Gettin’ All Up In Your Bases

As even a novice to the sport of Based-Balls knows, “hitting for the cycle” is the rare feat of an individual player hitting a single, a double, a triple and (you guessed it) a homerun all in the same game. But what if, as my friend and fellow bloggerator once posited, you could hit for the “sex cycle”? Instead of trying to achieve 4 different types hits, you try to bed 4 different races of lady. And much like the 9 inning constraint of a Major League Baseball game (gives or takes,) you also have to accomplish this formidable goal within a set boundry of time (perhaps all in the same day?) As those who know me can attest, I’m crazy for the P.T., but even with my voracious sexual appetite, the most I’ve ever done in a day is knock a single (and many of those are arguably cases of me “reaching on an error.”) But this is the internets, where a man can live out his wildest fantasies without reproach, so please allow me to share with you how I envision hitting for the sex cycle.

For this exercise, I’ve adopted the following scale:

-Single = White Gal
-Double= Mamita Latina
-Triple = Asian Honey
-Donger = Nubian Princess

Note: The value I’ve assigned each race is not a statement on which I prefer (The Crain Train finds all women of all races and ethnicities to be equally beautiful, except Lithuanians) but is instead based solely on rarity of boning down with each.

Also for this exercise, to keep with the baseball analogy, I’m adopting the form of Wade Boggs:

Top of the 1st

The night has just begun and I find myself leading off. I know I should let a few go by to get a better idea of what I’ll be facing over the course of the evening, but I’m ancy to get going. I take a swing at the first thing I see that looks hittable, and while it’s not the prettiest pitch, it’s definitely something I can handle. I don’t make great connection, but I’m able to sneak one up the middle and get the evening off to a fast and productive start:


Top of the 3rd

It’s the second time through the order and I’m very confidant up in the batter’s box. This time around it’s not quite so easy, as I have to fight off several really nasty ones with a lot of movement. A few come my way that look tempting at first but end up being way too low in the strike zone for someone with my picky eye to offer at. Then I’m given a gift: a fat, juicy one headed right down the middle, just begging to be stroked. The pitch is moving fast, but that’s just the way I like it, and there is no way this one is getting by me. I put out the lumber and deposit a deep one:


Top of the 6th

I’m up again and now I’m really feeling it. On this night it seems that I can get my wood on anything I want, and so far the results have been Hall Of Fame material. Now I’m squaring up against the relief corps and getting a good look at some brand new pitches. I don’t have much experience with what’s being offered to me, but I feel just too damn comfortable inside the box to call it a night and hit the showers. I lay off of a spitter and let a big hooker go right by me, but then I finally get the big change-up that I’ve been waiting for. I muscle up, strike quick, find a gap and find myself in a perfect position to score:


Top of the 9th
It’s getting late in the evening and although I’ve already done enough tonight to be named Player of the Game, I’m dying to get up just one more time, completely unload and score again. I dig in and realize that I’m all out of sexually-oriented baseball double entendres. The pitcher is beautiful and she throws me a big, easy sex ball. I’m naked at the plate and literally begin to make sweet love. Something else happens with a big stick, an orgasm, a foul ball and a long donger.


Well folks, that’s how I see this whole “cycle” business going down. Feel free to imagine how your very own version of hitting for the sex cycle would transpire. And if your not a baseball fan, try for the “sex triple-double,” the “sex hat-trick” or maybe even the “two fat ladies.” If you can do it in sports, you can do it under the sheets!


A Day in the Quarterlife

Ooh, boy! 25 years young and thankful for every single day so far, except for the one where I got poison oak and threw up from eating too many PB & J’s all in the same afternoon, and also maybe the one where my mom didn’t let me go and see Robocop 3 in the movie theater even though I had watched the second one on tape and it was totally fine (thanks a lot, mom!) Man, I’ve really gone through a lot in these first 25 anos. Many friends have been gained, then lost, then gained again because they got a Sega Genesis for Christmas. Countless lessons have been learned, the vast majority of them pertaining to fast food restaurants and how to effectively utilize their dollar menus (try hitting two in the same day, folks!) Literally hundreds of cans of delicious Busch Beer have been poured down the old gullet, with hundreds more having been sacrificed to many scenic Missouri rivers. All in all, it’s been a wild ride, and I wouldn’t trade any of my experiences for anything in the world, except for perhaps a large sum of money and a San Diego Chargers cheerleader, then I would trade them in a hummingbird’s heartbeat.

But when a man hits his quarterlife, he starts to do a lot of thinking, particularly about the future and what he may like to accomplish, particularly in the next quarter (of his life.) It’s at this point that things are going to really start changing, where life gets a whole lot more serious and a whole lot more real. While I feel I’ve done a lot of great and important things over the course of my first 25 years (like when I got ESPN for free one time just by jiggling around an old cable wire and an A/V channel switcher,) the goals I set for myself and the lifestyle decisions that I make until the time I hit midlife are going to be the ones that really shape who I am. Please allow me to share with you a few of these things:

Own a Moped

Dudes, this just seems like a really easy decision to make. A moped fits the lifestyle and the needs of a quarterlifer to an absolute “T.” It’s financially and environmentally sound, which are two things that a quarterlifer definitely needs to be concious of. It is perfect for driving to work, and as a responsible quarterlifer, you can bet that I have a job. I could also easily take it to the supermarket and put some fresh fruits and vegitables and some nice cuts of lean beef in its handy storage space, because let’s face it, I’m a quarterlife old now, and I don’t need to be eating fast food all the damn time anymore. And who knows, maybe sometime soon I’ll have a few little quarterlifers of my own running around, and what better way to spend some quality time with dad then to zoom around on the old moped? Yep, I definitely need to by one of these things.

