Sunday, November 14, 2010

Matthew Dolezal accepts first-prize at the Mega Ultra Superman Triathlon Award Ceremony

Ladies and Gentlemen, friends, fans, fellow participants, Fox News…

After winning the Mega Ultra Superman Triathlon (also known by the acronym “MUST”), I admit that I do feel like a superman.  Some folks in the media have argued that I might actually be superhuman, but I don't advocate bragging, so enough about my amazing physical capabilities.

Now, in a diverse audience such as this, I know some of you may be distracted by your various emotions – be they love, profound admiration, sexual desire, jealously, hatred, or even blood-lust, but if you sit tight and open your ears and hearts to my message, you just might learn how to become a better person, a stronger person, and a more successful person.  In short, you might learn how to become more like me.

Once again, I’d like to thank you all for being here tonight – it’s a real ego-boost.  I’d also like to thank several individuals who unwittingly contributed to this accomplishment through inspiration and favorable genetics.

First of all, I’d like to thank my Grandpa Vern, who began my family’s great athletic tradition with his record-breaking participation in track and field.  He always said he could “run like a deer”, and even now, at eighty years old, he can still walk like a goat.

Secondly, I thank my mother, who has always been an avid runner, and trained me well over the years.  Next, I'd like to thank my younger brother Adam for carrying on our family’s cherished athletic custom with his inspiring involvement in Cross Country during high school, though he maintained his position as "last place" during each meet.

And last, but certainly not least, I’d like to thank my wonderful sponsors, Red Bull and Fat Tire, who made this dream a reality.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I stand before you today as, yes, a mighty champion, but also as a unique individual with a unique story.  For those of you who haven’t yet had the privilege of reading my autobiography, it’s important to note that mine is not simply a story of commitment, endurance, and superior physical ability – it is also a story of overcoming adversity.

You see, when I was about three years old I contracted a severe case of asthma due to the rampant pollution of a local paper mill.  I recall many sleepless nights in the Emergency Room, and this unpleasant ailment also detracted from my performance during high school sports, karate, and snowboarding.  Being an asthmatic, I never imagined that I would one day complete a triathlon, much less earn first place in one.

A few years ago, after the advent of chronic back and neck pain, I sought help and explanation from a prominent chiropractor.  Soon enough, I was diagnosed with a ruthless defect called “scoliosis”.  Having a spine that, in alphabetic terms, most closely resembles the letter “S”, I never imagined that I would one day attain such a prestigious honor.

Then, there was college.  I would describe my college experience as a reckless four-year art binge, during which I had no accountability, and not even a brief consideration of athletic pursuit. After the heavy alcohol consumption and other unhealthy habits that animated my educational development, I never imagined I would be standing here before you today.

Though I am honored and thrilled to be here, I am not particularly surprised, for I did adhere to a strict training regimen, which included kickboxing, yoga, Tae Bo, Tai-Chi, Chai tea, and waterboarding, which was conducted by former vice president Dick Cheney himself, God bless his soul.  This training, and the voracious spirit of competition that has been instilled in me since birth, have allowed me to be successful in my journey.

Earlier, I mentioned the fact that I have good genes.  However, during most of the competition I was actually wearing shorts, though I had a custom-made aqua-dynamic scuba suit (designed by the wonderful folks at Red Bull) which protected me from the elements (including toothpick fish) during the 8 mile Amazonian backstroke, but that’s a bit of a tangent…

Regardless of my meticulous preparation, I did encounter many difficulties during the race.

For instance, while being chased by a pack of wild boars through the Cocaine Cactus Maze, I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my liver, as though I had just been shanked by an unruly inmate.  But instead of throwing in the towel, I pressed on, repeating in my head, “the MUST is a must, the MUST is a must!”

Additionally, while cycling up the mighty Mt. Tambora, the heavy inhalation of sulfur and volcanic debris caused me to have a mild asthma attack.  But I didn’t give up.  Instead, I cracked a Red Bull, and repeated again the phrase, “The MUST is a must!  The MUST is a must!”  This must have helped, because I successfully applied the same method during the pyramid crawl, when my spine felt like a soft pretzel, baking in the Egyptian sun.

