If We Are Evolving, We’re a Work in Progress

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comOh, Charles Darwin, I hate you missed this one.

I don’t see much on the news that surprises me anymore. But today, that changed when I heard about the social media sensation among teenagers called the Tide Pod Challenge.

In case you don’t know, Tide Pods are little pillows of liquid laundry detergent inside a plastic bag. I guess the plastic dissolve in the washing machine; I don’t know.

Apparently, teenagers are videoing themselves eating the pods and posting them, of course, on social media.

According to the American Association of Poison Control Centers, 40 exposures to liquid laundry detergent pods by 13- to 19-year-olds were reported during the first 11 days of this month. This is 20 percent of the number of occurrences in all of 2017. 

I’ll do the math for you: last year, 200 teenagers — and future Darwin Award winners — ate laundry detergent.

The poison control folks went on to say that more than half of this year’s incidents were deliberate. Last year, only 25 percent of the baby-powder-scented snacks were scarfed on purpose.

That means last year, of the 200 incidents, 150 were by mistake.

How on earth does someone who is at least in middle school eat a little sack of laundry detergent on purpose, much less by mistake?

I’ve got some bad news, Tommy Teenager. Brittany Bodacious isn’t going to start like-liking you because you Snap-chatted yourself in the laundry room munching on soap.

Whether you believe in evolution or not, you’ve got to hand it to Darwin for his theory of natural selection when viewed through the lens of the Tide Pod Challenge.

I cruised over to Tide’s twitter page, and saw where they tweeted: “What should Tide PODs be used for? DOING LAUNDRY. Nothing else.”

 Right below that was a re-tweet of someone’s blog titled “Laundry Safety Tips for Teens.”

Isn’t that beautiful.

Laundry safety for teens used to mean Tommy made sure he didn’t leave any contraband in his pockets before mom went through them while filling the washer.

I really didn’t think we needed to tell kids not to eat detergent, but since we do, maybe we should be proactive and put out some similar warnings.

Don’t put fire ants in your ear.

Take the ketchup out of the bottle before eating.

Open the sliding glass door before exiting.

Keep your eyes open while driving.

Use an oven mitt before removing the cast-iron skillet from the oven.

Do not hold the chainsaw by the chain.

Did I miss any?

I didn’t even get to ladders.

Of course, we’ve already got ladders covered. I always wondered who the fool was who led to ladder factories requiring those big yellow “this is not a step” warning stickers on the top. Whoever it was, I’ll bet he had laundry detergent on his breath.

If I had it to do over again, I would go to law school. I don’t believe there will ever be enough attorneys in the world to keep up with the lawsuits that will result from people being able to cash in because they hurt themselves doing painfully stupid things.

On the other hand, maybe this discredits Darwin’s theory of evolution once and for all, because if we’re videoing ourselves eating soap, we haven’t evolved very much.

The New Millennium has been Up, Down and Sideways

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comCongratulations on another anniversary of being Y2K ready.

It seems like just yesterday we were crossing through the 19 on our checks and replacing it with 2000. We’ve seen a lot since then.

Without a doubt, the biggest watershed event of this still-young millennium was the 9/11 attacks and subsequent war on terror. The list of terror attacks around the world since then is long and bloody, underscoring the eternal global clash between cultures. 

We have been subjected to way too many mass shootings since Y2K. Las Vegas is the deadliest and most recent. But we will never forget the Pulse nightclub, Virginia Tech, Sandy Hook, Aurora, Charleston, and seemingly countless others.

I think it’s strange we can all agree we have a terror problem, but we can’t agree on whether we have a gun problem.

Natural disasters are nothing new either, but they are becoming worse and more frequent. A quarter of a million people in 14 countries died in the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami. Roughly the same number died in the Haiti earthquake 6 years later.

Closer to home, endless powerful tornadoes and hurricanes have battered the US in the past 18 years. In 2017 alone, hurricanes Harvey, Irma and Maria killed hundreds and caused billions of dollars of damage in the US and Caribbean.

We believe scientists when they tell us a hurricane is coming, but some of us roll our eyes when they tell us what’s causing it. I don’t understand that either.

On the lighter side, the new millennium meant the end for Pluto as a planet, which makes me wonder which other parts of my third grade education will become obsolete. 

Facebook and the smart phone were born since 2000, and the phenomenon of publicly documenting everything from our lunch at Denny’s to the view from our balcony in Panama City shortly followed.

