Michael Phelps once said, “Swimming is normal for me. I’m relaxed. I’m comfortable, and I know my surroundings. It’s my home.” He then added, “Hey, hey, smoke weed everyday,” while exhaling a plume of smoke in the shape of an Olympic gold medal.
Personally, I probably do not feel as comfortable in the water as Phelps does, but I do enjoy a good swim every now and then. It’s as relaxing or strenuous as you want it to be, and you can do it practically anywhere there’s water—examples include the Luce Natatorium, a clogged shower, Lake Erie and in the salty tears of your opponents. But no matter where you doggy-paddle, it’s almost always going to be fun. (Unless it’s in the aforementioned shower, as there was probably all sorts of disgusting hair in the drain, and that just grosses everyone out.)
I have recently begun attending Asbury’s swim meets, much to the annoyance of the fundamentalists who insist that no one should be allowed on the deck without a speedo (apparently thongs don’t count). Thankfully, though, you’re generally accepted if you have a fancy camera with which you appear to be taking pictures for journalistic purposes, and use words like “shutter speed,” “aperture” and “wait, do that again,” so I decided to borrow one and take blurry pictures of various abs.
Seeing these athletes perform such incredible feats reminded me fondly of my pool back home and doing flips under its shallow surface. On the eve of the day on which I would take the written portion of my driver’s license test, I was having a particularly fun time splashing around with pool toys and seeing what was the dumbest thing that I could do that wouldn’t quite result in me drowning.
I like to be able to see when I’m underwater so that I can pretend to be an exotic fish or sea monster, but I hate the feeling of chlorine eating away at my retinas. So, naturally, I wear goggles (Momma didn’t raise no dummy) when I swim. However, the only ones available were giant, yellow ones that covered half my face and were a bit too tight. Whatever, swimming isn’t about comfort—it’s about the sensation of being wet and afraid for your life. Kind of like birth.
Now, don’t get me wrong, smacking my face against the bottom of the pool wasn’t fun, but I was elated that I didn’t accidentally swallow a pint of water when I screamed like a little girl who had just smacked her face against the floor of her pool after trying to do a flip underwater. Apparently, I had finally outgrown our above-ground, four-feet-deep collection of liquid. I just found out a bit late.
The next day, I awoke looking like a victim of spousal abuse (but, thankfully, without the added pain of having a spouse) and readied myself for the big exam. “Finally,” I thought, “I’ll be my own man. No longer will the oppression of my parents and the laws of my government hold me back from driving to and from school or Taco Bell. No longer will I submit to the wishes of this world, and its warranted fear of me behind the wheel. Today, I become a man.” Then, due to the slippery cotton of my Spider-Man slippers against our wood paneling, I fell butt-first down the stairs, and each step made its own distinct impression onto my battered bottom—which is only slightly worse than a buttered one. I cried like a little girl. With pigtails.
So there I am: broken nose, black eyes, the need for a donut pillow, and I am about to be forever immortalized on a laminated card to be held on my person for years. “Cheese!”
Showing posts with label black eyed peas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label black eyed peas. Show all posts
Saturday, August 13, 2011
The Golden Goodell Awards of Super Bowl XLV
Super Bowl Sunday is far and away my favorite holiday. It’s the only time of year when sitting on your couch for three straight hours and eating a continuous stream of wings is not only condoned but encouraged! It is truly a day for a man’s man, and the third most “American” holiday—trailing only the Fourth of July and days on which they bring back the McRib. In case you were not one of the 111 million viewers, I am here to recap the night and hand out the much coveted Golden Goodell Awards for the best and worst moments of the program.
The award for “Most Valuable Plate” undoubtedly goes to the chicken wings which kept us fueled through the grueling, several-hour-long process of celebrating the holiest Sunday of the year. My urine was pure, concentrated honey BBQ sauce by the end of the third quarter. Like I always say, a Super Bowl without good wings is like an analogy without a… thing.
The award for “Best Halftime Show” goes to McKinley High School’s performance of Thriller in full (and realistic) zombie make-up. Vocals, lighting, everything was amazing; the only letdown was that the promised human cannon did not propel a cheerleader across the football field and into a flimsy net.
