Trivia question. If I were to ask you what Lamont Sheets swears he invented in the 1960s, would you know the answer?
How about if I asked you what the 1980 Lousiville basketball team made popular? Still don't know?
One last question. Dusty Baker and Glenn Burk (both of Los Angeles Dodgers fame) are often credited for introducing what gesture into Major League Baseball(There is a lot of argument between Lamont Sheets and Baker/Burk over this)?
Did you get it right? If you did, high five! Did you get it wrong? If you did, the answer was the high five. To all three questions. Minds blown.
Clearly, I have a thing for high fives. Some people might say "Uh, hell yeah you have a thing for high fives. You have an article about them on the wall of your office." That's true, it's from "Sports Illustrated" and it's titled "The Methphysical Significance, Staggering Ubiquity, and Sheer Joy of High Fives" written by Chris Ballard.
I have also went to a store where books are free as long as you return them(The sign said "Library") and found actual studies(Now, with science!) that show teams that make more physical contact (i.e. high fives, fist bumps, arm bashes, and hugs) tend to have higher winning percentages. Insane stuff, insane enough for me to write my college psych paper on the topic.
Below is quot I fell in love with but now I'm not sure if it really works great here. It should be noted that this post was first drafted on June 3rd, 2011 so I don't remember my idea for the quote but it's still good. Deal with it haha.
"It shows your brotherhood out there. It's beautiful man, in a way I think it's it's what the game is all about." -- Anonymous quote about high-fives, cuz I can't remember who said it and Google didn't help. I think it was Chauncy Billups though.
Snap back to reality (Oh, there goes gravity, Oh there goes Rabbit...). High five's are everywhere in sports, and life in general. Turn on any Major League Baseball game and watch a guy come into the dugout or out onto the field at the announcing of the lineups, it's a stunning display of elaborate high fives, going under, over, and around, for every guy on the line, there seems to different "handshake" or high five.
The NFL, when players come out onto the field, they run a gauntlet of teammates, both hands out, high fiving everyone on the team before meeting one or two players at the end and going into some crazy "handshake".
The NBA, well, maybe there not really high fives, more like elaborate touching and shimmy-ing all around (Like me on the dance floor, right ladies?). What I'm saying it's all over sport. I meant to say sport, it's a word, it works there. Don't be thinking I made a grammatical error.
Then you can look to the stands at games, strangers high fiving strangers after a goal, touchdown, home run, big play, anything really. The fans are a community, living and dying together with every moment on the field.
Then there's the out-of-sports high fives, which are what I love to do. I'll high five anyone from my ninety-two year old Grandmommy or my little baby cousins when I'm teaching them how to "Gimme five", "Slap skin", or "Take the Five train to Slapsville"....wow. That's what I wrote.
So why do I love high fives? Well, I love the sound (Try this, get your hand a little bit wet and high five someone with a dry hand for a more epic noise, and some pain), but I think the main reason I love them is they are almost an universal sign of "Hey, you're alright in my book." You never high five someone you're mad at do you? No. You high five people who are in your corner, the teammates on the rec softball team, fellow fans of your team, the guy next to you at Mission Control when you land a Mars rover (Like I said, this post has been in the works for a long time), or the guy at the bar who's leaving with the hottest girl in the joint.
And just one last fun random note, I come from a giant Irish-Catholic family, and I have high-fived everyone innit ("Everyone" being those from 2005 onward) except two, and I'm gunning for them hard. Need a nice, natural high five.
So this was a years worth of editing and writing....I hope ya'll liked it haha.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Friday, September 14, 2012
Case of the Mondays...on Friday
Morning world, as many of you know from reading my blog and from knowing me, I work in downtown Washington DC and I, like all humans, occasionally have bad days. This is a quick story about how today started.
I rolled out of bed at the my second alarm and just kinda fumbled around the room grabbing clothes, writing a check, and singing "Jukebox Hero" out loud to myself. Typical morning, right?
