Red-ee? If you are watching Olympic Speed Skating, this is the last thing you will hear before a loud beep prompts tiny men and women, wearing skin-suits that would make Luey Lemmings (that’s the name of the yoga pants lady, right?) herself blush and electric-Kool-Aid-colored goggles, to dig their heels into shoes attached to what look like dull butter knives and accelerate on a sheet of ice in a circle, until they either crash into padding or glide across the finish line or both. Oh, and one more thing: the results of each race are not final until the times are cross-referenced with a frame-by-frame photo finish, which means that it’s not altogether uncommon to announce a winner and then a few moments later say, “Oops, we take it back. The other skater won.” So, wuddya think, parents of future Olympians? There are literally hundreds of events that your child could specialize in. Which one will you force them into under threat of No TV And Candy? What’s that? The one that looks like a bad 1970’s science fiction movie starring Michael York and has a seemingly arbitrary scoring system? Oh. You meant Speed skating. For a minute there I thought you were talking about the one where you ski and shoot – it’s actually more like a bad 1970’s spy movie starring Roger Moore – which would be the less bizarre of the two events in question. To each their own, I guess. First things first: start perfecting your creepy robotic “Red-ee?” in the mirror. You’re going to be saying that to your kid, like, every day.
Take your best shot. Trust me, I can handle it. Sure, I may not look like I can, but then again looks can be deceiving. Especially when you are an amateur makeup artist. See, I recently signed up for a senior hockey league, only to discover that there are try-outs. Think about that for a second. Try-outs…for a senior hockey league. Are there going to be scouts in the stands? Will a select few be drafted into a Canadian senior hockey league and spend the rest of their days playing for the glory of the Queen, or whoever it is that rules Canada, but at the cost of never seeing their families again? Granted, I understand the value of making sure your senior hockey league players are actually, you know, hockey players, but is that really a concern? Are people paying hefty sign-up fees to spend two hours of their precious nights and weekends in dirty rinks on the other side of the tracks with strange men who may or may not be stripping down to their undies at some point in the transaction, just, like, on a whim? If so, that is wild. But probably not, right? I must admit, however, that the prospect of going to try-outs makes me feel like I’m in high school again. It’s quite exciting. The only problem is that I was also involved in the whole theater scene around that age, and I’m afraid my wires may cross. “Hey, boys, are you excited for our audition? I’m going to make a slap shot and then do some interpretative skating. Yay! [clapping hands excitedly].” At least the makeup will make me look tough.
I have a fantasy. Don’t worry, it’s nothing inappropriate. Unless you consider a bunch of grown men running around in spandex trying to hug each other “inappropriate.” Isn’t it funny how different things sound when you read them back to yourself, out loud? Especially to all the people within earshot? What I was trying to say is that I have a fantasy football team. You know: an imaginary line-up of professional football players that generates points based on touchdowns, extra points and other stats that make Wife’s eyes glaze over whenever I mutter them nervously while rubbing my lucky rabbit foot every Sunday and Monday from early September to December. Of course, sometimes I get so involved in this silly little hobby that I mistake Cat’s foot for my rabbit foot and I wind up in a body cast. Which is actually more convenient than it sounds, because it gives me an excuse to be perfectly immobile and focus all my attention on the game of the hour. See, I’ve discovered that if I yell loud enough, I can actually will my fantasy players to perform at a higher level, thereby ensuring sweet victory when it comes playoff time. Of course, I have never won in the playoffs, so perhaps I need to rethink my strategy, or lack thereof. Maybe I need to take my fantasy game to the next level: paying off my players. That’s right, I am so dedicated to fantasy football that I am willing to pay my players real money, on the side, to get me maximum fantasy points. I wonder if they’ll accept personal checks. Fifty bucks should do the trick, right?
It’s game time. Or at least I assume it is. I mean, at any given moment in time, there is a football game being played somewhere, right? By people? Big, crazy people? Before I continue, allow me to clarify something for my confused friends across the pond: “football” is a game people play to control their thyroids. “Soccer” is a game people play to stay in shape for Fashion Week. It makes sense, too, cause you use your foot‘s to run after the ball–carrier in football. And you wear socks with certain kinds of shoes, called cleats, in soccer. See the difference? On a related note, I refuse to refer to the game of football as “American football.” That’s like saying “ATM Machine.” It’s redundant, because all football is American. Except Canadian football, which was invented by the French to piss us off. Anyway, since the rising number of football games in this country seems to be directly proportionate to the unemployment rate, I’ve made a very important decision: I am going to quit my fictional job and become a football player! All anyone in the USA talks about anymore is football, football, Kim Kardashian, so why not try to harness that obsession and do it for a living? How hard can it be? Sure, I’d have to learn a few plays, build about seventy pounds of muscle, and have my legs surgically extended, but it would all be worth it! I’d have a great job, make millions of dollars, and – here’s the most important part – be on TV! I guess one downside would be the early on-set cognitive degeneration resulting from massive, repeated blows to the head, but…dude…come on…TV!