Well, we’ve really done it now. We’ve had high-profile visitors to our town die – heck, just last year, that delegation from the Dalai Lama’s monastery got Super Cholera from our tap water. But never like this. Never David Spade.

I was officiating the ribbon-cutting for our new comic book library at the time, but if I understand correctly, this is how it went down. Spade was passing through town when his sports car hit a four foot pothole, and when Barbie Nubb answered the tow call, Spade trained his trademark caustic wit on her, suggesting that her leg bangles were, in fact, from the Lindsay Lohan Ankle Bracelet Collection. As more townspeople stopped to gawk, they too were met with his withering barbs that, from what I understand, referenced hot Hollywood gossip. One thing led to another and… well, they hung David Spade from the overpass.

Because the majority of our town took part in the murder, it’s impossible to hold any one person responsible. That’s the beauty of mob justice, I suppose. I’m going to give everyone on this council the benefit of the doubt and assume that you weren’t involved, even though some of you are in fact bloodstained and tired, and Gertle was selling commemorative “I Helped Kill David Spade” tees out front.

Merle, please stop eating as many cans of rations as you can. I’d appreciate your attention. And everyone else, stop cheering him on! Merle, you are not, nor have you ever been, a Major League Eater. I’m -

What’s that? How many pounds of calamari? Well, color me embarrassed. And a little impressed!

I know us Opa-Lockians historically haven’t “cottoned” to famous outsiders who stop through town because we feel like they’re rubbing their success in our sauce-stained faces. I was especially appalled when that courageous disabled runner Ricky Templeton chose to make our fair burg a stop on his Jog for Cancer, and subsequently was shaken down for smokes and had his artificial leg stolen.

There’s just no place for that! It’s the main reason that our town’s old slogan, “C’mon ‘n’ Stay A While!”, has since been replaced by “The Shit You Lookin’ At, Shitface?” – which, by the way, I was outvoted on.

The critical disappointment that was Joe Dirt doesn’t justify this! David Spade had powerful friends. That’s right: Sandler. He’s got enough money to buy this town and turn it into a parking lot. And for the portion of this council that doesn’t spend most of their time drinking moonshine in a parking lot, that’s a bad thing.

Merle, please stop goose-stepping around. This is not Hitler’s bunker and you are not Hitler. I don’t think Der Fuhrer had a full-sleeve Aerosmith tattoo in desperate need of retouching.

I’m handing off the baton. How are we getting out of this pickle soup?

Sorry, Alf, but I don’t think we can spin Mr. Spade’s death as a suicide. It would be the first suicide in Opa-Locka’s history, which is undoubtedly because most of our citizens can’t tie a knot.

No, “Nuts” Carl, walling the town off from the rest of the country is not an option. But that’s not going to stop you from suggesting it at every town meeting, is it? Tell you what: you find a backhoe that can dig a fifteen-foot “acid moat” and then we’ll have this conversation.

Merle, for God’s sakes, please stop loudly, and obscenely, cursing the lack of cell phone reception. There’s fifteen feet of solid concrete between us and the ground. You’re dumb as a post! It’s no mystery why your wife left you for a Greyhound bus driver.

I’m sorry. That was a low blow.

Just a second… “mystery”. Merle, you just gave me a genius idea! Why don’t we just spin this whole affair into a classic “whodunnit” murder mystery? We’ll invite folks from all around, and if they’re able to solve our unsolvable crime, they get free lunch at the Chinese buffet! An attraction like this could definitely boost tourism. I mean, the 9/11 Hijacker Museum just isn’t the cash cow we thought it would be.

And we’ll erect a monument for him to keep his La-La-Land buddies happy. “Tommy Boy Fields”, anyone? When life gives you David Spade’s limp, lifeless husk, you make lemonade!

Let’s get out of here. Merle, why don’t you crank open the door? No, no, Merle – you’re turning it the wrong way. Remember: lefty loosey, righty -

And you’ve broken it off and sealed us in here forever.

Someone pass me some stew, please.

Bride: Sherrie Bethalyn Munro
Groom: Merle “The Pearl” Head (planner’s note: groom has legally changed his middle name to his nickname)

6:45 – Wedding party in annex with refreshments – Pringles and Mountain Dew UltraViolet

7:00 – Seating of Honored Guests – Bride’s great-grandmother, Groom’s parole officer

Begin Processional Music

- Bride’s family to be seated

- Groom’s family asked to stop tailgating and be seated

Begin Processional

- Pastor enters – is to wear a “Must Be This Tall To Get Molested” novelty T-shirt (pastor approval pending)

- Groom enters to the song “Highway to Hell – AC/DC”. Groom to be wearing professional wrestling belt. Groom to not be wearing pants.

- Groomsmen and Bridesmaids enter

- Maid of Honor and Best Man enter

- Flower Girl enters – Sherrie’s niece

- Ring Boy enters – Tard Boy of Opa-Locka’s 109.3 The Rockin’ Lock’s “Morning Fuckups”

Begin Wedding March

- Bride enters with Father

- Fat Ass Pete, head bouncer from the Snackered Toad, enters to restrain Bride’s Father from strangling Groom

Ceremony and Vows

- Groom has prepared own vows (planner’s note: Groom is to be prompted with next line if he spaces out)

“Wow, what an honer to be here. Not just with my beautiful new soon to be wife, but also Tard Boy, the funniest Fuckup of them all. If this wasn’t a holy day I’d ask you to do the $3,000 Crap on a Dime stunt.

Anyways, welcome to the Merle Gets Married show. A lot of you said I’d never get hitched. But you dumbasses also said that one day I’d drunk drive my car into the ravine and kill myself, and you were only half right about that one.

Sherrie, my old lady. We go together like peanut butter and jelly, and we’re always thinking what the other one’s thinking. Like when I said that instead of taking Head as your last name, I wanted you to make it Harley-Davidson. You said sure, and then you started crying, but that was only cause you got all those things in your eye.

