One of the fucked-up things about playing recreational tennis is away matches. You have to drive to some other part of town and play on strange courts. And worse, we can't just walk to the Third World bar to enjoy some popcorn and beer with the resident mice -- we are forced to pick a different bar.
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.