Team Player

In an effort to recapture my youth, I've joined an adult kickball league. The season started last Wednesday and so far, it's been a blast.

There's nothing quite like rolling out your cooler and lawn chairs and sitting under the hazy evening sky while watching grown ass men make fools of themselves.

Glints of athletic glory-days-gone-by shine in these out-of-shape, overgrown boys' eyes. These are the athletic scholarship rejects, but that fact doesn't interfere with their ability to slam powerful line drives like it's their job. Their self worth is wholly dependent on their number of runs scored...

Which is really too bad considering my team is going to CRUSH THEM. Buahahahaha! We've put together the best of the best and actually have a practiced strategy to ensure wins. Plus, we have the best kickball team name ever created.

It's...wait for it..."Rubber Balls and Liquor."

Dirty, but hysterical. And continuing with our theme, our jerseys have personalized drinks emblazoned on them instead of our own boring names. (Hello. My name is: "Hypnotiq".)

Despite the marketing genius behind our team's theme, it was a tad embarrassing to actually order the shirts. When I called a local screen printing shop to place our order, an old man answered the phone and asked in the most pleasant voice possible how he be of assistance (gulp).

"Um, please don't judge me by this, but I need 14 shirts with our 'Rubber Balls and Liquor' logo on the front and individual names on the back. Starting with number double zero, name 'Buttery Nipple'..."

Lawd, do I know how to make my mama proud or what?

Ridin' Dirty

About six weeks ago, I got rear-ended downtown. (I'm shocked that I didn't post some long-winded rant about sassy bitches who can't drive, but nada.)

Basically, she hit me, then threw me an attitude...which I threw right back. I'll see your huffy temper tantrum and raise you one snarky battle of wits.

To make a long story short, while our insurance companies haggle out who's fault it was (hers), my cute little Volkswagen is sitting in the repair shop. Luckily, State Farm is providing me with a rental car at no charge.

Because the rental company was short stocked the day I picked up my car, I had my choice between a tiny station wagon/tennis shoe-looking thing or a regular sedan. I opted for the sedan and chuckled when the man at Enterprise handed me keys to my brand new Chevy Impala...holla! (I definitely asked whether spinners and tinted windows came standard, or were an extra charge.)

It amuses me to no end to cruise around in this absolute boat of a car. It's like a full-size sofa on wheels with a ride so smooth a crater wouldn't rattle gramp's dentures (or Nelly's grill). An added bonus: it has a stereo system to rival the best of them.

And hey! At least it's not a minivan!

Belawha?

This past Sunday was absolutely gorgeous so Stella Mae and I postponed our movie plans to take my dog to the park.

When I picked her up, Stella Mae informed me that she's not allowed to go to the park by her house because people fight there, so we opted for a safer park in my neighborhood.

Little did I know just how much entertainment we were in for...

We pulled into the parking lot just in time to hear a shrill battle cry and witness several dozen adults (in medieval costumes) charging each other. Stella Mae sat agog as swords clashed and men fell to the ground. All I could think was, "Great! She can't go to her park because people fight there and yet here we are, surrounded by men with 'battle axes'".

Surprisingly, Stella Mae wasn't put off. She opened her car door and moved closer to the fray.

We sat together for awhile and watched in utter fascination as armored men took stabs at each other with foam weapons a la 7-year-old boys. In typical 9-year-old fashion, Stella Mae asked me a million questions about the spectacle before us. (The funniest was, "Are they playing Lord of the Rings?!") Unfortunately, I couldn't answer a single one.

So to fulfill both of our curiosities, I went home and did a little research. I discovered that this wasn't just a play club for nerds, but a highly organized National Medieval Combat Society called "Belegarth". The actual name for what they do is "LARP" which stands for Live Action Role Play. Apparently, these people create character personas and interact in a fictional version of the Dark Ages.

In case you ever want to partake, you can learn how to fashion vampire fangs out of denture material here and can buy your perfect LARPing garb here. By the way, according to one website, "LARPing isn't just a game, it's a way of life." (And to find out how much of your life LARPing has consumed, you can take the purity test here.)

After overhearing a middle aged man screech, "INCOMING ARCHER", Stella Mae proclaimed, "I think these people are a little weird...I bet they didn't have many friends when they were in school."

Wow. She probably doesn't know the half of it.

Pooptastic

After glancing out my office window this morning, I couldn't help but notice a filthy red car in our neighbor's parking lot:

Upon closer inspection, I realized that the white spots were not unfortunate paint splatters, but rather a shitload of bird poop. (Pardon the pun.)

Whoever drives this mess either a) lives in the middle of a bird conservatory or b) is a lazy slag who hasn't washed their car since the Reagan administration.

It made me laugh, so I thought I'd share.

Death by Saccharine

Last night, after a marathon spring cleaning session, I collapsed happily on the couch just in time to catch a minute of Grease: You're the One That I Want.

Dear God, this show is absolutely awful. Basically, dippy wannabe actors and actresses are vying for starring roles in the new version of Grease! on Broadway. A good percentage of them are half-witted middle class Americans who quit their day jobs as nannies and mechanics for a shot to be famous.

Despite their plastic smiles and chipper personas, I KNOW their 1982 Datsun's are sadly filled with cigarette butts, Egg McMuffin wrappers and dated high school playbills.

Granted, Grease! in itself is a little cheesy, but this reality show competition is like The Mickey Mouse Club on crack. You don't believe me? Here's a snapshot:

If you can stand anymore, THIS contestant definitely wins the cheese prize:

My only "vote" is that this Austin fellow needs a swift kick to his dangly bits.