So, because I got hammered Saturday night and completely forgot about my live fantasy football draft on Sunday morning, Buddy’s Kids was left at the mercy of the ESPN.com rankings, guess who I got as my two starting quarterbacks? (Don’t ask why the hell we start two quarterbacks.) That’s right, Jay Cutler and Eli Manning!
The good news is, as your friend, I have a rooting interest with you. The bad news is, historically, many fantasy football teams I have owned suffered a cataclysmic injury (or two), meaning those two are officially in as much danger as a member of the 2009 Mets. Let’s keep our fingers crossed and hope they don’t join other historic disasters like Vinny Testaverde ‘99 (though that did lead to my enterprising pickup of some dude named Kurt Warner), Brian Griese ‘01, Edgerrin James ‘01, Steve Smith ‘04, Javon Walker ‘05, Daunte Culpepper ‘05, and Marc Bulger ‘08.
Let this be a lesson to you, kids: don’t schedule things for a weekend morning!
It occurred to me, Jolie, that I made out with Britney Spears… at least according to my Health Ed teacher who I’m pretty sure said something like that if you make out with someone, you’ve made out with everyone they’ve ever made out with (sounds about right) and I definitely made out with a guy who made out with Britney Spears. So! You just have to make out with someone I’ve made out with in the past… or…I guess you could just get me really drunk tonight…
Mine: Assembling Ikea furniture. I’ve even dis- and reassembled the same kitchen table set three times now. This skill is only useful maybe once a year.
Putting bumperstickers on straight, and being really fucking good at Jenga.
I can wiggle my ears. No lie.
Blogging and/or writing.
I can also wiggle my ears (thanks Daddy) and my other party tricks are popping my hip out of and right back into joint, and I can cross my eyes and make one go back and forth while one stays crossed. This is how I entertain my drunk friends.
Sort Lego pieces like nobody’s business.
I can imitate a car alarm.
I can’t decide: either tying cherry stems with my tongue or playing the nose flute. One of those occasionally gets me free drinks.
Damn it. There is a completely adorable tuxedo-flavored kitten hanging out outside my apartment building. Apparently he’s been hanging out for two days. I patted his furry rump and he launched it up so high and put his head so low I thought he was going to shoot up into the sky… by his butt. Then he wrapped himself around my leg and tried to follow me inside.
I cannot have him. I already have two by unplanned adoption (one via exboyfriend and one who was dumped on me by a “friend”) and I refuse to become crazy cat lady.
I had two tuxedo cats once upon a time. The first one was Frank (as in Sinatra, who wore a mean tuxedo), who got out a broken window and ran away. The other was Elwood (as in a Blues Brother) who went to live with my boyfriend’s brother who had a mouse problem and he fell in love with Elwood so thoroughly, I didn’t have the heart to take him back.
This little guy outside is pretty awesome. He’s very young and skinny and has a long nose and a pointy face. Maybe he’s more of a Mr. Pink.
Well, if anyone wants to rescue a kitten from the mean streets of Brooklyn, let me know. It just breaks my bleeding liberal heart. If he hangs out longer, I’m gonna have to take him to get neutered at least.
Crap, I hate this sort of thing. I wish I could just ignore it.
How can a newscaster promote their upcoming broadcast with a teaser that said something like, “A historic day at Citifield…news at eleven!”? The stadium’s about six months old. Everyday at Citifield is a historic day.