I changed my whole life around so we could get a fresh start together. I quit my lame ass job at the Mayor’s Office, half because the pay was crap, and half because they were always hating on me for spreading lice. So I started my new deal bootlegging movies, which is paying off huge. I ain’t sold any yet but I did figure out a way to sneak hot dogs into the theater by stashing em in my sock.

Sherrie I promise to love you forever, for life, for all of my days. I also promise we’re going to Lolla this year, cause you can’t pass on Soundgarden, plus I stopped buying booze for those kids that hang around the convenience store so I probably won’t be in jail this time. But don’t hold me to shit!

Also while I got you all here, if anyone’s looking for Avatar on DVD holler at your boy. But don’t waste your time if you can’t handle the Pearl’s special guest commentary. Good ass quality on this one, the camera only shakes when I’m laughing my balls off at the cripple getting with the big-titted blue chick.

Love you, baby, now let’s get hammered!”

- Bride to sob openly

- Exchange of Rings to “Power Rangers Theme Song”

- Declaration of Marriage – at groom’s request, “You may now kiss the slag!” (pastor approval pending)

Recessional

- Pastor adjourns ceremony to the foyer, where the Bride and Groom will be playing Singstar. Second round of Pringles and Mountain Dew UltraViolet.

Hustle up, guys. Now we may be the laughing stock of the whole division right now, but are we gonna let that get us down? No! We’ve got one last shot at glory – well, we have one last shot to win a game before the season’s over – and we’re gonna make it happen. And to that end, it’s time I introduced you to our secret weapon.

Hustle up for just a second, boys. Last night I couldn’t sleep; kinda hard with all the parents in this town blowin’ up my phone with their death threats. That’s what the one guy said anyway, he was literally going to blow up my phone. God, Bittner, tell your dad to get a life, that guy cares waaay too much about bantam hockey. And Donaldson, tell your Aunt Elda that I’m doing the best I can, and no amount of her special “packages” in the mail is gonna get me to quit!

Anyway, I’m sittin’ there watching HBO Family in nothin’ but my birthday suit – life’s been sweet ever since Mrs. Zimmerman went off to stay at Funk’s dad’s house. Say hi to her for me, Funk, and ask her when she wants the keys back to the hot rod. She’ll understand. And what should pop on but a little masterpiece called Air Bud. Now this gem of a flick set your coach’s mind ablaze! If that basketball team could win just by adding a freakin’ dog to the roster, then I figure the Opa-Locka High Alpacas can go one better!

Alan, bring ‘im in!

Meet your new ringer, boys! Impressive, eh? Hustle up for just another minute, dudes, and take a look-see. He’s a fluid skater for something that has no idea what’s going on. You wouldn’t believe the strings I had to pull at the  zoo. Or the electrified walls I had to ram with my horse trailer. You wouldn’t believe those either. Hurstwood, where are you going? Come on back, don’t be scared! This big guy right here has been expertly trained by me, in my garage, for the past three days! He’s no danger to any – oop, he, uh, he took Hurstwood’s head off.

Well, at least I know you boys can keep a secret. Remember Montreal? Ha ha, I thought Macdonald was never gonna come down off that salvia trip. Taylor, be a real dude and hand me that tranq gun. And… huagh! He’s down. He really put a dent in the ice, didn’t he? Ah, the zamboni can even that out.

Okay, guys, hustle up and let’s talk strategy. Now, it’s simple. Stay out of the ringer’s way. He’s gonna handle all the other team’s goons. That reminds me, Boucher – did you get that thing done? You remember… God, do I have to do everything? All right, fine, I’ll sneak into the other team’s dressing room and slather their uniforms in rancid salmon juice.  Other than that, guys, have fun out there! And whenever possible, try not to look like fish out there.

Whoop, looks like our ringer is coming around. Careful, he gets real cranky in the morning! Look out, Boucher – ah, well, only takes one arm to hold a stick! Um, I think we’ll put Gregson on the top line this game. Skate it off, Boucher.

Hustle up, gents. Our time is now, and with our new teammate, the sky’s the limit. Think about it: this time next year we could be sitting pretty, right at the top of Florida State Bantam Hockey standings. Now let’s get out there, and show these Summeridge losers how people with the power of hearing and speech get it done! Go! Go!

Oh yeah, that bear is gonna murder those freaky fucked-up half-kids.

Boucher, I said don’t look like a fish – oh, well, he’s dead.

I’ve – pardon the pun – shepherded you here because we’ve got a huge problem. And it’s not the elementary school students discovering they can get high by snorting the artificial snow we sprayed on their ski hill. I wouldn’t even call that a problem. Those kids have been churning out some pretty amazing screenplays. No, it’s our town Santa Claus, and more to the point, the sex offender that was hired to play him. Oh yeah. Someone’s losing their parking spot for this one.

I take a four-day vacation in Montgomery, the cultural center of Alabama, and the whole operation goes to hell! Of course, this wouldn’t have been an issue if our previous Santa of fifty years, Burl Tugg, hadn’t popped like a Christmas cracker at our November Pancake Eat-and-Eat. I guess wearing the dual mantles of Opa-Locka’s oldest and fattest man finally caught up to him. He was 92! Some chalk his longevity up to drinking a glass of red wine every night before bed. Others whisper that it was all those human growth hormones he bought on the Internet and injected into himself. Either way, he is missed.

Why’d he have to croak on our watch? And why, in our classified ad for the new town Santa, was it stipulated that applicants must have a scraggly beard and “a love of children that society could never understand”? That’s just asking for trouble. And Ray, I’m told that the “rigorous” screening process involved you taking the applicant in question to your basement microbrewery, getting choomed on beer of suspect origin and quality, and asking him to list Santa’s reindeer, with two out of eight constituting a pass. That’s not how a town is run.

