Author: The Centaur

A Major Flip Flop

I can’t believe I’m about to change my position on an issue as important as this…

I think Sammy Hagar might be a better front man than David Lee Roth. Wow. Even now, I can’t believe I’m saying this. Last night’s Van Halen concert featuring Sammy Hagar changed everything. It took seventh row seats and permanent hearing damage to arrive at this conclusion, but I’m officially convinced.

This is not taking anything away from David Lee Roth. He’s a legend. He was one of the few rockers that gratuitously performed the splits on stage. He could pull off the look of sunglasses and a taxi driver’s cap better than anyone. And he put Van Halen on the map.

But after the electrifying show Sammy Hagar and the rest of Van Halen put on last night, I have a hard time envisioning anyone being able to top it. They played over three hours without a break. The audience stood and cheered the entire time. We were losing circulation in our legs and our bladders were uncomfortably full of beer, but nobody left for even a minute. Van Halen flat out rocked. I held a pretty tepid appreciation of Van Halen before last night, but my level of fandom shot up tremendously after seeing them live.

Here are some highlights of the evening in bulleted format…

  • Eddie performed a 20-minute guitar solo. Twenty minutes. At one point he crawled into the fetal position and put his head next to a wall of speakers. His guitar screeched as the audience wondered if he was attempting to commit suicide through massive amounts of feedback. It was a stellar performance though. He played like he had bet the Devil his soul against a fiddle made of gold.
  • My only complaint against Sammy Hagar was that he wore a pair of red Capri pants during the show. This bothered me the whole concert. I studied his pants closely, and honestly, I think my wife bought the same pair of pants at the GAP last weekend.
  • The bass player had a bass guitar painted like a bottle of Jack Daniels. The best part was that his guitar functioned as a Pez dispenser for those little mini liquor bottles you see on airplanes. Periodically throughout the concert, he’d pop out a shot of whiskey, down half the bottle and throw the rest into audience. That, my friends, is showmanship.
  • The band split evenly into shirts and skins. Eddie and Alex Van Halen went shirtless, apparently ready for a pickup game of basketball after the show.
  • Rest assured, Eddie Van Halen is still the master of doing the jumping scissor kick while playing the guitar. He proved this time and time again.
  • Midway through the concert, they announced the score of the Yankees-Red Sox game. Judging by the crowd’s reaction, apparently I am the only person on earth that was rooting for the Yankees. In my opinion, as impossible as this may sound, the Red Sox were less likable than the Yankees.

    Let’s face it, most of the Red Sox players look like juvenile delinquents. If you removed their hats, it wouldn’t surprise me to see curse words shaved into their hair. I don’t know, all the wild haircuts, punk behavior, scruffy goatees… They looked like they belonged at a skate park instead of on a baseball diamond. (I know, I know, as the bumper sticker on the Allen family minivan proclaims: “Skateboarding is Not a Crime!!“) The Yankees on the other hand, looked clean-shaven and professional. They looked like they could have been heading to a job interview after the game. Sometimes it’s just nice to see the team with better grooming habits win. I’ll leave it at that.

  • Remember the scene in the movie “Old School” where Vince Vaughn performs a gymnastics routine while smoking a cigarette? It is arguably the funniest scene in the movie. Anyway, at one point Eddie lit a cigarette and performed his usual jumps and spins around the stage. It was probably the closest thing I’ve witnessed in real life that essentially duplicated that scene from the movie. There were 10,000 people screaming wildly in the arena that night, but I think I was the only one holding in laughter.
  • Throughout the concert, several girls threw their bras and panties up on stage. Sammy would collect these undergarments, hold them up for the crowd, and then drape them over his mic stand. I had no problem with any of this.
  • Like a lot of aging rockers, Eddie Van Halen, sadly, is looking a little fried. The few times he addressed the crowd, he mumbled, rambled and managed to say things that were completely unintelligible. Granted, he’s far more coherent than Ozzy Osbourne, but at the same time, I’m not sure if that is a yardstick you want to measure yourself against.
  • At one point, an audience member threw a giant banner onto the stage that read: “Sammy for President.” Seizing the moment, Sammy waved it around onstage for several minutes and then tied it around his waist like a sarong. I think I speak for most people when I say this: Provided his whiskey-swilling bass player was his running mate, this is one Presidential ticket we could all get behind.

