Professor Truth and I survived our trip to the Deep South. I'm capitalizing that because, in all honesty, it is another country entirely. It's a scary place where every native speaker sounds dumb as a post, the cool kids where short pants and deck shoes, and there is absolutely no wind.
Honest to God, short pants. Like, above the knee.
The week was a success. By the time it was over, Truth had made a college-aged woman cry at a dance club, Max Power had gone international, and the Tripod invented Cemetery Golf. Yes, it is exactly what it sounds like it is.
So there you have it. A solid week of making my liver say "uncle!". Four days of yelling at 14 year old athletes who wanted to be anywhere else but in the gym. One unforgettable hour hitting experienced golf balls to their (and Dorothy Pearson's) final resting place.
Thanks Suede and Schmang for being such excellent hosts.
It's good to feel your weight on me again.
1 comment:
What is the deal with the shorts down there? I realize it's hot and all, but these things look like something a middle school gym teacher would have worn in 1983.
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