In a recent interview with Seventeen, tween sensation Carly Rae Jepsen dished on, among other things, ingredients for the perfect slumber party: “Definitely a comfortable pair of pajama pants, some good girlfriends who know how to laugh at themselves and be silly, and Skittles!” Thankfully, she remembered Skittles. These days, too many partygoers arrive armed with M&M’s. M&M’s!
Of course, Carly Rae Jepsen has the platform to address an unsettling sleepover faux pas because of her momentous hit “Call Me Maybe”, which currently ranks fifth on iTunes. The interview turns into a no-holds-barred confessional when Ms. Jepsen bashfully admits, “I’ve never actually asked a guy for his number.” Okay? But what about his Voxer username?
Call Me Maybe’s hypnotic chorus goes something like this:
Hey, I just met you,
And this is cray,
But here’s my number,
So call me, maybe?
These lyrics ooze YOLO. If Carly Rae had multiple lives to fall back on, would she impulsively distribute her digits to the man with “ripped jeans” and “skin showin’”? I think not.
Hypotheticals like this demand a closer examination of the song. The following thoughts ran through my mind as I watched the official video:
0:04: Hey, starting a lawnmower is sexy! Does that make John Deere the nation’s most eligible bachelor?
0:13: Literary recommendations, courtesy of Carly Rae Jepsen: Skylar’s Outlaw, by Linda Warren, and Love at First Sight, by B.J. Daniels. Great books, both of them.
0:27: If I saw a guy with a tattoo across his chest claiming “The Sky is the Limit!” I’d punch him in the face.
0:50: Is that vodka? Or water?
1:17: Poor car washing technique. Doesn’t Carly know that you have to hose down the vehicle before applying soap?
2:09: Has anyone pointed out to Carly that missing someone before meeting them is chronologically impossible?
2:25: I can’t WAIT to buy this book. Catch me at a midnight release party somewhere, somehow.
2:35: This reminds me of the Sandlot scene where Wendy Peffercorn is hoodwinked into kissing Squints.
3:08: OMG he’s gay! This is like that Train video’s ugly stepsister.
I’ve seen it all during my three year stint as an assistant coach in the Mentor Girls Softball League:
Our team (Dick’s Sporting Goods) had a .500 season mired in controversy—primarily the well-documented feud between third base coach Mattie (my cousin) and I. After one loss in which I took particular issue with many of her ill-advised calls to hold/send runners, I stormed off the field without addressing the team and told my mom, the manager, to name me third base coach or I’d quit. This hollow ultimatum proved unsuccessful, and I took the walk of shame to first base the next night. The tension was palpable for the remainder of the season, which mercifully ended in the second round of the playoffs. I thought my career was over until…
My mom deserves all the credit in the world for putting this team together. Following the brutal Dick’s campaign, she morphed into a sleazy, Calipariesque recruiter, intent on making Chips Manufacturing a dream team that would cause Vince Young to blush. The entire season was easy living—we shit on each collection of 12-and-under girls the MGSL had to offer and I loved every second of it. After the championship game, I received several tempting offers to take my coaching talents elsewhere but chose to stay put.
This season was just like 2010, except we never won. The core group of players from Chips stopped playing rec ball, and their replacements weren’t exactly formidable. By mid-July the clubhouse was in disarray—reports of players consuming fried chicken and Capri Suns during games circulated daily. Local media outlets alleged that carousing among the coaching staff reached obscene levels. It was time to move on.
As one of Ohio’s foremost fastpitch minds, I needed to spice things up. Thus, Team Elite was born. With the aid of Mattie, my top assistant, I decided to assemble the greatest bunch of talent to ever step foot on Ridge Junior High’s softball diamond.
Money has been no object in my quest to reappropriate Murderer’s Row. I’ve doled out plenty of hundred-dollar handshakes to ensure that prospects on my radar sign with Team Elite. The price to negotiate with Asian sensation Pooh Darvish was steep, but our boosters covered it without hesitation. When Pooh finalizes her contract, she’ll fly into Cleveland on our private aircraft. I even paid the MGSL sponsorship fee so the team’s official name could be Team Elite. A line of jerseys, snapbacks, and baller ID bands—of the all-black-everything variety—are flying off shelves nationwide.
