What a week…sandwiched between a childhood friend’s mom dying Monday and a coffee club member suddenly dying Thursday, a badass buddy learned he has cancer….everywhere. What the fuck?

So last night, with Marty working late, I made both kids sit and watch a movie with me. The kids were grumpy because I refused to let them squirrel away in their rooms. I was just sad.

We considered “Elf,” decided on “The Book of Life,” but when the DVD player crapped out we were left with “Grown Ups 2” airing on the FX channel. By the time the credits rolled, we were all headed to our respective beds, barely able to muster a begrudged ‘night. (“Good work team! Yaaaay FAMILY!”)

I woke early to work out, then drank a big cuppa NOPE and promptly returned to bed. And that’s when shit got weird.

First, I dreamt my badass buddy and I were at a baseball stadium talking about his shitty news. He wanted his services held there with The Nadas playing. As we talked, we casually watched two large, puffy, drooling Bengal tigers playfully maul people in nearby seats. As we watched, he asked, “Reed, will you bring the tigers?”

I must’ve stirred because that dream promptly ended and a second, more disturbing dream set in. It was sweaty and dirty, took place on a golf course and involved
image
running hydration belts and Petzl headlamps. Apparently it’s what happens when I watch artists like Peaches on a belly full of Adam Sandler, Chris Rock and Nick Swardson, and then skip out on an early morning run.

In light of all that, bringing the Bengal tigers to a stadium service for a badass? Consider it done.

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