Diet Crazes (Crazies)

I'm just SO sick and tired of being barraged with the latest "new" way to: lose weight/get rock-hard abs/get rid of the 40 lbs of undigested meat you've been carrying in your intestines for decades. Every week there's a "new" way to get the body you want, when it's really pretty simple: stop eating crap.

Breaking News: A new berry, found in the excrement of the red-butted baboon, is thought to have spectacular weight-loss properties that may benefit humans. "We're very excited about this", said local scientist Pierre Ahmafraud (and by scientist we mean someone wearing a white lab coat). "We noticed right away that this particular berry (named the Gottasquat berry) seemed to be found only in the largest piles of baboon feces. I don't think it's

too much of a scientific leap to theorize that because it accompanies large poops - and I'm trying to use laymen's terms here - it goes without saying, even though I'm saying it, that the berry is likely a super cleanser. We think this will be of tremendous help to millions of obese Americans, particularly those fond of consuming berries extracted from primate fecal matter." Several companies are vying for rights to the berries, although production and marketing may be tricky. "Production initially seemed like the biggest hurdle; the berries in their natural state are indigestible by humans. It's the digestive process of the baboons that makes them viable for use in humans. It would be very expensive to sit around waiting for the baboons to eliminate and then have an employee sort through the feces. They just don't eat enough to produce the volume required to fit the need." Scientists believe they have it figured out, however. "We're planning on feeding the baboons a diet of cheeseburgers, fries, soda and 1,00 calorie coffees - you know, basically the average American diet - and slip the berries into the cheeseburger. We're also adding Ex-Lax in a dose 10-20 times the recommended dosage to everything in the diet to increase the frequency of the bowel movements." When asked if they didn't expect the baboons to reject cheeseburgers with berries hidden in them, the scientists responded, "They've been selling cheeseburgers by the BILLIONS to Americans that contain less than 40% meat and NO ONE questions what the other 60% is made up of - why would you think the baboons would notice?" The marketing departments are already abuzz with coming up with new product names. One that was leaked by an anonymous marketing person was: "Babpoop". Filling the position of "feces-sorter" is also expected to be problematic, even in this economy.

Breaking News: HIIT (High Intensity Interval Training) being upstaged by HIIT (High Intensity Injury Trauma). A new study, released by the Richard Simmons Institute for Aerobics and Short Shorts, revealed that the new fitness craze, HIIT, while initially quickly producing remarkable results, tends to see a plateauing after the first few weeks. Orthopedic doctors quickly identified the cause for the "plateau" as a result of actually having to cease exercising due to the unusually high rate of ligament, muscle and tendon tears, broken bones, internal hemorrhaging and

in one case, a dislocated chest (the first ever known in medical history), injuries commonly associated with the new fitness craze. For those unfamiliar with HIIT, it typically involves overturning truck tires (while still attached to the trucks for the more advanced), working out with ropes (ropes usually used to moor battleships), and less typically, rhino-tipping. However, HIIT zealots brush off that theory and claim their participants aren't doing enough, and most people don't have a high enough pain threshold to "get really ripped, bro". "We blame the participants", states Crosspit owner/trainer and "Pain Should Just be Ignored" author Kirk Lattissimus. "These wussies start slacking at the first sign of pain. Pain's just your body's way of telling you that you're doing the right thing. That's the signal that they need to step it up and work through the pain to reach that next level of fitness. That's why our motto is, "If it ain't tearin', that swimsuit you won't be wearin'!" When asked what he thought of the medical community's outrage over his suggestion that people exercise past the point of tearing connective tissue, Kirk's response was, "When's the last time you met a medical professional who could bench 400 lbs.? Think they're really qualified to make those kind of judgements?" When asked if he felt responsible for possibly encouraging people to push themselves to a point where they may get a permanent, debilitating injury, Kirk replied, "I don't answer questions from dweebs who don't do Burpees, bro. Drop and give me 20."

