Raunche and I took advantage of our extended weekend by playing a gentlemanly game of tennis. I don’t know why people make such a big deal of weekends, extended or otherwise, because they should just become like Raunche and me. Every day is like Saturday for us, since neither of us actually has to get up in the morning and drive, you know, to work or anything.
But I digress so badly you must think this is my evil twin brother writing. Unfortunately I have learned a bad habit or two from David.

Raunche and I are both outstanding tennis players. Although we are both sophisticated gastronomes–we avail ourselves of the finer things in life, like old port and brandy and the finest cigars–we are such exceptional athletes that these things fail to affect our range or agility one bit. A quartet of young-looking commoners joined us on another court, and they were clearly overwhelmed by our playing. They never stopped talking about us.

I am sure they were jealous almost to the point of fulmination. Common men are unable to keep up with us. I almost felt sorry for them.

However, I digress again. After some intense cogitation during the game, Raunche and I came to the conclusion that the rules of tennis were quite obviously devised by people who never set foot on a tennis court. Often a ball bounces twice in the court yet remains perfectly hittable. So long as the ball remains hittable, you should be free to return it. The boundaries are also far too narrow. Frequently a ball can be as much as six feet out of bounds and yet perfectly returnable. The opposing player should therefore be obligated to return it.

Raunche and I decided that since we are the upper crust, after all, we should be able to disregard those rules. Rules are for commoners. We are above those. True athletes disregard the rules and render the game the best they can.

I am of course an expert in the sciences, but Raunche and I both noticed a phenomenon as we played. There would be times when we were perfectly positioned to return a volley, and we would swing with highlight-reel quality, but yet somehow the ball would find the biggest hole in the racket and go through. The holes in the net are much larger than the holes in the rackets, yet when we would on very rare occasions hit the ball into the net, the ball would never find a hole and pass through (after which, of course, the other player would be obligated to return the volley).

Perhaps another scientist has an explanation for this curious phenomenon. It of course couldn’t have anything to do with either my nor my esteemed colleague’s athletic ability. We are both exceptional athletes and accomplished tennis players, as I stated before. And, of course, when I state something (and usually even when Raunche states something), it makes it true.

The manufacturers of our sporting goods are no help. We are, of course, provided with our equipment on an evaluation basis, and as a courtesy, our vendors customarily permit us to keep the equipment after we have finished evaluating it. However, I was informed that the equipment comes without technical support. That is, of course, completely unacceptable. I may buy myself a law degree this week so I can pursue this matter further. Until further notice, I will eschew all tennis equipment other than Microsoft balls and Intel rackets and I recommend all my readers do so as well. I think everyone will agree that Intel has had quite a racket going for the past decade, and it wasn’t bad the decade before that either. Draw your own conclusion about Microsoft. There can be only one.

I will concede that there was one time when a ball got by me for good reason. I heard a jet engine overhead, and I looked up to spy a Lear jet. Commoner. Real men fly Tu-144s. It’s not a real airplane if its top speed is slower than Mach 1. I was about to say something, but when I looked down, there was a tennis ball at my feet. Raunche reminded me that commoners are hardly worth talking about. In that case, the overflying commoner did enervate my play. I would do well to learn to ignore them.