There’s nothing like playing adult softball on a Little League field to make you feel like a big man.
I did that very thing earlier tonight. And as I watched one of my hits sail majestically into the gloom and over the same three-foot-tall wall that eleven-year-old girls routinely clear, I felt like a god. Some invincible titan dropped to earth to crush the wills of slowly-pitched softballs and any mere humans who dared stand in my way. It was intoxicating.
“And as I watched one of my hits sail majestically into the gloom and over the same three-foot-tall wall that eleven-year-old girls routinely clear, I felt like a god.”
(And not just ‘swilling beer during softball’ intoxicating. Nor ‘downing beer before softball’ intoxicating, nor ‘pounding beer after softball’ intoxicating. This was new. Powerful. Less bloated and slurry. In a word: different.)
I resolved to recapture this new feeling as often as possible. So I’m making a few changes around the home and office from now on. Here are just a few:
I’m done drinking beer from bottles, cans or glasses. Normal-people glasses, anyway. From now on, I’ll sip my lagers from shot glasses — like a gargantuan. While everyone else at the bar is holding a pint with their tiny little teacup hands, I’ll be pawing a cold frosty one with my pair of enormous hairy meathooks. And I’ll lord it over the lightweights with my liquor capacity, too:
“Dude — I just had eight glasses of beer while you’ve been sipping the one. Either chug the thing or put a nipple on it, already.”
Also, hard liquor is to come out of airplane bottles only. Downed in one gulp, bottoms up, no hands. That way, I can make my mouth seem bigger, too.
(Yes, I know what I just said. No, you shut up.)
Buying Pants Three Sizes Too Small
I’m halfway there already, apparently. But by going the extra-shrinky mile, I could wind up with jeans that I literally bust out of, Hulk-style.
Of course, the Hulk generally rips his pants around the thighs, and other muscle-y areas. Mine are more likely to give out somewhere in the ass vicinity. Or be the victims of a devastating muffintop shockwave of some kind.
Still — busting out is busting out. This is all about scaring the neighbors and small children, after all. I’m an angry GIANT! RAWR!
Also, please to be ignoring my Valentine heart boxer underpants. They tend to sully the illusion I’m going for here.
Keyboard of the Titans
Also, I’m switching over from using my regular keyboard on the computer to using the comparatively teeny one on my phone. I’ll hook it in wherever I’m typing — sitting in a miniaturized desk chair, if at all possible — and feel like Gulliver pounding out trashy Lilliputian romance novels.
(Because he had a thing for that. Nobody talks about it. But we all know.)
As a matter of fact, I’m switching over right now.
BE3HOLD YUR NEW MaSTRE & WEEEP,. PINY mORTALLS!!!1!
Okay, scratch that one. I’ll sort it out later. You piny mortalls get a reprieve. For now.
Pimp My Crib
Right now, the missus and I share a queen-sized bed. It’s huge; we can practically play Marco Polo in that thing, and never run into each other.
(That’s her excuse, anyway. Zowie!)
But if I slept in something much smaller — like a baby crib, for instance — then I’d feel like a king among men. A man among boys. A boy among insects. And an insect among… well, whatever it is insects feel smugly superior in comparison to, I guess. Slime mold? Bacteria? Matt Dean? You get the idea.
Of course, this is another area in which I’ve had some experience. I lasted maybe a week in a bed six inches too short for me. Two hours locked into the fetal position in a baby cage, and I’d probably be crying for my mommy. Or a Holiday Inn.
Hrm. These ideas seem to be getting worse all the time. You’d think an omnipotent hulking colossus could do better. And yet.
Hang Around Gaggles of Small Children
If I’m standing next to a bunch of four-year-olds — at a preschool recess, say — then I’ll look huge in comparison. That’s a big plus.
On the other hand, there’ll be gaggles of small children about. So I’ll be exposed to several thousand strains of snot-inducing diseases, and have to endure a constant barrage of inane kiddie banter, like:
“Gee, mister, you sure got a lot of nose hair.”
“Those are sure some funny-looking pants. Are you the Muffintop Man?”
“You smell like my daddy after he takes the red-eye home from Las Vegas.”
“Oh, that fence? Yeah, I can totally hit a ball over that fence, too.”
“I don’t know you. I NEED AN ADULT!”
That’s it; this whole thing just isn’t worth it. I’m pouring myself a big-boy glass of tequila and going back to normal-sized bed. Move along, now. THIS IDEA IS OVER!Permalink | No Comments