Breaking News: New Cleanse Diet reportedly also eliminates several organs, boosting weight loss gains.  A new cleanse diet sweeping the nation, claiming to clean out years of undigested meat and jello shots and thus help you immediately drop weight and inches, seems to be causing an

added "benefit": losing unwanted/unneeded organs. Based on several patients's reports (after admission to local emergency rooms) of large, "organ-like" feces found in their toilets nanoseconds after drinking the wildly popular "Lavender Rooter", it was noted upon ultrasound analysis that many had lost not only all undigested food stuffs in their intestines, but also part of those intestines, kidneys, gall bladders, appendixes, pancreases, ovaries and in one case, a testicle. Medical professionals are sounding the alarm on the dangers of this new "cleanser", but the users are less concerned. One patient stated, "I haven't been able to fit into a size 12 in YEARS! I still have one kidney, so what's the big deal? Being able to see my toes again, while still being able to shovel anything I want into my mouth is TOTALLY worth it!" Another patient, who asked to remain anonymous, begged to differ. "I miss my testicle. It's like I've lost one of two close friends." That patient's wife was unavailable for comment as she had to be resuscitated after passing out from a sudden laughing fit.

Seriously, if you want to lose weight, it's pretty simple. But it's not easy, and therein lies the rub; we want the easy/quick fix that requires the least amount of energy and/or willpower. And we're willing to pay for special food, drinks, cleanses, wraps, exercise devices, pills, surgeries, etc. to achieve it. But you only need four things:

1. A little knowledge - knowing what foods are good/bad (hint: if it's processed and will not decompose for 10 years, it's probably "bad"), what kind of calories you're consuming, and a clear realization of what a "serving size" is.
2. A little math - this is the easy part: burning more calories than you consume = losing weight. So either eat less, exercise more, or, ideally, do both at the same time.
3. A way to track what you're eating/burning - tons of apps/devices out there that will help you with this, but you have to be honest and diligent. The one I use is a free app called MyFitnessPal, and it is simple to use and works and syncs on all platforms (smartphones, PC's and tablets). I highly recommend it.
4. A little willpower - this is by far the hardest part. But if it's important to you, you'll do it. But don't fall into the trap of losing weight/inches "for" an event/season/etc.. Don't diet - change your lifestyle, and you'll find it's far easier to maintain your weight than constantly re-losing it. Peace.
   

What Kind of Cleaning Fluid Are You? I'm Benzene.

Can we just please all agree to stop with the Facebook quizzes? The first couple were entertaining, but I believe the "jumping the shark" level has been breached. No one cares which Dwarf you are, what kind of toe fungus you are, what kind of spice (unless you're a former Spice Girl, and then...do tell, girlfriend!!) you are, etc.. Move on, it's over, time for a new Facebook activity to eventually annoy the 99% of us that don't give damn about any of these quizzes or other activities (game-players, I'm talking to you). If I know you personally, I already know which member of the Brady Bunch you are. If I don't know you personally, I don't want to know. I mean, c'mon, does anyone really WANT to be Marsha Brady? And who would post that? I'm pretty sure whoever gets Gandalf (and why does spell-check want to turn Gandalf into "Ugandan"?) in the "What LOTR Character Are You?" quiz proudly displays their wizard class - but does anyone really post that they're Gollum? I think not.

Then there's the passive-aggressive behavior on the internet. It's like the "share if you love your son/daughter/dominatrix/etc." meme posts, with the directive to post if you also love your (insert noun here) - suggesting that those who don't share don't love their (insert noun here). Seriously - when you post those kinds of memes, it makes me wonder if the opposite is true. Not to mention the religious ones, don't even get me started on those. An omnipotent deity (note: NOT Zuckerberg) has a Facebook page (which means they also have an email address - yeah, let that one sink in for a minute) - I don't think so.

