Sometimes when you’re driving home on Saturday night (or Sunday morning, as the case may be), after a good session of socializing, it can feel a little melancholy, as you realize that the upcoming week of stress and maturity is almost upon you.
However, I’ve found that a good remedy for this is to listen to unintentionally hilarious radio. My suggestion is Coast to Coast AM, where they deal with such hard-hitting topics as alien abductions, the fourth, fifth, and sixth dimensions, and, my new personal favorite, the upcoming zombie uprising.
Yup, apparently the rise of the undead is imminent. I just heard it this weekend, which was news to me. (I missed the beginning, so I don’t know when this will be. Hopefully not until after the Stanley Cup Playoffs.) But, not to worry, Coast to Coast AM had it covered from all angles. One topic they discussed was, and I’m smirking as I write this, The International Response To The Upcoming Zombie Uprising. Yes, they were actually mixing politics with zombies! It was fantastic! For example, they basically said that superpower countries would bomb the crap out of countries that annoy them, using the excuse that they were taking out zombies! Isn’t it great!?
There was also a brief discussion of our own security in this country. One of the very serious sounding commentators mentioned that it wouldn’t be that hard to build a tall fence along the border, which would allow for easy head shots of zombies, but then he added, in a very ominous voice, “but what about those who are already inside?”
From what I could gather, all of their knowledge on zombies came from zombie movies. They spend quite some time discussing one movie in particular, I don’t remember which one, and began to break it down in a very in-depth manner, including what we could learn from it, as if it had been a real-life documentary. I kept waiting for one of the announcers to start laughing and then reveal that it was all a big joke, but it never happened. They just kept talking very seriously.
By the time I got home, I kind of wanted to drive around for a while longer just to see what would come next. However, I was tired, so I reluctantly turned it off. Still, there’s always next week!
I will conclude with the following, which you can take any way you’d like: According to the Coast to Coast AM Wiki, the show attracts an estimated 4.5 million listeners every night, making it the most listened to late night show in North America.
Huh. Maybe I should really start thinking about zombies a little more seriously.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Twitter Me This (or Twittering My Thumbs)
I don’t tweet, and I probably never will. In fact, I don’t quite “get” the popularity of Twitter. I mean, do I really need to know everything about your day, such as where you ate, how long you worked, what movie you watched, and how much weight you bench pressed? (“85 pounds! I’m getting my swagger back!”)
Despite my above statement, however, I’m not totally ignorant to the entertainment that Twitter can bring. Where else can you witness Charlie Sheen self-destruct in real-time? Where else can you read the grammatical trainwrecks that professional athletes pass off as sentences? (Actual example: “aight ima see wuts up”) Where else can you…uh….uh….I guess that’s it.
So, as far as I can see, Twitter is good for making fun of people who make fools of themselves with their not-at-all-well-planned-out tweets.
However, for a normal, everyday person, it just doesn’t seem like tweeting about your life would bring much to the table. For example, I fully realize that if I ever tweeted it’d be horrendously boring. In fact, here's what I think a typical day of tweeting for me would look like:
Up and ready to go! Gonna be a good day! 6:25 AM
Crap! Fell back asleep! Gotta run! 7:15 AM
At work. Probly shoulda showered. 7:45 AM
Working hard, or hardly working? :) 9:03 AM
Almost lunch time! Woot woot! 11:15 AM
mmmmmmm peanut butter jelly time... 12:02 PM
Boss says I should stop tweeting, especially in meetings. Oops! 1:17 PM
2:30 wall, dead ahead! Shoulda got some 5-hour energy! 2:29 PM
Must….stay…..awake….3:34 PM
Freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!! 4:15PM
Home! Time to work out! 5:47 PM
Just woke up from a two hour nap. Ahhh.. 7:52 PM
Frozen pizza is my friend. 8:32 PM
aight ima see wuts up 8:37 PM
Lethal Weapon is on!!!!!!! Woo hoo! 8:43 PM
Time to get my sleep on! 10:37 PM
Stupid insomnia…. 2:23 AM
Wait a minute. I like this! Hmmmm.......
