10 Things That Aggravate Me (ok, more like three) - Special Tony Flacco and Joe Romo

Now before anyone points out that I've got those two mixed up, let me explain.

Hubby and I root for different football teams. He likes the Ravens, and I swear (literally, these days) by the Cowboys. We do agree on one thing though: Flacco and Romo both need to man up and stop playing like little homos. Don't get me wrong, I think they both have much talent and a lot of potential. They just most often these days leave all of that on the sideline when it comes down to what really counts: using their brain.

So here goes, in no particularly annoying order (everything seems to be annoying me when it comes to these two these days):

Unibrow vs Cocky Smirk

Flacco: Squidward, urhhmm, sorry, Flacco, shave. Pluck. Wax. Whatever your preferred method of hair removal, get rid of the fuckin' unibrow. First, it's not aerodynamic. Second, it's butt ugly. And by the way, growing your unibrows into a Fu Man Chu does nothing to fix the problem.

Romo: What the fuck is up with your little cocky superstar wannabe smirk in post-game interviews? Pose for GQ in the off season, not after throwing a stupid pick that cost your team a much needed win. I've got news for you homo boy, you've got nothing to smile about, not even golf.

Brain Freeze vs Brain Fart

Flacco: Dominating time of possession doesn't mean you're supposed to hold on to the ball for most of the game. See the guys in purple running down the field? Throw the damn pigskin to them. Throw the damn pigskin to the hot dog vendor. Throw the damn pigskin to the referee. You DO NOT have to hold the ball until strip sacked in each and every game.

Romo: I would like to know how a guy that seems to be really wanting his team to win for the first three quarters of a game suddenly turns around in the fourth and helps the OTHER team score. When they say you should try to be the best quarterback in the game, they don't mean you should do it for BOTH teams. When I see you freeze, ball in hand, wondering what the fuck to do with the ball and then passing it to your opponent with that fuckin smirk (see above), I find myself as confused as Wade Phillips looks most of the time.  

Dazed and Confused vs Pretty Woman

Flacco: Let's face it. You're not the pretty woman. However, you often look stoned, lost, downright moronic and goofy. You silly goose. If football were a movie, you would be a stupid sitcom with no plot, no direction and long, drawn out jokes that just aren't funny. You basically make me want to change the channel and watch the home shopping network for hours on end.

Romo: Oh you sweet, purty little thing. Homo, no one cares how precious you look. What we do care about is to see you handle the game like you should, which you don't. Besides, you've got no chance of getting Richard Geere's attention, unless, maybe, you start playing like a winner.

Let's face it, the way you're both playing right now, you're not going to Disney World. You're not even going to a stupid knockoff Disney World amusement park. The only place you're going is nowhere, and fast. Ok, mebby you'll make it to Dancing With the Stars, and you'll be throwing your partner instead of a football. Meh.

14 Years is a Long Time

Well, I've been wanting to write another installment of Things That Aggravate Me for a while, but life got in the way, and, as life goes, stuff happened since my last post and I just didn't get around to it. Actually, I haven't really felt like writing about aggravations, because, to be honest, I've been through a rough two months.

As much as I like to keep this blog humorous, and try to use it to make fun of myself and other people (ok, mostly other people), sometimes my emotions get in the way of my rants. This post will not be funny, so if you were looking for a good laugh, skip this one and come back in a few weeks, as I'm sure I won't be able to stop bitching for very long. This post is, I guess, my way of getting closure and paying a last homage to very dear and very old friends to whom I have had to say good-bye this summer.

As the post title implies, these friends had been in my life for 14 long years. 14 years filled with moments of pure joy, as well as frustration and aggravation at times, but mostly happy and loving years. They have been in my life but, more importantly perhaps, they were part of each other's lives as well, and as much as they loved me (or so I like to think), their love for each other was something that only true soul mates will ever know.

