And Justice for Biff

(names have been changed to protect the innocent)

If I had to choose one word to describe myself, that word would be "average".  Average intelligence.  Average income.  Average height (well, almost).   In fact, if/when the aliens come I'm pretty sure they'll select me to inhabit their intergalactic space zoo.  I'll live in a glass enclosure (with a tattoo covered Laotian woman) beneath an ornate sign that roughly translates to...  "Average Earth Specimens". 

you laugh, you lose.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining about my average-ness.  There are far worse things to worry about.  In fact, a face like mine can be a money maker.  For instance, I was once chosen to be in an advertising campaign because they were looking for... you guessed it... an average looking white dude.  I didn't even need to pull out my resume for that one.

However, back in my late teens and early 20's, I wasn't as comfortable in my own skin.  I was particularly sensitive about my looks.  To compensate, I had an overdeveloped estimation of my own intelligence which manifested itself as a need to "take people down a peg" when necessary.  So when I showed up for my first Psychology 101 class in college (that just happened to be taught by a 28 year old stud muffin named Biff), something was bound to give.

You see... Biff was a god among men.  His skin was bronze.  He flaxen hair was long and flowing.  His patrician features had been chiseled by Zeus himself.  Biff was also Australian.  We didn't know this because of his accent (he didn't have one... that's how cool this mofo was).  We knew he was Australian because it "happened to come up" roughly 10-20 times a class. 

At the beginning of most lectures, Biff would entertain us with tales of his conference championships (notice the plural) in tennis.  He would remind us that the next time we strolled through the athletic complex, we should stop by and see his name etched multiple times in the Hall of Fame.  We should count the number of records he held (which still stood even though he had set them nearly a decade ago).  We should bask in all things Biff.

The icing on the cake... Biff had a girlfriend.  But she was no ordinary girlfriend.  She was tan, beautiful, blond and stood six feet tall (all just like Biff).  We knew this because it "happened to come up" roughly 10-20 times a class.  As a special surprise for us one day, she even agreed to sit in on his lecture.   For a full hour, we got to see for ourselves how stunning she was.  Biff was on top of the world.  All Hail Biff.

do these abs make me look awesome?

One day, Biff decided to try something different with our class.  He wanted to really get to know us, perhaps absorb our insignificant light into his own black hole of awesomeness.  Biff asked us to take out a clean sheet of paper and a pen.  He instructed us to write down the one thing we would do if we knew we wouldn't get caught, and we knew there would be no consequences for our actions.  We were not to sign our names (total anonymity was required).  He wanted us to answer as truthfully as possible... to really let loose.  I couldn't believe my good fortune.  Smoke rose from my Bic as I penned my response.

After all the notes were collected (and shuffled as to further obscure the original author), Biff began to read.

The majority of responses fell into two categories (which of course he knew they would).  The first dealt with the sudden, and illegal, accumulation of wealth (i.e.  "I want to rob a bank").  The second category was more disturbing.  It dealt with revenge of a personal nature (i.e. "I want to kill the man who molested my sister").  It was all going as expected.  Biff could read us like a book.

Biff continued, one after another.  Money... revenge... money... revenge...   This went on for a full 20 minutes.  Then he stopped.  He stopped and stared in disbelief at the words written on the sheet of paper in front of him.  The pause in his rhythm stirred the class from its lethargy.  Many who were on the verge of sleep, sat up and took notice.  Without a word, Biff balled up the paper and threw it into the trash.  As he went to reach for the next sheet, the class reacted.  They wanted to know what he had thrown away.

After much cajoling from the students, Biff reluctantly retrieved the wadded up paper from the garbage.   He slowly opened it up.  His face turned red as he struggled to find his voice.  Finally, after much prompting from the crowd, he read:

"Bang Biff's Girlfriend".

We never heard about Australia, tennis, or his girlfriend again.

CATCHPHRASE

"Father's are the only people in the house who are allowed to have gas" --  Bill Cosby Himself (1983) 

Growing up, I had a unique problem.  Well, not so much a "problem"... more like a condition.  A doctor once described it to my parents as a rare malady most often associated with the European aristocracy.  My guess is they were told this as a joke (something bored doctors do just to mess with people).  However, as I grew up... this "diagnosis" stuck with me.  To hell with second opinions, our boy has a disease associated with Kings and Queens (or Dukes as the case may be).

