Watching greatness diminish is never easy. It's never fun. It's never satisfying. Seeing Willie Mays roam center field in what--for all practical purposes--amounts to a walker, or Ron Jeremy being forced to down copious amounts of Viagra just to get an erection in an vain attempt to have consensual sex with Sylvester Stallone's now-obese ex-wife on a VH1 reality show about people who used to be considered semi-famous, or my lifelong arch-enemy Tricky Dick Nixon forgetting that recording super secret conversations about illegal stuff is usually just a terrible way to not get caught doing said illegal stuff, just doesn't seem right. And not just because of the diminishing itself--we all know that age is a real thing that effects real people--but because of what that diminishing represents.

It's one thing to know Willie Mays is a 45-year-old with a couple of broken hips waddling around a golf course out of the public limelight; it's another to have it thrown in your face while he attempts to chase fly balls around the outfield on national television. We don't want to see greatness disintegrate. We want our baseball players to call it quits while they can still chase down a pop up, our porn stars to stop having sex on camera while they can still get a boner, and our politicians to get out of office while they can still flip us all the bird, not caring if we find out about all the shady shit later. We wanted Tricky Dick Nixon to be able to smile and say: "Peace I'm outta here" on the man's own God damn terms.  We want our greatest immortals to get out before their own mortality sets in. Before we can see that everyone is in fact human. Nothing more and nothing less.

(And now, continuing this little internet convention I started last week with a riveting tale about how I like fart, pick my nose, and dress up like Barney the dinosaur, and do all of these things in very explicitly public places, let's switch gears to sports.  Not the actual playing of sports, mind you, because well that's just not all that interesting.  There's a reason why the Iditarod isn't even on television. Rather let's focus on the reading of names from a podium by a pompous white person who gets paid $20,000,000 a year to take poops, remove said poop particulars from the toilet, put them in between two slices of pumpernickel bread, re-brand the turd/pumpernickel concoction as a "dooty sandwich, (check at about the 1:56 mark on that one BTW)," mail said "dooty sandwiches" to James Harrison's abode 500 at a time, and then read the Facebook statuses of people who have never played football and possess severe learning disabilities--in spite of the fact they have never played football--discussing how Roger Goddell sending a dooty sandwich to James Harrison's house as a punishment for attempting to murder Josh Cribbs by tackling him with such poor fundamentals and form, with a hit that is far far away from whatever "real football" should and could be, is ruining the sport. 

Basically I'm talking about the NFL Draft, which was on last night. Here are 5 of my own observations.

Dear Readers,
As almost none of you certainly know, because you are all so totally devoted to my blog that you are all more than willing to stab yourself through your own corneas with a fountain pen if they ever happen to accidentally wonder onto another source of Internet text, other blogs exist out there in the crazy cyber sphere that we now refer to as the Interwebs.  There are blogs about cooking. There are blogs about cars. For whatever reason there is even a blog about the human rights violation that is otherwise known as the Chicago Cubs.  But never fear, there is a positive counterpart to that previously mentioned monstrosity, otherwise known as a blog that deals in pie charts and graphs detailing the penis size of men all over the world.  There are blogs of all shapes, sizes and types of genitalia out there on the Internet.  The God Damn things are everywhere you look.  They literally cannot be avoided.

Dear Readers,
Welcome to the grand finale of the series that has taken months to even get to this point.  Forget that the entire sequence of events I am talking about took roughly 18 hours to unfold, and 6 weeks to write about/post on the Interwebs.  It's over now.  It's done.  Just bask in its glory. (Click on the upcoming links to catch up on part I, part II, and/or part III).  Now let me get out of the way, and let you read the greatest thing ever published since that Game of Thrones guy decided to do all that acid and attempt to make incest cool again.

Well boys (and girls)...let's get to it.

Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 3rd installment of my Mardi Gras blog (for Part I click here, for Part II click way over..................here).  I'm not going to lie to you...not a lot happened here.  Me and my friends got drunk, almost brawled an Irish men, ate Turkey legs, gambled our dicks off and then, finally...set up our grand finale. 

Pretty boring.  Not much there.  Some of this is made up. But hey--at least I am moving the narrative along.  And that's the important thing right?

So, without further ado...

Welcome to Part II of my 4 part Mardi Gras extravaganza. For Part I click here.  For Part II...keep reading. I hope that was already clear.

11:19 A.M.-On our way towards the parade grounds we are stop by the White Castle next door to the BOB because the line for the  room at just recently mentioned BOB was nothing short of preposterous.  Turns out there are several drunk people who are already slamming sliders about 16 hours earlier than the time where they usually would be drunk and slamming sliders on your average, run of the mill Saturday.  There is nothing like an early morning sack of 10 White Castles to keep your heart healthy…and the Soulard neighborhood Johnny on the spots smelling rosy.

