The only thing — and I do mean the only thing — I have in common with Indiana Jones is that I hate snakes, but I don’t mind spiders. My grandparents lived in San Antonio for a few years in the 80s, and one time when we were visiting them, a large spider crawled into my sleeping bag on the floor. I think it was a tarantula, but as any scientist will tell you there are over 900 species of tarantula so its kind of hard to know. And I was 8 years old when this happened, and pretty much all big spiders are tarantulas when you’re 8.

What I do know is that while it startled me, I wasn’t exactly what you’d call “afraid”. But you get a snake within six feet of me and I will freak out. I had an english teacher in seventh grade who was an extraordinarily weird guy. He had a large collection of exotic pets, such as gators, boas and spiders, and he would bring them into his classroom. The only thing that gave me pause were the snakes.

Of course, there’s a difference between seeing a spider on the floor in your house and killing it, and putting your foot into a shoe to find an uninvited guest. That’s exactly the scenario that unfolded on Tuesday, and in that circumstance, I was freaked out a bit. I put my shoes on to leave for volleyball, and because they get covered in sand, I leave them in the garage all week between games…you can guess what happened.

I wore the shoes on the drive there, and for about 20 minutes after we arrived as I drank a pre-game beer. Never noticed the spider. I felt a foreign object in there, alright, but I thought it was just sand. When I took the shoes off right before the game, I found a sight that was just a little bit freaky: a dead spider, and a big one at that — even shriveled up, it was the diameter of a silver dollar counting its legs. I threw that shoe about three feet if I threw it an inch, let me tell you.

Now, here’s where I got lucky to have busted my toenail a month ago — and I never thought I would have reason to be thankful for that, believe me. Because I had broken the tip of my toenail off my big toe, I was wearing two pairs of socks on that foot for added padding against the top of my shoe. The spider might have tried to bite me, had it been venomous (I have no idea, I slept in Biology too often) but good luck getting those big, pointy fangs through two layers of cotton, my friend.

As it was, he couldn’t, and the weight of my foot killed him. I prefer to think of it that way, in any event, although between you and me it was probably the odor. Either way, he met his demise.

You bet.

1. One Two Three Four, tell me that you love me more…Sleepless long nights, that is what my youth was for. SOMEONE STOP THIS COMMERCIAL. NO MORE FEIST!

2. So I hear Halo 3 came out this week. Actually, I wouldn’t have known if it wasn’t for Cliff Glypha waiting in line, in the pouring rain, to buy the game at midnight. I’m sure its fun, if you’re into that sort of thing. First-person shooters are not my style. Throwing touchdown passes is my style. Bowling is my style. Shooting some nondescript enemy in the face with a bazooka is not my style.

We played against a guy at volleyball Tuesday night who kept insisting everyone call him Master Chief. I called him Master Dork. He says Halo 3 is the Harry Potter of video games, and he couldn’t wait to get home to play it after volleyball. Myself, I couldn’t wait to go have a beer at the bar after volleyball, but that’s just me.

From the guy who brought you “Celebrity Suicide Kit” and “Actual Size Sports Hero Jersey” comes “Terrible Tighties”!

Sunday afternoon, Gilby, Dick and I spent over six hours at the bar watching football, and in no way is that depressing. Watching a “Heroes” marathon on cable? Depressing. Watching 8 NFL games simultaneously on big screen TVs, with wings and beer galore? The mathmatical opposite of depressing, which I believe to be…what’s the word? Oh yeah: AWESOME.

The thing about watching that many games at the same time in a bar is that even if you don’t like football, you could be completely enthralled just watching the other people around you. For instance, the tables immediately to our left were filled with Steeler fans, who were thoroughly enjoying their blowout win over San Francisco. One of the dudes had a Terrible Towel, the yellow towels that the fans at Heinz Field wave, and every time there was a huge play he would bust it out. Well, with the Vikings predictably making “Championship Paint Drying” a more compelling spectator sport by comparison, I began to watch the Steelers game. This required turning my head exactly 7.8 degrees to the left.

Before long, I mentioned to Dick that it was too bad I didn’t have a Terrible Towel with me to wave, just because it seemed obnoxious and rude and fun all wrapped into an enchilada of awesome.

And thus was born Dick Herculanum’s “Invention of the Month”.

