Well Folks, It happened,

 

Like the dodo bird, dinosaurs, and the Latin language before it, this blog is going extinct.  I mentioned previously the relocation of said space to air my ramblings, and in the past few days it has become official.  You may now see the writings of myself, along with the much more clever Mike, Cas, and Jon at the following address; http://ablogolypse.blogspot.com/.  We are now a blogging supergroup, so check in frequently as there will be not just one person rarely posting, but a much more frequent stream of the thoughts of four goofy twenty-somethings. What could be better?

 

Thanks a lot for taking the time to check in periodically, and for the encouraging and equally hilarious comments left behind.  It's been great to have a space to share things I find interesting, funny, and worth noting, and to have people take the time to actually read them is awesome.  I'll keep sharing nonsense as long as you guys continue to enjoy it.

 

Thanks again,

 

Matt

It has come to my attention that the all-powerful superior web-designers at MSN have made a drastic mistake in their desire to create the best blog programming on the web.  I've been told that after the switch to "Windows Live Spaces" now only those who share an address on this same Live network are allowed to comment on my postings.  This has thoroughly upset the narcissistic side of me that revels in the praise and thoughts of others, therefore I am packing up and moving away.  Away to somewhere with a more democratic, all-inclusive approach to blog commenting; a blog land flowing with milk and honey as it were, if you buy into that expression.  It always confused me, especially as a kid.  If I was contemplating entering the promised land I could think of several other foods I'd rather it be teeming with, if only metaphorically.  Like the land of Steak & Eggs, or the land of Bacon Double Cheeseburgers & A&W Root Beer in a Frosty Mug, or even the land of Turtles Cheesecake & Vanilla Ice Cream.  Man, it's getting to be dinner time, and that last tangent isn't helping things down in the belly area any.

 

Stay tuned for more moving info,

 

Matt

 

PS - While you're here, feel free to enjoy these self-portraits my brother felt obliged to email me.  Sometimes I wonder how he functions in everyday society, especially if his facial expression routinely makes him look like he's taking a poop. 

Hey There (Hopefully Still Somewhat...) Faithful Reader Team,

 

Now that I'm sure the number of those that frequent this space has dwindled down to less then the number of thumbs I own, I've decided to get back into the habit of writing good hearty thoughts frequently.  I'ts been a long summer, and it's taken me over a week to get back to the hustle and bustle of all that is involved with University, but here I am now ready to renew one of my favourite things about my past year.  I've certainly been mulling over a few things but since none of them would be worth reading about in their present unfinished state I'll leave you with a brilliant poem I found this summer.

 

Check back soon for some material I won't have jacked from someone more intelligent than myself,

 

Yahoooo!

 

Matt

 

Salvation

 

Salvation happens at five years old.  Salvation is better protection against the dark than her Wonder Woman nightlight.  Salvation makes her run into the kitchen to tell her mother how her entire body buzzes, how everything feels new.  Salvation means that God, who is always so near, wants to know about her day and what she's hoping for.

 

Salvation grows at ten.  Salvation is an adventure.  Salvation means Prince Caspian and Grandpa Jack and possibly kitty,  but we can't know for sure...  Salvation means that some of these, our favourite people, are part of one big family.  Salvation means crayon renderings of heaven, of flowers that are more colorful than tangerine and lemon yellow combined, and sea foam green oceans that you could swim in all day if you wanted to.

 

Salvation is forgotten at fifteen when she reads Kerouac and Salinger.  Salvation becomes uncomfortable.  Salvation reminds her when she hurts someone.  Salvation causes her to ask for her parents' forgiveness.  Salvation means obedience and submission and partiarchy, too, once she learns that word.  Salvation means defending things she doesn't understand to people she really likes, people she wants to like her.

 

Salvation is despised at nineteen.  Salvation involves sexual purity and the GOP.  Salvation means limiting her to writing nice things, listening to nice things, saying nice things.  Salvation means admitting a personal connection to Historical Things We Don't Want to Mention, like the Crusades. 

Salvation is a stranger.

 

Salvation is remembered at twenty one.  Salvation may mean regeneration, or maybe just the ability to forgive Joshua for his being such an amazing jerk.  Salvation is everywhere; in smoky, pre-dawn conversations, on page 242 of her favourity book, in Zion Canyon.  Salvation is tatooed in Hebrew on her lower back.  Salvation might be for her.  Salvation might not.

