Perspective

My Saturday Afternoon was consumed by an Online Course. The Course crawled from the murky waters of the internet and swung its moss-covered head this way and that, looking for nourishment. That’s when it saw My Saturday Afternoon sitting peacefully and without defense. The Online Course showed no mercy. It pounced on my Saturday Afternoon and feasted until all was dark. My Saturday Afternoon never even saw it coming.

The Online Course was terrifying, but a necessary evil. It required PayPal and downloading additional programs and two hours of reading, broken only by five-question quizzes that tested mostly my ability to tolerate stupid questions. But I had been worrying about this course for some time and I wanted it to be finished.

So I paid the fifty dollars for The Online Course and diligently read every word provided. I took the quizzes and thought about every stupid question. I made it all the way to the thirteenth and final quiz. I finished the last question and waited for the computer to erupt in flows of congratulations and provide me with some sort of proof that I had sacrificed my dear Saturday Afternoon. Instead, there was nothing.

I stomped and frothed and then I moped and whined and then I searched and scraped. I finally clicked on “contact us” and contacted them; or, rather, I attempted to make contact. Like the messages scientists think up when trying to make contact with aliens, I had not much hope of the letter yielding any real results.
So I was surly when my mother asked if I wanted to go for a ski in the full moon light of My Saturday Night. I said I would, but grumbled and complained that my back ached. I had a hard time getting the skis on and I yelled at the dog that didn’t really deserve to be treated so harshly.

When we finally started to ski, I was skiing with anger.

We had made a right off of the main trail when I really started in. I was making long quick strides. I wasn’t enjoying myself and I wanted the whole world to know how angry I was and how valid that anger was. I had been mistreated. I had followed all the rules and paid my money and still had nothing to show. The more I thought about it, the harder I skied.

Swing, stick, slide… swing, stick, slide… SWING, stick, sllllllliiiiiiiiiiiiiiddddddeeeeeee…

Finally it was all too much.

Then I remember the silhouettes of my skis in front of my face and a moment where I was suspended in air. I hit the ground very hard on my back and I could see my breath rush out and up as if set free after a long incarceration.
I sat there for a moment and looked at the stars through the black and veiny limbs of trees. Then I heard my mom’s voice.
“Maybe we should go back.”
“Just give me a second,” I said.

I hoisted myself off the ground and looked around. The moonlight reflected off the snow and the ground seemed to glow all around us. Even the dark forms of trees were highlighted where the snow clung to their limbs. The dappled floor of the forest gave the impression that we were standing in the middle of a violent sea that had been frozen for a moment. Everything was quiet and still in a way that is impossible to imagine in the light and warmth of day.

“I think I’m ready to go on now,” I said.

Purple Blood Pressure Medication

I didn't cry for the Vikings last night.

I cried in 1998 when Gary Anderson missed the field goal. I even watched the Pro Bowl that year just to hold on briefly to the feeling of that magical season. Needless to say, it failed to satisfy. It was a very sad season.

When the ball sailed through the uprights last night and the confetti exploded into the Superdome, I spent a little time staring at my shoes and then I stoically began to pick up the empty beer bottles around me.

You see, the Vikings losing in that situation didn't surprise me at that point. What seemed unbelievable was their proximity to victory on the last drive of regulation time. I almost let myself believe it was going to happen.

So I recycled my beer bottles and went on with my life. I will always be a Vikings fan. I just wish they would make it a little easier.

Someday the Minnesota Vikings will win the Superbowl. On that day I will gather my grandchildren around and tell them about last night and that dark Sunday back in '98.

Go Vikes.

My Most Brilliatelligent Blog Post Ever

Today I heard someone say the word "ginormous."
I wonder where this word came from. I mean, I assume it's a combination of gigantic and enormous, but I'm not sure. Even if this is correct, however, it only raises more questions. The paramount among them being: what's wrong with the two original words?

I like describing things as gigantic or enormous. I think that the word humongous should have made a comeback. But instead, people chose to mangle two perfectly descriptive words to make a third word that sounds like a mistake.
It sounds like a mistake because it is a mistake.

There is only one situation in which I would allow myself to use the word "ginormous." I would need to be confronted with a giant chicken. It would have to be a really big chicken. I'm not talking house-height here either. This chicken would have to be way taller than a house. If, and only if I saw a chicken that was way taller than a house, you might here me say, "holy crap, that chicken is ginormous."

However, I have noted the popularity of the word and I would like to stake the ground on a few future additions to the lexicon.

You heard them here first:

Terribulous
Supicial
Hunormtic
Idiupid
Funnilarious
Delumptious
Paingonizing
Annoyitating
Repitundant
Beautifitacularizinglioustasticalular.

