Lady Visa and Master Card

This past Saturday, I attended a Renaissance Festival, also shortened to Renfest, as friends have informed me that the abbreviation makes it sound "less like losers go there", traditionally after asking whether I "dress up"with a look on their face that makes it clear that all future relations hinge upon my answer (a resounding "hell no"). Though I assure them that the Renfest is still populated entirely with Hot Topic employees and street magicians, regardless of what it's called, I still face a certain amount of derision for my yearly pilgrimage to the middle of the woods. While once I felt the need to justify my choice to attend (along with my friend Jess), after five years, I now have no need to explain my actions with mumbled excuses about spending time outdoors and historical education. The truth is, I love me some fried food. I love me some daytime drinking. And I love, nay, cherish, me the opportunity to make fun of those that deserve it, and if the act of donning a chain mail poncho and leather epaulettes in the middle of the summer doesn't represent a tacit compliance to act as a target for ridicule, then I can no longer trust my understanding of the world.

Being secure in the knowledge that I am very much the exception to the attendance rule for these sorts of events, having had sex with a member of the opposite sex before, and also being extremely drunk, it's a fun afternoon spent gaining perspective on one's position in the social strata; also, they let you play with axes. Jess and I have a nice little routine going in which we agree to abandon all social and moral norms at the gate, so that we might explore our mockery a little more openly and with our mouths full, which has allowed us to discover that the humor that comes from adding "Ye Olde" to every destination or action surprisingly does not diminish with repetition (this year's winner was when we incurred Ye Olde Transaction Fees at thee ATM), though I suspect booze might play into this.

This is the medieval version of the old mallet-and-bell contraption, frequently found on boardwalks and in 1960s high school fairs. Odd to think that when they were first crafting these back in the 11th century, so that men might prove their strength and virility to the maidens they would be raping later, people weren't even aware that gravity existed; then again, they also believed phlegm to be vital to life, so I guess Newtonian physics might have been a few years off still.


The wench that ran this particular game definitely had a dominant air about her--it might have been the whip--and was positively raking in the cash from Bridge and Tunnel types looking to achieve the rank of "Dragonslayer" (the lowest end of the spectrum, I believe, was just "female"). One the far left, there's even a kiddie version of the game, so you can teach your sons about naked male insecurity at a young age. Jess and I really started to make some headway on our quest to find out what really goes on behind the scenes at the Renfest, and after we got into a drinking contest with the man running the throwing star booth and flashed a little wrist--the land of the blind here, people--at the man running the bear cage, we were invited to the Queen's Ball later that evening. Though unable to attend due to lack of bustle and the sort of mental steeling that would be required to get through such an event (we felt as though they'd be able to smell the normal on us from a mile away and were a bit afraid of what happens when a RenGeek turns feral), we made a resolution to infiltrate next year.



This is Orm, a Viking just back from raiding the Baltic states. Though he promised me the world--and I believed him, I really did--and the chemistry was undeniable, alas, our love was not long for this Earth. I vowed to meet him at the Kissing Bridge at 5 PM, where we could seal our union under the eyes of God, but I got caught up at the ping-pong ball/fishbowl game, and we ended up as just two ships that pass in the night. It was all very An Affair to Remember.

Though I never saw his face, Orm did fair better than the man calling himself Casanova, who approached me with similar declarations of love and lust earlier in the day. Intrigued, but not willing to break my hard and fast rule never to sleep with anachronistic historical figures that I meet in the woods, I took a pass on romance. Renfests are interesting places in that a mainstream looking girl can do pretty well for herself, solely because she is an unknown quantity at these sorts of things. The girls at these things go pretty far over the top in that they will show you their genitals if you so much as make eye contact, and don't really make much of a secret about the fact that you can wake up the next morning with their fairy wings on your forest floor after only a couple of meads, so my theory is that even the highest-libidoed knights crave a little office-working, American Eagle-attired piece of ass now and then. Though not hideous, I do live in NYC, an aesthetically humbling city if there ever was one, but at the Renfest, I'm a solid 11, purely by dint of regular bathing and the fact that the odds of finding meat accidentally lodged in one of my crevices are slim to none.



