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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
The dream is alive.
For months now, some jackass has been double-parking his Mitsubishi convertible in the basement of the garage at work. Every damned day, in the same damned spot-and-a-half, like he owns the damned joint.
(Yes, I’m assuming it’s a ‘he’. I’ve never seen the driver, but like I said, it’s a ragtop convertible. Last time I checked, women don’t drive cars that compensate for small penises.
And did you notice the car in the picture above? That’s just a pic of a similar model I found online, not the chariot of the jackass in question. And still it’s not parked between the lines.
I’m thinking there’s either some sort of ‘retarded parker’ clause in the leases for these things, or the cars are causing brain damage. Someone should really look into it.)
“I’m thinking there’s either some sort of ‘retarded parker’ clause in the leases for these things, or the cars are causing brain damage.”
Seeing the same car asininely parked every day — especially when there are no other available spots in the basement — gets old after a while. I’ve often walked past that car — coming from a spot far further from the elevator — with visions of sabotage dancing in my head. Soap on the rearview mirrors, field mice in the gas tank, replacing the spark plugs with cocktail weenies — it’s a little different every time. And I would never actually stoop to teaching the assbag a lesson like that.
Probably.
Still, every day I have the dream. But a few short hours ago, I thought the dream had died forever.
I left the office late tonight, as usual. On Fridays in particular, most people clear out pretty early, leaving my whole floor lonely, quiet, and empty.
(See? There’s a good reason I stay late. I’m not just ‘weird’.
Quiet, you.)
I closed down my computer, made my way to the lobby, and hopped onto the elevator going down to the garage basement. Just as the elevator doors were inching shut, a hand slipped between them and a person stepped in with me. It was the boss.
Not my boss. The big boss. The chief. The honcho majoro. El cheesus gigantus.
As we rode down in silence — because it’s tricky to have a conversation with someone who doesn’t realize you exist — I had an epiphany. I often leave the office late. Jackass double-parked car is often still there when I leave. Big honcho boss probably leaves late — maybe even later than me.
Uh oh.
Clearly, if the boss owned the offending car, my dream of someday doling out a vehicular comeuppance would be dashed. I could conceivably, on a particularly vindictive day, send a message to a fellow peon by tinkering with his car. But I couldn’t possibly risk fiddling with the big boss’ ride. If he saw me, I’d be cooked. Quite possibly literally — he’s a powerful guy, and who knows what sort of perverted punishment he could get away with? I’m not saying he’d eat me or anything, but I wouldn’t rule out being boiled in oil, or toasted in a chafing dish of some kind.
And even if he didn’t see me, he’s the boss. He’s got minions. Hell, we’re all his minions. If I actually keyed the guy’s car or puked down his sunroof, I might even be contractually obligated to turn myself in. And that’s some fine print I’m not interested in reading.
(And yes, I know I said it’s a convertible, so it doesn’t have a sunroof.
It’s a figure of speech. I’m talking about puking down the boss’ sunroof, euphemistically,
Not that way. Perv.)
Anyway, when the elevator doors opened, it was clear the game was on. There were only three cars left in the basement: my car straight ahead, the jackass two-space-filling tiny-peener-compensating convertible to the left, and an understated luxury sedan to the right. If the boss veered right, the dream was alive; if he turned left, I could never seriously consider rubbing Vaseline all over that car ever again.
Sure, I could laugh at his apparently underdeveloped penis and his obvious resulting inferiority complex. But only to myself. Minions, remember?
Luckily for my darker side, the boss wandered off to the right, hopped into his sedan, and drove off into the night. That left me alone with my car and the needledick convertible. I considered taking the opportunity to wreak some havoc, but all the excitement had tuckered me out, so I simply drove home. There will be other days to drain the jackass’ transmission or bend his antenna into Slinky shapes.
And I don’t mean euphemistically. Not this time.
Permalink | 2 CommentsOne of the main roles of a parent is to instill things in their children. It doesn’t seem to matter what things, specifically — just that the parent spends some time each day, instilling.
