Yesterday I got a two page list of “suggestions” from a person unaware of the limits of her job description. The suggestions indicate how I can improve the processes I execute. Among the suggestions: Wouldn’t it be nice if you sent a TPS report that showed the status of all that stuff you do?

She is unaware, it seems, that I do just that on a daily basis. Perhaps I’ll start sending her the report. Tied to a brick. Thrown at her head.

When I mentioned this to Jeff W. he replied, “I’m a Cub Scout leader and I hand every parent a schedule of what we are doing weekly and email them the info. Every week I get a call from some dumbass asking me what we are doing.”

“Most parents are idiots,” I replied. “That’s why their kids grow up to be bad drivers who watch bad television and vote for Jar Jar Binks.”

Apparently I am cynical today.

In the Welcome to Your Morning, Let’s Hope It Gets Better from Here category, it’s not even eight o’clock and I’ve already had to deal with Looming Mouth-Breather Man (not to be confused with Audible Mouth-Breather Man, that’s someone else). Anyway, Looming Mouth-Breather Man needed a copy of his TPS report and stood behind me exhaling onto the top of my head while I copied and pasted it onto his thumb drive. At the risk of sounding, like, totally valleeeeeeeey, it was just gross. Ick. Eww.

I think my hair died. I feel a bald spot.

Jeff W. suggested I spray Febreeze on my head to get rid of the lingering presence of Looming Mouth-Breather Man’s exhalations. When I asked if he had any Febreeze he suggested I try looking in the women’s restroom, claiming that “women spray it to show contempt for other women who may be using the bathroom. Women hate each other.”

I have to agree with that last part. Women do hate each other.

ER: How many women have you met who have said, “I really prefer to (work with/hang out with/spot weld with/beat other women with) guys. Women are just too back-stabby.”?
Jeff: Have you ever had a job where you had to monitor or clean a women’s public restroom? Women are 10x messier than men.
ER: Messier how? They don’t pee on the rim, do they?
Jeff: They pee everywhere, they hover over things, flush by kicking the valve, throw paper everywhere, etc. Homosexuality is probably caused by making teenage boys clean up after women.
ER: I’ve flushed by pressing the handle with the tip of my shoe. I have yet to pee everywhere, despite launching from farther than a hoverer could. (That time in the Netherlands doesn’t count. I was laughing and it slipped.) The paper seems like a no-brainer - it goes in that big bowl with all the water in it. How can they miss? Maybe this explains why there are so few good female basketball players.
Jeff: They don’t care. I always felt that they were messy on purpose to punish other women. A drunken male lout with bad aim and a Corona Lite bottle in one hand makes less of a mess.

And so it goes. Sic semper tyrannis.

I feel melted scalp.

Someone asked me recently if it was hard to leave the Place of Evil and Darkness and move over to the Place of Toil and Labor.

I answered thusly:

“I couldn’t get out of the Place of Evil and Darkness fast enough. I would have lit myself on fire and rolled naked in broken glass while tongue-wrestling a Piranha if it would have got me out quicker.”

Good thing I left when I did - who would want to hire a crispy naked guy with no tongue and a Piranha hanging from his lip?

The Fall Guys won their first game of the season last night, taking the first game of a twinbill 15-13.

That gets us to 1-7 now and off the schneid.

Your humble narrator played well in the second half of the doubleheader, going 2-2 (or maybe 1-2 with a Fielder’s Choice) with two runs scored, an RBI, and three putouts with no errors.

“And that’s the ballgame,” said Mr. Scully. “Now enjoy a frosty pint of Newcastle.”

When I was fourteen and at school a youth pastor tried to scare the slobberknocker out of us kids by telling us that rock and roll was the music of Satan. We were gathered together in an auditorium where he narrated a slideshow presentation of album art and photographs of rock musicians.

“This is David Lee Roth from the back cover of the album Van Halen I. Mr. Roth’s pose is one of supplication to a succubus and is often seen in the occult. And if you look closely, Mr. Roth’s pubic region is clearly exposed.”

(I am not making this up.)

“Next slide please.”

Wait, whaaaat? They didn’t tell me about any succubus in Sunday School! And what’s a succubus, anyway?

Answer: A succubus is a demon in female form, said to have sexual intercourse with men in their sleep.

This naturally leads to the first question any hormonal fourteen year old boy would ask: Where do I get one?