Despite initial impressions, this man does not work for the festival. Don't get me wrong, this man should work for the festival- he's obviously put a couple centuries of time into crafting his appearance and, really, his very essence, however one does that, and that sort of devotion to a cause should be rewarded. But, as stated, he does not. He paid for a ticket right in front of me--the sight of this man holding American currency is more jarring than you'd think--and I saw him coming out of the port-a-potty. I'm entirely unsure of what sort of conversation could be happening here, but I'm guessing it involves directions to the Sherwood Forest Music Nook. I'd like to think that little girl is getting a big lesson in what happens when you make wrong choices in life.




This is sad picture of lost curly fries, scattered across the ground along Lockesly Lane. It reminded me of the utter despair that one felt as a child when the top fell off their ice cream cone, and caused me to picture the loss of innocence that occurred when some poor young boy, already destined to a life of persecution and mockery thanks to his penchant for fantasy role-play and garish silver jewelry shaped like ancient runes, let his curly-fry cone fumble through his fat little fingers, and he had his first brief moment of realization that maybe the world was not the ideal place he had believed it to be.

But perhaps I was reading too much into it.



The one thing that stands out about these things is the tremendous number of people employed by the festivals, and you can't help but get curious about the hierarchy of it all and the availability of the good jobs, or even what the good jobs are. It's hard enough being a liberal arts major in today's world, I can't imagine that the jousting market is all that bullish. The other thing that occurred to me is that for the acne-stricken teens of Tuxedo, NY, the Renfest is the new paper route, and every youth in the town has probably seen at least one summer of privy scrubbing. This was a particuarly forlorn youngster who had the misfortune of running the hot nut cart, which is awkward on so many levels; my middle school classmates could have gotten at least three semesters worth of jokes on "hot nuts" alone, without tossing the jester hat into the mix.



Ah, leather Rennathongs: Give your wench the yeast infection she deserves. Already well into my 6th drink at this point, when I saw these, I tried to picture whether I would be offended or honored if my skin was used to decorate someone's reproductive organs. I picture some sort of big noisy Cow Heaven in which they all just sit around talking about how they were disposed of; there's the big plebeian herds trading stories about various slaughtermills and cursing the Angus Third Pounder, there's the snotty Indian cows all high and mighty and shit, and then there's the one or two cows just sitting there unassumingly, til there's a slight lull in conversation, and one of busts out with "I'm a Rennathong", and everyone just goes silent and wide-eyed.

Also, ironically, they really just don't get Gary Larson's humor up there. Go figs.

That Which We Call a Rose

Word comes to me that there is standup comedian/magician with my same name making the rounds of New York, doing the sort of damage typically wrought by people who call themselves standup comedians/magicians and soiling my good name. A lifetime of living with a name so ridiculously common that at times I think I’d be better off being referred to by a number or bar code has made it so that these mixups aren’t surprising—there was a particularly annoying incident with my Burger King Kids Club membership as a child that cemented my MickeyD’s loyalty for a lifetime, if only to avoid the red tape—but that doesn’t mean that I don’t get a little curious about the other namesakes out there, and feel in competition with them. After a lifetime of username rejections and the ensuing replacement “suggestions” that go with them—I’d rather not have my Amazon login read like Cathy swearing at her fridge—I managed to score a coup in getting my first and last name as a gmail address, putting me at the top of the rankings and sending a fuck-you to the other Rubber Buns and Liquors of the world. As an added bonus, I often receive their emails, and I feel secure that their lives are not as interesting as mine, most likely due to the downward spiral caused by the loss of their preferred Google login.

Sucks for you, but sucks even worse for people named jch337ds.

