by Drew Magary
Some of us depend on athletes for good vicarious living, you know. Some of us might be stuck at home with the kid all day, in desperate need of hearing sordid stories about cocaine-fueled orgies and baby-oil-filled wading pool excursions. You can’t just ruin our fun like that, you fucking dick. Okay? It’s not right. What about my needs? What about making sure I’m happy by going out and engaging in a pattern of self-destructive behavior that I can admire from afar while still retreating to the stability of a loving family at the end of the day? Ever think about that? Huh?
I can’t believe how selfish you are.
You know what’s gonna happen, don’t you? You’re gonna be surrounded by single teammates who are sexually active and vocal about being so. They’re gonna tell you shit you won’t even begin to fathom. Ever nail a Hawaiian Tropic girl on the diving board at the Shore Club? Well, they have. And they’ll be happy to tell you all about it. Does Miss “I Sent You Care Packages All Through College!” do that? Good God, no. So enjoy wasting the best part of being a pro athlete. I hope your good Christian marriage and fifty years of bland, missionary position intercourse are worth it.
Asshat.
Deeply Penetrating the Numbers
10,000
Basketball legend Wilt Chamberlain claimed to have slept with more than 10,000 women. What you may not know is that Chamberlain also had intercourse with well over 500 men. Chamberlain was not gay, nor was he bisexual. These were simply men who ended up getting fucked in the crossfire.
“You’re what?” How you knocked that girl up.
Wondering how it is that someone you’ve known for a grand total of one hour can come to play a critical, unwanted role in the rest of your life? Well, did you know that pro athletes are more prone to impregnating women than men in any other profession? It’s true. And it’s not just because athletes are often irresponsible and lack good judgment. No, physiology also plays a vital role. Let me show you just how God creates those little bastards we call children, and why you’re more vulnerable to having them than most.
As an athlete, you possess a penis much larger than the average man’s. As such, there’s a good chance that your monstrous appendage could, in fact, penetrate the cervix and deliver sperm right into the fallopian tubes of your conquest. This gives your sperm an incredible head start in the marathon race to reach a woman’s egg. Now, instead of having to go cross-country to get some hot membrane-penetrating action, your boys are just a hop, skip, and jump away. This detailed, anatomical diagram shows you the depth of your penetration:
If your penis is even bigger than the one depicted here, there is a chance that you could skewer your sexual partner completely, like a human corn dog. Once your boys hit pay dirt, there’s no going back. You couldn’t talk that girl into an abortion even if you convinced her you were Satan himself. Prevention is the key. And you know what that means: birth control.
Now, the most effective form of birth control out there, obviously, is the birth control pill. Birth control pills are easily identifiable. They usually come in a circular blister pack and are located on top of your lady’s dresser. No doubt you’ve dialed the pills around once or twice just for shits and giggles, pretending like it’s some kind of kickass submarine depth-charge dial. This blister pack is embossed with a graphic design that looks similar to the chick on the Emmy statue, back arched and head tilted toward the sky. It’s a design that communicates a woman’s temporary freedom from the punishing lifelong agony of childbirth and child-rearing. You’ll also find a corporate yet feminine name for the drug somewhere on the pack, such as Yasmin, or Juvistop, or Babykill.
The pill is touted by many as being 100 percent effective. The only problem, of course, is that you have to rely on the woman to take it. Which makes it all but worthless as a dependable contraceptive for you, Mr. Potential Lifelong Benefactor. So what other forms of birth control are there that you control? Well, that IUD you bought doesn’t work for dudes. Trust me. I gave it a whirl. Not fun.
In fact, most every form of birth control is dependent upon the woman for its application. The pill, the patch, the diaphragm, the injection, the custom-built vaginal bear trap: all are subject to the whims of a woman you probably do not trust. Shit.
