Transmission: Week Five

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

Shakedown V. Plantains: I awoke late. After trimming my poodle Gili and masturbating ferociously to Marquis De Sade for several hours I made it down to the field in time to miss ze first game. Ze celebration of what we gave America ze night before did me in as well. I MEAN I did not celebrate. At all. I scoffed. Don‘t tell Jacques Chirac. Apparently ze commies got fucked on. Git her done, as they say? Or something? Dale Earnhardt is still dead. And there is no heaven for him to drive in circles around. Take that.

Stop.

Holy Rollers V. Scurvy Dogs: Speaking of heaven, this was a very tight match to watch. Ze Scurvy Dogs played to their finest and nearly pulled off the upset. Great defense once again saved* the Rollers please and they came out victorious.

Stop.

Zomboree V. CBP: And speaking of near upsets, Ze zombies looked more Evil Dead than Thriller this week, to say the least. Zomboree‘s strategy of “throwing shit at the sober dudes” nearly worked. Thrown off by the flying carrion, CBP did not have their usual offensive prowess and barely squeaked out a one run win. I can understand this. That stuff they throw is fucking gross. Why does it smell so weird?

Stop.

BSR V. Bat Seals: BSR utilized their best strategy to date against ze burly apple pie and baseball warriors of the Bat Seals . . . not showing up. This left ze winless Seals with a great existential question to ponder: do we accept ze win with tail between legs or, when BSR recruits ringers from various other teams, risk ze possibility of losing to a team who is worse than ze stilettos? If, say, ze great cosmos of kickball are against them, why would ze Seals run ze risk of eternal shame and a perpetually winless season? But alas, could ze foolish inflated amour-propre of ze Seals lead them to risk victory, if only to revel in their freedom** of will, to dance on ze cock of the devil and taste ze sweet drip of success, thrilled if only to live and die in liberum arbitrium? In ze end, they decided to make it count. It nearly bit them on ze ass. Win in overtime.

Stop.

Next week, we see why N.Y.C. is not Gay Paris. Watch out Brooklyn. Your trust funds and irony can‘t save you now.
– J le J

* Note ze wordplay. Ze French artful dodgers of your anglo bullshit language! Ugh ugh ugh !
** Fries.