Thought #1: Housh’s green jersey
There is really nothing worse than owning a bright green T.J. Houshmandzadeh Seahawks jersey. Studies show that owning a bright green Housh jersey is worse than getting herpes. Herpes only flares up on occasion, but a bright green Housh jersey is forever.
God forbid you’re in possession of one of these gems. Owning a green Housh jersey is akin to owning a million dollar gift certificate that can only be used to purchase floppy disks.
Fact is, you really cannot wear your green Housh jersey ever. EVER. There are a handful of reasons why:
1. Housh is no longer a member of the Hawks.
2. The bright green jerseys were phased out after one game.
3. Housh is a total bitch.
4. Housh was a complete bust.
5. Housh spent less time with the Seahawks than Michael Vick spent in prison.
6. Housh was cut by the Seahawks for embracing his bitchiness.
7. Housh was no good when he was here.
8. Housh still sucks, even now that he’s gone.
9. Housh talked trash about Seattle after we kicked his ass to the curb.
10. HOUSHMANDZADEH looks terrible on the back of a jersey.
11. Housh is still a total bitch.
For at least two months after Housh was no longer a Seahawk, I would walk into my local Fred Meyer and see his green jersey sitting there on one of the mannequins in the sports apparel department. Worst part was, the jersey wasn’t even marked down. It’s like Fred Meyer had no idea who this guy was or that he wasn’t on the team anymore. And you know some poor kid’s grandma actually paid full price for that piece of crap and gave it to him for Christmas thinking he’d like it. Which means there are people all over the Seattle area who, in the last few weeks, came into contact with a green Housh jersey and now have no idea what to do with it.
You could donate it to Goodwill, I suppose, but haven’t those people suffered enough already? You could use it to wipe your feet at your front door, but that material isn’t really conducive to soaking up mud and water. There’s really no practical use at all for a bright green Housh jersey, and that absolutely sucks.
I think we should have a gigantic get-together in which we collect everyone’s bright green Housh jerseys and burn them. Who wouldn’t want to see that? We should at least consider it. Or better yet, we could all mail our bright green jerseys to Housh, himself, and make his ass deal with ’em. Yeah, let’s do that.
Thought #2: Put in Sherrer
Anytime a game gets out of hand these days, I drop a “Put in Sherrer” reference, in honor of Brendan Sherrer. I don’t reference Sherrer solely during Husky Basketball games, however. Heck, this reference doesn’t even have to apply to sporting events. This reference is dropped during any type of game, any time things are getting out of hand. Put. In. Sherrer.
Let’s saying you’re playing Monopoly with a hot date (because who doesn’t play Monopoly with their hot date). Your hot date is really piling up the cash when he or she decides to put hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place. What a bitch move, right? Putting hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place is like rolling up to a buddy’s house with a loaded cannon pointed at the front door, then telling your buddy, “This may or may not go off.” Thanks, ass.
Anyways, hotels are placed on Boardwalk and Park Place. You roll a few times, then happen to land on that sh*t. Damn. This game is all but over. Put in Sherrer.
I only bring this up because I referenced the “Put in Sherrer” phenomenon with about eight minutes remaining in Sunday’s Seahawks-Bears game. Eight freakin’ minutes. That would be a career high for Sherrer. I was hoping he’d get in. He’d make a decent tight end.
Thought #3: Crappy Facebook friends
If you’re a sports fan like me, you probably peruse your Facebook news feed as you watch games. I mean, what else is there to do during commercial breaks? Might as well check your Facebook.
One of the things that really bugs me, I’ve found, is a status update from a so-called friend that pertains in no way to this monster game you happen to be watching. There might be fifty updates in a row that are all relevant to what every true friend of yours is doing at that moment: watching this big game. But there’s always the one update, usually from some dweeb you haven’t talked to in at least five years, that completely ruins the flow of your feed and actually pisses you off because it’s so far out of left field in the heat of this extremely critical moment.
For instance, you might see the following:
“Proud to be part of the 12th Man today!”
“Wearing my jersey and contemplating having Matt Hasselbeck’s child…”
“Jay Cutler has no chin!”
“The state government has elected to raise taxes yet again. How is this supposed to help the upper middle-class? And what about the bourgeoisie?”
Guess what. No one cares about your politics right now. No one. Not anybody. And if they do care, they should probably have the stick removed from their ass because they’re no fun.
There is a game on. A game. Don’t you understand? Why are you ruining it for the rest of us? Wait, how do you and I know each other again? Oh right, we sat behind each other in eighth grade language arts class, sixth period. Now I remember. You were the kid who asked all the questions as the rest of us were quietly trying to pack up our things without being noticed so we could leave class ON TIME! Yeah, thanks dick. Because of you, I was always tardy to my next class. I wanted to punch you then and I want to punch you now. It’s over. This Facebook friendship is finito.
Yes. These thoughts actually go through my mind. Quite frequently, in fact.
Thought #4: Bar etiquette
The other night, I was standing at the front of the line to use the bathroom at a bar. A guy came walking past me. He jumped the entire group of people waiting, then looked at me and said, “Are you in line?”
I was flummoxed.
Here I am in this dark hallway, away from all the action, texting on my phone. I am right next to the bathroom. There is literally nothing else around. Just this bathroom. And me. And the rest of these people who have formed a single-file queue behind me.
A few different responses quickly populated in my head.
“Nah, man, I’m not in line. I just really like to text in hallways.”
“No, I’m not in line. I’m guarding the bathrooms, actually.”
“In line? Haha, no. We’re forming a human centipede and I’m the head.”
Instead, I said none of these things, and simply answered, “Yeah, I’m in line.” Epic fail on my part. But come on, dude. Worst question ever. Bar etiquette decrees that you should never propose ridiculously dumb questions. Especially when it comes to the line for the bathroom.
Then there was the guy who had his entire arm down his girlfriend’s pants. Not his hand. His entire arm. Up to the elbow. It was amazing. I’m sure he was in contact with her ass, but he was probably grabbing a big chunk of lower thigh, as well. I had never seen this sort of spectacle before. It was unique and weird all at the same time. I didn’t know whether to respect the man for being so bold, or to question his character for literally being in this girl’s pants in front of those of us who weren’t in anyone’s pants at the time. I hope you brought enough for the rest of us, sir.
Either way, I’m sure this guy blew his load before the night was done. I mean, when you’re putting in that much work to send signals, I don’t know how you can go to sleep without getting laid.
“Look, girl. The only way you’re getting my arm out of these pants is to take these pants off. Got it?”
Yeah, girl. Take those pants off. Way to go, arm dude.