Friday:
The Pens went dancing with Lord Stanley. I watched game seven with the wife alone in our basement to avoid all distractions. I’m not sure how many of you watched it, but in the opening sequence they had members of the NBC crew give their versions of the pre-game speeches in the team’s locker rooms. I’m pretty sure if I had been watching the game with Richard Simmons he would have turned to me and said “Wow, this is really fucking gay” and I would have nodded and said “It sure is. Now pass me my next Deal-a-Meal card bitch, and it better say nachos on it.”
NBC’s awful coverage aside, the game delivered three hours of gut-wrenching drama. I paced, I screamed, I pounded on doors, I prayed to the hockey gods, I lost my mind when Talbot lit the lamp twice and I added yet another layer of disgusting sweat to a jersey that hasn’t been washed since mid-February. Finally, when Crosby lifted the cup I sunk back into my couch and basked in the afterglow, like I just banged a super model.
Saturday:
If you stop by here often enough then you know about my previous TV purchase debacle. Well Saturday morning rolls around and we stroll into Costco for margarita mix, soft pretzels and EZ-Mac, then we leave with a 32” TV for our bedroom.
They don’t have any salespeople at Costco, but they up-sell me every time I go in there. I go in for steaks and come out with a couch. I go in for milk and come out with a Wii. I go in for wine and come out with a monkey that teaches you a foreign language. How does this shit happen? It’s like they brainwash you and by the time you get home it’s too late. You end up just saying fuck it and keeping everything. Because of Costco I find myself saying stupid shit like: “Honey, I need to pick up some day laborers to help move this couch have you seen the goddamn bilingual monkey?”
Sunday:
The day started innocently enough, we went to the grocery store, picked up some lunch and then I sent one little text message to the family “Margaritas and cornhole anyone?” and it was on. In a matter of minutes I had a cold drink in one hand a cornhole bag in the other. After a few games, and a few drinks, the competition escalated into a two-on-two game of whiffle ball. Now, its 85 degrees, we’re playing on blacktop, I’ve had a bunch of sugar and alcohol and I haven’t exercised regularly since Clinton was President. In other words it was the perfect storm for a hospital visit.
My first at bat, I step up to the plate in flip-flops and when I swung my foot rolled over and I jacked up my big toe. It turned bright red and had a nice pool of blood forming under the nail. I called time-out and borrowed some shoes. Being competitive males, we ended up playing a full six inning game. I’m pretty sure that Helen Keller’s Easter egg hunts took less time to complete than this stupid game. In fact I think the girls went inside and watched every single episode of ER and then came back out and we were still in the fourth inning.
We finally called it a day and I rolled inside looking like a black man coming from an Alabama Klan rally. I was sweating, I felt nauseous, there were blisters all over my feet, my big toe was fucked up and I’m pretty sure I was within inches of a heat stroke. I pounded some water and then grabbed a shower that was so cold my junk looked like a stack of dimes. (My brother-in-laws description not mine. I mean his description of his own cold shower experience not of my junk you sick bastards)
We ended up winning the whiffle ball game and all but one round of cornhole on the day. So, let’s all raise a glass to all of the old men who can still bring the heat, even if it means they end up feeling like Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler. If we keep up this weekend routine I may need to start juicing.
Now if you’ll excuse me I need to go out and get some Ben Gay, a Penguins Stanley Cup shirt and a banana for that damn monkey.
Saturday:
If you stop by here often enough then you know about my previous TV purchase debacle. Well Saturday morning rolls around and we stroll into Costco for margarita mix, soft pretzels and EZ-Mac, then we leave with a 32” TV for our bedroom.
They don’t have any salespeople at Costco, but they up-sell me every time I go in there. I go in for steaks and come out with a couch. I go in for milk and come out with a Wii. I go in for wine and come out with a monkey that teaches you a foreign language. How does this shit happen? It’s like they brainwash you and by the time you get home it’s too late. You end up just saying fuck it and keeping everything. Because of Costco I find myself saying stupid shit like: “Honey, I need to pick up some day laborers to help move this couch have you seen the goddamn bilingual monkey?”
Sunday:
The day started innocently enough, we went to the grocery store, picked up some lunch and then I sent one little text message to the family “Margaritas and cornhole anyone?” and it was on. In a matter of minutes I had a cold drink in one hand a cornhole bag in the other. After a few games, and a few drinks, the competition escalated into a two-on-two game of whiffle ball. Now, its 85 degrees, we’re playing on blacktop, I’ve had a bunch of sugar and alcohol and I haven’t exercised regularly since Clinton was President. In other words it was the perfect storm for a hospital visit.
My first at bat, I step up to the plate in flip-flops and when I swung my foot rolled over and I jacked up my big toe. It turned bright red and had a nice pool of blood forming under the nail. I called time-out and borrowed some shoes. Being competitive males, we ended up playing a full six inning game. I’m pretty sure that Helen Keller’s Easter egg hunts took less time to complete than this stupid game. In fact I think the girls went inside and watched every single episode of ER and then came back out and we were still in the fourth inning.
We finally called it a day and I rolled inside looking like a black man coming from an Alabama Klan rally. I was sweating, I felt nauseous, there were blisters all over my feet, my big toe was fucked up and I’m pretty sure I was within inches of a heat stroke. I pounded some water and then grabbed a shower that was so cold my junk looked like a stack of dimes. (My brother-in-laws description not mine. I mean his description of his own cold shower experience not of my junk you sick bastards)
We ended up winning the whiffle ball game and all but one round of cornhole on the day. So, let’s all raise a glass to all of the old men who can still bring the heat, even if it means they end up feeling like Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler. If we keep up this weekend routine I may need to start juicing.
Now if you’ll excuse me I need to go out and get some Ben Gay, a Penguins Stanley Cup shirt and a banana for that damn monkey.
1 comment:
I always thought that lyric was "the old main is down the road." LOL
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