Ned Rules: the Sport of Commissars

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Hipless rugby-players may dig nae what I mean quand je dis ‘Ned Rules’. Let them know now!

For I speak of a grotesque invention of the modern age, and truly a bridge from the sport of men to the sport of gods. This game is among the best-regulated in all the world, and its rules are utterly remarkable, admired by all, known by none; the object of the game is roughly to overcome the Human-Being and realize instead the Human-Becoming. What do I mean by this? It’s a secret.

Feel that rage.

Rage—Goddess, sing the rage of the losing Ned Maenads!

Let me relate the tale of a recent, much-discussed match between the Ned Maenads and the Flexmore Fabulosi, both championship teams with a strong chance of winning the gold. The plain was level; nothing but sweat and buckets of blood and devil-worship and ox-tongue and a few years stood between the initiating grace and the victory-defeat.

The Flexmore Fabulosi fought a fine fight, crushing the measly Maenads and scoring at least nine inzolias in the first festuclavine; admittedly, the audience fell into a collective opiate stupor for three or four months of play, meaning that scores from this period are largely speculative. Still, the fun in Ned Rules comes merely from its quiddity; actually watching a match is not entirely necessary for enjoying it.

And yet, enthroned among the cupressineous templets of the vaulted sky, the Olympian gods were watching the game with Zoroastrian zeal; and lettuce-eyed Athene addressed her great father in tears, saying:

That's a rather disappointing acorn, don't you think?

Athene entreats many-bearded Zeus.

‘O father who so mighty art
Look thou into thy deathless heart;
Of Maenads many fallen have,
Tired corpses overspill the grave.
The Fabulosi, each a knave,
Cannot be let to win; embrave
My Maenads, tear the rest apart,
O father who so mighty art!’

And her so mighty father, great Zeus who bears the eejit, so spake to her in reply:

‘Soothly, my child, I have awaited this,
Thy calm entreaty and thy tears iwis;
Wipe from thy visage clear these droplets foul
Of loser’s salty wine, soothe thy glum owl.
The game is near to ending, fear ye not,
(Reader, forget the twisting of its plot,)
The Maenads shall win, with the game’s victory,
Undying fame and everlasting glory.’

And with these words, the lord of the lightning-bolt threw his electric spear down to the plain, and so struck down the noble leader of the Flexmore Fabulosi, F. Fabulosius himself. The game was for the Maenads’ taking, and they scored even more points than the Fabulosi had, and thus won a great deal of everlasting glory.

The Fabulosi, however, then scored, like, a trillion more esculents and were crowned the winners. It is said that Zeus wept tears of lighter-fluid as he tore his betting slip to shreds.