zesticle.com

Some guy walks into the office off the street today and asks for a job application. Nothing too unusual; even though we don’t really get any foot traffic in here from the general public, there will be the occasional guy looking for work (or some twat who wants to sell me cheap cologne or a grill utensil set). And like a lot of the guys that come in here, he was a little rough-looking and had at least one tattoo.

Right on his throat.

Now, clearly I don’t have a problem with a person getting a tattoo. I have one myself. But I think if you’re going to decide to get a tattoo (this is permanent, kids) on your throat or your face or anywhere that just screams, “LOOK AT THIS TATTOO, SINCE NOTHING I CAN DO SHORT OF PUTTING A BAG OVER MY HEAD IS GOING TO HIDE IT!” requires the tattooee to have accepted that maybe their life isn’t going the way they thought it might. The odds of getting a cushy desk job or working with the public in any way are pretty slim with a flaming skull right there on your larynx.

I’m not saying Johnny Throat Ink from this morning isn’t going to be successful or have a happy life. I’d just kinda like to ask him what made him think getting that tat was a good idea.

I’d ask him when he started working here, but I doubt we’d hire him. He’s got a tattoo on his throat.

My car is trying to kill me. I’m not entirely sure why, though I think it might stem from a curb-jumping incident just before Christmas. I don’t know what the hell its problem is, though, as it was fine afterward. No damage to the tire or rim or anything.

It’s gunning for me Green Mile-style. Electrocution. Every time I get out and close the door, a small jolt of electricity arcs from the door to my fingertips. It doesn’t feel great, but it’s certainly not enough juice to kill anything larger than a fruitfly. “You’ll have to do better than that, car!” I could be heard saying recently.

“Fine,” my car apparently thought to itself. “You asked for it, you’re gonna get it.” I’m sure it would’ve laughed maniacally to itself if it had the means. Sadly, all the Scion is capable of is internal monologue.

Its response is apparently more than just an empty threat. I went to put gas in the tank yesterday and was rudely greeted with another large spark. It took me a second to realize what was happening, but I finally saw the writing on the wall. Even though I had just been shocked by the door, the car had mustered up another load of electricity and delivered it where it could have caused some real damage.

Right by the gas tank.

Fortunately, there was no ignition of gas fumes as the cap was still on, but I figure it’s only a matter of time before the car gets the timing down and blows me up while I’m filling the tank. I’ll get blown to smithereens, ripped limb from limb, flesh violently torn from bone and sinew. It’ll be chalked up to a freak accident, and my family will probably win a large settlement from whichever gas station it is that I stopped at on the day it happens. But all of you will know what really happened.

As you’re all certainly aware by now, the Indianapolis Colts were upset yesterday by the Pittsburgh Steelers in their first playoff game of the year. A season that was so promising just a month ago is now over, much earlier than I or a lot of other people thought it would be.

The game ended about 15 hours ago, and so I’m not quite as angry about it as I was as soon as it ended, but I instead find myself sitting here wondering why I bother making the investment in rooting for a sports team. I started following the Colts and the Pacers pretty closely in 1994, and ever since then I’ve ultimately experienced nothing but disappointment as a result of their seasons. Sure, there have been highs (the Pacers FINALLY beating the Knicks to get to the NBA Finals, the Colts winning a couple playoff games in the past couple years) but it’s always eventually tempered by failure.

Always.

So why do I let myself get so caught up in something that is going to ultimately let me down, something that I have absolutely no control over, no power to affect? I talk about Tom Brady and Bill Belichick and the rest of the Patriots as though they’ve killed my family and shit on their graves, even though I’ve never met them and they might be very nice (doubtful, since Lucifer himself has fueled their recent run of Superbowl wins, and because they likely would kill me and everyone I care about if they got the chance). But because they’ve been responsible for so much of the Colts’ disappointment the past couple years, I intensely dislike every single one of them. Actually, the fact that the Patriots lost to Denver on Saturday is about the only solace I’ve been able to find from this weekend’s games.

I’m sure there are a hundred books out there on the psychology of being a sports fan and yadda yadda yadda, but I haven’t read them. I like then when I go to a game, I’m surrounded by thousands of people who, if only for a few hours, are on the same page as me and wishing for a common result. That’s good stuff, and not really something you experience outside of a sports arena of some sort. But is it worth all the bad stuff that comes along with it? I don’t know.

What I do know is that by the time next season rolls around, I’ll have forgotten the sting of another lost season, and I’ll convince myself that THIS year is finally our year. And I’ll ultimately get let down again, and I’ll once again wonder why I do this to myself.