Triple axle! Double toe loop!

I sit here, drinking my fourth glass of wine (yes, it's been that kind of week...) and I watch the Olympics in Torino. At this moment, women's free skate is on; I’m sure in about 90 seconds it ill switch to downhill skiing; 90 seconds after that it will be curling for 30 minutes, then 90 more seconds of free skate; on to 90 seconds of ice luge, then 25 minutes of curling, followed by 60 seconds of ice skating, finishing up with body shots and vodka luge shots. Funny how they suck you in, those Olympics. Start you off with something interesting like figure skating, and then drag you into waiting for more figure skating by putting on curling. What the heck is curling anyway? STUPID, that's what it is. You put a frisbee on ice and grab up a broom and you got the same dang thing. I'd rather watch paint peel, or my 14-month old niece drip snot out her nose (which, by the way, is much faster than paint peeling or a speed skater racing the 500-meter). So NBC is filming the Olympics, and they can feed you whatever crap they want, whenever they want. AND they can put the most ridiculous commentators on TV that they can find. That's part of the allure, I suppose. No wonder American Idol beats the crap out of them in ratings. I don't even watch AI, but I tuned in because speed skating was on. I'd rather here bad singing, than watch people in weenie huggers juggle their hoo-ha's around while spinning in circles (see article on Batwing, published earlier this year).

Anyway, I do enjoy a good bit of figure skating, mostly the women's. For some reason, men in sparkly, floral, tight spandex don't do it for me. Especially when they're pretending to fly like butterflies to music I'd hear at a NASCAR race. Weird. I mean, some are cool, but they aren't nearly as graceful as the ladies are. I also like those badass snowboarders, especially the idiot ones who try to be all cool when they think they are winning, then take a nose dive and get silver. That, honestly, was the best part of the Olympics - cause I could TOTALLY relate with feeling like that kind of idiot. Really hit home for me: I felt like I was a part of the games. Oh, the embarrassment, I could almost taste it...I reminisced about times of my youth where I was a dumbass. Never cost me the gold, though, so I could still laugh at her.

So I guess it's a prerequisite of being a commentator at the Olympics that you have to be a complete idiot who is capable of constant diarrhea of the mouth. Those meatheads could talk Helen Keller to death. I actually felt dumber after listening to them. "Oh, what a great triple toe loop, double lutz, flippety floppety floo! Looked great except for the two-foot landing that sprayed ice! And her skirt flipped up a bit! Not her best performance, Dick, I have to say." And then they go onto: "What a beautiful sit spin into a toe pick jumpety flying thing! It's too bad that she actually had her skate on the ice - she should have been completely levitating for that..." I kid you not, they actually said this: "Well, Dick, she seems a bit tight tonight; she needs time to harness that speed and really skate like a champion. She flew going into this double flip, but it should have been a triple! What a shame." Are you kidding? I'd like to see fat ol' Dick or that silly lady get out there and stretch your body in ways it wasn't meant to go. They sure can talk big, but can they land the quad, I ask you??? Yeah fricking right. They are paid to make things sound dramatic...but there's only so much drama that can be added to curling, friends. They change the tone of their voice to try and convey how serious sliding a rock along ice is...now that's entertainment, and they are really earning their millions.

Let's talk for a moment about these young lady figure skaters. Freaks of nature is what they are. Let's start with the skates. The boots are flimsier than string cheese, and yet they play hopscotch and jump double-dutch on these things. They must have plates and screws in their ankles, cause landing on them that hard is flipping ridiculous. Next: the costumes. There must be a multi-million dollar business creating these works of sheer insanity. Apparently, you have to be on LSD to think that a teal flapper skirt with sequins and strobe lights will impress the judges. However, it does look pretty good on the ol' spinny flip jump whozeewhatsit. The men's costumes are terrible embarrassing. Not even going to go there, except to make the following statement: "Pattern and camel toes are not a fashion statement, nor do they win you gold medals in my book." And why do they fake you out with the flesh-colored material? I mean, put the hoochie dress on and show some skin. Don't tease us with your synthetic sexiness.

