I Probably Should Have Died Then

Ever had one of those experiences that, while enjoyable at the time, makes you break out in cold sweats 12 hours (or 12 minutes) later upon reflection of the shear stupidity of the acts involved? These are those experiences.
Episode 4: RACCOON HUNT!
RACCOON HUNT! is in all caps and contains an exclamation point because that's the way it was always said. For example:

Mom: I think I hear something out in the garbage.
Ted, Colin, Kevin, and I (simultaneously): RACCOON HUNT!

or

Rhett: Dude, if I play another game of FIFA '95 I'm going to kill myself. You guys want to do anything else?
Colin, Kevin, and I: RACCOON HUNT!

There were several incarnations of the RACCOON HUNT!, but one in particular sticks out in my mind. Wrote a song about it. Here it go...

It happened in the Summer of Drunk - a forgotten (quite literally) June during which Shane worked at a wings joint in Batavia. I'd close shop with him and get drunk every night. Every night for an entire month. It was fun. It was cheap. It was 30 days I'll never remember and 30,000,000 brain cells I'm never getting back. Anywho... after a normal night of binge drinking, Rhett, my trusty and, more importantly, always sober sidekick (and therefore de facto designated driver) was taking me back to the Copperglow Compound at around 1am. As I told Rhett he was my best friend for driving me home he said, "Dude, why are your little brothers running around the house?"

RACCOON HUNT!

And so it begins.

I should mention that up to this point, a RACCOON HUNT! had never actually yielded a RACCOON KILL! Tonight that would change.

I reconnoitered with Colin and Kevin and was dismayed to discover they had already claimed dibs on all the best weaponry available in the Heffernan household. By "best weaponry" I mean a sawed-off BB gun (yes, I said a sawed-off BB gun) that required at least 30 pumps to even be noticeable and an old modified suction-cup crossbow that we had received one year from Santa and that within 10 minutes of being unwrapped had been retrofitted to shoot darts from our dartboard. Seeing that our usual cache of slingshots had been lost at sea (see Chapter 1 of these sagas), I was left with 2 options:

1. An old and unwieldy bow and arrow set my sister had gotten one Christmas
2. A sharp stick and some rocks

I opted for the stick and rocks.

This night fortune was on our side. I ran into the woods to flush out the raccoon. Colin peppered me with BBs while Kevin kept his crossbow at the ready. Surprisingly, the sticks and rocks were less effective than one would imagine. Go figure. So I flush the raccoon out into the open, and, to spare you the gory details, we didn't have any problems with raccoons in the garbage after that night.

Yeah, it was kind of anticlimatic and yeah, I guess I was never really in mortal peril - unless you don't consider RABIES to be serious... but no one got rabies. I was pretty drunk, but on a drunkenness richter scale this was probably only around a 6.5 out of 10. For reference I have raced (and won) the Indianapolis 500 at 7 and delivered triplets via Caesarian section at an 8. So this really wasn't too bad, I just wanted to type RACCOON HUNT! 3 or 4 times. Suck it...

Sweet New Website

Leave it to a beer manufacturer to create the next coolest website:

Click here


I took the liberty of giving the site a test run: Click here


Have fun wasting hours of your life, trust me, you will.

My glorious Rocket past

OK, so I was really bored at work today and wandered onto the McNicholas HS website (www.mcnhs.org). I actually enjoy looking at the track pages because they are very well kept up by the current coach - Dan Rosembaum. He also has all the old records back up - of which 2 Heffernans are there (Colin is 50.5 for the 400, and Colin and I are still on the best 4x400 team at 3:25.2).

But anywho, I was looking at last seasons performance of McNick soccer. Led by the sagacious head coach - Chris Kanis - and his excellent assistants - Padre and Chris Steuer, the Rockets achieved a stellar record of 2-14 on the pitch, with victories over Roger Bacon and Withrow. Unfortunately, on the season the Rockets were outscored to 68 to 11, with 9-0 blowouts to both St. X and Moeller. Just about every other game was a blowout, as can be told by the total score on the season. And there's no hope in site, what with the wondrous Jeff Hutchinson leading the reserve team to ignominous defeat as well.

I remember Ted's and Ian's years at McNick, where the soccer team was a power to be reckoned with. And I remember how even with Berning as coach, we managed to win a district title. However, McNick is now terrible, and for some reason I'm happy about that. Maybe it's because I know my junior year team was the last great team before the death spiral that began senior year. I just like to know that after I left McNick soccer, it was never as good again as it was under my watch.

Countdown to Opening Day

The Reds drive to the pennant begins Monday as we trounce the lame Cubs. I am actually pretty optimistic about the season with a servicable rotation for the first time in 10 years. Yeah, we didn't get the #1 starter that we really needed, but it should be a competative team.