My parents, to their credit, instilled lots of things in me. A sense of fair play, for instance. Pride in my accomplishments. A love of broccoli.
And fear. Numbing, panicky, irrational fear.
Not fear of my parents, of course. That would constitute child abuse — or the euphemistic equivalent from that period, ‘parental discipline’. Clearly, there wasn’t any of that nonsense going on.
“Name a monster, and I hid under my Star Wars covers as a boy and imagined it was under the bed, ready to pounce. Frankenstein. Dracula. The Wolfman. That oddly effeminate old bald guy with the cat who kept trying to snatch the Smurfs on Saturday mornings.”
Rather, I learned fear from my parents. I was a quick and regrettably eager study, and oh, the lessons they handed down! Between my mother and father, they were — and, so far as I can tell, still are — afraid of flying, mice, snakes, doctors, needles, spiders, snowstorms, strangers, hypothermia, speeding, pickpockets, sharks, influenza, and paying more than three dollars and fifty cents for a hamburger that’s probably not even going to be as good as the ones we have at home, and whose idea was this trip anyway, and we just stopped to pee fifteen minutes ago and you didn’t have to go then so you can hold it till the next rest stop and holy god would you stick a cork in it because, NO, WE’RE NOT THERE YET!
Also, they don’t like Steve Martin much. I don’t know whether it qualifies as ‘fear’, per se, but it’s at least an ‘aversion’. And I bet if he showed up at their house with a ball python, a tarantula, and a fistful of hypodermics, by god then they’d fear the son of a bitch. I know I would.
And that’s exactly my point. Somewhere in the fearful fog of my youth, I developed my own set of phobias. They sprang forth from the fertile peat of my subconscious mind, and I tended them with the hoe of ignorance and watered them with the sweet nectar of childhood anxieties, until they blossomed into delicate, debilitating flowers of trepidation and dread.
With rosy petals of pounding heartbeats and hair standing on end. And stems of screaming heebie-jeebies.
(I may have a few fears, yes. But never let it be said that I’m afraid to run a perfectly good analogy into the ground.)
As a child, I was both prolific and persistent in my phobia-forming. I was afraid of the dark. And of heights. Of cats, of bees, and of sand crabs. Of public speaking, girl cooties, and Nana’s big hairy mole on her chin.
And scary movie characters? You bet your yellow belly, bub. Name a monster, and I hid under my Star Wars covers as a boy and imagined it was under the bed, ready to pounce. Frankenstein. Dracula. The Wolfman. That oddly effeminate old bald guy with the cat who kept trying to snatch the Smurfs on Saturday mornings.
(To be fair, that last one simply reminded me of my Uncle Roy. And if you knew my Uncle Roy, you’d be scared, too.
I never said all my fears were irrational.)
Of all the horrific, chilling, shivery willy-inducing fears, though, one stood head and shoulders above the rest:
The basement.
Hearing the creak of the rickety door. The hollow *snick* of the light switch. The dull thud of my trepidatious tootsies on the cold concrete steps leading down into the murky unknown…
Mind you, nothing bad ever happened in our basement. Dad kept paint cans there. There was a ping-pong table. The dog hung out there sometimes in the summer. It was a perfectly innocent, harmless place.
That didn’t stop me from concocting all sorts of diabolical and dastardly scenarios, each more unnerving than the last and all involving the empty room beneath the house. Burglars, ghosts, monsters, and more skulked around the place, just waiting for a tender, fragile young body like mine to venture down to fetch the laundry or practice my backhand.
Of course, I eventually outgrew those fears. I matured and developed a stronger mind, able to repel silly notions of ghouls and robbers and wild slavering animals loitering about in places where they have no business. And the fears I couldn’t brush aside, I conquered, one by one. I went skydiving — afraid of heights no more. Public speaking? Try doing standup comedy in dingy bars for a couple of years. Work presentations and speeches don’t even rate a batted eyelash now.
