Aw, Shucks

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Category Archives for: Cats

A hockey post.

08 December 2013 by ludakristen

My team¬†traveled to Buffalo, NY on Friday night to play a couple of games against some local women’s teams. We did really well (we’re not having a great season, so it was nice to win a few), but this one thing happened a couple of times, and I can’t stop thinking about it (mostly because I’m still feeling the effects today).

The games were pretty low-key. There were very few penalties, no shit-talking (at least not directed at me), and no scuffles or fights or punches thrown. However, I got crotched twice, and a teammate of mine got crotched once, too. And I really, really want to know what the hell goes through a woman’s mind before she does something so awful to another woman.

Getting crotched is exactly what it sounds like. Some bozo on the other team puts her hockey stick in between your legs and yanks, in an upwards motion, as hard she can. As you can imagine, this is incredibly painful. I’m playing senior women’s rec hockey. This isn’t the Stanley Cup. This isn’t the Olympics. There is literally no grand prize on the line if you lose to my team. Nothing. All you lose is a hockey game that nobody will remember an hour later.

So, in honor of the recent trend of writing open letters (I’m lookin’ at you, Miley and Sinead), I want to write an open letter to the woman who tried to cut my vagina off with her hockey stick yesterday. Ahem:

Dear #27,

 

That’s a pretty good number. Did you know that Jeremy Roenick used to wear #27? He was my favorite player as a kid. Unlike you, though, he was talented and athletic. So the number on the back of your jersey is really the only likeness you share with the legendary Hawks centerman.

 

Also, surprisingly enough, Jeremy Roenick has never hit me in the vagina with a hockey stick. This bizarre and, frankly, horrifying behavior on your part has left me no choice but to assume that in your non-hockey life, you are a serial killer. I can come up with no other explanation as to why you would deem it perfectly normal to try to injure another woman’s reproductive organs, except that you enjoy hurting others. That’s not a good sign. I hope no neighborhood cats have gone missing where you live, because chances are, you are responsible for their demise.

 

If we ever play against your team again, I won’t retaliate. I’ll score a bunch of goals against you, because you’re slow as shit, but I won’t hurt you or anything. Because I am an adult (and also because you terrify me and I love my cats very much).

For you young hockey players at home, DON’T INTENTIONALLY HIT OPPOSING PLAYERS IN THE CROTCH WITH YOUR STICK. It’s dirty as hell and makes you look like a serial killer. Thank you in advance.

You know how some jerseys have a stop sign on the back to try and deter cheap hits from behind? Maybe we need to incorporate this idea.

stop-sign-hockey-jersey

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1 comment | Categories: Cats, Mouth-breathers

One time, I almost died.

10 May 2013 by ludakristen

About two weeks ago, I was heading home from work on the highway during rush hour. I was just south of the Central Interchange, known locally (or just by me, maybe) as the human race’s worst engineering failure since the beginning of time. So there I was, driving along and singing my little heart out, when out of the corner of my right eye I saw something large, black and winged scuttle underneath the passenger seat of my car.

Let me repeat that: I saw something large, black, and winged scuttle underneath the passenger seat of my car. 

My heart sped up; I noticed my hands on the steering wheel were trembling. I imagined there was a mole or a rat or something in my car, except it had wings, so it probably wasn’t a mole or a rat. Oh god, what if it was a BAT? Like a fucking vampire bat? And what if it starts freaking out because it’s trapped in my car and zipping around in circles with no way to escape and it gets caught in my eyelashes or my hair or my mouth OHMYGOD OHMYGOD OHMYGOD I’M HYPERVENTILATING I CANNOT BREATHE OHMYGOD.

I'm gonna eat your brains!

I’m gonna eat your brains!

I finally reached an exit. I imagine it was only a few minutes, but it felt like eternity. It was in an, um, less fancy part of town, but that wasn’t really at the top of my priority list at that point in time. I flew down the ramp, my heart attempting to pound a giant hole through my chest plate, pulled over at the first available location and tumble-rolled from the car in true Chuck Norris fashion.

As far as I could tell, the murderous winged creature had not yet reemerged from its lair near the floorboards of my trusty ol’ Camry.

I opened all the doors. I rolled down all the windows. Nothing. No sign of it. Ten uneventful minutes passed. Eventually my heartbeat returned to that of a normal, healthy person not being attacked by a grizzly gargantuan beast in the privacy of her own vehicle. I decided to try some bravery on for size and picked up a snow scraper. I used it to, very slowly, move the passenger seat back as far as it would go. Still no sign of the ghastly monster. I did what I think any adult would do in this situation.

I called Sean to save me.

“Honey, you’re going to make fun of me for the rest of our lives, but I really need your help.”

He was there within 10 minutes, wearing thick gardening gloves and holding a flashlight. He dove right in, digging through my car like, I dunno, somebody who wasn’t scared for his life. It was impressive.

A few more minutes passed before Sean announced, “Oh, here it is!” My heart started pounding again. I was about to face my would-be attacker. What if it was angry at me? What if it told all of its creepy little friends about me and they crawled into my windows at night and smothered me in my sleep? What if it killed Sean? Would I ever forgive myself (probably eventually)? What would happen to our cats, growing up without a father?

I walked toward my car slowly. Sean was shining a flashlight up under my dashboard. I crouched to look, my palms sweaty with anticipation.

It was a bumblebee.

“It’s just a bumblebee,” Sean said.

bumble-bee

“Yeah, I see that. Still dangerous though. What if it had stung me in my eyeballs while driving? I could’ve died in a fiery crash. On the goddamn Central Interchange.”

“Yeah, sure, that totally could’ve happened,” Sean muttered. He prodded the bumblebee out onto the gravel and crunched it under his foot. Dead bumblebee = safe Kristen.

“See you at home?” he said, getting back into his car.

“Sure. I’ll pick up Taco Bell,” I replied.

And then we went home and stuffed ourselves with Doritos/taco hybrids and I never thought about the bumblebee again.

The end.

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5 comments | Categories: A Perfect World, Barack Obama, Cats, Fracas and brouhaha!, Irregardless!, Syphilis

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