52 hours sober
something has to give
hide your women and show shovels
this is almost a haikuu
Monday, November 30, 2009
Friday, November 13, 2009
For all you sucker MC's perpetratin a FRAUD
You're the kind of guy that girl ignored
I'm drivin Caddy, you fixin a FORD
I'm drivin Caddy, you fixin a FORD
Thursday, November 12, 2009
while waiting for parent teacher conferences..
...I saw this in the hall.
I laughed through the whole conference.
I laughed through the whole conference.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
smooth criminal
Starbucks was empty ( or so I thought) today and I walked in giving the girls behind the counter the usual rash of shit, " get me my coffee...what's taking so long ?!" which is typcial of the friendly banter I have with my dealers...I mean coffee vendors.
I went back and forth with the girl at the counter until we were interrupted by some laughing. A good looking professional woman ( professional is in buisness woman...not prostitute so far as I could tell) was standing next to me laughing started chatting me up. We exchanged plesantries and out the door she went.
When I turned back around to get my coffee the girls behind the counter started howling. " SHE WAS TOTALLY TRYING TO PICK YOU UP !"
get outta here
" NO WAY MAN, AHAHAHAH, you were totally getting hit on"
So I turned back around to see the woman walking to her car and began to laugh with the girls.
Then I had an epiffany. I realized girls weren't laughing at HER...the girls were laughing at US.
Along the dividing line of "hip" there are cool young people and bungling has-beens...and I was on the wrong side of that counter.
Starbucks: The coffee is the $2. The shattered self image is free !
I went back and forth with the girl at the counter until we were interrupted by some laughing. A good looking professional woman ( professional is in buisness woman...not prostitute so far as I could tell) was standing next to me laughing started chatting me up. We exchanged plesantries and out the door she went.
When I turned back around to get my coffee the girls behind the counter started howling. " SHE WAS TOTALLY TRYING TO PICK YOU UP !"
get outta here
" NO WAY MAN, AHAHAHAH, you were totally getting hit on"
So I turned back around to see the woman walking to her car and began to laugh with the girls.
Then I had an epiffany. I realized girls weren't laughing at HER...the girls were laughing at US.
Along the dividing line of "hip" there are cool young people and bungling has-beens...and I was on the wrong side of that counter.
Starbucks: The coffee is the $2. The shattered self image is free !
Don't Cry For Me Argenina
I woke my son up the this morning singing the theme to Evita in my best Ricky Riccardo voice.
" DON'T CRY FOR ME ARCH-IN-TIIIINE-JAAAA"
" ok I'm up already "
" THE TRUST IS I NEVER LEFT CHUUUU"
"cut it out !"
" ALL THROUGH MY WILD DAY AND MAD EXISTANCE "
" shut....up"
" I KEPT MY PROMISE "
" your so friggin weird "
" DON'T KEEP YOUR DEEES-TENSE "
" mooooooooommmmmmmmmmmm !"
Before my wife could yell at me for stirring up trouble or accuse me not knowing that Evita was a woman is said "Lucy, you got some 'splainin' to do! " and walked out the door.
I suspect they're changing the locks right now.
" DON'T CRY FOR ME ARCH-IN-TIIIINE-JAAAA"
" ok I'm up already "
" THE TRUST IS I NEVER LEFT CHUUUU"
"cut it out !"
" ALL THROUGH MY WILD DAY AND MAD EXISTANCE "
" shut....up"
" I KEPT MY PROMISE "
" your so friggin weird "
" DON'T KEEP YOUR DEEES-TENSE "
" mooooooooommmmmmmmmmmm !"
Before my wife could yell at me for stirring up trouble or accuse me not knowing that Evita was a woman is said "Lucy, you got some 'splainin' to do! " and walked out the door.
I suspect they're changing the locks right now.
Losing my grip
I played with my father and uncle over the weekend at a beautiful but difficult course in New Jersey.
10 minutes after parking my car, I realized I was in New Jersey. 4 Italians stood on the tee trying to cut and light their cigars while 45 carts full of Asians patiently waited to go off the first tee. Finally the starter came out and suggested the gentlemen consider teeing off.