Talking about sexy - I couldn't honestly say that figure skaters are sexy. They are like gymnasts on blades. Too skinny and too much makeup. They try to defeat all that through the costume, but they aren't fooling me. No sir-ee. Let's get down to the nitty gritty. The flexibility. These ladies have some ferocious skill, and are quietly REALLY flexible. When you can reach back and pull your foot over your head twice and spin 'round like a top, either your leg is not attached to your body, or you are a figure skater. All I can think about when they are skating is how happy their boyfriends must be. Yeesh!

Ok, let's get to the badass-ness of these ladies. Playing ice hockey myself, I know how hard that stinkin' ice is. Very hard. Like, concrete hard. It hurts when you fall, even with equipment. I can skate forward, backwards, and turn around. When I fall doing any of these, I am concerned that I will get a concussion or bruise severely. It's not something I like to think about. Then I look at these kiddos, and they have no equipment, no ankle support, and no body padding (their rear ends are about as bulky as a cotton ball), and are traveling pretty fast. When they fall, it's like bone smashing against ice. Then they get up right away and keep on skating to the music. Now, pardon my French, but that's balls. I would most likely cry and skate off, but these nutties keep on trucking through their toe-loops, spinners, axles, fan belts, and other car part-like "technical" moves. No wonder they wear the flesh-colored leg warmers, they're hiding all the bruises! And the casts from their broken hips! They've got to be addicted to some sort of opiate - I can't imagine how they get through it otherwise. Maybe that's how they are convinced to wear the chartreuse outfits with a side of cubic zirconium and multi-colored ribbons.

I don't know how they do it, but I have to stand in complete respect for anyone who makes the Olympics. Regardless of how many times they fall or take a spill in the downhill, or finish with the worst possible time in the history of man, they made it there, through steroids, bribes, skill, or the fact that they were the only one who could curl in their country. Any way you look at it, well done, ye athletes, even the ones who wear seizure-causing costumes and "dance" on ice. I salute you for your efforts and, for the Americans, your choice of Roots clothing (actually, they have TERRRRRRRRRRRRIBLE uniforms this year...and I do mean terrible. Have you seen the men's ice hockey? Atrocious! We can't win medals... They should have had that freak from Project Runway design the gear...anything would be better). Anywho - cheers to Torino, that sleepy town in Italy who doesn't even care that the Olympics are there. Cheers to NBC for making a boatload on a sporting event that they stink at producing and will still make money on. And finally, cheers to all of us who haven't flipped over to CSI or some other program, and who accept curling as a sport, even though it should be banned faster than gay marriage.

As a proud Georgetown alum, all I have to say is "Hoya Saxa"! And for those plebeians who don't know the translation, that is "what rocks"! So there, curling, you've had your moment of glory and own personal cheer...

He's the Wiz and he lives in Oz.

A quite common (translation: all the time) occurrence around here is that I'll get a song stuck in my head, and then after awhile (could be minutes, days, years) another song will bump that song out of the way and take its place, and so on and so forth, until I am driven crazy because I can't think about anything other than the broken record lodged in my head. So what is today's song? Well, it's from a musical-made-movie called The Wiz (musical: 1973; movie: 1978). A suite of probably some of the most fantastically addictive song lyrics (although by far, not quite as addictive as manhamanha). I highly encourage you to rent/watch this movie - if not for the goodies and giggles, at least to see what Michael Jackson looked like when he was black and had a nose. You may hate it, that's fine, I don't care, (because, you see, if you hate it, then you've seen it, and you've done exactly what I wanted you to do by seeing it. It's all about control! So there you have it.). Anyway, it provides an excellent contrast to the regular ol' Wizard of Oz (unless of course, you've done "the Dark Side of Oz" - which is awesome in its own right and you are to be commended and are exempt from having to rent The Wiz. Those were the days...Pink Floyd, a black & white TV set, and some really groovy brownies...What was in those anyway?) So, to get your groove back on and see a not-so-whitebread, Harlem-esque, incandescent color, loud late 70s-style funk (and fashion) weird perspective on the time honored story of a girl who kills witches and follows a yellow brick road, then ease on down, ease on down the road and pop that ol' beta tape into your HDTV.