11:20 A.M.-The line for women’s room at this White Castle’s is also nothing short of preposterous. For some reason this does not offend me as much as the BOB’s men’s room catastrophe.  In fact the amount that this women’s room line does indeed offend me is so miniscule that I manage to overcome it while making some sort of equally inappropriate and immature crack as I walk past it.  I was too drunk to remember my exact words, but what I can tell you dear readers is that the joke resembled something along the lines of “That (the length of the women’s bathroom line) is why they (women) make 45 cents for every dollar we (men) pull in.”  Now, not only is this joke insensitive and assine, but it is also inaccurate because 1-Just about every woman I have ever met makes more money than I do, 2-Just about every woman I have ever met deserves to make more money than I do, 3-Every man I have ever met does/deserves to make more money than I do, therefore making my own inclusion with a group of people who may or may not make more money than their female counterparts a complete logical fallacy and 4-By the way does this White Castle except food stamps?  However the sexists/insensitive joke killed with a bunch of drunk white guys in this particular White Castle bathroom so…I am willing to move past any and all of the moral qualms I myself might/should have with my misogynistic wisecracks and gladly take credit for it. I’ll do anything for a laugh.  Look at the entirety of my life up to this point, just in case you dear readers are searching for evidence…

11:34 A.M.-We are currently stuck behind a Bud Light Parade float blaring Pitbull as we attempt to cross through the parade and head up towards the bars.  I always thought that Anheuser-Busch was the most infallible company in the history of the world.  Then a bunch of Belgian dudes bought it and inked an endorsement deal with Pitbull, inarguably the most detestable figure in a pop-culture landscape that includes Honey Boo Boo, the cast of The Big Bang Theory, Tyler Perry and reality TV producer Donnie Wahlberg.  And you know what? I drink more Bud Light now than I ever did before.  Turns out that—somehow, someway—these Belgian dudes know exactly what the F they are doing.  Either that or the other option is Miller Lite.  So your saying a Bug Light commercial featuring a pornographic sex tape of Rhea Perlman and Danny DeVito would do absolutely nothing to hurt sales? Yes.  Now you get it.

11:47 P.M.-Make our way past the parade and are getting close to the heart of Soulard when I decide that, for the second time in a half an hour or so, I got to piss so bad that if we don’t stop right here, right now at these particular porta potties we just happen to be currently walking by…I am going to die of euromisititus poisoning.  So, to protect both my life and my manhood, we stop and get in line for the porta potties at a local operated beer stand.  Simple enough.  Not that simple.  It turns out that this stand wants $2 in exchange for using their toilets in addition to the $9 they are charging us for the beers that would cost approximately $1.12 and/or 1/19th a left-handed HJ at the gas station down the road.  The muscle when it comes to collecting the bathroom scratch is a very rotund black woman wearing a green hoodie with the words “LARRY’S MOM” inscribed on the back.  These descriptions of the bathroom scratch collector lead to several interesting developments such as…

1)   The scratch collector cornering me after I complain about the fact that this is American and therefore bathrooms should be free and public, as Thomas Jefferson wrote in the original draft of the Declaration of Independence and/or every love letter he composed to his slave Loretta, telling me verbatim: “I am the only black person here.  You think these whities aren’t watching me?” while apparently forgetting that I—the person she is talking to—is in fact very, very white himself

2)   GDB referring to the scratch collector as “Larry’s Mom” every 3.5 seconds during my previously mentioned constitutional argument with her.

3)   Me being forced to look at the scratch collector’s face which, in my attempt not to be one of those people in a glass house tossing bricks through other people’s windows, I will describe as simply “hideous.”  Her teeth look they were gently yanked by a plyer wrangling mechanic every morning from 6-9 A.M. until they were very nearly nestled from the roots of her gums, but not quite, staying just attached and in her mouth and yellow and jagged.

4)   Dovach negotiating with Larry’s Mom (the scratch collector) by offering her $1, 2 dimes, and a piece of Trident Gum featuring Shaun White doing insane snow boarding tricks on the wrapper that Dovach has been referring to simply as “Shaun White gum”

5)   Larry’s Mom telling us that we should feel guilty about complaining since the money is going to a good cause (some sort of scholarship fund for kids or something).  Good.  Great.  Grand.  Wonderful.  Now just explain to all these kids whose community college you are paying for that their education was and is being built on the backs of innocent, poor people with bladder conditions and serious drinking problems.  I know this sounds like sour grapes, and it is.  And it should be.  Our protection and unrelenting quest for never ending freedom demands it…

Dear Readers,
I am writing this on a Thursday morning, approximately 8:52 A.M., and I am sitting at my parent’s kitchen table listening to sports talk on my father’s BOSE radio and chugging coffee from a black mug coated in white letters that say “THE BIG 40.”  I am fairly sure that this mug is not mine.  I am fairly sure that this scene—the scene of a young man staring at a computer and seeming like he owns nice things—is the exact opposite of the scene that was exposed before my very eyes just 5ish short days ago. I.E. Mardi Gras.

That's because there is nothing domesticated about Mardi Gras.  There is no coffee served in ironic mugs celebrating one’s long march to death and no local sports talk blaring over BOSE radios.  There are no hardwood kitchen tables surrounded by classy wooden chairs with soft, pillowly cushions for your bottoms around the parade grounds.  There are no napkins to wipe the grease from your 14 turkey legs off the your classy polo shirt that has attracted approximately 0.4 girls thus far during its existence.  There is nothing at Mardi Gras that you see and think “well I am just in the best suburban home I could ever hope to end up in.”

