Introduction

On March 3^rd, 1986 at approximately 3:00 am, a gentle breeze cascaded easterly, gusting over the rolling hills and misty mountains of upstate New York. A vibrant moonlight reflected off the dew-covered grass, and a feeling of optimism hung in the air as if the land knew that Spring was right around the corner.

 At this moment, a Champion was born.

And by "born," I mean an infant covered in uteral goo broke free from the confines of the womb and army crawled out of his mother’s vagina.  

The world has never been the same since. 

The fiscally brilliant correctly predicted that Plan B stock would skyrocket, and knife use increased exponentially.  "Pharmaceutical" companies expanded their productivity in preparation for a certain someone's late teens and early twenties, and Door Builders began developing panels that could withstand the fiercest head butts.  Needless to say, the Door Builders failed and the Pharmy's ™  couldn’t keep up - but those stories will come later on in our journey.

           And as you begin this journey, understand that the journey of The Champion is difficult to put into words. The scribes and scholars who have attempted to document this spectacle have devoted their blood, sweat, and tears to their duty as historians - their duty to humanity. 

           But even they falter.

           For example, it is known in the scientific community that the early years of one’s life are critical in their development, but the early years of the Champion's life are shrouded in mystery.  His earliest memory is actually something he doesn’t remember: losing his virginity when he was 15 to a 21 year old fat whore named Stephanie while blacked out on Jim Beam. 

Thank god he doesn’t remember.  

After that everything got a little crazy -partying, arrests, vandalism, stabbing, pledging an unrecognized Frat.....even a little poo on the rug.  

          So with that being said, I extend the warmest of welcomes to all. Welcome to The Champions Corner

Tips When Battling a Champ

Since I’m a Champion, a lot of people assume that I am invincible.  These people are correct in their assumption.  I am invincible.  However, when facing me in battle, there are some things that can be used against me that will temporarily weaken me.  In a way, it is kind of like Superman after he is exposed to kryptonite, but the things I am talking about actually exist.  Superman is a fictional character, I am a real life champion, and I like a fair fight every once in a while.  For this reason, I am going to share with you three things that will effectively suppress my attacks long enough for an opponent to either run away from me or achieve a false sense of confidence that will cause them to continue battling me and eventually be annihilated. 

1. Norv Turner's Neck

Norv Turner’s neck is so disgusting that it stops me in my tracks no matter what I’m doing so I can regurgitate everything in my body that I haven’t yet shit out.  The thought of it alone makes me want to gouge my own eyes out with my bare hands.  And if I am forced to learn Braille because of this self-imposed blindness, and someone makes me feel the little bumps that spell “Norv Turner’s neck,” I will saw off my fingers with a dull knife and never read again.  Seriously Norv, what the fuck is going on there.  It’s as if your neck is aging ten times faster than the rest of your body.  Your neck looks like a brown paper bag that’s been crumpled up.  Your wardrobe should be nothing but turtlenecks.  Ya know what they say about wrinkly necks, right?  Nothing, because until you were born, no neck has existed that looks like a mixture between a Pug’s face and fingertips that were in the pool for too long.  It’s too bad disgusting necks don’t translate to winning seasons, because then you might not be one of the worst coaches in the history of sports.  And seriously, that neck man….what the fuck.

2. Pale Chicks

If you don’t happen to have Norv Turner’s neck handy, then the next best thing you could do to stop my onslaught is to physically transform into a pale chick.  Nothing makes me drop everything and run away screaming while flailing my arms like the sight of pasty skin on an otherwise attractive girl. It’s not a coincidence that terrifying monsters like Vampires, Mummy’s and Yeti’s are all white as fuck.  Seriously girls, there is absolutely no reason you should not have a bronze skin tone to compliment your god given features (boobs and butts).  Before I start talking to a girl at a bar, I hold up a small piece of paper that is colored with a tan hue and compare it to their skin – kind of like homeowners using paint swatches to help them choose a new color when they’re redecorating the foyer to impress the judgemental neighbors. The most widely accepted excuse for not tanning amongst young women is that overexposure to the sun and frequent tanning booth usage can lead to different skin diseases when they get older.  Okay, but sometimes in life you have to take risks.  If you don’t get tan now and continue to look like a model from a picture painted in the 1700's, you’re not going to attract any worthwhile suitors.  Therefore, by the time you’re 40 and you look like Cruella De Vil, you’re going to be alone and miserable anyways.  I guess it’s a lose-lose situation. 