Well, now that you've had the intro to The Wiz (by the way, DIANA ROSS is in it TOO!), you may be wondering which song(s) are cycling through my head. Before I get to that, I should probably begin with how exactly how I fell in love with The Wiz, enough to have it stuck in my head. It was a long time ago, I was only a wee lass...ok enough crap - I'm not in love with it - I saw it a bunch when I was little - and it's got 2 or 3 funky catchy little tunes. It's so ridiculous that it makes me laugh (not hard to do, but still, it's funny). There are crows on motorcycles, for haven't sake, what couldn't there be to love?? Michael Jackson is a scarecrow with fortune cookie papers as his brain! Toto looks like a rat! Richard Pryor is the Wiz! And to top it off, Diana Ross is Dorothy! (She has an awesome afro in the movie - and I do mean awesome, and she's got some serious dance moves...) There's also some token old white chick who's a witch or something. Regardless, the movie kind of stinks, (SPOILER: she just clicks her heels together and goes home - sorry for ruining it!), but some of the songs are funny. TAKE, for example the one that is in my head. The lyrics go a something like this (hear the song snippet on the link below): "You can't wiiiiiin, you can't break even, and you can't get out of the game" (tone: kind of like a desperate, resigned plea) And why, dear friends, was I feeling the groove of this song today? Well, I'm here, chained to my desk...Realizing that I can't win the lottery with odds of 245,000,000,000 to 1; I definitely can't break even on the salary I'm getting paid; and I can't get out of this damn grown-up-work-everyday-cause-you-have-to-or-else-you'll-starve world. Ever have one of those days?? If so, maybe you'll ease on down, ease on down the road (don't you carry nothing that might be a load), and you can slide some oil to me, and let me lubricate my mind.

References, for your enjoyment, and so you aren't completely clueless as to what I'm talking about (the clips are only ~20-25 seconds long):
http://www.towerrecords.com/product.aspx?pfid=1191755

In this blog:
The title line song: He's The Wizard: March Of The Munchkins
You Can't Win
Ease On Down The Road - (#1)
Slide Some Oil To Me

I don't know if you should hear these before or after you read the blog. From one standpoint, if you hear them first, you are liable to think "damn, that's weird" and then be clued in on what the rest of the blog means. On the other hand, if you listen to them after reading the text, you're liable to think "Oh, I get it (the references) now, and damn, that's weird." Either way, I don't care, since you read this article to the end. And you know you read it to the end because you just were thinking "Yes, fine, you got me to read to the end." And after all, it's all about control...

Opening ceremonies

You see the Olympic Winter Games opening ceremonies? You see those skaters with the helmets that shoot fire out the back of them? Those were awesome - they reminded me of how I feel after drinking too much tequila! Also, it triggered memories of the movie "The Rocketeer" (terrible - if you haven't seen it, don't, just trust me that there was blazing fire off the body involved). Anyway, I wish they played the sports with rockets of fire. Imagine how tough it would be to land a triple-axle with your head blasting you across the rink - now that's skill if you can land one of those at 35 MPH. How about downhill skiing, or the slalom or whatever those fancy skiing events are called? You'd end up melting the path behind you. I feel sorry for the sucker who falls behind - singed eyebrows and no medal to show for it - that super-stinks.

