Today, the ski trip, chapped lips, the Stupid Bowl. If you’re good. We’ll see.
I just returned from a two day love-hate relationship with the West Virginia mountains. On the one hand, they provide pretty nice slopes for hosers like me who can only ski in the way you think of a ball rolling down a hill. On the other, the roads up to said slopes were apparently designed by a tape worm. I still feel nauseous from the trip back.
Skiing is definitely not my normal oeuvre, especially since that’s not even the right word I’m looking for. Something like…but not quite. It’s not unusual to see me bouncing, spinning, careening, and exploding in an flurry of powder, small rocks, and the occasional body part whilst lift onlookers and small woodland animals laugh in barely constrained squeaks. My attraction to skiing is akin to trying to breathe underwater; at first it seems like a great idea, but then when I get on the mountain, I realize that my abilities don’t match my aspirations.
I content myself with hitting all the little kids who can out-ski me with my poles. I get three points for every one I trip up, two for a stumble, and five points if they fall and then apologize to me. Heh. Silly kids with their manners…
Two days of gravity-induced suicide is quite enough for me. Not only did I get “funned out” (you know, from all the near-death power slides), but my thighs and calves kept hammering “95 Theses” parchments all over the place, trying to enact a kind of Reformation of physical activity.
To compensate for my stupidity, my body went into super hydro preservation mode, whereby all the moisture in and around your mouth is drawn into your bladder, whereupon you pee waterfalls whilst your lips grow cacti and shelter coyotes. My lips aren’t so much chapped as they are barren. We’re talking drought affliction here…
And the joke has officially worn out its welcome.
It’s Super Bowl time again, and once again, I can’t quite bring myself to care. Even the commercial potential has been squandered by last year’s debacle. No, not “Nipplegate”. I’m talking about the quality of advertisements, which ranged from fart jokes to blow jobs–not exactly high class material. And definitely not worth the facial muscles required to force a grin.
So, I may or may not watch, depending on how quickly I get this post up. In all seriousness, I do hold some love for the New England Patriots, mostly based on my lineage. I consider the vast number of relatives I have who live “up there”: they’re clannish and chowder chomping, and may have a few ties to the Rhode Island mafia, but they’re good people, and as such, their team deserves my support.
I guess I’ll medicate my lips with balm and try and catch the game, maybe whilst nursing my sore muscles and a Guinness. If there’s one thing I can be thankful for, it’s that: at least I have a Guinness.