Sunday, August 20, 2017
The Love Profession
Roman filled Samantha's
desire as to his professions
of love.
Ubiquitous. Continuous.
In times of her severest need,
flooding!
Thus stood he as model to
indifferent men who really
would rather watch the Giants.
And the presents! Usual milestones
but also surprises aplenty!
She never knew when some jazzy
trinket would be delivered!
Her stock of such could start
a small...well. Gift Shop.
Or as our New England friends
might devise:
Ye Smalle Gifte Shoppe.
Anyway, her ultimate reaction?
Cast him off as too smothering.
"I couldn't breathe! I need a space FOR...!
Book-gifted him, though, in the trauma.
"Become the Bad Boy!"
by Carlotta Anthony.
“seven seemingly infantile steps to...”
Labels: bad boy, breakup, emotional need, football, Giants, lovers'' gifts, professions of love, relationship
Friday, December 23, 2016
Actuarial Fate
-With what I can plug in now,
I can tell you the age you'll
die.
-And if I press you, day and time?'
-I sense sarcasm, but...I could
come close, no matter what.
-Well, plug nothing in because
I don't wanna know!
-But if you knew, you could...
-Straighten some things out?
Like, with Steph?
-The amazing Stephanie!
-Amazed me right outa my mind!
-You could soothe both minds
-To an extent. We’d eventually fight
as to how to reconcile.
-So, it won't be perfect? It's
better than the present standoff.
Which, by the way...
-Morphs over the months to an
unhealthy growth?
-Uh huh? Why don't you pretend
you have a year or so left, and then
the pair of you do what you can?
-I'm the one acutely feeling the
disadvantage. What's her actuarial picture?
-If I had to guess, I'd...well, much better.
-Do I get points, like in football.
-At least a touchdown and extra point.
-The latter is her speciality. Anyway,
a strong betting favorite is she!
-A piece of work! But so are you.
-Making it all the more difficult.
Besides...the best things fall outa
the sky. I should be patient. Trust
to Luck!--Steph and I should.
-Not according to my figures and your
health, physical and mental.
-I'm a case! I don't wanna be a case!
-We have some small choices, but I wouldn't
wish to run the figures.
Labels: actuary, betting, die, Fate, football, football odds, relationship, running the figures
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
The Man Who Researched
And not a new thing for him, what with
computers. For he had journals full of
notes in small handwriting also.
Most of his self-referential probing
took on a medical bent. His finding
out about the diseases he had or
imagined he had.
All very neatly filed in his den.
No harm, no foul.
Until...
What is the worst or best such a private
being could do?
He got married.
No interest in females apparent before.
So there you have it.
What he had, then, was his research library
in a dirt sub basement of the house
they moved to.
There he developed a cough...but he's
not really on his way out.
And his wife not the ogre who assigned him
there either. For they soon had a contractor
in to rebuild his den, even adding
lovely paneling.
There he could do his internet research
and print out the results. And its own
climate system cured his cough.
That part of the house belonged to him,
the more old-fashioned parts, his wife.
That such a disparate couple got along
amazed the neighbors.
In his medical sector, he was soon moderating
complaining quarrels between cranks.
Some on Skype.
Oh yes, his occupation. Allied. He wrote copy
for physicians' brochures.
Another great change!--if you regard marriage
as the first: Joined a group from the office
buying Philadelphia Eagles Season Tickets.
Did you know, for example, that during World
War Two, the teams from Pittsburgh and Philly
combined into the Steagles?
Steelers+Eagles.
He, of course, found this out, as well as
a million other facts. He dedicated a special
i-Pad to the subject and draped a corner
of the den with green banners and blankets.
She encouraged him to invite the fellows
to watch TV there for the away games.
And dressed in green football jersey and
micro shorts herself.
Her example prompted the men to invite
girlfriends and wives.
Soon, 37 Ogden Circle a noisy place
of certain Sundays.
But, did our researcher neglect his
original subject of disease?