Date a Black Girl

Again, not a difficult decision for a rational, intelligent quarterlifer to make. I’ve 25 years of life experience and if I’ve ever harbored any prejudices against people of a different “flavor” then they should all be forgotten by now (except ones about Lithuanians, the are idiots.) As a quarterlifer, I’m not to old for younger people to still be looking up to me, and I’m not to young for older people to cast away all of my actions as pre-quarterlife childishness. Because of this, I really think it’s important to give off an air of quarterlife tolerance and diversity, and what better way to do this than to bone down with a black chick? Dating a black girl would also help me gain some much needed street cred, and in this modern world, a quarterlifer can take all of the cred he can get. Also, I must say that I really do like my women like I like my coffee: hot, black, early in the morning and served in a mug.

Eat More Paninis

Come on guys, Panini just screams out “Quarterlife.” I mean, it’s grilled, buttery Italian breads, succulent meats and cheeses, crisp veggies, delicious dijon and ranch dressing; what quarterlifer in his or her right mind wouldn’t love to chow down on one of these things everyday for lunch? Sure, regular old sandwiches are good, but a little kid can make and enjoy a sandwich. A panini takes the astute tastebuds and cool sensibilities of a someone who has lived for at least a quarterlife to truely enjoy and understand. Going to a deli and ordering a panini will definitely help me get entrenched in the daily life of a “quarty,” and it’s gonna taste pretty damn good too.

Well, those are just a few of the important life decisions that I’m going to hopefully be making in the coming years. I’ve got plenty more ideas, but I don’t want to share all of them with you; some of you quarterlifers out there are going to figure some stuff out on your own.

One Quarterlife down and here’s to at least 3 more!

One of the great perks of working in the fast-moving world of information sciences is that there is ample time to cruise the web and discover all sorts of interesting facts, many of them not related to watching people having sex. One of my favorite things while internetting is to look at my great state’s list of recently executed death row inmates with vivid descriptions of their heinous crimes and even vivider descriptions of what they had for their last meal. Let’s peruse the list:

Michael Poland

His Crime
Mr. Poland disguised himself as a highway patrolman and took hostage 2 armored gaurds in the middle of a lengthy bank run. After stealing more than 300 large from the van, he and his brother took the guards captive, brought them to a lake on the Arizona-Nevada border, tied them in canvas bags and dumped them in the water.

His Meal
3 Fried eggs, sunny side up; 4 Slices of bacon; 1 order of hash brown potatoes: 2 slices of whole wheat toast, with two pats of real butter; 2 individual serving size boxes of Raisin Bran cereal; 2 cartons of milk; 2 cups of Tasters Choice coffee

As someone who loves breakfast food, I think this is a really solid last meal. Eggs pop up frequently on many of the inmates’ lists, and for good reason (not to mention the irony of ordering them “sunny side up.”) I’m not sure what a “pat” of butter is, but I’m sure it is plenty. I always loved it when my mom bought the individual sized cereal boxes, and one wonders if Mr. Poland requested them or if that’s just all the prison had on hand. At least they gave him the real name brand stuff and not Bran-O’s or Raisiny Bran Flakes or some other type that just comes in that big bag. The coffee is a nice touch because the last thing you want to do when you’re being lethally injected is to nod off.

Robert Vickers

His Crime
Already on Death Row, Vickers was upset about a comment that fellow inmate Buster Holsinger had made about his niece. Pretending to be doing clean-up chores, Vickers snuck up to Holsinger’s cell, doused him with some saved up Vitalis and launched a burning strip of toilet paper inward, proceeding to burn Holsinger to his death.

His Meal
Green Chili Burros, burritos with barbecued steak, french fries and ketchup, vanilla ice cream, cream soda, a cigarette.

This meal is interesting because very few of the inmates stray too far from classic American fare. Burgers, steak, bacon, pie — these items seem to dominate last meal menus. It’s nice to know that people who immolate their fellow inmates for calling their niece “melon butt” are culinary individualists. Although I have to question the french fries and ketchup. Fries are great, but it’s your last meal, make ’em curly fries or ranch fries or even O-rings. Same with the cigarette; sure it’s a nice end to a meal, but why not a cigar? You fucking earned it, buddy. And one would hope that Vickers had the wherewithall to mix the cream soda and the vinilla ice cream to make a delectible pre-execution float.