So once I'm dressed, I hop in the car and head to work. Seeing how I got to where I park about forty five minutes early, I decided I could take a thirty minute rest and listen to the Junkies on the radio for a bit before starting to walk a few blocks to my building.
This is where the bad case of the Mondays comes in and is also kinda the point of this post, if you thought the point of the post was so that you guys could all picture me fumbling around the bedroom shirtless singing Foreigner songs, I appreciate it, but it's really just a nice little introduction and great way to pointless ramble on and on and on.
Some of you who have been reading my blog for a while remember me retelling the story of my favorite member of the Washington DC Homeless Society, "Tony Romo", if you don't, please read the quoted section from my "Gotta Love the WMATA" post...
I've seen "Tony Romo" around the area before, he's usually sitting around the Navy Memorial behind the Archives building, guarding his cart full of needles (there's no needles in his cart...that I can see), sleeping bags, tin foil, and American flags. There's a story behind those flags and I need to hear it in the worst way, but that's not the point.
So I saw "Tony Romo" sitting on a bench near Constitution Avenue throwing some random tooth-sized things at his feet, attracting pigeons who were eating whatever it was. I looked away thinking that he was just feeding pigeons, people feed pigeons, people usually don't do something crazy and drastic when you look back at them feeding pigeons.
"Tony Romo" did something crazy and drastic.
"Tony Romo" f*cking kicked a pigeon. Like, he pulled his leg back and swung like Adam Vinetari winning a Super Bowl. He drew this pigeon in with malicious intent, I was speechless. All the damn birds could do was scatter all about the place, all I could do is pick my jaw up off the ground and walk by like I didn't just see that happen. I wish I had more words or jokes to sprinkle on top of the ice cream sundae that is the story of pigeon kicking, but I think it sums itself up so damn well I don't want to taint it with more words.
So getting back on topic, I was walking down the block near the "Washington Design Center" blasting Alex Clare's ""Too Close" and just looking around when I see a squirrel that looks really, really, happy. Why was Rocket J. Squirrel so happy?
I rolled out of bed at the my second alarm and just kinda fumbled around the room grabbing clothes, writing a check, and singing "Jukebox Hero" out loud to myself. Typical morning, right?
So once I'm dressed, I hop in the car and head to work. Seeing how I got to where I park about forty five minutes early, I decided I could take a thirty minute rest and listen to the Junkies on the radio for a bit before starting to walk a few blocks to my building.
This is where the bad case of the Mondays comes in and is also kinda the point of this post, if you thought the point of the post was so that you guys could all picture me fumbling around the bedroom shirtless singing Foreigner songs, I appreciate it, but it's really just a nice little introduction and great way to pointless ramble on and on and on.
Some of you who have been reading my blog for a while remember me retelling the story of my favorite member of the Washington DC Homeless Society, "Tony Romo", if you don't, please read the quoted section from my "Gotta Love the WMATA" post...
I've seen "Tony Romo" around the area before, he's usually sitting around the Navy Memorial behind the Archives building, guarding his cart full of needles (there's no needles in his cart...that I can see), sleeping bags, tin foil, and American flags. There's a story behind those flags and I need to hear it in the worst way, but that's not the point.
So I saw "Tony Romo" sitting on a bench near Constitution Avenue throwing some random tooth-sized things at his feet, attracting pigeons who were eating whatever it was. I looked away thinking that he was just feeding pigeons, people feed pigeons, people usually don't do something crazy and drastic when you look back at them feeding pigeons.
"Tony Romo" did something crazy and drastic.
