Off Season Post: Reflections from 30,000 Feet

Hello, Readers.  I suppose a “surprise” is in order.  Yes, Some Guy has found Some Time to write last week prior to the big (and probably anti-climactic) Bachelor finale while your DVR’s were bristling with anticipation. 

So, what was the occasion, you ask?  When I began to write this I was somewhere over the great state of Colorado at a cruising altitude of about 30,000 feet traveling around 498 miles per hour—at least that’s what my Flight Checker told me.  My usual modus operandi from my comfy and well-earned 1A seat is to throw some Red Dirt music (Google it) on the iPod and then slumber away until I’m inevitably awakened by the slowing of the plane on its approach into Austin Bergstrom International Airport in my beloved Austin, Texas.

   

Below is the fruit of my labor on that flight. 

Normally I sleep on planes.  Like Pavlov’s dog, there’s something about grabbing a seat that makes me sleepy.  Not just any seat.  Usually a right hand aisle seat is my preference when I book because I’m left handed and I can’t stand being crowded on my left side.  Even in first class, I feel most comfortable with a clear left side—another one of my quirks.  Even Mrs. Some Guy knows to walk to my right and sit to my right.  Normally, however, I sleep.   

Today, I’m in a different mood.  I’ve spent the last 4 days with my twin brother and 4 of my closest friends in Vail followed by a quick one night stint in Denver due to the fact that their airport is closer to Kansas than it is to downtown Denver.  It might even be in Kansas.    

I suppose the nature and substance of the trip can collectively be described as what most of you would refer to as “A Guys’ Trip,” but it occurred to me up here in the deep blue something that---for me anyway—the one or two times a year that I’m fortunate enough to find the time to get away and meet up with my friends in such exotic locations as Vail, Vegas, or New Orleans these trips amount to more than ritualistic male bonding sessions involving a lot of jokes about the (alleged) filthy reputation of one’s mama and binge drinking. 

Granted, there’s no shortage of the former or the latter; however, even that aspect of the trip has its own unique, albeit distorted, value.  Before I get to my point, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the spouses on the other end of the cell phone.  It’s worth noting that there are three options in response to the question,

“[Insert generic platitude] we’re thinking of heading to Vail in March for a few days, is there any problem with that?”  

The options include: 

1.         No f*cking way;

2.         I’m not comfortable with it but you can go.  However, from the date of this notice to a date well past your return that only I know, I will passive-aggressively inject my hostility into every aspect of our relationship; or

3.         I don’t understand these trips but I understand and love you and I respect your friends.  Go, have fun, and please check in to let me know you’re safe. 

I’ll only speak for myself and not the others, but it’s fair to say that while I am lucky (and I mean lucky) to have a spouse who currently subscribes to Option Number 3, not all of the guys do. 

Thank you, Mrs. Some Guy.  These trips—whether you ‘get’ them or not---are invaluable to my sanity, peace of mind, and, in turn, invaluable to the effort I gladly put into my role as Mr. Some Guy.  And yes, I took my wedding ring off and put it in a safe place when I went to bars so I wouldn’t scratch it.  I’m kidding.  (She hates that joke.)

Now, let’s get to the point:  Friends.

Christopher Hitchens wrote, “[a] melancholy lesson of advancing years is the realization that you can’t make old friends.”    

Now, I know my usual perspective is the male/female relationship, but humor me here for a bit and let me explain how these male friends I’ve known for the better part of my adult life (and in the case of my twin, 9 months before it began in earnest) and I can derive great pleasure in insulting each other in the most debased and inappropriate ways, sticking each other with large bar or taxi tabs, laughing uncontrollably at legitimately painful injuries (we’ll get to that later), and simultaneously strengthen a shared love for one another that none of us—if our lives depended on it—would openly admit, much less be able to articulate. 

The truth is that there are many people who, at certain times in our lives, stand squarely in the center of our world.  These people enter our lives regularly and they are the most important thing in our lives at the moment they occupy that precious space.  

However, with age, experience, and exercise of the introspection necessary to gain perspective it becomes abundantly clear that the majority of these people’s influence over our lives is temporary and that it is more often their departure from our lives rather than their presence in them that holds significance. 

First girlfriends, mean bosses, chatty co-workers, and casual acquaintances have profound influence over our daily lives; however, their importance in the grand scheme of our lives often dwindles over time as we hit each stepping stone and land, firm footed toward the next phase of our lives.

