Friday, August 30, 2013

Hey It's possible

Religious person - “So if you don’t believe in God, what do you believe in?”

Me- “I think there’s a supreme race of aliens studying us, or maybe we’re a tiny spec in their universe and they can see us, but don’t pay us much attention. Like we look at ants.”

Religious person - “That’s just crazy, what are you some kind of a nut?”

Me- "Yeah, cause you're explanation makes perfect sense."

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

I'm not Role Model, I'm a Rebel Baby


By Bernard Chatanoga

I know you look up to me, but I'm no role model. I know my bad boy, devil may care attitude attracts swarms of women, but you should look to your parents for guidance, not me.

I understand my blatant disregard for rules and social norms makes me some kind of "antihero", but I assure you a hero I am not. I'm just a guy trying to make his way through life, by making my own rules. Rules that I don't even follow a good deal of the time.

To prove how unworthy I am of being your role model, I'm going to perform heinous actions like picking fights with smaller and weaker individuals, making fun of mentally challenged youths, distributing illegal and toxic narcotics and taking advantage of intoxicated young women.
You should look toward educators, clergy and civic leaders for guidance, not someone like me who forced you stay up all night on Christmas Eve to prove there was no Santa Claus.

I mean really, remember the time I completely forgot your birthday because I was too drunk to stand up right. Or was that the time I was busy doing lines of a stripper’s ass? What was her name? Oh that's right Quarter Horse, oh man that was a wild ride. Anyway I digress, don’t look up to me kid, you’ll only be disappointed or hurt, probably both.

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Special League

Warning: If you’re easily offended, don’t read this, if you do, it’s your own fault.
Besides, if you’re offended over some shit an idiot writes you really need to re-evaluate your life. I curse and if that offends you I recommend never leaving your house because the world is a cruel, hard place and you’re not going to make it. Hearing a curse word should be the least of your worries.

Special League

When most children remember their little league years, they reminisce happy times, getting their first base-hit, or out of control, douchebag worthy parents. I have a slightly different memory of little league. See unlike most kids I didn't play on a regular little league team; I played on a "special" team.

Because it was too late to sign up for little league my mother and father, knowing how bad I wanted to play, searched franticly for a team for me to play on. Thanks to a newspaper ad they finally found one.

The ad read.

My mother rushed to the phone with blinding speed I didn't know she had, franticly dialed the number and nervously tapped her fingers on the dining room table.
"Yes, my son is special needs; he has a speech impediment," (meaning forming a sentence was a five minute ordeal). They talked for a few more minutes before she hung up the phone.
"Well you're on the team, first game is on Friday."
My mother, who hates baseball, seemed happy that I had a team to play on. Then she continued her daily activities, which mostly consisted of chain smoking and harassing my father.

The first game was a sight to behold. My mother didn't exactly clue me in to the type of team I was going to be playing on. Naturally, when I got there I was a bit surprised. There were special kids everywhere, some needed help with putting their batting helmets on, others held the bat upside down; it was a sight to behold. I glanced back at my mom; she did was shrugged. I decided that if I was going to play on this team I might as well introduce myself.
"Hi," I said to one of the other players.
"Hel-lo," he said back. He was staring at the weeds growing in the ground as if a tiny weed colony was coming to life.
I decided to call him Alf, mostly because of his resemblance to the furry alien.
"So, you like baseball?" I said.
"Basssseball fun, homerun!" Alf said back; his eyes never leaving the weed patch.
"So what position do you play?" I asked.
"Bassseball fun, homerun, hel-lo, strike thee you out!" Alf said again with a slight drool.
Deciding Alf wanted to spend some time with his weed patch undisturbed, I wandered off to find another tard. After experiencing the same results with different players; I decided to give up. I was destined to spend all little league surrounded by retards. That was until I met Jimmie and George.
Jimmie was a fat kid with red hair and freckles; in fact he looked a lot like that catcher from The Sandlot. George was a black kid with white parents, I didn't ask any questions.

Both were somewhat normal and more than willing to let me in their little group. Together we formed an everlasting friendship that ended the instant the season was over.

Our coach, looked like someone had sucked the life right out of him, picked him up and dumped him on a baseball field full of tards. Rick, the coach's name, was rail thin with bushy hair and a hairy rodent above his top lip. To say the man looked like a weasel was an understatement. No doubt he was coaching the team to fulfill some kind of community service plea bargain with the state of Missouri.

"Hi, are you the coach?" I optimistically asked with big eyes.
"Yeah," was his reply followed by a burp. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “What do you want?”
"What position am I going to be playing?" I asked.
Rick looked at me with his droopy eyes and beaten down soul, sighed and said, “Christ kid I don’t give a fuck.”He then encouraged me to go practice or get lost.
"Get that out of your nose!" He shouted to one of my teammates.
His wife was the complete opposite, she was so happy and perky everyone loved her. She was a dumpy woman of about thirty, smiled endlessly and babbled on about everything.
"I hate that lady," I whispered to Jimmie.

This is the way to league works: they throw all the tards out in the field, spend about ten minutes directing them in the right places, another ten minutes redirecting the kids who wandered off while the coaches direct the other players to the right position.
There is no actual pitching in this league (Jesus, can anyone image that) so the coach under hands the ball to the batter. They don't count outs, balls or strikes and everyone bats and they’re safe on any play.

At our first game I stood up to bat unsure of what to expect.
"Throw me a fat one coach!" I yelled from home plate.
"Fuck off," he said back.
"Strike thee you out!" Alf screamed from the bench.