Now, Diamond Dave, a hyperactive Jewish kid from LA with a penchant for tight trousers, kung fu and girls girls and oh, more girls, was into a lot of things but “supplication to a succubus” probably wasn’t on his radar. The only way I can realistically imagine DLR having anything to do with a succubus would be if one showed up in his dressing room in red stilettos, shredded fishnet stockings, big hair and a halter top.

So I ask you, which is more corrupting to a young mind? Listening to Dave:

Now summertime’s here babe, need somethin’ to keep you cool
Ah now summertime’s here babe, need somethin’ to keep you cool
Better look out now cuz Dave’s got somethin’ for you
Tell ya what it is

(I know, it’s simply scandalous, isn’t it?)

Or sending a teen racing home to the dictionary (s…su…succ…ah, here it is: succubus!) and then to a record store with a magnifying glass to covertly examine the back cover of Van Halen I to see if Dave’s yingling was really hanging out?

(Rest easy, sports fans. Dave’s Greater Mind was safely tucked away inside his leather pants.)

Anyway, this same knucklehead also told us that rock bands would have witches and warlocks gather at the warehouse where all the records were stored and then have them all pray so that the devil would live in the records, ensuring that the children of America would buy the records and become slaves to the occult.

Believe it or not, this entire digression was inspired by wire coat hangers and how much I hate the little @*#&$ things – the way they tangle and snare and how they mock me with their cheerful “WE HEART OUR CUSTOMERS!” dry cleaner labels. I think the devil-worshippers have pulled an end-around on us here. While they had us playing records backwards and looking for David Lee Roth’s pecker they were busy channeling their dark powers into wire hangers, carrying out their sinister plan to piss me off every morning when I try to get dressed, taunting me with that perky and seemingly innocuous “WE HEART OUR CUSTOMERS!” message – which, if you’re in-the-know, is really secret devil-code for “COUTURES WHOREMASTER!”

I say we sponsor an exorcism! Everyone, bring your wire coat hangers to me and together and we’ll buuuuuuuuurn them.

We’ll do it for our country.

We’ll do it for our children.

We’ll do it for Great Justice.

Ah, what a day Sunday was!

The Vikings won a game against a team that was supposed to be a Super Bowl contender, the Carolina Panthers, and are now 2-0 to start the season.

The Twins won and the Tigers and White Sox both lost. The Twins moved up to just one game out of first in the AL Central and extended their wild card lead over the White Sox to four games with thirteen left to play.

Two of my least favorite football teams suffered setbacks. Considering they were playing each other, either Washington or Dallas was going to come out with a win but the football gods smiled on me! Dallas won, sending Washington to an 0-2 start, and Terrell Owens, now playing wideout for Dallas and the only player I actively wish evil upon, broke his finger and will be out 2-4 weeks. Hooray daily double!

Oh, and I destroyed both my fantasy football opponents.

This paraphrase of Conan the Barbarian sums up my Sunday nicely:

Mongol General: We have won again! That is good! But what is best in life?
El Raymundo: To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of the women.
Mongol General: Yes, El Raymundo, that is good.

Before it was the Place of Evil and Darkness it was the Land of the Magic IPO.

In the Land of the Magic IPO they dreamed of riches and happiness. There was loyalty, dedication and a True Sense of Mission. In the Land of the Magic IPO they were onto something. Something big. The Future was bright – so bright that “Future” was capitalized.

Just keep working, they said. Keep at it. The Reward will be great.

Then the Forces of Evil and Darkness invaded and the Land of the Magic IPO was cloaked in eternal winter – and not like that white glisten-y sparkly winter in that Narnia movie, either. I mean the slushy crappy mud and ice winter that lingers in Minnesota in March and April. Cold slush in your boots, wet socks, foul weather every day, sleet, chills and black ice.

Thanks, Forces of Evil and Darkness.

After the invasion, people stopped dreaming of riches and fulfillment and just started surviving. The United Nations changed the name of the country in the Official Logbook of Nations. If you read the Logbook now it says this:

Land of the Magic IPO People’s National Federal Democratic Republic of the Totalitarian Meatgrinder

Long may your banner of a Screaming Pinched Nickel wave!

People fled the People’s Republic of the Meatgrinder in droves – some voluntarily, some not. Many were enticed to stay by Christmas party door prizes and boxes of Turkish Delight. Then the door prizes disappeared, the Turkish Delight turned to dust and the Grinches ate all the birthday cake. No one was happy. But a person has to make a living, right? So they hung on.

