RTF

After six weeks of starvation, I have lost three pounds.  My pants are still too tight, but now my socks won’t stay up.  Apparently, all three pounds lost were in my kankles.  Sucks to be me…

 

ICE COLD NUGGET

 

It’s once again the time of year when I have more fingers on my hand than degrees on the thermometer.  This year we are blessed with an abundance of snow to accompany the cold weather.  I have repeated my “one day closer to spring” mantra until I’m hoarse, but it does not seem to be helping me weather (pun intended) the winter.

Not helping things is the fact that the neighborhood roads are too icy to safely walk a dog, which means the only exercise Ralphie is getting is when we play in the yard.  As it is only possible to stay outside for about five seconds until turning into a solid block of ice, the result is a wound-up crazy dog in the house–who becomes only more crazed when we go outside to play.  Fact:  even the couch potatoiest dog gets cabin fever after a frozen winter in WV.

Despite his delicate nature, the Nugget loves to play in the snow.  Unless, of course, one of his little doggy toes get too cold.  Then he needs to immediately be picked up and his frozen paw, identified by his holding attached leg in the air as if it were broken (and hanging his head as if his heart also were), be rubbed and soothed until he is miraculously cured in about three seconds and ready to tear around the yard like a mad man again.  Rinse, repeat.

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Also on the topic of icy roads, there was a bit of excitement in the ‘hood this week due to the inclement weather.  One of the neighbors managed to go off flying off the road and land his car half-way over the hill, held in place only by a dead tree.

Fortunately no one was hurt, and the driver left the car overnight and wandered home.  The next day the tow truck man came, looked, laughed, took a photo of the car, and left.  The community Facebook page was atwitter (pun intended) with questions about guard rails to protect us all.  You know, since there is no protection for us against our idiot neighbors who drive like maniacs on icy roads.    But if the weather stays this way for much longer, Darwin will have that problem solved.  Ice don’t play.

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The car has now been hauled away, and I am waiting for the next topic of discussion on the community page.  This is how I have come to occupy my time until it gets warm enough to go outside.  Last year I started writing this stupid blog; this year I read other people’s writing.  Usually it’s about whether or not the schools are open or if the garbage will be picked up, but sometimes people really show their ass.  I love that.  Makes me feel better about myself to see people being bigger assholes on line than I am.  Oh, and I have gone back to work.  Part-time.  More on that later.

I wish I could say I were spending my winter days driving up to Punxsutawney to choke that rat bastard Phil for lying about Spring coming early.  That would be a much more rewarding use of my time, but the roads are too icy for that.  Wonder if that’s where my neighbor was headed when he slid over the hill…

 

 

 

 

 

SOMETIMES SUPERMAN CRIES

So… The Broncos won Super Bowl 50, proving once again that old age and treachery will always overcome youth and skill. Not gonna lie, I would have preferred a blow out so I could have gone to bed at half-time, but in the end it was worth staying up late to see Grandpa Manning win the trophy. Is it the end of his career? Will he come back next year? We’ll get to that in a minute; first, I want to talk about big fat loser Cam Newton.

I will admit I have not seen or read all the information available about his post-game interview. I’m sure I am not the only one on earth who lost a little interest in the game of football after the joy of seeing Tom Brady tossed around like a rag doll by Denver’s defense. And if I need to prove this, I can call on the many people who, when asked, ‘’who do you want to win the Super Bowl?’’ responded, ‘’I don’t care as long as it’s not the Patriots.’’

Anyway, back to Cam. It appears from the headlines that people are displeased with the way he handled himself in the post-game interview. So I decided to take a quick look at it. I’m sure I am wrong and all the sports writers are right, but what I saw was a young man about to burst into tears after losing the biggest game of his life. No disrespect to Jamie Foxx’s grandma, but it’s not easy to ‘’act like you’ve been somewhere’’ when you’ve never been so close to being somewhere so grand and something so big, only to have it snatched away. Then you are asked to stand in front of a billion cameras and talk about your feelings, when all you want to do is bury your head under your Gatorade towel and cry like Dennis Duffy after breaking up with Liz Lemon.

It is hard to be an adult. I sure as hell can’t do it. And if you need proof of how few people can, just take a look at Facebook and the nonsense that goes on between (allegedly) grown-ass adults. Hell, the people in my neighborhood can’t even drive like adults.   But that’s a different story.

My point is this: there are times in life when it is simply too hard for a man to be an adult. This is why men cry at funerals. And Hallmark commercials. But if you cry when you lose the Super Bowl, you’re just a big pussy. See where I’m going with this?

Now let’s talking about Super Bowl winner Peyton Manning! My favorite part: when shown on the sidelines after some seriously bad offense, was he yelling and cursing like a lesser quarterback might be (read: Tom Brady)? No. Every shot of Peyton Manning showed the same relaxed yet pensive expression, regardless of the status of Broncos play–the look of a man in charge, planning his next move and certain of victory, or perhaps just trying to decide what toppings to have on his post-game Papa John’s pizza.

This is the look of a true champion. Confident in the knowledge that you are in control of the game, despite the fact that you just fumbled the ball instead of passing it. Or maybe it is the face of someone who forgot his Metamucil and is constipated; pensive and bound up are kinda similar expressions. Maybe it’s the face of a man who knows this is his last game ever. You know, depending on what his wife tells him to decide. Maybe the face of a man who flew overseas and had rhino DNA injected into his neck and is now half rhinoceros and half robot. Who knows and who the hell cares? He’s Peyton Manning, and it’s good to have a(nother) ring.

RALPHIE LIVES! BLUE RING DIES, more or less

We are back after a long holiday hiatus.  And today we celebrate Ralphie’s favorite toy, Blue Ring.  We all have our favorites. If there is more than one of something—a pen, a vacation spot, a kid–one of them is your favorite. If you say you don’t play favorites, you’re lying.

From the minute it was gifted to him from Aunt Lucy and Uncle Craig, Blue Ring was number one of all Ralphie’s toys in the basket. Not that the toys are ever actually in the basket, as opposed to strung all over the floor, but that’s a different story.

And what’s not to love? Squeaks, rolls, bounces; fits snugly on a snout; heavy enough to travel far when thrown, but not so heavy that it will sink in the snow and be lost; (virtually) indestructible. It is a perfect puppy playmate.

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Any dog on earth walking past our house is offered up an enticement from Ralph to come into the yard and play. He grabs whichever of his millions of toys is closest and tears across the yard waving it like he is in the color guard, seemingly convinced that if he offers up just the right toy, or slaps himself in the head with it hard enough, the passing dog will recognize the fun to be had and immediately rush over to play. Believe it or not, sometimes it actually works.

However, Blue Ring is reserved for the chosen few: friends who have passed whatever test it is that lives inside Ralph’s demented little doggy brain, friends worthy of being offered Blue Ring.

But as often happens with the things we love, Ralphie used Blue Ring so much it tore. It started with a small hole, but it quickly grew until Blue Ring was no longer a ring at all. Once it became three separate pieces, we declared the end of Blue Ring. Fortunately, this coincided with the receipt of a new toy from Lucy and Craig, named Purdi for it’s purple dildo appearance, that is quickly becoming the new favorite.

Although Blue Ring has been ruled deceased by the humans, we have only succeeded in burying (in the trash can) one piece of the three. Ralphie still clings to the other two pieces and plays with them every day, so I don’t have the heart to trash them.  Maybe tomorrow, maybe never.  Nonetheless, the Ring is dead; long live Purdi.

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RIP Blue Ring