Don't be disappointed.  There are a lot of other things to see at Mardi Gras. For instance I saw midgets and babies that are only distinguishable from one another because one is being pushed in a stroller while the other is chugging beer from a cup that is 14x as big as their hands.  I saw a pair of breasts hanging from the third story of a decrepitated brick building that could only lead me to believe that the offending party had been smoking crack for the better part of 8 hours.  I saw a drag queen singing Tina Turner on a karaoke machine outside of a gay bar.  I saw a white chick spinning records and a gigantic black dude standing next to her on the stage constantly staring at his phone texting no one in particular.

I saw a 55-year-old woman wearing a necklace with tiny penises attached to its strings, while her daughter--present in the exact same location and supposedly aware of her mother, and her mother's penis necklace's, existence--talked to me about her child’s (and penis lady’s grandchild’s) soccer tournament all the way in Kansas City that she was missing to “party” with a bunch of old ladies this weekend.  I saw an Irish guy threaten to beat my friend up because he was standing in a line, which I guess is not a kosher type of thing to do over in Ireland.  I saw a decent amount of real penises that were attached to real-life genitals instead of old lady’s necklaces.  I peed in a public trough quite a bit.

I peed in a lot of places quite a bit.  Spoiler Alert: I peed quite a bit in general. 

And now you get to the essence of Mardi Gras…peeing over and over and over again so you have room in your bladder for just one more drink.  Let's delve a little deeper shall we?

Dear Readers,
As certainly every single one of you knows, primarily because suicide has been a burning desire in your loins that has caused each of you to often spend sleepless nights staring awkwardly at your aspirin bottle, the Sack has been gone for a while.   Like all incredibly orgasmic things, the Sack Artist.com must end, which is why I’ve spent the past coupe of months ending this historic GoDaddy hosted website by doing what all good writers do—finding myself.  Well finding myself…and enjoying phenomenal savings on hand lotion by using my Wal-Greens rewards card.

But unfortunately for you, general society, this blog has clearly not ended—given that I am writing it and the government/Enterprise Rent-A-Car has shockingly not stopped children under the age of 25 from reading it.  Instead it was just put on a hiatus, a break which allowed me to buy that hand lotion and take the that 2.5 minutes or so out of my busy schedule to sign up for a free Wal Greens rewards card and drink that half a handle of Jim Beam so I can blow a 0.25 on my buddy Jim’s new purchased Sharper Image breathalyzer in honor of the ending of day light savings time.  A break, which allowed me to find myself.  A break which allowed me to become the kind of man that I was always destined to be.

Of course this can mean one thing and one thing only, since there is, after all, only one place for a man to truly become a man in this crazy world wherest we live.  This of course can only mean that I, the Sack himself, in my quest to find myself, have done some traveling.  And there’s only one place where true men travel—Juarez, Mexico.  However, since I am no true man, and the drug trade in Juarez ensures instant death for white people for even thinking about taking a dump in a Mexican public restroom, I needed a new place to go.

I needed to go to Las Vegas.  So that’s what I did. 

And here is my story.  Just remember all you 24 and under types, that this story contains images and depictions that people who believe in God, alcoholics anonymous, and Michelle Bachmann may find offensive.  So you may want to quit reading.

Cause I done and got all f’ed up.

They say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. I say what happens in Vegas…gets posted on the Internet.  Boo-Yah.

Rockin’ Vegas’ Dick Off
I am a man.  I went to Vegas.  Here is part 1(admittedly the less funny section) of my story—told to you, as always, in a painstakingly painful, minute-by-minute fashion.

Thursday November 6th
7:13 P.M.-Arrive at Lambert St. Louis Airport and realize that there are approximately 14 people who both live in the St. Louis metropolitan area and have the $23.42 worth of disposable income needed to afford a flight to Panama City (with a 9 hour layover in Chattanooga) for Fall Break 2012!! That’s a real thing right?  Maybe not…cause there aren’t many white people here right now.

7:22 P.M.-Due to my oversized intelligence, I just realized that I am a genius after bringing somewhere between 4 and 9 airplane mini bottles of Southern Comfort on the flight in my carry on bag.  Why pay $7 a bottle for a drink on the plane when you can pay $1 and a half tuggie to Samir the weird—and apparently gay—Lebanese cashier at Arena Liquors on Hampton Ave (go shop there….great deals)?

7:41 P.M.-I stop by the Schlafly Tap Room, mini AirPort version, for a brewski.  I order a Bud Light. F micro brews. Yeah…I’m that guy. Capitalism f'ers.

8:32 P.M.-Board the plane, where I am given a middle seat between a 4 foot blonde chick and the drunk dude who asked me in the airport bar if he was allowed to wear black clothing if he didn’t vote for Barrack Obama. Swear to God folks.  Not even a dude hopped up on bath salts could make this shit up. Trust me…cause I am said dude right now, at this moment.

8:48 P.M.-Drunk dude passes out on my shoulder and begins to drool on my button-down. Hey a-hole, this shit is Polo.  If it were Old Navy I’d probably let it slide in exchange for the human contact.

