Suck it, BCG

For those of you who don't know (which is probably zero, the number of people who read this), BCG is Billy Clyde Gillispie, the former basketball coach at Texas A&M and the current coach at Kentucky.

I loved Billy Clyde when he was at A&M. Then he screwed us and left. So I hate him now.

Today is the first day of the NCAA tournament and Kentucky played Marquette this afternoon. In spite of the fact that I was working, I pulled the game up on the computer so I could at least follow the progress of it.

At about 8 minutes to go in the game, I IMed Momma Pug and said Billy was toast. Of course, as if they were dogs in the Westminster Dog Show, Kentucky went on a run to cut the lead to 4. Then Marquette got it back up to 7, then 11. I smiled. Then Kentucky hits two threes to pull to within 5. I frowned.

With about two minutes to go in the game, Kentucky cut the lead to two. At this point, I figure the feed on CBS's web site has to be faster than Fox Sports', because CBS has the tournament on TV, right?

Wrong. It was 30 seconds SLOWER than Fox! Back to Foxland. Get back just in time for it to update and show that Marquette was shooting free throws to put the game away.

Fist pump!

At this point, I realize two things: Kentucky WILL lose and I'm damned lucky nobody's in the workplace today. Yay, yay.

And Kentucky lost AT LEAST three hours before A&M. So suck it, BCG.

When I hang you up, you HANG THE F**K UP

One of things that I'm proudest of, over the past few years at least, has been my ability rein in my temper. I'm not perfect, of course, but I can usually keep it under control (this offer does not apply during Redskins and Aggies games, so don't try. I'll take that coupon and shove it up your nose).

Yeah, well, I lost it on Sunday night. With cause.

Some of you (well, none of you, since nobody reads this anyway) know that I've put together a fairly impressive bunch of autographed jerseys over the past year or so. With the help of Momma Pug, I've got jerseys signed by Cal Ripken Jr., John David Crow (Aggie Heisman winner in 1957), John Riggins, Sammy Baugh, Stan Musial, Nolan Ryan, Jim Palmer and Brooks Robinson. Momma Pug has been kind enough to let me get them framed and hang them upstairs.

Most of them are in shadowboxes, which are really awesome to look at put a complete bitch to hang. For some reason, when you measure them on the ground, the distance between the two holes is 30 2/3 inches. Hang it up and it becomes either 30 1/2 or 30 3/4, which sucks when you've drilled the holes and then find out the measurement's wrong (for reasons you can't figure out). They're heavy, too, so when you hang them up, figure out you've fucked up and have to pull them down because either the thing's not level or the holes are too short or far apart, it's annoying. It's even more annoying when the electric drill runs out of juice, so you have to screw and unscrew by hand.

By the time you get one of these sons of bitches up, you've sweat more than you would during a 30 minute sprint on the Nordic Trac and you're so pissed off that you want to go find all the Hajis in Iraq and rip their nads off one at a time.

So, as you can see, this process made me a little . On Sunday, I hung four of them: Riggins, Palmer, Ryan and Musial. Musial was the last, and it seemed like he was going to be the easiest. Drill is working and holes are level and, it seems the right distance apart. I hang it, step back and look.

Nope, it's tilted. Way off. About an inch off to the right.

LIKE IT'S HANGING ON THE FRAME.

Of course, before I can get to it, the right side of the frame collapses and comes apart, tearing itself from the wall. I get up on the bed (it was hanging over the bed) and grab it, but not before another side comes off and the glass breaks in half.

At this point, I'm more than testy. After all, I've been at this shit for 4 fucking hours and that's at least 50 bucks that has just been utterly pissed away.

Momma Pug says she walked in the room and I was holding what was left of the frame and the matted jersey in my hands with my eyes bulging and my face beet red. She very calmly told me everything was ok (a lie) and took the jersey from me and placed it on the bed.

The next thing she heard was me walking downstairs and the glass door sliding open, then sliding shut. Then she heard the sounds of metal smashing into the ground and a bunch of repeated profanity. I had grabbed a couple of pieces of what is left of the frame of the old deck umbrella in the back yard and slammed them into the grass until they splintered and broke in half. I do this usually after A&M loses to Texas Tech, but this was a special occasion.

The Cal Ripken jersey remains unhung. Honestly, I don't have the guts to do it myself. If that shadowbox breaks, I will likely take it outside, walk down the street with it, dump it and light it on fire in the yard of the motherfuckers who stole my laptop.

I would be--yes--a little bit testy.

The Emos will pay

I hate Emo kids. I really fucking hate them. It’s not just because they think the world sucks and the use daddy’s money to go out and buy dope and pout; it’s not just because they sit around, listen to Green Day and think the world would be a better place if anarchy like, totally ruled, man.

No, I hate the motherfuckers because they steal stuff. Like my work laptop.

This weekend, the missus and I noticed that some kids had moved in down the street. I’m not sure how many, but there seemed to be five or six of them there at all times. No real adults, mind you; just these little brain-dead shits. There’s one with a Mohawk; one with hair so long in the front of his face he has to push it out of the way to see (or talk); one who thinks he’s Tony Hawk, even though he wipes out on his skateboard while cruising on flat land and a couple of other fuckwads.

