the death of athletic civility

Dear Assface McGillicutty, King of the Fucktards:

Hi. We just met tonight, and I have to say: things didn't go well. Granted, I have not been to open play for a few months. Bad Governess. I've vowed to change, in order to improve my game, let my teammates know that no, really, I'm serious about playing better, and work off the 45 extra pounds of Hershey's Kisses I ate today in one sitting. But that's neither here nor there, unless there is my ass, in which case: oh yes, there it is.

Where was I.

Ah, yes: practice. Friendly open court time. I've always found it to be a welcome, happy place- smiles greet ye when the court is vacated by pre-teen ponytailed basketball phenoms, 4 inches over-tall from all the hormones in their Taco Bell products, for us aging people who wear kneepads. Well, some of you wear kneepads, I am hardcore. Once playing, I find the group to be... adult. You know: competitive enough to break a sweat, a casual curse word or two flung about when one inevitably-n-occasionally screws up, an occasinal mocking trash talk across the net between friends (but never between strangers, because that would be rude.)

So when little boys like you show up and throw fucking tantrums about the most MILD of things, and get so ridiculously vein-poppy you actually have to leave, please to be pardoning me as I flick you my middle finger, tall and proud, when you slam the gym door behind you. I'm sorry that there are occasionally some competitive, competent women in your life who can return your serve, buttmunch. It's not that great. Perhaps everyone until now has just been nice about your self-assumed athletic prowess. Must be hard to face reality. Anyways. PONY UP, or go home to your cowering wife who I'm sure just tells the entire neighborhood "but he really loves me" when your quarter-inch fuse blows over her skirt being a smidge to short, and she ends up with strange bruises.*

PS, also, I wasn't going to say anything but now I don't care: you look like Jeff Gannon crossed with a certain Eric Stoltz character, and I'm pretty sure you know which character I'm referring to.

Good day. I SAID GOOD DAY.

Love,
Yr Worst Nightmare



* this is terribly insensitive and plain wrong, and yet you know EXACTLY the kind of meathead I am talking about when I describe him as such. Admit it.