For those of you who know me, even remotely, you probably have guessed who those friends were. For those of you who don't, you're about to find out. But before I begin, before I go any further with my sad but somehow beautiful tale, I want to make sure that everyone reading this remembers one thing. Remember that losing one was losing the other, that one could not survive without the other's companionship, and that anyone who ever tried or will ever try to tell me that true love doesn't exist is fucking ignorant.

Love and devotion of the kind Hobbes and Bagheera had for each other is something everyone, human or otherwise, should dream of and aspire to. Something those who have should recognize, cherish and not take for granted. Something that I believe lives on beyond the grave, in the memories and lives of those who witnessed it and marveled before it.

Hobbes was a beautiful, loving, orange tabby couch potato. Bagheera was a sleek, elegant, petite and skittish black ninja goddess. I met both of them when they were three months old and they took to each other like eggs and bacon. Hmm...mebby not the best analogy but I'm hungry. What I mean to say is that from the very start they stuck together like fly to fly paper. Hobbes being the fly paper, obviously. They took a little longer to take to ME, but after a few months of feeding them and cleaning their litter box I think they came to tolerate me well enough. I of course was in love with both of them. Loki came a few years later, then Milano, and they upset the pack a bit, but Hobbes and Bagheera were always sweethearts. Milano died a few years ago, Loki is still sticking around (and please heaven he stays for a while still, I know I've had enough heartache for a while) and there's a bit more to him in this story, but the main characters here are Hobbes and Bagheera anyway, so I'll leave it at that for now.

A few months ago, I wrote a piece on Litmocracy about how I came to find Bagheera. You can read it here, if you are so inclined, and see one of the last pictures I took of her here. I intended to write more, and made this the first installment of what I thought should be four: finding her, bringing her home, the big move, and the last chapter. I never thought the last chapter would come before I could even think of the second installment. Now I'm not sure I want to finish the story, although I imagine I will get around to it some day. My pain is still too deep to go back to happier times, and I need time to heal. Hence this post.

Over the years, Hobbes gained quite a bit of weight. This often brought about nicknames from my friends, the kids, or most everybody who saw him. From 'Chubs' to 'Garfield', Hobbes, aka Bibi or Hobby as I knew him, must have heard them all. I wasn't a big fan, especially not of Garfield, although I have to admit he looked like him and would probably have eaten lasagna if I had let him. He didn't need it though - he got pretty obese on good old cat food - well his and half of whatever was in the other cats' bowls.

He was a fat, happy cat, who loved to cuddle and purr and sleep and, well, eat.

Bagheera on the other hand was really slim and not so much of a cuddler. Hubby took to calling her 'batman', because she would hang out on the pipes lining the ceiling of the basement, and 'Ninja' because her unbelievably green eyes would spook us in the darkness from seemingly nowhere as we turned the corner. I mean her eyes were level with ours, because, well, she hung out at higher than normal altitudes. Hobbes and Bagheera didn't hang out as much after the big move, because Hobbes enjoyed company and hung out upstairs with the kids and their friends, while Bagheera, being shy and skittish, preferred the quiet and calm of the basement. She hung out (when not up in the ceiling somewhere) with our three pet bunnies, and seemed quite content. Once in a while she would venture upstairs, mostly at night when things had calmed down, and curl up with her beau.

Then sometime in May I started to notice that Hobbes wasn't quite as chubby as he used to be. He still ate, and ran down the stairs at the sound of food being poured into bowls, but he was just a bit slower, a bit older. I noticed but didn't take alarm right away. He was 14 after all, and had battled with obesity all his life (ok, I was doing the battling for him, but he had to bear the weight), and what I was seeing wasn't much out of the ordinary given the circumstances.

