Tuesday, April 03, 2007
This blog needs more bloggers
Cuz I got nothing at the moment. No energy, no inspiration, and especially no energy. Lately, after spending all day staring at a flickering screen and pecking away at a keyboard for a living, the idea of doing so some more for "fun" with any rigor or enthusiasm is feeling a little beyond me. Last year, I tried to give The Dez a password and license to blog, but he wisely declined. Or mercifully declined, depending on one's point of view. Or both. (I vote for both. I always vote for both, because I'm a "yes, whipped cream AND ice cream on my apple pie AND punkin pie, please" kind of guy. In other words, I'm fat.) Maybe I'll have to create a fake blogger profile in his name and start fictionalizing some Dez posts ... that'll show him.
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2 comments:
All right, your eloquent pleas (and my under-ending boredom) have conspired to encourage me to "post up" (or "cowboy up", if I may use the slogan of the less successful 2002 Red Sox). Feel free to give me whatever info is necessary to access your Internet Journal, and I, too, can join the ranks of Tom Tomorrow and the master of dangeral studies.
That reminds me of a newly found loathement of mine, this phrase "man up." Or sometimes "ball/nut up."
As in "Hey holme... time to man up and marry yo baby momma."
Although in illustrating it, I have also exemplified another thing I am sick of-- thewould-be humorous exploitation of the baby-momma thing. It's more tired than your average Nascar pit crew.
Nut up. Blecch. In general I am sick to death of "dude culture," or whatever you want to call it, which unfortunately has subsumed all sports for a long while now, hence my loathement of all sports, too, and nearly anything in TV and movies post 1998.
Yep, I am a hater, not a fighter, Mr McCartney. (I am) Not proud of it.
My life would definitely be better if I just went along with it all, the nutting up, the boogie-ing down, the speaking to and the hotdog and beer franchise of this storied ballclub.
Where did you go, Ozzie Guillen-o, our nation turns its loneley yet very heterosexual eyes to you, woo woo woo.
What's that you say, Mr. Guillen-o, it's only in a "one guy admiring another guy's athletic physique" kinda way, hey hey hey. Hey hey hey holy mackerel.
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