Also, I was finally stung by a bee, though I can’t claim I was provoking it to beat my fear of bees. It just buzzed over and stuck its ass in my arm, for no good reason. I hadn’t done a thing to the little bastard. All I can figure out is maybe it was nearsighted, and I looked like a big blooming buttercup.
(Don’t say it. Don’t even say it.
Just move along now. Nothing to see here, buttercup.)
Yes, through a little hard work and an awful lot of gut-wrenching anxiety, I finally beat back every single one of those irrational fears I developed in childhood.
Mostly.
You see, I tell you that to tell you this: My wife and I live in a house. I often do the laundry in this house, which is fine because we own our very own washer and dryer. Once a week, I take the clothes to the washer and start up a load.
In the basement.
This past weekend, I got a bit of a late start. It was already dark outside — and cold, too, with a fierce New England wind whipping around the house — when I gathered the laundry for washing.
In the BASEMENT.
My wife had gone in to work, and wasn’t home yet. It was just me and the dog, who was sleeping peacefully in the upstairs hallway. Far, far away from the washer and dryer, where I was headed with an armful of dirty socks and shirts.
IN THE BASEMENT.
I reached the cellar door, and twisted the knob. I felt in the dark for the light switch, and finally found it. *snick* I creaked my way down the stairs toward my final, mysterious destination.
IN THE BASEMENT.
About three steps in, I caught a whiff of something. It was musky. Pungent. Almost like medicine. A few steps further down — and further from the door — recognition finally clicked into place. It was the scent of aftershave. Creepy old man aftershave. And while I may qualify on all counts of that last description, I do not — and I’m rather certain of this, which is crucial here — I do not wear aftershave. Which could only, in my feverish panicky brain, mean. One. Thing. There was another creepy old man.
IN THE BASEMENT!!!
With heart pounding and dirty towels flying, I scrambled back up the steps to the relative safety of the downstairs hallway. I slammed the door behind me, leaned desperately against it, and called in a high, squeaky voice for the dog to run immediately to my side.
Three minutes later, she wandered down, blinked at me, and curled up on the living room carpet. If she’s a fricking ‘guard dog’, then I’m a Hungarian wildebeest wrangler. Useless.
I was just considering leaving my post by the basement door to fetch a carving knife or some other pointy, hurty weapon of self-defense when my wife returned and let herself in the front door. You may well imagine how I reacted to the unexpected sound of a door opening close by at that point.
I scraped my lungs off the floor, made a note to change underwear at the next convenient moment, and set about explaining the dire and potentially life-threatening situation to my wife. In hushed tones, of course, so as to hide our plans from the surly intruder down below. About three sentences in, just as I was describing the unmistakable tangy musk that tipped me off to our ‘guest’, she said:
‘Oh, that’s just the candle I put on the shelf by the basement door. I thought it’d make the area smell better. Do you like it? I think it’s kind of spicy!‘
Spicy. She actually said that. ‘Spicy‘.
The smell of fear and danger and some grungy deranged old sailor waiting in our basement to murder us in our sleep, and she calls it ‘spicy‘.
Come to think of it, it was kind of spicy. More pine cones and citrus than aftershave, really. Kind of makes the stairs there smell pretty good. When you’re not imagining a bum with an eyepatch and a rusty shiv waiting at the bottom of the stairs to cut your heart out, anyway.
At least, that’s what my wife tells me. Personally, I don’t know. Because I’m never going into the basement again. If she wants me to do the laundry, then we’re either going to a laundromat or we’re moving out to another house. A house without candles. In the fricking basement.
Man. Just when I thought I had these fears licked, too. I guess old instills die hard.
Permalink | 3 CommentsIn this household, my wife is in charge of our dental health.
I do take some responsibility, of course. I don’t just open wide in the morning to have my choppers scrubbed down, like some overstuffed captive animal. That might work for your average gator farm inhabitant or zoo hippo or hostess of The View, but it’s not going to fly in this house. And the missus has told me as much — in writing, I might add. You can’t blame a guy for trying.
