Up My Own Ass

Going into this, I had no idea what it was, but god… I’d really suggest you give it a watch. It looks like Summer of Tears is a group of folks that re-edit and green-screen themselves (pretty damn well) back into some original scenes of classic movies, adding some awesome lines and cut-aways as if the original movie included them, but all in the name of comedy.

This one is them re-doing Teen Wolf and is just awesome, give it a watch:

Generally speaking, I don’t spend a whole lot of time waxing political.  I think the subject is boring and I would rather talk about lip gloss.  That being said, what the hell is with this Sarah Palin trick?

Seriously, she is being touted as a maverick that’s going to bring a little spice to the McCain campaign, but is she?  I don’t think so.

I think maybe he just pulled her name out of a random politician generator, or perhaps he lost a bet…who knows, but this bitch is the LAST person I want to see “a heartbeat away” from being the boss of me and everyone else in the United States.

First, I don’t like the looks of her.  She looks exactly like everyone’s worst boss.  You know, that bitch who was nice to your face, but then turned around and started some shitty rumor about your attitude and singlehandedly and permanently shitcanned your chances of ever getting promoted, and THEN had the umitigated gaul to ask you, “how ARE you?” the next time she saw you.

Second, I don’t trust her.  I was reading up on her on Wikipedia, and it mentions that her nickname in high school was “Sarah Barracuda” in the same sentence as it mentions that she was the team prayer leader.  That must have gone something like this…”God, please let the other team die, or at least lose and get diarrhea and syphilis.  Amen.”

In addition to coming across as an untrustworthy liar, the sum total of her political experience is just slightly less impressive than the assistant mine inspector of East Jesus Nowhere.  Elephants are pregnant longer than she’s been governor of Alaska.

In true vaginal style, she seems to thrive on conflict.  After landing the mayoral gig in Asscrack, Alaska (at the suggestion of some ladies from the PTA), she pretty much fired every city employee on the grounds that they did not support her politically, and she instituted a policy that required her approval before anyone under her in the chain of command could speak to members of the press.  I guess only CERTAIN constitutional amendments are worth acknowledging…primarily those that involve firearms.

Had anyone been able to pry the gun from her cold, manicured hand, she might have noticed that her daughter was playing “swallow the sausage” with Cletus the Slack-jawed Yokel and, as you already know, is five months pregnant with his young’n.  I think it’s a wonderful testament to the importance of family unity and values that Sarah Palin threw her pregnant, underage daughter under the gnashing wheels of the scandal bus in order to save her own ass…”You SEE, Trig CAN’T be Bristol’s son because she was ALREADY PREGNANT when he was BORN!”  She just wasn’t going to mention that slight detail until… *counts on fingers*… a few months AFTER the election.

Furthermore, does anyone want to give control of this nation to someone with children named Track, Bristol, Willow, Piper, and Trig?  I rest my case.

I make it no secret that I am an Obama girl, and I think the fact that McCain chose Palin as his running mate shows poor discretion and judgment as well as being a hasty attempt at gaining market share with the lady voters.  Frankly, I would rather have Penn and Teller running the country than McCain and Palin.

God bless America.  Vote for Obama.

You ever tried to sell something on Craigslist and ended up getting an endless stream of questions, stories, trade suggestions, etc. and all you want to do is sell the damn thing? That’s what happened to this guy tried to get rid of some cinder blocks… I think you can tell he’s had his fair share of questions and is done answering emails. My guess is that you could probably steal these out of his yard and he wouldn’t complain:

(Click for a larger version)

I am a cruise travel agent. I spend all day every day telling people to go on cruises, and which ones to go on. As such, I am a pretty darn valuable asset to a cruise line. I’m also the type of person that if I’m not happy, you’re not happy (aka Only Child).

In high school, I was voted Most Likely to Become a Used Car Salesman for several consecutive years. Since I don’t sell products to my boyfriend, rather elicit various favors, chores, or nights out at the opera when opera makes him want to shoot himself in the face and somehow before he realizes it, he’s thanking ME for the lovely night out…he insists that I’ve taken the typical “wily woman ways” up a notch and refers to it as my Jedi Mind Tricks.

