January 24, 2004
The Bubble Bath
It's a lazy Saturday afternoon. I'm watching the Michigan/Ohio State game and talking on the phone to an old college buddy. We both agree that John Cooper is much pussy.
I hear Sara approaching from the hall and she announces, "You know what? I'm gonna spend the rest of the day pampering myself. I deserve it. I'm gonna put on a mud mask, light all the candles around the tub, maybe pour myself some wine. I'm gonna fill that tub up with bubbles, grab a good book and just disappear for a couple of hours. Whaddaya think, baby? Want to join me?"
"Hey," I say, "I'm on the fucking phone here."
Yeah, like that's what I wanna do...spend a couple hours in a scalding bath staring at that Zulu mud mask while she scrubs at her feet with weird burnishing stones. Of course, Sara shoots me one of those wounded looks (hey, I WAS on the phone) and slams the bathroom door.
I'll have to kiss her ass when she gets out, but for now I got two solid hours of football without interruption. That's two solid hours of bone-breaking violence without having to listen to Sara drone on about "sublimated homoeroticism." Oh yeah, like Woody Hayes was a fag or something. Jesus.
Why is it chicks can stare at two hours of Elsa Klensch and runway models from Milan and it's not sublimated lesbianism? At least there's a final score in football. Now if the models hit each other and there was a final score of like Karl Lagerfeld: 24, Donatella Versace: 17, I'd be into it. How about Vera Wang versus Anna Sui in some kinda chick mud wrestling?
Or maybe a tag team affair for the Unified Shoe title...say Joan and David versus Ferragamo and Charles Jourdan. And the winners would get a big, tacky belt that didn't match their shoes. That's pay-per-view gold, in my opinion.
I hear Sara sloshing around in the bathtub when this Buckeye gets hit weird and falls down all paralyzed. Well, the crowd gets all quiet and the announcer says, "this really puts things into perspective." Well, NO, it doesn't. It just ruins the rhythm of the game. Put the guy on a respirator and let's play ball!
But instead they gotta stop the game for 20 minutes and put a cervical collar on the guy (Hey, it's a little LATE for that, guys). And the whole time I'm wondering if this guy will get to keep his scholarship. I mean, his limbs don't work anymore. He couldn't even play for Northwestern in that condition.
So my buddy asks me if I think the paralyzed guy's dick will still work? And I say, "not without a complicated series of pumps and pulleys it won't." And then we're thinking about this guy's girlfriend up in the stands and how she'll have to go the hospital and tell him that maybe they "rushed into things" and how she needs "some time on her own just to think things through." And he'll be blinking like a madman, trying to make her feel guilty and stuff. I give her about a week before she's banging some guy in the Poli Sci department.
Okay, what was I talking about? Oh that's right, Sara and her bubble bath.
To be continued....