The Audacity of Amazon: The Pedophiles Guide to Love and Pleasure

It's flat-out deplorable.

Dear Amazon,

I’m not sure where to being. After all, I’m a big freedom of speech guy. By and large, I find any sort of censorship to be a bad idea. But not as bad of an idea as the one you made to allow Phillip R. Greaves 2nd to distribute his reprehensible book, The Pedophile’s Guide to Love and Pleasure, electronically via Kindle on your website.

But what about my passion for allowing freedom of speech, you ask? Good question. You see, the world seldom offers you just one viewpoint. When I argue for freedom of speech, I’m arguing as a citizen for a citizen. But I’m not always acting in the capacity of a citizen. Let me explain.

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Stability is Overrated

If you flap long and hard enough, your wings will eventually take you to where you were always meant to be.

When I was 32, I took a flight to LaGuardia, caught a car service up to Connecticut, waltzed into my boss’ office, and told him I was quitting. Just over a year removed from winning the coveted Reach the Peak award — the highest honor my company gave out for “sales excellence” — I was the victim of an early midlife crisis. My boss, who I’ve remained in contact with to this day, was taken aback.

He assumed that I was going to a competitor, with the help of a slick-talking recruiter, of course. They made a living off of guys like me, essentially stealing us from one company before offering us to another, from which, of course, they’d hope to again snatch us as soon as enough time had passed.

I used to get calls from those clowns all the time. And, sure, I went on a few interviews — even got a couple of offers — one of them from Fidelity Investments. It was a hard gig to pass up, but when push came to shove, I did just that. It seemed so…pointless. Calling on the exact same people, wearing the exact same tailored suits, but hawking a different family of investments.

Part of the reason for my early midlife crisis was wrapped up in all of that — the notion that my white-collared compadres and I were little more than interchangeable parts. To me, there was no soul to what I was doing. I wanted more and I was aware of that for a long time. And I had finally gotten up enough courage to do something about it. Sure, prudence suggested that I find another gig before moving on, but I had saved up enough money to live off of for a year — maybe two. Plus, I’ve never really been all that into being prudent.

“What are you going to do?” my boss asked with a confused look on his face.

“Go to Jazz Fest and run the San Diego marathon,” I answered with a shrug. Beyond that, I hadn’t a clue.

Luckily, things worked out for me. I eventually landed in my hometown and wound up joining my sister-in-law in starting a blue-collar business that fabricates and installs granite countertops. But this June, after over seven years of being co-owner of that business, I found myself in a similar spot to where I’d been nearly a decade before.

Don’t get me wrong — I love the countertop company. And I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished. It’s an outstanding little shop. Conservatively run, with very low debt and profitable to boot. But like before, suddenly I wanted more. So in June, I told my business partner that I wanted out. Throughout the months that followed, we worked hard to reach a solution agreeable to us both. And now, it’s finally official.

Yesterday, I went to say goodbye to the fellas. And it was tough. Especially when I said goodbye to our shop foreman who’s been working for us for over six years. He looked me in the eye and thanked me for being what he described as the single biggest influence in his life over the past several years. He told me that he doubted if I even realized how much I had taught him. About life. And that he’d never forget it. Or me. We shared a long embrace before I finally pulled back, dried my tears with the back of my hand, and drove away from the company I helped build for the very last time.

But as hard as yesterday was, the most difficult part of the transition was the actual decision, itself. Primarily because of the eerie peace it brought me from the moment I made it. Paradoxical? Perhaps. But the utter ease with which I made such a big decision initially made me wonder if I could really trust it. The last go round? Getting the courage to quit had been an arduous process. And back then, as a single buffoon who was be-bopping his way through life, I had far fewer things about which to fret than I do now. So why, I wondered, was a similar decision actually easier this time? I pondered that question for 48 straight hours until I finally accepted that there was no answer.

Except faith.

So what, exactly, will I do? Well, I can’t go to Jazz Fest or run a marathon because of those damn triplets. And Pookie, too. Besides, I’m way too content with my family to leave them for any significant period of time. (note to Lovie — except when I go on my annual backpacking trips.) So, instead, I guess I’ll do what it is I wanna do most.

I’ll write.

Thankfully, I’ve got a lot going on. I’m working on a novel (fiction this time) and have even made a little leeway in trying to fool an agent into representing me. I’m also staying busy with the great opportunity that Babble was nice enough to give me. (Come visit me.) And soon, I’ll be regularly contributing to two other fantastic sites. Between the (modest) income from my writing and the little cash pop I received from selling my half of the company, I should be just fine for at least a year.

