Kris an’ Murphy: (4th) Down On Luck

Kris: “So, Murphy, did you hear the news?”

Murphy: “Not if I can help it. If it’s ‘news’, it’s toxic, and if it’s not toxic, it’s not news.”

Kris: “Then you missed it. Indianapolis is out of luck.”

Murphy:What? What happened? Did a tornado wipe it out or something? It’s a little late for tornadoes, and way too early for blizzards!”

Kris: “No tornadoes. Or snowstorms. It’s a shitstorm. Their quarterback quit. Announced his retirement, walked off the gridiron field to a chorus of boos. Got most of the sports yahoos on radio, TV, the streams, and social media screaming Quitter! at him.”

Murphy: “So the boo-ers were boo-rish?”

Kris: “Argh. Go to your room.”

Murphy: “Ha ha. The reason for this, ah, retirement?”

Kris: “Injuries. Not willing to do a Peyton Manning, I guess.”

Murphy: “How old was this guy? 40?”

Kris: “29.”

Murphy: “[…] He went to university?

Kris: “Yeah …”

Murphy: “How the hell did he wind up with a degree that was actually worth the faux parchment it was printed on?!?”

Kris: “Um … Stanford? And how do you figure? Most of us wouldn’t be keen to be hated on by millions of people.”

Murphy: “He got a profit out of the gladiatorial arena, and bailed on it before it killed him! That’s how I figure! You know that I grew up in New England, right?”

Kris: “I do.”

Murphy: “And growing up in New England meant following the sport of ice hockey. I did. And I remember when none of the players wore helmets or masks. Or had teeth. Hockey pucks took them out. Goalies had it worst. This fellow Terry Sawchuk had a 16-year career as a goaltender, and, one time, a magazine got a makeup artist to show where the cuts were on his face, all 400 stitches worth. Or, most of them – he didn’t have enough face to show them all.

“In the ’60s, the goalies started wearing masks. Gerry Cheevers of the Boston Bruins had one of the most famous ones – on which he had a trainer draw stitches every time he reckoned that the mask saved him a cut or other injury.”

Kris: “And when the other players saw this, and realized that the masks would help them save face – literally – they all started wearing them.”

Murphy: “That they did not. Neither players nor fans were happy – because the masks get in the way of seeing the faces of the players, and then how could you tell who’s who?”

Kris: “Their uniform numbers? Their names on the uniforms?”

Murphy: “Not good enough. Could be anyone in those sweaters. Unless you – and the sponsors – can see the face.”

Kris: “So you play hockey, get your face torn to ribbons, get your teeth knocked out, and probably wreck your knees, to name three. Subjecting yourself to a lifetime of pain, suffering, and inconvenience. Why would you do that?”

Murphy: “Funny you should mention ‘lifetimes’. What’s the average lifespan of an American male of European descent today?”

Kris: “Hm. Searching … About 75 years.”

Murphy: “Yep. How about 1900?”

Kris: “Um … forty-seven?!?

Murphy: “Uh huh. And what about those teeth? OK, a hockey puck takes them out before you’re 20. They were probably mostly rotten anyway. You may as well lose them while charging the net for an attempt at a rebound than just sitting at home feeling them rot.

“Of course you rack your body playing sports. Or at highly dangerous jobs. Civilian jobs, never mind military service. You do it, and suffer the consequences, because you’re not going to be around to put up with those consequences. And if you don’t do it, you go lower on the social totem pole and probably die soon anyway, from conflicts for living space, or the diseases associated with crowding, or poor nutrition. So you may as well go for the glory.

Nowadays? When medicine is likely to give you a lot longer to put up with the consequences of racking yourself when you’re young, without actually being able to do much about those consequences? You want to be protecting your face, your teeth, your knees, your back while you’re doing that work, playing those sports. And if you can’t do that, for whatever reason, you have ample incentive to walk away. And if our university degrees were worth anything, the folk possessing them would be smart and knowledgeable enough to know these things, and behave accordingly. This macho crap from the sports guys is so 19th century. It’s pandering to the mob, and the mob should be ashamed of itself.”

Kris: “So you think that the football players taking early retirement to preserve their bodies (or what’s left of them), like Andrew Luck and Rob Gronkowski, are doing exactly the right thing?”

Murphy: “Belatedly, yes. It would have been even better for them to have never gotten into this miserable American excuse for football in the first place. And certainly not at the university! Tertiary institutions that run professional sports franchises – and if you’re competing for a spot in a bowl game, you’re running a professional sports franchise – are guilty of criminal exploitation of their ‘student’ athletes, and should have all public support, and all finances, withdrawn from them.”

Kris: “You mean, like our university?”


Kris: “So why haven’t we resigned our tenured faculty positions? By keeping them, we’re aiding and abetting the crime, aren’t we?”

Murphy: “[…] Why haven’t you opened that bottle yet, Kris? Dammit.”

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He and She: Doughnutty

She: “And you’ll be glad to know that, while you were showering and dressing for the conference that you’re driving to this morning, I got your breakfast ready for you.”

