I don’t want to sound like a nerd, but I wish Star Wars was real. Not the characters or the insufferable dialogue, or the mountains of product tie-ins. No, I’m sitting in the coldest weather of my life and all I want is one Tauntaun and a light saber. Drastic temperatures mean drastic actions. There’s a time for dumb little space heaters and then sometimes you have to go to the extreme and warm yourself Skywalker Style. If this polar vortex means Hoth-like temperatures, then I deserve Hoth-like amenities.
I’m normally humane. I take insects outside instead of squishing them. I buy the expensive free range eggs and I get weepy during Sarah McLachlan animal commercials, but if I had the chance I’d slice open the first Tauntaun I see and climb inside like a kangaroo. Moist? Stinky? You think I care? It’s -30 here. I don’t have the blood flow for emotions right now. Hell, even if it was my favorite pet and I named it Biscuit, I’d wear that Tauntaun’s humid carcass around like a pajama onesie if it meant I’d stop shivering. How little do I care? If I had little Tauntaun puppies, I’d open them up too and wear them around like house slippers.
I don’t know the breaking point temperature that makes me want to reenact a scene from The Emperor Strikes Back, but I’m typing this in gloves and the thought of wrapping myself up with the still warm intestines of a dying animal seems appealing. It’s like a Corona commercial directed by Jeffrey Dahmer.
I think that’s alright. We’re in the middle of a freaking polar vortex. That sounds like some bullshit George Lucas would come up with anyway. So let me imagine what it would be like living inside of Biscuit, my imaginary pet Tauntaun. Let me imagine that it’s warm and isn’t miserable. Let me imagine that my urine won’t freeze before hitting the toilet. And please, let Han Solo be there when I wake up.
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.
Expendable? You must be joking.
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