I’ll be the first to admit that my career path hasn’t exactly been a conventional one. I think it’s because I haven’t fit well in the spots I’ve landed. Strangely, in each of those spots, it looked to everyone around as if I fit just fine. But I’m less into the way things look and more into the way they feel. Not to mention the fact that I understand that not everything can be neatly tucked away inside tidy little boxes. And I’ve come to accept that I’m one of those things.

And that’s okay. Because there’s a spot for those things, too. It’s just harder to find. But if you try your best, the search rewards you with growth. Besides, I’d rather be looking wishing I had already found it, than stuck wishing I were brave enough to still be looking. And one of these days, I’m certain I’ll find my the perfect spot for me. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, I’m pretty sure I can see it from where I’m currently standing. It’s right over there.

I’m headed that way now.

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The Auto-Bond Society: Encounters in Carpooling

The world of parenting is dotted with countless commitments, responsibilities, and extracurricular activities of our children. You know, soccer practices, swim meets, school functions, and the like. Whenever these events occur regularly and for an extended period of time, mini-societies are spawn. Societies in which the kids are the focal point. Societies in which most parents play but a supporting role, usually that of chauffeur. Societies in which these chauffeurs are bound by the laws of common decency to engage in awkward conversation with the other chauffeurs regardless of how well they know their counterparts. Societies in which a ruling class of adults will govern. Societies in which many interesting dynamics exist.

With the triplets now at preschool two days per week, and with Lovie in charge of getting them there safely, I’ve suddenly become a member of yet another society. Only this one doesn’t require that I bullshit aimlessly with strangers. In fact, my only requirements are to pick kids up and drop them off. That’s right. I’m now a proud member of the Carpool Society. Piece of cake, right?

Wrong. First off, it turns out that being prompt is a big deal. Which shouldn’t present that big of a problem. Unless, of course, the driver thinks school starts at 8:30 when it actually starts at 8:15.

No wonder Lovie wanted me to leave so early.

Luckily, I got Pookie and her friends to school on time, albeit barely. A wave of relief swept over me until the sight of carefully orchestrated, soccer-mom-operated SUVs brought upon another wave. One of anxiety. After all, if this rookie was fumbling with incorrect start times, no telling what else I didn’t know. I had the sinking suspicion that these right-hand-only-turning divas would make mince meet out of me in short order.

As if my peers in this Auto-Bond society weren’t daunting enough, suddenly before me stood the ruling class of adults presiding over the carpool line, their smiling faces belying the steely disposition required to attain such a lofty and authoritative post. My hands trembled, struggling to maintain their grip of my leather-covered steering wheel. My right foot sat like a boulder atop the break pedal, rendering me unable to lift it, and, therefore, unable to coast the few feet that now separated me from the car in front of us.

What was I to do? Pull up and bridge the gap? Or wait until the three cars at the very front rid themselves of their backpack-toting cargo such that I could assume the foremost position of the unloading area, thereby allowing those behind me to fully occupy the yellow lane, thus allowing for maximum unloading? In a moment, my mind locked in on its answer.

Pull up and unload now, it said. Who’s to know how long the cars in front of you will take? Better to keep the unloading process going rather than to get greedy and wait for a maximum unloading opportunity which may not quickly present itself.

Wrong move. Or so one of the kids told me. One is to wait and pull all the way up. Embarrassed, I quickly put my car back in gear to follow protocol, the lead cars having vacated the lane and permitting me access to the very front. But one of the kids had already the door open. Which allowed the sinful sounds of my stereo to pollute the carbon-monoxide-filled air, a no-no, I have since learned. All stereos are to be turned off in the carpool line.

How Footloose-ean.

Surely my peers scoffed at my embarrassing faux pas and would delight in recounting my cumbersome navigation of the carpool society at the water cooler, gym, country club, or wherever their day might take them.

Not to mention the ruling class. The only thing that could have possibly drawn more disapproval from the elite would have been a poorly timed cell call.

I drove out of the parking lot that morning with hampered pride, but also with an unwavering determination. One that will compel me to one day master the intricacies of the carpool line such that I can promptly, safely, responsibly, and efficiently execute my commuting duties, thus pleasing both my peers and superiors.

Incidentally, if any of y’all have the handbook, would you mind emailing me?

