Competition is healthy, kids. There’s nothing quite like shattering the brittle hopes and dreams of your rival competitors with one fell swoop of victory. Inevitably, someone’s feelings will get hurt, salty tears will be shed and their delicious souls will be eaten alive, sans cutlery. So in the spirit of the 29^th Olympiad I bring you a different kind of competition, one that doesn’t rely entirely on sheer athleticism or intellectual prowess, but rather what sportscasters like to call “grit”, “heart” and “ginormous testicles.” An Everyman’s Olympics; a fantastical display of absolute and utter frivolity, done simply for the purpose of a lifetime of fame and glory for the victor and more importantly, vicious shame for the loser…Mr. Scott Strybosch. Before the Yankees and the Red Sox, the Leafs and the Habs, Good and Evil, Kenny and Spenny, the Tar Heels and the Blue Devils, the Israelis and the Palestinians, Jesus and Steven Seagal, there was Brandon…and there was Scott, a rivalry so great that it could only be settled through a series of pointless events that no one else really cared about. Yes…it is that big.

This is the most appealing photo I could find of myself…

Now, Scott and I have been friends (and I use the term loosely) for quite some time. The only thing, really, that has kept us going for the past four long and grueling years, is our competitive spirit. It mostly started out of an epic laziness that we both shared, a kind usually reserved for other animal species, such as the sloth or Roseanne Barr. A phone would ring, a doorbell would beckon, a friend would lie on the ground severely injured crying out for medical attention, and we both did not want to move from our place of quiet rest and reflection, so what, oh what could we do to decide who would get up off the couch? Only the most pure, strategically complex game known to man would be sufficient, and that game is Rock, Paper, Scissors. This quickly escalated into more nefarious forms of rivalry, such as video games, dirty mother jokes and other metaphorical pissing matches. So we decided, why not settle it once and for all, with a good ole’ fashioned decathlon…

Scott’s Been Ready for This His Whole Life

A Decathlon of Debauchery, if you will, fit for only the most mediocre of men, the averagest of Joes. The stakes are high, indeed. Besides eternal and everlasting glory for the winner, there is one small stipulation that both Scott and I have agreed upon. The winner will have the beautiful task of picking the middle name of our second child. The reason for it being the second is two-fold: one, because it will hopefully limit the amount of children we care for, which can only be a good thing for society as a whole, and secondly, because it also ensures that we put all of our futile faith in our first child. He/she will have to be the doctor, lawyer or sports star, while the second-born will be relegated to subhuman status, most likely becoming one of the many frequenters of day-time talk shows, whining about how his/her daddy gave him/her “Thundercunt” as a middle name because of quite possibly the dumbest bet since the dawn of time, or well since cunts first started to thunder. And, I’m also up for suggestions, people. You know I can’t do this on my own. Please send in your potential middle-names. They will be judged based on their comedic, alliterative and humiliating potential.

So with little time to waste, here are the events, kids. Mark them on your calendars.

1) Rock, Paper, Scissors

2) Foosball

3) Smash Bros. for the Nintendo Wii

4) Jr. Chicken Eating Contest

5) Charades

6) Basketball Triple-Header (1 on 1, Horse and 21)

7) Drinking Contest

8 ) Poker

9) Dance-Off

10) Scavenger Hunt

Tie-Breaker: Busk-Off: One hour to beg, borrow or steal as much money as possible.

May the most mediocre man win!