The best part is that Griffey has had a LIGHTS OUT spring. He hit over .500 in the World Baseball Classic - clearly the best player for the USA. He has been close to .500 with the team since then and is hitting the ball all over the park.

My prediction is simple. If Griffey stays healthy and plays 130 games, and we have 3 starters who can put together 200 innings a piece, we will be in the Wild Card race in September. I'm not saying we'll win it, just be in it!

Matt Doherty on Michigan Avenue

This weekend Liz, me , Mom, and Dad were walking down Michigan Avenue in Chicago when who do we see, none other than ex-ND head basketball coach Matt Doherty. I was excited to see him walking by and was going to say something to him when I suddenly realized, what the heck could I ever say to this guy? Here are some possible opening lines:

1. Wow, nice to meet you again Coach (he once addressed the men of Knott Hall so I feel we have already been properly introduced), you should have never left Notre Dame.

2. Wow, nice to meet you again Coach, that really sucks how you almost ran North Carolina's program into the ground, and then have to see them win it all shortly thereafter. How did that feel?

3. Hello coach, how are things at Florida Atlantic?

As you can see this man definitely made some poor life choices.

George Mason is my hero

So I have no idea who George Mason the person is/was, but my guess is that he's celebrating along with the rest of us at the providence of his namesake basketball team.

Yeah, I had UConn winning it all, and it would have given me a much better chance of winning the bracket pool if they had beat the Patriots, but I just couldn't help but root for the men in green. Yeah, I'm done in my bracket, but I've got a solid 4th place finish. I almost had no no team left that I could really get behind and root for in the Final Four - I hate Florida and UCLA, UConn is only OK (since they're Big East), and I've gotten sick of hearing about "Big Baby" and LSU. But now I have George Mason Partiots, the biggest Cinderella to make the Final Four since 1986's LSU team (also an 11 seed).

Can George Mason win? I don't know. I never gave them them a chance again UConn. And when it went into overtime, I considered it over. UConn had squashed Albany and Washington in similar finishes - George Mason would just be the next victim. But after watching them dominate inside on the big UConn players, I think this George Mason team has got something going. They've survived some big, tough opponents, and I think they have a shot against Florida.

Also, I'd like to point out that Jim Nance and Billy Packer were rude, unprofessional jerks to the NCAA Selection Committee chairman for not including more power conference schools. George Mason was a team they grilled the guy on - saying that league rival Hofstra, or Cincinnati should have made the tournament rather than the Patriots. Nance and Packer made no mention of their open hostility towards the chairman during Sunday's games, something which I distinctly noticed. They are able to accuse and berate, but neither can be apologetic and humble when proven wrong. George Mason, keep making Nance and Packer look stupid!

South Park is the Best Show Ever

For me, tv shows seem to lose their luster the longer they're around. And if you try to go back and watch old episodes they don't seem as entertaining as they originally did. But South Park? That show is the real deal.

I once said that the South Park Scientology send-up from last November was the best television show I have ever seen. Well, I think Matt Stone and Trey Parker may have trumped that with last night's 'The Return of Chef!' season premiere. If you haven't seen it, you MUST catch a re-run either tonight or over the next week. If you have TiVo or a DVR, record it and set it to 'Never Delete' status. It is that good.

Here's the thing that sets South Park apart - their social satire is scathing and ruthless and no one is spared, but it is absolutely spot on. As a Catholic, I've been on the receiving end of many a South Park episode, but I've never taken offense. I can't. They are so on-target that any objective, logical person would be hard-pressed to disagree. Plus, whenever someone dies on the show they crap their pants... explosively. If these two ran on a ticket for President and Vice President I would vote for them. I'm serious...

Screwed by AOL

So today I made another phone call to AOL-Time Warner. Awhile back, I needed a cheap dial-up service. I foolishly resorted to AOL because I had a handy AOL install CD lying around. I installed the dial-up service and have been in Hell ever since.

Today marked the fifth time in six months I've called about the same issue with my account. Apparently, when you have an AOL account and high-speed Internet with Warner Cable, you get your AOL account free. Now, I almost never use the AOL account after the initial need for the dial-up service, but since it was bundled free with my high-speed Internet, I decided not to make a big deal by canceling my account. First mistake.

I first noticed the charge on my account in October. I promptly called and asked why I was being charged. AOL said "don't worry, we'll credit your account and we've made changes so this charge won't appear on your next statement." OK, I said. Second mistake.

I noticed I was being charged again in December. I called and asked to have my account cancelled and my money credited. AOL said "there was an error last month and our billing cycle was reset. We promise there won't be any more charges." OK, I said. Third mistake.

I called and was told similar lies in January and February, though the lie was told to me by the AOL manager in February. Still haven't had my account cancelled, but I got the manager's name (Mark) and email address. I still haven't gotten my account cancelled, though I tried both anger, and niceties to do so. Fourth mistake.

