So, there is a lot of talk about 2012 these days. Everyone from the History Channel to the Disney Channel is doing some sort of special on it. According to the doomsayers, everyone in the prophecy business has predicted that the world will end on 2012. Or, potentially, the world will be covered in fudge. I’m a little unclear on the details.
Apparently, even Nostradamus, the most well known of the prophets, has a quatrain about 2012. It reads, in part ‘nous sommes screwed.’ Which in French translates to ‘We’re screwed.’
I don’t put a lot of stock in the whole 2012 thing. Frankly, the world has been predicted to end so many times (anyone remember the ruckus about the Millenium?) that all the enthusiasm I can muster is a ‘meh.’ Though, of course, if the world does end, I’ll be greatly embarrassed. And probably dead, so no big loss there.
NOTE: I actually bought about $800 dollars worth of Peeps before the Millennium, just to ensure that I would have an adequate supply for the apocalyptic wasteland that would follow. Well, it was more like $80 worth. Or $20. It might’ve been $10 in quarters, I don’t really remember.
Honestly, if the world is going to blow up, I would just as soon not know about it. There’s nothing I can do about it anyway, so I’d rather be happily watching cartoons and eating Peeps up until the big moment than worrying about it for years before hand.
Yeah, I’m a man of simple pleasures.
Frankly, if the prophets were so good, why didn’t they predict useful things, like football scores? The world ends, big deal. The Packers win and there’s rioting in Green Bay. Or who’s going to win on American Idol? These are the issues that we really care about.
I mean, would it have killed them to let me know that Kim from Computer class liked me when I was a Junior in High School? I eventually figured it out, but I was about seven-years too late. Yes, I’m not fast on the uptake.
To sum up: World ending. Not very useful. Me getting a date: very, very useful.
Cheers,
-Jason
Showing posts with label football. Show all posts
Showing posts with label football. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Simon Says: Part 1
There was a discussion about professional sports going on the other day at work. Since I’m smack dab in the middle of a cube farm, I pretty much hear everything that goes on around me.
NOTE: Yes, George, I can hear you picking your nose.
NOTE: NOTE: I was going to use ‘Steve,’ but there is an actual Steve that sits by me and I didn’t want to accidently imply that he picks his nose. I mean, I don’t honestly know. He might. However, he is a man of taste and intelligence, so I would imagine that if he did, he would do so privately.
NOTE: NOTE: NOTE: And his wife makes AMAZING scones.
Anyway, apparently there was a baseball game where the home team won by a touchdown in the last frame. Since the visiting team failed to pick up the spare, they had to ‘plink the mushroom’ in order to get the ‘funny bone’ out of the patient in time to shout ‘Uno!’
Yes, I have no idea what I’m talking about (though ‘plinking the mushroom’ sounds like fun). Anyway, the guys were talking about this baseball game and using all sorts of strange and intimidating jargon. I was half-listening, as I’m nosy that way, and realized that professional sports would be more approachable if the rules were simpler.
For example: Baseball, on the surface, is pretty simple. I get that a guy tries to hit the ball and run around the bases. If he makes it all the way, his team scores a point (or run or something). Once you take it beyond that, it gets rather complicated. The 1st baseman has to catch the ball and touch the bag to get the runner out. The second baseman has to tag the runner. The third baseman has to tackle the runner and wrest the Sacred Chalice of Northumbria from him, lest the Dragon of Upper-Cheddar appear and let fly with his macaroni breath.
Or something.
It then occurred to me that what we need are professional sports where the rules can be stated in one sentence.
Such as, oh, Simon Says.
NOTE: Yes, George, I can hear you picking your nose.
NOTE: NOTE: I was going to use ‘Steve,’ but there is an actual Steve that sits by me and I didn’t want to accidently imply that he picks his nose. I mean, I don’t honestly know. He might. However, he is a man of taste and intelligence, so I would imagine that if he did, he would do so privately.
NOTE: NOTE: NOTE: And his wife makes AMAZING scones.
Anyway, apparently there was a baseball game where the home team won by a touchdown in the last frame. Since the visiting team failed to pick up the spare, they had to ‘plink the mushroom’ in order to get the ‘funny bone’ out of the patient in time to shout ‘Uno!’
Yes, I have no idea what I’m talking about (though ‘plinking the mushroom’ sounds like fun). Anyway, the guys were talking about this baseball game and using all sorts of strange and intimidating jargon. I was half-listening, as I’m nosy that way, and realized that professional sports would be more approachable if the rules were simpler.
