may 27th, 2025

Let’s try some fiction.

Here's Part I of my attempt to write something with a beginning/middle/end:

And to think…all this started because of a goddamn cinnamon roll.

It’s July of 2021. Coaches school. The convention center in San Antonio. Hotter than fuck; I’m hungover as fuck. 

It’s 6:45 and, even though I coach inside backers, my head coach has insisted I be at the 7:30 AM deep-snapping breakout session being presented by some quality control GA from Southeast Bumblefuck State. Does my boss hate me; does he think it’s hilarious to send me, and only me, to an early morning gathering after insisting I stay up with him in order to finish a bottle of Fireball; is he a noodledick idiot that thinks the term “5 technique” is slang for ass fucking? Yes, he is. 

Oh, and you know what else he is? A goddamn breakfast thief, that’s what. We made a 3AM Whataburger run, and I specifically asked him to leave at least one bacon, egg, and cheese taquito for me to eat on the way to the special teams’ circle jerk. Instead, I wake up to find a hilarious note on my door from him reading, “I.O.U. one waterburger, lol.” Son of a bitch…I make a beeline to the parking lot to take a shit on top of his truck, then remember he drove one of our school district’s vehicles down here. Revenge, unlike the massive morning-after grumper that’s invaded my lower intestines, would have to wait. 

After cleansing myself of the cinnamon whiskey, Busch Light, and taquito mélange in the most sweaty, gross, and undignified way possible, it was time to find something to eat. I’m at a convention center in a large American city, so my options were limited to something with next to zero nutritional value, or a $47 premade sandwich. I’d lost close to $300 the night before betting on which dirtbag co-worker of mine would first suggest going to a titty bar (rookie mistake: I bet against the O-line coach), so the cheaper option it was. I get in line for a pastry cart that is 12-people deep, and immediately regret doing so. Why? Because not three seconds after, Coach Walcott appears in line right behind me.

Coach Walcott coaches for our biggest rival, North Academy of River Dale School (NARDS for short). NARDS has beaten us 12 years in a row, and the closest of those games was 31-20. They’re a bunch of rich, white, entitled asshats, but they’re rich, white, entitled asshats that are really good at playing football, so I’m not too proud to admit that there's some professional jealousy on my end. And also a bit of curiosity, too, as dude has a crank the size of a bowling pin that he LOVES to show off by wearing the most extra-medium Bike coaching shorts anyone has ever seen; the very ones he has on today, in fact. How tight? Tight enough that you can see scrotal definition. Tight enough that you can tell his circumcision went flawlessly. Tight enough that you can literally see the blood streaming through the veins in his shaft. I want to look away, but I can’t; I won’t.

Here’s the most aggravating thing about Coach Walcott, though: he’s the nicest dude I’ve ever met. The kind of asshole that will roll up on you in a food line before 7AM and say, “Good morning, coach; always nice to see a familiar face at these things.” LIKE, WHAT THE SHIT, BRO? Take your civility and your happiness and your massively gorgeous dangalang and go fuck right off. I’m trying to wallow in my little cocoon of self-loathing and regret this morning, and you and your vibes are stirring up a storm of good cheer that I'm not prepared to endure. Although, had I been in a state of mind to be completely honest with myself right then, I’d have acknowledged another storm stirring up that I wasn't ready for: the one in my pants...