Everything is wrong with me
Friday, January 21, 2005
 
sports, love, and longing: a tale of poo, from the first person
I don't know how I feel about making NFL predictions, because it's just too close to home now. For the fourth year in a row, my hometown team, the Philadelphia Eagles, are within one game of going to the Super Bowl - if they win, they're in. In the previous three years, they have gone 0 for 3 in this game, despite being heavily favored in the last two. After their first loss, I said, "Well, I'm glad that they got there." After their second loss, I said, "That blows - big time. But there's always next year." After last year's loss, I said, "Well there's only one thing to do now: cut my dick off with a plastic butterknife." Fortunately for my penis, the butterknife was covered in carrot cake and was thus unable to break skin. Also, I couldn't find my dick, so I just jabbed my lower stomach a few times. And then I went and ate a whole fucking carrot cake. And a meatball sub. And a can of icing. But I digress...

For these reasons, I'm not going to make any NFL predictions for this week's playoffs games. I conferred with several buddies of mine, also Eagles fans, and we mutually decided that I should not write anything about the games, lest I contribute in any way to a loss. I know what you're thinking, "I'm sure he can find his penis if he looks hard enough." But, really, I can't. You're welcome to have a look if you so desire, but god I hope you don't so desire. But if you do venture down there, I think I left an onion ring somewhere down there from a Halloween party I went to in '99. If you see it, can you grab it for me? Thanks.

You may also be thinking, "How can he contribute to an Eagles' loss?" I don't know specifically how I can contribute to an Eagles' loss, but I do know that anyone or anything associated with me is on the wrong side of karma. God and I have been notoriously feuding for years, and I'm sure that He'll take this Sunday's Eagles game as another opportunity to "score one off Mulgrew." All this because I got drunk once and called Him a card cheat and hit Him with a tree branch, and we've been going back and forth for years now.

To be perfectly honest, I really, really need the Eagles to win. Not want, but need. I don't care if they then get slaughtered in the Super Bowl (lie), but I really, really need them to win. I've written this before, but Philadelphia has the longest championship drought of any city in the US with all four professional sports teams - by far. The last championship: 1983, won by the Philadelphia 76ers. I was 4 years old at the time, and though I had just begun experimenting with meth, I didn't understand the importance of sports and winning championships.

But before I get ahead of myself and start talking about how a championship would personally change my life, I have to get back to this game, which we (the Eagles and I) have to win to even get to the Super Bowl. I don't have a whole lot going on right now, and an Eagles victory this week would mean the world to me, and fundamentally change me as a person. I might even stop telling everyone that I do not have herpes and tell them the truth (that I have eight different kinds of herpes - Thailand 2001: best. trip. ever.). I'd even possibly stop spreading all those lies about my buddy Kyle, specifically how he masturbates to music (jazz, but Brian McKnight also does the trick) and likes to wear a clown suit when he has sex.

So I have very little for you right now. I'm feeling kinda sick, partially because of the game, but partially because I forgot to put my contacts in this morning, so for lunch I had some frozen yogurt with staples on top, thinking they were sprinkles.

I'm antsy; I don't know if I wanna go home and go to sleep, or go home and get high, or go home and start boozing. It'll probably be a mix of all three, especially since we have some amazing weed. Last night, my roommate Brian and I smoked and stayed up until 4am trying to build a sexy robot out of our X-Box, some hair gel, a few raw pieces of chicken breast, aluminum foil, and a turtle, but we found out eventually that we stink at building sexy female robots. Also, Brian killed the turtle because he thought he said something about his mother. Serves him right - that turtle was a dick anyway.

And I'm tired, and needy. I don't ask for much, but I'd really like to have an Eagles' win. So bad. So, so bad.

All I ask for is that you think of me this weekend. Know that from 3pm to 6pm (est), I will be living and dying with every minute. Psychically send me some good wishes, and hope that if things don't turn out the way I want them to, I don't start punching everyone and everything around me. And hope that if things do turn out the way I want them to, I don't go one a four-day binge and lose my job. Unless in the course of said binge I get laid. Because then it'd probably be worth it.

So have a good weekend. Go out, have a good time, get messed up, and pray to God that when Monday morning comes I'm not in jail.

[Well, actually, don't pray to God - I don't want Him getting any props until He apologies for stealing my car. Asshole.]



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