In Defense of the Wave: A Memoir

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wave_defenseAfter a recent ecstasy and group sex binge in scandalous Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, I spent the following sunny and beautiful afternoon regaining my serotonin and my self worth watching a little league soccer match in Clearwater. Actually, I woke up behind some bushes to the sounds of whistles and ball-kicking, and having no idea why I was now on the opposite coast of Florida, but suspecting a hurricane had been involved, I decided it would be better if I just stayed put until the game was over, as to not frighten children with my sparkling eye makeup and fake blood oozing out of my bare chest’s nipples.

It was the usual merry mayhem: squealing children whose main interests in kicking the ball usually had something to do with the sound projectile plastic makes against shin guards, other children oblivious to the game, staring off into the sun and picking their noses, parents of both breeds having swinging ‘key parties’ six at a time in their SUV’s, switching off after every quarter of the game… you know how these soccer games go. But aside from the occasional berating of volunteer referees from the local high school teams and the obligatory juicy orange wedges served to the kids at halftime, this game sadly lacked the spirit of healthy and fun competition.

Staring at the goalie, who in turn was staring at the sun just before she was lying on the ground staring at stars after projectile plastic smacked her between her eyes (one point for the Barracudas,) I realized action had to be taken. We cannot let little girls continue to grow up missing front teeth simply because their parents are athletically apathetic, fuel-wasting, lubed up, group sex, double penetrating whores.

But how do you inject team spirit in a crowd that’s never before possessed it? Even if their child’s team starts on a winning streak, they lack properly established team cheers that could guide them through such ecstatic times, and instead result in jarring aural assaults of disorganized barks and moans that can utterly destroy a child’s self confidence. (Many crack addicts in rehab have cited such noises as factors that drove them to gradual self-destruction. No joke.)

Thinking quickly, I remembered the last words my scandalous crack-dealing boyfriend said to me earlier this weekend in Ft. Lauderdale, just before he blew his brains out, “The only thing that can give little league soccer tykes the strength to win a game in this crazy world… is if their fans do the Wave. [BANG]”

Of course! Everyone knows the Wave. No previous experience necessary!

Wave: Sporting Events = Numbers: Earth (Everyone speaks the language of numbers, see.) I got that one right on my SAT’s and I’m getting it right now! I tear out from behind the bushes and run onto the field, bleeding nipples and all, and start shouting “The Wave! The Wave!” Screaming parents run out onto the field and grab the appropriate panicking child, and then two high school sophomore refs tackle me and pin me down with their inhuman calf muscles and gag me with Umbro cloth.

I look up and see a very cinematically clichéd ring of sports related gawking heads (a couple referees, a bunch of kids chewing and sucking on orange wedges like dozens of lil’ Marlon Brandos) looking at me and my red pleather club pants. One of the calves loosens and someone removes the shorts from my mouth.

Still excited, I begin, “I know what’s missing! The Wave! Parents, you need to do The Wave for your kids! It promotes team spirit, and it’s easy to do!”

“Oh, you mean like at Devil Rays games, when everyone starts to lose hope after the second inning each night, and they do that thing that entertains everyone who’s lost interest in baseball?” asks little Bobby’s slut mother.

I reply, “Yes, that’s it! Isn’t it aesthetically pleasing, for both the fans and the players?”

“Wait a minute,” asks teeny-tiny MaryBeth’s porn star pop, “Do you mean to say that by doing the wave, the fans will build camaraderie with their neighbors and fellow PTA members, and that our children will see this and learn important social skills?”

A sophomore ref chimes in, “Not to mention it’s great exercise – standing up and sitting down over and over again. The calories you’ll burn!”

“Approximately 2, 250!” exclaims microscopic Johnny’s horny accountant father while holding up his pocket calculator – computation completed.

Draped over her dirty, dirty unmarried mother’s shoulder, the little goalie who was clobbered in the face earlier mumbles advanced reading level words through her unconscious trance, “The wave sends good vibes undulating through the crowd, dispersing positive Zen energy to all lifeforms.”

“Arf! Arf! Ruff, arf arf arf!” barks someone’s bichon frise.

“Yes the little goalie does sound like a zombie, doesn’t she Scraps?” Everyone laughs heartily at Mr. Buttlesworth’s comment.

“But what about the dogs and cats?” asks a stupid child.

“Yeah, what about all the pets?” chime in many stupid children. “How do the pets know how to do The Wave?” “What if they get crushed by everyone doing the wave??”

“Ah, but children, lest we not forget…” explains Mrs. Buttlesworth, who likes an occasional horse cock, “Remember in the tsunami how all the animals sensed the wave coming, and all ran to the tops of hills? Scraps and all his barnyard friends will know to scale the bleachers, and they’ll be just fine!”

Everyone smiles and starts chatting excitedly with fellow neighbors. The kids start jumping up and down and yelling, “Do the Wave! Do the Wave!” A ref blows his whistle, and everyone breaks – the parents into their lawn chairs, the kids in their positions. Play resumes, and a Wave begins on the sidelines. A stupid, bastard little Barracuda child sees the up and down movement of the fans, gets seasick, throws up, and teeny-tiny MaryBeth steals the ball from him! She takes it down field, and passes it to microscopic Johnny who kicks it right into the face of the little Barracuda goalie. Our home team heroes cheer when it is determined the injured goalie has a concussion; he is left crumpled in the goal net with his parents’ hopes that spirits from the ritualistic Wave will revive him.

I too am still lying on the field, and no one seems to notice. I can’t move because I’m tripping and my lips are cracked from dehydration and I’m sobbing from the lack of serotonin, but the Wave from the crowd cools me like a fan, so I am happy.

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