7 Signs Your Pickleball Club Is A Death Cult
The Gatorade tastes like Kool-Aid. You don’t have to be a sommelier to know the difference: Gatorade tastes like colors, and Kool-Aid tastes like pure electricity. If you feel a jolt from the electrolytes, do not walk toward the light. Gag yourself with your paddle until you throw up their lies.
There’s candle wax everywhere. Carelessness with candle wax is a telltale sign of a titillatingly erotic brand of evil. If the playing surface looks less like a repurposed tennis court and more like the music video for “Livin’ La Vida Loca,” watch out for black cats and voodoo dolls.
Someone brought a nervous goat. Nothing in the rulebook says a goat can’t play pickleball. Goats are athletic, charismatic, and because of their diet, terrific trash talkers. But if they’re nervous, beware: The vibes are off and things are about to get sacrificial.
Castration is encouraged to enhance performance. No matter how much faster they claim you’ll run, you should never leave a match with less flesh than you came with. “Leaving it all on the court” is an idiom, not an edict regarding your pickleballs.
Registration requires a blood oath. If you ask for a pen to fill out your emergency contact information and they hand you a knife, you have found yourself in a classic blood oath situation. Repeat after me: It’s John Hancock, not John Hemoglobin.
You’ve been sidelined from action because your brand got infected. Turf toe. Pickle elbow. Bruised egos. All are common injuries in the pickledome. But you shouldn’t miss matches due to an inflamed brand. Hopefully, treating the seared flesh with petroleum jelly makes you slippery enough to escape before the slaughter.
The rulebook is bound in human skin. Binding the limited rules of pickleball (see: goats) in long pig is a waste of a perfectly good human sacrifice. The only guidelines contained in these epidermic tomes are ingredient proportions for soul-stealing potions. How do you know if it’s genuine human leather? Go ahead, take a lick.
