Der Tyrant's Korner: 7-2-12
The 4th of July!
And nobody’s posted nothing. You guys suck.
Therefore, due to your lack of enthusiasm for the sport, I officially decree myself as the Ultimate Champion of the impending tournament, regardless of what happens on the fiery pitches of the Millersville (America’s Sorrow) Randy "Macho Man" Savage Memorial Subbuteo Stadium/Garage Where the Lawn Mower Goes to Die. As we all know, style counts for more than mere skill or points when it comes to amateur Subbuteo. And I have style in spades.
That said, as I’ve already won this unadvertised, uncharityed, unawarenessed tournament, I might as well take a few moments to “dis” the other players in our club. You know, the ones who are too busy or irresponsible to support our collective bit of the blogosphere. I’m looking at you, Mr. President. A broken butt bone doesn’t hinder the ability to type. Or you, Subbuteo Man. Just because you traipse around the world to volcanic islands in the middle of nowhere, doesn’t mean you can ditch your bloggerly duties. And, in a few years, I’ll be able to bust on Dirty Nacho as well because he’ll finally be old enough to take it. That’s right, Mr. Vice President, start looking for cover.
But anyway, here are my predictions in the battle for The Bastards’ Cup: I will win. That’s easy. And I might even win the Black Hole Hands Award and reject the President’s Award for like the tenth time. The Blur will succumb to a psychosomatic foot condition and end up sitting in the mint plants along the side of the garage, which might increase his shooting average by 4 or 5%. Neither Dutch nor Fire Wrist will be a threat as the dull days of summer mean that both of them now require twenty-six hours of sleep per day in order to function. HBT will be working in the NYC not far from the JC doing GKW with people who just got off the A, C, E or maybe the B or D, depending on whether the MTA is working or just being a bunch of SOBs. So, HBT is out of the running. As I mentioned previously, there are reports that The President has a broken ass, injured either during a charity game of kickball or by acid, I don’t know really know which. Tea and Dirty Nacho are still too short to hoist a major trophy filled with licorice. Ave and E are too focused on their phones to bring real defense or that other thing, what is it, offense, to the game. As for The Guest Playa, it’s always a crap shoot as to whether he’ll be needed to play at all, though he might be needed if Peyton blows a knee or throws a shoe in the early events of the day.
The only true contenders for this particular tournament: Mary Beth, who is itching to school people on the pitch but might burn too much energy trying to school them on the wiffle ball field, and the deadly combo, if Old Navy polo shirts are the measure of how deadly things are, of Will Plank and his ever growing son, C Train. Being of the Ohio strain of Subbuteo playin’, God only knows what sort of shenanigans they will bring to the game. And there’s the outside chance that they will have to play against one another, negating their Red State swing votes. That happened last year, with disastrous results.
Really, the only player in our entire club who I fear is Hobo Baby because he has a knife. But what are the odds of him showing up? I mean, he’s a hobo. And a baby.
The Bastards’ Cup will be mine.
