Our disgusting national pastime

Watching the Mets flame out yet again this past weekend on a new large screen, high definition television, it occurred to me that baseball has got to be the most disgusting sport of them all. Where else can you see grown men spitting every five minutes for three hours straight? And, let's face it, when it comes to disgusting habits, spitting has got to be near the top (in my estimation it's more disgusting than picking your nose or scratching your crotch or ass because at least those nasty habits are self-contained; it may even be more disgusting than belching and farting as well, depending on the intensity and smell). And with the breakthrough of high definition television, not only is the spitting right in your face and more vivid than ever, but you can now discern what exactly is being spit up: saliva (usually in short foamy little spurts), sunflower seeds (in a virtual fireworks-like display from the mouth--can someone explain the appeal of sunflower seeds for me? Why not just take some salt and pour it in your mouth?), and tobacco (the most disgusting of them all, especially when the pitcher is doing it since the camera is trained on him for a good part of the game). One of the most shocking moments of yesterday's game for me (aside from the Mets' collapse) occurred when the umpire removed his mask to join in the spitting orgy (his gob was so copious I suspected it included part of his lunch).

Sex and death

Driving past a funeral home, Joe Mund instinctively swerved his car into the right lane in order to get a better view of a woman standing in front wearing a skintight black dress. Is this what mourning looks like today? What have I been missing?! As he craned his neck one last time to soak in the glorious vision, he caught sight of a coffin being loaded into a hearse in the background just as he was wondering to himself what it would be like to get up in them guts from behind. He drove another block and then hung a u-turn. He was no longer in control. He wasn't sure whether it was sex or death that was driving him, but he was determined to find out.

Now I'm the jerk

A couple weeks ago a tow truck backed into my parked car on the street in front of my apartment building damaging the hood and bumper. The driver didn't report the incident to the police, but did leave a note with his name and phone number which I was lucky enough to discover a couple days later tucked under the windshield wiper. I called him up and he promised to reimburse me for the repairs as long as he didn't have to report the accident to his insurance company. Although he balked when I suggested I might take it to the dealer, I figured things were still on the up-and-up. On Saturday I got a written estimate from a body shop and called to give him the bad news: $1,700. I left a message and he didn't return my call. I called again on Sunday and left another message with a little more irritation in my voice since he hadn't returned my call from the day before. Again, he didn't return my call. By last night, I was steamed. Is this motherfucker ducking me? Am I going to have to show up on this guy's stoop with a baseball bat (I have a vivid imagination and like to indulge it by imagining myself clobbering people I don't like with a blunt instrument)? I was just hitting my stride in another clearly annoyed harangue when someone picked up the phone to interrupt my message. It was the truck driver's brother, Pat. Gary, the guy who hit my car, was in the hospital with "heart problems." Jesus, is anything easy in this life? Why is it always one fucking thing after another? I calmed down and let him know that I was sorry to hear that. And the fact is I was. I'm always sorry to hear about another guy getting worked over by life because we're all in the thick of it. He's in the shit today, but without fail, I know, I'll be in it tomorrow. Pat told me he would pass on my message to Gary's wife who was still at the hospital (Pat had just stopped by to feed the dog--of course!). As I hung up the phone, I knew the tables had turned: now I was the dick! And sure enough when Gary's son called (I was getting to know the whole family!), I could tell by the tone of his voice that he wanted to be rid of me as fast as possible (he didn't want to make the check out to me, preferring to make it out directly to the body shop). I really had to hand it to Gary. Not only did he fuck up my car, he also managed to lay a massive guilt trip on me. And if he croaks I'll be forever memorialized as the asshole who harassed him while he was on his deathbed. Hey, it's better than not being remembered at all, right?

Favorite moment from last night's convention coverage

After McCain suggested that more Americans should get involved helping adult illiterates learn how to read, the camera cut to a guy holding a sign that read: "McCain Mavrick." I bet that cameraman was waiting all night for that moment.

The Ass Checker and The Flagrant Farter

I've previously written about the weirdness that goes on in office bathrooms. I just had another brush with a guy I've come to know as The Ass Checker. While standing at the row of sinks in front of a large mirror, this guy repeatedly turns to check out his ass in the mirror. And it's not even a quick peek to make sure he didn't sit in something, it's a long, very serious observation of the shape and size of his ass. I've never seen a man do this before. It's very unnerving, especially when you're standing next to the guy pretending to wash your hands. Equally unnerving is the behavior of the head of our division who proceeds to have a farting fit while standing at the urinal. I've observed this behavior more than once. He sidles up to the urinal and forces out all of the gas in his bowels while he's relieving himself. As he's laying down these volleys of farts, it's clear that he could care less if anyone else is in the bathroom with him. Being discreet about it doesn't even cross his mind. Maybe he thinks it's some sort of executive privilege. As bad as this is, a co-worker, over drinks, told me that he had made eye contact with the flagrant farter one day standing in the middle of the bathroom with his leg lifted, like a dog, squeezing one out.