Compressing Harassment

I killed way too many brain cells this past weekend with the Tucson Pendejos — again.

But between beers (and some new alcoholic shit called the red devil or the red menance) something happened that restored just a little of my faith in humanity.

We were all drinking and laughing and talking shit with a few women at this bullshit tennis camp in Texas. It may have been midnight. It may have been much later.

Well, some of the other guys were talking to a few women. I’ve been married so long, I’ve completely lost interest in disappointing yet another female. So I mostly don’t bother to talk or even learn their names.

But late on the first night, this fat fuck from Houston wedges himself in a small space between two women who are sitting with us on a patio.

He’s talking and touching their shoulders and leaning in so close they couldn’t have possibly been able to focus on his fat ugly face. He’s got some tightass shirt and shorts on like he raided his high school closet. His gut is puffed out like he is hiding 2 basketballs under his shirt.

“What the fuck is wrong with that asshole” Kevin says to me pointing at the little fat fuck. “These mother fuckers from Houston are pissing me off.”

Within a few minutes, fat fuck is touching the women’s faces and (for some fucking crazy reason known only to him) he is pulling their hair.

We stand closer and talk louder. What the fuck is wrong with him?

We can’t tell if this shit is welcome or not?

Some 70’s or 80’s bullshit music with a beat comes up on the speaker, and fat fuck gets to his little Flintstone feet and starts thrusting his hips and grinding his gut in the general direction of these two women.

One gets up and moves to the other side of the table, and we know what’s up.

Fat fuck doesn’t.

He starts pushing his groin into the back of the empty chair where one woman used to be.

“What the fuck is the matter with you,” Angry Ed says directly to fat fuck. “Stop humping that chair.”

Fat fuck looks at us like the party just started, and he wants us to join in. He’s got the bugged out eyes of a french bulldog on cocaine.

We make it clear his shit is not welcome. I just want to punch this fucker in the face. But I’m an adult now (sort of). I get another beer instead. By the time I get back, fat fuck is gone.

The 20-something tennis pros come over to the patio and start drinking with us. They already know everybody’s name.

They tell us his name, and we tell them tomorrow on the courts lob short in front of fat fuck. We are going to tag his fat ass with as many tennis balls as we can… there’s a $20 bounty for every ball that hits him in the face.

At breakfast fat fuck is wearing a small Messi jersey that is stretched to its last stich.

“I thought that fucker was going to drop dead on the court. There’s no way he could breathe in his compression shirt,” Angry Ed said.

During the first drill, I got on fat fuck’s court. I got one shot at a waist-high-forehand while he was at the net. He blocked it. Fuck.

20 minutes later fat fuck is gone. The story we heard was “he got a call from his wife.” I don’t know if Newcombe tennis camp kicked him out, or someone he knew called his wife, but whoever removed that asshole is a fucking hero.

That’s how it is done people. When we identify this kind of shit, we shun, shame and punish this kind of bullshit. Too bad it took Fox News and Hollywood 20 years to get there and the orange fat fuck in chief has yet to meet his fate.

They could learn a lot from the drunken tennis crowd at Newks. And that’s why I’ll try to come back next year.

Newks isn’t fancy, but it’s full of descent human beings. Unfortunately that’s becoming harder and harder to find.