For example: Baseball, on the surface, is pretty simple. I get that a guy tries to hit the ball and run around the bases. If he makes it all the way, his team scores a point (or run or something). Once you take it beyond that, it gets rather complicated. The 1st baseman has to catch the ball and touch the bag to get the runner out. The second baseman has to tag the runner. The third baseman has to tackle the runner and wrest the Sacred Chalice of Northumbria from him, lest the Dragon of Upper-Cheddar appear and let fly with his macaroni breath.
Or something.
It then occurred to me that what we need are professional sports where the rules can be stated in one sentence.
Such as, oh, Simon Says.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Giants 17, Patriots 14, Zombots 0
Apparently, the Super Bowl happened yesterday. The Giants beat the Patriots, probably due to the advantage their great height gave them and the relatively slow-firing muskets employed by the Patriots.
Yes, I realize they are not actual giants and weapons aren’t allowed on the field (which would make it much more interesting if you ask me). You see, I have no interest in watching sports and know very little about the game.
I have never played football, other than touch or flag. I never really liked touch football as a kid. You see, I had the mobility of an ill sloth, so not only did I never get the ball, I was rarely able to actually tag anyone either. I was basically a semi-mobile obstacle, behind which the quicker kids (everyone else) could hide.
Football consisted of me running very slowly around a field, while the ball was tossed and moved around me. On the few occasions I did get the ball, I was immediately tagged and had to give it up. Oddly enough, this would parallel my dating life in high school.
The idea of football always seemed appealing. After all, for a kid obsessed with knights and dragons, putting on armor and running into things at (relatively for me) high speeds sounded like fun. I just did not get the rules. Apparently, you could not just run into people at will. You had to run into specific people at specific times. I did not get it. I still do not get it. During holidays, I occasionally watch a little football. I have to, seeing as how several members of my family are obsessed with it.
One of my brothers owns every piece of Raiders paraphernalia ever made. For Christmas one year, I considered giving him a human tooth and telling him it belonged to Howie Long. I decided against it, as he would realize there was no way I could afford an actual Howie Long tooth. A Howie Long used sweatsock I could manage (with a home equity loan), but not body parts. I checked.
I can manage about 20-minutes of a football game. I always root for the linemen, regardless of who is on the field. This tends to irk other people, who prefer to root for a particular team. The linemen are my team. They are the big, lumbering guys who chase around the quarterback (ie, the popular kid) and don’t get to date the cheerleaders (ie, the popular girls). Every time a quarterback gets sacked, a burly guy gets a date.
It’s true.
Cheers,
-Jason
Yes, I realize they are not actual giants and weapons aren’t allowed on the field (which would make it much more interesting if you ask me). You see, I have no interest in watching sports and know very little about the game.
I have never played football, other than touch or flag. I never really liked touch football as a kid. You see, I had the mobility of an ill sloth, so not only did I never get the ball, I was rarely able to actually tag anyone either. I was basically a semi-mobile obstacle, behind which the quicker kids (everyone else) could hide.
Football consisted of me running very slowly around a field, while the ball was tossed and moved around me. On the few occasions I did get the ball, I was immediately tagged and had to give it up. Oddly enough, this would parallel my dating life in high school.
The idea of football always seemed appealing. After all, for a kid obsessed with knights and dragons, putting on armor and running into things at (relatively for me) high speeds sounded like fun. I just did not get the rules. Apparently, you could not just run into people at will. You had to run into specific people at specific times. I did not get it. I still do not get it. During holidays, I occasionally watch a little football. I have to, seeing as how several members of my family are obsessed with it.
One of my brothers owns every piece of Raiders paraphernalia ever made. For Christmas one year, I considered giving him a human tooth and telling him it belonged to Howie Long. I decided against it, as he would realize there was no way I could afford an actual Howie Long tooth. A Howie Long used sweatsock I could manage (with a home equity loan), but not body parts. I checked.
I can manage about 20-minutes of a football game. I always root for the linemen, regardless of who is on the field. This tends to irk other people, who prefer to root for a particular team. The linemen are my team. They are the big, lumbering guys who chase around the quarterback (ie, the popular kid) and don’t get to date the cheerleaders (ie, the popular girls). Every time a quarterback gets sacked, a burly guy gets a date.
It’s true.
Cheers,
-Jason
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