Be careful, though - ice hockey with all the hits might be some trouble. Wouldn't want your head blown off after getting checked into the boards. Or during a fight...now that's a bunch of hotheads (sorry - I had to throw in the terribly corny joke - I laughed, and that's all that matters...then again, I have a tendency to laugh at a lot of my stupid jokes...then again, I don't tell most jokes out loud, because I end up screwing them up and completely bungling the funny part, making me look like an idiot, as if I need help with that. At least I know my limits - writing gives me a change to think a bit more about execution as my fingers attempt to catch up with my brain - I only type 16 words a minute...just kidding, more like 10). Ok anyway, after a large parenthetic break of verbal diarrhea, back to the helmets o' fire. Good thing a lot of athletes don't smoke - it'd be one heck of a day if your helmet inadvertently got set off. Also, what if you wanted to stop skating or skiing or bobsledding or whatnot - it's not as if you can come to an easy stop - you wait until the gas runs out, or your if you try to attempt the impossible, your body stops while your head keeps going. Yuck. What if you fell? Your body would spin like a top - digging a circular hole in the snow/ice! Instead of snow-angels, there'd be snow divots. On the bright side, with a blazing inferno strapped to the back of your head, you sure could roast a nice marshmallow anytime you wanted, fire up a good Italian sausage (being that you are in Italy), or warm up a village full of bums. Guess you take the good with the bad when your head's on fire.

Alas, these are the things that keep me up at night. Just like that dyslexic agnostic insomniac who tries to sleep at night wondering if there is a dog.

HA!

Interstate?

I love how Hawaii has an Interstate…

Those Hawaiians, such kidders! Aloha!

Excuse me, your latte is in my eye.

Why is it that a frequent topic of the publisheR is travel? Well, it’s my blog and I’ll write about what I want to - leave me alone! Ok, fine, the real reason is that travel brings out the best, worst, and most ridiculous in people – if you really look, people are funny as heck in general, but even funnier when traveling, because it pushes us to act in ways we never would in everyday interactions. Don’t get me wrong, animals are hysterical too, as are plants and rocks, and everything springing forth from us outside of travel is just plain bizarre – from how we act to things we make (cars, tricycles, fudge brownies, cocktail napkins, etc – you get my point). (Plants and rocks wouldn’t nearly be as funny without people doing stupid stuff with them – especially while traveling). But it’s traveling that makes you shake your head and wonder how people lasted this long on earth. It’s the stupid people I’m concerned with, and well, that’s all of us. The Intelligent Designer sure had a sense of humor – he/she/it gets to observe all of our moronic tendencies all at once – giving fodder for great works, such as the Bible, Koran, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Jesus Christ Superstar, and Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.

ANYWAY…you may wonder how snag fits into this, given that this blog is called “Snagwatch.” Well, people are weird and funny, and sometimes those weird and funny people have snag. Severe cases of snag and/or snaggle (upsetting or hysterical) will be noted in their own individual entries, and people’s dentition will be used to accentuate and embellish stories as we go along our journey towards the light…

So, back to travel. Here’s what’s so interesting about travel, it’s a time when you are around a plethora of people you don’t know anything about, and I have the tendency to want to watch these people, not in a stalker fashion, but mostly because I am scared and don’t want them to come too close. That why I carry my trusty invisible lightsaber. (Shoot! That was supposed to be internal monologue…) I mean, that’s why I have my evil glare all polished up and ready to flash at a moment’s notice. This visage can scare you back 10-12 feet if you aren’t careful. I’ve been known to cause heart palpitations and incontinence as well. So keep your heart medicine and diapers on hand in case you get a look from me. You may also feel it burn a hole in the back of your head if your back is facing me. It’s powerful stuff.

Car traffic is scary in its own right, as there are all these people you don’t know, and you’ve got a 3,000 pound bumper car you can take them out with if you don’t like them. You also have a middle finger that can do a mighty fine job of expressing how grateful you are that they cut you off. With public transportation, if you don’t like the way someone is looking at you, or someone is being obnoxious, you can either throw your paper at them in disgust, or simply change train cars. Same thing with the bus. The 2C will come around in another hour or so, and you are fine. With flying, however, that is a whole different bag of walnuts. If you don’t like someone who is going to be on the airplane, you are stuck with them on the tin can o’ death (I don’t really like flying – we’ll get to that later) for hours. No ifs, ands, or buts. If you try to punch them out, you get shot by the air marshal or tacked by the flight attendant, and they pour “hot” coffee (translation: cold mud) on you.

