Some people talk about how great it is to spend a whole day sleeping. "All I did was sleep, it was so great," and so on. I've never really had one of those before, unless I was deliriously sick or something.
Well I finally had one today, and mother of GOD do i feel awesome. Sure, it's one in the morning and i'm blogging instead of sleeping, but I feel like a hundred dollars. No, like a hundred and thirty dollars.
One time in college when I was at a tournament with the early Space Bastards, we went to JMU for a tournament. This was back in the days when the average college team's skill level and overall athleticism were pretty low; from afar, most college ultimate games back in the early 90's probably looked like a collective seizure, or like a freshly tear-gassed riot or something. As a result we had a decent shot against most of the teams we played against, and at this particular tournament we had come away with more than a few wins.
After the tournament, we headed over to this bar-type restaurant, I forget what it was called. Sparky's or something. The place had been around a while, and it had a lot of autographed celebrity photos and crap on the walls near the hostess stand. Since we had a pretty long wait, I gradually made my way down each and every one of the signatures, mostly from sports celebrities (I don't watch sports, so I had no frigging clue who any of them were), until I spotted it.
On the wall, right at eye level, was a full band shot of Huey Lewis and The News. Huge Vuarnet shades, three-quarter sleeve sports jackets, loafers. Cool, calm, they're walking in a group towards the camera, Reservoir Dogs style, but they're not looking at the camera. No, they're looking to the left and to the right, as though they are expecting some sort of ambush. The photo is the very essence of Huey Lewis & The News. But the highlight, the driving force, the rune that made it special, was the autograph:
"I want a new sub.
Thanks,
Huey Lewis & The News"
I swear to all the many gods of all the religions on Earth that this is true. We were all touched by it, touched in a very special place, like by an angel or something. Better than an angel. "I want a new sub."
My point in writing about all this crap is to drive home the point that Huey Lewis & The News are clutch players. They are always game-ready, swooping in just when you needed them most, like Short Round in Temple of Doom, or Han Solo or something.
I really like to use the handicap stall because of all the room. Unfortunately the toilet is higher than a normal toilet. This puts the human body in the awkward position of having to crap while partially standing up (makes me think - I wonder if I can drop a turd while standing totally upright. What would happen to it? Would it simply smear through my ass crack and slide down my leg or would it maintain a trajectory and miss my legs all together?)
Although debate on the physics of shitting is certainly high on my list of conversation topics what I often wonder is how I would handle a cripple coming to use the supersize stall while I'm in it. I suppose some people don't care and can just walk out, swinging both arms, clicking their heels and snapping their fingers, using all their appendages the way they were meant to work and breeze right past the man in the chair who has now pissed himself because he couldn't get into the special stall.
That's not me. I'd have to fake a disability. But what to fake? If it's winter you can easily hide an arm in your jacket and let the sleave flop noticeably as you emerge from the executive toilet of public restrooms. But you can't always rely on the arm-in-the-shirt gag.
I've decided that when the time comes, and it will, I'm going to limp my sorry ass out of that stall. I'm not talking about a "I hurt my knee" limp. I mean the kind where it looks like your right foot keeps stepping in a 12" deep hole. The kind where you keep your elbows pinned to your sides and your forearms level with the ground, your hands flopping around wildly with each pained step. A body so contorted that I can't even wash my hands. Maybe I'll ask Mr. Chair if he'll help me wipe my ass, just to add to the ruse. Sucker.
This may not be new to many folks out there, but I just saw an old commercial last night from KFC featuring limited-edition collectible Dale Jr. bucket of chicken. It’s the first time the bucket has someone on it besides the good Colonel Harland Sanders.
So, for sure when I get home today, I’ll ride to KFC for a bucket (if still available) and rest assured the chicken – all 20 pieces - will be scattered somewhere in Marshall’s apartment before he gets home.
When I go to the next NASCAR event, I can use the bucket as a helmet – with cut-out eyeholes and lid on– to show my hardcore devotion to the sport and revel in the aroma-sphere of 11 secret herbs and spices from the Original recipe.
