Halloween. The holiday-est of holidays. The time of year we turn a blind eye towards kids knocking on strangers’ doors asking for candy and/or hoping not to get taken. The holiday where every girl channels her inner escort and puts on the sexy Spongebob costume and then scoffs at the gentlemen when they don’t respect her for her brains while she’s wearing nothing but a handkerchief and an eye patch. The time of year where what seems to be a white minority dusts off their inner Klansman and puts on blackface. Blackface? Are you fucking kidding me? Look, I don’t want to get off on a rant here, but what in the name of Al Jolson is going on? Look, I get it. You’re attending what could be the social event of the season on Halloween Night. Everyone will be there. I’m talking about Carol, your drunk ex-gf with a propensity for Boone’s Farm, thigh tattoos and holding the record for dressing like Britney Spears for the 16th year in a row. Then there’s Greg, the dude from accounting that thinks it’s a good idea to wear a costume that can’t get him through the door it’s so fucking large and complicated. Nice costume, Greg! Thanks, I’m the ever-expanding universe. But inevitably there will be the guy or girl that thinks it’s a good idea to perfectly accessorize their Jay-Z and Beyoncé costume by completely covering their face, neck and arms with brown/black makeup. I’m not sure what goes on in their non-existent minds as they stand in front of the mirror going, “you know what my Eazy-E costume needs? A completely shunned, outdated, offensive, ignorant form of racism. Ah! Blackface it is!” Hey Uncle Ben, we aren’t trying to hurt anyone! What’s the big deal about blackface? Thanks for asking Bubba and Bubbette, let me edumacate y’all. Blackface in its origin can be traced back to the good ol’ days of the USA. You know, the mid to late 19th century. When we as a nation were doing our absolute worst in terms of race relations. It started as a way to represent blacks on stage and in minstrel shows because WE WOULDN’T ALLOW THEM TO REPRESENT THEMSELVES. Hey, Uncle Ben, it was a different time, how can you be sure it was a racist thing? With titles like “The Happy-Go Lucky Darky” or “The Dandified Coon”, I fail to see how that cannot be construed as at least mean, never mind racist as fuck. As we “progressed” as a society (hell we ended slavery, right? What else do you want”), blackface made its way into film and radio where, surprise, it was still a vehicle to mimic and mock the black culture. If you don’t know or can’t comprehend what I’m saying, just Google Image Al Jolson. Yeah, exactly. This kept going until the 1960s. The 1960s! We waited until the 60s to realize this shit didn’t belong. Oh wait; apparently not all of us got the message. I was surprised (was I though?) to see numerous Facebook posts blatantly flaunting their racist Halloween costumes for the world to see. And let me educate you dummies on this little factoid too: posing for a picture in blackface and not caring/realizing it will end up on the internet makes you dumber than your drunk-while-pregnant parents who forgot to instill any ounce of moral fiber in your racist ass. Look, I like Dr. Dre, Malcom X, Jungle man/woman, Orange Is The New Black person, Barry O. and the rest. I think those are all awesome Halloween costumes. You just don’t need to fully complete the costume by donning what is probably the most obvious of offensiveness in 2015. Hell, that was an obvious offense in 1923! So whine and complain all you want, fuckos. Talk about how the liberal media/culture is taking away your freedom to express yourself in any way you want. And by the way, I’m not saying you can’t do this. Hell, keep doing it if it means that much to you. If this is the pencil-thin connection to your fucked up ancestral roots that you can’t quite let go because it’s a slippery slope and if we can’t don blackface then next they’ll be after our guns and kids and our kids’ guns, then blackface away!! Besides without you and your new Flava Flav blackface Facebook profile pic, how am I going to know whom to despise? But I digress…

From the files of “You Can’t Make This Shit Up” comes another story of fan on fan violence at sporting events. This time however, it apparently involved an LA mother and son curb-stomping some poor goomba from NYC because he was wearing another team’s jersey and that just can’t be tolerated. Is this really where we are? It’s 20-motherfucking-15 people! I’d like to think that we as a society have gotten passed such trivial nonsense as physical violence toward another human being because he wants one group of men to outscore another group of men in a game most people stopped playing before they had hair on their chinny-chin-balls. Look, I don’t want to get off on a rant here but let’s call this exactly what it is: Donald Trump’s fault. That’s right. Thought I was going somewhere else with that? No such luck people. Let me explain. We as a society have slowly (and sometimes catastrophically rapidly) slid down the mental meter over the past 50 years. We have gone from caring about putting men on the moon and discovering advances in science to putting blowjob heiresses on TV and discovering new video/selfie apps for our piece of toast-sized phones. The day the top scientist decided curing male impotence/baldness was more important than cancer is the day we gave up. So as we stand in line overnight to get the new iPhone, asshats like Trump have slowly been gathering power and support and are waiting for the day when they can completely pull the wool over out eyes and achieve the ultimate power status – leading the free world. We have completely turned into the “no way this could ever happen to us” future in the movie Idiocracy. Violence plagues our TV and movies, we worship sports stars like they were gods (you don’t? Would you ever wear some random dude’s name on the back of your jersey like you were going steady? But you have no problem wearing some 24 year old physical specimen’s name everywhere you go…) we have devolved into some Mad Max-type Thunderdome society. So don’t get mad at mom and her lil’ fella for doing what we have taught them to do their entire lives: worship teams and products and stars like they were their own and go ahead and fight/stab/shoot anyone who says you’re wrong. Hell that’s just what President Camacho – I mean what President Trump wants. But I digress…

