Dirty Birds

One bird to shit on them all. Fuck your team.

American football, like cheating, is one of the things that makes America great, because 'Murica! Hell, cheating is as American as apple pie and hating the Dallas Cowboys.

It's football season and I fucking love football. What can I say? I like to watch grown men beat the living shit out of each other. As a matter of fact, I don't think it's violent enough and it would be even better if we allowed the use of edged weapons, but that's not what we're here to talk about today. I'm not really into watching other professional sports (except surfing, I could watch that shit all day and sex, because sex is the ultimate sport even if I never get to play), 

Dear Puppet Villian, It's latter, not later, you illiterate motherfucker.

but I do love to watch football and by that I mean that I like to watch the Philadelphia Eagles play. And win. You know, when they can actually manage to do that. Win, I  mean

Now, I know that you're probably telling yourself that the Eagles suck and that's alright, because you're delusional and because fuck you, even if you are mostly right, but they're my hometown team and my favorite, so win or lose, no matter how bad they suck, I'll always be a loyal fan, even if I always bet money against them when it comes to a big game, because you can always count on the Eagles to blow the big game.

I'd briefly like to mention that the Eagles do share the state of Pennsylvania with another team, the Pittsburgh Steelers. They're barely even worth the mention.

As we all know, the NFL has a few teams that are named after birds, but there's only one bird that really matters and that's the Eagles. The Eagles, Iggles, Birds, whatever you want to call them are the kings of the NFL's little bird kingdom.

Let's examine some of these "birds." In no particular order (except alphafuckingbetical, because I have OCD), we'll start with the Arizona Cardinals.

Cardinals? Seriously? Little lame ass red birds that don't even have the fucking sense to fly south in the winter. Fail.

 Your God has abandoned you.

Next up, we have the Atlanta Falcons. I must admit that I do like falcons as a species and I'd love to own a hunting falcon, but anything that comes from Atlanta is absolute shit. Remember, this is the city that gave us Michael Vick (please don't point out any inconvenient facts, they're not a part of the narrative). Nothing good comes from Atlanta and that's why Atlanta was destroyed during the civil war. Because 'Murica, goddammit! 

With all of these facts, theory and history, I feel like a fucking PBS station and yes, you are welcome for the education. I'm just magnanimous like that. Send a donation to my PayPal account. I promise not to waste it on good deeds or any other shit like that. Unlike Congress, I promise to waste your money wisely.

That is such a fucking lame logo.

Let's talk a little more about those Atlanta Falcons...

Last night, I finally had a chance to sit down and watch an entire Eagles game. I was stoked. I sat my ass down. I had my pillow, the softest and most comfortable blanket in the world, and a little something extra to mellow me out. A couple of snorts of some blackberry moonshine and I was nice and relaxed. I turned on the game, put my feet up and was forced to watch the Eagles basically hand the game over to the Falcons during the first half. When halftime was over and the two teams once again took the field, it seemed as if the Falcons had lost all momentum as Eagles quarterback Sam Bradford and running back Demarco Murray dominated the field. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough and their effort fell short, ending with a missed field goal and Bradford's final pass of the game was intercepted. The final score was Atlanta 26, Philadelphia 24. It's only week one, so it desn't mean much, still, fuck the Falcons. 

Seriously? That bird has tits!

And then there's the Baltimore Ravens. Fuck those guys. Is there any player on that team that hasn't been charged with a crime? Listen, can you hear that? That's the sound of the men working on the chain gang,

Ravens are actually pretty cool littl black birds with some giant fucking balls, but Baltimore Ravens aren't really ravens at all, they're Browns that ran out on the city of Cleveland. In their defense, however, I'd run the hell out of Cleveland too.Who wouldn't? It's fucking Cleveland. Fuck that place. As you can see (please follow my twisted logic, I really hate explaining things more than once), because the Baltimore Ravens are really the Cleveland Browns, they're really not ravens at all and since ravens are cool and they're not ravens, they're totally uncool and since they're not ravens, they're not really birds at all, so they don't fucking count, so fuck Baltimore. Fuck Cleveland, too. Can't forget to fuck Cleveland too. 

Cleveland, lol. It's where quarterbacks go to die. Right, Johnny?

Eagles eat Ravens. Nuff said.