Despite my above statement, however, I’m not totally ignorant to the entertainment that Twitter can bring. Where else can you witness Charlie Sheen self-destruct in real-time? Where else can you read the grammatical trainwrecks that professional athletes pass off as sentences? (Actual example: “aight ima see wuts up”) Where else can you…uh….uh….I guess that’s it.
So, as far as I can see, Twitter is good for making fun of people who make fools of themselves with their not-at-all-well-planned-out tweets.
However, for a normal, everyday person, it just doesn’t seem like tweeting about your life would bring much to the table. For example, I fully realize that if I ever tweeted it’d be horrendously boring. In fact, here's what I think a typical day of tweeting for me would look like:
Up and ready to go! Gonna be a good day! 6:25 AM
Crap! Fell back asleep! Gotta run! 7:15 AM
At work. Probly shoulda showered. 7:45 AM
Working hard, or hardly working? :) 9:03 AM
Almost lunch time! Woot woot! 11:15 AM
mmmmmmm peanut butter jelly time... 12:02 PM
Boss says I should stop tweeting, especially in meetings. Oops! 1:17 PM
2:30 wall, dead ahead! Shoulda got some 5-hour energy! 2:29 PM
Must….stay…..awake….3:34 PM
Freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!! 4:15PM
Home! Time to work out! 5:47 PM
Just woke up from a two hour nap. Ahhh.. 7:52 PM
Frozen pizza is my friend. 8:32 PM
aight ima see wuts up 8:37 PM
Lethal Weapon is on!!!!!!! Woo hoo! 8:43 PM
Time to get my sleep on! 10:37 PM
Stupid insomnia…. 2:23 AM
Wait a minute. I like this! Hmmmm.......
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Furious Fowl
So it turns out that using a slingshot to launch various types of birds with special abilities at green pigs that snort a lot and sometimes wear helmets is incredibly fun.
Yes, I’ve become hopelessly addicted to the game Angry Birds, along with a large percentage of the world’s population. It’s simple, yet fun, all without becoming boring. More importantly, you get to knock down stuff by throwing other stuff at it, which all males find hugely entertaining due to basic genetic programming.
I won’t go into the details of the game, as its something best discovered on your own. I will say, however, that if you ever decide to give it a chance you’ll most likely not be able to put it down. There have been several nights where I’ve found myself lying awake in bed much later than normal, feverishly tapping and swiping on my phone, all while whispering, “Just one more level, just one more level, just one more level….” (This had led to some sleep-deprived mornings at work where I stumble around aimlessly, seeing nothing but flying birds and snorting pigs everywhere that I look.)
The funny thing is that I normally miss out on fads, most of the time intentionally. For example, I’ve never listened to a song by Lady Gaga in my life, mainly because she seems annoying. I’ve also never seen a minute of Lost, nor have I ever watched American Idol. I’m also quite certain that I’ve never read a book endorsed by Oprah. (If so, I’d probably feel a little sick inside.)
But I am fully on board the Angry Birds bandwagon, even though it's wasting the vast majority of my free time. My plan is to wholeheartedly immerse myself into it so I either make it through the entire game or burn myself out trying. Only after that will I be able to resume my normal daily activities, such as eating, shaving, and wearing clothes that have been washed sometime in the last month.
But until then, I’m nothing more than an unthinking, pathetic drone, following the whims of popular culture. However, when the evil green pigs steal the plucky birds’ eggs, somebody has to step up and help the birds extract justice, and I'm just that person!
Plus, did I mention that throwing stuff at other stuff is cool?
Yes, I’ve become hopelessly addicted to the game Angry Birds, along with a large percentage of the world’s population. It’s simple, yet fun, all without becoming boring. More importantly, you get to knock down stuff by throwing other stuff at it, which all males find hugely entertaining due to basic genetic programming.
