Foosball with Felipe

I've decided I really like alliteration; it makes good band names and blog post names.

I played several short matches of foosball last night at work. First I played foosball with Neal, the husband of one of my co-workers. He has only the use of one hand, so to make things relatively even, I played with one hand too. AND I STILL BEAT HIM. EAT THAT. Just kidding, he's really cool, and he probably would've beat me if he was able to use both hands.

Several minutes later, I engaged in a foosball battle with Felipe, a hispanic gentleman that works at the Community Center and who is one of the nicest guys I've ever met. And man is he good at foosball. Holy crap. He beat me two games in a row. It hurt my pride a lot, especially since I remember boasting in my own foosball strength in my last blog post.

What's the point of this blog? (Here comes the moral of the story! Wait for it! WAIT FOR IT!)

Sometimes in life, we feel like those little men on the great foosball field of life. We feel like we have no arms, that we only have the use of our feet, that our faces looks like everyone else's, and we're always kicking soccer balls around. We don't go after the afore-mentioned soccer ball, but we'll kick it, maybe, if it comes to us. And we can only move laterally. And if we do a kick, we can do a complete flip through the air, and maybe even just hang there in the air forever. And in place of our arms, there's a giant steel rod that penetrates through our sides and connects all of our similar positioned teammates together. Do you feel like this sometimes? HUH? DO YA? DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO HAVE YOUR ARMS RIPPED OFF AND HAVE A GIANT ROD IMPALED THROUGH YOUR ABDOMINAL AREA? ALL SO YOU CAN PLAY SOCCER? ALL DAY LONG? EVERY DAY? HUH?!

No. You don't. You have no idea what it's like.

Next time you play a round of table foosball, and you score that final winning goal that causes so much joy in your hearts, I want you to look down at your little men, little men with little smiles painted on their faces, and I want you to notice something. I want you to notice the single teardrops running down their cheeks.

You will never comprehend the misery that this man is going through.

No, my friend, they're not tears of joy. They're tears of regret, of sorrow, tears of unspeakable agony as their little plastic bodies are twisted to-and-fro against their will. If those little men could talk (and they can't, because their real mouths have been sealed shut and painted over with a grin), we would probably hear them crying, screaming out, and shouting, "WHY?! WHY DID I EVER DECIDE TO DEDICATE MY ENTIRE LIFE TO SOCCER?! WHY?!"

So anyway, I should probably go study for a very important test now.