And so it goes.

Many years ago, when The Blonde Goddess of Finance moved to the Land of the Magic IPO, she was picked up in a limousine, taken to the airport and flown to the site of a massive Magic IPO project. The project was an overwhelming success. The people of the Land of the Magic IPO embraced, a party ensued and everyone celebrated. The Blonde Goddess of Finance looked at all the happy people and thought, “This is the place for me!”

And who wouldn’t?

Years later, when the People’s Republic of the Meatgrinder celebrated the 10^th birthday of the founding of the Land of the Magic IPO, it invoked the symbols and spirit of dead days to fool the people into caring again.

I’m not so sure the survivors were convinced.

Blonde Goddess of Finance: You missed quite the display today. Happy 10th Anniversary, Land of the Magic IPO - Now take a bag and clear out all the crap we don’t want in our Propaganda inventory closet.
Dispassionate Chronicler of Events: Propaganda Giveaway Day, eh?
Blonde Goddess of Finance: Yup
Dispassionate Chronicler of Events: Anything good left? Like a Land of the Magic IPO Marital Aid?
Blonde Goddess of Finance: Nope. Just small and XXXL T-shirts
Blonde Goddess of Finance: Lanyards, monitor cleaners, crap crap and crap. Yes, thank you for your 10 years of blood sweat and tears. Here’s some left over shit.
Dispassionate Chronicler of Events: Not even some new golf balls?
Blonde Goddess of Finance: Not a single ball
Blonde Goddess of Finance: There’s a big scary air balloon outside my window, though
Blonde Goddess of Finance: 3 stories high
Blonde Goddess of Finance: No, we won’t give you any new shit, but we’ll pay $5grand to set up a balloon
Dispassionate Chronicler of Events: That sure doesn’t compare to the limo that picked you up on your first day, does it?
Blonde Goddess of Finance: Oh HELL no

Incredibly, despite the desolation, some still live there.

THE END

On Monday night September 11 the Minnesota Vikings played the Washington Redskins in Landover, Maryland. My buddy Jamie and I arrived early to check out the pre-game scene. We found the tunnel where the players would arrive and hung out there with some other Vikings’ fans, eating our subs and shooting the bull. Joe Theismann rolled up in an SUV and stopped beside us as we waited. He was alone in the car but his lips were moving. Imagine that, Joe Theismann talking. A few minutes later the cheerleaders started to arrive, one nearly popping out of the top of her blouse in a happy-go-lucky, searching-for-daylight sort of way. We quickly forgot about Joe Theismann.

A bit later, the buses arrived and dropped off the players deep inside the tunnel under the stadium. I spotted Uncle Zygi (Zygi Wilf, the team’s owner) behind the black-tinted window of a Lincoln Escalade which followed the buses into the bay. A few minutes later several Hooters girls walked past the buses and into the stadium. “They work in the Club Lounge,” explained Jamie. “I see they send in the All-Stars,” I replied.

Once inside the stadium, Jamie and I snuck past the ushers and down to the edge of the field beside the tunnel which leads from the locker room out onto the field. Turns out Jamie went to William and Mary with both Darren Sharper, the Vikings starting safety, and Mike Tomlin, the Defensive Coodinator, and he was hoping to catch them as they came out for pre-game warm-ups. “I can’t tell you how many times I fell asleep at night with Mike sitting in my living room playing Madden,” said Jamie. We hung out by the railing alongside the tunnel and cornerback Fred Smoot walked past, chatting into a television camera. Then a moment later another fellow came by. Jamie shouted, “Mike!” and the fellow looked up. It was Mike Tomlin. Tomlin stopped and he and Jamie chatted until an usher came by and kicked us out of the section. Damn stadium rules.

*****

Lesson 1 about being behind enemy lines: Don’t be a jackass.

When I’m surrounded by 90,000 hostile people I keep a low profile. I cheer when we make a good play of course, but I’m not a jackass about it. Unfortunately, not everyone understands this critical concept.

