The Worst Person Alive Awards

I like giving out awards and making lists. It's an easy way to squeeze out a blog post if you can't think of another, more efficient way to bring the funny. And it's an opportunity to find goofy pictures from around the web to throw up on your blog, to make it look like wacky shenanigans are always going down there, as opposed to film reviews of classic noirs of the 30's and 40's. Which is still interesting, but not sexy in a 1000 unique hits a day kind of way.

But this is going to be by far the biggest, grandest, most important endeavor in Crushed by Inertia history. I'm speaking, of course, about the upcoming Worst Person Alive Awards.

Here's how it will go down. Every rare once in a while, I will post an article like this one, profiling someone I'm going to nominate for Worst Person Alive. Please feel free to leave your own nominations in the Comment ssection on any of these articles.

After I've announced enough nominations to make it a good race (at least 5 or 6), I'll give all of you, my lovely readers, adequate time and web space to vote on your pick for the Worst Person Alive. I will then do everything in my power to see that this person receives at the very least a personal e-mail from me informing them of their award win and, if I can scrape a budget together, perhaps a nice ceremonial certificate of Horrible-tude.

Right now, you may be asking yourself, "What qualifies a person for the title Worst Person Alive"? Well, we're not doing how many people you've killed or anything. This isn't Worst Fascist Dictator. That's not funny. Or rather, it could theoretically be funny, but not in a wacky blog kind of way. In a Theater of the Absurd, high-minded satirical kind of way...maybe.

No, instead I'm going for a person who represents all that is regrettable about the world today. Someone whose every action and statement confirms their utter disdain for all that is good, correct, proper and noble.

I've got tons of nominations already in mind, but tonight we're starting with a man with whom I'm only vaguely familiar. I present to you professional poker player Antonio Esfandiari. You may recognize Antonio from all of those poker shows on Fox Sports and ESPN and the Travel Channel. There's "World Poker Tour," "The World Series of Poker," "The Battle of the Sexes," "The World Poker Championships," "The Championships of World Poker," "Celebrity Poker Showdown," "Celebrity Poker Challenge," "The World Celebrity Poker Challenge Tour" and "Late Night Celebrity Showdown Professional Battle Poker Challenge of the Sexes: Championship Edition." He's been on most of those.

But it's not his skills at the card table that makes Antonio a nominee. It's his insatiable need to brag, boast, preen and generally display himself to the world in a disgraceful bid for adoration and respect.

Let's take a look at Antonio's recent column for All In Magazine, the poker magazine unafraid to slap goateed Ben Affleck smack dab on the cover. In it, he reveals himself to be not simply a jackass, but perhaps the largest, most obnoxious jackass in publishing history.

Since opening last Memorial Day, Body has become the place to be seen for the primo stuff strutters of Las Vegas and talented amateurs who come from out of town long on attitude and short on clothes. If Body isn't wall to wall with beautiful betties tonight, we'll eat our hats.

Man, Antonio does not fuck around. This is the very opening of his article. Let's count the cliches:

1) "the place to be seen"
2) "stuff strutters" (ugh)
3) "long on attitude/short on clothes" (I'm not sure I get what he means...they didn't bring a lot of clothes? They've already lost their clothes? I can get that they don't have a lot of money, but why don't they have any clothes? Where are they coming from?)
4) "wall to wall"
5) "beautiful betties"
6) "eat our hats"

And that last one is pretty old-fashioned. No one even wears hats any more.

There's a long line of rockstars-in-their-minds at the door, waiting behind the proverbial velvet rope, hoping to get in, hoping that their Scarface Tony Montana (boys) or Paris Hilton (girls) look will get them the green light from Cory and his men at the door. We don't wait of course. We've booked a table with bottle service.

Are there really guys trying to get into hot Vegas nightclubs by dressing like Tony Montana? Is it the white suit with gold chain and red collared shirt ensemble? Because if you're bold enough to go out in something like that, you deserve to get into a hot nightclub.

I like how Antonio informs us that it's the boys who dress like Tony Montana and the girls who dress like Paris Hilton. You know...so's we don't get confused as to what kind of "club" he goes to. Cause he's all man.

