Sports Radio

Today on my trip to the grocery store for lunch I listened to the local sports radio station in hopes of not having to hear "Use Somebody" by the Kings of Leon for the 75th time since Monday.

I got in my car just in time for this call:

"I would like to respond to that idiot last caller who is still stuck in the 16th century. Racism is the worst thing that has ever happened to America and as an African American woman I believe that AIDS is the best thing to ever happen to gay white men and that the 'holly-cast' was the best thing to ever happen to the jews."

So yeah, if you're looking for a job I'm pretty sure there's a local sports radio station looking for a call-screener.

In my daydream at that very moment I was calling the radio station with this response :

"I want to respond to that idiot last caller. As a black gay jew I believe the best thing to happen to warm blueberry pie was vanilla ice cream. Thank you for your time."

I wish I'd done it in real life instead.

Dear Fraternal Order of Police

Dear Fraternal Order of Police,

First I'd like to say "no, this is not the home of Juan Rodriguez, but thanks for asking." Next, I'd like to say that I fully and completely respect the police and the work that they do. However, I will not be buying a sticker from you for the low price of $15 today.

I'm not sure if you remember, but I bought one of these stickers from you last year. Doesn't that make us brothers? If my name was Juan Rodriguez then would I be your hermano?

Perhaps you should check on the logistics of the Julian calendar before you tell me that you only call me "once a year, sir. We only call you ONCE A YEAR!" The last time I checked, there were more than seven days in a year, but you might be right. I very well may be 1,550 years old. You are the police, after all. I've been taught to not argue with you.

Of course, I might get my ass kicked if I handed this guy my ID after being caught in a rolling stop next week and told him I was older than Charlemagne.



And I'm guessing this little guy isn't going to change that.



In fact, I'm guessing that the sticker residue will only further depreciate the value of my car. Don't get me wrong. Chevrolet and Consumer Reports are doing a pretty good job making sure that my car is worth less than that sticker by next year, but I don't think you'll help.

If you REALLY want money from me (or do you want money from Juan Rodriguez? Will you please make up your mind?), then you should probably talk to THIS GUY.


Robocop 1.0

There's one on Calverton Blvd with some sweet pictures of me. There's one in DC. There's one on Connecticut Avenue, and there are even a few scattered throughout Rockville who all remember me well. How do you make my license plate look so shiny??? I scrub and scrub.... Are you going to use my $15 to do more license plate magic? If so, then maybe I could be convinced.

I'm actually offended that these pictures were just mailed to me with a letter that said "send money, citizen." At the very least I expected to be tagged "brother" on your facebook page. This "citizen" wasn't expected to send $15 either. He was expected to send upwards of $200. Didn't Camera-Cop recognize me? It's me, man! Kevin Pierce! No, not THAT Kevin Pierce. The one that DOESN'T live with Juan Rodriguez. And $200 is like 13 windshield stickers AND five bucks in change. From just one picture! It was a nice picture, don't get me wrong. It was way better than anything Sears has done for my family for sure, but not two hundred dollars. That's rape. It makes me want to call the cops... oh... shit.

Please stop calling me. You clearly don't have to work so hard to find me anymore because I do such a great job finding you first. I've become the new main character in your book titled "Where's Waldo, the speeding motherfucker.. Make him pay." That's more than enough fun for both of us. We don't need to actually talk.

Take the money you use to make these stickers and the money that you pay to your rude-ass call center reps, and send it to the families of your fallen and injured police officers. I'll do my best to go 36 mph on your four-lane 30 mph highway to help subsidize.

And from now on, can you please try to get my good side in these pictures? You always get the door with the dent and the side of the bumper that totally looks bloated. I'm tempted to start making "Does this Speed Camera picture make my car look fat?" bumper stickers. Hey, do you want to buy one? They're fifteen dollars!

You don't have to decide now. I'll call you in a year, okay?

Love always,
Kevin Pierce

Kids in a bar... or wherever the hell they want to be.

I live in a fairly nice neighborhood where the HOA so graciously charges only a metric shitload to handle trash pick-up and maintain the grassy areas where the neighborhood children can play.

So why is it that every single time I drive home there are children playing football and soccer in the middle of the street? And how does my neighborhood have the ability to breed so exponentially that in June the number of kids in the street totals about sixty, but then by the end of August my neighborhood looks like Woodstock for midgets? The only difference is that instead of listening to Jimi Hendrix they're listening to the ice cream truck play "Silent Night" on 95 degree days. There are probably more drugs here, too considering the amount of anal sex twelve year olds are having these days.


Actual view from my windshield.



Listen, I want to like your children. I don't want to drive to the grocery store and have the words "Darwin's work" come out of my mouth every time a bicycle comes out of nowhere and bounces off the hood of my car. I don't want to come back from work and feel like the only way for me to avoid running my car through a gauntlet of sticks and taunts is to put a plow on my Malibu and eliminate the gauntlet altogether. I want your kids to live through the summer because my lawn isn't going to rake itself for three dollars - split between a dozen kids... dog crap and all. It's amazing - by the time October rolls around.

And since when did "in traffic" become a perfect place to leave a bicycle, a skateboard, or a razor scooter? Since when was a bicycle worth anything with both tires removed and the chain being used for what I can only assume is a game of 6th grade Running Man? What happens when these kids get their hands on fire?

Where are the parents?? Do you want your kids to end up like this?


Your kid.