The conundrum is value, I suppose.  And what seems to be the problem is one of both perspective and myopia.  Most of us live our lives within the confines of our immediate perception and fail to even consider the possibility that there exist infinite possibilities over the lip of the horizon.   

The harsh emotional accessories of life we bear like tumors are inevitably heavier than the problems they portend. The value of these temporary people, these harsh emotional accessories, is always defined by the power they possess over us.  They are like heavy overcoats.   

There are many heavy overcoats in our lives.  Friendship is not a heavy overcoat.  It is a freshly washed cotton shirt or a favorite playlist on your iPod.  It is beef stew on a cold day or a cold beer on a hot one.  It is soft while life is hard.  It is a safe place to fall.    

This is why friendship cannot be undervalued.  It cannot be dismissed, nor should it.  The people in our lives we can call true friends are rare:  old friends more rare. 

I have been blessed with a small group of friends like this and I am grateful for the limited, but meaningful time I carve out of a 365 day hustle to spend with them.   

“Seek not the favor of the multitude . . . But seek the testimony of few; and number not voices, but weigh them.” ― Immanuel Kant

Kant, like Hitchens, understood that there are precious few people in our lives who actually matter.  And when you’re lucky enough to find them, they are worth holding on to forever.  

C.S. Lewis put it another way in The Four Loves.  “I have no duty to be anyone's Friend and no man in the world has a duty to be mine. No claims, no shadow of necessity. Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art, like the universe itself (for God did not need to create). It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.”

For those of you who care, the difference between the philosophies of Lewis—a towering Christian apologist---and Hitchens—an ardent and unapologetic atheist—is about as subtle as the Grand Canyon.  Yet, friendship is their common ground.  Perhaps I’m overstating it, but I find the irony very telling. 

I spent the better part of the weekend in various stages of a beer buzz wandering through Vail Village defending my mother’s honor.  There’s something very liberating about being truly known by the people around you.  Under normal circumstances that’s tantamount to walking into a crowd naked; however, because the trust of many years of friendship is there, there is no fear.  No shame.  Just security.  There is a happiness that grows out of knowing that no matter how severe the attack on one’s maternal roots, there is, as I said before, a safe place to fall. 

I won’t belabor the point.  Rather, I’ll end with an anecdote that I believe sums up perfectly what I’m trying to communicate here.

As y’all know, I grew up in the Lone Star State—southeast Texas to be exact.  The closest thing we have to snow on Christmas down there is those Styrofoam packing pellets protecting our Christmas gifts.  

I also didn’t grow up with any money.  Ergo, I’m not a snow skier.  However, the Mrs. is quite the ski bunny and I’m what would probably be described as “the outdoor, adventurous type” if I were to create my Profile or whatever it’s called.  She talked me into trying and I enjoyed the hell out of it.  Still, although I’m athletic, I’m not a good skier . . . at all. 

Flash forward to me all geared up riding a gondola up to the top of Peak Something in Vail with a pair of poles in one hand and a set of rented skis in the other.  My friend JV grew up in Golden and, as such, is more comfortable on a set of skis than he is in a pair of loafers.  My closest (and oldest) friend has lived in Colorado for the better part of 10 years in addition to skiing in college.  My college roommate (not Lenny, but the other one) grew up in Minnesota and has snowboarded for over 10 years as well.  In short, I was like a virgin partying with a few of well-seasoned Corinthian women at the local brothel.

That's me in the back there.  

I made it from the gondola to the ski lift and we all took off down the mountain with me bringing up the rear.  They quickly disappeared into the fog.  Oh, did I mention it was snowing too?  As I tried to remember my ski instructor’s mantra “French fries to speed up, pizza slice to slow down,” I tried the ole, side to side technique to get down the mountain without incident.  I’m a jump in and learn later kind of guy and my rationale was that the more I sucked it up and just went for it, the easier it would get for me. 

As I gained confidence, I gained speed down the mountain and decided to French fry it rather than pizza slice it down a semi-steep but hardly daunting section of the run.  I made it about halfway down before I heard my college roommate yell as he went flying by on his second run.   I knew the others wouldn’t be far behind.  At that moment I turned and instantly felt my skis stop abruptly in the snow.  The only problem with that is that my body didn’t stop with them. 