So obviously, I brush my own teeth. But the equipment I use is largely up to her. She decides what type of toothbrush is best, which toothpaste tastes good and is good for us, and how stout the bristles need to be to keep our whites their pearliest. She makes damned good decisions, too.
And I’m not just saying that because I’d have to fend for my own dental supplies if I complain. I really mean it, as far as anyone could prove in a court of law.
“If someone ever offered to take me out in the alley for an ‘oral B’, I’d be very frightened. Obviously intrigued, and strangely excited, yes. But very frightened.”
Still. I have to admit, her latest choice is making me just a tad nervous. My gums are quivering at the very thought. I’ll explain.
Long ago, my better half moved us over to electric toothbrushes, and there was much rejoicing. She likes them because apparently the electric models thoroughly cover the target areas, stimulate the surrounding tissue, and can reach places that regular appliances can’t.
(I try my best to forget that she’s talking about a long vibrating stick when she recites these reasons. Usually, I fail miserably and can’t look myself in the eye in the mirror while I’m brushing for at least a week. Not cool.)
Personally, I prefer the electric toothbrushes because all that scrubbing I used to do is taken care of automatically. What a burden it was to waggle that brush up-and-down and side-to-side, like some sort of cavity-conscious caveman. Thank heaven we finally found a way to harness electricity to work for us. It only took two hundred years after Ben Franklin’s kite flight to make it happen. What the hell were people doing all that time?
Our current brush of choice is the Oral-B Triumph. As sleek and impressive a piece of equipment as this is, I do have three minor quibbles with it:
As I say, these are relatively minor quibbles. With the right frame of mind — and possibly a quick swig of tequila — I can get past these issues and brush, brush, brush those toofers clean.
At least, I could. Until yesterday.
Yesterday, my wife decided the head on my toothbrush was a bit worn down, which it was. She decided I needed a new one, which I did. So she replaced it with… well, see for yourself:
I found one of these contraptions perched atop my precious electric toothbrush this morning. You’ll notice there are bristles in three colors — blue, aqua, and white. Those were standard on the last head, as well.
Then, you’ll notice the yellow bits. These flat prongs are what qualify the head as something called ‘Floss Action’. They’re meant to gently penetrate between your teeth to knock away any loose bits of food.
Unfortunately, the friendly sadists at Oral-B chose to make the prongs out of a rigid, unforgiving substance of some kind. I haven’t worked out quite what it is — galvanized rubber, perhaps, or stainless steel. Shards of yellow glass or even diamonds aren’t out of the question.
All I know is that unleashing this thing inside your tender piehole is like brushing with a bunch of epileptic bees. And while I’m sure it’s spectacular at knocking away those loose bits of food, I fear it’s also deadly proficient at removing other unseemly mouth residents. Like teeth, for instance. Or tonsils. And I haven’t been able to taste ‘salty’ since brushing this morning. I’m pretty sure that’s a bad sign.
Now all I have to do is figure out whether my wife is trying to get tough on plaque, or trying to off me with my own hygiene products. If she shows up with floss reinforcements and a gallon of Listerine, I’ll know she’s just upping the ante against cavities and the gum disease known as gingivitis.
But if my razors suddenly get bent and rusty, and my shampoo’s ‘tingle’ becomes ‘burn like lava’, then we’ll have to have a little talk. Assuming I still can talk, of course, with a mouth full of puncture wounds and glass stuck in my gums. And I thought that stuff only happened at the dentist.
Permalink | 5 CommentsThe missus and I have been married for quite a while now. In fact, the old wall calendar says that we’ve been blissfully wed for a little over ten years.
(My wife, on the other hand, says it feels like we’ve been manacled together for at least fifty. She kids because she loves. Or so I’ve decided to assume.
It’s ’til death do us part’, honey — now put down that carving knife and stop asking about my life insurance policy.)
Anyway, with so many miles racked up on our matrimonial odometer, there’s one question that people keep asking, over and over. And over. And over.
‘When are you two going to settle down and have kids?‘
“I helpfully offered that hanging around her kids was like doing pushups, or opening a pickle jar, or taking a really tough, grudging poop.”
