Swing and a miss
If you thought buying only toilet paper was embarrassing, try walking into a Lowes to buy only a plunger. At least with the toilet paper, you can kinda play it off like you are doing some arts and crafts with the cardboard tubes, but buying a plunger at 7:00 AM, right when they open... Yeah, pretty much all you can do is smile and try not to give off the impression you spent the morning touching your own feces.
As I left the store with the plunger in my hand, I started waving it around like a sword, and this disheveled guy with a handlebar mustache popped his head out from his car window and grinned “Isn’t life more fun without drugs?” I gave him the wholly appropriate modest acknowledgment and continued to my car, getting about half way before I realized he probably wouldn’t have said anything to me if I hadn’t had a handlebar mustache too. Seems mustached folk like to stick together.
One thing I’m learning in my old age is that lots of people like to defend Timbaland.
I love racehorse names. They are so funny.
Lauren gets irritated when the news anchor on the morning news show doesn’t know what a chubacabra is.
Hey, I’m sad that Bernie Mac died, too... but are we really calling him a “legend”? This is the same guy that did Mr. 3000, right? Just checking.
The Olympics are amazing, but I got a little restless watching athletes flaunt the peak of human physical prowess while I munched chocolate on the couch, so I grabbed Lauren and went to Castle Park for some batting cage madness. Now, I haven’t even attempted to hit a baseball since 2006, when the Actors Crew engaged in some “College is almost over so lets go outside and try to cram four years of exercise into the next two months” baseball fun, and I guess since then my body has... Um, I don’t know how to put it... oh yeah... DETERIORATED INTO THAT COMPARABLE TO A 101 YEAR OLD MAN. Going to the battling cages was the most humbling thing ever. There was Lauren, bopping away at pitch after pitch, while I struggled just to keep from spinning 360 degrees on each swing. Children and adults gathered to watch me as I watched the balls whiz by. What would happen was this- I’d see the machine prepare ball, see it fall into the spinner thing, see it shoot out, and by the time it crossed the plate and hit the protective mat up on the back of the cage, that’s when I’d begin my swing. And the more I missed, the more I’d get MAD, as if adrenaline would suddenly improve my hand eye coordination. 60 pitches later, I think I hit 3 or 4 cleanly, and I gave the rest of the balls the day off. So, I learned two things- A) I cant hit a baseball, and B) A blister the size of a nickel between your index finger and thumb, contrary to popular belief, does in fact hurt like a motherfucker.
Lauren gloated that she was better than me at hitting baseballs, but when I turned out to be better than her at Dance Dance Revolution, she said it was dorky. So now I’m just a dorky guy with a big blister on his hand and a huge penis.
See what I did there?
As I left the store with the plunger in my hand, I started waving it around like a sword, and this disheveled guy with a handlebar mustache popped his head out from his car window and grinned “Isn’t life more fun without drugs?” I gave him the wholly appropriate modest acknowledgment and continued to my car, getting about half way before I realized he probably wouldn’t have said anything to me if I hadn’t had a handlebar mustache too. Seems mustached folk like to stick together.
One thing I’m learning in my old age is that lots of people like to defend Timbaland.
I love racehorse names. They are so funny.
Lauren gets irritated when the news anchor on the morning news show doesn’t know what a chubacabra is.
Hey, I’m sad that Bernie Mac died, too... but are we really calling him a “legend”? This is the same guy that did Mr. 3000, right? Just checking.
The Olympics are amazing, but I got a little restless watching athletes flaunt the peak of human physical prowess while I munched chocolate on the couch, so I grabbed Lauren and went to Castle Park for some batting cage madness. Now, I haven’t even attempted to hit a baseball since 2006, when the Actors Crew engaged in some “College is almost over so lets go outside and try to cram four years of exercise into the next two months” baseball fun, and I guess since then my body has... Um, I don’t know how to put it... oh yeah... DETERIORATED INTO THAT COMPARABLE TO A 101 YEAR OLD MAN. Going to the battling cages was the most humbling thing ever. There was Lauren, bopping away at pitch after pitch, while I struggled just to keep from spinning 360 degrees on each swing. Children and adults gathered to watch me as I watched the balls whiz by. What would happen was this- I’d see the machine prepare ball, see it fall into the spinner thing, see it shoot out, and by the time it crossed the plate and hit the protective mat up on the back of the cage, that’s when I’d begin my swing. And the more I missed, the more I’d get MAD, as if adrenaline would suddenly improve my hand eye coordination. 60 pitches later, I think I hit 3 or 4 cleanly, and I gave the rest of the balls the day off. So, I learned two things- A) I cant hit a baseball, and B) A blister the size of a nickel between your index finger and thumb, contrary to popular belief, does in fact hurt like a motherfucker.
Lauren gloated that she was better than me at hitting baseballs, but when I turned out to be better than her at Dance Dance Revolution, she said it was dorky. So now I’m just a dorky guy with a big blister on his hand and a huge penis.
See what I did there?