not falling down

Just think about it: for one night, David Ortiz gets to have sex with anybody in Boston. Anything in Boston. If you are in Boston, he could have sex with you, or with your mom. He could have sex with your dad while forcing you to have sex with your mom. He could have sex with your cat. He could have sex with your cat’s mom.

I’m glad I don’t live in Boston.

I once ran competitively, while wearing shorts that were made to fit a girl. More recently, I engaged in the pastime of twirling a disc back and forth over mud, and falling down. I’m not much of a sporting man, it’s true; I don’t play games with life, and it doesn’t play games with me. But those of you who know me–really know me–or who have been reading this journal for the past few days, know that there’s one major-league sport that can really set my blood a-racin’.

That sport is football.

Every year, my alma mater and a certain podunk nobody school in Texas throw down the pigskin over one hundred yards of bloodstained turf. Now, it’s true that Trinity has the better record, but that’s only because its student body is composed of vicious, quasi-sapient goat-mutants.

Perhaps the biggest shock of my life came about a year ago, when I learned that renowned fancy boy Cody Powell was an alumnus of that same mockery of higher education. I did a little checking, in fact, and confirmed that he is the only pure-blooded human ever to graduate Trinity! No mean feat, I must say, and of course I’d never drop a bad word about my good friend C-Po. I do have to point out that he had sex with girls at his school, though. Think about that for a second.

Regardless, my daily exchange with the Picklemeister has been a little strained lately, a little tense, a little shrill and twitchy on one end. The perennial Centre-Trinity footbattle is just around the corner; on October 23, Mister Powell and myself are going to see just which side is really worth its mustard.

If my team wins, I’m going to fax him a copy of my balls.

Yes, yes, well done, Boston! Now it’s a mere eighteen hours until you can pull out some more of the skillsmanship you displayed in the sixth inning, when you and the baseball appeared to repel each other, like the poles of a magnet–er, that is, like the same poles… of… of two… different magnets. Or maybe you’ll just wake up–later today–and remember that whoops! You just killed every damn pitcher you have!

Update 1210 hrs: “Repel each other, like the poles of a magnet.” Gah. I’m fired.