 

Salvation.  Salvation means sering this church in spite of its failings.  Salvation means thinking differently about human rights and architecture and unemployment.  Salvation means sowmehow being the Imago Dei, God's very own image. 

Salvation is at work all the time.

Because of undue pressure to spontaneously update what's been going on in my so-called life, here goes a total stream of conciousness entry about how I spent my day today.

 

Now a little bit of background information is probably in order, so here goes nothing.  I've been spending my summer at camp, working at the most emotionally draining program I've yet had the privilege of participating in.  I am lucky enough to journey along with several awesome sixteen-year-olds as they try to discover what it means to be a leader through the camp's Leader-In-Training program.  This often means long nights, long talks, and long staff meetings, which although tremendous, are nothing if not exhausting.  I am totally wiped at day's end and often feel like this causes me to shy away from any sense of normalcy.  Luckily I spend nights and time off during the day living in a small cabin with 2 other guys who are willing to celebrate my craziness and are no doubt as weird as I've come to discover I am.

 

I'll try and give you a brief taste...

 

The past two days I've had off, and in order to sufficiently wind down from a stressful week we decided afternoons devoted to male staff comraderie were in order.  We did the following;

 

-  to release any pent up aggression we went down to the lake in order to gang tackle eacother off of the dock.  One would wear several life jackets around the torso while simultaneously insulting the others' mothers, girlfriends, manhood, or penis size from dock's end.  The insultees would then proceed to run full speed and knock both the person off the dock and the taste from their mouth.  Good clean fun.

 

- often directly before going to sleep I, who sleep on the floor of our cabin on a tiny mattress in the middle of the two other guys who also sleep on tiny mattresses, am assaulted both verbally and phsyically by my two bunkmates.  This night was no different as they wrestled me down and slapped my belly as I defiantly exclaimed "You guys are dead!" while flailing wildly.  I punched and kicked without anything remotely resembling co-ordination before being ceremoniously smoked in the eye by a pillow.  This is the only, and I mean only, reason I cried myself to sleep that night.

 

- in order to get the creative juices flowing the next day, one friend grabbed an acoustic guitar and we began composing emo songs about a variety of subjects, with angst, anger, girls, and overwrought emotion being orders of the day.  Some favourites included tunes about deep sea fishing, Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, a secondhand store heart, signing out a heart from the library and then returning it overdue, and finally astronauts.  Some choice lines would be; "Wonkaland, you stole my heart.  Wonkaland where lactards go to fart" as well as "3 guys living in a cabin. Monastery. If they leave this place they might get married." backed by a rousing "Yahoooooooooooo!".  And finally who could forget "You baited my heart and now I took a bite.  Reel me right in, I won't put up a fight."  Brilliance.  We've just been signed to an indie label called Riding The Angst Train to the F Word Records and are going on tour next month.

 

-  We followed our song session with another agression releasing event spontaneously entitled Worm Wars.  We place our sleeping bags over our heads and proceed to fight blindly while yelling profanities at eachother.  We've broken a fan, door, and fitted sheet but I always sneak in a few wicked kidney shots before letting the older guys win.  It would destroy their fragile self-esteem to know a young buck like myself could own them so easily.  I'm good like that.

 

-  Finally, in a fit of sweaty exhaustion we, with our shirts off, began to make wild beats with only our six hands and three bellies functioning as usable instruments.  I also tried to harken back to my childhood with a few well-placed armpit farts, but was sorely lacking the volume and fullness I remembered.  Balls to that. 

 

We then moved on to the only sensible activities left; showering, cooking mini pizzas, and watching Braveheart. 

 

I now think I know what if feels like to be a real man,

 

Matt "He's So Big You'll Need to Call Him Mister," Binnnington

This is me back from hiatus after a long layoff from writing due to several simulataneous circumstances which sought to go through with their evil plans to prevent me from noting how ridiculous my life has now become. What may those be you ask?  I can only say that I hope the Muskoka.ca server communication tower of all things internet is never mysteriously zapped by lightning again and hopefully that this site remains unblocked by the security software on my camp network.  Since I'm in a state of absolute confusion and surprise over the fact I'm able to access both the internet and my space at the same time all I can think to write is possibly the funniest story I've heard in quite some time;  Welcome to Matt's Story Corner Pt. 2...

