It never ceases to frustrate me that some men insist on talking to me about sports even though they KNOW I don’t follow or even care about sports. The conversation typically goes something like this:
“Hey, did you see the game last night? Wasn’t that play by … ?”
“I don’t like sports. You know this,” says I.
“Yeah, but you should have seen this pass by … !”
“I’ll explain myself AGAIN,” I reply with open annoyance. “I’m not going to recognize any of the names you rattle off. I won’t care about their individual accomplishments with ball or puck. And, I further don’t care how these individual accomplishments help their team get to the spin-offs.”
“Um, play-offs.”
“Play-offs, spin-offs, jack-offs … the point is that I honestly don’t give a flying fuzzy #$%&. The only way I could be convinced to care is if a team spontaneously decided to donate 50% of their collective salaries to the ‘John Harvey Charitable Beer & Kung Fu DVD Fund‘ if they win the play-offs. Even then, I would only watch the final play-off game.”
“Okay. But the thing is this one player got traded and now he’s…”
“Right. The reality we’re slowly spiraling towards is that you have a small, tight bundle of synapses, probably snuggled right up against the pineal gland, that drives you to have this sports conversation with someone penis-endowed. And this drive mimics the brain-stem insistence that forces salmon to spawn up the same stream every year and Joan Rivers to get more plastic surgery.”
Long, introspective pause.
“Yes.”
“Fine,” I say. “Go on then. I’ll just lie back and think of England.”
Bloody hell.
{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
stumbled on your site. am useing my phone 2 surf web… i live in toledo ohio. alone. because knowing who U R and accepting who U R, R 2 things that don’t make living any easyier,just a little more peacefull. @ peace in toledo, C.C.
Having been walked through a football game over a cell phone last night, and feigning delight at every fumble and tumble… I concur.