Reese’s S’more

I’ve been meaning to contribute under the heading “Zillion Dollar Ideas” for some time, but I had abstained for three reasons:

1. How do you top “toilet paper gloves?” (On a side note, while this is an ingenious idea, I’d hate to see the failed prototypes…)

2. Out of sanitary, or in most cases, purely selfish reasons, there are some things I choose to keep to myself. For example, here’s a partial listing of things I don’t like to share with others: The road, my dessert, airplane legroom, leftover pizza, swimsuits, health (in a video game setting), PIN numbers, and toothbrushes. Along those lines, it just seems like brilliant ideas should be hoarded, closely guarded, and possibly used for world domination.

3. Has anyone noticed there is a major deficiency of Zillion Dollar ideas on this site? It’s embarrassing. We’ve been at this for about six months now, and we’ve come up with two. Conversely, a pair of monkeys pounding at two typewriters in the last six months could have easily churned out a few dozen Zillion dollar ideas and probably a couple Shakespearean plays as well… (And frankly, the monkeys would likely have had fewer episodes of throwing fecal matter at each other…)

As you may have guessed, I’ve dealt with this before. Fortunately, I have never been one to quit on things just because I had come to the realization that a primate could render a higher quality product and demonstrate more professionalism in the process. And on that note, I’m pleased to present the Reese’s S’more!

Now ideally, an introduction such as this would take place over a campfire, not in the cold outer reaches of cyberspace. Regrettably, due to a scheduling conflict, the Nobel Prize Committee was unable to “meet me in the woods” for a proper unveiling. I heard through the grapevine that the same thing happened to Stephen Hawking.

Anyway, for once, I won’t bore you with all the minutia about the composition of a typical S’more. It’s irrelevant. Let’s face it, the three little bars of Hershey’s milk chocolate had run its course. It was fine in the 1800’s. That’s all they had. Now, we have an endless array of candy bar options to construct a S’more with. And that line of thinking ultimately led to the Reese’s S’more…

Please understand, with most things, I am a traditionalist. For instance, I have resisted the societal pressure to order a “Pannido” at Jack in the Box. I have firmly stood my ground in opposition to satellite radio. And I have no interest in carrying around Sacajawea dollar coins instead of paper bills. But when it comes to S’mores, I tend to be a little daring. After trying several different candy bar substitutions to the standard milk chocolate, it became instantly clear that the inclusion of peanut butter was a remarkable improvement to the traditional S’more.

Admittedly, anyone can throw together an unconventional S’more recipe and win a slew of Humanitarian awards for their efforts. It’s been done. Look at Gandhi and his lentil S’more. While the ingredients are important, the true brilliance of the Reese’s S’more is derived in the preparation…

To yield the perfect distribution of chocolate, peanut butter and marshmallow within the graham crackers, the Reese’s peanut butter cup must be cut crosswise. This is pretty labor intensive, and borderline impossible to do, which is why I rely heavily on my wife during the assembly process.

First, it takes an amazingly steady (read: not intoxicated) hand to do this… Since I’m never within 20 miles of civilization or sobriety on a camping trip, I leave this delicate incision to my wife. As luck would have it, she possesses the hand-eye coordination and physical dexterity necessary in making Reese’s S’mores or dominating a game of Operation.

Also, you need to have the right knife for the job. Unfortunately, while camping, I simply don’t carry a knife with a blade less than 18 inches in length. While a knife this size is useful for chopping down saplings and performing Crocodile Dundee impersonations, it is just flat out impractical for making ultra fine slices through peanut butter cups.

Again, my wife helps remedy this situation as well. Truthfully, the Reese’s S’more could never have come to pass without my wife bringing every kitchen utensil we own on every camping trip. Only my wife could classify items like melon ballers, spoonrests and flower sifters as part of the bare necessities needed to survive a weekend in the wilderness. Thusly, when the situation calls for it, she nonchalantly removes a paring knife from our knife block and lacerates the peanut butter cup. I seriously doubt most plastic surgeons could make such a precise incision.

