This week is the baseball preview issue, with CC Sebathia on the cover (whomever that is; sounds like some sort of Greek plumbing tool). I must admit I was eager to read the funny snippits, inciteful stories and thought-provoking commentaries that have been a part of SI's long tradition of printed quality. Yeah.
As it turns out, I left the house disgusted, in hopes of finding a new parrot so I could line it's cage with this waste of paper. I returned with nothing, remembering that I had no money with which to buy said parrot. Too bad. I would have named her Lady Ariana Huffington.
After eight more bourbons, I settled down on the couch to play a few rounds of Team Deathmatch on Call of Duty: World at War. These Japs aren't going to kill themselves! Wait...maybe they might. To my surprise and anger, I remembered that I lent out my XBOX to my nephew! Is this how my kindness is rewarded? I thought to myself. OH, WHAT A CRUEL FATE!
With my copy of The Zombie Survival Guide thoroughly memorized and dog-eared, my only choice was to finish the SI. I bitterly perused the Point After by Phil Taylor about some dicknozzle coach who put up a 100-0 score in a girls' basketball game. Later, after some quiet sobbing and fetal spooning with my sweaty couch pillows, the only relief I found was that I hadn't come across the story on my beloved DeadSpin. You see, I need new shit; not some re-hashed, week-old rendering of games that some college-educated crustacean scribbled notes about on paper. So I'm done. From porn to politics, print media has permenently lost me to the vast, far reaches of Al Gore's internet universe. In the following paragraphs, I offer another example as to why I'm divorcing the ancient moveable type.
I've waited all year for it. First, I started training my pancreas in hopes of tackling the ominous fried pastries and assorted meat/bread combos without slipping into a dizzying diabetic coma. Then, I walked (well, more like moseyed) 5 miles a week preparation for the slow, measured browsing of games and cheap shit for sale. Finally, the day had arrived: The Osceola County Fair was here!
~The bright yellow Scientology tent/compound. Complete with a comfortable table and chair with a sign reading "free stress test." Shackles and tranquilizer dart not shown.
~A dude making chainsaw sculptures inside a chicken wire booth. His leather chaps were quite thick and manacing.
~A little girl carrying her prize won from a carnival game: A framed Chris Brown photo. Words cannot describe.
~Carnies fucking harassing me to try their sheisty games...muttering, "What are ya, too cheap to get yer girlfriend a teddy bear?" You want me to knock that Kool menthol out of your toothless maw, you apron-wearing jerkoff? Havn't you died of AIDS yet?
~Several legitimate churches set up booths inside. They caught my attention with shiny paper things that some people call books. The person behind the table smiled and gleefully informed me that everything was free.
This one caught my attention and I grabbed it. It features known choke artist Kurt Warner in an outdated uniform taking a snap while facing the wrong way. Or pitching it back to his RB. Either way, it sucks. I'd never read anything that had religion and sports converging, and I remembered that I had to visit the Ornage County Tag & Title office the next day anyway. Why not kill some time? It's not like I had a choice.
The tag office sucked anteater balls. The computers were offline, I was flanked by a cadre of white trash moms, and I would end up trapped there for a total of four hours! Also, the book blew except for the outdated passages about sports personalities and their relationships with God. At first, I was apprehensive. I thought, Listen, you silly-ass book...I'm right with the Lord, and I don't need some shitstained jock who gets hit in the dome for a living to tell me how to be a better Christain. I'm in church every Easter and Christmas! I'd rather hear it from this cocksock:
Bengals mascot Brent Claiborne understands the change that comes to someone who has accepted God's love. 'When I'm not wearing the mascot suit, when it's just
me in my street clothes, my efforts to encourage people or make them smile don't
accomplish anything. On its own, without me in it, the suit is just a pile of
furry material sitting on a cement floor in the stadium.
But with a living person inside it, the suit becomes alive. This is how I feel
after asking Christ to become a part of my life. He's living inside me, giving
me a new life.
Standing up for my beliefs, no matter what, is one more way I define being
a person of integrity.