September 8, 2009

Back to laboring and/or the Trail of Tears!

Well! I hope you all had a delightful and truly blessed Labor Day; I know I did! As per usual, I saw my share of ups and downs this past weekend. If there's something I've learned in my 20 or so (coherent) years on this Earth, its that things aren't always going to go the way you want all of the time. I mean, for me they do, until this weekend at least.

First off, what was up with those grey skies yesterday? Thanks but no thanks, Greg Fischel. Second, I'm having the hardest time with my son. Perhaps you fellow parents out there can offer some advice. That little bitch absolutely refuses to use cursive in formal correspondence, and let me tell you, it is maddening. No amount of punishment, restriction or kneeling on rice while reciting the rosary (shout out to my own Mother/Roommate) has broken his non-cursive spirit. Thoughts? Don't worry -- if there's one thing I know how to do, its totally break someone down, just to bring them back to a fuller, happier existence. (You're welcome 2nd grade friends.) Finally, while everyone was up in arms about homeboy Obama getting all up in schoolz and propagandizing (IDK if its a word, nor do I care), I found myself equally as heated. No, not over a "stay in school" message to the young minds and future of America, but a far more disturbing occurrence. I wasn't able to fucking mystic all weekend. I know, I know, disgusting, right? Those who know me best know that I like to maintain a becoming shade of burnt orange (more orange than burnt, let's be honest) 365 days out of the year, but apparently, it wasn't in the cards for the last weekend of the 2009 summer. Fuck. I mean, when getting down to it, tanning (after my son and Jesus) is a huge part of my life, and the inability to do so, when I pay top dollar, well it makes it hard function. I will say, If I hit day 4 with no mystic, there will be hell to pay; trust. Believe it or not, I can write a menacing complaint letter.

The weekend's highs? Well, I mean pretty much all of it, even the above wasn't enough to spoil time away from work (literally, I'm never really "at work" even when I am). Oh, real quick (ha); I'd like to take a second and highlight Texas' unsurprising football victory. We all know that I really do appreciate a blowout of any kind, (ir)regardless of the circumstances. Duh.
I'd also like to say hey to all of my Native American readers (of which I hope there are none, I don't think they allow computers in longhouses, or while smoking wampum, right?) and give you all a hearty figurative hug in honor of your boy, and Oklahoma's (former? not for the next month?) quarterback, Sam "Running Wind/Totally Fucked Shoulder" Bradford. Before you bitch, I'm not poking fun! A former athlete myself, I know the anguish (both physically and mentally), one goes through after suffering an injury. Sure, I wasn't a Heisman winner, but we didn't need shit like that in the Apex Parks and Recreation Junior Girl Basketball Age 10-12 League . . . we were there for the love of the game.

I still remember that fateful day, I had laced up my Chuck Taylors (thanks Dad) and had tucked in my red t-shirt (Parks & Recreation policy, of course) and was making my debut as starting center and then . . . after the first play, I, right there, sprained my ankle. Shit, it hurt, inside and out, and needless to say, being the substantial injury that it was, I was out the rest of the season. In summation, my advice to Bradford? Get off the fucking Trail of Tears, Samuel & keep your chin up. You go on, and hang your dream catcher high, son, I'm sure you'll be lacing up those moccasins again in no time. Further, I've never been one one to propagate the ideals of a group of people that don't eat chocolate or engage in pre-marital sex, but, you go BYU! You go on! As a result of Saturday's game, and as a gift, from my people to yours, will never again deface a complimentary copy of the Book of Mormon (nor will I allow anyone I'm with to utilize the pages of your text to roll a Jesus/Joseph Smith-infused joint) the next time I have the pleasure of spending a night at the La Quinta Inn.

Anyway, enough football, I don't even have the time (or care enough) to address any North Carolina teams, but they should have their fucking dream catchers high in the air, too, for that matter. Anyway, I've got a lot to cover with you this week, it promises to be a good time, as usual, duh.

P.S. There is, I know, one person who will despise this post, and to him I'd like to say 3 things: (1) NMF you went to OU; (2) Player please! You know I'm part Cherokee!; (3) ILY; and (4) Solidarity, right?

1 comment:

  1. Cherokee people. Cherokee Pride. So glad you lived. So glad you died.