The Bloggy Blogface!

Friday night at this tiny A-League ballpark and the five of us roll in like we own the place. Three of us have been there before, the others were park virgins. After some seasonals in lame team polos scan our tickets, we head straight to the Oskar Blues tent to pick up some tallboys. One of my friends knows the lady behind the counter and she slices the price from six-fifty to three for us. Score. This being Jesus Carolina, only one beer at a time per customer, please. Make our way up the stairs where there seems to be way too many damn ushers trying to help fans find their seats. We don't need no stupid usher help, we got this. General admission seating happens on the upper level in opposite corners of the ballpark. Upper level is relative, because it's maybe a step up from a walkway that cuts the sections in half. We don't see any five seats close together on the right field side at first, so we start along the walkway looking for other spots. We come to a large swath ...

Inspired through another blog, I decided to analyze someone's random Craigslist personals ad. This is an actual ad from "women seeking men." My commentary is in red. Yup, I'll Watch Football With You On Sundays =) - 29    Well how precious. Does this mandate I sit through Real Housewives of Whatever Shitty Location with you? I hope so. 'm enjoying the summer...but I always look forward to the fall! I've been "trained" to be a good football watcher - and I actually enjoy watching the Pats' games! Now, I may be doing my nails or something while it's on, but I promise not to ask you what a first down means =) A typo right off the bat. Delicious!  Once again another reference to the football. WE GET IT. And I love how "trained" is in quotes. What the hell does that even mean? I imagine her former fuck buddy strapping her to a metal folding chair, tying her up, clamping her eyes wide open and forcing her to watch hours upo...

   Seventy-seven years ago (or thereabouts) I fell off the wagon. Well, a wagon. Zipping down a neighborhood street with a steep descent, I tumbled out of my cherry red Radio Flyer and cut my arm pretty bad. Turns out that handle doesn't make for a good steering wheel. Nobody was around to see me tumble, although I guess my sister was, or may have been. I told her to give me a push at the top and that's exactly what she did, watching me speed down the embankment and around a sharp corner before I lost control. By the time I brushed myself off and lumbered my way back up the hill, dragging that damn faulty steering wheel handle, I could see she was nowhere to be found. My sister raced home before I took the spill, probably telling our mother what had happened. True to her stoic German form, mom was neither worried nor upset. As I'm whimpering and clutching my arm walking through the door, she utters the same phrase she always said whenever my sister or I would get hurt ...