Back when you were a kid, you probably always complained about various chores to do…picking up the dog poop, cleaning your room, picking up the dog poop in your room, cleaning your pet rat’s cage, washing your dad’s nice sports car with a toothbrush and dial soap even though it’s negative 15 degrees out, you know…typical childhood stuff.
But then…when you’re OLDER and ON YOUR OWN, whatever the hell THAT means, you are supposed to welcome these chores. Like…okay, I’m on my own now…these things have to be done, so I am going to do it. Because I am responsible, and it is not responsible to let that dead cat just fester in my living room. I should pick it up.
Other things you are expected to do as an adult: Change your own clothes, be potty-trained, speak articulate sentences (as in…pronounce your R’s and don’t refer to your parents as mommy and daddy,) and worst of all…DO YOUR OWN LAUNDRY.
Don’t stop reading yet. Are you reading? You’re reading!!?!? Thanks. Okay. But seriously…laundry is the notorious chore that everyone hates, and if you know someone that says things like, “But…I LOVE LAUNDRY!” You should find that person and hurt them severely, or immediately inspect them to reveal their identity as a washing machine, not a person. In which case, you are weird because you make friends with robots.
The laundry room in my apartment complex is approximately a 40 foot walk from my apartment, but that can often feel like a 40,000 foot walk if you do it in severe wind, wearing a t-shirt and flip flops. So, to speed up the walk today, I decided to run.
So, there I was, carrying my large teal basket of laundry, sauntering down to the laundry room when I spot several kids playing on the jungle-gym on the way to the laundry room. I stop, feeling slightly embarrassed, mostly because the kids are laughing loudly and pointing fingers at me. I realize I look funny when I run, but I didn’t realize that 5 year olds believe so too.
I continued to walk shamefully with my head down, when I feel a slight poke on my left hip.
“Mister,” says the small child who is one of those kids that has an adult face on a toddler-body. I almost did a double-take to see if he was a cast member from “little people big world,” but he wasn’t. He was just a creepy little kid poking my hip while I ran to do my laundry.
“Oh, hey. How are you doing?” I say, because I can’t think of anything else to say, like “Don’t touch me, you creepy little midget child.”
“Why are you running?” his gigantic head says to me.
“Because it is really cold outside. I don’t have a jacket on like you do.” I say.
“Well…where are you running to?”
“The laundry room,” You little creep. Why are you asking me so many questions?
“I’ll run there too! It’s warm there!”
To the kid’s credit, it is warm there. It is really warm there. A lot warmer than outside.
So he and his little children of the corn friends follow me to the laundry room as I continue my apparently hilarious jog to get out of the god awful weather.
I proceed to do my laundry, while they punch against the vending machine, stare at me in a highly terrifying fashion, fog up the window pane and draw designs on it, and ask me the occasional question like, “Where did you get all the quarters from?”
Your mother.
I didn’t say that. That would be terrible. I told them the tooth fairy gave them to me…because I eat lots of candy and never brush my teeth so they fall out! If you guys do the same…you can do overpriced coin-operated laundry too!
Then I hear a tiny voice say, “I put my tooth under my pillow one time, and I woke up and there was chap-stick under it instead.”
I felt sort of bad, but I figured these little tykes knew I was just kidding. Cavities are bad.
I went back to the laundry room an hour or so later, to find no vacant driers, but one load was done drying, so I took the liberty of emptying it into a basket and putting my clothes into the dryer.
Then I hear another tiny, more-midgety voice say, “Are those your clothes?”
“No…they aren’t. But I need to use a dryer.”
“Well, what if that person wants their clothes to stay in there?”
“Um…if they really wanted them…they would have come to get their clothes by now. Besides, I’m putting them in this basket they can get them from there when they want to.”
“Those are my daddy’s clothes!” The little midgetman says.
“Really? Well…I’m sorry but you can go tell your daddy his clothes are done, but I’m going to use this dryer.”
“It’s not really my daddy’s clothes. My daddy doesn’t live here. He lives in jail.”
There was a few seconds of silence, then the far door opened and one of his little friends comes storming through the backdoor, looks up at me and says…
“You RUN FUNNY!”
I wanted to speak, but I couldn’t think of any words to say as I felt humiliated, embarrassed and really terrible for the little kid all in one. Instead, I just put my laundry in the dryer and walked away.
I came back about an hour later…30 minutes after the drying was done to find my clothes carelessly sprawled across the floor, and my dryer being used. I have no idea who was behind this, but I can only imagine it was those pesky kids, or maybe a really bitter adult who was upset that I moved their laundry. Into a basket. Not the floor.
Anyway, this simply proves that nobody likes laundry, and everyone hates the tooth fairy. I’m going to wash my clothes in the sink from now on.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Monday, December 14, 2009
Facebook Personalities
After a Finals Week that consisted of no finals, too much fantasy basketball, and a lot of information on Tiger Woods' personal life, I found myself spending an inordinate amount of time on Facebook. While on this social networking machine, I started noticing different people all have different “Facebook Personalities.”
It should be noted that all of these findings came to be through a very scientific method that involved premature judgments, random spurts of anger, taking naps and sporadic results based on the current mood I was in.
In other words, take this very seriously. Or you could be next.
Here are a few of my observations that I made while I was stalking you on Facebook, while you were probably cramming, losing sleep, and pounding your face in between the pages of your biology book:
The Awkward Conversationalist-
This person may or may not be awkward in real life, but it doesn’t matter, because they have terrible Facebook Social etiquette. What’s that? You didn’t know there was a social etiquette on Facebook? That’s probably because YOU are an Awkward Conversationalist.
Are they dangerous?
Most likely. The AC attacks in many different forms. Most commonly, they will start up conversation with you over a photograph, which we all know is rule #217 in the Facebook user-handbook. Their conversation will look something like this.
“Hey. Nice pic. So…how r u?”
Of course, if you are a halfway decent human being, you don’t respond to this. If you are a full-way decent human being, you throw your laptop out of your window in a fit of rage and disgust.
How am I? Well…thanks to your impolite Facebooking…I am terrible. I have no computer, and you have awful social skills, you Awkward Conversationalist.
How to get rid of them:
There is an 80 percent chance that the AC will get very upset with the fact that when you threw your laptop out of your window, you actually hit the hood of their car, or a very young child. To this, you will reply, “God bless you,” cross your heart and pray to a higher being that this person permanently loses internet access, or the ability to move their fingers.
Note:
They may also get upset that you never replied to their comment. They might even go so far as to send you a MESSAGE. In which case, of course, you will report them to the local police station as an internet predator, and they will be banished from Facebook forever, then they will go to Myspace, where all the other pedophiles go. Do not feel bad. They did this to themselves.
The Personal Questioner-
This person seems very genuine, and appears to have only good intentions, but do not fall for their trap. They ask you personal questions on your wall, where everyone can read it, and their only reason for doing this is so they can leak information about you to gossip sites like TMZ. Pretty soon, you will crash your car into a tree outside of your Orlando mansion, and have sex with multiple cocktail waitresses. Also, Ed Werder and other sportscenter anchors will live in your front yard. Their facebook style will look something like this:
“Hey man, so I heard the doctor said its only contagious when its an open sore…how’s the inflammation?…and I guess that you might have got it from that girl that my brother introduced you to. I could have sworn she was clean man. Anyway, that lip-hair wasn’t helping anybody regardless. I hope you’re doing well. Get back to me.”
Are They Dangerous?
Of course. If you have a PQ who can’t mind their P’s and Q’s, delete them from your friend list. If you are unaware of how to do this, go to their house and steal their internet connection. If you can’t do this…politely ask them to send you a message, because you’d rather not discuss this given topic over such a public medium. Then steal their identity.
Your Friends Dad-
There are two distinct different parent facebook users. One of which will friend request you, and will never have any social connection with you. The other will friend request you, and leave random comments on your status updates, mostly using outdated internet lingo to sound hip. There is great potential for the parents to completely mess this up. Like…
“LOL! Really? Wow. I waz total-e thinkin tha same thing! NEwayz…y do ppl spell with Z’s so much on the internet? Is it bcuz I’m 45 and shuldn’t be on Facebook? Why am I friend requesting all ur friends? Do you h8 the fact I’m on here? Let’s talk POLITICS! I am just jk’ing. TTYLOL!”
Are they dangerous?
Not really. They are mostly harmless and mildly annoying if they keep their distance. I recently found out that my History teacher has a facebook. Of course, I friend requested her and threatened to send her a virus if I didn’t get an A. There are perks to having elder folks on Facebook.
How do you get rid of them?
There’s not much you can do. However, posing pictures of their son or daughter drinking, smoking, having sex, swearing, or publically urinating usually causes some sort of controversy/hilarity amongst the family. You will also notice your friend cusses a lot less than usual on Facebook. That is because your friend is a pussy.
Your Friend’s Mom-
She is equally dangerous, and less assuming. She forces you to watch your every move on facebook, because your mom is friends with her, and everyone knows mom’s talk shit about their son’s/daughter’s Facebook tendencies. There is nothing you can do to prevent Your Friend’s Mom from her devilish Facebook ways. Just curl into the fetal position, and don’t go outside ever again. It will be okay.
The Eavesdropper:
Eavesdropper is one of the hardest words to spell in the English language, and not surprisingly, eavesdroppers are some of the hardest to spot on Facebook. That’s because they could be eavesdropping on your Facebook conversations with other people, and not even COMMENT on your wall-to-wall or status updates. HOW DARE THEY! The only way you might catch an Eavesdropper is by them casually bringing something up months later, like, “Yeah I saw that your day last Wednesday was really rough. I mean, you had that Math class that you hate, then you tripped in front of that super cute girl.” Then you say…how do you know such specific details? Then they’d say, “Well I have cameras installed in your house.” Then you’d resume your day as if nothing happened. Then approximately 17 hours later, you wake up in a cold sweat and realize you are friends with an Eavesdropper.
