Acting Crazy

Small. Thin.
Forget Captain of the Football Team, I was King of the Drama Club.
I had the lead in every production.
Tom Thumb.
Hamlet.
Peter Pan.
The spotlight was mine… MINE!
Until… puberty.
I got tall, clumsy, and… other things.
This year, instead of Peter, I’m “a” pirate.
Not even Captain Hook? OUTRAGEOUS!
That little shrimp, Marty Finkelstein, stole my role and my Tinkerbell, Cindy Van Hooten!
You know when Tinkerbell saves Peter by drinking poison?
Clap all you want. She’s not getting up.
And this isn’t a rubber sword.
Meet me and your doom at center stage, Peter.

Play The Ponies

My uncle Dexter would disappear every Friday night, and then return for Sunday brunch.
Sometimes, he’d have cash stuffed into his pockets, and other times he be flat broke and sporting a black eye or two.
“Your stupid Uncle Dexter plays the ponies.” my mom would say. “Stay away from him.”
So, that night, I followed him from street to street, until he reached the racetrack.
He wired up all the horses to a massive keyboard, turned on the power, and played them like a pipe organ.
It sounded awful, but not as bad as my sister practicing her violin.

Washing Balls

I don’t play golf with Father Cunningham anymore.
It’s not because he’s so much better than me.
It’s because of how he’s so much better than me.
“Oh, I just have Sister Mary say a blessing over my balls before I go out to play,” he said one day.
And I didn’t think about this at all. It was just a little divine intervention.
Heck, don’t we all sneak in a little prayer now and then to beg The Almighty for help?
Then, I realized that he always bought golf balls still in a package before every round we played.

Contender

The Houston Astros had the worst record in professional baseball last year with 106 losses.
After trading away veterans and remaining talent to teams still in contention for some prospects, they’re on track to lose even more.
I still watch the games, though.
First off, we’re coming up on September, and that’s when the rosters expand and they can call up players from the minors. They’ll play their hearts out, either making amazing plays or hilarious mistakes trying to impress.
Even better, nothing’s funnier than a play-by-play announcer for a lousy team.
What, you thought I’d PAY to see them?

Ribbon

I didn’t watch any of the Olympics on TV.
Not even the women’s beach volleyball.
However, a friend of mine at NBC is scoring me a tape of all the Ribbon Gymnatics footage.
No, I’m not interested in that shit either, Those chicks wear a lot more than the volleyball chicks, and they’re usually only thirteen or fourteen.
It’s for my cats.
They love to play and jump at with twirling ribbons, so I’m going to leave the tape running while I go to work.
Forget what the Russian judge says. To the cats, every performance is a perfect ten.

Tennis

Oh. God. No.
Not tennis.
Aside from the Monica Seles stabbing in 1993, I don’t find tennis all that interesting.
Sure, some of the chicks grunt, but that gets repetitive.
And I appreciate a cute butt in white shorts when I see it, but Pete Sampras retired.
Golf is boring, too.
You hear about people getting struck by lightning while playing golf, but they never show that on the Golf Channel.
And the chicks don’t grunt.
Has there ever been a stabbing?
Well, there will be one if you don’t change the channel.
Oh, and get me a beer, too.

13 and 666

Triskaidekaphobia is the fear of the number 13. Many American buildings skip the number 13 when numbering floors.
Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia is the fear of the number 666, which some consider the Number Of The Beast.
No building is tall enough to have a six hundred and sixty-sixth floor to skip, but Ronald and Nancy Reagan had their house number changed to 668 because of that fear.
Golf courses, on the other hand, have thirteenth holes, so I suppose if there were 666 holes, those would be numbered properly, too.
I’d hate to have to mow the grass on that course, though.

Shod And Dangerous

I bought a pair of running shoes with built-in computer chips that track how far and fast you run.
Just wave the shoes over your laptop, and it uploads all the information to a website, complete with maps and calories.
One morning, I looked at the chart, and it said I had run all the way to bank and back overnight.
I don’t remember doing that.
Had I been sleepwalking? Or sleepjogging?
I got my shoes out of the closet, and a bag of money fell off a shelf.
Apparently, I’d been sleepbankrobbing.
At least the shoes paid for themselves.

The Art Of Boxing

Ted was a boxer, one of the best.
He wasn’t just a fighter, though.
He was an artist.
Literally, an artist. He’d dip his gloves in the paint, hear the bell, and come out painting his opponent with blows, knocking him down to the canvas over and over.
If they made it past the first round, his corner man would get him more paint, and he’d touch things up in round two.
Then, after the match, the canvas would be pulled up, framed and sold.
Ted eventually lost. KO in the fifth to a Featherweight pointillist.
“Self-Portrait” they called it.

Ring

Packed crowd at Madison Square Garden.
A boxer climbs through the ropes and steps into the ring.
The crowd roars.
Another boxer climbs in.
More cheering.
The boxers wait.
“Where’s the ref?” asks the first boxer.
“I dunno,” says the other.
They turn to their corners, but their managers and crews don’t have a clue, either.
A microphone is lowered on a cord, but there’s nobody to take it.
So, one of the boxers grabs it and begins to sing.
The other joins in as harmony.
The crowd loves it.
Beats getting the shit beaten out of you, I suppose.