Streak of Shame


Serena Williams, like myself, doesn't settle for the second stall.


Losing streaks are hard on all parties. As a Detroit sports fan, I've seen more than my fair share with the Lions starting 0-12 in 2001, the Pistons losing six four straight to the Cavs in the Eastern Conference finals this year, the three straight wins by the Columbus Mudflaps over my beloved Wolverines, and the 2004 Tigers. As a fan, you want to go down to the dugout, bench, or sideline and show them how much you want the losing to cease immediatement. You want to express to them how the losing streak is affecting not just them, but the moods of thousands of loyal fans and crazed gamblers employing the martingale strategy (to be discussed at a later date). It's easy to underestimate how a streak is weighing on the athletes experiencing it, especially if they are professionals, but it's important to realize that nobody is more cognizant of the streak and wants it over sooner than the players. After all, we all go through tough streaks in our own lives. Some folks, as I understand it, go days without alcohol. Others forget to masturbate for two, three, even four days in a row. Sometimes even a young professional can go through a tough streak at the office.

Today after finishing my second cup of coffee this morning, my eyes turned brown indicating that the buffering of the packets of information passing between my server and data port was complete and I made a beeline for the mens room. Motherfucking shitcock whoreballs queefmist! Some asshole was in my owners box (large handicapped stall). The nerve of this jerk to walk in and claim the owners box for his own. As an able bodied man with special needs, special needs to dominate the back stall like only I can, I was not pleased at all to have to settle for the sidecar crapper. I'm sitting there, with just barely enough space like a chump while that Sooner fuck was living the high life on the other side of the divider. It felt like I was sitting outside of a room where some random guy was fucking my girlfriend. OK, maybe my ex-girlfriend. Alright, alright, it was probably more like listening to someone fucking my most very favorite prostitute in the whole world. The worst part was that this was like the fourth or fifth straight time that this has happened.

What's a white collard green boy to do? Is this just bad luck or do I need to change my pre-game preparation? Maybe I need to wake up earlier and drink coffee before leaving the house to get the edge on my competition. Perhaps I need to keep a running log of the exact times I logon or hang out by the sink to study the tendencies of my coworkers. Could it be that I'm just feeling the effects of a long road trip? I have, after all, been in a temporary office in the basement for a while now and I had a much greater winning percentage up on the second floor. Shit. Maybe I'll just have to stick to the same approach that landed me so many wins of the owners box in the past.

One thing's for damn sure: That first victory to break this long, smelly, brown streak sure is going to taste great. The echoes bouncing around the area bounded by the familiar metal dividers will whisper sweetly to me that I'm back home in the win column.