Extreme Versions of Boring Sports
You know what makes a badass? A sense of danger. A willingness to not only go the extra mile, but to look back and punch that mile in the face for avoiding your phone calls. Because you’re pretty sure it’s been getting them.
Look, a lot of us aren’t destined to be extreme BMX bikers, or lumberjacks. The world needs accountants and guys who can’t ride bikes for some reason. I’m sure of it. But there’s a lot of sports out there that just aren’t getting the ‘extreme’ treatment that they need. I’ve assembled a list (with my bare hands) of the most boring sports and how to metaphorically “Mountain Dew” those bitches into a Redbull fueled festival of bearded fuck-punching that they should have been all along.
Loosen your belt and stick your thumb in your ass because here comes:
Extreme Fucking Bowling (TM) has one rule. The pins go down — no matter the cost. But we’ve made that shit harder. The pins are double the size. Forged from tungsten and lead-filled for added weight. You would be hard pressed to tackle one to the floor let alone knock it down with the weak kinetic force of a paltry 16-lb bowling ball. That’s why we’ve upped the balls to goddamned octagons of fury. 8 sides, barely rolls, 48 pounds, sharp edges. That shit is tough to toss.
Also, we waxed EVERYTHING. Not just the lane; the floor, the entryway, the bathrooms, every bitch-ass object you can see is slick as FUCK. You’ll be ice-dancing around like a bunch of mountain men trapped on a mercury slide in winter. To top that off, there’s a live bear defending the pins. We got a whole bear, and he is pissed.
The only victory is scoring 300 or killing the bear with one blow. Everything else makes you a loser. Fill your fist with hydrogen and leave it floating in the air, because this my soft friends, is EXTREME-FUCKING-BOWLING.
We’ve waited WAY too long to overhaul the game of golf. That time is ended and it won’t be getting back up again without breathing through a tube. Holy-Shit Golf (TM) consists of more of everything. 50 holes, 50 players, 50 balls, and 50 big nasty hornets nests. Every player lines up with a hornets nest and a golf-ball. First you hit the hornets nest as hard as you can and then you drive the ball 200 yards or you start over. That’s step ONE.
Sand traps? How about DEATH TRAPS!? Like pits of lava. And yes there is a provided club to get out of the situation! It’s made of adamantium and wishes (good luck). Or how about the clothes. If your forced to dress like a jackass anyway why not really amp that up? All bondage spikes and pyrotechnics that your opponent has control of to distract you.
Step two. Each hole is roughly 30 miles away from the previous one. You will be given, no food, no water, no quarter. You don’t even know where the hole is. By the time you find that damn thing, several days may have passed. Each hole is smaller and better defended. By the 40th hole you will be beating the shit out of trained tigers to take a shot at it, and trying to force a 2 inch ball into a 7 millimeter crevice.
The final hole literally does not exist, you and any remaining golfers will duel with clubs until one of you dies or spontaneously grows a beard, on your chest. The remaining victor will be allowed to drink from the Cup of Justice, which is filled with scorpion-venom and 500 year old scotch. Thus far nobody has survived this, but I imagine it’s fucking delicious. All of this will be televised and each player will represent a country that is not of his/her origin. It’s a clusterfuck of swinging metal, tiny balls and so many hornets you will shit yourself counting them.
Sure you’ve tossed around the old plastic disc a few times. Had a few laughs. That’s because your soul wears a diaper and your pussy put a bow on it. It’s time for BALLS OUT FRISBEE.
Number one, the disk is out. Now it’s a giant bladed disc, which is equipped with rockets, spinners, lasers and has the holy bible duct-taped to the bottom of it (for luck & weight). Upon launch (or ‘throwing’ for you non-awesomes) it will reach speeds of up to two sonic-booms and then lodge itself into whatever lies in it’s path. Your job is to not only catch this flying death wheel, but to wrestle it to the ground, quote a war hero and re-launch it at the next player.
You might think these players need armor of some type. That’s because you live on a hippy flower planet, but this is planet America, country: EARTH. These guys play naked and covered in motor-oil. 10w-30 because that’s good enough for a Buick. You might think that these guys have to stand pretty far apart to deal with a 1400 mile-an-hour chef’s set of spinning death-knives.
NO YOU DICKLESS BALLERINAS. They play 8 feet apart, standing on each others parents. That’s right, your feet remain planted on the mother and father (or grandparents if a parent is missing) of your direct opponent. If for one sparkling moment your feet touches the ground, you will be sterilized with an arc-welder and given no more chances to breed your failure in the wild. If for some reason you aren’t equipped with parents, orphaned children will be provided.
Upon 300 consecutive catches, the players will then have to eat their way through a redwood tree, to an American flag hidden at it’s center. They then have 30 seconds to reach orgasm to a dub-step version of “America the Beautiful” onto the 50th star, or the game starts anew. Now that’s national pride.
Not Extreme Enough?