Now, by ‘people’ asking, I mostly mean ‘our families’. Few other people would dare to dig so deeply into our personal lives, or particularly care whether or not we’re squirting out puppies to carry on the family name. My wife’s family seems genuinely interested in having more children around, for reasons I don’t fully understand. Maybe they have unused ‘Babies R Us’ coupons they need to cash in, or old childrens’ clothes taking up space in their attics. Maybe one of them owns a Nike sweatshop, and needs more underage workers, or a black market connection for selling off toddlers. It could be anything.
My family is different. I’m convinced my parents want us to reproduce simply to get me back for all the shit I did to them while I was growing up. Apparently, I was a handful. I imagine my mother’s secretly hoping we have triplets someday, with at least one bout of colic and a demonic possession. That’d teach me.
Of course, all of this is moot from where I’m sitting, because my answer to the original question is a simple:
‘Never.‘
Conceiving children has never been on my ‘to do’ list. Maybe it’s something in my genetic makeup, or a personal philosophy rooted deep in my subconscious. Possibly, I’ve repressed some horrific child-related trauma from my youth that has turned me away from the path of parenthood. Heaven knows there are enough traumatic childhood encounters with other kids that I didn’t repress; who knows what horrors could be locked up in my subconscious?
Whatever the reasons, I’ve never had an interest in owning my own child. I can barely keep myself out of trouble, properly attired, and marginally employed; there’s no chance I could manage to look out for another human being while I’m at it. Especially one that’s often demanding, loudly irrational, and is constantly sticking random things in its mouth. If I wanted to come home to that every day, I’d have married my ex-girlfriend from college. No, thanks.
Still, I don’t want to give the wrong impression. I don’t hate children, by any means. I’m not some modern-day Scrooge, kicking the crutch out from under Tiny Tim’s gimpy leg for a larf. For the most part, other people’s offspring are fine. Many of our friends have babies and toddlers now, and they’re a wonderful bunch of kids. It’s quite a challenge to convey to those proud parents that while I don’t want any children of my own, that’s no reflection on how I feel about their children. It’s a fine and prickly line to walk.
So I tried expressing my position with analogies. I’ve found that in many such cases, offering an analogous situation helps to clarify one’s reasoning, and drive the message home.
My first efforts were, shall we say, not well received.
I explained to one motherly friend of mine that it’s simply a matter of stamina in dealing with children. All the energy and constant supervision they require really takes it out of a person, and I’m just not accustomed to the exertion. I helpfully offered that hanging around her kids was like doing pushups, or opening a pickle jar, or taking a really tough, grudging poop. Sometimes a guy needs to rest for a little while and gather his strength, before getting back in there for another go-round.
That lady doesn’t return our calls any more. Her husband says it’s something to do with suggesting their kids are a couple of constipated turds. Which wasn’t what I meant, of course.
(On the other hand, her son once slung a spoonful of strained peas onto my favorite rugby. If that hadn’t come out in the wash, I just might’ve resorted to calling the little shit something nasty. Theoretically.)
The next time the subject arose, I made sure to be more tactful. We were at dinner with a different kid-carrying couple, and I was asked why I wasn’t planning on having children. I carefully explained that I prefer the relative simplicity and flexibility of our current situation, and that, for me, the responsibilities and sacrifices required to raise children just weren’t an attractive option.
I was as cautious and as eloquent as I could muster. The couple seemed to understand where I was coming from, and my wife seemed relieved that I hadn’t overtly offended them with my explanation.
Then I remembered how useful analogies can be. I decided to drive home the message of how I enjoyed seeing this couple’s children, regardless of my personal parenting position.
“I still think kids — especially great kids like yours — are charming and entertaining.”
My wife shot me a ‘please, for the love of god, leave it at that and don’t say another word‘ look. Unfortunately, I didn’t see it.
“It’s just that, for me, it’s the kind of entertainment that’s best in smaller doses.”
