Jessica and I went to Bicentennial Park yesterday to play a round of miniature golf. We ended up playing behind a couple of guys in their early 20s (if that old). Contra the posted rules, they were sucking down a couple of Coors Lights while playing. They were also cursing profusely. Oh, yeah, there were a bunch of little kids playing in front of them, too. The sad part was, I couldn't tell if they were drunk or just stupid--or both. Thankfully they left, but their negative example was a good reminder of a few things: 1) There is a reason why the Bible instructs us not to get drunk. 2) Having a vocabulary composed exclusively of monosyllabic vulgarities makes you look like a complete idiot.
I'm sitting here watching the Olympics on NBC. They're showing women's volleyball (US vs. Japan). It's strange that normally I would never watch volleyball, but since it's the Olympics, not only am I watching, I am rooting for the US. In fact, it seems like no matter what the event is--even if I have never heard of it--when it's Olympic time, then, by God, the US had better win! I'm even considering watching the US men's basketball team. (Hey, I just said considering.)
I get the chance to preach through the book of Ruth at church this month, starting tonight. When you haven't preached in a while, you forget the weight of the task. I will be up in front of God and everyone with the "definitive" word on Ruth. Who am I? Just some guy with a degree in biblical studies--almost. I feel pretty confident that I'm in the ballpark with my exegesis. Hopefully I can tailor the message sufficiently to keep the congregation interested. At least I'm in front of a very forgiving crowd!
Always remember: Jesus can walk on water, but Chuck Norris can swim on land.
For me, it's the simple things that are the best. In this case, behold the stupid little video game that I have lost too many hours to this week. We simple-minded folk know that one does not need a PS3 to be entertained. Just give us one button to press, and watch us devolve into grubby orangutans before your very eyes.
I’m currently watching a webcam of a colossal squid thawing and dissection. I have to say, this is amazing. Imagine two guys in a pool of saltwater measuring the clawed tentacles of a thousand-pound squid with eyes the size of dinner plates and a foot-long beak. Did I mention I have a phobia of invertebrates? (Please, in all seriousness, if you were to play a practical joke on me by exploiting this fear, I would very likely stop being your friend. I am not joking.) But that just makes it that much cooler for me. It’s like sitting at the top of the first big hill on a rollercoaster—you’re pretty scared and the adrenaline is pumping, but at the same time, you’re excited about the rush, too. So what would the rush be? I’m waiting for the squid corpse to revive suddenly and grab a defenseless scientist, drag him under and eat him. That would be so scary-cool. That’s why I’m afraid of those things, I think. They’re slimy and a lot like the alien in Independence Day. (Poor Data.) I think I have too active of an imagination.
Anyway, if you want to see something freaky, check out the mighty colossal squid. And the next time you're swimming a half-mile below the surface of the Antarctic Ocean, just be careful, okay?
My friend Doug and I have discussed at some length the stupidity of professional athletes. Why is it that so many young athletes have gobs of money and are doing what they love, only to risk it all on dog fighting, riding motorcycles and DUIs? Doug and I agree that if we ever owned a professional team, it would be written into every player's contract that when not at practice or a game, he may sit in his house and play video games. That's it. And we figure if we're paying some guy millions of dollars a year, that's not too much to ask.
Well, lo and behold, I found out there is already an athlete doing this. Shot-putter Reese Hoffa trains and plays video games. That's it. This is because he loves skateboarding but realized a few years ago the risk he was taking with every ride. Rightly so, he didn't figure that a few jumps at the skate park was worth sacrificing an Olympic medal.
I say, good for Reese. Maybe his example will get other athletes thinking the same way. They'd better start soon, either way...I've got my eye on the Broncos. By the way, on an unrelated manner, does anyone have $500,000,000 I could borrow? I have to, uh, go to the store.
So, in a former life (read: before I got a full-time job), I used to enjoy writing song parodies. I thought I would post one I wrote in 2006. Below is a link to the real song, if you would like to sing along. Enjoy!