Same goes for the offline world (yes, there is one) as in bumper stickers, like: "I brake for animals". So you infer that the rest of us that don't publicly proclaim the willingness to cause a rear-end collision to save a possum are actively seeking to run them down? And I fully recognize that there are people out there who do, but I hope they're in the minority (and likely also members of Congress). It's like the "Baby on Board" placards, designed initially with the intent to alert other drivers to drive more carefully, because let's face it, except for possibly the people also trying to run down animals, NO ONE wants to injure a baby. But that's not the effect those signs have, if you're one of the people still sporting them - people will drive the same unfocused, distracted, dangerous manner that they always did - what it did was make us very wary of YOU and get as far away from you as possible. The hard truth is, if you have a newborn and/or very young child, we can assume a few things about you:

1. You haven't slept. Since your child was born. You can no longer discern any difference between the physical and dream world, since the dream world is reserved for people who actually sleep. You've basically become a zombie, replacing the flesh-eating part with a diaper-changing role. Which is a perfect segue to:
2. The odor of mustard-colored baby poop has lodged itself permanently in your nose (we can tell by the look on your face). THAT alone would make anyone irritable. AND suicidal.
3. You've lost the ability to speak conversationally with adults. Sometimes it's subtle, like slipping in words like "potty" or "sippy cup". Other times it's worse; you'll be at a business lunch and unconsciously wipe a little smudge of salad dressing from the corner of your client's mouth or wet your fingers with your saliva and try to tame that cowlick. Yeah - stop doing that. It creeps us out.
4. You've heard "The Wheels in the Bus Go Round and Round" so many times that even when it's no longer playing, you hear it. The thought of driving at high speed into a bridge abutment to make it stop occurs to you every 15 or 20 seconds. Your fellow drivers find this worrisome.

So back to the original point of this post before I went all tangential on you: please let's all agree to stop with the Facebook quizzes. Otherwise you leave me no option other than to block you. Especially if you're Marsha Brady. Or Gollum. And while we're at it, stop with the game requests. For those, I won't just block you, I'll go all Liam Neesom on you - hunt you, find you, etc. I have a very select set of skills. Peace.

Yoga - The Final Frontier

So, we're doing yoga. I've done it before, when I was much younger, and really enjoyed it. But now I'm 55 and have the flexibility of your average house cat. If your house cat was dead. In rigor mortis. And frozen. You get the idea. I also had far fewer major injuries back then, although, to be honest, I'd have to go to my pre-5 year-old days to have NO major injuries. Such is life. So what does a 55 year-old with reconstructions of both shoulders, both knees, multiple dislocations and a giant chuck of titanium in one leg where the bone used to be practice? Why, something that requires you to put your limbs and joints into positions not normally found outside of Guantanamo Bay "enhanced interrogation" rooms. Perfect.

Our teacher, an incredibly lithe young woman (who apparently has been born without bones,

ligaments, tendons - basically anything that would prevent a human person from tying themselves into a knot), starts our session, which is in a dimly lit room that contains a full-wall mirror, which thankfully, I cannot see myself in due to the dimness of the lighting coupled with my poor vision. I shall soon learn to view my inability to see myself as a small gift and can only wish the same for my fellow practitioners.

