I don't have the league records in front of me or anything, but I believe we were the first team to ever win the title with a roster consisting of seven small forwards. For all you former GF Renegades of Funk members, notice Danny and I sporting the old unis. Additionally, Kirk Hinrich is not as good in real life as you would think.
Other random kibbles and bits:
Thanksgiving was awesome. Definitely a weird feeling to be a visitor in the Forks, but I got to enjoy fantastic home cooked meals, partake in celebratory World Series shots with T. Nels a month late, see basically every single person I wanted to, and only a couple of the people I could've done without. That's an interesting dynamic of the Thanksgiving and Christmas break bar scenes, isn't it? People you pretty much only talked to when you had to work on your Beowulf book report together, and now all of sudden they want to buy you a jag bomb and talk about what you've been up to for the last six years?
I am officially done with McDonald's. Forever. I hadn't enjoyed any plain dubby cheeseburgers and fries since I moved down here, and to be honest, I hadn't thought of it much. Alex and I picked some up in Sioux City on the drive home, and it was garbage. To the point that I wonder how I ate it so much before. So goodbye, Mickey D's. It was a good run. But don't get too excited, arteries. I'm not going to be eating healthier or anything. The longest I've gone without Sonic the last three and a half months is 9 days.
A disclaimer for the next paragraph: it will be filled with semi-obscure golf references and pointless discussion about a bar video game played by dudes like myself who aren't drunk enough to dance yet. Continue if you wish, ladies and non-golfers.
I may be hanging up the clubs for Golden Tee. My meltdown is almost complete. I am, at this moment, worse than I was the very first time I felt the smooth roll of the tracker ball under my left hand (no homo.) Back in the day, I was a bit streaky; always a threat to set a course record, but almost equally a threat to fall apart on the 17th hole. Call me Greg Norman. Then, when I moved down here, I initially struggled, as my new swing coach Jud and I retooled my putting style in hopes of being better in the long run. Call me Tiger Woods, circa 1998. Then for a few weeks, I was back and better than ever. Call me Tiger Woods, circa 2000. Now, inexplicably, it is gone. All of it. It's like I've never played before. Call me Ian Baker-Finch. Just send me to the announcer's tower overlooking the 18th. I'm gonna give it one last shot, and if it doesn't improve drastically, my career may be over.
I'll be the first to admit it's lame to pimp facebook here, but I can't put links in this space for whatever reason, so we're all gonna have to deal with it. Anyways, for those who can, go to my facebook page and watch the video that Annie put on my wall. It involves Barney the purple dinosaur and a prominent rap song. You won't be disappointed.