"Tony Romo" f*cking kicked a pigeon. Like, he pulled his leg back and swung like Adam Vinetari winning a Super Bowl. He drew this pigeon in with malicious intent, I was speechless. All the damn birds could do was scatter all about the place, all I could do is pick my jaw up off the ground and walk by like I didn't just see that happen. I wish I had more words or jokes to sprinkle on top of the ice cream sundae that is the story of pigeon kicking, but I think it sums itself up so damn well I don't want to taint it with more words.
 |
| Rocket J. Squirrel, aka "Rocky" |
Now, I was just grumpy this morning, I was tired and hungover-ish (Well, I was just straight hungover I think), and I just decided I didn't want any squirrels to be happy on this day.
So I kept walking, cursing squirrels under my breath, when I notice something. A pile of peanuts next to a tree that had clearly been placed there by someone who doesn't hate squirrels on Fridays.
So I took them. I took peanuts from those four legged versions of seagulls. Am I proud? Not really. Did it feel good? Little bit. I just threw the peanuts in the garbage and listened to the squirrels weep, or something. I dunno, when I threw them away the bass dropped on the song and I couldn't hear them. Am I a bad person?
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
These Are "Top Tens"...Until I come up with a better title...
"So my good friend SamWow (@therealSamWow and at this site) and I (@tiwytk and at this site) had a brilliant, booze fueled idea this past weekend. It started with a comment about people who have dry weddings hating all their friends and quickly evolved into a 10 things you need to know to have a good wedding. We hope to have quite a few of these 10 things posts so hopefully you'll enjoy reading them as much as we enjoyed writing them. If you don't then take a few moments to pretend I'm deeply hurt by your lack of approval and then continue on with your day. Love ya, mean it. Really, we do.
1. Don't have a dry wedding. Chances are you're friends won't like you very much because lets be real, people don't really want to think about how happy other people are while sober.
2. Don't plan your wedding on the same day as a major sporting event. It's just rude. (Note: the only two days of the year in which there are no professional sports games (MLB, NBA, NHL, OR NFL) are the days before and the day after the Major League All star Game.)
3. Make sure there's hotties invited for your single friends. Just because you're getting married doesn't mean you're both done being a good wingman/wing woman.
4. Dance floor. Everyone should see G-Swizzle and SamWow do the "Shamlbin".
5. No reception line. I've always found this to be awkward. You're not a celebrity and you're family members probably aren't either. So lets just skip this and move on to the food and drinks!
6. Don't invite exes (Ted and Stella wedding episode anyone?). If you're that committed to making your ex to see how much better off you are without them, maybe you shouldn't be getting married. We're looking at you, Eileen.
7. Food. Have lots of it. Simple as that. And make sure there's finger food so people don't starve while waiting for the main courses, that communion wafer at mass doesn't fill anyone up.
8. For the brides, spare us the bridezilla behavior. Contrary to pop cultures misguiding TV shows, planning a wedding does not suddenly give you the right to crap on the people around you whenever you have a mood.
9. For the grooms, pick your battles during the planning. That's all I'm gonna say.
10. You know that frat brother/sorority sister that always got really drunk in college and was a huge sloppy mess that you think will be a good time? Just don't. I gaurantee they won't be as much fun as you remember."
8. For the brides, spare us the bridezilla behavior. Contrary to pop cultures misguiding TV shows, planning a wedding does not suddenly give you the right to crap on the people around you whenever you have a mood.
9. For the grooms, pick your battles during the planning. That's all I'm gonna say.
10. You know that frat brother/sorority sister that always got really drunk in college and was a huge sloppy mess that you think will be a good time? Just don't. I gaurantee they won't be as much fun as you remember."
Eleven Years Later
Everyone remembers where they were on September 11th, 2011. It's probably safer to say everyone remembers the fear, anger, confusion, and that crushing feeling of helplessness that came with the events of that dark day. The dead silent skies over most of the country, except in Washington and New York, where and shocked silence was shattered by the sounds of sirens and fighter jets roaring through the skies were the norm for a day or two.
As for me, I was sitting in Miss Parson's science class, right next to the turtles. We were kids, totally oblivious at the time that the Towers were hit, that the plane went down in Pennsylvania, and only 25 miles away the Pentagon was hit and a we just kept going through the motions.
