In two weeks, my favorite sport has crumbled, I’ve been poisoned by shrimp pasta, my computer has been taken over by viruses and I’ve procrastinated more than ever.
On the bright side, this proves a point I’ve been trying to make for years: I’m incredibly important.
God has many responsibilities, like answering prayers, spreading his everlasting love, sparking centuries-long religious warfare, upholding the sanctity of marriage and chilling with Jesus. Instead of doing his chores, he took time out of his busy schedule to screw with my head.
God must have chuckled when, on the same night I sat through Ivan’s slight breeze, the NHL Collective Bargaining Agreement expired, and the league suspended operations. The players and owners can’t agree on anything, and it appears there will be no hockey this season.
What am I supposed to do? New Orleans kicked out my minor league hockey team to make room for the Hornets. Now, I have to learn a different language to read about my favorite hockey player, who committed to a Swedish elite team for the season. This winter will have no mullets, no fights, no pucks, no toothless grins and no screaming Canadians.
That alone could have sent me over the edge.
And then God sent the Trojans to smite my computer.
I wish I had never heard the name “Trojan” applied to anything besides legendary cities on the Aegean Sea, condoms and Brad Pitt. Unfortunately, there are also computer viruses called Trojan horses.
The Lord called on these “horses” to trample all over my personal files. The scroll button on the mouse is broken. Right-clicking is out, too. Surfing the Internet for more than three seconds turns into an epic battle against pop-up ads. There’s not even any naked Brad Pitt pictures that come with this Trojan intrusion. No free condoms, either.
First hockey, and then my Internet? My sources of happiness are gone. My mental health is suffering. At least I’m still healthy, right?
I got food poisoning. You don’t want to hear about it. I was sure that my stomach was going to secede from my body, exit from my navel and spawn an army of growling, stomach-shaped bile-monsters ready to take over the world.
It felt worse than the time American Idol got postponed due to President Bush’s news conference – I’ll remember that when I’m voting, buddy.
Because of these and many other small misfortunes, I am convinced that God is trying to punish me for something. If I had committed a cardinal sin, like putting a jelly-covered knife into the peanut butter jar, I would admit it and welcome the hellfire and brimstone. But I haven’t done anything. So it’s time to call a truce with God.
Listen, man. If you stop being petty and passive-aggressive, I’ll stop being whiny. I can go back to being sarcastic instead of depressed, and you can go back to your wrathful, Old Testament self.
Please, just do it somewhere else.
Wait! Can you fix the NHL before you go?