So now we're in March, and I get another bill. I call, and after waiting on hold for nearly 20 minutes because their voice recognition software can't understand I'm saying "M-A-R" as the first three letters of my account name. I finally get to the cancellations department ("Hi, this is Mary") and ask for Mark. Mary says, "Mark was transferred last week, but I can help you with your problem." I then begin explaining my problem again. I'm cool, calm, and collected, and don't lose my patience with Mary, the poor lemming on the other end of the phone who lives and dies by the paper script of lies she is allowed to tell customers. Again I am promised that the problem is escalated and there will not be another issue with my account. When I insist on my account being cancelled, Mary puts me on hold to speak with her manager. She returns momentarily saying that she can cancel my account due to the documented problems with it. I sigh in relief. However, Mary tells me "We can only credit your account for the charge if you maintain your AOL account." Translation, I'm out $25 bucks if I cancel my account. WHAT THE F*%#!!!

So I calmly (I know, my temper didn't explode and I didn't lose control!) responded, "Please escalate the issue to your new manager, don't cancel my account, and credit me the charge on my account." Meanwhile I'm seething mad and, though unusual for me these days, I want to punch Mary right in the face.

OK, so AOL is the most corrupt excuse for a company in America, and I actually am hoping for an Enron-esque debacle to befall them (Terrorists reading this blog, please feel free to target AOL). Apparently the state of Ohio had similar problems, as in June 2005, Ohio settled with AOL in a lawsuit charging AOL with failure to honor customers’ requests to cancel their accounts. Dammit! I'm 9 months too late!

Obviously I should never have contracted in any way with AOL to provide any service. That is the root of this evil. But I am so pissed off that I can't cancel my account without losing my money. Once I get my credit back on my credit card, I am going to call and do anything necessary to cancel my account. What will most likely end up happening is I'll lose my high-speed Internet service and my TV (both provided by Time Warner). Fortunately, AOL is always ready to get their claws into the next sucker.

I'm Tired Of Baseball and Steroids

Since the Barry Bonds Revelation dropped a few weeks ago steroids in baseball have been a pretty hot topic. The consensus of sportswriters and fans alike is that Bonds is guilty, guilty as hell. But lately I've been seeing a very odd argument in defense of Bonds. Namely, that although the unprescribed use of steroids is a federal crime they've never been banned by MLB; ergo, as far as baseball is concerned steroids are, and what Bonds did is, just fine.

This, sirs and madams, is asinine. Is MLB required to add every state and federal law into their rules and regulations? No, because it is pretty much common sense. MLB should be able to strike Bonds and his records from the books because he was committing a federal crime for several years that was directly accountable for his statistics and play. Imagine if Bonds' home runs occurred because every time he got a hit he just pulled out a gun and shot the opposing team's players as he ran around the bases. I'm fairly certain that pulling out a gun and shooting people isn't in the MLB by-laws, but I think his records probably wouldn't last - call it a hunch.

There are a lot of things that aren't explicitly written down as rules. You do not kick the umpire in the sack. You cannot take a dump on second base. You should not sexually molest the Philly Phanatic. But these things are still wrong, either legally (in a don't-drop-the-soap sense of the word, not the MLB sense) or morally. Bonds shouldn't be excused because of a glitch in the system. He shouldn't be let off the hook because what he did was, technically (again, in the eyes of MLB only), legal.

This will make it simple. Arrest Bonds, McGwire, and Sosa on steroid and tax-evasion charges. I think everyone can agree that although what they did was okay with baseball, it isn't with the federal government. Then, as they sit out their prison sentences and re-enact scenes from Oz we can decide whether or not they are worthy of records and recognition by baseball and its fans. That should help to uncloud our judgement on the matter.

The Basketball Gods Hate Me

Less than 24 hours after the basketball gods dropped a collective deuce on my NCAA bracket they did it again, this time in the form a double OT Notre Dame loss to Michigan in the NIT.

I've said it before and I'll say it again - this loss falls squarely on the shoulders of Mike Brey. Notre Dame had 14 losses this season by a combined 54 points. Factor out the 14-point loss to NC State and that's 13 losses by just 40 points, or just over 3 points/loss. Six overtime games (3 in double OT), six losses. His line-ups have no rhyme or reason. One night McAlarney will play 20 minutes and Ayers will DNP-CD, the next Ayers plays 20 minutes and McAlarney is DNP-CD. Rob Kurz continues the trend of unathletic big men who think they are point guards and 3-point specialists without repurcussions. Colin Falls has custom shoes made out of lead. We are wearing hideous black uniforms. And now we lose one of the best players to come through the program in a long time, Chris Quinn.

This program is in shambles, and for some reason it appears Notre Dame is sticking by Brey. If he doesn't take Notre Dame to the Sweet 16 next year, I'm starting firemikebrey.com and buying billboard space on Grape Rd. We could totally rehire Matt Doherty from Florida Atlantic...

