Hi, my name is Doug Dixon. I’ve attended somewhere in the neighborhood of 125-150 Dodgers games since moving to Los Angeles in 2005 which translates, estimating conservatively, to just a shade below 30 games per season. I bleed blue, at least in a figurative way. Throughout those four and a half years I have amassed quite a collection of bobbleheads, seen in the picture I recently posted on Twitter (http://yfrog.com/ne1mqj). It’s quite the conversation starter and I feel it really ties my living room together.

I attended last Tuesday’s game against the Giants, now commonly referred to as the “Mattingly game.” As you know, it was also James Loney bobblehead night. You can probably guess that I was more than excited to pick up a Loney bobblehead or as I like to refer to as “Lil Loney.” Unfortunately, I opened the box for the bobblehead when I got home to discover, much to my horror, that Lil Loney’s leg had been broken in several places. As you can see in this photo I posted on Twitter (http://yfrog.com/3ujf2xj), it looks like Lil Loney might have taken a bit of a spill on his way to me.

Is there any way I could get a replacement for Lil Loney? It would mean a lot to me and my ball club which, as you can see in the team photo, is sorely lacking a quality first baseman. I am more than willing to cover the retail price and shipping for a replacement Lil Loney if need be.

Thank you for your consideration, and Go Blue!

I went home for lunch, dejected with myself and the travesty that I had become. I turned the corner of my street, asking myself over and over “What am I doing with my life?” Then I got to my apartment building and right in front, I saw this…

Sometimes, you wander the world trying to find inspiration. And sometimes, inspiration finds you. This here, ladies and gents, is the woman of my dreams. On paper, at least. She’s wearing high heels but she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty or show a little skin. And just in case you were wondering if what exactly is covering her arms, those are tattoos. Lots of them. All over her body, actually.

A little over two weeks ago, the Denver Broncos selected college football golden boy and possible direct descendant of Jesus Christ, Tim Tebow, in the first round of the NFL Draft. Most quote unquote experts and analysts and my heroin dealer had picked him to get taken in the later in the rounds, citing his sluggish throwing mechanics and his devastating heroin addiction. ¹

Initially, I was happy for Tebow. Even though the press had forced Tebow down our throats for the past three years and I even contemplated suicide on several occasions to escape the pain of his overexposure, I was still pleased to see him go early. And then it hit me: If Tim Tebow goes on to have a successful NFL career, we are all fucked.

One of my eleven regular sexual partners just happens to be a pretty big Denver Broncos fan. She (I’m pretty sure she’s a she) watches every single one of their games, owns a healthy amount of memorabilia and has probably contemplated getting the Broncos logo tattooed somewhere on her body. Despite her Broncos fandom, which makes absolutely no fucking sense given that she has lived in Southern California her entire life, she has no idea who or what Tim Tebow is. Not being interested in college football in any tangible way, she has miraculously dodged that bullet. A big bullet indeed.

So, for the uninformed, who exactly is Tim Tebow? Well, let’s sum it up: 2 national titles and a Heisman Trophy. Additionally, he won pretty much every award that the NCAA can give to a player as well as setting a few dozen or so records, including being the only player in NCAA history to score 20 touchdowns rushing and 20 touchdowns passing in the same season.

Big deal, right? The guy can take a ball and run with it and/or throw with it. Plenty of people can do that. Michael Vick, hello? But it wasn’t just Tebow’s on-the-field exploits that got the media’s pants all in a bunch. When not prancing around the field like a dandy, Tebow would often be spotted in far away locales such as the Philippines doing missionary work. On top of that, he claims to still be a virgin and ends almost every interview with “God bless.”

Jesus Christ, this guy’s perfect. Of course, anyone who watched a single game of college football game between the 2007 and 2009 seasons knows this. And I don’t mean a Florida Gators game where he played, I mean practically any college football game during that time. If there’s one thing the media likes, it’s a feel-good story. And if there’s another thing the media likes, it’s not having to be creative. Announcers would not STFU about Tebow’s talents and accomplishments, constantly reminding the television audience of their own inadequacies. And we got annoyed.²

To sum it up: Tim Tebow became more Ned Flanders than even Ned Flanders. And that was just in college. Imagine if his success continues in the pro game. Because then, it won’t just be the media who will have their mouths set to auto-fellate. Not in the NFL, where money talks, where someone can endorse anything. It’s already starting. Tebow’s recently been named as the coverboy of NCAA ‘11 and his NFL jersey was the top selling pro jersey for the month of April. Not bad for someone who doesn’t even have a signed NFL contract.

Long story short, you better pray to the Gods that Tim Tebow tanks in the NFL.