A recent experience. I had a 5 hour flight ahead of me – it left mid-morning or so, no hurry or funny stories in getting to the airport or going through security (although I’m sure in the future there will be). At this moment, the only thing I’m concerned about now is that I can’t remember where I parked my car among the 5,000 other cars at the airport. No worries, I suppose I’ll just cross that bridge when I get to it.

It always amazes me when people stampede the ticket counter at the gate, waiting for their “Group” to be called to get on the airplane. It’s not like you are going to have to run after the plane, and jump on it like the streetcars of old. They know you’re here, sitting RIGHT IN FRONT of it at the gate, with a ticket to get on – I think it’ll be all right. But, as with the others, I feel left out if I don’t join in, so I get all excited and start to push up against it as well, hoping they’ll let the hungry pack of dogs loose onto the jetway, which again bottlenecks while trying to enter the aircraft. Well, I found out the real reason people want to get on that airplane so fast – overhead bins. This is coveted space – similar to the coveted free plastic tongue depressor in a box of fruit loops. You’ve got to have your bin space, or apparently they will kick your suitcase out onto the runway, and you’ve lost your prized possessions. Apparently that’s the airlines unwritten policy, if it doesn’t fit in the bins, the mechanics get it. No wonder there’s always a fist fight that breaks out. I suggest that we have a new policy of “No luggage left behind” – an unfunded mandate that we require of the airlines. Seriously, though. The baggage, to many people’s surprise, actually does make it to their destination. Unless it passes through Denver International Airport. Then you are screwed. Most people don’t even make it through that airport.

Ok, back to me. So almost everyone and their 1 overhead piece (there are those bastards who put two up there – the nerve!!) are shoehorned onto the tin can ‘o misery, and this gentleman comes running in right before they close the door. Now, I am on the aisle, and the 2 seats next to me, window and mid, are open. As luck would have it (or maybe I did something bad and was being punished for it), this dude had the window seat. Normal airplane etiquette is to have the aisle person stand up while the inner folks get into their seat. This man apparently had not read the unwritten book on it (you ever notice how airplane etiquette isn’t written down either? I’m up to the task, don’t worry). Well, he had a newspaper in one hand, which was also carrying his OVERHEAD bag – note the emphasis on overhead– and a cup of coffee in the other. Before I knew it and could stand to move out of the way, this man threw his big bag over me and, I am not exaggerating, climbed over me on the armrests. In the process, his coffee in his left hand proceeded to spill onto my head and the left side of my face, finally coming to rest on my nice fleece and jeans. As you can imagine, the last thing I thought was going to have happen was to have coffee poured on my head. So I didn’t realize what was happening at first – but started to yell once I did. This man did not seem to speak English too well, nor did he understand that he couldn’t leave his monster bag in between our two seats (something that the flight attendant yelled at him for). Anyway, I thankfully am given some napkins to sop up what seemed to be a skim latte with Splenda. Now came the evil glare. And I broke that thing out like I never had before. I even sprinkled some angry muttering under my breath and a few exasperated sighs for emphasis. I think he got the hint. When his hair set fire, I knew I still had the magic touch.

