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January 16, 2012
Hypothermic
Tennis Musings!
I am watching my eldest child compete in a tennis
tournament. It is in a giant dome structure of air-filled
plastic fabric over concrete, like a high-tech circus tent.
It’s like watching four tennis matches within the guts of a
grounded dirigible. When the exhaust fan kicks on you can feel
the air leaving the structure. I am suddenly fearful of
suffocation.
There is no proper viewing area so the parents sit around the
courts to watch. I am a mere ten feet from the sideline with
no form of netting or fencing to protect me from a wayward
return. These children are children, so at least one wayward
return is guaranteed. I was going to peruse a magazine while
the match took place, but my close proximity to the court
along with the speed they fire shots back and forth means they
have my full attention. I am also wearing new eyeglasses, all
but guaranteeing I will take a fuzzy balled shot to the face.
We had pasta for dinner tonite, a good carbohydrate-laden meal
to give The Eldest Child energy for her tournament. This and a
caffeine loaded soda will all but guarantee she can’t use
exhaustion as an excuse for not winning. Pasta with red sauce
always gives me gas. I mention this to The Wife who comments
that maybe it’s because of all the antioxidants in the
sauce. I reply with, “What? This is how the oxidants escape?
Out my butt?” She gives me "That Look". Every time
I fart it drifts gently to my right towards The Wife. She
hasn’t said anything yet, so it must not smell.
Then The Wife moves closer. “The gas smell is getting pretty
bad right there,” she says pointing next to her. “What,
you're blaming me?” I ask, trying to appear innocent. She
looks at me questioningly for a second, then chuckles. “No,
I meant the propane smell from the heaters.” Still smiling
innocently, I fart again.
It’s mid-January and I’m embarrassed to report our
Christmas tree is still up, proof positive we are lazy when
we’re home and very busy when we’re not. We decided to
leave the tree up a few more days and call it our Martin
Luther King Junior tree. We’ll put lights back on it, but
don’t ask how we decorated it.
Next match. The Eldest Child won her first match eight games
to three. Good for her! The next match is in a different dome
and the wall of this dome is even closer to the court than the
last one. I am now only three feet from the pole holding the
net. Every time the ball hits the net I wince reflexively and
wait to be struck. There is an electrical conduit next to my
butt and I suddenly fear to fart. I could be electrocuted
leaning back to avoid a wayward return. Or maybe my butt
cheeks will succumb to frost bite. Five minutes in and my
bottom is cold. I only hope The Eldest Child wins this match,
to atone for all the suffering her parents are currently
experiencing.
The Eldest Child lost her second match and we move on to match
number three on a new court. It is an interesting thing to
watch a tennis match at ground level. The ball seems faster
down here. I’m beginning to think that sitting here was a
bad idea. They are hitting the ball very hard and very close.
I imagine this is what the line judges experience, only
without the threat of electrocution or frostbite.
BAM! First strike!
The Eldest Child hit a return right at us! It glanced off the
ball holder hanging off the net pole and launched an empty
ball can right at us. I winced reflexively and squeezed my
eyes shut, biting my lip to keep from screaming like a little
girl. The plastic can whizzed past me and tumbled towards The
Wife, barely missing her knee. Both players appeared
momentarily mortified but quickly recovered their normal
scornful teenage expressions.
I now have a cool breeze rising up my backside and my crossed
legs are sore. I’m happy I can still feel my legs because my
butt is numb. The upside is that I finally stopped farting,
probably because my sphincter’s frozen shut. I’m now
worried the gas – all those oxidants we talked about earlier
– will build up to dangerous levels and turn into free
radicals that will Jihad against my intestines. I’m also
afraid my aimless ramblings are a sign of stage-one
hypothermia. I’ve lost feeling in both butt cheeks and my
scrotum’s going numb. Fortunately I’m done having
children. They need to hurry this game up. They are tied at
four games apiece (first one to eight wins).
Now The Eldest Child’s down seven games to four. The Wife
orders me to not stare at The Eldest Child when she serves, as
if making eye contact is somehow distracting her. The
Wife tries to explain, “You
know, that sense you get when someone’s watching you and you
just have to look back at them?” I liken it to how park
rangers advise you to never look an angry bear in the eye if
you encounter one pooping in the woods. The Eldest Child just
won her fifth game. Maybe The Wife was right. I decide to
spend the rest of the match not watching her and hope I
don’t get hit by a wayward ball.
