Ye Olde Blog
That previous post really set the stage for an exciting, emotional, underdog-makes-good kind of ending, didn’t it? (If you didn’t read it yet, you should.) Imagine it: the shrimpy, non-baseball-playing kid scarred from his less-than-enjoyable Little League experience steps to the plate more than three decades later and belts one over the fence.
Oh, if only. sigh
The game of baseball has become a major part of my family’s life … which, based on the following photo, should come as a surprise to no one. I mean, let’s face it: when your background includes playing on a team of this caliber, your family is pretty much guaranteed a baseball-rich life:
I’ll point myself out in a moment, but first: How ’bout that coach, huh? He makes Morris Buttermaker look like Anthony Robbins. Of course, in his defense: Look at the collection of misfits he had to work with. I would suggest that his lack of enthusiasm was well justified.
It all started with a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. We ran out of sliced turkey … and, being the financially sensible (read: broke) person that I am, I decided that, rather than eat out, I would bring to work a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.
Lunchtime arrived. I was weak. Faint. Famished. I ate the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. It was, shall we say, less than satisfying.
I was starving. To death, even. Death was imminent, is what I’m saying, OK? Don’t judge me.
Dear My Children:
I’m sorry, but you’re not going to wear me down on this one. Sometimes Daddy has to be a dick. This is one of those times.
I knew going into last Thursday night’s Van Halen concert that, based solely on the size of the venue, I’d be fairly close to the stage … but I didn’t know I’d be THIS close:
No, seriously:
(I also didn’t know that the band was picking up everyone’s bar tab … which is a shame, because, had I found that out prior to the end of the show, I’m certain I could have done a hell of a lot more damage than three bottles of Sam Adams. Just sayin’.)
“Ugh. Brains,” I whispered to my wife after the chef announced that the third course would include sweetbreads.
“What?”
“Sweetbreads,” I whispered, “are brains.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding rather amused, though far from relieved. “I thought they were balls.”
Hey, they might as well have been balls, because guess what brains and balls both have in common? Neither one goes in my mouth.
About two hours into our flight from Philadelphia to Cancun, I discovered that I had committed The Biggest Fuck-Up of All Time … like, to the extent that I knew it would be best for my marriage if I just went ahead and threw myself out of the aircraft. Which was a shame, really … because everything had been going so well.
OK, seriously: What’s with all the hubbub about high unemployment rates in this country? Because I’m still two business days away from my lay-off, and already the job offers are coming at me faster than I can keep up with them. You jobless whiners out there must be a bunch of losers; this job-search shit is even easier than kicking my kids’ asses at Candyland.
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