In the light of the COVID-19 pandemic, the United States Association of Pointless Recreation has scanned the country to crown the absolute best of the best at washing hands and staying apart from other potentially lethal human beings. The winner, the bearded and bewildered James McPasterson, would have posed for a photo op by his log cabin in the wilderness south of Cheyenne, if only the event crew’s cameras could have created a wide enough shot to capture everyone involved at the same time.
“This COVID thing,” McPasterson mumbled through an improvised sheet of blue fabric, “sent me runnin’ from urban New York to set up shop out here. Ain’t no way a virus is gonna send my lungs to heaven, the Good Lord be willing….” This reporter listened from afar as McPasterson then went on a religious diatribe and contest coordinator Beverly Warlick rolled her eyes. “There’s something about this that isn’t right,” she confessed upon the second of three breaks within four consecutive hours of interview footage, “since we had to wake him up and explain the championship to him. Just as his brain started clicking into place, he tried to put a mask on over his legs to cover his nether regions.”
This reporter investigated further with McPasterson after the ceremony, in which he was granted a lifetime supply of hand sanitizer and a taco bowl from the nearest Qdoba. All energy apparently having been spent in the process of winning, he coughed mightily straight into his leathered palms, and as the remaining bites of overcooked chips and underripe avocado were consumed, I could have sworn I heard the words, “Now I can die happy.”
Will this reporter live long enough to get tested and surround himself with HAZMAT-suited doctors in an actual bastion of civilization? Or will this cheating geezer’s germs rob me and anyone that comes within six feet of all life, save one final glance at his hastily-constructed golden trophy, topped with a generic bowler figurine? Only time will tell.
A slew of aspiring jokesters gathered this past weekend in What Cheer, IA (the official holder of the world’s most comedic, and ironic, city name) to hold the prestigious Whirled Pun Championship and attempted via almost a dozen plays on words each to make a bare-bones audience laugh. In at least one case, however, no pun in ten did.
The opener consisted of some semi-clever references connecting Beyonce to the concept of buoyancy, Donald Trump to the trump suit in bridge, and aunts being trapped inside a mall to ants being trapped inside an ant farm. As if this weren’t enough to make one slap one’s knee and hold one’s side while experiencing utter gales of laughter, more was yet to come. Much, much more.
This reporter will spare you the sordid details, except to say the eventual winner emerged as a surprise to no one: Tom E.D. (whose name is funny whether you mispronounce it slightly to sound like “comedy” or instead assume those initials stand for a certain personal problem) managed to rile the audience up the most and dodge at least two of the four rotten tomatoes launched in his direction, and so was crowned Whirled Pun Champion. “I couldn’t help myself,” he told me, which received a playful eye roll, to which Tom continued, “No, seriously, this self-help book on puns sucks!” He then proceeded to chuck a large volume out the nearest window, which sailed to the ground and hit a man named Chuck in the head.
Will next year’s greatest pun contest be named the Whirled Pun Championship Too? Will it attract even more corniness thicker than molasses on toast? Or will those seeking a good time stick to observational comedy and fart jokes at their local club? Only time will tell.
At the most recent tournament designed to find the best of the best at adding 31’s to 71’s to 141’s and getting runs as a result, many participants walked away scratching their heads at the terminology and design decisions involved in the classic game.
“Why nobs, and nibs too, for that matter?” asked Gloria Renquist of rural Wyoming, having driven hundreds of miles to attend the event in Atlanta, GA only to find herself far more perplexed than when she left her trailer back home. “I don’t want to be messing around with some gentleman’s nobs. And whose are they? The jacks’? And who is that Jack fellow anyway, and what is he doing running around a triple-turned scoring track?”
When contacted for further questioning, Renquist’s ex-husband Bob only lamented, “She oughta not be playin’ them high-falutin’ card games. Stick to Skip-Bo and gin rummy, and you’re set for life.” To that, the tournament’s youngest entrant, 8-year-old Ryan Zarfstrom countered, “It’s more fun poking the pegs into the board, unless they get stuck or you lose them, and then have to beg your parents to get a whole new board just to replace the pegs, because where else do you use cribbage pegs but in a cribbage board?” After running off to practice palming the five of diamonds, Zarfstrom then promptly lost a supply of sixty-four cribbage pegs in one fell swoop.
But all is not lost for these card-game aficionados, at least until you consider the case of Abram Bonner, who developed such a taste for the number 15 playing in the championship that he proceeded to fly to Las Vegas and put his entire life savings on that number via one spin of the roulette wheel. “I never could count that well,” he admitted while searching the floor and sidewalk outside the casino for leftover or unscratched lottery tickets.
Will the cribbage world ever be the same? Will anyone ever discover the baby that’s supposed to go into said crib? And to whom does that baby belong? Only time will tell.
An octogenarian version of the globe’s most prestigious and challenging competition involving nostalgic schoolyard shenanigans ground to a sudden halt this past weekend, after all eight contestants suffered injuries while attempting to hop from number 3 to numbers 4 and 5.
