Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Tag: sports

This Is Not a Story

buildings bus business car

Photo by Pixabay on

OK, I did not see when I inserted this photo that it’s a trolley, not a bus, but it will have to do, because I don’t know how to dis-insert it.

Hey, I made up “dis-insert” and spellcheck didn’t correct me! It guess it’s thinking, She hyphenated it, so it must be legit. Or maybe spellcheck has just given up on me.

AT ANY RATE, Facebook has decided that my status updates are a “story,” prompting me with “Add to your story!” Um, I just wanted to mention that the cat threw up today. Yes, that is what my last post on Facebook was. This is why we have the Internet.

AT ANY RATE, my life is not a “story,” but a series of disjointed episodes. Here is one.


My heart sank as I approached the bus stop today, because it was already occupied by the Family of Five. This is five people, a couple, two daughters and a son, who prefer to spend their money on smartphones for each person rather than on body wash and laundry detergent. I always let them get on the bus first, so I can sit as far away as possible.

The man of the house was wearing a t-shirt that said, “I Used To Be a People Person, Until People Changed That.” Funny, that’s the same thing I was thinking when I saw him!

When I came up, they were discussing swords, in particular those seen in video games. The talk then shifted, logically enough, to guns. The lady of the house asked, “What’s the largest caliber gun you’ve ever shot? Mine was a Browning machine gun. The guy who gave it to me told me not to ask how he got it. I used it to kill a chicken. That chicken didn’t even get the whole squawk out.” Her daughter then asked, sensibly enough, “Why did you use a machine gun to kill a chicken? You wouldn’t be able to eat it.” She said, “Well, they were diseased chickens! They couldn’t be sold!” Come to think of it, Killing Diseased Chickens With a Machine Gun would have been a good title for this post.

Our heroine then asked, rhetorically enough, “You wanna know what things I most missed when the house burned down? My three swords, and my Hellraiser action figures. It took me fifteen years and thousands of dollars to collect those.” Who knew?

Once on the bus, my heart sank further still when Dave got on at Walmart. You may remember Dave as the guy whose idea of a clever pickup line was, “You look like you’re goin’ for that wannabe-Goth look.” The bus was crowded, so Dave and his fifty Walmart bags had to be next to me. Dave then regaled us with a list of every celebrity he knows of who came from Tennessee. Followed by every corporation with headquarters in Tennessee. I don’t know what got him started on that state. Also, Dave has no indoor voice, so having him next to me made me want to crawl out of my skin. I’m just glad he wasn’t talking to me, because he can’t tell when you’re trying to ignore him, and kept saying to the bus driver, “You know who else came from Tennessee? Hey! You hear me?” Kind of like the camel in the Geico commercial. If he had tried conversing with me, he’d have been sorry. It’s like it was at work–“Well, I hate having someone sit with me, too, but what can you do? You have to make small talk.” Watch. Me.

Then the guy on the other side of me said, “I’m on my way to the cemetery, to check if a couple motherfackers are still in there.” Um, OK.

As if in recompense, the bus on the way home was absolutely empty, so I enjoyed my private charter service.


This is the first Super Bowl I’ve ever had an opinion about. My opinion is that neither team deserves to be there.


I denounce thee, CVS! You have stickers on all your perfumes, saying “Special Price.” And the special price is…the same price as usual, just in red and yellow lettering. Fie upon you! I don’t know what “fie” is, but obviously it’s something you don’t want to get on you.  For the record, I did not buy any perfume, but I did note approvingly that they stock Aramis, my favorite men’s scent, and possibly my favorite smell ever.


Day 10: Black Saturday, and a Bunch of Rain

Dear weather forecasters, please stop referring to overcast weather as “dreary.” That is subjective, and we don’t all prefer blazing sun, kthnxbai.

Time magazine is having its annual “Who Do You Think Should Be Person of the Year?” survey, which is meaningless, since they admit they’re not going to follow our suggestions. My suggestions are of a more general nature:

–I will accept that “Man of the Year” can be changed to “Person of the Year,” although that’s not quite as snappy. But it does have to be a person. It should not be a collective, such as The Millennial Generation, or an impersonal force, or an abstract concept. Those are cop-outs. Narrow it down, and keep it, you know, personal.

While I’m setting parameters, similar rules apply to names of sports teams. Pick some fierce animal that makes good mascot material. NOT The Heat, or The Jazz, or The Oblate Spheroid, or something baffling like the Browns–what is a Brown, exactly?

“But, World Leader,” they begin timidly, “you don’t care about sports anyway.” What part of “World Leader” don’t you understand? Hey, go suggest that I should be Time’s Person of the Year.

S.G.’S 10TH POST, 3/25/13: It’s Holy Week, Please Shut Up

–The title was inspired by a Stephen Colbert routine which I was unable to link to on the blog, thus inaugurating a long tradition of technological incompetence.


Shut Up and Start Drinking

…actually, I find alcohol makes me talk. This post brought to you by a certain beast of my acquaintance, who accused me of being drunk, although I hadn’t even started yet. I guess that shows how much sense I make when I’m sober. I renounce him, and his pomp, works, etc.


I was reading about a guy whose psychological problems were made evident by the fact that “from childhood, he has always put his clothes on in a particular order.” Well, doesn’t everyone? It beats just standing there trying to decide in what order to put them on.


There are many, but let’s start with:

–Friendly female clerk at Thornton’s to well-dressed female customer:

“Oh, are you going to a wedding?”


“No, to a funeral.”


“The new sport everyone loves!” It involves standing on a surfboard in the water and using a paddle in some way, which I guess beats being up the crick without one. At any rate, I will not be doing it. Nor will I be racing across the Ohio River bridge. I was actually good at long-distance running in high school–the only gym-related activity I was good at and enjoyed–but being expected to pass over a body of water would cause me to curl into a ball on whatever bank I started from.


CVS drove a truckload of money up to the owners of the properties at St Joe/Iowa, and their minions are now busily engaged in tearing stuff up and tearing it down to make way for the new store. What was once a house with a rosebush by the front porch is now, well, a front porch with a rosebush next to it. The bush is in glorious bloom, and I hope it isn’t slated for destruction. Perhaps I should adopt it. I could become the Rose Whisperer.

Hey, Nick–how about I have an apple ale before our ride-along? Just one, to take the edge off? No Intoxilyzer, right?

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