The World According to JP

Ok, so I go to my bank to make a deposit (love makin deposits, almost as much as the wife loves spending it!!). Upon entry, I get in the unusually long line and wait my turn. Then, in comes a woman who looked to be in her late 40's or early 50's with a child who may have been two, but certainly no older than that. She moseys over to the box that’s labeled "WaMu for Schools. Make your school donation here," and proceeds to take out two boxes of crayons (one a 24 pack one a 64 pack). She then hands them to the little kid and says, "Here you go honey, these are now yours." Can you say HOLY SHIT?! Where in the hell did she get off taking stuff OUT of a donation box? I'd never even think of taking something out of a donation box. It was all I could do to bite my tongue and not say anything, just on the off chance that she was a bank employee of some sort. I gave her my best "look of disgust" and walked out of the bank shaking my head vigorously.

Like I always say, common sense is anything but common.

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Ok, since I'm going to be out of the office tomorrow and not returning until Monday, I'll do something Celti-style. You each get one question. It can be about anything and I'll answer it. I'll be checking back every half hour or so.

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So I'm taking out the garbage over the weekend, not knowing I was about to participate in a game of life and death with the most evil insect known to man, the killer wasp. I've got one of those huge containers with the attached lid that flips back and forth that are supplied by the garbage company and there's a ridge around the top that's about 3 inches wide...a perfect place for a rogue gang of wasps to lie in wait for an unsuspecting victim, namely me.

I flip the lid back, throw the trash bag in and flip the lid back down. As always, it lands with a loud thud which, apparently, juvenile delinquent wasps do not appreciate. I'm standing there looking at my Suburban, wondering if I should buy a new set of rims for it, when I see kamikaze motherfucker number one heading right at me. I instinctively duck and hear him buzz right past my head. I step back to try and see where he went and finally find him hovering by the edge of the roof. Right about that time, Goose and Maverick decide to come at me at Mach 6 and, in a futile attempt to divert them, I yell "Negative Ghost Rider. The pattern’s full." It doesn’t work. I panic.

Let’s just say I’m not as fast as I used to be. I’m running around the corner of the house when the first preemptive strike hits. BZZZTTT! Son of a bitch! He fricking stung me on my back! That’s against the rules, man. You can’t sting somebody when their back’s turned. It’s at that point that I realize I’m not in a battle with rational wasps. I don’t know if the second one is still behind me so I keep running until I’m in the front yard. I try to rub my wound but he got me in such a place that I can’t reach it. So there I am, running into the street, flailing at my back, cursing like a sailor, when I notice a group of people from the community taking a leisurely walk past my place. Of course, they’re all staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.

Me: "Wasps."
Dumbass #1: "Be careful. Those things hurt when they sting you."
Me: "Thanks. I’ll remember that."
Dumbass #2: "You should spray the nest."
Me: "Never thought of that."

I turn around and don’t see any other of the hellish beasts so I start devising how to best inflict my Shock and Awe campaign. I head inside and grab the can of wasp spray as my wife asks, "Where have you been? You went to take out the garbage 5 minutes ago."

Me: "There’s a wasp nest on the garbage can."
Her: "I know. I told you about it yesterday."
Me: "No you didn’t."
Her: "Well I thought I did."
Me: "Well I wish you did. I just got stung."
Her: "Does it hurt?"
Me: "Nah, I’m going back out for some more. Of course it hurts! Go see if we’ve got anything to put on it."

I head out the door and decide to sneak up from the rear to get a better view of exactly where the nest is located on the garbage can. I get on my hands and knees and slowly creep towards the intended target. Nothing on this side. I move to the left. Nothing here either. It must be on the back. I look up to see if there are any bogies in the air and decide it’s safe to get closer. Ah, now I see it. I shake the can up and point it at the enemy’s home base.

AMBUSH!

Holy Mother of God! They’re all over the place! I roll to the left until I’m off the sidewalk and in the grass. In the process, I dropped my wasp spray right by the garbage can. Now I’m really fucked. I take off running into the back like a little girl again, trying to get away from these bastards. As luck would have it, two of my neighbors are sitting on their patios, pretty much laughing their asses off.

Neighbor: "Wasps?"
Me: "Yeah."
Neighbor: "Got any spray?"
Me: "Well, I did."
Neighbor: "Can I borrow some milk?"
Me: "What?"
Neighbor: "Can I borrow some milk?"
Me: "Whatever."

