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FCPVD: Intercepted Memos to the French Consulate.

Transmission: Week Six

Agent: Jacques le Jacques
a.k.a. Ze French Tickler

ZE MIDSEASON SPECTACULAR: DEATH ON ZE INSTALLMENT PLAN.

Sacrebleu...
My belated correspondence comes after spending a week healing my sarcophagus of an esophagus, convincing my liver not to jump ship after ze epic battle against ze zombies and ze conquest of that old Dutch colony that they stole for beads (where, now, a casket has rent control.)*

Returning to ze field of play for (most of) ze spectacular...

Stop.

Ze Holy Rollers V. Ze French Revenge Les Rouleaux Saints, now: I know what you’re thinking already... did ze French, upon receiving a thorough whooping de derriere concede to their loss in classic French fashion by fully supporting and catering to our invaders? The answer is a resounding yes. WE LOVE ZE ROLLERS! Are we cowards? Yes. Can they think about sleeping with our illustrious cornucopia of prostitutes and loose, artistic women while molesting our pre-teen sons? Yes. 24-0? Yeah.

And yes, there is a bathtub Steve Mattos in my front yard already.

Stop.

St. Sebastian V. Untouchiballica & Bat Seals V. Scurvy Dogs: There is a great gap in the day where I have no Intel on these teams. I call upon my countryman Georges Perec to describe such a feeling:

“... This ‘a blank’ thus unfolds motu proprio out of it’s own contradiction, a vacant signal of that which isn’t in fact vacant, a blank such as you might find in a book across which its author’s hand inks its in an inscription implicating its own abolition: O, vain papyrus drawn back, unavoidably back, into its own blank womb; a tract of a non-tract, a nihilistic tract localizing that oblivion huddling, crouching, within a word, gnawing away at its own root, a rotting pip, a scission, a distraction, an omission both boasting and disguising its own invincibility, a canyon of Non-Colorado, a doorway that nobody would cross, a corridor along which no foot would pad.”

So yeah. Take that, Americans.**

Stop.

Burnsiders V. UGGH: I caught ze tail end of ze battle of whiskey, women and weed.*** UGGH just does not drop the ball ever. And then, once again, kissing ze sweet clear jug of liver cirrhosis afterwards. God bless ze Burnsiders.

Stop.

CBP V. Shakedown: I fully supported our thoroughly inebriated brothers from different mothers in this match, though their mothers are one in the same by and large.**** But alas, sobriety beat out ze stars and bars in a heated game. Could it be Odouls from here on out for ze Shakedown.

Fuck no.

Losers on ze field, winners at ze bar. Sound familiar, Shakedown? Is this a challenge?

Stop.

Stilettos V. Zomboree: This game was perhaps messier than most Zomboree games. Bad blood, bloody pools, blood on the tracks, and, of course, menses jokes abounding. Some of ze Stilettos got plowed in a new and unfamiliar way. It was a match of breasts and death. Did I go see Slayer and didn’t know it? I’m glad ze roving reporters were keeping a tally of these things, because I got lost.

Stilettos win, again. Forever.

Stop.

I've run out of anglo words. Over and out
– J le J

* ...Wait, that’s Manhattan. Fuck.
** I don’t know either. I was eating pizza and drinking for these games, I think. Confusing ze Americans to hide my poor journalism skills. We are artists, we deal not in “facts.”
*** Something like your American Hank Williams III’s songs? Or something? I don’t know.
**** Very literally.