The NFL's Safe Spaces Need to Go

I'm taking some time out of my busy life as a grad student to jump on a new bandwagon. Criticizing safe spaces at universities has been a fun hobby for anyone who is looking for extra things to be angry at, and I've got some anger to spare these days, so I want to criticize them too.

I'm vaguely familiar with safe spaces. I recently played tag with a friend's 5 year old, and I was reminded that when playing tag, you NEED to set up a base where tag doesn't count. 5 year olds are really arbitrary about where and when bases exist, but let me tell you this - she put them everywhere, and playing with her was annoying. Losing at tag to a kid who makes the rules was humiliating. A place where you are "safe" has no place in tag or in life.

Which brings me to the most offensive secret safe-spaces in American culture, and I'm honestly shocked this has not been discussed more.

The NFL is absolutely chock full of safe spaces, and it is downright un-American.

The other team's end zone is an absurd place to have a safe-space, but there it is.  Defenders are allowed to clobber whoever is holding the ball until that slippery eel touches the safe zone and is totally off limits.

Take a look at this pansy taking advantage of a safe space. 

At the very least, defenders are allowed to try to stop the other team from getting into the end zone. What's worse are the sidelines. It only looks like football is an anything-goes sort of game, but it's not. Sissy safe-spaces pervade. In fact, most of the world is an unfair safe space - as soon as a player steps 'out of bounds,' he can't be hit, which frustrates defenders to no end. Imagine trying to slam someone's face into.the grass only to find out you can't touch him because he's in a giant safe space with all of his friends standing in a line sticking their tongues out at you.

No wonder Rex Ryan tries to stay on the sidelines

Compare that to a real sport like professional wrestling, where once you knock your opponent out of the ring, you do whatever it takes to finish him because that's how life works. Don't like it? Tough. Eat a steel ladder.

Real men have no use for boundaries

Football isn't immune to the politically correct trend, either. Some players are somehow "different" and hitting them is a foul. Touch a kicker the wrong way and a defender gets flagged, even when the kicker is in the middle of the playing field.

Quit acting like the rules should be different for the vulnerable among us  

These rules insisting that kickers, exposed receivers, or throwing quarterbacks somehow deserve different treatment destroys the integrity of the game. The nerve of Cam Newton appealing to referees because defenders aren't respecting his safe space on the field! 

Don't think of it as brain damage, think of it as a quaterback's rite of passage

I firmly believe that everyone should have a place where they make the rules and feel like they are in control.  For me, like many American males, that is my home. I should not feel like anyone else is imposing their arbitrary and oppressive power structures when I just want to relax and not deal with other people making me feel crappy. My safe space is the football season, so please get your safe spaces out of it.

ed. note - the opinions above do not represent the actual opinions of the author. He is simply grumpy about recent events and decided sarcasm was an ok coping mechanism. 

Dangerous Conversation Enders

Now is a dangerous time to have conversations with me if you're easily offended. I'm not sure why, but for some reason, there are a few lines that I've been hankering to use for a while, and I'm waiting for the opportune time to put some of these conversation killing zingers to good use. For better or worse (probably for better), situations in which I would be confident bringing out these  gems don't come along too often, but I want to be ready when they do. So, I've been daydreaming scenarios in which I would get say these things:

1) Put this in your pipe and smoke it!

When I say it: You have handed me a request for an unusually large amount of paperwork, all of which is unnecessary. I complete the paperwork by hand, pass it through a paper shredder, and give it to you in a bag. I tell you, "Put this in your pipe and smoke it!," and walk away.

When you should not be offended: I have inadvertently stumbled across fine, pipe-quality tobacco. Not being a pipe smoker, I offer some to you (of course you smoke a pipe!).

Why: Something about saying this is satisfying. It doesn't necessarily make sense, but I enjoy the imagery it conveys. I also like how the emphasis on "this" gives me a good chance to vent my anger, channelling it through a word. I'd probably make some sort of emphatic gesture at that point, too.

2) Go milk a duck.

When I say it: You ask me to do some futile, difficult task while you sit down, and perhaps sip a mojito. I tell you, "Aaaah, go milk a duck." I walk away.