I won’t go into the details of the game, as its something best discovered on your own. I will say, however, that if you ever decide to give it a chance you’ll most likely not be able to put it down. There have been several nights where I’ve found myself lying awake in bed much later than normal, feverishly tapping and swiping on my phone, all while whispering, “Just one more level, just one more level, just one more level….” (This had led to some sleep-deprived mornings at work where I stumble around aimlessly, seeing nothing but flying birds and snorting pigs everywhere that I look.)
The funny thing is that I normally miss out on fads, most of the time intentionally. For example, I’ve never listened to a song by Lady Gaga in my life, mainly because she seems annoying. I’ve also never seen a minute of Lost, nor have I ever watched American Idol. I’m also quite certain that I’ve never read a book endorsed by Oprah. (If so, I’d probably feel a little sick inside.)
But I am fully on board the Angry Birds bandwagon, even though it's wasting the vast majority of my free time. My plan is to wholeheartedly immerse myself into it so I either make it through the entire game or burn myself out trying. Only after that will I be able to resume my normal daily activities, such as eating, shaving, and wearing clothes that have been washed sometime in the last month.
But until then, I’m nothing more than an unthinking, pathetic drone, following the whims of popular culture. However, when the evil green pigs steal the plucky birds’ eggs, somebody has to step up and help the birds extract justice, and I'm just that person!
Plus, did I mention that throwing stuff at other stuff is cool?
Monday, March 7, 2011
THA-THUMP!!!!!!
There’s nothing like hitting a pothole. One minute you’re calmly driving your car, by which I mean fiddling with the radio, talking on your phone, and drinking scalding hot coffee, all while steering with your knee and occasionally remembering to look up, and then suddenly, THA-THUMP!!!!!!
This is followed by a string of bad words and a glance in the rearview mirror to see just how much of your car was left behind in the crater you just ran over. After the bad words finally come to a stop, you then hope that you weren’t talking to your mother on the phone. Finally, you feel something dripping on you, and you look up to see coffee staining the entire roof and slowly draining down on you from the visor.
This is what driving in Minnesota these days is like. Potholes are pretty much the norm, much worse than anywhere else I’ve resided. Side streets are the worst, and it’s gotten to the point that, after hitting them several dozen times, I’ve committed many of these potholes to memory, allowing me to expertly swerve around them while I drink coffee and steer with my knee.
Minnesota has lost millions of dollars in state funding. This lack of money, along with the tumultuous winter, have combined to help bring about the runaway pothole bonanza. (I actually researched this fact, although it consisted entirely of me pulling up an article that I’d read a while back at work when I should have been, you know, working. I will, however, take credit for the phrase “runaway pothole bonanza”.)
There is one spot on Highway 6, as you’re nearing the intersection with 12, where it’s particularly bad. In fact, there aren’t any potholes there, per se, as much as the road is just sinking and rising so much that it pretty much resembles a sine wave. I’ve accidentally almost gotten air there several times, which would be cool if I was driving a ’69 Charger in Hazzard County, but which instead just elicits seasickness and a string of bad words. (Sorry, Mom!)
Usually I try to finish up a blog entry with some sort of snappy joke that ties everything together. However, this time I’m just going to go with a bunch of pictures of huge potholes I found on the internet:
This is followed by a string of bad words and a glance in the rearview mirror to see just how much of your car was left behind in the crater you just ran over. After the bad words finally come to a stop, you then hope that you weren’t talking to your mother on the phone. Finally, you feel something dripping on you, and you look up to see coffee staining the entire roof and slowly draining down on you from the visor.
This is what driving in Minnesota these days is like. Potholes are pretty much the norm, much worse than anywhere else I’ve resided. Side streets are the worst, and it’s gotten to the point that, after hitting them several dozen times, I’ve committed many of these potholes to memory, allowing me to expertly swerve around them while I drink coffee and steer with my knee.
Minnesota has lost millions of dollars in state funding. This lack of money, along with the tumultuous winter, have combined to help bring about the runaway pothole bonanza. (I actually researched this fact, although it consisted entirely of me pulling up an article that I’d read a while back at work when I should have been, you know, working. I will, however, take credit for the phrase “runaway pothole bonanza”.)