Over the next few weeks, things went south fast. There was nothing we could do. Hobbes was just getting old, and really tired, and I tried to spend as much time with him as I could. I knew in my heart he was slowly helping me to prepare for the inevitable, as much as I didn't want to consider of believe it. Over 3 or four weeks, my lovely once 20 pounds cat lost over 10 pounds. Then in a short, painfully quick week, he slowly stopped eating, getting around, and almost walking altogether. I knew it was no use, but I tried to finger feed him some wet cat food. I stroked his skeletal body and took him on my lap, noticing that for the first time I could remember, my legs didn't fall asleep after 10 minutes. My big boy was dying.

On the night of June 5, Hobbes could barely hold himself up. He walked like a drunken, emaciated, and oh so tired old man. We took him down to the basement so he wouldn't have to negotiate stairs. We laid him on a chair between us and he went to sleep. Then he woke up, walked with great effort onto my lap, and took a loong, looong nap. I wish he would have gone in his sleep right then and there. He didn't. I think he was helping me cope with the fact that he probably wouldn't be there the next day. I took him up on the offer. Before going to bed, I took him outside, under the tree, because he loved the outdoors. We stayed there, I don't know how long, him laying next to me in the grass, me leaning against the tree, both of us looking up at the stars. Then I took him back in the basement and went to bed with a heavy heart and tears in my eyes.

Hubby found him the next morning, in the little cubby under the upper stair of the basement staircase. He had somehow managed to walk all the way to the stairs, climb all of them up, and curl up in there. He was still alive, and his face was all crusty and matted with hair and whatever else had fallen down there. He took him down and got his face cleaned, then turned to get some water for him to drink. When he walked back, Hobbes was gone.

I knew it was coming, but I wasn't prepared for the ugly bolt of pain that hit me when he told me. I had just woken up, and hubby stroked my hair and said 'Swea Pea, he's gone'. I remember saying 'how?', and he explained, and then the tears came. The kids were off to school, so I could let go, and god help me, I don't know if I could have prevented it either way. My little boy was gone, my little sweet, loving kitten, the orange fur ball who had given me so many happy years.

We buried him in the backyard, close to the tree, with his favorite toy and his food bowl. We added a sprinkle of catnip for good measure, and said our good byes. I planted some flowers on the grave, but the dog dug them out in an effort to figure out why the cat was underground. We put a slab of concrete over the grave, and planted some daisies right next to it. I don't think Hobbes suffered much. I think the last week was more painful for me than it was for him. He seemed really peaceful, resolute almost. And I miss him so very, very much.

After Hobbes died, things changed with the cat clan. Loki tried to take the Alpha cat place, not realizing the dog is about 10 times his size. He bullied everyone around, and Bagheera rarely came out of the basement anymore. That's when she started spending ALL of her time on the pipes, on top of the fridge in the basement, and, to my horror, in the crawl space between the drop ceiling of the office and the floor above. I wish now I would have paid more attention, drawn her out more, but I think it would have made no difference. Bagheera was in pain, she was depressed, she missed Hobbes, and she secluded herself in her little world of loneliness. I think she became half feral. On the few occasions when she came to me for comfort, she promptly peed right on my lap and ran away. She stopped using the litter box. She hardly ate. It was painful to see her like that, but I was at a loss as to how to help her. I told hubby that I didn't think she had long, that she missed Hobbes too much and would just die of grief. And, in a way, I think that's exactly what she did.

I got used to not seeing Bagheera very often, but I made a point to seek her out every day, or at least to ask hubby if he had seen her. It was like having a known stranger in the house, a dear friend who just shut doors and the world around her. She started spending more and more time in the ceiling crawl space, which there is no way of closing up, and I was worried she'd never come out, and just die up there. As it turns out, she gave her life trying to do just that - get out.