Reds trade Wily Mo

So the Reds picked up a new pitcher today - Bronson Arroyo - from the Boston Red Sox. Unfortunately, they traded Wily Mo Pena to do it. I'm not saying the Reds don't need pitching help - Ian has made the remark he could start for the Reds and do no worse, and I tend to agree. However, Wily Mo was 24 years old, and I think the Reds should have traded someone else to keep him around (possibly Austin Kearns). Wily's an up-and-comer, and I think you'll hear big things out of him in Boston.

Arroyo is OK - nothing special out of him. He's a decent pitcher, but gives up a lot of hits and doesn't give a lot of innings. Maybe that's because he was in Boston where they have a glut of pitching. He's only 29, so he's not over-the-hill yet. And we did get a little cash to defer his salary over the next three year ($11.25 million).

In the end, the Reds had too many outfielders and now they are freeing up some space. They have picked up two pitchers that are supposed to provide some help to the starting rotation - Arroyo and Williams. Mostly likely they both stink (which is why the Reds got them) but at least the Reds are making some deals and trying! I'm hoping for a .500 season.

Stupid Bracketology

Here's the dilemma I've faced around the 3rd week of March every year for the past 20 years or so - I have an NCAA tournament bracket I have filled out that, if successful, will not only earn me a monetary reward but also bragging rights for being the smartest person in the world and I want that bracket to be wrong. And not just slightly wrong, but completely, embarrassingly wrong.

The thing about tournament brackets is you pick the better teams to win because, well, they're better and, thus, they give you a better chance of winning. So you fill out your bracket with your Dukes and your UConns and your other traditional powers making the final four because that is the rational route. But the problem is, at least for me, once the games tip off I'm rooting for the Southerns and Wichita States and anyone from the Mountain West to knock off the big dogs. It's like I fill out my bracket and then I take a big dump on it. I'm watching these games and screaming for the underdogs and people are like, "Dude, why are you pulling for Pacific? Don't you have B.C. in the Sweet 16?" And I'm like, "Yeah, I do, but a) I hate B.C., 2) Pacific is a 14 seed, and c) Go to hell." How can you not root for the underdogs once this bohemoth gets underway, even at the expense of your our bracket and college basketball acumen?

For me, the bracket starts to take away the magic of the tournament. You want the expected to happen in order to win, but what makes the NCAA tournament the best sporting event of the year is the unexpected. That, or I'm just bitter that I had both Syracuse and Seton Hall in the Sweet 16, but I think it's the whole "magic" bullshit I just wrote. Oh well, GO Shockers!

UPDATE: Anyone else have Iowa in the finals? Anyone? Dammit...

I Probably Should Have Died Then

Ever had one of those experiences that, while enjoyable at the time, makes you break out in cold sweats 12 hours (or 12 minutes) later upon reflection of the shear stupidity of the acts involved? These are those experiences.
Episode 3: Roman Candles Hurt When They Hit You In The Eye

As I mentioned in a previous posting, Heffernans are not overtly safety-conscious. Once upon a time we used to have the best 4th of July fireworks show this side or our neighbors. There was this firework stand out in hickville that would sell you 2-for-1, Class A fireworks so long as you signed a waiver saying you would be lighting them off out of state. Cincinnati is close enough to Indiana and Kentucky (unfortunately) that this was plausible and we'd annually drop $200-$300 on fireworks, which, since it was 2-for-1, was like $500 worth.

It all started innocously enough - paper airplanes with bottlerockets attached that would fly hella fast, blow up, then catch on fire. A year later we wound a bunch of bottlerockets together that inadvertantly got caught in a patio umbrella before exploding directly above our 9-months pregnant aunt whose water promptly broke and who gave birth to her second child less than 24 hours later. A year after that we started a family tradition - roman candle dodgeball. Roman candle dodgeball consisted of each sibling taking turns standing about 15 feet away. The rest of us would each light a roman candle and fire away at whoever was 'it'. Hits were rare, but when they did occur whoever was 'it' would instinctively panic and then it was like lions to the slaughter. A year later we implemented a safety feature - whoever was 'it' was allowed to hold an old racquetball racket for self-defense.

