Sports in Hell Read Online Free PDF

knew?
    â€œSend the bios,” I said, since I make it a rule to know as much as possible about the things I’m putting down my pants. They came. Each bio arrived with a photo and a paragraph or two on the celebrity ferret. Here is an actual ferret bio she sent:
    Peppy … was surrendered to the Richmond Ferret Rescue League approximately 6 months ago, and is about 2 years old. He is a white, crimson-eyed male, who runs faster in reverse than drive. He is suspected to be deaf, but this doesn’t slow him down. This is his first year participating in the ferret legging.
    The mind nearly blows a gasket at all the questions this one single paragraph sends richocheting around the noggin. For instance, what does that mean, “surrendered”? Was Peppy involved in some kind of police/ferret standoff? And why is Peppy only
suspected
of being deaf? Couldn’t you simply smash two cymbals next to his ears and see if Peppy jumps? Or is the fear of that reaction exactly why he’s still only “suspected”? And, my God, if Peppy really is deaf, and he is
my
ferret, does that mean he can’t hear me screaming? And why for the love of Christ does he go faster
backwards?
What kind of hideous hellbeast is this? And crimson eyes? Whose ferret was it, Charles Manson’s?
    There were more.
Mocha …is one of our therapy ferrets
. What kind of therapy does Mocha practice? Aroma?
Paco …is not particularly fond of other ferrets
. In other words, Paco has killed most of the other ferrets.
Tosh … has an awesome personality
. Oh, yeah, he does this great Jay Leno impression and, like, he’s always got gum.
    There was also very helpful and detailed information about such possible dungaree divers as Karma, Marley, Zack, and Clyde. If I had to pick one of those four to have down my pants, I suppose it would be Marley. Hopefully, he’d be higher than Snoop Dogg, find a small place to cuddle up near my ankle, and just veg. Thinking about it, I came up with a short list of ferrets I would definitely
not
want in my pants:
Fang
Adolf
Psycho
Lockjaw
Dahmer
    Anyway, fast-forward to late October and me, at the end of a long ESPN road trip, pulling into the Richmond Highland Games & Celtic Festival to put a live animal down my pants in the pursuit of great journalism.
    â€œIs that the deal Richard Gere was into?” my brother asked.
    â€œNo, no, different thing entirely,” I said.
    Then my son, Kel, weighed in.
    â€œFerret licking?”
    â€œNo, not ferret licking,” I said. “Legging.”
    â€œBecause I’d pay to see you do some ferret licking.”
    Smart aleck.
    The festive color and pageantry of the Richmond Highland Games & Celtic Festival took place in a picturesque and charming … parking lot. No lie. A giant dirt parking lot next to theRichmond Raceway Center. Inside was the answer to the question: Hey, whatever happened to all those geeks from high school drama club?
    Turns out a highlands festival is kind of like a Renaissance fair, except way more plaid. Everywhere you looked were tanless people dressed in Elizabethan costume, most of whom weren’t in any shows. Bulbous men in kilts. One woman was in leggings, a kilt, and a Darth Vader helmet. One entire pink, fat family of four was dressed identically, down to the little pom-poms on their socks—red kilts, white shirts, boots, and tam-o’-shanters. People walked around all day just
dying
to say something in faux Shakespeare.
    Pimple-riddled teen in corn dog line, wearing palace guard get up, complete with sword: Forsooth, their cupboard is wanting ketchup!
    Pimple-riddled teen’s mom: A pox on their tent!
    It was a great place to go on a diet, featuring Scotch eggs, Cornish pasties, Celtic ice cream (Hey, who wants a scoop of “whisky & clover”?), colcannon, and deep-fried Mars Bars. The many, many activities included punkin’ chunkin’, sheepdog shows, blessing of the