Welcome to the Ghetto Blast. Here I am, circa 1986, with my Kid 'n Play blasting, my mullet waving, by purse hanging, and my tank top doing me wonders by being tucked in my black jeans. You say you want to achieve this level of coolness? Get in line, chump, because I've got the Monopoly square for Coolsville, and it has a hotel on it, and you owe me rent.
Last Tuesday was a good one. The boys got together to play our weekly game and we took on an undefeated team. Our stat sheet said that the opposing team had the league's high scorer. We figured that as long as we stopped that chump then we'd have a shot. Bart took it on himself to guard High Scorer Hill. Can I brag about my cousin? He shut that fool down! Hill left the game with, oh, maybe - maybe - six points. Nice work, Bart. Also, nice work, Team, for any help-defense displayed that also shut Hill down. Not only was Hill embarrassed this way, but in another. I had the hot hand this game and, as is customary, the best player on the opposing team is supposed to step up and guard the other team's "best" player. Well, this game it was me and he shouted out "I've got Number One." He trotted up to me like he was doing his team a fantastic favor in shutting me down, but he failed. Horribly. I don't think his team was used to playing people that ran as much as we do, but he was dead on his legs. Long story made shorter (you are welcome), we lost the game by two points, but we gloriously shut Hill down!
Speaking of sports, did you see the women's moguls during the Olympics? Those chicks were zooming! Even cooler, the crashes. It's like Nascar, the only reason you watch some things would be for the crashes. Those moguls looked painful as each lady careened from one bump to another.
This blog should be read as: "Ah, Willie isn't dead and he is still as fascinated with the bland as he ever was."
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