All of the sudden though, Dr. Love, or principal, came over the PA system and started rattling off names of students to report to the main office. A ton of kids got called out for early dismissal by parents who saw the news, leaving those of us left in classes to wonder what the hell was going on outside the walls of school. The teachers knew, but for whatever reason (Probably to keep the level of sanity at a normal level) we weren't told, we all found out from Mom or Dad driving the carpools home.
Now, like I said, most of us remember how we felt watching and hearing what was going on. I was confused and scared but beyond that I just felt like it wasn't happening. I'm sure people will tell you they instantly felt angry, but it was like taking a punch to the face from Joe Louis; you're stunned, you're not ready to throw your hands up, hell, maybe it knocked you to the mat for a few seconds, but you were gonna get up, eventually seeing the footage of the rubble of three buildings and the plane down in the field in Pennsylvania would pull you off that mat and into the ring again.
Then, as the referee started calling numbers, American pride and the human condition rose out of the rubble of three buildings and a field in Pennsylvania, and stepped up into the fight. First responders flocked to New York and Washington, American flags flew in every neighborhood, the military started chomping at the bit, and for once, everyone across the United States, black or white, Democrat or Republican, KFC or Popeyes, picked each other up, dusted each other off, and said "How can I help?"
Now fast forward five years, I was watching a "first account" documentary from New York and that's when the magnitude of 9/11 hit me. Seeing everything all the footage that had been put in front of us on a seemingly endless loop with the addition of survivors accounts and stories from the families of survivors had me (A) crying like a baby and (B) it made cry like a baby.
After probably three hours of watching, I realized I was leaning off the couch (Which was literally right next to the TV set) glued to the TV, emotionally drained, and just shocked at all I had seen and heard from the documentary. It's amazing stuff to see these people who lost parents, lovers, friends,
So why am I writing this? Because I still think about that day and those events a lot. Working in Washington DC clearly brings it up from time to time, the first time I was in New York City reminded me of that day, and naturally watching "United 93" made me think of it. I'm writing about it because, well, because it's been on my chest and on my mind for a while. It is one event I will truly never forget, along with Osama Bin Laden being killed, the Beltway Sniper, a few major breakups (one comes to mind), and (as sad as it sounds in comparison) the Rangers/Caps playoff game where Federov scored the OT game winner.
Also, if you haven't seen "United 93", go out and see it as soon as possible. Also watch "Rescue Me" (It was on FX for like seven years), which tackles the issues of the NYFD/NYPD post 9/11, and all the seasons are on Netflix. And if you're a fan of the blues, check out this song by John Hiatt.
Epilogue
I've made a lot of fun of the WMATA on here (For good reason) but riding it every day lets you meet a lot of different people with different stories on the world.
Today, I was speaking to a friend of mine, Jason, who works on Capitol Hill and he was telling me that they were on the second floor of the Capitol Building and watched the plume of smoke rise from the Pentagon. He got pretty much everyone listening a little misty eyed and choked up, if by everyone we mean me. The most lasting image for me is what he told me he saw when he left the building; women's shoes scattered all around The Hill from women who decided to run and couldn't do it in heels.
Then the gentleman sitting in front of us turned towards us and chimed in with his story, and a new perspective, at least to me. This gentleman is blind and worked with the Parks Service as a guide (Irony not lost on anyone) and talked about what is was like to hear people bustling around the National Mall and then chaos broke out.
Sadly, Jason and I reached our stop before he could finish his story but for the three blocks we walk together, we talked about it nonstop. Picture that, being there in middle of the darkest day in American history, and not seeing a thing.
Never forget.
As for me, I was sitting in Miss Parson's science class, right next to the turtles. We were kids, totally oblivious at the time that the Towers were hit, that the plane went down in Pennsylvania, and only 25 miles away the Pentagon was hit and a we just kept going through the motions.