 

My boss while working here at camp is an awesome guy who is unfortunately British and still keeps in touch with his family on the good ship British Isles.  His father, the minister at a local church, related to him this tale;

 

A young single mother at the church and her autistic son, by no means in need of constant care and supervision, but with a learning disability nonetheless decided to spend a lazy Spring Saturday at their local amusement park.  This park in Britain was a couple hours away from their home, and along with being a typical amusement park housed a zoo exhibit with many animals as well.

 

The young boy could hardly contain his excitement as they traveled to the park and mostly because he would finally have the oppurtunity to go on the log flume; one of those rides in which you fly down a huge slide in a cart and get soaked at the bottom when you hit the water; like Splash Mountain at Disney World. 

 

Well, as the boy and his mother travelled around it was starting to get around dinner time and the boy was getting increasingly more frustrated at the fact they hadn't ridden the log flume yet.  They decided that first they should grab a bite to eat before hitting the log flume, but while in line for the restaurant the boy could no longer be patient and took off at full speed away from his astounded mom.  She soon alerted security and they returned her son with all his belongings, including his backpack, soaked to the bones from his trip to the flume.

 

Well Mom was furious. She marched him to the car straight away and droned on about her frustration and disappointment at his blatant disrespect for her authourity, yada, yada, yada, the whole way home.  The boy just sat contentedly with a slight smirk and when they got home, headed upstairs immediately to his room.  After several hours, Mom realized her usually rambunctious tyke had been quiet for too long and headed upstairs to discover just what he'd got up to now.  She first checked his room, and surprisingly, he was nowhere to be found.  She wandered down the hall to her room and he wasn't there either; which left just one place, the bathroom.

 

Mom heard her boy laughing from outside and, wondering at the commotion, threw open the door to find her son in the bathtub, blissfully playing with... a baby penguin.  He'd somehow managed to penguinnap this baby from the zoo, escape the exhibit without being noticed, hide it in his backpack, keep it quiet, and keep a straight face the entire time he had a baby penguin stowed as his bosom buddy.  Needless to say the penguing was embarassingly returned to the zoo the next day, and a little British nameless boy became my hero.

 

True Story

 

Ridiculous Story

 

Story which raises a bevy of outrageous questions.

 

Story which causes Matt to hope his kids one day have the audacity to climb into an animal exhibit to steal a cute cuddly penguin and/or koala bear for home enjoyment.  Just not a duckbilled platypus or naked mole rat, those things are gross.  Or a Polar Bear, you can never be too far away from polar bears, especially when they probably could claw out your kidneys and eat you in one bite.

 

Mmmmmmmm, Scrumptious.

 

Matt

My exam period here at school just ended, which has brought finality to numerous exam-related routines in my life; most importantly the theme of sleep deprivation.  Not getting near enough sleep to function at the high level of Mattish efficiency I'm used to has always been tough, but exams make it bearable as I rarely leave the house unless I'm taking out the garbage or walking off the frustration of not understanding microbiology, existentialism, or just girls in general.   The frequency of early morning wake up calls has rudely stolen the cherished ability to sleep in from me, and therefore it was no surprise when I awoke severely early last Saturday morning mentally prepared for a day of studying but physically still stuck in last Tuesday.  I decided to relieve the stress of lack of sleep and prospective reading by doing the only thing I know how to on Saturday morning; watching cartoons.  Excited as I was to harken back to my childhood days of sugar cereal, pyjamas, and Fox TV superhero show marathons, I only became disappointed at the junk I suffered through.  You probably wouldn't understand how pumped I was when I was given the preview of the next 4 upcoming shows, new versions of my personal favourites; Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, GI Joe, Transformers, and even Sonic The Hedgehodge.  My mind kind of exploded in anticipation and I may have started drooling.  How misguided my excitement was, I was horrified to learn that these shows were travesties to the old school versions I'd grown up with; where was the soul? The snappy dialogue?  The needless comic violence and unnecessary explosions?  Part of me wanted to think that somehow I'd done some growing up and/or maturing, but a quick process of rationalization put that crazy idea to rest.  Sometimes people discuss what theirr inner child is like; at that moment mine was probably throwing a temper tantrum, or maybe had just killed his goldfish by feeding it to his hamster, which then subsequently drowned.