Finally, the speed of the cut is important too. If cut too quickly, the whole thing crumbles in your hands. Too slow and the marshmallow is stuck cooking too long, possibly catching on fire, and at that point, the whole S’more is compromised. As you have witnessed, preparation of the Reese’s S’more is a painstaking task and an artform that takes years to perfect. Attempting to master the intricate timing and cutting techniques has driven people to the brink of insanity. I can only promise that the enjoyment of this delicacy makes it all worthwhile.

The Reese’s S’more is my legacy and a gift to my fellow man. I’m disclosing this idea not for profit, but for the betterment of all mankind. I only ask that it be used for the establishment of peace, and not in the pursuit of evil. With that said, I must now begin clearing mantle space for the Nobel Prize…

Rainbow Six Personality Profiles

Continuing on with the Rainbow Six theme, I thought I would elaborate on the personality profiles discussed briefly in the Comments section…

The Captain: Despite what the comments section may suggest, The Captain is not the rigid authoritarian his subordinates portray him as… The Captain is an experienced field commander that simply understands the strengths, weaknesses and tendencies of his teammates and the enemy. Armed with this knowledge and a machine gun, he uses these assets to lead his team in an ongoing hunt for terrorists…

As a general rule, Captains are created, not appointed. It takes a dire moment of uncertainty on the battlefield, where lives are on the line and the mission objectives hang in the balance. The soon-to-be Captain looks into the vacuous, indifferent or bloodshot eyes of his fellow teammates and comes to the realization that any hope of success in the mission lies completely in his hands. When he ultimately leads them to victory, his role is cemented. Going forward, the greatest burden on The Captain is not surviving the war around him, but simply maintaining some degree of discipline and focus with a platoon filled with the personalities listed below…

Along for the Ride: Somehow, this person always has full health. No matter how intense the firefight, they seem to emerge completely unscathed. This is no accident, as this individual routinely positions himself behind another player for a human shield. Also, he usually is equipped with a sniper rifle, so that he can shoot enemies from great distances to accumulate the safest possible kills. Along for the Ride’s main objective is to simply survive as long as possible, even if it means demonstrating the cowardice of George McFly (before he fought Biff) in the process. While this person usually manages to survive for the duration of most missions, his act eventually runs thin…

The Glory Hog: This person picks and chooses his moments of bravery, but it will always be at the expense of the mission objectives and when very little danger is present. For example, The Glory Hog will never miss an opportunity to abandon his position to notch a kill, especially when he’s supposed to be prudently covering teammates or disarming a dirty bomb. For this reason, The Glory Hog is not entrusted with any critical objectives, as he generally spends the better part of each mission polishing his medals, applying moisturizer or whitening his teeth.

The Martyr: This squad member will risk his own life to save the life of a teammate or to insure the prolonging of the mission. For instance, The Martyr will place himself directly between a hostage and enemy gunfire to prevent an assassination attempt by the terrorists. By placing himself squarely in harm’s way, the Martyr often will pay the ultimate price. However, The Martyr’s actions are not totally selfless… The Martyr wants to die just to receive posthumous recognition for valor from his other teammates. Secretly, The Martyr hopes his surviving squad members will rally around his death and carry on the mission to seek vengeance in his name. The Martyr can stand to be gone, as long as he is not forgotten…

The Grieving Widow: This teammate takes a little too long to come to grips with the loss of a teammate. And for the record, the definition of “a little too long” is any length of time greater than one second. The Grieving Widow syndrome usually occurs when The Martyr has sacrificed his life for theirs. Feeling indebted to this person, The Grieving Widow will usually deliver the two-sentence eulogy every Martyr wants to be remembered by…

The Grieving Widow: “Wow, McSex came out of nowhere and just saved my life… I’ll have to name my first-born after him!!!”

The Overreactor: His philosophy is simple: No threat is too insignificant that it can’t be met with several grenades and intense, indiscriminate machine gun fire. The term “loose cannon” comes readily to mind. Being shot at by a video game terrorist is actually taken personally. If this player had a button on their controller that could make his character smear “Braveheart” war paint all over their face, scream an exalted battle cry and charge into a hornet’s nest of enemies it would be used constantly.

