The Rules Reconsidered: Horns Down, Fingers Up! (Part 3)
DISCLAIMER: THIS ARTICLE HAS BEEN WRITTEN FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY; ANY ATHLETIC WISDOM OR INSIGHT OR KNOWLEDGEABILITY THEREIN, NOT DIRECTLY QUOTED BY MY COLLEAGUES, IS NOT ONLY PURELY ACCIDENTAL BUT UNFORTUNATE.
First, this gentleman (we will call him that) spent fifteen minutes deciding what to order while the line exponentially by the second winded around the corner, back to the kitchen, and into the eating area. Then, he ordered two Chicken Fajitas, meat and cheese only, and a coke. At this point, I was gagging on my fist.
"Fifteen minutes to order a Chicken Fajita?"
"I couldn't decide if I wanted Beef."
"Well, you wanted brisket. But no matter about that now. Chips and Queso?"
"Yeah, bra."
"Bra. Yes, bra. Thank you, bra. Okay. That's gonna come to 22.11"
"22.11 for queso and a couple tacos?"
"Yeah, bra. And a coke. $2.75 for that."
"$2.75 for a coke?"
At this point, admittedly, I was starting to get a little peeved.
"I don't make the prices, I don't make the rules. I just deliver the message. You owe the taco company more than 22 dollars of your hard-earned money."
"Okay, here," the gentleman (we'll call him that) says, handing me a wad of one dollar bills.
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
I would like the imaginative reader to conceive a score here by Ennio Morricone.
"Pardon me, bra, but how many ones am I holding?"
"Should be twenty-four, one for tip. But go ahead and count them."
"Pardon me, bra, but do you see a pole around here? You expect me to dance around in my skivvies for a buck! Is that what you want!"
"Sorry, bro."
"That's better."
"I only have ones."
"And I have two of these."
Calmly and kindly I pointed to the sky, twice, verbally offering him an imperative in the reflexive mood in the event he did not know sign language. For some reason, he did not like that, and did us both the favor of leaving.
It was then I received the inevitable telephone correspondence from the one and only, the beloved man himself, The Barry Lewis.
"What are you doing?"
"Jobbing."
"What are you doing while jobbing?"
"Trying to get myself fired so I don't have to job anymore."
"Excellent. Listen. We've hit our goal of 1,095 articles for the year!"
"Great. So I'm off the hook, right?"
"And we'd like you to do another."
At which point I uttered curses such as none I had uttered in the composition of 1,095 KillerFrogs articles.
"Why me, Barry? It's personal, isn't it?"
"Well, there's a new Horns Down penalty piece I think might be in the works. Take a look at this."
Whereupon he sent a link to an article about some dude named Greg Burks, with the following intelligence: "Director of Officiating, Greg Burks, was recently asked whether the Horns Down gesture directed at the Longhorns was a dead issue. Even with the Longhorns departing the league, Burks said he had anticipated the question, and, yes, it will still be a judgment call. 'Let me be very clear with Horns Down. I have no ownership on this symbol. The symbol is the same as with all other symbols. It's when you do it, who you do it to, and which manner you do it.’"
"Pardon me, Barry, but he is just talking about a hand signal right? Or is he talking about more lascivious activities?"
"The Horns Down gesture yes."
"Okay, cause with that when you do it, who you do it to, and which manner, I assumed he was taking issue with sodomy in a community park with a nun."
"Lol!”
“What’s that mean?”
“No, he's speaking specifically of the Horns Down gesture."
"What's Director of Officiating?"
"That's the person who controls the referees."
"Umpires."
"Whatever you say, SI."
"Sports ignoramus is right. I knew I didn't like him. So what do you want from me?"
"A thousand words by tomorrow."
"I'll give you two."
I turned to Bet, still laughing about the pole bit. "So Bet, do you mind if I take out my laptop and get to work."
"You're at work."
"No, dear. This is jobbing. I have my work and I have jobbing, and one is painful and the other is torture."
"Well, you're at your job."
"Not any more. You are. I'll see you later."
At which point, I made my merry way to Ye Olde Bull and Bush on Montgomery 76107 (please, no direct correspondence; all mail will be summarily returned), asked for a half-pint and in a blur of inspiration wrote the following:
Greg Burks is a cracked nut. Let us break down this paragraph and its implications, not only as it pertains to college football and broader sports in general (as it does) but also its larger implications regarding pubic discourse and libertine speech. We will note that the question begins with whether or not Horns Down is a dead issue. I will answer that for Dr. Burks (if he a Dr. be) on his behalf, as a rational, sentient human-by-God-being: not only should it be a dead issue, it should have been DOA; he should have, like any good American citizen, politely requested that those who would determine what other people do with their fingers find something more productive and better to do with their own.
Here I felt a sudden impulsion to pat myself on the back. This gave my friend Joseph a pretext to do the same, and I expectorated all over the bartender, Bruce, aka., The Boss. But I was, like all wits, not least The Big Steaming Pile, in love with my own hubris and felt the need to continue:
Here Dr. Burks makes yet another error. "It will be a judgment call." By whom? By whose authority? Who gets to determine exactly what I do with my own God-beloved fingers? Who? Further, relative to the fact that these bovine bloviators are on their way out of the league, a league they clearly feel no need to respect, I say our league should shove them right out the door, fingers raised with all profane connotations intended.
Again, another pat on the back, another drink. And then the inspiration really started to seep in.
Burks, cracked nut he is, squirrelly in his obfuscation, then says he has no ownership of the symbol. As if there could possibly be ownership of any symbol. Who owns a middle finger? Or an index and pinkie? One goes up and two down and I know my own preference (I leave it to the discerning reader to surmise which). But then Dr. Burks equates this clearly offensive symbol with any other symbol. So if I give a thumbs up, I can penalize my own team? If I shout, scream, cheer, boo. If I give my own Horned Frog symbol, could that count as unsportsmanlike conduct as interpreted by the other team? Say we're up 50-0 at the half? What Longhorn would not prefer a much more direct taunt, if only to inspire a comeback, than the far more demoralizing sincere celebration of our beating the hell out of them?
And with a final round I imbibed with one chug, I popped my fingers and delivered the denouement of my opus:
Dr. Burks says it's when you do it, who you do it to, and in the manner in which you do it. To this, I have no objection, and would like to suggest he cease kissing kine ass in public. It's unseemly.
"Boom!" I shouted, like a madman, in the public establishment, and had hardly managed to reel from my high when I received the following telephone correspondence from The Jason: "Well, you finally did it. You're fired. We can't have you flipping off customers in public."
I sat for a second, then stood on the bar and shouted: "Boss, a celebration round for everyone on me!"
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