Am I getting old? Is my eyesight going? Are my standards slipping? I don’t think so. The ref is driving me mad. I’m smitten.
OK, so the game is somewhere past amazing. His four cushion shot in traffic is Chinese arithmetic, squared. I missed it, just like all the other shots, because the referee was standing in the frame.
You know; nunchuk skills, bowhunting skills, computer hacking skills. Useful stuff like that. I mean, look at this dork. He can’t even land a high five, yet he has managed to find someone presentable enough to put in a sparkly dress and display on a pool table. The man is wearing batting gloves and shiny pants for Christ’s sake.
But, he has sweet skills, and that’s all that matters. His sense of style doesn’t come into it. He could dress as ludicrously as he likes, and still pull a bus-load of babes. It’s because of all his sweet skills and hookups. Never doubt the sweet hookups.
Erm, is he wearing a billiard glove? Is there such a thing as a billiard glove? How would anyone get anyone else to lay down a bet on some impossible pool shot if they’re wearing a pool glove? And you’re not supposed to wear a vest that says you’re some sort of pool shark. You’re supposed to wear a t-shirt with “Vince” on it in big block letters.
(Thanks to reader and commenter Fred Z for sending that one along)