Ladies and gentlemen, I have about six or seven different epic posts banging around in my head, and I can’t seem to take advantage of all the time I have this Labor Day weekend to type them up, finish them, and get them posted. In fact, the only thing I really got achieved today was cleaning the bathroom and looking up the chords for a catchy little tune that I’d like to learn to…"Defining TharpSter"
As I write today’s dispatch on a Sunday night, I’m flipping the channels back and forth between the Broncos/Saints game and Game 4 of the World Series. Denver is currently trying to punch it in while the Giants are up 1-0 in the top of the 3rd. The Broncos just punched it in. Just a little over an hour ago, those debutantes and crackheads who play their own version of football out…"I’ve Been Waiting All Day For Sunday Night"
As I’ve endeavored to do so in previous blogs, the dispatch of verbal brilliance which will ensconce your eyeballs and weave it’s dastardly way into your skull will be pretty much be dead on with the general concept, but short on the facts where the details are concerned. I do this for two different reasons. The first reason serves purely as an indictment on our political system. Here in the 21st century where…"Put Me In Coach"
*sniff, sniff* What’s that smell? Chocolate chip cookies. Just for the record, there are only two people I can think of who are capable of making the world’s best chocolate chip cookie. If they could make a perfume to capture the odoriferous emanations generated by a simple combination of flour, butter, sugar, and chocolate subjected to a certain number of degrees for a certain amount of time…… ‘Nuff said. …"What’s That Smell?"
Well ladies and gentlemen, how about that? I’ve been watching football all day and am no worse for the wear at this point. Strange enough, I actually got some housework done too. Yeah, I don’t know why. For the last several seasons, I’ve been able to turn the game on featuring either my Texans or my Broncos, and work on sorting laundry , dusting, or the bathroom. With that in mind, the state…"A Flea Could Bite The Bottom Of The Pope In Rome"