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!