The Old Stall Game

The crack of the bat, the smell of the grass…the taste of pine tar.

Baseball is back.

For those who revel in the history, strategy, and romance of America’s greatest game, springtime reigns…as does all of summer, and a hefty chunk of fall. Yes, one of baseball’s most beloved virtues is that it serves as a soundtrack to, literally, more than half a calendar year. Simply having play-by-play on the radio in the background—every single freaking night, for 182 straight nights—is a pleasure.

What’s more, the games themselves are long. Too long. Intercontinental wars have been declared and concluded before the first pitch and the final out of a twilight double header. Ideas abound about ways to shorten the length of a game, so fans can stay abreast of the unfolding on-field spectacle without sacrificing a hearty slice of their waking hours. (Ask the otherwise devoted father who lamented neglecting too much of his only son’s preteen childhood to catch a meaningless late September Mariners-Twins extra-innings affair.)

Recently, MLB commissioner Rob Manfred announced that intentional walks will be granted without a pitcher tossing four wide ones. Some old-schoolers have derided the decision as baseball treason. Moreover, math suggests the average length of a game would thus be lessened by a grand total of 13 blessed seconds. Surely, one might think, there must be better suggestions to truly abbreviate nine (plus) innings in a way that would enliven the drama without sacrificing baseball’s purportedly precious legacy.

There are! Behold.

-Limit batter walk-up music to the first three notes of the player’s chosen song. As is, a batter’s stroll from the on-deck circle to the batter’s box is akin to the spectacle of a WWE wrestler walking down the ramp during Wrestlemania. Do fans really need to suffer the latest Drake or Keith Urban chart topper, just because the seven-hole batter in a blowout game needs to get pumped-up enough to flail at three consecutive breaking pitches? If the batter doesn’t reach the batter’s box before the conclusion of the third note of his walk-up song, the batter is out. Furthermore, the batter’s contract is voided, and he will be deported to an undisclosed island where Godsmack’s entire music catalog will be played loudly, on repeat, 24/7, forever and ever.

The only music that should be a part of the game is chin music. 

-Brave’s pitcher Bartolo Colon—46 years old/290 pounds—must use a bullpen cart in lieu of walking a single step farther in a Major League baseball park. This includes all trips on and off the field, trips from one base to another (i.e. station-to-station), trips to the clubhouse urinal, etc. As a general rule, any major leaguer whose baseball card is both too old and too heavy to put in the spokes of a bicycle, will only be allowed mobility via bullpen cart.

-Mandatory amphetamines…for fans. Details to come.

-The pitching coach will “visit” the pitcher to discuss strategy, not in person, but via Facetime. This will eliminate the need for a pudgy, decrepit man in stirrups to shamelessly waddle from the dugout to the hill as thousands, if not millions, die of boredom. Instead, said coach will communicate with the pitcher via the most recent version of the iWatch (National League) or iPhone (American League). Caveat: Although abolishing the slow crawl of mound visits should reduce playing time by about, oh, an hour and thirty seven minutes per game, admittedly half of that time will be added back by the endless stream of plugs for Apple: official sponsor of the “Visit to the Mound.” 

-Any foul ball that reaches the second deck is an automatic out.

-Any regular season game involving the Chicago Cubs will be forfeited to whichever club that is not the Chicago Cubs. Not only will this altogether eliminate 162 games off the schedule and thwart a Cubs’ dynasty, baseball fans worldwide will be spared the vomit-inducing brutality of weathering night-after-night-after-night of Joe “faux hipster glasses” Maddon’s pretentious and insufferable postgame press conferences.

Fuck the Cubs and fuck Joe Maddon, too.

-A sharpshooter stationed in the cabin of the overhead Met Life blimp will maim the right knee cap of any fielder who commits an error. The omnipresent possibility of being forever rendered wheelchair-bound via the dreaded “MLB sky sniper” after booting a routine double play ball should limit inning-extending errors. Plus, consider the added tension…“Routine fly to left. Holt barely has to move. Can of cor…uh-oh, the balls clanks off his glove. There’s the little red light below the thigh. Holt looks up in horror as Jackson rounds second. Jesus! Holt crumples to the ground in unimaginable anguish as the Cardinals take a 3-2 lead in the fifth.”

