Date: February 12, 2020 at 8:54:37 PM PST
Now that Wolfie has released the ball, if I were the cochonnet, that little piggy who never had a chance to go to market, I would be squeezing my eyes shut, covering my face with my little trotters, praying that his boule hits the big dumbass steel boule next to me and leaves me out of it. I mean what have i ever done to El Lobo there. It's all well and good to give John Henry there a good schmakendinger once in a while, he's a total air head, nothing inside there. No chance of traumatic brain damage—no brain. While I, on the other hand, am the soul of sensitivity. I come from a long line of respectable boxwoods. I can trace my ancestry all the way back to the Buxaceae of the Marqueyssac gardens in France. While the metal-head here with his fake french accent is actually the dolt offspring of a Chinese-Thai mining corporation. I will admit there are a few chips in my paint, but one does the best one can under the circumstances. So next time you prepare to launch me into the suborbital flight of six to ten meters, have the good graces to touch the earth and remember it's not the size of the pig in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the pig that matters. Or something like that.
You never know what shinanigans these petanque players are going to be up to on any given day.
And they will try anything on a bet for a cocktail.
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