DGDB&D: a Texans blog.

Happy “Go Fuck Yourself Day!”

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I can’t speak for BFD, but I don’t foresee any more posting from me until Sunday afternoon.  Have a safe weekend, try not to blow off any necessary body parts, drink some Shiner Black, and enjoy yourself.  Also, try to get laid.

Last year, I wrote the following:

Ignoring for a second that celebrating the Fourth of July as “America’s birthday” is akin to celebrating the day you were conceived instead of the day your mom actually crapped you out, I would just like to wish everyone a happy holiday.

Now go out, get drunk, and see what you can blow up. It’s the American way.

Finally, this entire post was an excuse to post this video, which will either be the funniest or the most retarded thing you’ll see this month.

All of that still seems appropriate, so here’s the video again.  And thanks to Will for reminding me about it in time to post it for the holiday.

Hello, peoples. Travis Johnson here. As the team’s resident expert on St. Patrick’s Day, I wanted to share some of my learnin’ with y’all. I live to edumacate the masses.

First, you are probably wondering why I am the team’s expert, seeing as how I don’t exactly look Irish. That shit is RACIST, dawg. My great-great grandfather, Seamus McJohnson, came over on, like, a boat and shit. What, you didn’t know that there were black Irishmen? And y’all think I am dumb. Sheeeeeiiiiiiit.

Anyway, the point is I know a lot about St. Patrick’s Day and I am going to spit some of that knowledge your way.

Now, St. Patrick was this dude who lived in Ireland, like, WAY back. Like before Christopher Columbo even found Texas. His real name was Maewyn, which is really gay, so he just started going by Patrick. When he was, like, 16, he was kidnapped by some other Irish dudes and sold into slavery. I think he had to pick potatoes and shit. He escaped from the kidnappers and ran away to France, which was called “Gaul” back then because French people is stupid.

While he was in France, Patrick studied Christianity from…um…Jesus and he was all like “Yo, dude, this Bible shit is tight. I’m gonna go back to Ireland and tell my whole posse about it. Thanks French Jesus!”

Patrick drove back to Ireland and started telling all his boys about Christianity. He was straight spittin’ the Word to anyone who would listen. This made a rival gang, the Celtic Druids, mad. They snatched him up a bunch of times, but Patrick kept escapin’ like the motherfuckin’ birdman. Caw, bitches.

Peoples axe me all the time, “Travis, why do we have some of the St. Patrick’s traditions like parades and corned beef and shamrocks and shit?” Simple, my friends…those are all things that Patrick liked. Parades? Patrick used to round up his posse and C-walk through the streets, talking about “Jesus saves, bitch! Northside Jesus, what?!” This pissed the Celtic Druids off like whoa, but Patrick did that shit anyway. Corned beef? Well, a lot of those hoes back in old ass Ireland had the syphillis, but they called it “blarney dick,” and it made your thang look like corned beef. Nowadays, we just eat the corned beef because that shit tastes good as long as you don’t think about dicks. And shamrocks? We all know Patrick liked to fire up a little of that sticky green–who doesn’t?!–and it don’t get stickier or greener than some hydroponic Irish shamrocks. Oooooweeee! That shit is the fire, yo! I ain’t even playin’ with ya…I mean, uh, that’s what I’ve heard. Travis don’t smoke the green no mo’.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, so Patrick did this preachin’ and convertifyin’ in Ireland for, like, 30 years and then he retired. He died on March 17, so that’s why this date was made into a holiday. And that’s the story of St. Patrick’s Day. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find my “Suck Me, I’m Irish” t-shirt and go suckerpunch some old ladies.

Happy New Year.

(254 days until kickoff 2008.)

There is something about the first day of really shitty weather each winter that makes me bust out the old guitar and waste the afternoon. As I was playing today, however, I thought to myself, “I really don’t do this often enough…I should make a New Year’s resolution to play more often!”