Team Elite plans to hire three umpire baiters. The umpire baiter’s job is to sit with fans of the opposing team and obnoxiously grumble about any call verging on questionable. The best baiters protest an umpire’s decisions with off-color platitudes until the team is warned and subjected to potential forfeiture.
Additionally, the three must develop a rapport on the fly. Much like the MIT blackjack team in Ben Mezrich’s Bringing Down the House (or the film 21), a troupe of incognito baiters arrives on the scene detached from one another. The fallout would be massive if this ruse went public, so baiters must be more tightlipped than a cloistered nun. Yesterday, I began the arduous process of narrowing down the applicant pool for this position, which features dozens of qualified candidates. While Team Elite won’t actually require the assistance of baiters to win, it’ll keep the season compelling.
To fill out additional roster spots, I will be hosting a combine this Saturday. Those interested in participating may email me at email@example.com. Serious entrants only! The combine will include standard exercises designed to test the physical and intellectual abilities of each athlete, such as the 40 yard dash, broad jump, and Wonderlic test. A panel of judges (comprised of myself, Mattie, Mel Kiper, and Simon Cowell) will provide biting commentary throughout the event, which can be seen on Scrawl So Hard Television (DIRECTV channel 625).
Mindful of the fanfare that Team Elite will engender, practices (which begin in May) are going to be open to the public. If you seek entertainment beyond the unmitigated athletic prowess on display, live music will serve to simulate crowd noise. I’m talking explosive tracks—tracks like Ray Jr.’s “Livin’”, which will be played at the onset of each practice.
(This conjures up memories of the 2009 Browns training camp, where Eric Mangini stole my idea and blared melodies with similar purpose. One day I made the trek to Berea, found a seat, and hummed along to “Ice Cream Paint Job” while taking in practice. To the disdain of Shaun Rogers, who had been whimsically pedaling a stationary bike, the music abruptly stopped. The hefty defensive tackle proceeded to berate an unnamed staffer until Dorrough’s voice was once again booming across the complex.)
If it wouldn’t be too much of a problem, I’d appreciate for an altruistic soul to lend me a yacht for the post-championship party. In the coming weeks, I’ll release details regarding VIP packages available for the bash. Shenanigans are guaranteed to ensue.
Also: Does anyone know a good PED dealer?
By Matt Lardner
By now, high school kids, Twitter, and high school kids on Twitter have ensured we all know that it isn’t possible to live twice. The “word” YOLO sounds like mutated frozen yogurt, but it’s mutated frozen yogurt that’s taking a generation by storm. That’s why I’ve decided, in the one life I’m allotted, to Scrawl ferociously. I’ll be spouting off on a myriad of subjects, but effective now, I’m instituting a shared column in which we profile recklessness, ignorance, and a general disregard for caution. Scrawlers, welcome to YOLO of the Week.
I was going to claim that this piece on The U guard Shenise Johnson would catapult her into celebrity, but she already seems like quite a hit in the mainstream realm of women’s college basketball. Shenise leads her team in points, rebounds, and assists, and projects as a lottery pick for the WNBA team with the most Nick Gilbert mojo. Coach Katie Meier even calls Shenise “the face of the program.”
Unfortunately for the lady Hurricanes, Shenise Johnson is a descendant of the Scot Pollard Tree of Terrible Advice. In the February 20th edition of ESPN the Magazine (which I guess makes this the YOLO of a couple weeks ago), Shenise was asked, “What’s the worst advice you’ve ever heard?”
It’s important to note that Shenise is a member of the YOLO generation. Her name sounds like it was pulled straight from Petey Pablo’s biggest hit (a song that I can’t wait to use when I breed a daughter– it’s like an auditory 21st-century baby name book). I hit the Twitter goldmine, where I verified the YOLO in Shenise within 10 days of recent tweets.
Also, The U doesn’t exactly have the reputation of an upstanding school with academics at their forefront.The Nevin Shapiro incidents, where players were spoiled by boosters and making bank on an NFL level, soiled the program’s name. The 7th Floor Crew dropped a track that traded the school’s reputation for an in-depth look at Greg Olsen’s ejaculatory tendencies. Googling “miami u scandal” yields close to 8 million results.
Now that the scene is set, we can move on to Shenise’s answer. What does the face of a program trying to rebuild its academic reputation consider the WORST ADVICE she has EVER received?
