Let's Go To The Mall....Today!

In case you were wondering "Where did SamWow get that super awesome title?" Well, that clearly means that you don't watch How I Met Your Mother (Monday nights on CBS, 8PM EST). That's the hit song from Robin Sparkles first music video, duh.

That being said, I do want to go to the mall...today, tomorrow, next week, next month, or even right now. I know that may be weird, but I enjoy it, free samples from the food stores, the people, Lids, the women, and just shopping.

But there are a few things I've noticed about going to the mall and the differences of stores that sell mainly women's clothes and those selling clothes to the "un-fairer sex", also known as men. Sorry guys.

Women's stores always tend to have a unique name, like Avenue 9, Forever 21, Victoria's Secret, Lane Bryant, or Body Central. They also tend to smell good, have some select mood lighting, mannequins displaying the store's wares, and some light, generic, "feel good" music pumping into shoppers ears while they hold dresses up to themselves in front of mirrors. But this stuff isn't what I wanted to talk about, the first thing I mention rarely is after all.

Let me preface this by saying I'm a bigger guy, I'm six foot one and roughly two hundred fifteen pounds of pure, lean, well, body stuff, not muscle. I also have a giant head, big feet, and to top it all off I'm clumsy and easily distracted. Now guys/fellas/gentlemen, next time you and your beautiful young wife/girlfriend/mistress/daughter/granddaughter are out shopping for clothes, take a break from hating every second of it and notice how un-fit for men these stores are, which is reasonable cuz we're not the intended clientele.

The stores are just so damn small.

Now, I don't mean square footage, some of these stores can be pretty big, but I mean the spaces between the clothing racks and the width of the aisles. Holy god, I've followed ladies through stores countless times, and as soon as they find a rack they like, they dart away like a little kid into a corn maze and they're impossible to find until after a few hours, they emerge victorious, clutching thrity sweaters, two pairs of pants, and a bra they won't ever let you see. It's amazing, to a full grown man, those aisles are like what they used to put in ancient forts so camel's couldn't come in (Which is stupid, how many ancient races fell due to mauling by camel?). Then if you look across the mall, past the old men sitting on the benches, you can see a store built more for men, like Dick's Sporting Goods, Modells, Sport's Authority, or Bass Pro Shops, and it's like looking into the mouth of a whale - the entrance is cavernous, empty, and moist, well, not if it's a good store, avoid stores that are moist. That's the tip of the day.

A store like Dick's or Bass Pro, a guy my size can go prancing down the aisles, twirling my arms, thrashing violently (Like how it looks when I zumba), and guess what people, I can do that across the entire store and I won't touch a damn thing. It's amazing, at the check out, there's no fru-fru stuff, just Big League Chew bubble gum, chewing tobacco, fish lures, bullets for your .22, Michael Jordan cologne, and porn magazines (You'd be surprised what some of those "Muscle & Fitness" magazines have in them). This is a kinda abrupt ending to the post, but that's all I have. Enjoy my immature antics below the picture.

If I were gonna caption the above photo, or maybe make a movie and use that image as my poster, I'd call the movie "The Waiting". I snapped the picture standing in the Misses department waiting for my girlfriend to try on somethings and after the third hour, decided I would take a picture and now I'm gonna end this corny little joke.

Ok, I lied, my girlfriend took the picture while I was in the fitting room, it's just so darn tough to find a new sundress to match my favorite heels and clutch.

Random Thoughts & The Bracket Busting Announcement

I had a epiphany on the way home from Millersville on Monday, what if one day there's so many people that refuse to vote they do something different with how they elect people? That semi-smart thought was followed by me thinking "If I have the speakers in my car up this loud when I listen to the drums towards the end of Bruce Springsteen's 'Born In The USA' it sounds and feels like fireworks going off."

Those two thoughts, one smart, one really kinda stupid, led me to another moment of enlightenment, I clearly need to blog again, cuz it's crazy shit like that that reminds me that this little blog is my way of venting and hopefully bringing smiles to my one (occasionally two) readers.

So now onto my Bracket Busting Announcement, all straight men have man crushes, if you/your boyfriend/your husband is saying "Psh, I don't, that's GAY." they're lying. Whether it's an actor, athlete, entertainer, or someone else random. It doesn't have to be a sexual crush, you might just feel like if "Athlete X" is playing on ESPN, you need to watch. Or if "Actor Y" is in a new movie or TV show, you'll tune in. It's a simple, non-threatening thing.