In becoming genial and laughing host?
Who could believe it? Yes! Yes!
Labels: football, marriage, medical, medical research, obsession, Philadelphia Eagles
Sunday, May 22, 2016
Matters of Privacy
Denham kept to himself. Fact known in the small
apartment house.
But the twin sisters brought him a rice pudding, a
custom, they explained, on this day of St Ambrose,
the Grocer.
Much girlish amusement as to nothing ever done
for St Ambrose the Good!
In that relatively warm, if ecclesiastical, atmosphere,
Denham made tea.
When you got the twins on your hands, this the
quickest way to get rid of them.
He promised to return the bowl, but they said
no hurry. So he washed and polished it over a
week, to give the gossips no ammunition.
Then, stored it a bit, next to his Giants mugs.
For Deirdre, the twin with the shooting eye, had died.
He made his way to her viewing in their apartment,
hoping to be the last.
He was, and at the end mentioned the bowl to Destiny,
who blinked and blinked claiming it wasn't important
for now.
Denham took a deep breath, in preparation for his
escape, but when he got his hand on the doorknob,
it just tuned and turned in a lumpy circle.
No use calling Arthur, who was resting his bad back
and wouldn't come anyway.
She closed Deirdre's coffin and put on popcorn.
Announcing both that they were two adults, and that
there would be no silly mourning prohibitions either,
including not watching the Giants and Eagles in the
Thursday night game just starting.
Labels: apartment house, death, Eagles, eccentrics, football, funeral, funeral customs, Giants, gossip, loneliness, saints, sex, twins
Saturday, November 28, 2015
Witnessing Sport
Mark wedged the bitterness
of his favorite team losing
into Reggie. It felt wonderful!
But later, not so much. Thus he
apologized. Half a heart being
better than none.
But didn't she embrace her wound!
Water Works on disparate occasions,
faint once in a stupid line to a "historical"
chick-flick. Women make it stink!
Tides of Llamamour! Holy Christ!
Okay, the team is winning presently,
his love for her almost surpassing it.
And she forgets to be hurt. Cute in
an oversized jersey.
Labels: chick-flick, football, hurt, relationship, scapegoat, Sports, women
Sunday, November 08, 2015
Ill Wind Ceasing
Alone in his plumbing office of a Monday, Hocks dreams
of throwing himself into the river to drown.
Three big jobs had been re-dos that last week, profit
out the window.
In bursts Reccles! “Pittsburgh, are you kidding?
Ten and a half points underdog and they win
by twenty! And five of our other lemons won!
BON-FREAKIN-ANZA!”
He counts out ten hundreds for Hocks onto the messy desk!
After, he pictures the Regency Hotel, on the same river he
thought to drown in. A bed piled high with classy food and
bottles of wine.
Plus Misty Tebbs.
They’re right about this dump,” coos she. “It’s been, like,
tastefully refurbished!”
Labels: football, football pool, gambling, plumbing, profit, re-do, refurbished, taste
Wednesday, June 03, 2015
Ireland votes gay
to shame
a bloodied church.
Which can always fall back, as
if such forever possible, on hate
the sin, and love the sinner.
Who can tell the difference, really?
Yeats said it, as you’d expect,
better, with his dancer-dance.
Preceded by O brightening glance!
And you don’t get many of them
to the pound, do you suppose
he was Bardic everywhere? Say the wife
finally shrieking? “For Jesus Christ’s Sake,
tell me in plain words what you fancy
for dinner!” Or in the pub dissecting
our disgraceful team, maybe saying
The Little Sisters of the Poor’d beat ‘em?
Well, that is poetic, the image
of a wave of nuns advancing
to our goal, concealing, one after
other, the ball in black folds!
Before the coup de grace
of our final humiliation!
Our keeper giving his best
imitation of a man. Or ass.
