GateHouse — For real, and I can say this because I have no particularly well-carved feelings on the Green Bay Packers, I felt terrible for the terrible replacement refs. Awful for their awfulness. Miserable for their miserable-ity. Sad for the sadness they brought upon us all, but also the melancholy must have felt slumping back to the locker room, hearts pounding, heads down, knowing that they had to hustle out of the stadium as speedily as they could, probably to get to their shift at Dunkin Donuts.
Seriously, how can you not have felt bad for these poor schlumps? Imagine their situation, that you were walking down the street, whistling a merry tune, a donut in your hand (sorry, totally stuck on the donut daydream now), and someone walks up to you with an oboe. They jam the oboe in your face and tell you in no uncertain terms that you’re playing with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra that night at 8 p.m. And you’d better be at the top of your oboe-game, and the world’s most elite oboe players (oboists? Obots? Barack Oboemas?) would all be in attendance, affected by your every low note, and also 90 billion people would be watching, waiting for nothing else other than to see you jack something up so they could whine about it on AM oboe radio.
(And then maybe one time you get to the end of a symphony and you still haven’t figured out the first thing about your oboe and you end up screwing the pooch on the grand finale so badly that it ends up sounding like Hungarian death metal and everybody hates you, at least as much as everyone can hate an oboe player. Also note: The hypothetical orchestral terror is effective on the likely chance that you, the reader, are not an oboe player. If you, the reader, are an oboe player, please put this column down and turn to Marmaduke at once, which, I am told, is usually pretty low on oboe jokes.)
See, this is what I’m talking about right here.