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Archive for "Jun 19 2008"

Four Horsemen Left Stewing in the Stalls

“They looked like two old cavemen discovering some shiny new objects in the forest.”

Lemmy swaps numbers with Jimmy Page

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Hello, My Blessed Idiot Sister! This One Has “You” Written All Over It

Sis stone cold refused when I told her I wanted to teach her boys the Tao of Bobby Orr (I knew she’d never stand for “The World According to Billy Smith“, but remembered she had said Orr was “kinda cute”).

I believe it was because I clubbed the crap out of her back then boyfriend, Jimmy Krause, (aka:”Apple Pie”), because I wouldn’t play that ‘I can kick your ass with impunity because I’m older than you’ game. He tried playing Tough Guy (Senior Year), and I (Incoming Frosh) fed the prick a hockey stick right there in Mom’s living room. Nothing even came close to normal between Me and the Shee’s after that day. You jack a stick’s blade into an All American Boy’s mouth–utterly humiliating your Sis and her prince, while ticking off your Ma and every jock-minded fool in the process… Oh, and make a sure bet your ass is gonna get thrown out of Farrell because “you don’t fit the mold,” as an un-named (at this time) Christian Brother (NOT A FATHER) said.

believe me, you will pay till your dieing day.

But believe this, too: it is bloody well worth it.

Anyway… years later, she started birthing boy babies (not by that guy), two within as many years, and I wanted to teach them things, foremost all about The Puck. She didn’t dare name me godfather to either, but I was willing to let that slide. Bought the little pishers baby skates and sawed off sticks… the whole sheboygan. Felt out renting time at a local rink… and I was told to piss up a rope.

Sis would never let them step foot on a rink “carrying weapons,” was what I was told. “They are not gonna grow up with your Berry Boy rules.”

“MY RULES?” I raged. “If someone knocks them down, they gotta learn to get the fuck up, and your husband ain’t gonna do it, no matter how big he is,” I said. “He’s got eleven brothers and sisters, and only one of them even resembles a man, and I ain’t talking about yours. For God’s sake, he was six two and two twenty and decided he wanted to be a member of the friggin’ high school band instead of trying for sports! Even Karbowski beat the shit out of that brand of jerkoff!”

She said, “You are NOT doing that with my boys, turning them into thugs. They won’t play tackle football, either.”

ME: You are turning them into freakin’ girls! (She ended up pumping out two of those, whose reputation, I told their older brothers, “are on your ass if I so much as sniff some MySpace shit”)

“Why not just dress them up in tu-tus and make them play soccer!”

The boys turned out okay (but weak), but Sis did end up like this:

By surveying parents at youth soccer games in suburban Washington, D.C., Goldstein found that parents became angry when their ego got in the way. “When they perceived something that happened during the game to be personally directed at them or their child, they got angry.” says Goldstein. “That’s consistent with findings on road rage.”

And the parents who Goldstein defines as control-oriented were far more likely to take something personally and flare up at referees, opposing players, and even their own kids, than autonomy-oriented parents, who take greater responsibility for their own behavior.

“In general, control-oriented people are the kind who try to ‘keep up with the Joneses,’” Goldstein says. “They have a harder time controlling their reactions. They more quickly become one of ‘those’ parents than the parents who are able to separate their ego from their kids and events on the field.”

Mom never, ever, evah tried making like Herself the Queen. She never understood a damn thing that was going on when I was on ice. She understood, “this is his deal,” and left it like that. And bitched and moaned when things got goofy (especially when the gloves came off).

Sis, however, became this brand of insane Soccer Mom.

Soccer Parents: Why They Rage

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