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FacebookI don’t know what it is about my giant head–I swear, it must have its own gravitational pull. I was throwing the softball around with a buddy when he threw a ball way out of my reach. I jumped for it, but had no chance. The ball hit a pole six feet behind me–and ricocheted into the back of my head. Immediately, all my friends started laughing because such a thing could only happen to me–or Jose Canseco.
What are the odds? The pole had maybe–maybe–an eight-inch circumference. What are the odds of the ball hitting it? And even less likely–what are the odds of a round ball hitting a round pole and bouncing directly back in the direction it came from? Not to mention, if I didn’t jump for the ball, it would’ve missed my head. The only way that ball bounces directly back and hits me in the head is if my cranium has its own gravitational field. The ball was drawn to my melon like a meteorite to the earth. It had no choice due to an uncontrollable, powerful force–gravity.
My head gets banged on more often than Ricky Ricardo’s bongos. I’m not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing, but it doesn’t even hurt anymore. I get hit in the head so often I’m used to it. Ball in the head? No big deal. If anything, I was more upset that this sorta thing keeps happening. Maybe my head is just so big, it’s unavoidable–kinda like when a bird flies into a building. He doesn’t want to–there’s just no way around it.
In what coulda been the disaster to end all disasters, the power went out this week when I was trying to watch the Super Bowl. I was over at a friend’s house and my first inclination was that he forgot to pay the bill (’cause–let’s face it–my friends are kinda dumb). But after peering out the window and discovering every stoplight was dark, I realized it wasn’t his fault.
Luckily, the power went out immediately at the end of the second quarter. With Super Bowl halftime being 40 minutes, I wasn’t too concerned because power outages rarely last longer than a few minutes. But after ten minutes of darkness, people started freaking out–one of whom started calculating options. Which friend of ours lived closest? Where was the nearest sports bar? It was like watching a scientist plan for doomsday.
“It’s gonna take us 30 minutes to get to anyone’s house,” I said. “I think the odds are better of us getting the power back than us making it over there before the start of the second half.”
But as the clock ticked, I looked wronger and wronger. Then–at the last possible moment, the power returned–right in time for the second half kickoff.
Now I’m no conspiracy theorist, but it seems awfully, awfully odd that we lost power at the least most important time of the day. In fact, it’s kinda odd that we don’t see more power outages during the Super Bowl. Think about it: every American in the country is sitting in front of a television set. Granted, 100 per cent of the televisions in the country aren’t on because there are a lot of Super Bowl parties out there. But the amount of electricity being used at that time must be pretty high because 100 million televisions are on at once. It’s just like summertime and air conditioning units: the power supply runs low because everyone has one on.
If power levels did run low, the best time to institute a blackout would be during halftime. No one cares about the halftime show. Sure, people watch–but that’s only because it’s on. But most folks aren’t paying attention. Halftime is when people take potty breaks or play a quick game of touch football in the street. If I was a higher-up and I had to cut power, I’d do it during halftime.
Besides, what are the odds of us losing power immediately after the first half ended…and getting it back immediately when the second half begins? If that wasn’t a preplanned blackout, it’s either the world’s oddest coincidence or someone at the power company was pulling one hell of a practical joke. Because if most people acted like my friends did, then blackout got a lot of people really freaked out.