the age of winners

advice and fortunes for my d-level soccer team



we all went on hiatus, and then things imploded. asses imploded. the sun imploded. it was nighttime all day, and the earth was slowly dying. we went out for nachos, so we could stay warm. when our hiatus was over, we tried to practice, but the moon was dark.

our games were cold and black, and we all got drunk during them for warmth. i passed to trees. i stabbed sideline dogs when i should have been stabbing opposing team members.

during half time, i went to jack-in-the-box for monster tacos. we sang karaoke in blood stained soccer shorts after the game, and i'm pretty sure it was my own blood that was on my shorts. i sang "nickel bags" by digable planets.

the moon is in jupiter. gamble on horses.

your lucky numbers are nine and eighty.


the wings of vengeful lust

we stab something. we kill other things. in the surrounding fields, we hold each other and chant and make trash can fires near the public bathrooms. we juggle soccer balls and drink the blood of our dead brothers out of gatorade water bottles. we will stab any player, on the other side of the field, and feel okay about it. we will make a knife out of a ball pump, and stick it through the eye of an opposing goalie. after the game, we will sacrifice anything young and full of innocence, so that our own power will grow, and fear will permeate and blanket our fords and hondas and nothing will stop us. We will go get beers after the game, and drink bud light from the goats-head chalice of chili's, and dedicate our lives to vengeful lust and plates of boneless buffalo wings or potato skins, both of which are under ten dollars and represent, to us all, murder and sexual pride.

blessed today are the blue eyes of the once living. play the local lotto in their honor.


an inspirational story for the team

norse legend

a dead man. another dead man, with no throat. A dead man without a stomach. over there, a dead man with no head. i assume that is a man. a dead man. a man who will die. a fire. a pool of blood, and another dead man. a dead man without an arm next to a dead man without two arms. two dead men minus three arms. a fire. a dead man with no legs. a dead man on fire. a dead man with an ax in a fire, next to a dead man with no head in a fire. a fire. a dead man. a fire. a dead man and another dead man. a dead man on top of a dead man, both with swords in their chests. a fire. a dead man. a fire. a pool of blood. a dead man's body with no arms or legs. a dead man that is covered with parts of other dead men. a dead man with a helmet on. a pool of blood. a dead man. a dead man. a dead man. a fire. a dead man with no eyes. another dead man. a fire. a pool of blood. a dead man in a fire. a fire. a man with no body. a fire. a dead man underneath eight other dead men in a dead man pool of dead blood. a dead man fire. a fire. a dead man.



if, at first, there is lightning, then, if we stab people with lightning rods, we can channel lightning into their bodies, and eliminate them from sporting competition.

today you will see a cheetah, and if you rip-out its still-beating heart, you will have better luck at powerball than most.


protein loading

our team eating meat. over the course of training, our team eating enough meat to spill out of our stomaches through our skin and muscle and through our spine in the back, out over our asses.

over the course of training, our team growing enough muscle from ingesting the muscle of animals, that other teams barely have enough room to stand on the soccer field. our team crushing the light out of the sun. our team winning the championship game by at least eighty goals.

over the course of two or three years, our team changing the temperature on the entire planet earth. our team building muscle by ingesting islands and oceans. our team being bashed by al gore. our team being denied by several prominent scientists. many years later, our team killing those scientists.


today is a day for meeting new people and respecting old friends

in kicking drills today, there will be a large and fat man eating a steak in the corner of the field. be afraid of this fat man. in the grease-stained recesses of your bowels, you will tremble with methane. you will feel his steak shiv dig into your anus and into your intestines and, eventually, pull its slag through your mouth and out onto a wet spot of grass near your gym bag.

today is a good day to show respect for animals you have slaughtered in the name of victory. consider slaughtering an extra pig or lamb, and showering your children in its blood.


benito's mud mask

instead of allowing our players to squelch the ass of relief in a nearby hutch of sport-bowels, we should instead consider their pungent victory-loaf like a gut-stained ice viking on all fours considers warmth.

a simple covering of one's body in rear composite will not only create a panic in the jowls of our enemy, but will assist our greater goal of box penetration and solid scoring attempts. like il duce covering himself in the virgin blood of fascism and hitler, it is an allegiance to shit that pays with the freshest grapes.

your lucky numbers today are 29, 56, and 78,000.