I’m thinking of buying a white van and a long rope, so you dumb shits will follow the eternal fucking rules of recreational tennis.

It’s not important whether you win or lose – what is important is showing up in the bar.

If you fuckers skip out again, get ready to grab the rope and get your dumb asses in my shinny new short bus. We are getting beer.

Last Thursday was a fucking tragedy. We are at the 3rd world club, playing an important match against those assholes from El Conquistador — that’s right those shit heads know nothing about history or they would never name themselves after the plundering, raping, pillaging, murdering (and converting) Conquistadors. Fuck them.

I’ll bet the douchebag millennials (Julian, Andrew V and Sherwin) can tell you the score.

You know why? It’s not just because they are still young and can remember numbers — it’s because they left and didn’t drink away that fucking shower of shitty shots. (Sorry Larry).

There’s 15 fuckin’ guys on this team, and maybe 4 or 5 show up for the bar. So we can’t just blame this one on the douchebags. Some of you old fart boxes failed to do your duty too. If we are going to put up those kinds of numbers, we should just default the match.

What’s the point of tennis if you are going to skip beer and wings?

Hitting a rubber ball over a low net in front of a fence better than other people is the fucking definition of pointless.

The point is limited physical movement for 90 minutes followed by 2 hours of drunken discussions on politics, family relations and whatever the fuck is showing on ESPN.

It sucks for the liver and brain, but it’s good for the soul. Missing it will make you a miserable little wretch with no friends, no politically IN-correct outlets and high blood pressure.

You miss enough post match trips and the next thing you know you start practicing tennis, and turn into an El Conquistador asshole going to Baggins Sandwich Shop after the “big win”.

Ever see anyone on that fucking team smile or laugh? I’m talking about a real laugh — like they mean it. Not some fake autistic giggle to try and fit in (Gibson — you are not fooling us — we see the real Gibson when you are on juice).

Once you go down that path, you’re less than 10 years away from a heart attack. Marco is not getting the paddles for any other poor fucker who doesn’t know how to have a few minutes of fun. We might lose to El Con, but I guarantee we’ll outlive them…

Or not… but at least the time we do have will be a hell of a lot more fun. Those fuckers are trapped in a purgatory of their own problems. Half of them are probably hoping for the heart attack so they don’t have to keep “celebrating” with a fucking Albuquerque Turkey on rye.

Our next match is Nov. 30. Don’t fuck this up and make me go short bus shopping for Christmas.

Kieran