DISCLAIMER: THIS ARTICLE WAS WRITTEN FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY; ANY SPORTING WISDOM OR INSIGHT OR KNOWLEDGE THAT IS NOT DIRECTLY QUOTE BY MY COLLEAGUES IS NOT JUST PURELY ACCIDENTAL BUT UNFORTUNATE.
First, this gentleman (we call him that) spent fifteen minutes deciding what to order while the line snaked exponentially around the corner, back into the kitchen and into the dining area. Then he ordered two chicken fajitas, just meat and cheese, and a coke. At this point I choked on my fist.
“Fifteen minutes to order a chicken fajita?”
“I couldn’t decide if I wanted beef.”
“Well, you wanted brisket. But whatever. Fries and queso?”
“Bra. Yes, Bra. Thanks, Bra. Okay. That’s coming on 11/22.”
“11/22 for queso and some tacos?”
“Yes, BH. And a coke. $2.75 for it.”
“$2.75 for a Coke?”
Admittedly, at this point I was starting to get a little pissed off.
“I don’t make the awards, I don’t make the rules. I’m just delivering the message. You owe the taco company over $22 of your hard-earned money.”
“Okay, here,” says the gentleman (let’s call him that) and hands me a wad of one-dollar bills.
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
I would like the imaginative reader here to dream up a score by Ennio Morricone.
“Sorry BH, but how many do I hold?”
“Should be twenty-four, one for tip.
“Sorry BH, but do you see a pole near here? You expect me to dance around in my knickers for a buck! Is it that what you want!”
“I only have one.”
“And I have two of them.”
Calmly and kindly, I pointed to the sky twice and in a reflective mood verbally offered him an imperative if he didn’t know sign language. For some reason he didn’t like it and did us both a favor by leaving.
Then I received the inevitable telephone correspondence from the one and only, the beloved man himself, The barry Lewis.
“What are you doing?”
“What do you do when you work?”
“I’m trying to get fired so I don’t have to work anymore.”
“Excellent. Listen up. We hit our goal of 1,095 items for the year!”
“Great. So I’m off the hook, right?”
“And we want you to do another one.”
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At this point, I let out curses like I’d never uttered in the compilation of 1,095 KillerFrogs articles.
“Why me, Barry? It’s personal, isn’t it?”
“Well there is a new Horns Down penalty part which I believe is in the works.
He then sent a link to an article about a guy named Greg Burks with the following information: “Director of Officiating, Greg Burks, what suched both the Horns Down gesture aimed at the Longhorns is a dead topic. Even if the Longhorns leave the league, Burks said he anticipated the question, and yes, it will still be a decision. “Let me be very clear on Horns Down. I have no ownership of this symbol. The symbol is the same as any other symbol. It depends when you do it, who you do it to and how you do it do.'”
“Sorry Barry, but he’s just talking about a hand signal, isn’t he? Or is he talking about lascivious activities?”
“The Horns Down gesture yes.”
“Okay, because if you do it, who do you do it to and how, I assume he’s engaging in bestiality in a community park with a nun.”
“What does this mean?”
“No, he’s specifically talking about the Horns Down gesture.”
“What is chief executive?”
“This is the person who controls the referees.”
“Whatever you say, SI.”
“The sports ignoramus is right. I knew I didn’t like him. So what do you want from me?
“A thousand words until tomorrow.”
“I’ll give you two.”
I turned to Bet, still laughing at the bit on the bar. “So Bet, do you mind if I pull out my laptop and get to work?”
“You are at work.”
“No, dear. This is jobbing. I have my job and I have jobbing and one is painful and the other is torture.”
“Well, you are at your work.”
“Not anymore. You are. See you later.”
At this point I happily made my way to Ye Olde Bull and Bush at 76107 Montgomery (no direct correspondence please; all mail will be returned promptly), asked for half a pint, and in a fog of inspiration wrote the following:
Greg Burks is a cracked nut. Let’s break down this paragraph and its implications, not only in relation to college football and broader sports in general (as it does), but also its broader implications for public discourse and free speech. We’ll note that the question starts with whether or not Horns Down is a dead topic. I will do this for Dr. To answer Burks (if he’s a Dr.) on his behalf as a rational, sentient human-of-God being: It wasn’t just supposed to be a dead matter, it should have been DOA; he should have, like any good American citizen, politely asked that those who would determine what other people do with their fingers could do something more productive and better with their own fingers.
Here I felt a sudden impulse to pat myself on the back. This gave my friend Joseph an excuse to do the same and I spat out bartender Bruce aka The Boss. But I, like all ghosts, was not last That Big Steaming heapin love with my own hubris and felt the need to move on:
Here Dr. Burks another mistake. “It will be a verdict.” By whom? By whose authority? Who decides exactly what I do with my own God-loved fingers? Who? In light of the fact that these cattle bloviators are on their way out of the league, a league they clearly have no need to respect, I say our league should shove them right out the door, fingers raised and all the profane intended connotations.
Another pat on the back, another drink. And then the inspiration really started to seep in.
Burks, a cracked nut that he is, says squirrel-like in his confusion that he has no ownership of the symbol. As if there could possibly be ownership of any symbol. Who owns a middle finger? Or an index finger and a pinky? One goes up and two goes down, and I know my own preference (I’ll leave the discerning reader to guess which). But then Dr. Burks this clearly offensive symbol with every other symbol the same. So if I give a thumbs up, can I penalize my own team? When I scream, scream, cheer, boo. If I give my own Horned Frog symbol, could that be considered unsportsmanlike conduct as interpreted by the other team? Let’s say we’re 50-0 at half time? What Longhorn wouldn’t prefer a much more direct taunt, if only to encourage a comeback, than the far more demoralizing, sincere celebration that we’ve beaten them to hell?
And with a final round, gulped down in one gulp, I opened my fingers and delivered the resolution of my opus:
dr Burks says it comes down to when you do it, who you do it to, and how you do it. I have no objection to that and would like to suggest that he stop kissing cows in the ass in public. It’s naughty.
“Boom!” I was screaming like a maniac in the public venue and had barely recovered from my high when I received the following phone correspondence from The Jason: “Well you finally made it. You’re fired. We can’t have you blinding customers in out to the public.”
I sat there for a second, then stood on the bar and yelled, “Boss, celebration round everyone on me!”
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