Part 5: Greed

Greed

Apparently greed is one of the 7 deadly sins. Who knew? I thought it was written into the Bill of Rights as an American virtue. Something to look forward to after working hard to become successful or at least after your credit card application is approved.

As a kid I didn’t really know the extent of what was considered greed. I did know that I wanted the new Stretch Armstrong and I wanted it now. I would have gotten ninety Stretch Armstrongs if I could have. But I couldn’t because my parents would continually forget to pay me an allowance. It worked out though because I would continually forget to do any chores until there was a shiny quarter in my palm. If you think that’s rude, then I suggest you take your pro-slavery attitude elsewhere.

Stuff was THE coolest as a kid. It was not important what the stuff was or if the stuff was any fun to play with. Had to have that stuff. Fill my closet to the brim with stuff. Especially if that stuff had stuff that stretched way further than a normal human being’s stuff.[1] All kids love stuff, but the truly greedy kids collect. And I collected. Not something nerdy like butterflies, bottle caps, or some other lame thing that starts with b. (Barbie dolls? Beanie Babies? Barnacles?) I collected Baseball cards. The king of “b” collectibles. Baseball cards are the perfect function of greed. Not only are they considered to be “stuff” but they also appreciate in value earning you future dividends.

“I’m skeptical about their true value” says Nancy Naysayer. “Aren’t they just shoeboxes full of cards that nobody will buy” states Nancy’s husband Nedward. I’m telling you the truth, there is money in cards and if you have shoeboxes full of crap you are bad at collecting (or rather good at collecting if quantities of crap is your end game). I am good at collecting. At the age of 12, I sold one single baseball card for $250 dollars. At 12, earning $250 is like at the age 24, winning 3 months of free 6 packs of 12oz beer or its cash equivalent.[2] I was saving money to buy a 13[3] inch TV/VCR combo. Needless to say I quickly spent all my money on stuff. Probably on Playstation games I had to play on some poopy tv that didn’t even have a VCR built in.

My parents did not support my greed habit very much. They either already knew greed was a deadly sin or they just didn’t like “shoeboxes full of cards nobody will buy.” But one time my mom came through for me. We hopped in the car, allegedly going to go run some errands. Errands running was a favorite activity of mine so she did not have to twist my arm to go along with her. When we stopped at a hotel and not the beauty supplies store I knew something was up. We got out and my mom dropped the good news: She had heard there was a baseball card convention in town and it was in the hotel! A special trip for her special boy. I was giddy with excitement. And then it got even better. She handed my several crisp, clean, freshly minted twenty dollar bills. I thought I was dreaming. Could this get any better?! “You have to pay me back whatever you spend.”

That’s pretty greedy mom.

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[1] I know what you’re thinking but it IS healthy to love Stretch Armstrong this much

[2] I’ll cut down on the use of numbers now. I’m not a math class.

[3] Sorry, last number, promise.

Part 4: Temperance

Temperance

            I don’t feel good about this entry helping to make me look like a good boy. Not because I don’t embody the essence of temperance, but because I don’t really know what temperance means. A quick Google search helped a little. It basically means controlling one’s urges. So feel free to read the chastity entry again, should be pretty much the same thing.

No? You want something new? Tough crowd.

I guess the thing I’m best at controlling about myself is my emotions. Some people would say that’s because I don’t have any emotions.[1] I would say I just take temperance very seriously. It’s my favorite virtue. A virtue I totally knew existed before now.

In the sixth grade I had some game. Not the “I can get any girl I want” kind of game, but the kind of game known as basketball. I was a 5 foot-something shooting guard on the fifth/sixth grade travel team. This was THE team to be on, if you don’t count the all sixth grade team made up of boys who could legitimately call themselves men. I was a number-two guard which meant I wasn’t athletic enough to be a number-one guard. I took the number two status to heart and made my jersey number 22 to motivate and remind myself I wasn’t number 1…or 11.

Because of that number I worked hard, practiced hard, and grew up to be the professional NBA player you know me as today! Can you believe it?!

In reality, I just thought the number 22 was cool and it was one of the only jerseys that came in a small.[2] I did work hard though. I had what the newspapers described as the “prettiest shooting form in Lancaster, PA.” That may not have appeared in newspapers. I don’t know, I didn’t read newspapers. I was a kid! I did shoot well though. The only thing about my shot is that I never really used it. I much preferred passing the ball to somebody else and “somebody else” generally loved getting the ball and the glory.

