrari. Sure, we elected our first “negra prez’dint” as the right-leaning South might call it. In mixed company, that is. The fuckers still use the stars and bars, for chrissakes.

While the nation is getting some deserved props for electing a black man, we still do some damn puzzling things that mitigate the feeling of progress brought on by Obama’s election.

Alaskans reelected a convicted felon. Sure, the old coot has played pork-winner to an oil-rich outpost of backwater yahoos who have mystifyingly chosen to live in Alaska, but Ted Stevens’ felony was perpetrated while carrying out his senatorial duties. He still won. I’m sure it was a “fuck you” vote to all them dang liberal legal types who have the audacity to expect elected officials to follow the law, even in that joke of a state. Their senator is convicted of basically accepting bribes in return for political favors, and he still gets the majority vote. These same voters probably called for Bill Clinton’s ass - or drained scrotum - on a platter after he got Oval Office oral from the frumpy, 20-something intern, which is not a felony.

John McCain got over 46 million votes despite having Sarah Palin on the ticket. This means that over 46 million voters weren’t affected by the thought of having a prospective president who doesn’t read newspapers or magazines, claims that keeping an eye on Russia from her front porch translates into national security and would counsel her daughter to have the baby if she got knocked up by a rapist instead of some high school hockey goon. (I gotta give the boy some credit. He was banging the governor’s daughter and shooting his fertile seed right up inside that First Twat. Kid’s got some balls, doesn’t he?)

I can understand why so many people voted for John McCain. He crashed numerous planes while in the Navy and eventually got his ass captured in the Vietnam War. We can all relate to screwing up. He dumped his accident-marred first wife, who waited out his imprisonment and traded her in for a hotter, younger millionaire beer heiress. We love chutzpah. This son and grandson of four-star Navy Admirals moved up the military and political ranks despite dismal military and academic records. Who wouldn’t say yes to nepotism? But goddamn, electing McCain would have put a bimbo hockey mom one blown-out McCain heart valve from fighting two wars and tackling the greatest economic meltdown since the Great Depression. But white trash love old white men.

But the biggest reality check was the way three states voted to ban gay marriage, with no demographics voting against it more than blacks and hispanics, two ethnic groups that have suffered ridiculous discrimination in this country. I guess the mountaintop doesn’t include fags and dykes, at least not of the married variety.

Black people have gotten the shaft in this country since they were first dragged over here on dirty ships, yet they apparently find nothing ironic about voting against letting gay people marry because of what they’ve learned from a black-bound book of fairy tales. (Have you heard the one about the pregnant virgin? It’s a hoot.) I guess part of the fun of getting equal rights is finding a group to keep rights from.

So let’s quell our excitement and stop tearing our national rotator cuff with strenuous self back patting. Obama’s election was a watershed historical moment in U.S. history. I still well up when I think about its meaning and impact. It is no longer a trite lie to call this country the land of unlimited opportunity. Someday a black Muslim could be president. The poorest ghetto kid could be president. A one-legged orphaned atheist could be president. We might even vote a cum-guzzling homo into the most powerful position in the world. We just won’t let him marry.

I guess we’re taking our cues from Martin Luther King, who put it so eloquently so many years ago:

… we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, ‘Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!’

(p.s. But not faggots or dykes.)

Ned Bitters is, in fact, overrated. You can contact him at teacherslounge@hobotrashcan.com.

Ned Bitters

This week’s inductee into the “Overrated Hall of Fame” is … these foods.

Hell no I’m not going to do something election-related. After two years of non-stop election chatter, can dufus Ned Bitters have any original insight to offer? I just googled the exact phrase “John McCain is a douche” and got 91 exact matches. So I’m out of ideas.

Instead of trying to play the foulmouthed pundit, I’ll just bitch about certain foods that are overrated. This is not going to be a list of foods that I don’t like. That would be stupid, even for me. I eat or have eaten all the foods on this list. All of them are pretty good. They just don’t deserve their lofty status on the Yummy Chain.

Extra Cheese on Pizza: I worked at a pizza joint on and off for seven years when I was in college. Every big-haired ditz of a chick that came into that restaurant wanted extra cheese on her pie. (Write your own joke here … too easy.) Extra cheese keeps the dough from cooking properly, compromises the intensity of the other flavors and has the potential to choke a hyena, let alone some drunk Pittsburgh skank. Yet for some reason, every chick had to have it. Unfortunately, I never got to do the Heimlich Maneuver on some gasping-for-air piece of ass with a glob of cheese stuck in her gullet. That would have been sexy.

