Whiskey in the Jar

"Do me a favor. Just kick my ass, okay? Kick this ass for a man, that's all. Kick my ass. Enjoy. Come on. I'm not asking, I'm telling with this. Kick my ass."
--Artie Fufkin

Playing the part of Artie Fufkin today is USC coach Pete Carroll. No, not because he went for it on fourth down. Anyone who's watched the way he's operated down there in South Central knows that is exactly the style that's gotten his team where it is. No, I would like to know What. The. Fuck. he and his play callers were thinking on 2nd-and-7 during that same series when they called a play for...wait for it...the fullback. With all those offensive weapons, with keeping the clock running a major issue, he calls for a pass in the flat to the least athletic player on the entire team? Why not just put Rudy in the game? Try the ol' Statue of Liberty?

I was aghast.

Not that I wanted USC to win. I grew up instensely disliking the big, bad Trojans and retain most of that today. But Pete's a likeable guy and I've enjoyed watching their offensive juggernautness all season long. And to just give it away at the end there seems sort of a shame. That said, Vince Young is not human. His throwing motion would be more appropriate in the Special Olympics discus ring, but the man can get it done, and he got it done every game when you know the opposing team's defensive scheme was focused totally on keeping him contained. No bleeping way.

So, congrats to all our Austin bloggers out there. I hope you had a safe and enjoyable riot and your hands have not frozen into that ubiquitous Hook 'Em Horns signal. Now that the season's over, perhaps us proper Devil Music Worshippers can reclaim our symbol.

On the subject of finger-related salutes, I'd like to offer a big Eff You to poker. Fucker. Those 180s at Stars are SO goddamn soft, yet, I can't seem to find my way clear to winning one. And when I sacrifice crucial sleep time, playing into the wee hours and take a one-two junk kick on the bubble, well, I believe the line I typed into IRC sums it up:

JoeSpeaker is furious

And tired.

I passed on my morning tumbler of java this morning in favor of a full-trip sleep on the train. It did not go well. Two stops from downtown, I woke suddenly, feeling very nauseous. I could taste last night's whiskey rising in the back of my throat. My whole body started to shudder. I was going to puke.

I puke loudly. I could never be a homosexual because of a major gag reflex. When foreign objects find their way into my throat, I yak at a high volume, summoning guttural sounds like those at the monkey cage at your local zoo. Which is why the idea of rushing to the bathroom, having my rasping heaves echo throughout the train, did not exactly appeal to me.

We've all been there, the mental game you play with yourself when such a circumstance arises. Relax, you tell yourself. The room will stop spinning at any second. Focus. I was taking a chance. If the bile started to boil over, there was no way I'd make it in time. But if I gave in and went ahead, I was sure to fail in keeping it down. So I stayed in my seat and steeled myself against the waves. My chest began to burn and sweat broke out all over my body. I shifted my weight to find comfort. The AC cooled the sweat, making me shiver all over. I felt like I could feel the two aspirin I took this morning burning a hole in my stomach lining. Even my lower digestive tract began to rebel.

And just when I thought the end was very fucking nigh...relief. Loud, malodorous relief, in the form of a rumbling fart that I, eyes closed, iPod firmly inserted in ears, simply pretended did not happen. As far as public displays of baseness, that probably rates a solid 8 on a scale of 1-10. Yet, even at age 38, farts are funny. My biggest problem was not hiding my embarrassment, but containing my laughter. Behind my lids, I imagined the faces of my fellow passengers, people I see most every morning and I came to a single conclusion: I'll have to find another place to sit from here on out.

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Many thanks to all who've responded to my offer of a piece of me (though, after the preceding, I'm sure some may be reconsidering). I'm all sold out, so, if I haven't contacted you by e-mail, please do not send money. Once I get everything straightened out, I'll list the generous (and mis-guided) folks who have anted up.