Jedi Mind Tricks can be learned by anyone. It just takes a little intelligence (OK so maybe it can be learned by approximately half of the world’s population, and none who share your morning commute), a bit of logic that is either rock-solid or at the least twisted and circular enough to get the opponent lost to the point that instead of a rebuttal, they can offer you only a fish-gasping-out-of-water dumb look (women are especially good at the logic part, men are usually naturals at the latter), a large vocabulary to add credibility to your character, and, most importantly, the balls to come across as though you actually have any right to what you’re after. Especially if it’s an inane request.

Lesson 1: The Free Cruise

Feel free to send me a private message or leave a comment if you need a pointer on getting him to do the dishes, getting her to get ready in under 3 hours (take that as you will), or getting him to go (or getting out of going) to the opera. For now, in the spirit of the last remaining vestiges of summer, let’s try one more grab at a vacation. And let’s make it a free one.

I was looking through the very colorful and exciting brochures of a certain AZAMARA CRUISES today. I was suddenly thrown into an irate tizzy at one photo. There on Page 53, a photo whose caption touted the amazingness of the ruins of Pompeii, near the cruise’s stop in Sorrento, which is on the “boot” of Italy.

Having sat for several hours contemplating my life and my mafioso house-host (but that’s for another story) in that very amphitheater that was pictured, I was offended like a cat who was just offered CAT food to see that the photo was actually taken not in Pompeii but in Taormina, which is located in SICILY, and is not even CONNECTED to the boot of Italy.

After listening to my ranting and raving and much throwing about of cruise line brochures (which, being on thick glossy paper, can be quite heavy), after one such rogue cruise line brochure hit aforementioned boyfriend in the head, he suggested that I tell them in so many words that they are idiots and that I wanted a free cruise for their error. And to please go do it in a different room.

A fine idea, dear Boyfriend!

Actual letter to the president of Azamara cruises:

Hello, I am a cruise travel agent and cruiser who until recently took great pride in offering your product. However, I was looking through your most recent brochure and was appalled to see a gross misrepresentation/factual error. There is a photo that is labeled the ruins of Pompeii, near Sorrento. The photo is actually an ancient amphitheater located in Taormina. Taormina is not only nowhere near Sorrento, it isn’t even on the mainland of Italy, but on the island of Sicily. If your first thought is, “What’s the big deal, really, Mt. Vesuvius versus Mt. Etna?”, I would suggest to you that the citizens of Pompeii would have said there’s quite a big difference. And so would your would-be passengers.

I have not personally sailed on an Azamara cruise, but no longer feel comfortable in recommending it without having done so. It seems to me that if a company doesn’t even get things right in its brochures designed to get people on board, can they really get it right for the actual journey?

I would hope that your corporation considers travel agents’ faith to be a worthwhile investment, given the number of people we are in contact with, with great influence on them. If so, I would be interested in seeing firsthand that the actual cruise experience is better than my current impression of the line, and can be reached at the email provided if this would be an investment your company would like to make.

If this sounds like an overreaction to something that you wouldn’t consider a big deal, just consider how you would view the credibility of a company who purported the best experience with great attention to detail on a climb of Mount Everest and then featured a photo of the Matterhorn. It would make a difference to you as the consumer, and it would make a difference to the people who are selling the product.

Boyfriend told me after I wrote it that he had only been joking and never thought I actually would. I told him, “Oh. Oops.” Then I told him to pack his bags, that we had a free cruise to go on, and that he would buy me a new dress for the trip.

Senator John McCain, the gruff Republican presidential hopeful, Vietnam veteran, and maker of delicious food products such as Pizza Pockets and many great frozen potato-based snacks, finally chose his running mate on Friday. And it is Alaska governor Sarah Palin, believed to be a cousin or perhaps niece of Monty Python funnyman Michael Palin. And conservatives around the country lost their shit upon hearing the news.

Conservative radio host Sean Hannity claimed to be “literally jazzed,” as old black men played trumpets and saxophones all over his studio on Friday, and host Laura Ingraham reportedly had the cancer vanish from her body completely when she was told Palin was McCain’s pick.

For the rest of us, other than being reminded that, oh yeah, Alaska is indeed one of our states, we are left asking, “Who is this Sarah Palin?” Well, since you asked, Mr. Pushy Pants, Governor Palin is, first and foremost, a former beauty queen and champion athlete. So, if you ever wanted Maria Sharapova as vice-president, this is as close to that wet dream as you will ever come, pervert. But don’t get any ideas because her hubby is a world champion snow machine racer, which I guess means either Zambonis or Snoopy Sno-Cone Machines, but I don’t know how you’d race those. I guess it’s who can make the Sno-Cone the fastest.

