Hornswaggler | The culture, the humor, a bit of the sports, not so much the politics, and the workplace distraction

Hornswaggle is an alternate spelling of hornswoggle, an archaic word that means to bamboozle or hoodwink. I take my pronunciation from the late Harvey Korman in "Blazing Saddles" --

"I want rustlers, cutthroats, murderers, bounty hunters, desperados, mugs, pugs, thugs, nitwits, halfwits, dimwits, vipers, snipers, conmen, Indian agents, Mexican bandits, muggers, buggerers, bushwhackers, hornswagglers, horse thieves, bull dykes, train robbers, bank robbers, ass kickers, shit kickers and Methodists!"

Culture, Humor, Sports
Workplace Distraction

Saturday, June 01, 2002

Nuclear* war between India and Pakistan. (*Or as President Bush says, repeatedly: "Nukulur.") That would be great, wouldn't it? That will get you up in the morning. Like Extra Strength Triple Action Gold Bond Medicated Powder dissolved in water and applied to the anus with a Q-Tip.

Nuclear brinksmanship, like the possibility of another major terrorist attack on U.S. soil, is the kind of thing that prevents me from lucubrating about the really important questions today, such as: Is the appearance of Alf on the 10-10-220 commercials a direct strategic response to Carrot Top's cloying reign as the 1-800-CALL-ATT pitchman? I.e., they're combating one red-haired creature who we all thought we'd never see on television again with another? Perhaps. But if nuclear warheads explode over the South Asian continent, we'll never find out. There just won't be the time to ask these types of questions. I suppose I could raise my hand at a Pentagon press briefing, but I doubt Rumsfeld would have the answers.

I reckon that, if I did indeed seek the Defense Secretary's advice on the matter, Rumsfeld's features would take on the same bemused expression that crossed Duke University lacrosse Coach Mike Pressler's face one Saturday in the fall of 1994 when, after a vigorous morning practice, I asked him if it would be alright if, instead of proceeding directly to the weight room to lift with the team, I went to get something to eat before lifting on my own later in the afternoon. I was incredibly hung over and I needed nourishment in a bad way. To me, it was cut-and-dried. Food. Lift. "Aaron," he said. "I've heard some strange things in my life, but that is by far the strangest." I guess that, in his mind, I had violated a sacrosanct principle of team sports. And it was probably at that moment, looking back on it, that coach decided old Aaron Kinney wasn't cut out for Division I college lacrosse. I walked on the fall of my sophomore year but my heart wasn't in it and I was cut at the end of fall ball. There were some good guys on the team, but I have to say I didn't feel quite in my element among them, especially in the weight room, which was an environment so steeped in testosterone that a silverback gorilla would surely have settled right in and begun munching contentedly on his own feces, where the 45-pound plates were affectionately referred to as "manhole covers." In fact, I suspect I was cut so that my feeble bench pressing efforts would not dampen morale. Coach Pressler was a solid dude though. He would regale the team with stories of how he was teaching his 4-year-old daughter to refer to her poop as "Terps," in reference to ACC rival and lacrosse superpower Maryland. Those were the days.

.: posted by hornswaggler 2:13 PM

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