I guess it’s debatable whether those are good or bad things, but in the sake of balance, we’ll put them in the good column.

I don’t think of myself as a techie but my favorite thing of the 21st century so far is google. The mere thought of having the knowledge base of the entire world at my fingertips still blows my mind.

My second favorite new thing is the digital camera. I can now instantly see a bad photo I shoot instead of waiting three days.

Fashion has changed a lot lately. The flip-flop came into its own in the 21st century. Of course, so did crocs. Torn jeans cost more than not-torn jeans; and jeans that look muddy are the most expensive of all.

Tattoos and body piercings became mainstream. It’s not my thing, but to each his own, I suppose.

Streaming video and audio services have transformed the way we consume media. Series like Twilight and Harry Potter got kids in the habit of reading again.

The 2000s have already given us some notable firsts in sports. Michael Phelps won eight gold medals, the Cubbies won the World Series, and Peyton Manning became the first NFL quarterback to win a Super Bowl playing for two different teams.

That’s a lot of stuff for 19 years, and I barely touched on politics.

You see, something good has already happened to you this year.

Who am I to Say What’s a Waste of Time?

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comBack in my days of working at a financial institution, we had to adhere to all types of regulations.

Compliance took lots of time. Some people — never me, of course — thought it was all a big waste of time.

We had to send people to classes, endure government examinations, verify we had all the fine print right and buy computer programs to make sure our calculations were correct.

One computer program we used calculated what is called the time value of money. 

The time value of money is an economic theory based on the premise that a certain amount of money is worth more today than the same amount of money is worth tomorrow.

For instance, theoretically having $1,000 today is better than having $1,000 tomorrow, because if you have it today, you can invest it today and start earning interest on it.

I thought about this concept when I overheard two young adults talking about their black Friday shopping experience.

They were thrilled — giddy, almost —  at their conquest in the wee hours on the day after Thanksgiving.

They saved $12 on a video game, and they only had to wait in line for an hour and a half to pay for it.

Essentially, they traded an hour and a half to save $12. Trading time for money is essentially like working for someone.

In this case, their wage was $8 an hour.

That $8 an hour only accounts for one person, though. Since they both stood there like lemmings all that time, we can divide their earnings in half for a grand total of $4 an hour for each person.

Don’t get me wrong. I sometimes waste time. It’s easy to get caught up mindlessly watching a television show or playing around on the internet and look up 5 minutes later to see that an hour has passed. 

I try to avoid it, though. And at the very least, I try to be cognizant of when I’m doing it.

It probably gets magnified when we become more in tune with our on mortality as we get older.

We’re all different, though. I realize my idea of wasting time is probably different from yours.

Those two kids who spent 90 minutes of their lives only to buy a video game they will spend countless more hours playing with isn’t my idea of good time management.

Of course, they’ve got a lot more time left than I do, so I guess they can afford to burn a little of it.

Who am I to talk? I was pretty good at Pac Man back in the days when we had to wait in line forever at the arcade for our turn to play it.

Normally, that would’ve been my big finish, but I want to take a moment to thank you for reading my column for another year. I appreciate your emails, and I love it when you see me out somewhere and tell me you enjoy reading it. You all keep me going.

I also want to thank the editors and publishers at the newspapers who give me some space every week. Your job is harder than it has ever been, and I am honored to be a minuscule part of it. Keep fighting the good fight.

In 2018, I will try not to be a waste of your time.

The Struggle is Real for the Sagittarius Kids

My birthday is this week.

If you’re a December baby, I feel your pain.

If you’re not a December baby, you have no idea what I’m talking about.

You see, we December babies are a put-upon bunch when it comes to our birthdays.

We simply can’t compete with Christmas — or as it is better known — the time of year when 2.2 billion people all try to cram into the same Olive Garden for 7 p.m., reservations every night in December.

If your birthday is any other time of year, you can enjoy a leisurely celebratory meal. And we all know what happens afterward. Dozens of times we’ve watched the server bring you that little piece of complementary cake topped with something called ganache. We’ve heard the staff sing to you. We’ve watched you blow out that little blue candle.

Try getting a free piece of cake or a serenade in December. And heaven forbid anyone lights a candle when the place is already an overcrowded fire hazard.

If you don’t believe me, I urge you to swing by your favorite restaurant this Friday night. 