Last night I was at my local bar watching the Washington Capitals kick the shit out of the New York Rangers. (Kevin Pierce Likes This). A girl who could not have even been twenty one herself actually said the words "I'm babysitting" when asked if the toddler she was with was hers. Shortly after this the little girl began "gettin' low" up against a garbage can filled with cigarette butts and empty Corona bottles. She then shoved her head up the shirt of her babysitter and proceeded to motorboat her while she sipped a pineapple and vodka cocktail. At least she had the decency to decide that it was time to go home at 10:30, but I swear to God another woman came upstairs with a baby hanging off her shoulder as soon as babysitter-of-the-year left. I can only imagine what the actual parents of that child were doing to make a smoky bar on a Friday night the better option for a five year old. I'd say they may have been playing tackle football in my street at the time, but I've never seen a parent out there once so I know that's not possible.

I suppose what may be needed are fundamentals. I'm not a parent, but I'd say that there are three places a little kid shouldn't be. 1) Bars. 2) The middle of the street. 3) Too dead to rake my lawn....

Parenting : no license required.

River Myst, bitches.

Ogdensburg, NY... A google image search yields the picture you see above. It's in far-Northern New York. It's about as far north as you can get without a passport by the time June 1st, 2009 comes around (so if you're 18 and you want to get hammered in Montreal, it's time to get your passport.) I'm 29 and I could drink in your mom's lap if I wanted to, so this news really means nothing to me.

Anyway, enough about complicated travel document requirements and passports to your mom. We're here to talk about wine, but first I'd like to offer a tad more information about the region.

Ogdensburg, NY is located halfway between "Honey, Are We Lost?" and "Holy Shit, I Just Saw a Six Year Old With A Rifle, NY." Until recently they were locally famous for having a sign by their dollar store that read "City of Ogdensburg," but as of 2007 they have a sign, a dollar store AND a winery. It's also the only place I've ever been where there is designated parking for Amish wagons at their Wal-Mart. So watch your step because there's a 30% chance of horse shit in the lingerie department.

So when my mother came down to DC to visit me earlier this month I was impressed - as always - by the generous gifts she brought. These included two six pound bags of cheese curd, two bags of pretzels, and a bottle of table wine from River Myst; the new local winery. My wife and I don't drink an awful lot of wine so it admittedly sat on the counter for awhile. When I look at that bottle and see "Ogdensburg" on it I really can't believe it didn't come in a can (or with a free puck of skoal), but I've been having enough trouble sleeping lately that I figured I'd give it a shot.

So here I am drinking this grape juice from River Myst and I'm writing about wine. I can't believe this shit isn't Welch's. It's sweeter than a chocolate-covered winning lottery ticket, but it has to have a higher alcohol content than an Amy Winehouse urine sample because my ass is suddenly kicked, and I'm a pretty big dude. I'm a pretty big dude who is about as much of an oenophile I am an olympic long jumper. I'm a pretty big dude who would rather have one Jreck Sub than a case of the world's best wine. Seriously, I'm a huge dude. Don't fuck with me.

But I can tell you that this wine is fairly refreshing, and like most other alcoholic beverages it makes you feel better about yourself. So if you're a woman, then drink this wine on your fat days. If you're a man, then drink this wine when your wife is having a fat day and into her sixth consecutive hour of "Jon & Kate Plus 8." If you're a parent, then give this stuff to your kids when they're going ape-shit. They'll ramp up hard, but they'll love the taste and then they'll hit the ground before you get back from the dollar store. And finally, if you're transgender, then drink this wine while watching "Jon & Kate Plus 8" on your fat days.

This winery is owned by a retired State Trooper, so it's cop wine. After having a couple glasses it's pretty clear that he'd rather you get hammered at home than be on his roads or his god-damned lawn. So here's to you, Officer LaMay. If it wasn't a federal offense to send alcohol to Maryland via USPS then I'd ask you to send me a case, but I'll probably never be in Ogdensburg again. I haven't been there in three years and I've still got horse shit on my tires, so I'll just say thanks for the juice.

*Editors note - this post is pending hang-over review.

His Name Is Kurtis

"Tell him you want him to finish a beer in four seconds and he will keep trying until he does it" - Brandon

"I have video of him smashing a fucking Heineken keg can on his head until it dented" - Innocent anonymous bystander

"He's turning thirty the day after the barbeque." - State of Vermont birth records database

T-shirt pattern by Jackson Pollock

Brandon - my brother - found this guy somewhere. Details are vague, but this guy should have his own traveling shit show. His name is Kurtis.

I've never met Kurtis. The only Kurtis I know has been immortalized in static and live-action film while engaging in heroic feats of "jackassery." Most images I've seen of this living legend are party photos taken in a time-lapse fashion. These aren't nature shots of dew slowly retreating from the tips of grass blades in the morning. Nor are they of a rare sea turtle egg hatching. These are far more explicit and carnal. Consider that a warning. Proceed with caution.

Kurtis' montages typically document his PBR-fueled adventures from first beer to unconsciousness. From what I can tell they last approximately 26.2 minutes (aka - a "Kurtis Marathon.") One can typically tell how far Kurtis is into the event by the following:

3 minutes : Beer Fangs

"Beer fangs are for pimps."

Five Minutes : Ambition

Ten Minutes : Seasonal

(Depicted - winter)

Fifteen Minutes : Time Travel

(Kurtis returning from duty as a trucker in 1997. Note 6 lb cell phone souvenir.)


Twenty Minutes: "Baby Please"

"No seriously, come here... I'll show you them."

Twenty-Two Minutes : Certain Defeat?

Twenty-Three Minutes : "Aww hell no"

Twenty Seven Minutes : Fallen Hero

According to the locals, Kurtis regenerates and emerges days later more powerful than before. Much like Jesus, but with a smaller t-shirt.


Special thanks to Brandon for a lifetime's worth of photographic documentation and - of course - Kurtis.

PS - Don't eat me (or try to drink me) on Memorial Day.