Fried Chicken: Hey, who doesn’t like fried chicken? But fried chicken is only fried chicken if you can eat the skin, and who this side of Paula Dean doesn’t know that the skin will kill you faster than a white Texas jury staring at a neegra defendant. You get hold of a delectable fried chicken leg, and the first thing you do is remove, through tears of bitter regret, that tasty cholesterol wrap called the skin and begin chomping on what is now just another piece of chicken.

Chinese Food: I likes me some Chinese food, but it all tastes the same. The kung pao tastes like the orange chicken which tastes like the General Tso’s which taste like the other 137 items on the interminable menu. This holds true with every Chinese restaurant. The food at the Great Wall where I live tastes exactly like the brown gooey mess at the Peking Gardens where you live or the Szechuan Palace where your brother lives. The restaurant names are the same, the foods are the same and the tiny little used-to-be-kind-of-hot hostess lady with the cute accent is also the same.

Veal: I order veal all the time, and after I eat it I always wonder what the hell I was thinking when I ordered it. Veal is baby steak. Have the goddamn grownup steak. It tastes better and comes with less guilt. You want veal parmgiana? Try it with chicken, it tastes better. Veal picatta? Try it with a turkey cutlet, it tastes better. Veal marsala? What, are you fucking crazy? No mushroom should ever touch a piece of meat, let alone your tongue.

Oysters on the Half Shell: No, I’m not too big of a pussy to slurp down some raw oysters. I’ll sometimes share a few of the wife’s, who’s a big fan of the slimy slurpees. But raw oysters smack of pretension. They have very little flavor because they are swallowed rather than chewed, because chewing one is like gnawing on a patella tendon. So, to mask the lack of flavor, you douse them in horseradish sauce and cocktail sauce and lemon. By the time you’re done loading on the bottled flavor, you have no hope of tasting the actual oyster. Plus you risk violent vomiting and six hours in the E.R. just so you can say you ate raw oysters. Congratulations. Now go replenish the two rolls of toilet paper you used, you reeking diarrhea machine.

All You Can Eat Fries at Red Robin (“Yummmmm!”): What a great gimmick to trick fat Americans into thinking the 10 dollar shitburger they just ate is a real bargain. Yah … free fries! Does anyone over the age of 25 really order more fries just because you can? The second order doesn’t taste nearly as good, and you’re still not getting your money’s worth, as those 12 extra fries cost Red Robin (“Yummmmm!”) less than 12 cents. (But damn, I do love their commercials. “Yummmm!”)

Cheese on a Burger: Yes, another cheese entry. Can you really taste the cheese on that hamburger you’re shoving down your piehole as if the Hamburgler is hot on your tail? Even a cheese as strong as swiss doesn’t enhance the taste of a burger, especially since most greedy Americans feel compelled to top it with every option on the menu. After you add ketchup, mayo, lettuce, onions, jalapeno’s and bacon to your death patty, can you even taste that thin sheet of sharp cheddar? No.

Popcorn: Have you ever felt good after eating popcorn? Of course you haven’t. You just sucked down animal feed infused with air, topped with salt and, in your case you fat fuck, soaked in butter. My problem with popcorn stems not from the taste as much as from the way it ruins movies. I despise the popcorn movie entrance, the one where wide-eyed bozos enter the theater with the 10-gallon corn bucket, tonguing pieces off the top like a hungry frog. The styrofoam chewing sound of the behemoth behind me rips into my brain. Theater popcorn smells like a summer tennis shoe. Worst of all, when your date whispers to you during the movie, you wonder if an elephant snuck in during the previews and shit in her mouth.

Atomic-Suicide-Hell-Armageddon Hot Sauces: I love hot sauce. I eat it on wings, eggs, certain sandwiches and on Mrs. Bitters’ toes on Kink Night. But these people who pretend to like the ultimate tongue scalders on ribs and wings are just showing off. These ultra-hot sauces add no flavor. They kill flavor. All joy is removed from the eating experience. Skin stalactites hanging from the roof of the mouth should not be part of one’s dining experience.

Lobster: Somehow, lobster has been sold to a duped public as fancy food. It’s not fancy. It’s a semi-flavorless shellfish that only tastes good when doused with butter, or stirred into a nice warm bisque, or tossed in with some garlic pasta. Even then, all you really taste is the butter or the garlic.

And there you have it, an entire Election Day column devoid of any political talk or jokes. You know, like the one that goes, “What’s the difference between Sarah Palin’s mouth and her vagina? Only some of the things that come out of her vagina are retarded.”

Now go vote, asswipes. (Just not for the old white dude and his dimwitted running mate.)

Ned Bitters is, in fact, overrated. You can contact him at teacherslounge@hobotrashcan.com.

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Ned Bitters

This week’s inductee into the “Overrated Hall of Fame” is … the NFL’s drug policy.

