Photos: Two baseball trips and a wedding

Headlining this recent batch of photo dumping is the wedding of my big gay brother getting married in a sham of a wedding that to those who know him, will not fool anyone in thinking he is anything other than a magnificent homo.  Other dumps are of my recent baseball trips to Lynchburg and Richmond, Virginia, that fewer people will care about, so clicking the image goes directly to the wedding album.

Over eleven years in the making

This serves as a preview picture of the 100 photos I took over the weekend, and a reminder that I am indeed in the brogging business.  May was a gauntlet of a month to begin with, and I’m hardly finding much time to catch up with personal brogging shit from a combination of prior engagements, baseball, family shit, and work.  But back from the wedding of my big gay brother, I am left with a feeling of happiness for him, and recognition of a good time altogether.  Pictures will be soon coming.

But in the mean time, this may be a picture of us all looking all polished, nice, and dapper, but approximately 4,234 days ago, this following picture was taken:

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Real Men Don’t Wear Small update: Moar Minor Leagues

Two new minor league ballparks were added to Real Men Don’t Wear Small.  Actually, it’s one new ballpark, and one redux, since the ballpark known as the Diamond in Richmond, the former home of the AAA Richmond Braves, is now home to the AA Richmond Flying Squirrels.  Yes seriously.  And preceding that was a trip out to the sticks of Virginia, to where I could see the new A+ affiliates of the Braves, the Lynchburg Hillcats.

You’ll never un-see it

I’m one of those guys who will often use his own vernacular around people, with the expectations that they should understand it.  A part of me derives pleasure from the random reactions I get from people, after I have to explain my choice of words to them, and it’s even better when they begin to integrate it into their own vocabulary for future use.  Such is one of those instances.

  • Barry Bonds’ home run record will always have a butthole next to it.
  • That’s not the final price, see the butthole next to the MSRP?
  • No, you don’t use the X key for multiplication, you use the butthole key.

If you haven’t gotten it yet, buttholes are a euphemism for asterisks, since in a twisted kind of way, they kind of look like them.  Starfish, pinwheels, or whatever.  I call them buttholes.  Look no further than the crown jewel of guerrilla marketing at its best.

As chivalrous as it would be to assume that Walmart has their own in-house marketing team who created their current identity and brand, I’d be willing to bet that it was instead done by a third party.  One that’s name is one name repeated twice, and/or instead of dashes and ampersands, they use the + symbol instead, and/or are full of people who boast about how they were in creativity magazine at some point in their career.  But more importantly one that’s full of very liberal minded hipsters, who probably don’t see the irony that their paychecks are funded by evil corporations like Walmart that require their services, because in the end they’re full of shit too, and just want to pay their bills and make end meets, regardless of where it’s coming from.

But anyway, since degenerate hipsters are like the ones at the helm of the agencies that establish brand for corporations like Walmart, I have this hypothesis that one of these agencies deliberately created the current Walmart brand to what it is today, as a form of guerrilla amusement.  I mean, why would Walmart have a butthole in its logo for in the first place?  How did this come to be?  The original, dated look, had a plain star in it.  How some company convinced them to switch to a butthole is beyond me.

Actually, I know how they did it, because I’ve done it before, and made these before.  agency + agency put together a 69-page manifesto using thick, glossy stock, about Walmart’s new brand, complete with butthole, and how they found all sorts of inspiration from the moon and the stars, and the pursuit of helping people with monopolized prices and the deaths of mom ‘n pop commerce.  And by the time their winded presentation was over, the hick management from Bentonville, Arkansas was so exasperated, they gave the green light on the new identity, whether or not it was a butthole.  And here we are today.

I imagine some hipster designer snickers every time he sees a Walmart commercial, and pats himself on the back that he was one of the rogues that managed to get the evil corporation Walmart to sign off on an identity that consisted of a butthole.  And then proceeds to drink his Pabst out of a goblet, and puts his Chuck Taylor adorned feet up on his top-end Ikea furniture, like a true hypocrite.

The end of madness

Today is a sad day for those of us whom are professional wrestling fans, as it was discovered that legendary wrestling superstar, Macho Man Randy Savage died today in a car accident that was triggered by a heart attack while he was behind the wheel.  He was 58 years old.

Typically the deaths of wrestlers come as no surprise to me, as throughout the years, I’ve shrugged off the deaths of numerous sub-40 year old wrestlers whom I certainly do remember, but were mostly indifferent about their passings.  Renegade, Test, Rocco Rock, and Crash Holly come to mind as wrestlers who died early, mostly because of their own stupidity and/or drug problems.  There was a stretch between 2004-2008 where there was pretty much another wrestler dying on a monthly basis.  And every time, it was the same stories – heart failure.  Drug overdose.  Or both.

If they were big enough wrestlers, then the media would get a hold of the stories, and then point their fingers at steroids, and just how stupid professional wrestling is.  Otherwise, they would die in relative obscurity, except to those of us who remember them as enthusiasts.

But the death of Macho Man is different.  The death of Macho Man legitimately makes me feel a little bit sad.  Macho Man’s death isn’t just the death of one man, but it’s also the death of a small slice of childhood.

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