I just got back from five days on the Georgia coast, and boy are my internal organs failing. Considering that there were no single women at the wedding, I laid the groundwork for both lung cancer and cirrhosis of the liver, and I got a vicious case of chiggers, this morning doesn't exactly rank as the best I've ever felt.
I missed a lot over the last five days, from the baseball playoffs to a great weekend of college football, plus a lovely Seahawks bye week in which Ben Roethlisberger and the Steelers lost their third straight game. Apparently men on skates are playing hockey as well — I need to look into that.
The best story I missed, of course, was the Stephen Jackson & Co fracas outside an Indianapolis strip club. Punched in the face? Check. Hit by a car? Check. Fired a gun into the air? Check.
Dude. You're just going out to look at some titties. Ain't no reason for fisticuffs or gunfire. And here's a helpful hint: when you have millions of dollars, you can hire strippers to come to your house, where you can probably swing the cash to also have sex with them. Oh, and you can hire one of your buddies to carry a gun so you don't have to. It's hard to enjoy a lap dance with a Beretta in your waistband. Believe me, I know.