Grills Parody of “Grillz” by Nelly 2006
Call the hardware store, tell ‘em get me a grill Got a whole top rack and on the bottom charcoal Yo, we ‘bout to grill us up some chicken with this one Yeah, I’m warming it up, so, so, so
I’m grillin’ dogs on the bottom, vegetables on the top Such a wonderful smell, I’m drinkin’ Coke on the rocks I got some mo’ on the table, gonna char me some brats If you like chowin’ on meat, you gonna like this a lot I got, like, butter and bread rolls, and Twinkies and Ho- Hos, Grillin’ out “er” day, in rain or snow I might be grillin’ on a nice day, drinkin’ iced tea On my porch swing, in my wife-beat Bring out the buns wit’, I can tell that they’re done wit’ You see, the restaurants all hate it, but my neighbors all love it ‘Cause when I (open up the grill I am divine I’m the best that you will find) I got a grill and meat tenderizer, you know what that means? It looks like Applebee’s, Outback and Black-Eyed Pea Are out of business forever, ‘cause I be grillin’ so good So if you catch me in your city, grillin’ in your neighborhood, just say…
Cook it for me, daddy, let me see a brat Let me see you grill, you better kiss the cook! Yeah, the grill, yeah, yeah, the grill Call the hardware store, tell ‘em get me a grill/Got a whole top rack, and on the bottom charcoal (x2)
How you doin’, ladies, it’s the grill man DP* I got my grill burnin’ hotter than infinity I got my apron on, I’m ready—throw me a steak If you think I’m lying, dude, you just made a mistake Now I’m grillin’ some Zucchinis wrapped in aluminum foil Never bakin’, fryin’, nukin’, God forbid that I should broil I put my money where your mouth is and bought a grill Twenty dogs, thirty steaks at once, you know I’m so for real My motivation is the hungry stares I’m generatin’ I’m goin’ into the house, I’m stallin’ ‘cause they waitin’ (that’s right) I got the ketchup, the mustard, the cheese I’m gratin’ But it’s my meat that’s got these onlookers spectatin’ My porkchops, make your tongue excited, the best imagined Open up the fridge and put some mo’ carrots on that salad My skills are mind-blowin’, keepin’ everybody filled Screw that George Foreman, cause I’m cookin’ on a man’s grill
Cook it for me, daddy, let me see a brat Let me see you grill, you better kiss the cook! Yeah, the grill, yeah, yeah, the grill Call the hardware store, tell ‘em get me a grill/Got a whole top rack, and on the bottom charcoal (x2)
Yep, got the matches, got the charcoal, got the bread Burgers so good make you woozy in your head Have some seconds, ‘cause I know you want Get addicted to my cheesy brats ‘Cause when you do, I know you, you’ll be back on the weekend Never fear, you’ll bring the beer, drinkin’ Killian’s and feastin’ On what I’m heatin’, a pile of meat and much more food than we can eat and Every cow is scared stiff and the sheep are all bleatin’ I ain’t dissin’ nobody, but let’s all agree on this I am the best with a grill there is The meat I’m grillin’, make your eyesight blurry Takin’ every bite is a flavorful flurry I got four different grills, it’s a wonderful thing One white, one yellow, one black and one green And on all of them, you know, I got my name in solid gold and a whole top rack and on the bottom charcoal
Cook it for me, daddy, let me see a brat Let me see you grill, you better kiss the cook! Yeah, the grill, yeah, yeah, the grill Call the hardware store, tell ‘em get me a grill/Got a whole top rack, and on the bottom charcoal (x2)
Boy, how’d you learn to grill that way, and how long did it take? Every time I see you, the first thing I want to say, is…
Cook it for me, daddy, let me see a brat Let me see you grill, you better kiss the cook! Yeah, the grill, yeah, yeah, the grill Call the hardware store, tell ‘em get me a grill/Got a whole top rack, and on the bottom charcoal (x2)
I had known Bravo for about three months at the time. I was not yet sure where he received his income. It seemed that he continually pulled from some bottomless reservoir of funds, and although he indulged in (and seemed to enjoy) extravagances occasionally (usually while putting up a front during a con job), in actuality he lived modestly. We shared a small, three-bedroom condo, sparsely furnished, and filled with bookcases. Most were his; I owned a few.
I was flipping through one of his copies of Madame Bovary when he walked in. As usual, it was impossible to tell his mood. “We have a problem,” he said.
“Really,” I responded.
He walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine. He thought for a moment, looked at me knowingly, and walked out again, the full glass still on the table. “I’ll be back.”
In an hour, he made good on his word. I had dozed off in a chair. When I fully awoke, he was in the kitchen. He had returned to his glass of wine. “My patrons have pulled their funds.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just looked at him.
He picked up a slip of paper in his hand. “This is Plan B.” It was a lottery ticket.
“You’re crazy,” I said. “Do you know the odds of winning the lottery?”
He replied, “Do you know the odds of surviving a colossal squid attack?”
“No.”
“The odds are zero. It’s never been done. It can’t be done.” With that, he rolled up his left sleeve. There, just above the elbow, was a circular scar, about the size of the bottom of a coffee cup.
“A plastic surgeon took care of the rest. I left one as a reminder. A reminder that believing the odds is for suckers.”
At precisely ten o’clock that evening, he became a millionaire. At precisely 10:02, he went back to reading his book.
I have been noticing a disturbing trend. It seems that grammar, punctuation and spelling are on the decline in print. It seems as if in every book I read, I find a missing period or a misspelled word. I find typos in newspaper articles all the time. Today I saw a headline reading “Snowmobilers Go Father” instead of “Snowmobilers Go Farther”.
I’m not saying that everything always has to be in the Queen’s English. I understand that personal emails and even blog entries might have the occasional error, and that’s okay with me. There are people who make money writing and proofreading, though, and I think that they should have to be pretty good at what they do. I have to be good at what I do if I want to keep my job. They could at least reread their work, or run a spell-checking program (although this isn’t perfect).
So why are these violations of language slipping past? Are these people overworked? Are they lazy? Is there just too much information being published? Am I just too anal? (Please, no one answer that—it’s rhetorical.)
I only raise this issue because I have a “bad grammar” radar lodged in my brain. (I think it may have replaced my hypothalamus.) My wife can verify that anytime I come across an English mistake, it may as well be in big, bold red letters, underlined thrice and packing heat. I am not exaggerating. It seriously trips me up when I am reading, as if I were interrupted by fingernails on a chalkboard. It is almost a painful experience for me. Don’t blame me for my ranting, then: I am a victim of this disease. I’m sure I’ll track down a name for it sometime.
In the meantime, I think some federal funding is in order. I obviously can’t work under these conditions. I deserve free money!