<pfffft>

And what was this rare, yet regal medical condition?  Ten dollars to the first person who guesses... "spasmodic pyloric sphincter".  I'll let that sink in for a second.  OK... that's long enough.  On their own, these words are horrible.  Combined, they make you want to dunk yourself in a vat of Purell. 

When I was young, this malady presented itself in a straightforward manner.  If I went to bed and was nervous about an upcoming event (big test at school, soccer tryouts, etc), a muscle in my stomach would spasm.  This would cause me to wake up around 4 am the next morning.   Without getting into all the gory details, I'd spend the next several hours in the bathroom putting on a Vegas-style show that would've made Gallagher envious.  After which, my stomach would calm down and I'd feel fine.  Now I can only imagine your horror at reading this, but it really wasn't that bad.  On the bright side... it got me out of a lot of shit (no pun intended).

remember, the first four rows WILL get wet.

The good news is that I (mostly) grew out of it.  Now I simply have what my Grandma called a "sour tummy".  Not ideal, but definitely an improvement... at least in terminology.

I'd like to circle back for a moment to Mr. Cosby's observation at the beginning of this post.  I'll admit... I've taken advantage of the free pass fathers are given regarding gaseous emissions in the house.  And if the complaints DO come, I simply work up some fake tears and relay to my family the sickly childhood I endured.  I'm sure they understand.

Why do I tell you this?  First, it makes me laugh to realize you've actually read this far.  Second, it gives you the background needed for what follows. 

A couple of years ago the world was introduced to a new product called Dr. Pepper Ten.  This soft drink had "all the taste of regular Dr. Pepper, but with only 10 manly calories".  The commercials featured an actor doing very "action hero-y" type things.  In one particular spot, after killing a python and escaping in an all-terrain vehicle, our hero looks directly into the camera and yells "CATCHPHRASE!".  The joke being that he's too macho to actually come up with a catchphase (at least I think that's what it means).  That particular commercial played in heavy rotation all Fall.  My young sons and I probably saw it a dozen times each Sunday during football season.

because "tastes like ass" didn't test well.

One evening as I was getting my sons ready for bed, my oldest asked me... "What does 'catchphrase' mean?".  In true Dad fashion I stumbled for an answer that was close enough to the actual truth but simple enough for a young boy to understand.  My response... " It's something you're known for.  When people hear it, they think of you".  He seemed to grasp the concept.  Heck, it kinda made sense.  Score one for Dad.  Either way he seemed satisfied, so we moved on to bigger and better things.    

As is our custom, the three of us shoehorned into the lower bunk to read a good book.  The details of the story are fuzzy (either Thomas was saving Percy that day or Gordon was being a dickhead for no reason... the usual).  We read.  We laughed.  Then we read some more.

As we approached the final page, something happened.  Something that had occurred many times before.  In fact, I'm ashamed to say this, but it had happened so often in the past that it sometimes went unnoticed.  I invoked my God-given Dad privilege... and passed some gas.  As I waited for the proverbial smoke to clear, I heard a tiny voice from the other side of the bed yell out... "CATCHPHRASE".

Damn, I love that kid.

Weekend Worrier: Part II

Or, Setting the Bar Low

In case you’re visiting this blog for the first time (or you’re simply a glutton for punishment) you may want to read Part I before proceeding with this entry.   It will give you a little background on that which I’m about to write.  Or like me, if you realize there’s no point in seeing the original before diving straight into Weekend at Bernies II… then by all means, proceed. 

Still in better shape than me.

The start of indoor soccer season was pushed back a week.  I don’t know how.  I didn’t ask why.  All I knew was that my appeals had worked.  The Governor had delayed my execution for the time being.  There was a sense of joy as well as a general unclenching of my nether regions.  To celebrate the news, I immediately fell asleep on the couch. Maybe this indoor soccer thing wouldn’t be too bad after all.

The good news… I had an extra week to buckle down and get into shape.  I had seven days to make up for nearly a quarter century of inactivity.  I had seven days to break in my “compression shorts” before they broke me.  I was starting to form my plan.  But then I thought, “wait a minute”… maybe the first game will get pushed back ANOTHER week.  There’s no need to rush into anything.  Have a cinnamon roll. 

I’ll always be your friend.

Unfortunately, luck was no longer on my side.  As the week progressed and the possibility of another delay grew faint, I decided it was finally time to take definitive action.  So, I went jogging.  Luckily, it started misting a little while I was out.  I had no choice but to return home after a few minutes feeling proud (and slightly damp) that I’d at least attempted to exercise.  That’s good enough… right?  As a last resort, I comforted myself with the knowledge that I still had a couple of percocet’s left over from my recent sinus surgery.  I was ready for the worst.