Anyway, lameness of my inner conversations aside, I was struck by the fact that no one ever seems to make resolutions that reflect the hedonistic, self-destructive, and questionably-legal things they actually want to do. All we ever hear are “I want to lose weight” and “I want to learn a foreign language” and “I want to catch up on my child support.” Where are the “I will have much more meaningless sex” and “I will drink my body weight in bourbon weekly” that would actually please us if we carried through with them? Think about it–if someone gave you the choice between learning Spanish or having sex with 40 members of the gender of your choosing, which would you pick? Si usted dijo el “Spanish,” usted es un mentiroso. [Author's note: my Spanish sucks.]

To that end, I present the first annual DGDB&D New Year’s Blogolutions. In 2008, I will:

• use the words “fuck” and its derivatives (fucknut, fuckstick, fucktard, etc.) more often.
• make at least one post questioning the heterosexuality of random players and coaches each month.
• continue to mock David Carr and laugh at his failures, even as he becomes less and less relevant to Texans fans.
• continue to make bets of liquor with people I have never met. (Hopefully, I will win one at some point.)
• make a trip to Austin next season to watch a game and get as drunk as possible with people I met on the internet.
• embrace the dorkiness inherent in blogging. And then molest it.
• push fake conversations to the point that someone sends me a cease and desist letter.
• run better between the tackles than Reggie Bush.
• maintain my dominance in Google searches for “Filipino tranny porn” and try to improve my ranking for “houston bukkake parties” and “texans blog.”
• create wildly speculative pre-draft rumors, and proclaim my brilliance for any that might come true.
• convince myself by February that the Texans will make the playoffs in 2008.

Feel free to leave yours in the comments.

Happy Holidays, Joyous Kwanzaa, and Merry Festivus to each and every one of you.

Just remember, though, if you are in Houston and a man in a fur-trimmed red suit is saying “ho, ho, ho,” it might be Santa, but it could just as easily be Will Demps talking to his ladies.

Travis Johnson: (singing to himself) “A-dashing to the sto’ in a big ass Chevrolet. These peoples drive too slow. Bitch, get out my way! Wearing a Santa hat, makes my spirits bright. But if someone laughs at it I’ll gut them like a motherfucking snitch-ass bitch!” Damn. I had some rhyme-time shit going on there for a second. Still…snitch-ass bitches do get stitches, so that kinda works. “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. I don’t know what the fuck that means, but I sing it any way.”

(arrives at Galleria, somehow manages to find a parking spot) OK…let’s see…WHOA! This big ass map says I am here! How the fuck!? How does it know that shit!? That some spooky, voodoo, hocus-pocus bullshit right there!

five minutes elapse

(still looking at the map) You think you’re so smart, Mr. Map? Well let’s just see about that. (walks around to back of map, counts to four, jumps back in front of it) A-ha! Now what do you have to sa–MOTHER FUCKER! “You are here.” How does it know?!? I need to find that cologne-sellin’ booth and get away from this plastic devil.

(walks up to perfume counter at Nieman Marcus) Hello, perfume lady.

Lady Behind Counter: Hello, sir. Is there something I can help you with?

Johnson: Yes, perfume lady. You see, I have many, many peoples who love them some Travis Johnson. I want to get them something special that will let them think about Travis any time they wear it.

Lady: Well, we have several new scents this yea–

Johnson: No, perfume lady, you seem to be misunderstanding Travis. Let Trav spell it out for you, homegirl. I want to get them something smells like me. I want to make Eau de Trav or Johnson Fields or some such heavenly fragrance.

Lady: I…but…wait…what? You want to bottle your own scent?!

Johnson: Precisely. So, let’s do it. Hook me up to whatever scentifying machine you gots back there and start extractin’ some of that Travisey goodness.

Lady: That’s not really how it works, sir. We can’t bottle your “scent. ”

Johnson: The fuck you mean you can’t bottle Travis’ scent?! You got that Liz Taylor stank in a bottle! And I don’t even know who the fuck “Ralph Lauren” is, but you got that dude’s funk in a lot of different bottles. Travis gots a much better musk than that motherfucker!

Lady: Sir, please, keep your voice down or I will have to call security. There is no way I can get your “musk” in a bottle. It is literally impossible.

