I had a date Friday night.
We went to Red Lobster.
Over the Crab Claws I said "Do ya maybe wanna go to a movie after?"and she said "Sure" and as the waitress brought the check I realized that I should have said "Do ya maybe wanna GO DUTCH to a movie" but it was too late at this point to revise my invitation.
So I made sure that she saw the enormous tip I was leaving and the $60 check for dinner, in hopes that maybe when we got to the theater that she might say something like 'Hey, since you got dinner, I'll get my own ticket for the show" but she didn't even blink and now I'm in for another $20 and my only hope is that maybe she will spring for the popcorn, if for no other reason than the fact that I am about to sit down and watch a movie starring Christina Aguilera and Cher, and some guy named Stanley Tucci who I have no idea who he is but my date is more excited about seeing him than Christina or Cher so I know it can't be good. Besides, what kinda of man gets involved in a movie with Cher and Christina? I already know the answer to that and I still have no idea who this guy is.
So we are walking through the lobby and the smell of the popcorn is hitting me and I'm thinking "Maybe she will buy some popcorn and a soda" but she is completely oblivious. So we go in and sit down and its like 15 minutes till the show starts and I can smell the butter I can smell the corn and I'm getting thirsty like cattle at a salt lick and she's going on and on about Stanley Tucci and how great he was in "The Devil Wears Prada" and that's all the evidence I need; now I know everything I need to know about Stanley. Now its like a minute before the show starts and the popcorn smell is driving me mad and I look at her and say:
"Hey what do you think about some popcorn?" and she settles a little further back into her seat and says "Yeah, that'd be nice" and so up I jump and go get popcorn. This chick is really somethin'.
I'm getting shellacked.
The movie wasn't that great unless you really like Christina Aguilera, but she was right about one thing.
That Stanley Tucci, he's amazing.
Monday, November 29, 2010
I had a date Friday night.
Posted by bulletholes at 8:18 AM
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
They say true champions know when to quit and always go out as champions. Well, maybe they don't say that, and maybe it seldom happens, but that is the way it happened for me.
In the 9th Grade I was the smallest, slowest, and worst player on the football team. I didn't know the signals and had not a clue as to where to line up. Underneath my helmet I wore my black glasses, which had to be readjusted after each play.. It was for these distinctions that the coach nicknamed me "The Phantom".
"The Phantom". It was not a compliment.
I played on the "B" team, with other slow and ungifted athletes. We mainly served the purpose of being as cannon fodder for the "A" team during practice. We were "live" blocking and tackling dummies and 100% expendable.
We referred to ourselves as "The Guinea Pig Squad".
But we did get to play in games, against other Guinea Pig Squads from other schools. This story is about my last game.
The coach put me in during the 4th quarter. The lower your skill level, the later in the game you went in. There were two minutes left. I adjusted my glasses and settled into my defensive safety position. The quarterback barked the signals while I prayed they would not run a pass play. This was unlikely, as they were guinea pigs just like me and the odds that they could complete a pass were very low, even if the receiver were to be wide open, which he surely would be if I were to try to cover him.
They did not run a pass play. They ran the ball right up the middle. The back broke through the line, through the 'Backers and was headed straight towards me! I put my head down and moved forward. We collided and went down in a cloud of dust. We got up and went back to our huddles.
Once again the quarterback barked the signals while I prayed, The running back came up the middle, I ran forward into him, and he and I went down in a cloud of dust.
We both got up and ran back to our huddles. I adjusted my glasses and tightened my jock.
It was third down.
Again, they ran the only play they seemed to be capable of running. The back came up the middle, broke through the line, it was just he and I and he was heading straight for me. I lowered my head and braced myself and BAM! we both went down in a cloud of dust!
I jumped up, dusted myself off and began adjusting my glasses. It was then that I noticed that my counterpart DID NOT GET UP!
The crowd went wild!
I ran to the sidelines where the coach was waiting. He grabbed my facemask the way coaches do, and slapped me on the butt with the clipboard, and for the first time all year he called me by my name:
"WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN ALL YEAR, RENFRO!"
And that is how my football career ended. I never played another down.
Posted by bulletholes at 7:26 AM
Friday, November 19, 2010
If I get it in an E-mail, I can almost guarantee its full of crap.
I won't even try to list all the bullshit I've received about Obama. Its nothing short of incredible, and even with my little imagination, I don't know where they come up with it all.
And now I hear the US Mint has been removing the "In God We Trust" and "E Pluribus Unum" from "President Series" Dollar coins, the bigger plan being to eventually phase God out entirely from America's lexicon. In order to show my Patriotism, I should refuse any of these coins.
" Its better to be safe than sorry".
Posted by bulletholes at 10:31 AM
Friday, November 12, 2010
Wimsey: “Dry Martini” Cheer up. All this Remembrance-day business gets on your nerves, don’t it? It’s my belief most of us would only be too pleased to chuck these community hysterics if the beastly newspapers didn’t run it for all it’s worth. However, it won’t do to say so. . . .How are things going for you?
George: “Oh rotten as usual. Tummy all wrong and no money. What’s the damn good of it, Wimsey? A man goes and fights for his country, gets his inside gassed out, and loses his job, and all they give him is the privilege of marching past the Cenotaph once a year and paying four shillings in the pound income-tax.”
This Isn't Happiness
Posted by bulletholes at 9:21 AM