John Brewer

His Crime
Brewer was informed by his live-in girlfriend, Rita Brier that she was going to leave him. He then locked the bedroom door and began to beat and strangle Brier, finally killing her with a tie. After resting from the violent struggle, Brewer showered and then had sex with Rita’s corpse. He then walked to a bowling alley, called the police and turned himself in.

His Meal
3 Grilled Pork Chops with gravy, 1/4 lb. Bacon, 6 Fried breaded Shrimp, Beef Rice-a-Roni, 2-3 slices French Bread with butter, Applesauce, 2 cans Canada Dry Ginger Ale with ice, 1 slice Coconut Cream Pie, 1 pint orange juice, 1 can Chicken Noodle Soup with Crackers, 1 can Pear halves with syrup, Maxwell House Coffee with cream and sugar.

This really seems less like a last meal then it does a list of the items a frantic contestant would grab on Supermarket Sweep, although I have to admit that young Mr. Brewer has the right idea. If there is ever a time to completly gorge on food, a last meal is definitely it. It’s not like you have any health concerns at this point, and you might as well spend as much of the taxpayers’ money as possible. I also like that he has covered all of the meal bases (breakfast, lunch, dinner and desert) which I feel a lot the inmates on this list failed to do. God damn, I can’t believe this kid fucked a corpse.

Robert Comer (hey, comer is “to eat” in Spanish)

His Crime
Robert and his girlfriend, Juneva Willis, were at a campground and invited neighboring campers over for dinner. Instead of actually having diner, Comer shot one of the neighbors in the head and stole his belongings. He and his girlfriend then went to another campsite, hogtied the husband to a car fender raped his wife in front of him and then kidnapped her.

His Meal
Fried Okra, 4 Buns, Butter (lots,) Salt (lots,) Banana Bread (2 slices)

Yeah, this guy is pretty f’ed up.

Chapter 1

It Was The Best of Tims, It Was The Worst of Tims

Tim Taylor, 35 years old, possessing the wit of a man twice his age yet the wisdom of a man with only half his years, stood proudly in the living room of his quaint, suburban home. The icy Detroit winter night could hardly be felt inside, where Tim and his 3 sons each stood in anticipation of their nightly, masculine ritual.

“Alright, I’m gonna show you how to do a reversal from the down position,” Tim instructed. Then, boldly pointing at his eldest son, Brad, who just this year had shorn his boyish frame and was beginning to blossom into a sprightly young man, Tim made his elegant prediction. “I’m gonna pin you in about 3 seconds.”

“Huh, that’s real fair, Dad. You weigh, like, a ton more than me,” Brad responded. His statement, while playfully hyperbolic, stung the elder Taylor’s heart. He was sensing a rift forming between he and his first born son, with each of Brad’s barbs like repeated stings to the same wound.

“A Ton? O.K., if that’s not fair, why don’t I just take on all three of you?” Tim replied, who’s cocksurredness suprised not one of his 3 sons, as they had all seen him repeatedly take on challenges far beyond his cappabilities seemingly on a weekly basis, and fail nearly every time. “C’mon, you bunch of little girls!” Tim commanded.

Before a single eyelid could be batted, Brad and his two younger siblings, the cuddly Randy and the impish Mark, were upon their suddenly overmatched father. Each boy grabbed a limb and began to push, prod, poke and pull while Tim grunted and groaned, flailing his arms and legs with little result. The rythmic wrestling of the four Taylor’s in the center of thier living quarters was like a violent ballet. Finally, Tim could take no more and ceased to move under the combined weight of his three offspring.

“One, two, three. You’re pinned!” shouted his middle son, Randy, who then punctuated the sweet yet inevitable victory with a strong and sturdy punch to his father’s shoulder.

“You lose!” proclaimed Mark, the youngest Taylor boy, with an amount of unrestrained joy that shocked his recently defeated father. Tim then sauntered to his knees and hung his head in what appeared to be in tiredness and in shame.

But it was a ruse. If only Brad was able to sense the mischeviousness and trickery in his wiley dad’s eyes a moment sooner, he could have avoided the fate bestowed upon him and his brother Randy. Tim rose like a Phoenix off of his hands and knees and grabbed Brad and Randy, forcing them into a headlock and holding them betwix the underside of his shoulder.

“Yeah, but not the second round!” Tim shouted as he held their heads tightly inside the pits of his arms, pits that held the grease and the sweat of a hard-working laborer and craftsman living in America’s rustbelt; pits that had lived the American Dream.

“Dad! It smells under here! Seriously!” Brad cried out to his father, who looked him in the eye and made sure that he knew who’s house he was in. Tim then proudly pronounced his acheivement.

“It’s the Tim Taylor Half-smelly Nelson!”

[to be continued…]

A newborn baby comprised not of flesh and blood but of words and ideas has been birthed into the blogsphere.

An infant genius of unfathomable acumen, morality, humor and intelligence has been released and allowed to blossom amongst the internets.

A living, breathing, malleable blog-being with novel ideas, fresh perspective, biting wit and a scathing tongue will now run free within and forever change the World Wide Web.

A bored dude who steals his neighbor’s wireless connection will occasionally post some shit for his 12 friends.

The Crain Train is coming through, get on board, ya’ll.