Another Dayton 500 is in the books, which is apparently a big deal, what with NASCAR being the #1 spectator sport in the US (especially south of the Mason-Dixon line, though there are plenty of “fans” even up here). Go figure. It doesn’t do much for me, but to each his or her own. A typical racing weekend consumes 6,000 gallons of gas, so, at 20 pounds of CO₂ per gallon, that means there’s another 60 tons of it in the air today. That doesn’t count all the cars and RVs the spectators and participants rode to the race in, of course (never mind the beer farts).

Watching cars go around in a circle never really seemed all that exciting to me. I used to like those figure 8 races (do they still do that?), though. I mean, everybody just wants to see some crashes, and a track in the shape of an 8 pretty much ensures that.

Motorcycle ice racing isn’t bad either, though I don’t think they should be allowed to spike the tires – where’s the challenge in that? Then there’s the demolition derby, which is kinda fun to watch. For a while, anyway. It’d be better if the cars blew up on occasion. Maybe they could wire them with dynamite, and when a car can’t go any longer, the Race Emperor gives the thumbs down, and KABLAM!

Unless it was a valiant effort, of course, in which case, he gets the thumbs up and lives to race another day.

Racing and other sports-related activities that I shall not mention aside, it was a fairly productive weekend. First off, I was looking for the portable speakers that I use with my MP3 player, but hadn’t seen in a while. I was actually pretty sure where they were – in one of two drawers next to my bed. In order to open the drawers to look, though, I have to move the dresser that partially blocks them. And in order to move the dresser, I have to move the dog bed (which is hard, ‘cuz the dogs always follow me into the bedroom, and then jump in their beds and besides, there are “things” – unspeakable things – under the dog beds).

Suffice it to say, it’s been a while since I looked in those drawers, and even though I knew the speakers were in there, I had previously lacked the considerable ambition required to get them out. On Saturday, however, I was feeling quite spry, and decided to go for it.

Not only did I find the speakers (right where I knew they’d be; don’t tell me I’m not organized), but, in the void that exists between the dresser and the headboard, I scored a pair of underwear, three and a half pairs of socks (OK, more like two, and three half-pairs of socks), several quarters (I didn’t bother with the pennies), two pairs of shorts I’ve been looking for, a t-shirt I’d forgotten about, and a sweatshirt that I haven’t seen in a couple of years. Pretty sweet.

I also managed to finish the inside of two of the windows we put in a couple years ago. Well, more like five (could be six) years ago. We’re being very “shelfish” with them. Since there are never enough flat surfaces to put shit on (apparently the floor and kitchen table – though undeniably flat – don’t count, for some reason, but the top of the toilet tank does – so many rules to learn), I put six inch shelves on the sills, and 9 inch ones up on top. The cats are thrilled (though they’re trying not to show it). Just another five (could be six) to go.

The process wasn’t without tragedy, though. Mostly, I seem to have collected an inordinate number of splinters (even more than usual), with nary a finger unscathed. One, in particular required rather extensive surgery this morning with a box cutter (don’t worry, I wiped it off on my shirt, first). Can I sue Home Depot for that? I mean, it’s not like they had a “not responsible for splinters” sign in the lumber area.

BTW, are those signs legally binding? For instance, you always see those “not responsible for damage due to carts” in store parking lots. Are they informing me of what the law is, or are they absolved of any legal responsibility just by virtue of putting them up? I may put one on my car: “not responsible for running your ass over, so get the hell out of my way.”

I heard a commercial on the radio the other day for some new “jingle” business. This explains why every freakin’ local company now has a teevee commercial with a crappy, sappy jingle. I hope these people are working cheap.

Note to Southwest Airlines: if you must fuck with fat people, try not to fuck with famous fat people (especially ones that make movies; Kevin Smith and Michael Moore should automatically be on your “do not screw with” list). Especially after they’re already buckled into their seats, ready to go. What, it isn’t bad enough you have to run us through a virtual strip search machine now (and we know you’ll be posting pictures on the Internet)? Now you gotta haul us off the plane in front of everybody, like terrorists?

You know, fat people have taken an awful lot of shit over the years. Comedians make fun of us, skinny little shits look at us with smug disgust and disdain, we can’t even go to the salad bar for a frickin’ salad without being ridiculed, and now you make airplane seats tiny so you can cram more people on every flight, and then make it seem like we’re the assholes.

You know what? We’re in the majority here (in number, volume, and sheer mass) assholes, so y’all better quit messing with us, or we’ll rise up (of course, if we rose up a little more often, maybe we wouldn’t be so fat). I know you think you can outrun us, but you just better hope we don’t catch you while you’re in the toilet with your fingers down your throat. Then we’re gonna go all Sumo on your ass.

No banks, no mail, no school, no gubberment business today. And yet, I have to go to friggin work. That just doesn’t seem right.