Apr 26 2012
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Random

My First Greek Spam Comment

I’ve done a terrible job at keeping this updated. Today I thought I’d check back in and see how this little blog is doing and I came across this little gem of a spam comment:

geia,ego kano mia ekpompi ogxntloeias sta plaisia tou magazino AROMA ELLADAS pou provaletai kathe Deftera, se 35 kanalia se oli tin ellada, kyrios perifereiaka kai stin Athina sto Athina tv kai ena dyo akoma.Exei plaka Xreiazetai apli glossa apo anthropous pou den einai texnikoi alla epikoinoniakoi.Pragmatika yparxei anagi gia tetoies ekpompes Makari na tis stirize kai to ypoyrgeio oikonomikon mesa apo ti drasi tis koinonias tis priroforias.

What strikes me is that he used transliterated Greek, why not just spam me in broken English or in real Greek, alphabet and all?

Anyway new, fun stories are on their way. I promise…

Mar 20 2012
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Humor, Life, Random

Ladies

You know it’s that time when…

a) Everyone you meet is obviously in some sort of secret fight with you, in which case you are obliged to engage in kind. That’s right. I’m looking at you bus driver lady. I heard the way you said, “Have a nice day. Watch your step.” And I DO NOT appreciate your tone.

and,

b) You wear your boyshort undies backwards. Classic mixup. But when you realize it at 10 AM in the unisex work bathroom you are too angry, annoyed, pissed off and EXHAUSTED to bother changing them around. You will wear those underwear backwards whether they like it or not.

Isn't it obvious? THIS IS MY HAPPY PLACE!

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Mar 02 2012
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Humor, Life, Random

A Scorpion In My Pants

I had the most terrifying experience on my way to work this morning. As I was walking from the bus stop to my office I felt something crawling around inside my pants.

I can honestly say I have never been more scared than the moment I realized a scorpion was crawling around near my lady flower. Obviously it was a scorpion because there are so many of those crawling around Downtown Los Angeles. No there are not.  And how did a scorpion get in my pants? Possibly through  a pant leg, though I probably would have felt that earlier. Most likely through an unzipped zipper. I have an unfortunate tendency of occasionally forgetting to zip up my pants. The worst was when I spent an entire day traipsing around Athens with my pants half undone. Did I mention how popular I was with the Greek men that day? But no, today my pants were fully done and zipped.

I panicked.

I should let you know that my entire life I have been afraid of bugs. Like really afraid. If a bug crossed my path as a small child, I would stop, point, and scream until my father either removed the bug (usually an ant) or picked me up and carried me away from them. High maintenance? Who, me?

Roly-polies were the only exception. I did adopt many of these little guys, usually in pairs (boy and girl so they didn’t get lonely) and make terrariums out of shoe boxes for them. Generally I named them Bambi and Kelly.

So other than roly-polies, lady bugs and butterflies, bugs totally creep me out!

There I was, next to the freeway off-ramp wanting to scream at the top of my lungs and drop trou. But I thought that might attract the wrong kind of attention. And if I did get carted away by ambulance, due to scorpion stings on my hoo-hah, I thought it would be more lady-like if they had to cut my pants off, rather than find me with my pants already around my ankles. Which was important to me on the off-chance that my EMT/Paramedic/Emergency Room doctor was young, handsome and single.

And yes, Mom, I was wearing nice underwear. You were right, “you never know when you might get your pants cut off, so always wear a nice pair.”

Since I couldn’t take my pants off I did the next best thing and jammed my hand in there to pull that sucker out myself. I can only imagine what people driving by must have thought as I was frantically stuffing my hand inside my pants on the side of the road, but I’m guessing it wasn’t good.

It turns out the scorpion was actually a plastic hair-clip I had clipped on to the edge of my blouse, as I was running to catch my bus. I still can’t figure out how the clip managed to get from my blouse to the inside, crotch area of my pants. I am really glad it wasn’t an actual scorpion.

The alleged scorpion.

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Feb 28 2012
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Humor, Life, Random

Potty Training

I don’t have kids though I have picked out names for them. I thought I should clear that up since this blog is about potty training and my last entry was about my husband, which I also don’t have I have not picked out a name for him, yet.

I will share a picture of one of my imaginary children that I found on the internet. I find I have a hard time getting people to take him seriously*. Still, he's precious.