That’s when my wife grabbed my arm and gave me a wide-eyed ‘seriously, I’m begging you to stop; few enough couples will speak to us as it is‘ stare. I saw that one, but I thought maybe she’d just eaten a bad piece of sushi. So I continued.
“You know, like Gilbert Godfried. Or Christian rock. Or midget porn.”
As my wife and I finished up our meals — after the couple gathered up their son and stormed out, of course — she peppered me with all sorts of questions. “What the hell is wrong with you?” “Didn’t you see me staring at you?” “And where the hell have you been watching ‘little people’ porn?”
(That’s my wife. Even in an apoplectic rage, she still manages to be ‘PC’. God, I love that woman. I don’t care how tall she is.)
Anyway, I learned my lesson. At least, I thought I had. Until last night, when I went out drinking with an old friend I hadn’t seen in a while. He’s been pretty busy for a few months with a new baby, but was able to finally break away for a few Friday beers. Late in the evening, he looked at me and ventured to ask:
“So, are you two thinking about having kids someday?”
I knew exactly what to say. A quick, ‘nah, I don’t think so‘ and leave it at that. No explanation, no discussion, and absolutely no analogies. Brush it off, and change the subject to something safer, like politics or religion or the latest developments in the midget porn industry.
But with my better judgement sufficiently lubricated at that point — and my wife nowhere to be seen — I abandoned reason and tried, once more, to explain myself. I wanted him to know that although I’m not interested in children for myself, I’d be happy at any time to visit and hang out with his. That’s when it all clicked into place, and I found the words I needed:
“Here’s the thing. To me, a kid is like a Nintendo, or a Miata, or a pierced nipple. I don’t think I’d ever want one myself, but I’m more than happy to play with someone else’s. It’s just not something I could ever bring home, or I’d probably stay up nights fiddling with it, and eventually screw it up completely. See?”
And he did. He understood completely, and we had another round or two of beers before parting on good terms. I guess the third time’s a charm, even when you’re dealing with ill-advised analogies. I wish I’d thought of video games, sports cars and studded boobs before; I can’t imagine how it escaped me for so long.
Now if I could just find a way to explain that ‘midget porn’ comment to my wife. That’ll be a tricky one.
Permalink | 3 CommentsI’m very disappointed in Michael Vick
For those who haven’t seen the recent news, earlier this week the Vickster may have attempted to smuggle marijuana onto a plane at the Miami International Airport. Security officials confiscated a water bottle with a hidden compartment that contained ‘a small amount of dark particulate and a pungent aroma closely associated with marijuana’. It seems the skies aren’t quite as ‘friendly’ as Michael had been led to believe.
Now, am I disappointed in Vick because he’s apparently smoking dope? No. Not in the slightest. For one thing, it hasn’t been confirmed at the time of this tsk-ing that the pungent dark particulate actually is marijuana. Maybe the man got his hands on some really good Columbian coffee, and always keeps a stash close by. Maybe those are the cremated remains of his dear departed grandma, whose dying wish was to be flushed down the shitter of a jumbo jet flying at altitude. Maybe Vick always carries a pile of tick turds in his water bottle for good luck. Who knows?
“The man can face three hundred pound slavering linemen and linebackers who run like cheetahs and eat babies for breakfast, but Deputy Gomer and his metal detector wand rattled him up?”
Let’s assume for the moment that the substance in question truly is a stash of marijuana. After all, if it quacks like a duck, and it rolls like a duck, and it smokes like a duck, and you can cram it in a water bong like a duck, then it’s probably not grandma’s ashes, after all. So am I disappointed in Vick for this suspected ‘possession with intent to toke’? Not even a smidgen.
If Mike Vick wants to smoke mary jane, then who am I to tell him no? He’s had a long season; the guy probably just wants to relax for a bit. I’m sure he expended an awful lot of energy leading his team into the… oh. Right. The Falcons missed the playoffs this year.
Well, he’s probably exhausted after putting up all those passing… hrm. Only threw for a hundred and fifty yards a game. I see.