Anyway, the impetus for this post occurred about 4 years ago at our uncle's house (it was this uncle's wife who had the 4th of July baby several years before). This uncle, with the aid of his son, was quite possibly a more enthusiastic pyro than we were. This may have been because we were getting older, had wives, etc... or it may just be in the Heffernan genes. Regardless, we showed up at his place for the 4th and he had about 60 gross of bottlerockets and roman candles. Not only that, he had purchased about a dozen of those lighter sticks to facilitate our pyromania. Shit went down after dinner - Colin, Kevin, Ted, Dad, Uncle Dan, Danny Jr., and I were in the midst of an all-out war in his backyard. Suddenly, my sister, wife, Ted's wife, our mom, aunt, and great uncle (who is a priest!) launched a sneak attack from the balcony. You cannot trust girls. One minute they're drinking wine coolers, the next they're blindsiding you with roman candles and black cats. I looked up to see the source of the fireball that had burned a hole clean through my new Reds hat when I was hit. A roman candle shot hit off the underside of my hat's bill and bounced right into my eye. I know I throw around the term 'cat-like reflexes' pretty casually, but in this instance I had some fucking cat-like reflexes and was able to close my eye just in time. Kevin was right next to me and saw the whole thing happen. There was a momentary pause as everyone realized I had just been hit in the face and was writhing in pain. It was like everyone suddenly realized we were adults and were shooting fireworks, dangerous fireworks, at one another from relatively close range. The tension was broken however with this jem from Kevin, "He's okay. He still has 1 good eye left!". And so continued the war.

I think that was the last serious firework shootout any of us took part in, it certainly was for me. There were no side-effects, I was completely fine, but that one was just too close for comfort. That's not to say that I wouldn't play roman candle dodgeball as long as I'm not 'it' - that game is awesome!

HD-DVD v. Blu Ray: Who Fricking Cares?!

Ted posted something awhile back about the format war for high-definition DVDs between HD-DVD and Blu Ray. So if you want the skinny, go read that post because I'm not going to reiterate the details here. Today I'm going to explain my theory about this impending "war" that all the techie and a/v experts are talking about. What I'm going to say is this: there is no format "war" and neither format is going anywhere.


Back in the day there was a true format battle for your VCR pitting Beta (Sony) v. VHS (everyone else). This was a legitimate problem because there was a basic incompatibility between Beta and VHS. Beta tapes, although superior in both audio and video, were about three times the size of VHS tapes. It was like putting a box of cereal into your VCR. You know what the difference is between HD-DVD and Blu Ray? The pit size - which translates to Blu Ray having greater capacity. In other words, they are pretty much identical. The average viewer won't be able to tell the difference between the two. So while a winner was necessary between Beta and VHS because a dual-format player would be the size of a washing machine, such is not the case with HD-DVD and Blu Ray. Just like you can buy a DVD player that also plays CDs, to make a component capable of playing both formats would be trivial. Maybe a bit of a premium on the price tag but that will eventually come down as the formats mature and more people accept the HD revolution.

So while all the major movie studios jump ship between formats and Microsoft lines up with HD-DVD and techno-geeks say the apocalypse is nigh, just forget about it. Because the only thing for certain is that there is no consensus right now, and unless one of the two takes a major shit once released later this year both are here to stay.

Oh No, Children!

Isaac Hayes has asked to be released from his contract as the voice of character 'Chef' on the totally awesome cartoon 'South Park' citing a "growing insensitivity toward personal spiritual beliefs" in the media.


I find the timing of this to be rather interesting. South Park has skewered Catholics (my religion of choice for 29+ years), Jews, and Mormons multiple times over the past 9 years. Heck, the thing that got South Park noticed in the first place was a bloody internet cartoon pitting Santa Claus against Jesus in a last-man-standing fight to the death. Hayes seemed fine with all of this, but a couple months after South Park parodies Scientology (Hayes' religion of choice for the past 14 years), he starts throwing around words like "intolerance" and "bigotry". What a fucking hypocrite. Man, are these Scientologists nutso or what?

I think Trey Parker and Matt Stone sum it up best (as they always seem to be able to do), "... [we] never heard a peep out of Isaac in any way until we did Scientology. He wants a different standard for religions other than his own, and to me, that is where intolerance and bigotry begin."

Goodbye, Respectability

In case you haven't heard, Major League Soccer just sold out. Literally. Red Bull just bought a majority stake in the MLS's biggest franchise, the New York/New Jersey MetroStars and beginning next season the team will be renamed - I shit you not - Red Bull New York.

I'm not joking. A professional sports team's name has become a corporation. I guess it's not such a far cry from the European teams that have corporate logos all over their jerseys, gear, and stadiums, but at least they have the decency to not completely transform for a few bucks. God bless America - taking sports and corporate whoring to all new levels...

I Probably Should Have Died Then

Ever had one of those experiences that, while enjoyable at the time, makes you break out in cold sweats 12 hours (or 12 minutes) later upon reflection of the shear stupidity of the acts involved? These are those experiences.
Episode 2: That One Time The Tree Fell On Me

The Copperglow Compound is situated at the end of a cul de sac. This particular cul de sac ends high atop a hill and is surrounded by a few acres of wooded land. This wooded area has been beneficial over the years for two reasons:

1. It provides a certain level of privacy while lighting off illegal, Class A fireworks or while having drunken fiestas or any combination of the two.
   
2. It provides adequate fuel - in the form of wood - during the harsh Cincinnati winter when mom and dad refuse to turn the heat higher than the minimum temperature at which the pipes will not freeze and the stupid ducts leading to the bedroom I slept in did not work.
   

