Say you have 90 of something and someone else has, say, 20. And let's say an error results in your receiving another, even though it was rightfully meant to go to the other dude. Would you graciously give it back, or would you throw a temper tantrum, even though you already had more than anybody else?

Well, if you're the U.S. Olympic Committee, you'd not only insist on keeping your erroneously-awarded gold medal, but you'd also refuse to let a second gold medal go to the real winner. Way to show the world how sportsmanship is done in the US of A, guys!

In other poor-sportsmanship-related news, America's finest junior athletes meet in Oregon to hold an impromptu audition for the Jerry Springer Show.

And in other news related to people who were handed something they didn't actually win and then refused to give it up, read Michael Moore's hilarious open letter to George W. Bush.

When I started "whatsyourdamage.com", it was never intended as a serious blog. In various entries, I have dissected the politics of "America's Next Top Model," rhapsodized over the genius of Jackass, and typed thousands of words about my various hairdressers (the latest of whom, by the way, is just as excellent as the famed Brenton).

However, one thing this blog is NOT about is weird fetishes. I may curse like a sailor, but that's a far cry from operating some raunchy pr0nfest.

Despite the squeaky-clean (if expletive-laden) nature of my little blog, it is not unusual for me to peruse my search-engine referrals and find that people have discovered the "What's Your Damage" blog by way of Googling for fringe porn.

Today alone, I found hits generated by people looking up "nude paraplegic women" and "male dress up in pantyhose" on msn's search engine. The keywords "boy in spandex" and "9-year-old hottie" have led a few future prison wives to my blog. Some weirdo found my tearful farewell to Babe the lab pig by searching for stories about slicing scrotums. And at one point last year, I seemed to be the leading source for people researching bikini girls in backbends.

Going by my search-engine referrals alone, you'd think I was peddling smut instead of chronicling such mundanities as office food mishaps and Dale Earnhardt Christmas ornaments.

I would just like to set the record straight, though, for any weirdos who think they are going to find hot naked underage paraplegics doing backbends with pantyhose-clad men on this site. First, for those of you seeking pornographic shots of disabled women, there are plenty of sites that will cater to your perverse desires, and I'm pretty sure they're not listed on Google. Second, for the creeps searching for kiddie porn, I can see your IP address, which means I can also send it to CyberAngels, the FBI ... well, you get my drift.

And for the rest of you, thanks for reading my blog, even if it contains no pictures of men frolicking about in spandex.

Oh, alright, but this is the last one!

River Rat

The summer of my 18th year, I spent a month or two living in Tennessee with my friend Rebekah. Being two impossible teen-princess hellions, we decided that the Grizzly River Rampage at Opryland was just not quite wet enough. So, armed with giant plastic souvenir cups, we proceeded to start a lively water fight. Naturally, two fluffy-haired senior women in the next raft were less than amused, and told us they didn't appreciate getting wet. We told them maybe they should have thought about that before getting on a ride that featured a waterfall.
Sadly, just two years later, the landmark amusement park closed its gates forever, and Rebekah and I realized that a not-quite-wet-enough rapids ride is better than no rapids ride at all. Now, there is nothing left for graduates of the wettest ride in the South to do but find other means of getting whiplash and sandal rot.
That is where the Thompson River comes in. This past weekend, the boyfriend and I decided to leave the daily grind behind and become, if one can believe the certificates we were handed at the end of our adventure, "certified river rats."
We knew we wanted to raft the exciting 25-mile stretch of the Thompson River between Spence's Bridge and Lytton, B.C. After much research, we settled on Kumsheen Rafting Resort, whose founder was among the first to test the local rapids. Although the rapids probably would have been just as breathtaking regardless of which rafting outfit we chose, the Kumsheen guides were professional and knowledgeable; hence, I am still alive to tell the tale of the kickass whitewater in the Devil's Kitchen, which, on the particular day we conquered it, according to our raft guide, happened to be a Class IV+ rapid. (She said that there's no "biggest rapid" on a given system -- in different conditions, different rapids kick more or less ass than others. If we'd been a week earlier, Jaws of Death would have eaten us alive instead of burping up a few halfhearted bubbles, and Devil's Kitchen wouldn't have cooked up much excitement at all.)
The trip started off calmly enough. Driving to Lytton, I had observed the rapids several hundred feet below the Trans Canada Highway and concluded that they weren't all that huge. And the water at the put-in was smooth as glass. However, much as looking down from an airplane can lead one to conclude that people are the size of ants, so can looking down from the highway lead one to conclude that the Witch's Cauldron is something to be sniffed at.
The 90 minutes of Class II-III rapids before we stopped for lunch were deceptively tranquil. But soon enough, we entered the Devil's Gorge and its impressive big whitewater.
There were points at which the raft threatened to fold in half. There were times when I tried to put my paddle in, but our raft was getting too much air for it to reach the water. There were places (such as the awesome Devil's Kitchen) in which giant waves crashed over the front of the raft, drenching everyone aboard and threatening to submerge us in the churning whitewater. Sometimes I exaggerate things, such as when I say that Celestial Seasoning's herbal teas kick ass. They are very tasty herbal teas, don't get me wrong, but they don't really kick ass (no, not even you, Red Zinger). Paddling the Thompson River kicks ass.
Coolest of all was when, thanks to the unusually deep waters of the Thompson, the guide let us hold onto the bow line and swim -- yes SWIM -- through a few of the gentler stretches of rapids. I swallowed some water, but managed to avoid drowning and boulder-caused concussions. The guide also let me ride the bow of the raft through whitewater, bucking-broncho-style, and, thanks to my extended stay in Oklahoma, I managed to hold on for well more than the requisite eight seconds. (Of course, we will not speak of the moment, shortly after my abovementioned successful navigation of super-bouncy rapids, when the guide shouted "All forward" after I had let go of the perimeter rope, and I shot gracelessly ass-first into the bottom of the raft in completely smooth waters.)
All in all, it was a great weekend. Better than the Class II-III rapids I'd floated in Oregon. Better than the Class "Bring an Inner Tube and a Pitcher of Margaritas" brownwater on Oklahoma's infamous Illinois and Arkansas rivers. Even better than my beloved, completely artificial but still bitchin' Grizzly River Rampage. And it's definitely not for those who don't appreciate getting wet.

