In Which The Irish Pugilist Has A Chance Encounter With Royalty

09.07.10 7 years ago 42 Comments

Having witnesst an exhibition slate markt by anemic haymakers and the stewardship qualities of a syphilite, the Bengali Tygers of Cincinnatus terminated my employment and cast your humble scribe, J.T. of the Fighting O’Sullivans, to the four winds. Fain I would say that I was not deserving of this fate.

Mine has been a peripatetic life. Mother O’Sullivan, may God preserve her ever-lasting soul, said such a quality was unbecoming of any Man not wishing to become a gypsy. Through it brings great shame, I have little choice but to be a Man of No Fixed Locus, roving from town to town in search of work to feed my ever-growing family. This is the plight the Good Lord has seen fit to assign me and I will carry out His wishes with esteem and pugnacity.

In several ways, this change is a mixed blessing. Life in Cincinnatus is best describt as an admixture of grief and more grief. Its citizens lack basic schooling or even rudimentary traits indicating exposure to civilization. Many are content to roam the street gnawing on refuse and rat leavings. And though I have bathed more times than I ever thought possible, I dread I will never remove this town’s odor from my personage. All this is to say nothing of the rampant criminality of the footballing squadron. Taken together, it forced me to excessive drink, which may help explain my disastrous play of late. In the end, however, I can bare a grudge along with my burden. I depart wishing well.

Faretheegood, Bengali Tygers of Cincinnatus. Long will I recall the scattershot and generally mentally incapacitated manner in which you conducted your footballings.

Fortune, it seems, would not allow me to stay downcast for long. Just as I arrivt at the shipping yards intent on getting a scrap ‘n’ a swig, a fellow waylaid me saying that he was a representative of a footballing squadron from the Western Territories: the Equine Lightning Bolts of Spanish Saint Didacus. Immediately, this struck me as glorious news. My greatest acts of footballing to date were done in the Western homosexual colony known as Spanish Saint Francis. I accepted his offer without delay and the next thing I knew, I was in the steerage car of a westbound train trading blows with vagrants whose expressions were not to my liking.

When I alight in Saint Didacus, I discovert the quarterbacking position I was offert was yet another subordinate one. A minor setback, but a Man does he must to earn his daily liquid bread. Just as I playt understudy to Good Sir Palmer in Cincinnatus, I am expected to do the same with the Horse Bolts. Only now I am honort to report that the top quartered back for this squadron comes from regal lineage. Never previously having the privilege to meet royalty, I togged myself in twice-washed pantaloons and my only shirt of complete integrity to report for duty.

Picturet with runner back Darren Sproles.

I must say, though, that royals are of a bizarre sort. Upon greeting, after a curious request to inquire an indeterminate question of an unspecified party, this Man loudly and emphatically demandt that I henceforth refer to him only as King Philip the Laserfacet. One expects a measure of vainglory when dealing with kings and queens, but this was on a level far beyond anything I was prepart for. It was almost as though he were the pagan god of vainglory itself.

He heaved grievous insults at me without provocation. He used profanity that would ruddy the cheeks of even the foulest lout of the shipping yard. He referred to Mother O’Sullivan as a dried out goat’s penis to be hung on the wall of the town’s most filthy tavern and used as target practice for darts.

Few men have spoken of Mother O’Sullivan in such a way and not been rendert unconscious by repeated haymakers. I was readying myself to give satisfaction when King Philip cocked back his arm and released a pass that scudded the heavens for what seemed like days. I could not turn my eyes away from it. I could not tell you exactly how long it stayed in the air, for I passed out from lack of sleep and nourishment before it descendt back to Earth. That is, if it ever did.

It is now that I understand the power from which the crown derives its rule. Heretofore, I thought royalty to be only the product of a corrupt social structure bent on oppressing the Irish. I have been disabused this notion. The king, obscene and full of vainglory he may be, is possesst of a power beyond the reckoning of any of us. I know better than to cross him.

This week, KSK is raising money for Livestrong and the Wounded Warrior Project through Captain Caveman’s participation in Fight Gone Bad. To learn more, click here. To donate, click here.

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