How to get rid of them?
The Eavesdropper can only be caught in the act. It’s kind of like when you are staring at an attractive classmate, and they make eye-contact and you try to veer your attention elsewhere, making it look like you weren’t looking in the first place. As we all know, this never works. I suggest tracking devices, hand grenades, tomato sauce or a mix of all of the above.
Hyperactive Status Updater: The HSU by all accounts is a terrible person with too much time on their hands. Their too-frequent status updates will read something like this:
HSU: just did some dishes.
HSU: Just had some water. I love water!
HSU: Just got off Facebook. Then logged back on again. Lol.
HSU: Just realized it’s kinda cold in here!
HSU: Just realized I turned the heat up too much! I’m like…sweating.
HSU: Fuck guys. They r so dumb. And thermostats. They are dumb too. Ugh.
HSU: I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND!
HSU: I’m kinda tired. It’s 3 a.m. and I haven’t gotten off my laptop yet. I should probably eat.
HSU: Just ate.
HSU: To all you guys out there, remember this one thing: Girls don’t like guys who are DICKS! So…BE NICE!
HSU: Fuck guys.
HSU: I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND! Love ya baby!! Xoxoxo.
Are they Dangerous:
To your health and well being? Yes. Click the “hide all” icon next to their name, and you will add 10 years to your life.
Others:
The over-user of the Like Button: Why can’t you leave a comment or something? These people usually want people to think they are far too busy to actually type, but they are more than willing to click the thumbs up.
The Person That Doesn’t Know You But Friend Requested You: At first, you are honored, then flattered, then creeped out. The latter is appropriate. Call the police.
Closet Facebook Addict: This person is always leaving comments on people’s walls and status updates, but is “invisible,” and never seems to be online. You find yourself thinking, “gee, CFA must be really busy to NEVER be on Facebook.” But really, they are just as addicted as you, but they are worse because they disguise themselves. Wear your addiction proudly, FCA, or else you will be exposed. Or attacked by a pack of rabid coyotes.
The person who keeps saying “dislike”: That was funny last year. Stop it. Go hang out with your parents who are also on Facebook.
The Person Who Always Writes Facebook Notes and Blogs and Stuff and Expects People to Read it and Find it Humorous: Seriously man, give it up. You weren’t very funny to start with. Also, the way you walk is very feminine.
Ow.
It should be noted that all of these findings came to be through a very scientific method that involved premature judgments, random spurts of anger, taking naps and sporadic results based on the current mood I was in.
In other words, take this very seriously. Or you could be next.
Here are a few of my observations that I made while I was stalking you on Facebook, while you were probably cramming, losing sleep, and pounding your face in between the pages of your biology book:
The Awkward Conversationalist-
This person may or may not be awkward in real life, but it doesn’t matter, because they have terrible Facebook Social etiquette. What’s that? You didn’t know there was a social etiquette on Facebook? That’s probably because YOU are an Awkward Conversationalist.
Are they dangerous?
Most likely. The AC attacks in many different forms. Most commonly, they will start up conversation with you over a photograph, which we all know is rule #217 in the Facebook user-handbook. Their conversation will look something like this.
“Hey. Nice pic. So…how r u?”
Of course, if you are a halfway decent human being, you don’t respond to this. If you are a full-way decent human being, you throw your laptop out of your window in a fit of rage and disgust.
How am I? Well…thanks to your impolite Facebooking…I am terrible. I have no computer, and you have awful social skills, you Awkward Conversationalist.
How to get rid of them:
There is an 80 percent chance that the AC will get very upset with the fact that when you threw your laptop out of your window, you actually hit the hood of their car, or a very young child. To this, you will reply, “God bless you,” cross your heart and pray to a higher being that this person permanently loses internet access, or the ability to move their fingers.
Note:
They may also get upset that you never replied to their comment. They might even go so far as to send you a MESSAGE. In which case, of course, you will report them to the local police station as an internet predator, and they will be banished from Facebook forever, then they will go to Myspace, where all the other pedophiles go. Do not feel bad. They did this to themselves.
The Personal Questioner-
This person seems very genuine, and appears to have only good intentions, but do not fall for their trap. They ask you personal questions on your wall, where everyone can read it, and their only reason for doing this is so they can leak information about you to gossip sites like TMZ. Pretty soon, you will crash your car into a tree outside of your Orlando mansion, and have sex with multiple cocktail waitresses. Also, Ed Werder and other sportscenter anchors will live in your front yard. Their facebook style will look something like this:
“Hey man, so I heard the doctor said its only contagious when its an open sore…how’s the inflammation?…and I guess that you might have got it from that girl that my brother introduced you to. I could have sworn she was clean man. Anyway, that lip-hair wasn’t helping anybody regardless. I hope you’re doing well. Get back to me.”
Are They Dangerous?
Of course. If you have a PQ who can’t mind their P’s and Q’s, delete them from your friend list. If you are unaware of how to do this, go to their house and steal their internet connection. If you can’t do this…politely ask them to send you a message, because you’d rather not discuss this given topic over such a public medium. Then steal their identity.
Your Friends Dad-
There are two distinct different parent facebook users. One of which will friend request you, and will never have any social connection with you. The other will friend request you, and leave random comments on your status updates, mostly using outdated internet lingo to sound hip. There is great potential for the parents to completely mess this up. Like…
“LOL! Really? Wow. I waz total-e thinkin tha same thing! NEwayz…y do ppl spell with Z’s so much on the internet? Is it bcuz I’m 45 and shuldn’t be on Facebook? Why am I friend requesting all ur friends? Do you h8 the fact I’m on here? Let’s talk POLITICS! I am just jk’ing. TTYLOL!”
Are they dangerous?
Not really. They are mostly harmless and mildly annoying if they keep their distance. I recently found out that my History teacher has a facebook. Of course, I friend requested her and threatened to send her a virus if I didn’t get an A. There are perks to having elder folks on Facebook.
How do you get rid of them?
There’s not much you can do. However, posing pictures of their son or daughter drinking, smoking, having sex, swearing, or publically urinating usually causes some sort of controversy/hilarity amongst the family. You will also notice your friend cusses a lot less than usual on Facebook. That is because your friend is a pussy.
Your Friend’s Mom-
She is equally dangerous, and less assuming. She forces you to watch your every move on facebook, because your mom is friends with her, and everyone knows mom’s talk shit about their son’s/daughter’s Facebook tendencies. There is nothing you can do to prevent Your Friend’s Mom from her devilish Facebook ways. Just curl into the fetal position, and don’t go outside ever again. It will be okay.
The Eavesdropper:
Eavesdropper is one of the hardest words to spell in the English language, and not surprisingly, eavesdroppers are some of the hardest to spot on Facebook. That’s because they could be eavesdropping on your Facebook conversations with other people, and not even COMMENT on your wall-to-wall or status updates. HOW DARE THEY! The only way you might catch an Eavesdropper is by them casually bringing something up months later, like, “Yeah I saw that your day last Wednesday was really rough. I mean, you had that Math class that you hate, then you tripped in front of that super cute girl.” Then you say…how do you know such specific details? Then they’d say, “Well I have cameras installed in your house.” Then you’d resume your day as if nothing happened. Then approximately 17 hours later, you wake up in a cold sweat and realize you are friends with an Eavesdropper.
How to get rid of them?
The Eavesdropper can only be caught in the act. It’s kind of like when you are staring at an attractive classmate, and they make eye-contact and you try to veer your attention elsewhere, making it look like you weren’t looking in the first place. As we all know, this never works. I suggest tracking devices, hand grenades, tomato sauce or a mix of all of the above.
Hyperactive Status Updater: The HSU by all accounts is a terrible person with too much time on their hands. Their too-frequent status updates will read something like this:
HSU: just did some dishes.
HSU: Just had some water. I love water!
HSU: Just got off Facebook. Then logged back on again. Lol.
HSU: Just realized it’s kinda cold in here!
HSU: Just realized I turned the heat up too much! I’m like…sweating.
HSU: Fuck guys. They r so dumb. And thermostats. They are dumb too. Ugh.
HSU: I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND!
HSU: I’m kinda tired. It’s 3 a.m. and I haven’t gotten off my laptop yet. I should probably eat.
HSU: Just ate.
HSU: To all you guys out there, remember this one thing: Girls don’t like guys who are DICKS! So…BE NICE!
HSU: Fuck guys.
HSU: I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND! Love ya baby!! Xoxoxo.
Are they Dangerous:
To your health and well being? Yes. Click the “hide all” icon next to their name, and you will add 10 years to your life.
Others:
The over-user of the Like Button: Why can’t you leave a comment or something? These people usually want people to think they are far too busy to actually type, but they are more than willing to click the thumbs up.
The Person That Doesn’t Know You But Friend Requested You: At first, you are honored, then flattered, then creeped out. The latter is appropriate. Call the police.
Closet Facebook Addict: This person is always leaving comments on people’s walls and status updates, but is “invisible,” and never seems to be online. You find yourself thinking, “gee, CFA must be really busy to NEVER be on Facebook.” But really, they are just as addicted as you, but they are worse because they disguise themselves. Wear your addiction proudly, FCA, or else you will be exposed. Or attacked by a pack of rabid coyotes.
The person who keeps saying “dislike”: That was funny last year. Stop it. Go hang out with your parents who are also on Facebook.
