I play soccer.  In fact, I like to think that I play soccer well … or well compared to the other fat, hobbled old men still holding onto the last vestige of their youth.  This was not always the case you know.  I got started playing at a later age than most, combined with the fact that I’m short, slow, and white … the deck was stacked against me.  I can remember my high school coach, a Brit named Mr. Fieldson, once told me that I’d be an exceptional player if I had athletic ability, talent, and composure.

Damn Limeys.

Regardless, soccer, like all sports, has its unique and specific crop of sports injuries that are more common than others.  For instance, you don’t get tennis elbow from playing shuffleboard.  Boxing – brain damage.  Golf – back & knee problems.  Basketball – ankle & back.  Baseball – steroidal shrunken testicles.

With soccer, the tendency is bad knees and broken feet.  Of course, you get your standard soft tissue injuries, such as ligament tears, muscle strains, Colombian sub-machine guns, etc.  I’ve made sure that my knee problems have been well chronicled.  I fear that even referencing them again permanently lowers my PJWS a full tier (Personal John Wayne Score).  Needless to say – broken bones, blood gushers, all the good stuff.

But my latest affliction is perhaps the worst that I’ve had to suffer …

I’ve got one black toenail. [Read Column]

At some point I knew that my family was different.

It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment in the mind of a child when he realizes his life isn’t the same as everyone else.  In a lot of ways, we seemed exactly like every family on the block.  One father, one mother, and four children.  Sure we struggled on our bills, but that wasn’t so unusual, particularly in Uncle Sam’s army, was it?  Sure enough though, things were different. [Read Column]

Russia.  The Motherland.  Kingdom of the Tsars.  The Rodina.  The former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Crazyland.

It’s 2009.  It’s a whole new world.  The era of Obama.  Or at least it was the Obama-Time 100 days ago … maybe not so much anymore.  In this new world, we have a new Russia.  Or so we’d like to think.  Truth is old KGB Vlad Putin is little more than a Nikita Khruschev with a $16 haircut.  I wrote about this regression back to Commie fun-times a few months ago (Just Like Old Times).

Regardless, Russia is pretending to be apart of the new commercialized, omni-international global economy.  Part of this participation is the exporting of commodities.  For example, Japan sends out robotics, electronics, and bad porn.  Germany sends out cars, watches, and sick porn.  Afghanistan sends out carpets, sweaters, and opium.

And make no bones about it, Russia has its lovely list of exports, but not just normal exports like other countries.  No, Russia has to do it in its own way – stark, raving, shit-bird crazy.  It wouldn’t be Russian if it weren’t scratch your head, kick you in the nuts different.

So comrades, I present the Top 10 Exports of the Rodina. [Read Column]

Genes are an important factor in determining life success, let’s face it.  Tall people get more promotions.  Hot chicks suffer no accountability for rudeness.  Asians are intuitively better at math.  Hot chicks are not required to learn.  The list goes on and on.  On the genetic checklist, unfortunately my horde of bragging rights is decidedly slim.  I’m short, slow, buck-toothed, moley, poorly endowed, and average in every other category.  I’m the left-over, dried-out Play-doh from 3rd grade playtime formed into a sarcastic, bitter jerkweed.

The one thing that Little, Baby Jesus blessed me with upon my birth is my stomach.  I have the intestinal fortitude of a billy goat. I can eat anything, free from repercussions. But with every superpower there is kryptonite. [Read Column]

I’ve been thinking introspectively lately, doing some self-evaluation.  Much like Siggie Freud, I too like to psycho-analyze.  Coupled with my knowledge of Dr. Phil and Oprah, I feel only partially equipped to make a realistic conclusion on my personality.  Let me explain – I’ve compiled a list of things that I worry may make me a bad person or, at the very worst, a sociopath.  Maybe I’m being a tad neurotic … or maybe I’m not worried enough.

I know that a lot of people have quirks and foibles, but do the following things make me a dick? [Read Column]