So now the real Bracket Busting Announcement, credit my girlfriend's mother came up with this idea, and this comes just in time for the NCAA Tournament. I, along with the help of a few friends, have compiled a bracket of 64 man crushes, some of my own choosing, some the selections of a brain trust I have built. So come back in the next few days and weeks for the beginning of the bracket, I don't know yet how I'm going to break it down or put the options out there, but your feedback would be awesome on it.
Next time I post will be sooner, I promise.

101 Ways to Get My Blog Read in Mother Russia

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Bring Em Back

Sports. Action movies. Food. Booze. Staring at and talking about women. These are all things that bring men together as a group to talk, bond, and get drunk. Actually, all of those things can be done/lead up to getting drunk. Watch "Waterworld" drunk and you'll really enjoy it.
There's another place where men are gathered together in a huddled mass, looking forward into the future. Or, at least forwards into a tile backsplash, cinderblock wall, or maybe just some plywood blocking you from the elements.

That place is a bathroom, with a trough.

Now this is not the ideal place to bond. Never try to bond when a man when you're in the bathroom or anywhere were genitalia are exposed. Way to risky. Walk up to a guy, lean on the wall, and say "Hey man, come here often?" will always be really creepy if skin is exposed that's in the pelvic area. Don't do it.

Back on topic. Troughs are great, it's a great way to eliminate lines at bathrooms in stadiums, arenas, and ballparks. All you need is like a ten foot long steel/porcelain/stone, well, trough, a single drain, and a bout ten urinal cakes to spread around the bottom so the whole place doesn't start to smell like straight asparagus pee.

Now, I know girls will think that this is gross that men can just congregate around a giant toilet with no stall walls or doors and just unzip and let it rip, but I mean, if you put a shot glass on the floor and told a guy that was the toilet, he'd pee innit. We're guys, we don't care where we go to the bathroom, as long as we get to "pee-pee" or "make doody" we're pretty damn happy.

Some of you may be thinking "Wow, I really think SamWow is right (again) and how it must be really mentally taxing to be batting 1.000 when it comes to being right but someone has to do it." but hopefully you're thinking that "He's right, and there need to be more troughs in public restrooms so I can be one with my fellow man." First of all, I told you that is not why we men enjoy troughs. You need to listen more. It's all about the ease and convenience of being able to pee and walk away after a rousing game of urinal cake hockey with the guy three streams down.

Save the troughs my friends, save them. By the way, I'm back.

By the Light of the Moon, He's a Frenchman for the Night

That quote above is from a Jimmy Buffett song off the 1994 Fruitcakes album (Track title, "Frenchman for the Night", and yeah, I'm a huge Parrothead. Come at me.). It's also from the legendary night where I first met my friend Matt. Hopefully it's 100% accurate, but if it's not it's still damn close. I've told this story thousands of times and some things may have been embellished.

It was a weeknight, probably a Tuesday or so, that's when we used to go to Buffalo Wild Wings. I hopped in my 1997 Chevy Blazer, called Dave and was all like "Hey man, I'm on my way to the Condo." He probably said something like "Cool Ski-Doo Ninja." (Haha, what?) and I stomped the gas pedal through the floor. That Blazer used to roar, loud, every last ounce of that 4.3 Liter Vortec V6 rumbling, shaking, and roaring down 193 towards College Park as I watched the gas gauge steadily tick down. Way off topic.

So yeah, I get to the Condo, call Dave and he comes down to let me in. I'm pretty sure this was the point where he told me we had a special guest, Dave's friend from birth, Matt. It might not be, but meh. Either way, I was going to meet him that night.

So yeah, I get upstairs, meet Matt, sit around on the couches hanging out for a bit, then we roll off to Buffalo Wild Wings for dinner. Now, there's one part of all this I forgot. We were going to meet me and Dave's co-workers at dinner, Megan and Matt. Well, naming two Matts in the story will get confusing, so we'll call Matt II SpaceCadet (Thanks, E. She nicknamed him that because "His ears are so big you can see them from space."). Megan and SpaceCadet didn't have the best track record of showing up to places on time, but this night we actually did something about it.

Practical jokes are fun, elaboarte plans are even more fun, or at least they are to me, a twelve year old trapped in a twenty-one year olds body, So I get a text from Megan, and basically she says they're going to be running late. Real late. So Matt, Dave and I hatched a plan. Now neither Megan nor SpaceCadet had ever met Matt, and we decided as a threesome of immature goofy "young adults" decided to do like the French and "Gâchis avec leurs chefs parce qu'ils n'étaient pas très intelligents.", also known as "Mess with their heads cuz they ain't too smart."