The lobby temperature will be about 200 degrees, and it will be filled with two dozen Christmas parties of 20 waiting shoulder-to-shoulder for their tables. They yuck it up with each other while taking up all the overflow seating with scads of presents piled in their laps.

Meanwhile, the ol’ Sagittarius birthday boy and his poor little family are cowered down in the corner like the Grinch and Max during the Whoville Christmas parade.

The archer is the symbol for Sagittarius, right? Wrong. Sagittarius stands for “he who must wait 4 hours for his birthday ganache and never got to blow out squat.”

Those people who complain about the war on Christmas surely don’t have a holiday season birthday or never received a birthday present wrapped in red and green paper with Noel printed all over it.

Until I was 12, I thought Noel was a German word for happy birthday.

I only had one traditional birthday party growing up. I was probably 8 or 9. We had it in my garage with kids from church.

I remember the kids spending the entire time trying to one-up each other on what they were getting for Christmas.

We played pin the tail on the donkey. I’m surprised we didn’t blindfold each other and try to stick a red felt ball to a cardboard cutout of Rudolph hanging on the wall.

Having a December birthday is no fun for a college student, either. 

Do you want to know how I spent five consecutive birthdays between the ages of 19 and 23?

Studying for finals.

“Hey, Currin, what did you do on your birthday?”

“Oh, man, I got so smart last night. I started out by brushing up on my Spanish verb conjugation, then I buzzed over to the biology lab to make sure the pins holding open my dissected frog hadn’t come loose. I’ll tell you, by the time I sat down to write that paper about the defenestration of Prague, it was midnight. I shut that library down!”

To you December babies, buck up. It’s time to gut out another one.

May the ganache be with you.

What if Everyone Used Their Talents for Good

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comI saw a perplexing sight yesterday while driving down the interstate.

Probably 50 feet off the shoulder of the road sat a temporary building with particle board siding on a construction site.

Someone had painted graffiti on it.

Unfortunately, there’s nothing unusual about a building on a construction site being painted with graffiti.

With apologies to Paul Harvey, here is the rest of the story.

The building was surrounded by an 8-foot chainlink fence which included three or four rows of barbed wire attached to supports that jutted diagonally from the top of the fence.

Without bolt cutters or a cherry picker truck, a person seemingly could not have gotten inside that cage even to save their own life.

It took a special kind of energy, motivation and ingenuity for the guy with the spray paint can to get in.

Here’s a similar, albeit more tragic story.

Forty years ago, my little town built a pair of lighted tennis courts at the city park. We were in heaven, because before that, we had been playing in a friend’s driveway lining up our bicycles tire-to-tire in the middle to create a makeshift net.

The day they were to be completed, we rose at dawn and rode our bikes — which would no longer have to double as tennis nets — down to the courts.

When we got to the park, we were horrified at what we saw. 

Someone had cut down the nets and detached the four big poles holding the lights from their concrete bases and let them fall.

I remember the sick feeling we all experienced.

The obvious question was, why?

The second-most-obvious question was, how did someone find a wrench big enough to fit the bolts which were the diameter of a coffee mug?

It took quite a commitment.

The father of one of my friends quipped it was probably the hardest the vandal had ever worked in his life. I don’t doubt it.

I think about that story when I ponder why someone uses the far reaches of their brain to do something as brainless as breaking through a metal fence merely to tag a building with graffiti.

I think about it when I hear details of a carefully concocted plot someone devises to get away with embezzlement for years.

I think about it when I get an email purportedly from an acquaintance, only to realize their email account has been hacked.

As I was writing this, I got a call from a number from a school in Madison, Ala. I did a little research and learned this number had been hijacked by criminals the same way emails get hijacked.

Think for a moment about people throughout history who have gone to unfathomable lengths to do bad things. I do not doubt they all were either talented, ingenuous or just plain tenacious. Some are likely a combination of all three.

How would civilization be different if those people had used their talents and such energy for the common good? Would cancer and diabetes be diseases of the past? Would we be vacationing on Mars? Would our museums be filled with more beautiful art?

I would love to offer a solution, but I’m not nearly smart enough.

Maybe if the guy who defaced that construction trailer will get on another path and figure it out for us.

I hope so.

All the Amazing Ways we Misuse Words

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comWe’re ruining another word.

