Underpants On The Outside

When you think about it, this blog is basically about me reporting one of three things:

1)      Stupid things I do

2)      Misfortunes that happen to me

3)      Hilarious things I say (note: actual sayings may or may not be hilarious)

Well, this is a number 3.  In fact, it’s a holdover from last week, when I had a surplus of insignificant stuff to talk about.

As some of you may or may not know, for the past two and a half years I’ve played in a Friday-night soccer league (team name: The Asthmatic Pole-Dancing Strippers.  Bet you can’t guess who came up with that one.) That came to an end recently, when it occurred to me that cool, attractive people tend to go out on Friday nights, and they had probably been trying to call me.

Last week was my final game.  Wonder Woman (speaking of cool, attractive people) wanted to go out afterwards, but was disappointed to learn that my game was scheduled for 10:00. I sensed her frustration.  (I am TOTALLY compassionate.)  I wanted to console her, as that could increase the possibility for sex when I got home. I tried to think of something to say to her, to reassure her that soon we’d be free to spend Friday nights together for the rest of our lives, something that would probably help out later with the whole sex thing.

…suddenly it dawned on me.  Seven words, which had always expressed one of life’s essential truths, yet had never been so entirely appropriate.

“Baby,” I said, pausing for effect, “don’t hate the player; hate the game.”

Have a great weekend, everybody!