Palin reportedly has an 80 percent approval rating in her home state. What this means, who knows? Blubber and daylight probably have the same approval rating in Alaska. She also sounds far too much like Saturday Night Live alum Julia Sweeney when she speaks to be taken seriously.

But enough about her. It was announced this weekend that Palin’s daughter Bristol, named after either the race track in Tennessee or the cigarette brand (It’s hard to tell, as she has a son named Track, but also two other daughters named Kool and Eve Ultra Lights), is pregnant at the tender age of 17, and apparently the Eskimo or caribou that knocked her up intends to marry her. What a stand-up fella!

The angle in this VP choice is that Republicans believe Palin will bring the Hilary supporters to the dark side (not literally - this dark side would be McCain). Surely, McCain supporters have said, these gals will blindly follow anyone without a penis. Hell, put Andrea Yates or Squeaky Fromme on the ticket and these dizzy broads will line up and vote for her twice.

This will all lead to a mixed tag team Vietnamese cage match of Barack and Michelle Obama versus McCain and Palin sometime in October. Experts say the winner of this bout will most likely win the election in November.

A few things to consider on this fine day in this amazing economic state we’re in nowadays…

Retirement plans compared…

• If you had purchased $1000.00 of Nortel stock one year ago, it would now be worth $49.00.
• With Enron, you would have $16.50 left of the original $1000.
• With WorldCom, you would have less than $5.00 left.
• If you had purchased $1000.00 of Delta Air Lines stock you would have $49.00 left
• If you had purchased United Airlines, you would have nothing left.
• But, if you had purchased $1000.00 worth of beer one year ago, drank all the beer, then turned in the cans for recycling, you would have $214.00.

Based on the above, the best current investment advice is to drink heavily and recycle. This is called the 401-Keg Plan. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go invest in my future.

Why won’t *Nsync get back together?  I love *Nsync.

Notice that I didn’t say, “I LOVED *Nsync.”

I realize that is a bold admission from someone wishing to be taken seriously…well…at ALL, but hear me out.  When *Nsync was on top of their game, cranking out their wonderfully gooey brand of soft-core pop ejaculate, I was missing my youth terribly - mostly because of a miserable job and a gag-inducing spouse, and also exacerbated by the fact that I had itty-bitty babies at the time.  I did not envy me.

Then I heard “I Want You Back.”

On a whim, I bought tickets (in March) for a concert (in August), and - to my shock and dismay - I couldn’t find one other soul that was willing to accompany me.  I finally convinced my best friend to actually FLY here to go with me.  We dressed like Pentecostal soccer moms and stood out like a couple of sore dicks, but it was fun and they were hot.  The following spring, something in our collective psyche snapped like a waistband, and we decided we should go see them again - this time for TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW.  We felt like renegades driving out of town and staying at a fancy hotel (this time with my sister in tow, and all of us tarted up like uncommon floozies), and we reveled in our brokered nosebleed seats.  I even almost got into a fistfight with a preteen over some thrown popcorn.

From that moment on, nothing would be as dull and boring as it once was, and every facet of my life would shimmer with sparkly iridescence.

When it was all said and done, we had gone to 14 concerts together, in four different cities.  It was, and still is okay because Chris is my age, and that means I am young enough to love a boy band.  During our lives as groupies, we managed to do some things that our workaday lives never would have permitted - we gambled with Joey in Vegas, met Chris at Nordstrom in San Diego, and had a stranger literally walk right up to us and hand us free passes to the MTV special that was taping AT THAT VERY MOMENT (talk about falling into deep clover…three hours of up close and personal *Nsync facetime, and I still have the sunburn scar to prove it - it’s called Road to Celebrity…see if you can find me).  Chris passed over a tall blonde standing next to me in the front row at that night’s concert, to shake MY hand.  We even finagled passes to a sound check from a security guard, and we never once had to show our boobies or lift our skirts.  Wit and glitter is all we needed.

