I will eat your soul in badminton

Today my company has its annual picnic. I'm not exactly sure what to expect. There's a pool, but I can't take my shirt off in public. There will probably be adult beverages, but I can't get too drunk. There will be food, but I can't gorge myself in front of my coworkers. However there will be badminton and I'm the best fucking badminton player in the whole damned state.

How did I get so good at such a pussy sport? My answer is in two parts. First, your face is a pussy sport. And second, I took a class for it in college. Yeah, while you were sitting in Medieval and Renaissances Studies 110: Western Encounters with Islam or concealing guns in your glove compartment, I was swaggering around the gym, kicking people's asses in badminton; that's how awesome my school is.

Sure, half of my what-surely-must-be-a-school-record 46 singles badminton wins came against girls who didn't want anything to do with badminton (or a sweaty, screaming, overweight badminton ace) but a win is a win and I still beat some pretty stiff competition. Seriously. Just ask the former Division I-AA All-American defensive end who was the badminton instructor. I wiped the floor with that 6-4, 280 lbs. meat stick. It wasn't very hard either.

What? Your asking about my 1-2 record against that one kid in the class? Well, that doesn't count. He was in shape.

So anyway I'm going to burn so many bridges today playing badminton they might as well call me Nero.

What's up 12-year-old daughter of a junior partner? Bam! Your done, NEXT!

How's it going morbidly obese and repulsive staff accountant? Bam! Get the fuck out of here, NEXT!

Think you can hang with me unpaid summer intern? Bam! Tell your girlfriend I said what's up.

That's it, I'm done, retiring undefeated and untied. See you Monday, fuckers.