All of the sudden though, Dr. Love, or principal, came over the PA system and started rattling off names of students to report to the main office. A ton of kids got called out for early dismissal by parents who saw the news, leaving those of us left in classes to wonder what the hell was going on outside the walls of school. The teachers knew, but for whatever reason (Probably to keep the level of sanity at a normal level) we weren't told, we all found out from Mom or Dad driving the carpools home.
Now, like I said, most of us remember how we felt watching and hearing what was going on. I was confused and scared but beyond that I just felt like it wasn't happening. I'm sure people will tell you they instantly felt angry, but it was like taking a punch to the face from Joe Louis; you're stunned, you're not ready to throw your hands up, hell, maybe it knocked you to the mat for a few seconds, but you were gonna get up, eventually seeing the footage of the rubble of three buildings and the plane down in the field in Pennsylvania would pull you off that mat and into the ring again.
Then, as the referee started calling numbers, American pride and the human condition rose out of the rubble of three buildings and a field in Pennsylvania, and stepped up into the fight. First responders flocked to New York and Washington, American flags flew in every neighborhood, the military started chomping at the bit, and for once, everyone across the United States, black or white, Democrat or Republican, KFC or Popeyes, picked each other up, dusted each other off, and said "How can I help?"
Now fast forward five years, I was watching a "first account" documentary from New York and that's when the magnitude of 9/11 hit me. Seeing everything all the footage that had been put in front of us on a seemingly endless loop with the addition of survivors accounts and stories from the families of survivors had me (A) crying like a baby and (B) it made cry like a baby.
After probably three hours of watching, I realized I was leaning off the couch (Which was literally right next to the TV set) glued to the TV, emotionally drained, and just shocked at all I had seen and heard from the documentary. It's amazing stuff to see these people who lost parents, lovers, friends,
So why am I writing this? Because I still think about that day and those events a lot. Working in Washington DC clearly brings it up from time to time, the first time I was in New York City reminded me of that day, and naturally watching "United 93" made me think of it. I'm writing about it because, well, because it's been on my chest and on my mind for a while. It is one event I will truly never forget, along with Osama Bin Laden being killed, the Beltway Sniper, a few major breakups (one comes to mind), and (as sad as it sounds in comparison) the Rangers/Caps playoff game where Federov scored the OT game winner.
Also, if you haven't seen "United 93", go out and see it as soon as possible. Also watch "Rescue Me" (It was on FX for like seven years), which tackles the issues of the NYFD/NYPD post 9/11, and all the seasons are on Netflix. And if you're a fan of the blues, check out this song by John Hiatt.
Epilogue
I've made a lot of fun of the WMATA on here (For good reason) but riding it every day lets you meet a lot of different people with different stories on the world.
Today, I was speaking to a friend of mine, Jason, who works on Capitol Hill and he was telling me that they were on the second floor of the Capitol Building and watched the plume of smoke rise from the Pentagon. He got pretty much everyone listening a little misty eyed and choked up, if by everyone we mean me. The most lasting image for me is what he told me he saw when he left the building; women's shoes scattered all around The Hill from women who decided to run and couldn't do it in heels.
Then the gentleman sitting in front of us turned towards us and chimed in with his story, and a new perspective, at least to me. This gentleman is blind and worked with the Parks Service as a guide (Irony not lost on anyone) and talked about what is was like to hear people bustling around the National Mall and then chaos broke out.
Sadly, Jason and I reached our stop before he could finish his story but for the three blocks we walk together, we talked about it nonstop. Picture that, being there in middle of the darkest day in American history, and not seeing a thing.
Never forget.
Monday, September 10, 2012
Pause for a Good Cause
Here's the link to Swim Across America, a organization that organizes various swimming-related events to raise money and awareness for cancer research. The link below is to my grade school classmates donation site so get out there and support her and her team, and help find a cure for cancer!
