Welcome back to yet another edition of Friday afternoon STATTS (Stories, Thoughts and TikToks), a random collection of nuggets meant to kill some time between lunch and happy hour for the honest American working man. These bits and pieces may not be quite long enough to make up an entire column, but like a white man’s johnson at the top of the bell curve, they’ll get the job done.
Last week, we took a deep dive into the perils of the entertainment industry, specifically how media shingles tend to denounce one thing while secretly supporting it as well, especially when consolidation is in play. It’s a tricky business, but it’s at the heart of much of our information and culture.
Just look at the Field of Dreams game from last night and tell me that worthwhile pieces of entertainment IP don’t absolutely dictate our cultural, social, and psychological narratives. Learning to understand why certain IP gets published/made is just as important as the quality of IP, itself.
(Side note: how heartbreaking is it that an evening celebrating the magic of sport and cinema gets bogged down with car insurance ads and trailers for yet another crappy Marvel movie? Field of Dreams was about transcending the arbitrary boundaries that keep us from loving one another, and then finding common ground in the beautiful, humanizing game of baseball—basically everything that truly fascist mainstream media scoffs at with their modern day book burnings. Think anyone will care about Legend of the Ten Rings in 32 years? Our culture is being hijacked by the mediocre because the mediocre are always most willing to pay for mediocrity. Except when it comes to car insurance. Get rear ended by a lib and you’re on your own.)
That being said, while I’ll always think the business of content is both interesting and important to understand, I recognize the opposing sentiment, too. It’s way more fun to have fun; that’s what I promised I’d bring when I began working for OutKick eight weeks ago, and that’s what I’ll try to keep bringing every week. Fun.
That’s not lip service, either: too often the business of content relies on ‘dis-content’ to achieve its goals. Why? Because it’s easy to gain momentum when people get angry. Get people outraged and feeling like a victim and soon they start getting addicted to the dopamine rush of discontent. Sure, the payoff is microscopic and the ill effects long-lasting and life threatening, but the speed of the rage feels like accomplishment, even though it’s just self-sabotage. It’s much harder to feel that speed in a truly positive way, but boy oh boy, there’s nothing like it if you can.
This is why I try to avoid the mud and muck as much as possible and only report on the nastiness of life when I can either find humor or true newsworthiness in it. You get what you think about in life, whether you want it or not, so I try to focus on things going right, like the thrill of the ball going over the fence instead of the fear of striking out. There’s simply no room for doubt in this life; only confidence, fun, and learning from mistakes. I truly believe that.
Transcending ugliness is a common theme of life that many claim to cherish but few embody. Quite often a dark night of the soul is needed to see and then truly appreciate the light. I took that journey in many ways over the years, culminating with the publishing of a novel completely dedicated to the subversion and manipulation of leftist politics. Like C.S. Lewis said in regards to his devilish protagonist in The Screwtape Letters, writing from the angle of pure destruction and sedition feels a bit exhilarating at first, like you’re getting away with something naughty, but it eventually becomes a massive burden on the psyche.
In my novel, I outlined the exact playbook that a Democratic pundit would utilize in order to catapult a politician to prominence (so if you want my nuanced opinions on politics, go read for yourself). But after writing it I was exhausted, mentally and emotionally. Trying to consider why the communist wants to administer such suffocating policies and then why so many misguided souls literally clamor for it was an exercise in painstaking empathy—a headspace which, contrary to popular opinion, is not a good thing.
The subsequent work that followed was a complete departure from the darkness: a celebration of light in the form of a self-development book dedicated to creating success through integrity. The daily research and writing served as a welcome respite from the pressures of the cutthroat entertainment business, so much so that I eventually quit the lucrative industry altogether and found a home here, learning to entertain rather than manipulate. So to me, the ‘fun’ isn’t just about distraction or living a cliché. The fun is the key to happiness, and the happiness is the key to success. I truly believe that too.
I say all of this because this site, and hopefully this community, is about to start experiencing exponential growth. With that influence comes the opportunity to do more than entertain (or worse, just lament the ugliness of the world over and over). There’s a real opportunity to band together and raise the tide, a concept which is so important because it accomplishes two critical things: first, it lifts all boats, and second, it drowns those who want no part of the positivity. That second part is crucial; not all people will want to live lives of positivity and appreciation, and that’s fine, because it will eventually kill them in one way or another. But the rest of us can rise with the tide and be a part of something great, something fun, and something meaningful.
I see the future of OutKick as many things, but above all, a place that looks after its own. If you’re struggling, reach out and ask for help. If you’re in pain, reach out and ask for help. If you’re stagnant in life and just need someone to talk to, reach out and ask for help. There’s currently a mental health agenda in the media that, by design, sounds amazing but accomplishes very little. The agenda is always destined to fall flat because it is built on shame, guilt, and self-righteous anger. An entire class of people think destruction is the answer to building their hopes and dreams, and yet these are the people leading the charge for happiness? How is anyone ever supposed to feel better when they’re constantly told they are either a victim, a racist, or a denier of their own evil? It’s insanity, and the only way I know how to ‘fight’ it each day is to strengthen our own army of sanity with fun, fearless ‘content-ment.’
