What in the hay-el?
Seriously, what in the hay-el?
Here I go to my alma mater for what I thought would be a nice innocent high school basketball game, and I was shocked – shocked – to see two perfect examples of how our society is going to hay-el in a hambasket.
First, I get to the gym and pay my five dollars (FIVE DOLLARS! What is this? A Travelers game?), then I get my dill pickle and Pepsi-Cola, and I sit down with my Pioneer seat cushion because my hemorrhoids have been acting up and the first thing I notice is the dad-gum opposing team has a dad-gum boy cheerleader! (A BOY CHEERLEADER! What is this? A San Francisco high school team?) I almost spit out my Pepsi-Cola and dropped my dill pickle in complete and udder shock.
I tried to calm myself down because my doctor told me that if I get too riled up, my blood pressure goes sky-high, so I tried to think positive like, “Well, maybe the poor kid is like Rudy from that football movie. The other cheerleaders felt sorry for him because, for some twisted reason, he had always wanted to be a cheerleader, so they played along and let him be on the squad.” And, I guess another positive thing was the boy wasn’t wearing an actual girl cheerleader outfit.
Whatever. I tried to turn my mind off it and concentrate on my dill pickle, my Pepsi-Cola and the boys basketball game. But then I saw something else that curled my hairs: One of the referees had a dad-gum ponytail! (A PONYTAIL! What is this? A Ted Nugent concert?) I almost spit out the chunk of dill pickle I was chewing on in complete and udder shock.
Since when did hippies know anything about basketball? All they know about is rock and roll, dope and President Obama! In my world, every man would have a buzzcut flattop -- nice, tight and clean, brother.
I finally got around to composing myself and swallowing my pickle chunk. I had to remain calm or else my blood pressure was going to explode my heart and I’d fall over deceased with Pepsi-Cola spilt all over my John Wayne t-shirt and my cold dead hand clutching my dill pickle.
Breathe…in and out…in and out. Breathe…in and out…in and out.
I tried to concentrate again on the hardwood action when suddenly I realized the ref with the ponytail was not a man…but (might want to be sitting down for this one, brothers) a dad-gum girl! A girl referee for a boys basketball game! (A GIRL REFEREE! What is this? Canada?*)
Blood flushed my cheeks and a deep pain started to squeeze my heart. I gripped my dill pickle so hard, it popped straight up out of my hand, flew over the opposing team’s bench, and slid across the gym floor like a midget green torpedo. Then, one of our boys was flying down the court with a stolen ball, slipped on the pickle, and landed with a thud on his head. The ball flew from his hands, into the other team’s possession, and dad-gum if they didn’t score a dad-gum three-point basket all because there was a dad-gum girl referee and a dad-gum boy cheerleader.
And before you start judging me, thinking that it was my dill pickle that caused all of this ruckus, you need to remember that if the referee would’ve been a man and the cheerleader would have been a girl like the Good Lord intended, then I wouldn’t have squeezed my dad-gum pickle so dad-gum hard!
Thank you and good day!
We hope you’ve enjoyed this edition of “All Over the Map.” Through our legal team and his relatives, we’ve managed to commit – uh, we mean, send Rob on a long vacation to an exclusive resort where everyone wears white, the rooms are soft and padded, and shock – uh, we mean, massage therapy is administered on a weekly basis.
At least, on a weekly basis for him. It might be daily.
*Oh, and we have no idea what female referees and Canada have in common.
Thanking you,
The editors of Arkansas Weekly.
0 comments:
Post a Comment