Beer and Curling

I have become hypnotized by the sport of curling...

Last night I sat on the couch for hours on end, drinking beer and watching these polo-shirted beasts of men hurl handled rocks over a glimmering sheet of ice.

I am regretful that I did not discover this alluring diversion earlier in life, but I suppose it is better late than never...

For those of you who are not familiar with the electrifying nature of this sport, let me entice you with a brief synopsis:

CURLING

"God created the universe in six days. On the seventh day he rested. Then, on the eighth day, he created curling..." -The Holy Bible (This is the only part that Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John could all agree upon)

Curling is a game. It is a game played by men, but only the manliest of men are allowed to play it.

You see, there are certain conditions that must be met before a man can even think about becoming a curler. This is to make sure that no hooligans, ne'er-do-wells, scalliwags, or momma's boys make it through to pollute the consummate curling gene pool. These qualifications are as follows:

1) The man in question must be heavily bearded. And by bearded, I mean full on, take-no-prisoners facial coverage. None of that pussy soul-patch shit. We're talking sideburns-to-Adam's-apple-beardation. Furtherly, a man's facial hair must adhere to strict thickness guidelines. According to the official curling handbook, a curling man's face must contain at least 50 units of hair per square inch. Not 49. Not 49.5. FIFTY. Curling officials use a high-tech magnification device to ensure that all aspiring curlers meet this prerequisite. Men who do not meet this standard are called "Nancies" and told to try again when their balls drop properly.

2) The man in question must own an extensive wardrobe of polo shirts. He must have a polo shirt for every color in the color spectrum. Every single letter of ROY G BIV must be represented. If a man has red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet but no indigo, he will be placed in an isolation chamber with a box of Lucky Charms until he adopts a firm understanding of proper color representation, at which time he will be released and allowed a visit to the nearest shopping center to complete his polo shirt collection and try again.

Once these two things are established, a man can begin his curling career. It takes a lot of practice and discipline to master the game, but the rules are pretty basic and can be easily understood by an outsider.

Here's how it works:

Players take turns sliding pieces of rock over ice and get points if those rocks come to a halt inside a blue circle. While the rocks are in motion, the rock-thrower's teammates use Swiffer Sweepers to sweep any molted beard hair off the ice that would otherewise impede the rock's progress. During all this, the players yell loudly at each other and often get disgruntled if their rocks veer astray. Sometimes the Swiffer Sweepers do not Swiffer Sweep fast enough and the rocks get too bogged down in molted beard hair and stop well short of the blue circle, in which case a more violent and indiscernible form of yelling occurs.

Once the players run out of rocks or lose their voices from all the yelling (whichever occurs first), the teams tally up the points and whoever has the most points wins the match.

And that pretty much sums up the game of curling.

I have to go now. I have more beer to drink and curling to watch.

Bottled Water

I would like to think that this bottle of Dasani water I am drinking has an adventurous and mind-tingling story behind it.

I would like to think that a weathered Icelandic man named Eggbert Bjornson made an epic journey to the celestial Jahooziwhatsits Glacier to fetch this 20 oz. of water.

I would like to think that this Eggbert fellow makes this journey once every year. I would like to think that he is a longtime employee of Dasani inc. and that before he embarks on his annual journey, he ties thirty dozen empty water bottles around his ankles and hikes bravely up a treacherous trail of some sort, endangering his life in the process. Once he reaches the glacier, he carefully fills each bottle one at a time and seals them by uttering a magical Icelandic incantation.

I would like to think that once each bottle is filled and sealed, Eggbert descends back down the trail and reports to the nearest Dasani shipping facility, from which the bottles of water are sent to various retail outlets across the globe.

I would also like to think that while fetching water for this particular 20 oz. bottle (the one I currently hold in my hand), Eggbert lost two of his fingers to frostbite. I would like to think this because this would show just how determined Eggbert is to providing paying customers like myself with the freshest water. I would like to think that sometimes Icelandic man-felangies need to be sacrificed so that thirsty Walter can quench his thirst with glacial goodness.

Thinking this has made this bottle of Dasani water the best bottle of water I have ever drunken.

Thank you, Eggbert.