Labels: Bard, Catholic Church, football, Gay Marriage, Ireland, poetic language, soccer, Yeats
Saturday, May 16, 2015
Nitty Gritty Football
...with a whiff of romance
-So the mild accountant pronounces
the harsh sentence?
-Harsh? We've kept it away from the
Commissioner. In the club only.
You're suspended for one game.
-Be good for my body. Healing. Always
healing.
-Another good for your body will be
to never go into sleazy nightclubs
again! Your trouble stems from the
sterling characters you meet there.
Especially the women!
-God never intended such clever ones
go into the trade!
-If you think they're so...why then o why!
do you end up fighting for them?
-Old-fashioned values!
-Well, spare the club any more of those!
-Huh! They call the owner a Robber Baron!
-THEY call? He's great to work for, and
that's enough for me.
-You kind of guys are quick to judge
the likes of me, but bend over for...!
-You’re wrong there. I only do that for
those I love.
-Do you have a partner?
-Not presently. Try-outs open.
-No thanks. I'm in enough trouble.
-Seriously, you need a male friend who's
not into barroom brawls.
-Culture? Art galleries and fancy music?
Little bitty sandwiches?
-Among others. Consider Ballet! Closer to
the athleticism you probably admire.
-We don't go up on our tippy toes!
-But frequently end up on your back.
-That's football.
-Too bad.
-The culture thing really ain't so far out an idea,
but...uh...?
-Don't worry. I give warning before I predate.
-That's a relief.
-I’m warning you now.
-So aggressive!
-You're used to it.
Labels: football, gay, nightclubs, predation, suspension, women
Saturday, April 25, 2015
His Bell
You couldn't report yourself as missing.
Someone had to miss you, and wonder where
you've gotten to, and, of course, seek the help
of the police.
He went about, expecting a cruiser's stopping,
its blue light spinning down to still.
He had dropped his wallet, probably watching
Omar and Celeste in the new ape enclosure.
Had climbed an old fretwork that the apes had
formerly used, but now outside their fancy one.
Nobody turned it in to Lost and Found.
Just as well, since he forgot his name, and someone
would surely have asked, thence checking driver's license.
Ricky and Elinor, God's New Gifts absolutely, took him
home and fed him, tried questions to jog his memory.
No go.
That night they went to Lefty's Paradise to watch
Giants-Eagle on TV.
There the Professor guessed he had graduated Harvard,
and his fresh companion, the ex chorus boy, opined he
had the quickness of an athlete or dancer.
“Good and healthy and strong!” remarked Sudsy, who
hired him on the spot to unload trucks, flu having swept
his small firm.
Strictly under the table, since no Social Security number.
So he had found friends, a neighborhood, a hangout,
and a job!...and a name, Chauncey, bestowed by the Professor.
Not bad for his first disconcerting day.
That late night on the daybed gracing the sun porch,
he tried to fit some things together.
No use, but he replayed the football game in acutest detail.
Maybe that was kind of key?
Beatrice got interested in his story. She despatched trucks,
and started bringing him lunch. They dated, and eventually
he left his cozy daybed for her cramped studio apartment.
“Believe me, Chaunce fills it up without yours truly!”
Beats had season tickets for the Jets, but had promised them
to others in her family, but not for any playoff games.
The Bengals coming in for the first round got Chauncey so
excited he could hardly speak.
The old man checking the ticket with some sort of wand cried,
"Buzz Ackley! and they couldn’t find YOU better seats than THESE?"
Ripper Collins later sought him out with his mike for the Jumbotron.
..."But I'm not sure I'm he."
"Well, I'm sure! That ‘he’ gives it away: Pure Yalie!"
He took him down to the field and the young players, of course,
couldn't recognize him, but the twin gray-bearded trainers,
Hip and Bix, hugged him together, and massaged his shoulders.
She worked her laptop that evening. "You live in Nutley," she
told him, "18 Appletree Lane, wife Cindy, girl at Trenton State,
boy in Air Force."
They drove there next day, and Cindy fainted.