The Person Who Always Writes Facebook Notes and Blogs and Stuff and Expects People to Read it and Find it Humorous: Seriously man, give it up. You weren’t very funny to start with. Also, the way you walk is very feminine.
Ow.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Grocery Shopping
It was a Friday night in La Grande, Oregon, and I was grocery shopping. Grocery shopping you say? Ai, grocery shopping. Shopping for groceries. On a Friday night.
Every time I go grocery shopping, I am very systematic, and very detail oriented. I send myself a text message that is my grocery list, because paper and pen kills the planet, I use a re-usable grocery bag, because plastic kills the planet, if possible I walk or ride my bike because Toyota’s kill the planet, and I put my hear in dreadlocks, wear a tie-dye shirt and kiss the soil for good measure. This is all ordinary protocol for my weekly trip to Safeway.
However, things got off to a bit of a rocky start when I sent myself my text message that serves as a list. Or I thought it was myself. I have my phone number saved in my phone as “Me,” because it’s me. However, I also have a Melanie in my phone, who ironically also has the word ME in it. Weird, right?
Well, I accidentally sent Melanie my grocery list, which would be embarrassing enough if my list was something like…”Lettuce, Spinach, Chicken, Eggs.” Melanie would probably get the text message, laugh, wonder who’s number it is, then send a reply that would read something like; “?”
Um…well…luck would have it that this wasn’t a routine grocery list. I had been experiencing a lot of chap-lips and dry skin with the winter season in full affect, and I also needed some hardware for a repair in my apartment, so I had some extra odds and ends here and there to the otherwise normal grocery list.
Instead…my grocery list read more like this: “Vaseline, Ziploc Bag, Lotion, Cucumber, Milk, Rope, Sanitization wipes, Rubber Gloves, Tomatoes, Yogurt and Chicken.”
Looking back, it probably would have been appropriate if the end of the text message read, “Meet me in 15 minutes…you’re DEAD! MMMWWWUAAHAHAHAHAH!”
Then again, Chicken and tomatoes seem innocent enough.
But, according to Melanie (who I am still not entirely certain who that is), this text message error was highly offensive. At least I think that’s what she meant when she said, “delete me from your phone and never text this number again.” I complied with her request, and realized eliminating Melanie from my contacts would increase the likelihood of me NOT texting a random person my grocery list. By the same token…look out MEGAN! AHAHAHAHAAAAAAA.
But seriously, I am going to start just making lists. Or I am going to stop making friends with people whose names begin with ME. It’s really self centered when you think about it. Have you ever met anyone selfless whose name start with ME? Whatever happened to the first letters being YOU or PEACELOVEEQUALITY? I’d never send them creepy grocery list text messages, and if I did, they’d probably be really forgiving, because they are so selfless. I’m talking to YOU Melanie!
Anyway, once I made it to checkout without having any serious charges pressed against me, I got to read my favorite material of the day. National Enquirer.
“Obama confesses to gay-love-affair. Michele is outraged! Details inside.”
I glanced, giggled, assumed it to be true..duh, and heaved my gigantic Costco re-usable bag full of Vaseline, Ziploc bags, rope and other things to use when masturbating/trying to kill someone onto the conveyer belt.
The cashier gave me a dirty look, then sighed, then frowned and said, “You again?”
I said, “Yeah. Did you hear the president is gay?”
He said, “I always knew Clinton was a faggot.”
His tag read “Serving you since 1998.”
It should have read “Serving you since 1998, and I haven’t turned on my TV since. Oh, and I hate re-usable bags. They’re too heavy and hard to stack stuff back in.”
The couple behind me was a combined 150 years old at least, and they were adorable. I immediately judged them by their items on the conveyer belt, like any good grocery shopper would do.
Hm…brown rice, frozen vegetables, whole wheat bread, yogurt, skim milk, grapes, dry beans and peas. Cost effective, and healthy. They clearly know what they are doing.
I smiled, and decided we would be really good friends if we shared the same retirement home.
I glanced back, and saw the elderly women reading the National Enquirer. Not in the way that someone who is curious reads it, but in the way that someone who really BELIEVES it reads it.
I was immediately disappointed. This sweet looking woman with her sweet looking husband, buying health conscious food, reading the equivalent of human shit smeared across recycled paper.
She then put down the National Enquirer, folded it over her left hand, smacked it against the counter top, huffed, then broke out into laughter.
“Jeez, they’ll put anything in this to make a sale,”
Her husband replied, “I don’t believe a word of it.”
I laughed, and said, “Wait…you guys didn’t know…its all the truth! Believe EVERY word!”
We all shared a laugh, then the woman went on to explain that she has a daughter who is a newspaper editor on the East Coast, and every year she sends her a National Enquirer that is especially ridiculous to mock the so called “news coverage,” that continues to sell in check out lines across America.
I told her she has quite the sense of humor, and her husband said, “She’s always been that way.”
I asked them how long they’d been together and they said 43 years, and as my heart filled with joy, I was interrupted by a soft voice.
It was the woman. She said, “How many avocadoes do you have? Ya must be havin’ a party, makin’ a bunch of guacamole for some friends huh?”
I paused…I wanted to say, “Lady, it’s a Friday night, and I’m at Safeway. Do you really think I’m the type to make guacamole for a party? With friends?”
Instead, I said, “Nope. All for me!”
She laughed, said I was a growing boy, then suspiciously looked into my re-usable bag, obviously taking note of the Vaseline, Ziploc bags, lotion and rope.
I quickly shifted my bag to the side, exposing the cucumber, milk and sanitization wipes. Slightly less suspicious I suppose.
She smiled uncomfortably, and said, “That’s a really big bag.”
By saying that, she was really trying to say, “What the fuck are you doing with Vaseline, lotion, Ziploc bags and a rope, you creep?”
I almost blurted out my defense… “It’s not what you think! I have some stuff to take care of at my apartment. I mean…I need to fix something up. Uh…I mean…I have dry skin OKAY!?!?”
Fortunately, it did not reach this point, but I did stop and determine that I am probably their age at heart.
I wanted to exchange phone numbers or something, ask them what their plans are for the night. The conversation would undoubtedly go like this:
Me: So…what are you guys up to tonight?
Them: Well, we’ll probably put our groceries away tonight, watch some Matlock, maybe some Jeopardy, then read a book and fall asleep by 9:30.
Me: Wow. That sounds wonderful. Would you like some company? I make a MEAN split pea soup.
Them: Sean…that sounds absolutely wonderful.
Me: Okay, let me take a nap before I come over. I should probably walk too. I need the exercise. Oh, and I need to change my dentures. Can I get your cell phone number?
Them: Dear, we don’t have a cell phone. We still use the telegraph.
Me: Duuuh…me too. Okay, I’ll meet you guys in 45 minutes.
Cashier: Would you like help out to your car, sir?
Me: Uh…yeah…yeah I’d like that. And give me some more yogurt too. It keeps me regular.
I had a lot in common with the couple, and though we didn’t hang out, I did get her name. I’d like to say her name was Melanie, because that would tie this story together beautifully, but her name was something like Ethel or Betty. A very old person name. Have you ever met a young person named Ethel? NEVER. That’s because all old people, when they reach a certain age, have to get an old name. They have 3 choices…Ethel, Betty or Margaret. They choose whichever one they want, and then you must legally refer to them as such, or else you will be shot in the left foot. IT’S SCIENCE.
Anyway, maybe next time I’ll stick to my old-fashioned tendencies and use a paper and pen. Or maybe I should just buy chap-stick instead. Ya know, to avoid confusion.
Every time I go grocery shopping, I am very systematic, and very detail oriented. I send myself a text message that is my grocery list, because paper and pen kills the planet, I use a re-usable grocery bag, because plastic kills the planet, if possible I walk or ride my bike because Toyota’s kill the planet, and I put my hear in dreadlocks, wear a tie-dye shirt and kiss the soil for good measure. This is all ordinary protocol for my weekly trip to Safeway.
However, things got off to a bit of a rocky start when I sent myself my text message that serves as a list. Or I thought it was myself. I have my phone number saved in my phone as “Me,” because it’s me. However, I also have a Melanie in my phone, who ironically also has the word ME in it. Weird, right?
Well, I accidentally sent Melanie my grocery list, which would be embarrassing enough if my list was something like…”Lettuce, Spinach, Chicken, Eggs.” Melanie would probably get the text message, laugh, wonder who’s number it is, then send a reply that would read something like; “?”
Um…well…luck would have it that this wasn’t a routine grocery list. I had been experiencing a lot of chap-lips and dry skin with the winter season in full affect, and I also needed some hardware for a repair in my apartment, so I had some extra odds and ends here and there to the otherwise normal grocery list.
Instead…my grocery list read more like this: “Vaseline, Ziploc Bag, Lotion, Cucumber, Milk, Rope, Sanitization wipes, Rubber Gloves, Tomatoes, Yogurt and Chicken.”
Looking back, it probably would have been appropriate if the end of the text message read, “Meet me in 15 minutes…you’re DEAD! MMMWWWUAAHAHAHAHAH!”
Then again, Chicken and tomatoes seem innocent enough.
But, according to Melanie (who I am still not entirely certain who that is), this text message error was highly offensive. At least I think that’s what she meant when she said, “delete me from your phone and never text this number again.” I complied with her request, and realized eliminating Melanie from my contacts would increase the likelihood of me NOT texting a random person my grocery list. By the same token…look out MEGAN! AHAHAHAHAAAAAAA.