9:13 P.M.-I get a coke from the flight attendant person, he’s sexually ambiguous like all flight attendants are now a days of course, and crack a bottle of So Co, pouring it into my cup.  The blonde chick next to me stares blatantly and says, “you got any more of that?”  I look at her and say, “how old are you?”  “Old enough,” she responds. Well, Mark Chmura never got into trouble by buying a line like that so, now that we’ve cleared that little question up…

9:15-11:30 P.M.-For the duration of the flight this drunk dude is all over me.  At different points his head rests on my shoulder, chest, hip, right testicle, kneecap, and ironically left butt cheek.  Hey—I’ll take what I can get right?  Spoiler alert: that question mark was not necessary.

10:30 P.M.-Hop into the Delorean—cause in Mountain Time...we don't need roads.

10:35 P.M.-Step up to the Mexican themed bar next to my gate in the Phoenix airport—because like all upper, middle class people with little to no financial resources I prefer to spend an hour or so sitting in the middle of a giant retirement home when I am rushing to get to Vegas and party my testies off—and order a Bud Light and a shot of the cheapest tequila ever made within the confines of the Phoenix airport.  Yes, they make their own tequila here in the Phoenix airport.  I am pretty sure that that’s a true thing that they do at Phoenix International (or whatever the f this place I’m at is called).

10:36 P.M.-Down the tequila, slam the glass on the bar, and rip my shirt square off my body, exposing my bare chest and screaming “Where the f is Charles Barkley!!!” In Angola perhaps?

10:37 P.M.-Ashley Schaeffer, former owner of Ashlee Schaeffer BMW, is literally sitting next to me at the bar.  He is clearly admiring my swag because he offers to buy us a couple shots of Airport distilled Tequila.  We down them in between dances from the very mysterious and alluring oriental Cherry Blossom (see youtube video below). I’ve got a boner, and I’m started to get a little tipsy so hey…what happens at the Giant Mexican bar in the Phoenix airport…definitely makes you gay.

11:15 P.M.-Get on the plane, walk past Ashlee Schafer—who’s getting an additional, courtesy 1st class dance from Cherry Blossom—and take me seat in the last row of the plane.

11:23 P.M.-Ask the flight attendant for an entire can of coke.  The sexually ambiguous Ken doll responds by asking me if I know that “it is, like, a 32 minute flight?”  I say that I know my rights, and I’m not Hispanic, so even if we are technically still over Arizona airspace, he better give me the Goddamn can of Coke.  I mean I know Kurt Warner for Christ’s Sake. Or, I saw him once at an Outback Steak House.  And we made some serious eye contact.  And his eyes told me that…God doesn’t really love me all that much.

10:56 P.M.-Hopped back into the Delorean—welcome to Pacific Time now uh…well I'm pretty sure roads are necessary.

11:14 P.M.-Enter a cab at the Vegas airport, where the driver asks me if I have any cash. Hey man I emptied my checking account for this trip. I’m carrying at least, like, $28 worth of Canadian dollars.

11:29 P.M.-Get to the Monte Carlo and hook up with my dudes D-Boi, Dovach, Acer and the black sheep of this, or any, group of white people--Donaldson (the difference between Donaldson and whoever is friends with Dane Cook? We say this to Donaldson's face).  First move, we go to the casino bar to get a drink and discover that a whiskey and coke costs $47, or approximately 1,306,874 worth of Ethiopian monies.  Not even a classy Vegas prostitute like myself can make 2/3rds of the Ethiopian GDP in 20 minutes of work so…we better hit the tables.

11:41 P.M.-Approached by a club promoter who asks me if I like girls.  And I’m like “Ehhh…I’m not sure they would make a good president or anything.”  He walks away in disgust.  No wonder Michelle Bachman got 2.5 votes in the Vegas club promoter caucus primary. She is the face of feminism in modern America.  Also I have never spoken to a female before so...

11:45 P.M.-Get to the New York, New York and sit down at a table, only to discover that in the 24 hours or so that he’s been here, Donaldson is down approximately $2,400 dollars, 6 pairs of tube socks, and every fiber of his being that could ever have passed for any form of dignity.  He tosses another $100 bill on the table, bets some chips, and proceeds to hit an 18 vs. a 6.  Some guys just can’t handle Vegas (reference #1)

11:48 P.M.-Begin double fisting double Jim Beam and Cokes, and let me tell you—they make their drinks strong down here in Vegas.  There’s like 100 times the average person’s and/or alcoholic pet’s usual Jim Beam intake in these bad boys so…who the hell knows what’s going on here.

11:50 P.M.-There’s a non-naked dancer near our table.  She’s smoking hot so obviously…she wants to bang me.  Only problem?  My boys can’t swim.  And, as the Catholic Church says, if you ain’t tryin to knock a b up…then you should just masturbate your dick off instead.  Ah…religion.

11:52 P.M.-Donaldson loses his $100 in approx. 6 minutes and proceeds to remove his pants, lie on the ground in the fetal position, and ask the prostitute at the table next to us if she will stick her thumb into his, uh—crevice.  She declines. Some guys just can’t handle Vegas (ref #2)

Friday, November 7th
12:59 A.M.-We hit the hottest spot on the strip—the Las Vegas Blvd. CVS—and buy a couple of fat beers and cruise down the strip.  Nothing says, “I’m a baller” in Vegas language like 5 white dudes walking past the Aria drankin 24-ounce beers and sporting noticeable gravy stains on their sweaters. When did gravy enter this equation? About the same damn time I told you this shit was happening in America dude.