The four guys, of course playing from the back tees, proceeded to boomerang four balls into the woods and spent another 10 minutes calling the starter a motherfucker and blaming their shots ( not on their horrible swings) on being rushed off the tee. And you know these are the same 4 guys who would have called the starter a motherfucker if he wasn't chasing the people ahead of THEM.
Of course they never played their balls in the woods, but instead dropped four balls in the fairway as compensation for this grave injustice. I suspect they were lawyers and or Catholics.
Using duct tape and kite string I cobbled together a 40 on the front nine and headed into the back with the hope of breaking 80 on a really challenging course.
On the par 5 12th hole I hit a great drive and was sitting at the 200 yard marker with the hope of reaching in two and going either eagle or birdie when my approach shot clipped the tip of the thinnest, barest, single branch hanging just over the edge of the fairway and the ball dropped just short of the green. OK, fine then....no worries...I'll just chip it on, one or two putt and get out of there.
The area around this particular hole looked like the front lawn of the White House. As far as you could seen in every direction was a vast ocean of perfectly groomed, emerald green grass. The entire area was unblemished except for one spot....one singular silver dollar size spot of bare dirt in the entire expanse of land between the tee and the green...and it was the spot diretly under my ball.
Now I was getting a little bit pissed off.
Between myself and the hole was a sand bunker, and behind the hole was some deep rough. I needed to pick this ball off the dirt patch, clear the bunker, but have enough loft so the ball wouldn't roll off the back and into the deep grass. Its wasn't impossible but it was going to necessitate a very good shot.
I took a calming breath and addressed the ball. I locked in and drew the club back slowly and.....WHIRRRRRRRRR......CLUNK....WHIRRRRRRRRRRR. Right in the middle of my back swing, the cart girl came buzzing around and evergreen tree full speed and right past me. CLUNK my ball went on a line drive over the bunker, past the hole, and disappeared off the green in 4 inches of thick rough on the other side. Furious, I spun around to say something, but she kept going by with a smile and a wave. She headed over the the next hole to sell some beer to the guys ahead of us.
The bitch was wearing a Yankees hat.
So now I"m really steaming but all is not lost. If I could somehow get the ball onto the green I could still possibly get a par and at least a bogey. And that's the torture of the game - from eagle to bogey from 10 yards out. Again I tried to calm myself and stay in the moment. My ball was sitting down in the grass and the only way to get it out of there was to make a daring play. Despite a short distance to the hole, I had to open up the face, make a full swing, and get under the ball. Anything more than that and I would go over the green. Anything less than that and the ball would only move a few inches.
I took a half dozen practice swings to build my courage, got comfortable and addressed the ball. I drew the club all the way back and coiled myself for a full swing.....WHIRRRRRRRRRRRRR.....CLUNK. Right at the apex of my swing that Derek Jeter loving bitch came flying by again. My club slammed into the ground a good half foot behind the ball and the chunck of dirt went next to the hole while my ball moved about an inch and a half.
Angrily I spun around to see her driving off into the distance. Insane with rage I lifted my wedge over my head like a tomahawk and in an act of defiance hurled it at the cart. Now I recognize that I'm crazy, but I'm not criminal. I threw the club at the girl, but she was a good 30 yards away in a cart going 10 miles per hour. I've done enough 5th grade math problems concerning trains leaving New York and Boston to know that by the time my club got to where she was, she'd be another 30 yards away oblivious to my outburst.
What they don't factor in for 5th grade is that the train leaving Boston might suddenly stop if the conductor mistakes your yelling " Bitch !" for you yelling " BEER !"
What had been an outburst of protest was turning into criminal assault at 20 yards and closing. The wedge spun end over end, implausibly on a dead trajectory for the Yankees logo. My father and my Uncle, who up to this point had simply been observers were about to become accomplices and suddenly, thankfully, they started screaming.... " GO ! GO ! GO !" and vigorously waving at the girl to get moving.
" Wha...?"
" GOOOOOOOO ! For the love of christ, GOOOOOOO !"
The girl was oblivious to her fate, but the look on my fathers face and he started waving and running across the green must have been enough because she hit the gas and started moving again.