You know what I admire about Shenise Johnson? That in the face of adversity (adversity being literally every study ever conducted), Shenise sticks to her guns: “Who says school will help you have a better job at the end of the day?” Only The United States Government, wire service Reuters, and Georgetown, a school that apparently took time off from brawling with the Chinese to conduct a study with the most obvious conclusion of all time (next up: is Jared Lorenzen a bit too large to play quarterback?).
Shenise Johnson’s hatred of general statements must create problems on the court; imagine if one of the 16 fans shouts some passe encouragement, like “You can do it!” or “Defense!” Would Shenise turn the other cheek or would there be Malice in the BankUnited Center? Perhaps the reason why that advice is so general might just be because it makes sense.
Shenise is more than willing to believe in the Bible, yet dispels education as a myth. Ahh, yes. I was reading this super-prestigious science journal about making an entire new person out of someone’s lung and walking atop water for yards at a time (do you think Jesus’ watertop 40 time was wind-aided?), and then in my leisure time I read a fairy-tale about reading, ‘riting, and ‘rithmetic.
Speaking of fairy-tales, 11 seed Gonzaga is the talk whisper of the NCAAW tournament, Cinderellas for knocking off 6th seeded Rutgers before defeating Johnson’s 3rd seeded Lady ‘Canes. I firmly believe that if Johnson wasn’t so busy thinking about petty distractions such as academics, they would have been focused enough to win. She lamented having to work on a book review in February (“who still does book reviews in college as a senior? Geeesh…”). Yet somehow, Johnson has navigated through that useless minefield called learning, and is set to graduate in the spring. Rumored destinations for her diploma are mixed, but the one spot ruled out so far is on her resume.
Shenise’s next question asks her who she doesn’t envy, and she replies Lebron James, because he is subjected to so much scrutiny. To that I say:
1. “scrutinized” wouldn’t be in Johnson’s vocabulary if she practiced what she preached.
Matt Lardner lives vicariously through his Twitter followers. Join the fun @bigpoppalard. Promise I won’t make general statements.
It was St. Patrick’s Day, the next Rapid was fifteen minutes away, and I had to pee ASAP. “Why’d you drink a 16 oz. coffee and an entire Smart Water in the car?” my friend Amy—marveling at her own ability to determine the source of my urinary troubles—inquired. Fortunately, a local Shaker Heightsian was waiting at the RTA stop with us. He felt strongly that I should relieve myself in the public shrubbery across the street. After some convincing, I got up to do my business. When in Rome…
I surveyed the residential landscape like a soldier behind enemy lines. Ultimately, I decided not to fire and made my way back across the railroad tracks to the bench in defeat. A decent-sized crowd had materialized at the bus stop and most couldn’t mask their disappointment. “Pussy move,” one remarked.
The Rapid was a jumbled mishmash of marijuana smoke, sweat, and sing-alongs—I guess I should have anticipated the stench of weed on the greenest holiday of the year. Ever the instigator, I encouraged a nearby coterie of drunks to pass the time with “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall”. They made it all the way to ninety-three before predictably transitioning into “Don’t Stop Believing”, which was rendered insufferable sometime in the fall of 2009 by the theatre-types/Gleeks who believe the line “Born and raised in South Detroit” epitomizes lyrical genius.
Once I got off the train I ran to the makeshift porta-potty plaza outside of Tower City, which inexplicably included a Paul Blart the Mall Cop manning (or in this case, womanning) the premises. As if there was an outhouse bandit on the loose or something. She had a “No BS” look on her face, so I covertly snapped a body-shot. Any chance she’s a regular Scrawl So Hard reader?
As I navigated the streets in search of a prime parade-viewing spot, one thing was clear: There were way too many Ed’s and Ignatius kids here. Everyone in my crew agreed on this, but we were split on which school we disliked more. I said Ed’s, because who the hell cares about wrestling? Talk to me when your cross country program is elite. Also, Ignatius students were only downtown because it was Saturday. They’re forced to miss the festivities when St. Patrick’s Day falls on a weekday, or else they run the risk of losing the sense of academic pretentiousness that we all love hate them for.
Was the parade any good? That’s a tricky question to answer. No part of it included candy being thrown into the crowd, which was an atrocity on par with Kony 2012. A cavalcade of Girl Scouts had the audacity to march past me without as much as a complimentary box of Thin Mints. That shit was cold.