What does that leave? Looks like you’re stuck with the good ol’ fashioned condom. The condom, while annoying, does have its benefits. Sure, a condom makes sex feel like a handjob from Madge the Palmolive woman (Look, Madge! I soaked!). But it does help protect you from nasty infectious diseases like AIDS and more. I suggest you keep a three-pack of condoms on your person at all times, even while bathing. Also, be sure to pre-tear each wrapper for easy access and less fumbling. And no flavored condoms. If you haven’t figured out yet that those are for the gay community, you may be beyond help. And no neon condoms either. Sure, it’s fun to imagine yourself as some sort of sexual Darth Vader, but more often than not it just makes your dick look silly. And sex is not supposed to be silly.
But whatever you do, use that condom! If you don’t, your big fat cock is almost certain to be used as God intended it, and not as you intended it. The result?
Only eighteen years to go: how to handle pesky baby mommas.
More than 60 percent of athletes have baby mommas, with NFL running back Travis Henry accounting for 40 percent of that 60 percent. Your baby momma is not only an incredible pain in the ass, but she’s also part of a group of people solely responsible for the decline of American global hegemony as we know it. It’s true. I skimmed over it in a Pat Buchanan book once. You see, the steady erosion of American values and the treasured American can-do spirit can be traced directly to the steady rise in single-parent families. Without a father to guide them, many children lack the love and support to develop into smart, responsible members of society. And who are these single parents recklessly raising children without a gentle, caring dad around? You got it: baby mommas. They not only harass you, but also hurt your child by failing to provide any sort of useful father figure. And that is tragic.
Try as you might to avoid your baby momma(s), dealing with her (them) is inevitable, especially if you lacked the foresight to rig a court-ordered DNA test. You’re locked in now, just like Tom Brady. What will the monthly phone call from your baby momma be like? Read below for a glimpse into your future. And remember: don’t call her. She’ll call you!
(phone rings)
You:Uh, hello?
Baby Momma:Is this you?
You: Uh . . . no. It’s not me. This is . . . uh . . . Priest Holmes.
BM: I know it’s you, so you can quit faking it any time now.
You: Oh. Oh, it’s you! I’m sorry. But I’ve been getting lots of sales calls from Verizon recently, and I’ve been trying like heck to discourage them.
BM: Why can’t you just return my calls? Am I really so horrible that you have to avoid me at all costs?
(five minutes of silence)
You:I’m sorry.
(five minutes of silence)
You:So, how’s little Jimmy doing?
BM:Johnny.
You: Johnny! Yeah! How is the little chip off the old block?
BM:He misses you.
(five minutes of silence)
BM:He’s growing up fast, you know.
You:That’s great. That’s really great.
(five minutes of silence)
You:Is he, like, walking and stuff?
BM: Oh, yeah! Walking. Talking. We went to the zoo yesterday and he absolutely loved it. And I took him on this carousel that was also there. At first, he was a little scared, but then he really got excited and started bouncing up and down on the horse and . . . (you drift off into a sexual daydream about another person for the next twenty minutes) and when we got back from Albany, I think he was happy to be home. It’s nice to get out of the house, but then it’s always nice to come home. You know? Hello? Hello?
You:Oh, hey! Yeah! Yeah, animal crackers are great.
BM: Jesus, you weren’t even lis
tening. Honestly, I don’t know why I bother calling.
You:Oh, I know why you’re calling.
BM: You know, that is such a typical remark. I didn’t even bring that up. In fact, not only do I have to bust my ass raising our child alone, but then I have to jump through hoops every month just to get you on the goddamn phone so I can beg for a lousy $1,500. Which, by the way, doesn’t even begin to cover the cost of day care, or diapers, or health insurance . . .
You: Hey, you’re lucky I can pay you that kind of money. A lot of baby daddies out there aren’t professional athletes. It’s nice to have a man who brings home the bacon, isn’t it?
BM:Your last check bounced. Ass.
You: I told you, I have a very lucrative real estate investment in the Florida Everglades. Lot of liquid cash tied up in that.
BM: Listen to me. I can’t afford to have a lawyer chasing you around. It’s cost me more than I’ve received back from you. I’m tired of this. I’m begging you, from one human being to another, to help us. Please. You have a separate life. I get it. You don’t want to be part of this? Fine. That’s your decision. But at least give your son a chance to have a good life. Please?
