Yep, I’m thinking Run-Run Ricky falls into the ‘Doot’ category right alongside anyone named ‘Manning’. Early retirement in and of itself does not make one a wienerhead, not by far. Nobody is required to keep playing a game one doesn’t want to play.
HowEVER… Williams’ timing could not have been more inappropriate had he brought in another rap star wannabe sports agent random person to calculate the LEAST opportune time to withdraw from the NFL. It’s as if Ricky actively wanted to screw his teammates over. Actually, considering the guy’s social history, maybe he did.
I don’t suppose we can look to our athletes for Honor, anymore, but still… It’d be nice if they’d at least pretend. For one: Don’t retire when you’re Under Contract unless you’re going to fully pay back everything that’s been invested in you. For two: Retire at the END of a season, you ferret-face. For three: I’m really getting tired of seeing Dave Wannstedt looking like he’s getting ready to start going all Dick Vermeil and crying on us.
Though, as Ricky Himself says, “The only people I’m accountable to are my kids.” As he accountably comes back from the Lenny Kravitz Rock Tour to go jet setting accountably about Asia. Alrighty.
Anyway – I don’t really care to talk about Ricky. He’s pretty much always been a bit of a flake, and it’s not THAT big of a shock to anyone that he finally actively flaked himself right out of the league. At least the Dolphins still have, like, David Boston. And, you know, A.J. Feeley. Hahahahaha! Sorry.
So, I had to take a week off. Luckily, nobody seemed to notice, so I can carry on as if it didn’t happen. The midnight run to New Mexico went off with only a few minor snags causing me to abruptly bump up the scheduling, but I’m back in Scenic Texas gazing out the office window at the various forms of wildlife once again. There’s presently a jackrabbit the size of a Volkswagen out there.
I have to say, I quite like the whole Rural Wildlife-Intensive area. The New Mexico desert didn’t provide much in the way of actual wildlife, because I don’t really count large wasps and windscorpions. This place, by contrast, provides a great many opportunities to play St. Francis of Assisi. I’m actually about fifteen minutes from finishing a Bird Rescue Mission.
Seems a young house finch outside the window had just engaged in its Maiden Flight. It flittered a good ten feet to land in the lawn, to be immediately snorked up by Patches the Lawn Cat. Patches lugged the finch around for a bit by its head, at which point I spotted the “Trials Of Nature” video unfolding in the side yard.
Having tried to bribe Patches the Lawn Cat numerous times with kitty treats, I figured she owed me at least one bird rescue by now. So, I ended up spending a good forty-five minutes with a traumatized finch clinging ferociously to my finger. Rat dog “Maggie” was brought over to take a close look at the finch, which I’m sure helped to calm it a great deal.
After an impromptu nest was created in the bushes, the next tricky part was getting the finch OFF my finger. Having decided that I was apparently the Patron Saint of Not Getting Eaten in the Lawn, the little creature had made up its mind to stay right there on my digit and never fly again ever for the rest of its damn LIFE. After being nipped multiple times for having the audacity to try and get this wild bird off my finger, I finally managed to convince it that the homemade nest was a better place to carry out its lifelong Vow of No Flight.
‘Course, around here its probably already been snorked up by something else.
Weekly Reader Dave Report
Foreign Correspondent “Reader Dave” fired off an urgent inquiry recently, wanting to find out whether or not Leggy Blonde Texan Women were available at Wal-Mart and if so, which aisle stocked them.
Response One: Sorry, Dave. I have YET to find a Leggy Blonde Rollback Special.
Response Two: England has a Wal-Mart?!
I personally associate Wal-Mart with the less-than-sophisticated element of society such as myself. We say “Ya’ll”, and “Yeehaw”, and things like that. On the other hand, I associate England with a highly sophisticated-sounding accent that I can NOT picture helping me find the plastic bass worms on aisle twelve. This development has made me deeply curious about the concept of, “British Rednecks”.
I suppose I’ve already been researching the topic by talking about Bog Snorkeling and Ferret Legging, but I’m only now making the connection.
Fire off your scintillating insights, inquiries, and heartwarming Wal-Mart stories to email@example.com