The Eldest Child fights back and ties it up seven to seven. I
decide to watch the tie breaker, still not
actually watching her serve. She finally loses five to three in a best
of eight tie-breaker. She does seem to play better if I
don’t watch. I try not to take it personally as I rub the
blood back into my numb bottom when we depart.
Butt
Numbing Mid-Winter Tennis Fun!
January 9, 2012
Fear
Factor for Natural Selection!
I'm
watching Fear Factor.
It's
a reality game show whereby contestants have to succeed at
various stunts and sickening tasks in hopes of winning
$50,000. Watching some of the sickening tasks, like eating
live scorpions or live Madagascar hissing cockroaches, with a
side order of maggots in blood salsa, makes me realize just
how little money $50,000 really is.
I enjoy Fear Factor because the contestants are usually
young and cocky and full of themselves. Then the reality of
what they have to do sinks in and you see the trepidation and
fear creep in, like long shadows stretching across the yard at
sunset. Most times they suck it up and with bolstered gusto dive into the
tank full of cow blood. Under the dark, crimson surface they
grope for cow hearts and, once found,
must clench the cold, clammy bovine organs in their teeth and spit them into another tank for points. The most hearts
collected wins the round.
Sickening tasks like that tend to separate the men from the
boys and, after watching the show for seasons, I am no longer surprised at how tough women
can be. I
know better - I've been married twenty years. And when it
comes to eating live cockroaches or grasshoppers or drinking
pig blood soup, I am still a boy.
Thinking along these lines I found myself asking, "What would make a good reality show
like this into a
GREAT reality show?"
"Natural selection!" I answered myself
excitedly. "Lose the challenge and lose your life! That
would certainly make things more interesting, right?"
Don't get your partner freed
from the underwater cage in time? Everyone drowns. Lose
control of your stunt car as it plows into a tractor trailer?
Everyone gets decapitated. Bitten by a rattler in a coffin
full of snakes? Throw the partner in too. And the best part? We have an
easy way to control the population that also gets great
ratings!
And the greatest part of this idea? The idiots who wish
to compete - and there will be very, very many - will
self-select for the chance to win a mere $50,000, which we
would grudgingly pay while also offering the winner a chance
to go double or nothing. And all of this
avoids the government having to decide who to terminate while
effectively and entertainingly cleaning up the shallower end of the gene
pool.
Yeah, I'd definitely watch that!
Fear
is NOT a factor - Stupidity IS!
January 2, 2012
It's
2012 people! 2012!
HAPPY FINAL NEW YEAR©!
Were
the Mayans right (click here
if you have no idea what we're talking about)?
Does the end of the world happen this year?
Didn't we say the same thing in 1999?
Well, I guess we'll find out in less than twelve months.
In the meantime, if you're planning on checking out and going
off to a better place in 2013, where ever that place may be
(not including Florida), please consider Jackson Enterprises
Asset Management to take care of all your valuable personal
assets once you've departed. We'll take care of your valuables
as if they were our own!
And if the world doesn't end on December 21, 2012?
Then all
the whackos who predicted the end of the world will simply
readjust their calendars for the next big ancient
"predicted" potential worldwide disaster. Or maybe
Jesus will finally come back and take all his people to live
forever in his kingdom in the sky. Either way ...
And yes,
we're copyrighting the phrase "Happy Final New Year©".
Please do not use this phrase without our explicit permission.
Unauthorized use of our copyrighted phrase will result in
formal legal
proceedings where we sue you for all the worldly possessions
you have left prior to your unearthly departure. That is,
unless you've assigned management to all said earthly
possessions to Jackson
Enterprises Asset Management, in which case it doesn't make
sense for us to sue ourselves, so we'll just let it slide.
Also,
for the third year in a row we've blown up our gingerbread
houses to celebrate the Final New Year©. And, for the third year in a
row, we've recorded the event for posterity so our
great-great-great grandchildren can also enjoy it a hundred
years from now. Yes, we expect the world will still be here in
a hundred years, looking very much like today only dirtier,
waaayyy more crowded, and with flying cars that shoot lasers! We had a great
spectator turnout at the explosive event and everyone appeared
to have a good time, despite the
lack of extreme chaos and carnage. You may enjoy the unique
festivities at our YouTube channel, click here.
Happy
Final New Year© from all of us at Civil Servitude!
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