Detectives Markham and Pesticci were present, making sure that
Beats’ cautious phone call to Cindy wasn’t a con, and knew how to
revive her. Too, they swabbed his mouth for DNA. They explained
that they kept his case from the media since they believed it
involved the Mafia taking over sports memorabilia.
“We expected you were wearing a cement overcoat at the bottom
of a polluted pond in The Meadowlands somewhere.”
Cindy proved completely sure, and needed no DNA, so Beats left.
In a couple of weeks, Buzz recalled almost everything, and the
couple invited Beats back. Cindy told her she'd love her forever!
She became Aunt Beats at Christmas etc. to the youngsters
back from college and the Air Force.
Cindy, strangely, never had a jealous bone.
All the characters in this story of forgetting are pretty
unusual.
Buzz has more than his share of where did I put my...?
but functions appropriately enough for his age.
The League is kicking in to a fund to help those like him.
“I do remember every SINGLE time on the field that my bell
was truly rung!”
Labels: Bengals, characters, DNA, Eagles, football, forgetting, friends, Giants, Jets, Meadowlands, NFL, relationship, wife
Friday, March 13, 2015
Refining Brotherhood
When the candidate professed that "The Supreme Triumph
in Life is knowing one's place in it!" Val paid no attention.
He was an old man running against an old woman.
Well, the old man won, and what the newspapers now called
the New Royalists were ecstatic.
"Good luck with all of that Class Baloney! Val told Mahan.
Let's see them try to enforce that crip-crap in a nation
with a tradition of equality--well, not always, but you know
what I mean.”
Well, they knew what they meant also. But Val and Gretchen and
the gang that hung around Kippy’s Kool Kup ignored these old
ones the same way they would have the old ones who lost.
The newest couple watching the football games there was Gritz
and Nelly-Belly. She being pregnant. Gritz worked in the foundry
and had a mouth you couldn't believe! His wife matched it! Hal often got them to cool it, especially when families with young children dropped in for a snack.
But Gretchen became infatuated with them since their friends were
so Steady-Eddie boring. And life itself had reached such a stuffy,
boring level!
“All our friends are so CAREFUL all the time! Those two make
me laugh!”
So, she started inviting them to family events--where they mostly behaved.
But, enough slipped up that his Uncle Ducks noted them.
One thing and another, he asked them to cut the vulgar couple loose. “They'd be much happier with their own kind.” etc.
Hal wouldn't do it, and, of course, Gretchen backed him up.
The next request came from up higher--Ducks being just
an alderman. And this time he had to insist. The policy had
come down from Washington.
Her girlfriends quickly got to her, too, and so she didn't
object anymore.
It fell to Val to tell them, and he did. Both cried.
It was so embarrassing!
Val and Gretchen still see them at the Kool Kup, and they're often
laughing with a rougher bunch, so it may be true we're happiest
staying in our place.
Labels: Conservative, football, keeping your place, knowing your place, peer pressure, social stratification
Sunday, February 15, 2015
Going Dutch in a
Red State
When Jup and Mitzy got down, they always went to
Trash Alley. This time she got Dutch Boys and Girls.
The Chinese man didn’t have windmills, but girlfriend,
Letz did, she knew.
Jup got National Football League players, sort of. Splotchily
painted, but the jerseys were the approximate color, and
had script identifying the team name.
No ceramic pants, but little erect penises.
“Cute, but they’ll break off if you play with them,” warned
Mitzy.
“I’m not gonna play with their peckers!”
“I mean just play generally. They’re delicate.”
He had another plan, which he told her. It inspired her.
So, for each game that year, he paired the figures.
Thus Bronco versus Raiders, as an example. Then,
photographed them with his phone camera. Sixteen
games, sixteen pictures that week.
When the season opened, she brought along the
actual Dutch figures. Girlfriend Letz, her own little
windmills and wagons and such. They sat in a booth
with other women at Mad Martha’s, and played the way
they did as girls.
