No new wars to report.
No mass murders.
No new charges levied against Trump.
No stupid shit coming out of Marjorie Taylor Greene’s mug.
I’m NOT holding my breath to see how many millions of dollars the next high school phenom will get to play football for one of the NCAA’s money machines. These kids haven’t taken one snap of college football, and now how important do you think the whole diploma after four years of hard work pitch is going to work?
The diploma, in a time when we need more people with them, is becoming so trivial, the next step is to skip school entirely and pay for play football until you are NFL-ready.
Notre Dame used to have a pitch for football recruits on their first visit. As the money started creeping into the scene, Irish coaches would tell their recruits: “You come to Notre Dame for four years and you will be rewarded with forty years of happiness.”
First of all, scratch the whole four-year thing. Two, maybe three years max, and off to the League. Outside of football, how many players will take up a forty-year career in something else?
Very few, let me tell you.
But for EVERYBODY ELSE, that degree IS a forty-year ticket to happiness with the opportunities it affords.
I’m not holding my breath to see the Celtics lose another NBA Finals.
Choke artists.
I was holding my breath, swimming underwater in the Hyatt hotel pool, when I came up gasping for air after only completing one a a half laps. I used to be able to do two and a half laps, but now, I rose out of the water, and like a dumbass, I “shook it off” and attributed it to me just being out of shape.
I didn’t tell Karen about it, because, quite frankly, I thought it was no big deal.
We go to bed and three hours later, around 2am, I sit upright and tell Karen, “I can’t breathe.”
Karen, God bless her, can’t hardly see shit anymore, and at night?
Here she is driving at night, in a strange city, looking for a hospital with me dying on the front seat.
So my shortness of breath turned out to be a massive heart attack requiring eight, count ‘em EIGHT stents to keep blood flowing through my body.
So don’t wait or be a macho dumbass like me and worse yet, ignore symptoms which are trying to save your life.
We all pay for our indiscretions, one way or another.
Don’t get me wrong; I miss drinking. I didn’t quit because I didn’t like the taste. I loved my three fingers of Canadian whiskey with a Budweiser backer and I drank more than several in my career.
But I found something I love more than alcohol.
My wife.
When I watch her step up and do so many of the things I am now unable to, I know she is pure gold. And if stopping drinking gives me an extra five minutes with her before I leave this sphere of existence, it is well worth it.
Stay well.
