Football Blues

This football season has been an outright debacle for me. Please consider the following outrage:

My beloved NY Football Giants started the season a vomit-inducing 0-6.

My legendary fantasy football franchise is on the verge of its first losing season in 13 years.

My expansion flag football team just concluded its regular season at 2-8.

It’s been a real treat to get my ass kicked on Sunday mornings, followed by watching my favorite team implode in the afternoon, only to discover in the evening….that my fake lineup of digital doppelgangers also suck at football.

It all started innocently enough, as my football fortunes looked bright back in August. On paper, the Giants projected as an offensive juggernaut, flush with young playmakers, a Super Bowl MVP at quarterback, and a seasoned coaching staff. As two-time defending champs, my fantasy football squad featured stars like Arian Foster, Ray Rice, and Robert Griffin as keepers.

It’s hard to say where it all went wrong. I don’t know why Eli Manning has enjoyed throwing the football to strangers so much. I don’t know why Ray Rice has been running like a “Biggest Loser” contestant. Things just happen sometimes for no good reason.

As for my flag football team, it appeared to be staffed by a collection of eager and able-bodied athletes. Sure, I was a tad concerned by the average age of 37.6 years, but was confident that wisdom and reliability would make up for the savagery of Father Time.

It didn’t take long for my concerns to become heightened as my “star” 34 year-old tailback crumpled to the ground after one carry in our first game. It was disheartening to see the once-proud athlete limp slowly off the field with his hand on his hamstring, knowing full well his season was over the moment it started.

As the games continued on my teammates began to fall around me like we were storming the beaches of Normandy.

"My groin!” one would scream.

“My ankle! My back!” would screech more victims.

The injuries were piling up and my own body was breaking down with every snap. I shredded my right quad in the second game and essentially limped through the season ever since. My ring finger looks like the “13 Curves” after being tangled up in a pair of shorts.

Getting enough players to show up and then actually make it through the game has been a big hurdle throughout the season. After a few weeks, my roster was as reliable as the Easter Bunny on Christmas. I don’t know what that means, but I doubt that freak-show is very useful on Santa’s big day.

Maybe the biggest challenge for me has been my evolution as the team’s only viable center. Let’s just say, when I began assembling this squad in August, I wasn’t dreaming of snapping a football between my legs while simultaneously preparing for a collision with fat dudes.

Despite all this, and our record, we have held up pretty well in most games. There is one team, though, that has been a real nemesis. They have more than twenty men on their roster, mostly cocky youngsters with an apparent dislike for older men. The first time we played against them, it coincided with the start of our original center’s season-long sabbatical, meaning I would need to start snapping the ball. I wasn’t overly concerned about blocking some of the butterballs in the league, but this team presented a more disturbing challenge.

Let me take you back to our first encounter. I still can’t say for certain, as I was looking across the football field toward the parking lot, but I’m pretty sure I witnessed their team captain releasing some sort of unusually large, primate-like beast from a cage. They appeared to be guiding the mostly-upright walking phenomenon to the sideline with a chain leash.

I shrugged the development off and assumed it was just a spectator, perhaps a team mascot. We started the game on defense, and I was at ease when it remained on the sideline.

After surrendering a quick-strike touchdown, my stress level spiked as we took the field on offense. I was troubled to see the thing was lumbering toward the line of scrimmage. I prayed it was just a temporary break from his leash.

There was no such luck, as the defense drew closer it was clear the team intended to line this abomination directly over me at nose guard. I called a timeout and asked the officials to verify him for human eligibility.

“Play ball!” they shouted after giving him a brief once-over.

I wouldn’t have been so concerned if he was calling out defensive instructions like his teammates, or maybe if his eyes didn’t look so damn empty inside…the guy just lined up right on top of me.

“Hmmmm…” he grumbled, “baba…hmmmm…baba…hmmm”.

Trust me, that’s not what you want to hear from your opponent as he breathes on the base of your neck. Those aren’t human sounds.

Of course I am exaggerating just a bit, but this “kid” was 270 pounds of emotional problems. I’m not going out on a limb when I suggest he lacked a father figure growing up, as he pursued the QB with bastardly vengeance, battering and bruising my body along the way.

We tried to chip-block him with another player in the backfield, but he would just face-palm and discard any poor soul that tried to impede his progress. Needless to say, it was a difficult Sunday morning.

The good news is that the season is almost over.