Cannon Fodder: The one teammate on which all other squad members silently agree is at best a profound annoyance and at worst a total detriment to the mission. Sadly, Cannon Fodder has no idea his life is completely expendable in the eyes of his teammates.

Sometimes “Along For the Ride” evolves into Cannon Fodder once teammates with only a shred of health determine that “Along for the Ride” hasn’t been pulling his weight. At this point, “Along for the Ride” will be pushed to the front of the unit where most attacks (and casualties) are rendered. Usually, the last sentence this individual hears is: “Ok, we’ll guard this empty parking lot, you go inside their ammunition stronghold and serve the terrorists with this UN resolution.”

Map Illiterate: In real life, my navigational skills are comparable to Gilligan’s. Surprisingly, I don’t fall into this category while video gaming. Somehow, I can look at a nebulous video grid with moving dots and flashing symbols and translate it like an air traffic controller.

Here’s an example of a typical exchange with someone who’s map illiterate:

Map Illiterate: “Where are you guys?”
McSex: “Look at the map screen…”
Map Illiterate (after a long pause): “Am I the flashing dot? What does the blinking triangle represent? I just walked over a bridge… Does that appear on the map somewhere?”
McSex (sighing): “Alright. We’ll come find you. We need a signal though… Drop several live grenades at your feet. The explosions and smoke trail will lead us to you…”
Map Illiterate: “Ok, thanks. That sounds like a good plan. All set. The grenades should be exploding any sec-”

Unfortunately, depending on how the mission is progressing, and the level of patience other teammates are feeling, Map Illiterate can frequently be reclassified as Cannon Fodder…

The Girl Scout: Does his best, but is frankly more suited to selling thin mints door-to-door than systematically killing terrorists. The Girl Scout is consistently at the bottom of the list when it comes to kills, life expectancy, and testosterone.

The Intoxicated: Long pauses, slurred speech, and slowed reaction times are trademarks of The Intoxicated player. While they bring no discernable skills to the mission, they do provide lively conversation and usually don’t mind (or notice) if they are accidentally killed by friendly fire. On a side note, The Girl Scout always enjoys playing with The Intoxicated, as it dramatically improves his odds that he won’t be the first to die.

The Malcontent: This team member strives to undermine the authority of The Captain above all else. There are varying degrees to which this disdain for leadership is felt and expressed. Sometimes it can be harmless acts of rebellion like a “Kick Me” sign on the back of a commanding officer. Often, the Malcontent will impersonate The Captain and issue mock orders in the same manner the Captain would use:

The Malcontent: “Ok, everyone. We need to regroup immediately and cease having fun. This is a mission-critical objective people. Any fun taking place will cause me to abort the mission entirely!”

At his worst, The Malcontent will actually sabotage the mission with treasonous orders that other teammates may unwittingly fall for…

The Malcontent (disguising voice): “This is your Captain talking… I think I might be a terrorist. Frankly, we can’t take the risk that I’m not. I am issuing a directive that I am to be shot on sight immediately.”

(This technique is especially effective if The Intoxicated or The Overreactor are members of the squad…)

Side Conversationalist: Unknowingly, this person will hold conversations with the outside world over his headset while his anti-terrorist platoon listens in. Most of the time, these are “Yes, dear” conversations with our wives/girlfriends that serve to emasculate us in front of our friends.

However, Ole_Cool, a lawyer in real life, takes it to a whole other level. He will often answer a client’s call to his cell phone and proceed to discuss their legal woes in great depth without turning off his headset. Let me say right now, it is extremely difficult to resist the urge to chime in with advice like “Plead insanity!!!” or “Bribe the judge!!” during his legal counseling. Apparently, as far as Ole_Cool is concerned, every member of his platoon shares in the attorney-client privilege.

The “Cover Me” Guy: This person will suspend all common sense and decide to take a ridiculously foolish risk in the game. Of course, the expression “Cover Me” originated sometime in the 80’s with wildly unrealistic cop movies like Lethal Weapon. The unfortunate by-product of these movies is a generation of Martin Riggs wannabe’s that thinks they can accomplish a suicide mission by simply ordering their partners to “Cover Me.”

