By Hercules Beefcake
So, hardly anyone turned up to 'Zezaurian Billiards'. Not even when we rebranded it to 'Zilliards' in an effort to Get Down With It. This meant that Non-Zezaurians had to join in. Ho hum.
I suppose nobody turned up for a few reasons; chiefly, because we're immensely unlikeable, but also because no one understands what bar billiards actually is. It's not snooker, it's not pool, it's not American pool, and it's not billiards. It's this:
The most frustrating, yet immensely addictive game known to man. It's sort of like cocaine; half the time you're happy and laughing and screaming like a bellend, but the rest of the time you're just disappointed whilst dealing with heart palpitations - but you can't say no to it. And it eats all your money.
I won't explain the rules because they seem to change after every shot you play or after every busybody on their way to the toilet tells you a new one. All you need to know is that if you knock that light-brown peg over, you lose all your points. That's quite heartbreaking when you're 1000 up on your opponent. It's even worse when you've been playing snooker since the age of ten and some girl that doesn't even know which end to hold a cue turns up and poos all over your game.
Dear Madame Fluke,
You didn't even want to play the stupid game, so don't do that silly little victory dance after wiping the board. Just because the landlord had his eye on you and gave us an entirely new rule that said that if you pot the final ball in the 'Impossible Pocket' you magically 'win'. The guy had the hots for you and would say anything to make you like him. He's a liar and a cheat and you're still rubbish.
P.S. Every time Drib Drab laughs, God kills a baby. Urgh.