Despite participants’ being helped onto and off the course by a corps of able-bodied and much younger volunteers (a.k.a. underpaid social workers using their association with these cronies as stepping stones toward more meaningful careers), incidents withstood along the course of the afternoon ranged from a dislocated hip to a bitten tongue resulting from sudden reaction to having lost one’s dentures somewhere within the nearby grassy field.
This reporter attempted to gather more information from 94-year-old Fred Hunt, but was only told, “Get off my lawn!” before he turned away and attempted to place a call on his iPhone while holding it upside-down. “I told them not to do this…” complained 82-year-old Martha Madsen, “after all, they scheduled it right on top of my Matlock program. Where’s my walker?”
It turned out that Hunt could have won had he simply chosen to take the title by default, since seven people had failed before him. This reporter presumes by the medals on his jacket that Hunt’s days in WWII instilled a certain sense of stubbornness and grit that he wanted to prove to everyone watching. That, or dementia. Will the assisted-living center that calls itself FOGIE ever dare to try something like this again? Or can these skeletons barely holding on to their last living breaths finally be allowed to pee in their Depends in peace? Only time will tell.
Alexandra Barnsworth of Miami, FL cruised right into the World Competitive Slapping Championship title this past Saturday when she realized that its all-gender policy allowed her to take advantage of the social unacceptability of men slapping women.
“I told them over and over again, bring it on,” bragged Barnsworth, bulging her bicep right in front of this reporter’s face, “but we live in such an era where the best these chumps could do is barely lay five fingers on me at once.” Most matchups, indeed, were better contested than the final, with men versus men and women versus women delivering three slaps per round in single-elimination format. Points were granted on such metrics as noise of impact, redness of skin, grace of delivery (backhand or otherwise) and overall reaction of the recipient, while officials enforced strict protocols on waiting one’s turn before returning a particularly violent slap.
“Someone higher up didn’t think this structure through very well,” complained Zander McFarson, “yet if I’d truly given it my best, I think I would have knocked this lady off her chair.” Fellow male entrants then snickered behind McFarson’s back about the size and hairiness of his palms, bringing into question not only the possible aerodynamic compromise involved, but also an ethical self-stimulatory quandary that for the mercy of all readers shall remain undetailed within the scope of this article.
Can Barnsworth return in 2020 to defend her title? Or will the belt be split to accommodate both sexes? Will McFarson’s Catholic upbringing expose way more than anyone wanted to know, or will his continued adventures in slapping amount to just a serial case of razor burn? Only time will tell.
Saul McGillicutty (name modified for privacy) has been declared the universe’s silliest yet most utterly profound soccer blogger, as of Sunday. Upon hearing the glorious news, McGillicutty belched loudly, declared that he knew nothing about how the sport is actually played and proceeded to enter a Dryaw pub to have drinks with his best buds.
Upon attempting to follow to gather more information, this reporter was promptly served with a yellow card, which led to an onside penalty kick (if there is such a thing), which subsequently led to a soccer ball sailing through the pub window and breaking several bottles of valuable spirits. A random stranger (later to be identified as Dave from Bros. Talking Soccer) was quoted as observing, “This blog thing, isn’t it all based on the universe surrounding a child’s animated mascot?” Dave was thereafter pulled by an equally random stranger (i.e., me) into the nearby alley, duct-taped to the brick wall and made to pay for his transgressions. And by that I mean two farthings and a plump hen.
But I digress. In earning the world title by bribing the judges with Pizza Hut stuffed-crust pizza for life, McGillicutty bested dozens of other competitors, each of which admitted with equal levels of self-defeat that there is more money to be had by shuffling nickel whores across Great Britain than there is in blogging. When asked whether the championship will continue in 2020, head judge Antonio Vargas shrugged, bounced a soccer ball on his head twelve times in succession, and yelled ‘gooooaaaaaaallllll’!!!
In the meantime, visit http://www.soccernoob.com for all the latest wisdom. Will soccer ever be the same? Will all the pizza get eaten, or will Saul call ‘that’s all’ when it comes to hitting a tall ball wall? Only time will tell.
Hundreds of trivia buffs and entertainment enthusiasts converged upon the San Francisco metro this past Wednesday to determine the best of the best at the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon game, and ended up concocting a religion.
“Kevin Bacon,” proclaimed headmaster of ceremonies Susan Bartolomon during the closing ceremony, “is heretofore to be considered the center of the universe, around which all other things revolve and out of which all other things evolve. His interconnectedness with all things and all people is, to put it simply, awe-inspiring.”
Blatantly ignoring the fact that Bacon has not been seen in a widely distributed film in a considerable number of years, and is in fact, therefore merely human, as well as the concept that got everyone in the room in the first place, Bartolomon proceeded to gather her fellow competitors in a circle and chant names of Bacon’s works for hours. Finally, a bathroom break ensued, and this reporter was able to get the inside scoop.
“I thought for a minute there she was going to declare the seventh degree,” Pat Conrad of Baton Rogue, LA mused while at the urinals, “as if none of us were worthy. Personally, there might just be a little poor sportsmanship going on, considering how she was slow on the draw connecting Bacon to WWF legend Shawn Michaels. And then again to Condoleeza Rice! I mean, come on… what was up with that?”
