Time for some quick picks before the game. Last week, I/Madden went 6-8. Christ, it’s like I’m actually letting a real 79-year-old make the picks.
The score so far: 1 push, 34 losses, 27 wins.
You may ask yourself why I’m still doing this. The answer is simple: because I said I would. I’m a man, I’m 28! come after me! The matchups for this week are very, very dangerous. The favorites are heavily favored, and that is always a bad sign. On top of that, Madden has me picking the favorite in 8 out of 14 games. I feel like a kid in church where the priest just said, “Open your mouth and close your eyes, and you will get a big surprise!”
1) What am I thinking?
Oakland vs NY Giants -16
Tampa Bay vs Philadelphia -15.5
New England vs Denver +3
2) Could go either way
Cleveland vs Buffalo -6
Washington vs Carolina -3.5
Jacksonville vs Seattle -1
Houston vs Arizona -5
Atlanta vs San Fransisco -2.5
NY Jets vs Miami pick em
3) Maybe this isn’t such a turrible idea
Cincinnati vs Baltimore -9
Pittsburgh vs Detroit +11.5
Dallas vs Kansas City +9
Minnesota vs St Louis +11
Indianapolis vs Tennessee +3
Another 8-8 week. This whole thing is going about as far as Stephen Hawking without his wheelchair. So far, John Madden has really let me down. I feel like Lamar Odom when he married that pig c-word Khloe Kardashian: I attached myself to a famous person hoping for some kind of vague short-term gain, but everyone knows I made a terrible decision that I will regret. Oh Lawdy, what the f— is he thinking? How could someone look into her baggy, swollen eyes, with her pointless sisters and immovable-face stepdad watching, and say “I do”?! The whole thing, including the fact that she has a show on television, makes me want to punch myself in the genitals with a roll of quarters in my fist. But I digress.
Here is where we stand now: 1 push, 26 losses, 21 wins.
And so, we forge on into Week 4 of the NFL season. I hope this week catapults me into the “W” column. I hate this mediocrity. I either want to win big or end up a bigger loser than Todd Palin. Below are my picks for the week. Please make note that Madden has made me bet on Detroit three out of four weeks. Also, he has me picking the underdog in 9 out of 14 games!!! This could be worse than watching the Verne Troyer sex tape.
1) What am I thinking?
Detroit vs Chicago -12
NY Giants vs Kansas City +10
Tampa Bay vs Washington -8.5
2) Could go either way
Cincinnati vs Cleveland +4
Tennessee vs Jacksonville +1
Buffalo vs Miami +1
Baltimore vs New England -3
San Diego vs Pittsburgh -5
Dallas vs Denver +3
Green Bay vs Minnesota -3
3) Maybe this isn’t such a turrible idea
Oakland vs Houston -10.5
Seattle vs Indianapolis -11
NY Jets vs New Orleans -7
St Louis vs San Fransisco -10
Ret’s do it!
I began a new job today. After a nauseatingly depressing four-month job search–where I tried desperately to find an outlet for my graduate school education, research background, public relations experience, web and print design skills, and possibly even the five foreign languages I have studied–I have taken a job as basically a door-to-door salesman for an internet service provider. Thanks, American educational system!
The job search was rough, and thank Dog my buddy Bridge got me this position at his company (May Jeebus bless his little Jewish heart). My money is tight, and as we know, I have been flushing my savings down the drain in my misguided Madden/NFL betting experiment. Uh…just kidding, law enforcement entities! Anywayz, like a methed-out stripper on the MILF Hunter’s casting couch, I am grateful to Bridge for the opportunity to make some money to fuel my own ignorant and self-destructive existence. You’re the man now, dog.
Of course, despite the fact that this is not my optimal career path, this new job has shown me that it will be a bottomless pit of material to amuse you, Karl Krew. When it comes to the world of sales, I am more out of my element than a black guy at a Jimmy Buffet concert–and I am already stunned, enthralled, and perversely captivated by what I have seen. This whole experience should be ruthlessly entertaining, especially the part where I go into random neighborhoods and knock on strangers’ doors trying to sell them internets. Oh, the places we will go! Here is a sample of my first-day experience:
1) We kicked the day off with a motivational sales meeting. I had heard of these from my friend who used to work at Best Buy, but I had no idea how equally bizarre and compelling they actually are when you participate in them. My bosses had M.I.A.’s “Paper Planes” blaring while they danced around the meeting room. There was also a red emergency light spinning wildly. I didn’t know whether to back away slowly or do a Jägerbomb. One guy got so amped up, he did a handstand in the middle of the room. With all the applause, throbbing music, and pulsating lights, I got sucked directly into the faux emotion. Now I know what it was like for the Germans during a Hitler rally: with all the viscerally-stimulating pageantry and excitement, you just can’t help but get swept away.