We've had a flea problem for a while, and so we fitted all the critters in the house (short of the kids) with flea collars. I will never buy one again. Last Sunday, August 14, hubby came to me and said he needed help. Bagheera was hurt badly. As I went down the stairs, not really knowing what to expect, I found my little ninja in pretty bad shape. Her flea collar had caught somewhere in the crawl space, and trying to get it off, she got an entire front leg through it, choking herself and cutting a huge gash below her elbow. She also had a pretty nasty scab around her neck and on her shoulder, and could barely stand. She drank something like 4 cups of water, and had some moist food. We think she must have been stuck up there somewhere between 35 and 40 hours, based on the last time we had seen her.

Her usually clean and pristine fur was all matted and stuck to her in an ugly, sick way. She smelled of death. I can't imagine how much of a painful and scary ordeal it must have been for her to even get out of there - and alive. I have nightmares about it. I can't sleep because I keep imagining her terror, her pain, her thirst, her mad determination. When hubby found her, she couldn't stand. Her collar was still stuck around her like a vice, and he had to cut it off, and she took a huge gasp of air, then let out this chilling scream...one I would unfortunately hear again, and several times, as she strained to vomit the little food she had managed to eat. We took her to the vet. There was no choice in the matter. She was in unbelievable pain, and if there was even a chance of saving her, I was taking it.

Turns out the fucking fleas did it. Stuck in the ceiling, unable to scratch, move or clean herself, Bagheera was assaulted by a battalion of relentless blood eaters. The vet said she was so anemic he didn't even know if a blood transfusion would save her. He would not give her an anesthetic in her condition for fear of killing her, and the gash under her arm needed to be mended. My little girl was in bad shape, and suffering.

After much, much consideration, I finally decided it was time for me to let her go. Even if she had survived the blood transfusion and operation, I would have brought her right back to finding places to hide, to being sad and depressed at losing Hobbes, to a life of self-seclusion and despair. I chose to end her suffering, both physical and emotional, and we had her put to sleep. She went in my arms, wrapped in a towel, and I didn't want to let her go. I finally did, after asking that she be wrapped in her blankie (this I had to turn to hubby and ask because I was crying so much I couldn't articulate and no one else would have understood me). She was returned to us neatly wrapped up in said blankie and laid out in her carrier.

I want to mention here how caring, compassionate and understanding the staff at the clinic were to us. Obviously, losing a dear pet is a difficult thing for anybody, and these people probably see a lot of this kind of thing (especially being an emergency vet clinic), but their concern and understanding were evidently genuine. They treated us, and most of all Bagheera, with such patience, respect and devotion that I feel compelled to give them four thumbs and paws up. From handing me a tissue to gently, softly cradling my deceased friend and wrapping her in her blankie, these vets and technicians were truly remarkable and deserve a huge kudos.

We took Bagheera home and buried her next to Hobbes, with her catnip mice and her food bowl. To have to dig earth that wasn't even hard yet was the most difficult thing I've had to do in a long time. I put some fresh flowers on her body, and on top of her grave, which we promptly covered with a concrete slab, too. I hope I made the right decision, I hope she is happy being reunited with Hobbes, or at least not feeling the loss anymore. I like to slip out at night and talk to them, about just stuff - what Loki's up to, what the kids did, how the day went. Seems crazy maybe, but it helps. I always say good night, too. Maybe in time I won't have to do that anymore, and maybe I will. I don't know. All I know is I miss them dearly, and it brings me some comfort to know that they're close, if even just in my mind. I keep ducking not to be hit in the face by Bagheera's tail hanging from the pipe, and I always want to dish out more than one scoop of food into bowls that aren't there anymore. The one remaining bowl really looks lonely...as does Loki.

I thought Loki would be ok with all of this, seeing as he always wanted all the attention. But no. Loki looks lost. With no cat pack, with no one to annoy, or cuddle with, he just looks lonely. I try to pet him more, and spend time with him, and I think he'll be ok. He wasn't in love after all, and I think the dog will keep him company enough, as will we and the kids. And as much as it pains me to find the house somewhat empty, and to see Loki looking for mischievous fun with his departed mates, I've made myself a promise. No more. No more cats, at least for a while. As much as I love them, it hurts too much to see them go.