You can tell a lot about a person by which shortened variation of their name they pick. Johns that stay Johns aren’t nearly as much fun to drink with as ones that become Jacks, and Elizabeths that become Lizzes are much less likely to be caught reading their boyfriend’s incoming text messages than ones that become Ibbys and Betsys. Mine is as it is for brevity/ease in barking, so that if something heavy is falling towards me, I have a slight millisecond head start on getting out of the way (downside being that I also answer to the word “genocide”). My full name being the result of two highly unsentimental people who accidentally mixed their DNA at a young age—I’m half surprised I wasn’t named after the nearest object in my father’s line of vision as he filled out the social security form—I’ve always had a fascination with names and how they shape a person, and vice versa. Is a girl named Lola because her parents were certain of her genetic blessing, or did the societal pressure of being hot enough to be worthy of the name Lola shape her physical appearance? Do men named Sully tropistically punch immoveable objects, or is it a learned behavior that comes from being surrounded by the type of men that hang out with guys named Sully?

Now disappointing in Christmas stockings near you!

Emily- Stop naming your kids Emily. The market is saturated. I cannot describe to you the heartbreak of being a young girl who is unable to get pencils or miniature license plates with your name on them. If my childhood were a sad French movie, it would just be 60 silent minutes of a small brunette child staring at a sign that says “Out of stock”, and then she’d light a cigarette and the screen would go black.

Grace- A gorgeous name, which somehow got hijacked by the Asians. I was OK with the fact that they look damn near immortal and their mp3 players are smarter than I am, but losing “Grace” was sort of the last straw for me .

March/April/May/June - There seems to be an unspoken rule against naming a child after the month they’re born in, but what about the month they were conceived in? I think that’s probably the best way to teach your children about contraception.

Jane- If one were to do a highly unscientific psychological probe of women named Jane, they could probably pinpoint the exact moment at which issues began to form as that in which the other schoolchildren learned the phrase “Plain Jane”, and Janes the world over began to act out against the rhyme through various bodily mutilations, fornications, and general sass. I’ve always thought an interesting addendum to the study would be to measure the amount of rebellion between attractive girls named Jane and ugly girls named Jane, for whom “plain” is actually an upgrade.

Sarah- Sarahs are rebelling against the book “Sarah, Plain and Tall,” so they’re much like Janes, only slightly sluttier.

Clyde- Started off as the go-to name for geeks, but then the black man went and surreptitiously took this one over. It’s still a damn geeky name, but I’m much less likely to raise that point to a cruiserweight than my IT guy.

Jason- Good God, are there a lot of gay men named Jason. I assume this is due to the ease with which children figure out the childhood taunt of “Gay-son”.

Harry- What a good guy Harry is. Everyone knows and likes Harry. If I were named Harry, I would spend the first part of my life trading in on this, then I would rob (Rob) all my friends blind and move to another city. Let the other Harrys of the world make up for it.

William and Richard- I wonder if somewhere back in the lineages of medieval kings, a decree was made that no male name can have amongst its variations/shortenings more than one euphemism for the male penis. I would think so, because I have a hard time keeping a straight face every time I say “Bill”, and no one else seems to notice.

Kyle- Douchebag name. No reason.

A Taste of Soap

I like to swear. I don't know why. Neither of my parents are particularly vulgar, and though I knew more than my fair share of truckers and sailors growing up, we didn’t converse on a regular basis. It’s not a conscious effort, and not meant to shock—there’s a certain tipping point for each person at which curse words stop having an effect, and mine was reached around the time that “shit” replaced the majority of my subject pronouns—but it’s more of a natural linguistic pattern, sort of like a lisp, in which sybillant esses are replaced with the word “fuck”.

"Fuckering Fuckotash"

Though I have my own personal favorites, on the matter of swearing, I have to defer to my beloved George Carlin’s legendary “Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television”, at least a quarter of which were introduced into the vernacular of various NYC youths during a hot coffee spill on last month’s Take Your Child to Work Day (now renamed Take Your Pill Regularly, Without Fail Day).