You're welcome, my legacy.

New Year's Delusion

In 2010, I resolve to:

1. Watch less television.

2. Floss four times a day.

3. Lose 100 lbs... a month... for the entire year. I believe that -900 lbs. is my ideal weight. If I was -900 lbs., I could finally be comfortable with myself.

4. Figure out health care in the U.S. and a way to peace in the Middle East (in no particular order).

5. Take a multivitamin.

6. Dig more holes.

7. Become Batman.

8. Sleep outside at least once.

9. Get in an argument with an employee at Taco John's.

10. Add to this blog more frequently.

HO, HO, HO, Ha, ha, ha... ha... BLAM!

My hair is rebelling against me.
It's been drawing back on the top of my head for some time. Now I've noticed that the hair at my temples is turning gray. Just a few of them are standing out at the moment, but I can read the writing on the wall.

I've always planned on taking this inevitability in stride. But now that it's happening, I'll admit that I'm a little concerned. How will I handle this?

Let me take you to the future. Let me take you to a place where flying cars, self-drying jackets and hover boards are common.
Let me take you to the year 2015.

It's been six years since I last shaved. The few gray hairs at my temples have spread and now I have a snowy-white mane. I'm like a crazed, trumpet-wielding Santa Claus.

I'm married to Megan Fox. It was a difficult courtship, but finally I was able to forgive her for starring in Transformers 2. We are currently living happily on a floating city created entirely of empty water bottles made as a refuge from rising sea levels. We have a pet polar bear. His name is Melty and we feed him canned tuna.

I can sense your incredulity concerning my ability to woo Megan Fox. The explanation is simple. You see, horn players in ska bands are the ultimate sex symbol in the year 2015. Our coupling surprised no one.

That's what I call taking it in stride.

PS... by the year 2015, all humans will have a tiny Apple product called the iLobe implanted in their brains at birth. The iLobe will hold 10,000 songs, 3,000 full-length movies and will make the entire human race completely obedient to the will of Steve Jobs.

Yeti Didn't Start the Fire

8 November 2009

Re:Your New Fence

Dear sir:

It has come to the attention of myself and my associate Timmy that you are building a new fence. It seems to be a very sturdy and well-built fence. However, we have a number of concerns.

Our main concern is that your fence is far too short to contain a Sasquatch.

In the first place, Sasquatches are very tall. Beyond that, they are known for their jumping ability. You may want to consider a roof for your fence. At the very least, we advise you install some sort of netting atop your Sasquatch pen. Caution is advised here, however, as a Sasquatch entangled in netting is an unhappy Sasquatch.

In addition, we are concerned that you may not know how to properly catch a Sasquatch. You should know that oatmeal cream pies are quite effective for luring Sasquatches. Timmy has told me that Sasquatches are also attracted to the sound of Billy Joel's studio recordings. In this he was very clear: NOTHING LIVE. I can neither confirm nor deny the idea that Sasquatches are fond of Billy Joel, but I trust Timmy's instincts and would advise you to do the same.

In closing, I would like to wish you the best of luck. You are off to a fine start, and soon Timmy and I hope to see your fenced-in yard teeming with Sasquatches.

If you have any questions feel free to contact us.

All the best,
D. Ralph Adams

Damn Right It's Worth the Risk

Last week, my roommate graduated from grad school. That is, he graduated and he didn't under-graduate.

This story isn't really about him. Well, it's about him indirectly. You see, last week he had a graduation party. There was a lot of food at the graduation party and now most of that food lives on as leftovers.

This story is about leftovers.

There's a clear plastic box of mini-cupcakes tempting me from the top of the microwave. So far I have been successful at resisting their siren-song. It's mostly because they're not that good. They're a little dry and the frosting- while aesthetically pleasing- is pretty much glorified Cool Whip. Basically all they have going for them is their size. I can eat a single mini-cupcake in one bite. That used to be enough to weaken my resolve. Not any more.

Maybe I'm evolving. I'm evolved enough, at least, not to mention the half of an apple pie on the bottom rack of the fridge.

That brings me to the 3.85 lb. tub of Cub Foods potato salad on the top rack. Earlier this evening, I found myself standing in the middle of the kitchen shoveling forkloads of potato, egg and mayo from a plastic tub into my mouth.

I was not ashamed. Cub makes damn good 'tato salad. My concern is that I can't eat 3.85 pounds of potato salad before it makes that inevitable turn from edible to toxic.

I've never thrown out potato salad. Of course, I've never tackled 3.85 lbs. before. I hope I can finish it in time, because I doubt very much that I will stop short.

So this may be my last blog.

Now I must sign off because I keep dropping bits of potato on the keyboard.

Farewell.