Contrary to popular belief, there are no leftover pygmies

Living with the In-Laws is...an experience. Everyone has their own idiosyncrasies, and I certainly don't begrudge them theirs. In fact, sometimes their unique habits can lead to exciting adventures. For example:

Mother-in-law is afflicted with the hoarding gene. She has thousands of foil pans, sauces and dressings that go back to Wife's infancy, and a veritable mountain of plasticware. But her true packrat genius reveals itself in her freezer. She is of the "starving children in Europe" generation, so nothing left over is ever discarded. God help you if you throw out that chicken - throw some mayo and pepper on there, and you've got yourself a salad! Leftovers are poured or forked into a burpable Tupperware, sealed with plasticwrap, zipped into a freezer bag, and labeled for future generations. In 8,000 years, when crawdads will have replaced us as the dominant species on earth, they will glean from the ancient writings that within this frozen receptacle was stored several hundred gallons of "Brisket (Passover)," "Brisket (regular)," "Chix soup (boneless)," and "farfel (matza)."

We commoners throw stuff in the freezer haphazardly, and pray it lasts more than a couple of months without getting freezerburnt. But with Professor Father-in-law's engineering ingenuity, food lasts for years in the In-Laws' home. And with the labeling system, Mother-in-law knows exactly what she has, and where it is.

This information is sometimes not shared with the rest of us, however. On Friday I was sent down to the icy depths to retrieve a certain poultry dish. Was it on the bottom shelf? On the door? No one would say. So I packed a headlamp, two pairs of long underwear, a goosedown jacket, GORE-TEX gloves, moon boots with removable crampons (it's a real word, and has nothing to do with vaginas. Look it up if you don't believe me), and seven pairs of wool socks (my tosies are sensitive).

I kissed Wife and Child goodbye, opened the hermetically sealed freezer door, and tromped inside. Within I found a barren wasteland reminiscent of Hoth, or Milwaukee in January. Swirling winds hurled needles of ice at my face and loins. Snot froze on my upper lip.

After wandering for a few hours I found the first of many leftovers. These were remnants of this past Passover, so I knew to I had to delve deeper into the ancient Maytag. The turkey I was looking for had been stored just before the turn of the century, in honor of the Y2K-caplyse. The only information I had to go on was that it was marked as "Y2urkey," and it was "somewhere in the back, near the cocktail weenies." By this time I'd been hiking for most of the day, and I decided to set up camp near a block of ancient cholent. I hacked off some of the kishka outcropping, and settled in for a cold, dark night.

Many storied journeys into undiscovered lands include the appearance and invaluable guidance of secret natives, hidden tiny men and women with wings or pointed ears or forked tongues. When planning for my trek I just assumed I'd find some prehistoric leftover Yeti, or an ancient shaman who worshipped (or worshiped, depending on your browser's spellcheck) the forgotten stack of pancakes on the top shelf.

Instead all I found was Tupperware and plastic bags. My eagerly anticipated meeting with ancient peoples turned into a boring-ass journey into myself, with plenty of time for self-reflection and meditation on the fact that I was walking through a freezer looking for turkey. After many hours contemplating this truth, I learned this: I really don't like climbing into a freezer full of prehistoric leftovers.

Maybe if I'd brought more socks I'd have felt differently. But my toes were icy, so I'm bitter. From now on, Mother-in-law can search her own hidden stores for dinner.

“He brings peace! Break his legs so he don’t get away!”

I am cursed with a special torture. Everywhere I go, the home team wins a championship.

Once I thought this was a mere coincidence. In high school, when I was exiled from America’s Dairyland to the City of Windy Shoulders, the Bulls threepeated™. Easily explainable – Jordan, Pippen and Jackson, with some Rodman for insanity garnish.

Then, I went to college in the Big Rotten Suck-Ass Apple, and the Yankees go on a tear. I can’t rationalize the Marlins in ’97, though – I don’t even think G-d has a decent excuse for that nonsense.