2) One of my new coworkers was wearing BLACK CARGO JEANS! When I saw him walk in, I did a spit-take with my own saliva. The sight of cargo jeans sent my brain reeling back to the 1990s, but then I realized that nobody wore cargo jeans even then. It was all about the carpenter jeans and douchebag sweater vests. This poor guy…he was trying to hearken back to a fashion era that never even existed. Maybe, though, he comes from an alternate past. Perhaps he is the like the Reverse-Terminator: he comes from a possible past to alter the course of our future. I wonder what his mission is and who he is trying to kill. Like the guy stepping on the butterfly in “A Sound of Thunder” or Lorraine trying to make out with Marty McFly before the “Enchantment Under the Sea” dance, his actions could have inconceivable repercussions. I will keep my eye on this potentially catastrophic situation.
3) My first day was consumed almost entirely by an online sales training. I sold internets at a fake mall, in a fake neighborhood, and at a fake retail outlet. The only thing I didn’t do was knock on a fake door and smell the fake dog feces rotting on a fake couch covered in fake plastic at some fake geriatric’s house. The whole experience was worse than being forced to eat out of the dumpster at an abortion clinic. I hope the real door-to-door experience is much more demeaning and exciting.
So come along on this grandiose quest into an unfamiliar world of quotas, pitches, and endless rejection. We’ll search for tomorrow on every shore…and I’ll try, Oh Lord, I’ll try..to caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarry on!
Oh frabjous day! After a Week 1 outcome more disgusting than watching the so-ignorant-I-should-be-forcibly-sterilized fools on “I didn’t Know I Was Pregnant,” Madden and I had a Week 2 bounce-back with an 8-8 performance. I guess it’s sad to be happy about not losing money, but when you’re letting a video game decide your financial future, even a draw is a win. As it stands now:
1 push, 18 losses, 13 wins.
At this rate, my bookie will only have to smash one kneecap at the end of the season.
I don’t have much time to write right now, because The Lady is forcing me to go on a Bataan-esque bike ride. So here are my/Madden’s quick picks for the week. Let’s hope that, unlike poor Beetlejuice, things start looking better. As always, our picks for the week are in bold:
1) What am I thinking?
Kansas City vs Philadelphia -9
Washington vs Detroit +6.5
Miami vs San Diego -7
Carolina vs Dallas -10
2) Could go either way
Green Bay vs St Louis +6.5
Altanta vs New England -4.5
San Francisco vs Minnesota -6.5
Tennessee vs NY Jets -3
Chicago vs Seattle +1.5
Pittsburgh vs Cincinnati +4.5
Denver vs Oakland -2.5
Indianapolis vs Arizona -1
3) Maybe this isn’t such a turrible idea
Cleveland vs Baltimore -13
NY Giants vs Tampa Bay +7
Jacksonville vs Houston -4
New Orleans vs Buffalo +4
Oh no.
The outcomes from this past week’s NFL games had me screaming, “Nein! Nein! Nein! Nein! Nein! Nein!” like ol’ Adolf. John Madden, the man who has inspired generations of fans with his luminous football knowledge and experience, betrayed me more heinously than Brett Favre going to the Vikings. Although I reveled in every second of the NFL’s opening weekend, it was punishing to watch the scores unfold. It was bittersweet…like watching Patrick Swayze finally kick the bucket. Although he did give us amazing movies like Point Break and Road House, he committed unforgivable cinematic atrocities like Ghost and Dirty Dancing that deserve eternal revulsion. R.I.P. 4 lyfe.
Only one of my four “Maybe this isn’t such a turrible idea” bets, the Seahawks over the Rams, actually paid off. The Patriots and Cardinals games were more disappointing than seeing a full-grown man put on a Rascal Flatts T-shirt. And the Giants and Redskins pushed because the G-Men won by exactly six points! My “What am I thinking?” bets ended predictably with only one win, and the games I thought could go either way went mostly in one direction: running away with my money like Konerak Sinthasomphone from Jeffrey Dahmer. Oh, the humanity.
