So here's the thing. I'm at the corner store earlier, trying to procure a Monster (not the little penny ante can, either, the big fucker) and something to munch on to help me trudge through an already exhausting day, and these giant fat fucks, (that's right, I said fat, go ahead and try to bust me for a hate crime, you litigious self righteous assholes!) in a display that is at the apex of knuckle-dragging douchebaggery, decided to clog the one and only aisle to the register so they could discuss... you guessed it... FOOTBALL!
Is that really fucking necessary!? Okay, I get it, this is America, and in America, we don't go out and play demanding sports, or engage in strenuous activity, we pay people gazillions of dollars so they can do it for us while we sit at home stuffing our faces with nachos, small pieces of mechanically separated chicken that come in ever growing buckets, beer, and on occasion, our own fingers (since we're not paying attention to anything aside from the big apes wearing the pretty colors on T.V.), but what, pray tell, is the logic behind parking your otherwise sedentary ass in my way to discuss and debate how aptly the team you prefer performed against the other team? It was like a damned poorly written skit; two sweaty, gihugic fuckers in sweatpants and hoodies adorned with their precious teams' logos like they're being sponsored in a knock down, drag-out, gasp-for-air-fest.
If these guys were waiting for something from the deli, I could understand, but they weren't.
If they were waiting for their counterparts to check out, I could understand, but they weren't.
If they'd had the civility to move when I asked politely if I could get by, I could understand, but they didn't.
If they had let me go on about my business without trying to engage me in their nonsensical debate, I could understand, but they didn't.
So what did they do to incur my ire?
They mocked me.
At first, it was a simple inquiry as to which team I preferred. I informed the gorillas that I don't follow football, and that was met with disbelief and a healthy dose of scoffing. I shrugged. I just wanted to get back to what I was doing. Then the smaller one, let's call him Jabba junior, turned to face me, thus COMPLETELY blocking the aisle with his overflowing girth (yes, the same aisle, if you remember, that I was trying to pass through to get to the register) to ask me if I lived under a rock.
"I can assure you that I don't live under a rock. I simply don't enjoy watching a bunch of jocks run around after an oblong ball, and getting paid millions of dollars to play a game. Frankly, it pisses me off. If you could do me the kindness of moving, I'd like to get back to work now."
He asked what I do. I told him. I write.
I was not aware that writing is such a mirth inspiring occupation. Granted, I do on occasion attempt to entertain, but not by the simple fact of announcing my livelihood. I was not aware that so many jokes could be made about writers. I was not aware that as a writer, I was beneath them. I was not aware that collecting disability was a far nobler vocation (and yes, I asked them, and that's what they both do). I was not aware that I needed to apologize for insulting football players by claiming that they make too much money to simply play a game.
Why, if someone can tell me, is it still okay for GROWN FUCKING ADULTS to act like high-schoolers? I wasn't entirely sure I was going to get out of there without having to defend myself from a swirly. This is what is wrong with people these days. Forty-somethings can be bothered to congregate in the single thoroughfare of a convenience store and get red eared and bluster about whichever professional game player they favor, yet disturbing them while idle for any cause of actual importance is of no use.
Perhaps I am socially retarded. I just can't wrap my brain around the fact that people will sequester themselves indoors to basically watch grown kids get paid a fuckload of money to play in an oversized sandbox, then venture out of doors to annoy people who have lives with their ceaseless prattling, yet if you ask them for any sort of action, be it taking action to try to better society, or something as simple as floating the fuck out of my way, such a request is met with scorn and mockery.
So, I'm sorry, fellas, for making you stretch the elastic on those sweat pants just a hair more. Didn't mean to make you sweat as you plodded over three feet so I could get by.
I will not, however, apologize for not sharing your views.
I will not apologize for not enjoying your sport.
I will not apologize for having something to do other than sit in a lazy boy and yell at my T.V. while my defeated wife keeps her mouth shut and brings me more sammiches.
I will not apologize for my opinion, and I will never ask anyone else to do it either.
You want to know why jocks get such a bad rap? It's because of paint chip eating neanderthals like these.