Click here to support Kate's team!
Thursday, September 6, 2012
I'm a Mistake. Well, in a Certain Way
Some of you will have heard this story from me before, but it's still worth telling and it's a fun story, at least I think it is.
This last Friday, I was at the "Summer Dress Party" at the Clarendon Ballroom in NoVa. I went cuz I A) love parties, B) I was invited by a friend, and C) the party was hosted by my dream employers, also known as 106.7 The Fan. Wait, there's a "D)" reason as well, I love sundresses. If I remember correctly, I even wrote a blog post about how much I love sundresses, well, not the clothing item, it's more how a girl looks in it, so freaking amazing.
Moving on. Sometimes when I write that I picture myself as Gene Wilder leaving that girl who got all blueberry in "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory". In case you're wondering, I also want to be Gene Wilder in every movie he was in with Richard Pryor.
So anyways...I'm walking around with my friend, talking, drinking (quite a bit), and overall being my goofy little self when I'm introduced to a guy so let's call him "Hipster" (As soon as I saw him I decided his name would not be worth remembering). Now, I doubt "Hipster" was a fan of the station, he probably just wandered in with his super tight jeans, comically (in the bad way) large glasses, and just his air of "feel bad for me cuz my parents have my trust fund and timeshares locked up till I'm 27 and I can't get into whatever liberal arts college is popular right now to hackey sack, play guitar shirtless, and prevent the clubbing of minority baby seals with down syndrome that are below the poverty line". After I introduced myself to him, he looked me dead in the face and asked "Sam. What brought your parents to name you that? It's kind of unique."
First off, it's not really that unique. Dogs are named Sam. So are people, roughly 32% of people according to my totally made up research. Second off, what the hell type of question is that? Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but here's my number, why'd your parents name you that, baby?
So I told him "I'm named after a dog my Dad really liked." and kinda walked away. I also could have said "I lied to him about it cuz I don't know why I'm named Sam really." It's a good thing I walked away, cuz his next question was probably going to ask if I had the vinyl copy of "Plastic Crying Brontosaurus in a Corporate World" or if Britt's shoes were USDA Organic...
For the record I totally made that up, but if anyone wants for their band name it we can talk price.
So later on, I'm retelling the story when it hits me, there's another story behind my name. I wasn't supposed to be Sam. Let's tell that story now. This is also the main reason for this post.
A few years back, my Pop revealed to me that when I was born, he wanted to name me "Tug", but my Mom said no.
That's really the whole story. I was gonna be named Tug, they named me Sam. And when they told me, I began to face a lifetime of disappointment.
Picture all the great things I could accomplish as a guy named Tug. Major League Baseball player, NFL linebacker or fullback, truck driver, radio host, bartender, tugboat driver, garbage man, professional shot putter, back woods golfer, auto mechanic, porn star, largely unknown bass player in a band, or eight fingered high school wood shop teacher. Endless possibilities for Tug Carroll.
Just close your eyes and think about it (Like I have thousands of times), "Now stepping up to the plate, 6'1", 240 pound Tug Carroll, batting 0.732 this season with 43 taters, 142 ribbies, and a staggering OBP. A walking, talking Hall of Famer."
Or this, "Barreling down field, shedding defenders like rain on a windshield (...?) on his march towards the end zone, Tug Carroll's aggressive running style stabs fear into the hearts of defensive coordinators and players alike." And then the glamour kind of leaves the name outside of those two prefessions.
Tug Carroll. Awesome, I'm irrationally mad at you about this one, Ma.
This last Friday, I was at the "Summer Dress Party" at the Clarendon Ballroom in NoVa. I went cuz I A) love parties, B) I was invited by a friend, and C) the party was hosted by my dream employers, also known as 106.7 The Fan. Wait, there's a "D)" reason as well, I love sundresses. If I remember correctly, I even wrote a blog post about how much I love sundresses, well, not the clothing item, it's more how a girl looks in it, so freaking amazing.