Shit- A golden oldie, partly because of its universal applicability to animal waste, but mostly because it rhymes with so goddamn many other things, granting it unlimited lyrical power. If, during the Genesis of Cussing, when the gods were first hammering the dirty words into tablets (replicas available at Spencer’s Gifts), they had chosen “Shorange” instead, I highly doubt it would be as popular. Or shit would be as popular. You see what I mean?
I use this word more often than: I exhale

Piss- Who doesn’t remember that seminal moment in which they officially switched from using the word “ticked” to “pissed”? I couldn’t tell you a single thing that was said at my First Communion, yet the day that I made the conversion to “pissed” stands out firmly in my memory. A banner moment in any young curser’s life, I can’t wait til my own future young ‘un comes toddling up to me at the bar and says “Mommy, the guidance counselor is pissed that you’re setting such a bad example.” Warm my heart, it will.
I use this word more often than: I actually piss

Fuck- The swear word of choice amongst consummate professionals everywhere. Everyone’s read the email forward regarding its various parts of speech and uses, so I won’t bother to rehash its versatility, but the first time I got the email in college, there was a fair amount of head nodding, glass raising, and You-tell-it-brothering going on. I first realized the potential of this word as a very young child, when my mother, taking a page from “Dr. Spock’s Book of Cliché Shit to Distract Your Kids”, put on some ridiculous record of children’s songs sung by a man whose voice makes Tom Waits sound “velvety”. When the “Name Song” finally reached its fifth round, my father looked up from the neuss he was fashioning and said “Let’s do Buck!”, only to get slapped by my mother.
I use this word more often than: “the”

Cunt- There was a great article in GQ a couple of years back about the stigma attached to this word, and how in our hyperverbose and freespeaking society, it was the last front in curse words that still have an impact. Four thousand words later, I remember thinking “Well, it was. Asshole.”
I use this word more often than: I probably should.

Cocksucker- Not bad, but given that 60% (51% female+10%gay-1%lesbian*) of us actually are, or have, or should be, sucking cock, a bit limited in usage, not that it should matter. I’m a big fan of tailoring insults specifically to the person; it’s like a bespoke suit, something that can last for years.
I use this word more often than: I floss

*This last figure is completely made up. Googling “percent lesbians” brings up some less than statistically sound websites)

Caulksucker

Motherfucker- Perhaps one of my favorite compound words (rainbow and corndog being the other two), this one enjoyed a brief surge of usage in the early to mid90s thanks to people like Andrew Dice Clay and Quentin Tarantino, bordering on hackneyed. Luckily, by the time I came of age to use it/no longer lived in a town where the fucking of one another’s mothers was a very real possibility, it had built up some cachet again.
I use this word more often than: I call my mother

Tits- I didn’t even know this was a bad word. My Mother’s Day Card is definitely going to need a proofread.
I use this word more often than: My actual tits, from a purely functional perspective.

Cool Ways to Die

Duel (fencing and/or pistol)
Now, assuming there’s an afterlife, or at the very least, some sort of celestial watering hole in which people sit around and drink Michelob Ultra (not my choice, Anheuser-Busch just has their hands in everything) and shoot the shit, well, I imagine that after the 1,834th time a guy tells the story of how his fatal heart attack “really came out of nowhere”, ears will definitely perk up when you casually mention that time you got pierced through the heart for defending a woman’s honor/sleeping with the Earl’s youngest daughter. The nice part is, even if you were in the wrong, the other guy looks like a dick, especially if you start a vicious rumor that he “totally turned on 9”. I’d love to see the look on the other guy’s face when his wizened old spirit steps into the bar decades later and millions of angry dead people start whispering.

Remaining Behind on a Giant Asteroid Heading Towards Earth to Push the Detonation Button, Thereby Saving Mankind
I didn’t say it had to be probable. But you’d definitely get a statue or a fountain or something.

Coming Into Contact with Someone Composed of Your Exact Antimatter
If only for the moment immediately after the implosion, in which you look over at the other soul floating up to heaven beside you, put out your hand, and say “So anyways. I’m _____. Nice to meet you.”