Now I won’t bore you with the gory details of the game.  We lost 4-1.  I sucked wind the entire time.  My A-hole brother scored our only goal.  (is any of that really a surprise?)

But now that the game is over (and with the benefit of hindsight), I’d like to share with you a few things I learned.  For instance: 

•      Lobster-Fest is probably a mistake the night before the big game.
•      My balls are on borrowed time.
•      Moving your bowels 3 times on game day is NOT a good omen. 

That pretty much sums it up.  I’ve got a whole new week to prepare for game #2.  Luckily, I bought a dozen Krispy Kremes this morning to help me though.  

Crazy in Bed.

Don't worry.  It's not what you think.  The headline above was carefully crafted from my years of advertising experience.  You know... sex sells.  However, once you read this I'm sure you'll recognize the headline as somewhat misleading AND you'll understand why I was unceremoniously drummed out of the ad profession many years ago. 

My wife and I have been married 18+ years.  That's more than enough time to get to know each other.  For instance... she knows I don't like peanut butter, but that I love peanut butter cups.  She knows that even though I've lived in our hometown for decades, I still don't know any of the street names or which direction is north.  She knows that if I pick up anything phallic-shaped (bratwurst, zucchini, random piece of driftwood), I will giggle and pretend it's... well, you get the picture.  As for me.  I know that she's an outdoor person who loves to garden.  I know that when she says she's thinking of upgrading the kitchen sometime in the future... demolition has already begun.  I know never to tell her that a haircut makes her look like her Mom (again, I'm so sorry about that Dear).  Heck, we've been married so long our menstrual cycles have lined up.   

Now when it comes to annoying sleeping habits, each of us has their own "quirky" issue.  As for me, I'm a snorer.  A real peel the paint, wake the neighbors honker.  She's very sweet about how she deals with it.  I usually awake to find her slowly pushing my face to one side.  Or, her other move is to shake the bed as if we're experiencing a 7.0 earthquake.  Both methods are effective.  Nobody gets hurt. 

It's only a matter of time.

So, what's her deal?  Well, let's just say she's a screamer.  Like the headline above, the first thought that pops into your head is probably not the correct one.  What I mean is that about 4-7 times a year, in the middle of a dead sleep, she'll yell out.  Needless to say, this is somewhat unsettling for her... and for me.   I don't know if you've ever been awakened from a dead sleep by the person next to you screaming.  It's exciting!  How can I describe it?  Did you ever see the movie The Princess Bride?  It's like that machine that sucks the years from Wesley's body.  Every time she does it, I hear the water wheel turning, my heart racing, and another year being sucked away. 

I learned long ago, not to touch during one of these episodes.  When I did, it always seemed to coincide with the boogyman from her dream lunging in her direction.  Not that things weren't fun enough to begin with, but adding swinging fists and flailing legs to the mix is not my idea of a good time.  These days, I just let her go.  Again, nobody gets hurt.

Gotta run.  I need a nap.

Breakdown… Go Ahead and Give it To Me.

As I stare out my office window and watch the sleet and snow slowly envelope my car in a cocoon of yuck, I feel it coming.  My mood’s changing.  It’s not so much because I have an afternoon of spreading salt, shoveling driveways, and “trying not to die on the way home” ahead of me.  It’s the cold, hard realization that I’m not as young as I used to be.  I’ve entered a bold, new era.  Technically, I’m middle aged and there’s nothing I can do about it.  

I didn’t like him the first time around.

But instead of focusing on the manual labor awaiting me or how I’m too old for this nonsense, I’ve decided to dedicate this entry to some other, lessor advertised, realities of “maturing”.  So here are two “getting older” concerns (some might say grievances) that I’d like to spread out on the table of truth.   If you’ve got any you’d like to share, feel free to add them to the comments section below.  I could use a good laugh at your expense.

