After a dozen years of living part time in the Dirty T, just before this past Christmas, I quit my job — so I’m selling my condo and abandoning the third-world racquet club.

I will miss the third world. The condo and the job… not so much. I’ll miss my co-workers, but there’s three, I hope I never have to see — ever again.

C’est la vie.

I will truly miss the racquet club players. Instead of smacking the fuzzy balls of Pendejos and members of the former fucked up team, I’ll have to find a whole new set of assholes to harass in Phoenix.

It’s pretty easy to find assholes in Phoenix. But finding ones that will put up with my refusal to run, not caring if I win, and non-stop flipping shit is going to suck. Mormons are generally not fond of Jesus jokes. Or, flipping off players for hitting an ace. Or, mumbling “asshole” whenever someone hits a drop shot or a lob. Good luck getting the followers of Joseph Smith to bring all the beer.

It’s been a long slow goodbye to the third world club.

The first two “final” Tuesday nights with the fucked up team didn’t go well. Turnout was small. Larry’s beer was great in taste and quantity — leaving Larry, Wolf and I standing in the parking lot in 40-degree weather trying to choke down the last of the quarts to make sure none of us got labeled a “Pussy Joe” for not finishing everything Larry could pack into the back of his Honda Fit.

The third farewell went better. We had 11 guys — one short of 3 full courts because fucking Marco decided to play mixed doubles. We tried to bribe him with Doritos, but apparently real pussy beats any bag of chips on any given Tuesday.

But Grif sprung for wings and everybody hung around for one extra beer before it was Larry and I in the parking lot in 40-degree weather trying to choke down the last of the cans from the back of his Honda Fit.

So I laid the plans for my fourth and “final” goodbye. End of January should be warmer right? The days get longer after the winter solstice and it can hit 100 in February…

I planned a long weekend in the Old Pueblo of night tennis with the fucked up team, a day of recovery and then Saturday in the sun with the Pendejos. I had hoped for a “Sunday Funday” drinking the last of the keg at Condo’s condo, but fucking Covid made that a stupid idea. So I’m not even asking.

What would Geno do?

Fuck up Everything.

Just before I was sending the text to announce my fourth goodbye, Geno, the goat-fucker from Reno, let the Pendejos know he was coming to Tucson Jan. 26-Feb. 1. He was looking for a place to escape the cold and play tennis during the dead of winter.

“Palm Springs is nice,” I answered hoping he would camp out 7 hours away from my goodbye party. No fucking luck. Condo offered the goat fucker a free place to stay, and my goodbye party was screwed.

Geno coming to Tucson is like a red tide rolling into Florida. Nobody wants to see it, and the whole place will end up smelling like dead fish.

His decision to come to the desert resulted in god sending snow, rain showers and the kind of wind that foreshadows the four horsemen of the apocalypse. The state had to close every highway that climbs over 4000 feet, and every hill and hamlet had snow, sleet or hail all this week.

Good to tamp down the fire danger and forestall the inevitable drought that will make the desert uninhabitable, but completely fucked up my final goodbye. Thanks Geno!

Now, I’m not saying the Jews control the weather, but I am saying that their nonexistent gawd is punishing this one “Gene” for claiming to be a “black Italian” (calling himself “Geno” and telling tales of playing basketball in New York City leagues in the 70’s). Or at least for pleasuring himself with innocent goats. It may not be a formal commandment carved in stone, but I’m pretty sure “goat fucking” is frowned upon in the Talmud. Hail seems mild compared to rivers running with blood and frogs falling from heaven. But tis enough to ruin a tennis party and keep the people of Tucson from driving on a “wet” road.

I’m not saying Geno brought on the latest plague either… but maybe if he left those last few goats alone, god would have kept that Covid bug in the “bats” where it belongs…

Anyway, despite Geno fucking things up (again) maybe the weather will get better, the fucked up team will have a real turnout for the second time in a decade, and the Pendejos will be slightly less annoying than they have been since 2010.

Even if all of that happens, it won’t be easy to say goodbye to the Third World…

“We are not closing on the condo until Feb. 9,” part-time real estate agent and full-time Pendejo, Bob texted.

Maybe I can find time for a fifth goodbye sans Geno? What are the chances of a second snow storm in Tucson? Maybe the fifth time will be the charm and I can end this dysfunctional arrangement with the people of the Third World sometime in early February?

Maybe. It’s been 10 years — are 5 goodbye “parties” that much to ask?

Update — Feb. 4, 2021

The fourth was the final goodbye. I cleaned out the condo, turned off the internet and the electricity and headed “home” to Gilbert on Sunday, Jan. 31.

Played the Pendejos on Saturday. Won a set and won 2 straight games of 4X4 (that blasphemous Pendejo game that combines tennis, volleyball and personal abuse in an insulting mix of bad shots, poor footwork and smart asses. Finished up drinking outside at Condos, and was the last to leave…

Spent Sunday washing sheets and cleaning out closets and decided a fifth time would be a goodbye too far. I clung to the third world and my man cave as long as a could. Time to grow up a bit and become a responsible “adult” in Gilbert — just in time to plan my first retirement.