But seriously, I am going to start just making lists. Or I am going to stop making friends with people whose names begin with ME. It’s really self centered when you think about it. Have you ever met anyone selfless whose name start with ME? Whatever happened to the first letters being YOU or PEACELOVEEQUALITY? I’d never send them creepy grocery list text messages, and if I did, they’d probably be really forgiving, because they are so selfless. I’m talking to YOU Melanie!
Anyway, once I made it to checkout without having any serious charges pressed against me, I got to read my favorite material of the day. National Enquirer.
“Obama confesses to gay-love-affair. Michele is outraged! Details inside.”
I glanced, giggled, assumed it to be true..duh, and heaved my gigantic Costco re-usable bag full of Vaseline, Ziploc bags, rope and other things to use when masturbating/trying to kill someone onto the conveyer belt.
The cashier gave me a dirty look, then sighed, then frowned and said, “You again?”
I said, “Yeah. Did you hear the president is gay?”
He said, “I always knew Clinton was a faggot.”
His tag read “Serving you since 1998.”
It should have read “Serving you since 1998, and I haven’t turned on my TV since. Oh, and I hate re-usable bags. They’re too heavy and hard to stack stuff back in.”
The couple behind me was a combined 150 years old at least, and they were adorable. I immediately judged them by their items on the conveyer belt, like any good grocery shopper would do.
Hm…brown rice, frozen vegetables, whole wheat bread, yogurt, skim milk, grapes, dry beans and peas. Cost effective, and healthy. They clearly know what they are doing.
I smiled, and decided we would be really good friends if we shared the same retirement home.
I glanced back, and saw the elderly women reading the National Enquirer. Not in the way that someone who is curious reads it, but in the way that someone who really BELIEVES it reads it.
I was immediately disappointed. This sweet looking woman with her sweet looking husband, buying health conscious food, reading the equivalent of human shit smeared across recycled paper.
She then put down the National Enquirer, folded it over her left hand, smacked it against the counter top, huffed, then broke out into laughter.
“Jeez, they’ll put anything in this to make a sale,”
Her husband replied, “I don’t believe a word of it.”
I laughed, and said, “Wait…you guys didn’t know…its all the truth! Believe EVERY word!”
We all shared a laugh, then the woman went on to explain that she has a daughter who is a newspaper editor on the East Coast, and every year she sends her a National Enquirer that is especially ridiculous to mock the so called “news coverage,” that continues to sell in check out lines across America.
I told her she has quite the sense of humor, and her husband said, “She’s always been that way.”
I asked them how long they’d been together and they said 43 years, and as my heart filled with joy, I was interrupted by a soft voice.
It was the woman. She said, “How many avocadoes do you have? Ya must be havin’ a party, makin’ a bunch of guacamole for some friends huh?”
I paused…I wanted to say, “Lady, it’s a Friday night, and I’m at Safeway. Do you really think I’m the type to make guacamole for a party? With friends?”
Instead, I said, “Nope. All for me!”
She laughed, said I was a growing boy, then suspiciously looked into my re-usable bag, obviously taking note of the Vaseline, Ziploc bags, lotion and rope.
I quickly shifted my bag to the side, exposing the cucumber, milk and sanitization wipes. Slightly less suspicious I suppose.
She smiled uncomfortably, and said, “That’s a really big bag.”
By saying that, she was really trying to say, “What the fuck are you doing with Vaseline, lotion, Ziploc bags and a rope, you creep?”
I almost blurted out my defense… “It’s not what you think! I have some stuff to take care of at my apartment. I mean…I need to fix something up. Uh…I mean…I have dry skin OKAY!?!?”
Fortunately, it did not reach this point, but I did stop and determine that I am probably their age at heart.
I wanted to exchange phone numbers or something, ask them what their plans are for the night. The conversation would undoubtedly go like this:
Me: So…what are you guys up to tonight?
Them: Well, we’ll probably put our groceries away tonight, watch some Matlock, maybe some Jeopardy, then read a book and fall asleep by 9:30.
Me: Wow. That sounds wonderful. Would you like some company? I make a MEAN split pea soup.
Them: Sean…that sounds absolutely wonderful.
Me: Okay, let me take a nap before I come over. I should probably walk too. I need the exercise. Oh, and I need to change my dentures. Can I get your cell phone number?
Them: Dear, we don’t have a cell phone. We still use the telegraph.
Me: Duuuh…me too. Okay, I’ll meet you guys in 45 minutes.
Cashier: Would you like help out to your car, sir?
Me: Uh…yeah…yeah I’d like that. And give me some more yogurt too. It keeps me regular.
I had a lot in common with the couple, and though we didn’t hang out, I did get her name. I’d like to say her name was Melanie, because that would tie this story together beautifully, but her name was something like Ethel or Betty. A very old person name. Have you ever met a young person named Ethel? NEVER. That’s because all old people, when they reach a certain age, have to get an old name. They have 3 choices…Ethel, Betty or Margaret. They choose whichever one they want, and then you must legally refer to them as such, or else you will be shot in the left foot. IT’S SCIENCE.
Anyway, maybe next time I’ll stick to my old-fashioned tendencies and use a paper and pen. Or maybe I should just buy chap-stick instead. Ya know, to avoid confusion.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
You Wanna Know How I Know You're Gay?
It has become ever-apparent that college professors are nothing like the teacher’s I had from grades K-12.
I don’t remember my 4th grade teacher getting offended by me not calling her Doctor Palmer. I do recall her getting mad at me for wiping my boogers on the bottom of my seat.
10 years later, and my professors are getting angry when I don’t refer to them as “Doctor,” and STILL getting mad at me for wiping my boogers on my chair.
“I DO WHAT I WANT!” I would say. Then I would proceed to fart loudly and blow my burp breath all over the hooded sweatshirt of the girl who sits in front of me.
Such acts of rebellion are not tolerated in the college classroom…so I refrain. But apparently, what IS tolerated in the college classroom is having a teacher video tape himself.
Every morning, at 7, I roll out of bed and muster up the courage to attend a class whose teacher does not directly teach real people.
He does something called “Distance Ed,” and videotapes himself during class, then uploads it to something called “the internet,” and that way people living in New York who thought it’d be fun to take a PHILOSOPHY CLASS THROUGH EASTERN OREGON UNIVERSITY, can watch him repeat our textbook, word for word. Because god forbid they actually have to read. It should be noted here that our professor…excuse me DOCTOR…wrote the textbook himself, and you should kiss his feet.
I had an interaction today with my professor that went a little something like this.
Me: So…is this data table a recent study? Or was it done a few years ago?
Doctor: (Looks into the camera. Self consciously adjusts his jeans…the camera adds ten pounds…clears his throat…adjusts his pants again…and repeats my question very loudly, like he’s reading off of a teleprompter for the first time in his life.) The question is, “How recent is this graph?” This is a really good question. A question that I am going to answer right now.
I now realize that he is doing his best Bob Barker impression and failing miserably. I also now realize that he has successfully talked for 20 seconds without saying ANYTHING.
Doctor: The answer to this question is…this is an outdated graph. It was done in 1979. And that is the answer to the question. (Clears his throat, adjusts his shirt, adjusts his tie. Smiles into the camcorder.)
It should also be noted here that his wife wakes up at 7 every morning to sit in a chair and point the camcorder at him. I am still unsure as to why she does this, because the man never moves, and he never looks away from the camera…at the actual students who are physically present.
It’s the strangest thing because often times he will say things TO the camera, and not to the students. It will be an awkward whisper sort of thing, where he sort of leans in to the tripod, and says something like… “The tall kid in the back has NO idea what the hell he is doing. I’d pan over to him right now…but I think he’s watching me. He’s so WEIRD.”
My interesting experiences with professors doesn’t stop there. Oh no…it doesn’t.
A professor whom I am very fond of, who teaches my history class, evidently thinks I am a homosexual.
It should be stated that I have no problem with homosexual people, It just so happens that I am NOT a homosexual, but rather a heterosexual. Evidently, I don’t always give off this vibe.
It was an innocent class discussion, and we were talking about the history of sexuality, and whether or not time period has anything to do with sexual attraction. Nobody was saying ANYTHING so I decided to speak up, and say that I believe time and culture both have apparent effects on sexual attraction. I cited that I was not particularly attracted to supposedly “beautiful” people from the 1960’s. I found them to dress weird, I found their mannerisms odd, and in no way saw them to be sexually attractive.
The professor was elated with my response, told me I made great points, and went on to lecture a few minutes about how much culture influences our sexual desires.
She then paused…and said, “Sean makes a great point when he says that for SOME reason…he was not attracted to the…people of the 1980’s. Now, Sean. We hear you say you are not attracted to them, and I can’t help but ask…when you say THEM…what do you mean?”
At this point…I am genuinely confused as to what the hell she is asking me. You know how teachers often ask leading questions? Or questions to make a point? I thought this was one of those times. So I replied with the simplest of answers.
“The people in the 1960’s. It’s like they are so different than us, it is hard to be sexually attracted to them.”
The professor then replies, “Okay…so you are not attracted to the….uh….the…is it men or women of the 1960’s?” (Notice how she puts men first. Alphabetical? I think NOT!)
My face immediately turns to an oversized tomato, I hunch down in my seat and try to disappear as every individual in the class is now in a hysterical fit of laughter.
From here. It could go one of 2 ways. I could interpret the classes laughter as a “Oh my GOD she didn’t know he was straight? Duuuuh he’s straight…he’s like…the coolest babe magnet on campus!”
Or…it could be the much more likely, “Oh man we just outed a closet homosexual in class. I bet he feels really awkward. I feel really weird. I’m going to make sure to never change in the same room as him. Now I am going to laugh at him.”
