I don’t understand half the rules any of the rules in football. I’m always asking Tim all, “Where’s the ball?…Why’d he do that?…What do you mean it’s a five yard penalty but they’re waving it off? WHY? WHY WAVE IT OFF? How is it BETTER to wave it off?”
And I TRIED to understand…but it’s a futile effort. I gave up about two years ago after I decided football has way too many rules. I hear a new penalty every single time I watch a game with Tim. There was one the other day that even he was all, “the hell? Is that even real?!”
Though, I’m beginning to think some of those penalties the zebras (that’s what I’m supposed to call the one’s with black and white shirts. Zebras. Or a blind dumbass) yell from the field are perfect.
For the grocery store.
I’d like to formally petition the football people to give me graciously donate a mustard colored flag and a ketchup colored flag with a rock or whatever inside…I want to carry them in my purse for whenever I need to throw one at somebody. And the flags must be the kind with the rock. Without that added weight, they’ll flutter to the ground like that stupid feather in Forest Gump. And that just doesn’t make the same statement as a brightly colored thing whizzing towards your face at high speed.
Once I receive said presents from the football people, I’ll be able to resolve all my uncomfortable “situations” in the place I must visit on a weekly basis…because the infractions happen EVERY DAMN TIME. I can go at different times of day…different days of the week…
THE SAME TYPE OF PEOPLE ARE THERE.
And I’m forced to go because Tim is all, “NO, WE CANNOT EAT THE NAPKINS” even after I tell him they’re super filling and great for weight loss.
The shit starts the second I try to park my car…where inevitably someone was too damn lazy to put their cart in the nice little corral the grocery store sets out every like, five parking spaces. I’ve seen the carts with the two front wheels run up on top of the curb RIGHT NEXT TO A CORRAL. Apparently the extra two feet was WAY TO CHALLENGING but at least the cart won’t like, roll away looking for it’s mother or long lost sibling.
But usually people aren’t even THAT courteous.
Usually the carts are SITTING IN THE MIDDLE OF MY PARKING SPACE.
What the hell? That’s a damn penalty.
Neutral Zone Infraction. As in: Get your lazy ass over here and MOVE THAT CART OUT OF MY SPOT. I don’t see your name on it…nor do I see a sign that says “cart corral for lazy asses.”
Then…after I enter that damn place and I’m trying to maneuver my cart through those narrow aisles…I mean, don’t they realize they should space the aisles AT LEAST TWO CARTS WIDE?
(“They” as in the grocery store people)
Because somehow I always end up down the aisle with that person with the overflowing cart. You know, the one where shit’s teetering on all sides like a Jenga tower and if you so much as breathe on their carefully built cart-castle everything falls off. Yes. Them. They inevitably decide that the MIDDLE OF THE GROCERY AISLE is a perfect stopping point to peruse through their little coupon book that is also overflowing and totally unorganized.
Because no one else really needs sugar…or coffee…or anything else shelved behind the swath of their existence.
Delay of game. As in: MOVE. YOUR. ASS.
And then I’ll throw my red flag at their cart so everything topples over.
Too many players pieces of random shit on the field floor.
And after the third time I SOMEHOW end up next to that woman with the two kids who are playing the you-hit-me-so-I’m-gonna-hit-you-back game while making those ear piercing screeches that is worse than nails on a chalk board…
It’s time for a damn flag…one of those for unnecessary roughness…or malicious intent penalties.
Actually, screw the flag. Just get me some duct tape.
And DO NOT HIT ME with your cart, your basket or your fat ass while I’m searching for super plus tampons.
I’ll whip right around all, “ILLEGAL CONTACT!” and throw a flag in your face.
Cause you don’t mess with a woman searching for tampons.
And that damn check out line…the next person who is behind me and starts to pile on their groceries at the back-end of the moving belt, all up in my personal space…
Holy shit is that a time for a flag.
As in OFFSIDES, bitch. BACK THE HELL AWAY FROM THE BELT cause I’m not paying for the first THIRD of your groceries.
You know, I’d also like one of those shiny whistles. The really loud kind.
Just incase you’re listening, football people.
I’m not sports-retarded. I’d just like to point that out.
I played basketball. Lots of it. I understand basketball.
And you play basketball until the buzzer sounds…none of this “take a knee” crap for the final minute if you’re winning.
I also understand swimming. You go from one end to the other as fast as you can and you have to touch the wall on both ends.
Tennis…you hit a ball inside some squares…if it misses the square it’s out. And you don’t yell “fuck you”at the line judges.
Football is not really even football.
Football is really soccer everywhere else in the universe.
We like football with a blown-up, pointed oval along with units of measure that have to be converted by the rest of the planet.
No wonder I suck at math.
Anyway, the point is that I’m not some sissy who thinks a “sport” is getting a manicure and laying out on the beach.
Just so we’re clear.