And now for some molten lava from your friendly neighborhood wife...
"Did you clean the catbox?"
"Did you clean the catbox? You said you would tonight."
"This announcer named Gus [Johnson] is hilarious! I mean this game is in double overtime and..."
She interrupts, "What game?"
"Whatever. And it's like someone gave him caffeine and cocaine! It's hilarious! He's like, 'AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!' It's so exciting!"
"What were you saying? Sorry."
"I'll do it. I'll do it. Gaw."
"I'll DO it."
These kinds of "conversations" are the reason why I want to punch the overgrown teenager I live with (read: husband) in the nuts. The worst part? He did not attend Kansas State University or Xavier, does not care about these schools at any other time during the year, does not even know anyone that attends or attended these schools, and sometimes he doesn't even know WHERE the schools are located. But he gets all hopped up. All crazy with crazy eyes and weird giggling laughter and texts his friends more than a 14 yo girl that's bored in history class. Oh mother I want to go bride (when she's wearing the yellow jumpsuit) on him when he jumps up from the couch and moves in to watch the TV standing up, 6 inches from the screen.
My step-dad was sitting two INCHES from the TV when a school he actually attended was playing. He looked like his head might explode the entire time he was watching the TV. It should be said that he recently had eye surgery, but I guarantee you that even without the eye patch, he would still be two to three inches away, curled up in the fetal position with a blanket in his mouth. Sometimes you come upon a man watching a game - it should be noted that it doesn't really matter what sport - and you think he might be watching a scary movie or Extreme Home Makeover. Like he might start crying or scream or burst into spontaneous, maniacal laughter at any moment (which is usually their form of crying). When I see my husband looking like this, I usually slowly back out of the room without making any noise or contrarily, if I'm in a particularly sour mood, sigh loudly while I clean up the house around him, making sure he can hear my exasperation. And you know what? He can't hear me. He can't hear anything except the announcer going "AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!" and the tiny incessant beeping of his cell phone that is beeping "You-have-yet-another-text-from-Jonathan-that-pokes-some-sort-of-fun-at-whatever-sports-team-you-are-a-fan-of."
It should be said that he did, in fact, clean the catbox (and did a lot of other nice things), but damnit if he doesn't just get my blood a'boilin with them ball games sometimes.
It's like all the sports-disliking women in all the far corners of the world are bubbling under the surface of your psyche and all a man has to do is look at the game once while you're talking to him about something important - that stealing, sideways glance to check the score - and it's over. You are no longer yourself. You are no longer in control.
You are every woman looking at every man who's looking at the game.
(And now for your editor's rebuttal: Gus Johnson is a fucking national treasure. Seriously, check this shit out.
Gus Johnson is legally insane by the end of this clip. And it's awesome.
And as for the juvenile humor, well have you seen the Name of the Year bracket? If you don't laugh at the name Dick Smallberries Jr. then you don't have a soul.
Anyway, thanks to Mrs. Supercomputer for the fill-in. Bang up job. Just so you know, DMS is accepting applications.)