-Clone the 2015 post All-Star break version of Jake Arrieta so that only the 2015 post All-Star break version of Jake Arrieta can pitch every inning of every game. At the conclusion of each season, all MLB position players will undergo full frontal lobotomies to avoid making future adjustments to the 2015 post All-Star Break Jake Arrieta.

-All 25 players on each MLB roster must play the field during the opposing teams’ at-bat. This will cut back on bloop hits and seeing-eye singles, while increasing the chances of rollicking/embarrassing Keystone Kops-type collisions among fielders.

-The typically longwinded National Anthem will instead consist of the singer/singers simply walking up to the mic and shouting “Make America Great Again,” punctuated by an enthusiastic fist pump. (The accompanying fighter jet flyover will be executed by a squadron of heavily-armed military aircraft en route to a classified bombing raid on a foreign state.) Furthermore, the tedious singing of “Take Me Out To The Ball Game” will be replaced with “something terrific.”

-A left-handed and a right-handed batter must bat at the same time. This will allow two batters to strike out at once, and should lead to less solid contact—or, in the event of a hit, suspenseful hesitation among fielders trying to determine who hit it and where.

-Whenever a batter is hit by an errant pitch and charges the mound to confront the pitcher, a steel dome will be lowered via helicopter onto the combatants. Several weapons will be attached to the bars of the dome: oversized iron mallets, rusty chainsaws, a Berretta DT-11 shotgun, 2×4’s with a nail sticking out, Bartolo Colon’s “lucky” unwashed undies, a slingshot with a single rock blessed by God himself, a novelty boxing glove on one of those accordion springy hickeys, and a Godsmack CD in a boom box—just hit play. Ok, so, basically this is the Thunderdome. But to avoid copyright litigation, the steel cage will be called the Murder Crate, and fans, in unison, will chant “Two men enter. One man gets literally killed by the other man, and the dead man’s team forfeits the game.”

-First team to show up at the ballpark wins. Live coverage of teams roaring up to the clubhouse and charging in to register arrival will thrill millions.

Now PLAY BALL, and hurry the fuck up.

Fiddle My Piddle Pump! That Cog Noggin Boy O’ Mine Left the Door Open Again, and a Steve Bannon Slipped In Like a Lubed Cheese Wheel On a Greased Dancefloor.

Over the past few years, first-person accounts of the Great Horribleness have become a publishing staple, particularly since the re-legalization of writing and the de-criminalization of reading. But few texts can provide the visceral power, the historical authenticity, and the linguistic richness of Fiddle My Piddle Pump: That Cog Noggin Boy O’ Mine Left the Door Open Again, and a Steve Bannon Slipped In Like a Lubed Cheese Wheel On a Greased Dancefloor, by Luanne McDunkle, who writes and shoplifts under the name “The Wisecrackin’ Widow of Klutterbuck County.” The excerpt below provides a vivid example of the sensibility of the woman known to many who don’t know her as “Patient Zero of the Great Bannon Pestilence of 2017-2021.”

Dear Damn Diary:

I’m thinking on torching my homestead flat to the dirt floor. This unnerved widow, her puny son, and a feral Steve Bannon are trapped inside the house together like Tri-amese twins in a wrought iron waffle puffer. Know what I mean?

I knew sure as a bejeweled Wookie’s midriff something like this would happen eventually. “For the love of a stewed wombat, Jeffrey, close the door all the way when you come into the house after twilight weed teasin’.” I got tired of hearing my own voice repeatin’ myself. Kid would just whoosh inside like he was runnin’ from a Chattanooga pistol whip. Well, Jeffrey left the door ajar one too many times. Guess what weaselin' twat sprocket snuck into the living room? A Steve Bannon. I squealed like a hog-tied orphan! ‘Dem damn things are filthy as a naughty clergyman’s spittoon, you know.

