Mom’s not around to stick up for Little Timmy. Youth sports tend to bring out the best in people’s irrational rage, so let Timmy hear it.


2 Responses to “Directed Rage, Week 2: Little Timmy”

  1. Alex Haueter Says:

    HEY! YOU TALENTLESS BLOB IN THE NET! You’ve disappointed me for the last damn time. Do you have any idea how much money I lose on you? I spend so much money for you to play this damn commie sport, and all you do is sit around and lose. $100 gloves. $120 shoes. $200 wager with Bill from across the street about whether you’ll actually make a damn save. We got you those shin guards that custom fit your leg, not that you’d ever need them from the way you shy away from contact. And quit smiling, dammit! This is competition. You’re not SUPPOSED to let them score. Show some heart! Get behind the ball every now and again. Stop walking toward me! Turn around! You can run home. It’ll do you some good since you NEVER run on the field. I can’t have you in the car. The stench of defeat will never come out of the leather, and it makes it really hard to pick up recently divorced soccer moms with a cloud of failure fogging my windows. You are a disgrace. You are a failure. You are no son of mine!!!!

  2. jdschaefer Says:

    Ok, Tim, here’s the situation…

    When your parents signed you up for this team, they made a deal with you. They asked you which sport you wanted to play and you said “dancing.” Trying to keep your dreams in check they suggested you try more of a ‘team oriented’ activity. You agreed to give it your best shot. You did, and we have a problem.

    To say the least, I have been disappointed.

    Although worthy effort is to be commended, I’ve seen nothing in your game to suggest even the roughest idea of what you’re doing. You’re as clumsy as a donkey on those feet and half as talented between the posts. You’ve lacked any sort of presence back there and spend more time grinning awkwardly at others than you do watching the game. Really, son, you’re a liability.

    That’s why we’re having this conversation today. Starting this afternoon, your services will no longer be needed. Indeed, the effects of this decision will be appreciated by the staff, players, and fans alike. No longer will they hide their faces in dismay as you trip over another defensive back pass. No longer will I cringe when an opposing player breaks through the stout 6-3-1 I’ve put in place. No more will I lie awake at night with your pudgy buck-toothed grin haunting the hours until dawn.

    I’m sorry, Tim, but this is my final decision. I wish you the best, but we both know it won’t be in this sport.



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