How In The Absolute Fuck Am I Still The Crazy Guy Around Here
From the moment I was hired at Barstool seven years ago, I've been cast as the resident psychopath. Dave put that tag on me after I DMd the Sports Illustrated swimsuit model for a date, as no healthy-minded ginger would ever sanely believe he could land the hand of such heavenly angels. I don't mind the role, honestly. There is great humor to milk from the wobbly perch of a mind perceived to be forever in the throes of psychosis. Admittedly, I have contributed many times over to this perception. No person in his right mind would have written the blog that got me fired. No person in his right mind would ever maintain his physical peak for such a long period when his employer seems to celebrate physical decay. Yet here I am, continuing to push the envelope and arguably in the best shape of my life; a specimen with a regimen of impeccable discipline.
What puzzles me about being "the crazy guy" is that there are clearly, obviously, and breathtakingly crazier people than me at this place. How in the absolute fuck can you watch last night's episode of Surviving Barstool and continue to think that I am the looniest in this bin of loose buttons, arcade tokens, thimbles, chowder crackers, and tiny wooden figurines? I'm crazy, sure, fine. But I am certainly not the craziest.
Take Jerry, for example. I love the guy. Genuinely believe he is the single funniest person at Barstool. But dear God almighty, the man is stark-raving nutso. He brought a secret video recording device into the coed sleep quarters of his own team. Forget how absurd it is for anyone to take the game that seriously; the man is literally recording his coworkers as they sleep. I've never done that. I don't like watching people sleep. I like watching people from a park bench with a panini in my hand as they stroll by—you know, healthy people-watching. But Jerry summoned the producers and showed them his connected feed on his phone, and they... made it part of the show. Haha, look at this kooky technological gambit! Surveil away, dear Jerry.
Do I even need to say anything about Rico Bosco? Fuck me to Farmingdale, the man is possessed by more shoulder devils than Thomas Matthew Crooks. His incessant blinking may be the result of inadequate contact solution, sure. Or, you know, he's attempting to communicate through morse code the twenty-car data pileup in his brain from whatever satellite he believes is guiding his earthly avatar. From planting fake clues to invoking a choice to abstain from his prescription medicine as a strategy, watching Rico Bosco navigate the torture chamber of his own brain will forever provide entertainment.
Or how about Mintzy, for fuck's sake? I'll never tire of watching him lace his shoes with bubble gum only to step on every banana peel in his path, resulting in public apologies that seem heartfelt but are absolutely doomed to be rejumbled and republished in a matter of days following his next catastrophe. The dude genuinely believes he is protected in the game because he's a "vibes guy":
Brother, you are snorkeling in a sea of hammerheads and all you see is the pretty pink coral. Pick your preposterous, infantile head up and smell the goddamn blood in the water one time. Kirk called it "the most tone-deaf read I've ever heard in my entire life," and he's not wrong.
Kirk, Gillie, Klemmer, White Sox Dave, Smitty… around and around we go. What will make this show so compelling is that among the 24 people competing, at least half of us are one loose bolt from crashing off the rails and bringing the entire train with us. Buckle up and stay tuned.