The one caveat is that the fuel doesn't come easy - a lot of hard, back-breaking labor would go into warding off hypothermia. We have an old, historic oak in the backyard that we can't touch because it's on the Cincinnati historic registry. Some of the chunks of wood that would fall off that puppy in severe storms couldn't be split for years. Endless mauls were ruined as the Heffernan boys honed their log splitting skills on log sections we called "Widow Makers" (the last of which Kevin and I split about 3 Thanksgivings ago. When Colin and Ted heard the news I thought they were going to cry because they missed out). I digress.

The particular incident that nearly claimed my life happened in the woods along the side of our house. Dad always hated it, but we had a knack for cutting down living trees (and thus promoting the eventual slippage of our home into Hunley St. below) because we couldn't stand waiting for another branch to fall off the protected oak. The tree we had decided to tackle this day was about 20ft tall and 10-12 inches in diameter. In other words, it was a fairly large tree. Certainly not the type of tree you would want to fall on you. Unfortunately, this tree fell on me. More specifically this tree fell right across my upper legs, pinning me to the ground in sheer agony. Here's how it went down.

We're not the most safety-conscious family - dad cutting dead branches off the oak with a chainsaw while perched precariously atop a ladder and roman candle dodgeball being two prime examples. I had taken a break from hacking the tree with our 50lb solid-steel maul and Colin or Kevin had begun swinging. I mosied a little further down the hill to partake in some vine swinging that had death drop (if you drop, you probably would die - I told you, not very safety-conscious). I started back up the hill when I heard the telltale cry, "Timber!" Now, usually, one would cry, "Timber!", just as the tree begins to tip. My jack-ass younger brothers decided to hold off on the perfunctory, "Timber!", until the tree was about 6 inches above my head. I feel back instinctively, relying on my cat-like reflexes, to avoid a direct blow to the head. The saved my precious face (that's the moneymaker, baby!) but threw me somewhat off balance. The tree initially struck me in the chest, knocking me to the ground. The tree then resumed its own fall, finally coming to rest across my thighs. First off, let me say that if there had been broken stumps or twigs sticking up from the ground I would have been impaled. This was a big f%^&ing tree. That being said, there is something inherently human wherein upon seeing someone rather seriously injured by way of rather humorous circumstances it's in our nature to laugh - think seeing someone get hit in the bag. My brothers laughed. They laughed hard. I cried. "What the f%^& are you laughing at? A f@#$ing tree just fell on me!", I said. They laughed harder. "Dudes, seriously, this isn't f$%^ing funny! I can't really feel my legs.", I said. They laughed even harder.

After 5-10 minutes of laughter at my expense and at which point my feet had fallen asleep (which was a good sign, since I could still feel them) my brothers set to the task of helping me out from under the tree. Thing was, Colin and Kevin couldn't lift the tree on their own. So Colin ran over to our neighbors, the Wolfers, to request the services of their friend Joey. Upon their return about 15 minutes later (I swear Colin must've stopped for a sandwich of something) they managed to lift the tree enough so that I was able to slide out from underneath it.

For about two weeks I had some pretty sweet bruising across my upper legs. When people asked what had happened I just shrugged and said, "Well, that's what happens when a tree falls on you."

Breaking Steriod News!

Seriously, who didn't see this coming? Come on, look at those biceps. And don't even get me started about the finely sculpted leg muscles. The excuse, "I run daily". Sure, we buy that. It was no mystery how someone at that age could maintain a physique like that. The secret is out, the jig is up, Mr. Heffernan, put down the syringe.

I Probably Should Have Died Then

Ever had one of those experiences that, while enjoyable at the time, makes you break out in cold sweats 12 hours (or 12 minutes) later upon reflection of the shear stupidity of the acts involved? These are those experiences.
Episode 1: That F#$%ing Canoe Trip
A summer tradition for the older Heffernan boys was a canoeing trip on the Little Miami with a group of friends. Typically, I invited my buddies Rhett, Wernke, and Shane and Ted would invite his buddies Jason, Rench, and Tate. The catch was Ted and I are brothers and Shane and Jason are brothers, so the sibling rivalry was palpable.

Preparations for the day-long event began the day prior to the trip. Shane and I would usually spend in the neighborhood of $100 on fireworks and an additional $50 on slingshots. Ted and Jason would do likewise. Neither of us were willing to divulge the contents and size of our caches, both secretly hoping to outgun the other.

On this particular trip Shane had loaded all of our ammo into two large garbage bags for protection from the elements. Normally, this would be adequate to guard against the average splashing incurred from paddles and rapids. What these garbage bags would certainly NOT protect against was Shane tipping over our canoe as we first set it into the water. Shane protested it was because the 6-inch deep water was too cold and moving too swiftly. My assumption is it was because Shane is a pussy. Either way, we managed to salvaged a few bottle rockets, roman candles, and a single slingshot. I looked back as Ted and Jason entered the river. They already had matches lit.