Exhibit A:

A knuckleheaded Vikings fan two rows and a little to the left of me, awash and alone in a sea of burgundy, kept hollering at the Redskins fans, telling them how much they sucked, casting aspersions on the lack of diversity in their family trees, boasting about how Minnesota was going to kick their hairy nether-regions and pointing at his purple sweatshirt, all before spilling beer on not just one but two rows of fans – one in front and one behind him. Surprisingly, after all that he couldn’t understand why people threw bottles at him and made rude comments about alleged nocturnal relationships with his mother. Eventually he had had enough and he sought shelter further down in the section. Moral of the story: Don’t be a jackass behind enemy lines.

Speaking of verbal abuse, I took a lot of it before the game. It’s a thirty minute walk from the Metro station to the stadium and along the way my purple and gold Vikings jersey evoked many, many derogatory speculations about my intelligence, sexual orientation and heritage. Curiously, no one seemed interested in any of that information after the game – for some reason no one in burgundy wanted to talk to me. Not sure :::cough we won cough::: why.

Lesson 2 about being behind enemy lines: Never assume the enemy has any sense of sportsmanship.

After a penalty, I turned to a Redskins fan sitting two rows behind me. The ref had just announced that number 66 had made a false start. “Hey,” I said, “is number 66 the center or the guard?”

“I’M NOT TALKIN’ TO YOU, YOU %&* PIECE OF @!$!!#! WEAR SOME BURGUNDY AND GOLD AND MAYBE THEN I’LL TALK TO YOU, YOU &^&$^ PIECE OF ^%$*$!”

Rightee-o then. Got it. “Jamie, look up number 66 in your program.” “Number 66 is the guard.” Mystery solved.

*****

Staff at FedEx Field handed out American flags to each person as they came through the gate. Seeing 90,000 waving flags was a moving moment. It was like watching the wind ripple over a meadow of red, white and blue wildflowers.

After a moment of silence for those who lost their lives in the 9/11 attacks (a moment of silence broken by several belligerent morons in the crowd) a choral group sang the national anthem. Hand on heart I watched the flag flutter atop the stadium’s rim and thought about why we should always remember this day. Then, when the singer got to the Oh in Oh say does that Star Spangled Banner yet wave… several thousand idiots shouted OH! and ruined the moment.

(Shouting Oh! during the national anthem is something Baltimore fans do at Orioles games. They call the team the O’s and so they shout the Oh in the anthem. A lot of people down here in the DC area don’t seem to understand that shouting Oh! is a Baltimore thing and I’ve been to Nationals games where the idiots are rightly booed for shouting during the anthem.)

I really hoped people would show a little more sensitivity to and awareness of the preciousness of that moment, especially on that date, but I was sorely disappointed.

Not to get too negative but I personally didn’t care for the cheesy and elaborate halftime “tribute” to the victims of the attacks. Nothing says “we honor you, the 3000 victims of the attack - those of you who, with flames at your back, leaped hand-in-hand from the towers to your deaths on the streets below, those of you in the battalions of fire fighters who fought to save lives until the buildings you stood within collapsed on top of you, those of you who led people to safety in the Pentagon, those of you who fought hijackers in mid-air” more than a herd of cheerleaders running around in red, white and blue leotards, doing high-kicks and hauling ribbons around the stadium while 90,000 people scream U-S-A at the top of their lungs. Dan Snyder’s people even managed to work two advertisements into the public address announcement “honoring those who died.”

I would have preferred a solemn tribute, one with some dignity - a tribute evoking the memory of those who died and which didn’t resort to a lot of über-nationalistic chest-pounding. But that’s just me, I guess. I did appreciate the Pentagon police officer, the one who saved eight people and led another twenty to safety with his voice, who led 90,000 voices in singing “God Bless America.” The moment was solemn, spine-tingling and beautiful.

*****

Ok, enough of the serious stuff. Let’s get to the part where we beat the slobberknocker out of the Redskins.

The game itself was a nailbiter. The energy of the crowd matched the ebb and flow of the game until the end of the fourth quarter when, with the burgundy and gold and the purple and gold teetering on the edges of seats, knuckles white and knots in the guts, John Hall’s kick sailed wide left and the game was over. The Purple streamed onto the field to celebrate the win and the stadium immediately hemorrhaged burgundy fans. Them thar Redskins fans wanted out and they wanted out fast. Interestingly, and as stated earlier, none of them really wanted to talk with me. As a result, Mom, heritage and intelligence were safe for the rest of the evening

*****

Outside the stadium, Jamie and I waited for the Vikings’ players. Folks, offensive tackle Bryant McKinnie is one LARGE dude. And there’s no fat on him. He’s 6’8” of lean. Really friendly, too. He signed more autographs than anyone. Tight end Jimmy Kleinsasser is a 270 pound rectangular rock – like a brick with a beard. He laughed when a fan playfully punched him on the shoulder so he could “see what it felt like.” Fred Smoot signed and chatted, his wrists drenched in diamonds, while cornerback Antoine Winfield hung out with friends and family. At 5′9″ tall Antoine is small, but as one of the hardest hitters in the league I have no doubt that he could plant my head into the asphalt. Probably with one hand.

