Oh, how the intrepidity of thine fanboys croaked, collectively disgorging imbecilic opprobrium quondam like they procured voluminous moons heretofore.

In the Media Cup on one unescorted solar cycle bestowed by the Romans, the Hacks of The Daily Orange constrained the radio fanboys of WAER, 41-22. Upon desistance of the rudimentary parcel of sport, the fanboys had stowed the brownball singularly betwixt the ferric halo. Alas, amidst the bisected pause, the Hacks apperceived prodigious pluck inward the viscerous of the dungeon within the coliseum bestowed Carrier Dome.

Said senior staff writer Sam Fortier of the embankment: “Like I’ve never had more hair on my chest.”

The Hacks’ thwarting endeavor bred from dewy rampart cunning. Abdicating the trapezoidal coalescence, the quintuplet on the plaza caged their corresponding litigants onliest. This stratagem yielded corollary most prominently upon copy editor Eric Black levitating to biff the objective remotely from the unpropitious slinger.

As the orb upreared beyond the purlieus, the Hacks’ zealot confederates vociferated from the retrograde of the plaza. The zealots paraded prognostic placards proclaiming chattels like “He Protecc, He Attacc, He’s Eric Black.” When Black forsaked the sphere, this prognostication rang unfeigned.

“I wasn’t letting anything soft make it to the rim,” Black decreed.

Sturdy parapets girded the Hacks’ predilection of permeating the fanboys citadel. Ofttimes, the Hacks sphere delegate protruded into the fanboys ramparts, verifying ringent leeway.

As the Hacks bombarded the fanboys structure, their whacks loitered eminently overhead, customarily tottering unhindered. Senior staff writer Tomer Langer incandesced eminently by disposing himself remotely as a pariah of the cogency altering demarcation.

The roundure sought his mitts, and the Israeli clobberer discharged a crescenting conjecture shooting through the snare. As the undertaking became complete, the zealots doxologized, “He-brew Ham-mer!”

“WAER was still in scramble mode,” Langer tormented, “and left me wide open beyond the arc. I knew the minute it left my hands that it was good. The ball sailed smoothly through the net, almost foreshadowing how easy it was to win the game that night.”

While the perceived flat circle vamoosed, The D.O. cut capers its stash of Hacks nonetheless fastening the summation.

With a trifling four 60-second intervals tarrying, Hacks Langer, Fortier and Joe Bloss enlisted to the plaza, romping as a trio in the waning eclipse of their orbit.

Langer brickbatingly tower hoofed when endowing the orb. Bloss offal smeared the repugnance to mondo applicability. Fortier impassed his ambition despite the frolic twilighting.

“In past years we lost to WAER, and it stung,” Langer said. “We made it our goal to not lose on our senior year. We could have played every day from now until graduation and WAER wouldn’t have won a single game.”

“This was only my second time experiencing Media Cup,” Bloss said. “Why was the other team so bad?”

“Shellacking sh*t-talking WAER schmucks is a crowning life achievement second to none,” Fortier said.

The postliminary saturnalia hied at the tintinnabulum, as zealots and Hacks paralleled onto the plaza to tranquilize in the jocundity. To the ancillary, Langer and Fortier interplaited, sousing in the trice.

W.F. Whence is a germanificated staff sculptor for The Daily Orange, where he re-germanificated to sculpt this glistening prose.

Published on March 5, 2018 at 9:43 pm