The final score for NFL Week 1: 1 push, 5 wins….and 10 losses.
But if you think this ominous start will deter me from continuing this potentially ruinous experiment, you are sorely mistaken. This financial 9/11 has in fact strengthened my resolve to see if letting a video game determine my betting is a smarter idea than making the picks myself. Let’s see what Mr. Madden has in store for me this week.
To review, the minus sign indicates the favorite and the plus sign signifies the underdog. For example, Carolina vs. Atlanta -7 means that Atlanta has to win the game by over seven points. Conversely, New England vs NY Jets +5 means that New England has to win by more than five points. My/Madden’s picks are in bold:
1) What am I thinking?
Carolina vs Atlanta -7
Houston vs Tennessee – 8
Pittsburgh vs Chicago +3
Indianapolis vs Miami +3
2) Could go either way
New Orleans vs Philadelphia -1
New England vs NY Jets +5
Oakland vs Kansas City -3.5
Arizona vs Jacksonville -4.5
Tampa Bay vs Buffalo -4.5
Seattle vs San Fransisco “pick ‘em” (this means a spread of zero)
Cleveland vs Denver -3
NY Giants vs Dallas -2.5
3) Maybe this isn’t such a turrible idea
St Louis vs Washington -10.5
Cincinnati vs Green Bay -9
Minnesota vs Detroit +10.5
Baltimore vs San Diego -3.5
This week, Madden has made a much more balanced set of picks by choosing the underdog in only 8 out of 16 games. There are still some outrageous choices, like picking Carolina over Atlanta at home a week after Jake Delhomme committed his 11th turnover in two games. But…ugh I hate to say it, but I feel a lot better about my chances right now.
Famous last words, I guess.
Today I was sitting on the bus suffering through the waves of delinquents, degenerates, reprobates, perverts, freaks, and miscreants that board during any given ride. As I listened to women scream on their cell phones about the multiple fathers of their children, the insane ramblings of homeless men, and the interminable crying of malnourished babies, I contemplated suicide. These impulses got even worse when an Ali G look-a-like and his pet orca got on and squeezed next to me.
For the next 30 minutes, I watched Ali G kiss his girlfriend’s stretched-marked arm while she bellowed away on her Sidekick. She was completely ignoring him, and yet he seemed determined to seduce her by licking her shoulder. At one point, he even put his jacket, which he was wearing despite the fact it was 80 degrees, over his head to disguise whatever he was doing to her lipid-swollen brazo. It was more disgusting than watching Grandpa Loves Cream Pie #2. After an eternity, these two finally disembarked. As he got up to leave with his narwal, Ali G’s Yankee hat fell onto the seat–and he didn’t notice!
As most of you know, for people like Ali G, the flat-brimmed Yankee hat with the stickers still on is an all-important symbol of faux street cred. Even though I would bet my scrotum that he is from Chicago, Ali G probably regards his precious New York Yankee hat as more important than his new Jordans. And yet his prized possession was now left behind like Kirk Cameron.
I could have stopped him, but my own rage would not let me. Ali G had subjected me to the strangest and most disturbing display of PDA I have ever seen, and now was my chance for revenge. Through the window, I watched him and his beluga walk across the street. Ali G had noticed his missing hat and had begun searching through his puffy jacket in desperation. As the bus pulled away, he swiveled his head with a look of unrestrained fear not seen since Auschwitz. I laughed.
When I got off at my stop, I brought Ali G’s Yankee hat with me to ensure that it didn’t end up in a lost-and-found where someone could use it to boost their own faux cred. To deny anyone the pleasure of wearing this piece of poop, I tossed it into a nearby garbage can. Yes, it was childish and petty–but it felt good.
Respek.
Oh boy…that went about as well as I thought it would. I didn’t have a good feeling going in, and the Steelers pulled off the OT win over the Titans with a cheap field goal. Thus, the Steelers failed to cover the five point spread, and I shoveled my first load of dirt out of my own financial funeral hole. Not only that, but this particular NFL game really DPed me: in my fantasy league, my opponents scored 19 points alone from Santonio Holmes. This is a more of a bad sign than having a new girlfriend tell you she gets jittery around coat hangers. But like Matthew McConaughey’s agent reading through prospective scripts, I will keep on making turrible decisions until I finally hit upon another Dazed and Confused.
