Friday, March 11, 2005


Thank Christ. It worked. Hooray! Now I can stop being so bitter.

I'm sorry Sorry SORRY about not posting my recurring nightmares about dodgeball for our re-formed Mason-Dixon competition. I tried, but my brilliant entry was consumed by the hungry, savage maw of the Internet. I love it so, and how does it repay my devotion?

I'm not going to rehash the whole thing, but the gist of it was about this poor kid in grade school who always got "saved for last" in dodgeball. His nickname was Moon Pie and I hope to God he has had some serious therapy, and I never did figure out why they called him that. But they'd wait till everyone was "out" and then spend ten minutes taunting him and feinting, while poor Moon Pie danced frantically in the middle of the square... like the sobbing, mewling gunfighter who's spent his last bullet while the mean tobacco spittin drunk guy fires a few rounds at his feet just for kicks before finishing him off. Then all the bullies would inundate him with red four-square balls, and all of us weaklings would be looking on in horror, our vestial tails tucked and desperately relieved that it wasn't us.

So how would Olympic Dodgeball be? Would the third world nation athletes without billion dollar trainers and access to equine pharmaceuticals have to be Moon Pie, while countries with stock exchanges get to pelt them with red balls and ridicule? Boy, any bets on whether President Bush decides to personally sponsor the American Dodge Ball Team? Perhaps their T-shirts could have a giant ass hole emblazoned on them. I think in this era of escalating hostility, nations should avoid any games where objects are lobbed with the intention of hitting someone.

And what's next? Olympic Four Square? Olympic Hopscotch? Olympic Smear The Queer? We should have drawn the line at Olympic Trampolining, people. Let's not make a bad thing worse.

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