He: “Great. Because by the time I get there, I’m going to be hungry. I don’t need much, though …”

She: “I know. Just something to get you going. Juice and a malasada.”

He: “Um, thank you, these things are tasty and filling enough to let me survive the drive …”

She: “But what?”

He: “Funny you should mention that butt. I know I’m an expanding man, and this should help things along nicely. Sigh. How have I failed you?”

She:Failed you?”

He: “Or is this your way of telling me that you’re worried about this conference I’m going to? Yes, it’s a science conference, and yes, it’s got this telescope protest stuff hanging over its head, but things aren’t that bad yet! At least I hope not! And I can’t afford to show up there all gloomy.”

She: “Because I’m feeding you something mal and sad?”

He:Yes! Don’t peeps make bonagladas for days like this, when it’s important to start off with a sunny disposition?”

She:Hush your mouth!! You trying to get us arrested?”

He: “[…] whut?”

She:Sweetheart! The rush of euphoria from eating a bonaglada has killed people! Especially pessimists, who panic. I, ah, don’t wish to cast any aspersions on your character, but I do not want to lose you! These things are so dangerous, the pushers of ecstasy want nothing to do with them. The DEA and FDA don’t even want bonagladas on their schedules, for fear of drawing attention to them!”

He: “So how come we still get to have malasadas, then?”

She: “Easy. They’re sweet and tasty. Their downer effects don’t do anything more to pessimists than what the pessimists have already done to themselves, and the optimists just ignore them.”

He: “Uh huh. Babe, I love you – but aren’t these tales just a little half-baked?”

She:Well! Are we talking about mal-asadas or aren’t we?”

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Dude and Dude: Chaired




“… whut?”

“As in ‘park it’ so’s I c’n talk wit’ ya, dude.”

“Yeah? What ‘ bout? It’s late. Dude needs his beauty sleep, yeah?”

Seriously, dude? I gotta tell ya, ya c’ld do tha Rip van Winkle thingy six times runnin’ an’ it wouldn’ do ya no good aytall.”

“[…] Ya better tell me what ya want now, dude, afore I try ta help ya wit’ yer beauty sleep needs!”

“Knock yerself out, dude. Which is what’ll happen if’n ya try ta take a swing at me. Klutz.”

“Same as you!”

“Yeah, speakin’ a klutzes, ya got any idee how old OC is?”

“What? He pissed off his body parts again?”

“Never mind his. I’m sweatin’ mine! Mebbe OC don’t mind workin’ when most peeps are lookin’ forward ta layin’ on tha beach. But I do.”

“Dig. Mebbe he ain’t tired a tha daily grind. But I sure am! What c’n we do about it?”

“Get him a, like, reminder? That he’s supposed ta be, like, kickin’ back? Mebbe thinkin’ ’bout retirin’?”

“Dude. He’s gotta lose tha spare tire he’s a’ready got afore he c’n start thinkin’ ’bout replacin’ it.”

“Ya ain’t helpin’, dude.”

“Ok, ok. What kinda reminder?”

“Somethin’ old school. Old as he is. Like … yeah! A rockin’ chair!”

“No, dude. Just no.”

Huh? Why not?”

“Dude. Ya don’ give no musician a rockin’ chair. Ever. Not even ta someone like OC who pretends ta be a musician. Too dangerous.”

“What tha hell is dangerous about a rockin’ chair?”

“D’pends on what kinda rocks, don’ it? Wrong kinda rocks, wrong kinda attitude, a dude could get stoned, yeah?”

“This is bad how?”

“Size matters, dude. An’ that, like, assumes that ya get a rockin’ chair an’ it stays a rockin’ chair.”

“I don’ think …”

How ya gonna know? Right now, OC’s practicin’ fer a rock program. What if’n the next one calls fer, like, Strauss? Is he suddenly gonna have a waltzin’ chair?”

“Dude …”

“‘R Sousa, an’ now he’s got a marchin’ chair …”

Dude …!

“‘R some peep calls fer a ’70s revival party, an’ he’s tryin’ ta hold down a disco chair …”


“A rap chair?!?”

“Yeah. One that I c’n mebbe rap ya upside tha head wit’!”

“Only if’n ya c’n catch it, dude. An’ if’n it goes ta hip hop, I don’ like yer chances a doin’ that. I also don’ like OC’s chances a stayin’ seated in it.”

“I don’ like tha chances a OC doin’ nuthin’ but standin’ up tha rest a his life. Sheesh.”

“Yeah, ’cause tha chair’s dangerous. Too much trouble. Like I said.”

“So like what do we do now? Wait fer OC ta, like, kick tha bucket afore we c’n get some rest?”

“Um, dude, OC kickin’ tha bucket won’t do us no good. I wouldn’t go there …”

“Right. Where do I get to go, then, dude?”

“Wherever OC goes, and we does whatever OC does. Deal.”


Posted in Dude and Dude, humor, music | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment