The rest of us should have seen it. But in our soon-to-be drunken state, the obvious was shielded from our eyes. We thought it was odd that Jesus and Julian were camped at the bar, far from the rest of our fucked-up tennis team.
Eventually, Julian, the ODM (Original Douchebag Millennial), and Jesus joined us. They shared the ritualistic pitchers of swill (Dos Equis Amber) and the burnt offerings (chicken wings).
As usual, Julian ordered his own plates that could have fed the multitudes. It’s obvious when he is high. Behind his big, black, nerd glasses, his squinty, bloodshot eyes are way bigger than his skinny-fuck stomach. We would bet that he couldn’t finish his food, but no one would bet that he could. (Unlike sex, when it comes to betting, you can’t play with yourself).
Last year, Jesus quit our team to join the Crustaceans, The Crustaceans have been tampering with every team. These Crustaceans must be from the Golden State — their strategy is to suck up all the talent. Players stay with it, because they win. Last fall, the Crustaceans went 15-0 as a team. They won 68 out of 75 courts (that’s 90-percent). Cheering for the Crustaceans is like rooting for fascism*.
Julian had taken the betrayal of Jesus the hardest — swearing that he would never practice with Jesus or drink with Jesus again. For 40-days and 40-nights, Julian was such a pissing little pussy about it, Jesus was left in the wilderness. Eventually, we talked Julian down, and like the prodigal son, Jesus returned to hang out after “practice.” By fall, Jesus and Julian were playing doubles tournaments together.
The past few months, Jesus had been making noises about quitting the Crustaceans and coming back to the fucked-up team. “You guys are a lot more fun,” so said the Lamb of God.
But then “the word” changed. “Wherever Julian goes, I will follow,” Jesus said.
And unlike religion, a few days later, that cryptic message became clear. In late December, it was delivered directly to everyone’s inbox, subject line: “I’m going to the dark side.”
That’s right, Julian dumped us in an email and took Jesus with him. Merry fucking Christmas — dumping your friends in an email is a douchebag move. But in true millennial style, Julian blamed it on us:
“I want to win. Countless people on the team have said, “if you want to win, go to the crustaceans. If you want to have fun, stay with TRC.” I always thought we could win, but with that attitude, I just don’t see that happening, and I want to go to sectionals.”
-Julian, the Original Douchebag Millennial
This is a good time to point out that Julian is personally 0-3 against the Crustaceans. That’s the same record as an empty court.**
Last spring he was the captain of our fucked-up team (he did a surprisingly good job at that thankless, lonley task). At one point, midway in that season, we had a chance to catch the Crustaceans.
Did Julian decide to work on his singles game, get rid of his pussy slice forehand*** and figure out how to win his own matches? Nope.
Did he help recruit other players that could return a balance to the force and give other teams a chance? Nope.
Did he come to the tennis clinics we organized with the pro so we could learn to move together and play high percentage tennis? Nope.
He hooked up with Jesus, won some tough matches in tournaments, and joined the borg. Then he blamed “our attitude” for why he joined the Crustaceans to ensure that he would “win.”
Now he will have to crawl sideways around the club with his big claw hanging out of his tennis bag and just hoping that someday the Crustaceans will let him play a meaningful match. But they won’t. At this point, they are just recruiting players to keep them off other teams.
That’s not winning, you fucking pussy. Winning is when you overcome challenges and do something to get better. Switching to the “winning team” is just selling out. (I know I’ve done it before).
And selling out for “recreational tennis…” How low can you go?
Some morning, Julian just might wake up to a real metamorphasis.**
GREGOR SAMSA Julian, the Douchebag Millennial, awoke one morning out of restless dreams, he found himself in bed, transformed into a gargantuan pest. He lay on his hard, armored back and saw, as he raised his head a little, his domed, brown belly, divided into arched segments; he could hardly keep the bed sheets from sliding from his stomach’s height completely to the floor. His numerous legs, lamentably thin in comparison to his new girth, flickered helplessly before his eyes.
*I stole this line from Lewis Black, who improvised a line at one of his shows “Rooting for the Yankees is like rooting for facism.”
**Scott added this line after I published the blog the first time. “Empty court”…. ha, ha, ha fucking Julian.
***Marco heard Scott’s empty court joke and said I should have made fun of Julian’s “pussy forehand”.
****Julian is a reader and a dope smoker. I’m pretty sure by inserting his name here, one night he will have a drug-induced nightmare of waking up as a cockroach. Sweet dreams, Julian.
Ohh and congratulations papa… his baby girl was born this week. Perhaps when she is old enough to understand this bullshit, Julian will be wise enough to explain the error of his ways.