Hold That Tiger!

          A common complaint on my childhood report cards is that I talk too much. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?  Okay, of course you can believe it. This chatty tendency of mine has bugged more than one or two teachers, and countless non-teachers.  But I just have so much to say!

          Excuse-making attempt #1: I also ask questions. Lots of questions. I’m curious. Last night I tried watching a football game with St. Bob and asked how many companies make helmets. He had no idea. Do they all come equipped with headphones so the coach can talk to them individually? He wasn’t sure.

Do they sanitize those mouth-pieces? Again, no idea. Has any detergent company become the official team detergent? Because that would be quite the endorsement if they can get those grass and dirt stains out. Again, he didn’t know.

Also, how can two opposing teams both be called the Tigers? Why didn’t someone tell one of them that the Tiger mascot was already taken? 

And why did they pick tigers in the first place, when neither of the teams starts with T?  Also, tigers are not native to either of these states, nor to any American state, for that matter. Miami Dophins makes sense. Denver Broncos makes sense. St. Louis Cardinals makes sense. But tigers? Bob pretended to be on a phone call.

Why do they always seem so surprised when they get injured? Did they not know that 250-pound people were going to come running at them at full speed? How did they miss that memo? Again, no clue. Finally it was suggested that I make some popcorn or something.

But the surgery team I had in December was more proactive than any of these other people annoyed by my comments. No report cards. No suggestions of ways to distract me and thus shut me up. Nope. As I was on the operating table, yammering away, I suddenly saw a clear triangular mask being held above my head.  And just as I said, “But I’m not through talk--” it was clamped over my face.  And I guarantee you the anesthesiologist probably muttered, “Yeah you are.” And then I’ll bet he high-fived everybody else in the room.

Whatever.  Maybe they can just visit Joniopolis and read my blogs. Which will continue as long as I have breath to breathe and fingers to type. I guess I should be glad they didn’t sew my lips closed.

          Even better, they--  and you—can buy my books!