There are eleven McDonald’s within a ten mile radius of my apartment, all of which have identical hours. They all open at 5 a.m. and close at 2 a.m. which means that every day, I have twenty-one hours and almost a dozen options for getting a Big Mac (and perhaps some Apple Dippers). This also means that the only time I ever want a Big Mac is approximately 3:28 a.m. For my entire life, I’ve noticed that I only ever really want the things that I can’t have, which explains why I’ve always developed irrational crushes on married celebrities (Good morning, Hugh Laurie!), why I blow out the candles on each birthday cake while silently wishing I would grow a tail (for myriad reasons, all to be explained upon request), and why every time I lose a 10-K (which is every time I run a 10-K), I long to be a born-again Kenyan.
Today’s Hit and Run is filled with athletes who all want stuff that they aren’t going to get either, and you readers probably all want transitions that aren’t quite as lazy as that one.
Take, for example, the round one leader of the PGA Tournament, Graeme Storm, he of the most spell-checked name in the field (although phonetically, it’s pretty sweet and by “pretty sweet”, I mean “sounds like he may have starred in Orgy Party 6“). He’d just like to get through the rest of the weekend without soiling his pants, being mistaken for a Harry Potter character, or have every mention of his name followed by the word “Who?” I’d like to see Greaeaeameae to at least make the cut…he could probably use his winnings to buy an extra consonant or two.
Meanwhile, two strokes behind G-Storm (which I believe is also 50 Cent’s clothing brand), is 857-pound John Daly who would probably enjoy reading one article about himself that doesn’t make note of 1) his gambling problems; 2) the fact that his chain-smoking, heavy drinking, and 92% body fat mean he should probably be endorsed by at least one casket company; and 3) did they mention his copious sweating? He’s the guy I’m really pulling for. I’m also pulling for John Goodman to play him in a made-for-TV movie.
Last night in the NFL preseason (No, I didn’t watch. Preseason games are like trying to sit through Grease 2…all you can think about is who’s not participating) Tony Romo completed 10 of 11 pass attempts as a lot of guys who won’t wear Cowboys uniforms ever again beat an Indianapolis squad composed of players sincerely wishing that NFL Europe was still a viable option.
That said, Tony Romo is off to a good start and his biggest desire for the season is to go grocery shopping without someone slapping him on the back and telling him it’s OK he fumbled last postseason, or that they still like him even though he fumbled, or that they’re glad he’s still a Cowboy even though he fumbled last year. Oh, and he’d probably also like for opposing fans to come up with a more clever rhyme for his last name.
I included the picture to the right not really because of Tony but so we could all appreciate Julius Jones’ ass. It looks like two perfect loves of bread cooling in a spandex basket. Or like two turtles resting on a log shaped like a normal man’s ass.
This article notes that Terrell Owens spoke to reporters while wrapped up in a Barry Bonds jersey, like the SnackWrap of Suck. I’m not sure I could hate him more, unless he was also holding a Nickelback CD.
Finally, David Beckham–who looks more like Sting with every passing day–played an uneventful 27 minutes in the LA Galaxy’s loss to the D.C. No One Fucking Cares Because David Fucking Beckham Doesn’t Play For Us. I’m sure that Becks can get whatever he wants (except maybe a wife whose heartbeat isn’t visible through her skin) but I’m sure he’d like to never endure another interview/article/montage that includes the phrase “Bend It”.
And the Galaxy season ticket holders who shelled out serious bones to watch him sit and watch the same boring-ass game they’re watching are all wondering why the team didn’t just hire that Indian girl in the first place.
Enjoy your weekend, kids. See you at McDonald’s.