Moving on. Sometimes when I write that I picture myself as Gene Wilder leaving that girl who got all blueberry in "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory". In case you're wondering, I also want to be Gene Wilder in every movie he was in with Richard Pryor.
So anyways...I'm walking around with my friend, talking, drinking (quite a bit), and overall being my goofy little self when I'm introduced to a guy so let's call him "Hipster" (As soon as I saw him I decided his name would not be worth remembering). Now, I doubt "Hipster" was a fan of the station, he probably just wandered in with his super tight jeans, comically (in the bad way) large glasses, and just his air of "feel bad for me cuz my parents have my trust fund and timeshares locked up till I'm 27 and I can't get into whatever liberal arts college is popular right now to hackey sack, play guitar shirtless, and prevent the clubbing of minority baby seals with down syndrome that are below the poverty line". After I introduced myself to him, he looked me dead in the face and asked "Sam. What brought your parents to name you that? It's kind of unique."
First off, it's not really that unique. Dogs are named Sam. So are people, roughly 32% of people according to my totally made up research. Second off, what the hell type of question is that? Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but here's my number, why'd your parents name you that, baby?
So I told him "I'm named after a dog my Dad really liked." and kinda walked away. I also could have said "I lied to him about it cuz I don't know why I'm named Sam really." It's a good thing I walked away, cuz his next question was probably going to ask if I had the vinyl copy of "Plastic Crying Brontosaurus in a Corporate World" or if Britt's shoes were USDA Organic...
For the record I totally made that up, but if anyone wants for their band name it we can talk price.
So later on, I'm retelling the story when it hits me, there's another story behind my name. I wasn't supposed to be Sam. Let's tell that story now. This is also the main reason for this post.
A few years back, my Pop revealed to me that when I was born, he wanted to name me "Tug", but my Mom said no.
That's really the whole story. I was gonna be named Tug, they named me Sam. And when they told me, I began to face a lifetime of disappointment.
Picture all the great things I could accomplish as a guy named Tug. Major League Baseball player, NFL linebacker or fullback, truck driver, radio host, bartender, tugboat driver, garbage man, professional shot putter, back woods golfer, auto mechanic, porn star, largely unknown bass player in a band, or eight fingered high school wood shop teacher. Endless possibilities for Tug Carroll.
Just close your eyes and think about it (Like I have thousands of times), "Now stepping up to the plate, 6'1", 240 pound Tug Carroll, batting 0.732 this season with 43 taters, 142 ribbies, and a staggering OBP. A walking, talking Hall of Famer."
Or this, "Barreling down field, shedding defenders like rain on a windshield (...?) on his march towards the end zone, Tug Carroll's aggressive running style stabs fear into the hearts of defensive coordinators and players alike." And then the glamour kind of leaves the name outside of those two prefessions.
Tug Carroll. Awesome, I'm irrationally mad at you about this one, Ma.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Fantasies, and my Wife.
So this is going to be the start of a "exciting" and "funny" new series of posts I'm going to be writing called "Letters for my Wife" in which, I will be writing letters to my wife explaining, well, me. This can't bite me in the ass down the road.
Also, I'll try not to forget that I want to make this a series so you all won't be all like "It's been six years since you wrote a letter to your wife". I'll just start --
It's the end of August, schools are reopening, beaches are emptying, and for some terrible reason skirt/sundress season is ending, but there is some good news!
Fall is right around the corner! Leaves changing, the kids are going back to school, the temperature is going down, Oktoberfest beers are coming out out, and football is right around the corner.
But that's not why I'm writing this to you, let's take a ride on the "way back machine".
Do you remember when we met two years ago? The first time you came over and noticed the scent of "strong mahogany and cheap plastic painted gold" in my bed? And how you thought is was cute that all my friends and I used to watch football games together every Sunday? And when our first son was born, we named him Steven Jackson because you thought when I yelled "God damnit! It's Steven Jackson or nothing!"?
