Wahoo!!

I'm just getting over the flu, and it has been terrible few days. In fact, I was going to start posting here on February 1, but I spent that day sleeping, coughing, and occasionally groaning. The next day was better, but then the third knocked me back out. I had a miracle rebound just before the Super Bowl, which even I think is suspicious. But I've been getting better since then. Maybe Tom Brady's tears of defeat are magical. That sounds about right.

Speaking of which, what a super week this has been. Sunday was the Super Bowl and yesterday was Super Tuesday. Most other Mondays have low self-esteem already (Memorial and Labor Days not included), but this past Monday must have been incredibly depressed. At best, it was Super Filler Day, but that's like showing up to a black-tie event with a tuxedo t-shirt. "A" for effort, but security is still giving you the bum's rush.

The rest of the week doesn't even need a Super for people to like it. Wednesday doesn't have to try. People will say "Today isn't super at all. It's like a Monday, but better by two whole days." Meanwhile, Super Filler Day will continue to weep into its tacky tux t-shirt. Thursday is the last "real" work day, so that momentum keeps people going through to Friday, which doesn't have to do anything and it's always a fan favorite. King Saturday, of course, is always super. Plus, I have it on good authority (my own) that Saturday is actually Superday, just with a disguise. Superman puts glasses on his face, Superday puts "atu" over its name. Both are heroes in my book.

Went to a dinner fundraiser, talked to lots of players, not a single one named Thayer, but it was dope. Dope like a rope made of coca-coke, and I'm talkin' 'bout the powdery stuff not the soda. Hey, don't call me Mort, I'm not up for a snort, but I did see players of the sport not played on a court. Hockey is the game, in which there isn't much fame -- Who's that guy? What's his name? Is it Maclaine? No, don't be lame.

So I wasn't.

And I managed to get some sigs, some autograph gigs, on this jersey that I got for Ecks-Mas. I've only worn it once, just this morning, 10:21. I had planned to wear it to a game someday. But now it's all marked up, has so many names and nums, of the Penguins from the city of Pittsburgh. So away it will go, to a framing store fo-sho, and be put under glass for display. It'll hang in the room where I'll hear things go boom 'cause my new surround sound is kickin'.

This is a pretty fly way, I really must say, to ring in O-Z's 27th birthday!

Well, not only did I get to hang out with and talk to various hockey players this evening, I also learned that I should not ever, ever, try to rap again. Ever. I promise not to do that to you again... until I forget that I made this promise.

Supah-Star!

Today is "The Day Before My Birthday"! I may or may not take Friday off.

If you're not a fan of hockey or dinner, then I guess your excitement was misplaced. Sorry.

I'm going to attend a fundraiser where the Pittsburgh Penguins hockey team will be playing the part of the wait staff. Instead of passing pucks, they'll be passing plates. --Yeah, I didn't think that was particularly clever either, but all the advertisements for the event kept saying that.

So presumably these professional hockey players will be taking my order, bringing me my food, taking it back because the steak is too rare, bringing me my food again, laughing at my lame "there's a fly in my soup" joke, and getting checked into the wall. That's what I do at all restaurants, regardless of whether or not the waiter's a professional hockey player.

Y'see, serving people's food is a tough job, and some customers just like to body-check their servers into the walls. I learned that lesson when I was a waiter in high school, and I'm better for it. Sure, I lost three teeth, but that's the price of professionalism in the food service industry. Can I clear these plates for you?

Back to tomorrow, I think it's going to be a fun time. It's not often that one gets served by a hockey player. Well, at least a professional, currently-playing hockey player. I'm sure there have been plenty of pre-professional or never-made-it hockey players who were/are waiters -- just like there are "undiscovered" actors and singers and directors and assistant gaffers who are waiting tables instead of making such high quality films as Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo. It's bordering on criminal that these folks have to wear their greasy aprons. Let's give them a shot, because the world is dying to know what hilarious hijinks a reluctant gigolo would get himself into on the other continents.

Hmm... I now have a dinner conversation topic. Deuce Bigalow: Antarctic Gigolo. Pure gold!

Hockey players or gigolos? Your call.

Today is "Monkey Suit" Day! Buy yourself some uncomfortable fancy-pants clothes. They can even be pants, as long as they're fancy.

Unless your favorite hockey team isn't playing for the Stanley Cup but your football team won the Super Bowl and you want to relive that memory. Huh! I think I've stumbled onto something here. Assuming the New Jersey Devils don't make it to the Cup, I'll be having another Super Bowl party this year. Wanna come?