Snoop Dogg’s In The Miz-osque

Pookie may not ever win any penmanship awards, but that doesn’t detract from the beauty of her writing. Within the past year or so, she’s taken to leaving her mother and me notes, usually in the kitchen to prohibit us from various sweets she’s classified as hers and hers only. Whenever I run across one of her communiques, I know I’m in for a treat, even if the note’s purpose is to actually deny me one.

Accordingly, I was tickled pink when I found one of her sloppily written doctrines the other night. But my delight quickly disappeared as I read the downward-tilting and crooked verse of her scribblings. It was the lyrics to Katie Perry’s California Gurls — more specifically, Snoop Dogg’s part.

Color me old school, but no little girl should ever write all that ass, hangin’ out. Ever. Speaking of hangin’, y’all hang tight. I gotta puke real quick.

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Dear Random-Ass Lotto Junkies

Dear Random-Ass Lotto Junkies,

Do you have to scratch off your lotto tickets on the convenient store counter? Hmmm? Do you? Because there’s nothing worse than standing ten deep in a line that’s being held up by one of the many in your pathetic legion. Thankfully, most (if not all) establishments no longer tolerate such behavior. I suspect it’s because ownership finally realized that the spasmodic, wrist-vibrating motion you employ to confirm the wasted status of the dollar you just spent strongly resembles rodent masturbation, which, it turns out, is bad for business.

portrait of two junkies

So what did you clowns do? You took your addiction ten feet away, where you may not be holding up any more lines, but where you are still in clear sight of the convenient store patrons thanks to the glass, outer walls which frame such establishments. It’s there where you now conduct your ugly business atop a foul-smelling waste receptacle.

Hast thou no shame, oh shameful ones?

Forget for a moment that the very sight of you is disturbing. Think, instead, of how unfair it would be for other patrons to follow your very lead. Namely that of consuming their product mere seconds after purchase. It’d be anarchy.

How would you like it if college kids busted out a funnel and started throwing down their beers on the store sidewalk?

You don’t see rolling-paper patrons twisting up a quick doobie atop the door-side garbage can, do you?

The folks who walk out with Tide under their arm don’t bust out a quick load of laundry, do they?

I bet you can’t recall a single time that someone made a parking lot sandwich with the lunchmeat and loaf of bread they just bought, can you?

And speaking of loaves, have you ever seen someone walk out of the store and immediately pinch one just so they could use the Charmin they snagged on aisle three?

And do I even need to ask you about all those who’ve purchased condoms or feminine hygiene products? Because it’s glaringly obvious that in each of these cases, folks have the common decency to wait until the appropriate time before using the product they just purchased.

So why can’t you? Hmmm?


John Cave Osborne

The Trail

Each year Lovie is good enough to let me abandon my family and hike a portion of the Appalachian Trail for several days. Some of her friends give me grief about my annual sojourn. They seem to consider it nothing more than a thinly veiled excuse to have a three-day bender in the woods with my buddies. If they only knew.

Hours and hours are spent consulting our trusty maps as well as several guidebooks to carefully analyze topography, mileage, water sources, weather patterns, shelters, and campsites before we even decide upon our itinerary. It takes almost as long to organize our backpacks. The last thing you can afford on the trail is too much weight, which means many of the things I might have wanted to take get left behind. That’s okay, though. You get by better with only the things you need.

My friends and I temporarily trade our complicated but comfortable lives for simple, arduous ones. We hike up and down 5,000-foot inclines, covering up to 20 miles a day, armed with nothing more than 40 pounds of essentials, the clothes we’re wearing, and a desire to lead more meaningful lives.

I can’t speak for my companions, but while I’m in the woods, I feel the entire gamut of emotions—from exhilaration after cresting a two-mile incline, to wonder while witnessing the divine beauty at the top, to relief at beginning a much-needed descent, to despair when staring at yet another uphill stretch, to exaltation when I finally see the campsite I’ve dedicated the previous 11 hours to reach. It’s there I’ll rest and replenish all so I can experience another collage of emotions the very next day.

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Who’s Your Daddy (Blogger)?

Last week, Caleb Gardner wrote an excellent post entitled Dad Bloggers Deserve Respect. If you haven’t read it, I highly recommend you do so, especially if you blog from a fatherly perspective.

In a nutshell, Gardner’s message is as follows: Cyber moms are a force as evidenced by the corporate courting they receive. The rapidly growing community of cyber dads deserves that same treatment, yet fails to receive it thanks to a real-world phenomenon Gardner calls “Being Daddy in a World of Mommies”—the commonly held notion that Daddy is nothing more than Mommy’s goofy and permanent apprentice.