Merle, please get out of Jesus’ manger. It can’t support someone of your weight. And if you break it, you’re going to be the one going down to Rattan Bob’s and buying the wicker needed to fix it, I promise you that.

We really have to start cleaning up our act. I told you all not to use the sex offender registry as scrap paper, and I did it more than once! Thank God “Santa” didn’t do anything to any of the kids. After he showed the first, and last, young tyke that sat on his lap the dolphin tattoo on his left pec, the parents chased him off. And now that word has spread, the townspeople have promised to “whip Santa’s fat ass” if he shows up to marshal our annual parade in his honor. This is the dictionary definition of a dill pickle.

The Santa Claus Parade has always been the event that unites this town. The many, many disappointments of the year are erased in a hail of cheap candy strewn aimlessly from the backs of pickup trucks. It’s a sad time for a place that was once nicknamed “America’s Christmas Spirit Capital” because over 90% of our constituents believe Santa Claus is real. Of course, that was before we were re-dubbed “America’s Meth Capital” for reasons I don’t have to address right now. Bottom line: we’ve got to save the parade! Ideas?

Merle, please don’t punt The Son of God like a football. After years of nativity scene vandalism, The Deliverer is being held together by enough crazy glue to get even a veteran sniffer like yourself super screwed up. To be honest, your legendarily-high tolerance for that stuff is the only thing I admire about you.

You’re right, Dory. Santa would likely escape unscathed if his float drove 130 miles an hour. But I don’t feel like that’s going to be the best crowd experience. Plus, at that speed, and with the abundance of potholes on Main Street, Santa’s sleigh is likely to blow a tire and plow through a pack of seniors. And I really wish I could say that hasn’t happened before.

Jennifer, I’d love to rubber-stamp the purchase of some kind of “Popemobile” for Santa, but we just don’t have the money in the budget. And call me cynical, but I feel like you’re just trying to drum up business for your boyfriend’s Popemobile dealership out near Highway 1200.

I don’t think a public apology speech from Santa is going to work, Bill. Our citizens don’t exactly have a long attention span. As I learned during my Veteran’s Day address last month, if you don’t mention something about WWE or X-Box by the end of sentence two, they start throwing batteries.

Well, this is going nowhere fast. You know, I feel for the young kids who aren’t going to get a parade, and weren’t around for the classic ones of the past. Like in 2008, when the Google Maps van was driving through town and we just kinda trapped it in.

Merle, I plead with you: take The Root of David out of that Baby Bjorn. You are not the guy with the beard from The Hangover. We need real solutions, not a trendy cultural reference! It also conjures up the troubling prospect of you raising a child.

Hold the phone. I think I just cracked this walnut. Just because the old Santa’s credibility has taken a nosedive doesn’t mean we can’t create a new Santa Claus who embodies all of the same ideas. We can even make him cool, for a new generation. We’ll take my seven-year-old, stick him in the red and white, and add on some of those pink shutter sunglasses and a fedora. I’m thinking “Santa Jr.” – who’s with me? And to really sell this cat, we’ll surround him with Santa’s high-profile celebrity friends. Frank, your ex-wife runs the costume shop, no? Tell her we’re going to need all the firepower we can muster. The Easter Bunny! The New Year’s Baby! The Phoenix Suns Gorilla!

And hell, if he doesn’t catch on, people will be begging for the old Santa back. He’ll be the New Coke of Christmas!

I think this one’s all sewn up. God bless us, every -

What’s that, Merle? You’ve got something hidden behind your back for me? I can only assume this will be another indignity for me to suffer. Well, let’s have a peek.

It’s… it’s a present.

Merry Christmas, Merle.

March 25th, 1996

Team owners and officials,

Well, we held on as long as we could, but the dream is dead. We gave it the ol’ college try, didn’t we? ‘Course, I spent mosta my college days gamblin’ like a Korean, and the International Caucasian Basketball League was the gamble to end ‘em all, I suppose. ‘Cept for a couple months back when I wagered several of our players in a high stakes game of Pai Gow poker. Hope them fellas like fixin’ septic tanks.

A’yep, league’s over. Signed the papers today to put our hides into liquidation. I already made a deal with a company called Petz N Such outta Nevada for them to use what’s left of our team jerseys to make clothin’ for cats. The financials was just out of whack. I was takin’ a goddamned bath, and I don’t mean the preferable kind with a jug a’ Mr. Bubble and the calmin’ tones of the Waiting to Exhale soundtrack.

I knew the market was dryin’ up when the only folks comin’ out to the games was the patients from the looney bin we sent them free tickets to. Say what you will about ‘em, but they was big spenders at the merch stand. That is, when they wasn’t freakin’ out and causin’ incidents. Then even the crazies stopped comin’. The seats was completely empty, and against my best efforts at smoke an’ mirras, I’m sure y’all noticed that it was just me and a blow-up doll on all them Kiss Cams.

I was down to my last dishonestly-acquired credit card. That’s when I came up with the fine idea to “fast-forwardin’” right to the championship game. Works for videos, why not sports leagues!

Now I’m gonna admit to havin’ a tiny-sized ulterior motive for creatin’ this ICBA. As a youngster, dependin’ on the sport, I was considered too portly, slow or ugly to play. I wanted this basketball league to be Caucasians-only so’s that pasty, uncoordinated folk much like myself could have a shot at soarin’ to the stars, and so I could live vicarious-like through those poor excuses for ath’a'letes. Well, leave it to God’s children to stuff that one down the toilet-hole.

What I’m tryin’ to get at is: those Utah State Bible College Golden Elk were too damn good! I guess when you take a bunch of ornery Christians, stick ‘im in a state where everybody and their seven children worship Joe Whatsishead and teach ‘em to dunk, you get yourself a talented baskyball team.

Now I pray to the Holy Heavens as much as any righteous man, usually when some unsavory Chinese bookie’s got an oyster knife to my throat. But the Elk took it too danged far, followin’ every National Anthem with a twenty-minute sermon from that “hip” Christian preacher Daddy Long Legs. Who cares if you used to be a pro wrestla, let’s play some ball!

