Do you finish reading a book because somebody gave it to you as a gift? What if it was around five hundred pages thick? What if it's all words and ideas and deep stuff with no pictures on it? What if it had size 8 fonts, single space, with very lengthy paragraphs set at two to three a page? What if the chapters were spaced so far apart you think you'd get tired just by the mere thought of it? What if it was something that never interested you to begin with?
What if it was given to you by, say, a family member? Or perhaps another beloved who only had your best interests during that wildly congested Annual Book Sale at the mall? Maybe a dear aunt that gave you the same pair of hot pink pants because she knew you were a fag, and you were into this kind of shit? What if the gift wrap was something straight out of Martha Stewart's workshop, all decked out like a window display because it's trying to send a message across?
It's a good thing my sister knows my reading material like the back of her hand. I wouldn't know, for the life of me, how to answer any of those questions.
The funniest thing happened last Sunday. Ricky Hatton, after months of serving the juiciest trash talking over his fight with The People's Champ Manny Pacquiao, dropped dead, cold as a knocked out turkey only after two rounds of the most, shall we say, unprepared boxing to grace Pay Per View. He's knocked out on round two. And that's basically the long and short of this very short lived "put your money where your mouth is match," however much awaited.
I wonder how the embarrassment is like. I mean, what happened here is like training for Rhythmic Gymnastics for four years only to trip on the first few seconds of your routine. And what makes it less embarrassing is that gymnasts don't trash talk. Or they don't do it as loud as Hatton's entourage.
