Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Or is it actually my cock? Sockeye's hubris came crashing down at nationals this year the only way it could have: in an orgy of poor throws, drops and wind undoubtedly whipped up by the Creator herself.
Only a female god could hand out justice so severly.
As Furious gathered round each other for a well deserved circle jerk, my mind drifted to saturday night of club championships one year prior.

I sat on the beach chairs outside the Surf and Racquetball around 3am while all around me players ran pell-mell trying to coordinate hook-ups and debauchery as the security cracked down. Seems around this time Colorado Co-ed teams were forever banning anyone Colorado from the site and one nameless ePig player was reenacting Fists of Fury in his suite and pulling fire alarms.

It was then, during all this chaos, I ran into a lucid thought. I stood up, looked at the Canadian I was with, and proclaimed, "The thought of Sockeye winning the national championship makes me nauseous." I then face planted into the sand and released back into the wild ten car bombs. The next time I made a memory I was awake in bed, people were cleaning up, and a teammate was telling me to get my shit in order
so we could go watch finals

So now it was 2005, a year later, and in that time the sockeye sycophants had landed with the ferocity of a Texas neocon, proclaiming an end to ultimate as we know it and demanding monuments to several sockeye players be erected using UPA dues. So it was with some relief I saw Furious punctuate a volatile season where no one really believed in them with a win, and not too many points after the entire spectator sideline gave one particular Sockeye player and earful for a blantant cheating maneuver.