The weekend that time remembered.
March 2nd, 2005 by Dusty
Jeez, I have a lot to say right now. Unfortunately, a lot of it involves bitching about people I have personal/working relationships with, so I’ll leave that for my tell-all book because we all know I’ll never find time to write it.
Once in a while you have to weigh the relationships you have built with people against the effort it takes to maintain those relationships. That’s all I can say about that.
Am I the only one who cares that Jack Nicholson is suspected of being a serial killer in Kansas?
I mean, it’s not like no one saw it coming. I just figured there would be more of a public reaction. People act all surprised that Michel Jackson bangs little boys, so I would have assumed that Nicholson killing a trillion people would get some press.
I went fishing last Friday with my brother and my dad. I had a friend whose father was in the hospital not too long ago, and she told me that he said to her from behind his oxygen mask “When I get out of here, we’re going fishing.”
This of course, made water come out of my eyes. I did manage to hold it together until I hung up the phone, but as soon as I stopped bawling like a pussy little bitch, I had a fishing trip booked for the three boys in the family. I took the day off work and we were on the lake with a guide named Mike at 7 am.
It was 37 degrees.
My brother (the smart good looking one), didn’t bring a jacket. I had my head completely inside my jacket as we sped across the lake at 30 mph, and I was about to die. He is way tougher than I am. I offered my jacket to him twice, but changed my mind. He only cried a little.
Before long, we were reeling in fish the size of dinosaurs. I’d describe how much fun it was, but it’s smeared all over our faces. Dad and brother made me promise not to retouch the images to make my fish look bigger than theirs, so I didn’t.
If you ever wonder if you will regret not having gone fishing with your dad, shut up and make it happen. Last Friday was a day we will all remember forever. Next I am going to book an extreme cross stitching trip with my mom. Just gotta’ find a guide…
I managed to pull my back out on Friday (reeling in a megalodon) so most of Saturday was spent lying around bitching about what I could be doing but was unable to do, like putting on pants. My friend Dave came over that night (after I put on my pants, sicko) and we grilled cow parts on my newfangled fancy grill. An hour or so later, we were sitting around with cold beers and Dave spied something that heretofore had been taunting me from its cardboard shipping box prison.
Dave- What’s that foldy thing?
Me- Huh?
Dave- That folded up thingy with the CD sticking out. What is that?
Me- What? It’s only the dance sensation that’s sweeping the nation, dumbass.
Dave- What is it? A playstation game?
Me- Do the words “Dance Dance Revolution” mean anything to you?
Dave- No.
Me- *explain the biggest dance craze in the history of the universe to him, and how a bunch of people who want to see me fall down paid for it*
Dave- Cool. Wanna’ play me?
Me- My back hurts, douchebag.
*Dave starts listening to the instructions of a weird video game voice telling him “you’re a great guy!” and “Super moves!” while I scream things like “you’re fucking it all up!” and “Dig deep! I’ve seen this step combination kill a man!”*
After about ten minutes I decided against my better judgment to try it myself. Dave is a great coach, telling me the secrets of true dance. “Don’t do it if it isn’t coming from within. You are only cheating yourself. As a semi-pro dance dancer, I could tell you some things that would change your philosophy completely, but it is better that you explore your craft on your own…”
My first video game related injury was a twisted ankle, and I didn’t even get it on tape.
As any two 30+ year old heterosexual men would do, we danced until midnight. Shut up. We also laid out the initial plans to start taping this for broadcast on the internet, but I’m not going to film anything until I have a dance uniform that kicks ass by the truckload.
Right now I’m leaning toward the Chinese punk teenager look. Spandex is a possibility, but nothing that shows the midriff. I think there are decency laws against that.
Now go read a heartwarming story about a lion and a cute little antelope.
