Curling Off

I have decided that I am like curling, not the biceps-building exercise in which I never-ever engage, but rather the lamest sport played at the lamest sporting event of any given four year period. After devising this analogy, I considered further similarities, and, in some instances differences.

I am like curling in the sense that my stones are on ice (this refers both to the shrinkage brought on by my freezing apartment, and the fact that I stuff my briefs with ice cubes at night to preserve my testicles until they might be needed at some point in the distant future).

I am unlike curling because I don't have impossibly hot Danish girls doing me in teams. This, I'm sure has nothing to do with my comment about how curling is the perfect wife sport because it involves speed-sweeping.

I am like curling because nobody watches me.

I am unlike curling because I come far more often than once every four years, but I am like curling in the sense that almost exactly the same amount of arm movement is involved. Here's a fun image for you: Imagine a curling stone sweeping itself the target where it gets all the rocks off. That certainly doesn't describe me in any way.

Anyway, that's about the extent of my analogy (Ok, so technically, its a simile, 'but simile' is just one letter away from 'smile' and therefore has no place in this blog), and besides, curling reruns are on right now. No joke, there really are curling reruns. It's like eating reheated French Fries, or jerking off to a video of yourself masturbating. And speaking of which, did I mention how incredibly hot these Danish girls are?