There's one bird left in our flock, the Seattle Shit, er, Seahawks. What the fuck is a Seahawk, anyway? Seahawks fans can't tell you because there's no such fucking thing as a Seahawk. It's a fucking Osprey, but I guess Seahawks fans are just too fucking stupid to spell Osprey, so I'm guessing that's why they went with the Seahawks moniker instead.

The other day I told a little girl that she looked as pretty as a princess. She was wearing a Seahawks jersey. I hate lying to kids like that, but if I had told her tthe truth, that she was ugly and looked mildly retarded, her father would have kicked my ass. Sometimes, discretion truly is the better part of valor. Besides, I would never say something like that to a child, even if they are a Cowboys fan. Well, I might not be able to control myself if the kid is a Cowboys fan.

Originally, this story was only goig to include this part, but I started rambling along and heading off on different tangents and it just grew and grew. If I haven't insulted your team in this post, don't worry, because I think they suck too. Only the Eagles can suck and still achieve the status of legend.

A few days ago, I had to pick my friend Luke's (remember Luke? he's my co-star in The Call It Mellow Yellow) kid up from work and give him a ride home. I accidentally took the wrong exit off of the interstate, but there was a McDonald's there, so I covered up my mistake by saying that I wanted a sweet tea and offered to buy the kid a drink. As I pulled up to the drive thru window, the cashier was already leaning out of the window to hand the drinks over. I reached out and to my horror, I saw that the cups were emblazoned with the logo of the much loathed Seattle Seahawks "decorating" the side of the cup. Much too quickly, the first cup made contact with my outstretched hand and while in the grip of paralyzing terror, I "accidentally" dropped the cup and it exploded on the ground below.

"Sorry," I said. 

God, I'm such a dick, sometimes. Okay, most times. Okay, okay, I'm a dick all of the time. Happy now?

I asked the cashier if maybe they had the regular styrofoam cups for the sweet tea, but he told me that no, they didn't carry them because they weren't environmentally friendly (and plastic is?) and that this was the state of Washington where people are dope smoking, tree hugging hippies. Personally, I think that motherfucker was lying to me, but there wasn't much that I could do about it. I think he was on to me. Fucking Seahawks fans.

The cashier grabbed a new cup of tea and handed the cups over to me. I certainly didn't want to touch them and I thought about dropping them again, Reluctantly, I took the cups and handed them over to the kid. I needed to wash my hands; I felt soiled from having had to touch the vile things.

We got back to the house and I made the kid carry the drinks upstairs. There was no way that I was going to touch that damn Shithawk again, no fucking way. When we got inside, I made him pour my tea into a glass for me, refusing to drink out of a Shithawk cup. I guess I'll be making my own fucking sweet tea for the rest of the season. Besides, they can't get it right here; making sweet tea is an art and if you don't use enough sugar, it sucks, just like your football team.

So, not much of a story, maybe more of a rant, but if nothing else, I want you to take away one little thing from our little chat today:

YOUR TEAM SUCKS!

Thanks for stopping by!

If you enjoyed this post, give this one a chance:

If the Shoe Fits

Security

When I started writing again, really writing, not just a piece here and there, but really writing, this was the very first story that I wrote (there’s actually another piece that I broke off to form the base of another story). It’s deeply personal and for a long time, I debated whether or not to post it on here. For better or worse, I’ve decided to post it.

As always, comments, opinions, suggestions and insults are always welcome.

Last November, I went back to West Virginia to visit my children. My oldest son’s football team had made it to the playoffs and I had sworn to him that no matter what, I would make it to one of his games to watch him play and I knew that it meant the world to him, as it meant the world to me, to do whatever it took to honor that promise. I missed all three of my boys desperately and it was with great expectations that I set out upon my journey.

I left home at six that morning; I’d barely slept, I was so excited by the thought of holding my babies again and I was driving as fast as I dared, down those dark, deserted country roads that were shrouded by a dense fog, when there was a sudden flash of brown and white caught in the glare of my headlights. Before I could even form a thought, there was a doe in front of me and then a bump and a thump, as pieces of my car and the deer flew off, into the dark morning mist.

Fuck. Maybe it was more like Holy Fuck.

I pulled over to the side of the road and went to look for the deer. When I found her, she was in bad shape; broken and bleeding. I showed her the mercy that she so desperately needed and blackened my own soul a little more in the process, before heading back to the car to inspect the damage. I tried not to think about what I had just done; I locked it away, in the dark places with the other memories that are best forgotten.