Anyway I eavesdropped on overheard a woman talking about how difficult it was to potty train her daughter, and instead of imparting my knowledge of the subject on her personally I decided to do it here.

Here are a few tips…

  • Knowledge is power. The fact that this woman knew she was potty training her child was the first step to success.

Potty training is most difficult when you don’t know that you are potty training, while babysitting. It was for one of my favorite families and the parents had left in such a rush, they forgot to tell me the littlest one was in the midst of his first few days of potty training. A little after we had put a batch of cookies in the oven, it became clear that little B had “to go.” His older sister showed me his training potty, so I sat him down and waited for him. It was good that I got him on the pot, but getting him to actually go was another story.

  • Patience is a virtue. Be ready for a waiting game.

I knew Little B had to go, he knew he had to go, but for some reason he just sat there not going for a long time. Long enough for the cookie timer to go off and E (his sister) to start yelling that I needed to “get them out quick,” while big brother watched Angry Beavers in the living room. And turned up the volume the louder E yelled, which just made her yell louder. Little B sat there not going, E kept yelling and Daggett was blaring something about how, “Desperate times call for desperate desperateness.”

  • Keep a visual on trainee. Losing sight of the trainee can be disastrous.

I thought I was lucky that the bathroom and kitchen were almost next to each other. I stepped out into the hallway trying to keep an eye on Little B and see what E was yelling about. She was about to take the cookies out herself, which I couldn’t let happen. What if she burned herself?! I told Little B to stay right there on his potty for two seconds, I left the door open and told Big B to keep an eye on him. Still in the time it took me to run five steps to the kitchen and pull the cookies from the oven, Little B had managed to drag his training potty out of the bathroom and directly in front of the TV, where he went potty.

  • Always get a potty with a guard wall. Boy or girl, it’s better safe than sorry.

So there was Little B watching Nickelodeon, in the living room, on his potty, going potty. This wouldn’t have been bad except the training potty had originally belonged to big sister, and didn’t’ have one of those handy guards. Which meant Little B was not going in his potty, but instead on the carpet, like one of those adorable, cherub garden fountains.

I spent the rest of the evening scrubbing urine out of the carpet, while the kids gnawed at the cookies I had baked to near petrification.

And my last piece of advice…

  • Goal setting and/or bribery is a very effective tool.

I know it may seem weird to take potty training advice from someone in her mid twenties with no children, but I have successfully potty trained at least one two-year old. Me. It started at a department store. I was probably in search of those circular clothing displays so that I could start one of those games of hide and seek where you don’t tell Mom and stay really quiet, so then she freaks out and makes security shut down all the exits for 45 minutes while they comb the entire store for you. I didn’t go that far but my little brother did once, but that is another story. Anyway I never made it to the clothing rack game because I was distracted by a set of Disney Princess undies. I wanted them. A lot.

However, according to Mom only “Big Girls” who went “tink tink” in the big girl potty could wear them. Actually my mom never said “tink tink.” I stole that from The Help, but since we are on the subject cookies (excluding those baked by me) also seemed like an effective bargaining tool.

You is kind. You is smart. You is important.

Moral of the story is, within five days I was wearing my very own big girl undies.

*I stole and butchered that joke from my beloved Flight of the Conchords. Specifically this video.

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Feb 14 2012
5 Comments
Fairy Tales, Humor, Life, Love

To My Husband

Ok.

I’m not married. I thought I might clear that up, because the title probably suggests otherwise. I have warned family and friends on multiple occasions that there may come a day when I elope, so to all family and friends I repeat, “I’m not married.” But this is, or is about to be, a letter to my husband, whomever he is.

Which is strange not only because at this point the person is technically imaginary, but also because I’ve never really given much thought to a wedding in general, let alone my own. I do think about being married or having a family from time to time (I am female after all), but the actual wedding? Not so much.

Recently something has changed. I don’t know if it because more and more of my girlfriends are in serious relationships; several are in the midst of planning their own wedding. I’m even in some of them. Perhaps it’s that I am just getting older? Either way a shift has occurred.

I find myself daydreaming not just about a wedding and honeymoon, but romance as well. I am just not or wasn’t the romantic type. A lot of this has to do with my tendency to shy away from emotional experiences. I am actually a very emotional person, I just prefer to avoid letting others know that. I also have a very strong awkward streak.