After the earthquake of humiliation subsided, the professor tried to defend herself, and she said, “Well, Sean…you never specified if they were actors or actresses, men or women.”
“Um…actually I did. I said actresses.”
Several of my classmates nodded their head in agreement, which sparked more laughter, because everyone just realized my professor just assumed that I was a homosexual.
Humiliated, I stayed 30 minutes after class just to prove to my professor that I was indeed STRAIGHT. (Note: My professor is a women. Note: I did not really stay after class and make out with my professor.)
Later that night, I did that thing where you carry a practical joke for too long, and then when you try to tell the truth, the person doesn’t believe you.
Ironically, this ALSO had to do with sexuality. Yay!
I was text messaging a girl from one of my classes, and made an offhand comment about how a man approached me flirtatiously and it made me feel uncomfortable. She replied with the typical, “Whatever…you liked it!”
To which I replied….not so typically, “Well yeah. I’m gay.”
She then replied, “OMG NO WAY!? I have tons of gay friends! That’s so cool I could tell the whole time LOL!”
I then thought…wow…that was way too easy. I wonder if I give off a weird vibe or something.
Then I replied, “Just kidding. I’m straight as an arrow.”
Then she said, “Yeaaah right, you don’t have to lie to me lol! I have a gay friend that is lookin for a guy actually. He likes tall guys. You want his number?”
Now I think she’s just messing with me, so I start to kid back.
“Hahaha yeah totally! Only if he is a cutie. Hahahaha.”
She took it seriously.
“Okay his number is 503-849-1621” (note: that is not the real number. I apologize to whoever has this number. You might get a prank call from one of the 1000000000 people that read this.)
I reply, “Hahahha! Man…you’re good. I was just kidding though. I’m straight. As an arrow. Like I said before.”
She replies, “Yeah WHATEVER! Don’t be dumb.”
I reply, “No really. I’m not kidding. Not even a little. I like women. Females.”
She says, “Suuuure. That’s why I always catch you staring at that guys butt in Philosophy? And that’s why you walk the way you do. And your LAUGH! Are you kidding me? You might as well wear a bumper sticker that says ‘boys only’ and keep your playlist of Coldplay and Elton John on repeat!”
I reply…stunned, “Listen…I was KIDDING before. I am a heterosexual man. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
She says, “There’s nothing else to be said. I know how it is, Sean. I know. You don’t need to be ashamed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Well, class should be interesting.
I don’t remember my 4th grade teacher getting offended by me not calling her Doctor Palmer. I do recall her getting mad at me for wiping my boogers on the bottom of my seat.
10 years later, and my professors are getting angry when I don’t refer to them as “Doctor,” and STILL getting mad at me for wiping my boogers on my chair.
“I DO WHAT I WANT!” I would say. Then I would proceed to fart loudly and blow my burp breath all over the hooded sweatshirt of the girl who sits in front of me.
Such acts of rebellion are not tolerated in the college classroom…so I refrain. But apparently, what IS tolerated in the college classroom is having a teacher video tape himself.
Every morning, at 7, I roll out of bed and muster up the courage to attend a class whose teacher does not directly teach real people.
He does something called “Distance Ed,” and videotapes himself during class, then uploads it to something called “the internet,” and that way people living in New York who thought it’d be fun to take a PHILOSOPHY CLASS THROUGH EASTERN OREGON UNIVERSITY, can watch him repeat our textbook, word for word. Because god forbid they actually have to read. It should be noted here that our professor…excuse me DOCTOR…wrote the textbook himself, and you should kiss his feet.
I had an interaction today with my professor that went a little something like this.
Me: So…is this data table a recent study? Or was it done a few years ago?
Doctor: (Looks into the camera. Self consciously adjusts his jeans…the camera adds ten pounds…clears his throat…adjusts his pants again…and repeats my question very loudly, like he’s reading off of a teleprompter for the first time in his life.) The question is, “How recent is this graph?” This is a really good question. A question that I am going to answer right now.
I now realize that he is doing his best Bob Barker impression and failing miserably. I also now realize that he has successfully talked for 20 seconds without saying ANYTHING.
Doctor: The answer to this question is…this is an outdated graph. It was done in 1979. And that is the answer to the question. (Clears his throat, adjusts his shirt, adjusts his tie. Smiles into the camcorder.)
It should also be noted here that his wife wakes up at 7 every morning to sit in a chair and point the camcorder at him. I am still unsure as to why she does this, because the man never moves, and he never looks away from the camera…at the actual students who are physically present.
It’s the strangest thing because often times he will say things TO the camera, and not to the students. It will be an awkward whisper sort of thing, where he sort of leans in to the tripod, and says something like… “The tall kid in the back has NO idea what the hell he is doing. I’d pan over to him right now…but I think he’s watching me. He’s so WEIRD.”
My interesting experiences with professors doesn’t stop there. Oh no…it doesn’t.
A professor whom I am very fond of, who teaches my history class, evidently thinks I am a homosexual.
It should be stated that I have no problem with homosexual people, It just so happens that I am NOT a homosexual, but rather a heterosexual. Evidently, I don’t always give off this vibe.
It was an innocent class discussion, and we were talking about the history of sexuality, and whether or not time period has anything to do with sexual attraction. Nobody was saying ANYTHING so I decided to speak up, and say that I believe time and culture both have apparent effects on sexual attraction. I cited that I was not particularly attracted to supposedly “beautiful” people from the 1960’s. I found them to dress weird, I found their mannerisms odd, and in no way saw them to be sexually attractive.
The professor was elated with my response, told me I made great points, and went on to lecture a few minutes about how much culture influences our sexual desires.
She then paused…and said, “Sean makes a great point when he says that for SOME reason…he was not attracted to the…people of the 1980’s. Now, Sean. We hear you say you are not attracted to them, and I can’t help but ask…when you say THEM…what do you mean?”
At this point…I am genuinely confused as to what the hell she is asking me. You know how teachers often ask leading questions? Or questions to make a point? I thought this was one of those times. So I replied with the simplest of answers.
“The people in the 1960’s. It’s like they are so different than us, it is hard to be sexually attracted to them.”
The professor then replies, “Okay…so you are not attracted to the….uh….the…is it men or women of the 1960’s?” (Notice how she puts men first. Alphabetical? I think NOT!)
My face immediately turns to an oversized tomato, I hunch down in my seat and try to disappear as every individual in the class is now in a hysterical fit of laughter.
From here. It could go one of 2 ways. I could interpret the classes laughter as a “Oh my GOD she didn’t know he was straight? Duuuuh he’s straight…he’s like…the coolest babe magnet on campus!”
Or…it could be the much more likely, “Oh man we just outed a closet homosexual in class. I bet he feels really awkward. I feel really weird. I’m going to make sure to never change in the same room as him. Now I am going to laugh at him.”
After the earthquake of humiliation subsided, the professor tried to defend herself, and she said, “Well, Sean…you never specified if they were actors or actresses, men or women.”
“Um…actually I did. I said actresses.”
Several of my classmates nodded their head in agreement, which sparked more laughter, because everyone just realized my professor just assumed that I was a homosexual.
Humiliated, I stayed 30 minutes after class just to prove to my professor that I was indeed STRAIGHT. (Note: My professor is a women. Note: I did not really stay after class and make out with my professor.)
Later that night, I did that thing where you carry a practical joke for too long, and then when you try to tell the truth, the person doesn’t believe you.
Ironically, this ALSO had to do with sexuality. Yay!
I was text messaging a girl from one of my classes, and made an offhand comment about how a man approached me flirtatiously and it made me feel uncomfortable. She replied with the typical, “Whatever…you liked it!”
To which I replied….not so typically, “Well yeah. I’m gay.”
She then replied, “OMG NO WAY!? I have tons of gay friends! That’s so cool I could tell the whole time LOL!”
I then thought…wow…that was way too easy. I wonder if I give off a weird vibe or something.
Then I replied, “Just kidding. I’m straight as an arrow.”
Then she said, “Yeaaah right, you don’t have to lie to me lol! I have a gay friend that is lookin for a guy actually. He likes tall guys. You want his number?”
Now I think she’s just messing with me, so I start to kid back.
“Hahaha yeah totally! Only if he is a cutie. Hahahaha.”
She took it seriously.
“Okay his number is 503-849-1621” (note: that is not the real number. I apologize to whoever has this number. You might get a prank call from one of the 1000000000 people that read this.)
I reply, “Hahahha! Man…you’re good. I was just kidding though. I’m straight. As an arrow. Like I said before.”
She replies, “Yeah WHATEVER! Don’t be dumb.”
I reply, “No really. I’m not kidding. Not even a little. I like women. Females.”
She says, “Suuuure. That’s why I always catch you staring at that guys butt in Philosophy? And that’s why you walk the way you do. And your LAUGH! Are you kidding me? You might as well wear a bumper sticker that says ‘boys only’ and keep your playlist of Coldplay and Elton John on repeat!”
I reply…stunned, “Listen…I was KIDDING before. I am a heterosexual man. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
She says, “There’s nothing else to be said. I know how it is, Sean. I know. You don’t need to be ashamed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Well, class should be interesting.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
What My Madden 10 Players Are Thinking
Like any other 19 year old American, I spend a hideous amount of time on mind-numbing video games. Mainly, sports games involving my fantasy teams...which is another hideous waste of time on it's own.
I've always wondered how these virtual depictions of these players really FEEL when I'm playing with them. What's that? You don't think these virtual players HAVE feelings!? Well...someone should be expecting a sack of coal under their tree this year.
Me? I'll be expecting NBA 2k10. And possibly the newest Tony Hawk. And Tony Hawk himself. Or a virtual depiction.