 

Another thing that I always associate with being a kid is writing really brutal elementary school english class poetry.  As cultured as I sometimes pretend that I am, I've continually been disappointed in my ability to appreciate poetry.  Part of me just gets frustrated at the authour; what is the point of writing a really good story and then seemingly removing half the words and expecting me to interpret it the same way it was intentionally written?  Or why sign anonymous?  Even if the junk I write on this site makes you want to remove my typing fingers, or throw  up in your mouth, at least I have the guts to put my name on it.  This entire roundabout rant all stems from my first introduction to poetry back at Frenchman's Bay Public School with the librarian Mrs. Crone who taught us about poems and made us write one about a weather phenomena on a piece of paper shaped like the weather being described.  I think mine was about lightning and written on a lightning bolt; I'm surprised I didn't get the Pulitzer Prize, or at least published.

 

With both those things in mind I've decided to appease my cranky inner child and restore some glory to the awesome cartoon shows I watched as a kid by writing poetry about them.  I'll preface this with a warning that you may want to punch me in the groin, temple, or nose after reading said poems, they'll probably stink like literary garbage on a hot summer afternoon.  So without further ado, an acrostic dedicated to two of the dimwitted antagonists on Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Bebop & Rocksteady.

 

Badass because of your earring and sick sunglasses

Evil, but in an unassuming mischevious type of way

Boss fight in TMNT II for Nintendo in an auto junkyard

Only successful at evil plot if the Turtles too busy eating pizza

Pig out, cause you're a pig

Rhinoceros is the animal you are

Orange is the colour you are not, you are grey

Crony is the word used to describe you, that or henchman

Killer instinct is what you lack, not clumsiness

Shredder is your boss

The Turtles always manage to beat you up

Easiest boss to beat in TMNT II for Nintendo

Able to deliver the wittiest lines of humourous stupidity at the right time

Dumb enough to fight your reflection, breaking the mirror for seven years bad luck

Your two horns represent the two forces of good and evil fighting as a dichotomy in your heart

 

Next, a GI Joe themed Haiku. Be forewarned that some meaning may have been lost in translation from Japanese.

 

GI Commando,

Fighting on the battleground,

Of my heart and mind

 

Finally, a Transformers Limerick

 

There once was an autobot named Optimus,

Told him to join our trip and come shop with us.

He transformed in a jiffy,

His metal suit was quite spiffy,

And now he sure hopes not to rust.

 

Sometimes I think if I was an English major I would easily fail every class, but have a heck of a funny time doing it.  To beat an old euphymism to death...

 

A Poet and I Didn't Even Know It,

 

Matt

 

PS - Feel free to post your own Saturday morning childhood cartoon themed poetry, that or you could just heartlessly make fun of mine.  Whatever floats your blog-commenting boat.  Peace Out, K-Town.

Yesterday I was exploring this vast place known as the World Wide Web when I stumbled upon one of the most pathetic sites I've ever seen.  Its gaudy, flashing animations advertised hundreds of different surveys one could take to determine their "Friends Character Lookalike", "Funky Inner Hair Colour", or "Rainbow Starfish Equivalent Personality" and then the chance to post the results on their blog.  Okay I made the last category up, but you get the idea.

 

So being the pathetic person I am, and visiting the pathetic website that I was, I decided to check out some of these questionnaires, vowing I would never sink to posting the details about comparing my feelings on romantic comedies to a breakfast cereal, or something, but I am; only because of the ridiculousness.

 

I found a survey promising that after I completed it, the true nature of my superhero identity would be revealed.  Needless to say I was pretty pumped to finally have irrefutable evidence that I truly was the real-life equivalent of Spiderman: a dude fighting injustice who is similarly pretty nerdy, in college, and inexplicably muscular.  My hopes were dashed when I took the survey and all it asked was my name and my sex.  I was confused, how could this scant information show that I was super? It didn't, here are the results for a dude named Matt:

 

Your Superhero Name is the Rat Tiger

Your Superpower is Invisibility

Your Weakness is Frogs

Your Weapon is Your Slime Pistol

Your Mode of Transportation is Hang Glider

 

Completely dissatisfied, I wondered what kind of superhero is repelled easily by frogs (unbelievably wussy) but fights crime with a slime pistol?  That seems a little ironic to me.  So I decided that maybe if I tried again with the info of my true alter ego, a dude named Matthew, this dumb site would get it right.  Results part two:

 