We saw our last *Nsync concert in spring of 2002, and things have changed quite a lot since then (the kids are now mostly teenagers, and the gag-inducer is now an EX, replaced by a much nicer model), but we still pine for those days and wish we could once again plan for an *Nsync trip.  It was such a great time.  If the Backstreet Boys can resurrect themselves, why can’t *Nsync?

I can’t take these long goodbyebyebyes.

I’m tired of lists. Everywhere you go there’s another frigging list. Every Web site you visit. Every stupid magazine you pick up. Hey, here are the Top Ten Venereal Diseases! Come see our list of the Top 25 Abortions Ever Performed! Even on television, VH1 has them all the time, TV Guide and TV Land team up for some incredible ones. Like, they had the “100 Most Unexpected TV Moments” a while back. Now, try to guess what Number 1 was. Ruby shooting Oswald? No! Wasn’t even on the list. Apparently everyone knew that was going to happen? What about R. Bud Dwyer calling a press conference and then shooting himself in the mouth? Boring! We’ve been expecting that since Christine Chubbock offed herself on TV 13 years prior. No, the Number One moment was the last stupid episode of Newhart. Eww. Of course, later, when TV Guide did the “100 Most Memorable Moments,” then, Oswald being shot was Number 14. 14! Apparently memorable, but not very unexpected.

I always remember The National Review’s list of the Top 50 Conservative Songs. Oh, you just had a whole bunch of dandy songs about carrying guns and how we hate taxes. And nowhere was my favorite song, Cheap Trick’s “Surrender,” in which a set of parents warn their child to stay away from the broads less he catch the syphilis or the herpes.

AFI is always coming up with lists. “The Top 100 Uses of the Word ‘Cunt” in Cinema.” Number 1 - when that prisoner threw jizz at Jodie Foster in The Silence of the Lambs. “Top 100 Rape Scenes.” Again, Number 1 - Jodie Foster in The Accused.

It was ListVerse.com that finally drove me crazy. They just recycle any old list. Who cares? This week they have the “Top 10 Overrated Movies.”  Yeah, great list, except Premiere did the Top 20 two years ago. And Clerks and Chicago were on their lists too, you hacks.

Everything’s been about lists since stupid Forbes, Letterman, and that damn Casey Kasem. Since the Ten Commandments! See, I knew the Bible was somehow responsible for this. The Bible and that damnn false idol Santa Claus with his “naughty and nice” horseshit. You could go your whole life just making lists. Top Ten Things I Think I Might Have For Breakfast. Top Ten Teeth I’m Going to Brush Now. Top Ten Diseases I Wish Upon Every Person Responsible For Churning Out These Asinine Lists. Say, I might do that one. What should be number one? AIDS or cancer? Hmm.

If you were around when the Jerry Springer craze dropped in the mid-90s and are familiar with trash televisions, then you have probably seen one of the Maury Povich episodes where he would have on insanely young girls that have sex, do drugs, swear every other word and usually hate their parents to some insane degree for no reason.

Well this is Angel, she’s precious… she’s like a dumptruck filled with diarrhea… I think the lisp and pooch on her really help sell the name… Angel. More like butt-angel…

If you liked that, check out this great mock video put together making fun of Angel and over-the-top-teens, I loved this one:

Update #1: 2nd video link updated!

Thanks Support NYC!

Yes.

Okay, so here’s the deal…I watch pretty much every television show pertaining to the paranormal that comes around the bend, due to my greater than average interest in the field (and my addiction to anything passing itself off as “reality” TV).  In fact, I might even go as far as saying that I am an authority on the subject matter.  As such, I can say without hesitation that Jason and Grant (and the whole lot of them) are irretrievably full of shit (perhaps due to hefty financial swaying by the network), and they have completely blighted the way the entire field of paranormal investigation is perceived.

It’s bad enough that ghost hunters have historically come across as socially retarded, fedora wearing chodes, and now we have a brand spanking new variety of chicanery to sort through.

Generally speaking, the level of rage that deluges my entire being is usually reserved for junior high guidance counselors and soccer moms with cell phones driving SUVs filled with horrid little children.

In the unlikely event that the esteemed UMOA readers have not heard of Jason, Grant, or anyone involved with T.A.P.S., allow me to give a little background:

Jason and Grant are founding members of the Atlantic Paranormal Society (T.A.P.S.) and, based on some nebulous personal experiences in their collective youth, they decided to hang a shingle and start a paranormal investigation group, ostensibly to find “answers” to what happened to them and blah, blah, blah.  Somewhere along the line, they managed to parlay their employment as plumbers for Roto-Rooter into corporate sponsorship, and that led to the eventual creation of the show that I really love to hate… Ghost Hunters.

