|
|
My girlfriend has ticks. There’s no pussyfooting around it. No funny intro; no catchy opening. How can there be when my girlfriend has ticks? There’s nothing amusing about that. I go away for a few days and she gets ticks. Shudder. I feel icky just thinking about it.
Thursday I went to her house and she told me she had a bug problem. According to her, the past few days she’s seen bugs on her couch. She led me over to the couch and quickly pointed out four of them.
“Those look like ticks,” I said. She insisted they couldn’t be. I put the four critters in a Zip-lock bag (alive) with the hope of identifying them on the internet.
It wasn’t that hard to do–I googled ‘ticks’ and found ’em on the first page I looked. I was kinda hoping I was wrong. When I lived at home, one of my brothers managed to get the house infested with ticks. Disgusting creatures. The ticks I found on The Girlfriend’s couch were nowhere near as big as the bloodsuckers we had–but they were definitely ticks. Thanks to the easily identifiable pattern on their back, I was able to determine The . . . . .
I have a theory that when I was a little kid–possibly even before I was born–a giant bonked me on the head with the bottom of his fist. It’s the only explanation I can come up with. My head is a gigantic enormousity. My feet are too wide for the widest shoes Nike can make. My broad shoulders make sitting next to someone in a movie theater or ball game extremely uncomfortable. Even my tonsils have been diagnosis as “unusually large” by doctors. I’ve got a six-foot-five body stuck in a five-foot-six frame. Everything it too wide. Even something as simple as buying batting gloves proves to be difficult (the sizer says my fingers are as long as a tee baller but because my wrist is wider than a sumo wrestler’s, they always rip at the seams). It’s discouraging ’cause nothing on my body fits my body. Even my wide ass doesn’t fit for someone this short–or white.
I know I don’t entirely take care of myself. I’m getting better. Now I take Tylenol when I get a headache and Tums for indigestion. But I used to just ‘tough’ out uncomfortable situations. As I get older, I’m doing a better . . . . .
I’m thinking of abandoning the iRANT on MySpace. I don’t see the need for it anymore and I really don’t have the time to deal with it. I write for me–not for an audience. Friends, family, and loved ones often peek in to see what I’ve written. I’ve also managed to build up a small audience of strangers on MySpace. But I don’t need MySpace anymore–not when I have a fully-functionally website (yes, even to Mac users). I’d get more hits at MySpace, but I’m not doing this for the hits. I write for me. If anyone cares to read it, they’re more than welcomed to (unless you’re a coworker). My regular readers would still be free to find the iRANT on my website. I just feel like MySpace isn’t worth the aggravation of trying to post the iRANT–not when I really don’t give a damn if anyone reads it or not. We’ll see…
I was late picking up The Girlfriend for lunch. After profusely and repeatedly apologizing, she let me off fairly easy. “I got to see a really funny car accident while waiting,” she said. She then proceeded to tell me how she watched a guy step into . . . . .
I think we as a society would be much improved with the return of “Yo Mama” jokes. Harmless and non-malicious, “Yo Mama” jokes always seem to bring out the best in creativity, one-liners, and delivery. Two people can continuously insult each other…yet walk away good friends because of the innocent nature of “Yo Mama” jokes. They’re fun to say, fun to hear, and really bring people together. I think instead of hiring mediators to solve disputes, two people should simply spend 20 minutes exchanging “Yo Mamas.” Whatever conflicts they have are sure to be resolved after comparing the girth or liberated sexuality of two mothers. Guaranteed.
My distain for salads is well-known–but I’m not completely adverse to them. In fact, El Pollo Loco has a salad I quite like. It has cheese and tortilla chips in it. If more salads resembled nachos I probably wouldn’t be so opposed to greens. But they don’t, I do, and doughnuts will always remain my top choice as appetizers.
I’ve been trying to eat a tad bit healthier lately–which means more salads and less French fries. So yesterday at El Pollo Loco I order one of those crazy salads with tortilla chips. I’ve been . . . . .
Slow pitch softball is a game with many unwritten rules. We’re not professional ballplayers out there and no one wants to get hurt. Win or lose, no one takes the game home with them. Many players are friendly with guys from other teams. It’s a laid-back affair because we all have day jobs…and most of us are severely out of shape.
One of the unwritten rules is Thou Shall Not Walk with a Ten-Run Lead. Some folks take even more extremely (Thou Shall Not Walk At All). But for the most part, guys are trying to win the game anyway they can. If the opposing pitcher can’t throw strikes, so be it. But once the game is outta hand, the team with a double-digit lead shouldn’t be looking to walk.
Like any rule, there are some exceptions–most notably when the pitcher is so bad, the hitter has no choice. But generally, a batter shouldn’t walk when he has a strike to spare. If the pitch is out of the strike zone, take a phantom swing to extend the count.
The team we played last week wasn’t extraordinarily bad…but their pitcher was. He was walking guys left and right. He probably . . . . .
It’s that time of year again. All the little Girl Scouts are setup at supermarkets, shopping malls, and even your front door, knocking their delicious treats. I’ve always been pro-children, but I’m not sure how I feel about Girl Scout Cookies. It’s one of my personal policies to pull over and buy lemonade whenever I see a kid sitting at his own lemonade stand. I’ve always felt adults should reward positive behavior. If some eight-year old girl has the initiative and drive to sell lemonade at 50 cents a glass, adults should take three minutes out of their day and buy some. You might not be thirsty, but it doesn’t matter. Just think how much you made that kid’s day. They might have only made $8 for six hours of work, but $8 to a kid is like winning the lottery. Besides, at least this way they learn how to work for a living instead of having everything given to them. I just believe in reinforcing positive behaviour–and the lemonade stand issue is one of the things I live by.
That being said, I feel uncomfortable buying Girl Scout Cookies. While I applaud the kids for their effort and I . . . . .
Friday afternoon I was driving through a parking lot when it happened: some idiot backed his car into me. They say during traumatic experiences, things slow down for people. I remember sitting in my car watching it slowly happen–but I think the slowing effect was due to him going about three miles per hour. There was a green Lexus in front of me, also circling the lot for a spot. For reasons unknown to me, he stopped his vehicle and the reverse lights came on. The car started slowly backing towards me. I’m not sure why I didn’t honk the horn–probably because I didn’t believe what was happening before me. Dude had to have seen me–I was right behind him and it’s not like I came out of nowhere. Besides, what kinda idiot drives in reverse without looking behind him? Review mirror. Looking around. I figured he had to see me. Alas, he was as blind as I was wrong: even when he bumped me, I still couldn’t believe it was happening.
I didn’t know what to say or do, so I sat in my car contemplating my options. The guy was obviously an idiot but I wasn’t sure if . . . . .
The gravitational pull that is my giant head pulled in a new object the other day while playing softball. I was walking back to the dugout when someone chucked a bat in my general direction. I didn’t see it–but I heard screams to look out. Instinctively, I crouched down and covered my head with my arms. The bat narrowly missed me, falling in between my legs, ricocheted off the ground, and hit me square in the manhood. I wish I could boast about the benefits of wearing a cup…unfortunately, I’ve never been the athletic support type.
Now the skeptic would say this is proof that my head isn’t that large and it doesn’t have its own gravitational pull. Instead of hitting me in the cranium, the bat fell short. But a softball bat is a heavy object. I believe the gravitational field of my head pulled the bat closer to me–but wasn’t strong enough to fully pull that bat into my head. Kinda like the way comets circle around the sun. Gravity is strong enough to alter the orbit–but not enough to pull the object in.
And that’s what it’s come down to: I’m comparing my head to celestial objects. . . . . .
|
|