Johnson: What the fuck? Ain’t this about a bitch? What the hell am I supposed to do with this, then?

Lady: What is that? Is that a jar of…

Johnson: You know it, perfume lady. That’s a week worth of 100% Travis Johnson ball sweat. I collected it myself. Do you have any idea how hard that is to do? Of course you don’t, because you are a woman, so you have flabias and clicks instead of balls. But trust me–it ain’t easy.

Lady: (trying not to vomit) Sir…you need…GUH…to put that…away!

Johnson: The fuck I do! I need to mix it with, like, the smell of some roses and peaches and shit, and then put that shit in a little glass bottle with some France writing on it. Maybe have some glitter and shiny shit on the outside, just so it looks as pretty as it smells. Mark that shit $99.95! People in other countries fight wars for this kind of magic love potion! This shit might just cure blindness. Hell, you rub this on a dead baby and that little dude will probably live again. This is some top-notch, magical stankonia!

Lady: Sir, I am not really even sure what you are talking about now, but, for the LAST TIME, we cannot bottle your “smell” here. Now, unless there is something else I can help you with, I am going to have to ask you to leave.

Johnson: Oh, HELL no. Nobody asks Travis Johnson to leave!

Lady: SECURITY!!!!

(two guards run up) Johnson: Motherfucker! It’s on, now. I was just trying to Christmas shop, but you had to go and start shit. (gets into crane kick pose) Enter the dragon, bitches!

Hello peoples. I am here today to talk to you about proper holiday nutrition.

You see, too often peoples such as yourselves fail to include an important food group in your Thanksgiving feastseses. Oh, sure, you remember the scrumptious turkey with stuffing, the sweet potatoes with the little melty marshmallows on top, the cranberry sauce, the punkin pies, and even the smashed potatoes with giblet gravy. All of that is verry, verry delightful, but it is incomplete. So, let Travis Johnson impart a little wisdom this Thanksgiving morning: When making dinner, please don’t forget the vegetables.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Ignoring for a second that celebrating the Fourth of July as “America’s birthday” is akin to celebrating the day you were conceived instead of the day your mom actually crapped you out, I would just like to wish everyone a happy holiday.

Now go out, get drunk, and see what you can blow up. It’s the American way.

Finally, this entire post was an excuse to post this video, which will either be the funniest or the most retarded thing you’ll see this month.

Happy Father’s Day.

I was really trying to write some heart-string-tugging piece about my dad and some shared love for football. Ain’t gon’ happen, though. While I have all sorts of great (and not-so-great) stories about my pops, he was not and is not a football fan. I honestly can remember only one time that he watched a football game–the 1993 Rose Bowl, in which Michigan defeated the Washington Huskies on the strength of Tyrone Wheatley’s 235 rushing yards and 3 TDs (on 15 friggin’ carries!).

Now, considering I have watched every nationally televised Wolverine game since 1989 (including eight Rose Bowls in that timeframe), the only explanation for this game standing out in my mind is because I watched it with my dad.

Oddly, though, I can recall nothing substantive about actually watching the game with him. I remember Wheatley breaking off his 88-yard run. I remember the Elvis Grbac to Tony McGee TD that won the game. I remember cursing Mark Brunell for roughly three hours. But I remember not a single thing my dad said or did during that game; I just know he was there and, somehow, that is enough to make the game incredibly memorable.

Alright, I just re-read the above and I realize how much it screams of unresolved daddy issues. That’s not really the goal. It’s just that my dad didn’t like football (he’s a baseball man) and, somehow, his lack of interest in it made the one time… aww, hell, you get it.

Anyway, just remember to call your dad today. And if you have kids, make those little turds wait on you hand-and-foot.

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For much lighter holiday blogging, I point you in the direction of this post from Kissing Suzy Kolber. I also point you to LaRon Landry getting shot. In the junk. By someone not named “Sean Taylor.”

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Finally, before you accuse me of posting something that has NOTHING to do with the Texans, realize that Mark Bruener was involved in the 1993 Rose Bowl and caught a TD pass. So there.