On each episode, the intrepid band of researchers convene upon a location purported to have paranormal activity and, through an intricate choreography of ass-backwardness, they lay down cables and tape cameras to walls (while simultaneously arguing about which piece of equipment Brian lost, as he is the show’s unattractive scapegoat), and proceed to “investigate” by familiarizing themselves with the entire back story of the activity, undoubtedly so they can be sure and report similar experiences.  During the lesser episodes, they will generally make a Cecil B. DeMille production of debunking the activity based solely on their experience as plumbers for Roto-Rooter (a detail that is mentioned no less than 415 times during an average show) and the happenstance that they were not able to collect and evidence (never mind the fact that most legitimate investigations will require numerous visits and lots of waiting around, but rarely a plunger and a drain snake).

On the episodes where they DO claim to find evidence, it’s always at some regional landmark that is likely to generate revenue as a result of having activity, and the evidence is so dubiously FANTASTIC that it makes me want to punch myself in the face.

For example, during a visit to the famous Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, CO, we see Grant futzing around with his little cheap-ass camera in the dark hotel room, and - conveniently - when he asks the show’s cameraman to use his light to illuminate his task of “changing the tape” (which inexplicably involved pointing the SciFi channel camera to the ground), the table shakes violently and a chair flies off the ground and hits the wall.  I guess turning on the light in the room would have broken protocol, since paranormal activity ONLY happens in the dark, right?  Too bad these pros never thought to have a back-up camera running, huh?

I fucking hate liars, seriously.

The 3,000 Hit and 500 Home Run Clubs in Major League Baseball used to be pretty darn exclusive. But something happened. The old Veterans Committee, or the mob, whoever keeps tabs on baseball, have lost their collective touch. They’ll let just about anyone make it there now. You used to have some great players call it in early when they were so close.

Frank Robinson was just 57 hits shy of 3,000, but the MLB said, “Look, we’ll let Aaron in. After all, he had his life threatened with that whole chasing the Babe thing. But, you, you’ve got the 500 + home runs. That’s good enough. We don’t want too many of you guys on these lists.” As time went on, the league started getting a little generous in letting guys like Aaron and Mays in. But they were really great players, and you had to have the Hit and Home Run Club color barriers broken at some point. I mean, Jackie Robinson certainly wasn’t going to make it.

Even as far back as the beginning of baseball, why couldn’t Cap Anson or Sam Rice play just a wee bit longer and reach 3,000 hits? Because someone didn’t want them to. Sure, guys like Tris Speaker and Ty Cobb were allowed to play through. That Cobb was a nasty son of a bitch. And you have to let Honus Wagner in, what with that valuable card and all. But why were so few players reaching 3,000?

Probably because he was such a nice guy, they let Clemente get his 3,000^th before they rigged his plane to crash. But the real tragedy was Gehrig. Just seven homers away from 500, and just under 300 hits away from 3,000 when the baseball mafia gave him ALS, then named it after him! Holy shit! They must have really not wanted him in their club! You know who else never reached 3,000 hits? Ted Williams. Why do you think they sent him away for three years during WWII? They couldn’t believe it when he came back alive.

These days, however, they let just anyone in. EVERYONE is reaching 3,000 hits! Rickey Henderson. Craig Biggio. Rafael Palmeiro, for Pete’s sake! These guys collected more hits that Williams, Gehrig and Joe Fucking DiMaggio. Babe Ruth didn’t even get 3,000 hits, and he was Babe Ruth!

We must stop this from happening. As fans, we must keep the 3,000 Club sacred. If guys like Omar Visquel and Gary Sheffield think they can go where Stan Musial and Carl Yastrzemski went, they’ve got another thing coming. What can we do? Well, I don’t know. We can’t do anything too harsh. Maybe scream, “No batter!” at all their games. I mean, no need to go spreading diseases or rigging airplanes like in ye oldern days, right?

So go to the games and scream at these players. Scream at Derek Jeter! Scream at Jeff Kent! Jeff Kent will get 3,000 hits! Never, I say!