At my last job, which ended roughly four years ago, they set us up with a Health Savings Account. The way it worked was a small percentage of my paycheck qould go towards it, and my employers would match the contribution, all tax free. Those proceeds would then be applied to any medical expense I have, whether it’s doctor visit copays or prescription meds.

So i got my last statement from them and noticed the balance had gotten down to around $11 and was getting lower with each month due to a $2.50 service charge. I called US Bank yesterday and in order to close the account, there is a $30 charge. Yes, I’m being charged $30 to close an account with $11 in it. Awesome.

It’s annoying how into the NBA Playoffs I get when I could care less about the regular season and the NBA as a whole, for that matter. I stopped caring about the NBA the day after Game six of the 1998 Finals when Jordan sank the game winning shot, the last one he’d take in a Bulls uniform. Then the Spurs started their reign, along with, ugh, Kobe.

It’s reassuring to know that Kobe is starting to show signs of age. He’s actually played more minutes than Jordan ever did in a Bulls uniform, remarkable since he’s only 31. It’s really only a matter of time before Kobe starts losing and LeBron actually wins a ring. Remember, kids: Every time Kobe scores, God kills a puppy.

Pardon the all caps, but could anything in sports possibly get overhyped and blown out of proportion more than the NFL Draft? I suppose the Super Bowl gets more hype but, c’mon, it’s the Super Bowl. It has the word Super in it.

The draft, all it is is a bunch of 20-year-olds walking up to the stage and posing with Roger Goodell for three days. Three days of this shit. Wow, catch the excitement. And I have hordes of friends who will be glued to their TVs. Why? All the draft is is speculation. So what if Sam Bradford is the #1 pick? That doesn’t mean he’ll be any good nor does it mean his team will be any better. Historically, the NFL Draft has been riddled with busts. Ryan Leaf and Tony Mandarich, anybody? Bueller?

Speaking of busts, I was looking for something to do this Saturday in lieu of watching THE FUCKING DRAFT!!! and I came upon The Grilled Cheese Invitational. It sounds like a great idea but here’s the catch: the $10 admission only gets you in. You still have to buy the sandwiches once you’re there. So basically, you’re paying ten bucks to stand in a long line with a bunch of assholes for a grilled cheese sandwich. No thanks.

So my dog, Kaylee, has the shits. The slimy, uncontrollable, larger than normal, shits, if you will. These things are epic as… shit. They’re like the size and shape of a medium-sized turtle. It probably wasn’t a good thing she drank from the community dog bowl at the park last Thursday. Shit.

Recap: Kaylee’s her first assplosion happened Saturday morning I’m guessing around eight. There’s nothing worse than waking up still drunk but also hungover ¹ and you have to deal with a blob of poop the size of Shaq’s hand. After cleaning up the main bit of evil, I reasoned that I wasn’t going to be doing any fine detailing work on my carpet at 8 AM. “Fuck it,” I said to nobody in particular. A few more hours of sleep and I’d go rent a Rug Doctor. Those things are fantagular, by the way. I had been talking about getting one for the past six months and this was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Jeez, imagine if my dog shitting all over my bedroom was not the straw that broke the camel’s back. That’d be awesome.

And then Sunday was no problem at all. She went twice and both were solid and most importantly, both were outside! I figured my problems were all over.

Monday morning around 6:30, I woke up to that smell. That same damned smell that I smelled Saturday morning. A smell that tells me my morning was going to be an interesting one. I popped up and did a quick glassesless scan of the room. Granted, I’m blind as shit but a big brown blob on white carpet is a big brown blob on white carpet. And I saw nothing. Weird. I reasoned that maybe she hadn’t actually shat but instead had just farted. The smell was actually kind of faint. That made sense to me at 6:30 in the morning.

I woke up at my usual eight in the morning and stepped into the bathroom and BAM! Stepped right in it. It seems every time I step in dog shit it’s always my entire foot that steps squarely on it. It’s never just like a corner of my foot. I’ve said it before, when i step in dog shit it’s like they’re taking imprints of my foot for the Walk of Fame. There should be a ceremony with paparazzi and a guest speaker for when is I step in dog shit.

I fed her some chicken and rice last night and now, we play the waiting game.

It’s not the DMV, it’s not the line at the bank, it’s jury duty that really gives you a cross section of the place you live in and destroys your faith in humanity. What sets it apart is, unlike the DMV and the bank, people actually have to answer questions in public. Never before have i ever seen so many people who don’t understand the concept of innocent until proven guilty.

In the “Cape Feare” episode of the Simpsons, arguably one of the best Simpsons episodes of all-time (the one where Sideshow Bob keeps stepping on rakes), there’s a scene where the FBI agents are trying to teach Homer his presumed name and he never quite gets it. That’s exactly how frustrating the jury selection process is. Ugh.