Never heard of her.
Only until someone comes to push me closer.
Kid ain't so tough. I'm over 50 years old and I can guarantee you I have no problem running 4.4 yards in 40 seconds. I still have 4 years of eligibility left, also. You listening, Urban?... Urban?...
Be careful out there. Wouldn't want to ruin what fate created.
You're asking for tips? Don't ask for tips at the doctor's office. You want them nowhere near the tip.
I thought to myself how odd it was everyone agreed with me. Then I saw only one vote. I'll assume my normal position shortly.
I see Braxton as the preseason Captain, while JT will shoulder that job during the regular season until Cardale takes over as Captain in the post season.
+1 for the WBL well wishes to our league member Defiance, Hove.
Forget the 4.6 million, I'll not coach from my couch for a cool 1 million. (And even that is a very negotiable figure.)
That James Taylor/John Kerry duet of "You've Got A Friend" still brings a tear to my ear.
Best: Kid Rock (My friend was in the band so my lovely bride and I had all access, all weekend.
Worst: My 5th grade band concert. It was BRUTAL.
Buckeye jock straps.
He makes his real money in Advocare.
This will only work if Mark Emmert can be given a high enough position on the pyramid, and all of Braxton's earnings.
I'm not a professional athlete (yet), but caring for my ill parents in their home is like being in a museum about me. I did have to dismantle the First Wedding exhibit photos, though. It makes for a more pleasant atmosphere when the Second Wedding participants are in house for a live show.
So Harbaugh is entering the Wet T-shirt contest?
That'll teach you to run off and get an education. What were you thinking?
Chevy Chevette, it'll drive you happy! Thanks for the ear worm from that incessant jingle blast from the past.
Your first car was an 18-wheeler? Impressive!
As the months passed, the excitement was building to a fevered pitch. I was down to two weeks before getting my permit, sliding behind the wheel of my first love, and relentlessly pursuing what was rightfully going to be mine. It was truly the best day of my life.
Dad drove the object of my affection to work that day. On his lunch break, he motored downtown to get lunch. He had done that every day for 20 years at that time. This day was different. As he was no doubt enthralled with the testosterone boost that had to be automatically coursing through his veins while behind THAT wheel, a
heartless, maniacal, ignorant, spiteful BITCH lady blew a stop sign, and crashed broadside into my sure fire love machine. In an instant, much like I would later learn is common during early first encounters with such things of beauty, it was over. Totaled. Dead at the scene. Towed away, un-driveable. I didn't even get to say good bye.
There were dark days to follow. All the weeks, months, years of anticipation, gone. Then the thoughtful, caring, responsible, and practical adults took over. It was the 70's after all, but not the good 70's. It was the Energy Crisis, Gas Rationing 70's. It was best, I was told. Gas would have been way too expensive for me to even drive that gas hog anyway. My Uncle had a car that would be just perfect for me. Dad had already bought it from him so I would still have a car when I was old enough to drive a week later.
It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. I dubbed her "Erectoblaster." In my mind, I knew it was over. My teen years were about to be reduced to only hauling dates that could not fit in the front seat. Cargo dates. Some extra weight over the axel for winter driving. Worse yet, these dates would last much longer than necessary because of Erectoblaster only having a top end of 50 mph, not to mention the extra time necessary for loading and unloading my dates. I give you my first car... the incomparable 1970 Opel Woody Wagon.
I made it 6 months with ol' Erectoblaster. I even managed to find a date that could both lay in the back and sit in the front. I couldn't continue the charade, however. I sabotaged her. Some relationships just aren't made to last. I next bought a 1968 Mustang and finally exorcised the demons thrust on me by the
Charger Killing Bitch lady who ran that fateful stop sign, and I have spent the rest of my days trying to shake the nightmares of pulling into school that first time, driving an Opel Wagon with simulated wood grain sides.
That's one small match for Stieber, one giant Championship for Buckeye Wrestling.
I've never tried that with beer, but I'm currently realizing that nothing ever stops me from running after a bag of Taco Bell.