I feel like something terrible has happened to me, but I can’t remember what it was. It feels like I was abducted by aliens, except aliens have the decency to give you a lollipop and a kind word after they probe you. Perhaps I’m thinking of something else, but the sentiment remains the same. I don’t appreciate unsolicited probing from anyone, and I especially don’t appreciate it coming from a Gold Bond foot powder commercial. I really don’t know how much information you can gather from a bum, but I absolutely forbid anyone trying to gather any information from mine. My body is a temple, among other things, and trans-dimensional Shaq-like beings are not allowed access to the service entrance.
Coincidentally trans-dimensional Shaq-like beings is the name of my Ace Of Base tribute band, but that’s a story for another time.
Rules For Borderline Sociopathic Boys, Chapter One: Never Dance On The Five Yard Line
Of course, Chapter Two is: never dance in the end zone, either. Try to look like you’ve been there before, and intimate with your behavior that you plan on being there again.
At first I thought this was a Leon Lett-grade failure; but upon reflection, Leon’s team won that game in a blowout, so he’s just an amusing trivia question. These basketball dudes? A loser is a loser, man.
BTW, to return to the football analogy, the true Borderline Sociopathic Boy knows it’s not “celebrating” they’re doing in the endzone. It’s taunting, or showboating, or grandstanding, or maybe hotdogging, but it all boils down to: acting like a raging a**hole. Don’t be “that guy.”
I do believe these Mormon missionaries got racially profiled. But they took it in stride, I’d say. Open up your hearts — and a lane to the hole on the give and go — and others will, too. I also noticed that the definition of the “missionary position” has apparently been changed to include hanging on the rim.