Monday, 6 August 2012

A God That Doesn’t Take Criticism Well

Every now and then, I break a cardinal rule of mine and get interested in some sporting event. I am usually pretty good about keeping an emotional distance. I just keep telling myself that modern sport is about money, status, money, politics and money. Televised sport is the sport entertainment business and God help you if you try to mess with this billion dollar enterprise.

I got caught up in the women’s soccer today at the Olympics. I know better and I should have walked out of the room after turning off the babble box, but I didn’t. Canada was playing the USA, and when I walked in Canada was ahead. I like to see the US lose more than I like to see Canada win. That isn’t just for soccer, but pretty much everything in life, because I cheer for the underdog and always have. For various reasons which invole bribery, incompetence and just plain stupidity on the part of the referee from the Netherlands, the US won the game and either a Gold or Silver medal depending on how they do in the finals.

Canada will be playing France for bronze, and it is my fervent hope that the Canadian team can beat those cheese eating, pasty wearing, inbred enemies of England. I could have used that description last night about the Canada -US game. Maybe I should have. You can’t beat the other team and the referees. Of course the US team players were incredibly happy, but it kind of put a damper on the rest of my day.

I went over to my buddies to watch him and his son working on the son’s trailer. That should have cheered me up. It is kind of like watching an old Laurel and Hardy movie. I have been in the situation where I am trying to invent a tool that will do a particular job and realize that I couldn’t make the tool even if I knew what I needed. I watched for an hour or so, drinking coffee and tossing in the odd tidbit of encouragement and advice depending on what I thought the situation warranted. Surprisingly they didn’t take my advice. Even more surprising was the fact that neither one told me to go fuck myself. I need to get a lower class of friends.

I got home and did a little gardening, made some salad from our garden and had a very nice conversation with my dinner companions. It turns out that I could enjoy the rest of the day. Well, I thought that I could until they started to show the replays of some of the more painful plays from the game and then do the colour commentary on each and every one in super slo motion. It was like watching the train as it hits your car over and over again. Wonderful!

I thought that writing about it in the blog would help, but it hasn’t really. Oh well, there isn’t a damned thing I can do about it, so I will chalk it up to another one of those things I want to talk to God about when I die. I figure that there isn’t much that He can do to me since I will be dead already. Besides, who could believe in a God that doesn’t take criticism well?

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