I am now down 0-1 in my football picks, but the rest of Week 1 is yet to come.
It’s time to make my picks for this Sunday and Monday. All the arrangements with the bookie are set, and even he has asked me if I am sure I want to do this. That should tell me something, I guess–but I have decided to act like Phillip Garrido’s parole officer and just ignore all the glaringly obvious warning signs (yes, I know I have already made a Jaycee Dugard joke this week, but this is my all-time favorite story next to Josef Fritzl’s sex dungeon). Anyway, here are the picks John Madden has so courteously chosen for me. I have arranged them into three categories, beginning with the picks that are basically throwing my money away like buying a Kia or sending money to Darfur. My/Madden’s choices are in bold:
1) What am I thinking?
Detroit vs New Orleans -10.5
Kansas City vs Baltimore -7
San Diego -7 vs Oakland
Minnesota -3 vs Cleveland
2) Could go either way
Miami vs Atlanta -4
Dallas -3 vs Tampa Bay
Philadelphia vs Carolina -2.5
Chicago vs Green Bay -3
Denver -2.5 vs Cincinnati
NY Jets vs Houston – 3.5
Jacksonville vs Indianapolis -7
3) Maybe this isn’t such a turrible idea
Buffalo vs New England – 9.5
San Fransisco vs Arizona -7
Washington vs NY Giants -6
St Louis vs Seattle -7
Out of 15 games, Madden has chosen the underdog for me in 9 matchups. Aside from picking Detroit, KC, Oakland, and Cleveland–four of the worst teams in the league–I feel pretty good about this week.
I love football and I hate weather. The Lady herself has declared that I have four seasons in my year: it’s too cold season, allergy season, it’s too hot season, and football season. After suffering through the past six months of inane baseball chatter and counting the days until I can stay indoors in front of the TV for five solid months, football season is finally here.
I also love gambling. My life is one riddled by vice, from my DTs to my disturbing attachment to pornography to my compulsive need to constantly play video games. Above all these things, I enjoy gambling the most. For some inexplicable reason, my family once went to Vegas to celebrate my grandmother’s 80th birthday. Instead of enjoying their company, I found the saddest, most desolate casino I could and played blackjack at the same table for twenty straight hours. I made quite a few friends at that table, my favorite of which shoplifted an odds card from the casino gift shop and gave it to me. He even told the dealer he stole it, but the dealer didn’t care. He just shrugged his shoulders and said, “It ain’t MY gift shop.” Wow…I love gambling!
The time has now come to bet on football games. I have been unemployed for four months, and the depression has driven me to the brink of self-destruction. I am numb to the world, and only the impending football season is preventing me from going into the closet with David Carradine’s other shoelace. It’s time to really push my luck. This year, I have added several wrinkles to an age-old pastime. First, I have decided to bet on every NFL game each week. This is something I have never done before. Second, I am playing with my life savings–because I have no income. By the end, it is possible that I may either have zero money in the bank or be in over my head with the ol’ leg-breaking bookie.
And third…I am letting John Madden decide my gambling fate. That’s right. I am going to simulate every game every week using a video game, Madden 10, and let the outcomes in Madden determine my real-life bets. This will dictate my wagers, no matter how ridiculous the outcome in the simulated games. For example, if Detroit beats the Steelers in Madden, I have to go with the Lions. The potential for disaster should be obvious.
To give myself a fighting chance, I am betting the spread for every game, not just picking a straight-up winner. For the Karl Krew members who don’t know what the spread is, it means I’m betting that a team will win or lose by a certain number of points. If the spread for a game is Chicago vs. Green Bay -6, that means that Green Bay has to win by more than six points to cover the spread. If you bet on Chicago and they lose by three points, that means you still win your bet. See here for more.
Each week, we’ll take a look at the betting lines for each game and I will make my choices. I will bet the same amount on every game every week…until my money goes bye-bye. We’ll keep a running total of how far ahead or behind I am as the weeks go by. Will I reap financial success or condemn myself to a lifetime of disability once my bookie shoots my kneecaps off? May Jeebus be with me.
Since the season starts tonight, Thursday September 10, I’ll make one bet before I outline the other Sunday and Monday games. Here is the line:
Tennessee vs Pittsburgh -5 —> I’m going for the Steelers.