On the way back from the men’s room, Jip told them
“Don’t get too rough now!”
Then he returned to his gang watching the contest
on the biggest screen in the place.
Wills and Hester always came late, but this time
she brought the ceramic food she had fashioned.
She got a hearty Dutch welcome. “Let’s eat the
sausages first!” gushed Emily Hertzmeuller.
Meantime, the men tapped their phones together ritually,
and thus received the obscene schedule of Jup’s.
Men, their wives and girlfriends, appreciated him and Mitzy
further livening up their gameday.
Mad Martha in the kitchen yelled to Gypsy Joe at the bar
that they were a class act!
Some of the newer lady friends were tomboys and wouldn’t
play with the women, but roared alongside the men.
“It takes all kinds,” Jup reminded the very conservative
Ralph Betz, nicknamed Reagan.
Labels: child play, Dutch, female bonding, football, male bonding, Reagan, relationships, segregating by sex, sex roles, trash
Thursday, January 29, 2015
One Academic Life
NFZ
The Professor perched at the end of the bar
at Kippy's Kool Kup, observed our antics with
half-lidded, yet twinkling, amusement, and
always paid by check at closing time.
He only spoke when asked a question, the
answer to which could be unraveled during
the rest of the week.
Well, a benign presence, really. Until a
strange evening when one, Laurie, sought
to flirt with him for the absolute hell of it.
Unfortunately, a scattered argument ensued
during which the Professor pushed her right
nipple as if she were a doorbell.
An immediate slap! One of the loudest sounds
ever heard there.
Immediate hysterics from the young lady--which
her friends later classified as one-quarter genuine--
and Kippy jumped in and told the Professor to leave.
Fortunately a semi-famous hockey player known to
Laurie entered upon his exit, and she leapt into his
comforting arms.
A week, and no Professor, so we tried to find out his
phone number. Unlisted. And where he lived.
His Department Chair popped in and asked for direct
intervention. He gave us the address.
A hearing would be held if this temporary recluse
didn't make his next scheduled class.
So, I enlisted Mark, the former Green Beret, and his
brother, former Navy Seal. Thus, heavy lifters,
supervised by weak me.
(Mark's brother might have had a name but we always
referred to him as Mark's Brother--as in “Hey Mark's
Brother, what's the point spread on the Giants-Eagles?”)
Anyway, we sped off to the Professor's efficiency.
No answer, but I knew the lock and took out my Swiss
Army Knife. "Take a few minutes," I informed the
musculars.
They, of course, shouldered the door in.
The Professor sprung up like Hamlet's Father's
Ghost from a daybed indistinguishable from
surrounding papers and books.
"What is the outrage of this meaning?" as a scotch bottle
crashed to the tile floor.
“The outrage?” Mark's Brother snapped, “is that you
stink!”
“Yeah,” added Mark, and a shower will take care of
the meaning.”
So, they hauled him into the bathroom.
Much rushing water and protests as I piled
up things more evenly, so the Board of Health
wouldn't condemn the dump outright.
Mark’s Brother had prepped for the Seals
at the state reform school, and had evidently
learned towel-snapping at naked victims there.
Thus when the water went off, loud snaps and
extraordinary howls.
Long story short, Professor back at his school.
And his stool.
Diehard pricks in the department still wanted
the hearing, but the Chairman rustled up an old
paper on Wordsworth our hero had written, and the
damned incomprehensible thing won an award.
So, Prof secure in both domains presently.
Mark’s Brother exhibits a surprising artistic flair
fashioning a stand-up sign for Prof's station at
the bar. Midst curlicues and obese Cupids diagonally
slashed in red, it reads “NFZ.”
For No-Female Zone.
Labels: academic, art, bar, betting, binge, Cupid, English Dept, female, football, sex, teacher, Wordsworth
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
Wasting Time With Language
& how rare that is in Speedup America!
-It’s like football.
-How so? What is?