Sports and religion don’t mix, folks. Whether it’s a preachy baseball slugga who dedicates every home run to Jesus, or some cokehead linebacker who uses the good book as his own personal get-outta-jail-free card, it sucks a fat one. Getcha peanut butter outta my chocolate! My chocolate was fine how it was!

Granted, that team dragged in a decent crowd, and they was the only thing keepin’ our asses a’floatin’. But if there’s one thing that rankled this West Texas idiot more than the way they wore their religion on their sleeve like a pair of Rocky and Bullwinkle cufflinks, it was them outclassin’ the rest of the boys with their “work ethic” and “positive community contributions”. Hell, their hunnerd-year-old dinie-saur of a coach Norm “The Crusader” Quaglund blew a kidney when I showed up pickled drunk to their shoot-around with the local children’s hospital and started pickin’ fights! Goddamn Utah prude.

Facin’ them in the championship game was the Opa-Locka Phantoms, with their 5-42 record and status as the only other team that had not bowed to public pressure and folded they team. Now that town ain’t had much to cheer about since the high school voted to disband its varsity football team in favor of puttin’ a Taco Bell in the cafeteria. And wouldn’t you know it, but that deadbeat ‘burg loaded up six school buses with their rowdiest degenerates – of all colors ‘n creeds, I may add – and hauled ass to the Beehive State.

Now add them to the Golden Elk’s scripture-fueled fanbase, and a surprise new contingent of Inta’net skinheads who found out about the game through some newsgroup called talk.nationalist.jackboots. Long story short?

The bitch sold out. Five thousand fans ready for some classic, all-white ICBA basketball.

The Golden Elk o’course jumped out to an eighty-point lead, and held onta it as the game neared its close. Made me damned lucky we stuck that “next point wins” provision in the rulebook to try and attract the street ball crowd. I thought it would put those Phantoms and their angry, vulgar fans outta their misery. But when I was done at the scorer’s table, I saw that bastard Norm Quaglund already beginnin’ the celebration, and figured if I was gonna take my shot at him, it was now or later. So I scooped up the game ball, waited for him to turn my way, and plastered it straight between his two beady blinkers!

He went down, seizin’ like a dog with a tick, and the ball sailed high into the rafters, clankin’ around and such, and dropped right through Utah’s net. That’s whatcha call a two-fer!

The Phantom fans poured onta the court to rejoice with they championship team. The Golden Elk fans poured onta the court to beat the tar outta yours truly. And the skinheads poured onta the court ‘cause they could sense that they was probably gonna get a chance to bust some skulls. And did they ever.

I managed to slip away and jam the championship trophy under the backseat of my 1986 Chevrolet Celebrity, but as I took one final look inside, I spied somethin’ beautiful. Christians fightin’ skinheads, black folk fightin’ white, killin’ each other with whatever weapons they could get their hateful hands on, and united in their insatiable lust for blood. I’d be lyin’ if I said a tear didn’t trickle out my eyeball.

After payin’ for damages to the arena (court-ordered) and Mr. Quaglund’s funeral (my choice), the league was hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt and had no choice but to shutter it for good. But it taught this old hound a powerful lesson: sports shouldn’t be about segregatin’ folks based on the nature of their skin. The best sports of all are about the excitement of seein’ folks get covered in their own juice and pummeled within an inch of their lives (and beyond, when the sit’i'ation calls for it).

That’s why, in closin’ the book on the ICBA, I’m also pennin’ the openin’ chapta of a new one – a new league! I’m callin’ it the IFC: Interracial Fightin’ Championship. Go ‘head and find a problem with that, Al Sharpton.

This is normally the part where my lawyer and ICBA business manager David Fincher would provide y’all with the League Tidbits. But he moved to Switzyland and ain’t returnin’ my phone calls no more, the ungrateful sod. So instead, here’s my final words to you, my loyal owners, the ones who made this all possible:

Live a lot. Love a lot. Dream a whole lot. Take out a’lotta loans, if you can swing ‘em. And if you can’t, what are they gonna do – take money you don’t have?

The roulette wheel ain’t always gonna spin your way, but whatcha can do is walk out of the casino with your head held high, drapin’ your jacket over the spot on your pants where you wet cha’self.

Good luck to alla y’alls in your future endeavas, and remember: don’t double-dribble!

Commissioner J.R. “Red” Yellow

Provided by Fitz Glynnie, FantasyFancy.com

Alright, stat-heads, break out your almanacs and protractors, because as the Greater Opa-Locka Company Softball League gears up for another seven-week season of softball slugging excitement, we the fans get ready to assemble our dream squads for warfare in the fantasy world, which is the only place you’ll find where players from the rival Taco Bell on Main and Taco Bell on Jackson teams can play on the same side! My heart’s already palpitating. I can’t wait another day for the Boys and their Wives or Girlfriends of the End of Summer!

Being the dictionary definition of unemployable (and the legal definition of mentally-challenged – I stress the word “legal”!), you won’t see me stealing second base, or rather the phone book that represents second base. But I have watched every game in the last three years from the comfy confines of the front seat of my Grandpa’s van, so here’s the low-down on who you should be thinking about on Draft Day.

Suzanne Henkens (Salad Days Diner)
This humble (and very attractive!) slugger is new to this level of play, stating in the preseason that it “would be cool to hang out with work people and stuff”. The mother of two could be on pace for a record-setting campaign, depending on if her night school classes get moved or stay on the same day as last semester.

Jeff Fogel (Do-It-Smart Taxes)
The temperamental speedster who stole second phone book twenty-one times last year wishes he could recover the prestige he lost when he skipped last year’s championship game to help his sister-in-law move. Where’s your eye of the tiger, Fogel – or did you accidentally file it in a return? Take him if he lasts late.

