WORLD—ER—UNITED STATES FOOTBALL CHAMPIONS

I watched a wee bit of the American football championship game between the Chicago Bears and those traitorous Baltimore Colts (all right—Indianapolis Colts). A boring and tedious affair, and the arrogance of football players and the men who own them, buy and sell them, is limitless. They still call themselves World Champions when the only people in the world who play American football are Americans. Even the Canadians don’t play American style football. Then they bring their American god into it in their thank yous, not realizing that the god of the world, according to the millions in the world, of course, plays soccer. That god doesn’t give a piffle for American football. In fact, in a document, called the “Gospel According to Wayne Pifflesnatch”, Jesus is revealed to like playing soccer in Nazareth, kicking around an inflated pig’s bladder in the dust of the central square where all the gals came to fill their clay water bottles. They only called it football back in those days because they liked to kick around that inflated pig’s bladder with their feet. Anyone with half a brain knows that there is very little kicking the ball around in American football. Only as a last resort. So Jesus was definitely a soccer fan. He had never heard of football as Americans play it when he died, according to the Gospel now in my possession.

‘Nother insight. There is a rumor about that men who play football are real tough sorts of men, but when I look at those sweating, panting behemoths, gasping for breath after a play that lasts all of a few seconds at a tumble, I try to imagine them running up and down a soccer field for long stretches of time. It’s laughable to try and picture it. None of them are in shape for such an ordeal.

THE HAT MAN WHO MISTOOK HIMSELF FOR A WALK

Speaking of arrogance. As I self-consciously crossed the huge coffee shop restaurant at Spokane Community College, imagining every eye on the interesting old man in the interesting hat (yes, this hat), I was sensing my walk and got to thinking about “men walking” (probably because the “Dead Man Walking” nun was visiting Spokane Community College) which, naturally slid my thoughts right over to John Wayne and his familiar and famous walk that has been commented upon for nearly a half century now. My Wayne-walk thought, then, opened my brain synapses to recalling that exaggerated strut, with the stiff-armed swing, of black men about—what?—20?—or was it 40 years ago? Their walk, I realized, when I’d traversed about 80% of the distance from my seat in the restaurant to the door out, was John Wayne’s walk, only exaggerated about 100% until it was a comment upon and critique of Mr. Wayne’s very own cowboy strut.

Well. . . I cain’t hep it—my thoughts just go to running along whenever I leave my brain running and unsupervised for a minute.