> ...already. So now its time for Ron to tell us the story about the party
> he set up and didn't attend. Please make it funny, please include the
> phone call to Marie that involved you saying "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry,"
> and how it is that you are leading in football. Also explain to me how my
> best decision appears to be having the SD defence.
>
> Dale

Okay, so let's pretend that you're Ron and you're going out with some friends to meet this girl from Harvey Mudd I will refer to as Cat.

So Cat seems charming enough, interested in a lot of the same things that Grant is, pissed off at a lot of things that Grant is, but it's while I'm playing with my new toy* that Lauren is looking all starry eyed as well. Cat's talking about how she likes to shop and how she loves shoes and how she loves to listen to KISS FM and Grant is busy chompin' on his banana tempura mango cheesecake curry beef riesling or whatever it is he ordered. Regardless, the girls start to hit it off pretty well, and let's just say that one thing led to another, and before you know it, Lauren is driving Cat home.

So it's now 1am. I get a call from Lauren saying that she's got some news for me. To make a short story shorter, Lauren has officially dabbled in the lesbian arts. I'm talking lickin' and suckin' and lots of cuddlin' and feelings-sharin'. Y chromosomes not allowed! But she proceeds to tell me that she, in the throes of passion, no less, that she promised Cat a threeway between the two of them and... Marie.

During the French Revolution, the queen of France's advisors told her that her people were so poor that they could not afford bread. So she said, let them eat poontang, and the country has been in the midst of sexual confusion and overall distress ever since.

By the time I get done sobbing like girl, Lauren says, "I'll call ya when I call ya" and hangs up the phone. It's 5am. Norv Turner was probably *just* getting up, scratching his head going, "I think I'll skin a few 'Skins today," and chuckles to himself, stopping only once he realizes that no one else was around. "Damn me and my cleverness."

It's 9am and I get Dale's phone call. "Hey, I'm trying to decide between cooking steak or leaving it raw for you guys to gnaw on. Give me a call back." After successfully screening a call, I drift back into sleep. Let's resume...

The French, not satisfied with cunning linguism (sp?) as a source of nutrition, eventually turn to horrible accents in the Filipino subconscious. "Ze ting to do, mes amis, iz to sucez l'âne!**" And they've been in the midst of sexual distress and overall confusion ever since.

It's 10am, I get a call from Marie, telling her how Dale is a dumbhead or something like that and how she can't shake the irking feeling she wishes he was more sensitive to her needs and she wishes he was less bony and crap and immediately starts to fantasize about what it would be like to dabble in the ceramic arts.

After successfully screening a call, I drift back to sleep. Let's resume...

Norv Turner pours his Honey Bunches of Oats into large salad serving bowl. We're talking cups, maybe pints, maybe even quarts. No wait, he's from the east coast. We're talking milliliters, deciliters, maybe even liters of oat, barley, wheat, granola, and honey. He reaches for his 2% milk and pours in only a teaspoon, maybe a tablespoon of milk. Sorry. A nanoliter. Maybe a microliter. "Friggen heck!" he proclaims to himself, and then hushes himself and zips his eyes around upon realizing his volume.

That's a pun, kids.

So Norv Turner proceeds to carry his big salad bowl of cereal to the sink and mixes in water. On his way back he notices a box of Wheaties in his cupboard. Hmm. I'd like to be a champion, too, he muses. But imagine his horror when he pulls it out only to see Stephen Davis, Champ Bailey and the whole Redskins team in a group photo on the cover.

It's 11am. Lauren gives me a call and tells me that she and Cat are going to drive over to Palms to rescue Marie from the evilness that is Guy. I run out of bed and hop into the Honda. Oh shit, it needs an oil change. "Dammit all, I'll change it after 3500 miles instead!" and rip out of the garage.

It's 11:15am, and after I cease to care that there is a Honda-shaped hole in the closed garage door, I peel off and drive to Palms to try and intercept Marie's would-be violators.

It's 11:30am. I hit traffic on the 405. Lauren gives me a phone call saying that she clandestinely snuck into the condo while everyone wasn't looking, gave Marie a hicky on the oh-my-god, and made her promise to act normal to everyone else. She was highly amused at the rapid success of her plan, but after I got tired of her evil tee-hee-ing, I decide to give Marie a call to make sure that she's still okay.

"What's the matter, Ron? We were worried about you. Are you okay? By the way, if anyone asks, I'm strictly dickly, but off the record, I likes me some Velvet. Rrahr."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry that I couldn't make it Marie. I feel so bad."

"Rrahr, oh yeah, some knucklehead tried to diss, 'cause his girl was on my list."

"I'm so sorry Marie, please don't man-hate me."

"He had game, but he chose to hit 'em, so I pull up quick to get with 'em."

"Now that you're a rapping lesbian, Marie, please don't tell Dale. He'll never be the same. He might go off and do something stupid like date your best friend."

"So ladies if your butt is round, and you want a triple-X throw down, dial 1-900-FOX-A-LOT and kick them nasty thoughts..."

And then on the first punt of the game, we're going to shade all of our coverage down to the right. If you get one blocker, you'll be okay. The rest of the time, we'll basically just cough it up, and we won't pass rush much.

Norv Turner is hurriedly scribbling notes that he was given from the talking Wheaties box. "Okay. First punt of the game, coverage shaded right. No pass rush. Got it. Thanks Stephen." Stephen and the rest of the Redskins on the Wheaties box proceed to wave. Terrell Davis on the Chunky Soup can says, "Hey, I can tell you about the Denver game plan, too!"

"Not until Week 7, TD."