Let’s Talk Tinkle!

I shouldn’t have to tell you folks that trying to get pee pee from a Bronco can be tricky. Don’t believe me? Just ask my my buddy, Cal “Flathead” Rodgers, here. (Image from Deborahhalverson.com)

The Denver Broncos are going to be without star linebacker D.J. Williams for an additional three games.  The three extra games of suspension are being tacked on to the original six games which were imposed due to his violating the league’s substance abuse rules.

This story in and of itself is not such a big thing.  Professional athletes and even regular folk occasionally do ill-advised things.  When caught, they have to pay some sort of penalty.  Driving while under the influence, which is what got Williams into trouble in the first place, certainly falls under that category.  Driving under the influence is irresponsible and dangerous.  It should not be seen as acceptable behavior under any circumstance.

OK – enough of the public service announcement, let’s get to the fun part.

Williams’ trouble with the league is for failing a urine test.  The failure of the test was not due to their finding traces of banned substances in the urine.  As far as I could determine in my 13 minutes of online research, the urine was as clean as a whistle.

While the urine was free of any traces of banned substances, it still sent up a red challenge flag.  It turns out the urine was from the wrong species.  Williams is in trouble for submitting a “non-human urine sample”.  I find this so funny, that I’m nearly peeing myself in laughter – How’s that for irony?

Dammit Paris! Your ugly lil dog peed on the floor again! At this rate, we never gonna get that jar filled! (Image from goodhousekeeping.com)

Apparently, despite graduating from the University of Miami and being a grown-assed man, Mr. Williams didn’t think it through.  Clearly, he didn’t realize that in addition to testing for traces of illegal drugs, the screen might also be looking for markers which could determine that the tinkle in question came from a cooperative Rottweiler and not from a star linebacker.  One good bit of news was that the league informed Williams that he does not show any signs of heart-worm or Parvo virus.

I’m taking the liberty of guessing that the pee came from a large breed dog for several reasons.  Pro football players aren’t known for having Tea-Cup Yorkies around the house – unless they’re dating Paris Hilton and she’s got a few in her bag*.  In addition, I’m not sure one of those miniature breeds could produce enough wee wee to fill the specimen jar, unless you really scared them.  Cats are also out of the picture, assuming the guy doesn’t have a snow leopard he bought from a couple of magicians outside Vegas at their exotic animal clearance sale.

While linebackers aren’t necessarily known for their intellect, you’d think that their multi-millionaire agents would have the wits about them to advise against using critter pee.  Any agent will tell you the only good use for that suff is putting the coyote whiz around the country estate to keep deer out of the pinot noir trellises.

It’s also unfortunate that Mr. Williams was unable to forge the celebrity connections to link up with rapper R. Kelly, who might have been able to suggest other options.  It really makes you wonder.  I mean, what’s the point of being rich and famous if you don’t get to network when it really counts?

All this speculation is too little-too late to be of any assistance to D.J. Williams.  The damage is done.  Hopefully, he will move forward and be able to resume his playing career once he’s served his suspension.  I’m sure that opposing players and fans will not consider what he must have looked like as he chased his Rotty around the yard with a jar in his hand.  I’m confident the dog has already forgotten about the whole incident by now.  Dogs, unlike many fans of rival AFC West teams, can have very short memories.

* This broad-brushed, stereotypical view of professional football players is not meant to include quarterbacks or punters, who may well own small-breed dogs and even Persian cats. 

Life On the Trail – True Tales from the Easter Bunny

Hippity Hoppity my fluffy white ass.  The trail is a bitch.

I’m down at the Pinewood, sipping on a short, dirty glass of cheap Canadian.  My beer back-up is looking a little flat.  This place is a long way from the Ritz, but you’d still think they’d wash the glasses a little more often.