SMASH...the club hit the back of the lunch cart portion of the vehicle with a crash. The girl paused again, look around confused, and drove off.
My hope is that she assumed it was an errant ball, but just to be safe I tipped her $6 the next time around. And I congratulated her on the Series.
10 minutes after parking my car, I realized I was in New Jersey. 4 Italians stood on the tee trying to cut and light their cigars while 45 carts full of Asians patiently waited to go off the first tee. Finally the starter came out and suggested the gentlemen consider teeing off.
The four guys, of course playing from the back tees, proceeded to boomerang four balls into the woods and spent another 10 minutes calling the starter a motherfucker and blaming their shots ( not on their horrible swings) on being rushed off the tee. And you know these are the same 4 guys who would have called the starter a motherfucker if he wasn't chasing the people ahead of THEM.
Of course they never played their balls in the woods, but instead dropped four balls in the fairway as compensation for this grave injustice. I suspect they were lawyers and or Catholics.
Using duct tape and kite string I cobbled together a 40 on the front nine and headed into the back with the hope of breaking 80 on a really challenging course.
On the par 5 12th hole I hit a great drive and was sitting at the 200 yard marker with the hope of reaching in two and going either eagle or birdie when my approach shot clipped the tip of the thinnest, barest, single branch hanging just over the edge of the fairway and the ball dropped just short of the green. OK, fine then....no worries...I'll just chip it on, one or two putt and get out of there.
The area around this particular hole looked like the front lawn of the White House. As far as you could seen in every direction was a vast ocean of perfectly groomed, emerald green grass. The entire area was unblemished except for one spot....one singular silver dollar size spot of bare dirt in the entire expanse of land between the tee and the green...and it was the spot diretly under my ball.
Now I was getting a little bit pissed off.
Between myself and the hole was a sand bunker, and behind the hole was some deep rough. I needed to pick this ball off the dirt patch, clear the bunker, but have enough loft so the ball wouldn't roll off the back and into the deep grass. Its wasn't impossible but it was going to necessitate a very good shot.
I took a calming breath and addressed the ball. I locked in and drew the club back slowly and.....WHIRRRRRRRRR......CLUNK....WHIRRRRRRRRRRR. Right in the middle of my back swing, the cart girl came buzzing around and evergreen tree full speed and right past me. CLUNK my ball went on a line drive over the bunker, past the hole, and disappeared off the green in 4 inches of thick rough on the other side. Furious, I spun around to say something, but she kept going by with a smile and a wave. She headed over the the next hole to sell some beer to the guys ahead of us.
The bitch was wearing a Yankees hat.
So now I"m really steaming but all is not lost. If I could somehow get the ball onto the green I could still possibly get a par and at least a bogey. And that's the torture of the game - from eagle to bogey from 10 yards out. Again I tried to calm myself and stay in the moment. My ball was sitting down in the grass and the only way to get it out of there was to make a daring play. Despite a short distance to the hole, I had to open up the face, make a full swing, and get under the ball. Anything more than that and I would go over the green. Anything less than that and the ball would only move a few inches.
I took a half dozen practice swings to build my courage, got comfortable and addressed the ball. I drew the club all the way back and coiled myself for a full swing.....WHIRRRRRRRRRRRRR.....CLUNK. Right at the apex of my swing that Derek Jeter loving bitch came flying by again. My club slammed into the ground a good half foot behind the ball and the chunck of dirt went next to the hole while my ball moved about an inch and a half.
Angrily I spun around to see her driving off into the distance. Insane with rage I lifted my wedge over my head like a tomahawk and in an act of defiance hurled it at the cart. Now I recognize that I'm crazy, but I'm not criminal. I threw the club at the girl, but she was a good 30 yards away in a cart going 10 miles per hour. I've done enough 5th grade math problems concerning trains leaving New York and Boston to know that by the time my club got to where she was, she'd be another 30 yards away oblivious to my outburst.
What they don't factor in for 5th grade is that the train leaving Boston might suddenly stop if the conductor mistakes your yelling " Bitch !" for you yelling " BEER !"
