[ t i c k t i o n a r y { b a t c a v e } ]

[ t r i m ]

[ t h e ]

[ f a t ]

{ 7 . 2 0 . 9 8 }

Every now and again, you gotta trim the fat.

I came to this decision this weekend as I was putting on a pair of my favorite jean shorts and realised the ends no longer met. Even the Bob has dubbed me "Señior Buck-Sixty" (after departed Dallas Star Bob Bassen), I've noticed that I'm starting to hit that "30-year old bloat" No matter what I do, I can't seem to avoid the pro-wrestler mid-section.

It's a nasty little problem but I figure with just a little work (or a little judicious removal of the McDonald's tonnage from my diet), I can remove that layer of fat and keep my Ticket Chick happy.

Somehow, I managed to run my train of thought from that to sports. I don't know how, I just did. I think it was when I envisioned myself with a 85 inch waist, occupying my bed like a planetary mass. I think I was wondering what would happen to me if I didn't do something to stop the weight gain now. And then it hit me . . .

Money. Salaries.

Where does it stop?

It struck me as funny once. How a professional player says, "I'm doing it to take care of my family." I'd like to know exactly what is so wrong with his family that he needs so damn much money to fix? I figure for myself, I could live very happily on about 30K a year, high on the hog for about 40K. What is a body gonna do with 120 MILLION DOLLARS?!? It just doesn't make sense. And then some jackass has the audacity to say, "I'm getting payed the money I desrerve."

PUH-LEEZ!!

Where's your cure for cancer then pal? Where's the global change you've brought about for the good of all men, and not just for yourself and some shoe company? Excuse me . . . what did you say, Mr.-High-Dollar-Athlete? Nowhere. And we, the fan, perpetuate this modern day "Bread and Circuses" why? So we can keep complaining about how little we have. I've always said there should be some kind of stipulation where a pro athlete can't be paid more than the salary of a public school teacher. If only . . . But, it's gotta stop somewhere. There's got to be a breaking point where the games will no longer support the weight of the salaries. I hope I'm there to see it. Kinda like going back to your high school reunion to see all the girls that dumped on you have gotten fat and ugly, while you've made friends with Father Time.

It's like I said: sometimes you've got to cut the fat. Some of us could stand to get rid of about the ugly five or so pounds sitting on top of our shoulders.