I’m Not Getting Better, I’m Getting Older

Not really, but it’s a catchy title, no?

Not too bad, but I am sitting here in my new little in-the-process-of-being-remodeled home, and so thankful for yet another bounteous Christmas spent with my girl.

Man, I keep hearing all the news about the numbers involved with the Covid-19 virus, and they are downright scary. Ever since last year’s pandemic, lines have been drawn for shitty politicians. It is one of the reasons I haven’t given a damn about politics since I campaigned as a freshman college student for George McGovern.

Idealists, the both of us. As a matter of fact The Road to Hell is paved with his work.

This isn’t a Democrat thing, nor a Republican myth; these are people getting sick and dying.

If you turn on Netflix, or really any large streaming service, you can find a proliferation of pandemic-themed movies.

Maybe this is the beginning of the end of times.

I sure as hell hope not.

It absolutely can’t happen until the following things occur:

1. We have successive female Presidents. I honestly don’t even care if they are good presidents.
2. Karen agrees to do what I say. Right?
3. There is World peace. (I know, a bit ambitious, but even if we fall short)
4. Notre Dame wins a football national championship
5. Manchester United win a treble.
6. Robin Meade comes to one of my shows.

That seems like a long time, so I’m pretty safe there.

Speaking of safe places, I remember being about five or six years-old in Japan. My best buddy and I used to scour the entire area in and out of the tiny farming village we lived in and we would inevitably find a house under construction. These were legit houses for the time, and we used to love the smell of freshly-sawed wood. It was our temporary castle and we would be eviscerating invisible samurai with our pieces of wood as time flew by.

We really felt safe there.

I am fairly certain that the way I wielded my stick was the advent of what would become the Light Sabre. (sure, I had the idea, but George Lucas and Steven Spielberg get the cabbage).

There were rice paddies and creeks with crawdads, I mean it was perfect for a kid. It probably sucked for my big brother because he was in high school, so I remember him catching rides with my stepfather to the Air Force Base some forty miles away. Now that I think of it, I don’t remember him being around the house at all, what with daily football practice.

Now that I think of it, my stepfather never missed one sporting event of mine.

Not one.

Including my championship-winning tackle in seventh grade for the mighty Greenacres Junior High school in Bossier City, Louisiana.

Now, I am not denying I have the ability to embellish, but here’s the tale:

We are playing the league’s prohibitive favorite, possessing a mutant man-child running back who was at least six-foot three and two-hundred fifty pounds.

He had a frigging beard, for Christ’s sake.

We had a great defense and we were holding on to a precarious 7-0 lead.

With five seconds on the clock, the bruiser from Springhill bullied over our hapless defense.

7-6.

They go for two, sending Bully Boy on a sweep in my direction, it was me and him (cue Good, Bad, and Ugly music). If I stop him short of the goal line, we win the League Championship. If he gets in, we lose it all.

I wasn’t ever the biggest, but I could hit.

Stopped him at the one-foot line.

Game over.

Advantage Maddogg.

Stay well.