Your Superhero Name is The Flash Shield

Your Superpower is Divine Intervention

Your Weakness is Crystals

Your Weapon is Your Ice Nunchuks

Your Mode of Transportation is Skateboard

 

Similarly, this information perplexed me.  If my weakness was crystals (what does that even mean?) why would I fight with Ice Nunchuks, and what would I do during the summer?  Fight crime by bowing my head, folding my hands, and praying the superpower of Divine Intervention on the bad guys?  Little old ladies who knit most of the day and talk about their grandkids can do that.  I want to kick some enemy ass, not be the joke of the superhero universe; it wouldn't be hard with a name like Rat Tiger or The Flash Shield.  I guess it serves me right for seeking validation from a site that offered the ability to know your true superhero alongside the chance to know if you're truly addicted to love, my bad.

 

At least I can still beat up my little brother, and most of Saskatchewan,

 

SuperMatt

 

PS - If you want to be similarly disappointed by knowing the true identity of your inner superhero go here now; just don't say that I didn't warn you.

I have a problem.  It's not novel, admirable, or even important.  It is pretty much a problem with myself, as I've come to define part of my identity and worth in associating with the success of a professional sports franchise; The Toronto Maple Leafs.  With that in mind the final day of this NHL season was one of disappointment as I realized I would longer be able to watch my team vainly attempt to be crowned professional hockey champions; and now, even more regrettably, the Ottawa Senators (or just The Eurodinks as I sometimes call them) have a free ride to the conference finals. I won't be able to lord the Leafs' recent domination of the Eurodinks over their legions of fans anymore, and just when I wanted to turn around and punch some Ottawa fans in their collective nose, because that's what the lack of playoff hockey as a means to expel testosterone-driven energy does to me.

 

And herein lies my beef with the Blue & White, the ownership of the team has become satisfied with just making the playoffs.  The prospect of playoff revenue and increased season ticket sales have overridden the desire to be kings of the North American hockey landscape.  How can I cheer for a team that refuses to rebuild and instead signs mediocre free agents each offseason, trades away young talent, and fires great coaches (Pattycakes Quinner) because the sport has become a business?  I'm staging a protest; now I won't even so much as hope for the oppurtunity to see a regular-season game next season, plus I no longer will even consider naming my first child Tie Matts Darcy Binnington anymore, and I refuse to acknowledge that the "real" reason the sky is blue is because God is a Maple Leafs fan; that's just silly.  So, to the members of the Teacher's Pension Plan who have a majority stake in the Leafs' ownership, I would suggest using all your time off from educating young minds during summer break to get your act together, that and stop joining Ed Belfour for his daily raids of the Air Canada Centre liquour cabinet because a) Eddy looks awful and b) alcohol can be the only explanation for all your horrible decisions of late (Snap! Yeah I went there).

 

In an attempt to cheer myself up I've decided to compare several members of the current Leafs' roster to their counterparts on the hit show America's Next Top Model.  I've become hooked, I hate the concept but can't do anything but park myself in front of the TV each Wednesday night to watch, it's like eyeing a couple making out in the library; it's awful but you just can't turn away. Here goes, and make sure to refer to the ANTM Vs. TML photo album posted along the left side.

 

Darcy Tucker & Jade

- both like to fight a lot

- both look totally loony sometimes

- I wouldn't want to meet either in a dark alley

 

Mats Sundin & Joanie

- both look Swedish

- share teeth problems

- sentimental favourites with a sense of humour

 

Nik Antropov & Sara

- both obscenely tall

- both don't really do anything

- both wish Kazakhstan was easier to spell

 

Tomas Kaberle & Danielle

- hard to understand what they're saying

- I'd date either of them

- both pretty cute

 

Tie Domi & Nnenna

- both have shaved heads

- both look kind of African?

- both have boyfriend problems (trust me)

 

Ed Belfour & Tyra Banks

- pretty sure they're both drunk all the time

- both full of themselves

- both need to retire

 

Matt

 

I'm not a big fan of any and all things that have made an appreciable and satisfactory investment in my life and decide that after all they're not through trying vainly to attract my attention.  Which is kind of ironic seeing as they is my first entry in quite a while, and one could say I'm doing something I just described disliking, but one had better say it quick before I kick one in the shins for even thinking such nonsense.

