A couple of weeks ago, I traveled to Minnesota to see family and use sweet corporate tickets for the Vikings-Texans game. The NFL is all about excess, and my day at the game was no exception. Early morning tailgating in the parking lot outside the Metrodome, complete with breakfast bratwurst, fire-grilled pizza, and a plethora of other good stuff. Many beverages were also enjoyed.
Then we went into the game, and continued eating. First it was a Dome Dog, which for some reason tastes better at a Twins game than at a Vikings game even though its the same dog at both events. Then it was some Famous Dave's BBQ. Cotton candy, peanuts and one of those little frozen ice cream cups followed.
Why am I telling you this? When I got back to Omaha on Election Tuesday, I wasn't feeling the best. I voted, and upon returning to the office, visited the restroom and discovered through the miracle of backwards digestion that I had also consumed a shoe, or at least, something roughly that size and weight. I was sick for a week with some sort of virus that I am convinced entered my body in its weakened state due to over-consumption of foodstuffs. See, normally viruses know better than to disrespect me with their company. They're not welcome guests, and they know it. I'm strong, they are weak, and that's the way it is. But when I voluntarily weakened my defenses by consuming 15,000 calories in a matter of hours, it was like dropping a drawbridge over the moat -- a very nasty virus, angry at years of being denied access to the treasure which is my body, took up residence.
The period of time in which this "squatter" inhabited my body without paying rent included the exhibition game Sunday against Central Missouri, which I attended solo because one of the chief side effects of whatever virus I was fighting was the loss of my voice. Oh, I could have invited someone to go with me and use my second ticket, but they would have had to sit there in silence next to me for two hours. True, we could have exchanged text messages to converse, or maybe updated our Twitter feeds. But can you imagine how lame that would be? Worse yet, can you imagine how lame it would be if I came here today to tell you that actually happened? Lets pretend I never brought this up.
Here's the weird thing: by Sunday, except for the lack of voice, I felt great. Best I'd felt since the moments right before I consumed calories 14,059 and 14,060 the previous Sunday in Minneapolis. But by the end of the afternoon, I felt sick to my stomach. I wondered why; I'd walked past the Mini Donut and Katie's Gyro stands, respectively, both of which are always awfully tempting. Then I remembered:
The Jays looked like crap. Against a Division II team with no height, no depth and no three-point shooters, the Jays struggled to rebound, failed to dominate the paint and turned the ball over 17 times.
That's enough to make anyone sick, regardless of what they ate.
You bet.
Then we went into the game, and continued eating. First it was a Dome Dog, which for some reason tastes better at a Twins game than at a Vikings game even though its the same dog at both events. Then it was some Famous Dave's BBQ. Cotton candy, peanuts and one of those little frozen ice cream cups followed.
Why am I telling you this? When I got back to Omaha on Election Tuesday, I wasn't feeling the best. I voted, and upon returning to the office, visited the restroom and discovered through the miracle of backwards digestion that I had also consumed a shoe, or at least, something roughly that size and weight. I was sick for a week with some sort of virus that I am convinced entered my body in its weakened state due to over-consumption of foodstuffs. See, normally viruses know better than to disrespect me with their company. They're not welcome guests, and they know it. I'm strong, they are weak, and that's the way it is. But when I voluntarily weakened my defenses by consuming 15,000 calories in a matter of hours, it was like dropping a drawbridge over the moat -- a very nasty virus, angry at years of being denied access to the treasure which is my body, took up residence.
The period of time in which this "squatter" inhabited my body without paying rent included the exhibition game Sunday against Central Missouri, which I attended solo because one of the chief side effects of whatever virus I was fighting was the loss of my voice. Oh, I could have invited someone to go with me and use my second ticket, but they would have had to sit there in silence next to me for two hours. True, we could have exchanged text messages to converse, or maybe updated our Twitter feeds. But can you imagine how lame that would be? Worse yet, can you imagine how lame it would be if I came here today to tell you that actually happened? Lets pretend I never brought this up.
Here's the weird thing: by Sunday, except for the lack of voice, I felt great. Best I'd felt since the moments right before I consumed calories 14,059 and 14,060 the previous Sunday in Minneapolis. But by the end of the afternoon, I felt sick to my stomach. I wondered why; I'd walked past the Mini Donut and Katie's Gyro stands, respectively, both of which are always awfully tempting. Then I remembered:
The Jays looked like crap. Against a Division II team with no height, no depth and no three-point shooters, the Jays struggled to rebound, failed to dominate the paint and turned the ball over 17 times.
That's enough to make anyone sick, regardless of what they ate.
You bet.