There was an incident in the gym once that is now fondly referenced as ”The Hand Rape.” I misinterpreted a guy’s friendly goodbye wave for a hi-five, which was awkward enough except because the hi-five was so weak I thought it was an above the shoulder handshake. Don’t judge me, those happen. They don’t happen. Since I was already so committed I tried to turn it into a cool handshake, one with fist bumps and stuff, but by that point the guy was so confused by what was taking place that he just stood there, frozen. The handshake didn’t get cool. At one point I was just rubbing my hand all over his. In the gym. Above the shoulder.

Between my awkwardness and avoidance of emotion there was just no time or place for romance. I didn’t want to let it in. I didn’t even care for romantic films unless they were a musical, Disney, featured Gene Kelly or were about orphans. Titanic? Other than the part about the boat sinking, unbelievable and ridiculous. The Notebook? “If you’re a bird, I’m a bird.” What does that even mean?

Now it’s a completely different story. I am starting to become one of those people who loves, love. “Oh you’re a bird? Well guess what? I am too.” I couldn’t be happier or feel more at rest. If that makes sense?

I don’t know why I felt compelled to write this letter a few weeks back. It was almost as though I couldn’t not write it. Initially I wanted to put it in the Storybook section (if I was going to post it at all). In a way it is a sort of fairytale–or at least part of what I hope my fairytale might one day hold; but given that today is Valentine’s Day I figure why not throw a bit more love out there?

-

To My Husband on Our Wedding Day

My Dear and Handsome Man, 

I am so filled with joy and delight on this glorious day. To stand before those closest to us and declare our love and committment to one another puts a smile on my lips, a flutter in my heart and peace in my soul. 

Today I offer you something small and precious and mighty, my heart. Though it has been wounded and scarred, for my sorrows were deep, so too the joys of your love have brought healing and strength. And so with my heart comes a promise:

You, I shall love with a reckless intention, a fierce mercy, a humble adoration, and a divine desire all the days of my life, so that you will know the unique joy of your very own, beautiful disasterpiece. 

And then my dear and handsome man will say to me, “Arise my darling, my beautiful one, and come with me…”

-

In the meantime, here is a little video from my favorite Kiwis that seemed particularly appropriate for today. Happy Heart Day!

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Feb 08 2012
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Friendship, Life, Love, Random

Best Friends Forever

I mentioned before that I was in the Rocky Mountains over the weekend and the reason was for a women’s retreat. There were something like 500 women in attendance and I ended up making some amazing friends. Women who I am confident will be part of my life for a long time to come.

There was one woman I met at the retreat whom I was drawn to, but never really got to know. I only sat at her table once during the weekend, but I remember thinking, “Wow. I would really like to be friends with her.” She was beautiful with long blonde hair, a very pretty face, and warm smile. She was quick to engage in conversation, had amazing style and overall just came across as classy, funny and intelligent. Then there was me with my hair all curly and unruly. Thanks to the dryness of the air it wasn’t frizzy, but my skin was getting progressively more and more dry, and my eyes more puffy as the retreat went on.

Any woman who has ever gone to a women’s retreat knows that a large portion of your time is consumed by crying. We heard the story of a young girl trapped in her car after a horrific traffic accident, who was losing enormous amounts of blood by the second. Fire trucks and ambulances surrounded her and through the chaos she saw her father, who had been called to the scene.  She cried out to him, “Daddy, it wasn’t my fault.” Her father has arrived thinking it is a fender bender, only to find firemen using the jaws of life to try to pry his little girl from what is left of her car. He hears his daughter cry out to him and responds, “I know.” Then pushes his way through the crowd, past the firemen and the jaws of life and rips the door off the car himself.

So between that story and watching scenes like this one from Pride and Prejudice:

You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.

Honestly, stick a fork in me, I was done. None of us had any hope of getting out of that weekend with out an insane amount of tear shedding, and we loved every minute of it. Men don’t even try to understand; it will never make sense to you. It barely makes sense to us.

So there I was curly-haired, dry skinned and puffy eyed. Oh, I forgot to mention that I also had a large white stain on the chest of my shirt from where I had spilled some of my face moisturizer that morning. I forgot to mention it because I didn’t realize I had the large white stain until later that day. This girl was actually “That Girl” and I was am thaaaat girl.