There is one spot on Highway 6, as you’re nearing the intersection with 12, where it’s particularly bad. In fact, there aren’t any potholes there, per se, as much as the road is just sinking and rising so much that it pretty much resembles a sine wave. I’ve accidentally almost gotten air there several times, which would be cool if I was driving a ’69 Charger in Hazzard County, but which instead just elicits seasickness and a string of bad words. (Sorry, Mom!)
Usually I try to finish up a blog entry with some sort of snappy joke that ties everything together. However, this time I’m just going to go with a bunch of pictures of huge potholes I found on the internet:
Monday, February 28, 2011
When Cheerfulness Goes Bad
One thing I’m not a fan of is forced banter. For example, I don’t see any use in the dentist asking you if you’ve planned any vacations a moment before he sticks a giant needle into your mouth. First, there’s no way you can answer, because there is a giant needle in your mouth. Second, what is the dentist trying to accomplish, anyway? Being your friend? Sorry, but when you’re sticking a giant needle into somebody’s mouth, that’s how they’re going to remember you, not by your friendly chatter.
Not that you should expect anything more out of a dentist, anyway, which is why you don’t leave them tips. (“Here’s an extra five for actually using enough Novocain this time! Awesome job!”)
With this in mind, it should come as no surprise that going to the bank is a horrible experience for me that I try to avoid as much as possible. Luckily, with such wonderful inventions as direct deposit and ATMs, I rarely have to step foot inside my bank of choice. (Think stagecoaches and the Pony Express.) However, when I do, it’s always an exercise in trying to retrain myself from strangling the teller, since they are under direct orders to engage all customers in frivolous, yet awkward, conversation.
Take my last encounter. The teller I wound up with had roughly two pounds of makeup on, and I wouldn’t have been surprised at all if she’d used a trowel during its application. In addition, her eyebrows were entirely drawn in, and let me tell you that eyebrows composed of only two dimensions are amusing, and I had to work hard to restrain myself from giggling. (I know that this has nothing to do with my chosen topic, but I don’t care. It needed to be said.)
Anyway, after taking my information, the teller cheerfully asked, “So, Isaac, do you have any weekend plans?”
For those of you who don't know, my name is not Isaac, which means that she couldn’t even read my account information correctly. Still, I managed to restrain myself and wound up in a lame conversation with her about the weekend, as she continued to work on my deposit, which must have had to pass through roughly eight-thousand satellites uplinks based solely on the time that it took to process.
When this was finally finished and I’d brushed away all of the cobwebs that had formed on me, she frowned and asked, “Do you know that you only have a free checking account with us?” This is another game they play; acting concerned and friendly, but really just trying to push more services onto you.
I wanted to say, “Yes, I am aware of this, because I was there when I came in and opened it,” but I instead took the polite route and somehow managed to circumvent the conversation before she could rope me into getting a fixed-rate mortgage or something.
Meanwhile, the next nearest teller, who was going for the Johnny Depp/John Mayer poofy hair look, was asking the elderly lady in his line, “So Mildred, do you have any plans for today?” (Her name may or may not have been Mildred.)
“I’m going shopping,” the old lady said.
“Is that why you need all of this money?”
Johnny/John then burst out into a forced laugh so loud and annoying that made me want to knock a few of his fillings loose. (Keep in mind that I’m usually not a man inclined towards violence, which should tell you something.) Also, I secretly hoped the lady would let loose with a drop-kick, but alas, it was not to be.
This is why I propose there should be a “No Small Talk” line in the banks. In this line, the tellers would not be allowed to make any small talk, and their only goal would be to turn over customers as fast as possible. In a perfect scenario, the customer would state their business, the teller would grunt once, and no more would be said as the teller proceeded to work as fast as possible on performing the transaction. Awkward but blissful silence would be the name of the game. In fact, I think that if the teller in the No Small Talk line accidentally tried to be friendly, the customer would be allowed to do something to them, such as slap them in the face or give them a wedgie. (Huh. Maybe I'm more violent than I thought.)
