Real Men Cry Football: 2013

, by D12

2013

For my post, I require that you all listen to this

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0DoJ4I0NJR0

whilst reading. Wait until about 20 seconds into the video, and then you may begin... Ready?

Have you waited 20 seconds?

This means you, Bryan.

Ok.... go...

The scene opens on a sunrise overlooking a body of water. Which body of water is unknown, but there are pelicans swooping down for their prey, slicing their beaks through the water effortlessly and leaving with their jaws bloated and flapping full of their prize. There is a young man with an untrimmed face overlooking the elegance of it all, the waves creeping onto the sand licking at his toes, the sun, tangerine orange, slinking into the sky as the last, brightest stars slowly fade to give way to their orbited counterpart.

The young man looks at his watch, the time is 6:37. His khaki shorts, worn around the edges to the point where stray fibers rustle awake in the morning breeze, sag slightly around his waist and are held up with a brown drawstring laced through the belt loops. He reaches for his chest, snatches his blue eyed sunglasses and places them on the bridge of his nose, blocking the sun's rays from his worn out eyes.

"Ed, why in the Hell did you bring us here?"

The young man, without turning around, responds. "Because... because you guys need to know."

The ten followers, 10-15 feet behind him, exchange glances and shrugs. A jogger emerges from around a sand dune with an unleashed dog in tow.

"What do we need to know, Ed? Is something wrong? Do you need help? Are you dying?" Reaches out a member of the ten, shorter, skin of brown, glasses.

Ed takes one last deep breath through his nostrils, gathering the smells of the water in one long inflation. "Open your envelopes."

The ten look worried, but excited for the answer to the question they have all been waiting for. They anxiously tear open the manila envelopes they have been holding in their hands. Each of the ten remove a single, white sheet of paper, each with a different number, 1 through 10.

"Shit, Ed, what is this?" The bearded one with glasses angrily questions. His tone implies a hood aspect that is clearly not present there anymore, the idea of which he proves when he continues "Shit, man, I told Demi I would go to Crate and Barrel today." He glances at his watch and angrily proclaims, "And shit, man, I already missed the craft convention!"

Ed gestures with both hands to the group, sweeping from inside to out, palms upward. "These... are you."

A flannel clad, probably girl-named member of the ten raises one eyebrow and scrunches his nose. "These are us? What in the hell does that mean? Joe is 1 of what? Dan is 10 of... aww, fuck, these are your damned rankings aren't they?"

A toothy smile emerges from the lips of Ed, "You all now know."

"Whoo! Number one!" Joe says raising his number above his head in exuberance. He then goes to each member of the ten and shoves the number in each of their faces. A fresh, dual wielded middle finger combo follows the number in the face. An especially enthusiastic dual middle finger is given to The one called Jose... because fuck Jose.

During Joe's celebration, the one called Dan expresses his displeasure. "10, what the fuck, Ed? This is bullshit, I'm 7-2 and the reigning champion. This is bullshit!" Joe has now started thrusting in the direction of anything in sight, he's currently on a crab scuttling along the beach.

"Rofls!" Ed says.

"Ed, don't be a dick, you just picked Joe because he took over your team," the one called Brown Kat pipes up, "and you took us all here and told us you had some important stuff to tell us. We were worried... we bought you an ice cream cake and everything."

"Fuck yeah, I did, and I'd do it again, because Joe is going to just dominate all you fools. And I'm going to take victory credit over it and not let anyone tell me otherwise. Especially not Jose."

Nine of the ten nod in agreement, because Jose is a bitch. Joe has now evolved his celebration to pointing two finger guns on his hips outward, "pqshew, pqshew, pqshew!"

"Wait, wait, wait..." the one called Jeff approaches "So why is Dan 10, then? I don't understand, if you hate Jose as much as you say you do, and want him to die in a fire, or by your hands, or by the paws of your dog then why isn't he 10? This doesn't make sense."

"Yeah, I basically just wanted you all to know that you guys all suck compared to Joe. If I could have, I would have made you all 10... Wait, fucking right I can do that." Ed steps forward and snatches all the numbers 2-10 from the hands of the nine. He then tears them up and begins urinating on them. "You're all fucking ten, except for Joe, of course, he's one."

"Whooo!!!" Joe begins to unbutton his jeans, waiting for his opportunity to also urinate on the 9 of 10's rankings.

A giggle comes from the one called Ken, "Joke's on you, Ed, Marissa is basically running my team."

"We know!" The ones called everyone else sigh loudly.

"I know," Ed responds without breaking his stream and pointing at the now saturated numbers, "I wrote that on your card, too... shit, I should have let you see that before I started to piss." Well, fuck it." He continues peeing.

The one called Tim has been asleep for the past five minutes, with the ones called Danny, Bryan, and Dan trying to alert him to the goings on. With a muffled "hshssss.... wha- Huh?" Tim awakens, mumbling something about the Chicago Bears. "So I was 3, what was I 3 for?" The one called Bryan explains to him that Ed was ranking the fantasy teams, and that everyone was arbitrarily ranked and now they're all ranked ten. "Hahaha... nice!" The one called Tim seemed unfazed by the fantasy insult and actually seemed to enjoy it.

The one called Erin steps forward, beard scratching the ground and a torn Ray Rice jersey about his neck, fashioned as a scarf. "Dude, even for you, this is pretty uncreative and stupid. You couldn't just give us some information about our teams? Even just look at our records and base them from that? Jose gives us stuff every week, and it's fun to see and read."

"Rofls!" Ed repeats, shaking the last drops onto the soaked items. Joe happily swoops in to add to the urine pile, still doing the guns at the hips thing.

"My friends, my friends... I do not care what you think, especially people with girls names." Ed gestures to the ones called Erin and gives them a wink each, they give back befuddled stares. "But mostly I don't care what any of you think, as all teams fail in comparison to Joe's. Joe's team is mightier than 1,000 wind gusts from Pidgey, or even the strength of thirty full grown hedgehogs."

The one called Danny gives a smile to this and laughs. "I love hedgehogs" he mutters softly. Ed nods in his direction to acknowledge that fact.

"But," Interjects Ed, "if you all *must* know why you are inferior. I will demonstrate to each of you." Ed then crouches in the sand, beginning to draw something with his finger. The nine crowd around, with the one called Joe now harassing the runner and dog, as they have come near enough to encounter, with his exclamation of his dominance in Ed's totally unbiased and awesome rankings. The very attractive and fit runner smiles and giggles softly, and then writes her phone number on Joe's #1 sheet. When the one called Jose looks towards the encounter she flips him the bird, knowing that he is not #1.

As the nine continue to crowd around Ed and his sand drawing, they mutter with anticipation.

"What the hell is he doing?" Asks the one called Dan, Seattle hipster transformation nearly complete, as his Starbucks logo tattoo creeps out from under his hairline and he smells of uncooked fish. The nine jockey for position to see what Ed is writing in the sand, as he is being very secretive. Finally, after five minutes Ed reveals his masterpiece. Tim, is once again, asleep. A gull begins pecking at his pocket and removes a half eaten Cliff bar, flying away in a gust of sand.

It is a large middle finger. a joint groan comes form the nine. Ed is in stitches, rolling on the sand. The nine each give Ed a parting glance and then leave, leaving Ed and Joe to merrily skip down the shoreline, looking for a taffy joint.

So, in summary, the week 9 rankings are as follows.

1) Joe
T-10) Everyone else.

Reasoning. You guys all suck. Except Joe. Joe is awesome.

1 comments

, by Unknown

2013