I have a friend who wants to move to Los Angeles. He isn't an actor, he doesn't want to write screenplays, and he's not a spring chicken with a body-superiority complex. He wants to valet cars for his retirement. He is sick of the cold and the snow, so he has decided he is in an LA frame of mind.
My response? "Dude, there are freaking EARTHQUAKES in Los Angeles."
His response? "When was the last time you heard about an earthquake in LA?"
Today, dude.
Today.
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I am at a college lacrosse game, and one of our players gets slashed up and under his helmet. His chin splits wide open, and blood is pouring everywhere. The referee, one of them anyway, throws a flag and calls a slashing penalty. On our player. The one who is bleeding. Profusely. All over his white uniform. Da fuq.
After the game, the ref says to our player, who is still bleeding, "Uh, I think I might've made the wrong call on that play."
Ya think?
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That's not the only bad call today at the game. Now, I'm not bitching about it too badly. I've seen some pretty rotten calls, like when the Hamilton-Wenhem refs extended the sudden-death because our team won and theirs still didn't. But today, let's just say there was very little logical, legal flag-throwing going on. The coach's wife and I are going nuts in the stands, as is the hockey team sitting next to us who came to watch the game.
Coach's wife yells, "Where else can ya find a job that pays you to be wrong?!"
I turn to her and say, "Weather forecaster, my friend.
Weather forecaster."
