Why I hate Sports and consequently High-Fives

This essay could be nearly 30 pages if I wanted it to be, but there are a few simple things that I can address to explain my stance. The fact that all American Males are suppose to be a part of an organized sports team sometime in their youth is in-in-of-itself enough of a pain in the ass for a person of my size and stature. But it’s also assumed that I should know about and follow religiously any and all competitions that may be taking place in any given season we happen to be in. The guys at my work talk about it to no end all day and I can’t stand it. I do not care about any of it, and I’d rather stick my head in an oven then listen to what that kid I can’t stand in Tech Ops thinks about some over paid gangster rapper’s potential to chew up the defense or out rebound anyone who has ever walked the Earth.

I think whole heartedly and with my deepest conviction that NASCAR is just a waste of gas. We are running out of Mesozoic Era microplankton and you diks are going in circles for 7 hours!? There is a reason you have to change your tires so many damn times; It’s because some redneck made a simple math mistake and turned yards into miles and now it takes all day to accomplish what could be done in 14 minutes: that is to tell us which guy named Dale is faster… And on one single set of tires no less! (This is exactly like the architects who screw up inches and yards and end up making tiny Stonehenge models that are in danger of being smashed by the dancing midget druids). Just leave me alone already.

Now onto Sports most coveted signature; The High-Five! The high-five is to sports what Ronnie James Dio’s Devil Horns is to metal fans. It is the identity by which to show others that you are not to be fuked with unless you are dressed in the same exact color as the person with his open hand in the air. The high-five is best used in situations where you’ve just scored and you are in fact in your house and everyone around you should know whos house they happen to be in. The same concept applies to being hammered at a bar and watching the sports team from the state you happened to be born in while they are doing the same thing. (e.g. scoring ungodly amounts of points on the other teams asses, and there by “owning” their collective asses. Not in a gay way though).

The reason I hate high-fives so much is twofold. One is that it is just simply retarded looking. The other is that it reflects on who you are as a person, which usual amounts to an upper middle class white kid who has a hair trigger temper (due to being told he was the smartest and best at everything he did his entire life from his parents, and was applied to literally everything he did from finger painting with his own boogers to crashing his dads car into the back of the garage in the 9th grade), and who’s entire outlook on life is molded around what other people should be doing for them. So pretty much acting like the kids on any MTV reality show. Most post-collage doughy sports dudes will talk of their glory days on “The Team” and about “Coach” who use to call him T-Bone or Smitty and demanded said doughy sports dude’s absolute best everyday in practice for the “Ultimate Game”… LIFE. So throwing high-fives some 3, 5, or 13 years later drunk in a bar is a way to show other doughy sports dudes that you did in fact use to “Rule” and that you are one of them. (And still currently 'Rule' at stuff now). Now this all seems harmless until a certain intoxication level makes them long for the glory days of “ruling” and can most easily be recaptured in being a total dik to anyone without an Official Champion Jersey on. That is 99% of the time me or my friends. I’ve never actually been beat up before (see my close in encounter with this under the story about Sissys). But I’ve come really close a few times and every single of them evolved high-fives in some way.

Untitled Number 2

I’ve turned myself into a monster for countless reasons… most of which seemed like a necessity at the time.