I landed squarely on my left shoulder and heard the unmistakable sound of my ribs cracking inside my body before sliding to a stop and thanking God that I didn’t land on my head.  

Then the pain started. 

As I lay there in pain, looking skyward, my friend JV skied up next to me.  “Are you alright?”  “Yea, I think so.”  “Come on, I’ll get you down the mountain."  And he did.  For the next few minutes, ribs tightening, I stayed on the capable heels of  my friend JV until he got me safely to the gondola. 

“I’ll find everyone and we’ll meet you at Vendetta’s for pizza.  You sure you’re ok?” 

“Yes (wince, wince), I’m good.”

After some pizza, we walked back to the condo to meet my brother—also a non-skier who (wisely, in retrospect) opted for Facetiming with his kids and listening to his iPod over landing face first in the snow at top speed.  

My oldest friend conveniently happens to be an ER Doctor.  We’ll call him CG.

SGIA:  Can you look at me?  I think I broke some ribs. 

CG:  (Laughing) Yea, JV said you ate sh*t. 

SGIA:  (wincing as he examined me)

CG:  Nothing is sticking out.  If they’re cracked there’s nothing you can do anyway.

SGIA:  So what am I supposed to do?  Give me your medical opinion.

CG:  Take some Midol and drink through the pain. 

JV:  Here (handing me a beer).  Maybe you can sue someone.

Twin of SGIA:  Pussy.

College Roommate:  (Hysterical laughter) How are you going to bang CG’s mama tonight? 

SGIA:  I suppose I’ll have to give up my spot in line.

Twin of SGIA:  Dibs.

All:  Laughter

And so it went for the rest of the weekend and beyond.  For the record, I opted for ibuprofen over Midol and I did “drink through the pain.”   Actually, the real pain didn’t set in until my flight on the way home.  It still hurts . . . a lot.   However, the broken ribs are much like the other tribulations that have entered my life since these friends have been in it:  temporary. 

These friends, however, are not.   Well, until they all find out I’ve been banging their mamas. 

Call a close friend today and thank that person for being in your life.  Take care of yourselves and the people around you who actually matter.  In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be trying not to breathe, sit, sleep, or sneeze.   Please don’t let me sneeze.  DP

Bachelor Juan Pablo Final Episode: Conjunto Con Un Pinche Cabron

NOTE:  If you commented on the Teaser Post "No Juan Wants to Talk to Me," see below.  I tried to get to them all before posting this.  Thanks!  DP

Well hello, Readers.  Welcome to the close of yet another season of the show we all ask ourselves why we watch.  Before I get to the ass-handing that Juan Pablo was given by Clare, Harrison, Sean Lowe (sort of), and his ill-fitting Eurosuit, let me set up the Post and the Off-Season.  After all, life is easier when we know the expectations.  It makes it easier to lower our own. 

This will obviously be my final post of the big season.  However, I do have a post or two in the cannon, as I found some time to write and some much needed inspiration on my recent trip to Vail, Colorado.  I also broke a couple of ribs skiing (poorly), but that’s another story.  

It seems that the fluffy, white powder racing beneath my skis is neither fluffy, nor powdery when you hit it shoulder-first at full speed.  What can I say?  I grew up in Texas.  Water skiing is one thing, snow skiing is another.  Any lesser blogger would have cashed it in. 

As for my off-season posts, I can’t promise any regularity.  I’ve tried that in the past and you’ve been sorely disappointed, so I won’t make that mistake again.  Work is . . . well, work, and I’ve got more to do now that I have ever had to do in my entire career.  That’s exciting and terrifying at the same time.  The good news is that three things bring me real peace: A Good Book, A Good Workout, and A Good Blog Post.  I’ll write, but I don’t know how much.  Check in from time to time, please.    

Thank you all so much for your loyalty over the last few years.  I appreciate the time you take each week to read what falls out of my head and into the keyboard.  Now, let’s get to it. 

With Chardonnay chilled, plates prepared, and charcuterie chopped we headed into the big show, breathless with anticipatory glee waiting to see Juan Pablo fumble the ball on the goal line.  And boy did he fumble.  

Not since Wes Hayden went rogue after his Assassination by Edit has ABC turned so patently and so belligerently against a cast member on this show.  Harrison was brutal—and visibly annoyed.  Hell, even Roz Papas was given the courtesy of that fat guy in the leather hat to help her carry her sh*t.  