(ten minutes of silence)
BM:Hello? Are you there?
You: Can you run that back by me again? The reception in the casino is going in and out.
BM:Oh, goddammit.
(end of call)
As you can see, those baby mommas can get awfully dramatic. I’d say you handled it well.
Because no penis is an island: your guide to cheating.
Some athletes decide to bite the bullet and live with their baby mommas, or, as normal people call them, wives. Let’s say you decided to do the right thing and went and got yourself married. Good for you. I happen to be married myself. In fact, I’m a loving and faithful husband, and I am a devoted father. I’m like this because I’ve found it profoundly rewarding on a spiritual level to have a caring, trusting family unit. But let’s be honest. It ain’t like I’m flooded with alternative options. You, on the other hand, have any number of salacious, tawdry affairs at the tips of your fingers. There’s no reason you can’t go out there and cheat on your wife repeatedly for my vicarious enjoyment. Remember: you owe me.
In fact, if some of the more uneventful episodes of The Sopranos are any indication, you can even get your wife to subconsciously agree to your constant betrayals. How’s that, you say? Hey, women aren’t stupid. (Cameron Diaz excepted.) They know full well the temptations that face you, the hardworking athlete, out there on the road. But many women are willing to let the occasional dalliance slide in exchange for certain “lifestyle requirements.” And here they are. Please note that there are many of them. You pay for a hooker in more ways than one!
• SUV
• Sports car
• Labradoodle
• New piece of jewelry every month with at least one three-carat precious stone (opals don’t count)
• Personal massage therapist she will have an affair with for seven years without you knowing or even suspecting
• Fifty new pairs of shoes a month
• $50,000 a month in “flash money”
• House for her parents
• $90,000 for interior designer who will spend $1 million on expensive shit to get your home spotlighted in Architectural Digest
That’s merely the tip of the iceberg, but you get the idea. If there is money to be spent, your woman will find a way to spend it. Her mind is constantly awhirl with new and creative ways to fritter away cash. Just consult the handy diagram on the next page for a detailed spending cycle.
In exchange for all that loot, you and your wife will come to an unspoken but tacitly acknowledged “agreement” about where you go every Tuesday night. She knows you aren’t out playing poker. And you know that she knows that. And she knows that you know that she knows that. It’s amazing how much you can communicate by simply not talking.
This is not so much living a lie as it is living without truth. After all, if you never mention that you banged three hookers on your last road trip, and she never asks about it, is there really a problem? Did it even happen? I say no. Your wife will learn to accept your cheating so long as it’s never “in her face.” That means you should make love to your mistress(es) at least three rooms away from your bedroom, preferably while your wife is out taking the kids to school. And always be discreet. Never go out in public with other women or be photographed with them. If there’s anything your wife hates more than adultery, it’s having to face all the pitying glances at the country club the next day. So, if you can’t keep it in your pants, at least keep it away from a camcorder. Do all that, and you can expect a long marriage completely devoid of happiness. Mazel tov!
Clippable Motivational Slogan!
Did you put the whites in the dryer? No? Well then, move your fucking ass.
— BRENDA WARNER
Chapter 7
A Study in Anchors
Your Friends and Family
They’re not just family, they’re codependents: your entourage.
An entourage serves two purposes. If you grew up without much in the way of family, an entourage can act as a surrogate family, minus the unconditional love, life education, and smartly established boundaries. Or, if you have a rather large family to draw on, having them in your entourage is an excellent way of pitting them against one another for your affections.
Either way, having an entourage means having a large group of people eager to do the menial tasks you no longer have time for. All they ask for in return is to live with you rent-free for an indefinite amount of time, a Bank of America Visa card with no spending limit, and whatever sloppy seconds you don’t feel like banging that night. It’s a symbiotic relationship: you care for your family and friends, and they pretend to care for you. There’s no shortage of important roles for your loved ones to inhabit.