I first discovered this at a restaurant a few days ago.

The server came to the table to take our order.

“I’ll have water.”

“Perfect.”

“… with lemon.”

“Perfect.”

“… and baked tilapia.”

“Perfect.”

“And, there’s an ax murderer sneaking up on you.”

“Perfect.”

Of course, I’m being silly. I would never order baked tilapia.

Then the next time we ate out, the same exact thing happened again. The answer the server gave to everything we said was “perfect.”

Could it be we’re destroying another word in the English language? Is the word “perfect” the next victim of our insatiable desire to unnecessarily change the meaning of a word?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not advocating we go back to saying things like “wherefore art thou.” I say “cool” when I like something. The other day, I slipped back into the ‘80s momentarily and referred to something good as “bad.”

But come on, fair citizens of earth, we have over 171,400 words in English. Let’s treat them all with some respect.

Here are a few we need to stop using incorrectly.

* Random. Just the other day I heard someone say, “I’m just so random sometimes.” I don’t even know what this means. What is keeping this person from saying, “I’m just so lug wrench,” or “I’m just so cat food?”

* Awesome. This is the grandaddy of them all. Yes, I say it, but I don’t feel good about it. The California redwoods are awesome. Someone’s selfie is not. 

  • Amazing. This is almost like awesome but several times more annoying to me. And yes, I must admit I’m guilty of this one sometimes, too.
  • Sick. Some of you may not even be familiar with this one. Saying something is sick means something is cool, or amazing, or awesome.
  • Literally. I hate this one the worst, yes, literally. People will say, “I got so mad, I literally exploded.” Or, “It is literally raining cats and dogs.” I heard this one the other day: “I am literally starving to death.”
  • Addicted. This is a close second to literally in the annoying category. People become addicted to chemical substances like drugs or nicotine. People do not become addicted to Netflix (I don’t think).
  • Sweet. I emailed someone the other day telling them I was going to be able to do whatever it was they wanted done. They replied, “sweet.” 

We get in the habit of over-using phrases as well. I don’t much care for it when I say “excuse me” and the other person says, “Oh, you’re all right.” Again, what does that even mean? I already know I’m all right, at least I think I do. But if people suddenly stop telling me I’m all right, will I begin to think I’m no longer all right? I can see it happening.

I first heard the phrase “no problem” when I was on vacation in Hawaii more than 30 years ago. All the Hawaiian people in the service industry would say it with gusto to tourists, and it was novel to me. But, somebody apparently snuck it back like a pineapple, and now it’s spread worse than kudzu.

It has virtually replaced saying thank you, especially in younger people.

“I’ll have water.”

“No problem.”

“… with lemon.”

“No problem.”

“… and baked tilapia.”

“No problem.”

It drives me crazy, but not literally.

Maybe the Thanksgiving Magic will Stick Around

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comI was busy last week.

It started last Sunday with an all-day obligation. Then, three of the five weekdays had both before- and after-work functions on top of lots of meetings in between.

Over the weekend, I was looking at my calendar for this week and delighted in seeing only two appointments, which were both on Monday. I couldn’t believe it.

I closed my eyes and imagined all the things I would accomplish.

I would be able to flesh out some of my big ideas that perpetually get pushed forward because of more pressing obligations.

I might clean off my desk. Or, maybe I would put all the files in their correct folders on my laptop.

I might even rest one afternoon.

Oh, boy, I was excited.

After about 15 seconds, though, my excitement was overtaken by another feeling.

There it was highlighted in light blue on my calendar, right smack dab on the middle of Thursday:

Thanksgiving Day.

Inexplicably, I had forgotten for a couple of minutes this was Thanksgiving week.

I can blame this on a couple of things. First, being self-employed means I don’t have upcoming days off circled in red on the calendar anymore. Second, our child is toughing it out in the Mediterranean for 9 months, so he won’t be with us for the first time in 24 Thanksgivings.

My disappointment at losing what might’ve been a relaxing week gave way to good feelings fairly quickly because I love Thanksgiving.

One of my favorite slivers of the year is Thanksgiving evening when too much food on top of the exhaustion of helping get everything ready gives way to a blissful semi-comatose state for a few hours.

As you know, though, the preparation for Thanksgiving can be pretty stressful.

First is the trip to the grocery store. Looking for a parking place and dealing with the hordes of people who apparently only grocery shop once a year is not for the faint of heart.