Falling Into a Giant Vat of Liquid Nitrogen
Because somewhere out there, there is a scientist who has just been dying to know what would happen, and scientists need to have their frat boy itch scratched, too. Also, a nice memento for your family.

Eating Brussel Sprouts
Conclusive proof that it actually does kill you. It sucks to have to be the one to take it for the team, but millions of kids the world over would be vindicated.

Devastating and As Yet Unnamed Disease
I’m not sure on the specifics of this sort of thing, but after the media covers your heartbreaking battle with the mystery disease and then mourns your passing, I think it’s only fair that they name the disease after you, immortalizing you forever. Alois Alzheimer didn’t stand a chance of having his name remembered until he tacked it onto a disease. Especially not by, you know, Alzheimer’s patients.

Asshole Cancer Coupled with the Flesh-Eating Virus*
*If you’re the guy that sits across from me at work who changed his ringtone to “Bagpipes”. And only cool for me.

During Sex with a Famous Person
Because though it would be gauche for you to bang-and-tell, you can’t help it if the media does it for you. There are worse curtain calls than riding George Clooney.

Rules, Like Thumbs, Were Meant to be Broken

Following a fairly recent conversation with coworkers regarding microwaves, microwaveable entities, and the science and technological oddities of all things microwave (50+ hour weeks had killed the part of our brains devoted to object permanence, leaving us unable to converse on anything not directly within vision), it came about that when you put aluminum foil in the microwave, it shoots blue sparks. Being familiar with the effects of metal in the microwave from an unfortunate office incident a couple years back involving a knish, an errant mustard packet, flames, and about 10,000 iterations of the word "shit", this wasn't news to me, but when I asked how everyone else's experiences had come to pass, it turns out that not one but two people had made their discoveries by actively placing foil in a microwave and hitting "Start". Now, growing up in the country with little supervision, I'm no stranger to doing stupid shit "just cause"--like you've never wondered what an electric fence feels like--but there were certain hard and fast rules that were never to be broken, ever, not out of respect for authority figures, but because we had been imbued with such fear for what would happen if they were to be broken that life as we know it would come to an end.

Don’t eat wild berries

I lived in the woods, so while this doesn’t make most people’s top ten list, this was a pretty sound bit of advice for the old madre to pass along, although I suspect she was more worried about the potential for tooth stain than poisoning. I don’t know what it was, but for some reason, every friggin berry I encountered on my forest explorations looked irresistible. I have no explanation for it, I read Babar, was well-fed, and was given free reign over a houseful of unhealthy and hence delicious junk foods--mounds of Mounds, heaps of Peeps, Storeos* of Oreos—but every single berry I encountered sang its own little siren song, and I have no idea why. I’d like to think it was a manifestation of a primal urge to procure my own food and thus sustain life, but honestly, I think it’s just ‘cause they were pretty colors. In retrospect, I’m a little amazed I grew up to be, you know, alive.

*Storeo: a full or more than adequate amount or supply

Don’t open the refrigerator door without knowing what you want

Blah blah waste of electricity aside, between the yelling and the torture--they didn’t actually use the Spanish Boot, they just kept it in the corner as a reminder that they could if so inclined--if you were to convert the amount of energy expended by my parents in getting me to shut the fridge thatmuchquicker into viable energy, there is no way that the efficiency balances out. I’ve decided that when the time comes to raise children of my own, I’ll make them sign a contract stating that they may leave the refrigerator door open for any amount of time, as long as they slip me twenty bucks upon reaching the financial stability of adulthood.**

**I’m also assuming that by the time I reproduce, we’ll have found a cheap, renewable fuel source, and 20n (where n=number of kids) will turn me a pretty sweet little profit.

Don’t run with scissors

Actually, I don’t really know my parents’ stance on running with scissors. I don’t even see how the circumstance in which an adult would be required to make a ruling on this would even come up. What six-year old needs to get anywhere with such a sense of urgency that they’re required to run, let alone the sort of situation that requires cutting devices? I think the bigger issue at hand here is time management. If we’re going to come up with arbitrary societal rules involving sharp objects, I think we should be devoting more energies to more fatal combinations of things like “Glass is not a baking ingredient” or “Don’t put knives in your mouth.”