Anyway, I sort of lied back there in Paragraph 1. I recovered from the party quite nicely Monday morning. I think it's due in part to some wisdom bestowed upon me by Dr. White, my buddy and apparently reservoir dog who recently graduated from medical school and is both an MD and in AA. When bestowing partying wisdom, that's a great combination of credentials.

Anyway, that wisdom was that one should take a multivitamin with a large glass of water before going to sleep and/or passing out after a night of... let's call it "unlight" drinking. Not only does it replenish the vitamins that chased your processed booze down the drain, you also turn green, lose 90% of your speech articulation, and start breaking things with your new found super strength. HULK SMASH!

I can personally vouch only for the first item in that list of benefits, but I suspect that's because I can't remember what happened while I'm in Hulk Mode. That, of course, is the only possible explanation as to why on Monday morning I found Paddy O'Wife's new candle holders broken. It couldn't possibly have had anything to do with some uncoordinated fool stumbling through the dark looking for a multivitamin.

Anyway, I'll blatantly shift gears here and close out. I've given you not one but two pieceful uses of information. You should feel free to show your appreciation by sending me money. It seems I have to buy new candle holders.

Not quite a green monster, but trouble none the less.

Today is "Boobies and Beer" Day! Just kidding, fellas!
This is a reminder that you have one week left until Valentine's Day.

Today is "Steelers Win the Super Bowl" Day! WAHOO!!!

Numero uno: I've completed my first weekend at home in a month! Three Sat-Suns in Miami, one in Indy, and finally one back at home. The downside: Paddy O'Wife had forgotten what it was like to see another human being first thing on a Saturday morning. She woke up, was startled, screamed, hit me over the head with her table lamp, wrapped me up in a comforter, and called the cops. I made bail by lunchtime, though, so no (great) harm, no (great) foul.

Due (/doo-eh/): The Pittsburgh Steelers are going to the Super Bowl!! The city is alive with excitement, and they have me to thank for it. Y'see, the Steelers were on a tear all last season and ended up losing just before going to the Super Bowl. This season, the team was relatively the same as last seaon's, so you'd think there'd be similar results. But there is one notable difference: I moved to Pittsburgh last October.

Is it a coincidence that the same season that I moved to Pittsburgh the Steelers finally make it to the Super Bowl? Some naysayers would say "yay" (rather than "nay," which I guess would make them yaysayers). But to them I say, "Nay! A thousand nays, and a pox on both your houses!" The fact is, I'm the Steelers' lucky charm, and that's probably because I'm the only non-Irish person in the whole city. The city's saturated with the luck o' the Irish, so it doesn't work anymore, but I brought la suerte de los Cubanos. You're welcome, Pittsburgh! And GO STEELERS!!

"eerht" backwards: I just came back from getting a root canal. Most people -- probably those pesky yaysayers again -- would say that a root canal is nothing to celebrate, but I think it is. Growing up, all I ever heard about root canals was as an alternative to something terrible. You know, "I'd rather have a root canal than watch an episode of The OC." Well, I'm here to tell you that it's really not that bad at all. And I'm celebrating because I now know that root canals should be considered an alternative to many more things, not just horribly contrived and melodramatic television shows and their ilk. For example, "I'd rather have a root canal than...

• watch a commercial for The OC."
• eat a sandwich with the crust still on."
• shovel snow."
• drink anything with gin in it."
• do the Chicken Dance."
• floss." Bring on another one!
• do laundry."
• create a list with an odd number of items."

So join me and celebrate good times. Come on!

One more stop for the Bus!

Today is "Noble Gases" Day! Contrary to popular belief, that doesn't mean a king's flatulence.

Speaking of shrimp cocktail, I have to issue a warning. Indy is home to St. Elmo Steakhouse, the apparent home of some world famous shrimp cocktail. Everyone talks about it, so we gave it a shot. Here's the warning: this is a cruel joke made for tourists.

One bit of their famous cocktail sauce and your sinuses will melt because 90% of the sauce is stealth horseradish. Haha, silly tourists with their bloodshot eyes and lack of smelling ability!

Hmm... come to think of it, maybe those folks aren't nearly as nice as I thought.

