Edit 12/7/09: To those many, many folks coming to this post through blogcatalog: I apologize for not having pictures of this subject. If I had known that one link in that one discussion thread would lead to so many hits, here, I would have made this post much more interesting.

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OK, I’ve got to ask this, somewhere: Are thongs uncomfortable?

You never see panty lines anymore. It’s fashionable for women’s clothing to be tight, smooth, and sometimes very thin. The thongs are obvious by the lack of panty lines. You don’t even have to be intentionally looking to notice it. And sometimes you can see the thong, either through light-colored pants, or above the top of their belt line. Ten years ago, having someone see your underwear would have been an embarrassment. Now it’s a fashion statement.

I noticed a waitress’s pants in a restaurant. She was slightly bent over, serving the table directly across from me, so I had full view of her bottom, though I really wasn’t trying to look. (Honest.) She must have been wearing a thong. I considered this thought: such workers are constantly walking around; doesn’t having something. . . between there. . . bother/chap/scratch/you-know after a few quick trips back and forth to the kitchen?

I know this post could easily get me into trouble. But I provided full disclosure to my wife at the time of the witness and thought, so hopefully I’m safe.

Having normal underwear slide somewhere they aren’t supposed to be is uncomfortable. Most people immediately start looking for a private corner to stand in so they can make an adjustment. But thongs are always there. How can that be comfortable, especially all day long, walking around constantly?

Bullgrit

My game group played some Risk tonight. We used the Mission cards that give each player a secret goal, rather than each fighting for full control of the world. Fighting for total domination can take many hours to complete, especially with 3 or 4 players.

In one game, I got the Mission card to control North America and Australia. At game set up, I randomly started with two of the four territories in Australia, and four of the nine territories in North America. In setting out my extra armies, I put everything in NA and Oz, leaving everything else pretty defenseless. Surprisingly, neither of the other two players intended to contest NA. They both stocked their armies in South America, Europe, Africa, and Australia. Asia was left pretty open by all of us.

I won the die roll to take my turn first. I had to work a bit to take Australia from one player who wanted it for himself, but I got it all and moved into Siam. I then started work on North America. The single defenders in each NA territory put up a lucky fight, causing me to use up almost all of my attacking armies, but I eventually captured every territory in NA. I then ended my turn.

I had captured a total of nine territories in my opening move, taking both North America and Australia. I had a solid hold on Oz, with a strong force in Siam. But North America was only held by one army in each territory. There was no way I was going to hold it for even one round, what with enemy armies in Iceland and Venezuela. I took my Risk card for completing my turn, and the next player started counting his territories to determine how many armies he could place.

Then I remembered my Mission card. “Hey, I just won!” I showed my Mission card to the other players.

That was the quickest game of Risk I have ever witnessed, much less won. Victory in the first round, first turn. It had been 15 minutes from the end of the last game to the end of this game.

It was great. But it was also a Hail Mary play, because had the game gone for even one more player turn, I wouldn’t have had anything but Australia to show for my effort. I lost the other two games of Risk we played tonight, but I won the Hell out of that one.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

Today has been a bad day. Stressful, aggravating, and tiring. I would normally write my daily post right now, but I need to kill some stuff for a couple hours.

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OK, it’s been almost three hours of run, shoot, kill, blow stuff up, run some more. I played F.E.A.R., a first-person shooter computer game with a horror/mystery story. I didn’t pick this game for the horror theme, but rather for the gunfire effects — smoke, damage to property, damage to enemies, etc. I needed some blood and explosions to purge the stress from my system.

You see, computer games don’t make people perform violence; computer games help people keep from performing violence.

Yes, I’m being facetious, here. Mostly. Virtual violence and destruction can improve a guy’s mental state. Guys like watching gun battles and explosions. And the only thing better than watching them is participating in them (from the protective cover of a computer screen).

In most shoot-’em-up computer games, the victims of your violence are bad guys: vicious monsters, sinister aliens, evil demons, and nazis. Occasionally the bad guys are not so much evil as just opposing you: mercenaries who will kill you without question if you don’t kill them first, soldiers who will kill you because it’s their duty. So you can play the game and shoot anything and everything without remorse.

Even if the targets of your guns are not bad, they are just computer images. The only people who get confused between reality and a computer image are the types who get confused between reality and a movie image. Or between reality and the messages in a Beatles album.

Anyway. I killed bad guys and blew up bad things and generally got the stress out of my system. I can go to bed, get a good night’s sleep, and be a regular husband, dad, and citizen in the morning. I’m only a crazed killer and mad demolitionist in the occasional evening. And I try to finish up by midnight.

Bullgrit

My oldest son (age 6) has just started tee-ball practice. (That’s baseball for kids who aren’t old enough to pitch or hit off a pitch.) We’ve been to two practices, and games will start in a couple weeks. There’s 15 kids on his team, 3 of them girls. I expected more girls. He played soccer a couple years ago (at age 4) and his team was 5 boys and 5 girls.

I’ve never been a baseball fan. It’s really a boring sport to me. Two hours of game for excitement that can be shown in a two-minute highlight film. But I played little league, and I threw a ball around with my dad when I was young.

Anyway, when we signed him up for this league, at his request, it got me interested in my old ball and glove. I contacted my dad and asked him to find my old stuff from my little league days. He found the ball and glove, and I got them the next time I was in my hometown.

My son quickly took a liking to my old glove. It’s dark, well worn, and very loose in the fold. He likes it better than the glove we specifically bought for him, and he wants to use it in his practice and games. This is a wonderfully sweet thing, and it’s a terribly frightening thing. I love that he wants to use my old glove — I mean, that’s a made-for-TV-movie scenario, right there. But I fear it will fall apart, get lost, or something. It’s very sentimental to me; it’s a treasured item from my youth.

But I’m slowly massaging my sentimental attachment to allow for more memories to be added to it. My son can add his own memories to my 30+ year-old glove. Already, a couple of other tee-ball dads have commented on the old glove, in a good way. All the other kids have brand new gloves, bright and stiff.

Today I got out a pen to write my son’s name in the glove. I can still see my own name written in two spots, and I can even, just barely, make out my old address, too. The writing is faded, and in my mom’s handwriting. I wrote my son’s name on a new spot on the glove, in permanent marker. That makes it official.

It actually feels pretty cool. Although I still have a bit of an anxious knot in my stomach at the thought of something happening to it. I think I could handle it tearing or falling apart, but I so strongly hope he doesn’t put it down somewhere and forget it. It would break my heart to loose it. But I should just suck it up and get over it. With writing his name in it, I’m passing it on now. It’s not mine anymore, it’s his. With any luck, 30-some years from now, he’ll call me on the phone and ask me to find his old ball glove. And he’ll pick it up the next time he visits.

Bullgrit