The Los Angeles Dodgers have lost seven games in a row; there is a term in baseball for a team playing this badly: the Chicago Cubs.



Since you asked:

The Redskin's dick-head owner, Dan Snyder, finally did something right. (Even a blind squirrel find a nut now and agin') He said they will never bow to a vocal minority who want their name changed. 

Clearly a team could never be named the Redskins now, but at the time it was a usable term for Native American. Nobody wants to name their team a crappy name. You want it to be tough, cool and noble. At the time they were named the term Redskins was used a lot in Westerns.

Like it was yesterday, I can remember thinking the name Super Bowl was awful. Now I can't imagine it named anything else. But at the time it sounded like what an aging ad executive thought was a hip name like the Groovy Bowl. Or the Sock-it-to-me Bowl. Or the Yeah, Baby Bowl. 

For the sake of perspective:

It is good to reflect on how stupid we all are. And we are. How stupid am I? Not long ago, I was short on clean gym wear, so I gave a used t-shirt a college-laundry-day sniff and it sort of passed. Not great, but not too  bad. 

Then I went for a run. You know how cabbage doesn't smell like anything before it is boiled? Dirty t-shirts work the same way. When I got back from the run, it was pretty ripe. Was on my way to the shower.

But then I remembered I had to quickly drop off a document at an office building, so I jumped in the car. Whew. Not good. Open the window. 

When I got to the office building, I let a crowd go ahead of me before I got in the elevator so, me and my stinky shirt, could have the elevator to myself to the sixth floor. 

Dropped off the envelope, and was the only one in the hall when the elevator door opened. Got in, just when the doors were about to close, a hand popped in and into the elevator piled ten well-dressed business types, five men, five women, fresh out of a meeting. 


Trapped in the back, all I could notice was how badly my shirt - and me - smelled. People in the front started making throat-clearing noises. This was now the world's slowest elevator, it stopped at every floor, of course. A couple of women made a finger to nose gesture, cutting me a dirty look. Then a few more shuffled closer to the front, away from me. 

Now, my old buddy, Ronnie, when we worked together in a office building in downtown San Diego, many times would hot-box the crowded elevator (fart) and then turn to me and exclaim:

"Oh, dude, how could you. Jeeze?"

So I looked for an innocent victim to blame as a patsy in casual or better yet, gym clothes. But alas, nothing but expensive-looking suits. 


They knew it stunk in the elevator. They knew it was me. I knew it was me. So you think this is the stupid part? 

No, I actually stopped breathing through my nose so I wouldn't smell me thinking: if I can't smell me, they can't smell me. 

Got that? If I stopped myself from smelling me, somehow it would magically keep them from smelling me as well. 

That is dumber than a bashful dog taking a poop in front of you who turns away so he can't see you. His logic is, if he can't see you, you can't see him, so he positions his butt right in front of you. 

But even a dog knows when something stinks everyone can still smell it.