The whole time I’m bobbing and weaving more than Ali vs. Frazier, trying to avoid another sting. They finally quit following me and I assess the damage: Two more stings, a cut knee and numerous grass stains. That’s it you assholes. Now you’re dead. I start walking toward the scene of the crime, slowly speeding up. Faster. Faster. Now a full sprint as I let out my war cry.

AAAGGGHHH!!!

I slide head first for the spray, scoop it up, and start spraying, all in one fluid motion. I must have surprised them because they didn’t have a chance to react. I unloaded all my ammunition in a matter of seconds and stepped back to see what would happen. One by one they started to fall to the concrete, quivering for a few seconds, then lying motionless. I’m not satisfied and continue to empty the spray can on their lifeless bodies.

DIE! DIE! DIE!

I stand there for a few moments, swelling with pride and quietly reflect on the battle and my overwhelming triumph. I inhale deeply and exclaim, "I love the smell of wasp spray in the morning. It smells like….victory."

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***WARNING - This Post is Graphic. Funny, but Graphic. Turn Back Now If You Are Easily Offended.***

Think back if you will to the early 80's...1983 to be exact. I was a freshman with an astonishingly large penis. While I did, on occasion, milk the 9-iron, like most teenage guys I was pretty consistently lugging around a few gallons of boy goo in my swollen gnads.

Now, I don't mind bragging about my rakish good looks anymore than I mind confirming my length and girth. I was one handsome dude, and the girls, well, they loved me. At the time of this story, I was dating "Christy," a cheerleader from our chief rival high school, because she was so goddamn HOT. Not too bright, but FUCK, what a smoking little body she had. Taut and coiled like a fucking snake. The kind of girl that made your balls ache just looking at her. Christy was a giggler and a cocktease of the first order. We'd been out a few times, you know, the movies and shit, and she was a midnight stroker, so I kinda figured I'd finally do the deed with her at some point.

She had cheerleading practice after school, but of course no car, so her Mom usually picked her up on the way home from her hairstylist gig. Her Mom knew she was going to be later than usual at work one day, and asked Christy if she could find another way home. So Christy calls me up, and drops the skinny...can I pick her up (age for license was 15 in Florida) so we can head to her place for a few uninterrupted hours of pleasure? Motherfucking YES I CAN.

So the day comes and I pick her up in my Nissan Pulsar (stop laughing) and we head to her place. The house is a split level with a driveway along the south side that wraps around behind the back of the house. I park on the street though, and we head inside, up the steps, and get as far as the living room before I get my grope on. I'm kneading her titties like they are nerveless globs of play-doh when her dainty little hand first makes it way to my cock. Gulp! Holy shit, that first contact between soft, perfumed hand and denim is almost enough to make me pass out. And she starts going for it...she's undoing my jeans! So naturally, being the rico suave motherfucker that I am, I jam my hand down the front of her jeans like I'm plunging a toilet. She's making progress freeing my purple jack-in-the-box while I'm fumbling like a dipshit for anything pussy-related. She gets my pants and jockeys around my knees and then takes a step backwards. At this point, I'm ready to clear the picture frames off the mantle with propulsive jets of semen. She undoes her jeans and slides them off, revealing the kind of skimpy white cotton panties that really only look good on high school girls anyway. And then she slides those off...and there it is...the first bush I've ever seen by the light of day and the first bush I will have the very great satisfaction of nailing. And it's perfect...a naturally trimmed, sandy blonde wonder. She unbuttons her shirt, and undoes her front-clasp bra, but leaves them both on, then steps back towards me. We are cock to chest. She grabs my wang as I try to jam my entire fist inside of her vice-like sweetness. Fuck! She smells like baby powder. Jesus, but I can hardly get knuckle deep. She tells me, "This is going to be perfect. I want you to be my first." I'm sure I mumbled Valentino-like something to the effect of "murble."

