I hear Big Tex is circlin’ them yaller wagons a his’ns. The Testosterone Apatches mus’ be on the warpath.
Category: Sports
Remember me?
Me neither. I used to be that shaven-legged, devil-may-care, funny man about town. Now I’m a hairy old fat bastard striving mightily to find a way to make money without working. Imagine my disappointment.
First, the good news: I have actually ridden a bicycle every day this week. The bad news? It wasn’t my bicycle. And I rode it very, very slowly.
But enough about me. The Olympics are coming up this weekend, and word is that Saturday’s road race will be The World Vs. Mark Cavendish. Good luck with United Nations v2.0, guys. It makes my hunt for free money look like a sure thing.
I lost interest in the Games when pros became involved, and I can’t recall an Olympic road race that was half as interesting as an industrial-park crit, so I will be paying attention only when someone is paying me.
Frankly, the only Olympic sports that have ever meant a rat’s ass to me are track and field, swimming and gymnastics. Running and swimming may be the purest forms of sport, and gymnastics … that’s just plain fun to watch.
But right now I’d rather do than watch. See that bike up there? I’m going to go ride it somewhere, then come back and write about it. Beer may be involved. It’s as close to not working for money as I’m ever likely to get.
Pigskin? Nope — posole
My sources tell me there’s some class of sporting event going on today. “The Stupor Bowel,” or something like that.
There are no bicycles involved in the Stupor Bowel, which seems designed to paralyze the digestive tract with a one-two punch of grease and salt while clouding the mind with watery industrial lager and subliminal electronic commands to buy things you don’t need and can’t afford.
Some home viewers are said to prefer watching the ads that ostensibly support the “game,” a ritualized re-enactment of World War I trench warfare in which the gas attacks afflict the spectators rather than the combatants.
Here at Chez Dog the TV will remain in its usual mode — we call it “off” — and if the temperature ever rises above freezing I will patrol the neighborhood via bicycle. With all eyes glued to the tube this would be a perfect day for the Chinese to invade. Nobody would even notice until they woke up chained to a table full of iPhone parts, with a biscuit, a cup of tea and an assembly manual written in Mandarin.
Herself, meanwhile, will pull the traditional Sunday shift as a volunteer at the Humane Society of the Pikes Peak Region, where everyone will no doubt have one eye on Animal Planet during Puppy Bowl VIII. There will be pigs on the sidelines, none of them named Newt (I hope).
Afterward we will enjoy a light repast of chicken enchiladas smothered in red chile, posole and pintos with chipotle, supported by a couple of fine craft beers recommended by tech editor Matt Wiebe of Bicycle Retailer and Industry News: Happy Camper IPA and Imperial Java Stout, both from the Santa Fe Brewing Co.
At no point will a cat be used as a football. Not even during halftime.
Glory Road
Oh, bugger. Snowing again. These pissant “storms” that merely grease the trails and glaze the streets are slipping the proverbial tube steak to my carefully cultivated serenity.
Herself certainly picked the right time to hightail it out of Dodge. She and a couple of girlfriends are on the lam from winter this weekend, hiding out in a Palm Springs condo, eating, drinking and watching it not snow, not even a little bitty bit. They just called with the culinary rundown as I was whipping up a spartan meal of tacos, rice and salad. This is like telling a creekside wino all about your latest gourmet feast.
Speaking of things one does not wish to hear about, I understand Tiger Woods finally performed the obligatory mea culpa before the cameras and mics today. What a load of ice-cold horseshit. First off, if you’re gonna cop a plea, get ’er done while the dew is still on the lily. Second, rehab is for wankers. Show Tiger some pussy, then show him his bank balance. Choose one, big guy. Presto, he’s cured. Thanks, I’ll take my fee in cash.
I couldn’t care less about golf, and where Tiger’s putter has been fluttering is even further down the list of things that hold absolutely no interest for me.
“But what about the young people who view Tiger as a role model?” you ask. To which I reply, anyone looking to emulate the morality of the average multimillionaire athlete should also consult swine for advice on table manners.
I’m reminded of a line from Robert A. Heinlein’s “Glory Road,” in which Star tells Oscar: “I have known many heroes and some were such oafs that one would feed them at the back door if their deeds did not claim a place at the table.”
You want to learn how to pop some skinny nerd in the ass with a wet towel, or imprison him in a gym locker, ask a jock. For all other matters, consult a higher authority. Say, a Magic 8-Ball, or even your own conscience.
October surprises
It got good and chilly here last night — when I arose, it was exactly freezing outside. Now it’s 50-something, like me, and like me it took a long time to get there.
Last night I made another Martha Rose Shulman recipe, pasta with walnut sauce and broccoli raab, except I used broccoli florets. I had planned to do her stir-fried pork and greens, but Herself intervened on behalf of broccoli, and while I was surprised at her choice we were both pleased with the results. Plus there were enough leftovers for today’s lunch.
Tonight it’s back to caveman chow — a grilled flatiron steak from Ranch Foods Direct, some spuds and a vegetable to be determined by Herself, who is on a rare grocery-shopping excursion as part of a series of errands. I generally fetch the grub, since I do all the cooking around the DogHaus, but lacking any sort of work ethic I’m easily persuaded to sit on my ass and let someone else do the heavy lifting.
Outside the kitchen, meanwhile, Repuglican asshats and their enablers in the MSM are spastically jacking off over Barack Adolf Hitler Saddam Hussein Pol Pot “Uncle Joe” Stalin Mao Zedong Obama’s failure to bring the 2016 Olympics to Chicago and Steve Benen at Political Animal is predictably snarky.
I don’t know what all the fuss is about, frankly — Colorado voters told the International Olympic Committee to go fuck itself back in 1972, when a Denver group wanted to bring the Winter Olympics here, and we’re still on the map, albeit for all of the wrong reasons (Focus on the Family, Doug Bruce, Doug Lamborn — the list goes on and on). But at least we didn’t piss away 13 times the original estimate to host that frozen clusterfuck, the way California did in 1960.
Why, the Winter Games don’t even include cyclo-cross. That right there’s a deal-breaker as far as I’m concerned.
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