1. CHEF. Most athletes hire their moms to be personal chefs. After all, no one cooks like your mom, except fifty million other mothers. If your mother does not live nearby, it helps to appoint a friend who knows how to cook or, failing that, how to order and pick up from Baja Fresh. A personal chef will not only cook and clean, he will also make sure that you are getting the proper nutrition necessary to reach your maximum performance. For dinner, expect grilled chicken and three pounds of boiled asparagus seven days a week. The rest of the house gets pulled-pork sandwiches, waffle fries, and Dr Pepper. Sound unfair? Tough shit. You’re the one who wanted to be an athlete.
2. DRIVER. No doubt you went out and leased yourself a fleet of expensive automobiles before even signing your first contract (see chapter 10). But why go through the hassle of actually driving those cars? That’s for suckers. Make a friend or cousin your personal chauffeur and you never have to worry about drinking and driving again. They’ll do all the drinking and driving for you.
3. BARBER. There’s nothing like heading to the corner barbershop, engaging in some witty banter with Cedric the Entertainer, flirting with that oh-so-feisty Eve, and then paying $18 for a three-second haircut. Hiring a friend to be your barber allows you to duplicate that unique neighborhood experience in the privacy of your own home. Your friend doesn’t even need a degree in cosmetology. Anyone can give you the Number 3 cut. Don’t mess with a proven winner. You can also hire your niece to frost your tips. You can pay her in Twizzlers.
4. IPOD LOADER. You don’t have time to rip every single CD in your collection onto your laptop and then transfer it to your iPod or iPhone. Besides, that’s nerd shit. Hire that one friend of yours that graduated from correspondence school to do it for you. You can also have him download new music for you through illegal file-sharing software. I suggest using BitTorrent. It allows you to steal music in bulk, which is much cheaper than regular stealing. That’s how baseball players amass such huge Staind collections.
5. PRIVATE SECURITY. Eighty-five percent of all entourage members are hired as bodyguards. You’l
l find that your friends will be more than happy to handle all your private security matters, including shooting intimidating glances at autograph-seeking children, roughing up that one asshole who looked at you funny, and destroying photographers’ equipment. Many of them already have a great deal of experience in these affairs, so take advantage. You can also make like Tiger Woods and have your overzealous caddie double as your bodyguard, which can be a real savings. Make sure your bodyguard likes to wear sunglasses indoors and has little to no experience handling firearms. That way, when he’s shooting into a crowd, he’s more apt to miss people.
6. DRUG FETCHER. If you choose to do drugs (and I support you wholeheartedly on that), don’t get your hands dirty by procuring them yourself. Get a friend to pick up some of that sweet, lovely construda for you. You’ll be keeping your name clean. More important, it’ll keep you safe should a deal go awry. Let your friend be the one who gets tied up by an angry, coked-out Peruvian distributor, who then pulls off his nipples with a pair of pliers. You don’t want that happening to you. Way better if it happens to Ed.
7. FEMALE EVALUATION AND COMMUNICATION. Hitting the town? The very best nightclubs have a VVVIP section waiting for you. This is the section that is cordoned off from the VVIP section, which is in turn cordoned off from the VIP section, which is in turn cordoned off from all the New Jerseyites on the main dance floor. This section consists of one small table for you and your friends to crowd around while trying to talk over techno music being played at 130 decibels. It’s a real good time. The problem is that you need someone to scope out the other areas of the club for attractive women and then bring said women to you. You need a friend with a keen eye for large breasts and tight asses. I’m available if need be.
8. MAID. This one’s tough if your mom or wife is not available. All of the above jobs can be enjoyable at one point or another. Unless you have a friend who is a meticulous German, no one in your entourage will be interested in cleaning toilets, vacuuming, washing dishes, and doing the laundry. Especially while wearing a French maid outfit, as any smart boss requires. It’s shitty, demeaning work no American citizen likes to do. I suggest hiring a day worker. Failing that, do nothing. I spent most of college pissing into Snapple bottles when our toilet broke, then chucking them out the window. It’s not as bad a way to live as you might think.