Here’s an example of how it ties in with Rainbow Six:

The “Cover Me” Guy: “You see that building where the heavily armed Tangos have superior positions and are well-fortified? I’m gonna run in there with this Swiss Army knife and fight them all hand-to-hand. Cover me.”
McSex: “Ok… Or, you know, we could just sneak in through the back alley…”
The “Cover Me” Guy: “That’ll take too long. Just Cover Me. I’m goin’ in!!!!”

Of course, when The “Cover Me” Guy is subsequently killed in horrific fashion from a barrage of enemy gunfire, he naturally blames his death on his teammates for not “covering” him. Practicing social Darwinism, The Captain of the squad is utterly content to the team “naturally” thin itself…

Tango Neutralized

Background: Rainbow Six is an XBox game with online capability. Equipped with special headsets, multiple players can interact and communicate with each other in real time through a high-speed Internet connection. The mission is simple: My buddies and I comprise an elite squad of anti-terrorist commandos that will rescue any hostages, defuse any bombs and neutralize all Tangos to secure the peace and restore law and order…

As we get older and move to the far corners of the world, it gets harder and harder to get together with my buds to enjoy the juvenile pursuits that are the foundation of every male friendship. Since Al Gore hasn’t invented a way to have rubber band fights over the Internet, I’ve come to depend on XBox Live as a means to maintaining these important bonds in male relationships. Thankfully, The Chizzler (DA) and Jon_Solo are always up for neutralizing Tangos at a moment’s notice…

The fact that Solo lives on the East coast actually helps our cause. You see, Solo is on a different biometric plane than the rest of us. He works irregular hours, sleeps during the day, and is most active at night. His mother refers to this lifestyle as a mild form of vampirism. Anyway, the three-hour time difference conversion somehow puts us on about the same space-time continuum. Honestly, if Solo lived in the same time zone as me, I’d probably never talk to him.

Once we all get online, we take a moment to select our weapons, exchange a few pleasantries and mentally prepare ourselves for battle. The mission starts out with a chopper dropping our team at the insertion point. Wasting no time, we set out immediately to neutralize all Tangos and complete our mission objectives…

McSex: “Behind us… Building on the left… Top window… I’ve got a dude showing up on thermal. Take him out.”
~A hail of gunfire ensues~
Solo: “Got him.”
Chizzler: “No, I got him.”
Solo: “Whatever… I nailed his ass.”

Now for the record, Solo always assumes he is behind every kill our team earns. Even if he walked up and riddled an enemy corpse with bullets, he’ll still turn to us and claim it was his kill. While some bickering may ensue about who actually registered the kill, it is usually short-lived since the game lacks forensic examiners to determine the actual cause of death during game play. We simply move on and wait for the kill totals to be revealed at the end of the game.

While successfully completing the mission is our paramount objective, it is also equally important to register a nice total of kills individually. Registering single-digit kills for an entire mission will cause other players to call you a pacifist or question if maybe you’d be better suited joining a troop of girl scouts. If you happen to register zero kills, your fellow players will ask if you fled to Canada at some point in the mission. And getting a negative score (the result of killing more teammates than terrorists) will result in an impromptu military tribunal for aiding and abetting the enemy in a time of war.

While we try to function as a team, our best efforts to operate as a cohesive unit can be compromised by interruptions and distractions outside of the game. For The Chizzler, there’s no better time to multitask than when he’s supposed to be providing cover fire or guarding our flank. It never fails. To the annoyance of his teammates, The Chizzler takes an endless amount of pauses to take phone calls, make a snack, answer the door, play on the Internet, clean his apartment or read a magazine while the rest of our squad engages the enemy.

Now, the occasional interruption is tolerable. We all have to go to the bathroom or listen to our wives/girlfriends tell us about their day. It happens. However, with the sheer volume of phone calls and visits The Chizzler receives on a typical night, one could easily justify hiring a receptionist to handle the demands on his time.