On the other hand, I met a vendor selling “St. Patrick’s Day: Bitches Drink Up” tees. Unsure of the return-on-investment I’d get from this shirt, I proceeded to ask the merchant if bitches, in fact, would drink up for me should I wear it. He’ll have some testimonials from previous customers at the very least, I thought. “Haaaa,” he replied. “You’re foolin’.”
Our next idea was to create as many awkward situations as possible for those in the parade. Awkward situations like handshakes that lasted two seconds too long and saying “Happy (fill in the blank with an obscure holiday other than St. Patrick’s Day)”. I wished old-timers a happy Armistice Day and hipsters a happy Arbor Day; both were simultaneously confused and delighted by these sentiments. When the Cleveland Dragon Boat Association made their long-awaited appearance, we knew it was time to join the procession for a segment of the route. This kid wasn’t flummoxed one bit, though:
Alas, my question “Why was something called the Cleveland Dragon Boat Association in the St. Patrick’s Day Parade?” never received an answer.
I returned to the crowd just in time for the WeedMan float. This seemed rather insignificant until I obtained a sheet of stickers from the Weed Man himself. He was like Santa Claus, except better. I planned to extend my hand towards unsuspecting paraders, ostensibly for a high-five. But no! They’d slap my palm and find a fat, round, sticky “W” on theirs. When I saw this woman, I had no choice—she was asking for it:
Immediately, a nearby spectator rushed over to congratulate me on the successful stunt: “That shit was cold.” Damn right it was.
Last month I applied for media credentials that would grant my crew and I access to the second and third round NCAA Tournament games being played in Columbus this weekend. I’ve covered the 2011 MAC Tournament and this season’s Backyard Brawl—the annual slugfest between Cleveland State and Akron—so my resume spoke for itself. The only downside was being forced to choose which courtside strut to use as I ambled over to press row. But I could deal with that later. March Madness was mine for the taking.
Then a funny thing happened—the request was denied. The situation reeked of conspiracy, so I hired a team of lawyers to investigate the matter and will publish their findings here. With a bit of luck, the story will be compelling enough to generate a 30 for 30 documentary and/or a series of Outside the Lines features lionizing my plight.
I spent the next week sulking in the most therapeutic corner of the Internet: eBay. While this was not good for my bank account; you, the reader, made out big time. The following is what I believe to be the first NCAA Tournament preview based solely on online shopping:
Prediction: Louisville advances to the Final Four.
The Cardinals’ victory over Cincinnati in the Big East Tournament final was utterly unwatchable—I’ve been involved in more exciting CYO games—but their pressure-heavy defense should lead them to New Orleans. In the meantime, enjoy some Rick Pitino “RIGATION” (ed.: rigatoni?) for a mere $5.99.
Oh, nevermind…only the box is for sale. Mint condition, though!
Prediction: Xavier upsets Duke in the third round.
In case you don’t remember, Xavier’s got a bunch of gangstas in their locker room. Not thugs. They grown men over there. So don’t disrespect the Musketeers.
You can purchase Anita Plumlee’s album for $49.41. Anita, apparently an Australian (
alliteration assonance!), may or may not be related to Duke’s Miles, Mason, and Marshall Plumlee. Blue Devils fans like my boy E can listen to the soothing sounds of “Lady Elvis” while lamenting another early-round exit.
Prediction: Harvard defeats Vanderbilt in a battle of book readers.
I don’t actually believe in this prognostication, but found the eBay listing so absurd that I had to include it. Take, for instance, the price of $788.88. I will go to my grave wondering how “hobbytreasures” set this value. As my blog’s readership continues to grow, there will undoubtedly be a time when one of my former classmates auctions off a Lake Catholic High School yearbook from 2007-2011. And it better cost more than $788.88.
Prediction: Kentucky wins the national title.
eBay Item: “SIGNED 2010 MAKERS MARK JOHN CALIPARI BOTTLE UK UNIVERSITY OF KENTUCKY WILDCATS”
I’m going out on quite a limb here, I know. But when the confetti is falling on the Wildcats, you too can pop champagne like you won a championship ring.
Wait—“THE CONTAINER HAS NOT BEEN OPENED AND IS NOT INTENDED FOR CONSUMPTION.” Damn! At least I have the next-best drink to celebrate with.
Bonus eBay item just because: “Kevin Pittsnogle Signed Framed 8×10 Photo West Virginia WVU”
Have a great March Madness everyone, unless I’m in a bracket pool with you.
