Heavens Sake 'Shinola'

Okay… It’s over… I’m talking about the great “Roxy” debate.

Kristina has finally conceded in the fight of using “Roxy” for her car.

It has long been established… Not only here in written form, but everyone who has known me, that Roxy is the name of my truck. Preston, my nephew calls my truck Roxy. My niece Chloe… Knows the silver beast in the driveway as Roxy. And even Kristina herself has said, “I can’t use Roxy. Your truck comes first to my mind.”

There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. When you think of silver, light-duty (no snickering Stina) and sturdy Ford Rangers that belongs to a doughy Redskins fan that pulls for Robby Gordon, you will always think of Eugene’s truck… Roxy. And when it comes to a fast and furious Lexus sports car driven by a Grateful Dead/Poison loving, ass-kicking woman just over 5 feet tall with a leaden foot… You will now think of the name “Lalita”.

It’s settled! Lalita it is! Indian for goddess and American for F’ing fast.

The debate is settled. The case is closed. And unfortunately for me, the negotiations are over.

Now back to the business that I’m in… Silliness.

I don’t watch college sports. Oh yeah, I will try from time to time… Like when the West Virginia Mountaineers played “so-and-so” back in last year’s “what-cha-ma-call-it” Bowl. I watched the whole game and I know that the Mountaineers from the state I was born in won. I just never retained anything else because, quite frankly, I don’t care.

I just like the University’s logo because that tells everyone around me that I’m a product of the great state of West Virginia. If I put it on Roxy, that alerts all the other West Virginians that I’m one of them. They will let me in front of them during sticky traffic situations and if we get the chance to talk, we’ll figure out the miles between our hometowns. It’s like finding a long lost relative on life’s highway…



Don’t make any jokes there unless your from West Virginia. It’s like a white guy using the N-word around even his coolest black friends… No matter how much you like the guy or how good of friends you are… It’s just not cool. And besides, Kentucky is MUCH worse than West Virginia. Just rent HBO’s documentary American Hollow to find out exactly what I mean.

So I tried Saturday afternoon to watch WVU (West Virginia University) play ECU (East Carolina University), but I just didn’t care. College sports just don’t move me. There doesn’t seem to be anything at stake and… I COULDN’T CARE LESS. I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY ANYONE COULD!

I had laundry to do and my Netflix DVD’s were backing up… And to me, college sports of any kind are as boring to me as watching the neighbors mow their lawns.

I don’t get it… I know women whose husbands or boyfriends turn into insensitive, uncaring, and barely noticing men during football season. And yet I’m a single guy in my 40’s with no ties to watching any games except the Washington Redskins. One game out of 16 professional games per week. One football game out of 4,000 a week during the entire collegiate and professional schedules. How have I not been snagged up by now?

Anyways… During the game telecast, a player on East Carolina caught my attention. It wasn’t his playing ability. It wasn’t anything that he said… It was simply his name… Quentin Cotton.

Mother F’ing Quentin Cotton!

As a broadcaster and someone who has never or will ever call a football game… This HAS to be one of the worst names in football history. His parents should be hunted down and given some serious pink bellies for giving this kid that name. There are too many hard Q, C, and K sounds. And besides… Try saying that name during a heated sports moment. It’s a tough name to say!

I tried explaining that to my mother, but she didn’t understand what in the honey baked hell I was talking about.

I’m sorry. But saying “Quentin Cotton” over and over again in the heat of a game could end up sounding like a French man clearing his throat. Then again, that could just be me.