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Well, well, well, it’s Wednesday, and you know what that means—pickleball night, baby! I’m heading out to the courts tonight to swing my paddle like a drunk Viking at a Renaissance fair. Probably gonna get smoked by some 60-year-old retiree with a knee brace and a better backhand than me, but whatever, it’s all about the vibes. My game’s been trash since I started overthinking my serve, but I’ll be out there anyway, sweating through my Titans t-shirt and cursing under my breath.

Speaking of getting smoked, did you hear about Zach Edey’s foot surgery? Poor dude, 7-foot-4 Purdue legend, now out here getting his giant paw sliced up. I mean, the guy’s a walking skyscraper, and now he’s gotta rehab a foot probably bigger than my dog’s entire body. Get well soon, big man, the NBA needs you dunking on fools, not hobbling around like me after a bad pickleball night.

Oh, and let’s talk about my new obsession: my John Deere tractor. Yeah, I’m that guy now, riding around my yard like I’m auditioning for a country music video. Thing’s a beast—green, mean, and cuts grass like it’s got a personal vendetta. I named it “Deere-y McDeereface” because why not? Makes me feel like I’m living in a Norman Rockwell painting, except with more beer and fewer overalls.

Now, here’s the real kicker: I’m DEEP in the NCAA 25 college football video game, and your boy’s Tennessee Volunteers are in the playoff, baby! I’m out here calling plays like I’m Nick Saban’s long-lost cousin, running the triple option and throwing bombs to my AI receivers. Made it to the semis last night, but I swear if I lose to Alabama again, I’m yeeting my controller into the neighbor’s yard. Go Vols, or I’m starting a riot in my living room.

On a classier note, I’ve been daydreaming about checking into that fancy-ass hotel from The Grand Budapest Hotel. You know, that pink, Wes Anderson fever dream with the chandeliers and snooty concierges? I’d roll up in my John Deere, demand a suite, and sip martinis while pretending I’m Ralph Fiennes running a hotel empire. A man can dream, right? Cubicle life ain’t exactly screaming “luxury,” so I gotta escape somehow.

Speaking of escapes, I’m counting down the days to my beach vacation in a few weeks. Picture me, toes in the sand, a cold one in hand, forgetting all about my boss’s dumb “no work-from-home” rule. I can already hear the waves and smell the sunscreen. Three weeks feels like three years, but when I’m there, I’m not answering a single email. Unless it’s about my NCAA 25 dynasty, then maybe I’ll reply.

And finally, holy hell, the Oasis reunion tour! Noel and Liam Gallagher burying the hatchet? It’s like the Berlin Wall coming down, but with better guitars and worse attitudes. I’m already practicing my best Britpop sneer for when I scream “Wonderwall” at the top of my lungs. If they play “Champagne Supernova,” I might just ascend to another dimension. Gotta get tickets before they sell out or the brothers start punching each other again.

Alright, that’s it for now. Gotta go practice my pickleball serve and maybe mow the lawn with Deere-y McDeereface. Catch y’all later—unless you’re Alabama fans, then stay away from my virtual playoff run. Peace!