--I took the older Secret to his soccer game (match?) on
Saturday, and Toney stayed home.She’d
gone to the earlier game (match?) with the younger Secret, while I was
still wallowing around in bed, moaning and screaming, “No, no, no,
no, NO!!”Now it was my
turn.
So I carried a camping chair with me and settled near what would be
the fifty yard line in a more manly sport.And within minutes
a big slob planted his chair near mine, and slightly in front,
blocking my view to the left.What
the hell, man?!It was
literally wide-open spaces there.Why’d he have to sit near me?
Grrr…I got up and adjusted my position so I could see better, and
thought I could smell a slight musty funk wafting off the guy.I chuckled as I thought of the way Phil Hendrie would surely
describe him: “300 lbs of donut oil.”
The kids started playing, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Fatty
Arbuckle for some reason.He’d
produced some big-ass scholarly book from God knows where (he wasn’t
carrying a bag or anything), and was now reading it.And every once in a while he’d seem to notice other adults
cheering and hollering, and doing the things you do at a soccer game
(match?).Then he’d
shake his head in apparent disgust.
The dude’s hair was all messed up and full of dandruff, it looked
like he’d slept in his clothes, and I’d bet a crisp five dollar
bill he was a college professor.I
mean he just screamed college professor.
The coach for the other team was standing on the sidelines near me and
Dr. Must, and would occasionally shout “instructions” to the boys
on the field.This seemed
to bother my soccer companion a great deal, and I could tell he was
working up to something; trouble was brewing.But I never could’ve predicted what would actually
transpire…Holy shitcakes, Batman.
The ball went out of bounds at one point, but the referee didn’t see
it, or whatever, and never called it.The coach reminded his team they need to keep playing until
they hear a whistle, and not to let up.
And Professor Basement Funk yelled, “Hey pal, this is a kids’
game, not the pros!”
Confused, the coach turned to the guy and gave him the international
open-handed What’s Your Problem? signal.And the musk ox hollered, “They’re just kids, you idiot.This isn’t the World Cup.”
Idiot?!The coach started
walking over, and the professor gave him the finger with both hands.Then he began moving them forward and backward, alternating in
a circular motion which middle-finger was out-front at any given
moment.
Then he said, “In case you don’t know what this means, it means
you can go fornicate yourself.”
I couldn’t believe it.The
coach, as far as I could tell, hadn’t done a damn thing wrong.His tone wasn’t abusive, and his words weren’t harsh; he
was just doing what was expected of him.
He asked Donut Oil for his name, and Donuts said, “I’ll be glad to
give you my name, my telephone number, and my address, asshole.But if you decide to show up at my door one day, you’d
better be packing.”
I almost swallowed my tongue.You’d
better be packing?!What
is this, Gunsmoke?The coach just stood there dumbfounded.
And the professor said “OK, and now it’s time for you to move
along, little man,” and gave him a dismissive wave in the direction
of where he’d previously been standing.
The coach chuckled, shook his head in astonishment, and walked away.And every time, for the remainder of the game (match?),
somebody yelled encouragement, or cheered, or anything along those
lines, the tub o’ blubber would shift in his chair, shake his head,
and put on a big show for us all.
A teenage girl showed up about halfway through, and sat beside the
man.I’m guessing it was
his daughter, but I never saw him say a word to her.She just sat silently at his side as the dude sighed
theatrically, and apparently struggled to keep from doing something
that might cause another unfortunate misunderstanding.
You know, like in the other cities… before all the trouble, and
before they’d been forced to move so many times because the world
just isn’t equipped to deal with a man of his particular brilliance and
intellect...
But someday they’ll see, goddammit.Someday they’ll all
see.
-- Before I call it a day here, I have some disturbing news to
report... Toney tells me that, at the urging of the "adaptation
specialist," her sister has now taken up kickboxing.
Yes, you read that correctly.
And it's why I was rolling around in bed on Saturday morning,
screaming, "NO!!" I had a dream, you see, where I
walked into a room, and found Eninen huddled around a computer
monitor. They seemed to be engrossed in something, so I walked over to
investigate. And as I got nearer I saw, between their shoulders, the
Smoking Fish!
There was a wild flurry of feet and armpit hair, then everything
suddenly went black. And the next thing I know I'm being transported
in a screaming ambulance, surrounded by concerned nurses (and Willie
Mays, for some reason), with a tube stuck up my nose.
--