I do NOT like this bet, because Pittsburgh does not have a great offense and they have to win by at least a full touchdown against one of the best defenses in the NFL. But this is what John says to do. Let’s see how it goes!
Are you ready for some football?
DISCLAIMER: For any law enforcement entities who may be watching, I am just joking about all the gambling. I promise.
You may have noticed that karlthoughts conspicuously went on a leave of absence for the past week or so. The reason for this is that my grandfather, Lee, suffered a massive stroke on August 30, and we had his funeral this past Saturday. I’ve been spending a lot of time with my family in my hometown, but now I am back and ready to get this party started like bringing a six pack of Steel Reserve, two hookers, and an ounce of PCP to an office Christmas celebration. I would like to dedicate this post to Lee–not for some sappy, please-give-me-pity-sex reason, but to show the Krew a little about from where ol’ karl gets his steez.
My grandfather was a gentle, kind guy with a great sense of humor, yet he never got too offensive because he was so religious. I share none of these traits in common with him. He did, however, instill in me a great and passionate love of off-color humor and schadenfreude. In fact, all members of my family celebrate gross impropriety of all forms. This was evident even during the hospital vigil we held while Lee lay nearly brain-dead for four turrible days. Stricken by grief, we had to find ways to amuse ourselves before we lapsed into mass suicide. For example, my uncle George delighted in opening my grandfather’s glassed-over eyes to make us all start crying, and my cousin Shredder introduced my uncle Jay to the glory of Goatse, Tub Girl, Lemon Party, and Two Girls One Cup on his laptop right in the hospital room.
Yes, we are a deplorable, mentally maladjusted bunch of reprobates who, like the entire nation of Japan and its psyche-searing pornography, should be erased via genocide to prevent our perversions from polluting the entire world. In my family, when one exhibits weakness, the others will exploit it for the amusement of all. And Lee taught me how to do this with the best. Two examples will illustrate how he was always going for laughs, often at my own expense.
1) When I was about ten years old, my entire family went on an indescribably awful two-week camping trip all throughout the American Southeast. At the time, my cousin Shredder was a complete aquaphobe, and his mother made him wear water wings and a life jacket even if the water was only three feet deep. Any time he got water on his face, Shredder looked like someone after Max Hardcore urinates in her mouth. It was pathetic. This time period was also the height of my germaphobia. On this trip, I once cried because my uncle Jay pushed my hand into river water after I had cut my finger. I was also pathetic.
Being the patriarch of our family, Lee took it upon himself to exploit the weaknesses of both Shredder and myself at the exact same time to amuse himself and my rabid relatives.
We were all relaxing in a pool at some campground in Incest, Tennessee, when my grandfather suddenly grabbed Shredder and dragged him, life jacket and all, under the water for about five feet. Of course, my cousin panicked–and as he screamed under the surface, he spewed a reprehensible amount of boogers out of his little nose. My family howled as Shredder’s nose goblins floated to the top of the water. Seeing germs, I planned my escape. Before I could move, though, Lee scooped up a handful of the booger water and threw it on me.
I was more disgusted than Jaycee Dugard’s parents after they heard about their new grandkids. And I responded by vomiting all around myself into the pool. Of course, this created a feedback loop where the sight of my own upchuck forced me to retch even harder. The process was like the cycle of poverty–only worse. The whole time, my grandfather was chuckling gleefully.
2) When I was about nine years old, Lee came to our house one morning to take me and my two younger sisters, Dubbelyewsea and Scat, to the local Catholic school where we received a first-class brainwashing for the tasty price of several thousand dollars a year. Scat was only four years old at the time, and she had not yet mastered the indispensable art of wiping her own ass. As a result, her underwear often looked like she had just gone down a slide covered in melted Snickers bars. Dubbelyewsea and I reveled in ruthlessly taunting Scat about her fecal mishaps, and we were lacing into her when Lee walked through the door. He asked why Scat was so upset, and I replied, “Because she doesn’t wipe her butt!” Scat indignantly screamed, “I do TOO wipe my butt!!!”
Without missing a beat, Lee looked her square in her four-year-old eyes and said, “Yeah…with your UNDERWEAR!”
Scat exploded into tears, and it took my grandfather several minutes to calm her down while Dubbelyewsea and I laughed incredulously. I believe we were late to school that day.
I’ll miss you, Grandpa.