Here's the dialogue that most likely occurs between my players in the huddle.
Reggie Bush: Donovan! That was a HORRIBLE throw, man. I was 10 yards away from where you put that ball!
Donovan Mcnabb: Reggie, your speed is a 97, which is pretty unrealistic, it should be a 99, and your agility is a 95...so why the HELL couldn't you catch up to that ball?
Reggie Bush: Look...I'm not even a reciever. This kid...that tall goofy lookin dude eating popcorn, and listening to music while I get repeatedly HITSTICKED, put ME at Wide Reciever. I'm a running back!
Mcnabb: Alright, just sprint to it next time alright? My shoulder's getting sore.
Matt Birk: Your shoulder is sore? My body feels like I've been run over by a semi-truck. This kid has called 17 consecutive pass plays! My icon has been red for the past 30 minutes, and this kid won't get me a sub!
Me: REST UP, BIRK! Your FAT ASS isn't getting ANY BREAK! MMWWAAHAHA!
Anquan Boldin: That's because he didn't draft any back-up offensive lineman. He instead decided to draft 12 recievers and 9 cornerbacks.
Darren McFadden: And 5 running backs. If this fool put's me at Center...I'm out.
LaDanian Tomlinson: He ran the wildcat the entire first quarter. Do you understand what that does to me? I don't even remember what it feels like to hit a hole. I just stand out there in no-man's land, pretend to play quarterback, then get my helmet knocked off by Ray Lewis. It hurts. Really, really bad.
Mcnabb: Alright guys, I understand you are upset, and rightfully so. I mean...this kid hasn't used a timeout all season. But still, we've got a game to win! Alright...it looks like...I-form...uh...Weak out's to you Dallas Clark. L.T.- I'll look for you on the checkdown. Ready....Break!
Clark: I've ran this route every play this game. This is going to be an interception. This kid doesn't get it.
Mcnabb: Ah SHIT! My bad Dallas...I thought you were open!
Clark: Well, your awareness is a 93, but unfortunately, the kid controlling it has the Madden IQ of a 7 year old.
Bush: Is he picking his nose right now?
Boldin: Oh god. He just wiped it on the couch. That's disgusting. Now...he's laughing.
Me: GOD DAMNET MCNABB! THROW THE F*&#ING PIGSKIN!
Torry Holt: He's yelling. Alot. If anyone should be yelling...it should be ME. I have 1 reception on the year. He sends me deep every play, but never looks for me.
Mcnabb: Alright guys, that was my bad last time. He pressed A, but I'm pretty sure he meant Y. It's 4th and 37...what should we do?
Bush: Let's ask Madden.
L.T.: No. Don't you guys get it!? He is never going to ASK MADDEN. He is always going to run whatever he wants.
Mcnabb: You guys are going to hate this...but he's running the wildcat. And Brady Quinn is your lead blocker, L.T.
L.T.: I'm not doing it. I won't go out there.
McFadden: Great. It's always me. I'm gonna get hit 4 yards behind the line of scrimmage by a dude that weights 200 lbs more than me.
(McFadden breaks it for 41 yards, gets his helmet knocked off, and an injury icon pops up)
Darren McFadden has a broken collarbone. Would you like to bench him, or would you like to play him? The re-injury risk is 87%.
Me: McFADDEN!!?!?!? More like...McWUSS! GET BACK IN THERE!
Mcnabb: I honestly wonder if this kid has a heart. At all.
Holt: Alright...Donovan...c'mon man...throw it to me...just this once.
Mcnabb: Honestly, Torry I would love to get you some touches, but he's making us run a Flea Flicker, and he just put McFadden in instead of you at the no. 2 reciever spot.
L.T.: Last time I ran a flea flicker, I tore my ACL. And he kept playing me...because he thought it was funny to watch me limp when you handed off to me. This is hell.
Me: Flea Flicker!? YES! Let's go L.T. Don't be a SALLY.
Ladanian Tomlinson flicks it to Mcnabb, Mcnabb throws it to Anquan Boldin for 13 yards.
Anquan Boldin: Nice throw, Donovan.
Donovan: Oh god. Are you guys seeing this? He's on top of his couch, and just tied his blanket around his body. He's wearing it like a cape, and he's calling himself "SuperMadden." Now he's dancing. Very poorly.
McFadden: Can we just get this over with? If you didn't notice, I was laying on the ground that entire time because I am in so much pain. God help us all.
McNabb: Alright guys. I've got some terrible, terrible news. We are running a fake punt pass.
Boldin: But...it's 1st and 10!
Mcnabb: I know, I know. It's awful. This is never going to work. And worst of all...McFadden...you are the punter.
McFadden: Awesome. So...I'm guaranteed to get messed up, and most likely I am going to throw an interception.
(Play is good for a 7 yard gain. Torry Holt catches the pass off of Anquan Boldin's helmet.)
Me: GOD DAMNET! TORRY WHY THE HELL DID YOU CATCH THAT!? YOU SELFISH *&^*. Taking away touches from ANQUAN!
Holt: Why is he crying? Look at him. He's in a cape. And he is crying.
Matt Birk: I need oxygen as soon as possible. We've been running the no huddle for 11 minutes straight.
McFadden: I no longer have a collarbone. He won't take me out.
Me: I'm bored. This game is dumb. I wonder who's on Facebook.
Bush: Oh god! Don't reach for that green button! No! Not again!
McNabb: Well...see you guys next life. Except for you Torry. You're getting traded cuz you are selfish.
Boldin: I need my touches. And a contract extenstion.
Brady Quinn: Why the hell did he draft me?
I've always wondered how these virtual depictions of these players really FEEL when I'm playing with them. What's that? You don't think these virtual players HAVE feelings!? Well...someone should be expecting a sack of coal under their tree this year.
Me? I'll be expecting NBA 2k10. And possibly the newest Tony Hawk. And Tony Hawk himself. Or a virtual depiction.
Here's the dialogue that most likely occurs between my players in the huddle.
Reggie Bush: Donovan! That was a HORRIBLE throw, man. I was 10 yards away from where you put that ball!
Donovan Mcnabb: Reggie, your speed is a 97, which is pretty unrealistic, it should be a 99, and your agility is a 95...so why the HELL couldn't you catch up to that ball?
Reggie Bush: Look...I'm not even a reciever. This kid...that tall goofy lookin dude eating popcorn, and listening to music while I get repeatedly HITSTICKED, put ME at Wide Reciever. I'm a running back!
Mcnabb: Alright, just sprint to it next time alright? My shoulder's getting sore.
Matt Birk: Your shoulder is sore? My body feels like I've been run over by a semi-truck. This kid has called 17 consecutive pass plays! My icon has been red for the past 30 minutes, and this kid won't get me a sub!
Me: REST UP, BIRK! Your FAT ASS isn't getting ANY BREAK! MMWWAAHAHA!
Anquan Boldin: That's because he didn't draft any back-up offensive lineman. He instead decided to draft 12 recievers and 9 cornerbacks.
Darren McFadden: And 5 running backs. If this fool put's me at Center...I'm out.
LaDanian Tomlinson: He ran the wildcat the entire first quarter. Do you understand what that does to me? I don't even remember what it feels like to hit a hole. I just stand out there in no-man's land, pretend to play quarterback, then get my helmet knocked off by Ray Lewis. It hurts. Really, really bad.
Mcnabb: Alright guys, I understand you are upset, and rightfully so. I mean...this kid hasn't used a timeout all season. But still, we've got a game to win! Alright...it looks like...I-form...uh...Weak out's to you Dallas Clark. L.T.- I'll look for you on the checkdown. Ready....Break!
Clark: I've ran this route every play this game. This is going to be an interception. This kid doesn't get it.
Mcnabb: Ah SHIT! My bad Dallas...I thought you were open!
Clark: Well, your awareness is a 93, but unfortunately, the kid controlling it has the Madden IQ of a 7 year old.
Bush: Is he picking his nose right now?
Boldin: Oh god. He just wiped it on the couch. That's disgusting. Now...he's laughing.
Me: GOD DAMNET MCNABB! THROW THE F*&#ING PIGSKIN!
Torry Holt: He's yelling. Alot. If anyone should be yelling...it should be ME. I have 1 reception on the year. He sends me deep every play, but never looks for me.
Mcnabb: Alright guys, that was my bad last time. He pressed A, but I'm pretty sure he meant Y. It's 4th and 37...what should we do?
Bush: Let's ask Madden.
L.T.: No. Don't you guys get it!? He is never going to ASK MADDEN. He is always going to run whatever he wants.
Mcnabb: You guys are going to hate this...but he's running the wildcat. And Brady Quinn is your lead blocker, L.T.
L.T.: I'm not doing it. I won't go out there.
McFadden: Great. It's always me. I'm gonna get hit 4 yards behind the line of scrimmage by a dude that weights 200 lbs more than me.
(McFadden breaks it for 41 yards, gets his helmet knocked off, and an injury icon pops up)
Darren McFadden has a broken collarbone. Would you like to bench him, or would you like to play him? The re-injury risk is 87%.
Me: McFADDEN!!?!?!? More like...McWUSS! GET BACK IN THERE!
Mcnabb: I honestly wonder if this kid has a heart. At all.
Holt: Alright...Donovan...c'mon man...throw it to me...just this once.
Mcnabb: Honestly, Torry I would love to get you some touches, but he's making us run a Flea Flicker, and he just put McFadden in instead of you at the no. 2 reciever spot.
L.T.: Last time I ran a flea flicker, I tore my ACL. And he kept playing me...because he thought it was funny to watch me limp when you handed off to me. This is hell.
