It's an instinct that probably goes back to our days chasing mammoths over a cliff. Cyclists see another rider ahead and do everything they can to pass that bastard.
For more than half a century I took breathing for granted. Sure I would get out of breath on a mountain climb or a sprint, but then... hit 55 years old and dun, dun, dunnnn: exercise-induced asthma.
If you see me being led away in handcuffs anytime soon, it was just life teaching me another little lesson about me. Here's my side of the story.
There's some shit for bloggers called a "Sunshine Award." It's for those who exhibit: Positivity Creativity Sunshine I know what you are thinking... and fuck you I could spread Sunshine...
It had been a long day and a half in a crowded room listening to stories about work while not getting any work done. I couldn't wait to head over to Hooters. It had been built in our imaginations like a combination of Camelot and Plato's Retreat. It was the first Hooters in the state -- newly opened in downtown Phoenix.
One of the fucked-up things about playing recreational tennis is away matches. You have to drive to some other part of town and play on strange courts. And worse, we can't just walk to the Third World bar to enjoy some popcorn and beer with the resident mice -- we are forced to pick a different bar.
Phoenix, Arizona, where mighty rivers go to die. Phoenix is a giant sandy sponge that soaks up all the fresh water from 5 states. The Salt and Verde rivers bring water from northern Arizona and New Mexico and run dry 30 miles short of Phoenix. The underground aquifers of the Santa Cruz, Gila, Agua Fria and New rivers drift into the Valley of the Sun.
Just when I was going to release my perfect whine to earn some free points with the Bear (one of the secrets to a long marriage is the art of sublte manipulation) that got fucked up too.
I thought it was “hot” outside when we had "Thanks-grilling", until the Bear decided we should do a Savage Shrimp Boil in early September.
Players have been bailing off the sinking ship of my fucked up tennis team so fast we renamed ourselves the "Rats" (maybe*). Sure, sure you read the tennis team category, and you know everybody left because of this Bullshit Blog. Fuck you -- you are only partially right. I will stipulate the Wingman T-ball story … Continue reading Recruiting Crustaceans