Sid Shatner (Large and Wide Suits and Apparel)
While he’s got the most reliable underhand lob in the league, Sid’s still trying to live down the shocking cop-out I can’t forget – when he allowed his five-year old son to bat for him, leaving the crowd cooing and sickened. While the other team graciously let Shatner save face and issued little Stevie a (seemingly) intentional walk, you might want to steer clear of his less-than-clutch father.

Jenny Granderson (Time of Your Life Party Planning)
This rangy (and extremely attractive!) outfielder can track down just about any fly ball that sails her way, if your league uses fielding percentage as a vital stat. But just don’t ask her for an interview! When I approached her house to score a quote for this preview (through the backyard, so as not to disturb her) she accused me of stealing bank statements from her mailbox and called the police! It’s a sad day when you learn your heroes aren’t heroes at all.

Mendy Martinez (Applebee’s)
Ding-a-ding-ding – we have a ringer! Fresh off a stint in the minors (the Florida Penitentiary Softball League) and hired in spite of his previous armed robbery conviction to fill a hole at first base, Mendy’s 230 pounds of pure muscle have taken him all the way to the high pressure, high reward environment of the Applebee’s kitchen. He’s looking to do some damage to opposing pitchers and anyone from the block who thinks that, just because he washes dishes, he ain’t hard no more.

Scary Larry
To the uninitiated, Scary Larry is the homeless slugger who lives in the chip truck that someone ditched in the ravine, and who is occasionally allowed to play. Hard to tag out in a rundown, because of that sharpened piece of tile he carries around. A can’t-miss selection!

Merle “The Pearl” Head (Town Council)
The Company Softball League’s court jester is known for cracking up crowds by swinging the bat with one hand, and running the bases with his beer (pretty freakin’ funny, I’ll admit). But he’s also a threat to “go yard” at any time! That is, after he’s served his suspension for “playfully” headbutting the 16-year-old umpire after a (highly debatable) strike three. Sometimes you have to keep the emotions in check, big guy.

While I’m sure most of you already have your leagues locked down, I’ve got nine openings in my ten-team league! Feel free to use the online functionality on this site to login and set your picks, or show up for the live draft at my grandpa’s house. He’s pretty alright.

But above all else, enjoy this season of company ball! Unfortunately, you won’t be able to spot me at any of this year’s games, as several of the female players have issued restraining orders against yours truly for what they consider “stalker-like behaviour”. Is it “stalker-like behaviour” to skulk around in their backyard while they swim, watching them like a hawk for subtle signs of injury? For love of the game, I guess!

Play ball!

Cast thine eyes, oh faithful reader, upon this these words chronicling the Chronicles of the Knights of the Quest for Questlandia and their fateful pilgrimage to that most chivalrous of symposiums, the Greater Opa-Locka Science Fiction and Fantasy Convention:

With the heaviest of jolts did Travis, older brother of King Kyle “the Awesome”, bring the royal carriage to halt.

“You and your loser friends get the fuck out,” the king’s kin did demand, “No way I’m being seen at this freak fest.”

To this the noble King Kyle did respond, “Thou dost forget thyself in front of thy king. But since thou art kin, we are but loin-fruit of the same vine, I shall let thee off with a warning.”

Removing his rhinestone-encrusted glove, the mighty Questlandian monarch did be-slap his boorish brother astride the visage. Then as the Biblical Cain did jealously strike down his brother Abel, so too did vengeful Travis be-beat and be-bitchslap the bewildered Kyle.

King Kyle, in peril most perilous did implore his noble knights to come to his aid. “Our weapons are in the trunk,” quoth Sir Josh, Level 4 Ranger, “You know I don’t fight without my sword.” “Or without my puffer,” saith Sir Dwayne, Level 3 Mage.
“Or a turn-based hit-point system,” saith I, Sir Scotty, Level 2 Dark Elf and Scribe.

And thus the Knights of the Quest for Questlandia were heroically hurled from Kyle’s mom’s Sedona and cast out into the outer wilderness of the enchanted Opa-Locka Event Center parking lot. There King Kyle did curse the day Mr. Dankowicz bestowed upon him a failing grade in Drivers Ed:

“Fie! Travis, that familial fiend, can have his driver’s license! A real king needs no such permit! A real king has servants to drive him places! He’s just jealous of my magnanimous majesty! Am I right, my low-born subjects, or am I right?”

“I dunno,” quoth Sir Dwaine, “To obtain of oneself such a permit wouldst be pretty yar.”
Agreed Sir Josh, “T’would greatly increase my chances of backseat ballyhoo.”

But not for long were the Knights faint of heart, for they had reached their Promised Land. For it was in this very poured-concrete edifice before them, at this very convention for the exquisite genres of science fiction and fantasy, that the most ingenious and noble of men, the inventor of LARP and founder of InterLARPA, the LARP equivalent of the UN, (I need not even bother mentioning his far-famed name, dear reader, for you surely know it well), “Tibber” Bales himself, would be signing autographs for but a mere pittance of $60 a copy!
“I canst hardly control my mirth,” saith I, “Verily this must be how the popular girls feel on Prom Night!”
“Greater be our glee,” decreed the sovereign, “ for whilst those hottie harlots be depravedly drinking of alcohol and various bodily fluids, we shall be slaking our thirst of the manliness of ‘Tibber’ Bales!”

Sally forth did the Knights to the convention center entrance. But lo! Blocking their passage was a long labyrinthine line of fellow fantasy fanciers waiting to get inside.

“Fear not that the convention be sold out, my unworthy underlings,” quoth King Kyle, “’Tis why we purchased special VIP tickets from that most honest of craigslist.org vendors, “OtakuTenticle69”, for the paltry sum of $150 each.”
Exclaimed Sir Dwayne, “With these billets we shall cast a Spell of Flight to soar past these Level 1 Peons and gain of ourselves immediate entry to the most choice-iest of attractions!”
Saith Sir Josh, “Ye faith, on this very day shall I profess my most perfect undying love to special guest Katee Sackhoff, the most delicate of starfighting nymphs to ever serve that hallowed Battlestar called Galactica. Perchance thou fancy hearing some of the twenty-and-nine sonnets listing her beauty, composed of myself for this very meeting?”
“Be there any bawdy lyrics?” asked the King.
“’Tis all bawdy lyrics!”
“Pray ye proceed!”