-You’re running with the ball and some oaf hammers you!
-Ouch!
-And you fumble. You jump on it, the ball. And all
the meat wagons do too--those who don’t jump
directly on you! And under there, they punch and
gouge you while others try to rip the ball away!
It’s a horror show–-with stinks!
-I get all that. But you’re comparing it to around HERE?
-Comparing what?
-Football, fumble, dirty shit!
-Who said anything about around here?
-Then, comparing to WHAT?
-Nothing! It’s Football, that’s all.
-But you said like, like, something was LIKE football.
-Sure!
-Well, that’s what I’m trying to find out!
-Good luck with all of that!
-You take the Patience of Job!
-My wife always says that. But, like you, she always says a lot of things.
-Uh huh?
-Says a lot of things.
Labels: confusion, football, friends, job, language, Patience of Job
Sunday, November 23, 2014
The Aggressive Woman
is frequently let down, end-
ing up with fellows rather
be at football contests.
When she discovers the slick
sexual technician she sought,
and invests a ton of emotion,
he proves a shallow, lying
sonofabitch. Such a surprise? Go
to a cheap store and wonder
what you bought after? So why
not tutor a decent bloke?
It’s not Rocket Science, though
devilishly complex, nonetheless,
on the less mechanistic side.
After awarding his diploma,
go to the game with him,
and meet the other women,
who expected what they got.
They’re laughing anew, and only
softly ironic. And when the guys
catapult into the game
to scream, stay at
the tailgate party, where
the swelling cheers roll back
into talk of women and men.
But more bemused than acid.
Labels: football, relationship, sex, sexual competence, sexual technology, tailgate
Monday, October 13, 2014
The Irreverence of Small Groups
Three Italian-American Stallions
1
You got jaggedy things sliding around
in your eyes?
2
Yeah! Multi colors.
1
That's the clincher!
3
Ebola?
1
A certainty. And note how black he is!
2
Hey, Ignoramus! Sturdy Sicilian peasant stock!
3
Mafia.
2
A few family members, but just keeping their
hand in.
1
My Friend, OUR oldest predecessors hailed from
the cultured cities. From Rome and Florence!
3
And we go back to Caesar! Whitely.
1
Who screwed up on the Ides of March crap,
or he'd still be with us.
3
Whereas you?
1
Busting clods of shit with webbed feet!
2
So now I'm a duck? I don't get no respect!
1
By way of alleviation, allow me soon to escort
raw you unto my Corridor of Art.
3
He got two paintings.
1
Number One: “Mussolini Midst the Flowers.”
3
Or, “The Ghinny in the Garden.”
2
Can't wait.
1
And Number Two...!
3
“The Ghinny in the Gas Station.”
1
Hanging upside down, unfortunately. Duce, not painting.
3
Mistress alongside. But the Partisans tied her skirt for modesty sake.
2
The morals of murderers.
1
From an old Puritan strain that 's big here now.
3
Enough culture! What'll we do with our Ebola paison?
1
Unfortunately, my Hazmat Suit is hanging in Mother's closet. Maybe my Father can bring it on the bus.
3
He standing guard on it presently?
1
Yeah! Retired. You know how they are.
3
Too much fuss and bother! Let's pour about
a gallon of homemade Ghinny Red down him!
1
And watch pro football?
2
Si! Any Italian players?
1
Most of your color, but not ethnicity.
Labels: black, Ebola, execution, football, Italian, Mussolini, partisan, war
Thursday, October 09, 2014
The Football Group, a Vaudeville
Engaged on Several Fronts
-Harry up with those drinks! He's coming to a boil!
-Centuries of crazy shit, and they've emerged from
dusty backwardness to be able to kill each other with
close to Western Competence. I say get out of their way!
-Wouldn't talk like this if we had a Mahmoud in the group.
-Who's stopping him? We got two Afros and Saul, so who's
to say we're prejudiced?
-Haven't seen him lately.
-You hear him first.