(You didn’t think I could not mention that guy in the final post of the season, did you?)

Harrison was indifferent toward Ben, but he clearly hated Juan Pablo because Harrison knew what an insincere, self-centered, macho, Latin jerkoff he was while the rest of us were still in the dark about it.  He was like ABC’s Morpheus offering us the red pill—a better looking, pearly toothed Morpheus. 

Juan Pablo is a Chach, Neo.  Soon, you will believe.

We begin with the usual set up in St. Lucia, this year’s scene of the Final Selection.  Little did we know we would see the third woman this season making the biggest selection rather than our dopey, semi-literate Bachelor. 

Still delusional, Clare arrives in a strappy purple number to meet the Juan Pablos while Juan Pablo broods amongst the flora and fauna in turquoise dropping a familiar (and foreboding) sentiment that he “likes [Clare] a lot . . . physically.”  I could almost hear the collective sigh of the astute women in the bunch but it was drowned out by the collective awww of those of you who had not yet taken the red pill. 

Clare meets Juan Pablo’s family.  

Let’s see, there was his dad Saul Pablo, mom Nelly Pablo, brother Rodolfo Pablo, his cousin Rodrigo Pablo, and, of course, the adorable Camilla Pablo.  There were perhaps more Pablos running around, but I must have missed them.  Carla ex-Pablo apparently did not make the treep.  Eeees Ok.    

Clare makes a mistake off the bat.  First, she tells the family her mother is Mexican.  What’s the problem, you ask?  Well, there wouldn’t be one if the Juan Pablos were not an incredibly traditional Venezuelan family.  I’ve got news for you.  A large portion of South America views Mexico as a third world country and, by extension, looks down on its people. 

For those of you with South American blood reading this (including my mother-in-law’s family) you know what I’m talking about.  It’s a stereotype, yes, but the prejudice exists and it was palpable with Clare.  Frankly, the family seemed just as self interested as Juan Pablo.  She also admitted to never learning Spanish, another no no.     

Clare meets with Nelly Pablo and she tees up perhaps the most shocking aspect of the finale for me.  She leads into her description of her own son as “eeee-per-acteeve” (that’s "hyperactive" in case you missed the ABC subtitle) and then proceeds to tell Clare he’s an asshole.  That was the first Amazing thing I’d seen all season. 

THEN, the rest of the Pablos proceed to do the exact same thing.  Granted, they politely refer to Juan Pablo as “difficult” or “not easy” but the red flag couldn’t have been more obvious than if Saul Pablo himself ran up behind Nelly Pablo and set it En Fuego.  Clare wiggled in denial as we all yelled at our screens.   

“When I’m in love I’m 1000% sure that I’ll do anything at all,” she giggles.  Like what, Clare?  Wait outside his house, slit his tires, and burn his belongings if he leaves you?  It was at this point I began to feel bad for Clare.

It was so obvious how desperate she was, and, with the rest of the season’s “incidents” in context, it was pretty clear that she’d gone for broke.  It’s too bad she didn’t realize how broke she really was before the “incident” in the ocean.  I’ve knocked her around this season more than Juan Pablo knocked her around in the Fantasy Suite, but I’ve never said she’s not a nice person.  Catty?  Sure.  Desperate? Yes.  But not spiteful, insincere, or ill-meaning.       

Rodolfo Pablo—who sounded a lot like Inigo Montoya in Princess Bride—again confirms that Juan Pablo is “not easy.”  Look, even though I’m 100% sure that a person can’t 1000% anything, I was 1000% sure that this was going to end badly for someone. 

Nikki is up.  

Rodolfo Pablo ees soopur escited to meet Neekee.   She arrives in pink bearing gifts and wearing a bra this time.  After giving some canned answers to Saul Pablo, Saul Pablo says that Juan Pablo “thinks he knows the truth about everything.”  Wow.  Was it just me or could all of you also picture Andi’s father gloating into his giant triple scotch in his recliner in Atlanta?    

Allow me to cut to the chase on this one.  I know you’re all awaiting my “Nikki Theory.”  Before I do, let me also say that this entire episode should be shown to all single girls in America and should be dissected and analyzed to illustrate the classic mistakes made by women in relationships.  Sex in the City, Schmex in the City.  Like the Nikki choice, this was textbook.  More about that in a bit.   