Rick kicked back, burped and under handed the ball, I was so anxious I swung and missed.
“Ain’t that some shit,” he said while he shook his head.
The next pitch I hammered into the outfield. I rounded first then, on my way to second, the centerfielder picked up the ball and threw it to the leftfielder who looked at it a minute then threw it to back to him, then he threw it to second. I already rounded third and was one my way home when the second basemen threw it to first base.  I hit a home-run, a special league home-run. My teammates went wild and I was treated like a hero, well except for the tard that tried to hit me with his bat.
The next few at bats were similar I pounded the ball and scored no problem. Sometime later, I discovered an awesome special league rule: if the batter missed all three strikes, they got to hit the ball of a tee. I was astonished.

The next at bat I purposely missed all three strikes, one of the coaches set up the tee, I hit the ball so far the only thing the tards could do was sit there, look up, and drool. I hit it so far the centerfielder just stood there and spun around in circles. Once again I was treated with a hero's welcome and a whack from a bat.

I continued to hit pretty well. Although Rick starting throwing harder to me and I could have sworn that fucker put a curve on a few of them.

Even though I liked hitting, playing third base was my favorite part of the game. I loved it. A lot of balls got hit my way; I would scoop up the ball, fire to first and hope the first basemen could catch. I was in heaven.

On day I was playing third and my teammate, whom I called Igor, was playing shortstop.  I only had one problem with Igor, every time a ball was hit to him, no matter how slow, he would never charge it, ever. Anyway, I had enough of this, so one the next ball that was hit to him; I charged it and threw to first.
"Don't steal my ball!" Igor screamed.
I just looked at him and shrugged.
"Don't steal my ball again, I'm waaaarning you!”
“If the ball is hit over here and you don’t charge, I will,” I said back.
“The fuck you will,” he countered.
I ignored him and went back to playing third. The pitch was hit; guess where, straight to Igor at negative 2 MPH, but Igor just stood there and waited patiently like a lion waiting to pounce on a gazelle. I have enough of this. Like a fat kid with a twinkle hanging right in front of them, I couldn't resist. I ran up to the ball grabbed it, and fired it to first.
"You stole my ball! Stupid!" he roared.
The tard called me stupid I thought. This was the last thing that went through my head before his glove came crashing down on it. Igor was wailing on my head, hard; shifting left and right, and back and forth. I couldn’t help but think how well coordinated he was, you know for a tard. I put my hands up for defense and lay there; it was all I could do. I thought about fighting back but, didn't want to hit a special kid.

Jimmie just looked at me, shook his head and laughed; fucker didn’t even make an attempt to help me. Then again, if was treated to that show I would enjoy it too. Alf ran to my aid, but was quickly distracted by a weed patch in right field. Finally Rick, came to pull the tard off me, exposing a big, fat welt on my eye.

 “You got your ass kick by a retard son,” he said pointing to the welt on my eye. Everyone laughed. “If I were you I’d tell people you fell off your bike.”

“I fell off my bike,” I explained to my friend Victor the next day at school. “There was a kitten on the sidewalk and I served to avoid it.”

The rest of the season was pretty much the same, except I wasn't playing next to Igor anymore. At the end of the season I was awarded the MVP award, then again, everybody got one.
The next year I played in a regular team, and I sucked.

Friday, June 28, 2013


It’s an ongoing epidemic, mostly for teenagers. Sure, I’ve tried it. It’s something everyone has tried once or twice. The first time I saw it I was mesmerized. I was in the Army playing war games, while stationed at Fort Riley, Kansas.

The field can be boring as shit or busy as hell, depending. It was one of those rare moments where we had a little down time, so my section and me, which consisted of: my chief, gunner and assistant chief Sergeant Bruce, number one man (the guy that loads and fires the cannon), and me the track operator, we sat there and joked around until Sergeant Bruce yells out:

“You guys gotta check this out, I’m gonna’ light my fart.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “That’s am urban legend.”
“Watch this shit,” he said as he dug deep into his pocket for a couple of seconds and withdrew his trusty Zippo lighter.
What I saw next would change my life dramatically.
Sergeant Bruce sat down, put his legs above his head, grimaced, and promptly lit his fart.
True That.
We laughed like a bunch drunk kids at a Three Stooges movie marathon. I mean I’ve seen this stuff on T.V. but to see it in person was unreal. Needless to say I was hooked. One could argue that wasn’t the smartest thing to do in a howitzer loaded with ammo, but hey we were bored as shit.

Saturday, June 22, 2013

That's Right Bitches!!

I won a 2007

Newspaper Editor to Receive Scholarship
July 26, 2007
Senior Dan Sonderman has won the Fleishman-Hillard Inc. Scholarship of $1,500 in competition sponsored by the Journalism Foundation of Metropolitan St. Louis.
Sonderman is managing editor of the new Lindenwood student newspaper, The Legacy, which made its debut with three issues last spring. Following a summer internship as a reporter for the Suburban Journals, he will guide the student paper in its first full semester of biweekly publication this fall.
The Journalism Foundation will present its scholarship awards at a reception Wednesday, Aug. 8, at 6:30 p.m. in the Emerson Library Conference Room at Webster University, 101 Edgar Road, in Webster Groves.


This is why photoshop was invented people!!!

Sometimes your dick just goes rogue

I don’t know about anyone else, but before I take a piss I have a little pep talk with “little Dan”, it usually goes something like this: “Ok this is going to be a routine piss, straight into the bowl, in and out. If we do well I’ll give you a shake afterward. OK Break.” Ninety-nine percent of the time everything goes as planned, but sometimes your dick has other plans.  I’M RUNNING THIS SHIT. It wiggles left and right, pisses out of two streams, hoses down the whole toilet and other crazy shit I can talk about without a puppet and a therapist. TRY TO EXPLAIN THAT FUCKER! NOW WHO’S THE DICK?
My son, now four, had a this happen to him last week. He looked like he had hosed down a fire on the crapper. I patted his back and said “Buddy, sometimes your dick just goes rogue. Now hand me a towel.”