Outside the famed Boys and Girls Club of Greenwich, Connecticut, a beat-up 1995 Chevy S10 maneuvers into a parking spot. Peyton Manning emerges from the vehicle; instantly, a horde of volatile paparazzi rush to capture his every move. Adorned in a denim-on-denim ensemble, the free agent quarterback is minutes away from announcing where he will sign for the 2012 season. Inside sits the stoic Jim Gray, ready to pepper Manning with questions ranging from “somewhat ridiculous” to “obscenely ridiculous”. Frequenters of the Club—oddly situated in one of America’s wealthiest cities—make up the sparse crowd anticipating the impending revelation. The lights dim and a below-average mariachi band begins to play. It is showtime.
UNSEEN VOICE: Welcome to an ESPN special presentation, The Decision 2, brought to you by Asian Chao. Put your hands together for Stuart Scott, who will be starting the night off with “Poetry Jam”.
STUART SCOTT: The Horseshoe’s blue, and feeling bluer too
How does a city move on from a star?
By drowning their sorrows at bars and crashing their cars?
Because usually the one to come next plays like feces—
For example, take Elway’s replacement Brian Griese
In fairness, the Colts should have more Luck
Yet the fans must be saying [expletive]
As they see their Manning become the market’s hottest prospect
Since Dakota Fanning
More importantly, tonight: Where will he play?
What will he Ir-SAY?
JIM GRAY (wiping away tears): Thank you Stuart, as always, for the artful lyricism.
PEYTON MANNING (also choked up): That was emotional.
JIM GRAY: Well everybody is on pins and needles across the country, particularly those in the running for Peyton’s services, so let’s begin.
PEYTON MANNING: Do you use that line when you auction off sex slaves, Jim?
(More awkward silence.)
JIM GRAY: So what’s new, Peyton? How was your winter?
PEYTON MANNING: It went swell, apart from my brother surpassing me in Super Bowl wins. But I did find some nice-looking Tennessee Volunteers crocs on eBay!
JIM GRAY (ears perking): Oh, those are nice. I have a Grambling State pair myself. Can you confirm to our viewers which teams you are considering?
PEYTON MANNING: The Cardinals, Jets, Broncos, and Dolphins made the final cut.
JIM GRAY: How did your visit with the Jets go? It sure would be compelling if you were vying for back-page headlines with Eli.
PEYTON MANNING: It was pretty unpleasant. Coach Ryan kept complimenting my feet and Sanchez wanted to know how old my daughter was.
JIM GRAY: My condolences. Was Denver any better?
PEYTON MANNING: Slightly.
JIM GRAY: Tim Tebow would be a tough act to follow.
PEYTON MANNING: Damn straight he would. That’s why I didn’t acknowledge him when I was meeting with the Broncos. Thrice I had to deny his existence. But I was assured that I’d be the starting quarterback in Denver—I heard it straight from the horse’s mouth.
JIM GRAY: What about Arizona?
PEYTON MANNING: They wooed me Bachelor-style. With roses and everything. It was pretty impressive, actually. Larry Fitzgerald and I rendezvoused to their facility’s fantasy suite and boy…Let’s just Austin Collie’s measurables don’t quite stack up.
JIM GRAY: And Miami?
PEYTON MANNING: Well of course I wanted to see if the 7th Floor Crew was for real. My boys Reggie Wayne, Marvelous, and Greg Olsen let me taste that life for one night, and the Coral Gables co-eds showed love.
JIM GRAY: There are kids watching this.
PEYTON MANNING (with an aw-shucks grin): Sorry.
JIM GRAY: Well, the answer to the question everyone wants to know: Peyton, what’s your decision?
PEYTON MANNING: Um, this fall—man, this is tough—this fall I’m gonna take my injured neck to South Beach and join the Miami Dolphins.
JIM GRAY: The Miami Dolphins. How did you come to this conclusion?
PEYTON MANNING: I had a dream last night—
JIM GRAY (cutting him off): Spare me the dream BS. Why did you really sign with Miami?
PEYTON MANNING: Well, Kelly Ripa is pretty hot, and since Regis Philbin is the new Head Coach of the Dolphins I figured he could hook the two of us up.
JIM GRAY: I hate to be a Debbie Downer, but Joe Philbin is their Head Coach. Not Regis.
PEYTON MANNING: [Expletive]! At least the Williams sisters are part-owners. I’ve always had a thing for them.
