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Summit Up

Good morning and welcome to Summit Up, the world’s only daily column with a sore neck that didn’t come from trying to emulate Kilroy.

We could blame Allen Iverson, but we here Hindquarters are a little concerned we get a little too sports-obsessed on the weekend – after all, it was just yesterday we found ourselves draped in the flags of Portugal and some other nation completely lacking in vowels other than the “a” in “stan” in anticipation of the World Cup final: We may be grossly misinformed, but it doesn’t subtract one iota from our fervor.

But unlike a pardon from the office of the governor of the Commonwealth of Virginia, that doesn’t get Iverson off the hook. He is to blame for our neck and back problems. That’s because one of our very own staffers received an Allen Iverson bobblehead for Hanukkah or Christmas or the anniversary of Jim Jones’ birthday (is there really a more appropriate symbol for peace and goodwill than a tempestuous shooting guard from Georgetown?). Because Allen stands in a position of prominence, his head bobbles in reaction to every ambient soundwave of Summit Up Land (“Elvis!?! Classifieds?!? Playoffs!?!?”), making him look like he’s either locked in an eternal battle for playing time with, say, Larry Brown or suffering from a particularly violent bout of delirium tremens.

We have no choice but to emulate. And that makes us pine for a different breed of bobblehead than all the high-energy figurines we typically see: Iverson, the Rock of the WWE, the 1991-vintage Otis Nixon, Martha Stewart, Dick Cheney S We’re thinking about trying to find a Snoop Dogg with a slow-acting head spring. Or Cat Stevens.

So, if you can help us out from the top of your own, bobbling head with some ideas for bobbleheads, please leave them on the voicemail (900) MAT-LOCK. It has nothing to do with Andy Griffith, but we’re pretty sure it’s a manufacturer of locks and we reckon they get lonely without a bobblehead in the office.


In the same vein, we’ve been thinking about this since we were watching the U.S. Open the other week:

Given the quantities and sheer variety of expired seafood our dear readers drop off, the location of Corporate Hindquarters is no secret, thus nor is its proximity to a certain natural foods store that shall remain nameless, suffice it to say the name rhymes with “Alpine Natural Foods in Frisco.” But you’ll have to decipher that one for itself – we’re mum like New Orleans on Mardi Gras.

We couldn’t help notice, when we were in the said anonymous Alpine Natural Foods store at 302 Main St., a dish with the name “Fat Noodle Love.” Once the jokes about Chef from “South Park” ceased, we wondered: Why would golfer Davis Love III stick with “DL3” in a world where he, freely, could be Davis “Fat Noodle” Love. We mean, “DL3,” is a great nickname provided you’re either a bad Jerry Bruckheimer movie along the “Independence Day (ID4)” lineage or someone who finds a WWE steel-cage grudge match (“DL3 vs. RVD”) in his datebook. But it’s just not appropriate for a golfer.

It’s something to think about for a blue Monday on the greens.


We weeble and we wobble, but then we actually do fall down with surprising frequency S Have a Monday. Then have one for us.

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