Winning was important to me, but winning as a team was even more important. I didn’t need to score if somebody else could score instead. Two points from the number-one guard counts the same as my two points. I was content to facilitate others’ pride. However, one fateful tournament threw me into a moment where I had no choice but to hog the limelight.

I get the ball with 1 second left, down 1. If I pass, we lose.

I make the game winning basket with 1 second left to win the mother f*#@!’n tournament!! Greatness was thrust upon me and I did what any sixth grade boy would do in that situation: I walked slowly to the bench and sat down without acknowledging anything happened. I pumped zero fists and slapped no fives.[3] My team went bananas on the court because apparently they were human people.

I didn’t ask for any special treatment after the win, although I didn’t turn down special treatment either. I was given, if memory serves me, a full-size Snickers, a Mountain Dew, and the nickname “shooter.” All three things were basically like winning the lottery for sixth-grade me.[4] Throughout it all, I kept a level head. The friends I had before this all started were still my friends and I NEVER forgot where I came from.

I am number 22.

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[1] Some people = my ex-girlfriends.

[2] I wouldn’t hit my growth spurt until my basketball career was long over, five years later.

[3] I did give a few hugs, but I would have done that with or without a basketball game.

[4] I wouldn’t mind it now either.

Part 3: Gluttony (What's a glootun?)

Gluttony

Its not going to help my case much that I’m currently eating a ½ pound hot pocket while writing this. That’s more pounds than a usual hot pocket. Not sure what the normal poundage is, but I know I feel several pounds heavier after every bite.

Gluttony is probably going to be the biggest hit against my goal of being seen as a good boy. I’m not even going to get into my past as a chubby little boy. I don’t like to talk about it. Mostly because it was a lonely time due to the fact that my boobs were generally the same size as most of the girls’ boobs in my grade. And I killed a bee by accident with my ab flab while eating cake at a pool party. It’s hard to sleep with that kind of guilt on the mind.

I’d like to say that now that I’m skinny and super-hot I have changed my eating habits for the better. But it’s worse. No matter how many of my friends tell me soy milk is better for me and tastes better too I will continue dunking full sleeves of Oreos into, at a minimum, 2%, right from the cow’s teet, milk.[1]

My biggest temptation, I’m fairly sure, is a hereditary condition handed down from my mother. Donuts. Doughnuts. Deauxnoughts. I don’t know how it’s spelled. I do know it tastes like a little slice of fatty heaven. My mom would agree. Although she has been D Nut sober for years now, she was off the wagon hard in her day. Picture a kitchen table. Now picture 6 Krispy Kremes on that table. Now picture a cat in the corner, just for atmosphere. In a matter of an hour, five donuts have been eaten and I am taking the 6^th. As I go to take a bite, ::snatch::, my mom takes it from out of my mouth and swallows it down. Gone. I would go on to perform that move years later on a box of lil chocolate donuts and an unsuspecting friend. I still can’t control myself around a chocolate frosted Tastycake donut.

Gluttony is manifested in me by not the amount of food I eat[2] but the lengths I will go just to get my hands on some and how happy it makes me to have it. In elementary school I was the “oh it fell on the ground? Just give it to Chris” kid. It’s not the best kid to be in school, but at least I wasn’t the smelly one or the nose picker. At least not in public. I’m not sure I knew the 5 second rule existed. All I knew was nobody else was going to eat that slice of turkey and my mom didn’t pack enough protein. Plus, now that I had turkey, I could trade my PB&J for a pudding cup or maybe the pepperoni from the rich kid’s pizza Lunchables.

I eat a lot. I like to eat. Sometimes I dance when I eat or even talk a little dirty to my food. If you’ve seen me eat bacon, you’ve seen me talk dirty to bacon. At the very least you’ve heard rumors that the bacon is “going to get it.” This doesn’t necessarily mean I’m not a good boy. It just means I love food. It’s actually noble. I don’t let food go to waste, and I respect it. How dare somebody throw away Domino’s CinnaStix. I’ll save you from the trash can. Bring along your half empty friend Dipping Sauce.[3]

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[1] My parents ruined whole milk for me. They just stopped buying it. My cereal has suffered ever since.

[2] Not to say I won’t eat a full pizza if it’s in front of me or have a half gallon of ice cream for dinner.

[3] True story.