At work one day, I was at my desk and it was after or just around lunch when I realized my right knee was really uncomfortable. I didn’t remember hurting it at all, but when I looked down it was abnormally swollen, like an enormous growth had just sprung up from nothing. It was horrifying. I was about to pull up WebMD so that I could find out that I had a brain tumor IN MY KNEE! when I thought maybe I should poke it to see what it felt like.

I didn’t have a brain tumor in my knee. Thank God. But several pairs of underwear had managed to lodge themselves in my pant leg. I’m just saying, That Girl probably doesn’t bring multiple pairs of underwear to work with her in her pant leg, and if she did she probably wouldn’t write about it on the interwebs.

The point is I didn’t have a lot of any hope that she would want me as a friend. But then, yesterday she found me and friended me! It genuinely made me so happy and basically made me feel like this:

To be fair we are only internet friends. All I mean by this is, it’s not like she has made me a friendship bracelet or something. Yet…

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Feb 07 2012
4 Comments
Life, Random

Wrong Number

My birthday was this weekend. I spent it up in the Rocky Mountains, a beyond beautiful experience. No phone. No internet. Just peace. And when I finally turned on my phone Sunday to a barrage of birthday wishes it was wonderful.

Rocky Mountains

Extra gloves? You've had extra gloves this whole time?...Uh yeah. We're in the Rockies. Jeez!

Except  I a few months ago recently got a new phone and I never updated my contacts, nor did I create a “Need Your Numbers” event on Facebook. So from time to time I’ve had to send the always awkward reply text of, “Thanks! But sorry I got a new phone recently and lost my contacts. Who is this?” It’s never been a big deal really until this weekend.

Somehow it just felt weird to send a “Who is this?” text to someone who took the time out of his/her day to wish me a Happy Birthday. So I didn’t. But now I have several mystery texts from people and I don’t know who they are. I thought I recognized one number as belonging to an old girlfriend of mine that I hadn’t talked to in a while. Turned out it was one of my younger brother’s friend’s number. I imagine he was confused by the number of Xs, Os, and hearts that were included. I responded much more conservatively to the rest of the unknown numbers.

Once my girlfriend J had met a really cute, nice guy one night and they had exchanged numbers, a couple of texts over the course of the week, even talked about meeting up to better get to know each other. Except she lost her phone and had to get it replaced. Only she hadn’t saved her number. She found herself in sort of similar situation, but she didn’t want to send the “Who is this?” text. I don’t remember the reason she didn’t want to just ask who it was, but it seemed like a really good reason.

Like a good friend I stepped up. The plan was to call the number ask if (insert made up name) was there. He’d say no this Mike. Then I’d say, “Oops! Wrong number.” Hang up and let my girlfriend know who the number belonged to. Only thing is who tells someone their name when they get a call from a wrong number? Exactly.

The call went something like this.

Me: Hey is this Brad?

Guy: Uh no. I think you have the wrong number.

Me: Oh really so there’s no Brad there.

Guy: No I don’t even know a Brad. Pretty sure you have the wrong number.

Me: Well, what’s your name anyway?

Guy: This conversation is getting weird.

Me: Sorry! You just sound familiar for some reason. Sound familiar??

Guy: Uh. It’s Mike.

Me: Okay thanks. Bye!

And I hung up and texted my girlfriend, “Yep, it’s Mike.” I don’t think they ever ended up going on a date, but it does remind me that J owes me a favor or two. Maybe I should have her figure out who these anonymous texts are from?

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Feb 01 2012
3 Comments
Football

National Signing Day

Photo Credit: ESPN U

Today is National Signing Day. I know not because I am particularly interested, but because for the last few weeks, when I’ve talked to my mom she has started each conversation with, “Only a few more weeks” or “Just 12 more days!!” If there was an advent calendar for NSD, she’d buy it.

My mom is infamous in the world of college football discussion boards. Well my undergrad’s college football discussion boards. This time last year she discovered that the top recruit for my alma mater was being secretly wooed by one of our rivals. At that point everyone had assumed this kid was a lock, so to find out less than 48 hours before D-day that he was even considering another program? Her post practically shut down the website.

We were dropping my brother off at the airport. He was on his way to a six month stint in New Zealand. So of course my mom wanted to pack herself in his suitcase and go with him watch him go through security and get every last look at him that she could.We were lingering near the escalators watching Brothaman make his way through the line of people when I noticed a guy in head to toe Rival Team Gear. I didn’t really think much of it, other than it was unfortunate this kid was in a public place wearing such ugly colors and sporting such a dorky mascot. Maybe he lost a bet? But my mom kept looking at him, repeatedly. And she did the squinchy face each time.