On Saturday, I saw the worst cover band that the crusty maw of this godforsaken earth has ever vomited forth onto its own surface. Fronted by a screeching, bracelet-jangling harpy and backed by a crew that makes a third grade recorder band sound like the London Symphony Orchestra, this troupe burned a permanent wince onto my already-homely face. The Lady had taken me to a festival at some Greek church in our neighborhood, and this band was the entertainment. We paid $2 to get in, but we deftly avoided the $4 they were charging for beers–because she and I always fill her purse with Old Style cans wherever we go.
But back to the band. The festival was a church fundraiser, and I was blown away by the fact that in a holy environment the mere presence of this group negated any conceivable argument for the existence of God. To say that this band was an abortion would be a grievous insult to the medical professionals who terminate millions of babies in wombs across the country every year. I would rather have a front row seat for a female circumcision in Senegal than see the band ever again.
When The Lady and I rolled up, they band was covering “Eruption,” a cacophonous aural molestation from Van Halen’s first album. Although I love 80s metal, I absolutely despise Van Halen. I hate Van Halen more than Fred Goldman hates O.J. Simpson. As soon as I heard the first out-of-tune riff, I knew it was going to be a rough night.
And my premonition was well-founded. The Lady and I sat with our mouths agape as the lead singer squawked her way through a litany of completely unrelated tunes from the past three decades. They mangled “You Shook Me All Night Long,” disgraced “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” and in a feat that made Usain Bolt’s 9.58 look as mundane as taking a morning poop, actually managed to make “I Love Rock N’ Roll” sound even worse than the original version.
Things got even worse when they inexplicably covered a song by W.A.S.P. For those of you who don’t know, W.A.S.P. is one of my favorite 80s metal bands. Krew, you may know their classic tunes “Chainsaw Charlie,” “On Your Knees,” and “The Headless Children.” W.A.S.P. became famous in part from their early single, “Animal (F— like a beast),” which featured a photo of a man wearing a bloody codpiece with a circular saw sticking out. What a great band to cover for a church event!
This song also projected me back in time, triggering a memory I had locked away like Genie strapped to a potty chair in the dark.
You see, when I was 15, I went with my friend The Shoe to a W.A.S.P. concert at some dung pile in St. Louis. The Shoe is one of my oldest, most dangerous friends. He is mentally unstable, completely self-destructive, and has done considerable jail time. I made the mistake of bringing a girl named Renee with us, but The Shoe knew I had a huge crush on her and had been talking to her for weeks. Because I had parents who actually imposed rules in my pubescent life, though, I had to go home after the concert–leaving my girlfriend-to-be in the lecherous, semen-encrusted hands of The Shoe.
The next day, I received a phone call from The Shoe. He was delirious with joy, like the Sham Wow guy after Billy Mays dropped dead from his last line of coke. I asked him what he was so happy about. He gleefully burst into laughter and began to recount what had happened after I went home following the concert. The Shoe, also 15 years old but lacking any semblance of parental supervision, informed me that he had taken Renee back to his grandfather’s trailer after the concert. Yes, trailer. I have no idea how this happened, because none of us could drive, but my heart was broken instantly. I knew where this story was going.
The Shoe happily walked me through the myriad ways he had sexually defiled my prospective girlfriend. Listening to him was like hearing testimony at the Nuremberg Trials. He had methodically stripped this young woman of all her dignity inside his grandfather’s filthy mobile home, committing acts so licentious that God himself had to turn His back lest he stop believing in Himself. The Shoe was jubilant, and he ended his heart-wrenching story by explaining the effects that several teaspoons of seminal fluid have on the human cornea.
I was furious, and I demanded to know why he had done this to the girl in whom I had so much interest. The Shoe, confused and slightly hurt, said only,”I thought you’d be happy. Now you know what you can do to her, too!”
Speechless, I suddenly realized that it was his own twisted way of looking out for me. By soiling my almost-girlfriend beyond all redemption with his genital-spawned pestilence, The Shoe thought he was running some sort of sexual reconnaissance for his virginal friend. Strangely, I couldn’t really be angry. Although his actions had violated every legitimate idea of friendship since Aristotle’s Ethics, The Shoe actually thought he was doing me a favor.
As I sat with The Lady and watched the cover band wail away in the Chicago rain on Saturday night, monstrously contorting the lyrics of “Bulls on Parade” into “Hey you I won’t do what you tell me,” I thought again about the Shoe and the good turn he did for his pal.
I am lucky to have such great friends.