Solo: “Where’s Dave?”
McSex: “I think he got a phone call.”
Solo: “Again!?”
McSex: “I know. He’s jeopardizing the mission. He always does this.”
Solo: “Who could he even be talking to? We’re his only friends.”
McSex: “Exactly… You know, I hate answering the phone. You have to get up, stop what you’re doing, run over to the phone…”
Solo: “It’s like, ‘Who wants to get a phone call, ever?'”
McSex: “Not me. But Dave does apparently. He’s all over it every-”
Solo: “Watch out, McSex… There’s a dude on the rooftops up here with a rocket launcher.”
McSex: “I see him. Got him. Anyway, have you noticed that Dave gets a lot of visits, too?”
Solo: “Yeah, what is with that?”
McSex: “Nobody ever knocks on my door.”
Solo: “Try living in Brooklyn. People are pretty chill here, but you don’t visit people. That never happens… Must be Bellingham.”

Individually, Solo and The Chizzler are efficient killing machines. However, when put together, they somehow manage to regress to a bunch of giggling schoolgirls on the battlefield. It’s uncanny. One night, Solo and I breezed through three straight missions flawlessly. As soon as The Chizzler joined us, our squad was reduced to a friendly-firing slapstick suicide-mission. Frankly, Larry, Moe and Curly could have put together a more professional and organized effort than we did.

Allow me to elaborate on some of the breakdowns that befall our team whenever Jon_Solo and The Chizzler work side by side:

1. Lack of Awareness: The word “itchy” trigger finger doesn’t do it justice. Picture a trigger finger enflamed with psoriasis and poison oak. This affliction affects Solo primarily. Essentially, movement of any kind within his field of vision will be met with several rounds of gunfire, followed by vigorous reloading, and then several more rounds for good measure.

The funny thing is, Solo never feels responsible for comrades that he decimates with friendly fire. At the end of the game, Solo always places the blame squarely on the foolish teammate that happened to venture near him as he was indiscriminately firing his weapon.

2. Disorientation: It’s not uncommon for me to advance deep into enemy territory, look over my shoulder and find that the rest of my squad is nowhere to be found. Ducking intense enemy fire, I’ll bring up the map screen, only to find that Chizz and Solo are inexplicably heading back to the insertion point or maybe a frozen yogurt stand somewhere else on the map.

Now, I can forgive getting turned around and mistakenly heading in the wrong direction. It happens under the stress of battle. However, sometimes I’ll check the map and they won’t be moving at all. What are they doing? Digging foxholes? Making snow angels? For all I know, they are playing hackey sack while I’m trying to single-handedly wipe out an army of terrorists. Unfailingly, by the time I can give the order for them to regroup, my life is wasted along with any hope of successfully completing the mission.

3. Poor Execution: This occurs when we have a solid plan in place, and for some inexplicable reason fail to adhere to it. These are catastrophic mental errors like shooting a hostage after we’ve rescued her. Throwing grenades at a bomb we’re supposed to defuse. I’ve actually had The Chizzler drop a live grenade in my lap instead of throwing it at the enemy. Stuff like that.

Here’s a textbook example:

The missions usually end with a climactic standoff with terrorists while a hostage’s life hangs in the balance. Naturally, these daring rescues require precise planning and execution. The element of surprise is critical. As we approach a room where a hostage is being held, I’ll take a moment to try and get our team organized… (Admittedly, depending on your point of view, this strategic planning session borders on sucking the fun out of playing a video game online altogether)…

McSex: “Alright. They’ve got a hostage in the next room. There are at least three Tangos in there as well. I’ll use a breaching charge and enter through the back door. Solo and Chizz, you two enter through the front door on the count of three. Remember to check your fire, and don’t shoot the hostage. Lock and load. On three…”

Of course, Dave pays no attention to any of this. Here’s what typically happens: Midway through my strategy briefing, Dave will casually open the front door, alerting the terrorists to our presence. In a matter of seconds, we hear some rapid gunfire and witness the hostage being executed and our team slaughtered. The words: “Mission Failed” flash prominently across our screen.

Solo and I are dumbfounded. Utterly speechless… (Well, momentarily, anyway.)

