Small Unspoken Moments Of Passive Aggression

Dear Gillette... Has anyone ever taken out a class-action suit for the insane way in which you show your product being used in your ads -- namely, the Glory Samurai Swipe that starts at the sideburns and ends in the middle of the chin? If I were to try that, I'd be bleeding in three places -- the bottom of my jaw line after the stupid turn, the chin as the blade, clotted with hair from the start of the swipe, jumps the track and runs aground, and my junk as I drop the damn thing in my haste to staunch the wounds. Every time I see one of your ads, I imagine some fatherless 15-year-old boy ripping his face into shreds, but since he's just trying to be like Derek Jeter, I'm strangely OK with it.

In a related note, just how much profit are you making from pricing your product at $25+ a pop for a replacement 10-pack, and how much of that goes to the athletes that probably have high-priced prostitutes shave them after taking care of the morning wood?

Dear Youngest Child, who I love unconditionally... In reference to your favorite question this month of "What time is it?" Time to go to bed. Time to go to your room. Time for Timer. Time to make the donuts. Time to go hide in the Man Cave and fill the bloghole. Time to go to work, because Daddy never looked forward to an hour and a half train and subway commute where I put in my headphones and do not hear a single word of dialog than right freaking now. Time for you to start reading clocks for yourself. Time for me to traumatize you for life about time by smashing a clock into my skull as you ask me for the fourteenth time today what time it is. Time for me to stop being a father of young children, and time to swap in the fresh hell of moody teenaged girls. Time, time, time, time, time.

Dear Poker Player Who Raises Each And Every Hand Pre-Flop While Complaining About A Lack Of Action... You do know that Atlantic City, and games with high-rolling Super Aggro Manly Testosterone Hurt Patrol Boys such as yourself, is just 90 to 120 minutes away? And that everyone at the table kind of hates you for turning the $1/$2 no limit game into a de facto $5/$10/All-In Kamikaze Wipeout Game, and that if The Poker God (and honestly, like there is any doubts as to *His* identity) were just and merciful, He would not oblige us with a low pair to trips trapping hand that not only takes back all of your stolen blinds, but your whole damn roll as you curse your terrible luck?

Oh, you do know all of these things, and actually cultivate all of that hate so as to cause me to go all-in with my unsuited Ace-10, and watch you hit two pair with unsuited and unconnected hole cards... because you are not actually playing Poker, but a private game called Prove My Run? Poker would be such a wonderful game if it weren't filled with poker players.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog about sports.