A cut above the rest.

Well, I trust you all enjoyed the Superbowl this past weekend. I didn’t. In case you’re wondering why, you can find a nicely arranged list of reasons here:  http://wp.me/pNzT7-ZJ

Superbowl Sunday does not give me a hard-on like most people. I despise football more than Lindsay Lohan apparently despises not being in jail. I did not watch the Superbowl, but I ate like I did. On Sunday I busted out a big ass block of Velveeta, a pound of chorizo, and a can of Ro-Tel and fired up the ol’ crockpot in preparation to whip up a nice fat pot of queso dip to enjoy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner until it ran out.

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After cubing the Velveeta and frying up the chorizo, I took the can opener to the Ro-Tel. Moments later, I stuck my finger under the lid of the Ro-Tel can to remove the top and dump out the zesty tomatoes and chillies, when -SLICE- , the stubborn aluminum lid sliced straight across my right thumb, leaving a deep cut that bled like a bitch.

“YYEEEEOOOOOWWWW!!!!”   I yelled (kidding, it was more profane). It was pretty deep, and bleeding profusely. Unfortunately, my father who usually stitches up my wounds is back in Iowa, and would be unable to tend to my gaping thumb cut. I had to act alone.

After applying pressure for about ten minutes with some tissues, I painted on some liquid bandage, and then tried to figure out what to do about the fact that my thumb was split wide open.

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I super glued it.

Duct tape is so 2011.

I am back in Colorado for a few weeks to enjoy some snowboarding. Unfortunately I have not  done any physical activity since March of last year. That’s eleven long months of being completely sedentary. Not even a jog. Not a single jumping jack.

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My body was not prepared. Day 1 was spent riding hard for six long hours at Breckenridge, followed by a three hour session at Beaver Creek the following morning. My body = destroyed. I need a wheelchair. My hamstrings, knees, and spine need some serious TLC. Won’t someone bring me a hot tub and some Percocet? I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

I hate it when people say  “slightly obsessed.”   Like,  “SoOoOo…I’m slightly obsessed with Glee.”   First of all, Glee sucks. Second, you can’t be slightly obsessed. That’s like saying you’re “slightly pregnant.”  Obsessed is an extreme. You’re either obsessed, or you’re not.

The Voice is back on television. I am absolutely jacked for a number of reasons. One, I love singing. Good singers give me a woody that could scrape the skies. Two, Adam Levine. Adam Levine is the sexiest man on planet Earth. He just is. I want to scream it from the top of a mountain. I love this show. Christina’s tits are as big as ever. They’re like beach balls. They have their own center gravity. They are just obnoxious. Blake Shelton, for some reason I like you, and I am happy to see you again. Cee-Lo, you have midget arms, but you say some funny shit.

Well, time to watch 11 more episodes of Dogtown. Talk to you fools later.

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“If I get strep throat, I’m gonna mail you some anthrax.”

Knuckle sandwich.

Yesterday was a bad day. While snowboarding at Beaver Creek, I got a little ambitious and went into the medium/large feature terrain park, completely unprepared for what lay ahead of me. The jumps I had been going off at this point had been more or less tall kickers with no transition gap in the middle, just a nice smooth decline to land on. Trent warned me that these jumps looked quite a bit larger than what I was expecting. I didn’t believe him, and brushed off his warning, strapped in, and gunned it for the first jump. I launched straight up in the air, made a nice grab, then looked down to spot my landing. Only I was nowhere even close to clearing the jump. Not. Even. Close.

I barely had time to think “OH SHIT!” before I plummeted directly down probably ten feet, knuckling the jump HARD. The impact of my landing jackhammered my knees up to my face, slamming them into my jaw. My teeth were smashed together and my mouth was taken over by excruciating pain. I quickly scrambled to the side of the jump as to avoid being nailed by the next rider, and hunched over in agony on the side, spitting out bloody saliva.

My knee had popped me with incredible force directly under the chin, slamming my jaws together, crushing my tongue and busting my teeth. My teeth on the lower left side of my mouth were loose and bleeding, and my tongue immediately started to swell. I don’t know if you have gathered this or not yet, but tooth damage is literally my worst nightmare. Trent rode up to me and stopped to see if I was okay. “My teeeeeeeth…Ohhhh nooooooo…” I wailed. My face hurt so bad. We rode down to the bottom and went home.

I got back to the house and went to the mirror to assess the damage. Thankfully no teeth were chippped or cracked, but three on the bottom were loose and bloody. My tongue had a nasty bite mark and was fat and swollen. Underneath my chin, my jaw had a purplish goose egg on it, swelling away. My neck was stiff and my left fibula was sore. Not only that, but I was nauseous from the pain and shock, and probably concussed.

My neighbor gave me Vicodin. Thank god.

I decided there is really no reason for me to ever have to clear a 15+ foot gap in my life. I’m very content on the baby jumps. I also bought a mouth guard. I love my teeth more than I love being awesome. Because after all, who is awesome without teeth?

I have no idea what that means.

Does anybody else out there watch Meerkat Manor? I’m addicted. I have watched every single episode of every season, and have even started doing some repeats. I feel like I’m watching reality television, but with meerkats instead of human beings. I get into it just like The Real World, too. Every episode, it’s like, who’s banging who? Who got kicked out of the house? Who’s in trouble? Who died? Who’s pregnant again? It keeps me on the edge of my seat. They’re like tiny humans covered in hair.

And fleas.

There are a lot of hairy humans with fleas though. That’s what I mean.

Trent and I recently ordered a canine DNA test from SkyMall. Our curiosity about what breeds of dogs make up our mutt Raleigh has reached its peak. We were told he was a rottweiler/lab mix, which he is clearly not. Then we decided he was a Greater Swiss Mountain dog mix, but he has plateaued at just below 50 pounds, and is a bit of a dwarf. Now we’re just confused. So for $75, we swabbed his cheeks and mailed the cells off to have his lineage determined. I can’t wait to find out.

I hope the results don’t come back all stupid though, like “Boston terrier,  lhasa apso, Irish wolfhound, cat.”  I’d be pissed. I’m on YELP, you know. I can complain. The internet is a dangerous place.

Well, I forgot everything else I was going to talk about. Sorry. Bye.

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“My sister had a bunny. She stopped providing for it and it sat in a cage in our backyard.  My dad released it one day and told my sister it got out on its own.  It proceeded to live in our backyard for 2 years before disappearing.”