At last, I realized that I had overcome the ultimate adversity, as I burst through the finish line, my body intact, and my mind enlightened.  Afterward, I was compelled to kick back and relax with a nice, cold pint of my favorite beer, Fat Tire.

During Stephen Colbert’s speech at the 2006 White House Correspondents Dinner, he commented on then president George W. Bush, saying “it is the heart-warming story of a man who is repeatedly punched in the face.”  Due to my various physical disorders, I used to think of my own story this way.  But since my recent victory, I now liken my personal narrative to that of a man who has looked Life straight in the face, and given it a nice, hardy kick in the nuts.

Now, I can tell by the looks on your faces that the more astute among you have become aware that approximately 74% of this uplifting tale is indeed fictional.  Let me, then, leave you with these words of enigmatic inspiration: "If you can dream it, you can imagine it."  Thank you.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

A Modest Abortion

As many of my beloved readers are aware, abortion is the most controversial topic ever, in the history of the World.  However, I have devised a solution that could potentially unite those deemed "pro-life" and "pro-choice", respectively.  As evidenced by the following text, this astute remedy is the most fair compromise imaginable, for it takes into consideration the “rights” and the emotions of each fetus, each mother-to-be (or mother-on-the-fence), and each vigorous onlooker, who, in many cases, happens to be a male without any prior, present, or possible future personal experience with pregnancy or childbirth, yet brandishes vehement opinions regarding the actions members of the fairer sex ought to take in an instance of said phenomena.
            Myriad reasons may be cited when a subject considers abortion, but in many cases, the subject, though choosing to engage in sexual activity, did not choose to become pregnant.  The microscopic unit gleefully tingling in her uterus is therefore an “unwanted growth”.  In other cases of unwanted growths, we, as a reasonable and libertarian society, allow carriers to rid themselves of their infestation.  After all, is a carrier fully to blame for this new plot development?  Should we force this striking young damsel to forever live with the result of her naivety?  If so, we should also force lung cancer patients to keep their tumors, if they had a history of tobacco use, and force women to keep their warts if they had a history of toad-kissing.  In the case of the smoker, there may have been a single cigarette that broke the camel’s back, so to speak.  In the case of the lonely princess, there may have been a deceptive bribe or a strange delusion.  In the most unfortunate case of the tragically gestating female, there may have been one too many sperm cells in that fateful load - one translucent renegade serpent had deviated from the herd, and thrust himself toward the glowing abyss, like an eager Islamic extremist quickly approaching the Holy City of Virgin Concubines.  This tenacious fellow, and many like him, have sacrificed themselves for the “good of the cause” - the initiation of an undesired expansion in an unwitting vessel.  Following the model set forth by Lady Liberty, we must allow the subject, in such an instance, to choose if (and when) she wants to basically "kick the growth out" – especially if it has not been paying rent.
            At this juncture, we seem to be faced with what non-nihilists refer to as a “moral dilemma”, since the growth has the potential to become a “human being”.  One (an advocate of “life”) may object to the aforementioned policy, but I must assure him/her that it is not as sinister as it sounds.  The growth’s very existence is not to be opposed, simply its presence within the host.  Extinguishing the growth’s life is not necessary – but its removal from the carrier’s reproductive Mecca is.  Thus, labor would be induced in a harmless fashion, at whatever time the host decides to part with her invader.
            Following its departure, the former tenant would be given access to food, shelter, health care – essentially all conditions necessary to sustain life.  The growth has thus been freed, and would be afforded the opportunity to choose its own destiny.  This could be tough for a fetus who is let go during, say, its thirteenth week, when it has determined its gender identity, but cannot yet swallow.  Figuring out how to consume the available nourishment may be challenging in this case.  On the other hand, if the carrier decides to part ways with said inconvenient bulge after six or seven months, there is a high likelihood that the growth will survive, independent of the former host (who would then be referred to as the "mother").  Such a birth-giver would realize that procrastination is not only the infamous Thief of Time, but it can also result in unspeakable responsibilities, including the upkeep of a voracious, ever-growing fleshy alarm clock.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Urban Nightfall

