TAMI'S U.P.A. NEWSLETTER ARTICLE
SLUTS ABOUND IN MEXICO
AND NO ONE GOES TO JAIL
Cinco de Mayo week found Ultimate in Mexico on a sunny and cool-breez-ed bay as
forty players infiltrated Club Med, Sonora Bay, for the virginal Luxury Format
tournament. After eight balmy days and seven starry nights of cerebral-numbing
activities, everyone went home saddened but axiously anticipating the naked
photos on the web.
The Singular Luxury Ultimate Tournament (SLUT) was a foolish thing deigned by
several sardonic players who did brainfart the ultimate Ultimate experience,
including every indulgence a player might command.
The social outcasts were corralled by Jesse The Body Raphael of Nappytime,
Callingforya. The disco competition was run down by Dave Mo, master-of-all and
a top Hat kind of dude, and... [ bleeeeep! ]. Two teams were found distributed
randomly each morning with a play-thing, including ones with hats,
primitve/futuristic ones, body painted ones, and of course, Mess.
In some disorder to promote positive (mathematicians would say "infinite")
spirits of the C2H5OH sort, players were adorned about their mid-parts and with
the slippery cerebellum-covering Silver Herradura O' Offense or the Sauza Gold
O' Defense to minimize future spectacular plays. Players were never once
permitted to call home, and price of an immediate shot of tequila was 4 blues
and 1 red. (In five days, there were a total of eight calls made, and one call
of "ow". Yet somehow the bottle was always not-so-mysteriously drained down our
throats, noses, eyes, and shirts, by game's end).
The final smash, two teams, dessicated, towing the tour de menthe 4-2-2
undefatigueable party-in-your-pants, dubbed their spirit liters: Lord Joe 2
Kopecks of CND (eh?), and Queen Jody Bouzitupbaby of ToHellURide, Colorado.
The Lord's fiends wan, the tournament was for him won 't the party [--
Shakespeare].
The sunset auras bribed cocktails and Cower, classical freestyle or glowsticks,
to the only music on the west beach. Some siesta-times there were accounts of
locally produced margaritas, and clothing-non-functional sunbathing on a wholly
commandeered Z Pi in Z Sky deck. [Federales are still counting beach lounges,
shh!]
Stumbing after the finals, the players disjointed in the Disco Lymphatics,
matching the competitive desire of men with the nuturing desire of women (?) in
triple-time hoary disc events: Butthead (a Montezuman variation of fluttery
guts), Ice Cream Headache (with a suspect panel of five judges), and
I-Smash-Z-Guts (don't talk back).
Each evening at the dining stall, the Herculean buffet binges were well flowed
by beer or tequila or beer or tequila or beer, the two primary aperitifs. The
competitions were relayed: "Welcome to Monday Night Boat Race" against the
Volleyball Pretentious, and the "Doomed to Gravity Connundrum Course," a team
table-chafing exposition, that fook'd the french dining staff right in their
eyes.
The hospitable staffs of Club Med met or exceeded all expectorations (ouch!).
The food was valorous, splendiforous, and decorous. His staff was most
facilitating and indulged my excesses that would have 69'd a tournament party
with its indecent locations. But the piece de pie, dark chocolate forest cake,
creme eclair, and mint sherbert came when we discovered that the Club had five
disc golfer corpses sitting in a storeroom, and no one knew their scores. An
hour later we had detente discourse, and by the end of the lay we cursed three
times three times three times three (broken record).
Beach at night by the disco a certain SLUT had it with a specious smarty,
invoking the spectral Curses de Med-o in confrontation and a tragic show (of
which more may yet be said!). Sweet nothings colluded with the glowing night
dispersion of fire trails perfused, by Tami, traces of Shakti crude, her fists
flying for all.
Speculative tour da force nosegays to: Jan "Boom Boom" Grubber for swindling the
spirits away, Tom "32 cents" Clawfoot for making his fifteen-under rout of Al
et.al., on to fie his fitful mirth play (because he kissed the wort blotto),
Brian ICanOnlyIf and Mary OhOhOhMy'ers for spending their money so soon with us,
Al LightOnHisFeet for an imposing about-face come-back-up-spit, and everyslut
for drinking the most tequila ever of a non-Hawaii non-Calgary non-Boulder
non-Chicago non-Worlds tournament.
The thirsty players arrived, acquired few or none of the other diseases imported
from Switzerland, Mexico, Canada, and well, San Fransisco, most importantly; and
we left behind a body-hugging, tightly knit afghan eagerly to lie in wait for
the year 2000 tourniquet.
Slander and blackmail materials of the Soccerfield Lightstick Ultimate Trapezoid
can get lost on the web at: www.slut.com.