When you should not be offended: I have become an eccentric goat farmer. All of my goats are named after other animals. You ask if there is anything you can do to help, so I tell you, "Go milk A. Duck." While you are milking "A. Duck," (the A. is short for Arnold), I am milking "D. Tortoise" (Dylan), "T. Shark" (Theodore) and "J. Badger" (Jean-Paul). Being the head goat farmer, I milk many more than you can in the same amount of time. Don't worry, you'll learn soon enough.

Why: This one is all about the imagery. I like how it almost makes sense. Why a duck? It must be hard to catch one. Where would you start trying to milk it? It leaves the target puzzled and hurt while I walk off, smug and self-satisfied with my delivery.

3) Put a sock in it, buddy!

When I say it: Honestly, this one is pretty generic. Perhaps I'm fed up with the conversation because I don't like hearing why your sports team is better than mine. Or maybe I don't want to hear about how talented your cat is. Perhaps you offended me by insulting my Jerry Garcia tie. I don't know, I don't particularly care. Put a sock in it, buddy.

When you should not be offended: You have a hole in your pocket, but also have a surplus of change. You ask me for some advice about how to line your pocket so that you can carry your change. "Put a sock in it, buddy!," I offer, helpfully. Maybe I even provide an unmatched sock I have lying around my room.

Why: This one sounds nice to me. Every word is short and sharp, except for that last one. "Buddy." It's so sarcastic and patronising. It's got the right sound to be a strong order, and the proper, authoritative delivery will leave a target speechless. How can you reply when you're busy stuffing your mouth with a sock?

4) How 'bout them apples!

When I say it: We have been arguing for the past hour. You are clearly wrong, but refuse to see things my way (the proper way). My aide drops off a folder of papers that definitively prove you are wrong. I look them over for 30 seconds, ignoring you and the noises coming out of your mouth. I laugh to myself, and throw the folder in front of you. Some of the papers tumble out, but in a neat, orderly fashion so that you can see the evidence. "How 'bout them apples," I scoff.

When not to be offended: We are picking apples in an orchard. It is a beautiful autumn day. Although we have had much success up to this point, we reach lane of trees we have not seen yet. We both gasp. In unison, we turn to each other and exclaim, "How 'bout them apples!" Awestruck by the beauty of the apples, we have clearly forgotten the difference between the nominative and accusative demonstrative adjectives.

Why: This one is so simple - it begs the target to look at how obviously right I am. It starts off hesitantly, almost like a question, but by the time it's over, you know I've got the winning hand and that I've been taking the high road the whole time. I think the delivery is best done casually, not too rushed, not too slow. Then, I revel in watching the target's response play out as he (or she!) realises who has the power in the situation.

5) Blow it out yer cornhole!

When I say it: I have no interest in ever talking to you, seeing you, or hearing of you ever again. I interrupt you mid-sentence to tell you to "Blow it out yer cornhole." We never speak again.

When not to be offended: No. I mean this one. This is always offensive.

Why: Everything about this phrase is perfect. It's got the right combination of sounds and imagery to be versatile in multiple situations and offensive. "Blow it out yer cornhole." Try saying it and not feeling good about yourself. The crisp "bl" at the start followed by three words in the middle that roll together, leading into the hard "C" at the end just make this one satisfying to say at any volume. I also love how versatile it is. Cornhole is just ambiguous enough to defy abstraction - what would a cornhole look like, if it's not what you know I'm referring to? Probably a lot like what I'm referring to. The "it" can refer to anything. I'll use this one anytime. So, yeah. Blow it out yer cornhole.

As a sidenote, a lot of these go really well with some sort of audience participation. In my mind, immediately after I let one of these phrases loose, a crowd of onlookers circles in, and throw in a rising "Ooooooooooooo" before repeating what I said. So just saying, if you see me deliver one of these, feel free to taunt my target. It would really add to the effect, and I'd be sure to remember it in the future if you ever need something.

Kansas, My As! Or, KISS MY kansAS)

Those of you who have spoken to me recently may have heard that I just got back from a cross (most of the) country trip. It was a great time; I got to spend quality time with a bunch of friends, met some great people and all in all got to pretend that I was an adventurer (which is easier for me when I'm travelling than when the greatest danger I face is that I might go hungry because my natural indecisiveness makes it impossible for me to decide where I want to get food). At the end of the trip, I had a new respect for America, a few new friends, several favors owed and peace of mind. That's not to say the whole trip was wonderful; there were about seven hours of misery that coincided with when my friend and I drove through Kansas.