1:28 A.M.-We walk into Planet Hollywood where Screech’s robot from Saved By the Bell is employed as a dealer.   Don’t believe me? Yeah I don’t either.  But they had some weird touch screen thing at their tables there…and it was bullshit. Great description Sack.

1:35 A.M.-Tyrese Gibson, star of 4 of the greatest 17 Modern, American films (4 Brothers, Transformers 2, Death Race and of course Too Fast Too Furious), is sitting at a table right next to ours.  There are literally 7 or 8 middle-aged black woman taking pictures with him. God…guys got juice.

1:41 A.M.-Tyrese walks off, oddly without acknowledging our presence, at which point Ace turns to us and asks “Why didn’t Tyrese show me any love?”  To which Rich Boy responds “Uh—did you show him any love?”  God damnit!!!! Ace missed his chance!!

1:44 A.M.-Instead of showing Tyrese love, Ace begins showing love to this 69-year-old black lady from Aurora.  She can’t drink while on Medicare, but hey—her face looks like Tyrese just practiced the choreography for his kick-boxing scene in Too Fast Too Furious Again on it so…there is plenty of upside here.

2:19 A.M.-The Saved By the Bell robot stole all my money.  I am poor and hungry and…holy shit there’s a food court in my hotel!! 6 McChickens and 19 McDoubles later…and I’m back in the game.

2:49 A.M.-I’m out of the game. I go to sleep with no pants on and another dude in my bed. Am I wearing a shirt? Of course. Look, testies are one thing…but no one cops a feel on my nipples in the middle of the night homey.

10:19 A.M.-Get up, eat some McDonald’s hash brownies and cruise the strip with a CVS bought fat beer. Just as God intended obese, unemployed, bearded 25-year-olds who live in their parent’s attic to spend their autumn mid-mornings.

10:45 A.M.-The impersonators—as in people legitimately dressed up and believing in their own hearts, plums, and severely damaged minds that they really ARE the people they are currently pretending to be—on the strip include (but are not limited too) Woody and Buzz from Toy Story, Bumblebee of Transformers fame, Spiderman, Batman, Winnie the Poo, Evil Spiderman (I think that’s what the Spiderman in the black suit is called. Wow…racist), Mickey and Minnie Mouse, several Elvises (or Elvii? What’s the plural form of Elvis anyways?), Donnie and Marie Osmond (likely the real people on this one), Marilyn Monroe, and a dude with a beard, white pants, and a satchel greatly resembling Alan from the Hangover—who had Donaldson convinced that he was, in fact, the real Zach Galfiankas.  Donnie Osmond and Marilyn Monroe in the same place? There is nothing bad that can happen here…

11:12 A.M.-What’s the best part of cruising the Vegas strip? All the hooker cards handed out to you by mute Mexican dudes.  At this point I had just gotten one reading “$34 special” over a picture of Hunger Games star Jennifer Lawrence (insert link here).  Seems like she’s really been struggling after surviving the Hunger Games.

11:15 A.M.-This is where the story really gets interesting…

Check in next week for the new and improved Part 2 of "The Sack Handles Vegas" as well as, spolier alert, a video of my dance off against a chubby, Mexican street p

Dear Readers,
As all of you certainly know, both because you were young once and you saw how smart that genius kid in Jerry Maguire with the freakishly gigantic head was, children are incredibly perceptive.  Their minds (and their dicks) are made out of the same material as Sponge Bob Square Pants.  They see something cool, like riding around on a motorcycle with no helmet or unprotected sex, and they imitate it--there by becoming cool themselves.  That's the circle of life.  And that ladies and gentleman is how it literally works.

Now much of this cool behavior that kids pick up on and emmulate is learned through witnessing certain activities with your own two eyes; by kid's seeing baller ass role models like their drug addicted Uncle or that homeless dude who isn't afraid to start masturbating outside the Shell station in action.  This method of visual learning is effective, because 1-it's clearly involves you seeing things and 2-the events are unfolding in real time, hopefully involving real people, and are happening right in front of your face.  You were there when the event played out, which certainly means something.  Seeing may be believing, but to physically see in the flesh is to ensure that Neil Armstrong's walk on the moon isn't some sort of government conspiracy or something.

However, while "being there" definitely can give a story some juice or create a lasting impact, it is far from the only--or even most influential--way for children to learn.  In fact if you are an obese child who fears the outside world and thinks he can get AIDS by sharing a can of soda with somebody (yes, I was fearful of this at one point), it may not be a valid way for you to learn anything at all.  After all, life itself may be a very valuable thing to experience, but it will never be as valuable as being AIDS free.

Which brings us to television, or TV as it is known to people who aren't old enough to have worked on the assembly line when the first Oldsmobile came off it, perhaps the most powerful teaching tool of all.  TV teaches us well because, not only is it a visual source similar to "being there," but it also has the power to show us fictional worlds that we may never get to experience within the confines of our own life. 