Juan Pablo acts like Juan Pablo and says something disrespectful and filthy to Clare.  I’m certain he could have said the exact same disrespectful and filthy thing to her in the ocean five shows ago when she really barely knew him and it wouldn’t have mattered, but that’s neither here nor there. 

She’s more invested now and won’t put up with that sort of thing.  Sure, a surreptitous romp in the ocean while he’s still sucking the tongues out of the faces of 15 other women she calls friends (except the winner) is fine.  So is lying about it.  But after she sleeps with him a second time in the Fantasy Suite she deserves to be treated like a lady.  

Please.  What did she expect?  What did you expect?  

It’s too bad Andi had the wherewithal to leave early.  Maybe one of ABC’s lawyers could have explained the concept of precedent to Clare before the big finale.  I’m not discounting the fact that what he said was ill-timed, insensitive in light of her skewed version of things, and makes him a bigger idiot than I thought, but I found the indignant stance she took a bit delusional.  Clare made her own bed by jumping into his a couple of times; however, I’ll agree that he crossed the line. 

Lesson number one:  Ladies, don’t jump into the ocean, the bed, the back seat, or anywhere else with a man you hardly know and then expect him to respect you much less fall in love with you.  To put it as bluntly as I once told a former female roommate of mine with a penchant for sleeping around first and then wondering why the phone never rang:  Don't lead with the poon.  

If all you want is sex, fine.  Own it.  However, if you want a long-term relationship you can’t get laid on the foundation before laying the foundation.  Juan Pablo is simply an extreme illustration of what most men think when that sort of thing happens.  He’s not eeee-per-acteeve, he’s a eeee-per-bo-lee (that’s "hyperbole" in case you missed the subtitle). 

I, for one, was proud of Clare for attempting to draw a line in the sand after that little exchange, but horrified when she gave him the satisfaction of muchos besitos after he manipulated his way back in  to her good graces by using her dead father, his daughter, every vulnerable thing she shared with him, and capped it off by offering her marriage and children “within 2 months.” 

I don’t know what the gestation period is in Venezuela, but I’m 1000% certain it’s not two months.  If I recall correctly, a cat has about a two-month gestation period.  It’s not surprising that Juan Pablo was thinking about pussy at a time he should have been thinking about Clare’s feelings. 

Clare was so close to achieving more personal growth at that moment than she had in her first 32 years.  Unfortunately, she fell short.  Like in the Women Tell All, Juan Pablo begins to get a real taste of that happens when the accent and his bullshit get old.   I rolled my eyes into my last sip of Lone Star and hoped Clare would walk away with as little emotional damage as possible.      

Nikki goes bikini. 

“That’s what you call trying to win,” I said to Mrs. Some Guy.  “No shit,” was her response.  No shit indeed. 

They talk aboard “his” yacht and she fails to make the distinction between Juan Pablo being “guarded” vs. just being a shallow schmuck.  Apparently, the accent and the bullshit haven’t worn off with her yet.  Where was Harrison with his red pill? 

I was encouraged for a moment when she asked, “what happens when you don’t have private islands anymore?”  Exactly.  Unfortunately, it went nowhere.   

Again, these are two textbook cases of women in denial. 

• Both women watched as two of the smartest, most secure women in the house, Sharleen and Andi, intentionally removed themselves from the show because he was a jerk. 

• Both women watched as he took making out in front of the other women to an entirely new level, even for this show.

• Both women saw him dismiss the drunk Brazilian as she cried in the bathroom and leave for the mansion.  Granted, she was hammered, but a gentleman would have at least ensured she got home safely.

• Both women ignored the fact that he touted being a father as the most important thing in his life but sent Renee home--the most obvious choice to be a stepmother to Cameeeela and the only one who acted like one all season.

• Both women were repeatedly ignored, dismissed, or placated by him in the face of even the most basic questions and both women endured overtly sexual comments and gestures in front of the other women and in private in lieu of real conversation. 

He was neither charming, nor engaging.  He was dismissive, aloof, shallow, chauvinistic, and inappropriate.  He was a show off.   

YET, they both slept with him and both blew by every red flag draped at eye level across the intersection of Amazing Blvd. and Journey Ave.  They both surrendered their self-respect and their sense of decency in the face of their families’ advice and counsel in the name of being the last woman standing amongst the flora and fauna and presumptuously took for granted they’d be wearing the Neil Lane ring looking down at a guy neither of them really knew and, dare I say, REALLY liked.  They were just as naïve and ignorant as he was obnoxious and insincere.    

