Largactyl

Again with the crushing workload – the late nights working through the weekend. Everytime I came up for air I was slammed in the face by the brutal power of the New York Yankees and the Ghengis Khan antics they brought to our home state. After Saturday night’s loss I felt like a piece of tissue stuck to someone’s boot as they exited the Metrodome’s public toilets. And then last night, under the scrutiny of the Monday night lights, the Packers lost by something like a million points. For therapy, I’ve tuned in the low-frequencies of Japanese Doom Metal while pounding vast amounts proton powered peanut butter.

Incidentally, or perhaps indecently, I faired much better at my first Cribbage meet of the year. My partner and I won six of our ten games, which was the best record of the night on our team. The conversation for the night was juiced. Everybody but me seems to be taking pills. Lots of pills. Mostly legal but highly lethal. And everyone seems to love swapping pharmaceutical stories. It’s the new conversational currency. One guy on the opposing team just got out of rehab after his doctors got him hooked on Oxycottin. He was taking them for an accident he had on the job. He’s a butcher. The doctors at the rehab center told him he was “like a heroin addict”, which, he said sent him into a rage – running around the center showing people his naked arms – screaming, “Look at my arms!! I’m not a heroin addict”. He talked too much and I killed him on the cribbage board. In the second round, he was so bombed that I had to help him count his cards on every hand. We faired less well with the older players, their cribbage skills are second nature, like walking or breathing. At one point I reached to peg out of turn and an old lady slapped my hand. Fucking hell. Can’t wait for this week! I’m going to be all worked up and high-strung. I’m going to be the one slapping people’s hands. Maybe for no damn reason at all.