I should’ve pummeled that lil' gnard gardner with a Deutschland donker barrage post haste. No, not Jeffery! He's only eight. I'm talkin' 'bout the Steve Bannon! I’m not one to kill pests just because they’re uninvited guests. I’ve trapped enough spiders to fill Bunyan’s trousers usin’ plastic cups and scooted ‘em to Mother Nature’s druthers, and wafted as many moths out a window, too. But I’m kickin’ myself now. This pesky Steve Bannon still scurryin’ about the place has me feelin' like I wanna’ boom-biff a Nazis square in his dangle deuce.

When a Steve Bannon first scampered inside, it stopped in the mud room beside the galoshes heap. I’d once seen a picture of a Steve Bannon in an alt-right field guide so I knew exactly what that danged shit widget was. But the thing looked as scared as a runt puppy starin' down the barrel of a well-oiled meat grinder. I think back and curse 'dem pitiful eyes behind that soused 9 o' clock chin shrub. I kinda’ felt bad for the bugger at first, but how was I supposed to know ‘dem things as wily as a friendly necromaniac?  I tried to shoo it back out the door with the McDunkle family corn broom. Five minus six plus one dice. Damn thing began inchin’ toward me. I always keep a spray bottle handy in case I need to go fisticuffs with a stuttering gout farmer. So I sprayed the foul lil’ scrotum pole but good. Barely even ruffled his teats. Then it really started to move on me like a bitch, all the while snarlin’ like a virgin albino after snortin’ a codpiece full of Baby Beluga's  fever dream at an Appalachian rave party. Got me? I began backpeddlin’ real slow. I felt helpless as a ticklish amputee. The blasted Steven Bannon inched closer, and closer, and closer. “This is it,” I thought, “it’s gonna’ gnaw my grizzle nob to the bone.” But I thought quick and grabbed the New York Times off the Poang. What? You don’t believe I read the New York Times, or shop at Ikea? Then I rolled up the newspaper and boom-biffed that fudd-muckin’ Steve Bannon straight upside his crimson pockmarked coconut. It yelped as if it’d been unceremoniously introduced to the business end of Grammie Gertrude's happy hammer. Then it went scamperin' into a load bearin’ hole in the wall.

I haven't actually seen the Steve Bannon since. Doesn't mean I still ain't hot like a skinned mongoose lathered in ghost pepper brine. I know it's still in the house…somewhere. I hear its filthy little claws tappin' against the floorboards in the middle of the night. Can't sleep sometimes. I hear him rummagin' up in the attic when I'm trying to reverse-kerplunk my badoozled jigger nozzle. Hey! How else is a homemaker like me supposed to earn a livin'? Sometimes, the Steve Bannon causes so much hullabaloo behind a closet door, or at the end of a hallway, that it makes my hounds, Sparkplug and Remus J. Smudlaugh VII (named 'em after my daddy and my daddy's daddy), go batshit crazy. Hmm. Batshit crazy? Is that something folk say or did I coin a new phrase? Sorry if I lost you. Anyway, I'm sure you know what an upper-decker pecker-checker that can be when you don't have swamp fog insurance!

Listen good as ya' should. I'm tired of cleanin' up piles of Steve Bannon mud nuggets scattered about the place. I'm tired of vacuumin' molted Steve Bannon fuzz clumps outta' the drapes. Although I can’t pinpoint the rascal, this whole house fucking smells like Steve Bannon. Olly olly oxen fee you little shit. 

I gotta' get that hideous thing outta' here. It's plottin' doom. I sense it. I don’t know how, but it’s plottin’ doom. I sense it straight to the core of a chimneysweep's crotch.

I'm a mother. I gotta' save my little boy Jeffrey, and all his unborn grandchildren, from the ravages of an unchecked Steve Bannon run amok. I don't care if I gotta' stack blast candles to Gulliver's taint and 'splode this place straight to Micky Dolenz's locker. That Steve Bannon gotta' go.