We finished the regular season at 2-8 (thanks to a former college QB playing two games with us) and somehow qualify for a post-season game this Sunday.

That is a really nice way for the league administrator to tell me I need to pay $40 for one last ass-kicking.

What’s truly funny, is that our reward (should we win this playoff game) is to immediately play another game right after where I’ll get to square off against that mutant one last time.

Residue

I got a stern “talking-to” after the Pants on Fire column a few weeks back. My wife made me pinky-swear that I’d start eating better while on the road. She mentioned something about being around for the grandkids, but I just think she’s sick of looking at my gut.

Either way, I agreed. Picking up a matchbox car off the floor shouldn’t be so hard. So, it was with great sadness that I passed McDonald’s and pulled into Subway last week. Like usual at lunchtime, I had to piss.

Generally speaking, I’m not a fan of using public restrooms right before I eat. I just feel like somehow, some way, another man’s penis residue is going to end up on my sandwich.

Annoyingly enough, there was just one girl working. I’m not sure if she was new or just really focused on her craft, but my balls were starting to swell as she placed little banana peppers with painstaking care. My knees started rocking as my patience grew thin.

Given the earthly shape of the family in front of me, I suspected a large volume order was about to be placed, most likely with a complete complement of toppings and condiments. I couldn’t wait through all that. I had to go.

I busted through the bathroom door and was surprised to find another man using the urinal. It was a little bathroom, much too small to share with another dude.

“Sorry…I’ll wait outside,” I offered.

“Nope…nope…I’m just about…ahhh….wraaaapped up here,” he stuttered while shaking his hips.

My stomach churned as he pointed his ass outward and slowly packed his apparently gigantic man-garbage back into his shorts.

“All yours,” he offered.

“Thanks,” I replied as he grabbed for the door without washing his hands.

“Enjoy your lunch now,” he blurted cheerfully while leaving the room.

“Enjoy your pecker...sweat…sandwich” I mumbled.

I was in mid-stream when a man coughed from inside the stall next to me. I had no idea anyone was in there. I couldn’t believe it.

“Mmm…nnnn…nnnnt,” he groaned, “…nnnnnnnnt.”

“Who takes a dump at subway?” I whispered to myself.

I was taken aback by the man’s struggle. The horrible rumblings were broken up by the man’s heavy breathing. It sounded like Darth Vader was being strangled with a whoopee cushion. My cheeks ballooned in disgust as his waste splashed into the waters below.

“Ahh…uhhhhhhh…yesss,” he mumbled under his breath. I clenched my teeth and winced as he continued to fight the good fight. I was waiting for him to ask who Number Two works for.

The stink became increasingly offensive. It smelled like disease and imminent death. The stench cannot be sufficiently described in words, but the man was clearly not in good health.

Sensing he was on the verge of an anal fissure, I forced out the rest of my pee and headed hastily for the sink. I squeezed out the last drop of soap and rushed to wash my hands.

“Ahh!” I blurted as the man quickly rose from the toilet. I was embarrassed by the outburst and feared the awkwardness of looking him in the eyes.

Blood rushed through my veins as the man’s shoes squeaked loudly on the floor. He started to yank feverishly at the toilet paper. I knew it wasn’t long before he would emerge. I pulled equally fast at the paper towels. Just as he was fidgeting with the stall lock I was able to escape. I leaned against the hallway and let out a sigh.

The relief was short-lived. I feared it was only a matter of time before he got in line behind me. Worse yet, I wondered, perhaps he was an employee?

I began to worry as the young girl was still making sandwiches for the same behemoth from before. I watched suspiciously as she walked out of sight for a moment.

“Hey…I need some help out here,” she shouted.

She wasn’t alone! My heart began racing…my head was spinning.

It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be.

The world seemed to slow down around me. I could hear the squeaking of his shoes getting closer and closer.

“Caaaaaannnn…I…Heeeelp yoooouuuuu?” echoed a deep, slow-motion voice from the distance.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer. I was paralyzed by the thought of his crap-riddled hands fondling my meal.

“Sir!” he repeated while snapping on a pair of rubber gloves, “What can I get you?”

“Um, give me a minute,” I stammered. I reached for my phone and nearly dialed 911. Instead, I acted like I just got an important text message. I didn’t care about the rubber gloves as he used his damn hands to pick them up! Not to mention, I used the last of the soap!

“Oh no! I can’t believe this,” I pretended.

“Is everything okay, sir?” he asked.

