Like Men

“That's disgusting.”

“Why is that disgusting? It's not like I have herpes or something. A razor is a razor!” Tom squealed.

 “Why can't I use the same one on my face?”

“Um...no. That's fucking jank,” Jerry returned while comparing Seattle and Golden State.

“Jank? Who the fuck says jank?” Ted attacked.

“Uh...black people.” Jerry returned. His chunky, pale hands struggled with the SNES pad.

“Black people?” Ted paused, pulled his eyes from the old CRT. “You do know this is Iowa, right?”  Jerry's many chins rolled in protest. He was looking at the Pacers now. Reggie Miller's 3-point rating was ridiculous. Hard to pass up. Charlotte was nearly impossible to refuse – Larry Johnson and Alonzo Mourning! Plus, those bitchin' aqua jerseys? Enough to give even a heterosexual man a semi.

“How do you not take Chicago?” Tom protested.

“Fuck that. No Jordan,” Jerry rolled. He always sounded like he had a mouthful of gelatin.

“Jordan's overrated. The game's better without him,” Tom stated proudly.

Jerry sat down the controller like he would a low-fat snack. “Overrated?” His meaty head shook in shock. “OVERRATED?”

“Yeah. He was good, but the idea of him being some Christ-like messiah to the sport was invented to sell sneakers. Scottie Pippen won the same number of championships and he didn't bitch, whine, and play baseball with Bugs Bunny,” Tom continued, “Larry Bird and Magic Johnson are both lightyears ahead of Jordan. If you want to look at Bill Russell and Wilt Chamberlain's numbers, you can't even make an argument.”

“What? That is bullshit?” Jerry shook with anger.

“Nah, Wilt Chamberlain was the bomb,” Ted interjected, “averaged over 50 points a game for an entire season. Plus, he fucked like 20,000 women.”

“I don't care how many women he fucked!” Jerry's pink face was reddening by the second. “He's not as good as Jordan! Jordan won 6 championships!”

“Russell won 11,” Tom pointed out.

“Yeah, in an era where the league consisted of 5-foot-tall, skinny white guys!”

“Not helping you're whole not a racist argument.” Ted jabbed.

“Oh, I'm racist? Would a racist pick the Utah Jazz?”Jerry spat, “Because Karl Malone looks pretty fucking black to me!”

“I don't know,” Ted started, “he's an avid proponent of gun rights and a registered Republican, so....pretty much whiter than Stockton.”

“Ha-ha. Go after my political beliefs cuz you can't beat me at a game!” The hint of anger in Jerry's voice caused a series of ripples in his throat.

“There's probably a code to play as Hitler,” Ted continued, “you'd probably like that wouldn't you, chunk?”

“Fuck you, Detmere! You only resort to name calling because you have no valid arguments!”

“Is that what your thick, voluptuous mom told you? Whatever, fatass....and that name has a valid argument. You see your ass....is fat.”

“How fat is it?” Tom offered up the alley-oop.

“Your ass is sooooo fat,” Ted paused, letting anticipating mount, “that when Father Michaels tried to molest you as a child, your butt checks prevented him from achieving full penetration.”

“That's not true!” Jerry spat.

“He did achieve full penetration?” Tom asked.

“Shut the fuck up! Both of you!!!”

Tom and Ted shared a few more laughs under their breath. Tom flipped through a few more teams before settling on Seattle – hard to pass up Schrempf and the Reign Man. Ted had winner, but there's was no need to announce it – that's how it always was. Three beers from the sale rack made their way around the circle of beaten furniture. For the next 4 quarters, they settled their differences like men.