Me: Flea Flicker!? YES! Let's go L.T. Don't be a SALLY.
Ladanian Tomlinson flicks it to Mcnabb, Mcnabb throws it to Anquan Boldin for 13 yards.
Anquan Boldin: Nice throw, Donovan.
Donovan: Oh god. Are you guys seeing this? He's on top of his couch, and just tied his blanket around his body. He's wearing it like a cape, and he's calling himself "SuperMadden." Now he's dancing. Very poorly.
McFadden: Can we just get this over with? If you didn't notice, I was laying on the ground that entire time because I am in so much pain. God help us all.
McNabb: Alright guys. I've got some terrible, terrible news. We are running a fake punt pass.
Boldin: But...it's 1st and 10!
Mcnabb: I know, I know. It's awful. This is never going to work. And worst of all...McFadden...you are the punter.
McFadden: Awesome. So...I'm guaranteed to get messed up, and most likely I am going to throw an interception.
(Play is good for a 7 yard gain. Torry Holt catches the pass off of Anquan Boldin's helmet.)
Me: GOD DAMNET! TORRY WHY THE HELL DID YOU CATCH THAT!? YOU SELFISH *&^*. Taking away touches from ANQUAN!
Holt: Why is he crying? Look at him. He's in a cape. And he is crying.
Matt Birk: I need oxygen as soon as possible. We've been running the no huddle for 11 minutes straight.
McFadden: I no longer have a collarbone. He won't take me out.
Me: I'm bored. This game is dumb. I wonder who's on Facebook.
Bush: Oh god! Don't reach for that green button! No! Not again!
McNabb: Well...see you guys next life. Except for you Torry. You're getting traded cuz you are selfish.
Boldin: I need my touches. And a contract extenstion.
Brady Quinn: Why the hell did he draft me?
Monday, September 7, 2009
The Final Destination.
If you breathe, and you claim to be a human being, I am assuming you have seen The Final Destination. 3D. If you haven’t, I assume that you have been living under a rock, and are saving a lot of money on rent and utilities. Whether or not this describes you, I am here to tell you that 3D glasses are NOT safe to protect your eyes from UV rays.
Anyway, I recently saw The Final Destination, which is technically Final Destination 18, but apparently when you put “THE” in front of a sequel, it’s Hollywood language for, “Look, we know we’ve done this over far too many times, but let’s be real: You are still paying money to see these movies. $13.50 to be exact. Unless you aren’t seeing the 3D version. In which case you are lame.”
Don’t believe me? See titles such as, The Fast and Furious. It’s the 4th installment, but because they put THE and Vin Diesel in the film, it makes it okay.
Upon viewing the Great American Classic known as The Final Destination 3D, and having survived various snake attacks, flying screwdrivers, and seeing a dude’s organs get sucked out from his butthole, I found myself feeling lucky to be alive after the film. Like maybe…I cheated death. But as everyone who sees these movies knows, you can’t cheat death. And if you do, you will be killed in a very unlikely chain of events most likely involving fire, a semi-truck, and an attractive looking woman. And a coffee shop. Always coffee shops.
Here’s a sneak peek inside the conference board meeting room when they decided the uh…plot for The Final Destination:
Director: Alright everybody, I know it’s been a while, but I think now that a few years have past, we can all attack this film from the right angle…do what FINAL DESTINATION has never done BEFORE! Are we excited or WHAT!?
Actor 1: Um…yeah…I mean…nothing personal, but these situations aren’t exactly like…everyday things, you know? Like…does anyone actually go to NASCAR Races?
Director: The last thing I need from you is your negativity, Actor 1…Now go do some sit-ups, and work on delivering lines, and not sounding mentally challenged, then come back to me.
Actor 2: I think the death’s are cool and everything, but the script here says one of us is going to die crossing the street. Come on…that’s far too practical. People die like that all the time.
Director 2: Yeah…but do they die like that in 3D!!!!?!?!?!?!?
Actor 1: Well, it’s real life…so yes. It is a 3 dimensional death. I think if you are gonna start killing people off by way of car accident’s…you’ve really lost your touch.
Director 1: THAT’S IT! Actor 1…You are dying from getting your organs sucked out through your butthole. It’s going to happen.
Actor 1: Oh, god. Not this again. You told me last time I was gonna be the guy who got dragged down the street while being lit on fire because I am a racist.
Director 2: Yes. That was your PRIVLEDGE. Now…you get your guts sucked out through your ass. How’s that feel?
Actor 1: I cannot seriously answer that question because that is literally too absurd to begin to comprehend.
Actor 2: Yeah, that’s pretty messed up.
Director 2: Hey…um, that ceiling fan is going kinda fast. Do you think we could turn it down a bit?
Actor 1: Why? Are you cold?
Director 2: No it’s just…uh—
Actor 2: What…SAY IT!
Director 2: It’s just…well…in the movie, the ceiling fan spins out of control, while simultaneously someone slips on a puddle of hair gel, then as they are falling, the ceiling fan has irresponsibly sharp blades, and it decapitates the person. In several pieces. Aaand…I just don’t want that to happen.
(Silence)
Actor 1: THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I AM SAYING! This kind of shit is NOT believable! Why would a ceiling fan be so damn sharp? And why would there be a puddle of hair-gel on the FLOOR!?
Director 1: The gel is on the floor because the wind spilled it there. Happens all the time.
Actor 3: That did almost happen to me the other day.
Actor 1: You were on set. That’s why it happened. You were filming a movie. That is not real life.
Actor 3: I’m gonna go do sit-ups.
Director 2: Someone turn off that damn ceiling fan. And mop up the hair gel for god’s sake.
Actor 2: I think this meeting needs to be re-scheduled. Plus…I’ve gotta go get my car washed.
Director 2: Make sure to have a bird shit on your window, then get yourself locked in the car, then have the sunroof open while you’re in the car, then stick your head out the sunroof only to get decapitated by the soft, spinny thing that cleans your roof.
(Silence)
Actor 1: Is this how you live your life? Constantly looking for inconspicuous ways for people to die?
Actor 4: This meeting is Horseshit. I am going downstairs, and to do so…I am going to use an escalator.
Director 1: Make sure to not get your shoelace caught in the escalator, then cause the escalator to break, then get dragged in to the gears and motor of the escalator and turned into a slice of cheese with clothes on because you didn’t have the presence of mind to just remove your shoes and jump off the escalator.
Actor 2: Jesus Christ.
Actor 3: That is IT! I am going to a Nascar Race.
Director 3: Make sure that you don’t sit down and have a vision of everyone dying, then get your head chopped off by a flying wheel, but then realize it was just a vision, then get your body crushed by a flying engine, because let’s face it…flying engines are all over at NASCAR races.
Actor 1: Nobody is going to see this movie. And if they do…there will be a very humorous blog written about us by some kid on Facebook.
Anyway, I recently saw The Final Destination, which is technically Final Destination 18, but apparently when you put “THE” in front of a sequel, it’s Hollywood language for, “Look, we know we’ve done this over far too many times, but let’s be real: You are still paying money to see these movies. $13.50 to be exact. Unless you aren’t seeing the 3D version. In which case you are lame.”
Don’t believe me? See titles such as, The Fast and Furious. It’s the 4th installment, but because they put THE and Vin Diesel in the film, it makes it okay.
Upon viewing the Great American Classic known as The Final Destination 3D, and having survived various snake attacks, flying screwdrivers, and seeing a dude’s organs get sucked out from his butthole, I found myself feeling lucky to be alive after the film. Like maybe…I cheated death. But as everyone who sees these movies knows, you can’t cheat death. And if you do, you will be killed in a very unlikely chain of events most likely involving fire, a semi-truck, and an attractive looking woman. And a coffee shop. Always coffee shops.
Here’s a sneak peek inside the conference board meeting room when they decided the uh…plot for The Final Destination:
Director: Alright everybody, I know it’s been a while, but I think now that a few years have past, we can all attack this film from the right angle…do what FINAL DESTINATION has never done BEFORE! Are we excited or WHAT!?
Actor 1: Um…yeah…I mean…nothing personal, but these situations aren’t exactly like…everyday things, you know? Like…does anyone actually go to NASCAR Races?
Director: The last thing I need from you is your negativity, Actor 1…Now go do some sit-ups, and work on delivering lines, and not sounding mentally challenged, then come back to me.
Actor 2: I think the death’s are cool and everything, but the script here says one of us is going to die crossing the street. Come on…that’s far too practical. People die like that all the time.
Director 2: Yeah…but do they die like that in 3D!!!!?!?!?!?!?
Actor 1: Well, it’s real life…so yes. It is a 3 dimensional death. I think if you are gonna start killing people off by way of car accident’s…you’ve really lost your touch.
Director 1: THAT’S IT! Actor 1…You are dying from getting your organs sucked out through your butthole. It’s going to happen.
Actor 1: Oh, god. Not this again. You told me last time I was gonna be the guy who got dragged down the street while being lit on fire because I am a racist.
Director 2: Yes. That was your PRIVLEDGE. Now…you get your guts sucked out through your ass. How’s that feel?
Actor 1: I cannot seriously answer that question because that is literally too absurd to begin to comprehend.
Actor 2: Yeah, that’s pretty messed up.
Director 2: Hey…um, that ceiling fan is going kinda fast. Do you think we could turn it down a bit?
Actor 1: Why? Are you cold?
Director 2: No it’s just…uh—
Actor 2: What…SAY IT!
