My Fucked-Up Tennis Team is now completely fucked-up in an entirely new way.
Jesus was sitting with him at bar in the Third World Club when the first signs of a metaphorical exoskeleton started to cover the douchebag millennial's body.
Just when I was going to release my perfect whine to earn some free points with the Bear (one of the secrets to a long marriage is the art of sublte manipulation) that got fucked up too.
Fresh on the heels of my Body Shaming by Kate, her two best "friends" found a way to pick on my face.
For most places, the holidays are time to reflect and improve. Not at the Third-World Racquet Club -- these are the times when everything goes straight to the shitter.
You retire to Phoenix from some frozen popsicle like Chicago or Minneapolis or the non-existent god forbid, Canada. So when the days get long, you get the hell out and go home.
Every time I find a tennis shoe I like - brand, make, model, year, color, 10 seconds after I walk out of the store, they change all the fucking models
I had been told both my knees had tendonitis. It could get better in 2 weeks or 2 years. It didn't
Hi, my name is Kieran, and I am a pathetic, hopeless alcoholic -- at least according to the Bear I am.
I don't know what the fuck a fermentor is, but I set up a GoFundMe to buy one. You wanna know why? Because Larry wanted one, for fuck's sake.