I lived through three separate fantasies this weekend, each of which heightened my primeval senses to a peak that I have not experienced…ever, all at one time.

Saturday morning started with a battle of the bay, where we opened the game with me leaping into the air for a reception only to land butt first onto the hard unforgiving ground. Luckily for me though I have a very minimal vertical jump, along with an oversized butt which cushioned the fall just so.

*thump thump*

Fast forward some three hours later then, and the very final play of the game again involved myself–only this time there were no defenders around me, and I got to live my childhood dreams of catching a game-winning TD to the cheers of our team.

*thump thump, thump thump*

All in all it was quite a way to start the morning.

A few beers later then, I came home, put the one-time-used $35 cleats away, officially declaring my retirement from the sport, tossed the grass stained shirt into the hamper and transformed myself into the next American Idol (loser).

Singing our voices away it not only brought me back to the days where I dreamed of capturing the attention of a huge roaring crowd of tends of thousands singing my heart away, but also back to Thursday nights at the local Westwood bar, Brewco, where, with the aid of several drinks slowly working their way through my bloodstream I commanded the attention of a few dozen drunkards wishing I’d finish up my damn song already.

*thump thump thump thump thump thump*

Finally, my dream of being a race car driver hugging the curves in Monaco were fully lived as I took the wheel behind the rocket launcher otherwise known as the Mercedes S-class, AMG edition.

Indeed, pushing down the gas pedal should’ve warranted an announcement akin to “we have lift off”, as I swear I was on a plane. The only time I’d ever felt such G forces before has been right before a plane has taken off, and in fact I’m willing to bet with the proper wings planted on the side of the car it would’ve given the Delorean from Back to the Future a run for its money–only this car would get to 88mph before you’ve finished this incredibly long run-on sentence, creating a paradox in the space-time continuum itself. In fact you could probably put the engine into a Boeing 747 and the thing wouldn’t need a runway much longer than a typical driveway.

*heart explodes*