And I’m sad to report that it finally forced me to hang up the cleats for good, retiring forever from the game I knew mildly.
But I still remember those orange slices, and my mom generously thiefing the entire container so I could make it through the game. So thanks, Mom.
And thanks, halftime orange slices.
You’re both completely . . .
AWESOME!
Putting potato chips on a sandwich
Ever had a friend start buzzing with The Dating Glow ?
You know, they start seeing someone new and suddenly start walking with a new pep in their step, a new trot in their walk? Maybe they lose five pounds, show up with a new haircut, or start wearing tight pants . Or maybe they just smile wider, laugh louder, and blast out a new confidence about themselves.
Being with someone new makes them look and feel better and that’s a great thing. That’s The Dating Glow.
Now, if you don’t mind, let’s sharply switch gears and talk about sandwiches— soggy, squashed, Saran-Wrapped sandwiches from the bowels of your book bag. Those warm and tired messes look pathetic with sweaty cheese, slimy tomatoes, and warm turkey. Yes, it’s a sandwich down on its luck, lacking a bit of confidence, and in desperate need of a glow of some sort.
That’s where potato chips come in.
When you crunch up your sandwich with some carefully inserted potato chips, you inject a spicy vial of Grade A Oomph . Suddenly that pasty gob of bread and meat transforms into a rainbow of crunches and flavors. It’s the sandwich equivalent of getting a new hairdo, wearing something scandalous , or buzzing with a new vibe.
Now, before we call it a day here, let’s chat about something funny about putting chips on a sandwich. Basically, here it is: Everybody thinks they invented it. Honestly, I’ll be grabbing a quick lunch with a friend from work and he’ll just sort of raise his eyebrows at me mysteriously. “Know what I like to do?” he’ll ask, squinting a bit and cracking a wry smile. “Put chips on my sandwich, that’s what,” he’ll unveil, a stiff bottom lip, some scrunched eyebrows, and a firm nod echoing the big reveal.
So that’s it, ladies and gentleman. Putting potato chips on a sandwich.
You invented it.
We all love it.
AWESOME!
When you didn’t play the lottery and your numbers didn’t come up
I don’t play the lottery very often, but when I do I’m pretty sure I’m going to win. I take pains to ensure all my family’s birthdays are evenly covered as I carefully color in all the bubbles and then hand my sheet to the convenience store cashier.
Kicking cigarette butts and sucking on a Popsicle while I walk home, my mind wanders off and begins wrestling with difficult questions I assume plague the rich : Pool or tennis court? Private jet or yacht? Tall, snooty butler with a thin mustache or fat, clumsy one with a heart of gold?
And I think about whether I’d donate massive chunks of my riches to people who’ve done small, simple things for me when I was down on my luck. You know, a million dollar tip for the coffee shop waitress who calls me Hon, a new mansion for the guy who slices my cold cuts nice and thin . I toy with the idea of stashing my cash in a vault and swimming in it like Scrooge McDuck, traveling around the world by unicorn, or possibly just buying the Internet.
My mind entertains these wild dreams because being a dreamer is great fun . The thoughts are free, so I enjoy them on my way home, squeezing the ticket in my pocket and then posting it on the fridge so I don’t forget the big day.
Yes, this little Jackpot Fantasy continues until the numbers are announced. And I don’t win. No, I don’t even have one number right. I’m not even close. I shouldn’t have played. I just threw three bucks away for no reason.
But I guess that’s why it’s great when I don’t play and I check my numbers and sure enough they didn’t come up. Now who’s laughing?
Me, the three-bucks-richer guy.
AWESOME!
The smell of frying
But I still remember those orange slices, and my mom generously thiefing the entire container so I could make it through the game. So thanks, Mom.
And thanks, halftime orange slices.
You’re both completely . . .
AWESOME!
Putting potato chips on a sandwich
Ever had a friend start buzzing with The Dating Glow ?
You know, they start seeing someone new and suddenly start walking with a new pep in their step, a new trot in their walk? Maybe they lose five pounds, show up with a new haircut, or start wearing tight pants . Or maybe they just smile wider, laugh louder, and blast out a new confidence about themselves.
Being with someone new makes them look and feel better and that’s a great thing. That’s The Dating Glow.
Now, if you don’t mind, let’s sharply switch gears and talk about sandwiches— soggy, squashed, Saran-Wrapped sandwiches from the bowels of your book bag. Those warm and tired messes look pathetic with sweaty cheese, slimy tomatoes, and warm turkey. Yes, it’s a sandwich down on its luck, lacking a bit of confidence, and in desperate need of a glow of some sort.
That’s where potato chips come in.
When you crunch up your sandwich with some carefully inserted potato chips, you inject a spicy vial of Grade A Oomph . Suddenly that pasty gob of bread and meat transforms into a rainbow of crunches and flavors. It’s the sandwich equivalent of getting a new hairdo, wearing something scandalous , or buzzing with a new vibe.
Now, before we call it a day here, let’s chat about something funny about putting chips on a sandwich. Basically, here it is: Everybody thinks they invented it. Honestly, I’ll be grabbing a quick lunch with a friend from work and he’ll just sort of raise his eyebrows at me mysteriously. “Know what I like to do?” he’ll ask, squinting a bit and cracking a wry smile. “Put chips on my sandwich, that’s what,” he’ll unveil, a stiff bottom lip, some scrunched eyebrows, and a firm nod echoing the big reveal.
So that’s it, ladies and gentleman. Putting potato chips on a sandwich.
You invented it.
We all love it.
AWESOME!
When you didn’t play the lottery and your numbers didn’t come up
I don’t play the lottery very often, but when I do I’m pretty sure I’m going to win. I take pains to ensure all my family’s birthdays are evenly covered as I carefully color in all the bubbles and then hand my sheet to the convenience store cashier.
Kicking cigarette butts and sucking on a Popsicle while I walk home, my mind wanders off and begins wrestling with difficult questions I assume plague the rich : Pool or tennis court? Private jet or yacht? Tall, snooty butler with a thin mustache or fat, clumsy one with a heart of gold?
And I think about whether I’d donate massive chunks of my riches to people who’ve done small, simple things for me when I was down on my luck. You know, a million dollar tip for the coffee shop waitress who calls me Hon, a new mansion for the guy who slices my cold cuts nice and thin . I toy with the idea of stashing my cash in a vault and swimming in it like Scrooge McDuck, traveling around the world by unicorn, or possibly just buying the Internet.
My mind entertains these wild dreams because being a dreamer is great fun . The thoughts are free, so I enjoy them on my way home, squeezing the ticket in my pocket and then posting it on the fridge so I don’t forget the big day.
Yes, this little Jackpot Fantasy continues until the numbers are announced. And I don’t win. No, I don’t even have one number right. I’m not even close. I shouldn’t have played. I just threw three bucks away for no reason.
But I guess that’s why it’s great when I don’t play and I check my numbers and sure enough they didn’t come up. Now who’s laughing?
Me, the three-bucks-richer guy.
AWESOME!
The smell of frying
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