3. Vegans

And lastly, if you can’t produce any of the things I just mentioned, just tell me you are a Vegan.  If you do this, you will piss me off so much that I will beat the shit out of myself.  Nothing makes me want to dive head first into a wood chipper more than being trapped in the middle of a group of Vegans.  I guess I understand some people don’t eat meat because they don’t like the taste, but everybody has the right to be a pussy.  It’s the people who don’t eat meat for the “ethical” reasons that really make my blood boil.  I could go on a rant for hours about this, but I am going to cut straight to the point – their logic is fucking retarded.  The same amount of chickens, pigs, turkeys, and cattle are going to be domesticated and slaughtered for human consumption regardless of how many salads you eat.  Basically what I’m saying is you are not making a difference at all.  You’re just being really fucking annoying.

Champions > Celebrities

  In life, there always seems to be a natural order to everything, with Darwin’s theory of evolution and survival of the fittest at the forefront of this ideology.  In my opinion, the order of superiority amongst living beings goes something like this: Champions, Men, Inferior Men, Animals, Insects, Women.  Once an initial order is established, we can also rank each subject in different categories, like FHM’s Sexiest Women in the World or NatGeo’s Deadliest Animals.  Now, I’m not trying to get too deep in philosophy, but there is a group of people who seem to be ranked above everyone else: celebrities. 

             Everyone loves celebrities.  People will flock to their favorite actor’s movies or stand outside in pouring rain for hours to watch their favorite band’s concert.  Celebrities invoke a reaction from their fans that is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.  When Eli Manning threw the Super Bowl winning touchdown pass, Giant’s fans across the country acted like rabid dogs, and you can be sure there wasn’t a dry pussy in the crowd when the Beatles performed on the Ed Sullivan Show.  One time, I had the honor of hanging with a couple celebrities, or should I say they were honored to be amongst a Champion.

              It was a cool autumn night in the hills of Oneonta, a night that started like most other nights for me.  I was hanging out at my apartment, winning freestyle battles and dominating beer pong without a partner, when I got a text message from a friend.  According to the text, the band OAR was in town and they were going to be hanging out at the bar I frequent.  I didn’t give a fuck.  I continued my beer pong game and kept pounding my Jack and Coke side-drink when I got another text from a different friend.  According to this text, my friend got his hands on some PED's.

              At the time I didn't realize the weight of the situation - but with that text message the three puzzle pieces needed for a Championship-winning night fell into place: Me being in a situation with a large audience (OAR at the bar), me having PED's and alcohol, and me being a Champion.

              Anyways, while I was waiting for my friend to get to my apartment I continued my streak of landslide beer pong victories.  When he finally showed up, I got so excited I sank my opponents last cups in succession, then threw the remaining ball so hard at his face he felt like an innocent bystander after a Michael Boley interception.

After doing a little wheeling and dealing, I had what I wanted and I cleared everyone out of my apartment.  I was all ready to taste my new purchase when my phone rang.  It was the kid who texted me earlier about OAR.

            “What?” I asked in the most exaggeratedly annoyed voice of all time.

            “Wer'e comin’ to get you to go chill with OAR at the bar,” he responded.  “Where have you been man?”

            “Bro, you know I was at the pregame for Happy Hour before I went to the pregame for the party before the bar.”

           “Whatever, we’ll be there in five minutes.”

            With only five minutes left to finish my beers, I quickly assembled a makeshift funnel and chugged.  I frantically searched my apartment for a plain white tee shirt so I could write “Fuck OAR!” on it with a sharpie, but my efforts were futile.  Champions don’t do laundry, they buy new apparel when soiling occurs. Hashtag Stay woke. 

            Finally, I heard my friend’s car horn, so I ran outside and we headed to our destination.  When we pulled into the parking lot, I waited to go inside so I could sample the product.  I did a bump, and it was so good that I sat in the car for a few minutes and looked like a kid watching Star Wars for the first time before I proceeded into the bar.

As soon as I got in, I plowed my way to the bar so I could get a drink.  While I waited for the bartender, I examined my surroundings and realized that the band’s presence had caused the bar to be completely packed.  I decided it would be best to order two Double Jack and Cokes instead of one single mix, because who knows when I would be able to shimmy my way to the bar again.  Once I had both drinks in hand, my eyes found the prize.  OAR was at the back bar, but fully accessible to anybody who dared to go up to them.

I started heading in their direction, looking like Michael Strahan doing the “swim move” to get through the crowd.  I completely ignored everybody trying to say hi to me, and I suddenly realized I was ridiculously fucked up.  My alcohol-induced double vision made OAR look like a 10-piece band made up of five identical twins.  Luckily, double-vision doesn’t impair a Champion, it just makes me think I have twice as many fans giving me a standing ovation.