I would use that line all of the time. In fact, I would even consider paying a fee for the privilege to use that line.
But enough about me.
So how was your weekend? Do you have any special plans? Any vacations on the horizon? What about this weather? Don’t you wish it was warmer?........
Not that you should expect anything more out of a dentist, anyway, which is why you don’t leave them tips. (“Here’s an extra five for actually using enough Novocain this time! Awesome job!”)
With this in mind, it should come as no surprise that going to the bank is a horrible experience for me that I try to avoid as much as possible. Luckily, with such wonderful inventions as direct deposit and ATMs, I rarely have to step foot inside my bank of choice. (Think stagecoaches and the Pony Express.) However, when I do, it’s always an exercise in trying to retrain myself from strangling the teller, since they are under direct orders to engage all customers in frivolous, yet awkward, conversation.
Take my last encounter. The teller I wound up with had roughly two pounds of makeup on, and I wouldn’t have been surprised at all if she’d used a trowel during its application. In addition, her eyebrows were entirely drawn in, and let me tell you that eyebrows composed of only two dimensions are amusing, and I had to work hard to restrain myself from giggling. (I know that this has nothing to do with my chosen topic, but I don’t care. It needed to be said.)
Anyway, after taking my information, the teller cheerfully asked, “So, Isaac, do you have any weekend plans?”
For those of you who don't know, my name is not Isaac, which means that she couldn’t even read my account information correctly. Still, I managed to restrain myself and wound up in a lame conversation with her about the weekend, as she continued to work on my deposit, which must have had to pass through roughly eight-thousand satellites uplinks based solely on the time that it took to process.
When this was finally finished and I’d brushed away all of the cobwebs that had formed on me, she frowned and asked, “Do you know that you only have a free checking account with us?” This is another game they play; acting concerned and friendly, but really just trying to push more services onto you.
I wanted to say, “Yes, I am aware of this, because I was there when I came in and opened it,” but I instead took the polite route and somehow managed to circumvent the conversation before she could rope me into getting a fixed-rate mortgage or something.
Meanwhile, the next nearest teller, who was going for the Johnny Depp/John Mayer poofy hair look, was asking the elderly lady in his line, “So Mildred, do you have any plans for today?” (Her name may or may not have been Mildred.)
“I’m going shopping,” the old lady said.
“Is that why you need all of this money?”
Johnny/John then burst out into a forced laugh so loud and annoying that made me want to knock a few of his fillings loose. (Keep in mind that I’m usually not a man inclined towards violence, which should tell you something.) Also, I secretly hoped the lady would let loose with a drop-kick, but alas, it was not to be.
This is why I propose there should be a “No Small Talk” line in the banks. In this line, the tellers would not be allowed to make any small talk, and their only goal would be to turn over customers as fast as possible. In a perfect scenario, the customer would state their business, the teller would grunt once, and no more would be said as the teller proceeded to work as fast as possible on performing the transaction. Awkward but blissful silence would be the name of the game. In fact, I think that if the teller in the No Small Talk line accidentally tried to be friendly, the customer would be allowed to do something to them, such as slap them in the face or give them a wedgie. (Huh. Maybe I'm more violent than I thought.)
I would use that line all of the time. In fact, I would even consider paying a fee for the privilege to use that line.
But enough about me.
So how was your weekend? Do you have any special plans? Any vacations on the horizon? What about this weather? Don’t you wish it was warmer?........
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
The Literature vs Cinema Brouhaha: Taking Sides (Kinda)
Don’t you get annoyed by those snooty, uppity people who always claim that, between a book and a movie, the book is always way better?
You know the person. You’ll mention to them that you like the movie ‘Shooter', and they’ll immediately ask if you’ve read the book it was based on. When you tell them no, they’ll frown at you and shake their head sadly, as if you’re nothing more then a genetic accident who is so far beyond having the ability to form an intelligent thought that there’s no point in extending the conversation beyond what is considered polite and proper. Then, with an all-knowing-and-extremely-condescending look in their eyes, they’ll say, “The movie was good, but the book was better.”