But before the Knights could learn of which word Sir Josh did rhyme with ‘clitoris’, they were brought face to face unto that sinister Cerberus, the gargantuan gatekeeper of the hallowed Opa-Locka convention center.
Ask of them did he to see their tickets. Produce the tickets did they. Reject the tickets did he. “Forged billets are these,” saith he. Bar their entry did he.
“Thou dost forget thyself in front of thy king,” quoth King Kyle as he removed his rhinestone-encrusted glove.
“Look, your worshipfulness” bellowed the gatekeeper, “Thou art not the sole ‘king’ at this symposium. Many a so-called ‘king’ doth wait in line whilst thou dost carry on thusly. Many a so-called ‘king’ who didst purchase of himself legitimate tickets. Now get thee gone, ye king of LARPing losers, before thou angerest me such that I speak not with ye olde speech but with ye olde boot up thine ass!”

Taken aback and made speechless were the Knights of the Quest for Questlandia. But not so the bold monarch. “Were I armed,” saith King Kyle with fists a-clenched, “I wouldst warn thee to prepare to taste the foam of my manly blade.”
“Art thou coming onto me?” asked the gatekeeper.
“Coming onto thee with a FLURRY OF FISTINGS!”

Short was the melée but many were the bruises that Kyle did bravely sustain. And so forever banishéd were the Knights of the Quest for Questlandia from the Greater Opa-Locka Science Fiction and Fantasy Convention.

“Thou art lucky, knavish brute,” warned the bruiséd Kyle, “thou wouldst scarcely stand a chance were our duel to employ a turn-based hit-point system.” Made silent was the gatekeeper. He merely rolled his eyes and looked away. Though they would neither meet their savior, “Tibber” Bales, nor proposition the fair Katee Sackhoff, the Knights knew they had won of themselves a moral victory.

Bravely did the Knights of the Quest for Questlandia make their glorious retreat from the convention center parking lot. And they did curse the name of ‘OtakuTentacle69’, if that even is his real name!

And lo! The royal carriage, Kyle’s mom’s Sedona, did appear! Drive by them did the carriage, carrying Travis and his minions. And from that carriage was thrown a volley of soiled diapers.
Run for cover did the courageous Knights.
In the fog of flight did Sir Dwayne (and NOT I as the other Knights attest) knock Kyle to the ground. And on Kyle’s face did many a soiled diaper land.
Declared Travis, “That’s my shit in your face, brah!”

With be-feces’d face Kyle did think unto himself, Such insolence! If only this skirmish did employ a turn-based hit-point system!

Asked Sir Josh unto Kyle, “Perchance thou wouldst fancy another sonnet?” Asked Kyle, “Dost thou ever rhyme ‘Starbuck’ with the f-word?” “In every one, my liege…”

Here endeth the chapter.

Coming Soon! It’s the greatest East vs. West rivalry since Rocky IV! The intrepid Knights battle a band of anime cosplayers—who plan to tear down the youth center! What will go in its place? One of those Japanese-style diners where all the waitresses dress like French maids? All this in Chapter IV: 逆襲 ! 殺人拳 VS 殺人拳 激突！ (Translation: Revenge! Happy-Go-Lucky LARPers vs. Satanic Cosplay Warriors: Greatest Decisive Battle on Earth!)

It pains me to write this letter, but I fear I no longer have any choice in the matter. I simply cannot stand idly by while our guild is destroyed by certain members’… INDISCRETIONS. I won’t name names, but the guilty parties know who you are. It is my hope that this missive will help turn our noble guild from the shameful path it has started down.

Suffice it to say, when I started this LARPing group, I had high hopes. The highest, in fact. No longer would I be openly mocked and treated like an underling of the Dread Lich Necrophaggrost. No longer would I cower like a peasant whenever the free period bell would ring, day after interminable day. No, I was destined for better things! I knew we LARPers were not to be mocked for our differences!

I knew, even then, that if we could only organize, the Greater Opa-Locka LARPing community (OPA-LARPA) would become a force to be reckoned with, on par with the Azure Knights of Cetheria, or even Biff Bronson’s gang of marauding urban toughs. It wasn’t easy, convincing those fools from the Questlandia group to join us, but my knack for diplomacy was an invaluable tool. And I was right, my brothers. For a time we knew such a golden age, the gods themselves wouldst have thought themselves atop Olympus.

But, my brothers, we grew complacent in our strength. What once would have been grounds for exile became routine. I can still remember the time Mort brought that girl to our town hall meeting! Surely he did not think this blasphemy through, as the meeting rapidly dissolved into boasts of battle prowess, bewildered protests, and defiant pants-wetting.

And then there was the time Kyle’s mom bought him a PS3 and what can only be called a MUTINY was the result when I LIGHTLY SUGGESTED that the Xbox 360 was the superior console. I don’t care what you plebians actually believe, when your Guildmaster expresses an opinion, you better frigging get ready to agree, or find yourself face to face with a level 18 Cave Jelly!

When I run a LARP, my brothers, I do not wish to see an Elf of Valandriel TEXTING on his BlueBerry, EVEN is that BlueBerry is modded to resemble the royal star-fruit of the Valandriel Queen. I do not wish to see someone who CLEARLY does not deserve the honor of roleplaying a Lizardman CONVERSING IN THEIR OUT-OF-CHARACTER VOICE to some Frisbee-obsessed collegiate Neanderthal WHILE A MAJOR POLITICAL STRUGGLE is taking place in the Capital (the old swingset by the creek – or don’t you traitors remember?!).

