Alas. In quarterfinal action today ….
The Royal Slattern
US Open Women’s Player: Kim Clijsters BEL
banged the drum slowly of …..
Mr. Holland’s Deaf Kid’s Shmopus
US Open Women’s Player: Na Li CHN
Later, in the locker room, a typically petulant Mr. Holland’s Deaf Kid’s Shmopus had this to say to his opponent:
Seconds later, Mr. Holland grabbed The Royal Slattern and shoved her into the nearest tuba.
Now, your game mistress, first, is unaware that tubas are kept in the locker rooms of The Best Thing Ever Championships. She also regrets this display of unseemly language and violence and overall poor sportsmanship, but, sadly, she has come to expect this sort of churlish and unstable behavior during these yearly tournaments.
She hopes the remaining players will act with more maturity.
But she seriously doubts it.
What can one do when everyone is hopped up on the deadly steroids? she wonders.
Well, boo-bye, Mr. Holland’s Deaf Kid’s Shmopus.
We hardly knew ye.
More results to come …..
You know I’m not as popular as you are. I’m not anybody’s favorite anything. You’ve been looking for a way to get rid of me for 30 hours and they finally gave you an excuse. I played because I thought that what I did made a difference. I thought it mattered to people, but then I woke up this morning and found out, well no, I’ve made a little error there, I’m expendable. I should be laughing. It’s almost funny. I got dragged into this gig kicking and screaming, and now it’s the only thing I want to do.
But tubas are for fat guys with pimples. The Slattern got what she deserved.
Hahahahahahaha! Nicely played, MamaTod!!
But, still, so sorry …. boo-bye. 🙁
hahahahahahahahaha Awesome!!!
A worthy boo-bye. Bravissima, Ms. Holland!
Wait for it…
It was rather easy for the Royal Slattern to destroy Mr. Holland’s Deaf Kid’s Shmopus. With my help, of course. Before we went out onto the court, my friends and I had a little talk with Mr. Drolland. I, of course, was lying on one of the locker room benches, because I’m very important and can’t be bothered to stand up. He thought I might be incapacitated, as I’d been mostly dead all day. Here’s how it went.
FEZZICK: We face each other as the Headmistress Slattern Tracey intended. Sportsmanlike. No tricks. Skill against skill alone.
DROLLAND: I don’t think that will work. I’m no match for you physically, and you’re no match for my brains.
WESTLEY: You’re that smart?
DROLLAND: Let me put it this way. Ever heard of Aristotle, Plato, Socrates? Morons.
WESTLEY: Then I challenge you to a battle of wits! I see you’re unarmed.
BUTTERCUP: Hahahahahaha. Burn.
DROLLAND: To the death?
WESTLEY: No! To the pain.
DROLLAND: I don’t think I’m quite familiar with that phrase. I do musical phrasing, not so much with the talking.
INIGO: Let me ‘splain. No. I can’t ‘splain. Let him ‘splain.
WESTLEY: I’ll explain, and I’ll use small words so that you’ll be sure to understand, you warthog-faced buffoon.
DROLLAND: That may be the first time in my life a man has dared insult me.
WESTLEY: It won’t be the last.
BUTTERCUP: OH! PWNED! BOO-YAH!
WESTLEY: Thank you, Slattern. To the pain means the first thing you will lose will be your feet below the ankles.
FEZZICK: That’s a foot fault.
WESTLEY: Then your hands at the wrists.
MIRACLE MAX: It’s illegal to have no hands when you’re playing tennis.
VALERIE: Liar! Liar! Liaaaarrrr!
MIRACLE MAX: Well, it should be. I was blaving, witch.
WESTLEY: Ahem. Next your nose.
DROLLAND: And then my tongue I suppose, I killed you too quickly the last time. A mistake I don’t mean to duplicate tonight.
WESTLEY: I wasn’t finished. The next thing you will lose will be your left eye followed by your right.
INIGO: It is very harrrrd to serve when you can’t see.
FEZZICK: Also with an injured knee.
DROLLAND: No more rhymes now, I mean it!
FEZZICK: Anybody want a peanut?
WESTLEY: Um, guys, this works better if I’m uninterrupted. As I was saying, your left eye, blahdeblah, your right eye…
DROLLAND: And then my ears, I understand on account of the deaf son thing. Let’s get on with it.
WESTLEY: WRONG. Your ears you keep, and I’ll tell you why. So that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish. Every babe that weeps at your approach, every woman who cries out, “Dear Headmistress Slattern! What is that thing flailing around on the tennis court?” will echo in your perfect ears. That is what to the pain means. It means I leave you in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery forever. Also, you lose the match on a double fault, which makes it to the pain plus one.
DROLLAND: I think you’re bluffing.
WESTLEY: It’s possible, Pig, I might be bluffing. It’s conceivable, you miserable, vomitous mass, that I’m only lying here because I lack the strength to stand after my rowdy night out with Maria Sharipova. But then again… perhaps I have the strength after all.[Here I slowly rose to my feet and pointed my tennis racket directly at the band director.] Drop. Your. Racket.
He didn’t drop his racket, I still had to play him, but whatevs. He said it himself. He’s expendable. So I expended with him.
I should have known not to go up against a Sicilian when FROGS was on the line.
At least you recognize your error now.
MamaTod — HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! I’m dying!!!