Whelp, Satire Is Dead. Might As Well Take Up F*cking Noolding

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Blue Lilly Pads On The Blood Pond

In four years America awakens, shivering cold, in a bathtub. How the hell did I wind up in a tub full of ice cubes? Gotta’ get up. Gotta’ get outta’ here. A searing pain emanates from somewhere…from somewhere. Oh Christ! What is going on? What the fuck happened? Scoop up a handful of ice cubes and toss them over the side of the tube. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Wait. Oh, Jesus Christ! What is that? What the fuck is that? The stitch job on the abdomen’s nearly black lump looks like the work of a seamstress with twisted fingers. Blood seeps. A serrated steak knife may be the culprit. Rusty too, perhaps. Who did this to me?

You did it to yourself, America. You did it. Now your organ is up for bid on the dark web to the highest bidder: China, Putin, or the four-hundred-pound couch potato and hacker. And who knows which organ was reaped, anyway? Hard to tell. Doesn’t matter, really. Surely not a heart or head. Those both atrophied long ago. America, you stuffed your face with the Kardashians, tall tales of Mexican rapists clawing at the cellar door, and post cards from a new Rome. (Psst! Nero has been fiddling the whole time.) The red pills that were slipped under your tongue during the commercial break dissolved quickly. You didn't even know you were saying aah, did you?

The trip was good at first. You let loose pleasure squeals after you dropped trou in anticipation of a hand job from Ronald Reagan’s ghost. But then consciousness became gradually foggier until it flatlined. This unleashed the suppressed indoctrinated butcher lying low in the deepest reserves of the hindbrain since the 1950’s. You were alone, a defenseless and witless victim of your own worst angels of your folly. Your right hand sawed through healthy skin and muscle, despite the left hand vying to wrest control of the blade handle. Now there’s just the Frankenstein wound, and the life support of the ice cubes.

You did it to yourself, America. You did it.

***

Hunter S. Thompson’s nemesis was Richard Nixon. He wrote of Nixon in his crafty He Was a Crook obituary, “Nixon was so crooked that he needed servants to help him screw his pants on every morning.” For those of my generation, George W. Bush and his administration was our Richard Nixon and his gang of thugs; Bush’s mind was run by a solar panel on the dark side of the moon, and Dick Chaney was Cthulhu in a latex body suit.

In a 2004 pre-presidential election piece, Thompson wrote “If (Nixon) were running for president this year against the evil Bush-Cheney gang, I would happily vote for him.” Why? Because Bush was a “treacherous little freak.”

With the election of Donald Trump as President of the United States of American, I understand Thompson’s renewed sentiment, squared.

***

Elementary school teachers might as well pull down the United States 2016 post-election map over the chalk board and say, “Okay kids, the metro areas are blue, everything else red.” Truly, the big cities are lily pads in a blood pond. Zoom in on the 2016 election map of Allegheny County, in western Pennsylvania. My hometown of Pittsburgh is navy blue and (most of) the suburbs are various shades of red.

Why?

Sure, minorities and liberals are concentrated in the cities—not to mention hubs of academia—but the contrast in political preference is stark. The answer is surely so nuanced that a political psychologist typing Facebook posts for an infinite amount of time will eventually nail a thorough explanation of the dilemma.

Regardless of the urban-rural divide, which fascinates me, I’m comfortable making a few non-geographical sweeping generalizations: Too many voters dim their minds for convenience sake, and cast ballots from the gut. What a fucking stupid thing to do! Considering the recently concluded 2016 election, stupidity meant being as socially conscious as rolling a powder keg into a cigar lounge, and as safety conscious as using it as an ashtray. (Or vice versa, I suppose.)

I believe that relatively few Trump voters are truly racist/Islamophobic/misogynistic homophobic/etc. at their core. I believe that relatively few Trump voters cheer as factories continue to spew carbon dioxide in the atmosphere at the peril of their grandchildren, their children, and themselves.  I believe that almost zero Trump voters want a human roulette wheel to possess the nuclear launch code.

