Casual Friday

still here

In which I write everything on my mind in the time alottted.

Once again, I totally forgot it was casual Friday. I’m in one of those cycles where I’m always 24-hours behind, which is great when you’re burning your days sitting around scratching yourself whilst playing Raymond Bowling on your go-phone. But not so great when you arrive to a jeans-n-Polo infiltrated office looking like you stepped off a Calvin Klein runway.

It need be said: CK Ultra Slim Fit FTW.

vanity much?

So I started on this post a little late in the AM because I had to fend off my father and his caffeinated yapper. Moving day got delayed. Obviously. More on this in a second.

Anyways, I roll out of bed, groggily. Get dressed. And stumble like a blind goat into the family room to find QbyTheU partaking in “Morning Joe” – his 9th cup of coffee as far as I can tell. I ask innocently enough ‘how was Charlotte?’ – which, predictably, morphs into this talky mcgee’s opportunity to name-drop a legendary Hurricane. Namely, 1992 Heisman Trophy winner Gino Torretta.

“I said, ‘I think I’m gonna introduce you to a Heisman Trophy winner!’” goes the first line of an admittedly engaging story that starts with The Pops flagging down a national champion in an airport and ends with… a pile of Doobie Brothers Original Master Recordings spread out before my Special K.

My father has severe ADD. There’s no getting around this.

He’s pretty sufferable, though – if that’s the word – and my 6-to-7:30 slot will be a lot less interesting without him whenever I finally move off to that land of Latina starlets and $300-sandal-rocking European tweebs I affectionately refer to as “Brickell”. It seems as though my landlord has absconded to some Columbian shangri-la as part of an indefinite vacational hiatus, leaving me without a lease co-signee for the next 4 or so days as tweedledee’s off scoring blow.

I didn’t say that.

Once I actually move in, I’d like company. If you’re reading, you’re invited, provided you bring your best unruly behavior (and Belvedere).

Props to LeBron for Wednesday’s late-game dagger. Extra props to the three Gators on the floor in crunch time (minus Mike Miller, who, by all accounts, died 8 months ago). And most props ever to me, who has to an endure the blowharded ramblings of a bleeding heart Buckeye just a desk over. Yesterday, I admitted crying after the ’03 Fiasco Bowl… before recounting a little postseason beatdown in Tempe some four years later.

Urban Legend says SUCK ON THAT.

Go find yourself a super hot girlfriend. If you’re not Dirk Nowitzki, it sucks to be you. Happy weekend, Casualtists.