Through the power of television a straight laced Christian conservative from the burbs can get an inside look into the much more awesome world of inner-city drug dealing (The Wire) or incestual fantasy shows that may or may not be set in any sort of real timeline (Game of Thrones).  Through an LCD screen in his living room some sort of straight edged loser who refuses to get hammered drunk before a 9th grade mixer can see how terrible things are when people are encouraged not to consume alcohol (Boardwalk Empire).  Through a half hour of sitcom viewing we can all learn that, despite everything we've ever learned about life, reading sometimes is inexplicably more fun than whatever we are currently doing (2 Broke Girls). 

Through television we can broaden our horizons and learn everything that we will ever need to know.  That's the magic of the society we live in today. 

That's the magic of sitting on our couches, not moving, and watching a screen as the real world passes us by.

TV Shows That Changed My Life
Now that I have made the compelling, drawn out, and not at all coherent claim that TV is the source of all knowledge, let me lend a little specivity and concrete evidence to my argument by demonstrating to you how certain television programs have changed my life, and what exactly they each have taught me in the process.

Saved by the Bell-Let's start with one of the two most influential programs of my childhood that I get to relive every afternoon as part of MTV 2's old school afternoon.  So what did SBTB teach me? Well the list is long, so let's get started. 1-How to have an erection by looking at a fully clothed female (thank you Kelly Kapowski), 2-That an addiction to caffeine pills is arguably the greatest challenge ever faced by American teenagers, 3-That it is possible for robots to exist without trying to take over planet Earth and end human existence as we know it, 4-That having half a beer constitutes drunk driving and smoking one joint means that you have a drug problem...if you decide to suck at life, 5-That an entire high school student body can paint their faces red without offending Native Americans (can't find the video so...you should already know this a-holes), 6-Eating dick shaped cookies is awesome (see pic above) and 7-People named Zack rule the god damn world.  Nuff said.

The Cosby Show-Sweaters.  Dancing.  Sweaters and Dancing.  Never have kids.  Amhad Rashard's wife doesn't like people with penises all that much.  Hoagies.  Jello pudding pop.  Black people. Other stuff.

Cheers-Alcoholism is cool.  Danny DeVito's wife makes me wanna vomit.  All you need to know.

Seinfeld-The greatest show in the history of television has more knowledge to share than anyone could have thought when they originally gave two Jewish dudes a sitcom.  Amongst it's greatest hits are 1-That trying not to masturbate is a fruitless endeavor that never works and will make your life miserable, 2-Catholics who convert to Judaism and somehow gain Polish citizenship have completely, unequivocal joke making immunity, 3-Feelings and emotions are a waste of time, 4-white people love the GAP, 5-Sometimes death is hilarious and can get you out of doing stuff that you don't want to, 6-Elaine is a whore, and being a whore is awesome, 7-Leaving on a high note is the only way to gay respect...which is why I never do it (that and the fact that I have never hit a high note...or even a medium note of any sort.), and perhaps most importantly 8-Sometimes it's OK if you don't wanna be a Cowboy.  This list is only scratching the surface of the legacy of TV's greatest program...which is saying something don't ya think?

All in the Family-Archie Bunker is a man.  A man who proves that it is OK for all men to talk down to their son in laws, their wife, and all the women in the world who they are not married too.  If that isn't a lesson worth learning...then I don't know what is.

The OC-If you are a chick and you live in the same county as Disneyland...then you are smoking hot.  And you are willing to bang every dude around...provided that they are a character in a TV show...and their parent's (adopted or real) have a lot of money.

Gossip Girl-If you are a chick and you live in the same city as Carmelo Anthony...then you are smoking hot.  And you are willing to bang every dude around...provided that they are a character in a TV show...and their parent's have a lot of money.

The X-Files-David Duchovony proves to us all that aliens do exist...and that having gay feelings for another man is something that may pop up in our lives (and pants) from time to time. Not that there's anything wrong with that (another Seinfeld lesson).

King of Queens-Fat, package delivery men apparently make way more money and have way hotter lives than anyone could have possibly imagined. Shoulda grabbed that job with FedEx when I had the chance.  That's a tight operation.

Spartacus-Crixus has a huge penis. So huge in fact that showing it on the Internet would cause all 6.4 of you to deface your own, disappointing genatalia and then murder yourself.

Game of Thrones-That there's no shame in banging your sister...if she looks like this.

The Office-That if you have a TV show with Steve Carrell in it, then said TV show will become a much, much larger piece of alligator feces if you continue to make it once Steve Carrell decides not to be on it anymore.  Also that NBC sitcoms can be sexually arousing...if they involve attractive, middle-aged women getting fake boobies. Hey-yo!!

Fresh Prince of Bel-Air-That black people will be accepted in our society...as long as they have a lot of money and are able to show us that their parent's (and aunts and uncles) just don't understand. Yep...sounds about right.

Golden Girls-Why don't people ever fart on TV? I mean if network executives can't figure out that 4 old broads hanging out in Florida sweating their asses off and tossing a couple of choice crop dusters out of their b-holes at the nursing home is hot...then how will they ever figure anything out ever again?