The squinchy face is the face people do when they are trying to decide if they know someone and if they want to talk to them. They squint their eyes because they are looking so hard at the person and they pull their eyebrows together because they are thinking so hard about the person and they kind of purse their lips because they are trying to decide if they should say something, first. These people always say something, and generally they say something first.

My mom is really great with faces. She recognizes people all the time and always says something first. Even if they don’t initially recognize her, she’ll explain how or when they met until they do. Doesn’t matter if she barely knows them. I’m the opposite. I will probably not say anything even if I do know you. Unless we make a lot of awkward eye contact or I really want to say hi, which is code for “I remember your name.” Otherwise I’ll probably let you do your thing and I’ll do mine. Maybe a mutual head nod?

I caught my mom checking out the kid a couple of times and I started to get nervous. “I know him. I know him. He’s our top recruit.” She whispered to me. “What? No you don’t. Just leave him alone.” But it was too late. The next time the kid walked by (he was sort of pacing back and forth, probably waiting for someone to pick him up) my mom called out his name. He turned and started walking towards her.

“Oh, God.” I said before walking away from her, fast.

“I don’t like seeing you in those colors.” She told him while motioning to his clothes.

At this point the poor kid looked like he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar and realized he had no idea who this woman was even though she knew his name. I blinked and he was gone, out of there.

The ride home from the airport my mom kept going on about how important this was that she told everyone. And by everyone she meant the people on the discussion boards. The recruiting team needed to know their #1 recruit was about to get pulled right out from under them. “This could change everything,” she said.

After my mom posted things blew up. No one from “our team” knew about the secret meeting. People were shocked and pissed. She started getting hundreds of emails and comments that ran the gamut of, “Thank God you saw him”  and “You’re a legend” to “You’re a liar” and worse things. Most of those people later apologized to my mom, after it became clear that she was telling the truth. On signing day the kid went with the other team. It was bummer, but we beat them during season so it ended up being a moot point.

One of main points of disbelief centered on, “How on earth did she recognize him? I’m a huge fan and I would never be able to pick him out of the crowd.” A couple of points to make here. 1. The kid was literally decked out in Rival Team gear in the middle of Home Team’s airport. He stuck out like a sore thumb. 2. You might be a fan, but my mom is a fanatic. So google image stalking a top recruit? Standard procedure. 3. Mom never forgets a face.

My Grandpa B, passed away several years but he was a huge football fan. Even owned his own semi-pro team for several years. So my mom grew up on the sidelines of the football field. GB was also a fan of the college I ended up going to, long before I ever went there. A fan to the point that his racing colors were the same as my school colors (he got into horse racing after the football team) and so was his house. Literally, the house was painted in full on fan colors, and it was a big ranch house.

When I got accepted Mom jumped on the fanwagon and has never looked back. Though I give her a hard time about her FANatacism, I see that by loving this team, or rather “his” team, my mom is able to continue loving her Dad. I think that is really lovely.

Happy National Signing Day Mom! I hope this means you don’t have to pull anymore late night airport runs until next year?

 

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Jan 30 2012
2 Comments
Random

Top Gun: Part Deux

My roommate and I caught part of Top Gun on TV this weekend. We came in right after Goose had died and Maverick has to face Carole and Goose’s son.

A couple of years ago I came across a proposal for a Top Gun sequel. I don’t even know how I found it. I think it was in the comments section of another article. I don’t even remember what the actual article was about.

I would link directly to it, but so far I have no idea how to find it again. Here is a summary of what I remember.

Basically the story picks up and Maverick is now an instructor at the US Flight School. Amongst the group of new recruits is none other than Goose’s extremely talented and reckless son. And he is no fan of Maverick. In fact, he not only blames Maverick for his father’s death but for every bad thing that has happened in his life. I don’t remember all the back story this guy had for this part, but I imagine Carole remarried and Mr. Step-dad was never very fatherly or supportive of lil’ Goose. He’s got a grudge and something to prove.

Although lil’ Goose has plans to take down Maverick and end up at the top of flight school, he doesn’t plan on falling for Maverick’s daughter. He is then forced to choose between holding on to the pain of the past or moving forward, getting the girl, being number one. Oh and at some point he has to carry out a top-secret mission that could jeopardize US National Security.