And I think this is the end of my sad (and wow, LONG) story. Please remember what I said in the beginning. As much as it hurts to have lost them, the truly important thing is to remember how much they loved each other, and how true love never really dies.

Hobbes, Bagheera, I love you very much. May you find peace and a catnip heaven filled with food and leather mice. Good night my little ones. Sleep tight. And don't let the fleas bite.

Things That Aggravate Me - Part 2

Holy CRAP has it really been almost two years since my last post?? Seems like just yesterday I was vomiting my aggravations on blogger's canvas. Well, time flies, but aggravations accumulate, so I think I'm long overdue for the second installment of Things That Aggravate Me.

Parking Lot Etiquette

I don't know about you, but I personally loathe parking lots. I understand they were meant to provide convenient parking space relatively close to whatever business or market you need to visit, and if it was just me using them, I'd have no problem whatsoever. It's what OTHER assholes do in them that really ticks me off.

• If you are driving through the center aisle, YIELD. Shit, I know courtesy has died to some extent, but this is about more than being polite. If I'm trying to back out of my parking space and you come zooming through the freaking aisle on your way to the the big sale Dollar Tree is having, I'm bound to back right into you. And then you'll wish that it was Car Dents R Us having a sale instead.

• I know this is confusing to many, many, many people, but those white or yellow lines all across the parking lot aren't just the result of a drunk guy who stole the line painting machine one night. They're actually there to help you park your vehicle in the most effective space saving manner, meaning that when I pull in next to you, there will be enough space for MY vehicle. You're not supposed to line your tires up with the freaking line, you're supposed to be IN BETWEEN them. And if your stupid gas guzzling Humvee won't fit in there, you probably shouldn't be driving it in the first place.

• I don't care if you're old or if your mobility is somewhat impaired; if you can't walk from your parked car to the store, maybe it's time to ask someone to do it for you. How the hell are you going to get your shopping done if you can't even walk 40 steps to the front door anyway? Stop having someone drop you off at the door, stalling every single car behind you (and ahead, going the other way) while you painfully and oh so slowly extricate yourself from your seat. Drive your hoveround right in there instead, apparently you can GO GO GO in it.
  

• Either cross the parking lot main aisle, or stand away from the curb. How the hell am I supposed to know whether or not you're going? Don't stand there with your stupid shopping cart, looking dumbly at my stopped car, and start moving just as I start driving again, having decided you're having a mild seizure.

Grocery Store Etiquette

The only reason I go to the grocery store is that I can't afford or stomach fast food three times a day. I love getting fresh ingredients and preparing good meals, and so going to the grocery store is a necessity. But if I could get my groceries delivered without breaking the bank, you can bet your ass I would avoid the hassle - and the people.

• Your grocery cart is supposed to help you, not hinder me. I don't care if you got the squeaky one or not, it has no business being parked across the aisle while you figure out whether you want turkey breast or frozen egg rolls for dinner. Seriously, you're not the only one in the store, and if you have no idea what kind of easy frozen dinner you wanna get, you should move to the side and let other people shop while you're actively considering how fast your microwave can obliterate your oven's cooking ability.

• Ok. So you're 45 and still working as a cashier at Martin's. So what? Dude, you're employed, and making a living, and that's more than a lot of people can say in this economy. You don't have to take out your anger at not being president on paying customers. You should know that while I don't expect you to be overly pleasant, being overly rude really pisses me off. Don't say "have a good day" if you don't mean it, especially after giving me that scornful look because I had to tell you that those "prickly things" were artichokes. You work in a fucking grocery store for god's sake, show a little pride - or intelligence, for that matter.
  