The sheer volume of fire directed towards us for the majority of that 10-mile ride ensured a large number of hits upon our craft. Fortunately, we had positioned Rhett at the head of our canoe - mainly because Rhett was a sissy-pants and couldn't paddle, but also because whenever the maelstrom would begin Shane and I would turn our craft to face Ted and Jason's canoe head on, thus allowing Rhett to take the brunt of their attack.

Although the amount of fire in the air that day was probably enough to set back the ozone layer a few years, the biggest strike we took was from Jason's slingshot. Shane, Rhett, and I had just managed to tip Ted and Jason's canoe by taking Jason's shoe hostage and then ramming them as they attempted to retrieve it. We then pulled away about 70 yards in front of Ted and Jason - safely out of firework and (we assumed) slingshot range - to bask in our glory. Suddenly, I was struck in the back by what I could only believe was either a bullet or some large, misdirected bird. Shane dove to cover me like Jackie-O in Dallas and that's when I heard the cackles from Ted and Jason. I grabbed my back to feel a welt about 4-inches in diameter. Believing they had launch a rock, I let loose a string of profanities that still echo in the Ohio River Valley. I was somewhat sheepish when they revealed the actual culprit - a grape. Before you begin laughing, let me tell you something - a grape launched from a hunting slingshot from 70 yards hurts. It hurts very badly. It hurts like getting punched in the bag... with a grape... launched from a slingshot, except in the back.

Shane and I retaliated immediately. We feigned (well, not really, I was physically and emotionally incapacitated) injury as Ted and Jason moved in for the killshot(s). When they were within range, Wernke released a hail of roman candles. One caught Jason in the gut and just sat there, burning his stomach for what seemed like hours, but was probably only actually like 45 minutes in real life. Jason's scream was more blood-curdling and girlish than mine upon being struck by the grape. He dove into the river - because nothing cleans an open, festering wound quite like the pristine waters of the Little Miami - hoping to relieve his agony and, to a lesser extent, extinguish the large fireball burning a hole in his abdomen.

Victory was ours. We had tipped their canoe, burned a hole in Jason's stomach which still exists to this day, and avoided serious injury (except for the grape, of course). Naturally, Ted and Jason would not allow this to stand and the 45-minute drive back to the Copperglow Compound became a high-speed showdown - Shane, Rhett, Wernke, and I in Shane's '87 Chevrolet Baretta and Ted and Jason in Jason's '90 Plymouth Laser. The driving was fast and furious, but apparently not very exciting because I fell asleep somewhere around King's Island. I woke at one point to Rhett putting on my seat belt, next thing I knew we were winding our way down our street. Mom Heffernan greeted us with this, "Hi, guys! How was it? Oh my gosh! Shane, your tires are on fire!". Mom was exaggerating. The tires were not on fire. Actually, it was the brakes that were on fires. Women... they can't tell a tie rod from a carburetor. I quickly ran to get the hose while Shane fanned his wheels with a t-shirt and tried to convince my mom, "It's okay, Mrs. Heffernan. This happens all the time."

Tires extinguished, aloe applied to my grape-afflicted back, and Neosporin applied to Jason's gaping stomach wound, we settled in for a relaxing afternoon of high stakes badminton in the backyard.

7 varieties of poop

(This post is PG-13, due to content and explicit language.)

Everyone poops - it's just a fact of life - except girls, girls don't poop. I've compiled a list of certain types of poops or pooping afflictions that have bedeviled mankind since the beginning of time. They are listed below, in no particular order.


Poopus athleticus - The requirement to poop whenever athletic activities are set to begin; not limited to participation in the athletic activity.
Occassion:
When physical acticity causes a reaction whereby the body wishes to purge itself of unnecessary weight. This variety can occur before, during, or after the physical activity, but is most succesfully dealt with if dealt with before the activity begins.
Harmful side effects: pooping of pants during activity; diarrhea; poor athletic performance due to inabilty to block out fears or pooping pants; missing activity altogether due to pooping.
How this affected Ian: Ian once missed the first half of a McNicholas High School soccer game in which he was supposed to start because he had to poop.

Poopus fauna - The need to poop when encountering a natural ecosystem dominated by plants and wild animals.
Occassions:
Often occurs when walking in parks or nature reserves. Most common in travelers on vacations to areas of pristine natural beauty. May be brought on by mankinds desire to befoul anything of natural beauty. Usually occurs early on in entrance to the ecosystem, and subsequently ruins the trip due to wanting to see the park before pooping.
Harmful side effects: constipation; due to insufficient facilities possible wiping of bottom with unacceptable natural material resulting in a rash.