We know you had a long week… that’s why we are here to make it seem shorter… or if you hate us, it will seem longer, but no one hates adorable animal pictures, so here you go:

Incase you find yourself out of ideas in the bedroom, or out of ways to get your partner to call the police on you, Marc Chung just sent in a quick reference that we can print out and leave next to the bed:

(Click for a bigger version)

I’d like to know what Einstein came up with the idea of tubing through the Arizona desert in the middle of August. I mean, who says, “Hey! It’s 124 degrees outside, we have no trees so we have no shade…I know! Let’s go get some black rubber inner tubes, dehydrate our bodies further with as much of the cheapest canned beer we can shove into this cooler, and spend 5 hours floating on TOP of the water!!”

After hiding out in the black cave of my thrice-curtained, double-armored, multi-screened, air-conditioned house (with misters) for the past 15 years of my tenure in the great “But it’s a DRY heat!” <yuck, yuck> state, I finally caved to the curiosity and had to see what tubing the Salt River is all about.

Maybe for some it begins with a nice, relaxing, smooth gathering of friends and loved ones (like Pabst, Bud, and Miller) and making the comfortable procession from air-conditioned house to air-conditioned car -don’t forget the oven mitts for the steering wheel, no joke- to tube rental, shuttle bus, and happy drunken oblivion.

This, however, was not my experience. After rallying the troops from all corners of the state, it looked a little different for us. The gathering part went fine, actually (probably because I was in charge). Everyone assembled where they were supposed to in central Phoenix, when they were due to arrive. Then my boyfriend took over and, well, a picture says a thousand words. That’s right, an impossible-to-unstick apartment key:

Two hours, a can of WD-40 and a broken key, a useless $55 locksmith, case of beer from the nearby gas station for consolation, and an emergency Saturday-morning ($$$) facilities call to the apartment management later we were finally ready to stop drinking cheap beer and leave the 112 degree heat to…go drink cheap beer and sit in the 112 degree heat.

Hey, no one said desert dwellers made sense. Our brains melted sometime back in June… but we finally made it to the river.

I was reading through the internet (I do that from time to time… read the internet, it’s like what Neo could do in the Matrix) and ran across this post by Benjamin Smith.

Apparently Ben likes to rock climb, for fun. Looking through some of his Flickr shots I have to assume that he likes to climb death… for fun.

It also appears that during one of these outings he got attacked in the face by Africanized kill bees and his reaction to said attack was, and I quote:

So what’s it like getting stung in the face by killer bees? It sucks. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s pretty uncomfortable. It’s a little comical too.

So shit that kills people is “… uncomfortable and a little comical too” to this guy. It dawned on me that while reading his article, this guy might be the hardest-core motherfucker ever, and then I saw the picture of the “bee stings”:

Umm, I don’t know how this picture is “proof” of bee stings, I think all it does is serves as a reminder that Ben is a wethered, bee-fighting rock-climbing death-spitting-at-ninja that will kill you in your face if you crossed him. Most people post pictures of their bee-stings and have bite marks every where and stupid looking swollen faces or a rash… looks here like Ben didn’t have time to do any of that stuff, he was too busy for those bees, the ones stinging him in the face, and had other things to do apparently.

I wonder if he is one of those guys that you get into a fight with at a bar, and you know you are screwed after the first punch when you land it squarly in his face and he just starts laughing… and then you piss your pants.

Or maybe he’s the wise old uncle that no one in the family ever pressures to do anything at family get-togethers because everyone whispers about what “Ben used to do in Korea” and how he “Has no ability to tell the difference between right and wrong” or some shit. I can already imagine what it would look like if I hung out with this guy on a regular basis:

Ben: I want a cigar

Me: Oh absolutely <stumbling over self to get out of chair fast enough and running straight out the front door> I’LL BE BACK IN 3 MINS!

Ben: <general grimmacing and squinty-eye-looking into the Sun>

Me: <pants and bleeding from ears> ok…. WHEW… ok… I ran to the store and got you 1 of each kind just incase.

Ben: <grimmace>

You can imagine how exhausting that would be, trying to bring your A-game all the time to a relationship that just consists of your A-game and his willingness to not kill you because it is Tuesday, and Tuesdays are Ben’s Sun-staring days… days where he just stares right into the Sun to remind it that it’s: “not so tough”.