For me, the proposition of thawing the turkey isn’t much fun. I am in charge of cooking the meat, so this one hits home with me. 

One day too long thawing in the fridge, and I am convinced I’m going to put my heaving family on the national news. My bigger fear, however, is tossing a half-frozen tom on the smoker and having to explain to everyone why the Thanksgiving meal is a midnight snack this year.

I don’t love getting the turkey ready to cook. I always think maybe those vegetarians have a point when I’m pulling out all those little sacks of things. It’s like clowns pouring out of a car. There always seems to be one more giblet hiding in there somewhere.

All the stress and anxiety is worth it, though, when we sit around the table and tell what we’re thankful for.

I feel pretty lucky when thawing a turkey is among my biggest problems. Sometimes, I feel guilty because of it.

Not everyone has a feast. Not everyone drives to grandma’s house or has a yard full of cars in their driveway on Thanksgiving Day.

I tend to think more about those less fortunate this time of year, and I suspect we all do.

Maybe next Thanksgiving I will be proud of myself for keeping that Thanksgiving feeling alive all year long.

This Certainly Hasn’t Been the Year of the Dog

According to the Chinese calendar, this is the year of the rooster.

I didn’t know that until just a few minutes ago, but based on what I’ve seen this year, I surely knew we weren’t in the year of the dog.

Ginger is our geriatric beagle; and Ginger has had a tough run of luck this year.

Last winter, she lost her littermate and soulmate of 15 years, MaryAnn. During that decade and a half they were rarely more than a paw’s distance from each other. Their food bowls touched. They slept in the same crate every night.

We were all heartbroken when MaryAnn died, but it was Ginger who lost the most.

It wasn’t long after that we realized Ginger couldn’t hear. MaryAnn had been her ears, for years maybe. We’ll never know.

I’m sure being a deaf dog is complicated. But having a deaf dog is complicated as well. It requires lots of arm waving to get her attention. Sometimes she can hear me whistle, but that seems to come and go.

We think her inability to hear is what caused the rift between her and our cat, MacGyver, which I wrote about back in the summer.

We think MacGyver hissed at Ginger, and Ginger didn’t respond appropriately because she didn’t hear her. That probably intimidated MacGyver and made her aggressive.

So, here we have a mourning dog that can’t hear and now has to deal with a mad cat.

How could it get worse for the old girl?

Here’s how. 

Saturday morning, I let Ginger out of her crate to go out. She started walking sideways, stumbled and fell. She immediately got up and it happened again. 

She looked the way Otis Campbell looks when he incarcerates himself into the Mayberry jail on Saturday night.

Always the optimist, I figured it was the end of the line for her.

On the way to the vet, Ginger sat limp in Kim’s lap with her head down flat. Normally, she would’ve been bouncing off the walls of her crate.

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.com

If it’s not someone showing off their rash, it’s two people sitting across the room trying to outdo each other at the top of their lungs bragging about their maladies.

Animals can be just as annoying.

On Saturday, we had to endure two gargantuan dogs trying desperately to break their leashes to get at us.

The poor vet employee was trying her best to restrain them while their owner nonchalantly filled out paperwork and assured us they wouldn’t hurt us.

The vet diagnosed Ginger with vestibular disease, which basically means she cannot keep her balance. The vet told us she would probably get used to it. I can relate to that. I have to get used to age-related things all the time.

She’s getting around a little better, and we don’t have any reason to think she won’t continue to improve. The vet said her head might be permanently tilted to the side, and she will be a little bit slower.

I don’t know what’s going on in her brain, but I have a hunch she is ready to leave 2017 behind.

This Unlikely Marriage? I Give it a Year

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comGoogle and Walmart are getting married.

This is the best news the cynical side of me has heard in a long time. Here we have the sleek, Silicon Valley technological giant getting hitched to the icon for small-town America.

It’s a tale as old as time. It’s beauty and the beast. It’s a modern-day Sonny Drysdale and Ellie Mae Clampett plot.

The way I understand it, here’s how the engagement unfolded.

A couple of weeks ago, Google announced a new venture to make Walmart products available through Google Express, which is Google’s answer to Amazon.

As part of this program, consumers can order Walmart products by simply speaking their shopping list into their Google Home speaker, which is a little device that sits on the kitchen counter, or wherever.

