Dispatch from the Jungle: Precise Location Unknown
Friends, allow me to indulge your curiosities:
Your first reaction to Natty's question may be to assume that, because of my extreme aversion for short limbs, I hate Wee Man because he has tiny, fat legs. Well, my friends, if that's the arrow you’re shooting, you missed the target by a mile. No, my disdain for Wee Man is not affected by his physical appearance. Let's be honest, he did not choose to be so diminutive in stature, and as many of you know, the wrath of my hatred only falls upon those who are different from myself because of choices they make, like choosing to be a Jew. While I'm not certain whether Wee Man chooses to eat pork, I do know that he has chosen a life of douchebaggery. No one made him shave his farty head, no one forced him to dress like a tool, and certainly, there is no person other than Wee Man who can be blamed for his decision to hold himself in such high regard in various celebrity circles because of his affiliation with a second-rate show on MTV. Wee Man is a fake! He's never contributed anything positive to society, and he's drinking his life away like so many Big Gulps. In fact, the only thing that Wee Man has going for him is that he is not Tim Boling.
Now regarding that fateful intramural battle, I remember it started like any other game upstairs at the Beck Center. Natty was shooting threes from Winchester when he should’ve been blowing by the rest of us, Runs was ball-fakin like an m-f’er, and T.Monk was wearing the ugliest shoes known to man. As for myself, I was running around getting red-faced, averaging my customary 2 baskets per game. Then, what started as your typical held-ball transformed that game into the stuff of myth. To my recollection, the Devastators fired up another brick, and I extended my outstretched arms to grab the rebound. At that same instant, the rotund mound of rebound that was Tim Boling got real ballsy and decided to physically challenge my outright possession of the ball. It was in that very moment that Mr. Boling went from being just another Sig to being forever branded as my arch nemesis.
In a fit of rage rivaled only by that of Bruce Banner, I violently ripped the leather from his chubby grasp. Then, in a rare moment of unbridled anger, I launched the ball at his unsuspecting head while simultaneously spitting in his ear. As a result, the landscape of intramural basketball at Transylvania University was forever altered. You may be asking yourselves “Is Leonard proud of this uncharacteristic act of intramural brutality?” The answer, my friends, is a resounding no. However, it would certainly be a disservice to everyone involved if I were to alter the truth. Thus, the legend lives on.
Also, it’s really hard to get a good hotdog out here, so if one of you guys could stop by Sam’s on Limestone and send me a couple dozen, it would be much appreciated. I know not when I shall return, but the promise of my name living on through this story is all the comfort I need here in my home atop the trees.
With Sincerest Regards,