And just like that, French foreign exchange student Herve Benoit was born. "By the light of the moon, he's a Frenchman for the night, by the light of the moon, it'll be alright"...

So yeah, the ground work was set. Did Matt know any French? Maybe a little, but we all knew Megan and SpaceCadet didn't, so we could throw a few random words in there and make everything Kosher. From there we ironed out details, Herve was from Nice, which is in South Eastern France. How did he know Dave? Well, Herve's mother and Dave's mother had been pen pals (I wanna say we decided they were college roommates for some reason?) and when the foreign exchange program opened up, Herve came to America to learn from a wise man named David.

And just like that, we waited for Matt and Megan to show up. I was worried about slipping up and laughing, but luckily we all held it together and sold it. As far as individual memories from what Matt did were air-masturbating and drawing a picture of him suffocating Dave with a pillow, a picture I'm proud to say that I still own. I dunno what else to really say about the dinner, other than the fact that Megan and SpaceCadet bought it hook, line, and sinker.

Are you wondering if there were any problems? Any slip ups? No. We came close, but Dave helped Matt count out "American dollars" from his wallet...even though his MARYLAND (Remember your Maryland license Matt? Love ya Chief haha,) drivers license was exposed the whole time. The best part of the night however may have been when we piled into Dave's car (Matt, Dave, and I) and had to keep our composure till Megan and SpaceCadet drove off. Then we all busted out laughing, like gut busting, ab crunching, knee slapping bellows of laughter. I'm pretty sure I cried.

So now fast forward a few months, or maybe weeks. I dunno, I wish I had written all this down when it happened because then I'd have it all fresh in my brain. Damnit. But anyways, so we all get together for Dave's birthday at Hard Times for what me and my current idol Matt had planned as the Herve/Megan & SpaceCadet reunion. We were excited, I had told Megan that Herve would be there and that he had "asked" about them, at which point Megan told me she had Googled (Is Google a proper noun? Does it need to be capitalized?) Nice and planned to visit Herve....

We. Had. Them. Fooled.

Then Dave leans across the table and tells them "Hey Megan and SpaceCadet, this is my friend Matt. He's not French, he's from SP, and went to school with SpaceCadet." or something to that effect and me and Matt were furious. We were ready to keep the charade going, and then it was over because we let someone else have control...

So in honor of Matt's birthday and the (Unoffical) Herve Benoit Anniversary, I present this story. 

Happy Birthday buddy, let's do fifty.

Friend's Who "Love" Me...Or Don't...

I know this my come as a whopping surprise to many of you, but I have friends. I know right? Crazy stuff right there. Well, maybe they're not friends, but they're people who tolerate me and invite me places so that counts right?

I'm just kidding, I have friends. Most of them from Anne Arundel County and I have absolutely no idea how that happened, but somehow it did and I still haven't been invited to their country clubs, private jets, or Gatsby-esqe parties. What the hell "friends"? What the hell.

But yeah, I like to write (hence this crappy blog) and on occasion I'll write my friends letters or emails just cuz I'm bored or I'll make them crappy collages of crayon-drawn pictures of us doing stuff. Really crappy looking. Terrible, the better gift would have been the empty frame.

All that self hatred aside, on occasion, my friends will write/email/make something for me in return. I'm gonna show one of my personal favorites from my best friend on the face of this Earth, Kelly. Enjoy it, God knows I do every time I read it.

By the way, she's a freak. That's why it's so weird. Just kidding.

---------------
Dear {Top Secret Nickname},
I just wanted to say thank you for a few things, so I thought I should express my gratitude by putting it down on paper so you can remember it forever .
First, I just want to thank you for being awesome.
A- almost as awesome as watching paint dry while sitting on a seat covered with shards of glass when it's raining outside, and then a monkey comes along and pokes you in the eye with a sharp stick. And then you fall on the shards of glass and have to get 165 stitches, and years later find out that you have lead poisoning from the pain n the wall. And that tick gave you lyme disease.
W- would you please shower every once in awhile? It's getting kinda gross.
E- exceptionally nonchalant about showering.
S- smelly, and not in a good way (probably has to do with all that not-showering).
O- offends 4 out of my 5 senses; just sometimes you smell so bad I can feel it.
M- mentally exhausting to be around (especially when you don't shower).
E- emotional like a tween who hasn't had a shower in a week.
Second, I'd like to thank you for being awesome:
A- awful, just awful.
W- way you make me want to vomit.
E- extremely large head.
S- softball player.
O- optical illusion, you are not.
M- my dreamboat, NOT!
E- exceptionally clean (seriously, who takes that many showers?).
Third, dayum son. Thank you for being so ridiculously good looking:
H- homey, you so fine.
A- all the ladies frock to your crock...pot that is. We hear you're a good cook.
S- snookums, can I get your number?
W- wow, check out them sweet cheeks.
A- are those real?
R- Ripped to the core.
T- twinkle toes, just like the twinkle in your eyes.
S- save some sugar for me.

