I'm not a pretty man. I'm 5' 8" and weigh 220 pounds with gusts up to 230. Women don't look twice when I walk down the street.
Oh sure, my wife thinks I'm hot, but people say she's bias.
The dog plays with me, but that may be because I'm the only one who will rub his belly.
My daughters say "I'm the bomb", but then they make that gagging sound when they stick their index finger down their throat and flick the little punching bag thing.
Just to give you an image, people say I'm a cross between Taylor Hicks from American Idol (can you feel it?) and Danny DeVito. I'm flattered, but actually think I'm taller than DeVito.
All steak, no sizzle. Where's the Beef? Hanging over the belt line.
Each morning, I wake up, throw my feet to the floor, scratch myself Al Bundy style and head for the head, all the while contemplating some big choices.
What to eat for breakfast (because this body doesn't just grow on it's own), whether or not I really need to shower today (I've already got me a wife, who needs another?) and what to wear (those grey sweatpants again or the Tommy Hilfiger jeans that accentuate the package?)
After the squirt, I throw some Squeeze into the 8 track player and I grab "my toothbrush, some toothpaste, a flannel for my face, Pyjamas, a hairbrush, new shoes and a case, I said to my reflection..Lets get out of this place"...
Tired of the Squeeze, I opt for some Disco and decide to boogy down to some "Funky Cold Medina"...I'm styling.
"Nobody's as slick as I am...I think. The chicks are going to go absolutely bananas!"
You know my kind: I'm in my mid 40's, but the younger chicks know how hip I am. The younger guys like Hao Meng, Pete McKeown, and even Zander Freund don't stand a chance when Todd hits the Karaoke stage.
"I'm the cat's meow..The Bee's knees.."
In the words of the immortal Jim Carey, "I'm smokin'".
Now to the closet...Time to put the crown jewel on the King of Cool.
I peel back one Red Sox t-shirt after the other. Jacoby? Not today. Schilling? Retire that bad boy. Manny? Time to clean up after the dog.
No, today is different. A day not like any other day.
I get to the middle of my walk in closet (Not sure why they call it that...when I walk in this closet I can't even turn around)...and then I see Her...
She sits there..She seems to have a gleam...a shine....She's whiter than white can be.
Her letters seem to jump off the cotton threads like Dolly Parton's letter's jump off of hers.
She's beautiful. The Golden Albatross. I stand back for what seems like forever and admire "her" in all her splendor.
I start to tremor and shake. My palms sweat.
It's the new, discounted, Bleacher Report t-shirt.
Made of a wonderful cotton and other material mix, with that oh so familiar black, gray and orange b/r logo.
What a design.
Not sure if it was Mr. Hanes or Mr. Fruit of the Loom that designed this one, but it is stunning.
But where'd it come from?
Victoria Secret? Maybe.
Fredericks? Perhaps.
Walmart? Perhaps. Maybe it's part of the roll back. I start to smile like that Happy Face on the Walmart ad.
No, it came from the Bleacher Report Store, and it can be yours for less than the price of a New York City cab fare.
(Voice over of Narrator: And for a limited time only, we'll also send you these beautiful Ginsu Knives. This offer is not available in any stores, so send in today!)
I peel off my pajama top and take her from the hanger. I stretch the neck slightly as I push my big bulbous head through the arm hole by mistake. I reverse gears and thrust it through the reinforced neck.
I can feel a complete transformation.
"From ordinary mortal to a Love God", I think to myself, but say out loud anyway.
I saunter to the mirror and stand there, captured by my reflection. I'm not sure if it's me, but my muscles look bigger, my stomach smaller, my chest seems to bust through the cotton fibers like Schwarzenegger.
I can run faster and jump higher. I can leap small children in a single bound.
I roll up one sleeve and throw in a pack of Lucky Strikes. I take one first and let it hang slightly from the right side of my lip.
Matches? No thanks. Don't smoke.
I walk from my apartment, and I see the babe across the hall. She looks at me this time, instead of running back into her apartment like she usually does. She smiles.
Then she turns her head slightly and flips her hair back like Cindy Crawford. She licks her lips.
She motions to me as she kicks off her heels and heads back into her apartment.
"Hey Taawd" she says like Lisa Lubner on the old SNL. "Wanna play?"
I look at her. I start to drool slightly onto the front of my Bleacher Report T. Sweat starts to pool just above the arm pits of my new BR garment!
I look again and stretch the neck line of my New BR T...It bounces back immediately to it's original form.
"Hornier than a monkey with a hard on in a barrel full of knot holes", I think.
"I'm married"...I continue. "I can't do this to Kate."
Then she walks towards me and rubs her hands all over my Bleacher Report covered belly.
She purrs like a fisher cat with a half-eaten squirrel in its mouth.
She leans into me and presses herself against my quivering torso.
"You know what I want?" she whispers.
"Why me, of course. You wanna piece of this, huh?"
"HELL NO!" She screams. "I want your newly designed and discounted Bleacher Report T-shirt. All the gals are wearing them. You geek."
I take it off and hand it to her. I head back to my apartment as I realize I forgot pants.
"Hey, honey....I'm home!"
The previous story was not an infomercial.
OK...It was. But the least we can do is buy one so Zander can pay the damn bills.
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