Clapping after a joke in a late night comedy monologue or during a stand-up routine is robotic bullshit. If mechanical bulls took dumps, that's what it would be. Who started this retarded trend? Haven't really watched Letterman in some time, but the last couple I caught, the audience politely clapped after every joke. Infected Bill Maher's HBO show as well. Sure, if someone makes a poignant statement then the natural response is some congratulatory dap. Poignancy never happens every thirty seconds.

So, either find the shit funny and laugh, or don't and sit there and shut the fuck up. Bunch of lemming meringue sheep pies.

YEAR FIFTEEN: Sprouted up like a weed. The administrators of the office of spanky development decided manhood should finally begin in earnest. Skin production almost couldn't keep up with escalating inches of vertical. Shoulders beefed up and planked out like a linebacker. Shedded that runt cocoon.

After feeding one of my soccer teammates liquor, he ralphed technocolor slime on the field. We each took a quart of orange juice, pounded half the carton, and then filled to the top with vodka. We each finished our cocktails in the back of the bus on the trip to an away game. Homie took a line drive ball in the gut, emptied his tank of bubbling firewater on the grass. We told the coach he had a milkshake.

Dairy was infamous for causing genuine spew calamities during school athletic events. Belly full of milk, sloshed around, getting curdled with adrenaline pumping activity. Only takes one rewind of chocolate milk after a sprint to make it never happen again. Coach yelled at us all to not drink malts before a workout.

By the way, no possibility in the wide wide world of xenophobia, that a sport played with a round ball consisting of stitched hexagon leather patches, utilising only your feet and skull, on an American Midwestern field, could be called football. Huff and puff your continental little chests out all ya want. We already got a game called football. We enjoy drinking our cold domestic pisswater beers, and munching on our salty heart attack potato CHIPS, not pansy ass sounding crisps, CHIPS, while watching it on autumnal Sundays. David Beckham could juggle a bunch of titties with missles firing out his ass while running down the pitch, we still won't pay attention.

My last defense against schoolyard bullies happened on the team bus. Patrick was the son of a cemetary caretaker. They lived smack dab in the middle of the tombstones. Dude wound up like an uncool Crispin Glover. Was rode incessantly. A sneak attack photo of him taking a squat in the boy's room was posted up in the hallways for weeks.

One other bit of explaining is needed. In St. Louis we had this past time called "joanin'". I've heard it called snaps and dozens in other regions. Basically, it's a battle of momma jokes. Your momma so fat she sweats gravy, etc. It obviously goes beyond just momma jokes, you usually make as many personal digs against your opponent as possible. Popular event in my school. I started training as a joanin specialist a few years previous to fifteen years old. I became dangerously expert at it.

Now, I was a weird fucker. Luckily I was mentally sharper than most "normal" kids. Taunts flew my way constantly. I strafed them outta the sky with my acerbic wit. This was well established infamy by sophomore year.

This mutherfucker Patrick decides he's gonna ease some of the pressure up off of him, and impress the crowd by laying into me. Did the callin me a nerd routine. So tired and played out. Wasn't about to let that Pugsley grave digging fart licker get away with using lame shit on me. Game on. Within fifteen minutes he couldn't say a word. I was doling out put down after put down. Kids cracking up three seats forward and three seats back from spanky verbal ground zero. He was turning red, tears welling up in his eyes. Had my fill, satisfied, turned around to enjoy the ride.

Patrick was a junior, and therefore, in the high school hierarchy, supposedly my better. His fellow junior's were snickering at him that he let a sophomore break his face like that.

So he pushed me in back of the head. Why he have to go and do that? Shitburger started the whole scenario in the first place. Popped off one of my soccer shoes with the one inch rubber cleats. Beat him around the head and neck with the heel. He flipped my switch. Rule number one in joanin is; you never resort to blows, especially if you make the initial parry. If someone makes you look like a tool, you walk away and prepare for the next battle. They peeled me off of him, his grill looked like pelicans had pecked at it. Blubbering with snot coming out his nose.

That was it. No one ever fucked with me again. Plenty more joanin to do. That was all in the name of good natured ribbing. Built community building blocks with the momma jokes. Shit, how else can you get through acne and growing pains without the divine pleasure of momma jokes?