But guess what, Trump voter? It doesn’t matter if you don’t consider yourself a bigot, or if you don’t consider yourself environmentally unconscious, or if you don’t fancy applying for a city building permit to construct a backyard fallout shelter. You voted for Jim Crow 2.0, the gradual manslaughter of Earth, and the potential swift first degree murder of Earth. You voted this way because you choose to be stupid when the stakes were highest. You chose to be selfless and dangerous.

***

I hold that Donald Trump ran for president as a vanity project. He viewed himself as the focal character of a real-time reality show, not unlike The Apprentice.  He relished the raucous crowds at the rallies, and the omnipresent microphones and camera lens. He saw himself as Billy Mays, but instead of OxyClean he pitched a brand of retro white utopia. He was entertained by the day-to-day reaction of America, as much as America was (regretfully) entertained by him. America itself was his real-time reality show.

On November the 8th, the reality got real.

For all that makes Trump a maniacal scumbag of the highest order, the Trump voter is riper for ridicule than the president-elect. You handed the debauched king his scepter.

Trump’s position on climate change assaults my sensibility, and may provide the clearest example of the source of a pragmatist’s rage. The overwhelming consensus of the scientific community is that humans are chugging headlong toward the sixth extinction. Whatever! The man chosen by the populace to be the most powerful human on Earth actually said that he believes climate change is a hoax perpetrated by the Chinese. As soon as Trump expressed his stance, the American people should’ve dismissed him out-of-hand. Boom! Off the ticket and out of mind you go. Instead, Trump's popularity skyrocketed. He was fucking elected president! As a result, the extinction of the EPA will likely slightly predate the extinction of the human race. Think about that for a second. The most perilous crisis the Earth faces will be exacerbated by the person Earthlings blessed. Forget the Mexican border wall. The landlocked states will need the bricks to keep out refugees from the American coast.

Call me smug. Call me out of out-of-touch. Call out my lack of perspective. But when the scientific community warns of a worldwide catastrophe that will eventually render all politics moot, and you vote for a leader who will clearly worsen the catastrophe…

I know. I know you want "change," whatever the fuck that means.  Name three things, specifically, you want changed? How would you orchestrate these changes? Ok, you're drooling now.

***                       

I’m afraid I’m going to begin belaboring points espoused by countless blogs and Facebook posts. Besides, I’m probably preaching to readers who already see things my way. Readers who don’t will dismiss me as whiny and go about grazing on Astro Turf. 

Also, my fingers do not possess the endurance to type enough patently obvious reasons that Donald Trump should not have been voted president. However, I do see hope. 

The bottom line for this patriot: I'm embarrassed to be an American today. Those feeling the same have been overrun by the other who are either too lazy to think, or too selfless to care, or too short-sighted to see more than 37 seconds into the future.

"Majority rules" sucks when the majority sucks. (Ok, I know, the majority did vote for Hillary Clinton, but it hardly seems worth another tirade). Democracy will doom us all.

***

I’ll sign off with this: Let’s say you sliced your thigh and have begun to bleed. It’s not a dire emergency yet but you need to drive to the hospital. En route, bovine are blocking the highway. You honk, but they don’t move. You politely ask that a narrow lane be cleared so you may drive through, but they don’t move. You impart the wisdom of moving to the highway’s shoulder lest a semi-truck going 75 mph comes through, but they still don’t fucking move. By now you’re getting woozy from blood loss and you absolutely must get to the hospital. There’s no choice but to back up, slam down the gas pedal, and become the semi-truck.

Inertia can be a beautiful tool when it means self-preservation.

All Thanks To Trump '16

Under the smoldering rubble of Election '16 stirs a unique opportunity for liberals.

Bernie was a missed connection to be the torch bearer of a groundbreaking liberal movement, the next logical step left of Obama. He likely would've won the general election had he been the Democratic nominee. He was partially, perhaps sinisterly, undercut by Clinton and the establishment.