"Lay down in 'Shinvinyatoyotamazdadu' position" (which apparently means lay on your back with your eyes closed), "and breathe deeply." This I can do, except I call it 'sleeping', and I'm not usually on a thin mat on a wooden floor surrounded by so many people, but, whatever. I begin to think, 'okay, this isn't too bad at all'... and then the class actually starts. "Now I want you to bring your right knee up to your chest and slip the strap around the arch of your right foot." I have a sudden memory of a cheap hotel room and a snickering locksmith removing handcuffs, but I shrug that off and center myself. "Now straighten your right leg and pull on the straps, bringing your foot towards your head while keeping your leg straight, spread your toes and point with the ball of your foot - you should feel a slight pull in the back of your thigh." And by "slight pull" she apparently means someone pouring lighter fluid on your hamstring and setting it afire. "Now, allow your foot to slowly drop to the right side and then begin to pull it as high up as you can towards your head." I'm seeing a pattern here - why does she want my foot near my head - I certainly don't want my foot anywhere NEAR my nose! "Just remember, the goal is to eventually be able to do this move while standing." Riiiight. The involuntary guffaw escapes me before I can restrain it, but I cover it by ending it in "ooohhhmmmmmm". Really? I'm supposed to do this while standing; I'm still mastering drinking while standing. But, I'm a positive guy, so I'm sure, that with many years of practice, I may be able to do this. Once. Let's save time and have the ambulance squad already there when I attempt it, shall we? Better yet, maybe I should just attempt this right in the hospital ER and cut out the middlemen.

Later on, we get to a more complicated move, possibly named 'Vishrasuburulinguinewasha', but at this point I've experienced so many head-rushes that my instructor looks like a 6-armed emu/elephant, so I'm pretty sure I misunderstood what it's called and in fact thought she sneezed. Anyway, this pose consists of performing a number of things simultaneously, yoga multi-tasking, if you will, which explains why I'm the only male in the class. Although I AM pulling off the yoga pants really well, or at least MUCH better than some who don't understand that even lycra has a stretching limit. Back to the pose: I'm supposed to adopt a wide, straight-leg stance, with my left foot pointed forward and my right foot pointed outward, making sure the heel and ball of my right foot are aligned with the arch in my left foot, keeping my spine straight by extending my tailbone towards the floor (whatever the hell THAT means), and keeping my torso "squared". I believe the police should adopt this part for their roadside sobriety tests - they could fund their entire annual budget within a month. "While taking a deep inhalation, pull your lower abdomen in towards your spine, grip the floor with your toes while simultaneously pulling inner left foot and right heel towards one another to "root" yourself to the mat." Sounds complicated, but, triumphantly, I do it, and my brief moment of joyous accomplishment is shattered upon learning that we have not yet even done "the move"; we have merely gotten into the starting position. Clearly this deception is why firearms are banned from yoga studios. This is called "warrior pose", which I mentally decide should be called "dead warrior pose", since it is painfully apparent that I am completely open to attack from many, many angles. But I digress.

From our starting position, we are now told to "bend your right knee to a 90 degree angle while inhaling" - wait, when was I supposed to have exhaled? - "and reach with your left hand and grasp your shin, your ankle, or your foot. Now rotate your left hand towards the ceiling while turning your torso and look up to the ceiling, pulling in your abdomen to your spine" - this is called 'charging the core' which I have also mentally renamed 'trying not to fart', since that burrito I ate before class clearly has plans on revealing itself, and soon, probably violently - "and hold that position for 5 breaths." I'm also pretty sure that at some point in the class I was supposed to exhale earlier, but I think I passed out before breath #2. At least that's what the EMT's told me, while fanning away the ghost of my burrito.

Namaste.

Big Lot Stores

I like big lot stores. Mostly I like the ability to get my shopping done while having new tires put on my car, getting my oil changed and a lube job, getting new eyeglasses, and coming soon, having a colonoscopy performed. Hopefully they use a different lube than the automotive service area. I'm also a fan of being able to buy an entire year's supply of toilet tissue in a single visit.

Of course, there's some things I don't like about big lot stores. And by "some things', I mean: people.

I know we're all raised differently; but I'd like to think there are basic tenets of parenting that are universal: be considerate of others, be kind, it's not all about you, etc. That's the way I was raised. I don't recall my parents following that with, "Unless, of course, you're in a big lot store - then you can be a totally rude moron." Obviously, big lot stores did not exist for my parents; I remember mom driving to 3 or 4 different grocery stores. Not because she couldn't purchase everything in one store; she did so because the milk in the other store was $0.01 cheaper than the other store. None us had the heart to tell her that because our family's vehicle got the same gas mileage as a Sherman tank (probably because it weighed as much), that she ate up that savings just by starting the car.

