The Official Website of Dave Charlie

Goddammit, does anyone know how to design a blog? I’ll give you a blow job.

My coffee is getting cold and my beer is getting warm. Why must the world conspire against me?

Just a note to my international audience, I use the term “soccer” to refer to football, and “football” to refer to American football. I’m sorry, that’s just the way it’s going to be. I will extend an olive branch though. You’re right. Soccer should be called football worldwide, and American football should have come up with its own fucking name.

I hate “flopping” in professional sports. Soccer players are arguably the worst, followed closely by basketball players. Even football players do it. But of all the sports out there, if there were to be one sport where I would think the players would be above the theatrics, it would be ice hockey. I thought those players would be badass and undramatic enough to refrain. Until I watched the NHL playoffs this year. And I was wrong. I guess there are actors in every sport. Maybe rugby is still pure, I don’t know.

My prolonged bachelorhood and disinterest in marriage has caused some people to tell me that I lack maturity. Well, how about this. How about I indeed have maturity, a tremendous amount of maturity, because I know myself well enough to not sign up for something I don’t want. You still may say that marriage and children are what make a man mature, but I say it’s a man understanding himself and having the spine to live his life how he wants. How do you feel about that?

Here’s a tip. Silence cuts the deepest. I’m not a monster, I just refuse to smile through my teeth. Genuine smiles only 🙂

Why do we say each individual letter in the PSAT and then for the LSAT, we only say the “L” and then pronounce “sat” as the past tense of “sit”? Huh? Hey, you, I’m talking to you. Give me some fucking answers. Stop sitting idly just accepting everything that gets shoved down your gullet. “Well, ummm, that’s just the way it is I guess.” And then you fucking go turn on the TV and watch reruns of 90s sitcoms and eat Pepperidge Farm cookies until you fall asleep to the faint sound of Joey Tribbiani’s lovable idiocy with Milano dust on your chin. Goddammit, you are of no use to me.

If you ever buy me that Doctor Seuss book “Oh, The Places You’ll Go” I will fucking slit your throat.

If I ask you a question and your girlfriend answers for you, you’re dead to me.

I’m going to make this as succinct as possible. You have three options: live, die, or rot.