Don’t swallow chewing gum

This was not a rule in my household, but seemed to be a pretty central tenet upon which all of my friends’ and friends’ parents’ entire concept of anatomy and science was built, in that the piece of gum that you spend hours chewing must never, ever be allowed to pass beyond the golden gate of your epiglottis, as it would automatically turn evil, and you would die in a manner that no one has any evidence or record of. To this day, I consider it a dealbreaker if a man still believes that he will fall ill should he swallow gum, as to me it’s indicative of the sort of tenuous grasp on rational thought that leads one to be afraid of monsters under the bed. Some day, I’ll meet a guy who considers swallowing gum a dealbreaker, and we’ll have the least exciting breakup ever.

Don’t go home with strangers

Honestly, this really only needs to be said once, and even that’s pushing it. Who the hell (under the age of 18) goes home with a complete stranger, when given the option? I’d like to think there’s some sort of Darwinism in effect here, as kids that stupid really aren’t helping the gene pool. Though strangely, I feel a little less animosity towards children that go home with strangers offering candy, as at least there’s some sort of validity to the transaction, depending on the candy. Still, I feel like you could probably save some time by just laying out a general “Don’t be a fucking idiot” maxim to the kiddies, and this’d be covered.

Don’t get Them wet, or feed them after midnight

This was my pet, Gizmo. Cute little thing, got him in the back of an old thrift shop from some Chinese Guy when they ran out of my usual supply of jade buddhas. Dude didn't speak much English, but he kept repeating, over and over again, "Don't feed him after midnight. And never get him wet." And he seemed really serious about it, too, so serious, in fact, that I never did either. Except once, and he ate my dad. Just kidding, they don't make Chinese people in Northern NY.

It's a Five O'Clock World

Checking into the barren wasteland that is my inbox this week, I found this notice for next Thursday’s “Bring Your Child to Work Day”, which apparently exists outside of heartwarming Reader’s Digest fiction.




I’m not sure my company could have come up with a less accurate approximation of what my day actually entails. Assuming that the whole point of “Bring Your Child to Work Day” is to provide a gentle indoctrination into the working world, to show your offspring the value of being a breadwinner and a hard day’s work in the hopes of them following suit, I can understand why they feel the need to blatantly lie to the kids, as the phrase “in accordance with Sarbanes-Oxley” doesn’t have the same merry ring to it as “ride along in the cop car” or “take a tour of the spaceship”, but if your kid honestly believes that you come to work every day to play with Legos, well, I’d rather not have them in the work force anyway. And even if that is the case, doesn’t that make you out to be kind of a dick? Hey kids, each morning, mommy and daddy desert you at school to bury your nose in books and long division while they go off to the office to face paint and watch cartoons.

Since the top employers in the area I grew up in were a correctional facility and a mental institution, they didn’t really encourage “Bring Your Child to Work Day”, but since we were kind of strapped for cash in the early years, I would often find myself tagging along to my father’s jobs, coloring book in tow (he worked in the emergency room of the local hospital by day, and the medical clinic by Thursday-Friday night). Having spent a childhood surrounded by medical textbooks and horror movies, I had no problem with the fact that my dinner was often brought to me by someone covered in blood, and I suspect I’ve acquired antibodies for diseases that would make your local slaughterhouse owner gag, but looking back, I do wonder what it was like to sit in an ER, anxiously waiting for news of your loved one, as a happy little girl munched on peanut butter crackers and asked you if you want to play a word game. As for the clinic, well, not a lot of children are given access to their teachers’ medical charts, and it’s every bit as satisfying as it sounds.

Did you wash your hands before dinner?