She lays down slowly on the living room carpet, dragging me with her, and it's clear that this is going to be IT. No foreplay, no dining at the Y or polesmoking. I'm going to fuck this girl right here right now. So we stare pointedly into each other's eyes and I try to figure out how to bump my way inside her. So far, I'm basically fucking everything but her. Unfortunately, she's not helping guide my uninitiated firehose, so it's up to me. I'm getting a little impatient, mostly because I'm so fucking ready to EXPLODE, and I'm not really certain if I managed to strike pussy yet, when I get my first smooth stroke. Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh. Nice! This is so fucking nice. I figure I'm good for at least another 2 or 3 strokes. I open my eyes and look at her so I can flash her a Don Juan look of lust - she looks back somewhat bewildered. Hell, she probably doesn't know when she's getting fucked, think I, the master fucker. Well, you're getting fucked now, bitch! One more stroke, and FUCKING KABOOM!!! I start "sperming" and dropping pounds by the nanosecond. It's like I came half my body weight - a solid twelve to fifteen contractions and load-heavy blasts. I'm so ready to collapse on top of her and suck some oxygen when we hear the unmistakable sound of car tires on gravel.

Oh, fuck no! Is it? I get up, and Christy jumps up to the living room window, announcing that her Mom's cruising down the driveway. While her firm little tush is poised by the window, I notice that her buttocks and lower back are rather saturated with an unusual amount of gack. I casually glance over to the spot where I just gave this choice piece of ass the finest fucking of her young life, and notice a HUGE puddle of cum on the carpet! What the fuck?! It looks like someone threw a bucket of yogurt off a bridge. Christy says, "Don't worry about that now, you've got to get out of here!" as she grabs panties and jeans. And it hits me... yep, it slipped right in, didn't it? right in where? right in between her ass and the carpet. Yep, I just fucked the shit out of her Mom's burnt orange shag carpet.

With one hand, I'm tugging on my jockeys and jeans, as Christy leads me to her bedroom at the back of the house. As I finish getting my jeans on, she opens her bedroom window, just as we hear her Mom at the front door. I look at her. "I'll call you," I say. She pushes me out the window, and after about an 8 foot drop, I land on her garbage can, knocking it over, and spreading shit everywhere. I stand up and hear, "What was that? Christy?" "Nothing, Mom." She pulls the blinds closed without a second look, and I sneak around the house, bolt for my car, and get the fuck out of there.

Considering it was the biggest load I ever dropped, it just might have been the best fuck I ever had.

And, sadly, no, I did not wipe my cock on the drapes.

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VALLEY STREAM, N.Y. - A three-year-old New York boy choked to death on popcorn while watching the sci-fi movie "Alien vs. Predator" with his family. The incident happened Sunday night at the Sunrise Multiplex Cinemas on Long Island.

Deontea Riley and his family were eating from a small tub of popcorn when his mother says she looked over and saw that he was choking.

They rushed him out of the theater and tried the Heimlich maneuver.

The boy's father says he tried everything he could, including putting his finger down the child's throat, but nothing worked.

Police arrived quickly and began CPR, but the boy was pronounced dead at the hospital.
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Ok, I have problems with this on many, many levels. First of all, what the fuck is a three-year-old doing at a screening of Alien vs. Predator? This movie has been called one of the most violent movies ever. I know that well before three, my kids were able to form "nightmarish" thoughts and knew when and when not to be scared. What were they going to do afterwards, take him to a porn theater? Maybe a tattoo parlor. Perhaps a whorehouse on the way home...you know, something to help him sleep. Maybe they should have been at a CPR class instead. What the fuck did they do, just sit there and watch him die? Just because you choke doesn't mean you die.

Second, is it possible that this kid choked on the popcorn because he was scared out of his little head and maybe gasped or jumped while he was eating? Fuck, that's just wrong in so many ways. Choking was probably the second most scary thing this kid was experiencing at the time.

Last, would anyone be against either having these "parents" sterilized or put to death? Again, WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING, TAKING YOUR THREE-YEAR-OLD TO ALIEN VS. PREDATOR??? I'll tell you what you were thinking, "We're very selfish people that really didn't want a kid, so we do what we want when we want instead of doing the responsible thing and growing the fuck up."

Maybe this kid is better off anyhow, given his "parents'" choices. I know some very responsible, great people that can't have kids, but these fucking idiots kill theirs? I have two words for them - firing squad.

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Charley roared through Kissimmee Friday night. My aunt and uncle stayed put because, as they said, every time there's a hurricane in the Gulf or Atlantic, they always assume the worst and, after living in Kissimmee for 25 years, nothing ever happens. Ever. Well, they can't say that any more. They were pelted for 70 of what they called the most terrifying minutes of their lives with 120 mph winds, rain and hail. That wasn't the problem, however. The problem was when the tornado touched down right next to their house. They were lucky - the tornado just ripped the roof off their house, it totally leveled the empty house next to theirs.