Skinemax After Dark-That men and women are able to have sex without a penis or semen ever being present.  I would say this is hot...if my penis and semen weren't the only two things ever present when I have "sex" myself.

The News-That Congressmen can make funnier rape jokes than Daniel Tosh. That Congressmen can be held to the same standard as Daniel Tosh.  That Congressmen are way more awesome than anyone could have ever imagined.  That unfortunately Congressmen are never joking.  That some Congressmen speak, thus illustrating to all of us why abortion should always be legal.  Too far?  I feel like I may have gone too far with that one?

Boy Meets World-And back to the other most influential program of my childhood/the other book end of MTV 2's absolutely dynamite Old School Afternoon programming block.  What did this show teach me? Well let me answer your question by posing an almost identical question: what didn't it teach me?  That it's ok for the poor kid in a Philadelphia social group to start dating a black chick in order to bring a little diversity to a group of white friends who have known each other for the past 2 decades?  That if you date a hot ace chick with a weird name in high school than you better be prepared for her to gain 4,000,000 pounds in college and never let you have sex with her on camera ever?  That Mr. George Feeney is the real life version of Benjamin Button?

Yeah, it taught me all that and more.  When I am asked to describe what Boy Meets World taught me, I always focus in on one perfect, crystallizing moment; one moment that reshaped my life and the one I live it; one moment that changed my perspective and the man I am today.  So, without further ado, let me share it with you using the words of Plays With Squirrels (aka Eric Matthews):

"Lose one friend, lose all friends...lose yourself."  That my friends, is the true meaning of knowledge.

Facts of Life-Well this is a pretty cool place for an ending, you have to admit. Now, let me channel the late, great, Chip Douglas (see youtube video below) as I share my closing thoughts with you all here.

I am the bastard son of Clarie Huxtable.  I am the lost Cunningham.  I learned the facts of life by watching The Facts of Life.  Now I know what I have to do.

Somebody has to kill the babysitter.

(End non-sensical drivel.)

Dear Readers,
As I am sure all of you know, either because 1-you are a close personal friend who called, texted, facebooked, tweeted, sent some signals, or had your Harry Potter style owl drop a letter of congratulations off to me or 2-you are a blood sucking leech who really hates me but is nice to my face because I am hilarious and rich and have my birthday posted in the Newspaper like all other rich and hilarious people, I turned 25 earlier this week.  That's right ladies and gents, I've reached the big 2 5. That's right boys and girls...I am old as balls.

The tricky thing here is that everyone has different definitions of what constitutes being "old as balls."  For some it's the moment when you become too old to remember that your wife is someone you have been married to for 48 years and not a cat burglar trying to steal the ketchup out of your fridge.  For others it's the first time that you are unable to get a natural erection while watching a donkey show on your 54th birthday trip to Tijuana. And for yet different people than the ones I just described, it's the moment you get married at 16 and realize that you will probably never learn to read, write, or feed yourself with a George Foreman grill.

For me that "old as balls" cut off is the dead middle of your 20's, or in other words, your 25th b-day.  Now, to be fair, this cut off has hardly been set in stone for a significant period of time.  In fact it has been moved back over and over again, from my 21st birthday (when drinking, like a freshly minted 18-year-old Olympic gymnist, sucks because it is legal), to my college graduation (wait mom and dad aren't going to pay $40,000 a year for me to watch GSN and drink Busch Light and/or sleep 23.5 hours a day anymore?) to the first time I laid in bed with a boner and thought "naw making a 6 degree turn and grabbing my computer really isn't worth the effort right now" (I am still not sure this has happened to me yet).  Like anybody else my idea of what "old" is has changed and been delayed as I, myself, have become older.

But right now the threshold sits at 25.  Why? Well I'll tell you that a few more inches down the page.  For now I'll just say that way more than 1/2 of my life has been lived and that I've lived through 6.45 Summer Olympics.  If that's not enough to make my case for you...then I don't know what is.

25...The Age of Old as Ballsness
So, now that you all know that 25 is my official age of oldness, the time has come to tell you why. I did a little of that by implying that I will live less than 50 years on Earth and that I have seen enough Olympic gymnastics to last a horn dog's lifetime, but I feel that those two facts alone are insufficient.  So, as always...let me blow your mind and elaborate on non-sense with a little non non-sense. Get it? Haha...that joke always slays me.

Old as Balls Sign #1: I Can Rent a Car-Well, technically the whole "you have to be 25 to rent a car" thing is a myth. However, the whole "you have to be 25 not to pay an extra $14.50 fee to rent a car" thing is a fact.  How do I know? Well let's just say myself and that super computer from Live Free or Die Hard may have hacked into the Enterprise Rent-A-Car database and stolen all their secure data about Chevy Malibu's and infared technology that allowed them to drive those cardboard covered cars around in the late 90's without crashing them into a convenience store (the video of these commercials has somewhere disappeared from the internet).  Or let's say my buddy Joe works for Enterprise...and he told me this was the case.

Either way the fact that I am now old enough to rent a car, or at least rent a car without an extra fee, means one thing and one thing alone: I am too old to be considered dangerous out on the road.  And, as we all know, being too old to scare a rental car company into believing that you will likely smash their car through the door of a limo after splitting a six-pack of 40's with Zach Galifianakis means that you are old as balls.  There's no arguing there.