So as I browse the plethora of double X chromosomal friends that are currently on my social media radar, I can't help but think of a certain term that was brought to my attention a few years ago: Vaginal Hubris. Look, I like girls... wait, let me rephrase that... I like women.  Probably as much or as more than the next guy. Ol' UB tends to fall ass over elbows quite easily for a pretty face and a willingness to attend a baseball game but holy shit ladies, enough is enough. Let me define Vaginal Hubris. Actually, let me define hubris first. then I think you can connect the proverbial dots. Hubris is defined as "excessive pride or self-confidence". Hubris can be a good thing. Shit, hubris can be something that separates you or gets you out of a tough situation. But when hubris is connected or paired with something that may not need the aforementioned confidence, then we have a problem. Look, I don't want to get off on a rant here but holy shit keep it in your pants, girls! OK, I get it. You were hurt. Maybe hurt more than you deserved and I know that climbing a metaphorical mountain and screaming "I Wont Back Down" from the top is part of the rebuilding process but what I don't need to hear is how that now you're single, ol' ex-boyfriend Dick McSmallcock won't get that sweet apple pie anymore. I'm all for female empowerment, hell we let you vote right? But let's just pump the brakes (insert female driving joke here). I know that you want to let the one that got away know what sweet tenderness he is missing by posting a picture of a cherry pie on Facebook then tagging it with "super tight, all night #BetterThanYou" but is that really what you want out on the internet? I'm sure your mom/grandma/dad is just tickled that you are proclaiming to the virtual world that your former lover had it, then lost it and will never get that sweet thistle pie anymore. And while we are at it, how come all my references - and all in history - of vaginas are that of pie? Can we not think of something else to compare what may be the best thing invented other than baseball to? Or maybe I'm just lonely and hoping to White Knight some shit online... but I digress.

​I saw what might have been the best superhero movie I have ever seen last night. Here’s a quick recap: A boy, raised by a family that was not his, lived a life that was not his original intent.  He finds out later in life that his entire prior existence has been a lie and that now and only now he must face his true purpose: helping people to fight off current and would be evil oppressors. Against all odds he survives countless attacks and plots to destroy him. Only after finally coming to terms with his ultimate power does he rise up in a final battle to destroy his sworn enemy, leading his people to safety. Ironman? Superman? Batman? Um no. This was Moses. Holy ancient comic book stories, Batman. Look, I don’t want to get off on a rant here but Jesus Christ, how can one possibly hear that and countless other biblical stories and perceive them as nothing more than what they are: movie scripts before we had movies. Oh and before you nail me to that cross and leave my non-spiritual ass to die in the desert, let me say I enjoyed the HELL out of that movie and enjoy the shit out of most if not all the stories from and/or inspired by the Bible. But I get that that’s what they are… stories! Whether there is a man in the sky pulling strings, giving babies cancer, making quarterbacks defeat other quarterbacks, sending plagues, flooding towns, causing famine, giving babies cancer (I used that one already?) and other such godly intentions – I have no fucking clue. But if you honestly believe that Noah filled a boat with 2 of every 5 million known species of animal or if ol’ “Let My People Go” Moses parted a sea on command or if dinosaurs actually were saddled up and ridden by humans, you sir are a fucking moron. Believe what you want, I don’t care. Believe in god(s), I don’t care. Just don’t tell me that these stories (really good stories) are nothing more than what they are: moralistic and inspirational tales made up by humans for humans. Or maybe I’m just mad that God fucked me again last week and didn’t answer my prayers to win the lottery. What a dick. But I digress…