Darren Sharper walked past us and Jamie shouted at him (remember, they went to William and Mary together), but Darren ignored or didn’t hear him. Finally I shouted, “Darren! You know this guy from William and Mary!” and pointed at Jamie. That made Darren look up. He spotted Jamie and told us to meet him over by his parents, which we did. Jamie introduced me to Darren, who politely said how-do-you-do. He seemed like a classy guy. Snappy dresser, too.

Finally, I saw a black Lincoln Escalade begin to pull away through the crowd. “I know that car!” I thought. Walking toward it I spotted Uncle Zygi through an open window. I made my way to the Escalade, put my hand through the window and shook Zygi’s hand. “Thank you for coming here and doing what you’re doing,” I said. “We really appreciate what you’re doing with the team.”

Zygi laughed and said, “Just keep rooting for us.”

“We will,” I replied. “You just keep doing what you’re doing.”

And that’s how I know that billionaires have very soft hands.

I’m a soft touch when it comes to causes. La Raymunda gives me a bad time, saying that every Little Leaguer selling magazines to buy uniforms, every Boy Scout selling mulch to pay for Jamboree, and every Girl Scout selling crack Thin Mints, Samoas and Tagalongs knows they won’t leave our porch empty-handed. (I think they’re leaving secret marks on my mailbox like hobos used to do during the Depression: “Sucker lives here.”) So when a beautiful olive-skinned sixteen year old girl approached me on Saturday while I was out mowing the lawn I knew I was in trouble.

As an aside, the last time I was approached like this I bought a forty dollar book of discount coupons from a hot Asian girl in her early twenties. She was dressed in tight jeans and a tank top with long black hair flowing over her shoulders and big slow-blinking eyes. I never had a chance. “Just sign here sir.” “Yes, ma’am.”

But I digress.

The girl who walked into our yard on Saturday was setting up appointments for a vinyl siding contractor. She was gorgeous. Like whuff! sucker-punch in the solar plexus gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that just aches. Long brown hair, flawless olive skin, eyes the color of caramel. Just perfect. (”Yahtzee!” shouted God.) She was charming and smiled a lot, too. I was going to have to be careful.

Now we don’t need new vinyl siding – we just had the house wrapped five years ago. So I wasn’t going to buy anything or sign-up for any estimates. I knew that already. But standing there looking at this girl I thought that perhaps I would let her go through her entire schpiel a couple of times, you know - play along like I’m interested and ask a lot of questions - so I could stand there and look at her, hopefully without embarrassing myself by drooling on the lawn mower.

She began her pitch; I queued my inner-monologue:

She’s barely one-third your age.
Yes, but look at her. Madre de Dios! In some cultures, like the stone age Indians of the Amazon (and France), she’s the perfect marrying age!
In this culture she’s the perfect age to get you handcuffed and thrown into a locked cell with your new best friend SpongeBob Leatherpants. And you’ll get your own gold star on the Loudoun County Pervert Locator map, too.

You’re married already.
Yes, but in some cultures, like France, keeping a mistress is not only allowed – it’s encouraged. Infidelity is a cause for celebration!
Try that argument with La Raymunda and she will open a can of whoop-ass on you that will be heard on Mars.

You look like ass.
Yes, but in some cultures, like France, young unbelievably hot women are attracted to sweaty, slightly-overweight forty year old men out mowing the lawn with grass and dirt stuck to their faces!
You sir, are retarded.

There was nothing to do, of course, but tell her that I wasn’t interested and let her go on to my neighbor’s house. As she walked away I admit I thought of chasing her down and popping an extra-large heavy-duty leaf bag over her head, throwing her in the trunk and driving away but decided ultimately it was an ill-conceived plan with negative long-term ramifications. So instead I made Big Wince Face, pulled the cord on the mower and finished up the lawn on the north side of the house.