One might assume that, given that one had to park far enough from the entrance that one is in an entirely

different zip code, that the store may be a wee bit crowded. Surely upon entering said store, one must realize that, apparently, the entire population of Asia has decided to go shopping at the exact same time as one has. And by now, I hope that you are as tired of reading "one" and I am of typing it.

One of my favorites are the people who go around lunch or dinner time, often both, on both days of the weekend, with the goal of feeding their entire extended family from the sampler trays; blocking aisles is, naturally, optional, but rarely passed on. Giving YOU a dirty look because you had the temerity to ask them to move their cart so you can proceed down the aisle, appears, however, mandatory. These attempts to provide daily nourishment for your family is exactly why stores like BJ's and Costco close on Thanksgiving; they're not stupid.

You may run into them later (quite possibly days later), at the checkout lines, where they realize that they are in a cash-only aisle, and convince one of the managers to make a special case for them since they've already scanned their 2,000+ items. Or the math-challenged shoppers who are ahead of you at the express lane, which CLEARLY says "8 items or less"with their 32 items, and then appear confused as to what that means: "Oh, I thought multiples of 8 were also okay".

It's not all bad, though. Even if I don't need to pick up any on that particular visit, I will cruise the feminine hygiene products aisle, simply to amuse myself by watching the dazed husbands trying to locate the exact product for their womenfolk from a selection that spans an entire aisle, from the floor to the 30-foot ceiling. I believe there may actually be less species of insects on the planet than there are choices from this aisle. I try, from their appearance, to determine what phase they are in. Usually it begins with shock - a widening of the eyes, a slowly turning head as they take in the enormity of the task of selection ahead of them, knowing they will ultimately fail to purchase the correct one, resulting in their being sent back into this horror show, in a big lot store version of Groundhog Day. Some are in frustration phase, muttering curses under their breath, punctuated by words such as, "super", "maxi", "flexi-wings", "odor control". Then there's the defeated stage, where they have utterly given up - they look as if they have aged 5 years in the half-hour they just spent, and are now, finally, degraded to asking a passing female for help (because the odds of finding an employee to help you are equal to you finding your desired product). And none of them, ever, will make eye contact with another male in that aisle. Ever. I do feel bad for them, and sometimes, but not always, will tell them my trick: take a pic on your cell phone and just match the packaging. This works like a charm, until, of course, they change the packaging, and then I am also shuffling about muttering words like, "super-absorbent", while drooling and trying to force my eyes to focus..

You'll have to excuse me now, since I have things to do, people to see. Colonscopy/lube jobs to schedule. Lubricants to choose. Peace.

Groin Tackle

On December 2, 2013, tight end Vernon Davis of the San Francisco 49ers was tackled by St. Louis Ram safety T. J. McDonald. BY THE GROIN. Watching an NFL player get tackled in his most sensitive area (surprisingly, not his bank account), as unpleasant as it was to watch, had to pale in comparison to actually having another player tackle you by grabbing your groin and dragging you down. Sure, this is perfectly acceptable in the dentist's office, where you reach over and grab the dentist and say, "We're not going to hurt each other, are we?", but on the football field? C'mon, man. That kind of behavior has no place in a civilized sport, where, until recently, it was perfectly acceptable to charge full speed with your head down and spear another player in their head, spleen or spine with your helmet. I mean, we're not animals, are we?

There should be a penalty for this, and it should be devastating: like making the offender watch 16 straight hours of C-SPAN. Or perhaps rooming with Dennis Rodman for a week (here or in North Korea, I don't think it really matters). Or appearing in a Miley Cyrus video. Listen, we're okay with brain damage, lacerated internal organs, spinal cord injuries, etc., but you have to draw the line somewhere, and I think it should be drawn directly around the groinage area.