But the straw that broke the griffin’s back really came when Josh suggested that things might have been better under King Kyle of Questlandia! What the everloving heck, mister?! Do you have no mind for history?! Do you not remember the Dark Ages when we LARPers were being mocked left and right, and swirlied up and down!? No, say I, King Kyle is happy working the night shift at the SaversMart, and there in shameful exile he shall remain.

At the end of the day, my fellow LARPers, I work hard – harder then you know – to create a cohesive world of adventure and magic. The fact that you simpletons cannot commit yourselves fully to my vision besaddens my heart, and besmirches not only the honour of the guild, but LARPing itself.

This Saturday, if it doesn’t rain, we will embark on the second chapter of my grand plan for OPA-LARPA, which will serve to separate the wheat from the chaff within our ranks. We will assemble not behind the elementary school, but behind the HIGH school. Verrily, Joe Rogan Secondary. And even if their championship ball hockey team is holding practice on the blacktop, we WILL complete the Battle of Ungoroth, which was abandoned last weekend when those guys threw yogurts at us.

This time, there will be no retreat. This time, we will proudly hold our foam aloft and stand our ground. And those who don’t may consider their membership terminated, as well as their account on the vBulletin message board.

Now, who wants Denny’s?

Alright, folks, lots of room so grab a seat. Anywhere in the first three rows should be fine. Settle in, guys. Thank you for meeting me here at Mr. Van Horne’s Watchin’-plex for this emergency town council session. A quick look around should tell you why I’ve assembled you tonight. This movie theatre is no longer up to code, dangerously so. And with the new film Dance Flick hitting theatres only two days from now, we stand to face a veritable uprising if our Opa-Lockians aren’t able to watch this film. I need ideas and I need them now. Let’s start knockin’ gourds.

What makes Dance Flick “so gul-gurned special”, Eudora? I wouldn’t expect a nonagenarian such as yourself to truly appreciate the work of the Wayans Family. But your cantankerous nature is why you’ve been a member of this board for sixty-seven years. See, the silver screen pundits are predicting that this latest spoof from Hollywood’s funniest clan is going to shatter every box office record – and that includes “most sides split”.

But if the faithful citizenry come here on Friday – that’s Friday, May 22, when it opens across the nation –  and the crumbling plaster or poor sound quality ruins their experience, no one will be laughing. Remember, we’re trying to reduce the number of riots we have in this town, and there’s already been two this year.

This article brought to you by DANCE FLICK, starring the Wayans Family, in theatres this Friday. Get tickets and showtimes at thedanceflick.com.

The Watchin’-plex’s audiences are not the most refined, and when a movie doesn’t meet their standards, they show it. I mean, look at the screen. It’s had so many handfuls of feces thrown at it that every movie now plays in sepia-tone.

It really happens far too often to be justified in any context. I was more surprised than anyone in 1998 when Life is Beautiful got the infamous “Opa-Locka Shitshower”. But, people hate what they hate.

I also want you all to see the picture quality too. Merle, hoof it up to the back room and throw on the reel I left there. North By Northwest. Hitchcock. Magnificent. You’ll see how washed out the color -

Merle, that is not the movie I asked you to play. That is “Bumfights”. I’m not sure how or where you got it transferred to a film reel, but what a supreme waste of your money and our time.

Please shut that off. It’s disturbing Eudora.

This article brought to you by DANCE FLICK, starring the Wayans Family, in theatres this Friday. Download Marlon Wayans desktop wallpapers at thedanceflick.com.

Come on, folks, don’t be afraid to spitball. This is important. For God’s sakes, it stars Damon Wayan’s son! We’re witnessing a passing of the torch here.

Tyson, bringing the town to your ranch to watch the movie on your 60″ inch plasma screen would be an option. If you owned one. And if it weren’t just a ploy to find a mate for your three sickly, bed-ridden daughters. I told you, put them onto the Internet dating sites. My son did, and he’s currently dating a very nice albino girl.

Merle, I don’t know where you got that bucket of popcorn, but I know for a fact the popper in this theatre hasn’t been in working order for at least two decades, so I’m guessing the butter has long turned. And the mere fact that you’re washing it down with Coke II should show you how old that is. You’re going to die.

The chandelier dangling above our heads like the Sword of Damacles bothers me too. I’m sure Mr. Van Horne thought it would class up the place when he hung it in the seventies, but it doesn’t take a close inspection to see it’s only hanging by one stud, and the next time a van drives by I’m pretty positive it’s going to skewer us like ke-bobs.

This article brought to you by DANCE FLICK, starring the Wayans Family, in theatres this Friday. Play the “Out-Breakdance the Baby” Flash game at thedanceflick.com.

Well, fine. I’m tapping out. Perhaps it’s time that we rouse the riot squad from their slumber. And by riot squad, I of course mean the steroid-charged varsity football team that we arm with shields and batons in events such as these. They’re the best chance we’ve got at saving the town from being reduced to ashes, and they definitely don’t mind busting a skull or two.

Sure, Merle, since we’re poised to lapse into anarchy once more, you might as well pick a fight with that “uppity prick” from the Opa-Locka Planetarium who always gives you hell for parking your pickup on the lawn. It’s not like he’ll be missed. That place hasn’t had a visitor since the government commandeered it to house Katrina victims.

Just one second. Merle, you may have, once again, against your best efforts, provided a solution. That Planetarium has a high-quality projector that just needs the Windex treatment, and a spotless ceiling to light up. It’ll be like IMAX! Thanks to anemic patronage, that place is as pristine as when we built it in the eighties. For once, our aversion to the sciences has helped us, instead of setting us back evolutionarily.

Instead of an evening underneath the stars, our fine citizens will enjoy an evening underneath comedy’s brightest stars! Someone start typing up a brochure. And Merle, thank you. I – what have you got there? Something for me? Well -

Merle, please save the Opa-Locka Shitshower for the movie. This is a new shirt.