I don’t know what the future holds exactly, but I know it will be a lot of damn fun, so I hope you buy in and help make this the best community on the internet.
Hopefully that was the last opening monologue of STATTS that will take a more serious tone, but it needed to be addressed. From here on out, we’re cranking dick jokes up to 11 (centimeters) and sitting on the toilet ‘til our legs go numb. Can we have fun? You’re damn right. I demand that we have fun. Now let’s go read some g*ddamn STATTS.
Instead of the ten pack of random thoughts today, I’m going to tell a quick war story, take a peek at some vintage hotties, and then roll straight to the videos.
Before COVID went in dry on everyone’s life plans, my 15 year high school reunion was supposed to be this year. There’s a point in everyone’s life where high school is the most important thing that they can imagine ever doing, and then comes that point when it’s over and the world opens up, for better or for worse. I’m reaching that age where I’ve had more adult life than adolescent, so my perspective has changed significantly since I was fifteen.
Even prepping this column, I was sifting through so many high school memories but inevitably drawing the same conclusions: that was so funny in the moment, but will it translate as a funny story now? I quickly realized now it’s most satisfying to look back and consider why the random memories meant so much at the time, more so than trying to extract every little detail out of the story itself for dramatic effect. The stories are good, yes, but it’s not why they hold up today. What works is the memory of being caught up in the moment of your teenage years, where everything is both magnified and ultimately pretty meaningless from a big picture perspective. It’s such a unique time of life, and since I don’t get to relive it with my old friends this year, I’m going to relive it with you, my new friends.
The story itself is simple. My freshman year, we experienced a Big Foot sighting of sorts. Except this time it wasn’t a myth, I saw it with my own two eyes; and it wasn’t a monster, but rather a monstrous deuce that forever redefined what the human body is capable of in my estimation. In the annals of Middle Tennessee fecal lore, it is officially recognized as the Potato Dump, but the quaint name hardly does this beast justice. It could have just as easily been called the King of Ass, the Colossus of Crap, or the Great BM-bino.
What mesmerized us most wasn’t its length, but its mighty girth. The thing was plain enormous, like a boulder of the bowels that engulfed the entire bowl. Based on weight alone, it could have had a career as a frisky featherweight, working the docks by day to feed his family and chasing a dream of being a champ at night. Spielberg could have put it in the original Jurassic Park as a Brontosaurus egg ready to hatch. Bill Simmons could have done a semi-autobiographical 30 for 30 on this thing: What if I told you, there was once a turd too big to flush… It was so large that you couldn’t even see the drain through which it was supposed to evacuate, and all these years later I’m left to assume that a coat hanger was ultimately involved in its disintegration.
The original Potato Dump was discovered by our class clown and resident big mouth, which certainly helped the news spread and legend grow. I’ll never forget him barging into the study area, breathless like Paul Revere, exclaiming that the king of dookies was perched upon its throne in the third floor bathroom of the newly renovated history building. After an afternoon of sheer admiration, the focus quickly shifted to assigning a culprit: nobody was safe and everyone was a potential suspect. What Irishman was responsible for this twice-baked masterpiece?
Lore quickly spread throughout the entire high school as we wondered aloud whose body could have passed such a monstrosity and lived to tell the tale. A mean but f*cking hilarious rumor circulated that it was the handiwork of Nelson Brown (names have been changed to protect the innocent), one of the skinniest, scrawniest theater kids in school—a silly joke that I still chuckle about to this day when I see him post on Facebook. Honestly, the chances of it being a freshman were super low considering many of us were just finishing up puberty, but nobody could be ruled out until we knew for sure. Not even Nelson.
For a few weeks, all was quiet. The original Potato Dump had somehow been broken up like a monopoly during the turn of the century, and everyone began to think that maybe the magic was over. But then, a second dump appeared, this time even mightier than the first, if you can believe such a thing. It was also left in a completely different (but recently renovated) bathroom across campus—in the middle school no less. The dumper was trying to pin it on an 8th grader, or maybe he just liked to poop in style. Regardless, everyone knew they had to be on their toes if we were to catch this guy.
We got our big break a week or so later. I didn’t see this next part of the story with my own two eyes, but the sources were good. After school one day when most students were in the gym buildings getting ready for sports, a couple guys heard some ferocious growls and labored breathing coming from that same history building bathroom on the third floor from the first dump. The sphincter assassin had gone back to the original crime scene, and now he was caught, dead to rights. Afraid of getting beaten, the puny freshmen stuck their heads in the bathroom just long enough to verify that, in their best estimation, a Potato Dump was indeed taking place. What they found, though, was much, much better.
Not only was the bathroom filled with demonic birthing sounds, but clothes were strewn everywhere. Apparently in a fit of rage and total mental preparation, the Potato Dumper went full nude for his dance with the devil. Sure, maximum comfort makes sense when you have home field advantage, but who among us completely disrobes for a date with deuce destiny in public? All told, it was an absolutely maniacal move from this lavatory legend. My classmates ran down the hall and found a lookout vantage point where they could see but hopefully remain unseen themselves. An insane thirty minutes later, the beast emerged from his kennel, and a positive ID was made.