Now comes the rebuilding stage. Whereas they didn't come through unscathed, it could have been a lot worse. Many people lost everything, and my heart goes out to them. I may make a trip back east to help them rebuild, but the jury's still out on that.

Thanks to all of you that sent prayers and thoughts my (their) way. It kept them safe.

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Just would like everyone to keep some of my family members in your prayers as they ride out Hurricane Charley tonight. I have an aunt, uncle, cousin and cousin-in-law in Orlando that decided to stick it out. Likewise, my brother is in Gainesville. Keep them in your thoughts and I'll update this story on Monday.

Oh and Tricia, thank you once again for your act of selflessness. You rock!

Thanks, all.

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As I said Tuesday, fuck it's hot! We're still broiling out here. Since my townhouse doesn't provide much relief, we spend a couple hours each evening at the pool attempting to cool off before returning to our place, which seems to retain and intensify heat, for the remainder of the evening. This pool is marketed as a private one. I guess it's private, if you define private as giving 1,000 people access to it daily, but I digress.

Now, since it's been so hot, everybody and their cousin have been at the pool at night. Last night, however, was a rare night where there were less than 20 people there when we arrived. After we got settled in and the boys were off and swimming, I started to look around, and I'd never seen such diverse (ok, we'll go with diverse) groups of people there, even on nights when there were three times as many people.

First, I saw three middle aged women scattered throughout the area reading novels. And when I say novels, I don't mean light, breezy summer reading. They were reading I, Claudius, Anna Karenina and Heaven and Hell. That's a rockin' bunch of women, let me tell you. No wonder they were undoubtedly single and had nothing better to do that evening.

The next group I saw were about 8 overweight younger women wearing bikinis. And when I say overweight, I don't mean that they were pudgy, chunky or even could stand to lose a few pounds. I mean they were holy fucking fat. We're talking 5'2" 250 lbs. fat; my-anklet-is-holding-on-for-dear-life fat; the-pool-overflows-when-we're-all-in-it-at-the-same-time fat. I'm not a hater, honest. I don't have anything against overweight people, as long as they cover up. I cover up as much as possible and I'm not overweight. Did these women not consult a mirror before they left their home? May I direct you ladies to the private exercise center that we have here on our grounds as well? Jeebus, it was like swimming with a school of scantily clad beluga whales. Do whales even swim in schools? Anyhow, I was staring at one of these women because something else was amiss with her. I stared. And stared. And STARED. I stared so long that I was risking a restraining order, but I couldn't quite put my finger on what the fuck was wrong with her face. Then the Reesey Monster came and whispered in my ear, "Dad, where's that lady's eyebrows?" Eureka!! Son, you're a frickin genius. Not only was she about 275 pounds, not only was she wearing a bikini that was at least 3 sizes too small, the bitch didn't have eyebrows! Damn, at least get some waterproof mascara and draw some on. Fake it till you make it. Definitely the weirdest thing I've seen since William Hung did his "She Bangs" routine.

That brings us to the white trash family that was sitting at one of the tables. Picture this genetic science experiment: him - about 22 but looks 12, 5'4" 125 lbs. Thinning light brown hair. Nazi swastika tat on his left boob, which wasn't so much a boob as it was just skin stretched tightly against his chest bone. Isn't that just a pretty sight? Her - about 24 but looks 34, 5'6" 225 lbs. Matching Nazi swastika tat on the small of her back. She was never without a cigarette stuck in her chow bucket. He was never without a beer stuck in his dainty, feminine hands. First off, there's a sign that says alcohol is strictly prohibited. Not that I'm against drinking a few beers. However, he was drinking Busch Light. Damn, I'd rather drink the pool water. They should have been locked up for that alone. Add that to the fact that the dude was wearing cutoff jeans (another infraction), couldn't seem to walk from the pool to their chairs (running is against the rules also) and he kept diving into the pool headfirst -no diving rule too - in 4 ½ feet of water. Needless to say, I was beginning to think that maybe they just couldn't read. Ok, we'll blame illiteracy. Did I mention that they had a 3 year old boy? Well, they did and he didn't know how to swim. That didn't seem to deter him from running to the pool and jumping in head first also. Now, this kid was probably 2 ½' tall. At it's shallowest, the pool is 3' deep. Do the math. I personally saved this kid's life at least twice last night. Maybe I should have performed the ultimate act of humanity and taken him home with me too. They seemed more upset that the swastika they drew on his leg with a pen washed off then they did about him almost drowning. Can someone answer this question - why the fuck do you have to have a license to get a dog, but they let any idiot have a kid? Honestly, I need an answer to that question. I'm serious.