“I’ll be right back. I have to make a phone call.”

I hustled out of the restaurant and headed toward my car. While I was pleased to not be eating a poop-tainted sub, I felt bad for the young man who passed me on his way inside. The poor bastard will never know what I know. He’ll never know the horrible truth of every scrumptious bite.

I can only wonder what went through the worker’s minds as they watched me peel out from their parking lot. I hope it was a learning opportunity…to…ya know…not take a massive dump at work.

Road Trip

It’s nice to be back at work this week. I can finally relax after a few days on the road with my family.

It’s much easier when I travel alone. It’s just me and my luggage. Never has my suitcase shouted from the backseat, “Are we there yet?”

Stinkin’ kids…we weren’t even to Canastota.

When it’s just me, I never have to worry about my favorite sports talk show being preempted for Alanis Morrisette, or having my vision obstructed by bare feet wedged against the windshield. I damn sure don’t have to listen to the grunting of my ten year old niece as she satisfies her linebacker appetite.

The only good part about traveling with the family was the acute asphyxiation that followed the children’s flatulent outbursts.

I’m only kidding, that part sucked too.

The four of us set sail for Lake George last Monday, and our first stop was a place just north of town called Natural Stone Bridge & Caves. Initially, my wife and I agreed it was a swell time. But, as more time separates us from the forty five dollars we dropped down, I think we both know it was about as impressive as my brother’s back yard. I could find more natural wonders looking at a Braun family photo from 1986.

As much as I enjoyed watching an elderly gentleman sprain his ankle, the overall experience seemed a bit over-priced. The best part may have been the free picnic facilities (crooked table). The lunch spot provided a good laugh as my son pointed out a weird trash barrel with large wheels, apparently to make it easier to move.

“Look Dad! It’s a garbage can for handicap people!”

After my wife and I argued about the absence of macaroni salad in our picnic basket, we packed up and set sail for our river tubing appointment. I was extremely excited for this part of the trip, but it got off to a rocky start.

Apparently in the Adirondacks, an appointment is defined as such;

Appointment [uh-point-muhnt] – a long period of sitting around with odd-haired foreigners while waiting for your hillbilly tour guide to arrive. While you may enjoy the short-lived bliss of a large breasted water-shoe girl, you’ll mostly spend time wondering why anybody would wear corduroys and a jean jacket to go down a river, or more importantly, why your rented life jacket smells like it was last worn by Sloth Fratelli.

After a long wait, our guide finally showed up and loaded us onto a green bus. We had about a ten mile ride to the river.

I was instantly startled by the driver. She seemed more likely to eat my internal organs than to take me somewhere safely. I was starting to wonder if we’d be floating down the river in garbage bags instead of inflatable tubes.

We proceeded anyhow, and thankfully so.

Turns out the bus-driver was just beaten with the ugly stick. She hadn’t been charged with a violent crime since the mid-eighties, and despite being a tardy Unabomber lookalike, the river guide was outstanding. I was pleasantly surprised as he told jokes and impersonated animal sounds for the kids.

Our one hour float down the crystal clear waters was by far the highlight of my trip.

The next day was spent at Six Flags Great Escape, which is a fitting name, because I feel like they escaped with all our money. I hate to sound like such a party-pooper, but I was disappointed. It’s not that we didn’t have some fun, but we were spoiled with short lines and long hours at King’s Dominion last year.

Besides being burnt to a crisp in torturous long lines, wasting two minutes of my life on the bumper cars, and spending forty bucks on Papa John’s, I had a great time.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said to a ride attendant, “where is the nearest bathroom?”

“Yes.”

After several seconds of awkward staring, I asked again, “Bathroom? Where’s the bathroom?”

“Yes,” he said again.

“shabby-doo, shobba-de-da,” I asked.

“Yes,” he nodded in agreement.

I don’t know what Six Flags has against hiring American college kids for the summer, but thankfully they provide a pretty nice pocket map.

It wasn’t all bad. The day was saved by a few great hours in the water park. The slides gave my wife something to talk about on the ride back to the hotel. She went on and on about her “near-death” experience.

“I can’t believe you weren’t there to help me,” she said.

“Honey, I don’t even think the water went above your nose,” I interrupted.

“No way! I was like…gasping for air. I started to see white lights…” she carried on.

We finished up our trip on Wednesday with a day in the village. We did a little shopping…a little miniature golf.

As the day was winding down we came across Dr. Morbid’s Haunted House.