I like to think of Project X as The Catcher in the Rye’s cinematic offspring— both serve as their era’s defining representation of teenage angst. (Taking the comparison two steps further, one would expect the film to end up on banned-movie lists everywhere and for a sociopathic killer to clutch onto the Blu-Ray disc as he’s being arrested.) Accordingly, I felt the urge to attend a midnight showing and jot down some notes. Here’s what transpired:
- Even before seeing Project X, I’ve pegged it as the third most important movie of my lifetime, barely being edged out by White Chicks and Barbershop 2: Back in Business. That’s what I call “rarefied air”.
- The man in front of me is wearing a sombrero. You’d think he’d have the courtesy to remove it inside the theater. You’d think wrong!
- I pat myself on the back for successfully smuggling in a smoothie from Berry Blendz. Sombrero Guy looks unimpressed.
- The first preview is for The Hunger Games. From what I gather, it’s the Triwizard Tournament meets dogfighting.
- Movie’s starting! We will be viewing the daylong exploits of Thomas, Costa, and J.B. through the handheld camera of Dax. Thomas’ parents are out of town and it’s his birthday, so Costa wants to throw him a party. What is the goal of this party, you ask? Costa is happy to answer: “The whole idea for tonight is for bitches to recognize us as large-scale ballers.” If there’s ever been a nobler cause than this, I have yet to find it.
- Costa has two stipulations: “Ugly bitches stay home” and “remember to wear something tight.” Great minds think alike— I’ve been using these caveats since my First Communion party.
- J.B., describing his modest expectations for the night: “Get high, fuck bitches, you already know.” This is the same approach I took to sixth grade camp.
- The crew takes a trip to buy some “wholesale” pot. As they enter the dealer’s garage/shed/trailer, “You’re Beautiful” by James Blunt is playing. I spent a good six minutes trying to find a funnier song for this situation (and even considered making a half-hearted argument for “Cotton Eye Joe”) but thought of nothing.
- The twelve year-old security tag team hired by Costa look like extras from Spy Kids.
- “Beamer, Benz or Bentley” reverberates through Thomas’ house as guests enter. This is a good time to bring up the question “Which one of these luxury car brands do I want the most for my upcoming nineteenth birthday?” After a heated debate, I settled on the Bentley. I’ll give everyone a minute to write this down really quick before I compose my next bullet point………
- As one especially attractive partygoer pulls in, J.B. mentions that she made Playboy’s Pac-12 special. This got me thinking: Which conferences would make for the best Playboy issues? My top five:
- Horizon League: You’re telling me you wouldn’t pony up $4.99 to ogle Valpo’s finest?
- SEC: The best of both worlds— blondes with morals.
- ACC: The Selection Committee respects consistent powerhouses like Miami and North Carolina. However, recent accusations of artificial enhancement have tainted Clemson’s once-pristine reputation, so the ACC loses points here.
- Pac-12: I hate USC, so this is primarily due to juggernaut Arizona State.
- Big Ten: My bread and butter.
- There is a midget in the oven.
- Costa laments the presence of larger attendees. Will the “ugly whales’” attendance affect the party’s place in North Pasadena lore? Stay tuned.
- UPDATE: There are miracles, and then there’s the moment when Sombrero Guy decided to take off his sombrero.
- The movie erupts in mass chaos: media helicopters overhead, Thomas’ dad’s Benz is in the pool, and everything is on fire. Oh, and dogs are having sex with passed out humans. This reminds me of a conversation I had on bestiality with my eleventh grade religion teacher, which centered on The Berenstain Bears.
- A single police officer arrives on the scene—horseback. This will calm things down.
- Cut to Thomas, Costa, and J.B. waking up on the bleachers of a high school football field. They seem to be at peace with how the night turned out.
- My only real problem with Project X occurred when Thomas returned to school. He gets all lovey-dovey with a semi-attractive (certainly not Horizon League material) student that he’s known for years and uses the cheesy “You’re the only person I want to spend my next birthday with” comment. I wish he’d embrace his newfound popularity to upgrade in the significant other department, but I guess you can’t win ‘em all.
- Admittedly, the movie was great. Yet one burning question remains: Sure, Thomas, Costa, and J.B. were able to throw a decent shindig when they were given ample space. But could they do it within the unforgiving confines of a storage unit?