We get it. You can read. It makes you sophisticated and intelligent. We’re so happy for you!
Okay, now that we’re all on the same page, it’s time for a shocking plot twist: I’m one of those snooty, uppity people!
Well, most of the time. I will admit that there have been times when I've liked the movie better. Take, for example, The Lord Of The Rings, where the books are filled with millions of characters with ridiculous names that can’t be spelled or pronounced, like Isildur. This leads to you constantly thumbing back to figure out if the person you’re currently reading about is just being introduced or if that happened fifteen pages back, although it doesn’t really matter because they inevitably will end up having no discernable impact on the plot whatsoever.
So I guess I’m not quite one of those people, and, in the interest of full disclosure, I should say that my philosophy is as follows: given the choice, I’ll always read the book first.
I got to thinking about this when I happened upon a display at Barnes & Nobles where they were selling True Grit. This has just been released as a movie (again) so the book is now being pushed to try and capitalize on the renewed popularity. I’ve been planning to watch the movie eventually, but as soon as I saw the book, I knew that I had to read it first.
This is my thought process behind my choice to start with the book and end with the movie:
1) Reading the book is much more of a time investment, so I’d rather be experiencing everything for the first time when I’m reading it.
2) When you watch the movie afterwards, even though you know basically what’s going to happen, you still get to enjoy the visuals, special effects, and music.
3) I’m kind of snooty and uppity.
Now, there is another category to consider here: When both the book and the movie are horrible and nobody should be exposed to either, unless it is being used as a form of torture to extract information from terrorists. One recently popular book series that has been turned into a string of movies immediately comes to mind. However, since I don’t want to be blacklisted by the entire female population of the earth, I’m going to stop here before I get into too much trouble.
You know the person. You’ll mention to them that you like the movie ‘Shooter', and they’ll immediately ask if you’ve read the book it was based on. When you tell them no, they’ll frown at you and shake their head sadly, as if you’re nothing more then a genetic accident who is so far beyond having the ability to form an intelligent thought that there’s no point in extending the conversation beyond what is considered polite and proper. Then, with an all-knowing-and-extremely-condescending look in their eyes, they’ll say, “The movie was good, but the book was better.”
We get it. You can read. It makes you sophisticated and intelligent. We’re so happy for you!
Okay, now that we’re all on the same page, it’s time for a shocking plot twist: I’m one of those snooty, uppity people!
Well, most of the time. I will admit that there have been times when I've liked the movie better. Take, for example, The Lord Of The Rings, where the books are filled with millions of characters with ridiculous names that can’t be spelled or pronounced, like Isildur. This leads to you constantly thumbing back to figure out if the person you’re currently reading about is just being introduced or if that happened fifteen pages back, although it doesn’t really matter because they inevitably will end up having no discernable impact on the plot whatsoever.
So I guess I’m not quite one of those people, and, in the interest of full disclosure, I should say that my philosophy is as follows: given the choice, I’ll always read the book first.
I got to thinking about this when I happened upon a display at Barnes & Nobles where they were selling True Grit. This has just been released as a movie (again) so the book is now being pushed to try and capitalize on the renewed popularity. I’ve been planning to watch the movie eventually, but as soon as I saw the book, I knew that I had to read it first.
This is my thought process behind my choice to start with the book and end with the movie:
1) Reading the book is much more of a time investment, so I’d rather be experiencing everything for the first time when I’m reading it.
2) When you watch the movie afterwards, even though you know basically what’s going to happen, you still get to enjoy the visuals, special effects, and music.
3) I’m kind of snooty and uppity.
Now, there is another category to consider here: When both the book and the movie are horrible and nobody should be exposed to either, unless it is being used as a form of torture to extract information from terrorists. One recently popular book series that has been turned into a string of movies immediately comes to mind. However, since I don’t want to be blacklisted by the entire female population of the earth, I’m going to stop here before I get into too much trouble.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Fitting In, Minnesota Style
I’m pretty certain that I now fall into the category of “poser”.