Body Hair.  This topic can be broken down into many, unhappy subcategories.  But for now, I’ll spare you most of the ugliness and concentrate on my biggest concern… the rogue hair.  Now when I say “hair” I’m not referring to the plural form of the word (although there are several odd developments on that front as well).  I’m angry about single hairs that show up out of the blue… in places where hairs should never be.  For instance… over the past five years, I’m noticed a long white hair that appears in my right ear.  It’s not sprouting from the ear canal or the lobe where you’d expect, but from the upper-middle, cartilage-y part of the ear.  A strictly non-hair-growing part of my body.  Now here’s the unsettling part.  The hair just magically appears from time to time… out of nowhere.  And when it does, it’s already over an inch long!  After plucking it out, my reaction is always the same… “where the heck did that come from?” and more importantly… “how did I miss that for the past six weeks?”.  It’s like waking up one day to find you had a fully formed third arm growing out of your kneecap.  It’s just weird.  Stuff like this didn’t happen when I was 15.

Oops… There’s More Pee.  Again, there are many ugly iterations of this issue.  I’d like to focus on what I call the post bathroom squirt.  Now you ladies out there probably haven’t experienced this exact phenomenon I’m about to describe, but I’ve seen enough “I pee a little when I sneeze” commercials to realize we’re all kind of messed up down there.  Here’s how it goes down… there’s nothing unusual about the evacuation of the bladder.  However, after the deed is complete (the pants are zipped, the hands are washed, you’re heading for the door)… more comes out.  Depending on where you are at the moment determines your next move.  If it’s 3am and you’re home, you probably just laugh a little, wring out your underwear and climb back into bed.  If you’re about to go into a board meeting regarding your recent job performance, things get a little more serious.  Now here’s the weird part… it keeps happening.  And no matter how long you stand over the toilet and wait, or shake the crap about of little Petey, or wish this problem away… you’re hosed (see what I did there?). 

Well, the snow and ice only seem to be getting worse, so I guess it’s time to go home now.  Thanks for reading. 

Now get off my lawn.

The Problem Solvers

One of the great things about having kids is that they offer constant reminders of how awesome life used to be, specifically how awesome your life used to be.  Before there were meetings, or mortgages, or "frequent nighttime urination", there was a time when the world was yours for the taking.  Random nudity was accepted.  Rudeness was applauded as truthfulness.  And all was forgiven... as long as you tried your hardest. 

 Worst... Medal... Ever!

Take tonight for instance.  Something happened that blew my mind and reminded me of how incredible it is to be a kid.  After supper, my ten year old went off to take a shower.  (As an aside:  This same child has recently added deodorant to his daily routine.  He will be a middle-schooler next year and the time... not to mention his armpits... were ripe for this move).   

Now before I get to the awesomeness of the story, I need to give you a little background.  This particular son is the smartest and sweetest person I've ever met.  Now I know what you're saying... all parents brag unnecessarily about their children.  I agree.  In fact, I'm sure Kimbo Slice's parents used to brag about how fast he could run until they saw him beat the living bejesus out of somebody.  But in this case, my boy is the smartest, sweetest soul I've ever met.  And I will fight anyone who disagrees (except you, Mr. Slice). 

I would so be this guy's bitch in prison.

So anyway, back to the shower...  He was in the bathroom for the normal amount of time.  We heard the water running as usual.  All was well as far as we were concerned.  Then the water stopped. 

As he came down the hallway wrapped in a towel, he had an interesting look on his face.  At first I couldn't identify it, but as he spoke I realized it was a look of pride.  He possessed the look of a conquering hero.  As he triumphantly approached the couch, he loudly announced that there was no soap in the shower.   

At this point, tiny gears in my head started to turn.  I began to guess at how he dealt with this problem.  But the mistake I made was in applying "old man" logic... not the "take no prisoners" logic of a ten year old boy.  He went on to inform us that there was shampoo in the shower, so he washed his hair as usual.  Ah, okay.  So naturally my 43 year old brain leapt to the conclusion... he must have used the shampoo as soap.  So I asked him, "did you use the shampoo for soap".  The look of pity he gave me was precious.  Then, without irony or shame, he proudly proclaimed that he used the deodorant on the rest of his body. 

True story, bro. 

The following is a transcript of the remaining conversation (with unspoken context added in italics): 

Dad:  You did what?! (confused)

Son:  I used the deodorant.  Sorry. (doubt begins to enter his mind)

Dad:  You're not in trouble.  I'm just trying to... (pause) You used the deodorant?

Son:  Yep (why did I even open my mouth?)

Dad:  That's cool buddy.  (realizing that I'm crushing his big moment)

Son:  There was no soap. (what was I supposed to do, asshole)

Dad:  Oh.  (pause) How did you use the deodorant? (trying to sound nonchalant)

Son:  I put it all over my body. (duh)

Dad:  When you were in the shower?