Clinton is part of the Democratic old guard. One could argue she is guilty by association considering a few of hubby Bill's undesirable policies of the 90's-repealing Glass-Steagall, for instance.

Unfortunately, we're stuck with the quasi-Republican Bernie doppelgänger, Trump: the festering scrotum-pole who appears behind you if you say "Bigly Mc'Pussgrabber" in the Washington Monument reflecting pool three times. And he'll haunt the living for at least four years. In the meantime, hide behind a stack of science books and don't breathe the air.

However, the forthcoming godforsaken four years will indeed be a disguised opportunity that may not have existed had Clinton won the presidency.

It's time to re-evaluate the Democratic old guard. Jettison the dead weight into the sea and allow the resulting water displacement to lift the liberal frigate higher. Okay, now squint. See the shores of mainland Democratic Socialism, and the Colossus of Sanders erected near the dock. Huzzah!

Believe you me, from the aforementioned smoldering rubble a new liberal movement will arise, and several little Bernies-men/women, black/white/Hispanic, puffy tuft of white hair/no puffy white tuft of hair-will lead the way. One will outpace the others to tangle with Trump, or whoever has replaced him after the infamous Yuge Nuclear Oopsy of '19, at the next presidential election. And the Electoral College AND popular vote will favor the Democratic challenger. Liberals will dance to the death rattle of their enemies. And with minorities and young educated folk an increasing sector of society, this dance won't go out of style.

All thanks to Trump '16.

Head Bash: Gnardbro's Bodacious Brain Trauma Game

Congratulations on your purchase of Head Bash, the newest most exhilarating board game on the pre-teen market.

Hey kids! Cut from your Pee-Wee football team? Not able to slap on the shoulder pads and break though the paper banner with the squad? Is your unemployed and divorced father fuming because he can't relive his fifth-grade glory days through his one and only son? Good news. Head Bash is the board game for those who aren't on the roster, but still want to experience all the brain trauma and crippling head injuries only the finest prepubescent athlete endures. Head Bash is a full-on blitz amongst players along a treacherous path through fading memories and double vision. First one to Uncle Henry's Hospice wins! So grab your friends and plan a night of Head Bash. We promise an unforgettable night you'll never remember…because of real brain damage.  

Ages: 6-12

Number of Players: 2-6.

Objective: Be the first player to reach Uncle Henry's Hospice.

Six Tokens: Crutches. Ice Pack. Bottle of Percocet. Battered Wife. Body Bag. Junior Seau.

Misc: One oak wood 2x4. One pad of Release Of Liability forms.* One drool cup. One drop seizure helmet.

How Head Bash Is Played: Each player selects one token and places it on the "Start" square—the picture of the happy-go-lucky grade-schooler below the quote "I got my whole life ahead of me,"—located in the bottom left corner of the game board. Players take turns rolling the dice (on their futures) and lumber step-by-excruciating-step along the winding path of NFL logos. But there's a twist! Player movement is determined by the number on the bottom (because that's where life is headed) of the dice. First player to Uncle Henry's Hospice wins. It's that simple!

But beware the Weeping Widow spaces along the path. If a player lands on one of these spaces, he/she draws a black card from atop the pile and follows instructions.

Cards:

Head Bash (12 cards): The most numerous card, and the crux of Head Bash. If the drawn card has a Head Bash logo, every player takes turns bashing you on the forehead as hard as humanly possible with the included solid-as-fuck 2x4. (Note: If the included 2x4 becomes damaged by excessive gameplay, blunt household items/tools, such as a ballpeen hammer or lawn jockey statue, may be substituted.) You do not have to go back any spaces, but the resulting brain trauma will certainly make it exponentially harder to persevere throughout the game.

Ringing Bell (8 cards): Your bell has been rung. In other words, it’s just a glancing blow—by a blitzing linebacker, a gone berserk left tackle, a drunk father with a closed fist but bad aim, etc. Go back two spaces.

