Just like Trump running to Putin, this season one of the fucked up players on my tennis team went running to a bunch of “wanna be” winners.

I was told “Traitor McGee” (not his real name, but close enough) wrote “a really nice note” on his way out the door. Fucking pussy.

He should have just posted a rant about how bad we sucked, and how much better his next team will be. If I ever quit this bunch of shit heads, that’s how I’ll do it. I might even leave a flaming pile of dog shit on the front door of the 3rd world racquet club as my final good bye. I’ve got no reason to be pissed off, but if I’m gonna go, I’m gonna leave a mark.

We only won 1 match in 2016, and T. McGee bailed to a misfit team of wannabe-douchebag-millenial “All Stars” to try to beat those old fuckers from El Conquistador. El Con wins this league nearly every year, and the rest of us are sick of those sandwich-celebrating bastards (they don’t drink — not even beer).

Without McGee, we have improved to a .500 record and a solid 3rd place finish (out of 5 teams — yes we still suck)

Tonight we are playing our final team match of the season. Traitor McGee and the wannabe’s are one decisive win away from taking the whole league. They have to beat us 4 out of 5 individual matches and can’t lose more than 6 sets.

I saw this coming 3 weeks ago, and asked my team to start taking bids on what the wannabes would have to pay us to throw the match. Marco had the best suggestion (hookers and blow), but most of my shit head teammates wanted to “try and win.” Rookies.

We aren’t getting paid to do this shit. In 3 months, nobody will remember whether we won or lost this match. But if we got cash or a case of beer, we would be local fucking legends.

Traitor McGee and his Captain Chris crashed our secret practice Tuesday night before the big match. Larry had Captain Chris talked into bringing at least 2 cases of “high class” beer as a present to us. Not a bribe, a present. We, of course, would start drinking them right away, so maybe it would improve the wannabes’ chances.

It’s not drugs, cash or hookers, but no one gets divorced or goes to jail over a few bottles of IPA. Despite his time in law school and years of legal practice, that’s the best Larry could negotiate, for fuck’s sake.

But others openly said we had to “play hard” and “really try to win”, so Captain Chris probably won’t be bringing anybody any beer anytime soon. FUCK.

So much for any return on investment I’ve made in this goddamn United States Tennis Association League. Paying about $100 a year in membership and league fees — I can’t even get a hairy hooker or a bump of sugar-and-rat-poison blow to throw a match.

USTA fucks me again. Who knew they could screw me with honesty too. (You know they fucked us with dishonest sweetheart deals for their leaders and contributors.) I expect to be cheated by those fuckers.

I don’t expect the shit heads around me to maintain their integrity and fuck over my chances for a pay day — no matter how small. (I’d take a PayDay candy bar at this point).

Ohh well. If we are going to be honest about this match shit, I might as well see if we can wreak some revenge on Traitor McGee. He’s got the outward personality of a crustacean, so we are not going to make him cry or nothing.

But traitors deserve some punishment, and since we can’t impeach or imprison him, I want him to feel some sense of shame or morose that he ditched us and didn’t win shit.

We are never going to see that sense of humanity from Donnie (the orange Putin Puppet). But if we kick his ass and send the little wannabes home with nothing — we might get a glimpse of chagrin from ole Traitor McGee.

UPDATE – Dec. 15, 2017

The wannabe winners kicked our asses 5-0, so the only chagrin dealt out came back to my fucked up tennis team.

But the good news… wannabes brought lots of beer, which we mostly drank and bought a bunch more pitchers in the bar after.

And, our captain brought me a PayDay candy bar before the match. My first payment ever for playing tennis.

Finally, I learned that in 2015 — the Traitor McGee was me. Apparently, I had blotted out the memory of leaving my team to play on another just to avoid having to play singles against Victor, the philandering human backboard.