The Rant: Parent Olympics, summer's true villain, and pissing off Trump supporters

Sunday is cooking, so let's get into it. Which Uncle Bill's is the best in STL today?

As the Cardinals attempt to avoid embarrassment today against the Chicago White Sox, let’s get a few things off my chest. A true rant is one without direction or order, but an implied need to impose its will. Here’s something all parents know: Cleaning your son or daughter’s room is like finding Pandora’s box and being unable to close it for an hour.

Every time I do a deep clean of my son’s room, the pro athlete in me rises up against the challenges of body torque over 40. Suddenly, I can bend over and twist my hip and back in inconceivable ways, picking up trash and socks while spotting an abandoned McDonalds French fry in the corner beneath his bed. After a few minutes of grabbing and snatching without overextension, I stand back up and notice I broke a sweat three minutes ago. A few more minutes go by, and I’m getting soaked.

As it turns out, my son’s room is the hottest room in our house, a south city special. Two stories with a cold (thank goodness!) basement, the Buffa estate’s second floor heats up easier than the entry floor, with Vincent’s area getting close to sauna levels when a fan isn’t blowing.

Every time I get to the end of the clean, I feel like medals should be handed out. If the Olympics ever wanted to break into the civilian parenting game, they could stage four of the dirtiest rooms ever constructed by the nightmares of thousands of parents polled across the nation, and task four badass parents with cleaning them. Time it, score it, judge it, and give some medals. See who works fastest, and who curses the least amount. Just saying, the ratings would be there. Don’t go for types, go for real.

Here’s the rest of what’s on my mind as the weekend ticks by and the war between my body and the mosquitoes rages on.