Defenseless Receiver (6 cards): You've just caught a tight spiral after cutting back toward the middle of the field for a significant gain, but the closing cornerback has no regard for life or limb and squarely lambastes you with a head-to-head rocket shot. But huzzah, you hung on to the football! Go ahead five spaces, but lose a turn.

Dark Room (4 cards): Uh-oh! You have sustained an in-game head hit and are led into the dark room via stretcher on a cart for a concussion test. Will you return to the game? Roll a single die.

Roll a 6-immediate return.

Roll a 5-probable return (lose one turn).

Roll a 4-questionable return (lose two turns).

Roll a 3-improbable return (lose three turns).

Roll a 2-out for game (you lose).

Roll a 1-out forever (you shall never play Head Bash, or perform a typically simple task, such as walking a mixed-breed terrier or operating a blender, again).

"Rub A Little Dirt On It" (3 cards): Like the Head Bash card, but you must hit yourself in the head with the included 2x4 as hard as humanly possible. Then, "rub a little dirt on it" and resume play the next turn.

C.T.E. (2 cards): Oh great! You've sustained enough repeated head blows and now you have the brain of a 127 year old. Take the number 127, minus your current age. The resulting number is how many turns you lose. In the meantime, enjoy turkey dinner through a straw while gently weeping over a scrapbook of good times long gone, like when you could pass a sobriety test while sober.

Suicide Note (1 card): The dementia, depression, and tireless longing for even the slightest iota of normalcy is simply too much to bear and you've shot yourself in the chest so doctors can study your brain. Pity! You lose, but your exit is dignified. Better luck next time. 

Murder-Suicide (1 card): Holy fuck!!! You strangled your wife and kids with your constantly trembling bare hands, and then jumped off the nearest turnpike overpass. Like the Suicide Note card, you've reached the bitter end of your rope. However, you've chosen a shameful route to end it all. You lose. Hit the showers until next game, Buster.

*Gnardbro sincerely hopes that Head Bash provides players lifelong fun. However, please be sure that each player signs an included Release Of Liability form and mails it to the address on the bottom of the form ASAP. This ensures that Gnardbro is not responsible for any injuries, from minor to perpetually debilitating, sustained during gameplay. The drool cup and drop seizure helmet are provided for your convenience and well-being. Otherwise, you're on your own. Hope it was all worth it.

Behold My Majestic Bejeweled Crotch

Attention Hoboken Medical Supplies Inc. breakroom. Turn to he who stands stoically like the Colossus of Rhodes beside the vending machine. To he is who is mysteriously shrouded in a knee-length smock. I implore you; brace the living fuck out of yourselves. Buckle your about-to-be-utterly-gobsmacked asses to your folding chairs. I, Dale J. Turneur…Dale the "droopy-eyed insomniac from accounts receivable,"…Dale the "he's so damn boring he makes a conference call seem like a keg party,"…Dale the "seriously, don't you think it's at least a little odd that he keeps five Polaroids of his pet wallaby tacked to his corkboard?"…is about to offer you ultimate transcendence. Feast your weary eyes on he who now tosses the smock and unveils the everlasting divine glory of his midsection.

Behold my majestic bejeweled crotch. BOOM-SHAKKA-LAKA!

That's right. I see the shock on your stupefied faces and sense it ricocheting throughout the very cockles of your souls. These brown dress slacks should look vaguely familiar. Yes, these are the same 'ol slacks ho-hum Dale has worn every Monday and Thursday, and some Wednesdays, for the last six plus years. But no longer are they slacks by which one can set one's watch. Be aghast by how festive thy crotch has become. How glistening are thine loins?! How OG is thine crotch bling?! Dale has brought serious pizazz to casual Friday. "Casual" has never been so fucking awesomely bedazzled.

That’s right. Dale’s rockin’ with his cock in!