I think tonight we're going to walk around the air conditioned mall where at least we can make fun of people after they're out of earshot. That's what I call private.

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Holy crap it's hot here. We're talking 100° - one hundred muthafuggin DE-grees. Now, I'm from Florida so I'm no stranger to hot, but at least in Florida we used to move from air conditioned venue to air conditioned venue. Here in the up-n-left, the only venues that have air conditioning are our vehicles (and stores of course, but like I'm gonna let the Mrs. near a store and ask to stay a very long time..... pshaw!). That's right, the brand new townhouse I live in doesn't have air conditioning.

I'd love to meet the ass jockey that designed our place. Three stories and all of them are baking right now. The living room catches all the heat in the morning and our bedroom catches all the heat in the late afternoon, and doesn't cool down until around 2:00 a.m., when you just don't fucking care anymore. Isn't that a nice design? I mean, we spend all of our time in the living room during the day and then our bedroom at night. The designer was brilliant, I tell you. Borderline Einstein. How could he have looked at the piece of property and say, "Hmmm, let's face the living room east and the bedrooms west. These guys won't need central air. They'll be fine. Yep, that'll do er." Granted, there's not a helluva lot of days in the summer where you truly need air conditioning....... but goddamit the days we do we need it and would probably give our first born away for just a couple hours of that sweet, cold air..........

I guess it's partially my fault for moving into this place without thinking about the placement of the building. In my defense, however, I did look at it in January when it was 33° and raining, as usual, so the place seemed cool enough. In fact, it seemed downright perfect. The heat was going and the sliding glass door was letting in what little light there was outside. Combine that with the fact that the walls are white, and the place didn't seem quite as gloomy as the rest of the city.

Now, I'm regretting the decision to sign on the dotted line (note to purchase invisible ink!). I feel worse for my kids. Their room is hot too, but the problem is that it faces party alley, so there are people outside dropping f bombs until midnight, so I have to keep their room closed up and two fans going full blast. Poor little guys went to sleep with one ice cold washcloth on their foreheads and another one on their chests.

Maybe next week, we'll get back to normal. Or we'll be fully cooked. Whichever comes first.

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Wait for it.....

Wait for it.....

Ricky Williams.

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Yes, THAT Ricky Williams (perish the thought of more than one running around). I guess Irie Ricky has decided that maybe he's not quite ready to retire yet, but he'll only come back if he can play for the Raiders. Let's see, can we tell he's stoned out of his freakin mind?

Hmmmm....let's think about this for a second (obviously he didn't) -- first he fails a drug test for the THIRD time in his five years in the NFL and is facing a suspension for the first few games of the year. Next, he decides that, rather than get suspended, he's just going to retire and travel the world (although, I think he woulda got sidetracked in Amsterdam for 10 or 15 years). Never mind the valliant Pat Tillman, this guy wants to just go get high and bum around rather than make MILLIONS - now that's just fuckin stupid!

Now this normally wouldn't have been that bad if he would have retired right after last season ended, but he and his 6,300 career rushing yards retire about five days before the start of training camp and leaves his whole team in the lurch. Hell, if he would have retired a week earlier, the Dolphins would have at least been able to make a run at Eddie George for the season. No dice.

Now, as if he hadn't proven himself to be an immature, misguided flake enough (can you say Mike Tyson?), he's decided to hold his team hostage and tell them that he'll honor his contract, but only if they trade him to the Raiders. Whatssamatta, Ricky, did you look at your bank account, realize how much pot you smoke a day and do the math? Or did a member of your 'posse' do it for you?

Don't get me wrong, I'm not a Dolphins fan (Cowboys fan here), but when an athlete wastes his talent and his actions prove him to be a selfish asshole, it totally disgusts me. Fuck off, Ricky. The NFL doesn't need another walking bag of THC residue.

Why couldn't this have happened to the Eagles?

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What is the proper length of time to leave a check on the table and wait for somebody else to pick up the tab? Here's the deal:

Being in the legal business, I frequently meet software vendors. In this case, my contact person I think was named Todd but I wasn't paying attention, had been wanting to meet me and take me to lunch for the last couple of weeks to give me his salespitch. His exact words were, in fact, "take me out to lunch". Cool. A nice meal and he's paying. Not so fast.