What had been an outburst of protest was turning into criminal assault at 20 yards and closing. The wedge spun end over end, implausibly on a dead trajectory for the Yankees logo. My father and my Uncle, who up to this point had simply been observers were about to become accomplices and suddenly, thankfully, they started screaming.... " GO ! GO ! GO !" and vigorously waving at the girl to get moving.
" Wha...?"
" GOOOOOOOO ! For the love of christ, GOOOOOOO !"
The girl was oblivious to her fate, but the look on my fathers face and he started waving and running across the green must have been enough because she hit the gas and started moving again.
SMASH...the club hit the back of the lunch cart portion of the vehicle with a crash. The girl paused again, look around confused, and drove off.
My hope is that she assumed it was an errant ball, but just to be safe I tipped her $6 the next time around. And I congratulated her on the Series.
Friday, November 06, 2009
Enough about Floyd
Every morning my newsfeed informs me of Floyd Landis' standing in the Tour of Southland or whatever meaningless race is going on in the southern hemisphere.
Besides the absurdity of listing the result of anyone else besides the leader, it made me consider, " who the hell is Floyd Landis ?"
He gets treated as cycling royalty and gets mentioned as a rider of the same class as Contador and Armstrong, but really, what has the guy accomplished ?
The ONLY year that they guy achieve ANYTHING is 2006...the year he got caught cheating.
Other than that his two biggest results are a win at the Tour of Algarve...booya...and a local USCF event, the Boulevard Road Race...which includes as a winner Heath Blackgrove who ironically enough is winning the our of Southland although no one outside of his mother actually knows about it.
And this is the fundamental problem with limited punishment for a cheating peice of crap like Landis. He's a guy who cheated the sport, then cheated friends and family out the their money with his bullshit legal defense fund, and who took resources away from WADA and USADA's ability to catch other dopers while the dealt with his bullshit appeal after appeal.
And in the end, riders like Oscar Piero, Heath Blackgrove, and countless others scrape together a living in cycling anonymity - while Landis continues to prosper and financially benefit from the exposure garnered ONLY through results and notoriety he achieved while cheating.
OK, silly picture time courtesy Marcie (thanks!)
Besides the absurdity of listing the result of anyone else besides the leader, it made me consider, " who the hell is Floyd Landis ?"
He gets treated as cycling royalty and gets mentioned as a rider of the same class as Contador and Armstrong, but really, what has the guy accomplished ?
The ONLY year that they guy achieve ANYTHING is 2006...the year he got caught cheating.
Other than that his two biggest results are a win at the Tour of Algarve...booya...and a local USCF event, the Boulevard Road Race...which includes as a winner Heath Blackgrove who ironically enough is winning the our of Southland although no one outside of his mother actually knows about it.
And this is the fundamental problem with limited punishment for a cheating peice of crap like Landis. He's a guy who cheated the sport, then cheated friends and family out the their money with his bullshit legal defense fund, and who took resources away from WADA and USADA's ability to catch other dopers while the dealt with his bullshit appeal after appeal.
And in the end, riders like Oscar Piero, Heath Blackgrove, and countless others scrape together a living in cycling anonymity - while Landis continues to prosper and financially benefit from the exposure garnered ONLY through results and notoriety he achieved while cheating.
OK, silly picture time courtesy Marcie (thanks!)
Thursday, November 05, 2009
This Is Water - DFW
In the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And an outstanding reason for choosing some sort of God or spiritual-type thing to worship -- be it J.C. or Allah, be it Yahweh or the Wiccan mother-goddess or the Four Noble Truths or some infrangible set of ethical principles -- is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive.
If you worship money and things -- if they are where you tap real meaning in life -- then you will never have enough. Never feel you have enough. It's the truth. Worship your own body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly, and when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally plant you.
On one level, we all know this stuff already -- it's been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, bromides, epigrams, parables: the skeleton of every great story. The trick is keeping the truth up-front in daily consciousness. Worship power -- you will feel weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to keep the fear at bay. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart -- you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. And so on.
Look, the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they're evil or sinful; it is that they are unconscious. They are default-settings. They're the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that's what you're doing. And the world will not discourage you from operating on your default-settings, because the world of men and money and power hums along quite nicely on the fuel of fear and contempt and frustration and craving and the worship of self.
Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom to be lords of our own tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the center of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it. But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talked about in the great outside world of winning and achieving and displaying. The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day.
This Is Water, David Foster Wallace
If you worship money and things -- if they are where you tap real meaning in life -- then you will never have enough. Never feel you have enough. It's the truth. Worship your own body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly, and when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally plant you.
On one level, we all know this stuff already -- it's been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, bromides, epigrams, parables: the skeleton of every great story. The trick is keeping the truth up-front in daily consciousness. Worship power -- you will feel weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to keep the fear at bay. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart -- you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. And so on.
Look, the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they're evil or sinful; it is that they are unconscious. They are default-settings. They're the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that's what you're doing. And the world will not discourage you from operating on your default-settings, because the world of men and money and power hums along quite nicely on the fuel of fear and contempt and frustration and craving and the worship of self.
Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom to be lords of our own tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the center of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it. But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talked about in the great outside world of winning and achieving and displaying. The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day.
This Is Water, David Foster Wallace
How do you stack up ?
Remember the President Council on Physical Fitness tests you did in school as a kid ? Yeah the ones where you could just about do all the stuff except for the pull ups...and then you'd get pissed because the all the girls had to do was the flexed arm hang.
Anyway I looked those up yesterday.
Standards for 17 year old to meet the 85th percentile
Boys
55 sit-ups in 1 minute
8.7 second shuttle run
6:06 for the mile
53 push-ups ( not timed but continuous)
13 pull-ups
Those friggin pull-ups got me AGAIN !
Here the link for all the standards.
Anyway I looked those up yesterday.
Standards for 17 year old to meet the 85th percentile
Boys
55 sit-ups in 1 minute
8.7 second shuttle run
6:06 for the mile
53 push-ups ( not timed but continuous)
13 pull-ups
Those friggin pull-ups got me AGAIN !
Here the link for all the standards.
Home Run
IOZ consistantly hits it out of the park
As benedictory aphorisms go, "every vote counts" is right up there with your mother telling you that everyone is special and your coach reminding you that it doesn't matter if you win or lose, it's how you play the game. Obviously some poeople are more special than others, and no one remembers the sportsmanlike conduct of Dallas in Superbowl X. The conceit of representative democracy, particularly when linked to state capitalism, is that procedural participation makes citizens into shareholders. There is a certain truth to this. But just as getting a yearly proxy statement and invitation to the annual meeting does not confer upon each small investor even marginal influence on the direction of GE, or whichever, nor yet does the franchise offer citizens much more than a semiannual opportunity to pretend that they matter, should they so desire. And, hell, that is part of the bargain. The small investor becomes a shareholder in order to gain benefit even though he holds no particular authority, has no say, exerts no influence, and bears no special responsibility. He's just along for the ride, but for the PR purposes of our so-called free markets, we are willing to entertain the ritual but un-literal truth that each shareholder is an "owner." Meanwhile, most shareholders haven't even got so direct a link as the independent investor, but simply gain by membership in some larger, institutional investment pool, some mutual fund or pension plan or what have you. Our democracy tracks similar lines via voters and affinity groups, and so long as the percieved value of our tiny shares is on the increase, we are content; when it decreases, we are not; but at no point do we have any say in the decisions made by those who actually own the joint.
and now your funny picture
As benedictory aphorisms go, "every vote counts" is right up there with your mother telling you that everyone is special and your coach reminding you that it doesn't matter if you win or lose, it's how you play the game. Obviously some poeople are more special than others, and no one remembers the sportsmanlike conduct of Dallas in Superbowl X. The conceit of representative democracy, particularly when linked to state capitalism, is that procedural participation makes citizens into shareholders. There is a certain truth to this. But just as getting a yearly proxy statement and invitation to the annual meeting does not confer upon each small investor even marginal influence on the direction of GE, or whichever, nor yet does the franchise offer citizens much more than a semiannual opportunity to pretend that they matter, should they so desire. And, hell, that is part of the bargain. The small investor becomes a shareholder in order to gain benefit even though he holds no particular authority, has no say, exerts no influence, and bears no special responsibility. He's just along for the ride, but for the PR purposes of our so-called free markets, we are willing to entertain the ritual but un-literal truth that each shareholder is an "owner." Meanwhile, most shareholders haven't even got so direct a link as the independent investor, but simply gain by membership in some larger, institutional investment pool, some mutual fund or pension plan or what have you. Our democracy tracks similar lines via voters and affinity groups, and so long as the percieved value of our tiny shares is on the increase, we are content; when it decreases, we are not; but at no point do we have any say in the decisions made by those who actually own the joint.