• Walmart greeters, whoever you are, this one's for you. I understand that you're only doing your job, however shitty it must be. I know that you're not trying to assault me, and I know you need to make a living somehow. I will gladly ignore your greeting and walk by you. It's aggravating, but I can live with it. DO NOT attempt to re-greet me, or walk alongside me to make sure I acknowledge you. I will slap you. I don't care about the fact that you must be fucking lonely and yearning for any conversation or even for someone to notice you. That is your problem my friend. Go chat with the meat lady, I hear she's got a lot of juicy gossip. Just leave me alone.

• Count. Your. Items. The express line is clear. It varies from store to store, but it is clear on how many items OR LESS you must have to go through there. If it says 10 and you've got 12, I don't really care. But if you have a cartload of shit and go ahead of me waiting with my one jug of milk, I will call you out. I will let everyone know that you're a stupid lazy ass express line hogger. By the way, having 5 of the same item does not mean you can count it as one.

• Save-A-Lot cashier, I am NOT your buddy. I mean if you were my buddy and started working there I would be, but I don't know you from jack shit. I let it go when you told me my engagement ring was pretty, but that's where I draw the line. Don't ask me about the kids, or tell me about how much of a good time you had getting drunk last night. For one, I don't care, and for two, you're annoying. Quit telling me that "your family drinks a lot of soda" just because I'm in there twice a week getting pepsi for my rum and coke. Mind your own business, and we'll do just fine.

• Charity is great. When I can afford it, I gladly share the wealth. When I can't, sorry, but my kids (and my booze) come first. It's ok for you to ask me if I'd like to round up my purchase to however many cents go to the next dollar. Really, I don't mind. It's NOT ok for you to look at me like I'm a fucking cheapskate because I say no, thank you. AND it's not ok for you to say "really?" looking at the rest of the line behind me to make me feel bad. I pay your fucking salary you dumb ignorant bitch. I'd love to charge YOU for your freakin groceries and give it to my favorite charity, see how you feel.

• Fuck bonus cards. Stop making me feel like I won the lottery because for every one thousand dollars I spend I get one tenth of a penny redeemable in your store, that I'll never use. Want to do me a favor? Drop your prices, shut the hell up, check me out as quickly as possible and get me in my car so I can go and enjoy what I just paid for. My guess is you spend more money on manufacturing those stupid bonus cards than I'll ever save in this lifetime - and the next.

• Walmart sucks.

• I know you're old. I understand things slow down, you've been through a lot, you're probably a fuckin veteran or have had like 13 kids. I get it. I should respect you. And, most of the time, I do. I'll hold the door for you, I'll help you out when you need it, hell, I'm gonna be old one day and I hope someone younger'll do the same for me. But for chrissakes, do I really have to stand in line behind you while you count your gazillion pennies that you just MUST spend to pay for that spam?? And to add insult to injury, once you've paid for your chew without dentures shit, you pull out like a hundred and five lottery tickets to be checked, even though you KNOW they're not winners. Just die already, and save me some time.

• Produce managers. How can you put a green banana next to a ripe banana next to a completely brown banana and charge the same price for all of them? If I put a broken down 1979 buick next to a '85 buick with 55,000 miles on it next to a 2011 brand new buick and tried to charge the same price, I'd be bankrupt in a week! How do you sleep with yourself? Do you bring one of these green bananas to bed? Does making an extra 58 cents off of a blind fat lady in a hoveround on a rotten tomato with black spots give you a woody? Seriously, you're taking yourself way too seriously??? See how I used the same word twice in a row? It's lame. Like when you sell an orphanage 200 pounds of deadly green potatoes at the same price as 200 pounds of nearly worthless healthy potatoes and snicker at TGI Friday's over fuzzy navels on the bonus you made by cutting a dollar and 58 cents off the budget. You suck.