The Potato Dumper ended up being a bulky senior wrestler who had been trying to move up a weight class, so he was gorging himself everyday with calories. And like the Incredible Hulk, he apparently needed to rip off all of his clothes anytime the rage overcame him. In other words, he’s the exact stereotype you’d imagine, which puts a small damper on the story. But it was still an incredible few weeks and a time I’ll never forget. Cheers to the great Potato Dumper of Carter Hall: you captured the hearts and minds of an entire generation with your porcelain heroics, and for that, we thank you.
Moral of the story: the human body can do amazing things if you push hard enough.
Vintage Hottie of the Week
I found this awesome Twitter account called @NotableHistory that posts vintage pictures of all kinds. There’s some nudity, so watch out if that kind of thing will get you in trouble, but for the most part it’s pretty SFW and a lot of fun. Old actors, pin up girls, and models mostly. The commies are currently pinching off Yukon Golds on top of everything fun, sexy, or patriotic that we once held dear, so enjoy this little blast from a simpler past before we head into the videos.
A Tockwork Orange (1971) – remember, volume up!
I figured an adorable, wholesome prank would best wash away the ANTIFA nastiness, so here ya go. Jordan here is about to settle into a full day of dad life, complete with a baby shower and mother-in-law who got to the house bright and early, so good for him for making the best of it. You can’t break out the dark liquor for a few more hours; midas whale strap some balloons onto the baby and give Grandma a small heart attack. And how about these millennial parents giving their sweet daughter a last name as a first name? If that’s the route you’re going to go, I think you have to name your kid the same name twice, like Bol Bol, or Richard Richards.
Hey, where’s Dick Dicks? Oh, he’s just grabbing a raincoat before his big date tonight.
This may be a party planning backdrop, but the sentiment is too good to pass up. Anyone who works with their hands or as a contractor or freelancer knows how difficult it is to convince people that their time is valuable. I’ve done some ghostwriting before, and people have been outright offended by what I charged them. No problem, Ralph Waldo Emerson, we both know you can’t even write a decent email, but go ahead and write your memoir yourself. Like hiring a discount divorce attorney, you always get what you pay for, one way or another.
Let’s welcome Katie Lee and Hannah Anne, who were nice enough to take time out of their elementary education course load at TCU and join us today. Katie Lee has been planning her wedding since she was six, enjoys writing her monogram in different fonts, and can find anyone’s blood type on Instagram with a little digging. Hannah Anne owns Fort Worth’s largest collection of Live, Laugh, Love signage and once blackballed a girl from Tri-Delt for accidentally sneezing and farting at the same time in her presence. The two of them can be found asking their daddies for a new car and squatting six inches in pictures.
I’ll be honest, I almost hyperventilated when she crawled out of that trunk. The Maury Show really did have it all: absurdity, tension, and instant pay-off. Best of all, it was always framed via these ridiculous little vignettes and accusations. It was as if a graduation photoshoot and an anti-drug campaign had a baby, but nobody knew who the father was. Look at this baby’s fingernails, Maury, look at ’em! Tell me that ain’t Duquan’s baby! RIP, trashy television. Now Hannah Anne will never know which Sigma Chi is truly responsible for her Panama City pregnancy.
This is a good one to end on because it actually reminds me of my own fraternity days, ripping ass and making pledges compliment the aroma. There’s a million great ways to haze kids without hurting or abusing them, and once they’ve endured it and earned a spot, all of the stories become lifelong points of pride and hilarity. It’s a shame that a few dumbass psychopaths ruin the bonding experience every year with something mean or dangerous, to the point now where nothing is really allowed anymore, I’d imagine.
One of my favorite hazing stories, which we still tell to this day, comes thanks to a frat brother’s mangy mutt named Buddy. Buddy was a giant dumb yellow lab who knew every hunting command but would run into sliding glass doors at home, if you know what I mean. Smart, but utterly stupid, too. Plus, he stank, and because of that, the brother’s house stank, too. One day, me and some fellow pledges were over there cleaning, gagging through the smell, and once we had finished, the brother gave us all a beer. It was customary and normal; how we got to know and love each other through shared experience. Nothing about it was cruel.
Anyways, we sat on the couch to drink our prizes, and Buddy leaps up on top of my pledge brother and starts licking his face. The dude squirms and tries to shove Buddy away, but the brother stopped him, and said No, let him lick you. It was the funniest damn thing I’d ever seen, watching this mutt polish my pledge brother’s cheeks and lips. It’s the kind of simple, stupid fun that guys love, and it breaks my heart that kids today don’t get that same experience. Kudos to this dad here for knowing the difference between mean and funny.
As always, thanks for stopping by, and hopefully happy hour is in sight. Follow me on Twitter @outkicktommy, and drop me a line at email@example.com with your thoughts and suggestions. I’m starting to run out of funny personal items, so it’s time to start expanding STATTS to include the masses. Have a great weekend.