Solo: “Oh my god! What was that?”
Chizzler: “I don’t know… I thought we were supposed to go in there?”
McSex and Solo (in unison): “On three!! We were going in on three!”
Chizzler: “Oh.”
McSex: “Wow. That was horrible execution. You might be facing a court martial for that one…”
Solo: “Look right there! I got 19 kills. I told you guys I was on point!”
McSex: “Sweet. 31 kills. That’ll help my average.”
Chizzler: “What? Only 8 kills? I should have had way more than that!”
Solo: “If you’d get off the phone for one second…”
McSex: “Ok, fire it up again. But this time-”
Chizzler (sarcastically): “I know, I know. I’ll get my act together. No hackey sack or having fun. All business!”

River Position

Have you ever been in a situation where you somehow managed to pack everything you might need for a week long trip, including random things like Q-tips and fingernail clippers, only to get to the airport and realize that you forgot your airline tickets altogether? That’s essentially what happened with the minutes of our river float. In describing the events of that weekend, I thought I had covered everything, but there was one glaring omission…

Allow me to define the expression Julie referred to in the Comments section:

River Position: While floating down the river, it is the act of situating oneself to insure that the impact of colliding with an unseen underwater obstacle is absorbed by one’s genitals.

Now, for the record, no one intentionally floats the river in this manner. It is usually the by-product of being caught off guard, having too much to drink or simply a desperate cry for attention. Anyone that deliberately assumes River Position should be placed under clinical supervision, as genital desecration like that is found only among cult members awaiting a comet to take them to a distant planet.

Allow me to reconstruct how this ties into our river rafting trip:

Somehow, Krusty managed to spend about 98% of our river journey traveling in this fashion. This was a feat even a Fear Factor contestant wouldn’t attempt. This was largely due to his frequent acts of jumping off his tube to relieve himself as we floated downstream. While one would think this would be a private matter that would be attended to discretely, Krusty chose to advertise his moments of urinary deployment.

Of course, the rest of us, not knowing where to direct our attention, would all turn our heads and generally look away. Usually at this point, we’d notice several jagged rocks, massive tree branches, or a coil of razor wire lying at about groin-level in the water below us. Exhaling a sigh of relief, we’d think to ourselves, “It sure is fortunate that I am floating safely above those dangerous objects on this inner tube.”

A few seconds later, the sounds of frenzied flailing and splashing followed by piercing screams of pain would bring us back to reality. Instantly, we’d all whip around to check on Krusty, not out of concern for his well being, but simply to witness the spectacle of someone receiving a surprise blow to the groin. I would guess the next time Krusty floats the river he might forsake a lifejacket, but not an athletic supporter.

Now let’s face it, there is nothing funnier than watching someone get hit in the groin. Yet for some reason, the entertainment industry fails to recognize this. There are a lot of shows on TV that put forth needless effort and expense when they should really just scrap any pretense of a legitimate concept for their show and just give the audience what they really crave: More gratuitous blows to the groin…

Take a show like Punk’d for instance. Instead of filming elaborate practical jokes on celebrities, what if Ashton Kutcher just hid behind a tree, waited for Justin Timberlake to walk by, and then jumped out and kicked him in the groin! Who wouldn’t watch a show like that? Seriously, I don’t have the time or attention span to follow some drawn out prank trying to convince Justin that his car had been stolen or his family had been killed. Why not just cut to the chase, have Ashton run up like a placekicker, watch Justin double over, and cut to a final scene of him wheezing and coughing up blood on the sidewalk? I swear I would tune in every week.

Want another example? How about making floating a river in River Position an Olympic event? There are so many facets to this that would interest me. What if one country inexplicably dominated this event, like Kenyans in marathons? That could be worth talking about. And think about those mini-documentaries that showcase each athlete’s life story before they compete. Imagine seeing some footage and anecdotes about a four-year training regimen consisting solely of taking repeated blows to the groin.

And think about all the shows that were cancelled because they could never generate a proper audience. Suppose a show called “Two Guys, A Girl, A Pizza Place & Multiple Kicks to the Groin” debuted this fall. I guarantee it would be an instant sensation.