You know what makes me sick? You know what makes me so mad I just wanna go ahead an’ have that snowball fight with Randy Johnson? Except – instead of snow… use croquet balls!!!
My ol’ lady is so dumb sometimes. I mean, the woman makes Carmen Electra look like a brain surgeon. She asks the stupidest questions. Like – I was watching a game the other night… an’ she goes, ‘Earl – how come athletes like to spank each other’s butt when they do something good?’
See what I mean? She don’t understand the manly expression of joy. She doesn’t understand the traditional art of the macho congratulations.
And then the more I thought about it – I don’t understand it neither.
Let me put it this way… I could make a list right now of 100 things I’d like to touch…an’ I’m fairly certain another man’s butt wouldn’t be on the list. An’ it ain’t like I never played sports… like I never got excited and congratulated a teammate. I just never grabbed another man’s butt. And I say that with a fair amount of pride.
Like at the bowlin’ alley… when we pull off a beer frame. We’ll high-five, low-five, give each other some skin… shake hands, knuckle bump, back-slap, chest thump. We’ll hoot… we’ll holler. We’ll act like monkeys on crack. But we ain’t touching each other’s butts. I figure I want to congratulate a guy… I don’t want to move in together and adopt a child!!
I’m a big believer in personal space. Which to me is everything inside the strike zone… knees to the nipples. But there they are on the TV… you hit a three-pointer… score a touchdown… hit a homerun… an’ the rest of the team is lining up to cop a feel. Hey – how do you think Goose Gossage got his name.
Wake up, America. You know who don’t get their butts touched? Bull-riders. You goose a cowboy… you’re likely to pull back a bloody stump. I’m Earl Pitts, American. Pitts Off.