It's dark. I have a headache, my back hurts and from the way it feels, I have 1.25 sinuses -- two on one side and -0.75 on the other.
And yet somehow -- somehow! -- I'm supposed to be thrilled that:
A) Some sort of bowl-game thingie will be in town.
B) Some indeterminate number of sporting-even fans will be in town. 100,000? More? We don't even know how many of them can drive safely in snow and cold! I don't think we even know where they're from, yet. Not here; our team for this sport didn't even bother to show up this season.
C) I am promised that there will be fun, Fun, FUN! downtown, near the venue to this sporting event that I don't care about and don't have tickets for. My reaction to this heap big fun associated with can only be imagined by picturing Pat Paulsen being offered a lifetime supply of cold, malodorous mud: I'm less thrilled.
D) The players union is sticking an oar in Indiana's Right To Work debate. 'Cos we do a lot of exploiting downtrodden sporting figures here -- the way the coach and players of our team were fired en masse midway through their terrible season, for instan-- What? Kept them? Despite being miserably bad? All? Only fired the top brass, after they were washed out? Oh. It's a pity the players have not threatened a wildcat strike over R-T-W -- that would be news!
I'd call in sick but there's actual work to be done. That is more like fun than fighting ijits in traffic for doubtful access to dubious activities in uncertain weather, with slim-to-none odds of finding a place to park.
T. R. MCELROY'S STREAMLINED TELEGRAPH KEYS
1 year ago