Wet Socks

Last night, bleary-eyed, staring at the television with a kindly, Santa-looking guy imploring me for money for babies with flies on their faces (before), turned uniformed and scrubbed little soldiers for Jesus (after) thanks to the Christian Children's Fund (don't worry, 80 cents of every dollar goes to these kids), I thought, "Shut up, Santa guy, I've got problems of my own."
It's turned damned nippy up here and the floors are icy. Always properly socked, my feet still feel cold. Then, it happens.
I step in a puddle. Aaaaaaargh!
Wet socks on a cold floor. Damn. I hate that feeling.
I hate that feeling as much as I hate watching football and hearing John Madden go on and on about Romo - and it's NOT Bill Romanowski. It's some new schmuck quarterbacking for old schmuck Coach Parcells. The moniker ROMO is taken, boys, and it's NOT for this guy.
Then you turn on a Chargers game and they blab about LT and it's NOT Lawrence Taylor - it's some kid named LaDainian Tomlinson. LaDainian is NOT LT. He's LDT.
Romo and LT were killers, maimers, wild-eyed maniacs who played football with a vengeance, the way it is supposed to be played.
Let these new little football panty-waists get their own nicknames.
And, listen, Santa guy. 80 cents of every dollar means that 20% of your money isn't going to the little kids with flies on their faces, and that's no bargain.
Give 'em to me. They're tough little fuckers. I'll make football players out of them. I can be as big a jerk as Parcells.
I'll coach 'em on a cold day with wet socks.