“Good at self deprecation.” Huh?

Friend recently sent me an email… contained buncha “Oxy-Morons”… being a ‘bowler of linguistics’ this was kinda right up my alley……..

You know… like “Why do "tug" boats push their barges?”.. “Why do we sing "Take me out to the ball game" when we are already there?”…”If love is blind, why is lingerie so popular?”.. and finally “Why is bra singular and panties plural?”

Someone once emailed me “Victor, you’re good at self deprecation.” Don’t that fit (or actually not fit? Ain’t it an oxy-moron?)… Trust me though, like the beggar with the tin can infronta them, I’m very appreciative of “cha-ching”, any positive verbiage….

Let’s see Victor, where else are you a demonstrated screw up. Well.. The Fred Broski Bowling Tournament. Oh yeah. I remember that one. You bragged about “PROFESSIONAL BOWLER”.. then, we dug a bit closer.. Ends up, over 2000 entrants…. You bowled shitty.. 30 days after the fact you get a $5 check in the mail for finishing in the “Bottom Fifty”.. Good memory, screw you, I still consider myself a professional bowler as I was formally paid.

Then, you professed to be a perty damn good little leaguer long ago. We analyzed that as well. Turns out, you musta been a hellion.. Your folks pointed (pushed?) you to kindergarten at age 4, so….. Every other year in little league, you were like aheada your competition.. Ie… 5th grade, you played against 3rd and 4th graders… 7th grade, you wiped up on 5th, 6th graders. KMA, I was a bonified All-Star!

Your marriages. I see you married “cats”…. Huh? Yeah.. Nine lives.. First one you married has 8 lives left after spouting “til death do us part” and then parting. Second one has 7 lives left as she’s presently on her 3rd “til death do us part”……. Meow. .no argument there… so I married cats… what’s the big whoopee?

Victor, your cars. Whatabout’em…. They’re hideous.. Ok, admit that, but, consider me a thrifty guy who simply looks for the least expensive mode of transport. That work? (I’m trying to expound on this “good at self deprecation” crap)… No Victor, won’t work. Do you need me to surf back thru all your checkenginelight blogs to remind you your cars suck?… Ahm, HEY, the Royals are playing, can u turn it to channel 672?

Ok, so enuff already about self deprecation.. A guy can get a complex u know?

Sunday night… 8/22/2010... Approximately 5:42pm:


Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Victurd, mighty Victurd, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Victurd's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Victurd's bearing and a smile on Victurd's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Victurd at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Victurd’s eye, a sneer curled Victurd's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Victurd stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
"That ain't my style," said Victurd. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;
And it's likely they'd a-killed him had not Victurd raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Victurd's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Victurd still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Victurd and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Victurd wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Victurd’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Victurd's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Victurd has struck out.

Pardon my French (Again, said in English) I fucking struck out in Slow Pitch. No, wasn’t called 3rd strike, no, wasn’t 3rd foul strikeout.. I fucking struck out - SWINGING!. I have been playing slow pitch for 38 friggin years. I've never friggin' struck out. I’m good at this self deprecation.

Awhile back, I’d had a conversation with the mirror: “Ok, Victor. You’re fitty-seven, you have no business being out here, but… you have great health insurance. That said, please promise me, if any one of the three things happen, you’ll retire.” Yeah? What?

You get hurt, numero uno. K, can live with that. And understand. Dos?

Dos = you are a detriment to the team. HEY, I’m the first guy off the bench to high five someone that’s made a good play - no worries here.. Tres?

Thirdly, you’ll hang it up if you ever strike out……… I’ve just decided, I’m a cat. Si, I did say that.. But, I’ve still got lives numero 2 thru 9 left to ‘promise’ the “I promise I’ll quit” thingy. If it works for the ex’es, sure as hell should work for me, eh?

Love, the mighty Caseyturd…