This is because I recently bought a hockey stick. Now, anybody who knows me is most likely consumed in a raging fit of mirth right now, considering that my hockey skills begin and end with me watching the Red Wings in the playoffs. Up until recently, the only reason for me to buy a hockey stick would have been to fend off vampire bats, although the small chance of that actually happening had kept me from doing so.
However, now I play boot hockey, because that’s what we do in Minnesota. The logic behind this is that when its -10 degrees, what else is there to do but run around outside waving a hockey stick and risking having your sweat freeze, which can then transform you into a living ice statue?
(No, I don’t play real hockey. I’ve never gotten past the “run into the boards” method of stopping while on skates.)
When getting my stick, my goal (har!) was to buy the cheapest one possible. I went down to a sporting goods store and started poking around, doing my best to look like I had a clue as to what I was looking at. Unfortunately, I couldn’t buy the cheapest stick, because it was branded with the name Sidney Crosby. As a Detroit Red Wings fan, there is no way I can be caught with anything that has his name on it. (Another stipulation is that I must always refer to him as Sidney “Crysby”.) So I ended up spending ten dollars more on another stick.
But it was worth it. I like my new hockey stick. It makes me feel like I’m fitting in, and I’m always anxious to show it off. I keep in the backseat of my car, as it is then highly visible, which allows people to know that I do, indeed, play hockey, as is required of every person who resides in Minnesota. In fact, lately I’ve felt like offering rides to everybody, even if I don’t know them or if they’re going somewhere a little out of the way, such as Florida. This is because it enables me to say things such as, “No room in the back. That’s where I keep my HOCKEY STICK!” or “If you casually turn your head to the back, you’ll see my awesome HOCKEY STICK!”
As for playing hockey, let’s just say that I get exercise. However, now I’m always prepared. At the drop of the hat, I’m ready to “forecheck”, go “top-shelf”, “pinch in on D”, or “fall over awkwardly and possibly sprain an ankle.”
Plus, if I ever get attacked by vampire vats, I’m good to go.
This is because I recently bought a hockey stick. Now, anybody who knows me is most likely consumed in a raging fit of mirth right now, considering that my hockey skills begin and end with me watching the Red Wings in the playoffs. Up until recently, the only reason for me to buy a hockey stick would have been to fend off vampire bats, although the small chance of that actually happening had kept me from doing so.
However, now I play boot hockey, because that’s what we do in Minnesota. The logic behind this is that when its -10 degrees, what else is there to do but run around outside waving a hockey stick and risking having your sweat freeze, which can then transform you into a living ice statue?
(No, I don’t play real hockey. I’ve never gotten past the “run into the boards” method of stopping while on skates.)
When getting my stick, my goal (har!) was to buy the cheapest one possible. I went down to a sporting goods store and started poking around, doing my best to look like I had a clue as to what I was looking at. Unfortunately, I couldn’t buy the cheapest stick, because it was branded with the name Sidney Crosby. As a Detroit Red Wings fan, there is no way I can be caught with anything that has his name on it. (Another stipulation is that I must always refer to him as Sidney “Crysby”.) So I ended up spending ten dollars more on another stick.
But it was worth it. I like my new hockey stick. It makes me feel like I’m fitting in, and I’m always anxious to show it off. I keep in the backseat of my car, as it is then highly visible, which allows people to know that I do, indeed, play hockey, as is required of every person who resides in Minnesota. In fact, lately I’ve felt like offering rides to everybody, even if I don’t know them or if they’re going somewhere a little out of the way, such as Florida. This is because it enables me to say things such as, “No room in the back. That’s where I keep my HOCKEY STICK!” or “If you casually turn your head to the back, you’ll see my awesome HOCKEY STICK!”
As for playing hockey, let’s just say that I get exercise. However, now I’m always prepared. At the drop of the hat, I’m ready to “forecheck”, go “top-shelf”, “pinch in on D”, or “fall over awkwardly and possibly sprain an ankle.”
Plus, if I ever get attacked by vampire vats, I’m good to go.
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