Now, here in patriotism’s birth canal, I have seen the Patriots become a dynasty, and the Red Sox end 458 years of futility. This phenomenon can no longer be rationalized with some karmic quadratic equation. I am damned to watch other’s teams shower themselves in champagne like so much acid rain.

So here’s what I’m going to do. All those cities out there that could really benefit from one of their teams winning it all will get to bid for my services. Minimum bid is a house, couple of cars, and $1 million, post-tax, in cash.

Seattle: I know your town needs a championship. A ring would keep the Sonics in town, a Lombardi would allow everyone to stop bitching about the refs in the Super Bowl, and a World Series win would stop all that heckling Ichiro gets when he goes home for the offseason.

Phoenix: a ring proves that glorious passing and speed can beat rebounding, sound execution and lock-down defense. A Lombardi would really piss off football purists who understand the truism that is Cardinals suckitude. And a Cup would make everyone forget Mrs. Gretzky’s gambling problem.

New Orleans: you need a championship so people can move on from that natural disaster from a couple of years ago. Sandstorm, wasn’t it? Avalanche?

Chicago: you had your chance. Now you’ll have to wait another 44 generations for a new golden ticket. You blew all my mojo on the Bulls. You couldn’t let Barkley win just once?

Orlando: I’ll move there on one condition – I get to use Walt Disney’s zombie frozen head as a soccer ball.

Dallas: see, I really hate the Cowboys. Almost as much as the Packers. So I’ll need the services of Mark Cuban as my personal valet for 2 weeks out of the year, during which time I will be entitled to make personnel changes to the Mavericks, and wardrobe changes for Mark. How many billions of dollars does it cost to get a normal shirt, buddy?

Wisconsin: the Packers slipped in a Super Bowl win when I wasn’t looking. That alone is reason enough to withhold my powers from the Brewers. And they’re awesome this year – scrappy, young, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. It’s just too bad Brett Favre is a pill-popping hick. Trade him to the Lions, and maybe we’ll talk. But I doubt it.

A Terrible, Terrible Confession

I'm going to admit something, and it's really embarrassing. I'm ashamed to state this, but in light of the Yi drama, and the Mo Williams contract, this is something I have to say.

I am a bad Bucks fan.

FreeDarko's Dr. LawyerIndianChief makes an interesting point about the Bucks, and their relationship to the overrall status of the NBA. If he's correct - and let's assume, arguendo, that he is - then I may not only be a bad Bucks fan, but I am also a bad NBA fan.

I love good basketball. Smooth transition offense, lockdown defense, absurd athletic achievement encapsulated in a split-second freakish outburst, like, say, 5'9" Nate Robinson handing Yao Ming his nuts. But what I cannot abide is poor passing, selfish play, and no effort - ugly basketball. I can't watch it, can't support it. And too often the Bucks have embodied this hideousness, or worse, they're simply boring. I don't make a point of watching them, I keep an eye on their stats, but if Michael Redd - maybe the league's finest example of function over form, a plain unpleasant and uninteresting scoring machine - drops 50 one night, am I going bonkers, and flipping my Sidney Moncrief jersey at random passersby? Nope.

Can't I still love the league? Maybe. I can be post-team like the FreeDarko ilk, I guess, but that just seems like a cop-out. Especially since I'm so hard up for the Chicago Bears. Sure, it's a different sport, but that's the thing about being a fan. You have to support your team, through thick and thin. Otherwise you're just an observer, enjoying performance art. And no one buys Miranda July's new Nike AirForce kicks.

Back to the NBA: if the Donaghy thing, after the nonexistent trade excitement - Let KG go! - and the crappy regular season, puts me off pro ball, then I am not sticking up for it through thick and thin, I am in fact dropping it like greasy marbles.

I don't know how I feel about all that. Maybe I should go watch more crazy highlights and sort it out.