26 July 2013


By Curtis C. Chen

Welcome back to everyone watching our live broadcast of the 127th Galactic Harmony Games! I'm Gropflixnum Square, and with me here in the booth is Braznart Morchey-Morchey-Pop. Whaddya say, Braz? Still having fun?

My status is unchanged.

Hey, me too! Now, I gotta tell you, folks, I have seen some outrageous plays over my five decades of announcing for the Harmonies, but what happened in this last quarter absolutely takes the cake. What do you think, Braz? Is this going to be the most memorably disastrous Harmony Games to date?

Gropflixnum, my dear friend, you are as ignorant as you are sexually promiscuous. Do you not recall the final moments of game seven of the 64th Harmonies, when an entire starting line-up of humanoids failed to defend their home goal from the onslaught of a trio of mind-bonded lump-beasts? Or game three of the 96th Harmonies, when a single Zallgallian child scored the winning point against an all-star team representing Arbogastia's best and brightest? I hardly think today's tawdry events will rate even a footnote in the grand history of this heroic competition, the greatest athletic tradition in the known universe.

And that's why we have him here, folks, to give you that unique Pop-Snarquijan perspective! Thanks, Braz.

It would not disappoint me if you were to perish in a conflagration, foul Gropflixnum.

Okay. Folks, if you're just joining us, I don't know what to tell you! We are still in a time-out here in game six of the 127th Harmonies, and the referees are still conferring over how to call that last play. Not to mention the stadium medical teams have been treating the wounded players for nearly twenty centizhus, and we still do not have an update on their status. Even the coaches have been barred from entering the surgical tents, and you know that's gotta be driving them crazy!

That is unlikely, Gropflixnum, you polyp on the rectum of existence, since the Earth humans use telepathic implants for communication. Their coach is surely aware of every development as it occurs—

Hold that thought, Braz, here comes a ref to make the call!


Ouch, that's gotta hurt!

Gropflixnum, you are a genetically inferior specimen of questionable mental faculty.

Okay, folks, a quick recap of the action so far: the Earth humans are down by five points in the final six centizhus of the fourth quarter, and in what can only be described as an act of desperation, they finally unleashed their trademark "meltdown" attack! It's virtually guaranteed to generate some forward motion for them on the field, but always results in heavy collateral damage. Braz! Your analysis?

Thank you, honorable Gropflixnum. Taking all variables and available data into consideration, I believe—with better than 90% certainty—that your mother was surely an unlicensed sex worker, and more than likely a blood relation of your eventual father.

I meant your analysis of the game, Braz.

I know.


Photo Credit: Werner Kunz via Compfight cc