The end result leaves dad bloggers in the awkward position of “fighting for a seat at the parenting table.” According to Gardner, that seat will be earned when “brands…acknowledge that dads have a role to play in the lives of their kids.”

Throughout his post, Gardner’s thread of logic makes alternate stitches—one in the real world, followed by one in the virtual world, as if attempting to sew the two together as one. But in my opinion, they’re not one. They’re related to be sure, but they’re ultimately different and deserve to be treated as such. So let me first address my opinion of Gardner’s take on the real world, namely that dads are viewed as second-class parents.

He’s dead on.

But what he fails to mention is that it’s our own fault. Dads have insisted on taking a parenting backseat to moms since the beginning of time. It’s only just now starting to change. So when Gardner references the “quiet condescension” he senses (presumably from moms) whenever he and his son spend an afternoon together without his wife, I understand what he’s talking about. Yet, if we want to change the perception that our own gender created, shouldn’t we spend more time parenting and less time trying to interpret unstated sentiments from a random cross-section of women?

Hell, I have a hard enough time understanding them when they speak in plain English, let alone when I’m left to extrapolate meaning from the blank looks on their faces. (Incidentally, if anyone can interpret unstated sentiments from a woman, email me immediately. That Lovie is one tough cookie…)

But, seriously, whenever I’m out with Pookie and the trips, I simply assume that anyone who’s paying attention to our dynamic sees me for what I am—an emotionally available, extremely involved, and thoroughly capable parent. And great parents should concern themselves with their children, not with myopic soccer moms armed with misguided notions that smack of reverse sexism. I ignore such simpletons because paying attention to them empowers them, not to mention undermines what I’m trying to do—namely, parent my children to the best of my ability. Besides, if we continually allow ourselves to feel slighted as parents, then we may never get out of the ditch that we put ourselves in.

So what about Gardner’s take on the cyber world, where, thanks to real-world disrespect, we find ourselves “fighting for a seat at the parenting table?” What about Gardner’s hope that corporate brands “acknowledge that dads have a role to play in the lives of their kids,” which would presumably translate to corporations courting us?

I write a parenting blog. Wanna read it? *image compliments of*

Maybe it’s just me, but if earning a seat at the parenting table means receiving free coffee cakes from Sara Lee in exchange for 500 favorable words, then I’m at the wrong establishment. When I joined the ranks of the daddy bloggers by starting my own blog this past November, it was initially to promote my book. But blogging quickly transcended that self-serving motive when I realized the strength of the incredible network of like-minded dads I had tapped into. Gardner’s thought-provoking post, as well as the insightful (and numerous) comments it generated, did nothing but bolster my already high opinion of our community and furthered the pride I feel for being a small part of it.

So I hope I don’t come off as disrespectful when I say that the very last thing I want for that community to become is a testicular version of mommy bloggers. “Testicular version of mommy bloggers.” Talk about an oxymoron—by merely typing those five words, I’m pretty sure I started lactating.

Lactation jokes aside, if the day ever comes when I care more about a year’s supply of non-dairy creamers from the friendly folks at Coffee-mate than I do about sharing my fatherly perspectives, I hope one of you will fly to Knoxville and punch me in the face. While I’m sleeping. I’ll pay for your flight.

It’s not that I have something against mommy bloggers–I don’t. In fact, I read many of them quite frequently. But they’re different from us, fellas. When will we learn that we’re not treated like them because we’re not like them? And, more importantly, when will we be okay with that?

Dad bloggers are a rapidly growing community, and thanks to many great sites like DadWagon, Dab-Blogs, DadLabs, and DadCentric, our voice is being heard. Our time is coming, but before it arrives, we have thousands of years of history to overcome in the real world, and over a decade to overcome in the virtual one. And little by little, we’re doing just that–overcoming history and changing perceptions with our emerging voice.

But we’ll impede that progress if we fall into the trap of parenting and blogging with an inferiority complex caused by a stereotype our own gender created. And we’ll never get anywhere by incessantly comparing ourselves to a demographic which is the complete opposite of ours. So let’s drop the insecure takes on who we aren’t and instead focus confidently on who we are—the new breed of badass dads who are soft enough to drink imaginary tea with a little girl while sitting in the tree-house we were man enough to build.

The respect we seek is coming. But once it arrives, I hope we don’t instantaneously become mom bloggers with facial hair. Because I like who we are. Don’t you?

Props to Caleb Gardner for his fantastic post which really made me think. I tip my cap to you, Caleb, as well as to the rest of you. You can resume being a fantastic fathers now. Godspeed.