Supposedly the sequel  is in the works. So I guess we’ll see…

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Jan 27 2012
2 Comments
Life, Random

Excuse Me, Mister?

At Starbucks this morning I was standing in line thinking that I probably should have re-washed my hair even if it meant being late to work. I had used a sea salt spray to help in creating some effortless beachy waves, but I was in a hurry and used a curling iron on a couple less than wavy areas before it had fully dried. This resulted in the salt part of the spray creating a bunch of weird white stuff throughout my hair. I tried to get it out a couple different ways, but I was late so I did what I could and pulled it back. As long as I didn’t have to look at it, maybe I’d forget it was there.

I was standing there hoping no one would get in line behind me and thinking I should have just been late,  when I noticed the man in front was wearing an incredibly white dress shirt. I don’t know if I have ever seen a shirt so starched or so white in my life. Then I noticed a patch of blood speckled on the back of one of his shirt sleeves, just around the elbow. Fresh blood.

He just killed someone. Was my obvious first thought, followed by, Should I tell him he has blood on his shirt? No. There was no way I could tell him, because then he would know that I know that he killed someone. At which point I would be next. Also I’m really bad at telling people they have food in their teeth. It makes me really uncomfortable. I won’t even tell friends most of the time. So telling a stranger who may or may not of killed someone though he probably did that he had blood on his shirt was out of the question.

My friend A is really good at it. She’ll even tell strangers. Sometimes it seems like she might even be looking for strangers to tell them they have spinach or whatever in their teeth. A few weeks ago we were at a Catholic networking event. I’m not Catholic, she is. It was at the end of the night and a really passionate girl started talking to us about parishes and a movie she had worked on and she had adult braces.

At one point she turned her attention to a third girl who was with us. A took this opportunity to lean over and whisper, “She has a bunch of salad in her teeth.” I hadn’t noticed originally because she had looked at me straight on for most of the conversation; however from the side it was hard to tell if she had any back teeth due to the dim lighting of the venue and the dark color of the lettuces. “Should I tell her? I really want to tell her,” A said. But as I said earlier the event was almost over, it was really dark and she was just so unself-conscious about her braces I didn’t have the heart to ruin it for her. I convinced A not to tell her and we left.

My other friend S has a perfect system for moments like this. You’ll be sitting across from her and seemingly out of the blue she will ask, “Do I have something in my teeth?” Then she shows you her teeth. “No,” you’ll say. “Do I?” And do the same. At which point she’ll say, “Yeah, you do.” Then she’ll navigate your getting rid of it.

I thought about using that technique with the Killer allegedly in front of me.

Me: Excuse me, Mister? Do I have any blood in this area of my shirt, here? Motion to the back of my left elbow.

HM*: No. Do I? 

Me: Funny you should ask. Because you do.

Unfortunately I was wearing a sleeveless blouse so it wouldn’t be believable, and it still didn’t solve the problem of him then knowing that I know.

There were several reasons beyond the blood that tipped me off to the true nature of the man in front of me. He was impeccably dressed. Hiding something. He was very fit. From moving dead bodies. I saw him get out of a really nice black sedan.

Well, you should know I don’t know anything about cars. I dated a guy once briefly and my mom asked what kind of car he drove. I told her he drove some sort of pepper car. “A pepper car? What do you mean a pepper car? Did it look like a pepper? Was it green? or red?” No the name was something like a pepper. “Do you mean Cayenne? Did he drive a Porsche Cayenne?” Yeah that must have been it.

He didn’t drive a Porsche Cayenne. He drove a GMC Terrain. The point is when I say “really nice” car it means it looked new and very clean. To get rid of the DNA evidence. But he could have been driving anything from a Honda to a Mercedes.

Back to the killer. He had a seasoned look about him. From all his years of murdering.  And scars on his face. I made that up. Here’s the kicker. He had a really strong jaw. I think we all know that only three types of people have strong jaws: baseball players, vigilantes and hitmen. Well and Chuck Norris, but this guy definitely wasn’t Chuck and he probably wasn’t a baseball player due to the scars which I made up.

baseball players and vigilantes

The middle guy is Kevin Youkilis. He's a baseball player, not a hitman. Though I think he illustrates my point.

Which leaves only hitman or vigilante. At this point my coffee was ready so I had to leave for work.

*Hitman

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