Prep writers and their strange, but true stories

Whatever happened to a good old fashioned pizza party?

Stripper I would have believed. Hookers, no fucking way...

 

You got to tip her a little sumthin, you know, for the effort...

 

Wait a minute, something else caught my eye. It's "cold and snowy as hell" and these guys are fucking in a BARN? I don't care how much friction she's generating, I'm not unleashing the Meat Log in sub-freezing conditions.

 

So somehow, the team you were covering left the meet so far ahead of you that they had time to find hookers, pull of the road, get into the barn all before you came upon them?

Right...

Sometimes I think Moddy should make sure there are actual sports journalists on this board. There are far too many trolls and posers. Maybe you should have to submit a johnsmith@whatevernewspaper.com e-mail before you sign up to prove you're legit.

 

And have we noticed that he hasn't come back on here to defend himself? Dude, if you're going to make up a story, make it somewhat believable!!

 

Not to threadjack, but I would like to take this opportunity to give my sympathies to anyone covering prep wrestling. My fourth-grade son just had his first tournament, and we got up at 5:30 a.m. to drive for weigh-in at 7. Then we waited til about 11 for his first match. Then we waited for 1:30 for his second. The blessing of him losing twice (hey, it was his first tournament) was that we didn't have to wait for a third.

You can tell the veteran parents because they set stuff up in some sort of combination of tailgate party/long car trip -- comfy chairs, blankets, small DVD players for the kids, everything but the grill.

Back to the hookers...

 

Thank you, little buck, for catching the reference.

 

Well there was the time I was captured by space aliens before filing the volleyball district title match.

Luckily, though I spent light years in their starship, I was beamed back in time to just after I was abducted and was able to make deadline.

Unluckily, they were relatively new at anal probing and the probe was oversized, cold and scratchy.

 

Drunkenly falling into pine bushes while dropping a deuce is not an alien abduction

 

Art Bell believed me. Why won't you?

 

Well, last time I covered prep wrestling, I was accosted after the match by one of the team moms, who happened to be a dead-ringer for Nastasia Kinski in her prime. We went to a restored Victorian hotel with gilt balconies and oompa-loompa bellhops...where I was given a complimentary suite because the owner was really impressed with a historical feature I'd written on the Chicago Black Hawks' "Pony Line." Nastasia and I smoked cigar-sized joints on the heart-shaped bed and romped like sex otters on phermones for much of the night before I fell asleep with her pelvis wrapped around my face like a feed bag. The next morning, we went out to the parking lot to see that my shitty old truck had morphed into a solid onyx 49 Mercury sedan with platinum wings. As Springsteen's "Thunder Road" sounded all around us, we flew up into the sky. I put the Merc on autopilot and we screwed some more in the back seat. Cherub angels flew up to the Merc and served us mimosas and brie on baguette slices for brunch. Oh yes, and I made deadline...that's why they call me "Ol' Duespayer" to this very day.

 

That's good work outta you, Irish.

Have a beer on the house.