And somehow, this whole shebang connects to Walmart, and then wham, bam, thank you Sam, your bananas, hamster food, 10W30 and those new brown socks all magically appear at your door.

All you have to do is make sure your bathrobe is cinched for public viewing before you step on your front porch. What could be easier?

I don’t understand how it works, but they say it does. 

Considering my aversion to going to Walmart, I should see this as good news. I just don’t think I — and the other average Joes out there — can wrap our heads around it.

I took a rare trip to Walmart a couple of days ago, and I simply didn’t see a lot of people I thought would be googling their order anytime soon — which includes the person who disappeared after backing into my car and leaving three gashes on the rear bumper. I wonder if it was the same person who backed their scooter into my buggy in produce?

Going to Walmart is an activity for a lot of people. I truly think it borders on entertainment. I just don’t think people are willing to give that up.

When I go, I only go because I need something right at that moment. And usually it’s something, or a combination of things, I don’t believe I could get anywhere else.

And regardless of what it is and where I am going to get it, when I need it, I need it then. I don’t want to log on, type my username and try to remember my password. I don’t want to have to re-enter my payment information because my card they have on file is expired.

And most of all, I don’t want to have to wait three or four days for the fellow in the big truck to bring it to my front door.

I like touching a sock before I buy it. I like picking out my own bananas.

Besides, if people just tell a space-age speaker sitting on their kitchen table what to bring them from Walmart, where are they going to show off their new pajamas? What is going to happen to that People of Walmart website?

The marriage will probably work out fine. The billionaires who cook up schemes like this are  billionaires for a reason.

The wedding will be lavish and the reception will be top notch. I’m just not sure how well goose pate will pair with sweet tea.

Don’t Look to Me for Vols Sports News

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comBy the time I was a teenager, I knew I wanted to become a newspaper reporter.

I would wear a trench coat and a fedora with a press pass stuck in the band and rendezvous with confidential sources in an alley on cold and rainy winter nights.

Everyone who knew me, however, assumed I would end up being a sports reporter since I was such a born-and-bred University of Tennessee football fan.

I probably would have been a decent sports reporter early in my career. I’m sure I would’ve landed somewhere covering local teams where I didn’t have an interest one way or another.

But of course, if I had taken that route, my goal would’ve been to rise through the ranks and cover the Vols at one of Knoxville’s papers.

I can see my first day playing out something like this.

“Hey, Mr. Sports Editor, here’s my headline, ‘Vols Go Unbeaten, Win National Title Again.’”

“That’s a great headline, except it’s just the first week of the season.”

“I’ll keep it on file.”

Things have changed a lot since then, with so much sports news delivered over the internet.

Every team has a couple dozen fan websites that overanalyze every high ankle sprain and speculate on what the most recent suspension for “violation of team rules” really means.

I follow a few sites that cover UT sports. I like to think I only follow the reputable ones.

Yesterday, however, I was taken aback by a post that talked about who might be Tennessee’s next football coach. Below the headline was a photo collage of three coaches, and one of them was Lane Kiffin.

In case you don’t know, Kiffin was the former Tennessee coach a few years back who lit the program’s still-burning dumpster fire before sneaking out of town in the middle of the night for another job.

Tennessee fans detest him with every drop of orange blood in their veins. Some people dream about winning the lottery. The Big Orange nation dreams about a thirsty Lane Kiffin ringing their doorbell asking for water.

I re-read the headline and held my thumb over the screen while saying, “Don’t click, don’t click, don’t click,” and then I clicked.

According to this story, some nut has made the odds of Tennessee rehiring Kiffin 10,000-to-1. If the odds would’ve been 10,000,000-to-1, it would’ve still been absurd.

Who comes up with this stuff? 

Tennessee would hire a shoe for football coach before they would hire him. I don’t mean a new shoe. I’m talking about an old, worn out and smelly shoe that can’t coach.

It made me mad. In fact, I got so mad I even commented on the post and used the word imbecile, which I never do. I was mad about it all night, and I’m still mad about it.

I’m not sure if I’m madder at the source of the story, who obviously doesn’t have enough to do, or the person running the website who thinks we’re all a bunch of gullible hicks who might buy in to such nonsense.

I’m sure my mood will probably improve pretty quickly, though. After all, if someone can lay odds on Kiffin coaching at Tennessee again, I figure I have a decent shot that he will ring my doorbell asking for water.

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