Poor rubes, they'll waste their night on the rope line, hoping just to pay the $20 "official" cover, and turtle into the club if they get the chance. Don't they know that life's too short to wait in line? Guess not.

Antonio’s First Rule of Nightclubbing:

Always book a table in advance. The more you pay, the more it’s worth.

I bet you didn't know Antonio had written out rules for this shit. Most people, you know, get dressed up and go to a club. But Antonio has taken the time to inform you that the only proper way to go nightclubbing (one word) is to spend a lot of money. Also, you really ought to be a professional poker player, if you can manage it.

Oh, and yes, life's too short to wait in line. But it's plenty long enough to spend your days sucking in cigar fumes and cheap, poorly-mixed cocktails as you crouch over a dimly-lit green-felt table trying to sucker a drunken postal carrier from Scranton out of his bus fare home.

DJ AM is spinning the steel wheels. He's flown in from LA specially for this gig and right now he's chilling the crowd with some smooth dub house but later he'll have everyone bouncing to his beat like puppets on a string. Props to the man, when he gets workin', he's Pavlov and we're his dogs.

There's nothing specifically vile about this paragraph. I just, for some reason, always find people's descriptions of techno music irritating. And I'm not saying everyone who listens to techno is an idiot or anything...I'm just saying that there's no way to talk about that kind of music without kind of sounding like a spacey douchebag. I mean, "we were chilling to some dub house"...it just sounds lame. They need a whole new vocabulary. And also, someone really needs to kill Moby in his sleep, cause I think we've all had enough of that guy.

While we're in here winning the party, the wannabes are still be riding the rope line, waiting, going nowhere fast. If you're a hottie, you could shake your way into Body, but for Joe Schmo and his buddies from the boondocks, they may as well go sit in the parking lot and watch the neon signs – either that or slip Mr. Franklin into the right hand.

Antonio is obsessed with people being denied admission to the club. He doesn't even want to be in there unless he knows people are being turned away at the door. It's kind of sad, really, in a way. There's Antonio finally living the dream, he's inside the hot club with all the cool people chatting up some fine looking ladies. It's everything a nerdy kid dreams of achieving one day.

And yet, right there, in the midst of his greatest success, Antonio can't appreciate anything. His only joy is derived from the abstract thought that somewhere out there is a pathetic individual worse off than him. At least I, Antonio Esfandiari, am inside this club right now! Ha ha! You just try to get in here, Joe Schmo. It would cost at least $100! Which no one has but me!

Also, note the use of the phrase "winning the party." What kind of competitive piece of shit thinks of a party as something that can be "won"? Just have a fucking drink and relax, Prefontaine. It's a party, not a track meet.

Antonio’s Second Rule of Nightclubbing:

There's no such thing as a free lunch.

Lons' Corrollary to Antonio's Second Rule of Nightclubbing:

There's no such thing as a free lunch, unless you're talking about going to a strip club in the afternoon that's having some kind of special promotion. Then, there might be a free lunch, but it's probably just cold cuts and warm soda.

Some petite betties from Canada drift over, shyly orbiting our booth, looking for a way to break the ice. Silly betties, just being them is all the icebreaking they need. But we know what they're thinking – have they seen us on TV or what? To help them out, I give them my trademark "Antonio wave," and they break out into squeals of laughter. "I knew it!" shrieks one. "I knew it was him!" Do we invite them to join us for a drink? Does a bear shit in the woods?

This was the point in the interview where I thought..."Just goofing on Antonio Esfandiari in one post isn't good enough...He needs to inaugurate my new contest for Worst Person Alive."

Has he actually trademarked the "Antonio wave"? Because if he has, his branding sucks. I mean, I watch poker on TV and I've never heard of the Antonio wave.

I have to say, I'm starting to think this whole anecdote may be completely fictional. First of all, even if they did recognize the guy from TV, would any woman hang out with a guy all night who insisted on calling them a "betty"? Clueless was released in, what, 1994? Can we update the argot a bit, Tony? What do you say?