Will Bartolomon’s new clan spread its gospel like wildfire? Or will the earth’s ever-expanding population eventually break the very rule that gave birth to the Most Almighty Example of Pure and Holy Baconism? Only time will tell.
Dr. Gary Hobnob of rural Oklahoma emerged from a crowded field of competitors this past Sunday to claim the prestigious title of World Behavioral Psychotherapy Champion, only to declare the achievement the pinnacle of his career and subsequently quit.
“I only see farmers and meth addicts in my private practice anymore,” he lamented, “so I thought maybe this would be a chance to branch out.” Hobnob surprised everyone by motivating a millennial to detach from a deranged sense of entitlement in the pool round, then survived a tough challenge in the quarterfinals by tackling a tricky marital session, in which the couple ended up realizing that they had each essentially married an exact copy of a dead parent.
“When my opponent pulled the co-dependence card,” Hobnob recalls, “I thought I was toast for sure. You’ve got to admire that kind of tenacity. But I hung in there.” After a paperwork mix-up that billed an exorbitant amount of money to the organizers’ flimsy insurance policy, he later admitted he had gotten lucky at times. Only when a mother of an autistic child left the isolated office in tears did he realize he had an open path to the win.
“Drama, on and off the couch,” quipped defending champion Jacob McClasky, who had his streak of four consecutive titles snapped, “but if you ask me, what was Gary doing with that bottle of Zoloft in his pocket? There’s a difference between psychology and psychiatry, folks.” Will Hobnob rise to those accusations, change his mind like he made an important self-discovery and return to defend his title? Or will dozens of counselors compete afresh in 2020, all with that much better a chance to snag a first-place monetary prize larger than their annual salary? Only time will tell.
Over a dozen faculty and staff at Pembridge International University (affectionately known as PIU) concluded a revolutionary study over the weekend that bestowed the title of World Klutz Champion upon one Peter Sungrove, of the tiny town of Musk, Arkansas, population 126.
“I get the feeling people moved away because no matter what would happen, I’d ruin anything I’d come near,” Sungrove lamented. Indeed, this mild-mannered accountant rose to national prominence within the ranks of those possessing the anti-Midas touch when his Ford Focus suffered a flat tire, then suffered a second flat tire with the spare still on it, followed by Sungrove, while attempting to pay for the repairs, spilling coffee on the floor, slipping forward and hitting his head on the cash register. When he was finally able to retrieve his wallet, Sungrove’s wad of credit cards exploded in his hands, scattering across the shop. One card was found days later in the clerk’s pants, giving new meaning to the phrase “Visa – it’s everywhere you want to be.”
PIU picked up on this spate of events quite quickly and recruited Sungrove to ‘compete’ versus forty other entrants in a controlled setting that quickly became quite uncontrolled. Even as conductors of the experiment, snickering behind the participants’ backs and forging amateurish-looking gold medals in the meantime, wondered whether Sungrove could possibly be topped, no one else even came close. “I’m just here because they offered free food,” garbled Tom Zinticon of Philadelphia, PA through a mouthful of sub sandwich, just before splattering a packet of mayonnaise into his own left eye.
Will Sungrove hold onto the World Klutz title when the occasion to study such folk arises again? Or will the belt break into small pieces at his very touch, continuing the curse into perpetuity and beyond? Only time will tell.
An inaugural contest to determine the nation’s most agile snot-launchers remains unresolved as of Monday night, after 7-year-old competitor Brad “Schnozz” Turkington was accused of eating at least two such projectiles before judges could fully evaluate the round’s results.
Consisting of six rounds alternately testing accuracy and distance, while also taking into account artistic merit (bonus points are granted for especially marbled and rounded specimens), the all-ages BFC, held over the weekend in Minneapolis, MN (also known as ‘the nostril of the Midwest’) was, in the words of 62-year-old rival John “No Blood” Johnson, “clipping along at a fine pace,” until Turkington allegedly ran out of ammo. “Upon finding he had no more boogers to flick,” ruled a referee, “the boy decided to simply take things into his own hands. And mouth.”
Johnson further commented, “The kiddo was merely jealous. Considering my twelve-point lead after four rounds, who can blame him?” Johnson’s streak of regional wins came to a head in round three with a perfect bullseye, flicked so hard but with such grace that the attempt earned the sport’s first-ever perfect ten. “Like, duh,” 17-year-old rookie Samantha Sniffer of California said, popping her bubble gum when asked for an interview, “Like, I don’t know how anyone can beat that… and the kid’s the one being accused of cheating? Bummer.”
Upon being grilled by his parents for his on-field shenanigans, Turkington himself only sneezed and asked for a drink of water. Officials are using a one-day break to review tape of the action and determine what to do from here. Can the also-rans catch up? Can they use this hard-earned time off to generate more and better boogers? Or will they dry up and crust over like when you walk into frigid weather from inside and inhale too hard? Only time will tell.