So Many October Jottings, Such Little Time..

I was mingling with some females in the library the other day when I struck up a conversation regarding their penmanship. I was complimentary, marveling that such pristine and crisp words could actually spawn from another person's hand. They shrugged it off, but I grabbed my notebook so we could consider the two handwritings in parallel. They stood by their indifference, one even suggesting that she had decidedly poor handwriting. I argued all girls have absurdly good penmanship and to compare herself to some unattainable caligraphy type level is absurd.

I proclaim this admittedly long winded and unnecessary story to all the land to make this broader point: (Which I shall do in one of those old awesome real men of genius commercial styles, you're welcome world)

Here's to you, every man who ever existed. Your slobbery and overall nonchalance towards manners, etiquette, and really just common decency has set the bar so low for future males that any act of cleanliness or neatness is considered a minor miracle unto itself. You have done this so well, men of old, that even after confronted by my, lets face it, comically and extraordinarily awful attempt at what could even be considered documented English in words with one's own hand, a female thought her concise and reasonable etchings were subpar.

The bar isn't just low, there is no bar. So a drink to you, every man who has ever existed. Thank you for making sure the world doesn't just expect so little from me, but from the fightin' Y chromosomes everywhere.

(No attempt at a transition)

I was watching some of the NATIONAL FOOTBALL LEAGUE (channeling my inner Ron Jawarski) the other day and I saw something that continues to irk me every time it happens, which is more frequently than the amount of times Renee Zellweger has been mistaken for a swamp troll while you've been reading this, but I digress.

It is when the little white 145 lb referee feels obligated to stand in front of the return man after he takes a knee on the kickoff, his arms flailing madly in the air to promote peace. Every human being in the stadium has seen this man kneel, and nobody has or is ever going to tackle him at this time. But he takes in upon himself to go secret service on this dudes ass with more passion and vigor than Sinbad in "First Kid" (Oh no he didn't (other hypothetical sassy person) Oh yes he did!!!) -other aside- Sinbad's finist hour no doubt- go to 4:25 secondish http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e339GJ3Wgd8

Lets get real, 63 year old line judge with high blood pressure and an artificial hip, if one of the specimens currently sprinting toward you were to even accidently graze your shoulder we might have to decide whether or not to pull the plug on your old ass (Must....resist...Terry...Schiavo....joke...too....soon....).

So stop it, just stop it. You throw your little yellow flag, and I'll yell at my TV screen until I see the replay and reluctantly agree that Phil Loadholt did indeed commit yet another holding penalty and that will be the end of it.

If you see this man- play dead, for if you attempt to run past him, there is a 15% he will escort you to your destination like a gentleman, but an 85% chance he will claw at your jersey from an awkward angle then tackle you, rendering you unable to get past him...LOADHOLT!!!!