Friday, February 5, 2010

During the Transition . . .

. . . the new managing entity asked that we all fill out a job application - after we'd been hired on. The thing was your typical job app stretched across nine pages. On the third was the box to check if you'd ever been convicted or charged with a crime.

Checking that box is something that the accused probably considers the moment the cuffs start cutting into their wrists. No matter where you go. Or what industry you're in. This question will come up. You're only given five inches to then explain the details and events of what happened. That's barely enough room for, "Kids. Christmas. Rent. Shoved. Grabbed. Ran. Sorry."

I know what it is to carry a particular dread with them all day, fearing that at any moment their greatest weakness and regret will be exposed.

For me, it's sports.

Like so many of my adult deficiencies, I blame not being into sports on growing up in a rural community. I've also blamed the following on my Kansas upbringing.

Driving without a shirt (during rush hour).

Eating any part of the animal. (Maybe not. For 2010, The Girlfriend and I want to go through all 200+ dishes at this Vietnamese place in our neighborhood. I find out that they have cow penis on the menu. I've already eaten fried calf testicles, but for some reason, I can't see myself going north of that. Cow dick is where I draw the line. A man must have standards.)

Shooting things.

The Cowboy Dance I perform at parties.

Watching TV with my bare ass on the sofa.

Scoffing when The Girlfriend tells me to take my bare ass off her sofa.

Considering Glen Campbell's 'Wichita Lineman' to be the greatest song ever recorded.

Waiting until my late 20's to pursue college.

Finding Wal-Mart to be soothing.

Reserving Pizza Hut as a special occasion food.

Being so far removed from any major sporting outfit and growing up in a home where sports was never a consideration -athletic competition was just lost on me. I can understand the talent and work that goes into professional competition, but it still does nothing to keep my interest. I can best sum it up this way: I see the NFL, NBA, MLBA, and NHL the same way you see Nascar.

A lot of my friends back home are of the same ilk. At the most, the local rivalry between K-State and KU, two schools about five hours away, drew the most half-hearted contention amongst those in southwest Kansas. Even then, most people didn't give a shit about the game. It was a conflict of ideals between the bleeding heart liberal-arts school, KU. And the Ag-tech Christ-centric small town representation of K-State. So sports never came up within my circle.

Then I move to Chicago where there's no way to be apathetic towards any sport - even lacrosse. When I started at DePaul, I found that even the loners who sat by themselves and smelled of soup had a bookie's analysis of the Monday night game. Making that guy more in the know than I.

The Girlfriend also puts me to shame. She'll settle in front of the TV on a Sunday afternoon with a fancy beer and some work spread out before her, taking in the Bears v. Packers (do they even play? I don't know!) while I go and watch the BBC feed in the bedroom.

So it's Superbowl weekend. The Girlfriend and I have been invited to watch the game with some friends. Most of the night will be spent by me either A) trying to comment on the game but instead embarrassing myself. "How do they expect to win with so many . . . assists?" or the more likely B) Making fun of every man woman and child in the room.

Pointing out the faults in others is still my trusty standby. My Ole' Faithful.

Have a good Superbowl weekend, you stupid jerkfaces.

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