A Sharp Stick

Do you have any idea how many awards shows/presentations there are? Here’s a calendar, if you have the stomach and stamina for such a thing. I stopped counting around fifty; trust me, the list goes on and on.

In the spirit of pointless awards for narcissistic pleasure, I’ve decided to create the Hurler, this being Year One of what I hope will be an annual event.

The greatness here lies in the simplicity. Categories are randomly chosen and there is but a single subjective voter, so there is never a tie. There is a single media site invited, Hurls Treehouse. Thus, you have no real controversy or subversive machinations on the part of the sponsors. Got a beef? Drop it in the Comment section.

Better yet, the Hurler will be neither presented nor accepted by narcissistic celebs with endless thank-you’s and personal political statements. In short, I have trimmed the fat. The whole shebang takes a matter of minutes, depending on your reading speed. It’s like Czechoslovakia (or Wisconsin). We zip in, name our winners and zip out.

First category: Worst Drivers in a Region or State. The winner…is Dallas-Fort Worth.

I won’t condemn all of Texas but DFW is far and away the worst I’ve ever encountered, and since I’m the lone voter, they win. I’ve spent a good chunk of time on the road, including long stints in Southern California and Chicago and significant miles in a dozen other areas. Yes, those locations have their share of poor drivers, but DFW is worse, and the award cuts across all lines of gender, ethnicity, age, height, weight, income, or vehicle type.

The main issue is the unpredictability. Rush hour on I-5 or the Dan Ryan, you know they’re all idiots hellbent on shaving twelve seconds from their hour commute. In DFW, you just never know. It’s like playing Frogger with some drivers feeling the need for speed and others poking along with the urgency of an iceberg. Many times, I’ve seen drivers stop in the middle of the road to wave me through a stop sign. They zigzag through traffic, slow drivers in the left lane and fast drivers in the right. Add a little rain to the roads, and it’s the Titanic meets the Hindenburg.

Texans are some of the finest people I’ve ever met. They are friendly, generous, forgiving, and twenty other positive adjectives. The voices are lovely, each sentence carved from a polite, aw-shucks sort of granite. They really care about other folks, and I love living here. But good drivers they are not.

Did I mention there is no requirement for prospective drivers in Texas to take driver’s ed? Maybe that’s a clue.

Next category: Simple Act of Kindness. Mindy and I went to a Frisco Roughriders (minor league, AA level) game a few nights ago. Several batter were dinged by foul balls–shin or knee or ankle. They’d hop around and try to walk it off, maybe the trainer would come out. The catcher and umpire just stood and watched, moved more to annoyance than compassion.

But one time the catcher took a foul ball off the thigh or knee or maybe the nether regions. Keep in mind, catchers and umpires wear a lot of protective gear, but you can’t protect all of it. They both get beat up every single night, which gives them a special bond. Think about it: they both stand or squat while a guy fires an endless stream of 95mph missiles toward them.

Here’s what I saw when the Frisco catcher was hit with a foul tip. Batter steps out while the catcher writhes in pain. Umpire Pacheco puts a hand on the catcher’s shoulder and whispers a few words (“Hey, buddy, you singing soprano now? I feel ya.”)

Then Pacheco saunters around the writhing catcher, pulls out his brush, and begins to clean off the plate. Keep in mind, there is not a speck of dirt on the plate; you could eat a meal off this dish. But he brushes to and fro, ever so slowly. After checking in with the catcher again, the man in blue stands upright and meanders back behind the plate.

Nothing new here, by the way. This ritual happens in virtually every game, often more than once, a courtesy extended by umpires to catchers from both teams. I’m assuming they don’t go out for burgers and fro-yo’s after the game. Just an act of kindness, humanity in the midst of competition. Congrats Umpire Pacheco on your Hurler!

Next up, the category is Political Futility. This Hurler goes out to the hordes on Facebook, X, Instagram, Tik-Tok (or whatever) who relentlessly bang their drum for or against a particular cause or politician. Maybe venting and ranting just makes you smile or maybe you enjoy the accolades from the denizens of your echo chamber. If so, keep on keeping on, I guess.

Wherever you live on the political spectrum, and this award is for conservatives, liberals, and independents alike. It’s futility, dust in the wind, a puff of breath on a cold day. You’re convincing nobody. Nobody. But here’s a Hurler for your efforts.

And the Hurler for Best New Word goes to “Boozeroo.” The word refers to a bout of heavy drinking. Acceptable usage includes, “It’s going to be a real boozeroo,” or “Red is the nose of a boozeroo.” Thus, the word can refer to a person, place, or event, which makes the term even more flexible. Plus, it’s just fun to say.

The word has been around for over a century, but was just added to the Oxford English Dictionary. We can thank the good folks of New Zealand for this entry. If you want more details on the etymology of the word, check out the site HERE.

This is an ironic choice on the part of the Hurler Selection Committee. I don’t actually drink (other than a ceremonial sip at a wedding or Irish wake), but I’ll find a way to work it into my vocabulary.

I could give more Hurlers, but I’m tired, so let’s cut to the big finale. The final category: Outstanding Contribution to the Glut of Awards Soon to be Forgotten (OCGASF). This Hurler goes to… the Hurler Awards!

What’s the point, you may ask, of self-aggrandizement and shameless self-promotion? Of creating an award simply to compliment myself and strain my shoulder patting myself on the back? Highlighting my work with a pseudo-award completely steeped in fiction?

I reply–Isn’t that the motive of all award shows? It’s not as if funky statuettes and crystal doo-dads are bettering humanity and curing diseases. You may think the Hurler is a trite prize, but (as my father-in-law Harold used to say) it’s better than a sharp stick in the eye.

Thanks for reading!

If you like this blog, please subscribe with an email address in the box below. It’s quick, simple, and free.

Also, check out my books on Amazon.

Have you ordered yet? Both books are available through Amazon, on Kindle or paperback. It’s good stuff!

Click HERE to order.

I’d love to hear from you!