Last Updated on September 30, 2010 by Dave Farquhar
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.
David Farquhar is a computer security professional, entrepreneur, and author. He started his career as a part-time computer technician in 1994, worked his way up to system administrator by 1997, and has specialized in vulnerability management since 2013. He invests in real estate on the side and his hobbies include O gauge trains, baseball cards, and retro computers and video games. A University of Missouri graduate, he holds CISSP and Security+ certifications. He lives in St. Louis with his family.
So … does that mean raunchy is retro, or does it mean retro is raunchy? Discuss and evaluate in less than 500 words. Thank you class. Thank you linesmen, thank you ballboys.
I heard that they were considering chaning the rules of football. Once you caught the ball, no one could touch you until you enter the end zone and then it’s just so your teammates can dance with you in celebration.
I take it you were playing on a public court if “a quartet of young-looking commoners” took up residency in the court next to yours. Were you all slumming or was your own court getting repaved so you could have an image of yourself painted on the surface?
Ouch! Jeanne’s jumping all over you R Collins Farquhar IV.
Neither! We both had the images of ourselves on our private courts retouched, and the paint wasn’t dry yet. Patience is of course among my finest virtues, but Raunche was unwilling to wait so long.
Don: Big egos have been around forever. So I would say raunchy is timeless. And since retro occurred in time, that would mean raunchy was present in whatever time period “retro” means. So, therefore, the inevitable conclusion is that raunchy is retro.
(I’m pretty sure I got an A in my college philosophy class.)
Philosphy huh? Hum, didn’t realize they changed the spelling of that word…
I was cleaning some of my custom-design pipes, so I obviously had better things to do than to respond to this common tripe. But if I must…
First, R. Collins, I’ll let you in on a secret: those four gawking youngsters are pupils of mine. I teach my superior lifestyle to so many, though, that I cannot identify them by sight. I’ll only say that they were obviously very new to my program. I believe some of the less cultured would call these people “groupies”. Seeing as R. Collins is far too busy fantasizing about planes he does not own, I know they were not following him.
And David, if you cannot recall your grade in college philosophy, I dare say you learned nothing. And your obvious logical fallacy proves that. As a wise man once said, “An elephant never forgets.” And obviously, your brother and I are social elephants.
Mr. le Raunche de la Stenche…
I understand that a man of your esteemed wealth and mental capacity would have many admirers and pupils. However, I am still at a loss as how you would allow yourselves to be seen at a PUBLIC tennis court. Yes, yes– the touching up of both you and Mr. Farquhar’s portraits. But Heaven knows that between you and Mr. R. Collins Farquhar, there should be enough friends to keep you on a private court. But I do say “Bravo” if your public appearance was made to satisfy your many fans. How noble of you indeed. Your worth then– of which there is much, I’m sure– will have risen dramatically.
“Fantasizing about planes he does not own…”
Raunche is just jealous because I got the only airworthy Tu-144 left before he could. There are other airframes that could perhaps be purchased and refurbished, but the cost would be prohibitive. Unfortunately, if you want a luxury supersonic jet, there is no viable alternative.
However, it is reasonably easy to pick up a MiG. Raunche needs to get over his speed jealousy, plunk down the cash, and get one. Certainly he can buy a MiG for what it costs him to keep some of his favorite quotations (all coined by himself, of course) cut into his lawn so that they are visible from the air…
I am sure that it is not beyond even your common intelligence, Jeanne, to imagine having a higher-tier public court closed for private use? The keepers of these courts closed the gates and watched in awe at our playing. I imagine they had never seen two gentleman playing tennis in smoking jackets, smoking cigars, and ne’er spilling a drop of brandy from our snifters.
And R. Collins, I’ll just let you consider what I may have in that underground concrete hanger of mine. As for the lawn, yes, one can mow one’s insightful quotes when one has such a swath of land. Being of lesser wealth, I realize your major thrill is cutting your lawn with your “lawn tractor”, but I still wonder why you cannot hire help to do this (and try to civilize them, of course). Your lawn is merely the size of my side driveway, 15,000 square feet at most.