[Boozy: Today we welcome back Bill M. Hours, our erstwhile contributor, with another guest post to keep my goddamn queue from overflowing. Bill is an insurance defense attorney, a peon, a pleb, and an all around nice guy despite his work for the evil empire of Defense Attorneys. You can find him on Twitter at @billmhours.]
If someone you cared about asked for your opinion on whether they should play football; full contact, pads and helmets, grass-in-mouth football, what would you say?
Many of us today probably would caution against it. I know that when I run this scenario through my mind, my hypothetical self goes through various derivations of “fuck no” before deciding that phrases which aren’t broke don’t require fixing. I’d imagine that if one of my children ever asked me to let them play football, I’d most likely ask for a paternity test, but then also immediately lodge my opposition. In my case, this probably wouldn’t be too difficult to enforce because my spouse, while very interested in cooking, probably isn’t looking to be dealing with scrambled brains any time soon.
Perhaps I’ve tipped my hat too soon, in terms of expressing my opinion on the effects of football, but I don’t wish to make it sound like I hate ‘sportsball.’ In fact, where I come from, football in all its forms is a celebrated pastime. I even partook in the bashing of heads myself as a younger fellow (it was “Billy” back then), and I know from secondary experience that playing football can help young men in having an outlet to express hormonal emotions, and by helping them to develop discipline which can transfer into everyday life.
Continue reading “Guest Post by Bill M. Hours – A Concussive Blow To Contact Sports Coming to a Family Court Near You?”
My life is a blur of furries and cars these days.
There is nothing left for me. I’m dispensing with all of the neat and happy intro stuff this time to dive right into the breakdown of my time at IndyFurCon 2017.
I swear to god these guys are like a cult. They lure you in with all of the neat art and friendliness, you think maybe it’d be a little fun to interact with them, then next thing you know you’re hauling ass across three states in the dead of night because they raised money for a convention and your stupid ass made a promise to go to another convention on like three days notice if they did that. So, you know, you hop your ass in the car and drive in the dead of night through fucking Ohio to go visit the furries in Indianapolis, arriving in the “Oh my god, there’s a three in the morning now?” hours of Saturday worn out from a drive to shamble into a hotel and be greeted by a giant goddamn panda who, despite running a convention, is now currently waiting for your arrival in particular.
Every weekend has turned into a mixture of Hunter S. Thompson and Salvador Dali for me now. This is my life. So take my sweaty, cold, oversized hand and close your eyes tight, and we’ll just get right down to business here as we discuss Indy Fur Con: The End Result Of A Series of Bad Decisions.
Continue reading “Indy Fur Con: The End Result Of A Series of Bad Decisions”
Okay, so, I went to a furry convention. I took a little trip down to the nation’s capital to spend some time with 1,050 furries at Furthemore ’17 last weekend. And…well, let me just tell you how this shit happened:
Continue reading “Fur and Loathing in Tyson’s Corner: Boozy Goes to Furthemore.”