-Incidentally, don't you think we had OUR centuries of crazy shit?
-That was then! This is now!
-(muffled) Who dat fightin down dere? Save it for after the game!
-(together) Nobody here but us Christians.
-(shouting) Besides, you got the wrong end of the stick. It's the TV!
(laughter)
Labels: black, Christian, football, Jew, Moslem, religious war, sectarian war, TV, war
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
NFL 2050
“Go to the war between the Packers and Giants,
and a game breaks out. Boring! So the kids shriek
for Corky’s Breakass Burgers from the video on all
their phones.
To the concessions before halftime, and mobbed!
I fight up to about third in line and everybody leaves!--
Help too! Huge wooshing sound banging up to
the rafters!
They’re panicked! But still plenty of time to see the
beheading. Leading off with Bonzy and the Brooklyn
Belles, and then Cheerleader Awards.
Next, reading out the mangled legal horseshit.
And Main Event, quick.
Clean up a scosh, hoses, followed by drawing for
the Infinity.
Yeah! My turn! I can feel it!
So if the Giants break my heart again, I won’t even
know it! Purring along the highway, refusing to
turn on the radio!”
Labels: beheading, cars, football, future, sport, war
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Varieties of Discourse
in Philadelphia
Mark being articulate, too much, we went crazy with
his repetitions.
Whatever the subject, and they, too, proved limitless.
Lizzy, our garage sale maniac, hit one of Eagles memorabilia,
the old dude having kicked his last football. Evidently a true
idiot, his compressed air horn was thrown in by the grinning
widow when Liz bought all the jerseys at full price.
So, we dressed in them, and blasted the horn when Mark
spouted on and on.
Worked for a while: he clammed after a normal time!
But one night, he kept going anyway, so we adjourned
outside for some weed.
There we just caught his murmurs, not unbearable. Anyway,
the subject was mothers, specifically his.
When we got back, Liz gave him one extraordinarily sustained
blast and he exploded into tears.
Trembling wetly, explained that talking was like breathing
to him!
So we compromised. He sped on, seemingly with infinity in
mind, and we simply turned off.
Yeah? Don’t worry about it! We ARE becoming adults.
Taking our own routes.
Labels: air horn, Eagles, football, Philadelphia, voluble
Wednesday, March 05, 2014
Professional Football Draft
Varieties of Intelligence
-Owner wants fewer criminals or dummies.
-Excuse me! Guy quotes Shakespeare!
-A gimmick. They've primed him with a few and he spouts
'em out. Don't apply to anything.
-Reporters impressed.
-Well, we can't be. Another dope.
-If you're sure.
-Dumb as a bag of hammers.
-Certain brutal aspects of the game where such...!
-Not enough. I say we pass on him. Eggplant!
-Wrong image. Try a yellow squash.
-Whaaa?
-He's Chinese.
-Scouting DVDs not that close, but...impossible! Those people
don't have dopes!
-The glorious, golden exception!
Labels: football, intelligence, player draft, professional football, scouting
Friday, February 28, 2014
Friends at Life and Football
On Cell
-Twenty birds outside my window on a wire. One turns around
to face the other way.
-That’s you.
-That’s me.
-What did it get you?
-Not!
a!
fuckin!
thing!
-So? Why persist?
-Endless loop. If I blow the circuit, I destroy the entire world!
-What a responsibility!
-Thus, I’m odd bird for everybody.
-I’ll never again accuse you of being a selfish, egotistical,
totally scattered son of a bitch!
-Amen amen I say to you that if a man repenteth of judging
his friend...
-Then both will pig out on beer and pizza. Kickoff at Eight!
-...and farteth! there will be Giants in the earth at this time!
-And playing the Eagles! And, I definitely wouldn’t leave
the artisan farting out.
-Our trademark.
-True...but we’ve lost women thereby.
-One thing and another.
Labels: Eagles, female, football, friends, Giants, male, sports bar, young men