I don't want to sound like a hater. Honestly, I came into the trip with high expectations for Kansas. The first presentiment I had that it could be less than I had hoped came in Missouri. We were camping in a National Forest and met two Missourians (more on them later, perhaps). As we explained our plans for the next day, one of them interrupted, "Oh, man, you're going through Kansas? That sucks, I only drive through Kansas during night because I don't have to look at it. I feel sorry for whoever's driving that stretch." The next fifteen minutes of the conversation consisted of them explaining the many reasons they hated going through Kansas.

Still, the next day we drove off and after an intimidating storm that forced us to pull over (conveniently near a Waffle House*, I might add), left Missouri. Then we entered Kansas. The first 30 miles were actually beautiful: rolling green hills, pastures, horsies, you know, the usual. Then we passed one turn, at which point almost everything green dropped behind us and slowly disappeared through the rear window as I clawed at the seat and asked desperately to turn around, to no avail. We continued into Kansas, and for the next seven hours, almost everything was the same grey, dusty scenery.
*Actually, a disappointment. Turns out they used aluminum and wood, like most other diners I've seen.

The most exciting portion of Kansas (see? There's a train!)

The strange thing was that it changed as soon as we crossed the border into Colorado. It wasn't a mental thing; it was actually prettier. It was as if whoever made the border decided to bound in a lot of ugly into one state and just get it over with (no offense to any beautiful Kansas folks out there!*)
*Ha.


That being said, I came out of the trip with a new understanding of two things. First, I realized that when Dorothy turns to Toto and says, "Something tells me we're not in Kansas anymore," she's issuing a sigh of relief. I wonder what it was that told her; probably a tree, a lake, a river, or anything remotely beautiful. Secondly, I understood the joke one of the Missourians told us at the campsite, which I will recount for you.

The night before Little Bighorn, General Custer sent out a scout to assess the situation. When the scout returned, he told Custer that he had good news and bad news, and asked the general which he'd like to here first.
"I'll take the bad news first," the General said.
"Sir, I've looked around, and we're not going to make out of here alive," the scout told him dismally.
"Ok," the stoic General replied. "Now what's the good news?"
"Well, Sir," the scout said, brightening up, "we're not going to have to march back across Kansas again!"

I made it out alive, but only thanks to a cheap one-way flight. Thank God.

So, I'm back now, and everything's going well. There are more stories that may get posted as time goes on, but I've also started working, so who knows what quality or length will follow from here on out. Hope that everything is going well with you!

Mentioning the Unmentionable

"Players gonna play, haters gonna hate, complainers gonna complain," as Benjamin Franklin was famously quoted as saying. I've been complaining and hating a lot, recently.

Complaining: Mostly, I've been complaining about my thesis. As it turns out, my thesis is similar to a Hydra; every time I chop off one head, two more grow in its place. I don't know how to complete the metaphor, because I don't think I've even come close to chopping off one of my thesis' heads, but you get the idea; it's a never-ending string of work*. And, despite a streak of optimism in my spirit that urges me to accept candy hidden in the trunks of stranger's cars, I've been feeling pretty down about my thesis recently. As you can expect, I've also been complaining about it. That's where the complaining has been coming from.

*Also, like a hydra, the only way to kill it is to burn down the entire department.

Hating: What I hate is that when I complain about my thesis, I always get the wrong response. It's never, "Oh, man. That sucks. I can help, though. Here's a forty page, previously unpublished bunch of research I've compiled." It's always "Yeah? What's your thesis about?"
Really? Didn't I just mention the fact that I hate my thesis? Since when did me mentioning the fact that I hate something become a good segway into talking about that thing in any detail? Imagine telling someone that your ex is a total bitch who would sell herself but she can't because some STI made all her teeth fall out so no one wants to look at her, and hearing the response, "Yeah? What's she like? Did you two have the same taste in music?" That's how I feel when people ask me what my thesis is about. So yeah, I've been hating on those conversations a lot.

Anyway. Hope everything is peachy with all three of the people who read these posts!