 

Take dinosaurs for example, I mean they had a grand old time ruling this here Earth for a few millenia, but seriously, if they decided to make some kind of comeback for The Triassic Period Episode 2: All You Can Eat Humans, I'd be more then a little miffed.  It would also be a pain if something like the Black Plague went for round two; I only like boils when I'm talking about Kraft Dinner, as in "I hope that water boils so I can make some tasty Kraft Dinner", which by the way does not taste too good when one decides to add extra butter after the realization that one is out of milk (a helpful tidbit from personal experience).

 

Celebrities are notorious for this, they try to suck 30 years out of their 15 minutes of fame and end up just making me angry.  Tony Danza, John McEnroe, Cher, Michael Jordan, Vanilla Ice, that guy who played Screech on Saved By The Bell, Tonya Harding, and even Casper the Friendly Ghost (that movie was awful, especially since the Backstreet Boys were associated with it).

 

So last week when it seemed like winter had decided to pack it in after dropping by for its 6 month visit, but instead decided to get all uppity and snow a couple times again it really threw me.  I was a little mad, but mostly just confused - didn't one of my four favourite seasons know better then to follow in the footsteps of some D-list celebrity like Sharon Stone?  Apparently not.

 

I then spent some time looking through my window and contemplating how inconveniently beautiful things looked outside, when I was struck by a caniption.  Growing up I remember hearing multiple times really philosophical kids on the playground trying to convince me that rain was "...just God crying, probably because of something you did dummyface."  I would then respond with "Well he won't be the only one shedding a tear snotnose!" and would then proceed to punch uncontrollably or just throw rocks and yell names if at a distance.  But the whole snow/rain train of thought derailed when I came to the realization that God doesn't get the credit for causing all other weather phenomena.  With the following list I intend to change that, it's called Matt's Reasons for Strange Weather Phenomena that are Blatantly Untrue:

Trading cards were all the rage back when I was a kid.  I remember one time a friend of my Dad decided he didn't want all his old hockey cards and decided to give them to my little brother and I; it may have been the ninth best day of my life.  There were two huge boxes full of all sorts of glossy, double-sided gems: Mario Lemieux rookie cards, Paul Coffey, Wayne Gretzky, and even Dino Cicarelli (if I grew up with that name I'd probably be short, stocky, ugly, and have a little bit of a temper too).  Needless to say I pretty much upped my coolness factor to an all-time high with claims to the numerous memorabilia, and even bought one of those magazines just to see how much my collection was worth, in terms of the number of ten cent candies I could buy at the convenience store, or in marbles.  I never really got into those other trendy things all the other kids liked, like Pogs, Pokemon cards, and braces, but I always had my hockey cards to keep me company; they even smelled nice.

 

Why I am a sharing such a nostalgic childhood memory you may ask?  Because I have every right to, and also due to the fact I was thinking about trading cards a couple days ago in church.  I was sitting with my friend Dan, and since we had both been out on the town until 3:30 the previous moring we were feeling quite exhausted.  Church isn't a good place to be when you're that tired, although I've perfected a secret method to falling asleep in the service; if you rest your head in your hands with your elbows perched on a closed Bible anytime you happen to pass out the Word will fall open in your lap, your hands will be folded beneath your chin, and you might as well be praying.  Congratulations, you just scored one million spirit points - they exist, see James 6:12.  So since I was super distracted and only going on five hours of sleep my mind was all over the place, including the time when I noticed Dan looking intently at the random family photo in the church bulletin.  This got me thinking;  that family looked like they belonged on a trading card of some sort.  Then I thought my church at home could get all uppity and culturally relevant by replacing their church directory with a set of family/individual Christian trading cards.  And then I thought - Why stop there?  This movement could go global.  It would be like WWJD bracelets except much cooler and more marketable, because merchandising Christian products isn't already way overdone, no not at all.

 

Just in case you're wondering what one of these cards would look like,  I'll give you some examples of my vital stats.

 

Matt Binnington - Career Stats (1994-2006)

 

Saves - 7

Church Attendance Percentage (CAP) - 82.3

Sin to Good Deed Ratio - 20000000000000000017

Purgatory In Minutes (PIM) - 0

Fights (with Mormans) - 13.5/season

Repentances Bribed In (RBI) - 48

Handicap - minus 17 million

Yards Per Carry (of a struggling brother) - 22

Pregnancies, Murders, & Thefts Caused - 0.3

 

I also thought about which Christian trading cards would be most valuable/popular; here's a list I came up with, by no means comprehensive.