Have I ever mentioned how much I dislike olives? Lord! I am not what people might call a ‘picky eater,’ either. In fact, I’d eat just about anything, including meat that has fallen in the fire. No joke. Once, while camping in the Nicolet, my friend Harold dropped a whole brat in the bonfire and just looked at the poor, delicious sausage like it was a lost soul. Luckily, I was there to save that wonderful meat-casing-product from the flames of apathetic waste. Using my cat-like reflexes and impervious-ness to fiery heat, I snatched that bratwurst from the coals, rubbed it on my bibs, slapped in on a nice bun with some horsey-raddish sauce and some spicy mustard, and then ate that tasty sausage as if it were my own. Yep, I’ll eat just about anything - stuff I can’t even get into in this here community newspaper - but I won’t eat olives.
No-sir-ee!
Sure, maybe if I truly enjoyed the taste of my own rotten foot and the aroma of a bucket-full of sweat from a rabid marmot, mixed with the texture of a live snail covered in gravy, then I would eat an olive. Heck, if I enjoyed those things I’d probably eat a whole jar of those disgusting thing-a-ma-doos. But guess what? I don’t. I find it hard to believe that anybody would, but hey, if there are folks who get their kicks by eating something as disgusting as an olive, well then by all means, I say, go right ahead, wierdos. I’ll try my best to keep the cookies in the cave by looking the other way and running towards Pluto.
Honestly.
Anyways, there’s a point to this disgusting rant on the world’s most dispicable “food.”
Watching the Packers secondary lose another game for us in the third quarter, of what was otherwise a half-way decent game, I realized that this bunch of overpaid athletes was currently worth their weight in olives. And coming from me, that is about the worst insult I can think of. What’s worse, however, is that my assessment is probably pretty darn accurate.
And here’s something to wrap your noodles around:
What would you rather take - Ahmad Carroll playing in the defensive backfield, or a big, slimy, mouth-ful of olives? I’m getting all queasy-aweful just thinking about this proposition. Scurvy!
But maybe I’m being too hard on the five-cent package. Maybe I’m just cranky after staying up so late past my bedtime. Maybe I’m unfairly placing the blame for a team loss on the performance of a few horrendous plays and players.
Maybe. But olives are olives.
Anyways, I suppose we should be looking forward to our bright, sunny, olive-less future.
Up next Sunday, in the friendly confines of Lambeau Field, we get a shot at another bottom feeder with a new head coach in the Saint Louis Ram-Horned Sheep.
Let’s hope Mr. Green’s ham-strings heal up for this match-up of NFC red-horses. And let’s hope our offense, led by Number Four, will be the one blasting out explosive plays on the grid-iron. I believe they will: Saint Louis - 13, Green Bay - 35.
Until next week, then.
F.G., circa 1929