So after several months of careful scrutiny, never-ending media coverage and now (hopefully) the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, I can with full confidence give the final word on what has become the fucking silliest, #FirstWorldProblem scandal in the history of sport. I refuse to automatically associate any modern scandal with the Watergate Break-in and slap “gate” on the end of any word, so I’ll refer to this scandal as “Much Ado About Bullshit”. There. I feel better associating with Shakespeare than Tricky Dick, Gordo and the boys.  If you haven’t guessed by now, I am referring to the Tom Brady deflation of balls mess. Look, I don’t want to get off o a rant here but what’s the big fucking deal, bitch? So he asked some fucking drunk Southie to take a few PSIs out of some footballs. I equate that to watering down the base-paths to give your bunts a chance to stay fair. Growing the grass long on your home field so your fatsos have a chance to catch the less than fatsos on the other team. Stealing signals from second from the catcher. Stealing signals from the other sideline in football. If we are supposed to be living in this pristine, gentlemanly world, why do we have such complicated signs everywhere? Why are playbooks in the NFL guarded like Lee Harvey Oswald coming out of the Dallas jail? Wait, that’s a bad example. Ol’ Patsy McSureshot didn’t fair too well that day. I hope I never have to experience it but I’d take the JFK haircut long before I take a bullet in the gut, taking 2 hours to die. And did Oswald act alone? Some theories point to----- wait, shit, almost went down a rabbit hole. Where was I? Oh yeah. The dude got over and he most likely would’ve gotten over without the help of an underinflated football. Jesus. Is that really what we are talking about here? A fucking football that was 2 psi lower than standard? We let QBs wear sticky gloves on their throwing hand. That’s not performance enhancing? Every QB in the history of this shitty league has done this. So Brady got caught. Big deal. Some like ‘em flat, some like ‘em big and round. Last I checked the fucking defense didn’t play with flat balls. The other team still had an opportunity to score, right? And stop with the whole guilty by association because he didn’t turn over his phone. This guy fucks models. Is married to a model.  Had a kid with a different model and makes 25 million a year. I make not close to half a percent of that and you’ll get my phone out of my cold, dead hands. Who knows what secret, illuminati model-fucker launch codes this dude has on his phone. Not to mention naughty selfies, am I right ladies? So stop with your hypocritical dissection of the Golden Boy. We have a serious hero-worship problem in this country yet our love of wanting someone to fall from grace may be worse. So save your vitriol and your passion for where it belongs: In your own life. Maybe if you gave a shit about your own goings on, you’d be a millionaire model-fucker with a naughty phone and then someone could take you down a peg or two. Or maybe he’s a fucking cheater, who really gives a shit. But I digress…

As I drive along the many roads of life, one thing remains the constant of all constants: death. That's right. The primary of life's two certainties (taxes being the other one). Ol' Grim Reaper himself waits for no man. So as lives are plucked out at a seemingly random order, one can relish in the thought that their memories will be forever ensconced... on the back of a '04 Chevy Suburban. Holy white trash, Batman! Nothing says "Never Forget" like strapping some mall-made "RIP Mama" sticker to the back of your Honda Civic so that everyone who has the unfortunate enough experience of being stuck behind you at a red light can bask in the remembrance of your literal moving memorial. The last thing I want once I punch my ticket off this planet is anyone close to me dedicating their soccer mom van to my memory. How about a scholarship? How about naming one of the 14 kids you either have or are going to have over the next 4 years after the departed? Holy shit, Facebook memorials think these car RIPs are beneath even them. And enough with roadside memorials too. Dude, I get it, it sucks, your homie died on the side of the road either by his own incompetence or his failure to obey simple traffic laws. But again, the last thing I think either he or his family would want would be a constant reminder of when, how and where that dude wandered into traffic. And can we put a time limit on these things? How long do I have to look at a fucking Lakers jersey and a skateboard nailed to a cross on the side of the road? And won't me and every other passerby looking at that roadside gravesite increase the chances of causing another accident thereby increasing the number of memorials thereby increasing the number of accidents thereby increasing the... holy shit! So keep the flowers and the glossy 8x10s and the crosses the size of a Mini Cooper to where they belong... at the ground zero base of horrific terrorist attacks. Too soon? RIP bitch. But I digress...

