Marvin Harrison: A custom made, .50-caliber Belgium handgun? Seriously? What the hell, Marvin? Who are you ... Erwin Rommel? Danny Vermin? Maybe we should just tone down the exotic heavy weaponry. You're guarding a bar and a carwash. Not the Lost Ark. Jesus. Foe. As much as it pains me.
Learning to change a girl's diaper: Having changed thousands of diapers already, it shouldn't be a problem. What's the big deal? you say. How different could it be? Well fuck you. That's how different it could be. Because I'm used to the boy's diapers ... where what you see is what you get. See the problem, clean the problem, move on. But the girl's? Sweet fucking Desitin. Comparatively speaking, it's like cleaning out the vast Catacombs of St. Callixtus down there. More nooks and crannies and folds than Scottie Pippen's scalp. Foe. Damn you, complicated female anatomy.
NBA Playoffs: Mesmerizing. Just mesmerizing. And an unprecedented turnaround, really. Because the NBA -- as far as watchability -- has pulled off a real life Rod Tidwell. From unconscious and possibly paralyzed to instantly doing hand springs and hard-core break-dancing moves. Between the NBA's reemergence and Costco once again selling 8-pound boxes of Frosted Mini Wheats ... all's right with the world. Friend.
The remote key entry on our new car: I like the old one better. Much better. Click it once -- doors lock, alarm gets set, all in one quick (and discrete) move. So after I'd park at the seedy Village Pantry in Broad Ripple, the fierce looking hobos and winos meandering around the bus stop out front wouldn't care that the alarm was being activated. They'd know that I was simply locking my doors ... not necessarily judging them. They understood. They may be potentially violent homeless people ... but they're not morons. Which brings me to my new car. The one where I need a SECOND -- far less discrete -- maneuver to activate the alarm. Damn it all! Because it's painfully clear what I'm saying with this extraneous, albeit very needed move:
Yeah ... the doors ARE locked. You heard right. That's what the first, somewhat quiet beep indicated. But you know what? That's probably not gonna cut it. Not with you dressed in old paper mache and twine. I think I'll to take the extra precautions here. **BEEEEP BEEEEP** Uh-huh. That would be the alarm right there. It's on. Bask in my condescending whiteness, peasants.
Fuck you, Chevy. Thanks for making me look like an asshole and probably getting me stabbed. Foe.
My 38 trips to Target in the last three days: Do you know where the Cottonelle feminine wipes are? I do. In fact, I could go all Steve Williams and give you their exact yardage from the store entrance. And I could do it from memory. Same goes for nursing bras, nursing pads, Maxi pads, the Playstation 3 console (sweet, sweet respite!), Preparation H, and Pampers Newborn Swaddlers. Foe. A pox upon you, Target. You and your wide array of post-delivery products.
Kentucky Derby: Blah blah blah quarter post blah blah evil gay jockey blah blah blah dead horse on the track blah blah blah. Yawn. There's about zero things to like about horse racing. It's all so predictable. Nothing changes. Foe.
Post-delivery nonchalance: I get it. These people deliver lots and lots and lots of babies. They've seen it all, and it's old hat to them. Well guess what, Doc. IT'S NOT OLD HAT TO ME!!! I'm not really down with just leaving the placenta on the table as if it were a Kroger vegetable tray. Move the fucking thing!! Throw it away. Take it out for testing. I don't care. Do something. I mean, it's a sizable part of a human body. And it looks like a blood-soaked Goodyear radial. Holy Christ. The room is spinning again. Foe.
Tom Crean laying down the law at IU:
Here here, Coach. Well played. Friend. Damn near best friends. Holy shit this guy's fantastic.
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