Poopus maximus - A very large poop.
Occassions:
Usually brought on by either delayed pooping or by eating an exceptionally large meal high in protein and fiber. Leads directly to Poopus uncontrollabus, and possibly to Poopus afraidicus. Characterized as being of one of two varieties: 1) a poop large in volume that requires multiple flushes in order to properly dispose; or 2) a single pooping action producing a very large sample that is painful to pass (the "large log" variety).
Harmful side effects: Strong possiblity to burst an O-ring; toilet blockage and overflow (disastrous if plunger is not readily available); grunting heard by friends and/or family; inabilty to disguise size of poop due to multiple flushing actions (if person is courteous) or extreme odor (if no "courtesy flushes" provided).

Poopus carnivorous - The bodily response after having eaten meat.
Occassions:
Normally the size of the meat is directly proportional to the size of the poop and the speed at which the eater is affected. Most commonly this affliction arises as a result of eating beef, though turkey, pork, and chicken afflictions have been documented. Depending on the portion of meat, Poopus maximus can be involved.
Harmful side effects: Large portions of meat are directly corrollated toward the second variety of Poopus maximus; sometimes need to purge leads to Poopus uncontrollabus, and must be dealt with in public places or inopportune times.
How this affected Ian: After once consuming 64oz. Porterhouse steaks at Chicago's Chop House, Ian and Colin befouled the Hotel Intercontinental. Oddly, the poop was delayed, almost taunting them to leave the hotel or take a walk in the park. Ian and Colin did not fall victim to such chicanery.

Poopus uncontrollabus - The inability to control or delay bowel movements.
Occassions:
This variety affects most every person at some time or another. Can be brought on by diets high in fiber, or extreme binge eating, especially of meat. Those affected cannot stop a bowel movement through physical means and must always be within shouting distance of a toilet.
Harmful side effects: leads to purges in less accomodating locations, such as Port-O-Potties, gas stations, and friends' or relatives' homes; inability to enter areas without public restrooms; high possibility to poop pants or "touch cloth".
How this affected Ian: Ian has had too many of these to mention in this limited space, but the worst involved a Reds game and Lunken airport. Reluctant to use the facilities at Great American Ballpark with all the Kentuckians, Ian believed he could "hold it" from downtown (in Reds traffic) to the Copperglow Compound. Despite some reckless and amazing driving by Colin, Ian could not "hold it". An emergency stop was required at Lunken Airfield. A momentary flash of Poopus afraidicus (see below) overcame Ian when he believed the Port-O-Let could potentially be home to a hobo or a raccoon; however that (very) quickly passed. The Port-O-Let in question will never be the same - mainly because it was pitch black and Ian did not realize the seat was down until he noticed some unfortunate "splattering".

Poopus afraidicus - A fear to poop.
Occassions:
Usually brought on by a specific situation or issue regarding one's location, accomodations, or accompaniment, this variety is the only known method of delaying Poopus uncontrollabus. The fear of pooping causes a sort of mental block in the afflicted, which is more successful than willpower or and physical means (pinching cheeks, plugs, meditation) at stopping a looming bowel movement. Thus, fear is stronger than desire.
Harmful side effects: does not stop the need to poop, and usually results in both Poopus uncontrollabus and Poopus maximus; can result in severe constipation, diarrhea, and sweating; eating any food high in fiber will overcome even fear, and can lead to immediate, explosive evacuation.
How this affected Ian: During their now legendary Boundary Waters vacation, Ian did not poop for 6+ days for fear of being bitten by a snake, raccoon, or bear during such an act. This incredible staying power resulted in us nearly being banned for life from Pizza Hut (see below).

Poopus mythicus - A mythical poop.
Occassions:
A Poopus mythicus is a poo so amazing that it must be described and talked about. Such excretions pass into myth based on their size or volume, but can also become legendary based on other factors. Loss of life, demise of the toilet and/or bathroom, extreme duress suffered by the owner of the afflicted bathroom, water damage caused by backups, and other unusual, unfortunate, or amazing situations can all create the Poopus mythicus.
Commonly heard about in bars and dirty humor, this type of poop can either be an excessive exaggeration, or a truly remarkable excretory event. In the case of bars, it is normally a scenario of one-ups-manship, whereby one patron tells of a true Poopus mythicus, and several others must have something better. However, a true Poopus mythicus substatiates itself and the creator of the mythicus knows the truth. All Poopus mythicus are characterized by harmful side effects in some degree.
Harmful side effects: destruction of property; loss of money due to repair costs; personal injury directly or indirectly caused by the bowel movement.
How this affected Ian: After not pooping for 6+ days in the wild of the Boundary Waters, Ian unleashed a now fabled poop at a Minnesota Pizza Hut. We will not go into the gory details about this epic excretory moment (Heffernans are gentlemen, after all), but if you could have been present to see the sad look on that poor Pizza Hut employee's face as he slowly pushed that mop and bucket into the restroom you would have known right then that you were witnessing history.