But I can excuse it, because every city has its practical joke for tourists. In Miami, people think they're still in the United States but they're actually in an entirely different country. Native New Yorkers warn tourists about "thugs that mug" (NYC's new slogan) but neglect to mention that a subway rat can bite your leg clean off. Pittsburgh's folks trick people into moving there by putting those people, such as sexy blogging Latinos, under their white-devil spell and marrying them. Did I say write that out loud?

Witchcraft aside, it's good to be home. However, I would like to go back to Indy sometime. Apparently, the Lost Ark is there, which was found when the Temple of Doom was raided as part of the Last Crusade.

(ba-dum bum!)

Today is "Pipes and Ladders" Day! Modernists eschewed the pipes in favor of chutes, but I'm a purist.

Referees generally dress like zebras. That is, they dress in black and white striped shirts, underwear, and socks. If you put a pair of pants on a zebra, he could very well pass for a referee. Some might say that's exactly what happened at the Pittsburgh versus Indianapolis game this past weekend, and they would would be wrong. They weren't as accurate as real zebras would have been. But I digress.

The point is that they're trying to look and act like zebras, which any biologist will tell you is Mother Nature's neutral observer and rules enforcer. Zebras are biologically, genetically, instinctively, and something else-ively disposed to accurate observation. Tune to Discovery Channel once in a while and you'll see for yourself.

When a hippo poos outside of his territory, it's the zebra that makes a whistling sound and penalizes the beast by making it run laps around the lake. When a gazelle trips another gazelle to slow down a hungry charging lion, it's the zebra that stops the play and moves the tripper to the back of the herd. If the offending gazelle survives, this will teach it a valuable lesson about fair play.

The zebra knows what's right and what's fair. It is always accurate. Always. Think about it: Have you ever seen a zebra wearing glasses? Have you ever known a zebra to forget anything? Didn't think so.

So referees dress themselves like zebras because they believe themselves to be just as naturally and perfectly fair and accurate as their four-legged counterparts. A referee's word, they believe, is the absolute truth and couldn't possibly be any other way. Only zebras have earned that degree of pride. For referees, that pride is naught but hubris.

Naught but hubris, indeed. Let's take a look at four of the worst calls in refereeing history.

• Socrates is flagged for interference. Penalty: a bowl of hemlock.
• Michael Jackson's unsportsmanlike conduct is ignored for the 300th time.
• The country of Iraq is whistled for having too many WMDs on the field. People continue to be put in the eternal penalty box to this day.
• After a lengthy review, OJ Simpson's hand was ruled out of bounds and therefore not responsible for the unnecessarily rough double play. No penalty is assessed.

Either get better at your jobs or stop sullying the regal image of the zebra, refs!

Gloves up. Tap. To your corners!
I want to see a clean negotiation.

Today is "Be a Good Teammate Not a Sore Loser" Day! Give it a try, Peyton!

Actually, I feel like I'm not really home so much as I have a fairly long layover at home before hitting the road again. The good ol' Pittsburgh Steelers are progressing in the playoffs and travelling to Indianapolis, as their unofficial -- and, truth be told, unknown even to the team -- mascot, I'm going, too! The in-laws got tickets to a playoff game, so that's one more weekend of leaving the o'wife to fend for herself. No, I'm not evil. Y'see, she actually encouraged me to go to the game. "It's the playoffs!" she said. Paddy O'Wife o'rocks!

Speaking of the o'wife, she mentioned a rather interesting tidbit that I'm surprised I didn't catch earlier. As you can see in the previous paragraphs and posts, whenever I'm making fun of her cultural heritage (the one Irish quarter, at least), I throw an o' in front of a word. But when she makes fun of my cultural heritage (the four Hispanic quarters), she throws an o at the end of a word.

What an o'pairo we o'make-o.

You may think the scales are unbalanced because you're always reading my side of things, but trust me on this one, she enjoys an equal share, and maybe even a bit more. In fact, it's embarassing going to the mall with her because if she sees someone that she suspects is Hispanic, she'll demand to see their green card. Come to think of it, that's the second thing she said to me when I got off the plane. "Welcome back! Where's your greeno cardo!?"

Okay, nothing in that last paragraph is actually true. I usually leave it to everyone to pick up my "I'm making all this up" tone, but I didn't want to chance it. I don't want the o'wife to receive o'hatemail, especially since she's so understanding about post-season priorities. Who needs groceries for two weeks? Buy a ticket to the Indy game!

Ah, it's good to be home... for a few days, at least.

I'm going to wear this outfit to the game. You likes?

Today is "Wensday!" At least, that's how it should be spelled.