Behold, Janet. How does the meek psyche of a part-time reception endure the rarified grandeur of Dale's majestic bejeweled crotch? Recall thusly, Janet. Recall how casually you rejected my nonthreatening advances. Quivering and scared witless I suggest a noncommittal lunch at Quaker State & Lube. "Sorry," you say. "I'm behind in processing work orders," you say. Balderdash! You spent your lunch break munching on Hot Pockets and reading Mademoiselle. You squashed my poor heart nearly all the way down to my now brilliantly adorned crotch-eus maximus. But you know what they say about what doesn't kill you…it makes your crotch majestic and bejeweled? Well, how the fuck you like me now, Toots?! That's right! Bathe in the splendor of your rejected lover's majestic bejeweled crotch. HIYO!

Behold, Chad…Mr. Salesman of the Month, three months running. How your incessant petty hijinks have gradually led to mine awe-inspiring crotch transformation. I take a two-day emergency vacation and come back to the clichéd cat litter in the desk. But tell me, Chad. Tell me what is clichéd about the Mardi Gras surrounding my junk? By the way, that so-called "vacation" was to attend the funeral of my sweet grandmother. Oh how she must be smiling down on me right now, and how my majestic bejeweled crotch now gyrates like a child's party favor in your mystified face. Salesman of the month? I got something to sell YOU, my friend. A fuckin' crotch! HUZZAH! And keep the commission. Oh hey, by the way, thanks so much for super gluing my stapler to my desk. And putting my keyboard in the freezer. And making me do the Ice Bucket Challenge before it was a thing. I got a challenge for you, Chad. Good luck ignoring…THIS SWEET-ASS CROTCH! SKA-DOOSH!

Behold, Mr. Ludwig. Ye of middle-management. Let me ask, sir, how tired are you of being castrated by the brutes at the top of the corporate food chain, you pathetic bald nitwit? That's right, Dale J. Turneur, from accounts goddamn receivable, just called YOU a pathetic bald nitwit. Hey! I'm talking to you, boss-man. Quit staring at your Payless loafers. Look up. Look up, I say. Higher…a little higher…a little hiiigher. Too high! There. Now stop! Tell me what you see. Tell me. What's that? Huh? I can't hear you. Say it louder. LOUDER, so everyone in the breakroom can hear you. THAT'S RIGHT! A MAJECTIC BEJEWELED CROTCH, DIPSHIT! Now just stare at it. Let it sink in. Subject your feeble humanity to the crotch whose essence confines you. Hah! I crawl into your dumb little corner office and practically beg for a paltry 75 cent an hour raise? I just wanted to afford rent. Rent, Mr. Ludwig. You tell me, “Your production is stagnant.” Maybe, just maybe, that’s because I’m perpetually at the very fuckin' top of my game. Anyway, I was evicted last week. “Stagnant?” I scoff. Hey, you know what ain’t stagnant? My fucking crotch, that's what. As I swivel my hips before you, I see in your trembling pupils the reflection of the shimmering plastic gemstones pasted about my thighs. It's like the way the wondrous starry heavens reflect in a cesspool. Understand this, the "heavens" is "my crotch" and the "cesspool" is…guess whooo?...YOU. Anyway…BOOYAKA.

Bejeweled crotch commin' at 'cha, Mr. Ludwig! CAN'T FAKE THE FUNK ON THIS NASTY DUNK.

Behold Hoboken Medical Supplies Inc. breakroom. The Dale you once knew is dead. As Lennon sang in Come Together “One and one and one is three…No one rocks a mother fucking crotch like ME…Dale J. Turneur.” So next time you use the Xerox machine it won't be so easy to ignore everyone's favorite "walking snoozefest" cursed with sitting RIGHT. FUCKING. NEXT. to that noisy-ass shitty thing. Believe you me, from now on whenever you make copies of inventory reports or fax order forms it'll be nearly impossible to ignore the gleaming utopia merely inches from the farther reaches of your precious personal space.

Now, it's high time you settle your own pedestrian humdrum crotches back in your cruddy work chairs. But before you do, I reckon you take one final moment to allow every single morsel of your consciousness to be totally submerged in the breathtaking opulence of my majestic…bejeweled…crotch.

Hand me back my smock, Janet. Break time is fucking over.