January 12th, 1996

Team owners and officials,

Who needs a vacation? Your Commish does! J.R. “Red” Yellow here, and this is comin’ to y’all as the second-ever league newsletter and a general how’s-ya-nuts-hangin’. I can’t say the first half of season numero uno has been the rousin’ success we all expected it to be, but you learn more from mistakes than successes. Ain’t that a sayin’?

I’m gonna crow about the good news first. We finally got them NAACP picket squads off our backs after we stopped announcing the dates of our games, or really advertisin’ them at all. Of course, our attendance has plummeted as a result, and we wasn’t exactly packin’ ‘em in like anchovies to begin with. However, the fact that my name stopped appearin’ on the same placard as Mr. Hitler’s was one less lazy bead of sweat rollin’ down this fat forehead.

But it ain’t been all cherries and chalupas, has it? We’ve had our fair helpin’ of setbacks. Both the Milwaukee Milks and the Milwaukee Whites folded only two games into the year. Coulda seen that comin’ after that sumbitch Jesse Jackson met with the city mayor. He just keeps jammin’ his sniffer up dog rears it don’t belong! After I challenged him to a bare-fisted brawl on the radio, you’d think the man would keep his distance.

Luckily, we quickly found another squad to join our ranks, courtesy of the Utah State Bible College, who volunteered their Golden Elk men’s basketball team to what they said was “a worthy cause”, and who I might add seemed a little too excited to join the league. Anywho, Utah and their venerable 105-year-old coach Norm “The Crusader” Quaglund quickly dribbled theyselves to a league-leadin’ 34-0 record. To you other four teams: even though the Elk are younger, far more skilled and play with a certain religious fervor, we still got sixty games left to play, so try and make it interestin’!

Your concerns about a lack a’ positive media coverage ain’t been fallin’ on deaf ears. We’s tryin’ here. Y’all know that in October we flew in the world’s tallest livin’ white man, that sky-scrapin’ 8’3” sucker from the Ukraine, to play in a game. It wasn’t like we knew the fella was bound to a wheelchair and couldn’t even stand up! But from what I understand, we got some real good press over in the Kiev papers, so y’all are still liable for your share of that plane ticket.

Then there was the incident what twisted PETA’s nuts in that Opa-Locka/Raleigh-Durham game. ‘Cause of a rash of injuries, someone on the Phantoms side thought it would be a grand idea to pull an “Air Bud” and send a golden retriever onto the court. A’ course the poor thing got trampled to death under our players’ clumsy clodhoppers. I want this to be the first and last time this happens, y’all: no dogs playin’ in games, whether they got a white coat of fur or not! There might not be anything in the rulebook that prohibitates it, but the rulebook is also handwritten in a Five Star notebook, so cut us a little slack.

Now with League Tidbits is my lawyer and your ICBA business manager David Fincher (not the director).

- The fact that the league is (somehow) still financially soluble is nothing short of a wonder. Eventually our strategy of gathering all team owners every second Sunday and flying to Atlantic City to bet the remainder of our funds on “black” is going to backfire, and it’s probably going to happen soon.

- We’ve gotten some interesting analysis back from our stat department (which is of course Red’s nine-year-old grandson Billy). Apparently, an ICBA game’s average point total is 48 (that’s both teams combined), and it does not feature a three-pointer. In an effort to have more respectable scores, and hopefully attract fans, we will now be starting both teams at 150 points and counting down.

- The ICBA “Free Dunk” rule – where a fouled player is rewarded with an uncontested two-point dunk opportunity – has been an unqualified failure. The original consensus was that this would be a treat for the fans, but it’s simply resulted in too many injuries, as well as a lot of embarrassing net-tanglings. To remedy this, we will simply no longer be calling fouls.

- In the closest thing we’ve had to a bright spot, “Jungle” Jim Stupart of the Hamilton Canada Whiteout broke two league milestones on November 11, becoming the first player to score ten points in a game, and also in becoming the first player to be ejected from a game for sexually harassing a referee.

- Finally, in a personal note, I will taking a two-month vacation from my duties as league business manager to recover from multiple stress-related ulcers. Though I will be visiting Malaysia, I will not be partaking in “sex tourism”, as Commissioner Yellow will no doubt claim. I only ask that if the ICBA folds while I am gone, that the Star Wars memorabilia in my office not be pawned off to recover financial losses.

Now listen here: I know we’ve prett’near hit rock bottom, babies. And I think we’d all agree that we reached an ultimate low point when my vengeful ex-wife, the owner of the Buffalo Pale Riders, put nudie photos of yours truly on the Jumboscreen for all to see. I guess I had that one comin’, as they wasn’t even from the time durin’ which we were married, and I had FedExed them to her only days prior. Christ, I miss that woman.

I’d be lyin’ if I didn’t tell you there’s been a few sleepless nights where I’ve tossed and tumbled, and wondered if I’m the man to be Commissionin’ this here venture. Why, everythin’ I’ve opened my cowhide wallet for has quickly crumbled inta financial insolvency, the most recent bein’ my Subway-style restaurant where the employees watch you make your sandwich. There wasn’t a damned soul innerested in that. And for God’s sakes, look at me! I even write in a Southern drawl! I’m a pair a’ Mickey ears away from being a full-fledged cartoon character.

Then I remember ’bout all you dreamers, my owners, the people just like me. The folks who got into this league to take a chance, to flirt with destiny and revive the long-forgotten American tradition of segregated sportin’. Sure, some of y’all are only here to use your team as shell companies for money launderin’. In fact, Mr. Fincher tells me that all of y’all likely are. But if I made a habit of listenin’ to him, this league wouldn’t exist in the first place, would it?

I’ll see y’all at the All Star Game in Hamilton, Canada. But remember, if any reporters or fans ask, we ain’t holdin’ an All Star Game!

Commissioner J.R. “Red” Yellow