Anyway, I’m sure all those rushing touchdowns were… well, okay, both those TDs probably took a lot. You know, out of him.
Okay, so at least the pot would explain some things this season, assuming this wasn’t his first leaf-laced water bottle of the year. No matter. My view is, as long as he’s prepared to deal with the consequences, the guy can smoke dope if he wants to. He can be the poster boy for all of hemphead nation, for all I care. He can be the ‘Pot-Packing Passer’. Or ‘Superman Spliff’. Or even — I can’t believe I’m writing this — the ‘Wacky Tobaccy Quarterbacky’.
(That one’s going to haunt me for a while. But if this story gets any bigger, ten bucks says some sports rag runs that as a headline before this is all over.
And another ten says the editor won’t feel nearly as goofy for having thought of it. Kitsch sells newspapers, or so I hear.)
Some might argue that Vick’s setting a bad example. True. Some would say that marijuana is illegal, and he should know better. Also true. Some people might contend that marijuana is a ‘gateway drug’, and this incident will launch scores of the nation’s children into the murky depths of hard-core addiction.
And that’s going a bit far. Let’s be realistic here. If the guy was caught shooting heroin into his eyeball at thirty thousand feet, that’s a bit of a problem. But a little weed in a water bottle isn’t going to kill anyone. I’ve known a few dopeheads in my days, and in my experience, the only thing pot is a ‘gateway’ to is a bag of Chee-tos. I wouldn’t go investing in the Betty Ford clinic or starting up a methadone factory in your basement just yet.
So why am I disappointed in Michael Vick? Because he was just damned careless. This story should have never happened in the first place.
First of all, I give him credit for using a fancy gizmo as a hiding place. I imagine a fake-compartmented water bottle is exactly the same way that James Bond or Inspector Gadget would carry their cannabis contraband around.
(Which of them is likelier to need a puff now and then is debatable. Sure, one’s getting constantly shot up, tortured, chased, beaten, captured, and blown out of various high-speed vehicles.
But the other dresses in a trenchcoat, has quite probably never gotten laid, and was once portrayed by Matthew Broderick.
I’d call it a toss-up.)
The thing is, a guy like Vick has to know when the jig is up. I understand that he doesn’t fly with us commoners very often, but they haven’t allowed liquids onto passenger planes in months. Even if he gets in line with his doobielicious contraption, he’s got to be able to calmly ditch it, or make some excuse to leave the line to deal with it. The story said that the screeners became suspicious when Vick was ‘reluctant’ to give up the bottle. The man can face three hundred pound slavering linemen and linebackers who run like cheetahs and eat babies for breakfast, but Deputy Gomer and his metal detector wand rattled him up? Where’s the grace under pressure? The poise when the pocket started closing around him?
Meh. I guess it is the offseason, at least in Falcon-land.
All I’m saying is this — I don’t expect my athletes to be role models. They’re as human as the rest of us, and with the kind of cash they have on hand, who knows what depraved and frightening things we’d do? I’m surprised they don’t catch more of these uber-zillionaires bathing in gold doubloons, paying Hollywood starlets to lick their toes, or sponsoring monkey knife fights. Lord knows if I made eight figures a year, I’d spend six or seven of those figures on expenses that could only be described as ‘wallowing’, in one form or another.
I also don’t expect my athletes to be particularly bright. Some are, and some aren’t — again, just like the rest of us. Running a four-four forty or chucking a sixty-yard spiral doesn’t mean you can do rocket science, too. Or long division. Or count to eleven when your jock strap is on. That’s fine.
But I do want one thing from my athletes — they should be smooth. I’d prefer that all of them kept their noses clean all the time — make their curfews, pay their taxes, call home to Mom every once in a while. But if they’re going to engage in illegal, immoral, and/or imbecilic behavior, they should at least look like a pro when they get caught. Or better yet, they should be smooth enough to not get caught at all. Because the only time I want to hear about Michael Vick — or any other jacked-up jittery jock, for that matter — is when he’s between the lines on the field of play. Is that too much to ask, at least until the Super Bowl is over?
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