I don’t know what set off these soon to be prescription-drug OD’ers, but they don’t like me much. I don’t know why; I’ve never said a word to them. But, in two-and-a-half years, we’ve never had a problem on our street. They’re there 48 hours and our car’s broken into.

The Emos must think they’re smart; they saw Momma Pug and I leave in one vehicle, so they forced their way into the other. They must have figured I wouldn’t notice that my computer was gone, except for the fact that they yelled stuff at us and threw something or other at the car when we came home a little before 11 that night. One look at the car and I saw the door was slightly ajar. Yep, they’d been in it, found the laptop and took it.

The police, since they have no probable cause, couldn’t really do much. But, when you consider that these fuckers show up and the whole neighborhood goes to hell overnight, it doesn’t take much cognitive thought to figure out who the doers are.

Add in the fact that I heard one of them say, “Let’s go give it back,” and I’m pretty sure we’ve got our winning losers.

So the laptop is gone. Some stuff I’d been working on is kaput and I’ll have to start again. But I hope they’re happy, because they won’t be for long. You see, Momma Pug and I have long memories and have the ability to get back at these assholes. I think I’ll go get some winter rye grass or some high powered weed killer—I haven’t decided which yet—and write “FUCK YOU” on their lawn. That should get their attention. Loud noises in the middle of the morning (they’re Emo kids, so they’re up all night) should help.

Sorry if their yard becomes a garbage depository; you know how things get when it’s windy out. And the samples of Preparation H and other nice things they’ll be getting in the mail? I have no idea how that happened. Nor will I when they start getting the kiddie porn delievered.

Welcome to the neighborhood, assholes. Don’t enjoy your stay.

Dear Ikea: blow me

Some of my non-existent readership may know that I have assembled a fairly impressive collection of sports-related memorabilia. Most, though not all, of it centers around the Redskins, Aggies and Orioles. I’m working on more ‘Stros stuff, but it tends to be fairly obscenely priced. Why, I don’t really know.

(An aside here: I just did a mental checklist and realized that I have more St. Louis Cardinals stuff than I do Astros stuff. Why the fuck is that? I have no idea. It’s not like I like the Cardinals—I don’t dislike them and would love an autographed Pujols jersey, but they’re not my team. Apparently, a cost-benefit analysis would indicate that if I moved out of the belly of the beast and wasn’t trying to buy my swag right across the street from Minute Maid Park and tried to get ‘Stros stuff somewhere else—like St. Louis—I wouldn’t have this problem. But whatever.)

Anyway, as we continue to wait…and wait…and wait for my last two jerseys of set 1 (John Riggins and Jim Palmer) to get placed in their shadowbox at Hobby Lobby—a job which is apparently being done by a split shift of the Loch Ness Monster and Bigfoot, because progress has been fucking nonexistent—Momma Pug and I decided it was time to put some of my other valuables (at least, they hold value to me) in a nice case.

Translation: Momma Pug thought that clearing two rows of a bookshelf and putting these things on there looked utterly retarded, so I’d better fucking do something about it. So I did. I went to Ikea—with Momma Pug, so stop looking at me like I’m queer or efficient or something—and bought a curio cabinet.

No, I do not suddenly like show tunes, pastel colors or Barack Obama. You can buy a curio cabinet and still like chicks. And this curio cabinet is actually pretty cool looking (stop snickering). It’s glass on all four sides, has three shelves (giving you four levels of placement) and has a look of stylish simplicity.

But, just a look. In reality, it’s a pain in the fucking ass.

Now, keep this in mind: I may not be the most talented guy with an Allen Wrench, non-worded instructions and plastic nuts and bolts, but Daddy is an engineer. World class. Jedi Master-type Mechanical Engineer. And he was helping me put this thing together.

He, like I, now thinks Ikea can blow him.

One of the first steps is to put the large glass panes into slots in the wood base, then connect the panes via a plastic gasket. Easy, right?

Sure, if everything fits! Does this? Hell to the no, Bobby Brown!

After about four tries, Virginia Tech ’72 and Texas A&M ’01 come to a critical consensus.

“Get the fucking hammer.”

Success!

Ok, got that. Then we have to put the bottom on. That takes some serious elbow grease and coaxing as well, though nothing compared to the plastic stoppers that you put screw in. Instructions show you to put them in the holes just above where the connector bolts are.

Problem: no holes.

Solution: Power tools.

At this point, I don’t give a fuck anymore. It’s me against the Swedes, and I’m going to pay them back for 6 years of driving a box called a Volvo 240 DL and everything that Abba ever made—especially fucking Dancing Queen. You think I want to hear about some fucking jailbait shaking her ass on the floor? I think not, especially in broken English. If I do want to hear about it, I’ll turn on MTV.

Anyway, we’re gonna finish this thing, come hell or high water. As I think we’re putting on the finishing touches, I head downstairs to dump something in the washing machine. On the way down, I hear a loud GONG.

Deuce, who has been watching the creative process (along with Sonny the Pug) THE WHOLE FUCKING TIME, takes off and tries to get to the steps at full speed.

Through the cabinet.

And fails.

“Fucking dog,” Dad says.

A messed up dog to go with a messed up curio. It seems appropriate.

Oh, by the way, my stuff looks real good in it now. Lucky me.