Tennis for Tampons

So I worked for a while at one of the Philadelphia-area “Cricket Clubs.” I won’t say which one so as to prevent any slander/libel lawsuits that may or may not come my way. However, I will say it is located in the northwestern section of the city proper, so, figure it out on your own. And as a few of them work with me now, I would like to avoid any blanket, sweeping statements; however, this is what it is, and that is:

If you are a member of one of these clubs you are a disgusting pile of dog shit, less worthy, in my opinion, of the entitlements you take for granted and which you condemn others so easily for taking advantage. I know, that was a wordy sentence. Let me break it down for you, dumbasses: Just because mommy and daddy paid your way through everything, including this club, does not give you the right to look down your nose at the below-average person on collecting food stamps. In fact less; further: at least those people have poverty or a lack of education to explain their aberrant, anti-social behavior. What are your excuses?

Let me explain: take a walk sometime at midnight through the men’s locker room, and here is what you will see: towels littered everywhere, despite the fact there is a bin for used towels. Un-flushed toilets. Used condoms. Empty bottles and plastic cups. And if you think it is any different in the “ladies” locker room, let me tell you: no, it is far worse. Won’t even go there.

And that’s just the start. Check out the patio on a Sunday about 11p.m. after a warm June day/evening: trash, trash, and even more trash, like none of these people have ever even heard of a wastebasket. Literally, squirrels would come to eat the lemon and orange and lime rinds. So I suppose in that way they were “recycling” although I‘m sure that none of them ever considered this as such. I swear, if it were socially acceptable, these people would just wear gigantic diapers, shit and piss themselves silly, and then hire a nanny to do the wiping and changing. Thank god it isn’t.

Then there was the “deal” we (the "regulars" and I, as if there was anything "regular" about them) worked out. That is, I’d pretend to like them and “buy” them drinks. Then after they had signed their cheque (they never paid on the spot, just a bill at the end of the month) I’d add all the drinks they had on to it. Dumbasses. Why is my bill so high? Duh, you’re an alcoholic and you drink too much. An entire fifth of Canadian Club is way too much for anyone, and I don’t care how much Diet Pepsi you mix it with, it still has a lot of calories in it. Why am getting so fat? See the above. Oh and how come I’m not buying you any drinks? Ever hear of a gratuity? No? I’m not surprised. Yes, the $8 an hour I’m making is real swell, Mr. Wilson, but barely enough for rent gas money for my hither and thither to school every day.

And that was just the squash players. The tennis people were far worse. More than once I had to tell a group of thirty or more of them that, you see, I am by myself, and there are thirty of you. Queue up; get in line, one at a time. There’s an old joke: Black guy finds a magic lamp, he rubs it, a genie comes out and says’ “I grant you three wishes.” So, first the guy says, “I want a million dollars.” Poof, a cool mil appears. Next, “I want a trick-ass ho that looks like Janet Jackson.” Poof, JJ clone appears. Finally, I want to be white, uptight, and outta sight. Poof: Genie turns him into a tampon.

So one day, my buddy Gerry the waiter and I are working a banquet upstairs, and we are looking out of the balcony windows, watching the tennis players, dressed in their horrible, atrocious white-fasion-fuax-pas tennis outfits, making their horrible, atrocious attempts at tennis, and I’m snapping pictures ‘cause in a weird way it was a nice scene, and I tell him: Gerry they’re tampons: white, uptight, outta sight, and sucking the blood out of me. Totally cracked us both up, yah good one! There really is no more of a fitting metaphor than that.

Now I’m going to subcategorize for a minute: most of these people had some degree of money, I’d guess a personal income of $75,000 per individual per year and above. These were the neuveu riche. Then there were the real old-money ones, the genuinely rich, the ones who worked as a hobby. Neuveu riche: asshole lawyers, doctors, brokers, the worst of the worst no matter what ball they chased around what court.

Genuine millionaires: nicest people you could ever meet. Took time to read. Books, magazines, newspapers, anything with some kind of depth or information. Didn’t look down their snouts. Took time to learn your name. Actually gave you an envelope at Christmas without ever asking for anything gratis.

So to those very few of you there were there at that time and place: Thanks.

Neuveu riche: generally would say things like “Well I’ll do what I want, this is my club.” I heard that so many times, I eventually read the Club Member’s Handbook or whatever and read all of the by-laws.

Turns out, it is not “their” club at all: they are simply dues-paying members of an established institution, entitled to the rights and responsibilities their monthly dues purchase thereof, but no more than that. The old money, which goes for the perpetuation of the club, is entrusted in a bank someplace, thereby guaranteeing the club’s existence in perpetuity, and has been entrusted there since the establishment of the club.

So, after I read that, the next time I heard the phrase “My club,” I had had that subparagraph memorized, and repeated it.

I love out-lawyering a lawyer, especially a snotty, tennis-playing one.