Son:  Yep. (gaining the upper hand)

Dad:  Then what.

Son:  I rinsed off. (pride regained)

Dad:  (long pause).  That's awesome buddy.  Give yourself a quarter. (cuz I'm not a total douche) 

So, thank you son for bringing me along on your journey.  You totally rocked my Tuesday night.  And if anyone asks you tomorrow why you smell like Speed Stick... look them square in the eye and say, my Dad made me do it.

It's only just begun.

Where Do We Begin?

I know.  I should have made this my first blog post.  The pilot episode if you will… the one where I attempt to explain what I’m doing and demonstrate why you should give a rat’s ass.  Please forgive me.  I got excited about some ideas bouncing around in my head, so I just jumped in.  Also, I’m sorry.  I probably shouldn’t have talked about my balls without at least warning you first.  I’ve run into a couple of friends since then and the mood has been somewhat, let’s just say, sprinkled with discomfort.  And finally, I’m warning you… I’ll probably talk about them and other unpleasantness again.  Get used to it.  We’re all friends here.

Where it all began… 

About 15 years ago, I started writing a book.  Actually “book” is too optimistic a word.  It was more a collection of funny stories, anecdotes, and jokes I had developed.  It was very much in the vein of popular offerings of the time from the likes of Dennis Miller (Rants) and George Carlin (Brain Droppings).  With the small exception of… it sucked.  How much you ask?  How high is up.  I recently pulled out a copy to see if there was anything I could turn into blog fodder.  Pushing aside the timeless Kitty Dukakis jokes and the hilarious Adrian Zmed references, there were only two pieces that were bearable to read.  The first piece focused on breast implants.  It was funny.  It was raw.  It had a clear point of view.  But… I don’t think I’d be invited over to my parent’s house for Thanksgiving dinner if that thing ever saw the light of day.  The second piece was slightly edgier.   It involved a simple math equation.  A ratio designed to determine who your true friends were based on the number of times they’ve shit at your house in the last year.  Like I said, 15 years ago was an edgy time for me.  I'm not proud of it.  Let’s move on.  (Ironically, I’m now working on a similar equation based on how much I dislike my kid’s friends based on the same math.) 

So, I guess I’m back to square one.  Hopefully I’ve grown.  This time my goal is to write about things that affect me, and hopefully strike a chord with you.  Maybe you’ll laugh WITH me.  Maybe you’ll laugh AT me.  Either way… I’m good.  Plus, I feel Adrian Zmed is poised for a comeback.  And, when he does… I’m ready. 

Stick with me.  This should be fun.

Bed-y Bye Bye

...or, Off With Their Beds

Attention everyone:  don't take this the wrong way, but the bed in your guest room sucks.  It's too hard.  It's too high.  It points north.  It's smells like a swimming pool.  Whatever it is that I like in a bed, yours has the opposite qualities. 

I was reminded of this recently while staying with some friends.  They have a lovely house.  Much bigger and nicer than any I've ever owned... complete with the finest amenities designed for comfort and relaxation. 

Except the bed.

On the Mohs Scale, I'd estimate the mattress fell somewhere between quartz and topaz.  It's not quite as hard as diamond (that would be silly), but it sure kicks orthoclase feldspar's ass.

In order of hardness.

I woke with shooting pain in both hips roughly every 20 minutes.  That was okay until about 3am when my bladder decided to mutiny (note to self:  don't drink a full Big Gulp of Dr. Pepper right before going to bed).  As  I "army crawled" to the bathroom, I prayed that I would regain sensation in my lower extremities before the pee pee came or at least until I was picked off by a German sniper.

I can't feel nuthin' in my legs, Johnny.

Side note:  this is not the first bed that my wife and I have had to sleep in at this particular house.  It was a replacement for the previous bed which had a partially collapsed box spring on one side... my side.  For several years I slept on an angle that required an elaborate configuration of strapping and pillow placement to keep me from rolling onto the floor. 

So, I know what you're asking... what kind of bed do "you" have, Mr. Complainer?  Just so you know, my wife and I bought a Sleep Number bed about nine years ago.  She was pregnant with our second child, and she decided it was time to replace the rock hard bed she brought to our marriage (please note the number of times the pronoun "she" is used in that last statement).   We've loved it from day one.  We loved it so much, we made any one who came to visit lay on it (friends, family, a couple of really confused Jehovah's Witnesses), just to show them how awesome it was.  We made the bed harder.  We made it softer.  They "oooh'ed" and "ahhh'ed" about how they liked it. 

