Saturday night was spent watching the beginning of the Kansas-Missouri football game, followed by a trip out. Durham was as lifeless as I expected, with most of UNH being away for Thanksgiving break. Portsmouth was a bit more active, but I didn't feel like going in anywhere. After returning to the Nexus of Hate, I watched the end of that very same Kansas-Missouri game, downed five beers, and hit the sack.
Just after I awoke Sunday morning, Ray told me a story that made me cringe, laugh, and wonder in disbelief - all in the space of two or three minutes. One of our co-workers suffered, shall we say, a "loss of bowel control casualty," and crapped himself - for the second time in eight months. Oh, wait, it gets better. This shipmate decided not to inform anyone of the event, and so the next person to use the port-a-potty adjacent to the Submersible Death Trap was greeted with a stall covered in the feces of a thirty year old "man." I can understand the embarrassment associated with such gross incontinence, but you absolutely can't visit that sin on anybody else. When I saw this gentleman Monday morning, I asked him if he was familiar with the "Oops, I Crapped My Pants" sketch on Saturday Night Live several years ago. It also inspired me to print a copy of this fake preventive maintenance card, in which the procedure for defecation on a submarine is spelled out in excruciating detail. Across the top of the first page, I wrote the words, "(LAST NAME): TRAIN ON THIS". I was also tempted to purchase a package of Depend undergarments, but I didn't want to take it that far.
Just prior to the Vikings at Giants game Sunday afternoon, I told Ray that the game should be over at 4:00 - and by 4:05, I'd be calling "Powerball" Josh to taunt him (Josh is a Minnesota native and Vikings fan). Oh, I made that call all right - with twelve minutes left in the fourth quarter, just after the Vikings' defense got its third pick-six and forced me to turn the television off. The crow tasted foul on the way down. I have the strange feeling that we're just getting started on another typical Giants second-half skid.
Subsequent to the game, I worked out and made dinner; once that was done, I papered over the memory of the game with the Elixir of Joy. I went, and I went hard - to the tune of twelve bottles of Yuengling Traditional Lager. The course of the Minivan o' War definitely weaved a few times on the way into work Monday morning. The consumption of Sunday night is now definitely near the top of the list of things to never, ever do again. Not necessarily the amount, but drinking that much prior to having to get up at 4:45 am.
Brent, who I mentioned in the last entry, got a tattoo of a spiderweb on his left elbow, and a spider on the upper left arm. He received numerous comments on the quality of the ink work. He got the tattoo because he liked the design. Unfortunately for him, he wasn't aware of the fact that the spiderweb is a symbol frequently acquired by those who have done hard time, and that it's also a favorite of white supremacists and gang members. Obviously, those are things with which the Seagoing Military Force does not want to be associated. He had to go have a chat with the Chief of the Boat, and he now has to write a "book report" detailing the history of that particular symbology. So, to recap, Brent got a tattoo because he liked the artwork, with no intention of wrongdoing, and he gets in trouble on political correctness grounds. (Cue Godsmack.) NAVY. Accelerate your life...in reverse.
For a long while now, the song on my MySpace profile has been "Face Down" by The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, a band out of Jacksonville. During Sunday night's drunken progression, I downloaded and listened to more of their music, and my feet became bare - because my socks had been rocked off. I give particular props to "Your Guardian Angel" and "Seventeen Ain't So Sweet."
I went to Eastern Mountain Sports in Newington earlier tonight, shopping for a fleece. I found one I really liked, but the price tag that read $165 was a show-stopper, even considering the lack of sales tax. I decided that the jacket I bought earlier this year from Wal-Mart is plenty good enough, despite the fact that it's a bit big. I decided instead to spend my money on something much, much more worthwhile; I just made a $100 donation to Ron Paul's Presidential campaign:
Paul's numbers are going up, and with good reason: He's the only sensible choice for the Presidency. As it happens, Barack Obama toured the SDT this morning; had I met him, I would have told him, straight to his face, "I support Ron Paul."
I intend to attend Friday night's UNH v. UMass-Lowell hockey game at the Whittemore Center. Hopefully getting tickets shouldn't be a problem.