Director 2: It’s just…well…in the movie, the ceiling fan spins out of control, while simultaneously someone slips on a puddle of hair gel, then as they are falling, the ceiling fan has irresponsibly sharp blades, and it decapitates the person. In several pieces. Aaand…I just don’t want that to happen.
(Silence)
Actor 1: THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I AM SAYING! This kind of shit is NOT believable! Why would a ceiling fan be so damn sharp? And why would there be a puddle of hair-gel on the FLOOR!?
Director 1: The gel is on the floor because the wind spilled it there. Happens all the time.
Actor 3: That did almost happen to me the other day.
Actor 1: You were on set. That’s why it happened. You were filming a movie. That is not real life.
Actor 3: I’m gonna go do sit-ups.
Director 2: Someone turn off that damn ceiling fan. And mop up the hair gel for god’s sake.
Actor 2: I think this meeting needs to be re-scheduled. Plus…I’ve gotta go get my car washed.
Director 2: Make sure to have a bird shit on your window, then get yourself locked in the car, then have the sunroof open while you’re in the car, then stick your head out the sunroof only to get decapitated by the soft, spinny thing that cleans your roof.
(Silence)
Actor 1: Is this how you live your life? Constantly looking for inconspicuous ways for people to die?
Actor 4: This meeting is Horseshit. I am going downstairs, and to do so…I am going to use an escalator.
Director 1: Make sure to not get your shoelace caught in the escalator, then cause the escalator to break, then get dragged in to the gears and motor of the escalator and turned into a slice of cheese with clothes on because you didn’t have the presence of mind to just remove your shoes and jump off the escalator.
Actor 2: Jesus Christ.
Actor 3: That is IT! I am going to a Nascar Race.
Director 3: Make sure that you don’t sit down and have a vision of everyone dying, then get your head chopped off by a flying wheel, but then realize it was just a vision, then get your body crushed by a flying engine, because let’s face it…flying engines are all over at NASCAR races.
Actor 1: Nobody is going to see this movie. And if they do…there will be a very humorous blog written about us by some kid on Facebook.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Brett Favre's Wife's Viewpoint.
Brett: Ah, I am so relieved to put away the ol' helmet and pads. I am SO ready to be done honey!
Ms. Favre: You know...I really want to believe you. Really, I do. But--
Brett: Babe, come on. That was the past. Please, just believe me now. The shoulder is done, my legs are mush, I am hanging it up. I'm serious this time.
Ms. Favre: Well you know, as much fun as packing up our home, children and overall life from Green Bay, Wisconsin to New York City was, I'd like to stay put this summer, and possibly for longer than one NFL season.
Brett: Oh...you're telling ME! Football is the LAST thing I even want to think about right now. I mean, I am SOO done!
Ms. Favre: Well good, that whole changing your mind, reporting to the media, changing your mind, and reporting to the media again thing was getting really old.
Brett: Yeah. I told Ed Werder I was "unequivcolly," done playing football. Looking back on it, I don't even know what unequivocal means. But boy do I miss tossin' around the ol' pigskin.
Ms. Favre: Are you serious?
Brett: Babe, just because I love the game, doesn't mean I can't walk away from it. One thing you can always count on with me is that I will always be honest and up front. You know that, babe.
Ms. Favre: No. Really, I don't. I don't know that at all.
Brett Jr.: Daddy, can you make up your mind so I don't have to move again? I hate losing friends. Kids at school are taunting me calling me a "flip-flopper," and they tell me I'm too old to be a quarterback in gym class. I'm 8!
Brett: Son, let me tell you. We are not going ANYWHERE, and next time those punk kids tell you you can't play for them, go and play for another school in the division. Especially if that school has Adrian Peterson. That kid's unreal. God I would kill to play with him. It would help if the school had a strong defense and a familiar offensive playbook. Also, a dome would be ideal. Purple and Yellow team colors only. But this is nothing suggestive. At all.
Ms. Favre: Oh god. Here we go again.
Brett Jr.: But the thing is...there's this other younger boy. His name is Aaron, and he's really good. I keep trying to compete with him, and keep up with my younger days, but I think he's just better than me! It's terrible daddy!
Brett: Oh, I know son, I know. All you need to do is change your mind 17 times. Trust me, you don't want to do training camp, because lets face it...training camp is dumb. Then you should have a minor tear in your rotator cuff, leak some information to a fox reporter, and fly to Minnesota in the morning. Hand off to Adrian, stick it to Aaron, change your mind, change it back, sign 25 million dollar deal for 2 years, and repeat.
(Silence.)
Brett: Everyone will love you.
Ms. Favre: 2 years? That's awfully permanent, don't ya think?
Brett Jr.: Wow. That actually sounds like a horrible idea. I don't like Minnesota. I like going to school HERE. And Aaron is just better than me. I can deal with that. Move on to other things, you know?
Ms. Favre: What a mature, well thought out response. Great point Brett Jr!
Brett: Yeah you guys are right! Screw this whole football thing. I had my time in the spotlight. I am totally and completely ready to hang up the ol' shoulder pads. Yep. My time here is through. Totally done. Not even wanting to play anymore. I'm not healthy enough. All good things must come to an end.
(Tears.)
Ms. Favre: I am glad you are finally coming to your senses, Brett. I honestly thought for a second you were thinking about coming back AGAIN. I don't think the family could handle that.
Brett Jr.: Thanks alot daddy! I am so glad you will be home all the time now! Maybe you could help me with my homework!? Coach my little league team!?
Brett Jr.: Daddy?
Ms. Favre: Brett?
Brett: I am headin' to the High School to throw some passes to the high school kids. There may or may not be ESPN cameras there. Totally nothing football related at all. Community service. That's all it is. Then I am flying to Minneapolis in the morning. Nothing to do with the football team that plays there. I'm going to see Ryan Longwell. Great guy. Don't wait up for me! Seeya guys.
(Door shuts.)
Brett Jr.: Sage Rosenfels is pretty bad.
Ms. Favre: Mall of America, here we come!
Ms. Favre: You know...I really want to believe you. Really, I do. But--
Brett: Babe, come on. That was the past. Please, just believe me now. The shoulder is done, my legs are mush, I am hanging it up. I'm serious this time.
Ms. Favre: Well you know, as much fun as packing up our home, children and overall life from Green Bay, Wisconsin to New York City was, I'd like to stay put this summer, and possibly for longer than one NFL season.
Brett: Oh...you're telling ME! Football is the LAST thing I even want to think about right now. I mean, I am SOO done!
Ms. Favre: Well good, that whole changing your mind, reporting to the media, changing your mind, and reporting to the media again thing was getting really old.
Brett: Yeah. I told Ed Werder I was "unequivcolly," done playing football. Looking back on it, I don't even know what unequivocal means. But boy do I miss tossin' around the ol' pigskin.
Ms. Favre: Are you serious?
Brett: Babe, just because I love the game, doesn't mean I can't walk away from it. One thing you can always count on with me is that I will always be honest and up front. You know that, babe.
Ms. Favre: No. Really, I don't. I don't know that at all.
Brett Jr.: Daddy, can you make up your mind so I don't have to move again? I hate losing friends. Kids at school are taunting me calling me a "flip-flopper," and they tell me I'm too old to be a quarterback in gym class. I'm 8!
Brett: Son, let me tell you. We are not going ANYWHERE, and next time those punk kids tell you you can't play for them, go and play for another school in the division. Especially if that school has Adrian Peterson. That kid's unreal. God I would kill to play with him. It would help if the school had a strong defense and a familiar offensive playbook. Also, a dome would be ideal. Purple and Yellow team colors only. But this is nothing suggestive. At all.
Ms. Favre: Oh god. Here we go again.
Brett Jr.: But the thing is...there's this other younger boy. His name is Aaron, and he's really good. I keep trying to compete with him, and keep up with my younger days, but I think he's just better than me! It's terrible daddy!
Brett: Oh, I know son, I know. All you need to do is change your mind 17 times. Trust me, you don't want to do training camp, because lets face it...training camp is dumb. Then you should have a minor tear in your rotator cuff, leak some information to a fox reporter, and fly to Minnesota in the morning. Hand off to Adrian, stick it to Aaron, change your mind, change it back, sign 25 million dollar deal for 2 years, and repeat.
(Silence.)
Brett: Everyone will love you.
Ms. Favre: 2 years? That's awfully permanent, don't ya think?
Brett Jr.: Wow. That actually sounds like a horrible idea. I don't like Minnesota. I like going to school HERE. And Aaron is just better than me. I can deal with that. Move on to other things, you know?
Ms. Favre: What a mature, well thought out response. Great point Brett Jr!
Brett: Yeah you guys are right! Screw this whole football thing. I had my time in the spotlight. I am totally and completely ready to hang up the ol' shoulder pads. Yep. My time here is through. Totally done. Not even wanting to play anymore. I'm not healthy enough. All good things must come to an end.
(Tears.)
Ms. Favre: I am glad you are finally coming to your senses, Brett. I honestly thought for a second you were thinking about coming back AGAIN. I don't think the family could handle that.
Brett Jr.: Thanks alot daddy! I am so glad you will be home all the time now! Maybe you could help me with my homework!? Coach my little league team!?
Brett Jr.: Daddy?
Ms. Favre: Brett?
Brett: I am headin' to the High School to throw some passes to the high school kids. There may or may not be ESPN cameras there. Totally nothing football related at all. Community service. That's all it is. Then I am flying to Minneapolis in the morning. Nothing to do with the football team that plays there. I'm going to see Ryan Longwell. Great guy. Don't wait up for me! Seeya guys.
(Door shuts.)
Brett Jr.: Sage Rosenfels is pretty bad.
Ms. Favre: Mall of America, here we come!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
