've always held this perverted belief that there's really nothing I can't do, except I just don't feel like it. To wit: Gold medal Olympic gymnast. You know, the event with the 4 foot tall 8 year old girls. I could do that, if I wanted to - I just don't.
Neurosurgeon? Come on, give me something worth my yawn.
Anyhow, I was reminded of this last night while hunting & gathering some vittles for our midnight dinner. Why midnight? Because we keep moronic hours, that's why. I summoned all my skills and (in a very masculine fashion) preheated the oven to 400 degrees and skinned a frozen pizza from it's plastic. Sally set the microwave timer to 20 minutes and we went and watched some recorded effluvia.
We didn't hear the microwave raise its beepy alert. Some 10 minutes later we got to the pizza, which still looked edible to me, if a touch dark and orange and um, leathery. Sally wasn't too excited, so I swallowed my chef's pride and we ordered a pizza. We then tried to figure out what to do with the quickly congealing disk of grease and crust - it wasn't delivery, it was DiGiorno, and it was DiSgusting looking.
That's when my Olympic potential resurfaced. From our kitchen on the third floor we have a tall window facing the back alley/parking lot behind my building. This is the secret spot drunks pee after the bars close. It's also where a few dumpsters are, and usually with lids open. They're about 25 feet down vertically and 30 feet away horizontally. Thanks to Pythagoras we know that's a little over 39 feet away, point to point.
I hope it's painfully obvious where this is all headed, because I'm running out of ways to embellish this.
With Sally egging me on, I took the now-cooled slab of Italian Pie and sized up the situation. My moment of Olympic glory was nigh, and I would make my mark with the Discus Throw. Wind speed was minimal, lighting was poor, and the opening on the dumpster was a paltry 2x2 feet hatch. There was also the matter of the roof of an adjoining building right under the window, which prevented a direct view of (or throw to) the dumpster. I hefted the disc one last time, the crowed held its breath, and I hurled the pepperoni delight mightily at an angle, to get that gentle arc a frisbee gets when it curves back to the earth rather than flies flat and low. It headed up and off to the right, and curved back past the visible edge of the intervening roof line - Clunk! The sound of pizza against metal!
We couldn't see if it actually went in, but the trajectory looked spot-on, and the gratifying sound made it seem pretty plausible. All of Sally's marital concerns evaporated in that single moment of dough-on-dumpster drama. She had certainly picked a winner.
Epilogue: Later that same night
I went and did a casual walk-by of the trash bin in question, and it turns out the pizza did indeed smack into it, but missed the opening. Pizza guts were everywhere. I briefly considered putting chalk outlines around it, and then realized just how pitiful my life would be if I did.
Also, while writing this mess I had cause to look up DiGiorno Pizza's correct spelling, and found this fitting oddity