Dear Elmo

Back when I liked you.

Dear Elmo,

You suck.

Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t always feel this way. In fact, before I had children — back when I was merely “Uncle John” — I actually liked you. A lot. You were a funny and irresistible little monster. Plus my niece and nephew LOVED you. Remember that holiday season when you were in such high demand? Well, I was one of the lucky ones who actually managed to get his hands on your red ass, chicken suit and all. I’ll never forget what a hit you were that year. The kids played with you for hours. But what I didn’t realize then was that their parents must have hated every single minute of it.

C getting her Elmo on.

No, my furry friend, I wouldn’t learn that lesson for quite some time. But learn it I would, when I finally became a dad. I will admit, though, even after spawning the tiny trio, it took a while for the disdain to set in, likely because the triplets adored you so. It’s hard for me to dislike anything which brings such joy to my children.

But it’s not impossible, my misguided monster. Hearing your little chicken-dance song 5,412 times certainly proved that.

“Elmo wants to be a chicken. Elmo wants to be a duck. Quack, quack, quack, quack.”

Well, which is it, Elmo? Do you wanna be a chicken or do you wanna be a duck? You’re quacking, so I assume you wanna be a duck, yet you’re dressed in a chicken costume, which would indicate a poultry preference. Not to mention the fact that the package you came in? It didn’t read Duck Dance Elmo.  It read CHICKEN Dance Elmo. So why in the duck are you quacking? You’re setting a horrendous example for my kids who could very well be acquiring a sense of entitlement by witnessing such behavior. I can hear it now. “I wanna do this. No, I wanna do that. No, I wanna do this. No, I wanna do that…”

As much as I loathed you in your chicken-dance format, there was a simple solution–hiding you from the light of day. Once I did that, I figured you were behind us. Until long-ass car rides came onto the scene. That’s right. Seven-hour drives to the beach with three fussy toddlers is quite an experience. To keep the peace we tried everything. But only one thing seemed to work. Your Best of Elmo DVD.

Oh the irony, Elmo. Hiding you at home brought me great peace. Yet, on the road, from a monitor behind my head and well outside my field of vision, you still managed to wreak a hell-like havoc on the vacation commutes I haplessly executed. Back in the good old days, three hours on the road meant we were in the middle of Spartanburg. But suddenly, three hours on the road meant that we were in the middle of the SEVENTH showing of your mind-numbing collection of skits.

Do you have to use that high-pitched voice, Elmo? Or rap. Do you have to rap? You’re about as gansta as an imaginary tea party. With princesses. And do you have to rock the third person all the time? Hmm? Because John Cave Osborne doesn’t like that. It bugs him. In fact, it bugs pretty much everyone and everything on this planet.

Telephone, Elmo. It’s Fran Dresher. She wants me to tell you that her laugh thinks you’re annoying.

Speaking of annoying, Elmo, Whoopie Goldberg? REALLY? What, Star Jones all booked up? And how ’bout your deal with Julia Roberts? Just hearing the two of you trying to scare each other is enough to make me wanna throw an apple at the monitor. Don’t worry, though. Should I ever lose control like that, no one would actually get hurt. Any apple thrown anywhere near Julia Roberts would do nothing more than harmlessly lodge itself into the top row of her preposterously large teeth.

Oh, and I think it’s nice that you gave the Unhappy Honker your last drawing, but if you needed at least one to display at the Monster Art Show, why in world did you give it to him?

I smell a dumb dumb.

And then everyone’s supposed to feel all sorry for you and return the dozens of drawings you just spent the better part of thirty minutes handing out as gifts? Again, not a great example. Back to the entitlement deal.

Yes, Elmo, you do suck. But, honestly? I’ve kinda enjoyed disliking you so. The acrimonious fire you’ve set within my soul has kept me warm for nearly eighteen months now. And that’s the real reason why I’m writing you.

Sadly, it seems the fire is going out. You see, A, B, and C no longer wonder where your chicken-dance doll is. They don’t enjoy your DVDs anymore, not even the one where you selfishly insist that every day be Christmas. (You’ve GOT to work on that entitlement thing.)


Sorry, Elmo, but you’re yesterday’s news. In fact, you’ve already been replaced. And wouldn’t you know it–you’ve been replaced by something else that’s red. And what’s more, much like you, your replacement emits high-pitched noises capable of giving me migraines. And truth be told? I’m kinda sad about it. My new foil, though similar to you in color and sound, will be nowhere near as fun for me to hate.

