OK, so I’m not sports-obsessed. I’ll go as far as to watch golf on TV, and maybe even go to a tournament once in a while. And I’ve been to the Masters twice – not just the practice rounds or the Par 3 thing they do, but the Real Thing. That is impressive, walking around at Augusta National, the Great Cathedral of the Church o’ Golf.
I don’t get excited about baseball, basketball, football, or hockey. College or pro, doesn’t matter. It’s just not on my radar screen. Does that make me weird? Maybe it does.
A couple of weeks ago, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I are over at the local Omaha Steaks emporium, burning a couple of gift certificates. Giving me free shit is about the only way you’ll ever get me into that place, the Palace of Massively Overpriced Meaty Protein. Hmmm, $50 for this pack of six (count ’em) Boeuf Burgers? $37 for this bottle of Rutabaga-Infused Extra-Virgin Walnut Oil? Throw it in the sack! We load up with meat and meat-related products and head for the door.
(Speaking of meat-related products, I do not recommend the Omaha Steaks Beef Jerky for Cats and Dogs. First, it has a picture of a Boston terrier on the package, so you feel like an asshole if you eat it yourself; and second, it made Matata puke all over the living room carpet.)
As we exit the shop, we pass an alcove by the front door where there is a little barbecue grill on display. It’s brown and ovoid, with tapered ends, just big enough for a couple of burgers or a single New York strip. And I remark to SWMBO, “Isn’t that interesting – an egg-shaped hibachi.”
And she says to me, she says: “Good Gawd, you really are a girl. That’s a football, ya feckin’ eejit.”
And, of course, it is. The white stripes and fake lacing are two more clues, which I somehow have managed to overlook. Damn.
Aw, shut up and eat your jerky, Captain Oblivious!
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