Six to 10 NFL players this past week tested positive for a diuretic that can help lower the amount of banned substances that show up in urine tests. Each of these players faces a four-game suspension, as per the saintly league’s drug policy. Steeler wide receiver Santonio Holmes, maintaining his annual arrest record, this week got nabbed with three blunts in his car. The saintly Steelers promptly suspended him for this week’s big match-up against the New York Giants.

The league congratulates itself for this bizarre moral double standard, and many fans follow suit, applauding the league for their hardline crackdown on those evil, insidious bad! bad! bad! players who like to smoke a little weed or shoot up some steroids. Come Sunday, this football-mad country will then foam at the mouth while watching the three-hour paean to violence that is every NFL game.

How dare any of us come down on NFL players who get high or shoot up. This nation has such a wacky obsession with drugs that we’re willing to watch men dish out concussions, tear up joints and even paralyze other players, yet we are aghast when one of these modern gladiators wants to take a steroid that will make him bigger, stronger, faster and more durable. I say shoot up, smoke up and do whatever else helps you recover faster so that you can get out there again next Sunday and crack heads for our entertainment while we sit on our fat, lazy asses drinking beer, eating Doritos, smoking Camels and swearing at the TV because the cornerback we think we “own” just got schooled by a guy with better speed; speed perhaps gained with the help of a syringe.

Here’s the message being sent by the inconsistent drug policies for NFL players. Sure, go ahead and compromise your core body structure by lifting weights until you’re so big that you can’t wipe your own ass. Work out in full pads in 90 degree summer heat twice a day, risking heat stroke and heart failure. Amass a collection of concussions that might leave you a jelly-brained 50-year-old who wears diapers and watches cartoons. Go out every Sunday and risk that one devastating injury that ends your career, voids your no-guarantee contract and leads to a never-ending battle with a despicable, obscenely rich NFL that throws its former players under the benefits bus. But for god’s sake, don’t toke up during the week, and don’t take the steroids that might lengthen your career and speed your aching body’s recovery.

Of course, we don’t care if you take other drugs, like the liver-destroying pain pills that some powerful pharmaceutical lobby has hammered into legality. We certainly don’t care if you drink so much beer or Crown Royal that you play yourself out of the league years before your time, because there’s always another hungry young gun coming up who can take your place for half the salary. Besides, beer companies are some of our biggest sponsors. Just don’t let us catch you taking a few hits of herb on a Tuesday night, even if that herb does far less damage to your body than the countless pain pills you all pop all season and the Jack and Cokes you pound on the plane rides home.

It’s yet another example of America’s puzzling double standard on drugs. We are a country that loves violence, hence the popularity of the NFL, which sells violence to a populace that lusts for it. We love wars, we love fights and we love football. You know what else we love? Drugs. Pain pills, anti-depressants, boner pills, weight loss pills, cock growing pills (fuckers never do work, damnit) and even pills for restless leg syndrome. And the two drugs we love the most? Alcohol and marijuana. Yet if you’re an NFLer, you can take all of the above. Except weed.

The league’s inane drug policy is in place just to appease the self-righteous yahoos who delude themselves into thinking that NFL football embodies good ol’ American fun. The league doesn’t give two shits about the players’ overall health. Just ask any retired player who has to fight for his benefits. Like any good business, all they care about is the bottom line, and if that bottom line is enhanced by making Roy and Freda from Terre Haute believe that the NFL has some sort of moral compass, then hey, let’s arbitrarily deem a few substances off-limits and those heartland yahoos will continue to spend money on tickets, jerseys and a slew of other tacky products adorned with their team’s NFL licensed insignia.

So poor Santonio Holmes, who was still allowed to catch touchdown passes after assaulting his woman and being disorderly with the cops in Miami Beach club, had to sit out this week’s game because of a few blunts. This decision came from revered owner Dan Rooney, the same Dan Rooney that defended Steeler James Harrison when he was accused of domestic violence earlier this year, claiming that Harrison was “trying to do something good,” which was taking his child to get baptized. He just had to knock down a locked door and slap the kid’s mother in the face on the way to church. James Harrison is headed to another Pro Bowl this year. He has missed no games. Santonio Holmes had to miss Sunday’s game for a three blunts. This is the same Dan Rooney whose family made its true fortune in horse racing. In other words, gambling, which has ruined more lives and families than all the joints smoked by NFLers combined.

But that’s the NFL for you. Three blunts in the car gets you suspended for the biggest game of the year so far. A hard slap to your baby mama’s face gets you a slap on the wrist.

Ned Bitters is, in fact, overrated. You can contact him at teacherslounge@hobotrashcan.com.

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