If you were offended by that headline in any way, you should be ashamed of yourself for allowing your mind to go to such dark and impure places. I, for one, had no idea that it might be misinterpreted in that manner, which is why I’m explaining here in such detail why it is YOU who have some explaining to do for your crude assumptions and warped perspective. My conscience is as clean as the backs of our shirts at Bedrock this morning after doing 90 crunches in the dirt and leaves (which is to say, that it can be made clean after quite a bit of effort and then the evidence of the filth is gone and, therefore, easily and enthusiastically denied that it ever existed).
If that headline had no particular relevance to you, either you were never a member of a fraternity or you are so pure of heart that you are worthy enough to lift Mjölnir (if only you had the upper-body strength).
Which leads me, quite naturally, to my first non-sequitur: we played Brisc Golf™ at Bedrock this morning. Despite copious tagging, nagging, finger-wagging, and some completely unrelated shagging, only two bold adventurers enlisted in the festivities this morning: Shadow and Hippie.
After a short warm-up, we proceeded to insert ourselves into the first hole we found (settle down, fella). Our first order of business at that point was to completely change the first and most-important rule by using Frisbees instead of disc-golf discs. You know what they say: “What Shadow wants, Shadow gets.”
After Shadow’s first launch off the tee, Hippie and I shot a knowing and confidence glance at each other to communicate our absolute certainty that we would be lucky to win a single point. But, as fate (and wind and trees and the deterministic laws of dynamical chaotic systems) would have it, this would not be the case. The final score, quite unpredictably, was: Jersey Boy 7, Shadow 6, Hippie 5. That’s about as close as you can get with three men who smelled as badly as we did. A couple of miles, 750 reps, and 18 holes were under our belts (which is a lot to fit inside a man’s pants).
Despite my glorious and crowning achievement, I gloated not. Neither did I exult, rejoice, crow, overtly relish, or celebrate my win in any way, lest I diminish the spirits of my fellow adventurers. After all, when one comes out on top in a pure meritocracy, the genesis for success in the endeavor is self-evident: superior talent and competency. One need not advertise the obvious.
Coffee was well attended, with some Jungle denizens joining us for a lively discussion that included the (inarguably) greatest scene in film: where Quint tells the story of the USS Indianapolis.
Anyway, we delivered the bomb.