I stay up nights worried that my boys will not strive to be anything more than the chairman of the board of directors for a Fortune 500 trans-Atlantic conglomerate.
Something extremely odd and unsettling happened with the Cowboys this year. We all know what, but the question is "HOW??"
Assuming you make it to the top of the mountain, strap yourself into your deathboard, making sure you have no feeling in your feet, then just go for it dude.
It ain't the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog. I know because my cousin operates an underground dog fighting ring.
Going for that peak-psycho ugly-cry in a public place surrounded by crazy sports fans probably isn't going to score you any "girlfriend points."
Here's the problem with your skateboarders: they make it look too easy. Let me attempt to skateboard and faceplant all over the place, for the ratings.
Sometimes two people stop talking to each other, and there isn't even a big argument at the end. They just avoid each other, forever.
Shit, Jeff. I'm dead on my feet, bro. I'm exhausted. I want to go back to the Village with the guys and get some sleep and pretend this never happened.
Though his superior respiratory system makes him the perfect specimen in and out of a Speedo, there are, however, still some things I can do that Michael Phelps can't.
It's the most demanding, stressful, scary, humbling, embarrassing and brutally honest test of your strength of character and ability to fight through pain to finish a race.