Ah, remember dumb fun? Kids love dumb fun — or should. I’m tired of spreadsheet fun. Your fantasy football team is a tedious clerical chore. Maybe you should forget the imaginary sword you earned by playing MMORPG for twenty weeks straight and make a real sword out of a paper towel roll and whack a real friend with it instead.
It’s just rolling down a hill. That’s it. But that’s enough, isn’t it? You’d have to tear any self-respecting kid off that hill even after a hundred runs down it. Sun’s gong down, rain’s starting to fall, no bathroom breaks for four hours — Just one more, Dad!
Hello, I’m Viking Cronholm. Think Of Me As A Swedish Jack LaLanne That Can Kick Your Sorry Ass
Viking Cronholm might not be the Most Interesting Man In The World. But if I were the MIMITW, I wouldn’t take Viking’s seat at the bar when he goes to the bathroom, or talk to one of the several girlfriends he brought with him, because when he gets back, there’s going to be… trouble.
Not trouble for him, of course. Trouble for you. His name is Viking, for crissakes. You don’t want to get into scrapes with men named Viking, do you? It’s like sending diplomats to talk to Vlad The Impaler. Your chance of success is right there in the name, isn’t it?
Viking was a troublesome youth. Born in 1874, he was too adventurous for his staid upbringing, so his father took him out of school and sent him off as a sort of merchant seaman to teach him a lesson about being a tough guy. It didn’t dissuade him. Sure, when he got back, he went to school to study physiotherapy, but apparently only so he’d know more ways to pull your arms out of their sockets and beat you over the head with them. After that, he went to the US, learned to box, and won a championship or two. Then he moved to South Africa, probably hoping to wrestle cape buffalo or something, and it’s there that he learned jiu jitsu, the original martial art –no doubt just so he could kick everyone’s ass without bothering to take off his coat.
I don’t know whether these fellows are douche-bros or bro-douches. Perhaps they’re brah-dudes, or dude-brahs. Or maybe they’re homie-brosephs. Unfortunately, they aren’t wearing any popped collars in the video. Popped collars are like tree rings. You can cut down a tree, count the growth rings on the stump, and figure out how old a tree is — er, was. You can generally count the popped collars on a broseph to see what fraternity he might qualify for, or what kind of jorts he might purchase in the future. It’s like fingerprints.
So I’m not sure of any of that, but I am sure that jumping over a railing over and over is not parkour, and that hat is not a fedora. So the title “Fedora Tricks and Parkour” might need a little tweaking, dudes-guys. That hat is a trilby, which is right up there with popped collars on the dude-bro checklist of annoying affectations. Word to the (un)wise: Indiana Jones wears a fedora. Kevin Federline wears a trilby. Do the math.
(Sent along by Gerard at American Digest, who has the good sense to wear a porkpie hat, like a normal person would)
If you tell me you’ve played Madden Football and never done this, you’re lying.
If you tell me you’ve never put yourself on one of the teams, you’re lying. If you’re telling me you’ve never named the offensive linemen after fat guys you know, you’re lying. If you tell me you’ve never tried to make an entire Madden team out of nothing but white guys, you’re lying. If you tell me you succeeded in making an entire Madden team out of white guys, and didn’t have to use really bad safeties as your cornerbacks, too, you’re lying. If you try to tell me you’ve never made an entire Madden team out of only guys named Johnson, you’re lying. If you tell me you’ve never tried to make an entire Madden team out of guys with apostrophes in the middle of their names, you’re lying. If you’re trying to tell me you made your own player in Madden, and he wasn’t a three-hundred pound sprinter, you’re lying.
And if you try to tell me that your first reaction when seeing the little Broncos on the screen above wasn’t, “Oh look, an entire team of Wes Welkers,” you’re lying.