Monologue for Chase Utley, Phillies Second baseman

players: 1 man, athletic build, 20-30 years old, strongly resembling a billygoat.

scene: It's the bottom of the 3rd inning. Utley, the young hero of this tale, races to catch a ground ball that speeds past him. He stumbles. His muscle-bound hulk twists to the ground, kicking up a spray of dust.

UTLEY: grrrrarrrr.

He has just failed epically. The ball piffles past him, allowing a base hit for the Phillies' arch nemeses, the New York Mets.

UTLEY: Stupid. Stupid Utley. That's another night of being chained in the dugout for you.

The crowd, composed largely of Mets fans, cheers maniacally.

UTLEY: Is it cool if I scratch my groin right now? It always helps me feel better.

His hand inches towards his groin. The TV cameras zoom in.

UTLEY: Yesyesyesyes...NO. They're watching. Reveling in my failure. Oh, they'll pay for this torture.

...

UTLEY: How about now? What do you mean they're still watching? They cannot long separate Utley from his ultimate bliss!

First base guy gives him a warning look, as if pleading with the headstrong lad, "Boy, don't embarrass us here."

UTLEY: Look, I don't give a damn how long they were watching the Coors Light Extra Cold Freeze Frame Awesomachine -- they need to take those cameras off of me because I have a NEED right now.

And when did they stop calling it "Instant Replay?"

A short and boring strike-out. The cameras return to Utley -- the beacon of drama.

UTLEY: Yessss...satisfact -- what? Really? That's it -- you, shortstop, create a diversion; awesomeness, stupidity, I don't care how you distract them. I have things to do.

[Insert wholly inappropriate "I have a ball game to play" joke here.]

Jurassic Fight Club

I saw a poster up for Jurassic Fight Club, the TV show? Movie? Live (oh pleasepleaseplease) performance? about a week ago, and i have been trying to think of something funny to write about it ever since. Through much internal debate, however, I have decided that NOTHING could possibly be funnier than those three words put together.

Observe:

JURASSIC. FIGHT. CLUB.

Are you freaking laughing your pants off right now? You bet you are. (an added dose of funny - because once you get the JFC ball rolling you can't be stopped - I first wrote this sentence as "are you freaking your pants right now?" you figure it out.)

For added hilarity, check out their oh-so-serious, do-they-really-think-they-are-being-cool-or-is-this-ironic-? art work*:



Crazy handwriting! Blood spatters! Dinosaurs screaming for the noble glory of the kill! Do you feel testosterone, awesomeness and Mountain Dew seeping out of your every pore right now? Well, good because you're watching the History Channel, bitch.

*This version of the art work, I admit, is slightly less awesome than what I've been seeing about town because it actually tells you that this is a TV show featuring CGI dinosaurs as imagined by the History Channel. The posters I have been laughing about only show that middle wordy part, and leave the rest to the magic of fanciful interpretation, hence my confusion at the beginning of this post, wherein I was hoping that Jurassic Fight Club might actually be an audience-participation-enhanced musical theatre dinner show.

Look! I'm linking!

My friends over at Box Box Stick (annnnnnnnd...I just got what that means when you have two girls and one guy as your cast. Neat.), just put up their first podcast. It's basically just them talking about their days, their lives, their favorite drinks, etc., but they happen to be naturally delightful and funny people (as all my friends are. except that one -- you guys know who I'm talking about...). Moral of the story: you should check them out.

Anyways, Becca was talking about this lady who came in to return something at the baby boutique where she works. The problem with this interaction was that the return item was over a year old. The company whose name was on the onesie or the goofy hat -- or whatever it was that had come from the baby store in some forgotten and long-past era -- didn't even exist anymore. But the woman was quite insistent that it was within her rights to return it, and even got a little bit rude. All in all, it turned out to be a pretty horrible experience for poor Becca, and I felt bad for her, really, but at the same time...I kind of love that random return woman.

Really, who has the cajones to do something like that?

"Yes, I realize it was handsewn by palace maidens in the dark ages, and yes, I do realize that no self-respecting baby would wear this particular style of goofy hat in this day and age, but, you see, I simply don't want it anymore." Her kid had probably worn it and outgrown it ("Oh, the tooth-marks? And the fraying? I take no responsibility for the fact that your store sells raggedy things."). I just have to admire her a little bit.

I rarely return things, even when they are brand new. In fact, the entire shopping experience is something of a challenge for me because, rather than going into a store with the goal of purchasing something, I go in with only the overwhelming desire to make the salespeople like me.

It's probably disgusting to watch me in a store; I creep noiselessly from rack to rack, trying not to disturb the salespeople. They ask if I need help, and I say, "Oh! No need, I can get it!" as I try unsuccessfully to find things in my size or pull a box off the top shelf. I kowtow, I grimace, I scrape.

The dressing room is even worse, particularly in small stores, where you have to leave the safe confines of your personal cube and walk into the store to see a mirror. They always have an opinion (usually something along the lines of, "You should totally buy that!"), and it always kills me to disagree. "Yeah! I mean, the whole 'doesn't actually button right over my boobs' thing is totally in, right?!" or "Oh, definitely, I mean, I've been looking for a dress with strategically placed crotchal pockets [true story]!"

And then there are the returns. When asked why I am returning their perfectly fine product, I can never just say, "Buyer's remorse." or "Well, I didn't want it and was bullied into it by a salesperson." I always need a story. A favorite of mine is that I bought it for my sister (conceivably a twin, since the shirt or skirt being returned is obviously in my size), who decided she didn't like it. I like this one because it moves the blame onto someone else, and I can sit and commiserate with the checkout girl about what a fool the sister is to not want such a great item.

I don't know why I do this. Someday soon, I'm going to have to accept that it's the salespeople's job to accept returns. Or I'll just have to get over my aversion to the crotch-pocket dress that is currently taking up space in my closet.