When I was a couple feet away from them, I realized one of the band members was ordering everyone around him shots.  I pushed a couple girls out of the way so my face was literally one inch away from the face of the bassist's.  We made eye contact, and he obviously averted his gaze before I did. 

Champion 1, Celebrity 0. 

I grabbed two of the shots off the bar that OAR ordered and threw them back.  I pointed out how I have a limitless supply of championship rings and MVP trophies, but they don’t necessarily translate to actual wealth.  Then I screamed, “THANKS FOR THE FUCKIN’ SHOTS!” right in their faces.

 Apparently, they thought I was being disrespectful, so I was ushered away against my will by a group of large men.  I didn’t really care at the time, because I already finished my two Jack and Cokes and coincidentally, the two ruffians dropped me off right at the main bar. 

 So after I ordered some more drinks, two things happened that pretty much sealed the deal for my night.  First, someone at the bar told me that OAR stands for “Of A Revolution.”  Second, I noticed a pattern within the female populace of the venue.  I realized that all of the girls around me at the bar were very unattractive.  On the other hand, I observed that as you got closer to the band, the girls became more attractive.  Let me present this visual aid to enhance my findings:

Allow me to clarify – if a champion is around unattractive girls for too long he starts to feel like a Vampire exposed to ultra-violet sunlight.  My skin literally starts to melt.  So, in my drunk rage, I plowed through the crowd and was right next to OAR again.  My blackout was about to claim my night, and one of the band members was raising his glass, presumably to make some kind of toast.  When he started to speak, I interrupted him by screaming “OF A REVOLUTION!”  He shrugged it off, so I stepped closer, and as he opened his mouth to try and speak a second time, I interrupted again screaming “OF A REVOLUTION! YEAH!”  

Then, I just started screaming, “OF A FUCKIN REVOLUTION!” no matter who was trying to talk, and next thing I know I’m kicked out of the bar.  I still had the PEDs so my night didn’t end, but it is full of too many black holes for me to recollect.   

This was the first of many celebrity encounters I have had, and let me assure you, no lessons were learned.  I will say this though: I’m sure OAR are a bunch of good guys and I hear for celebrities they are actually very down to Earth, but no one is safe when the Champions come out to play. So what I am trying to convey with this disclaimer is FUCK YOU OAR. 

Hall of Champions Inductee #1

When I decided to start writing a blog that would serve as a chronicle of my champion achievements, I knew that it would bring joy to people all over the world. It also donned on me that there are other champions out there besides yours truly, so it only made sense to devote some of my time on this website to make my readers aware of these other champs. At first I was going to do a "Champion of the Week" post, but being a champion is a lifestyle, not a seven-day act.  Also, I don’t know if I will be able to post once a week about these people, because champions have no set schedule.  One day I might wake up and decide to go to “work,” clock out and drive home, and write all night about my past sexual exploits and binge drinking escapades.  On the other hand, I might wake up one day and not go to work, drive to Oneonta for a twelve day drug-and-alcohol-fueled party, and put in the type of MVP performance worthy of a future blog post. 

So with that said, you may be asking yourself why I posted a picture showing what appears to be the offspring of Gimli Gloin and Yoda.  Clearly a man who looks like that cannot be worthy of enshrinement in the prestigious HOC.  WRONG.  That man is George R.R. Martin aka author of A Game of Thrones aka Champion.  (minor spoiler warning)

 A Game of Thrones is actually the title of the first book in his planned seven book series A Song of Ice and Fire.  Calling them books doesn’t do Martin justice either, these are fuckin’ Tomes.  Each one is near a thousand pages or more, and they are filled with epic sword battles, back-stabbing that makes the Desperate Housewives look like Big Bird and Elmo, and graphic sexual encounters. Anybody who can write about a Dragon Queen taking a Horse Lord’s “manhood in her mouth” in one chapter, then discuss a Dwarf who fucks a prostitute before leading a band of mountain clansmen into battle is a true Champion in my book.  Also, don’t get too emotionally attached to any of the characters – Martin won’t think twice about chopping off the head of a fan-favorite main character to advance his plot.  Just ask Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Hand of the King, and fuckin’ dead before the first book ends.  And to top it off, an Emmy-nominated HBO series is based on his books, creatively titled “Game of Thrones.”

Basically, if Lord of the Rings raped The Sopranos, Game of Thrones would be the bastard child.  So George R.R. Martin, I am proud to welcome you to the Hall of Champions.