Double Fuck. Not fuck, but Fuck, with a capital ‘F’, for extra emphasis.

I had hit the doe with the edge of the front end, on the driver’s side. The headlight assembly was torn apart, the left front quarter panel was missing a good chunk and the hood was a bit buckled. Amazingly, all of the bulbs were still intact and were still working and the car seemed to be running fairly smoothly, although it did rattle a bit. That was new, but if I turned the stereo loud enough, I couldn’t hear it and I could then pretend that it wasn’t there. I’d bought the car just four days before.

Triple… You can guess where I’m headed with this, right? All caps. Go on, say it. Throw in a bunch of fucking extra exclamation points. How’s that, for extra fucking emphasis?
I called my ex-wife, just to let her know that I’d been in an accident and to let her know that I was on my way, but if there were any problems, I’d do my best to let her know. Her response was basically; glad you’re alive, fuck you and you’re an asshole, for waking me up. It’s good to feel loved. 

Determined to make it back to West Virginia, I got back in the car and drove off, arriving back at my former home, without any further excitement. The children had been told that I wouldn’t be able to make it, so my visit was a surprise for them. The property hadn’t changed in the time that I’d been gone, with the exception of a few ‘No Trespassing’ signs. Idly, I wondered if they were there for my benefit.. Shaking my head, I walked up to the door and was about to knock, when I noticed that the lock had been changed. I found that somewhat amusing, as I hadn’t kept a key and I now lived three hundred miles away. As I raised my hand again and knocked upon the door, I thought again of my family, as I had for the entire drive down. While I was ecstatic to see my children, I couldn’t help but wonder how I would feel, what I would do and what I would say, when I saw my ex-wife. Even though I’d started dating and was convinced that my heart was purged, would sixteen years of emotions come flooding back? Was my stoicism nothing more than a façade that would crack and break? For a moment, I hesitated; I was frightened. I didn’t know what to expect, or what to feel.

“To hell with it,” I thought and I knocked upon the door.

In seconds, my nine year old son was peeking out of the window and I watched as the shocked smile spread across his face; the worship and adoration of a son, for his father. I heard him shout, “Dad’s here! Dad’s home!”

Well, he was right and he was wrong. I was there, but I wasn’t home. Frankly, I didn’t know what, or where home was anymore. Home wasn’t here and it wasn’t back in Pennsylvania. It was like some weird Daliesque bizarro thing; definitely a Twilight Zone moment.

The door flew open and he was in my arms, hugging me for all he was worth. It was incredible. It’s great, to be loved.

And then I saw her standing there. She was as beautiful as I remembered and as much a stranger as someone that I’d never met. And I felt… nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was beautiful and liberating. Before I could even blink, my other two sons were in my arms and I just held my family to me and we shared in the joy of being reunited, after many months apart. It was at that moment that Belle, my demon of a Black Lab (she’s still my dog, damn it!), realized what all of the commotion was about. Telling you that she went ballistic, might be putting it mildly. Belle sprinted down the hallway, knocking the children aside as if they were bowling pins. Nothing was going to stand in her way, until she could get to me. For Belle, her daddy was home and all was finally right, in her world. She jumped on me and her paws were on my shoulders. I guess she wanted her hugs, too. It saddened me to know that I would be breaking her heart again, too, when I left.

I exchanged a few hollow pleasantries with the ex, neither of us meaning the words we said, while the cold look she sent my way said unspoken volumes. I quickly gathered up the kids and hurried them out to my car. The plan was to take them out for lunch, bring them back to the house, so that my oldest could get ready and then take them all to his football game. I hoped that I was going to be almost as popular as the pizza was going to be. When the boys saw my car, they made sure to let me know that it looked like a great car, but it would probably look a lot nicer if I didn’t go around hitting deer with it.
Like I said, it’s nice to be loved.

After lunch, we hurried back to the house and while my oldest son was getting ready, the other boys helped me pack a few things into the trunk of my car. My youngest son, who was two years old at the time, had been clinging to me, from the moment he saw me. He was and still is in that wonderfully affectionate stage of childhood, one that’s full of unexpected, but always welcome, hugs and kisses. Too young to understand the upheaval in his life, he just missed and loved his dad and I certainly felt the same way about him; about all of them. I’ve found that there’s a lot less joy in each day that I spend without my children.