Ricky is a looming giant, a skyscraper of a human being, as he passes through the crimson curtain into a dimly lit gathering of strangers.  The scarcity of light reveals an emotionless visage, chiseled with mysterious darkened voids under poised, purposeful eyes.  He is a bronze statue, seemingly unmovable.  According to Dave, Ricky is a serious motherfucker.  He’s a dealer, and he’s been around long enough to know exactly what’s happening - everything that's happening.  He’s been busting his ass since thirteen and deserves some respect.  He is tough as nails, and a master of the street market.  Don’t fuck with him.
Dave met Olivia and I at Eli's Pub around midnight.  Scarlet and Greg arrived about twenty minutes later.  What an intricate and scandalous history this group of individuals has had with one another!  Greg and Scarlet are “together” now.  Scarlet is my ex.  Greg is my ex Lisa's ex.  Olivia is one of my ex Lisa’s best friends.  One could invent a system to label one’s relation to another based on past romances.  It would be ancestry for the college hipster-in-denial/ twenty-something aimless city slicker demographic.  Greg would then be closely related to me since he has likely made love to at least two of the same women I have been with.  However, I had both of them first, a fact that would give my title more prestige.  Had I engaged in sexual congress with Olivia last night, Scarlet would have become distantly related to her, in a new and improved system of genealogy for a generation that is reluctant to procreate. 
Eli's was surprisingly busy, for a Monday.  It turned out they were serving $5 pitchers of some ostensibly high quality lager, and each member of my crew quickly devoured two pints.  As usual, the alcohol effectively neutralized the discomfort caused by the stimulants.  Later, as I began loosening up a bit, a middle-aged white man entered the bar and sat next to Dave.  His alleged date, a black female, sat to the left of him, in the stool next to the wall, as though taking refuge.  After mere seconds of observation, Dave and I realized the man was unreasonably intoxicated.  This seemed agreeable, even comical, until his violent rhetoric began.  While conducting an obnoxious discourse with an unspecified audience, the man casually mentioned his desire to “kill someone” shortly before he said, “I’ve got a .45 on me…” 
I wasn’t prepared for something like this, and I hate to admit it, but I was nervous.  The kind of nervous that allows one to imagine another Columbine coming out of the woodwork.  The kind of nervous that makes you freeze because you realize that no matter which neighborhood you live in, you could be next.  The kind of nervous that empowers the infamous mainstream news media's policy - “If it bleeds, it leads”.  You could be next – the next victim briefly discussed on the nightly news - then forgotten, a mere statistic, buried in mundane paperwork for eternity.  The thought is enough to drive a semi-inebriated mind toward paranoia.  The bartender had overheard a bit of the man’s ramblings, and shot a concerned look in my direction.  I walked over to him and confirmed his suspicions.  I then slyly exited the building to call the police.  I planned to give them a “heads-up”, and tell them that an intoxicated and unstable man with long blonde hair was possibly packing heat at the local pub, and that they should stake the place out, and be ready for action.  As this thought was about to be implemented, the aspiring psychopath in question stumbled out of Eli’s Pub, and continued down the desolate sidewalk.  We were safe – for now.
The next person to exit was my Olivia, the princess of the wind.  She put a spell on me long ago.
"Let's go home."
How could I refuse?
The next morning my alarm went off at 8:51.  Liv had class at 9:00.  She sat up for a moment, emitting that delightfully displeased purr that signifies a sour attitude.  She curled back up with me, squeezing me tight, making the other sound – that satisfied one, the one she sometimes makes in the middle of a dream. 
“You’re so much better than school,” she murmured, about 70% asleep. 
I set the alarm for 10:30 so she would have ample time to get to her second class.  At 10:29 I reached over her, over those childish moans, and turned off the alarm right before it was scheduled to commence its piercing racket.  I know how much she hates it. 
“It’s time to wake up,” I said, in a soft, comforting tone.
“You’re so much better than an alarm clock.”
And alarm clocks are so much better than babies.