The subtle notes of the mayonnaise complemented by the rustic nature of the bread really make the store-bought bologna stand out in your 8 year-old's sack lunch. Holy shit on a stick (that was a Chopped ingredient, no?)!! Hey, I like food as much as the next guy. I may like it a tad more. Ol' Uncle Ben is a big boy, but enough is enough is enough already! I don't want to get off on a rant here but I have had it with the food obsessed culture we are currently marinading in. The obsession we have with watching people cook is bad enough. If you're watching because you're trying to learn or may have company coming over and the pigs in the blankets you served last time got you "Chef-Shamed" by your hipster douche-bag, Guy Fieri watching, kale shake drinking friends, that's one thing. But to watch all by yourself because you can't open a can of peaches without your mommy, now that's just sad. And enough with the gluttony of these shows. Bad enough I have to watch a 1080p HD close up of some tatted up fuckstick drip roast beef au jus down his platinum colored goatee, but to watch that same shitbird eat what amounts to the exact number of hot dogs that would feed 34 villages in Nairobi is just plain wrong. When did a close-up of a dude chewing with his mouth open and describing flavors only his "perfect palate" can identify become good tv? Fuck that guy. And fuck his perfect palate. I put ketchup on everything. You know why? Because then everything tastes like ketchup. And I love ketchup. And speaking of tattoos, when did the official uniform of a chef become sleeve tattoos, spiked hair under a bandana and those fucking ridiculous earlobe stretching earrings? Nothing makes me hungrier than literally watching someone stretch their skin like silly putty and then imagining what sort of air-travel shutdown causing bacterial virus is living in Chef Neptune's ear pasta. We get it, you're a rockstar. You put salt on a pancake because society can't handle your awesomeness and mom and dad just wanted a decent family portrait for once. And enough with the timed cooking shows. I have an idea. It's a show where the chefs get to take their time and make good food with real ingredients and then they get paid at the end. It's called, "Uncle Ben Goes Out For Dinner" and it happens all the time. There's your reality. ACTUAL FUCKING REALITY. Or maybe I'm just really, really hungry whilst I write this and I just need a ketchup sandwich. But I digress...

Hey I have an awesome idea. Let’s get all my dude-bros together and make a kid-less, wife/GF-less, balls-less trip to the Magic Kingdom. You know, because we’re 8 fucking years old. Nothing says I have officially made it to adulthood like riding the teacups with your college roommate. And getting your BFF matching mouse ears while taking a selfie in front of whatever filthy, stripper-night-job-havin’, out-of-work actress who happens to be walking around as Cinderella that day. I’m sorry, lil’ Make a Wish cancer patient, you’ll have to wait in line, me and my bro bought VIP Splash Mountain tickets so we can finally get that picture together of us getting wet. That’s gonna look great on Facebook, or Tinder, or Grinder. Look, I don’t want to get off on a rant here but holy I Don’t Want To Grow Up I’m A Toys R Us Kid, Batman! Can we ditch the whole Peter Pan disease that’s running through our culture? We care more and know more about comic book characters, zombie movies and which dragon is currently making inter-species erotica with the hot girl from Game Of Thrones than we do politics, worldwide genocide and let’s see, what else is going on… oh yeah, we are currently almost out of water. You know, water? That shit that makes us live? That lifeblood of humanity, plant-life, wildlife… ALL OF LIFE? I’m pretty sure if we wanted to get everyone under 50 worried enough about the drought, we could just insert some storyline into GOT or have Iron Man do some PSA or just threaten to hold these fucking cartoons back until we shed enough light on these problems to actually start making real progress. Look, watch whatever the fuck you want. I watch these stupid shows too but I certainly don’t let them run my life. I haven’t been to the fucking movies since 2011. I don’t need some fucktard 15 year old snatch-chatting (patent pending) with her bestie and then threatening to sue me if I call her or her fucking Monster Squad friends a dirty name. Because “words hurt” people! Remember that. I always thought fists and rocks hurt but maybe I’m just getting cranky in my old age. So soften up, America. Watch your adult cartoons, never learn how to change a tire, live with your parents until you’re 39. Because when the fucking revolution/race war/apocalypse/rise of the apes comes, I’ll be the one knowing how to tie a square knot, hoarding water and not helping your punk ass at all. Maybe Disneyland is open; you’ve got VIP passes right? But I digress…

There are few things I absolutely adore in this weird, wild world we live in. There’s music, really good food, really good side-boob and beer. Ice fucking cold, handmade, craft beer. I know what you’re thinking, hey UB, I thought craft beer was for hipsters who put oil and wax in their beards and wear fingerless gloves and write songs about hoot owls and drive VW buses. Then yes, young Jedi, you’d be correct - for I am all of those things and so much more. I don’t want to get off on a rant here but there’s nothing I like more than a beer that smells like Cheech & Chong’s first 3 movies. You can keep your watered down lagers and your piss poor pilsners; I’ll have a dank IPA any day of the week. Drinking a standard Bud or Miller or Coors should be reserved for the bookends of your drinking life. If you’re 14 or 84, I’m not going to cast too much judgment on your beer tasting pallet. But if you honestly prefer the taste of that shite over beer that’s actually been artfully crafted and slaved over and made to perfection then you sir, are an asshole. And before you call me out for being a Johnny Come Lately and how IPAs are just a fad, let me set you straight buster. I have been a fan of these types of beers going way back to like 2014. I’m pretty sure IPAs were invented around that time. Right? I once drank 21 Coors Lights in one sitting… and was fine to drive my spaceship home. You shouldn’t drink 21 of anything and still be functional. That scientifically proves that Coors Light is nothing but water. Case closed. Eat shit Bill Nye. So join me in cracking open the next phase in beverages as it comes in and I deem it Hipster Ben worthy. Or just give me my PBR and leave me the fuck alone. But I digress…