You play checkers your way.
I play it my way.
I like to stack all the checkers on the board into a tower and tell them “I am the twenty-fifth checker. I rule over you all.”
The checkers stand there, wobbling slightly, then… they are still.
I command them to bow.
I command them to worship me.
I command them to do as I say.
They do nothing.
They defy me.
So, I sweep my hand through the tower and cast the checkers into all directions.
Sitting there, I wait… waiting…
And then, laughing madly, gather up the checkers again.
Tag: game
Welterweight
Ever wonder what Welterweight means?
Lucius Welter was a boxing ring owner, and before every match, he liked to play teeter-totter with the boxers.
Any boxer who was too heavy to teeter-totter with Lucius was considered a Heavyweight.
And any boxer too light to teeter-totter with him was called A Lightweight.
The boxers who could teeter-totter with him without difficulty was dubbed “Welter’s Weight.”
Sadly, Lucius died from influenza when he was fifty, but they tied his corpse up into a sack and continued to use him as a counterweight until accurate scales became cheaper and the gym closed down.
Mario
Sure, the game was called Super Mario Brothers, but Mario wasn’t Luigi and Mario’s last name.
What was their last name?
I have no idea. And it’s not on WikiPedia, either.
Maybe Mario’s like Madonna and Cher and has only one last name?
I wonder if he can sing like Madonna and Cher.
According to WikiPedia, he’s held parties, and there’s usually singing at those, right?
Or are those political parties? Are the Mario Brothers like the Kennedy Brothers?
Which one’s the drunk? Which one’s the womanizer?
And which one drove his go kart off the bridge?
Vote for Mario!
Giant Robots
There’s nothing I like more than watching gigantic robots beating the crap out of each other.
One lunges at the other with a massive arm, which barely dodges out of the way, and then responds with a wicked jab.
All the while, people shouting and pointing… it’s a thrill-a-minute!
Oh, sure, it would be more interesting with blades and hammers, but all we’ve got here on the assembly line is grabber and welder bots.
Well, until they move operations to Mexico.
Yeah, I saw the memo. Corporate fuckers.
So, screw the Mexicans… let’s have some fun right now!
Fight! Fight!
Play Ball
Every ballgame begins with the playing of the national anthem.
Some local choir was singing, and they sounded great…
“Over the land of the free
And the home of the brave?”
The crowd cheered, and the home plate umpire shouted “PLAY BALL!” but the players didn’t take the field.
They liked the choir’s singing so much, they wanted to hear them sing for a bit more.
“We’re not in a rush, right?” said the managers. “The stadium’s got lights. And tomorrow’s a travel day.”
So, they laid out blankets on the field, got some sodas, and everybody enjoyed the choir.
Never
Remember that game
Back in High School
Senior year.
The last of the season
Or, was it the state finals?
The state finals,
So hot, the grass drank in the water
From the clack clack clacking sprinklers
Like the town drunk.
Two outs, bottom of the ninth
And you hit one over the fence so far,
I swear, it’s still going.
Rounding the bases,
Grinning wide as the sky,
And you fell to the ground
Threw down your glove
And… and…
Wait. You weren’t the batter
It was you on the mound
Blowing the save.
You never pitched again.
Never.
The Art Of Boxing
Ted was a boxer, one of the best.
He wasn’t just a fighter, though.
He was an artist.
Literally, an artist. He’d dip his gloves in the paint, hear the bell, and come out painting his opponent with blows, knocking him down to the canvas over and over.
If they made it past the first round, his corner man would get him more paint, and he’d touch things up in round two.
Then, after the match, the canvas would be pulled up, framed and sold.
Ted eventually lost. KO in the fifth to a Featherweight pointillist.
“Self-Portrait” they called it.
Cart Racers
After watching the bobsledders racing down the track at the Olympics, I got my friends together and we came up with The Shopping Cart Races.
Late last night, we got really drunk and stormed a grocery store parking lot, setting up carts in the parking lot to mark out a course.
Then, we formed teams of four, three people in a cart, and the fourth pushing as hard as they could before jumping in and riding along.
The first team discovered they couldn’t steer.
Instead, they tipped over and crashed.
Just a few scrapes and bruises. And no gold medals.
A Perfect Ten To Twenty
My coach told me that nobody ever remembers the one who came in second.
So, that’s why I stabbed the bitch who came in first.
Well, that’s not the only reason.
You see, mom pushed me into gymnastics, pulled me out of school, and stuck me with a coach who taught me things that would have made Nabokov puke.
Look, unless you’re Mary Lou Fucking Retton, you’re washed up at eighteen.
So, yeah, I lost my shit, and I stabbed her.
She’ll live, but the coach won’t.
I don’t want that disgusting creep touching anyone else.
(He’s mine, dammit! MINE!)
Always a Jammer, Never a Blocker
Most women think of their wedding dress as the dress they’ll be married in.
Others think of it as the dress they’ll be buried in.
But Tracy’s thinking “How will this perform on the track?”
She joined the Bridezillas team as a jammer, fast and light, with a minimum of lace to reduce wind resistance and material for opponents to grab. But after years of working out and hitting the bars after matches, she switched to blocker, and she wanted more flashy and style.
She checked a sleeve. Shiny… glittering…
Pretty as a picture.
Plus, rhinestones always leave a mark.