And now for the last, but certainly not least, reason I want to thank you. Thanks for speaking without a lisp:
N- nothrils on your nothe (nostrils on your nose).
O- only Thamothy/ThamWow I know (Only Samothy/SamWow I know).
L- livths in a houth (lives in a house).
I- ith thooo thmart (is sooo smart).
T- things thongs (sings songs).
H- hath to wear glathes (has to wear glasses).
P- pethky prithoners with pethts prante on punpkinthhh.
Well, there you have it. Thanks again.

---------------

Well, that's what she wrote me. Sounds like a hater but that's the relationship we have, we just rag on each other all in good fun.

If you're wondering how this came about, I joked with her about writing me a letter about "How awesome I am, how awesome I am, and how good looking I am." and she added the stuff about the lisp.

Ha Ha Business! That's for you Brian...

Oh man...so pressure from my friends and family has mounted and I'm doing another blog post.
This is the blog post by the way. It started right up there.

Well, I hope you can tell unless me not blogging for a while has affected your collective mental capacity to know what things are. Hey, don't wipe your ass with that shard of glass, and that girl you're looking at who you think might be a seven, might also be a thirty year old...dude. So I dunno why the blog has been running so slow. Well, actually I do know, but I wanna spew out some random things before I get to the climax of this post.

This climax will be disappointing...trust me. Also, feel free to insert any jokes you'd like to in there. I don't mind really. I'll give you a moment.

Okay, so you good now? Now I'll tell you some lame things. Like that I went from drinking "real beer", you know, the beer that comes in bottles, to stuff like Bud Light, Miller Lite (Kelly, that one's your fault.), and of course my personal local favorite, Natty Boh (Which I drink in excess with my Matty Boh.). Sure, it tastes like liquid garbage, but it's a Brotherhood thing, and you wouldn't understand.

I like whiskey. I also like how this is seeming to take a turn towards the "Is Sam an alcoholic?" question. Which if it is, I'll tell you a story.

My friend Anthony once told me "You'll be a non-functioning alcoholic by the age of 24.". I dunno how old I was when this happened, but in my head I was probably like, seventeen, sober as a priest (Which after knowing the priest I know and partying with him, that statement doesn't mean much. According to that, it means I was sober enough...to not drive. Cuz I woulda crashed the car and died.). Wait, is "sober as a priest" even a saying? I guess a Google search could clear all that up...but the internet search bar thing is all the way up there. So screw it. It's a saying now.

But for the record, I'm not an alcoholic. But I also have three years to get on that so we'll see.
What else. Well, I'm sitting at my desk. Which I moved a few feet from where it used to be in my room. Now get your socks ready, cuz I'm about to knock them off...I also moved my bed over towards the center of the room.

I'll give you a moment to retrieve your socks.

That's really it as far as room re-arrangement. I know that was an exciting bulletin.

Now where to go to next in this Orange Crush fueled rant....I know. Stop bitching about Facebook changing. Seriously, if it really bothers you that much quit it right away. If you're my age, you grew up with computers. We know how to work them pretty well by now, it takes what, like a minute to see "Oh, there's my news feed thing. And my photos. And the photos of that hot girl...oh my God. Look at her...she's so hot." As long as you can still creep someone on Facebook even a little bit, we're all gonna stay on it.

Ugh. So here comes the climax, are you excited? No. I'm not really feeling it either. I wrote all this in HTML format. That's not the climax, but it had to be done. It's amazing I remember any of it cuz the whole time I took it I was high on pain killers, right Anthony? Right. But I need your ideas! Please people, you all know me, you know what I like and that I love writing this blog. It's killed me, but I've had no ideas. I've tried for some, and I have a few scraps ready to go for after this but please, I'll leave my contact information below...come at me with stuff damnit!

Facebook - SamWowCarroll
Twitter - @therealSamWow
E-Mail - samcarroll9@gmail.com
Phone - 867-5309
Carroll Out...for now.