Lest you think this is purely a football thing, let me assure you, it is not. It happens in other sports as well, albeit with less frequency as the opportunities to grope each other are pretty high in football. I assure you this happens in basketball all the time, having played the game myself and thus been the gropee, and it probably happens in Hockey, Rugby and maybe even Curling (although the cold weather makes this more difficult). They don't do this in Baseball since they're already grabbing themselves incessantly, in a manner not at all unlike monkeys grooming themselves. Hockey fights are the most advantageous time for gropage to occur, when the gloves come off, since trying to grab someone in their nether region with those gloves on is like trying to eat soup with chopsticks. In Rugby, scrums are likely the best time to grope, but I think the technical term in that sport is "asking for a date".

I believe the NFL should create a penalty for this, and I'm thinking an eye for an eye - the offending player should also be hit big time in a very sensitive area. And this time I AM talking about their bank account. And wouldn't you love to hear the ref announce a "groinage infraction"? You know you would. Peace.

Space Invaders

No, not the old video arcade game where you could zap the invaders with your laser cannon.

I'm talking about those people that seem to have to be right up in your face to talk to you. I mean, literally, IN YOUR FACE. Which, in itself, is bad enough, but when their breath smells like what two warthogs in heat smells like (don't ask why I know two warthogs in heat smell like - I've been advised by legal counsel not to explain), it transcends discomfort and winds up triggering your flight or fight response. Much like you'd experience if you encountered a dangerous animal. Or a United States Congressman. Pick flight, since fight only brings you in even closer contact with them.

Who ARE these people? You know almost immediately when you've encountered one - a conversation starts with a reasonable, respectable buffer zone between you, then they start slowly, inexorably advancing on you, like a zombie (who hasn't lost their ability to speak, sadly). You back up a step, then they close the gap by two steps, like the round boulder from Indiana Jones' Raiders of the Lost Ark. Or the perfume/cologne snipers in your larger department stores - and why is it illegal to punch those little scent assassins? I just don't understand our justice system. But, I digress. Back to the face-talkers.

Why does it always seem that these face-talkers are always taller than you? So that you can count the cavities in their upper teeth before passing out (see warthog reference, above)? Or is it that you can now admire their luxuriant nose hair up close, which is often so out of control that you'd have to get in their with a commercial-grade weed whacker to make a dent in that National Geographic-level foliage? Maybe they shouldn't clean it up - perhaps the next wonder drug may come from that nasal rain forest. They could be hiding the next erectile dysfunction or hair loss drug - you know, the important drugs, not something frivolous like a breast cancer drug. Could be there's even an endangered lemur or two hanging out in there as well. Better safe than sorry and save the napalm.

There's only a few sure-fire methods of getting away from these space invaders...and I'm going to share some with my readers. One of my favorites is to fake a stroke - very effective, but since you can only use this once on a person (unless they're really stupid - not an unheard-of complimentary trait of space invaders), it should be saved for a space invader that's a relative stranger. Unless, of course, it's at Thanksgiving or some other family function, where it doubles the escape value. Another way is to explosively vomit on them. I'm talking full-on exorcist-level projectile vomiting. Works every time, and can be used again on the same person; just blame it on food poisoning, or eating White Castle or Hot Pockets. Or you could fire Tic-Tacs rapid-fire into their mouth - c'mon, they're so close you can hardly miss - until they get the message.

Or, of course, you could also just fire a laser cannon at them from your space ship. Peace.

