Flattland: "It's Icy Hot!"

"Now that I think of it, that's probably a big part of why we shared Hasselbeck's dramatic Moment of Anguish when the tying touchdown pass fell to the turf…the looking forward and knowing that it's a long hard road back."

Well, then. It looks as though Mr. Former Team President Whitsitt has finally gone bye-bye adios! I… Hrm. Given that this is an honest column, this news affects me in no way whatsoever. My main thought regarding the matter is that it makes for a good inside joke among the .NET old school persons regarding a very early breaking of the “Whitsitt Fired!” headline and the vexation it caused a certain Seahawks Official Businessperson (“S.O.B.”) (Har!).

It’s probably just an issue of timing for me. After all, the Seahawks’ off-season JUST started. I’m certain that in another four or five months I’ll find a headline reading, “Holmgren Clips Toenails!” to be utterly fascinating. At this point, however, I just can’t seem to find it in myself to really care.

Some of you might think this a lack of dedication on my part, and you some would be absolutely correct.

Right now, I don’t care about front office moves so much as I care about seeing Atlanta beat the holy living crap out of the St. Louis Sardonic Sheep. The vast majority of brain cells I have dedicated to football are all assigned to Rams-hating duty. When I see that commercial, I’m mostly hoping the Pteronadon DOES fall on Marshall Faulk -- Even if that does mean the team would not become the St. Louis Freds. These days, I despise the Rams more than I despise the Niners. This is significant due to the fact that the Niners are my Ex’s favorite team (Probably should’ve seen that as a warning sign, but I am apparently not particularly intelligent).

Speaking of stupidity, I am still in the process of Phase Two of my Mid-Life Crisis plan. Granted, I am only in my thirties, so it’s perhaps a bit pessimistic to be having a Mid-Life Crisis, but one must keep in mind that ten of those years have been in “musician’s” or “Keith Richards” years, during which I was a frequently inebriated band lecher. I should get double credit for those years, as they tend to rack up the mileage. As well, FIVE of those years were Those Years We Do Not Speak Of, for which I’m taking triple credit just by merit of having not spontaneously died due to absurd levels of stress. That adds up to a number which I am far too lazy to put together, though I have complete confidence that my editor will insert it here: (Editor’s Note: Huh? I thought you were going to write about ferrets this time!)

In any event, Phase One was to get the sporty car. Check. Phase Two is to get my long-lethargic self back into some semblance of shape which can lead to Phase Three which involves coeds and couldn’t possibly be discussed in a family column so please stop asking.

At least I’m not sore to the point of possible death, anymore. I’m presuming it has finally occurred to my body that, yes, actual motion is taking place and complaining about it won’t help. That, and I’ve rediscovered Icy Hot. Icy Hot is a vital Workout Tool for every thirty-something male starting a new fitness program. (WARNING WARNING WARNING!!!: Do not scratch personal areas if there is any chance you still have Icy Hot fingers.)

Beer is also helpful, though the trainers don’t allow you to, for example, wear a beer mug hat on the treadmill.

Soon enough, though, I will be back to spending significant time on my buttular region as classes come back into session next week. I’ve found Anatomy and Physiology very helpful in my endeavor to get back in shape, coincidentally enough. Now, when I drop to the floor clutching something I can scream, “Gaaaack! I’m suffering acute popliteal myalgia!!” instead of “Gaaack! My knee!” like an imbecile. I’m hoping the next semester brings even more enlightenment as I continue to wreak havoc upon myself.

But I digress.

My main thrust was that it’s a very long off-season following what was an exceptionally draining season for all of us Seahawk fans. I suppose it was also taxing on the players, due to the not-irrelevant fact that they were the ones on the actual field whereas we mainly drank beer and shouted at the television. This is a time to sit back, take a deep breath, and contemplate how much we hate the stupid Rams.

There will be time enough for roster assessments, front office moves, and endless discussions about who should/will/did stay or go, generally because we don’t technically have anything to talk about that matters until next season begins.

Now that I think of it, that’s probably a big part of why we shared Hasselbeck’s dramatic Moment of Anguish when the tying touchdown pass fell to the turf… Not so much the defeatist whiny-assed “We Blew It!” crap, but the looking forward and knowing that it’s a long hard road back.

Off-Season. Sigh.

Unrelated Stupid Sports Sighting:

Following a work shift this week, I was sitting at the bar with some coworkers and looking at one of the random ESPN channels which was showing on the big screen. We were blessed with the realization that “Competitive Jump-Roping” is apparently an actual televised event. I wanted to switch it to Mountain Bike Bog Snorkeling.

Fire off your scintillating insights, inquiries, and ideas for what the hell to write about for the next few months to flattman@earthlink.net.

Trav Flatt

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