In my Jiu-Jitsu class on Monday night, I was paired up to grapple with this guy.
Mere words are insufficient for conveying the sheer amount of whoop-ass dealt to me. . . and he was holding back.
I am a weak, sad little man.
I've been taken down by the flu. No word yet as to whether it's the bird flu. Whatever it is, it sucks. Back to the couch and bad afternoon television. Hopefully featuring Lucy Pinder. I'd like to see Lucy Pinder naked. Mmmmm, Lucy Pinder.
SATURDAY, FEB. 11, 2006
8:13 a.m.--Beautiful day. Light haze. Should be a good day for a hunt, particularly since the area was seeded with nearly 400 quail. I should be able to hit SOMETHING.
9:20 a.m.--Haven't had much luck yet. Despite having fired 12 rounds, no birds have folded. I'm going to have to get my eyes checked after this I think.
10:02 a.m.--The fellows are having a good laugh at me right now. We scared up a covey of about 30 quail, and everyone folded at least one except for--you guessed it--me. Oh well, there's plenty of time left in the day, and plenty more quail. Like I said, I'm sure I'll shoot something by the end of the day.
11:17 a.m.--That Whittington is going on and on, crooning about his 34th folded quail of the day. Okay, man, jeez, it's impressive, but come on. No luck for me, yet. If I don't get a bird by the end of the morning, I'm calling it quits.
11:57 a.m.--Well, I finally got my bird. A Goddamned crow got in my line of sight just when I pulled the trigger. A crow. A Goddamned crow. The guys are having a good laugh about that one. Now I HAVE to get a quail, just so they forget about that damned crow. I don't think my day could possibly get any worse.
12:30 p.m.--Lunch. One of the guys offered to cook my crow for me. Har-dee-har. Whittington's looking over his pile of dead birds like he's lording over a naked human pyramid or something. Why don't you take a picture, Whittington, it'll last longer. Er, no, scratch that.
1:37 p.m.--Back to the hunt. I swear I folded a quail just now, but we can't find the stupid bird. I know it's around here somewhere, no matter what those mocking assholes are saying. And enough with the "Little Cheney Sure-Shot," line, guys. Honestly, it was barely funny the first time.
2:22 p.m.--Jeebus Christmas. I've fired 120 rounds and only have a Goddamned crow to show for it. Whittington's bagged 62 quail. The man could fire blindfolded and knock a damned bird out of the air. It seems like I'm shooting in every direction EXCEPT at the quail. Just one of those days I guess. Sure is frustrating though.
3:15 p.m.--I can't believe this. Nothing. Not a Goddamned thing (except for that fucking crow). Yeah, I'm saying the F-word now. Might as well. fuck it. At this point, the quail only appear nervous when I'm NOT aiming at them. Whittington's offering to share some of his quail. He's sure being a smarmy little bastard. Big time.
4:31 p.m.--The guys are taunting me mercilessly now. Is it too much to ask to fold one Goddamned quail to shut these guys up? They've got my heart-rate up, and that's never a good thing.
5:20 p.m.--Whittington got ANOTHER ONE. He's a one man Golden Plump slaughterhouse. He's skipping away to get his bird singing "Another one for me/none for the VP." He's hysterical, he is.
5:31 p.m.--I just shot Whittington in the face. More on this later.
6:15 p.m.--I guess he's going to be okay. Thank God for my attendant medical staff. Just for the record, I have to say it was an accident. I know it looks bad in light of everything that transpired today, but it was a genuine accident. The other guys are acting a bit wary around me. God this is embarrassing.
7:12 p.m.--I wonder what the press is going to say about this? Once they understand it was an accident, I'm sure it won't amount to anything.
8:33 p.m.--I just spoke with Whittington. He's groggy from the anesthetic, but he managed a weak, "Ya done shot yahself a lawyer, Veep." He's being a pretty good sport, considering. I can't believe I shot him in the fucking face. It reminds me of that one movie with that Saturday Night Fever actor and a Scripture-quoting black man. . . Pimp Function? Plump Friction? I hate when I can't remember shit like this. Anyway, they shot some guy in the face in the back of a car. That's what this reminds me of. Except with bird shot. And we're older.
9:38 p.m.--Well, there's not much more I can do tonight. Whittington's asleep, and I'm fading fast. What an entirely crappy day this turned out to be. Lights out. Still, I have the oddest feeling that I'm forgetting something though. Meh, can't be that important. PULP FICTION! That's the name of the movie. That must have been what I was forgetting. Now I can get some sleep.
So, the 2006 Winter Olympics are now under way, and Bode Miller's a rebel and Michelle Kwan withdrew from competition and. . . generally Americans don't care much about the Winter Olympics.
I have several theories as to why Americans don't particularly care about the Winter Olympics, but my leading hypothesis is that, come this time of year, Americans are pretty much sick and tired of winter, so being reminded that it is, in fact, winter, is more than a little annoying. Now, if we were talking about the 2006 Tropical Olympics, I'm betting there would be more interest.
More generally, though, I think America, and maybe the world in general, is losing interest in the Olympics as a whole. Oh, sure, it used to be a venue where the greatest athletes on the planet came together to compete for the coveted gold medal, but that interest has been sullied by countless steroid scandals, furor over questionable judging and the fact that people are running out of jokes that make fun of curling and synchronized swimming.
Therefore, in an effort to save the global institution that is the Olympics, I offer up the following solution: rather than seeking out the greatest athletes in the world to compete in the multitude of Olympic events, let's start picking people at random, right off the street, and give them just three weeks to prepare for competition. I figure that, since reality television is such a hit, this idea will bring viewership by the trillions, which means even aliens from the planets Zaxson and Plobos will be tuning in.
Imagine, if you will, a 100-meter dash consisting of a 26-year-old computer-technician, a 47-year-old NASCAR enthusiast, a 14-year-old middle-school student, a 55-year-old college professor and a 35-year-old sanitation worker. I mean, seriously, who WOULDN'T want to see that? I'd tune in just to see who DIDN'T make it across the finish line.
Better yet, imagine downhill skiing with the same cast of competitors listed above, or even better than that. . . bobsledding! The sheer look of undiluted terror on the faces of average everybodies would be worth its weight in Olympic gold.
Of course, any anticipation that may have preceded the previous Olympic model would be replaced by a looming dread that you may be picked, at random, to compete in the next Olympic cycle. You'd be sitting there, three weeks before the Olympics, and you'd receive a letter in the mail, with the tell-tale five Olympic ring logo in the corner. Oh. . . crap.
Hands sweating, you'd open the terrifying piece of correspondence, hoping beyong hope that you've been selected for the long jump, or curling (not so funny any more, is it?), or spring board diving, only to read the letter and see that you have three weeks to prepare for. . .
A marathon! The skeleton! Platform diving! The tri-athlon!
Over the next three weeks, in addition to frantic training, you'd be hounded by an international press determined to learn as much about you as possible before your public embarrassment and/or serious injury/death.
You'd see Olympic articles start off with paragraphs like: "At 5'4" and 230 pounds, 38-year-old Henry Lewis expresses concerns over his chances in the pole vault." Or: "With her fear of heights well established with her friends, family and therapist, 27-year-old Jessica Sanders will face considerable obstacles when it comes to securing a gold medal in the ski jump."
I'm sure you'll agree that, under my new Olympic model, the Games will be thoroughly enjoyed for generations and generations to come.
At least by those who aren't selected to compete.