I ordinarily wouldn’t bore you with a story about my Fantasy Football team. However, with Cliff Glypha waiting in line with a bunch of 14-year olds right now as I type this at 11 pm for his copy of Halo 3, I figure he can’t give me too much crap. You know, because he’s waiting outside in a thunderous monsoon for three hours with high school and college kids to buy a video game. Mind you, he told me in August this was not necessary; “you just have to man up and waltz in at 12:05 after everyone who waited in line is already in the store!”.

You bet.

So Monday night, Dick Herculanum came over to watch Monday Night Football and help me eat the FOUR POUNDS of wings that I had as leftovers in my fridge from the weekend. I was trailing 82-79 in my fantasy football matchup, with both Drew Brees and Deuce McAllister playing in the game. There was no way I could lose, barring injury and/or Rex Grossman Syndrome.

McAllister: 4 carries, 5 yards. Left in the first quarter with a knee injury

Brees: 29-45, 225 yards, 4 interceptions, 1 fumble. Should have left in the fourth quarter with an injury sustained when a mysterious fantasy owner in Omaha hurled a shoe at his face

Seriously, who throws four picks and loses a fumble? I went from winning 86-82 to, at one point just after 10pm, being behind by 1. I called him every made-up heinous name in the book…because made-up derisive names are A) much more effective and 2) much funnier immediately afterward.

I yelled, pouted, got surly, and paced around the room. It was a demonstration that was quite amusing, I’m sure. I just like to win, is that so wrong? Maybe yelling things like “Brees is a punk. Its a good thing next week is a bye week for the Saints, because I might have cut him otherwise!” at the TV isn’t the greatest thing in the world, but if that’s the worst thing I ever do, I’m quite confident I’ll be alright.

What’s worse: the knowledge that my starting running back, the guy I took with the 10th overall pick in the draft, now has a torn ACL and is done for the year…or the knowledge that my QB has been abducted by aliens and replaced with an inferior clone who makes Rex Grossman look GOOD in comparison. Sheesh.

Both of those unpleasant realizations lead me to the almighty waiver wire, where because my team has the fifth best record, I am 11th in the waiver order. This means that if I claim someone, the 10 teams with worse records can all block the move by claiming him themselves. So I put in claims on the best 10 available backs, the theory being they 1) won’t know who I really want and B) can’t block all of them. Call it cheating if you will. I call it good strategy.

You bet.

Friday was Dick Herculanum’s birthday, but before I could get to his party at the Dundee Dell, there was a little matter of a tailgate party at the office. We shut down at 3:30, or at least, most of us did.

I had a few things to finish up, and it was looking like I wouldn’t be able to join the party until 3:45 or so. Not the end of the world; the beer would be waiting. But at 3:29, our Safety Guy ran a fire drill which I inadvertently ignored. Seriously, I was engrossed in my Genesis tunes (specifically the under-rated “Abacab” album from 1981) and the tail end of my work for the week and completely didn’t hear the announcement. When he flushed me out, I told him not to worry because it wasn’t really me still in the building, but a clone — the real me was already outside. Something tells me he didn’t quite buy it.

When I finally made it out into the parking lot, I saw three Bongo Ball courts. This sounds like the dumbest game in the history of dumb games — you heave a piece of rope with golf balls attached to both ends towards a three-foot high fence of PVC. There are three horizontal bars on this PVC fence, each one worth 1, 2 or 3 points. You score it like shuffleboard. Again, it sounds dumb, and then before you know it you’ve spent two hours throwing golf balls on a rope at a PVC fence. Which is to say the game itself is probably provides copious amounts of fun, except I stink at it.

Eventually, this grew tiresome (I know, hard to believe) and I moved on to join the rest of the group down in Dundee. Mr. Cliff Glypha was in rare form, but all I can remember is that I thought he was in rare form — I can’t remember why that thought entered my mind. This is how high he has raised the bar. I do, however, remember the greatest knock-knock joke ever, and I do mean EVER.

Mrs. Cliff Glypha: “Hey, I have a joke! Knock, knock!”

Gilby: “F***ing go to hell!”

The delivery was sublime, and the fact that he burst into laughter immediately after saying it showed a lack of malice that made the joke hilarious.

You bet.