The Round Man is sitting next to me.  Got himself swiveled on the stool while he’s chatting up some bimbo.  He’s jolly alright, but for all the hype about his taste in behaviors, he definitely leans more toward the naughty girls than the nice ones.  Next to him are three of the wee ones – two of Round Man’s best workers plus Irish.  That little dude is a mean SOB when he’s gettin’ his drink on.  I’m glad he’s four seats away from me.  You never know when some drunk college kid will come in and call him Chuckie or Lucky Charms or something and next thing you know, the cops are comin’ in and somebody’s gonna need stitches.  Still, I gotta admit, the three of ’em look cute sitting up there on barstools with their little feet so far off the floor.

The trail can wear a bunny down, make him cold, drive him into questionable locales. (Illustration by the author - That's right, I'm a freakin' Renaissance Man!)

We don’t always hang out like this, but sometimes I like to chill out with a few of my buddies who understand life on the trail.  There used to be better attendance at these get-togethers, but some of the usual crew’s drifted apart.  The T-Fairy prefers a different kind of bar, and that’s fine by me – to each his own right?  Jackie Frost, may he rest in peace, is gone but not forgotten.  Freakin’ global warming pretty much did him in.

Let’s not get it twisted, I aint no retiree in a Bunny suit down at the mall gettin’ my pic snapped with your brat for five bucks a throw.  I’m talking the real deal here – these ears aint clip-ons.

Like I said at the start, life on the trail’s a bitch.  I smell like freakin’ Hershey, Pee-Ay 6 months out of the year from all the crap I’m delivering.  Don’t think it isn’t a little weird to be spending a large part of my life carrying around giant, hollow chocolate replicas of myself.  Then droppin’ em off only to have the parents of these kids eat the ears off a day or two later.  It’s a heavy load knowing I’m guiding the youth of the world down the path toward obesity and diabetes.

I had to get therapy for that crap.  I finally gave up on talking to the shrink.  He blamed my issues on my father.  That was the last straw for me.  My father!?  How much of a presence in your life can your father be when you have 237 brothers and sisters?  Besides, the mental health waiver on my insurance sucked.  I’d rather spend that co-pay money on shots and beers and get my counseling from the Round Man and maybe one of his naughty girls if she has a friend.  You know what I mean?

Don’t get me wrong, the trail isn’t all sore paws and nightmares about waking up with my ears bit off.  I’ve had some good times too.  Some wild crap goes on out there.  This one time, outside of Dubuque, Iowa, this chick walks in on me when I’m hiding eggs and filling baskets.  She’s half in the bag and reeks of Malibu rum.  Anyway, she must be on her way to the head when she sees me standin’ there with a handful of Marshmallow Peeps, and she just goes nuts.  You know the whole “I can’t believe you’re really really real!”  song and dance.  She goes on to tell me how she always hoped I was real, but findin’ out -well that’s somethin’ special.  Then a little light goes on in her drunken head and she realizes that she aint wearing much more than her hubby’s Drake University T-shirt and a pair of fuzzy socks.  Well…one thing leads to another and let’s just say I didn’t do nothin’ to hurt the stereotypes about the bunny nation, if you follow my drift.

Stories like that, they happen, but it aint the usual.  The usual is more like people with hi-tech security systems and Rottweilers.  Bratty kids whose parents have convinced them that Easter aint nothin’ but Christmas in the Spring.  Chocolate and malted milk candy eggs can weigh a rabbit down, but they don’t compare to Nintendo Wii’s and bikes.  I got a couple dentists I play golf with in the off season and they aint too happy with that trend – believe you me.  My chiropractor – he’s happy as crap.

So in a few days we’ll close up shop and I can try to relax and enjoy the off-season.  Me and the Round Man are gonna hit the links and maybe do some fishing.  The trail aint no easy time, but fishin’ for wahoo and throwing back a few frosties can help me forget my tender paws and aching back for a while.

Uh oh.  Looks like a couple of frat boys are startin to bust on Irish a little.  It might be time to hit the bathroom until the smoke clears.  I’ll see you kids next year, okay?