When there’s a sign in the road, Ladies, take the Rose Colored Glasses off, slow down, and take a moment to read it before heading over the cliff at the end of that road.  If you choose to ignore it, at least you’ve been warned.  

Rarely, if ever, have I had a visceral reaction to this show (well, if you exclude laughing hysterically while Jake ratted on Wes, cried on a balcony, got cheated on at his own cocktail party, cried about it, and then broke down in a fit of acrophobia on a date with Vienna and then cried about it despite being a pilot); however, I really found myself mad at all 3 of them.     

Final Send Off

Clare’s send off was Epic.  From the look of disgust to the double Heisman she hit him with when he went in for an assumptive goodbye hug all the way to the bra burning, I am Woman Hear me Roar speech she masterfully pulled off, it was pure Bachelor gold.  

Rage spawns irrationality but controlled anger is a pointy spear and Clare hit a bullseye just shy of an F Off.  Here’s some footage of her metamorphosis.

If ANY of you actually know Clare or someone who knows her, get this to her.

Open Letter to Clare. 

Dear Clare,

In that one moment when you found it within you to throw a double-fisted hug block into the chest of the opportunistic bonobo monkey in front of you, you took the red pill.  All of the garbage you spouted early in the season about being a strong woman who hasn’t found love or the right guy faded away like the dopey smile on Juan Pablo’s humiliated, sexist face when you let him have it. 

The only thing that all of your relationships have in common is you.  The only person who can fix you is not a misogynistic, disrespectful Neanderthal; it’s you.  Remember what that moment felt like and remember how different its aftermath felt after the crying stopped.  Remember that and you won’t fall for hair gel, soccer stories, poor English, or intentional stupidity again.  Congratulations, Clare. 

Love, Some Guy in Austin

P.S. (Please don’t do Bachelor Pad).

P.P.S. (If you know, please tell me what’s in that blue water you wash your combs in).

  

I’ll sum up Nikki’s choice as catastrophically blind and just leave it at that.  Feeling the pressure of St. Lucia and simply agreeing to agree is one thing but after watching the season she should have had more self respect than to keep her mouth completely shut even if she was contractually obligated to show up.  She’s intelligent, but she’s not smart and she looked incredibly foolish seeting there glued to Juan Pablo’s underarm like a sex toy while he refused to admit that he more than “liked her a lot” despite an avalanche of direct questions from Harrison.    

Buena Suerte con el pendejo, Neekee. 

Now, how did Some Guy “know” it was going to be Neekee from the beginning?  Here goes.

It was apparent to me from early on that Juan Pablo had a traditionally Latin view of women.  I have a couple of friends from South America and their families are extremely traditional.  Women listen to the men.  The man is the king of the house.  You know the drill.  My guess was that Juan Pablo was of that ilk.  That was a guess.  I also guessed that he was either a brunette guy or a blonde guy.  I picked blonde because Miami is filled with dark-headed Cubans and I thought he might like a change.  I was right about that too. 

I looked at the profiles and saw that Nikki had a stepmom-friendly career and assumed that the career would arouse his interest.  It did.  I also assumed that once he got a look at her in a cocktail dress and a bikini and realized she was 7 years younger than he was, she’d be in the final 3.  Men go younger.  It’s a fact.  Clare was his age and my other favorites were either brunette or older than Nikki.  Throw in a little luck and the fact that Juan Pablo theenks weeth his deek and boom, Some Guy is a Genius.  It’s that simple. 

It doesn’t hurt that—despite my MANY faults—I have the gift of empathy and find it very easy to get inside people’s heads.  I just dumbed myself down a bit, pretended I was a Venezuelan soccer player’s deek, and the answer hit me like two fists in the gut thrown by a disgruntled two-night stand.  

I realize that explanation is tantamount to Dorothy’s peek behind the curtain only to discover Wizard of Oz was really some short dude with a microphone, but (say it with me) I’m yust beeeing honest. 

Boom. 

Thank you all again for making this season a lot of fun for me.  Check back in every once in a while, would you?  I write for myself during the off-season, but I’ll post it anyway.  Take care of yourselves.  In the meantime, if you need me I’ll be wheespering filthy things into Mrs. Some Guy’s ear.  DP

 

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