I was reading today's Alistair Macaulay review in the New York Times and I realized he had just described exactly how I feel while watching the Boston Bruins play hockey. Which is why I'm thoroughly grateful that I won't be doing so again until next fall.
While you watch, you begin to feel that Bill Clinton probably eloped with Michelle Obama long ago, that the problems of Palestine and Iraq and Afghanistan must have all been sorted by now, that whole generations of human life have passed and aliens have surely taken over the planet and then departed, all while you are stuck there in the theater trying to find the least interest in watching the same tepid floozies doing the same limp steps.
Well, maybe it's not
exact--I am, after all, generally sitting on my couch in front of the television when I watch the Bruins--but it's pretty damn close.
Also, this is neither here nor there but too absurd not to share: My roommate's parents just had to buy a new toilet after her mother clogged their old--as in about 70 years old--toilet by accidentally flushing a large and very hard meatball. Yes, really. No, meatball is not a euphemism in this story. The toilet had to be taken apart completely and was so old it couldn't be put together again. That, my friends, is one hell of a meatball. Let this be a cautionary tale for you all--keep meatballs far away from the bathroom at all times.
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