Zezaurian Basketball

First up: A massive, Jupiter-sized apology to all the people that had to see me in a rather skimpy pair of shorts the other day. My judgement was all kerflooey in the morning and I was only told just how short (and close-fitting) they were about an hour after leaving my house. An hour. I was flippin' miles away.

It's a bumhole wrenching moment when someone tells you they can see your asymmetrical balls jiggling about like a smuggled budgerigar when you're so far from home. I played it as best I could, but really just ended up walking like a crab in an attempt to conceal the fact that my legs have not advanced in any way since I was five years old, but my balls - god bless them - have never really stopped growing at all. (Side note: WHY GOD? JUST FUCKING WHY IS IT ALWAYS FUCKING ME?)

The worst moment was bumping into some friends. I had to do some crazy-intense eye contact whilst telling them ridiculously complex stories - all the while flapping my hands dramatically above my head in a desperate bid to stop them from peaking down and asking what the fuck I thought I was doing out in public.


...And that brings us neatly on to Zezaurian Basketball, which is the same as Normal Basketball, except played by us, The Zezaurians. And I gotta say, I'm pretty good at it and can even do that thing where you cross the ball under your legs. What I'm not so hot at is dealing with those fucking crazy bastard children from the estate, especially when dressed in a pair in shorts only really suitable for a rubbish twat or a malnourished infant.

I’ll happily admit that I’ve subscribed fully to the hysterical media portrayal of young people as terrifying, out-of-control sociopaths because, oddly enough, it turns out they actually are terrifying, out-of-control sociopaths. But I’m okay with that because Hercules Beefcake is forever following me around so I use him to handle these sorts of precarious encounters. But what about you? Are you going to be okay? What are you going to do when they try and steal your ball?

Not weeing in your underpants is a good starting point. Personally speaking, I couldn't have pissed my pants even if I had wanted to they were bound so tight. No. The only thing that'll really make you feel like a man again is tensing some muscles and striking a pose.

Be the Beefcake.

It's easy if you just make the effort. Think of those weird muscle guys that cover themselves in baby oil and pump up their biceps on stage. You think anyone messes with those guys? Of course they don't. So just do what they do, but as you tense that bicep - and this is crucial - use you finger to point to the nearest exit and tell them to "getouttahere" in a Brooklyn accent. That's what Hercules Beefcake does and no one ever messes with him.

If you really want to go crazy, tense the other bicep and throw in different direction in which you want the gang to leave – this works well if there are multiple exits, or if the gang members perhaps have different routes back home, which makes you look tough, but also helpful.

Trust us; four people all doing this on the B-Ball court is definitely enough to end any harassment. Okay, so it doesn't really work if your arms are made from spaghetti because you'll just look like a de-feathered chicken, but you could always just carry a big fuck-off knife and wave that around in their faces like a menacing cock.

Also, this update is has nothing to do with me losing my ball on Sunday. Nothing at all.

Mr Ninny.

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We were supposed to do an update on how the Zezaurians totally killed it at the Fleapit last Friday at their monthly Drunk Killer Table Tennis Competition, but as one Zezaurian in particular didn't do so well and pulled a massive, bed-wetting strop over it, you might not get to hear about how amazing I am, or how graceful I can be when I win things.