It feels great.  Can I get up now?

Since that time, I know all of these "test monkeys" have purchased new beds.  I also know for a fact that none of them bought a Sleep Number bed.   Hmmm.

Sorry, but I have to cut this blog short.  My in-laws are coming into town and I need to patch the small hole in the air mattress before they get here.

Weekend Worrier Part I

What Have I Done?

It took several years, but my bluff was finally called.  This Sunday night, after a 24 year hiatus, I will be reentering the world of sports through the game of indoor soccer.  After years of telling family and friends that I’d be interested in playing on a team if only I could find one… my brother emailed last week to pee in my punchbowl.  He had a team.  They needed some players.  He’s such an asshole.

While my announcement isn’t all that spectacular, I have reason to worry.  Not because I don’t know how to play the game.  I played competitively for 15 years, and I was pretty good (really, just ask my Mom).  I’m a little concerned because I haven’t done anything remotely athletic in years.  Sure, I jogged a little back in the day.  And, I occasionally watch my sons play really hard in the back yard.  However, these days my leisure activities are a little more sophisticated.  They are mostly focused on watching How It’s Made and Castle and then strategically deleting shows off of my DVR so I can record new episodes of How It’s Made and Castle.  It’s complicated.  You probably wouldn’t understand.

For illustrative purposes only.  Our couch is red.

Faced with the dilemma of being offered something I never really wanted, I made the obvious choice.  I immediately accepted my brother’s invitation to play. 

Now What? (or, the “oh-shit” sets in):

What little physical activity that could have occurred over the past two months was squelched due to some legitimate illness.  So naturally, I didn’t want to jump into any strenuous pre-season training regimen that could upset my delicate condition.  My solution… light stretching.  I’ve done it three times in the past week.  So, as far as being able to sprint up and down a soccer field for the better part of an hour is concerned, I think I’m good.

Equipment – Back in my day, a jock strap was required (perhaps by the Geneva Convention) equipment when playing high school soccer.  For the uninitiated, a jock strap is an underwear-type contraption that’s sole purpose is to squeeze a man’s little Lord Fauntleroy into a space roughly the size of an acorn.  Since I was somewhat self-contained down there anyway, I never really saw the advantage of this piece of gear (In fact, it has certain disadvantages.  There’s a reason you’re told “don’t put all your eggs in one basket”.  Just ask any soccer player who’s had a leather ball whistle towards his crotch at 80 miles per hour). 

I hope everybody’s okay with scrambled

But what about a cup… the small, hard piece of plastic designed to fit inside the jock strap and withstand the blows (no pun intended) of play?  In the olden days, cups were somewhat triangular in shape and not very obtrusive.  They reminded me of Jason’s hockey mask from the Friday the 13^th movies (complete with one eye poking through for full effect).  To be honest, I didn’t really wear a cup back in my day (see self containment issue mentioned above).  But now that I’m older and wiser and have been stricken with what can only be defined as “old man balls”, I decided… I must have a new one.

As I shopped for new shoes, shorts and socks at the local sporting goods store… I slid undetected into the jock strap aisle.  To my surprise, they’ve changed things up a bit.  What I would consider to be a jock strap has been relegated to second string status by an item called “compression shorts”.  These are essentially bicycle shorts with the jock strap and cup compartment built in.  Realizing I’m in a new era, I threw caution to the wind and a pair of these newfangled nut-huggers into my basket (side note:  is it manly to push a shopping cart through a sporting goods store?).

One small problem!  Apparently men have evolved since the 1980’s.  The cup that comes with the compression shorts was not built with me in mind.  The new cup… how can I describe it?  It’s about the size and shape of an ancient Incan jai alai racket (I’m pretty sure the Incan’s didn’t play jai alai, but I’m too lazy to Google).

I’m not sure which is more frightening.

So for now, I’m content to let these shorts compress any and all things they can.  I’m saving the cup for the next time I go out on tour with KISS.

But I digress.

I think I’m ready for Sunday.  My plan is to look the part for at least a minute or two.  Hopefully by then, one of my knees will blow out and I can spend the rest of the season rooting on all the other old farts.  Thanks for reading my first blog post.  I hope to let you know how the first game went soon.  Pray for me.

(Read the exciting conclusion in Part II)