When we got to the field, I saw a lot of old acquaintances and a few friends. Some were cold and distant and some were as friendly as always. Apparently, sides had been chosen and I’m sure in most cases, not chosen. If it makes you happy to throw a dirty look my way, by all means, be my guest.

As we made our way into the stands, my oldest ran off to join his teammates. The younger boys hung out with me for a bit, before running off to play with the other children, occasionally returning to try and scam money for candy from the concession stand. I’m proud to admit that they were only partially successful.

My son’s team won and advanced to the next round, a game they also won, advancing once more, into the championship game, where they became the 2013 Tri-County League Varsity Champions. My son was overjoyed at their victory that day and I was too, so very happy to be able to share in his triumph. When the celebration was over, we drove back to their house, so that my son could get cleaned up and I could pack up my car with some of my belongings that I had left behind. I would be moving into my new apartment the next morning and I would finally have room, for some of my things.

After we had finished loading the car, I realized that I had nothing, when it came to household items. I asked my ex-wife if I could take a blanket, as the days and nights were growing colder. I could tell from the look on her face that she was not pleased by my question.

“The only one that you can have is dirty,” she said.

“I can wash it,” I replied. “There’s a washer and dryer, in my apartment.”

She made a face, but she honored my request.

Upon hearing all of this, my medium son told me that I could have one of his blankets, because he had so many of them. He ran into his room and promptly returned with his Superman comforter, which he handed to me. Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder how a shit like me and a bitch like her have managed to raise such amazing and selfless kids, but it’s apparently the only thing in our marriage that we ever managed to get right. I thanked son #2 for his generosity, but I think I might feel a little odd and be a little too old, to be sleeping with Superman blankets and Star Wars sheets. Besides, I’ve been holding out for the complete Hello Kitty and Strawberry Shortcake sets.

While this was going on, my ex-wife had gone off in search of the blanket and soon returned, handing it over to me. The moment that I touched that relic of the past, it became much more than a dirty blanket to me; it became a secret treasure and I had no intention of washing it, ever. That dirty blanket would smell like home and it would comfort me, through the endless and lonely hours. Had she known the gift that she was so unexpectedly giving me, I doubt she would have given it so freely, if at all.

Too soon, it was time for me to leave. I spent a few more minutes with the boys, hugging them to me one last time. It was so very hard to let go of them and by the time that I did, all four of us were in tears. My ex-wife invited me to stay for dinner, but it was only out of courtesy; I knew she didn’t want me there and I didn’t wish to share a table with her, either. I had a long drive ahead of me and I wanted to get home.

After I got into the car, I sat there for a few minutes and held the blanket to my nose, breathing deeply. The blanket smelled like my boys and my dog and my house and… someone else; it smelled like home. I smiled a secret little smile, put the blanket on the passenger seat and drove off.

After an extremely long day and long drive back to where I had been staying, I left everything in the car and went straight to bed. There was no sense in unpacking anything, only to pack it up again for the move to my new apartment. As soon as the new day dawned, I packed a few more things into the car and headed off to the new place, unloaded my things and headed into work. After yet another long day, I headed to my new place, where I promptly fell into “bed.” At this point in time, my bed consisted of a small air mattress, comparable in size to a pool float. It sucked ass. It didn’t matter, though; I was exhausted and I had cocooned myself inside of that treasure of cloth and dirt. Just the scent of it was enough and as I closed my eyes, for one brief, glorious night, I was home again, instead of alone in this strange new world to which I’d exiled myself. It was beautiful and it was wonderful; it was torture and it was Hell, to wake up alone and remember all that I had lost.

I woke early  the next morning, knowing what I had to do, what I needed to do, to finally let go and find closure; perhaps even a little peace, if only symbolically.

I clutched that blanket to my heart, hugging it like it was one of my boys and I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, once again. And once again, I was home, even if it was only to say goodbye, one final time. I opened my eyes and I tossed the blanket into the washing machine, cleansing the remains and stains of her, from the blanket and from my heart. It’s strange, yet fitting that what I thought would be a comfort, became a lesson in letting go, instead and just like you can never go home again, apparently, you can’t take it with you, either.