“Yes! Yes! Please, let’s do it,” begged the kids.

We were only ten feet into the tour before my wife was rushing our shrieking niece out the emergency exit. It wasn’t long before my son began to panic as well.

“Suck it up…don’t be a wuss,” I whispered into his ear, with my hand covering his mouth.

“Mmmm…mmmm…mmmm!” he mumbled through my fingers, pointing wildly at the exit.

As I finally relented and tossed him outside, I wondered what was worse…wasting the twenty-eight bucks, or watching my only son go the way of the cowardly lion.

Fangs

The world can be a scary place. We’re subjected to so much; from violence and war to economic uncertainty and spiders.

Yeah, that’s right… spiders.

I can’t think of anything worse. I’d rather stare down the barrel of a loaded shotgun.

Those creepy crawlers are the spawn of Satan. Have you ever seen the sick rituals they perform on their prey? Seriously, they make dinner time seem more like serial murder than an act of nature.

In what resembles a satanic sacrifice, they hang their victims in a web and watch them slowly suffocate. As if that’s not troubling enough, they return to the remains hours later and wrap the corpse tightly with webs until it has been mummified. Then, under the cover of darkness, the body is dragged to unknown depths where I imagine it’s consumed in a most unholy manner. I can imagine the horror movie now, The Hills Have Eight Eyes.

They are disgusting cretins. My hatred runs deep for them, mostly because they are so terribly ugly. I think mammals have pretty much proven that four legs are more than enough. Anything more just adds to the creep-factor. It’s like having four nipples or six nuts.

You know, I might be able to look past the hideous veneer if they were able to slaughter other annoying insects in large droves, but they seem to average one fly capture per week. That’s not exactly contributing to society.

I don’t know if I’ve just moved into a more advanced stage of arachnophobia, but I feel like I’m overrun with spiders lately. They’re everywhere! They’re dangling from the eves while I paint my house, building fortresses on my front porch, and clinging to my car’s windshield like the psychotic paper boy from Better Off Dead.

Just the other night I awoke suddenly to a tickling sensation on my shoulder. Fearing the worst, I slowly opened my left eye to investigate. I was frozen by the horror…my heart was pounding wildly through my chest as I stared at the creature. He was a quarter-sized monster with a furry core.

Perhaps I was a bit groggy, but I swear he had a patch of blonde hair and two fangs, just like Eric Northman from the HBO's vampire show, True Blood.

I was terrified, but I held my ground. Just like encountering a bear, I figured it was best to avoid any sudden movements. In an apparent show of respect, the spider slowly backed away from me.

“Is it you, Eric?” I mumbled to the demon.

He didn’t answer, which I took to mean only one thing; it was him.

“She is the one you want,” I whispered, motioning my eyes toward my wife as she slept peacefully by my side, "It's Sookie, you must feed now."

“Huh? What?” mumbled my wife in her sleep.

“Shh…go back to sleep,” I muttered in her ear, “It’s all just a dream.”

As the spider climbed onto her arm and traveled toward her neck, I turned away on my side. I couldn’t bear to watch. A tear rolled down my cheek as I felt her legs twitch under the sheets, followed by the painful sound of her hand slapping wildly at her neck.

Quickly, the spider’s belly filled and I was safe. I was finally able to fall asleep.

The next evening I was watching Unnatural History with my family when we were suddenly interrupted.

“Eeeew!” shrieked my wife.

There it was, a large spider carefully making its way down our curtain. It looked similar to the visitor from the night before, but I wasn’t sure it was him until he seemed to point his middle leg at me. He didn’t respect me after all. How could he after what I did last night?

“I got bites all over my neck! I bet it was him! Kill it!” shouted my wife.

I moved toward the window slowly.

“Honey…you know I don’t like spiders.”

“Fine, I’ll do it!” she quipped.

“I got it…I got it,” I assured her, “just give me a minute.”

I emerged from the kitchen with a butter knife and an old shoe. With my wife and son huddling on the other side of the room, I approached the beast slowly. Inch by inch, I moved closer to the target. With my arms extended, I stabbed wildly at the air like I was in a 1980’s knife fight. As the spider quickly scurried out of site, I dropped the silverware and raced away.

After a few moments, I regained my composure and prayed that my wife didn’t notice my ballerina-like leap and flailing wrists.

“That was pathetic,” she steamed.

Her eyes were cold and dark. Her love for me draining from her soul.

