It was a hot summer day in 2066 when they played what can only be mostly remembered as the greatest game of Wonder Sport ever. Anyone you ask who’ll say they were there will tell you to your face how it started with a cold fog, like a deep Britsh November, coffee sales were brisk in the stands, tacos as well, and the mood—well, the mood was a nervous joviality that bordered on subdued mania. And that was just the concessionaires. The stands were full of bucktoothed wide eyed kids, single moms, and beer bellied sacks of manure. One big happy family, fans them all. This was their game, the people’s game. Our game. Your game. The game. Game. Game. Game. Game. Game.


With bated breath and polite applause, the teams took to the Tarmac, the bell whistled its klaxonorous retort and Big Lando Mulligan took the stand. The initial toss, a whiffer, from central position Wince Williams, a bony drink of water from North Central Kentucky. Mulligan took it, groin deep, for ball one. Literally, his left teste. Next toss, a stinker, up in Mulligans sweet spot, and he made such sweet love to that sphere that it didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. It did both, sailing up and down and away, kissing the sky. That had the chalk boy chalking one up for the good guys on the chalk board. The crowd went nutso. The nut vendor messed himself. It was nuts. nuts all over. Poor nut boy. Having to clean up all those nuts. That’s life in the bigs. 

Up next was Donarius White, the yellow flash himself, pride of Windingo. He strutted on up to the portcullis like a bat out of Cheyenne, all huff, puff, and gaseous guff. Not a lady in the crowd failed to swoon. And the gents, well, holy doodle, they went bonkers. As in super swooning. It was like your ponytailed uncle’s Hustler subscription. Erotic and mythical. It was only the precursor to the second play of the match and already emotions were at an all time high. Like seventy five feet of emotions. That high. Like I said, all time. Whoa. 

Nor-cen Kentuckytown USA’s favourite son, Wince, lumped one up high and droll, and it tied Donarius up tighter than a Nun’s pretzel. You could feel the emotional wound open and all that erotic energy bleed out. Donarius was done. The press, in a Pulitzer Prize winning piece of creative genius would later call it “DONE-arius does-nothingus”. A car in the parking lot honked in sadness.

Next up, bonker ball, the most hellacious time segment in the game time. Period. Six minutes and thirteen seconds of liquid fury. Facing off, Horatio Rogers and Gerry Jeek. Or to put it mildly, monolith v. monolith. Ball in play, monolith takes it from monolith back to monolith, monolith runs, monolith blocks, tackles, monolith shimmying, jinny, jiving, the bang-tango, monolith, over the top, slides under monolith, when monolith wit the steal, monolith scores. Monolith monolith monolith monolith. All hail monolith. 

It was an equal opportunity celebration in the stands as folks felt a 1:1 ratio of good cheer and intense sorrow. The clouds parted, rain fell, an old man lost his shoe. And when the smoke and dust and mist and halitosis finally cleared, there towering over the gravel field up on the big board, chalked up and official, the final score of the most legendary, jaw-dropping, mind-bending, soul-crushing, up-lifting match of sports in the history of sports since Yahweh and Allah went SupremoMano y SupremoMano on the handball court over who got to lay claim to Australopithicus. 

1 – 1.

Tie game.

You couldn’t have written a better script.



Watercooler 2.0

E.F. Hutton office in Denver, Colorado

Attn. employees,

Due to recent legislation that has been enacted by both state and federal governments we have found the need to clarify acceptable inter-office conversations based around this beverage station. Please do not take this as any sort of ban on conversing with your fellow employees around said beverage station, in fact, a major principle of a piece of said legislation expressly forbids employers from prohibiting inter-office conversations around beverage stations of any kind, be it water, coffee, tea, juice, smoothie, lassi, soda (diet, high-fructose, Dr. Pepper), milk, lactose-free milk, non-dairy lactose infused milk, non-milk milk (almond, soy, pine), or liquid whatever.

It is now company policy that any and all conversations around this beverage station must recognize the following guidelines:

-Regarding any and all of employee’s political views and their opinions there of, in no way will the pure and proper ideals of ownership and management impede on those held by the painfully mistaken members of our team, and neither shall any employee. This includes, and is not limited to, right-wing conservatives (try it, you’ll like it, there are pamphlets in the staff room), liberal leftists (Santa is dead. Believe that.), centrists (get off the fucking fence), socialists (you want me to pay for whose what?), communists (so ultra-over), kleptocrats (there’s something there but it’s all “who you know”, y’know?), anarchists (like the IT department, it’s lonely, complains a lot, and smells like b.o.), proponents of true democracy (BWAHAHAHAHA! –wiping away tears- Seriously though, your points are valid), and the don’t know-don’t care-don’t vote ideologues (we’re looking at you, Janitorial staff). It’s all good.

-Regarding any and all employee’s political views, whether they be (most correctly) right-wing conservative, gossip-mongering centrists (we hear you secretarial pool), anarchy (which like it’s IT dept. proponents is lonely, complains a lot, and smells like b.o.), or the don’t-know don’t-care don’t-vote ideologues of the Janitorial staff, it’s all good.

-Regarding sports. All hail sports. Unless you hate sports. Then, go heil yourself.

-Concerning co-workers who like to spout off about their sexual conquests. While the newly minted personage bestowed upon the corporate entity that is this company believes that certain sexual proclivities are utterly indecent and immoral, it is no way our business, or yours, to restrict Lance in the data-processing department from extolling you with how much fucking pole he smoked at Buster’s Thug and Tug last night. Nor is it in anyway acceptable for us to limit the amount of Melissa in PR’s non-stop dry as all hell descriptions of how painfully unsatisfying her husbands penis is.

-This also goes for conversations concerning employee’s automobiles. All forms of transit are valid and to be included. Especially someone’s robust enthusiasm for continuously letting you know how awesome theirs is and how much awesomer theirs is going to be with the new whatever the hell kind of thing they’re going to attach to it mechano-babble-blah-blah-blah, day-in and day-out. Yes Hector, we know you have a cool car. Is that also why you have five kids with three different women at age twenty-six? It’s not for us to judge or even question. But still–

-When Janelle or Peter or You-know-who wants to talk ceaselessly about how many hot wings they put back at The Sports Pump on the weekend, you must let them, but also you are well within your rights to let them know they make you sick to your fucking stomachs. Then politely let them roll back to their special desks near the elevator, which of course was also part of new special legislation, which made fat-as-shit a universal job qualification in all places of employment.

-When a co-worker just has to rave about the episode of television he/she/gender-neutral saw last night, and is just BLOWN AWAY that you didn’t see it and then you’re all like if she says spoiler alert one more time I swear on my gram-mam’s freakin’ grave I’m-a gonna stab her freakin’ eyes in wit’ a pen, please understand that you have just got to roll with that, bro. (Important note, this company is legally obligated to ensuring that this is a certifiably safe working environment and that any and all acts of violence will not be tolerated and may result in suspension and/or some kind of mild reprimand).

-If Soo-Yin from Acquisitions and Mergers wants to tell you how talented and smart her two-year old twins are she is fully encouraged to. Over and over and over again. But always keep in mind the rumor that they may actually both have Down’s Syndrome and/or Spina Bifida, which is totally fine by the way, and that in no way makes them any lesser a part of society, but that’s also why she looks so tired all the time. And why the husband’s no longer in the picture. Feel free to discuss.

-Concerning religion, there is of course only one true God and it is through him and his only begotten son, Jesus, that you will find the way. We’re pretty firm on this one. Still, we respect your right to talk out of your ass.

We hope this clarifies things.
Thank you for your understanding on this issue,
The Management.