If you were looking for some gloating about the recent Vikings victory, you won’t find it beneath these pages. Sure Shiancoe applied enough Gorilla Glue to his battling gloves to turn a nicely timed pattern into a touchdown. The defense was standard and standard meaning top five in the league. They’re expected to dominate the running game and prevent the big plays deep (which they didn’t in the first two tilts).
Calling a building block game onto the rest of the season, while they are no where near Cowboy-land at this time as a complete team (stop jerking off to nude Flozell Adams pictures StB and Joaquin), look for the Vikes to grind out an NFC North championship (at least) should the cheeseheads stumble over the left-over turpentine cans left by the tailgaters outside Lambeau. They should be thankful Rogers isn’t blossoming into Ryan Leaf, but is looking solid at quarterback.
Oktoberfest at my place? Uns partei lassen! My apologies to the German readers if I just called everyone a jelly doughnut or something as my 2-year teachings of the language have been drowned in more bier then one should consume while celebrating this fall party over the years and nor will the pictures from the party be nearly as sexy as DP’s dirndl of the day
I was only expecting a few close friends to drop by, and well everyone we invited is attending.
That’s a lot of schnitzel yo.
Facebook. Wow. Got a blast from the past as a former girlfriend from college found me (Oktoberfest? Stacie, please drop by bring the hubby and the little ones!), then high school friends, now an invite to a 15th high school graduation party? I’d be the first to tell you that my high school years were spent ducking for cover in my undersized locker from life and wallowing in self-pity versus being a social butterfly. There was no effort, just a poorly dressed string-bean shell that could wildly throw a baseball, taking in the glare from the hallway floors looking to avoid interaction like John Madden avoids being coherent during a non-Farve moment of Sunday Night Football.
Curious, but not so much to shell out the couple of bucks to see people I barely have a passing memory about as the only memories I took away from Osseo High School were painful and have been beaten down so far that I doubt I could name a teacher without cracking open a yearbook. The friends I took away from that place are still friends today, the ones who offered a hand out of the adolescent mixing bowl stirred with drizzled depression and chopped-up self-worth.
The pictures from Facebook did give me a laugh or three seeing some of my teammates from baseball and hockey teams, girls that were (and probably still are) Scarlett Johnansson-like out of my league.
Calling a building block game onto the rest of the season, while they are no where near Cowboy-land at this time as a complete team (stop jerking off to nude Flozell Adams pictures StB and Joaquin), look for the Vikes to grind out an NFC North championship (at least) should the cheeseheads stumble over the left-over turpentine cans left by the tailgaters outside Lambeau. They should be thankful Rogers isn’t blossoming into Ryan Leaf, but is looking solid at quarterback.
Oktoberfest at my place? Uns partei lassen! My apologies to the German readers if I just called everyone a jelly doughnut or something as my 2-year teachings of the language have been drowned in more bier then one should consume while celebrating this fall party over the years and nor will the pictures from the party be nearly as sexy as DP’s dirndl of the day
I was only expecting a few close friends to drop by, and well everyone we invited is attending.
That’s a lot of schnitzel yo.
Facebook. Wow. Got a blast from the past as a former girlfriend from college found me (Oktoberfest? Stacie, please drop by bring the hubby and the little ones!), then high school friends, now an invite to a 15th high school graduation party? I’d be the first to tell you that my high school years were spent ducking for cover in my undersized locker from life and wallowing in self-pity versus being a social butterfly. There was no effort, just a poorly dressed string-bean shell that could wildly throw a baseball, taking in the glare from the hallway floors looking to avoid interaction like John Madden avoids being coherent during a non-Farve moment of Sunday Night Football.
Curious, but not so much to shell out the couple of bucks to see people I barely have a passing memory about as the only memories I took away from Osseo High School were painful and have been beaten down so far that I doubt I could name a teacher without cracking open a yearbook. The friends I took away from that place are still friends today, the ones who offered a hand out of the adolescent mixing bowl stirred with drizzled depression and chopped-up self-worth.
The pictures from Facebook did give me a laugh or three seeing some of my teammates from baseball and hockey teams, girls that were (and probably still are) Scarlett Johnansson-like out of my league.
Those folks will have something to chat about, something to remiss, but my reunion -- that’s this weekend in Pennsylvania, Oktoberfest at my place, and Vegas in December.
The group who got to meet the real me, my friends that laughed at me for drafting Peyton in the first round this year (YOU SUCK MANNING!!), and read my bared soul here on a semi-daily basis.
Those are the ones I’m continually counting off days until our next beer together.
And those days are now down to the number drei.
The group who got to meet the real me, my friends that laughed at me for drafting Peyton in the first round this year (YOU SUCK MANNING!!), and read my bared soul here on a semi-daily basis.
Those are the ones I’m continually counting off days until our next beer together.
And those days are now down to the number drei.
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