I’d like to start this week with a big “Mazel Tov!” to my brother-in-law Walt, who had his checkup with the doctors and is still rocking remission. Glad to hear it, buddy. Way to kick cancer’s ass!
While I’m at it, I also wanted to thank you for taking me on that little field trip this
week. You remember… that gem and mineral show. Got off to a rocky (get it?) start
there, but you came through for me, and I appreciate it. I’m not just saying that, buddy…
you’ve been a real help to me through all this. Besides, we saw some pretty awesome
stuff, and you saved my wife the day of complete boredom she was, no doubt, steeling
herself for the moment I found the show listing. Even though we’re not related by blood,
I’m happy to know that I can count on you when I need a favor. I hope to return it soon.
Just say the word, and I’m there. Course, right now I’m not the guy if it requires speed
or… well, movement at all, but I got your back nonetheless.
In other news, still moving forward with this work thing. Had a bit of a setback this
week. Again, I can’t go into details, but let’s just say it wasn’t quite the slam dunk I was
hoping for. But, you know, I think I’ve turned over a new leaf these days. I’m not gonna
let some trifle keep me from pursuing what I know to be true. Shit, once you’ve been
used for target practice by the best in Cartel trigger men, little things like hiccups in the
massive, life-changing case you’re building just don’t rate anymore. It’s true, once again
I’m a lone wolf howling in the wilderness, but that doesn’t make me any less right.
Besides, it’s either this, or another night watching the World Series of Beer Pong.
Yes, that is something that exists. And apparently qualifies as enough of a draw to air on
television. What’s next, Competitive Quarters? Maybe a little Flip Cup Festival?
Seriously, even a beer enthusiast such as myself thinks this is a little ridiculous.
Now, I’ve played beer pong. I’ve been known to obliterate the competition from time
to time (by which I mean — always), so it’s got a bit of a special place in my heart. Hell,
I’ll even break out the Schraderbrau Special Reserve for guests who want to have a little
friendly competition. However, it’s not a sport. It’s never been a sport. And no amount
of man-child enthusiasm will make it a sport.
Guess I’m alone in this particular frame of mind though, because apparently, all the
little frat douches of the world decided their Saturday night prelude to blackouts and bad
decisions needed to be immortalized forever on television. And they convinced some
desperate-to-be-cool network executive to air their little douche-stravaganzas. These
assclowns are parading around, ripping their shirts off and howling like Conan the
Barbarian every time they sink a shot. Again, they’re tossing pong balls into beer cups
from about eight feet away. Skill required? Sure. Olympic-level skill required? Hell
no. But here they are… setting the world on fire with their athletic prowess. May we all
tremble in fear as Drunky McDouche totters his way to victory over all the other little
beer-swilling dipshit tools. Congratulations Future Drunk Uncle, you win… a lifetime of
uncomfortable family gatherings, impotence and failed rehab stints. Dare to dream!