I use humor to cope with a painfully normal childhood.
It happens every time my dad buys a foosball table. My dad, brother, and I shove the dining room table aside and carry the foosball table in by its rods, like we're pallbearers, and reverently set it in its place. Sometimes you hear excitement described as "electricity in the air", but in this case it actually produces Magneto-type human levitation as we circle round the table. For the next several weeks, every day is capitalized and punctuated by the sound of a ball thwacking against the back of the goal. My brother gets especially attached to the table. All you have to do is place your hands on the sticks and yell "Foooosbaaall!" and he will appear as if summoned by words of command.
On our very first foosball table, I would let my younger brother win. (This was before I adopted the policy of Defeating Children Without Mercy.) I was aware of the danger of shoring up his ego with a flimsy truss that could buckle under pressure years later when it really mattered ("Oh, Alonso, I can't possibly marry you. You're not nearly as good a foosball player as you think you are."), but unfortunately, it had the opposite effect. His manufactured confidence turned into real confidence and even when I slapped myself around and tried to get man-serious, he still won. I can't even really say he cheated, except for having the unfair advantage of youth and the hours of practice only possible to someone who has never had a job or contributed meaningfully to society.
Eventually everyone starts missing the dining room table and getting to eat while sitting down, but my brother refuses to give up the foosball table until he is defeated, in single combat or not. This usually culminates with my dad and I playing against him as he mans the other four sticks by himself. The final game features gratuitous groin-jabbing with the rods, people under the table, god damning, and illegal spin shots that send the ball ricocheting into light fixtures. It's a miracle that nobody has lost an eye or a testicle. When my dad and I finally eke out a 10-9 win and clap each other on the back like exhausted war buddies, my brother just smirks and says, "I let you guys win," and I can't tell whether he's lying or not.
One of my fondest wishes is that someday I'll get a mysterious letter in mail inviting me to join a secret organization like the Freemasons or the Illuminati or the Gnomes of Zurich, just so I can be assigned a number and a funny hat and so the secret meetings can give me something to do on Thursday nights. But in the meantime, whenever I feel powerless and like things aren't going my way, I like to watch the news and pretend that each item is a report on some aspect of my Grand Master Plan, steepling my fingers and hissing "excellent" after each story. War with Iraq? Exactly as ordered. Global warming? Regretful, but necessary. Lindsey Lohan back in jail? All according to plan. Then I walk over to my crazy-person yarn map and add a few more disparate threads. I know that if I take this hobby too seriously, I'm bound to be labeled as a conspiracy theorist, but I resent that description. I am more of a...conspiracy practicalist. The damn theorists ruin everything. I mean, just go out into the field and do conspiracy for twenty years, and then you can think about theory.
The prints I ordered for my birthday finally got here. And for the nerds out there, yes, of course I hung them in WUBRG order.
On our very first foosball table, I would let my younger brother win. (This was before I adopted the policy of Defeating Children Without Mercy.) I was aware of the danger of shoring up his ego with a flimsy truss that could buckle under pressure years later when it really mattered ("Oh, Alonso, I can't possibly marry you. You're not nearly as good a foosball player as you think you are."), but unfortunately, it had the opposite effect. His manufactured confidence turned into real confidence and even when I slapped myself around and tried to get man-serious, he still won. I can't even really say he cheated, except for having the unfair advantage of youth and the hours of practice only possible to someone who has never had a job or contributed meaningfully to society.
Eventually everyone starts missing the dining room table and getting to eat while sitting down, but my brother refuses to give up the foosball table until he is defeated, in single combat or not. This usually culminates with my dad and I playing against him as he mans the other four sticks by himself. The final game features gratuitous groin-jabbing with the rods, people under the table, god damning, and illegal spin shots that send the ball ricocheting into light fixtures. It's a miracle that nobody has lost an eye or a testicle. When my dad and I finally eke out a 10-9 win and clap each other on the back like exhausted war buddies, my brother just smirks and says, "I let you guys win," and I can't tell whether he's lying or not.
One of my fondest wishes is that someday I'll get a mysterious letter in mail inviting me to join a secret organization like the Freemasons or the Illuminati or the Gnomes of Zurich, just so I can be assigned a number and a funny hat and so the secret meetings can give me something to do on Thursday nights. But in the meantime, whenever I feel powerless and like things aren't going my way, I like to watch the news and pretend that each item is a report on some aspect of my Grand Master Plan, steepling my fingers and hissing "excellent" after each story. War with Iraq? Exactly as ordered. Global warming? Regretful, but necessary. Lindsey Lohan back in jail? All according to plan. Then I walk over to my crazy-person yarn map and add a few more disparate threads. I know that if I take this hobby too seriously, I'm bound to be labeled as a conspiracy theorist, but I resent that description. I am more of a...conspiracy practicalist. The damn theorists ruin everything. I mean, just go out into the field and do conspiracy for twenty years, and then you can think about theory.
The prints I ordered for my birthday finally got here. And for the nerds out there, yes, of course I hung them in WUBRG order.