Which leads to my first de-ward: The Black Eyed Peas for “Worst Halftime Show.” Even as someone who is embarrassed just to sing alone in the shower (especially with someone else there), I still feel entitled to say that Fergie’s unaltered voice (hereby referred to as Froggy—because that’s what she sounded like) made me want to kill myself.
The show, brought to you by the element neon, was fifteen minutes of microphone malfunctions—which, though better than those of the wardrobe variety, are not nearly as interesting—and yelling about having a good time, which I wasn’t.
The second is for “Most Offensive Commercial,” which goes to American Idol and its new leathery judge, Steven Tyler. (You probably thought I was going to choose the one that made fun of Tibetans and how impoverished they are, didn’t you? Wrong. That was hilarious.) FOX chose to advertise its flagship program with a montage of the former Aerosmith singer, in what at first seemed to be an anti-cosmetic surgery PSA.
In a short thirty seconds, I lost both my mind and appetite.
The award for “Most American Performance of the National Anthem” goes to Snooki-impersonator Christina Aguilera and her much publicized liberties with the National Anthem, changing the words and such. But who really knows all the words to it anyways? I say God bless you, Christina, for making the song your own and outshining Froggy.
[Side note: there are things called “prop bets” for the Super Bowl, on which one can gamble their hard-earned money away on silly wagers. Examples include “The color of Gatorade poured on the winning coach”; “the number of times Brett Favre is mentioned”; and, my own personal favorite, “Christina Aguilera will hold the word ‘brave’ for more than six seconds.” She held it for twelve. I timed it. She was likely inspired by the reading of—I kid you not—the full Declaration of Independence, in all its glory, prior to kickoff.]
Lastly, and leastly, the award for “Best Football Team” goes to the Greenburgh Packers, as they won a tightly contested match against the Pittsben Stillers wherein many points were scored and downs touched. But nobody really cares about that.
The award for “Most Valuable Plate” undoubtedly goes to the chicken wings which kept us fueled through the grueling, several-hour-long process of celebrating the holiest Sunday of the year. My urine was pure, concentrated honey BBQ sauce by the end of the third quarter. Like I always say, a Super Bowl without good wings is like an analogy without a… thing.
The award for “Best Halftime Show” goes to McKinley High School’s performance of Thriller in full (and realistic) zombie make-up. Vocals, lighting, everything was amazing; the only letdown was that the promised human cannon did not propel a cheerleader across the football field and into a flimsy net.
Which leads to my first de-ward: The Black Eyed Peas for “Worst Halftime Show.” Even as someone who is embarrassed just to sing alone in the shower (especially with someone else there), I still feel entitled to say that Fergie’s unaltered voice (hereby referred to as Froggy—because that’s what she sounded like) made me want to kill myself.
The show, brought to you by the element neon, was fifteen minutes of microphone malfunctions—which, though better than those of the wardrobe variety, are not nearly as interesting—and yelling about having a good time, which I wasn’t.
The second is for “Most Offensive Commercial,” which goes to American Idol and its new leathery judge, Steven Tyler. (You probably thought I was going to choose the one that made fun of Tibetans and how impoverished they are, didn’t you? Wrong. That was hilarious.) FOX chose to advertise its flagship program with a montage of the former Aerosmith singer, in what at first seemed to be an anti-cosmetic surgery PSA.
In a short thirty seconds, I lost both my mind and appetite.
The award for “Most American Performance of the National Anthem” goes to Snooki-impersonator Christina Aguilera and her much publicized liberties with the National Anthem, changing the words and such. But who really knows all the words to it anyways? I say God bless you, Christina, for making the song your own and outshining Froggy.
[Side note: there are things called “prop bets” for the Super Bowl, on which one can gamble their hard-earned money away on silly wagers. Examples include “The color of Gatorade poured on the winning coach”; “the number of times Brett Favre is mentioned”; and, my own personal favorite, “Christina Aguilera will hold the word ‘brave’ for more than six seconds.” She held it for twelve. I timed it. She was likely inspired by the reading of—I kid you not—the full Declaration of Independence, in all its glory, prior to kickoff.]
Lastly, and leastly, the award for “Best Football Team” goes to the Greenburgh Packers, as they won a tightly contested match against the Pittsben Stillers wherein many points were scored and downs touched. But nobody really cares about that.
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