Explain to me how the three teams that had a combined 60% chance of getting one of their balls picked got completely snubbed in the first three picks. It’s all rigged, just like in 1985 when Patrick Ewing came out of college. That was when they first set up the draft lottery and the Certified Public Accountant “accidentally” bent the corner of the New York Knick’s envelope, David Stern took his time opening the tumbler while he was looking for the dog-eared envelope, and low and behold the New York Knicks got to select Patrick Ewing and go on to win many a championship (not). It’s on youtube, check it out. Now the bad rap Portland Jail Blazers will have squeaky clean Greg Oden on their team. Tell me that wasn’t rigged.
I don’t mean for this to become a sports blog (I think everyone would agree that getting drunk and shitting yourself is much, much funnier), but good golly Miss Molly. It appears that another professional athlete made the news today in a less than flattering way. Elijah Dukes, rookie outfielder for the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, reportedly has threatened to kill his wife. The story goes that he has sent a picture of a handgun to her cell phone and left the following voicemail: “You dead, dawg. I ain’t even [expletive]. Your kids, too.” After hearing all that, don’t you think he’d be placed under arrest? But of course not since America puts professional athletes on pedestals. He was interviewed before Tuesday night’s home game: “I’m just going to play ball, that’s it. I’ve got to go. I’ve got a video game to finish.” Real classy, mother fucker.
In other news…
If you’re in your bathroom, maybe just a little intoxicated, and you feel like you’re falling over, DO NOT grab for the towel rack. It will not hold you up but it will cost you $8 and a little manual labor to fix (and a trip to the hardware store where you will walk up and down the isles unable to find what you’re looking for while you’re wondering if that slipperiness in your shorts is shit or just sweat). Usually the once or twice a year (week) tumble just leaves me with a scrape or a bruise, which I don’t see any problem with. I mean, old people fall all the time, right? But when I have to fork out cash for one of my tumbles, then I have to wonder if I have a drinking problem or not (naw).
This weekend the Renter’s friend from Canada (D-roo) is coming to town. Last time he was here we had a blast (kinda) moving the Renter’s worldly belongings (shit) into my house. We cooked many steaks and consumed many chicken wings, although I think the brother’s a little bit of a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. The Renter was giving him shit yesterday that I was cleaning the bathroom just for him, my secret gay lover. D-roo, trust me, you’re safe buddy, you’re safe. But I did clean the bathroom, got rid of three months of mold and soap scum. I don’t know if I’m just a tard or something but I can’t get that shit out for the life of me. My method of cleaning is stripping all the caulking out and putting in new. I think I’m getting better at it, only took me half and hour to do it. If anyone has any suggestions (besides weekly cleaning) I’m all ears.
Unfortunately, unlike the last visitor we had, D-roo knows all of the stories about me crapping my pants and licking the plunger and (gasp) mooning the whole neighborhood from on top of my garage with a flashlight stuck in my ass. We had the last visitor crying from laughing so hard, might have even peed her pants a little (first time that’s ever been written on this blog!). The last visitor also kept me warm at night and might have even participated in extracurricular activities (no D-roo, I’m not suggesting anything). But now I’m going to have to make up new stuff, new material, new jokes. This is where it gets dangerous. Not everyone gets my humor. And when the pressure is on I tend to overstep the boundary of funny and Oh-my-God-I-can’t-believe-you-just-did-that. D-roo is a funny guy, but I’ve already been warned that I can’t wake him up in the morning by slapping my penis on his forehead (damn!). I don’t think he’d like me leaving the prize turds in the toilet either so that’s out of the question, too (damn again!). Nope, I’ll be forced to try to be somewhat (gulp) normal. Normal ain’t something I do very well.
So, it was 75 degrees out today and the FA called me at 2:00.
FA: Yeah man, it’s really nice outside. I’ve got my sunroof open, just cruising around listening to Jay-Z.
Me: Uh, fuck you, I’m at work.
FA: You should come join me.
Me: Again, fuck you.
FA: Hey, the Renter emailed my wife and said you’d babysit one of these nights.
Me: WHAT?!
FA: Yeah, she said you two would go over so A and I can get out for a bit.
Me: I don’t think I ever agreed to that.
FA: The Renter said you were drunk one night and even came up with the idea.
Me: No, I don’t think so.
FA: Come on, it’s not like you’d have to do anything. You could just sit in my basement and drink my beer.
Me: Well, if you put it that way…
FA: I’m sure you wouldn’t have to change a poopy diaper or anything. The wife was feeding PBR this morning and felt something warm running down her arm. It was an exploding diaper.
Me: Exploding diaper?
FA: Yeah, that’s what they call it when the diaper can’t hold it all in. Hey, you should be wearing diapers.
Me: Not yet my friend, but pretty damn soon.
And lastly, around 10:00 at the bar last night there was a commotion in the corner. Turns out our friend Shaky D had a bit too much to drink and almost knocked over a table. The table itself was leaning between the wall and one of the chairs at a perilous angle. Shaky D had his back against the table and one arm on the wall, unable to right himself. I figured he’d get out of it ok but when the bartender walked over by him 30 seconds later he was still hanging on by a thread. The bartender helped him back on his feet and Shaky D got a ride home. Things like this don’t get forgotten. The guy sitting next to me leaned over, “Remember when G the hairdresser took out two tables with his header?” “And that one kid commented, ‘At least he didn’t get any beer on my shoes!’” That was two years ago. While we might be killing brain cells, we sure as hell don’t forget a golden opportunity to jab one of our friends.
No comments:
Post a Comment