Well, well, looky who volunteered to captain our fucked-up tennis team this season: Julian, the ODM (Original Douchebag Millennial).
We didn’t even get to start the first match before the fucking universe brought down a cloud of karma on his head. Fellow douchebag, Sherwin, bailed out of the match 2 minutes before warm up — with this email.
Hey guys. Was about to head up to the club but looks like my battery is fried and I have no one around to give me a jump, so I’m not going to be able to make the match. Sorry boys. Kick some ass without me.
I don’t even know where to start with this bullshit. Check that, yes I do.
Let’s start with the fucking grammar, Sherwin. Who the fuck taught you “Was about to head up to the club…” is ONE goddamn sentence.
Use your fucking pronouns, put a comma before an “and” followed by a complete sentence, and don’t run-on with “,so” if the next thought has a subject, verb and object. Since you have gotten your period, Sherwin, try using one in this dumpster fire of words.
Yes, I did get my teacher’s red pen out for this crap. (Remember I do that in my head for everything you shit heads “write”). With that kind of shitty email, no wonder everybody thinks the schools fucking suck.
“Sorry boys?” Who the fuck do you think you are writing to, Sherwin? We had to throw grandpa Whinery into the singles to replace you. He hasn’t been a boy for nearly half a century.
He was crying and complaining and (in another bit of irony) “whiningery” about dragging his creaky knees around the court to play someone 20 years younger than him. But then grandpa turned around and played another 6 hours of tennis after our match. Such is the life of a federal government retiree.
I’m not sure how old you are Sherwin, but I highly suspect you fit in the douchebag generation. I’m also highly suspicious of your mental state. You enjoyed living in Cleveland — in the “Flats” for fuck’s sake. That was somewhere between the 2nd or 3rd circle of hell when I was “a boy,” (and the river caught fire).
Let’s ignore the gay metaphor of “no one to give me a jump”. Didn’t your fucking generation invent Uber?
What the Fuck?
The only good thing about that email was the Mother Fucking Karma it rained down on Julian, who has multiple match skipping incidents on his permanent record.
Julian skipped a match with Josh this past Saturday at the Third World Racquet Club and didn’t even fucking know he missed it. He’s shocked to read about it right now. But he fucking made arrangements on Thursday to play Josh at 1:30 p.m. on Saturday. But by Friday night, he was emailing everyone and their dog to come play Saturday morning at 9. He was gone by noon. Not a word to Josh about change of plans. Douchebaggery.
Cut to our Thursday night match. Julian’s frantically cussing and running around minutes before the start begging anyone to play singles to replace Sherwin, the dead-battery boy.
“Teehee” — we all could hear Josh, Ed, Larry and Gibson giggling 2 courts away. But in Gibson’s case we couldn’t tell if he was giggling at the irony or if the juice kicked in early.
We knew Gibson was drunk when he trash talked my “lost tooth.” But fuck you Gibson. If I get 2 more front teeth pulled, I’ll fit right in with you and your truck on a run to Walmart.
In another bit of irony, we were only a few points short of killing the Crustaceans. That team calls themselves the “Rattlers”, but we all know they are a bunch of “Fairy Shrimp” at best — so Crustaceans it is. Actually Crustacean is a left over of the bullshit description I had for Traitor McGee’s personality. But the name has stuck — at least for me.
Gotta give the Crustaceans credit for knowing how to drink. Most of them made it through the first round of beers. Two of them made the second round at TRC. But none of them made the 3rd round at Old Chicago.
That’s why you gotta love Scott, the spectator. He’s not on our team anymore. He’s got two pre-school kids, so no time for tennis. But after the roommate and dependents pass out, he sneaks out of the house to drink with us. We don’t want to know how Scott gets the family to “sleep” by 8 p.m. But when he shows up, nobody gets to sleep. (Well, in this case, Julian, Larry, Gibson, Tongate, and I were the “nobodies” — the rest of you pussies went home before midnight).
Nothing like staggering home at 1:30 a.m. to get prepped for a productive Friday morning at work.
But that’s what you fucking get when the douchebags are in charge. This is going to be a long, fucked-up season… Again.