Now, having spent an entire lifetime not getting knocked up, and doing a damn good job of it, I don’t see why I’m being punished like this. Not only do I have to sit at my desk and pretend to be impressed by people’s ability to procreate all day—each spawn’s “final, framed masterpiece” equally more impressive than the last, I’m sure—but I have to put in a full day’s work while some chick from Accounting gets to watch a friggin’ magic show because her condom broke in high school. The only thing that’s going to get me through the day (besides drinking heavily at lunch and my 12:30 appointment to “Steal Kids’ Food”) is the hope that someone will have thought it a good idea to bring not one but two rugrats to work, so I’ll get to witness a VP of something bullshit his way through a daylong contest of “Daddy, whose _____ is better?”.

Games (Other, More Physically Fit) People Play

I'm a sports person. I'm not diehard, I don't collect articles of clothing worn by athletes, I can't look at a program and go all John Nash on the stats, and I still hope for a Leisure question when I'm going for the green pie piece in Trivial Pursuit, but sometimes I'm sick of being responsible for my own happiness and I want that weight to rest on someone else's shoulders for a few hours. Also, I like to drink and gamble. My motives are pure.

I'll take twenty on the white guy.

As a teenager, I chose the Buffalo Bills as my team, right before they made it to their third Super Bowl, against the Cowboys. Clad in a starter jacket that displaced roughly four times the volume of my own body , I sat at my best friend's house, on a rug made out of something her dad had killed, eating chips and (I believe) pure sugar cubes, learning what it truly means to have a man break your heart, and earn millions doing it. I also learned why one never should spend their Christmas money on a commemorative t-shirt before the actual event, because if your team loses, it will only serve as a painful and unfashionable reminder of your loss, and because it is made of some indesctructible 1990s polymer and will somehow remain in your dresser forever, so that when you return home for Xmas and need a tshirt to work out in, you'll be forced to dress exactly as you did in 1993.

I stayed with the Bills through the next year, recreating the same scenario at my best friend's house the next January, only a little more aware of Frank Reich's ass...ets as a respectable backup QB. This ended much the same way as it had the last time, and I was taught a lifelong lesson in why you don't go back to someone who broke your heart the first time around; I believe this also planted the seeds for what now might be termed "a clinically unhealthy hatred for all things Texas".

Also makes an excellent burger.

Sick of justifying why I continued to like a team that had brought me so very much pain, I took a break from the sport for several years, rejoining at the advent of fantasy leagues, where I could distribute my expectations and minimize the risk of crushing blows- the mutual fund of sports. Though I toy with other sports, my main fantasy squeeze has long been football- I find the draft offers just the right mix of knowledge and hunches in the earlier rounds, and reliance on dirty-sounding names in the later, less-informed rounds (God Bless You, Neil Rackers, for years of juvenile joy). I've played with the same guys for years now, and even though I wouldn't know to spit on half of them if I passed them in the street, we've remained a pretty constant group. There have been a few wild cards that cycle in and out (I always get the league in custody battles), and when a new person enters, usually the coworker of a friend's cousin or someone else with similarly solid credentials, the first thing we need to know is what niche they'll corner in the shittalking market. With an Asian Guy, Italian Guy, Black Guy, Irish Guy, Girl, Canadian Guy, and Once Highlighted His Hair in 1998 and Has Been Called Gay Ever Since Guy, my league is a veritable small world of slurs after all, so it's often a stretch to find new material; when we got some fresh blood a few years back and discovered that he had a young daughter, I could practically see saliva dripping onto keyboards across the country, such was the breadth of new (and highly incrimimating) jokes opened up to us.

Racker? I hardly even know her.

Now, as my fantasy baseball team begins what looks to be a looonnnng season of pooch-screwing and general fuckuppery, my hockey team enters the playoffs wiping the blood of the rest of the league from its mouth. I've been here before, and I just don't know how much of my soul to invest in a city that has essentially shoved me down the stairs then told me it loves me so many times before, especially considering how long-term the commitment is. It looks good going in, but two months is a long time to vest yourself in something without the guarantee of eggs in the morning. If we win, I get to lord it over the other three hockey fans in the city, but if we lose, well, back-to-back viewings of Miracle can only do so much healin'.