and now your funny picture
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Monday, November 02, 2009
The kid's got skills
I'm coaching flag football. We have one kid...every team has one kid...who has no idea how to play. Somehow the kid who doesn't know how to play is the same one who raises his hand to ask 100 inappropriate questions.
me: "This that's the play we're going to run...does anyone have any questions ?"
Kid: "My Mom makes me call her new friend Uncle Jack, but he's not really my Uncle. Do you think that bothers my real Uncle ?"
me (frantic): "...ABOUT THE PLAY !!!...does anyone have any questions about THE PLAY !"
Yesterday there were no port-o-pots so we asked the kids before the game, " Does anyone have to go ?" Unanamously no one had to go.
5 minutes into the game I get a tug on my sleave, " Sir ?"...he calls everyone taller than him "Sir" like that chick who follows around Peppermint Patty. " Sir, I have to go to the bathroom."
" Can you hold it, the game just started ?"
" Ummm, yes"
We went all the way through half-time and started into the third quarter when I got another tug, " Sir I have to go to the bathroom"
" Kid we just ended halftime...why didn't you go then ? Can you hold it ?"
" Ummmm, I don't think so. I really really have to go."
So while the other coach took care of the team I ran the kid off to some bushes, " OK go here."
" Are you sure this is ok ?"
" Yeah kid hurry up", not only did I have to get back to the game, but as a general principal I don't like to find myself in the bushes with a little kid and his pants down.
" Ok sir", and the little kid pulled his tighty-whiteys down and started peeing.
I had my back turned watching the game and heard what sounded like a garden hose. I turned around a bit to see what could only be describe as a yellow version of the St. Louis Arch. The tiny little 3'6" kid was peeing OVER a 6 foot bush.
" HOLY SMOKES KID !"
" Yeah sir, I said I really had to go"
The boy continued like that for another minute before I finally gave up, " I gotta get back to the game. When you're done, clean yourself up and come back to the sideline.
" Ok sir", and I left him standing there like the Fountain of Trevi.
me: "This that's the play we're going to run...does anyone have any questions ?"
Kid: "My Mom makes me call her new friend Uncle Jack, but he's not really my Uncle. Do you think that bothers my real Uncle ?"
me (frantic): "...ABOUT THE PLAY !!!...does anyone have any questions about THE PLAY !"
Yesterday there were no port-o-pots so we asked the kids before the game, " Does anyone have to go ?" Unanamously no one had to go.
5 minutes into the game I get a tug on my sleave, " Sir ?"...he calls everyone taller than him "Sir" like that chick who follows around Peppermint Patty. " Sir, I have to go to the bathroom."
" Can you hold it, the game just started ?"
" Ummm, yes"
We went all the way through half-time and started into the third quarter when I got another tug, " Sir I have to go to the bathroom"
" Kid we just ended halftime...why didn't you go then ? Can you hold it ?"
" Ummmm, I don't think so. I really really have to go."
So while the other coach took care of the team I ran the kid off to some bushes, " OK go here."
" Are you sure this is ok ?"
" Yeah kid hurry up", not only did I have to get back to the game, but as a general principal I don't like to find myself in the bushes with a little kid and his pants down.
" Ok sir", and the little kid pulled his tighty-whiteys down and started peeing.
I had my back turned watching the game and heard what sounded like a garden hose. I turned around a bit to see what could only be describe as a yellow version of the St. Louis Arch. The tiny little 3'6" kid was peeing OVER a 6 foot bush.
" HOLY SMOKES KID !"
" Yeah sir, I said I really had to go"
The boy continued like that for another minute before I finally gave up, " I gotta get back to the game. When you're done, clean yourself up and come back to the sideline.
" Ok sir", and I left him standing there like the Fountain of Trevi.
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