Debate of the Profrane – 9/1

* As per this assignment’s instructions, the following piece contains swear words that might be offensive to some readers. Proceed at your own discretion.

Ted popped the tab on his third beer and sagged back into the folding chair. The canvas back strained around his sweaty bulk and the flimsy steel tubes groaned. He stuck his hairy legs out into the drips of the rotating sprinkler watering the patch of brown grass making up Stan’s backyard.

“Anything on this weekend?”

Stan waved his already luke warm beer from his seat at Ted’s side. “Nothing but crap.”

Ted grunted in agreement and watched the ribbon of water patter against Stan’s stark sock tan.

“Football?”

“Preseason.” Stan spat a hunk of frothy spit onto the steaming bricks.

“Babies hardly play in those.”

“Just the sucky ones. That shit’s not even worth watching.” He drowned a mouthful of saliva with a gulp of brown brew. “Pennant’s not even started yet.”

“Hell, those guys don’t even look like athletes.” Ted rested his can on his bloated stomach and let out a belch. “Fat asses standing around.”

“Not as bad as golfers. Pompous jerks.”

“Their clubs probably cost more than my car.”

Stan snorted. “Your car’s a piece of shit.”

Ted glanced over at his mound of gashed steel and melting rubber parked at the end of the driveway. Sunlight bounded from the rust stains and dents.

“Not like I’m driving at Indy or anything,” he grumbled.

“Now that’s a fucking joke.”

“Racecars?” asked Ted.

Stan shook his head, causing the lines of sweat pouring down his face to wobble like his double chin. “How can you call it a sport if you’re sitting on your ass, driving in circles? Every fucking person in this city does that every damn day.”

“Not as bad as those soccer players.”

Stan glanced across the wavering air as he guzzled another mouthful.

“Fakers.” Ted pretended to twist his leg out of joint and let out a high pitched moan. “Bastards falling to the ground, whining like little girls.”

“But at least they’re doing something. Scoring goals or some such shit. Not running in circles like those fucking cars or those skinny-ass runners.” Stan squished as he adjusted his seat in the bucket chair. “I don’t get those other events though, where they’re throwing shit or jumping over crap.”

Ted shook his head. “I heard one guy in the Olympics wore gold shoes. Can you believe it? Gold fucking shoes?”

“Man,” Stan swallowed. He waved with a sausage finger. “Then you’ve got all those other rich man sports. Skiing, tennis, horse racing. Nothing any of us normal guys can afford to do.”

“You have to have a fortune just to start.” Ted tipped back the last of his beer. “Don’t get me started on how much they pay those damn basketball players now.”

“Did you see that crap this summer about that guy switching teams?”

Ted nodded and leaned into the cooler for another beer.

“You know the one good thing about all those sports?

Ted popped the top on the dripping can and took another swing. “The cheerleaders?”

Stan clanked his beer against Ted’s. “Damn straight.”

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