And so ends my obsession with curling, not with a bang, but with a pop in my right knee.

We’re under contract now and closing is in about six weeks. Now comes the metaphor for an overwhelming amount of paperwork, inspection, appraisal, more paperwork, lawyers, agents, and well-meant meddling. They’re keeping me busy, everything is on track, and barring a personal catastrophe, we will be homeowners on April 14th.

Home ownership is a big thing, you know, and it’s not something we’d be entering into unless we found a perfect house for us that we can imagine ourselves at for at least five years, hopefully more. (And since this will be my fourth move in less than three years, I’m looking forward to no more of that for awhile.)

But I’d be totally lying if I said I wasn’t motivated by the $8000 tax credit for first time homebuyers, and the mortgage interest tax deduction, which are both poor public policy. (They both serve to inflate property prices, which then behaves like a transfer of wealth from borrowers to sellers, who tend to be richer already.) Basically, without those policies, I’d be paying at least 10-20% less for this property, but since the government is stepping in with these incentives, and I get to borrow the money to buy the place and pay a few bucks more a month for the price difference, I shrug my shoulders and get over it.

So, what did it take to make me a total hypocrite? An adorable and well-maintained 90 year old mill house in a historic neighborhood, and the look on my wife’s face when she saw it. Worth it.

You’ve seen these “26.2″ stickers, yes? All of these oval stickers are just awful, but the “26.2″ ones don’t bother me quite as much, because I’m going to go out on a limb and say marathon runners are worthy of respect. A marathon has to be at least 20 miles more than I’ve ever moved on my legs between meals, so that’s quite a thing. A marathon, that’s something.

You know what a half marathon is? A half marathon is nothing. A half marathon is literally not a thing. No one ran from the town of Half Marathon to Athens to deliver the news of the war; in fact, it may surprise you to learn that there’s no such town as “Half Marathon,” in Greece or anywhere else.

So, half of the marathon distance is 13.1 miles, which is still quite a very long way to move on your legs without a Cinnabon break. But runners run many distances - sometimes they run five kilometers, which they call a 5K; sometimes they run ten kilometers, which they call a 10K. And sometimes they’d want to run even further, maybe running two 10K races in succession, a total of twenty kilometers. Now, these European kilometers are throwing oranges in with our delicious American apples, so I’ll get to my point: twenty kilometers is a very long way: very close to 13.1 miles, give or take.

If you can run twenty kilometers, one after another, up on your legs, good on you. A “20K,” as it might be called, is one hell of a distance to run. But you want to make yourself feel better by telling yourself it’s 50% of a historic distance and an iconic race? Pffft. This lardass says no. A half marathon is nothing.

You’ve seen these “13.1″ stickers, yes? They’re bullshit. I see them, and I judge.

Occasional supportive nudging from Meaghan and the beach-crashing return of the World’s Foremost Blogger Chris Conklin have nudged me out.

The sad part is, Bella didn’t really need a bath that badly. We were just a little bored on a Saturday night.

And every time we watch it, she glares at us — you fucking animals, you TAPED your sick little game?

F-K YOU, BRETT FAVRE:

That seething hatred I have of Brett Favre is part of who I am. It’s ingrained in my very being. When I die, my body will turn into nothing but solid black ash. I won’t go to Heaven. I won’t go to Hell. I’ll simply stop existing. Not a trace of me will be left, on this plane or any other. But, even then, I assure you I’ll still find a way to fucking hate Brett Favre.

The video is mirrored-image for some reason and cuts off halfway through. Such is life — only one chance to catch the magic.

The most galling thing about this financial crisis is that so many Wall Street types think they actually deserve not only their huge bonuses and lavish lifestyles but the awesome political power their own mistakes have left them in possession of. When challenged, they talk about how hard they work, the 90-hour weeks, the stress, the failed marriages, the hemorrhoids and gallstones they all get before they hit 40.

“But wait a minute,” you say to them. “No one ever asked you to stay up all night eight days a week trying to get filthy rich shorting what’s left of the American auto industry or selling $600 billion in toxic, irredeemable mortgages to ex-strippers on work release and Taco Bell clerks. Actually, come to think of it, why are we even giving taxpayer money to you people? Why are we not throwing your ass in jail instead?”

But before you even finish saying that, they’re rolling their eyes, because You Don’t Get It. These people were never about anything except turning money into money, in order to get more money; valueswise they’re on par with crack addicts, or obsessive sexual deviants who burgle homes to steal panties. Yet these are the people in whose hands our entire political future now rests.

Good luck with that, America. And enjoy tax season.