It hadn’t rained in Tucson for 50 days and 50 nights. The first time it did, my fucked up tennis friends “ran away” like they were being chased by the killer rabbit.
It wasn’t even drizzling when I arrived at the Third World Racquet Club on Tuesday night.
The roads were dry. The parking lot was dry, but the fucking courts were dark and empty.
“I can turn one light on for you, but the courts are pretty soggy,” the douchebag millennial at the front counter said.
Like a teenage boy’s bedsheets, there were a few wet spots and nothing else. 10 minutes with the squeegee — it was “good enough.”
Did any of my fucked up team show up to help?
Yeah, Ravi Uno crawled out of the private hole he shares with the mice and put his bag down by the court.
“Anybody else comin’?” Senor Uno asked like I have a tracking device implanted in each of our 20 shit head friends.
Wolf had texted me. He hadn’t played in a month. He grew up on the North Sea, a little fucking rain can’t hold back a Hun. But he was the only one — who was going to show.
“Ohh,” Uno said. “I’m going to take off then.”
He didn’t even grab a squeegee.
Uno is not Ravi’s actual last name. We just had two Ravi’s from India, and no one can remember their last names. Ravi Uno and Ravi Dos is the best we could do. It’s not racist because we said it in Spanish.
Two minutes later, Wolf arrived. We finished drying the court and hit for 45 minutes before the next rain shower drove us into the bar.
Where were the rest of the Tuesday night tennis players? You guessed it — at home playing with themselves.
Like his new found “power” tennis game, Julian, the original douchebag millennial, is always hit or miss. But Gibson, Jeff, Nick, Bill, George, Grif and even little hippie Wayne had no fucking excuse.
Where were you Larry, for fuck’s sake?
Well guess what fuckers. You are all a bunch of Rain Pussies. That’s right. It’s not fucking black toxic sludge falling from the sky — that’s what I played in as a kid in Akron, Ohio when the rubber factories cleaned out their “stacks.”
It’s not a golden shower of effluent like all the little Republicans gather under every 4th of July in Fountain Hills.
It was the best rain that could possibly happen in the desert. No wind, no heat, no bugs and no dust. Water is life here, and it was the softest celebration of life possible.
But you fucking pussies were scared to come out.
I should get Condo to do the full body shame and point his little crooked catholic index finger at all of you and grunt in that hoarse, retired-coach-from-Indiana voice of his, “You are just a fucking bunch of Rain Pussies” in front of the most innocent looking sets of all-American families we can find.
And no Griffen, it was NOT a successful Tuesday night. We had very little tennis, only 8 chicken wings and a single pitcher of beer.
All the shame and blame for such a poor turnout can only fall on you fuckers:
The Rain Pussies of the Third World Racquet Club.
(Trademark — T-shits coming in 2020 – available in XXXL, XXL, and pussy sizes).
Update: Thursday — new night, almost identical result. Substitute Larry for Wolf and Ravi Uno stayed to hit.
But the rest missed out on 90-minute hit and free IPA. I’m surrounded by grown men who are afraid of a little moisture falling from the sky.