I'm just not buying this "hot Canadian women recognized me in a club and then I tagged the shit out of them" story. I guess it could be true. I'm sure some people recognize Antonio Esfandiari in public. The whole thing just seems a little convenient.

One laughing betty fails Adam's patented sobriety test, where he holds up his hand, fingers spread, and asks, "How many hands am I holding up?" If they say one, they’re still sober...

If they say five, they're not. This one just falls out into hysterical giggling. Not fit to drive. Not fit to do much of anything but sit there and be beautiful, but baby that's enough.

He falls into kind of a Robert Evans vibe right here. Except, if Evans were relating this story, it would be both more implausible and disgusting. Plus it would involve a lot of famous talent of the 1970's. Allow me to demonstrate:

"I'm hanging out with this broad at the hottest nightclub in town, and oh man, she's getting wasted. I mean, this girl is out of her mind on the sauce. So I did the only thing I could think of. I gave her the sobriety test. I put my index finger into her butthole. And brother, did she ever pass. It was the first time I met Diane Keaton, but let me tell you something, baby, I promised her the part in Godfather that very same night."

Something like that. But don't worry, Antonio...you'll get there some day!

(By the way, no one even think of nominating Bob Evans for this award. Say what you will about the man's overall scumminess...he produced Chinatown. Automatic exemption!)

It always amazes me the way time goes away in a great nightclub. Once you're in that groove, the past and the future disappear, and all you have is the hot, perfect now. It's like an intense poker game, or even meditation.

Meditation's a damn sight cheaper, though, right? Yeah, I guess. If cheaper's what you want. But meditation won't get you a night like this, or a bevy of betties from Canada who jump in the limo with you when you go.

Is it supposed to be hotter somehow that they're from Canada? I don't mean to disparage Canadian women, many of whom I'm certain are quite strikingly beautiful. But Antonio brings it up constantly, as if it were a badge of honor. I mean, it's not really even that exotic to meet a Canadian woman. If they were from Guyana or something, I could see mentioning it more than once. But Vancouver?

Antonio also has his own website, talking all about his private top-secret members only exclusive society, known only as Get Rid Of Slimy girlS (or GROSS)...Oh, no, wait, it's the Rocks and Rings (named after a P. Diddy song!)

It's in the latter category that you'll find Rocks and Rings (or R&R as its shorthandedly known), a posse comprised of Antonio and his closest friends, guys who really know how to party -- and seem determined to teach the world this skill, one nightclub at a time.

Oh, Antonio, Antonio...is this contest going to be over before it even gets going? Are you the lamest guy I will ever find to nominate?

I will now republish Antonio's entire online Rocks and Rings "glossery" of slang terms. Brace yourself for the onslaught:

1.4. Homage to the $1.4 million that Antonio won at the 2004 LA Poker Classic, now an R&R seal of approval. "This party is a total 1.4."

BABY. An attractive young lady -- in homage to the classic movie Swingers, and in full respect to the lady in question.

BITE. An incoming cell phone call, especially from a baby. "I've got to step outside and take this bite."

BUDGET BOY. A term of disdain directed toward anyone who contemplate the price of a purchase. "If you have to ask, Budget Boy, you can't afford it."

DEEP DISH. Excellent house music.

HOTWIRE. To hook up. If you hotwire, you don't go home alone.

ON POINT. A) In charge of organizing the party. B) Locked in; in the zone. "Koosh was totally on point last night. No wonder he hotwired."

ROCKS AND RINGS. An all-purpose adjective to describe something of high quality or style. "How Rocks and Rings are these shoes?"

PLUCKWORTHY HONEY. A baby worthy of further attention.

TURBO SHOPPING. Buying clothing under the gun, where money is no object and second-guessing is not allowed.

I have to end the column now. Yeah, I can't follow that up. Words fail me. In the face of "pluckworthy honey," what can you do but close down your blog for the night, curl up in the fetal position and pray for the future of our nation?

So, anyway, that's Antonio's column, inaugurating this new feature. Post future nominations in the Comments Section! Or let me know if this is a dumb feature you don't feel like participating in, and I'll make up something else to occupy your feeble minds.