Once that traumatic event had occurred, the next one began, a.k.a., takeoff. I am not a huge fan of flying, especially in airplanes, because my brain clicks on and moves waaaaaaaaay too fast – I imagine what crashing will look and feel like, and how the airplane will skid off the runway, how the coffee will taste terrible and how the bathrooms will smell. I imagine what it will be like when the oxygen masks fly down in my face, and I take two just in case the first one doesn’t work. Mr. Latte didn’t need the extra one anyway. So, as any normal paranoid flyer would do, I write my will and pray. I’ve gotten much better in recent years, in that I don’t need to clutch the armrests until my knuckles are white, and I can usually talk myself down from hyperventilation. But, if I hear a funny jiggle noise or a sneeze, the palms start sweating and the leg starts a-tapping. Well, needless to say, I finally did make it, but we’re not done with discussing this flight quite yet. I always hate to recline my seat, I feel bad for imposing, but I did anyway. Little did I know that Jaba the Hut was sitting behind me. When her window-seat person got up and she had to move for them, she stood up and turned around to face the rear of the aircraft, thrusting her derriere into my seat, and in the process, I am not kidding, ratcheted up my seat into the upright position. Now if the coffee on the head didn’t wake me up, my head flying into the seat in front of me sure did. She didn’t seem that large, but maybe she just had an extremely powerful butt, because she sent me flying (pardon the pun). Needless to say, the seat was broken after that one…no more reclining for this publisheR. Don’t worry – Jaba comes back into the picture later.

You know how the pressure changes in the aircraft as you ascend? Well, that has a funny effect on pens. Mine exploded in my bag. It was awesome (note the sarcasm). I pulled out some work to do, and opened up the pen, and didn’t really look at it, since most pens don’t explode as a normal course of things. So, in about a minute, I realized that black ink had coated my right hand. Let’s recap: the left side of my body was covered in latte, and my right hand was dripping with black ink, and my face was plastered into the seat in front of me. I looked like a regular psycho. A brilliant start to a day of 14 hours of travel.

Such as my luck was going that day, as we landed in Los Angeles (no, I didn’t die on the landing either, but I did have you down for receiving my CDs – you’ll just have to wait for those), another etiquette issue came to light. Mrs. Super-sized triple happy meal behind me got her self up and stood in the way of me being able to get out and pull my bag down. I HATE THAT. Give me some room, woman! You’re behind me and it’s my turn! Wouldn’t you know, when I finally squeezed into the aisle to pull my bag down, Jaba didn’t budge a fricking inch! And she had room to move! Either back into her row or a bit of a step backwards. ASS!!! So, me being the nice person I usually am, shot her a look of death. She must have had her force field up, because it didn’t seem to faze her. And upon pulling my bag down so as to not clock her in the face, I had to contort my shoulder in the most unusual position. Well, you know what that means; I ripped the crap out of my shoulder so that it felt like I had been stabbed. Repeatedly. Jaba probably did stab me, in fact. I wouldn’t have put it past her. I should have let the case drop on her head. Would have served her right for breaking an airplane seat and the unwritten rules of airplane etiquette. Alas, I exited the aircraft to hang out until the next tin can o’ death was ready for departure.

Tin can o’ death #2. Not nearly as bad as #1. No crazies, no major malfunctions. However, due to being stabbed in the shoulder by the heifer on the first airplane, the nice people at the gate had to check my suitcase since I could no longer lift it. And it arrived, would you believe! See, they actually do put it in the aircraft. And I was one of the last people on the plane. Who would have thunk it. Now to the disappointing part. I’ve been to Hawaii several times before (this was a trip for work, not fun, so don’t get all jealous), and the one thing I really look forward to is as follows… The way that the Honolulu airport is configured is that the gates are separated by the main terminal by an open walkway, where the clean air and sweet-smelling breeze blow past you, welcoming you to Hawaii. Now if anything was going to make this 15-hour day and brief trip worthwhile, it was that moment. So, filled with exhaustion and excitement, the doors opened before me…and I smelt…Camel lights. A huge flipping cloud of it. Ugh…I sure was ready for the day to be over, now. I decided to buy a t-shirt that read: “I went to Hawaii and all I got was black lung.”

