Monthly Archives: August 2011
I was born and raised in a Midwest state where sports are everything. Unless you could talk team winning records, knew football plays, owned at least three jerseys, or at least hosted Super Bowl parties, you were nobody. In sixth grade, I even stooped as low as to be a cheerleader with the hopes of fitting in. All that got me was a really awkward team picture and a case of low self-esteem when I didn’t make it the next year.
I’ve always been a natural born band geek. My idea of a fun evening in high school was to learn all of my major scales in two octaves by ear.
…I mean…no I didn’t. That would be REALLY nerdy. Anyway.
Because of my musical obsession and massive apathy of all things athletically related in my home, I never learned the slightest thing about any sport. Even after being on the eighth grade basketball team, I couldn’t tell you anything more about basketball than “you shoot for the hoop.” And pass the ball. And run a lot. I still have no idea why I got to shoot foul shots in the one game when I got more than 30 seconds of playing time. Something about a foul. Yeah.
By some sort of magical happening, I ended up marrying the only man to walk this earth who is as apathetic about sports as myself. It’s freaking fantastic. When other guys are glued to their televisions, eating cheesy poofs and shouting obscenities, mine just wants to curl on the couch and watch Renovation Realities.
A normal conversation between Husband and Typical Jock Dude goes like this:
TJD: Man that drama with Tressel is crazy. It’s a bunch of bull. Where are the Bucks gonna be next year?
Husband: What’s a Tressel?
TJD: Seriously? I’m talking about the Bucks, bro.
Husband: Oh, yeah. We’ve been having problems with deer on our road, too.
TJD: Uhhhhh…let’s just drink beer.
This brings me to my next subject. People around here are nucking futs about The Ohio State University. I’m pretty sure there’s an Ohio law that says you can be executed for leaving out the “The” in the name. It’s common practice to buy a grey car just so you can pimp it out with scarlet decorations, buckeye leaves, and bobbleheads of Brutus the Buckeye. It doesn’t even end in death:
I guess my point is that I just don’t get it. The rules, or even basic concepts, of sports escape me. I spent my first season as a high school band director trying to figure out what downs were. Now, I don’t judge anyone. I’m always happy for our high school team when they win a game and I support band kids who play a sport. I just have no idea why our crowd is cheering most of the time. I’ve learned that if I cheer along, I look like I know what’s happening. As long as I know the words to “Hang On Sloopy” and I can answer “OH!” with an “IO!” I will avoid excommunication from the state of Ohio.
So, carry on, you sports fans. And hit the showers, before I smack you with a wet towel. I’ve got to practice my scales.
We’re all on a mission of some sort.
For some, their mission is to become a better person, or donate more money to charity. For others, it’s to get to that booger that’s way in the back and has gotten all hard and pointy. Other people are trying to see how many times they can scratch their butt in public without being caught. (“I’m up to five, bro! Up top!”) Some people in my community are on a mission to see how many years they can shun the dentist and still keep that one tooth in the front. I know someone who calls it Chomper. Still, others are on a mission to make all teachers seem to be the human reincarnation of Satan in our country. There’s a reason I remain anonymous on here. (Oh no, she di’int just get on a political soapbox on a humor blog! *z-snap*)
Anyway, the point is, we all have a mission in life.
Chances are, you came to this blog on a mission for porn.
You see, I have a slight obsession with checking my stats. In the past week, about 60% of my hits were referred from a Google Images search. Nearly all of those image searches include the name “Jenna Marbles” and some sort of body part or adjective. Just look:
This list makes me proud to be a woman. I mean, instead of searches for “jenna marbles smart” or “jenna marbles funny,” we have searches for her full body, boobs, under wear (btdubs, it’s one word, you horny moron), and legs. As Jenna has stated in her “How To Get Ready For A Date” vlog, we’re all sexual objects, anyway. We shouldn’t try to be interesting, or intelligent, or wear anything that won’t show off our “sweater puppies.”
So, go ahead, you 15 year old perverts. Keep searching for “jenna marbles hot” and “jenna marbles boobies” (Yeah, I got that one today. They can’t be any older than 14 for that big boy wording). Continue to type things like “moms cleavage” into your Google search box.
Back up the freaking Oedipal train.
Someone was searching for moms cleavage and found my blog?? And I thought I had issues. I bet they were really disappointed when they clicked here. This is probably the same kind of kid who was breastfeeding until age 6. Ah, mom’s cleavage. Makes me feel so cuddly, warm and safe. Amirite???? (And covered in baby powder.)
So, thanks to the 10% of you who actually stop by and read. To the other 90% of you, keep searching for your porn. I admire someone who has perseverance. I hope you achieve your goal. (Crossed the line?)