Sunday night. A crowd gathers. What for, you may ask? To feast their gluttonous eyes on the spectacle that is Ultimate Frisbee. A hush falls over the spectators, as the referee escorts the night’s combatants into the ring. He steps up to the microphone.
“In this corner, wearing the neon purple, weighing in at five ounces, we have…Treviathan’s frisbee!”
“In the other corner, wearing the bad-ass muthafucka brown and green, weighing in at a hideously massive seven-and-a-half-tons, we have…a fucking huge tree!”
The bell sounds, round one begins. I grip my frisbee, rear back, and set it free. See how it soars gracefully through the air! See it beset with calm and tranquility! See it fly with its message of peace and love, caring not for causing harm nor pain, but determinedly, tenaciously, seeking out its target, its goal, it’s raison d’etre!
And then, watch as the nefarious arboreal demon, the tree spawned from the forehead of Lucifer himself, uproots itself and plants its seven-and-one-half-ton frame solidly in the innocent disc’s path. Observe the result - the gut-wrenching crash of plastic meeting wood, the blood, the audience’s pained gasps. Eyes, young and old, are averted. Somewhere in the distance, a young woman, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years of age, swoons. Carnage of this level has only rarely been observed before. My disc sits - nay, wobbles - on the dusty ground, battered by the tree’s mighty wallop into a shape not dissimilar to your standard fortune cookie. As I administer frisbio-pulmonary resuscitation, the tree stands there, casting its ominous shadow over the preceedings. Does it feel? Can it care? No. It is heartless, this tree, but then so it must be, in the cruel, cruel world that is Ultimate Frisbee. It has not risen to the top by resting on its own laurels, so to speak. It has devoured many an up-and-coming frisbee before, and will doubtlessly do so again. Such is life.
The referee raises the tree’s spindly, spidery branch in victory.
The spectators go home.
As I exit the stadium alone into the rainy, foreboding night, cradling my wounded protege in my arms, I plot my vengeance. The skies open, thunder booms through the heavens, and I cry out:
DAMN YOU, YOU MOTHERFUCKING HORSE-RAPING ASS-LICKING MARTHASTEWART-SHAGGING DICKTWATWHORE OF A FUCKING PORPHYRIA-RIDDLED GOAT-SLURPING FRISBEE-WRECKING GLORIFIED PIECE OF PATIO FURNITURE! I SINCERELY HOPE THE MOST FOUL-SMELLING, ANNOYING, OVERZEALOUS ECO-TERRORIST CHAINS HIM/HERSELF TO YOUR GODFORSAKEN TRUNK FOR TWENTY-FIVE FUCKING YEARS BECAUSE DEATH BY FOREST FIRE WOULD BE TOO GOOD OF A WAY FOR YOU TO DIE, YOU OVERGROWN XYLEM-STUFFED THISTLE! FUCK YOU AND ALL YOUR FUCKING OFFSPRING, HAPLOID AND DIPLOID! FUCK FUCK FUCK!
Thank you.
