It could be
a leftover all of those years in school—why don’t adults get the breaks that
kids do? Aren’t we supposed to be in charge? What kind of saps are we to be out
working when our kids are vegging at home with their video games? Shouldn’t we
reinvent child labor?
Right—so
now you know my state of mind. What you may not know is that I’ve spent four
hopeless hours looking for anything to write about. And what have I found?
Problems,
dear Readers, with the Olympic torch, which according to The New York Times has gone out four dozen times and once
had to relighted with a plastic disposable lighter, instead of the “official
backup flame.” The story went on to say…
But perhaps
the low point in what has seemed less like an Olympic torch relay than an
exercise in ineptitude and misfortune came earlier this week when one of the
runners carrying the torch to the Sochi Games had a fatal heart attack while
attempting to walk his allotted distance, about 218 yards.
Right—that
would be unfortunate, but given that fourteen thousand people are participating
as torch bearers, little problems are bound to crop up. Oh, and the torches…well, here more of The
Times:
Russia’s
torches were manufactured in Siberia at a reported cost of $6.4 million by
KrasMash, which usually makes submarine-launched ballistic missiles. It is not
everyone’s favorite just now, but it cannot be sent to Siberia, because it is
already in Siberia.
“Any normal
person will have at least a few questions,” Mikhail Starshinov, a member of
Russia’s parliament, was quoted saying in October by The Moscow Times, in an
article titled “Veteran Bobsledder Set Alight by Faulty Olympic Torch.”
“Why were 16,000 produced? How much does each torch cost, and is this price
appropriate? And finally, why don’t they work?”
Reasonable
questions that anyone might have—but can I make a post of it? Combine it with
some other story about the Olympics? I drift over to the New Day, which has an interesting story coming—as they so often do—right out
of a Walmart Supercenter. Because it turns out that somewhere in Broward
County, Florida, a Walmart employee shot up a coworker’s car. Why? Because she
got awarded Associate of the Month, and not he. Here’s the info:
"Definitivamente
parece inusual que alguien pueda estar furioso hasta el punto que puede
dispararle al vehículo de alguien solo porque esa persona recibió un
premio", dijo Keyla Concepción vocera del alguacil. "Obviamente
sintió que era injusto que ella recibiera este premio", agregó.
(“Definitely
it appears unusual that somebody could be furious to the point that he could
fire at the vehicle of that person just because she had received an award,”
said Keyla Concepción, spokesperson of the marshal. “Obviously he felt that it
was unjust that she received the award,” she added.)
Well,
something to know. News flash—the guy, Willie Mitchell, is available to any of
you employers out there!
(One wants
to know—does he still have his gun? And was he packing in the store?)
Right—and
from there I read that Ricky Martin has no plans to marry, but if
he did, he’d do it in Spain. Well, that seemed like something I should know
about and who, by the way, gets to be Ricky’s boyfriend? Is there an interview,
a competency exam, a competition? If so, I’m screwed because beyond being
married myself (and famously faithful to Mr. Fernández), here’s Rick and Carlos
together:
Wow! And
what this proves, Dear Reader, is that seriously rich and beautiful
people very easily hang out with…
Not worth
finishing that sentence!
Right, so
what about Yahoo? Anything there?
Well, I can
tell you that the archbishop of Minneapolis, John Nienstedt, announced that he won’t be
ministering publically until he’s cleared of charges of putting his hand on a
boy’s bottom during a photo shoot after a confirmation four years ago. But
Nienstedt says he always puts his
hands in specific places. So who knows?
Right, then
it was time to take the religion quiz, since I had to prove that I, an atheist,
was more knowledgeable about religion. And guess what? I got a 92—which I’m
calling an A—and the average is 85.
OK—it’s
clear. It’s now 2 PM, I’ve wasted four hours and produced nothing, which is not
good because what am I gonna tell my shrink tomorrow, when he asks—as he always
does—how much time I’ve spent vegetating? It’s one of the signs of depression.
Right—fallback.
Check out the stuff I’ve sent myself during my middle of the night munchies
run. And there I came upon Noah, who I remembered dimly from 3:52 AM
(when I sent it to myself).
OK—829
words! I’m outta here!
