Larry, Moe and Curling

It’s Olympics time again, my sporting aficionados; and I’m hunkered down in front of the TV with one hand on the remote and the other clutching a candy bar. Okay, it’s not exactly candy. It’s a faux chocolate, protein bar that tastes something like a dead wax-dipped gopher stuffed with peanut-flavored Play-Doh. Just my wife’s way of keeping me healthy and alive. Bless her “all natural” little heart.

Like most of you, I love the swimming, gymnastics, track and field and stuff. Oh, and the women’s beach volleyball. I admit to having some trouble staying focused on the game due to the wardrobe selection, but generally manage keep my eye on the ball.

Here’s where my problem lies. I am a curling fan. There, I said it. I hear some of you (my spouse included) snickering. We have spirited discussions on whether or not curling is an actual sport. Granted, speed, acrobatic prowess and jumping abilities aren’t essential in this highly skilled, chess-like sport (yes, it’s a sport), and the outfits are less than titillating, but it might be my only chance of attaining Olympic greatness.

This dawned on me as I sat in the Laz-Z-Boy watching my wife sweep outside. I could do that. I can wield a broom like nobody’s business. I realized that at my age I had all the fundamental skills necessary to take the curling world by storm.

I spent years cursing the trees for their incessant shedding of needles and leaves on my patio and walkway when like a towering, shaggy-headed Mr. Miyagi’s (watch Karate Kid) they had been preparing me for my run at the gold.

Ah, who am I kidding? My desire to sweep my way to curling fame is vastly outweighed by my desire to snack and nap.

Better wrap this up. My wife is scowling at me through the window. Doesn’t she realize that cleaning up the backyard is not a job, but a path to Olympic glory?

By the look on her face I would say not.

K.G.

Fruit Salad and the Zombie Apocalypse

As a person with a pretty firm grip on reality, but also a love for the celluloid adventures of the undead, I have come to the conclusion that the zombie apocalypse is finally upon us.

First, let’s set the record straight. I am about as far away from a tree-hugger as Kanye West is from a genius. I would much rather have an animal served medium rare on a plate with a baked potato and A-1 sauce than one frolicking around in my back yard. I get most of my daily fruit intake from jam (I prefer jelly-my wife buys jam-I live with it-marriage is all about give and take) in a sticky love fest with a generous helping of God’s greatest creation, peanut butter. So “Fruit” is a term that generally goes unused unless I am discussing the laundry and is followed by the words “of the Loom.” As for veggies, I agree with Garfield creator Jim Davis, “Vegetables are a must on a diet. I suggest carrot cake, zucchini bread and pumpkin pie.” Couldn't have said it better myself.

So being the kind of guy who would attempt to eat a Goodyear radial if it was deep fried and slathered in Ranch dressing, you’d assume that genetically-altered food would a “no biggie” on the list of things I’ll eat. I mean, it’s just food, right? Hmmm, I’m not really sure on this. Okay, I’ll admit that if broccoli could be genetically engineered to taste like bacon I’d probably be all over it, but in most cases I’d pass. I even went back to eating real butter after I found out that margarine is one molecule away from plastic.

I also read somewhere that scientists have created, for lack of a better term, a new GMO fruit they call the Arctic apple. Does it grow in the snow? I don’t think so. It is manipulated to not turn brown. Sounds good, but how do I know when it’s rotten? Nothing worse than a mealy apple. Well, maybe finding half a worm after taking a bite.

I believe genetically altering our food could quite possibly have some dire consequences down the road. Eating food that has been Frankensteined into some “thing” that never spoils conjures up images of the walking dead in my mind. Of course my mind sees spiders when I stand at the bathroom sink and stick my bare feet under the cabinet. Crazy, perhaps.

No comments from wife, hairdresser or psychiatrist.

K.G.