As a general rule, the foods I like are not low-calorie fare. For one thing, fat and sugar are like crack. Everything tastes better if it is flavored with grease and sugar -- hence the great success of Krispy Kreme. However, since their new drinkable donut doubtless would nudge me up a jeans size or two within mere seconds, lower-calorie beverages are in order.

Ordinarily, if something has fewer than, say, 200 calories, I will run away from it, screaming that its lack of energy-producing value renders its consumption a crime against nature. Perhaps the words "NutraSweet puts the 'ass' in 'aspartame'" also will be uttered.

I am a grrl who, come Christmastime, does not shy away from eating four plates of fatty, creamy Swedish meatballs, piled atop heaping helpings of buttery, artery-clogging spatzle. Should DiGiorno tortellini be on the menu, I have been known to devour an entire package. As the folks at Krispy Krack will attest, I do not shy away from empty calories.

It's not that I don't want to consume lower-calorie fare. It's just that flavorful fare wins out over foods that could earn me a job as J Lo's bootie double. Many a time while trying to cut out empty calories, I have tried to switch to the ubiquitous calorie-free staple Diet Coke, only to take four sips and run back into the caloric arms of my first love, Coke.

Howerver, one recent sweltering day, I happened to sample Gatorade Ice in the drinkmaker's new watermelon flavor.

Cue "Holy Grail" music and fingers of light from the heavens

It was like drinking Bubblicious' watermelon gum, only with 50 calories per 8 oz. serving. As the wave of melony, low-calorie goodness washed over my parched tongue, yummy flavor danced through my mouth with not the slightest hint of cloying, chemical-flavored aspartame. It was guilt-free without being enjoyment-free.

Thank you Gatorade. This shit is my Diet Coke.

It will go great with my Krispy Kreme.

It's official: Maddux won his 300th today, 8-4, cheered on by a huge throng of visiting Cubs fans, who easily constituted one-fourth of the crowd at the sold-out game. A far cry from the early 1990s when this blogger was one of five Cubs fans cheering for the lovable losers, their hopes that time crushed by the powerful bat of a then up-and-coming Barry Bonds at a different waterfront stadium on the other side of the continent.

This time, it wasn't just the few crazies and die-hards. There were entire families with kids in pint-size Sosa jerseys, groups of people with huge signs cheering Maddux on, and one especially loud contingent in section 138 that made damn sure that during the 7th-inning stretch, the words to "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" were sung correctly (by which I mean with the word "Cubbies" instead of "home team" or, heaven forbid, "Giants").

One Blue Jays fan not only changed league and team affiliation, but rooted for a visiting team for the first time ever (I like to think this was not only because he is dating me). Even a large contingent of the usual Giants-fan crowd was eager to watch a pitcher join the 300 club, which hadn't happened for an NL pitcher in 21 years and which we can't expect to see happen again in either league anytime soon.

It was a hard-won game, and I have the gnawed-down fingernails to prove it. Along with the nails and the funkiest farmer tan you ever saw, I also have pictures, which will be posted as soon as I get them developed. Hell, I am so happy about getting to watch Maddux win his 300th that I will even post pictures of the farmer tan.

I'm blogging on location today from San Francisco's SBC Park, where Greg Maddux is going today for No. 300. Not only is this a momentous event in baseball history, it's a big day for the What's Your Damage blog, as the Cubbies are this blogger's very favorite team. Stay tuned for highlights as Maddux aims to join the elite 300-win club and I aim to cheer my little Cub-fan heart out!