From the distance I could see the animal had resurfaced on the baseboard. I was overcome with rage.

“Ahhhhh!” I screamed while charging with the shoe held high.

My first swing barely missed, knocking the enemy onto the floor. He came at me with a final ferocious burst but his advance was stopped short as I pounded the shoe atop his tiny skull. I exhaled slowly after a brief silence.

“Is he dead?” my wife whispered.

“I think so,” I replied.

I slowly lifted the shoe. His motionless body was surrounded by a pool of blood and guts, but I had seen too many horror flicks to be sure of his demise. I felt one of his legs for a pulse. It was official.

He had expired. Time of death 8:22 PM.

"It's over...he's gone."

I outlined the perimeter of his corpse with chalk and blocked off the living room with yellow caution tape. We decided to cover him with a sock until the proper authorities could come and claim his remains.

I felt like a hero as my wife and son rushed in to hug me. I rested my chin on my wife’s head and ran my fingers through her hair.

“It’s over…” I assured her again as my eyes fixed onto another spider on the living room wall, his eight vengeful eyes burning into mine.

“It’s over,” I promised again.

But it wasn’t over. It’s still not over. The war has just begun.

Juiced

As you might have heard, Alex Rodriguez of the New York Yankees has admitted to using banned substances earlier in his career. It was a stunning revelation for some, and to many a career-tarnishing admission.

Personally, I commend Alex for owning up to his misgivings and offering a public apology to the Yankees and his fans.

I will take this opportunity to make an announcement of my own.

It is with tremendous sadness and regret that I announce several of my past columns have been written under the influence of performance enhancers.

I can honestly say, it was something I never even considered until late October. At that time, I was dealing with a painful ear infection and coming off a column about boobs, which I knew would be hard to top.

I fought through the pain, though, and produced a poorly received column, titled “Midgatitis”. After the painful chirping of crickets, I became desperate to prove my worth to the fans.

Like Alex Rodriguez, I’m guilty of many things. I was naïve and negligent.

Part of the problem is that it was a very loosey-goosey time in the writing world. It seemed like all the writers were doing something to gain an edge. One writer encouraged me to inject Diet Coke directly into my aorta. Somebody else recommended that I lick amphibian anal-nectar.
It was clear to me that I needed to press onward for other solutions.

I needed something that would help me generate material, and also help me keep up with the physical rigors of typing. As I researched different performance enhancers, I became a believer in their benefits.

I started off by injecting Human Growth Hormone directly into my hands. I was hoping to add muscle mass and range of motion to my fingers, which I hoped would add explosiveness to my “shift key” reaches.

It seemed to work at first, as the 1200-word “Carnage” column would not have been possible without the additional finger strength.
I was on an emotional high from the results and I got so carried away that my hands became grotesque in size. They were Stay-Puftonian large. I had to use voice recognition software on my last few columns because my sausage fingers were too massive for the keyboard.

I decided to back off the hand treatments, but was still anxious to find a way for more material. I remember hearing in health class about some of the side effects of steroids. I figured “’roid rage” would be the perfect answer to my problems.

I immediately began consuming anabolic steroids. I have to admit, that without the resulting anger, I would not have been able to produce the “Bowling” and “Bananas” columns. Even as a man of marginal character, I wouldn’t dream to kill my child’s Webkinz character in sound mind. Nor would I degrade an entire community of athletes for a cheap couple laughs. The steroids made me do it.

Soon enough, I had another problem on my hands. I was having no trouble generating column ideas, but according to my wife, all of the subject matter was likely to be frowned upon by the reading public. At her urging, I deleted such column titles as, “Beat 'Dat Ass”, “What’chu Looking At”, and “I’ll Cut You”. My wife had bigger bones to pick though, or maybe I should say smaller balls. I regret to say that the age-old warning of steroid use is very true. After just a 4-week cycle on the juice, my man-pride had become infantile.

I didn’t need any more convincing to stop my doping routine. I quickly realized my mistake and my last few columns have been great proof that I can continue to write these columns without the aid of performance enhancers.

I feel terrible for the poor message I have sent to the kids…you know, all those kids who want to grow up to write a content-poor, low-readership column someday…to all those children…or child…I am sorry.

I would like to get this behind me, and to formally apologize to all of my readers. I’m sure half of my readers will never look at me the same, but I hope that the other three can learn to forgive me, and to judge my legacy by my work moving forward.