When a kindergartner learns how to turn on a camera:
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When a kindergartner goes to work with you ... and draws a picture of you in a tie, and you tell him, "Good, but let's make it a little 'louder'" and he draws fireworks, and then a basketball that you have obviously just dunked into a goal, with him looking on in his favorite #8 basketball shirt:
Can't you just hear all the noise?
After all, fireworks can be pretty loud.
Whenever people want to describe a particularly passive, meek person -- an all-around nice guy -- they often use the phrase "he wouldn't hurt a fly."
But the real question is ... would he hurt a mosquito?
Sure, a fly does that thing where it hangs out on a log of feces, then flies onto your food and rubs its shit-covered legs together and ultimately regurgitates onto your meal for some evolutionary pragmatic reason.
Still, generally they don't get the smackdown unless they keep sitting on your food or make a bunch of noise or roll with more than, say, two friends.
But who thinks twice about killing those blood-sucking mosquito bastards on first sight?
There was a bumper sticker the other day. It said, "I Brake For Snakes." And, let's face it, snakes can be quite controversial in the sense that not everyone will brake for them and, in fact, quite a few actually accelerate over them.
But at least some people brake for them.
If Noah actually did stick all those animals on that boat, and he corralled the mosquitos together, he deserves a wedgy of apocalyptic proportions.
There's this guy I know.
He's a journalist. He sometimes talks to interesting people. People not necessarily important or anything. Just interesting.
He told me this story recently about these two goat farmers he talked to.
One, a lady, was real big on milking goats and selling the milk.
The other, a guy, spent all his time killing goats and selling the meat.
This guy I know was doing a story -- a small story, small because that's the way they told him it was meant to be -- about goat farming up in the mountains. It was mostly about the milking aspect, because apparently this was one of the few places you could find a certain kind of "certified" goat milk.
The way he found the lady who milked goats was through the guy who slaughtered goats.
It was interesting to see how these two interacted -- seeing as how she had this small farm in the country where she named goats and kept them in a little barn with portrait pictures of them hanging on the wall.
She did it as she cared for her quadriplegic husband, who was the victim of a horrible car accident. She would wake up at 5 a.m. and milk the goats. Then, she'd go to work as a nurse, and when she got off work, she'd come home and milk them again.
In between, she'd pasteurize it, package it and sell it. This was a woman who loved her husband, her land and her goats.
So idyllic.
Not so much so for the goat meat guy.
He was pushing this thing he called a "Goat Field Day," which was going to feature numerous flavors of goat meat. He wanted publicity. He was pretty convinced that it was worth publicity.
In fact, he was so convinced, he proclaimed with much confidence that the barbequed goat meat at his "Goat Field Day" would be so good that it would "make you want to slap your Momma."
This little phrase -- "so good it will make you want to slap your Momma" -- sounded all but inspired by the ghetto comedy sequel a few years back starring Ice Cube called "Next Friday."
("Next Friday" as in after "Friday," the original, and before "Friday After Next," the third movie, after which they decided to stop making movies based on Friday.)
The line is used in a TV ad in "Next Friday." One of numerous gag jokes. A restaurant so good, the joke goes, that it's food "makes you want to slap your Momma!"
So, this guy I know who's talking to this goat meat guy tells me that, when he heard the goat-meat guy say this, he nodded his head knowingly and told the goat meat guy, "Ahh yeah, 'Next Friday.'"
To which the goat-meat guy said, "No, Saturday, Aug. 16."
Ricky's back.
For one, this lifelong Dolphin fan is happy. I might be the only one. I can't think of one person -- let alone a Miami Dolphins fan -- who is pleased to see the pot-smoking, yoga-teaching, vegetarian, bushy-bearded, wedding-dress-wearing, freaking-tough-as-nails recluse running back once again wearing the aqua and orange.
(Then again, while there is no "I" in team, there is an "I" in "Eric").
I can sympathize.
(Yeah, that is long. But cut me some slack. I was so pissed at seeing Ricky get persecuted I started a goddamn weblog).
Why is he back?
Well, he does owe the Dolphins $8.6 million for "retiring" just before the 2004 season -- mainly because he was tired of the regimented life expected of a pro football player and the fact that he was going to get popped for the third time for smoking weed.
OK, that's why he's back. The 1998 Heisman Trophy winner doesn't have some deep, burning passion for the game.
But guess what: He never really did. Not in the same way as those who seek glory in the conventional sense.
It didn't mean he ever slacked off. Remember, the man is as tough as Black Sabbath rocks ass (and that's pretty hard). He's always played tough. And I suspect, after his four-game suspension to start the season for smoking pot, he will once again leave it all on the field.
Just as sure as Ricky shows up true to form, barefoot at the press conference ...
... where he apologized for those who were hurt by his decision last year not to play (translation: those who want to win over seeing a man be true to himself) ...
... the philistines pile on.
Why is this? It's like ridiculing fat people and suburban, white soccer dads who can't dance.
It's just too easy. They are the last exiles of the PC-protected.
It's OK to pile on an eccentric, pot-smoking football player. Even if it means not bothering to investigate the complexities of why human beings do what they do, beyond the demands of pot-bellied hero-worshippers who care only about athletes validating their pedestrian lives.
Amid his apologies, Ricky responds to the question of why he returned. The picking and choosing of the depths of his answer is intriguing.
First, the Associated Press:
"DAVIE, Fla. -- Back in the Miami Dolphins' backfield Monday, Ricky Williams made all the right moves.
First, he showed up. Then he reached the end zone on his first carry, smiled at cheering fans, apologized for leaving the team in the lurch, said he was done with dope and calmly submitted to a media interrogation regarding his surreal one-year retirement.
One question -- the first one -- momentarily stumped him, though: Why did he return?
'Why? Why? I don't know. I don't know,' he said.
Uh-oh. This roller-coaster ride still seems a little rickety."
"Rickety." Clever.
Here's the rest of what he said, from the Miami Herald:
"When asked why he decided to return to the NFL, Williams hesitated.
''Why? Why? I don't know,'' he said. ``I've been away doing my own thing, studying a lot of alternate theories about life. To go into that answer would be a waste of time because it can't be picked up in a sound byte or easily understood. So the best way I can think of to put it is that I'm back here to work.''"
Ricky understands the nature of his audience. He understands that, at the essence of it all, they really don't care about him.
He owes money. He's going to play now.
Fair enough?
Is there a comma missing here?
"You suck. You're welcome."
What a medieval invitation.
Let's all flog ourselves now.