I met him at a place downtown for lunch a couple days ago, and when we were done, the waiter put the check on the table. I waited...and waited...and waited... Then I think to myself, "That motherfucker isn't going to pay!" Damn! Dude invited me to lunch and I'm going to be stuck with the bill.

Then I start to think that maybe he's waiting to finish whatever bullshit story he was telling, so I sit back and wait some more. No go. I try to make non-chalant eye movements toward the bill, as to maybe jog his memory that HE INVITED ME TO LUNCH! Nothing. Is he ignoring it? Pretending it isn't there? Making non-chalant eye movements in its direction hoping I'LL grab it up? Have I completely lost my marbles? Now this is getting awkward. I start to casually lean forward, trying to misrepresent the fact that I might be reaching for the bill. Suddenly, he leans forward and I shift my weight again and pull back. Dude was only reaching for his drink. I was out-flanked! This is war!

Let's try something different, more strategic, if you will. I slowly put my hand in my back pocket, another scheme devised to make the enemy think I'm paying. Holy shit! Now he's doing the same thing! What to do? What to do? Think quick. I cleverly grab the waist of my pants and give them a tug like I'm pulling them up a bit and rest my arms on the table. WTF! All he did was scratch his ass. This guy's good.

Maybe he's waiting for me to make give some subtle hint that lunch is officially over and that I need to get going. I put my napkin on the table and say, "I really enjoyed meeting you. Let's do this again sometime." "Same here.", he says....then it gets silent. Neither one of us is moving. Okay, this is bullfark. I start to think over and over, "Pick up the check. Pick up the check." like I'm casting some kind of spell over him. Hey, you get desperate in a situation like this. So now we're at a standstill. I hear music from the Outlaw Josey Wales in the background.

wa-wa, wa-wa, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

wa-wa, wa-wa, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

We're gonna be here all fucking day.

Beads of sweat start forming on my forehead and it's getting hard for me to swallow ('sup ex-wife?). I can't take it anymore and blurt out, "Let me get that." Curses. Foiled again. I do the "reach of shame" and slowly drag the bill in front of me and open it up to see what the damage is. Whoooo boy! All I'm saying is that it's Pabst for me at home the rest of the month.

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Fuck, I'm getting old. I'm turning into one of those old, broken down ballplayers that I used to make fun of. Played in a softball tournament on Saturday and ended up pulling a lower abdominal muscle. This is on top of the aching throwing elbow, which has gotten so bad that I've been using DMSO on it, which is basically Icy Hot for horses. That's not even mentioning that my left heel needs surgery (heel bone growing THROUGH my achillies tendon - OUCH!!). Here's a tip - buy stock in Providence Medical Group, as that's where I'll be spending most of my money and time in the off-season this year.

I just don't understand it. I'm in pretty good shape, I work out regularly, don't eat too awfully bad (I don't know WHERE that pizza went, honest!) and don't drink as much beer as most of my teammates. I guess there just comes a time when your body slows down (Jesus, can't they warn you about this shit? It's just not fucking fair to drop this in your lap!). The problem is that I'm still good - it's not my time! For example, I played in three games Saturday and went 10-11 at the plate (including 2 home runs and 3 triples), made two diving plays at short and didn't make any errors. I get offers to play left and right and I have a hard time saying no when I'm asked to play (my body usually answers "No fucking way! Are you NUTS!" before I can get out "Sure, love to!") I understand now how athletes (or as Evander Holyfield would say, afaletes) retire, come back, retire, un-retire, retire once more and then make one last comeback before being released by whichever team picked them up expecting the younger version of their "name." It's truly a hard decision. I mean, I'm 35, do I retire after this season from playing competitively? Or do I stick to my goal of playing competitively until I'm 45, knowing I'll probably regret it later on? I don't think my body has another 10 good years left. I think it has 0 great years, 5 good years, 2 decent years and 3 mediocre years left in it. How do you know when to quit doing something that you love? How can someone make that decision? Is it better to go out when you're still relatively on top of your game? Or should playing because you love the game, even though you can't perform like you once did, be ok?

My main team (co-ed class 'A') is scheduled to go to Utah for a national championship tournament in September. My heel surgery is scheduled two weeks after that in October. What the hell happened to the days when the only thing I had scheduled after nationals was more tournaments in October?

Guess you can't play forever....dammit!! Can I get a body transplant?
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