But that doesn’t mean I won’t hate it. Because, rest assured, I will.

And I can also promise you this. That damn thing will NEVER be allowed in the car. EVER.

So long, Elmo.


Move over Elmo, for this God-awful thing.


I’m Not Not Superstitious

“Are you serious?” asked Lovie on a cold December night in 2007.

“Well, kinda,” I admitted.

“You’re blaming it on that?” Her question gave me pause. I knew it sounded ludicrous, but still.

“I don’t know if I’m blaming it on that, but I’m not ‘not blaming’ it on that, either.”

“You’re king of the double negatives, you know that?” Again, pause. She had a point.

“I’m not ‘not king’ of double negatives,” I offered.

The issue? Tennessee’s loss to LSU in the SEC championship game. The cause? My brother-in-law and his wife.

“And what, exactly, did they do, again?” asked Lovie.

“They popped the bubble.”

“You’re a joke,” she said as she stormed out of the room.

Maybe, but that didn’t change one simple thing. Whenever you’re watching a big-time ballgame and things are going well for your team, it behooves you to keep the viewing environment as similar as possible until the conclusion of said game. Any modifications could instantaneously change momentum.

Which is exactly what had happened. UT was battling valiantly against a heavily favored LSU squad–all knotted up at 14 midway through the fourth quarter when my brother-in-law and his wife came over to catch the end of the game. By popping by, they also popped the bubble and I knew it, but I tried to shrug it off. Minutes later, Erik Ainge threw a pick six that gave LSU the deciding score.

I know. You think I’m an idiot. And I’m good with that. But guess what? Over a year later, it happened again. I was watching the Tennessee men’s basketball team trying to win their first SEC tournament championship in over twenty years when, with just seconds left to play, my brother-in-law texted me his optimistic belief that the Vols would, indeed, pull it off. The next instant? Tennessee turned the ball over on an in-bounds play and was forced to foul with just seconds remaining. We lost by three.

For those of you who think I’m hating on my brother-in-law, nothing could be further from the truth. He’s not the sports freak that I am, so it’s not like he knows about the bubble. Plus, I had a part in the debacle, too. Had I simply ignored the poorly timed text, my bubble would have remained in tact, and Tennessee would have won their first SEC tourney since the Carter administration.

Still think I’m crazy? Maybe this’ll help. Early in the 1998 football season, I sensed that Tennessee had the intangibles needed to run the table and win a national championship. I got this notion from a gutty road win against a Donovan Mcnabb-led Syracuse team coupled with an aura given off by an orange Tennessee pen. For the rest of the year, I kept that pen with me at all times, never actually using it, only clicking it neurotically during each and every game. It came to be known as the PNCP—the Potential National Championship Pen.

On a cold and drizzly afternoon in November, I sat in Neyland Stadium, soaked to the bone, and watched despondently as Tennessee’s title hopes seemed to be falling by the wayside. We had been down 21-3 and mounted an impressive comeback, but, barring a miracle, that comeback would fall short. With less than two minutes remaining, Arkansas was up by three and had the ball. The Vols had no timeouts left and were unable to do anything other than watch the Razorbacks run out the clock. I turned to the PNCP.

Click, click, click, click.

Click, click, click, click.

Arkansas quarterback Clint Stoerner rolled out for a naked bootleg, and did something every Vol fan will remember for the rest of his or her life. He stumbled to the ground, fumbling the football in the process. Tennessee recovered the ball and scored the winning touchdown four plays later.


Six weeks after that, the PNCP and I were in Arizona proudly watching Tennessee win the first ever BCS National Championship.

How you like me now, huh? RECONGNIZE, bitches.

I know. You still think I’m an idiot. So does Lovie.

Y’all can say what you want, but I’m not gonna change. If I were gonna, it would have already happened. But it hasn’t. Which means I’ve gone through more lucky hats than you have pairs of shoes.

Thanks, JCO. We'll easily take care of Ole Miss now.

So why am I telling you this? Simple. I had a dream last night that Wayne Chism asked me to write a post about superstition because he thought it would bring the Vols good luck in today’s SEC quarterfinal match-up with Ole Miss. And who am I to turn down big Wayne Chism?

So, if we win today, will it really be because I put up this post? I don’t know that I’d go so far as to attribute the win directly to my blog.

But I’m not gonna not attribute it to my blog, either.

And by the way, if you think this post is unbelievable, it’s NOTHING compared to the Great Vol-Burger Debacle of 2003 which I write about in my book Tales from the Trips.

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