Haikuland

Sometimes, I just feel like writing in Haikus. For the "un-educated," "uninformed," or those who "don't care about poetry," Haikus are mysterious little quips - 1st line - 5 syllables; 2nd line - 7 syllables; 3rd line - 5 syllables. (In poetry-speak that would be: 5-7-5. I really don't know anything about poetry-speak, I'm talking out my rear end. I just wanted to sound smart and look down my nose at you. Obviously, by telling you this, I don't feel the power. It was worth a try, though. Anyway, a haiku for those toiling away this fine day:

End of day Friday
Hurry up and get here quick
Tired of working.

It's succinct, short, sweet, and lovely. It certainly cuts out all the crap and still conveys the message. I figure, if you can't tell me about it in 17 syllables, it's not worth me listening to you. My attention span is shot after about 8 seconds anyway. So friends, go forth and speak with brevity and directness. I applaud you!

I admit it...

I proudly (read: shamefully) admit that this morning, while driving to work, I sang "What's love got to do with it" by Tina Turner, and it was exhilarating. After all, who needs a heart when a heart can be broken??

The person in the car next to me must have thought I was a serious nutcase as I did that little Tina Turner shrug your shoulders forward dancey thing while sitting at a traffic light. And while turning left. And while driving down a 45 MPH road. Stop looking and focus on the road, is what I have to say to them. Morning rush hour is dangerous enough without people like them poking their curious little noses into everyone else's car. So I was driving with my knees and car dancing - that's nobody's business but my own.

Sometimes, to freak people out, and for my own general amusement, while sitting at a traffic light, I will turn my head to fully face the car next to me, and bug my eyes out of my head like I'm a bit over the edge, a crazed lunatic, if you will. Boy, you should see the terror in their eyes when they look over and are startled to see a zombie-like driver staring at them. One driver even jumped into the back seat of her car. Ok, so that was an exaggeration. But she did hit her head on the roof of the car when she jumped out of her seat. Ok, so she actually just shuddered and stuck out her tongue. Whatever, she still was scared, and I still laughed like a hyena on crack.

Have to be careful who you do that to, though. I usually steer clear of those folks who look like they might shoot me or get out of their car & beat the snot out of me. Soccer moms are the worst - they'll actually throw diapers or cleats at your car. It's terrible to drive when a white-and-black speckled ball is coming at you - it's not like grade school dodgeball where you can duck out of the way (if you're the sporty kids...Unfortunately the waistline-challenged are not usually so lucky and end up with a ball in the face or right at their ankles, where they trip & fall to the ground. (Speaking of, did you know they can't play dodgeball in school anymore??? That's a whole other discussion altogether - freaking parents who think that all kids need to "win at everything" - face it, some kids are LOSERS! Get used to it! It'll help you cope with the rest of your loser life! Ugh - more on that later).

But anyway, that ball sure bounces like nobody's business as it ricochets off your windshield! And when it hits the car next to you - they think you did it, and you do the silent, but frantic, hand-gesture "I didn't do it!" motion and you point at the true ball-thrower as you try to mouth out the words "It was the soccer mom! It was the soccer mom! Not me!" So...once you finally scrape yourself off the ground after the guy who's Jaguar the ball ended up hitting beats the living tar out of you & subsequently keys your car, you are back on your merry way. (Why did you get out of the car in the first place? Good flipping question - everyone knows that if someone approaches your car you're just supposed to stare forward and pretend like there's no man banging on your window and screaming profanities at you. Then you peel out and run over their toes.) But, suspend your disbelief just for the humor of the story, and arrive at the time when I'm wishing some groovy 80s song comes on the radio, so that I can cheer myself up and sing my heart out. (Let's face it, even if the person hadn't beaten me up and I'd done the whole "I'm ignoring you" bit, I would have pooped my pants. Twice.) I hope for "Come on Eileen" or "Rock and Roll Hoochie-Coo" (was that even in the 80s?) Maybe even a bit of the artist formerly known as Prince now with his name back as Prince. Although I do have a warm place in my heart for a good bit of Madonna. Or MJ - when he actually could sing. But then again - who needs a face when a face can be broken?? Tina, keep on a-rockin me baby.