Well, it's time I come clean. I'm addicted to fantasy football and I have been for years. The smell in my bed was the 1615 League Championship Trophy, also known as "The Blerta". After I won Her, she slept next to me in my bed each night. Were there mornings where I woke up with cuts and bruises from sleeping with a four foot tall trophy? Yes, that's bound to happen when you're intimate with a trophy, but they were worth it one hundred percent of the time.
And as far as all my friends coming over to watch games, they're all in the League as well. We spend the week coming up with new ways to insult each other and put each other down and on Sunday we get together to enjoy each others agony and keep each others jubilation in check. Cuz we love each other dearly.
Oh, and you might want me to go back to the naming of our son thing. I was on the phone at the time with my buddy Anthony, and we were debating a trade. He was trying to trade rape me by giving me the Redskins defense, Vernon Davis, and some Cubans for Calvin "Megatron" Johnson. I told him that if he swapped the Redskins defense out of the trade for Steven Jackson, we'd have a deal. He was trying to stiff me and was all like "I won't budge blah, blah, emotions." We were in the middle of that conversation when Steven was being born...you probably look really mad at me right now, but just remember -- it's Anthony's fault. We can make him move out.
It feels really good to get this off my chest, Anne. It was something I had buried deep down inside, and now it's something I feel as though we can share.
I just have two last things to say, first is I love you, second is would you start Matt Forte against the Pack or Michael Turner against the Panthers?
Love, SamWow
--The Voice of Awesome"
Also, I'll try not to forget that I want to make this a series so you all won't be all like "It's been six years since you wrote a letter to your wife". I'll just start --
"My Dearest Anne,
It's the end of August, schools are reopening, beaches are emptying, and for some terrible reason skirt/sundress season is ending, but there is some good news!
Fall is right around the corner! Leaves changing, the kids are going back to school, the temperature is going down, Oktoberfest beers are coming out out, and football is right around the corner.
But that's not why I'm writing this to you, let's take a ride on the "way back machine".
Do you remember when we met two years ago? The first time you came over and noticed the scent of "strong mahogany and cheap plastic painted gold" in my bed? And how you thought is was cute that all my friends and I used to watch football games together every Sunday? And when our first son was born, we named him Steven Jackson because you thought when I yelled "God damnit! It's Steven Jackson or nothing!"?
Well, it's time I come clean. I'm addicted to fantasy football and I have been for years. The smell in my bed was the 1615 League Championship Trophy, also known as "The Blerta". After I won Her, she slept next to me in my bed each night. Were there mornings where I woke up with cuts and bruises from sleeping with a four foot tall trophy? Yes, that's bound to happen when you're intimate with a trophy, but they were worth it one hundred percent of the time.
And as far as all my friends coming over to watch games, they're all in the League as well. We spend the week coming up with new ways to insult each other and put each other down and on Sunday we get together to enjoy each others agony and keep each others jubilation in check. Cuz we love each other dearly.
Oh, and you might want me to go back to the naming of our son thing. I was on the phone at the time with my buddy Anthony, and we were debating a trade. He was trying to trade rape me by giving me the Redskins defense, Vernon Davis, and some Cubans for Calvin "Megatron" Johnson. I told him that if he swapped the Redskins defense out of the trade for Steven Jackson, we'd have a deal. He was trying to stiff me and was all like "I won't budge blah, blah, emotions." We were in the middle of that conversation when Steven was being born...you probably look really mad at me right now, but just remember -- it's Anthony's fault. We can make him move out.
It feels really good to get this off my chest, Anne. It was something I had buried deep down inside, and now it's something I feel as though we can share.
I just have two last things to say, first is I love you, second is would you start Matt Forte against the Pack or Michael Turner against the Panthers?
Love, SamWow
--The Voice of Awesome"
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