The Fan - A Cautionary Tale of Bad Behavior and Porta-Potties

Fans. The lifeblood of any sport. Without fans, there would be no arenas, multi-million dollar salaries, sports agents, televised sports events, etc. No superstars, nor their DUI's, arrests for illegally carrying guns (sometimes shooting others with them, sometimes shooting themselves), fines for testing positive for controlled substances. Speaking of televised sports events, I'm not referring to things like bass fishing, curling, or even golf - those are sports events in much the same way that Monsanto is an organic agriculture firm. I really can't understand why anyone wants to watch these things, let alone do them. They are basically 98% waiting for something interesting to happen; something I don't desire on a sports channel. This is why we have C-SPAN (okay, that's 99.95% waiting for something interesting to happen). And no activity involving a broom can ever be considered a sport - I'm talking to you, curling. That's just housekeeping. With rocks. On ice. Meh.

And fans come in many varieties: good, bad, indifferent and truly embarrassing. Good fans, predictably, even though desirable (especially to be within earshot of), would be, by definition, boring. They cheer for their teams, don't argue calls, never criticize the coach and wish only the best for the other team. I say "would be", because they do not exist, at least in my experience. They may have all committed suicide. Bad fans, however, are out in great quantities, are MUCH more interesting, and come in different varieties:

The "referee" fan. This guy knows more about the rules of whatever game he's watching than any human being, ever. They have super-vision, allowing them to see what we mere mortals (and the trained referees) missed. Unsurprisingly, their own team never commits a penalty, foul or similar infraction, but the opposing team is guilty on virtually every single play. This is also the same fan, who, after having watched their kid play soccer for the last 15 years, STILL does not understand the concept of the offside penalty, and hasn't even heard of "advantage" - but they will gleefully scream offsides after every goal by the opposing team, as if it will magically erase the score. When asked why they don't go and get their referee license since they know the sport so well, usually tell you they don't have the time, which is code for: I can't pass the licensing test.

The "connected" fan. They are the opposite of the "living vicariously through my children" fan. Easy to spot, these fans either have their heads buried in their mobile devices or are deeply involved in a conversation (having nothing whatsoever to do with the sporting event they are attending) with another "connected" fan. Truly gifted connected fans can do both simultaneously. They are thereby able to claim that they attend their children's games, without the annoyance of ever having actually watched any of them. These are the fans who are completely unaware that something has occurred until the cheering or booing begins, and then are suddenly interested: "What happended?" "Your son just broke both his legs trying to bicycle-kick the ball." "Oh, I'm sure he'll be okay - excuse me, I have to look up what a bicycle-kick is." These fans don't really bother anyone else, and are usually taken care of via karma. Karma, at least in the soccer games I've attended, is when this fan, sitting 5 feet from the field of play in their folding chair while their attention is focused on their phone, gets hit soundly in the side of the face by a soccer ball traveling upwards of 900 miles per hour, usually knocking the parent to the ground and disintegrating the phone. Typically it will have been kicked by the fan's offspring; atypically, while the child performs a bicycle kick.

The "living vicariously through my children" fan. We all know this guy (it's usually a guy, but sometimes it's a woman, and for some reason, they're actually worse) - it's all negative criticism with no positive feedback: "How could you miss that catch?", "Hey, why don't you open your eyes?" "C'mon, get up, you're not hurt - if you can't see bone, it''s not broken!", etc. It's a pretty safe bet this kind of fan SUCKED when they played, but convinced their kids they themselves were the equivalent of Peyton Manning when they played. If they played at all. They pray their kids never run into one of their former classmates, otherwise the jig's up: "Your dad? On the football team? Seriously? He was always too high to play!". They are bellicose, to the point where they appear not to even require inhaling; it just is one long endless stream of profanity-laced criticism. They are totally focused on the game, and have trained themselves not to blink for long periods of time so as not to miss a single moment of play. Almost every statement begins with, "When I played...". No one likes to be near them, except, of course, others of their ilk, but everyone else will do almost anything to be away from them, including, but not limited to, sitting atop the porta-potty. Get a few of these fans in the same spot and there will likely be suicidal drownings in those porta-potties. But not at curling matches - they usually just wander out onto the ice into oblivion. Those medieval Scotts knew how to handle adversity in a socially acceptable way. Peace.