• If you don't understand the internet, email or how the little black keychain thingy makes your car go beep beep, squealing in joy and unlocking your car doors at the same time DO NOT ATTEMPT to check yourself out in the automated computerized checkout aisle. It's pretty simple. The computer speaks a language you do not understand. You are either a fossil or a moron. Probably both. You wouldn't go to France or Spain or inner New York City without a translator. Don't hold me up in the super fast self check out lane trying to decipher the obvious and big, easy touch screen options: produce check up, coupon or insert cash here. Shit the fucking machine actually speaks to you in very clear, easy to understand words. And if it chokes up, there's an actual person there to fix it for you. You're an idiot. Learn a lesson from those insurance commercials: perhaps a caveman could do it...but your dumbass is screwed. Get over it.

Sporting Events Etiquette

I love sporting events. Hubby and I watch baseball, football and golf on TV and it's a blast. For the most part. We also go to little league ball games and that's also fun...up to a point. Of course we care about score, but mostly we care about the game itself. Unfortunately, there's always an asshole out there to ruin some of it for everyone else.

• Stupid fucking annoying bastard, I do not know who you are. All I know is that you somehow make it to every single fucking golf tournament ever televised. I. Hate. You. Rory MacIlroy is on the tee of a par five. FIVE. Loooooooooooooong way to the hole. Yet you stand there like Nostradamus' PR team calling for the end of the Universe every year, and at the top of your lungs, you yell: "GET IN THE HOOOOOOOOOOOLE!". The other day, we went golfing. On a good day we might shoot a good 150 (with mulligans). I swear this dumb asswipe yelled "get in the hole" when we put the key in the cart. If I ever meet you, I will put YOU in the hole, ass first.

• Little league parents, listen up. It's a GAME. They are 8, 9, 10 years old? They're kids trying to have a good time. Unfortunately, you turn them into kids worrying about what unhelpful or demeaning comment you are going to yell at them next. Here's a tip: they're worried about what the new sponge bob will enlighten them with. Not how they should be shading the left hander at the plate who drives the ball where it's pitched to. They don't understand pitch counts, don't keep up with the scores, they're not even sure if a bat's main purpose isn't to be used to break a pinata. Calm down. Get over your penis size, or boob size, take a breather, and just enjoy seeing your kid having a good time. You cannot overcome your own shortcomings by ruining your kid's childhood. Next time your blood pressure rises when your kid is at bat, buy an extra salted soft pretzel with loads of mustard and die. You'll be doing me, your kid and the world a huge favor.

• I LOVE live baseball. I love the stadium, I love the players, and most of all I love the beer. I love football too, for that matter. I love any live sporting event, maybe with the exception of cricket, and then maybe only because they're playing baseball assbackwards. But I always, in every sporting event, hate the painted guy. I understand that putting all that paint on your chest and back and face and god knows where else must have taken quite some time. To get to the stadium without smearing it in the car must have been quite a feat. But that notwithstanding, you just plain suck. You're 40. This is why your family disowned you. This is why your friends mock you. This is why you're divorced and haven't been laid in 20 years. This is why your kids walk past you when you try to pick them up from school. And, most importantly, this is why the stadium cam will NOT pick you up. I like oysters. I don't dress up in a shell, crawl into the ocean and pretend to be one. You are not an athlete or a mascot or even a remotely interesting midget from the circus. You're a deadbeat lost soul who thinks that painting yourself an acting like an asshole will help your team win the series. It will not. A better pitcher or quarterback will. They don't even know you exist (and thank god for their ignorance) and the rest of us wish we had never seen your ridiculous ass. One sight of you would cause your favorite player to make the worst play of their life. It might even haunt them in their sleep. I know it haunts me in mine. Grow up and put a fucking shirt on. Your nipples are scary. Focus on the important things like dominating your fantasy league and finally winning a dungeons and dragons tournament with your loser friends. Hey, and worst case scenario? This will reduce the amount of restraining orders filed by your family and favorite team against you.

Ok, enough for now. If I go any further, I'm bound to go crazy and get myself all painted up, run into the nearest grocery store and yell "GET IN THE HOLE!!!" which would probably get me committed. I'll rest a bit and write up the next installment later.