Old as Balls Sign #2: I am Now the Creepy Guy at the Underaged Bars-Yesterday, due to a new "job" I have gotten in a Catholic institution, I was forced to attend a seminar called "Protecting God's Children" which basically has the power to teach anybody how not to be a child molester.  Another interesting aspect of the seminar was the video presentation, which includes a reenacted seen where a short, stocky bald men with glasses (greatly resembling George Costanza with a more smushed face and red hair) plays the role of child predator at a local playground.  Now how did this dude's agent get him a job playing a child molester in the Catholic church's "don't be a child molester" video is beyond, but one thing is clear: the guys plays the role very, very well, almost so well that he runs the risk of being type cast in the future.

My point here is that this dude has no lines and no real action in the film, yet he plays the part of everyday child molester as well as Sam Jackson plays the part of guy who randomly says motherfucker in a sentence centering on snake's presence on a commercial aircraft. How does regular molester guy pull this off? Well, because he looks creepy.  And now that I am 25 that's how I often look when frequenting some of my favorite establishments that accept ID's that are written in cranyon and read simply "I am 21" with a $8 bill attached to them.  Maybe not quite child molester creepy...but you get what I am saying.

Old as Balls Sign #3: I've Just Seen Too Much-Think about all the things I've seen go down.  Gulf War I. Gulf War II. The Internet.  Internet porn. Tupac.  Biggie.  That dude named Ernest who starred in Ernest Scared Stupid. Oprah. Lorena Bobbitt's husband's penis.  Any villain the Teenage Ninja Turtles have ever faced. Rod Belding. Nintendo 64. Sega Dreamcast. Slamball.  The illegal narcotic known on the screet as Pop Rocks.  1980's culture. White people rapping. John Travolta's heterosexuality.  The list goes on and on and on and on...

I've seen it all.  I've seen too much.  I'm f'in old.

Old as Balls Sign #4: I Have a Bank Account-Whatever happened to hiding the $19.56 cents (and four Canadian bills that are worth considerably less than America toilet paper) that composed my net worth under my Mickey Mouse blanket. Well 1-That blanker literally cracked in half (get it?) and 2-I grew up and realized that big time banks make better investments than cartoons created by anti-semitic dudes named Walt.  All old as balls people know that. That's why protecting American banks is something we care more about than health insurance or amusement parks.

Old as Balls Sign #5: Things (Kinda) Matter to Me Now-In every single previous presidential election I either supported the baller who did drugs and/or banged every overweight piece of tail that came his way (Clinton/W) or the black guy (Obama). Now I am voting for the black guy again, but not only because I am not a racist or hate the show Big Love. No, I am voting for the black guy this time because of things like taxes, war, debt, insurance, drugs, Chick-Fil-A not believing in a person right to butt f one of their chicken sandwich, and condoms. Do I know where either of the candidates stand on any of these issues? Eh. But I do know that they matter.

Basically what I am trying to say is that before, when I just backed the biggest baller or drug abuser or not-racist guy, I didn't care about any piece of legislation as long as it didn't make it illegal for college students in Beloit, Wisconsin to use their parent's credit card to buy Hometown Buffet 6 times a week.  Now however, I care about all kinds of stuff.  I know that they matter. I just have no idea how or why.

Old as Balls Sign #6: I am Filled With Regret-I am now 25-years-old and think about all the things I've never done with my life.  I have never jetskied off a water fall.  I have never sumo wrestling a stuffed black bear shot by Ernest Hemingway.  I have been to Africa. Uncoincidentaly I have never gotten AIDS. Uncoincidentaly I have no idea how to spell uncoincidentaly. Coincidentally uncoincidentaly isn't a word. I have never played Team Handball in a Swedish Olympiad.  I have yet to watch season 3 of Blue Mountain State.  I have never gotten a reach around from Dougie Howser.  I haven't even seen Beauty in the Beast in like 7 years. Beauty and the Beast was never my favorite movie.

You get the point.

Old as Balls Sign #6: My Testicles are the Size of a Grapefruit-Ah...GROSS!!!!!!

Old as Balls Sign #7: I Piss my Pants A Lot-If peeing your pants is cool, call me Harry Connick Jr. Ah...Double GROSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Old as Balls Sign #8: I Complain About Everything-Just watch the trailer for the original HBO sitcom that I developed below and realize that I suffer because 1-My parent's are wealthy, 2-Legally I do not count as "unemployed" because I never started looking for a job, 3-I don't pay for anything that I have ever done in my entire life, 4-I can't afford to go to the Zoo (even though it's free), but I can afford to get drunk/smoke illicit drugs (I'm not gonna be broke, unemployed, and not drunk/high all at the same time), 5-I don't really like to speak to other people, 6-No one can see what my conflict is and 7-Chicks don't like me because they can't see my wiener which is always blurred out even in real life.

God...my life sucks don't it.

Well let's skip the text updates and big ups because it is 1:38 P.M. on a Friday and I am ready to shut it down for the weekend and start boozing so...back next week with another story mentioning my blurred out dick.

In Hoc,
Sachary L. Poelker
"The Sack Artist: Jack of All Trades"