I love playing Scrabble on my computer. I don’t do it interactively with other live humans (I think I’ve made it pretty clear in previous posts that I don’t particularly care for other live humans) but instead select a robot challenger from among the eight skill levels offered.
I generally play at the “elite” ranking, the sixth most difficult, and tend to win about a third of my matches. That low success rate keeps it challenging, giving me cause for exultation when I win. My coworkers think I’ve found some especially egregious typo when I shout aloud and raise my hands high above my head, when I’m just winning at Scrabble.
The seven letters you’re assigned to play with are supposed to be randomly generated. I think, however, that this program has it in for me, and assigns me way more vowels than I should be getting. Consequently, I’ve come to adopt two vowel-heavy words as among my favorites.
The first of these is “adieu,” not great for generating points though it does allow you to clear out your vowel inventory. My second favorite is “vagina,” and not for the reasons you might think. One day I had the opportunity to play this word for a respectable 22 points, leaving me with only an “e” remaining unplayed on my rack. Just for the heck of it, I stuck the “e” on the end of the “vagina” (something I wouldn’t advise anywhere but in Scrabble) and, turns out, “vaginae” is actually a word! Using all seven tiles gives you 50 bonus points, which propelled me to an eventual win.
I looked it up later, and found that “vaginae” is simply the plural of “vagina,” a variation used more in medical terminology than everyday conversation, where “vaginas” or “you know, down there” tend to suffice.
As a Scrabble fan, and as a 56-year-old man whose testosterone levels are on the decline, I find myself frequently thinking “adieu vaginae.”
Some final thoughts on World Cup soccer, now that the Americans’ expulsion means we no longer have to pretend to care:
–Wouldn’t setting up a single match with two balls, four teams and four goals, allowing two teams to play horizontally across the pitch while two others play vertically, be more interesting? Remember how much fun it used to be when you’d get a “multi-ball” bonus in pinball? It would be like that.
–Or how about if players could use neither their feet nor their hands, but only their heads? Everybody would be down on all fours, nudging the ball goal-ward as fast as they could crawl. Imagine the excitement of a mid-field breakaway that would take up to several minutes to complete.
–Or what if they added an extra referee, but he was really a neutral player in disguise? At some random point in the middle of the match, he could start kicking the ball around, and everybody would be all, like, “what?”
–If you think the vuvuzela is annoying, imagine if Australia ever gets the World Cup and everyone brings a didgeridoo. Or the U.S. gets it and fans bring banjoes and Sousaphones.
–Best name ever for a sports commentator is Steve McManaman. So manly.
–I don’t know why, but after watching Saturday’s match, I have an overwhelming urge to buy products from a company named Mahindra Satyam, even though I have no idea what they make. And I want to use Visa to pay for my purchase.
–Ghana deserved to lose that match, if for no other reason than that their uniforms made them look like McDonald’s employees
I invite everyone to join my new Facebook group, LetsPeeOnTheFloorInBPGasStations. I meant to specify that we pee on the floor in the restrooms of BP gas stations, but ran out of characters. If you want to do it out in the open in the snack aisle, be my guest, but I take no responsibility for this.
Think of it as a way to protest the Gulf oil spill. I know a lot of these franchises claim they’re not officially associated with BP, but there’s got to be some connection, and we’re a populace that’s extremely frustrated by this unprecedented environmental catastrophe and are looking to take action. Leaking our own toxic waste onto the floor of their bathrooms makes a very strong political statement, especially if you’ve eaten asparagus recently.
If you’re somehow caught by the manager, simply claim that the volume of the pee compared to the volume of the entire restroom makes the spill inconsequential. You can also say that you followed all rules as prescribed by the proper regulatory authorities (your urologist) and still, inexplicably, the leak happened. If pressed, you can promise to clean it up, but admit it’s going to take you at least two months.
And I wouldn’t advise using the defense that “at least in my case, no wildlife was affected” because the manager could make you spend the afternoon scrubbing down roaches with dish soap.
Sorry about the unintended theme in last week’s posts. On Monday I wrote about buying a pruning saw, on Wednesday I considered buying hospital scrubs, and on Friday I reviewed the operating instructions that came with my purchase of a fan.
I’m thinking of buying a donut today but I promise not to write about it.
Virtually every afternoon this summer, I’ll be tempting death.
I’ve been an ardent jogger since my twenties and continue to run about a mile and a half at least five days a week. This despite the fact that I’m now 56 years old, probably a good 30 pounds overweight, and I face afternoon temperatures typically in the mid to upper 90s. Like hitting yourself in the head with a hammer, it’s torture while it’s happening but it feels so good when you stop.
Passing motorists are aghast at my exercise, both because it’s so obviously suicidal and because a tight sweaty t-shirt is not exactly complimentary to my figure. Still, I continue shuffling onward, oblivious to the ozone alerts and the high humidity and the teenage boys who think it’s funny to wolf-whistle at me.
Should these daily posts at DavisW suddenly come to a halt, you’ll know where I am: the same dump where the city hauls all the possums and raccoons and squirrels and financial proofreaders who don’t realize that roads are for cars, not for creatures.